Here we are again. Two years later, and no incredibly inappropriate yet mildly amusing internet ramblings to be found. I wrote the beginnings of the post below nearly two years ago, amidst some chaos and some soul-searching and some bourbon. Revisiting it now, it's only mildly depressing to see how much is relevant...A little more chaos, a little less soul searching, and a metric shit ton more bourbon, but other than that it's pretty much accurate. It's re-worked with a little less snark and a little more hope for catharsis, an edge I'm loathe to admit. It's a different life, a better one in so many ways, but in this moment, a harder one.
Ok, so here we are in zero land, 45+ unpublished posts languishing in the blogger dashboard. I had reasons, at the time, for pressing the mute button on this particular channel of insanity. I had reasons, and not all of them were funny. The pie chart of funny stories vs. not-so-funny personal crap became decidedly tilted, and the late-night-slightly-manic-keyboard-clicking-and-deranged-giggling sessions vanished. What's a quasi-humour blogger supposed to do when she's not laughing?
I had many rationalizations. Some posts were just a smidgen too racy for general consumption. I figured it was perhaps not necessary for any larger segment of the population to learn of my generally neurotic, often embarrassing, frequently misguided, and occasionally slightly less-than-moral demonstrations of horribly bad judgement.
Other posts were, to put it mildly, really fucking boring. And not the "Wow, that was kind of like watching my cat bathe" vaguely uncomfortable boring either. We're talking along the lines of "I'd rather suffer through 23 hours of childbirth with no drugs whilst being forced to watch a single episode of Jersey Shore on repeat" kind of boring. And, really, nobody wants that. (if you do, you are a far sicker person than I am, and I'd like to meet you...Mostly just to feel better about myself, of course.)
There were the posts whose content I was fairly certain would drive up suicide rates (I've since found better drugs) and the posts about that thing with that person that one night... (highly unflattering missives now destined never to see the light of day so long as we both shall live Amen). There were half-written posts littered with random notes-to-self (an aside: If anyone recalls the "story of the spray cheese" or "that thing about the badger & the snack crackers" please fill me in), and posts that more than likely could be used against me should I ever face any sort of mental hygiene exam, which, these days, isn't really that far out of the realm of possibility. Mostly, there was just that one post too many containing a reference to alcohol, caffeine, heartache, indiscretions, and/or some combination of the above.
There was procrastination, unexpected readership, writer's block, lack of sleep, and a hefty dose of apathy. There was too many tragedies and too many failures, all swallowed whole, no backwards glances. There were too many exhausted evenings, hours of work and just as many hours of working out driving me straight to blissful unconciousness the second I stepped foot in the door. There were all of these things, all of these hilariously rejected posts, and since the general genre of this blog is supposed to be somewhat light and fluffy, a significant part of me is tempted to just leave it there. To throw this sucker up onto the world wide web in a highly self-satisfied manner and go back to listening to the "Songs for Sobbing" radio station. But there is too much more.
There are too many days when getting through in one piece seems unlikely. When getting air into my lungs without sobbing for any length of time is a small miracle. There are too many nights filled with unforgiving decisions to be made. When I've spent every second convincing myself to dig my fingernails into the edge of the world & not let go. There are too many lives unraveling, too much uncertainty, and far, far too much heartache.
My mother's always professed the "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all" strategy. Well, I certainly haven't had anything nice to say...It's been nearly two years, after all...But is silence really a better option? I don't want to forget that time I fished dentures out of an elderly woman's teacup, or the declared teva+sock-wearing patchouli scented "mark of my people", or that time I worked out 5 times in one day and staggered around like Bambi drunk on Jack Daniels for a week. I don't want to forget to laugh, eventually, about how pathetic one actually looks cowering under a duvet in mismatched socks with strangers in the house and a large bottle of bourbon. Somehow, I'm convinced, that will seem really fucking funny in a story later on. But, of course, that raises questions. Will I figure out how to tell a story again? Will I want to? In the meantime, will I regret this colossally public admission of my life on the edge? We'll see.
I wonder if there's a capacity for crisis? A lifetime maximum that one can successfully navigate through? Or do we just keep finding our way, time after time, remembering how to breathe again? Do we move on, trying not to look sideways at the world while waiting for it to crumble like burnt paper into our hands? Or do we look, straight on, and find those moments that make our hearts beat of their own volition, no coaxing required? I don't know.
For now, here I am; messy, unpredictable, less-than-adequately-medicated, nursing a breakdown. Here I am, staying afloat, with only the occasional "asinine musing". Here I am, and it's pretty fucking funny.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Grape-less Wrath
Six Things About My Pissy Mood:
1. I've been watching a lot of CNN (what with my TV husband and his biceps and all) so I've thus learnt how to waterboard someone. You should know that I'm more than willing to employ this skill. Backing away slowly would generally be considered the wisest course of action.
2. If you really cross me and waterboarding seems like too gentle a punishment (because, after all, nothing bad actually happens when one is almost drowned) I do have 3 acres and a firearm. And some deer friends who would be supremely happy to pick at any carcass deposited on aforementioned acreage.
3. On a more individual point, please stop "suggesting" that I should really go to university like, right this very moment, or else my life will clearly be completely fucked forever and ever amen.
I know some people who know some people who could totally get me a degree from the black market on the cheap. They could probably also find me new jeans, more cottage cheese, and a sex slave. Did I say sex slave? I totally meant "Domestic Assistant".
Also, school? Not my thing. I think this has been empirically proven more than once.
4. Again on a more specific note: Please, for the love of everything good and holy, stop bathing every inch of your being in perfume. Those "scent-sensitive" people drive me crazy too, but it's allergy season. Cut a girl a break for godssake. If you continue on this treacherous olfactory path, you will give me no choice but to steal an article of your clothing for a week. In the course of this week, I will make said item of clothing smell so bad, I guarantee no one will want to be in a 16.5sq ft radius of you. Perfume will not help. My methods, whilst secret, are organic and very effective. I'm just sayin'. Tone it down.
