Let me set the stage for this drama before I critique it.
Setting: The second-to-last night of a semester-long, graduate-level course for mental health practitioners on Clinical Work with Diverse Populations (called a "Diversity" class in shorthand). Having been forcibly evicted from their comfortable classroom, 13 students and one teacher are jammed into a room with insufficient seating. Class has been underway for more than 90 minutes when our scene (Act II) begins.
The characters: One professor (Latina); 13 graduate students ranging in age from 22 to mid 50s, two of whom are white men.
Act II, Scene One opens with three students -- two white men (approximate ages: early 30s and mid 50s), and one woman of mixed ethnicity in her mid 20s -- standing in front of the classroom, awaiting the cue to begin their presentation. A PowerPoint screen glows in anticipation.
This is where the play totally falls apart. Because like, dude, there's obviously been no dialogue written. It quickly becomes clear to the audience that the playwrights (because it takes three writers to create a performance this bad) haven't even defined a concept.
All the audience can tell is that the authors intended to talk about something to do with aging (or, in the more anachronistic spelling that keeps showing up on the PP slides, "ageing").
The cast members playing the roles of professor and students are clearly without their lines, as well.
Because WHAT THE FUCK do you say when people giving presentations start citing research from the 1950s and 1960s and make statements like this: "There's no information out there about women and aging, so most of this stuff talks about men"? (Did ya *see* the more than 3,200 hits on the PsychInfo database that turn up when you query "women" and "aging"? Wonder what woudda happened if you tossed the word "elderly" into the mix?)
And how should you respond when, in an effort to explain the cultural implications of working with the aging population here in the United States, you are informed of the practices (from 1969) of a "polygonous" tribe in Australia?
And what do you make of the assertion that higher rates of depression among old people (excuse me, the aged, which your presenter pronounces as if we're talking about aged cheese or wine, not the "AY-JID") ... what to make of their higher depression when you're informed that the reason they have it is because, "parts are falling off their body and they know they're gonna die and there's no use for them."
Oh, and by the way, depression for those reasons is "justifiable." Why is it "justifiable"? Because DOCTORS say so. And, so, consequently, treatment of that depression as a mental health experience may not be called for -- 'cause they're gonna die soon! That's why they're depressed! Duh!
He goes on to highlight his written point that "Death brings an end to one's sense of Self, economic productivity and (quite a few other aspects of living)." Realizing how absurd that sounds, he correct himself and notes that, in fact, it's "aging" that destroys your identity.
Excuse me?
So as this improvisational and failing stab at Theater of the Absurd -- because Augusto Boal's Theater of the Oppressed doesn't open until Wednesday -- stumbles on, uniterrupted by the speechless though rapidly writing professor, we are eventually treated to the *real* acting.
Act II, Scene Two begins. One man sits in a chair, another man stands and talks on a telephone made from a hand gesture that covers part of his mouth and obscures some of his words (because no one has cell phones to use as a prop, apparently). The man in the chair nags the man on the phone, demanding he turn up the volume, change the channel, hang up the phone, etc. Meanwhile, the man on the phone is calling hotlines that are only open 8-5 Monday through Friday, and well, it must not be that time.
Suddenly, he thinks to call another number. This time, a young woman answers. They engage in a conversation.
Woman: "Hello. Thank. You. For calling the. Hot. Line."
Man: "Hello. I'm. So. Happy. To. Find. One. That's. Open."
It's opening night, mind you, so it makes sense, doesn't it, that they should read us their dialogue in the most wooden form possible. It's as if we're watching the Old Al Gore having a stilted (even for Al Gore) conversation with ... the Old Al Gore on quaaludes.
When the *real* acting part of this theatrical freak show mercifully concludes about five minutes later, the fresh-faced young woman gets up and starts telling us about how to treat the elderly. She has posted some "brochures" on the wall behind her. They are pieces of paper approximately 20x24 inches, which she tells us are "much larger than *real* pieces of paper."
On the supposedly fake pieces of paper, there are a LOT of words. The tiny words are written with colorful markers. (And UCM is thinking, Even if you don't shrink that to the size of *real* paper, the old people are going to have trouble reading it.)
For the next 10 or 15 minutes, the young woman takes us on a point-by-point tour of what these "brochures" say. They are tips for us to consider in dealing with the elderly and their caregivers. Among other things, we are instructed on "how to talk to old people," which makes rather prominent the suggestion that we LIE to them about buying too many lightbulbs by accident and thinking maybe the Gomer would like us to switch out their dim bulbs with our brighter ones.
She informs us that "people can even start nearing the end of life in their 50s." This is amazing! Turns out what we thought could happen at *any time* really doesn't pose a threat until we're at least in our 50s. All those people who are dying at younger ages are clearly mistaken.
She also trots out one of those plastic daily pill organizers and shows it to us. Props! I love 'em. (Later, S2 wondered why our young presenter didn't also bring bed pans or adult diapers -- to show options, natch.)
Just as we think the curtain is falling on this hour-long performance, the professor asks, "Have you thought of any ways you might address the systemic issues that underlie some of the experience of depression among the elderly?"