5. I realize that eating ice cream whilst watching the Biggest Loser is not the best plan. I am doing it anyway. Also, did you know that in the old testament Tuesday was "Gluttony Day" for early christians? They would find a pig (or sometimes a small child) and roast it over an open pit, then have orgies and eat pig all day every Tuesday. So, really, I'm just following ancient christian tradition, minus the orgy. (Ok, so I made that shit up. But it totally sounds plausible, no?)
6. And to you, feline nemesis: Things on my plate are not meant for you to steal, eat, breathe upon, lick, play with, and/or cast eyes upon. I realize that I left my plate of grapes unattended for approximately 12.7 seconds this evening; this was not (I repeat, NOT) an open invitation for you to play your sick kitten games with my dinner. My patience is wearing thin. Do not tempt me, for I feel you would make an excellent hat.
1. I've been watching a lot of CNN (what with my TV husband and his biceps and all) so I've thus learnt how to waterboard someone. You should know that I'm more than willing to employ this skill. Backing away slowly would generally be considered the wisest course of action.
2. If you really cross me and waterboarding seems like too gentle a punishment (because, after all, nothing bad actually happens when one is almost drowned) I do have 3 acres and a firearm. And some deer friends who would be supremely happy to pick at any carcass deposited on aforementioned acreage.
3. On a more individual point, please stop "suggesting" that I should really go to university like, right this very moment, or else my life will clearly be completely fucked forever and ever amen.
I know some people who know some people who could totally get me a degree from the black market on the cheap. They could probably also find me new jeans, more cottage cheese, and a sex slave. Did I say sex slave? I totally meant "Domestic Assistant".
Also, school? Not my thing. I think this has been empirically proven more than once.
4. Again on a more specific note: Please, for the love of everything good and holy, stop bathing every inch of your being in perfume. Those "scent-sensitive" people drive me crazy too, but it's allergy season. Cut a girl a break for godssake. If you continue on this treacherous olfactory path, you will give me no choice but to steal an article of your clothing for a week. In the course of this week, I will make said item of clothing smell so bad, I guarantee no one will want to be in a 16.5sq ft radius of you. Perfume will not help. My methods, whilst secret, are organic and very effective. I'm just sayin'. Tone it down.
5. I realize that eating ice cream whilst watching the Biggest Loser is not the best plan. I am doing it anyway. Also, did you know that in the old testament Tuesday was "Gluttony Day" for early christians? They would find a pig (or sometimes a small child) and roast it over an open pit, then have orgies and eat pig all day every Tuesday. So, really, I'm just following ancient christian tradition, minus the orgy. (Ok, so I made that shit up. But it totally sounds plausible, no?)
6. And to you, feline nemesis: Things on my plate are not meant for you to steal, eat, breathe upon, lick, play with, and/or cast eyes upon. I realize that I left my plate of grapes unattended for approximately 12.7 seconds this evening; this was not (I repeat, NOT) an open invitation for you to play your sick kitten games with my dinner. My patience is wearing thin. Do not tempt me, for I feel you would make an excellent hat.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Insert Expletive Here
I hate today.
I try not to use the word "hate" all that often, as I am somewhat of a flake, and also, it's just way too passionate to describe any feeling that I'm usually experiencing. Yes, I realize that makes me sound incredibly dull, but I'm not, really. Just well-medicated.
But today, I hate. I woke up this morning, full of hate for my uncomfortable bed. My small, lumpy, narrow, "twin" bed. First of all, why do they call it a twin? There is certainly no room for twins in my bed - this is empirically proven evidence. I hate inappropriately named household items. I thrashed around in my shitty, misnamed bed trying to get comfy, because I actually got to sleep later than 4:45am this morning. This was not as exciting as it sounds, because it meant that I was once again unemployed and doing nothing more constructive than perfecting a method for soft-poaching eggs and figuring out which hours of the day are meant for bourbon and which are meant for coffee. On my seventh round of rolling over, I rolled too far and smashed my half-asleep face into my ancient, stained, and splinter-ridden bedside table. I hate my bedside table. I did not want to start my day at 5:15 by washing blood out of my pillows and picking splinters out of my face. It just didn't seem fair.
After removing the last remnant of tree from my upper lip, I stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee. I reached for the ugly, chipped, rooster container that I have stored my coffee in for the last decade and promptly knocked it onto the floor. I watched it bounce, barely miss the cat, and splinter into a thousand tiny, sock-piercing shards, spilling coffee all over my recently-mopped kitchen floor. Because the aforementioned floor was recently mopped and because I am serious addict, I considered licking the floor for longer than I'm comfortable admiting. During this time of contemplation, the cat capitalized on the opportunity to fulfill it's deepest desire in life of "rolling in shit as often as possible". Before I could construct a complete profane sentance, the feline commenced it's manic writhing on the kitchen floor. In the coffee. And the glass. I hate my cat. If you ever find yourself in a situation where you need to both pick glass out of and bathe a cat before 7am, just walk away. I'm serious. Just leave. It's so not worth it. Especially with no coffee. I hate coffee. (I'm sorry coffee. I didn't mean it. Please don't leave me, lover.)
Resigned to the fact that instant coffee was my only option, I grabbed a cup and headed for the shower. I cranked the water as high as it would go, put a lid on my coffee cup, and stepped into the blissful, blistering hot water. It was approximately four-and-a-half seconds later I realized I was still wearing my pajamas. In the shower. I hate my shower.
I finished showering (and no, I didn't bother to take my pajamas off), and wandered to the kitchen to get another cup of revolting coffee, hairdryer in tow. I padded into the kitchen, stepped on a shard of ugly broken rooster canister, and dropped my hair dryer in the sink full of soapy water.
It was at this point in the day (approximately 7:45am) that I gave up on anything redeeming happening in the near future, and proceeded to break out the bourbon and the serious profanity.
It was a damn good thing, too.
I was out of bandaids. My cat had once again stolen my hairbrush and my eyeglasses, and hidden them places unknown. My other cat peed in my running shoes. My deoderant broke into 20tiny,useless pieces. My watch died. I deleted the most recent copy of my resume. I choked on a Tootsie Roll Pop (don't ask me how). I burnt two-and-a-half batches of corn bread. I ate two-and-a-half other batches of cornbread. I burnt myself. I stepped on a slug with my bare, paper-towel bandaged foot. The power went out. I ran out of bourbon and was forced to drink scotch. I ran out of candles. My iPhone battery died. I couldn't dry my pajamas in the dryer. I couldn't make dinner. I couldn't google "poisonous slugs of BC". I could only sit in the dark, drinking scotch, eating cornbread, and, above all, hating today.
I try not to use the word "hate" all that often, as I am somewhat of a flake, and also, it's just way too passionate to describe any feeling that I'm usually experiencing. Yes, I realize that makes me sound incredibly dull, but I'm not, really. Just well-medicated.
But today, I hate. I woke up this morning, full of hate for my uncomfortable bed. My small, lumpy, narrow, "twin" bed. First of all, why do they call it a twin? There is certainly no room for twins in my bed - this is empirically proven evidence. I hate inappropriately named household items. I thrashed around in my shitty, misnamed bed trying to get comfy, because I actually got to sleep later than 4:45am this morning. This was not as exciting as it sounds, because it meant that I was once again unemployed and doing nothing more constructive than perfecting a method for soft-poaching eggs and figuring out which hours of the day are meant for bourbon and which are meant for coffee. On my seventh round of rolling over, I rolled too far and smashed my half-asleep face into my ancient, stained, and splinter-ridden bedside table. I hate my bedside table. I did not want to start my day at 5:15 by washing blood out of my pillows and picking splinters out of my face. It just didn't seem fair.
After removing the last remnant of tree from my upper lip, I stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee. I reached for the ugly, chipped, rooster container that I have stored my coffee in for the last decade and promptly knocked it onto the floor. I watched it bounce, barely miss the cat, and splinter into a thousand tiny, sock-piercing shards, spilling coffee all over my recently-mopped kitchen floor. Because the aforementioned floor was recently mopped and because I am serious addict, I considered licking the floor for longer than I'm comfortable admiting. During this time of contemplation, the cat capitalized on the opportunity to fulfill it's deepest desire in life of "rolling in shit as often as possible". Before I could construct a complete profane sentance, the feline commenced it's manic writhing on the kitchen floor. In the coffee. And the glass. I hate my cat. If you ever find yourself in a situation where you need to both pick glass out of and bathe a cat before 7am, just walk away. I'm serious. Just leave. It's so not worth it. Especially with no coffee. I hate coffee. (I'm sorry coffee. I didn't mean it. Please don't leave me, lover.)
Resigned to the fact that instant coffee was my only option, I grabbed a cup and headed for the shower. I cranked the water as high as it would go, put a lid on my coffee cup, and stepped into the blissful, blistering hot water. It was approximately four-and-a-half seconds later I realized I was still wearing my pajamas. In the shower. I hate my shower.
I finished showering (and no, I didn't bother to take my pajamas off), and wandered to the kitchen to get another cup of revolting coffee, hairdryer in tow. I padded into the kitchen, stepped on a shard of ugly broken rooster canister, and dropped my hair dryer in the sink full of soapy water.
It was at this point in the day (approximately 7:45am) that I gave up on anything redeeming happening in the near future, and proceeded to break out the bourbon and the serious profanity.
It was a damn good thing, too.
I was out of bandaids. My cat had once again stolen my hairbrush and my eyeglasses, and hidden them places unknown. My other cat peed in my running shoes. My deoderant broke into 20tiny,useless pieces. My watch died. I deleted the most recent copy of my resume. I choked on a Tootsie Roll Pop (don't ask me how). I burnt two-and-a-half batches of corn bread. I ate two-and-a-half other batches of cornbread. I burnt myself. I stepped on a slug with my bare, paper-towel bandaged foot. The power went out. I ran out of bourbon and was forced to drink scotch. I ran out of candles. My iPhone battery died. I couldn't dry my pajamas in the dryer. I couldn't make dinner. I couldn't google "poisonous slugs of BC". I could only sit in the dark, drinking scotch, eating cornbread, and, above all, hating today.
Dear Cat
Dear Cat,
Mittens. Sweet, adorable, fuzzy feline terrorist. Mittens.
We need to talk, and now is as good a time as any with you laying on my head while I am trying to type. As a side note, there's no way you can be comfortable and you can't breathe lying like that with your butt higher up than your head...but your brain is the size of a pecan so I guess I will forgive you for this minor indescretion.
While we're talking about this, what is up with your choice of sleeping locations? I am, of course, referring to your various dalliances with my underwear drawer. I know, in my heart of hearts, that it is my responsibility to keep the drawer closed...But getting ready for work at 5am with only three cups of coffee in my system means that sometimes, I forget. Please do not mistake my memory lapses as blanket permission for you to roll around and have a seven-hour bath in the 70% cotten lair of my unmentionables. No one should have to use a lint roller on their underpants. I'm just sayin'.
And, speaking of bathing, you are clearly misguided in your multi-hour attempts at cleanliness. Your ass stinks. I mean REALLY stinks. I am spending more than a fair portion of my hard-earned wages to feed you over-priced gourmet cat food. And, sure, I occasionally feed you a bite of cheese, or a few rice crispies, or maybe an entire corndog, but seriously. Why do you smell soooo horrible? I thought cats were clean. There are seven of your brethren living under this roof. None of them smell like they have a half-dead possum rotting in their digestive tract. Why, God, did you give me the stinkiest cat in this solar system?
Furthermore, while pontificating about your nether regions, Cat, why do you insist on showing me your ass? I do not enjoy this. Especially when I am eating. Or, you know, breathing. I find this particularly annoying considering you have been blessed with a fabulous appendage known as a tail. I understand this is a multi-funtional part of your anatomy, but for the love of everything good and holy, have some modesty. Also, when you sit on my head, please have the kindness to put your aforementioned incredibly useless tail down. I don't want to catch something.