The three actors stand, mute, clearly unable to comprehend the question. One of the class cast tries to reframe it, but it is apparent that her mind has turned mushy during the performance (though this critic may be giving her credit where none is due). UCM cuts to the chase, "Have you found any ways to stop old people from feeling worthless?"
One replies, "That is a problem of living in a capitalistic, individualistic, selfish society."
The professor asks *how* they might affect some change there. And the white man in his 50s responds, "I don't see how you can. When you retire, particularly if you are a man, you lose your identity, because your job *is* your identity. So when you take that away from a man, what do you have?"
UCM is sitting there, mind and body aching from having been tortured in this manner, and she is no longer biting her tongue. She says, Well, obviously you have *nothing.*
And she meant that on every level one can possibly conceive.
The writer regrets to announce that this was a one-night-only performance and that this critique is designed more for public humiliation than for constructive feedback. The writer regrets that there was so *little* to seize upon for constructive feedback. The writer further regrets having witnessed this performance. The writer is appalled (with SIX 'p's) to note that this performance was written, directed and acted by an alleged "peer group." The writer denies having anything whatsoever to do with these people or their performance. The opinions about old people expressed herein -- although, yes, they *are* kinda grumpy and some of them do smell funny -- are not shared by the producer of this blog. The writer would like to her money back. All $1,830 of it would be ideal. But even a refund of $50.83 to represent the hour for which she was exposed to this mockery of education would be appreciated.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Whither transference?
So it seems I have to write a paper -- two of them, actually -- on the topic of gay relationships for my Clinical Work with Diverse Populations class.
One is a deconstruction of an intervention created in a group project, the topic of which was "The Social Invalidation of Same-Sex Relationships."
The other is a paper on "What happened to me in this class," which invariably will be about this whole issue of same-sex relationships, heterosexism and what it was like for me personally to be "the gay" on said project.
As it is, one of my project mates has informed me that she wrote her "What happened" paper on the experience of working on this project with me, the "real life" gay. I really like this classmate and friend a lot. And she seemed genuinely touched in some way by "the emotional experience" of learning ... I don't know what she learned ... but apparently it was something important.
But it was a little weird for me, this whole affair, because the experience of transference was so fucking unavoidable (unless I had chosen, instead, to work on a project surrounding socio-economic status, old people or transsexuals).
As Dr. M noted, it's not like I have any special understanding of the gay experience, not any more than she has a special understanding of the heterosexual experience. But I must say that when it comes down to *me* getting something about the gay experience that heterosexuals do not -- and both of my project mates are straight -- I suppose it's natural that I would develop a world of transference on the topic.
I was already having an issue. The whole project was born from me telling The Debutante that I believe the experience of my recent divorce has included a fair amount of social invalidation. But I had questioned how one could expect validation for a breakup when the relationship itself doesn't get much social validation from the start. The Deb, hearing me say this, said, "That should be our project! If it's not too close to home...."
I thought about it and figured, yeah, it's pretty damn close to home, but I can deal with that. And to a great degree, I have. S2 might think otherwise, because she periodically gets a ration of comments from me about "your people" and the like.
I am, of course, banking on the fact that my straight friends don't assume I hold them personally responsible for oppression and that S2, in particular, knows I don't see her "model" family as a symbol of all the heterosexist machine would deny me and the next woman who's lucky enough to hitch up to your dear UCM's love train.
As I've said REPEATEDLY, I've always considered being a lesbian a free pass to the cultural expectation that I have children. (To that idea, I say both, Eeeww, childbirth! and Trust me, you don't want me to be *anyone's* parent.)
But, really, not only can I NOT get married, but there are plenty of so-called supportive people in my life to whom I would not even bother to tell of my love interests -- at least, not until it was time to get the U-haul -- because they just do not respond the same way to gay relationships as they do to straight ones. After a while of living an openly gay life, you learn this. One of the things you learn is that your gay friends usually "get it" better than anyone else.
I've had times in my life where my social network was almost exclusively gay. There's always managed to be one good friend who's an ardent Christian (and, god save her, a Republican) in the mix -- as well as some progressive straights -- but my friends were predominantly gay for many years.
As of late, this has not been the case. I can count the gay friends in my immediate social sphere on one hand -- and still have one or two fingers left over, depending on whether I count the lesbian who's having major transference issues with me and her mom lately and whether XGF is in the mix. And one of them is a gay boy I rarely see -- unless he's snorting coke off my dining table at 2 in the morning.
As S2 has said, I'm "a gay girl trapped in a straight woman's world."
This is my own doing. Happily embedded in a relationship for nearly seven years, I let certain social activities slide. And there was a friend I gave the old heave-ho. And one moved away. And I left the corporate world, where I knew a few. And then I went and broke up.
So who was there for my "safety net" when I was suddenly out on my own?
One and a half old lesbians. (The "half" thinks I'm foolish for ending the relationship but made a few supportive comments anyway.)
And two or three straight women who I am still just getting to know. (A shout-out to you, ladies!)