The litterbox. I have to wonder, is it your goal to defecate on the rim of the box? Is this a passive aggresive method of informing me that, despite your access to the great outdoors and my daily maintenance of your sandpit, your are discontent with the level of cleanliness? If it is, Mission accomplished! You can stop now. You have proved your point. It is not funny anymore, and I have run out of stick-like devices in my house to clean it off with. The box is big enough, and you are small, so don't even go there.
Now... making pointless, incessant, and maddening noises. If I take something away from you because I am tired of hearing it scoot across the floor for the last 2 hours, it does not mean to go find something else to mess with. I realize I started this trend when, as a charming kitten, I provided you with approxmiately 743 plastic army men to play with. At the time, it was cute. It was not so cute, however, stepping on said army men at 3am in bare feet on the bathroom floor. I couldn't take it anymore. I'm sorry I took away the army men; I'm sure it was traumatizing. But hear this, cat: bottle caps, paper clips, pens, lighters, egg shells, coins, shards of broken glass, flatware, my eyeglasses, and the remote control are not appropriate substitutes. I mean really where do you find this stuff? A wad of paper? Is that really that fun to play with?
Carrying on with the theme of "my stuff", I put things on the coffee table because I want them there. At the end of an exceedingly long day, the first thing I do is take my contacts out. As you and I both know, due to the many times I've stepped on your previously mentioned idiotic tail, I am completely blind. When you hide my glasses, it hurts my head. I do not want you to knock EVERYTHING off of the coffee table in one of your mindless "tearing ass through the house for no reason" adventures every single day. I need to be able to see, man. Once in a while, it is amusing. Every day, it's not that funny.
Lastly, I am allergic to you. I know this isn't your fault, but knowing this, why do you insist on rubbing the whole length of your body on my face? And why do you feel the need to bathe my pillow as if it were one your young? You haven't even had young. And, yeah, I know. I had you neutered. Talk about indignity. But, seriously? It's pretty clear you were not meant to be anyone's mother. Please try to find it in your feline heart to forgive me. Sometimes, when I'm feeling guilty about denying you your natural right to procreate, I think about how I rescued you from the SPCA. Yeah, that's right. I win.
Okay... I just pulled a CAT HAIR out of my eye. No wonder my eyes are itchy if you are purposefully depositing your dander into my eyes. What are you trying to prove here? It's bad enough you take away my vision aids (and my toothpaste. What the hell?), why must you endeavor to make me blind, itchy, and full of snot? Did you not catch the part about me saving your stinky, terrorist ass? I just don't get you, cat.
While you're busy carrying things about the house in your mouth to deposit them into some area that I haven't discovered yet and eating food off of my dinner plate, would you mind bringing me a peice of sandpaper to me so that I can alleviate the itching you've caused me? And maybe you can rustle up my glasses from whatever den of inequity you've hidden them in. Oh, and while we're on this subject, I need my hair ties back - I know you have them. Thanks.
Mittens. Sweet, adorable, fuzzy feline terrorist. Mittens.
We need to talk, and now is as good a time as any with you laying on my head while I am trying to type. As a side note, there's no way you can be comfortable and you can't breathe lying like that with your butt higher up than your head...but your brain is the size of a pecan so I guess I will forgive you for this minor indescretion.
While we're talking about this, what is up with your choice of sleeping locations? I am, of course, referring to your various dalliances with my underwear drawer. I know, in my heart of hearts, that it is my responsibility to keep the drawer closed...But getting ready for work at 5am with only three cups of coffee in my system means that sometimes, I forget. Please do not mistake my memory lapses as blanket permission for you to roll around and have a seven-hour bath in the 70% cotten lair of my unmentionables. No one should have to use a lint roller on their underpants. I'm just sayin'.
And, speaking of bathing, you are clearly misguided in your multi-hour attempts at cleanliness. Your ass stinks. I mean REALLY stinks. I am spending more than a fair portion of my hard-earned wages to feed you over-priced gourmet cat food. And, sure, I occasionally feed you a bite of cheese, or a few rice crispies, or maybe an entire corndog, but seriously. Why do you smell soooo horrible? I thought cats were clean. There are seven of your brethren living under this roof. None of them smell like they have a half-dead possum rotting in their digestive tract. Why, God, did you give me the stinkiest cat in this solar system?
Furthermore, while pontificating about your nether regions, Cat, why do you insist on showing me your ass? I do not enjoy this. Especially when I am eating. Or, you know, breathing. I find this particularly annoying considering you have been blessed with a fabulous appendage known as a tail. I understand this is a multi-funtional part of your anatomy, but for the love of everything good and holy, have some modesty. Also, when you sit on my head, please have the kindness to put your aforementioned incredibly useless tail down. I don't want to catch something.
The litterbox. I have to wonder, is it your goal to defecate on the rim of the box? Is this a passive aggresive method of informing me that, despite your access to the great outdoors and my daily maintenance of your sandpit, your are discontent with the level of cleanliness? If it is, Mission accomplished! You can stop now. You have proved your point. It is not funny anymore, and I have run out of stick-like devices in my house to clean it off with. The box is big enough, and you are small, so don't even go there.
Now... making pointless, incessant, and maddening noises. If I take something away from you because I am tired of hearing it scoot across the floor for the last 2 hours, it does not mean to go find something else to mess with. I realize I started this trend when, as a charming kitten, I provided you with approxmiately 743 plastic army men to play with. At the time, it was cute. It was not so cute, however, stepping on said army men at 3am in bare feet on the bathroom floor. I couldn't take it anymore. I'm sorry I took away the army men; I'm sure it was traumatizing. But hear this, cat: bottle caps, paper clips, pens, lighters, egg shells, coins, shards of broken glass, flatware, my eyeglasses, and the remote control are not appropriate substitutes. I mean really where do you find this stuff? A wad of paper? Is that really that fun to play with?
Carrying on with the theme of "my stuff", I put things on the coffee table because I want them there. At the end of an exceedingly long day, the first thing I do is take my contacts out. As you and I both know, due to the many times I've stepped on your previously mentioned idiotic tail, I am completely blind. When you hide my glasses, it hurts my head. I do not want you to knock EVERYTHING off of the coffee table in one of your mindless "tearing ass through the house for no reason" adventures every single day. I need to be able to see, man. Once in a while, it is amusing. Every day, it's not that funny.
Lastly, I am allergic to you. I know this isn't your fault, but knowing this, why do you insist on rubbing the whole length of your body on my face? And why do you feel the need to bathe my pillow as if it were one your young? You haven't even had young. And, yeah, I know. I had you neutered. Talk about indignity. But, seriously? It's pretty clear you were not meant to be anyone's mother. Please try to find it in your feline heart to forgive me. Sometimes, when I'm feeling guilty about denying you your natural right to procreate, I think about how I rescued you from the SPCA. Yeah, that's right. I win.
Okay... I just pulled a CAT HAIR out of my eye. No wonder my eyes are itchy if you are purposefully depositing your dander into my eyes. What are you trying to prove here? It's bad enough you take away my vision aids (and my toothpaste. What the hell?), why must you endeavor to make me blind, itchy, and full of snot? Did you not catch the part about me saving your stinky, terrorist ass? I just don't get you, cat.
While you're busy carrying things about the house in your mouth to deposit them into some area that I haven't discovered yet and eating food off of my dinner plate, would you mind bringing me a peice of sandpaper to me so that I can alleviate the itching you've caused me? And maybe you can rustle up my glasses from whatever den of inequity you've hidden them in. Oh, and while we're on this subject, I need my hair ties back - I know you have them. Thanks.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Rules of Engagement
I am a competent human being. I can bake. I can change a flat. I can bench press my body weight (which means, probably, I could bench press a mid-size baby rhinocerous). I can knit, I can tie an anchor hitch, and I can play the bassoon. I can recite all of the prepositions in the English language - in alphabetical order. I can even give you the heimlich if you choke on a friggen wasabi pea. Also, I can break a large pane of commercial glass with my elbow...but that's another story... Listen, what I'm saying is, I'm doin' alright. I have the skills that are necessary to navigate the world in a somewhat competent and civilized manner. Sometimes, I'm even downright clever.
And yes, internet, you truth-sucking and fickle mistress, of course there is more to this story. Despite my aforementioned craftiness and competencies, despite my general affection for humanity (well, that might just be a lie), I am still left short in my overall well-roudedness...
I cannot cope with human relationships. I am a fretful, neurotic, social disaster. I find the majority of folks puzzling, emotional, and downright terrifying. Someone once told me I was one of the least demonstrative people they had ever met. I still think it was pretty much the best compliment ever.
First of all, I am not a hugger. I find this practice to be unecessary, if not downright awkward and revolting. Why, pray tell, should I be expected to willingly and delightedly press the entire front of my body to yours and allow you to encircle me with your arms, thus eliminating any and all feasible escape routes? And those one-armed approximations of hugs are no less mysterious to me; an arm slung across the shoulders, heads randomly shifted close together to indicate a moderate level of fondness...What the hell is that about? Is this the more polite WASPy version of full-frontal action? A "second-base" between handshake and bear hug? I simply cannot understand what part of any of these hugging processes is reasonable, let alone enjoyable.
Secondly, what is up with all the casual touching in public places? If you are trying to walk past me from behind, there is no need to put your unknown stranger hands on my lower back as you move by; believe it or not, the phrase "pardon me" was invented for this exact situation! And speaking of appripriate usage of the phrase, if I'm forced to speak to you and you cannot hear me, please, for the love of everything good and holy, do not put your hand on my shoulder and stick your ear in front of my mouth. Sure, it's probably abundantly clear that I don't really want to be talking to you in the first place, but I'd rather be subjected to your voice than your icky roaming paws. Seriously.
Both the hugging and the casual touching stem from the same issue of what I like to refer to as "space invaders" (and not the ca. 1978 variety). If you are close enough to spontaneously hug and/or touch me, you are appoximately three feet too far inside my comfort zone. If I am standing in line somewhere, going about my business in some innocuous fashion, I do not need to feel you gordforsaken breath on the back of my neck. I am not interested in you reading my tattoos, remarking on the bizarre color of my eyes, noting that I am in fact going very prematurely grey, and/or looking down my shirt. Back the fuck off, people.
I realize this may come across as cold, but I'm actually fairly friendly. I only occasionaly retaliate to unwanted touching with anthrax, and I probably won't actually poke you in the eyeball with a fork if you sneak up on me. I'm a pretty good conversationalist, and am even sometimes genuinely interested in hearing what you have to say. I don't even mind listening if you feel the need to tell me about your brother's wife's friend's STD... Just stay back three meters, keep your grubby hands to yourself, and don't freakin' stare at me while your doing it, ok?
And yes, internet, you truth-sucking and fickle mistress, of course there is more to this story. Despite my aforementioned craftiness and competencies, despite my general affection for humanity (well, that might just be a lie), I am still left short in my overall well-roudedness...
I cannot cope with human relationships. I am a fretful, neurotic, social disaster. I find the majority of folks puzzling, emotional, and downright terrifying. Someone once told me I was one of the least demonstrative people they had ever met. I still think it was pretty much the best compliment ever.
First of all, I am not a hugger. I find this practice to be unecessary, if not downright awkward and revolting. Why, pray tell, should I be expected to willingly and delightedly press the entire front of my body to yours and allow you to encircle me with your arms, thus eliminating any and all feasible escape routes? And those one-armed approximations of hugs are no less mysterious to me; an arm slung across the shoulders, heads randomly shifted close together to indicate a moderate level of fondness...What the hell is that about? Is this the more polite WASPy version of full-frontal action? A "second-base" between handshake and bear hug? I simply cannot understand what part of any of these hugging processes is reasonable, let alone enjoyable.