Because my *other* straight friends around these parts? Those would be a bunch of ball-dropping, less-than-supportive people, a few of whom have some serious issues with their moralizing Christianity and were actually taking some GLEE in my breakup (mainly because of the prospect that XGF might go straight -- WHATEVER...).
I don't want to go into anymore detail. I'm EXHAUSTED from all of this. But you can see, maybe, just why this project has felt psychologically taxing to me -- and why I'm not especially looking forward to writing the papers.
*Of course* I've got some transference going on here. I think there'd be something wrong with me if I didn't. But all things considered, I'd prefer to be writing some homoerotica than papers about heterosexim. Because, in the end, it's not the occasional experience of homophobia that's getting to me here. It's the unending heterosexism.
And the fact that I'll *never* get to clean up on the wedding registries the way my straight friends do -- if only because more than half the people in my life wouldn't take my relationship (if I had one) seriously enough to think it warrants a gift of nice silverwear or a Limoges setting or two.
Whann! Whann! Whine. Whimper. Sniffle. Sigh. ... Please excuse me while I go invalidate *myself* so as not to be harmed so much by those who will be doing it to me next.
One is a deconstruction of an intervention created in a group project, the topic of which was "The Social Invalidation of Same-Sex Relationships."
The other is a paper on "What happened to me in this class," which invariably will be about this whole issue of same-sex relationships, heterosexism and what it was like for me personally to be "the gay" on said project.
As it is, one of my project mates has informed me that she wrote her "What happened" paper on the experience of working on this project with me, the "real life" gay. I really like this classmate and friend a lot. And she seemed genuinely touched in some way by "the emotional experience" of learning ... I don't know what she learned ... but apparently it was something important.
But it was a little weird for me, this whole affair, because the experience of transference was so fucking unavoidable (unless I had chosen, instead, to work on a project surrounding socio-economic status, old people or transsexuals).
As Dr. M noted, it's not like I have any special understanding of the gay experience, not any more than she has a special understanding of the heterosexual experience. But I must say that when it comes down to *me* getting something about the gay experience that heterosexuals do not -- and both of my project mates are straight -- I suppose it's natural that I would develop a world of transference on the topic.
I was already having an issue. The whole project was born from me telling The Debutante that I believe the experience of my recent divorce has included a fair amount of social invalidation. But I had questioned how one could expect validation for a breakup when the relationship itself doesn't get much social validation from the start. The Deb, hearing me say this, said, "That should be our project! If it's not too close to home...."
I thought about it and figured, yeah, it's pretty damn close to home, but I can deal with that. And to a great degree, I have. S2 might think otherwise, because she periodically gets a ration of comments from me about "your people" and the like.
I am, of course, banking on the fact that my straight friends don't assume I hold them personally responsible for oppression and that S2, in particular, knows I don't see her "model" family as a symbol of all the heterosexist machine would deny me and the next woman who's lucky enough to hitch up to your dear UCM's love train.
As I've said REPEATEDLY, I've always considered being a lesbian a free pass to the cultural expectation that I have children. (To that idea, I say both, Eeeww, childbirth! and Trust me, you don't want me to be *anyone's* parent.)
But, really, not only can I NOT get married, but there are plenty of so-called supportive people in my life to whom I would not even bother to tell of my love interests -- at least, not until it was time to get the U-haul -- because they just do not respond the same way to gay relationships as they do to straight ones. After a while of living an openly gay life, you learn this. One of the things you learn is that your gay friends usually "get it" better than anyone else.
I've had times in my life where my social network was almost exclusively gay. There's always managed to be one good friend who's an ardent Christian (and, god save her, a Republican) in the mix -- as well as some progressive straights -- but my friends were predominantly gay for many years.
As of late, this has not been the case. I can count the gay friends in my immediate social sphere on one hand -- and still have one or two fingers left over, depending on whether I count the lesbian who's having major transference issues with me and her mom lately and whether XGF is in the mix. And one of them is a gay boy I rarely see -- unless he's snorting coke off my dining table at 2 in the morning.
As S2 has said, I'm "a gay girl trapped in a straight woman's world."
This is my own doing. Happily embedded in a relationship for nearly seven years, I let certain social activities slide. And there was a friend I gave the old heave-ho. And one moved away. And I left the corporate world, where I knew a few. And then I went and broke up.
So who was there for my "safety net" when I was suddenly out on my own?
One and a half old lesbians. (The "half" thinks I'm foolish for ending the relationship but made a few supportive comments anyway.)
And two or three straight women who I am still just getting to know. (A shout-out to you, ladies!)
Because my *other* straight friends around these parts? Those would be a bunch of ball-dropping, less-than-supportive people, a few of whom have some serious issues with their moralizing Christianity and were actually taking some GLEE in my breakup (mainly because of the prospect that XGF might go straight -- WHATEVER...).
I don't want to go into anymore detail. I'm EXHAUSTED from all of this. But you can see, maybe, just why this project has felt psychologically taxing to me -- and why I'm not especially looking forward to writing the papers.