Secondly, what is up with all the casual touching in public places? If you are trying to walk past me from behind, there is no need to put your unknown stranger hands on my lower back as you move by; believe it or not, the phrase "pardon me" was invented for this exact situation! And speaking of appripriate usage of the phrase, if I'm forced to speak to you and you cannot hear me, please, for the love of everything good and holy, do not put your hand on my shoulder and stick your ear in front of my mouth. Sure, it's probably abundantly clear that I don't really want to be talking to you in the first place, but I'd rather be subjected to your voice than your icky roaming paws. Seriously.
Both the hugging and the casual touching stem from the same issue of what I like to refer to as "space invaders" (and not the ca. 1978 variety). If you are close enough to spontaneously hug and/or touch me, you are appoximately three feet too far inside my comfort zone. If I am standing in line somewhere, going about my business in some innocuous fashion, I do not need to feel you gordforsaken breath on the back of my neck. I am not interested in you reading my tattoos, remarking on the bizarre color of my eyes, noting that I am in fact going very prematurely grey, and/or looking down my shirt. Back the fuck off, people.
I realize this may come across as cold, but I'm actually fairly friendly. I only occasionaly retaliate to unwanted touching with anthrax, and I probably won't actually poke you in the eyeball with a fork if you sneak up on me. I'm a pretty good conversationalist, and am even sometimes genuinely interested in hearing what you have to say. I don't even mind listening if you feel the need to tell me about your brother's wife's friend's STD... Just stay back three meters, keep your grubby hands to yourself, and don't freakin' stare at me while your doing it, ok?
Sunday, February 7, 2010
F+
There is always a lesson in a failure, they say. I'm not entirely sure who "they" are, and I'm beginning to think they are the same untrustworthy bastards who are judging short-track figure skating in the olympics....Nonetheless.
You've heard all the cliches; a door closes, a window opens...Opportunity knocks...Ask, Believe, Receive... I'm sure there are a zillion others that I have no desire to ever know. But when you take a moment and further scrutinize these sweet placations we all tell each other, things start to fall apart.
First of all, A window opening? I don't know about y'all, but my first thought is to jump out. Yes, I know I'm probably more deranged than your average bear, but tell me you didn't think it too. Also, when was the last time anything good came in your window? And don't give me that 'sunshine-rainbows-nature sounds' business... We're talking cat burglers, foul odors, and sometimes unwanted winged animals (birds, bees, the occasional bat). And, unless I'm being pursued by dark forces, I see no good in the 'doors closing' bit either. (But maybe I've had to slither in a cat door one too many times after locking myself out; a fate, let me tell you, that would make anyone nervous.)
As for the knocking of opportunity, well, I'll be honest; that just makes me think of pedophiles. I'm not sure about that whole "help me find my lost puppy" ruse, but somehow I don't think it leads to a plush corner office or stuffed expense account. The only other folks who knock on my door are the Jehovah's witnesses, and any opportunity they're selling is abruptly revoked when I gleefully tell them I'm an animal-sacrifcing binge-drinking homosexual witch.
But really, I've saved the best for last... "Ask, Believe, Receive"? Seriously? Isn't that the scientific formula for Santa Claus? It's just about the biggest load of bullshit I've heard since "Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq". I mean, if that crap worked, I'd have a pony and we'd have found Saddam perched on a pile of nukes wearing a GPS ankle bracelet. And let's be honest, if willing things into reality worked, GW Bush would have probably fared a lot better. I don't really want to speculate about exactly what he'd manifest, given half a chance...But it's probably fair to assume tofu and gay sex would be things of the past.
Now, I'm not saying that every failure is a bad thing - Let's face it, it was probably for the best when the 24-hr wedding chapel in vegas was mysteriously closed for maintenance that night you were going to marry the hunky russian "elvis" named Svetlana. And, sure, maybe the universe worked on your behalf last week when you stopped to surreptisiously adjust your underpants on a street corner and missed getting obliterated by a speeding bus. But, in general, I think the "silver lining" concept of failure is about as trustworthy as a girls gone wild producer on spring break.
Perhaps I'm too jaded, maybe pessimism has gotten the best of me over the years, possibly I'm just a really sore loser. Probably I just listened a little too intently to the "good touch, bad touch" lecture in 4th grade. Whatever the case, I'll stick with success, thanks.
You've heard all the cliches; a door closes, a window opens...Opportunity knocks...Ask, Believe, Receive... I'm sure there are a zillion others that I have no desire to ever know. But when you take a moment and further scrutinize these sweet placations we all tell each other, things start to fall apart.
First of all, A window opening? I don't know about y'all, but my first thought is to jump out. Yes, I know I'm probably more deranged than your average bear, but tell me you didn't think it too. Also, when was the last time anything good came in your window? And don't give me that 'sunshine-rainbows-nature sounds' business... We're talking cat burglers, foul odors, and sometimes unwanted winged animals (birds, bees, the occasional bat). And, unless I'm being pursued by dark forces, I see no good in the 'doors closing' bit either. (But maybe I've had to slither in a cat door one too many times after locking myself out; a fate, let me tell you, that would make anyone nervous.)
As for the knocking of opportunity, well, I'll be honest; that just makes me think of pedophiles. I'm not sure about that whole "help me find my lost puppy" ruse, but somehow I don't think it leads to a plush corner office or stuffed expense account. The only other folks who knock on my door are the Jehovah's witnesses, and any opportunity they're selling is abruptly revoked when I gleefully tell them I'm an animal-sacrifcing binge-drinking homosexual witch.
But really, I've saved the best for last... "Ask, Believe, Receive"? Seriously? Isn't that the scientific formula for Santa Claus? It's just about the biggest load of bullshit I've heard since "Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq". I mean, if that crap worked, I'd have a pony and we'd have found Saddam perched on a pile of nukes wearing a GPS ankle bracelet. And let's be honest, if willing things into reality worked, GW Bush would have probably fared a lot better. I don't really want to speculate about exactly what he'd manifest, given half a chance...But it's probably fair to assume tofu and gay sex would be things of the past.
Now, I'm not saying that every failure is a bad thing - Let's face it, it was probably for the best when the 24-hr wedding chapel in vegas was mysteriously closed for maintenance that night you were going to marry the hunky russian "elvis" named Svetlana. And, sure, maybe the universe worked on your behalf last week when you stopped to surreptisiously adjust your underpants on a street corner and missed getting obliterated by a speeding bus. But, in general, I think the "silver lining" concept of failure is about as trustworthy as a girls gone wild producer on spring break.
Perhaps I'm too jaded, maybe pessimism has gotten the best of me over the years, possibly I'm just a really sore loser. Probably I just listened a little too intently to the "good touch, bad touch" lecture in 4th grade. Whatever the case, I'll stick with success, thanks.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
FML: The Laundry Edition
I found this ad whilst somewhat dejectedly trolling craigslist for job opportunities (and casual sex, but that's another post...)
Personal Laundry
"Environmentally responsible person to take in my laundry in a non allergenic and fragrance free home. 1.888.xxx.xxxx"
First of all, this exciting opportunity was featured in the "et cetera" category. Call me disillusioned, but I had higher, more glamorous hopes for "et cetera". Perhaps little-known filmmakers conducting a grassroots star search for their soon-too-be-Oscar-nominated flick? Possibly an international corporation offering to pay someone exorbitant amounts of money to complete top-secret yet menial tasks for A-listers? Maybe even some hush-hush high-end brothel surreptitiously seeking "new talent". But laundry? Personal laundry? Your boxer shorts on the day you didn't wipe quite well enough laundry? Not my idea of "et cetera".
Secondly, what's up with the environmentally responsible part? Does this mean the person lovingly washing your socks needs to smell like patchouli and wear birkenstocks? Or maybe you're hoping for someone to do your laundry by hand? (perhaps whilst minding their peacefully grazing goats and singing alpine-inspired show tunes?) I suppose you could work for the Tide Cold Water people and just can't bear the thought of your 10yr old khakis facing anything but the gentlest of cold cycles? Who knows.
Also, I'm confused about this whole "taking in my laundry" bit. Taking in? Is your laundry homeless? Does it need 3 solid squares and an income assistance referral? ('cause I'm pro at that shit.) Is your laundry misguided in its choice of a sinful lifestyle and requiring intense christian conversion training? (my skills in that area are a bit rusty, I must admit.) Perhaps your jockeys have taken to watching Paris Hilton sex tapes and pounding back the Maker's Mark til all hours of the night and just need a little lovin'?
As for non-allergenic and fragrance free...Does this mean I should not let my cat lick your trousers clean? 'Cause, I mean, you can't get much more environmentally friendly than that.
And, I gotta say, I bit befuddled (and more than a little alarmed) by your 1-888 number. Would this be a clandestine assignment? A passing off of the soiled unmentionables in a dark alley followed by a whispered exchange and a wad off cash? Would I need to sign a confidentially agreement and not discuss the vast amounts of cocaine discovered in the pockets of your designer jackets?
Or perhaps this is all an elaborate way to pick up chicks? Witty love notes tucked in shirt-sleeves...naughty photos pinned to dryer sheets...tell-tale stains in undergarments declaring a distant-but-passionate love for your laundry mistress? (Ok, I creeped myself out on that one. sorry, kids.)
I must admit, Mr. Laundry Man, I am thoroughly intrigued by your dirty clothes woes. But, while I'm fascinated by your specific and seemingly socially-conscious (if a bit sketchy) attempt at cleanliness and economic growth, I don't think I'll be tending to your spin cycle any time soon. Good luck, Laundry Man. Wishing you a lifetime of clean knickers.
Personal Laundry
"Environmentally responsible person to take in my laundry in a non allergenic and fragrance free home. 1.888.xxx.xxxx"
First of all, this exciting opportunity was featured in the "et cetera" category. Call me disillusioned, but I had higher, more glamorous hopes for "et cetera". Perhaps little-known filmmakers conducting a grassroots star search for their soon-too-be-Oscar-nominated flick? Possibly an international corporation offering to pay someone exorbitant amounts of money to complete top-secret yet menial tasks for A-listers? Maybe even some hush-hush high-end brothel surreptitiously seeking "new talent". But laundry? Personal laundry? Your boxer shorts on the day you didn't wipe quite well enough laundry? Not my idea of "et cetera".
Secondly, what's up with the environmentally responsible part? Does this mean the person lovingly washing your socks needs to smell like patchouli and wear birkenstocks? Or maybe you're hoping for someone to do your laundry by hand? (perhaps whilst minding their peacefully grazing goats and singing alpine-inspired show tunes?) I suppose you could work for the Tide Cold Water people and just can't bear the thought of your 10yr old khakis facing anything but the gentlest of cold cycles? Who knows.
Also, I'm confused about this whole "taking in my laundry" bit. Taking in? Is your laundry homeless? Does it need 3 solid squares and an income assistance referral? ('cause I'm pro at that shit.) Is your laundry misguided in its choice of a sinful lifestyle and requiring intense christian conversion training? (my skills in that area are a bit rusty, I must admit.) Perhaps your jockeys have taken to watching Paris Hilton sex tapes and pounding back the Maker's Mark til all hours of the night and just need a little lovin'?
As for non-allergenic and fragrance free...Does this mean I should not let my cat lick your trousers clean? 'Cause, I mean, you can't get much more environmentally friendly than that.
And, I gotta say, I bit befuddled (and more than a little alarmed) by your 1-888 number. Would this be a clandestine assignment? A passing off of the soiled unmentionables in a dark alley followed by a whispered exchange and a wad off cash? Would I need to sign a confidentially agreement and not discuss the vast amounts of cocaine discovered in the pockets of your designer jackets?