*Of course* I've got some transference going on here. I think there'd be something wrong with me if I didn't. But all things considered, I'd prefer to be writing some homoerotica than papers about heterosexim. Because, in the end, it's not the occasional experience of homophobia that's getting to me here. It's the unending heterosexism.
And the fact that I'll *never* get to clean up on the wedding registries the way my straight friends do -- if only because more than half the people in my life wouldn't take my relationship (if I had one) seriously enough to think it warrants a gift of nice silverwear or a Limoges setting or two.
Whann! Whann! Whine. Whimper. Sniffle. Sigh. ... Please excuse me while I go invalidate *myself* so as not to be harmed so much by those who will be doing it to me next.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Something else from the lost & found
I found something yesterday that I'd forgotten I had. And it kind of excited me.
But first, a little backstory.
My 20-year HS reunion happened last week. And me being the rock star that I am, I naturally chose to deprive my long-lost companions -- especially the TWINS, right JellyGirl? -- of dear UCM's charm, wit and unconventional appearance (compared to all that big Texas hair and caked on makeup).
Turns out, though, that thanks to the blessings -- from the Lord Jesus-Jesus Christ and his Hallowed Holy Father, Zeus -- that we all call digital cameras and the Internet, I was able to see how a fair share of those those snotty-snots, punks, jocks and the rare decent person or two have turned out over the years.
JellyGirl sent me a link to a site and in her e-mail asked me if I could please identify the transsexual hanging on JD's arm. I found the photos in question and promptly could not say just who the hell that was. But, oh yeah, no question a male-to-female conversion was either underway or ... someone was simply in drag.
Maybe you'd find such situations out here on the West Coast, but I'll make a sweeping declaration here and say that people do *not* go to high school reunions in TEXAS in drag. Puh-leeeeze!
Anyway, a third party -- the Jewish girl, who along with the Jewish boy, composed all two (out) Jewish students in my high school with a population of nearly 5,000 drunken, groping, ecstacy-dropping, Mercedes-driving CHRISTIANS -- ... so, uh, the Jewish girl (and surely there *must* have been more than two Jews) was able to identify the tranny for JellyGirl.
Armed with a name -- and at JellyGirl's pleading -- I dug into the trunk in my storage closet, looking for a yearbook to see what "Jamie" used to look like in high school. Alas, it turns out I only have a Freshman yearbook, and "Jamie," Jesus love her, was a year behind me in school.
(Personally, I think it's a lot more freaky to attend a reunion of the class that graduated the year *before* you than it is to show up at said reunion as a different sex than you were in high school.)
It was a bit of disappointment to move all that stuff out of the closet just to get to the trunk -- and turn up no useful information about the transgendered person. But it wasn't a total waste of time.
Rather, all of this has been a huge, grotesque digression on the way to talking about what I discovered. In removing my sleeping bag from the closet, I heard something heavy fall on the floor in the back corner. It turned out to be a box of Nike's "Mojo" golf balls.
The design of the box is bright orange and green in psychadelic striping. The word "Mojo" is written in embossed metallic, with orange flames licking at it. Among some of the marketing text on the box is the following: "Mojo is the yaqui way to golf, built to bend your brain with a costmic brew of flight, shape and length. If you're ready to break on through, ride the Mojo, man." If you know anything about golf balls, you know that this is, in and of itself, pretty fucking weird.
I opened up a sleeve, wondering if I'd find orange- and green-striped balls. They were white balls, with the word "Mojo" written on them in some funky font.
BUT, turning the ball over, I found they were personalized. Specifically, they spell out what the "UCM" acronym stands for -- and, curiously, the words are followed by an EXCLAMATION POINT. (Those few of you who know, know. But even I cannot explain the exclamation point.)
Well, in the end, this may be of no interest to the rest of you, but I think it's quite a find. I have SO MANY golf balls -- thanks to a stint when XGF was doing a lot of work with Nike Golf and when I was actually hitting the links with some regularity -- that I'd totally forgotten there are UCM balls in the world.
In conclusion, I offer this aside. On the box, beneath the word "Mojo," appear the following words, "Get long, get feel, get real." I know that has some meaning in golf (at least part of it does), but it really sounds a lot more like an ad for condoms.
Alright. That's enough. I've been PROCRASTINATING here to an absurd degree, not wanting to dig into a PowerPoint presentation that I need to e-mail to a classmate. Apparently, it has gotten so bad that I'm writing stories about personalized golf balls and the transsexual who prompted me to find them. Time for an intervention... Or maybe just time to vacuum.
But first, a little backstory.
My 20-year HS reunion happened last week. And me being the rock star that I am, I naturally chose to deprive my long-lost companions -- especially the TWINS, right JellyGirl? -- of dear UCM's charm, wit and unconventional appearance (compared to all that big Texas hair and caked on makeup).
Turns out, though, that thanks to the blessings -- from the Lord Jesus-Jesus Christ and his Hallowed Holy Father, Zeus -- that we all call digital cameras and the Internet, I was able to see how a fair share of those those snotty-snots, punks, jocks and the rare decent person or two have turned out over the years.
JellyGirl sent me a link to a site and in her e-mail asked me if I could please identify the transsexual hanging on JD's arm. I found the photos in question and promptly could not say just who the hell that was. But, oh yeah, no question a male-to-female conversion was either underway or ... someone was simply in drag.
Maybe you'd find such situations out here on the West Coast, but I'll make a sweeping declaration here and say that people do *not* go to high school reunions in TEXAS in drag. Puh-leeeeze!
Anyway, a third party -- the Jewish girl, who along with the Jewish boy, composed all two (out) Jewish students in my high school with a population of nearly 5,000 drunken, groping, ecstacy-dropping, Mercedes-driving CHRISTIANS -- ... so, uh, the Jewish girl (and surely there *must* have been more than two Jews) was able to identify the tranny for JellyGirl.
Armed with a name -- and at JellyGirl's pleading -- I dug into the trunk in my storage closet, looking for a yearbook to see what "Jamie" used to look like in high school. Alas, it turns out I only have a Freshman yearbook, and "Jamie," Jesus love her, was a year behind me in school.
(Personally, I think it's a lot more freaky to attend a reunion of the class that graduated the year *before* you than it is to show up at said reunion as a different sex than you were in high school.)
It was a bit of disappointment to move all that stuff out of the closet just to get to the trunk -- and turn up no useful information about the transgendered person. But it wasn't a total waste of time.
Rather, all of this has been a huge, grotesque digression on the way to talking about what I discovered. In removing my sleeping bag from the closet, I heard something heavy fall on the floor in the back corner. It turned out to be a box of Nike's "Mojo" golf balls.
The design of the box is bright orange and green in psychadelic striping. The word "Mojo" is written in embossed metallic, with orange flames licking at it. Among some of the marketing text on the box is the following: "Mojo is the yaqui way to golf, built to bend your brain with a costmic brew of flight, shape and length. If you're ready to break on through, ride the Mojo, man." If you know anything about golf balls, you know that this is, in and of itself, pretty fucking weird.
I opened up a sleeve, wondering if I'd find orange- and green-striped balls. They were white balls, with the word "Mojo" written on them in some funky font.
BUT, turning the ball over, I found they were personalized. Specifically, they spell out what the "UCM" acronym stands for -- and, curiously, the words are followed by an EXCLAMATION POINT. (Those few of you who know, know. But even I cannot explain the exclamation point.)
Well, in the end, this may be of no interest to the rest of you, but I think it's quite a find. I have SO MANY golf balls -- thanks to a stint when XGF was doing a lot of work with Nike Golf and when I was actually hitting the links with some regularity -- that I'd totally forgotten there are UCM balls in the world.
In conclusion, I offer this aside. On the box, beneath the word "Mojo," appear the following words, "Get long, get feel, get real." I know that has some meaning in golf (at least part of it does), but it really sounds a lot more like an ad for condoms.
Alright. That's enough. I've been PROCRASTINATING here to an absurd degree, not wanting to dig into a PowerPoint presentation that I need to e-mail to a classmate. Apparently, it has gotten so bad that I'm writing stories about personalized golf balls and the transsexual who prompted me to find them. Time for an intervention... Or maybe just time to vacuum.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Its rightful owner
The Debutante.
Sadly, she put the bag containing the egg salad sandwich in my fridge a week ago. If anyone out there was ever looking for evidence that I am, at times, utterly oblivious, this would be it.
Sadly, she put the bag containing the egg salad sandwich in my fridge a week ago. If anyone out there was ever looking for evidence that I am, at times, utterly oblivious, this would be it.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Lost Sandwich Seeks Rigthful Owner
Do you ever open your fridge and find something in there that is a real effin' mystery?
I'm not talking about those things you put in a tupperware container a few months ago that have turned into mold and are thus no longer recognizable. I'm talking the kind of mystery that makes you wonder (if you live alone like I do): Did someone break into my house and put something *in* to my fridge?
Because tonight, I opened my fridge to pull out a bottle of reisling, and I saw a brown paper bag. I had come in the door this evening with a brown paper bag of the same exact size, so I immediately thought, Duh! I didn't mean to put that in there!
I reached in pulled it out, but it did not feel like the bag (containing a bag of yukon gold potatoe chips) that I believed I put in there. I opened it ... and now find myself at a losss.
Inside was a egg salad and havarti sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes -- on whole wheat. It was made by the grocery store where I frequently shop. But I did *not* buy it. Nor did I stick it in my refrigerator on anyone's behalf. I have never seen this sandwich before.
(And no, I haven't been so intoxicated between now and the sandwich's born-on date to have forgotten I had something to do with this thing.)
It was made on July 19, and I regret to say that its sell-by date was July 20. It being egg salad and all, I don't think it's edible any longer. But I haven't thrown it away. So someone can still claim it.
The only reason I hope someone does is because I want to know: WHERE DID IT COME FROM? HOW DID IT GET HERE?
I'm more than a little worried that it came from some snakes who've just flown in from the coast....