Or perhaps this is all an elaborate way to pick up chicks? Witty love notes tucked in shirt-sleeves...naughty photos pinned to dryer sheets...tell-tale stains in undergarments declaring a distant-but-passionate love for your laundry mistress? (Ok, I creeped myself out on that one. sorry, kids.)
I must admit, Mr. Laundry Man, I am thoroughly intrigued by your dirty clothes woes. But, while I'm fascinated by your specific and seemingly socially-conscious (if a bit sketchy) attempt at cleanliness and economic growth, I don't think I'll be tending to your spin cycle any time soon. Good luck, Laundry Man. Wishing you a lifetime of clean knickers.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
On the Hot Seat...
I have a job interview, and I am panicking. I had a dream last night that I was standing perched on a toilet in a public restroom being shot at. I could feel the bullets buzzing past my ankles. The truly disturbing part of this was not the shooting, rather that I was somehow misguided enough in my own dream to be inside an undoubtedly revolting public washroom.
I have done my nails, fixed my clothes, and shined my shoes. I have tweezed every rogue hair to be found on my person, including my Chuck Norris sideburns which all of my loved ones have neglected to mention for the past two and a half decades. It makes me wonder if I have a third eyeball somewhere that they have all avoided staring at and continue to discuss in disturbed and quiet tones when I'm not listening.
I have secured transportation, planned a pre-interview meal, and have post-interview relaxation plans.
I have memorized every applicable and completely irrelevant but perhaps interesting fact that I can latch on to. Which, can I just say, is a lot of information in this google-age we inhabit.
Truth be told, none of this is why I am nervous.
I have no script.
Over the years, I have observed and catalogued enough human behaviour to get me through almost any situation with ease. Sitting in a workshop? No problem! I have a casual yet interested posture (thieved from a girl I can't remember in high school), my legs crossed at the knee, hands in my lap, head slightly tilted to left, making occasional eye contact with the speaker. Mingling? I'm golden! In a move stolen from a to-remain-nameless serial killer, I latch on to some aspect of a person and inquire with calculated but seemingly genuine curiosity (e.g. "when did you realize your passion taxidermy?" or "tell me more about your pussing and infected boil".)
I've managed to carefully craft a social persona that reads as witty, intelligent, and non-threatening. I am the girl that hangs out by the punch bowl, well liked but forgettable, save for that one-liner about male anatomy you will use at all your future gatherings.
Without such techniques firmly in place, I end up saying things like "What's in this taco salad? Feline? Should I put it in a tortilla or just go lick a cat?" Which, clearly, is followed by a completely tasteless sexual innuendo. It's often unstoppable and generally idiotic, and it can strike at anytime. One minute I'm ordering a sandwich, the next I'm inexplicably telling the waitress I inappropriately poked a wallaby one time.
And this, my friends, is the true reason why I am facing acute job interview panic syndrome. I have no "job interview" moves. No witty malapropisms, no classy compliments, no comical yet intelligently insightful stories hinting at my job readiness.
I may very well ask the interviewer a completely inappropriate question relating to their undergarments or their family pet or both. I will probably inadvertently insult their mother, and the subject of body fluids is almost a given. Undoubtedly, I will reference The Biggest Loser, Anderson Cooper, or Spiderman.
Simply put, I cannot be left to my own devices in uncharted waters and expect an acceptable outcome without some kind of debilitation on the part of my audience. So, cross your fingers kids, and let's hope this interviewer is good and drunk.
I have done my nails, fixed my clothes, and shined my shoes. I have tweezed every rogue hair to be found on my person, including my Chuck Norris sideburns which all of my loved ones have neglected to mention for the past two and a half decades. It makes me wonder if I have a third eyeball somewhere that they have all avoided staring at and continue to discuss in disturbed and quiet tones when I'm not listening.
I have secured transportation, planned a pre-interview meal, and have post-interview relaxation plans.
I have memorized every applicable and completely irrelevant but perhaps interesting fact that I can latch on to. Which, can I just say, is a lot of information in this google-age we inhabit.
Truth be told, none of this is why I am nervous.
I have no script.
Over the years, I have observed and catalogued enough human behaviour to get me through almost any situation with ease. Sitting in a workshop? No problem! I have a casual yet interested posture (thieved from a girl I can't remember in high school), my legs crossed at the knee, hands in my lap, head slightly tilted to left, making occasional eye contact with the speaker. Mingling? I'm golden! In a move stolen from a to-remain-nameless serial killer, I latch on to some aspect of a person and inquire with calculated but seemingly genuine curiosity (e.g. "when did you realize your passion taxidermy?" or "tell me more about your pussing and infected boil".)
I've managed to carefully craft a social persona that reads as witty, intelligent, and non-threatening. I am the girl that hangs out by the punch bowl, well liked but forgettable, save for that one-liner about male anatomy you will use at all your future gatherings.
Without such techniques firmly in place, I end up saying things like "What's in this taco salad? Feline? Should I put it in a tortilla or just go lick a cat?" Which, clearly, is followed by a completely tasteless sexual innuendo. It's often unstoppable and generally idiotic, and it can strike at anytime. One minute I'm ordering a sandwich, the next I'm inexplicably telling the waitress I inappropriately poked a wallaby one time.
And this, my friends, is the true reason why I am facing acute job interview panic syndrome. I have no "job interview" moves. No witty malapropisms, no classy compliments, no comical yet intelligently insightful stories hinting at my job readiness.
I may very well ask the interviewer a completely inappropriate question relating to their undergarments or their family pet or both. I will probably inadvertently insult their mother, and the subject of body fluids is almost a given. Undoubtedly, I will reference The Biggest Loser, Anderson Cooper, or Spiderman.
Simply put, I cannot be left to my own devices in uncharted waters and expect an acceptable outcome without some kind of debilitation on the part of my audience. So, cross your fingers kids, and let's hope this interviewer is good and drunk.
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