I'm not talking about those things you put in a tupperware container a few months ago that have turned into mold and are thus no longer recognizable. I'm talking the kind of mystery that makes you wonder (if you live alone like I do): Did someone break into my house and put something *in* to my fridge?
Because tonight, I opened my fridge to pull out a bottle of reisling, and I saw a brown paper bag. I had come in the door this evening with a brown paper bag of the same exact size, so I immediately thought, Duh! I didn't mean to put that in there!
I reached in pulled it out, but it did not feel like the bag (containing a bag of yukon gold potatoe chips) that I believed I put in there. I opened it ... and now find myself at a losss.
Inside was a egg salad and havarti sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes -- on whole wheat. It was made by the grocery store where I frequently shop. But I did *not* buy it. Nor did I stick it in my refrigerator on anyone's behalf. I have never seen this sandwich before.
(And no, I haven't been so intoxicated between now and the sandwich's born-on date to have forgotten I had something to do with this thing.)
It was made on July 19, and I regret to say that its sell-by date was July 20. It being egg salad and all, I don't think it's edible any longer. But I haven't thrown it away. So someone can still claim it.
The only reason I hope someone does is because I want to know: WHERE DID IT COME FROM? HOW DID IT GET HERE?
I'm more than a little worried that it came from some snakes who've just flown in from the coast....
A trailer that earned hisses
The other noteworthy cinematic event of the day was a trailer for an upcoming film that would, indeed, scare the living shit outta me.
"Imagine your worst fears," the voice-over says. Then, on a black screen flashes, in white, the words "agoraphobia: fear of open spaces." This is followed by "clastrophobia: fear of enclosed spaces." And "aviophobia: fear of flying."
Lastly, the following words appear: "ophidiophobia: fear of snakes."
"Now," the voice-over says, "imagine them all in one place."
A film montage of strange images starts to pop up. A plane flying. People having sex in an airplane bathroom. Someone entering a small space in the belly of an airplane. And, finally...
Snakes. Snakes fucking everywhere. In an airplane. An airplane that's in flight. A flight attendant walks into the cockpit and finds no crew. But some big freaky snake with fangs lunges out at her from one of the seats. There are snakes in the aisles. Snakes in the bathroom. Snakes, snakes, snakes.
My god, now as I'm thinking about it, I'm afraid to go to sleep tonight, because I'm gonna dream about all these fucking snakes. ... See, I initially thought: Well, this is about a plane that crashes into a viper pit like that one in "Live and Let Die." Or something like that.
But then, it quickly became obvious that it was about snakes on an airplane. Lots of poisonous, big, scary snakes on an airplane.
I avert my eyes at times like this in the movie theater. I can't stand snakes. But if you had been there to hear it, I'm sure you all would've enjoyed the SNORT of laughter that erupted from me -- and the howls and hisses of laughter from many other people in the audience -- when we were all treated to the film's title, emblazzoned on the screen in a serpentine font: "Snakes on a Plane."
Seriously. That's the creative title: SNAKES. ON. A. PLANE.
You know it's doomed, right, when the audience watching the trailer doesn't react in horror, but in ridiculing laughter. People couldn't stop giggling. It was so bad that it made me wonder: Have I been PUNKED? Is this trailer a plant, (ala CJ)?
So I googled. And, yes, someone in Hollywood actually got this thing funded. And then, someone made a trailer. Whether it ever sees the darkness of an actual cineplex is anyone's guess.
But, if you really want entertainment this summer, my hope is that you too get to see the trailer. I'm willing to wager that's all you'll ever need to see. Certainly, I have already seen more than enough.
"Imagine your worst fears," the voice-over says. Then, on a black screen flashes, in white, the words "agoraphobia: fear of open spaces." This is followed by "clastrophobia: fear of enclosed spaces." And "aviophobia: fear of flying."
Lastly, the following words appear: "ophidiophobia: fear of snakes."
"Now," the voice-over says, "imagine them all in one place."
A film montage of strange images starts to pop up. A plane flying. People having sex in an airplane bathroom. Someone entering a small space in the belly of an airplane. And, finally...
Snakes. Snakes fucking everywhere. In an airplane. An airplane that's in flight. A flight attendant walks into the cockpit and finds no crew. But some big freaky snake with fangs lunges out at her from one of the seats. There are snakes in the aisles. Snakes in the bathroom. Snakes, snakes, snakes.
My god, now as I'm thinking about it, I'm afraid to go to sleep tonight, because I'm gonna dream about all these fucking snakes. ... See, I initially thought: Well, this is about a plane that crashes into a viper pit like that one in "Live and Let Die." Or something like that.
But then, it quickly became obvious that it was about snakes on an airplane. Lots of poisonous, big, scary snakes on an airplane.
I avert my eyes at times like this in the movie theater. I can't stand snakes. But if you had been there to hear it, I'm sure you all would've enjoyed the SNORT of laughter that erupted from me -- and the howls and hisses of laughter from many other people in the audience -- when we were all treated to the film's title, emblazzoned on the screen in a serpentine font: "Snakes on a Plane."
Seriously. That's the creative title: SNAKES. ON. A. PLANE.
You know it's doomed, right, when the audience watching the trailer doesn't react in horror, but in ridiculing laughter. People couldn't stop giggling. It was so bad that it made me wonder: Have I been PUNKED? Is this trailer a plant, (ala CJ)?
So I googled. And, yes, someone in Hollywood actually got this thing funded. And then, someone made a trailer. Whether it ever sees the darkness of an actual cineplex is anyone's guess.
But, if you really want entertainment this summer, my hope is that you too get to see the trailer. I'm willing to wager that's all you'll ever need to see. Certainly, I have already seen more than enough.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
"Kelly can be a guy's name, too"
I loved the first "Clerks." And, even though a sequel to that brilliant bit of cinema will never measure up to the first, the second provided enough laugh-out-loud moments to be worth the price of admission. (Helpful, too, that the a/c was on full blast.)
Not to be missed are some very funny scenes surrounding an episode of "interspecies erotica" and a debate over the meaning of the term "porch monkey." As well as a perfect and highly warranted attack on the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy.
It made me long for the days when I had an aimless job and my life was utterly directionless. In other words, it made me miss being a lifeguard.
Of course, there were a lot more hot and scantily clad women in my gig as a lifeguard than ever appeared in either version of "Clerks." So one could argue that my situation was infiintely better and, thus, I technically cannot relate.
But whatever.
I've never seen interspecies erotica in person, either. But I still found that shit VERY funny.
As an aside, I will say, however that there is a very captivating sculpture, rescued from the pumice at Pompeii and now on display at the Archeological Museum of Naples, that depicts Pan fucking a goat. I found it very difficult to stop looking at it, even with a (male, Italian) museum docent hovering nearby, licking his chops while I regarded this lurid bit of artwork.
Really, of all the art I've seen in this fair world, including a massive display of pre-Columbian erotic art at the Museo Larco in Lima, *nothing* has stuck in my head quite like that sculpture of Pan. You can only see it by requesting a tour of the museum's "Secret Room," which houses a lot of erotic art from the Roman Empire. As you can imagine, erotic art from the Roman Empire can be quite decadent. Penis windchimes, anyone? But that sculpture of Pan and the goat ... whoa.
Of course, that's *not* what's going on in "Clerks II."
But, in either case, you've got to see it for yourself to get it.
Not to be missed are some very funny scenes surrounding an episode of "interspecies erotica" and a debate over the meaning of the term "porch monkey." As well as a perfect and highly warranted attack on the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy.
It made me long for the days when I had an aimless job and my life was utterly directionless. In other words, it made me miss being a lifeguard.
Of course, there were a lot more hot and scantily clad women in my gig as a lifeguard than ever appeared in either version of "Clerks." So one could argue that my situation was infiintely better and, thus, I technically cannot relate.
But whatever.
I've never seen interspecies erotica in person, either. But I still found that shit VERY funny.
As an aside, I will say, however that there is a very captivating sculpture, rescued from the pumice at Pompeii and now on display at the Archeological Museum of Naples, that depicts Pan fucking a goat. I found it very difficult to stop looking at it, even with a (male, Italian) museum docent hovering nearby, licking his chops while I regarded this lurid bit of artwork.
Really, of all the art I've seen in this fair world, including a massive display of pre-Columbian erotic art at the Museo Larco in Lima, *nothing* has stuck in my head quite like that sculpture of Pan. You can only see it by requesting a tour of the museum's "Secret Room," which houses a lot of erotic art from the Roman Empire. As you can imagine, erotic art from the Roman Empire can be quite decadent. Penis windchimes, anyone? But that sculpture of Pan and the goat ... whoa.
Of course, that's *not* what's going on in "Clerks II."
But, in either case, you've got to see it for yourself to get it.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Too hot to handle
Want proof there's global warming? Come to Portland this week. Goddamned mutha-fuckin hot here, and I'm disgusted by it.
I know my friends in the Valley and in The South must be laughing. What's that I used to say about people barking these little complaints like me? They're Weather Wimps! Right? ... Well, YOU PEOPLE have A/C.
I went to the lake today and spent a good four hours or so swimming and lazing around in the shade, enjoying an overcast day that otherwise would have felt rather humid had I not been already wet from swimming.
Do I sound full of resentment? More specifically, am I oozing resentment? Because if I'm not sounding like that, I want you people to know this: I RESENT global warming and all that comes with it (rising seas, Tuvalu disappearing, hurricanes whipping into a frenzy, insufficient rainfall in the PNW and DISGUSTING heat). That shit? I RESENT it! Especially because it's only going to get worse.
Also, I resent not having A/C right now.
I do suppose, however, that this is just good practice for all that time I'll be spending in hell. As if all those years in Florida, South Carolina and Texas didn't count for anything.
I suppose one other thing I resent is that it can get so fucking hot up here, but it's still hard to get a decent tan.
Also, per my conversation tonight with S2, her hub and his ma, I resent Wal-Mart, Costco, Microsoft, for-profit health care (for SHAME!), capitalism, the NYSE ... and Sally Struthers. Just to name a few. And just to set the record straight.
And, of course, I still resent the goddamned heat.
I will, however, be accompanied from this point forth by a Greek chorus *or* a few Ooompah-Loompahs (depends on the day of the week and scheduling availablility). Both will have erudite (or at least lyrical) contributions to make to any conversation about my resentful nature, my storytelling style and my poor fashion sense.
H-yaw! Woop-ti-aye-eh! Who will dare to ride this bull?
No, I'm not intoxicated. I'm just being discursive. And I resent any suggestions to the contrary.
I know my friends in the Valley and in The South must be laughing. What's that I used to say about people barking these little complaints like me? They're Weather Wimps! Right? ... Well, YOU PEOPLE have A/C.
I went to the lake today and spent a good four hours or so swimming and lazing around in the shade, enjoying an overcast day that otherwise would have felt rather humid had I not been already wet from swimming.
Do I sound full of resentment? More specifically, am I oozing resentment? Because if I'm not sounding like that, I want you people to know this: I RESENT global warming and all that comes with it (rising seas, Tuvalu disappearing, hurricanes whipping into a frenzy, insufficient rainfall in the PNW and DISGUSTING heat). That shit? I RESENT it! Especially because it's only going to get worse.
Also, I resent not having A/C right now.
I do suppose, however, that this is just good practice for all that time I'll be spending in hell. As if all those years in Florida, South Carolina and Texas didn't count for anything.
I suppose one other thing I resent is that it can get so fucking hot up here, but it's still hard to get a decent tan.
Also, per my conversation tonight with S2, her hub and his ma, I resent Wal-Mart, Costco, Microsoft, for-profit health care (for SHAME!), capitalism, the NYSE ... and Sally Struthers. Just to name a few. And just to set the record straight.
And, of course, I still resent the goddamned heat.
I will, however, be accompanied from this point forth by a Greek chorus *or* a few Ooompah-Loompahs (depends on the day of the week and scheduling availablility). Both will have erudite (or at least lyrical) contributions to make to any conversation about my resentful nature, my storytelling style and my poor fashion sense.
H-yaw! Woop-ti-aye-eh! Who will dare to ride this bull?
No, I'm not intoxicated. I'm just being discursive. And I resent any suggestions to the contrary.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Hair: an "everyday" form of resistance
So I'm doing some research into the social stigmas surrounding lesbian relationships, and I come across this in a psychology database. I never thought about it before, but it's curious thought worth sharing:
"Reviews the book "Rapunzel's Daughters: What Women's Hair Tells Us about Women's Lives," by Rose Weitz. Rapunzel's Daughters is a scholarly approach to the meaning of women's hair. It shows how women think and feel about their hair and how society reacts to women's hair. The book conveys the breadth of meanings of hair color, style, and texture. In tracing the history of women's hairstyles, Weitz discusses how central hair is to appearance and how women use hair both to establish group identity and as a form of everyday resistance against their parents, husbands, dominant culture, and broader society. In the second half of the book, Weitz analyzes how hair takes on special significance for women in the workplace. In high-level jobs, women must not be too feminine but also must not cross the line by looking like a lesbian, rather they may have a "power cut". Weitz examines baldness and how involuntary hair loss has a devastating effect on women because of the stigma of aging. Weitz's writing style is clear and flows, and she carefully backs up all generalizations with excerpts from interviews."
I find myself wondering how the line is drawn between a lesbian haircut and a "power cut." As a gay gal, I feel that I have a natural understanding of it -- it's like poronography: even when you can't define it, you know it when you see it -- but I wonder how straight women define this difference.
In my personal experience, I suffered with a "lesbian" haircut for far too long (to be noted, however, that it was NOT a mullet). Now that my hair is different, I get different reactions from people. So anecdotally, I can tell you there *is* something to this Politics of Hair.
"Reviews the book "Rapunzel's Daughters: What Women's Hair Tells Us about Women's Lives," by Rose Weitz. Rapunzel's Daughters is a scholarly approach to the meaning of women's hair. It shows how women think and feel about their hair and how society reacts to women's hair. The book conveys the breadth of meanings of hair color, style, and texture. In tracing the history of women's hairstyles, Weitz discusses how central hair is to appearance and how women use hair both to establish group identity and as a form of everyday resistance against their parents, husbands, dominant culture, and broader society. In the second half of the book, Weitz analyzes how hair takes on special significance for women in the workplace. In high-level jobs, women must not be too feminine but also must not cross the line by looking like a lesbian, rather they may have a "power cut". Weitz examines baldness and how involuntary hair loss has a devastating effect on women because of the stigma of aging. Weitz's writing style is clear and flows, and she carefully backs up all generalizations with excerpts from interviews."
I find myself wondering how the line is drawn between a lesbian haircut and a "power cut." As a gay gal, I feel that I have a natural understanding of it -- it's like poronography: even when you can't define it, you know it when you see it -- but I wonder how straight women define this difference.
In my personal experience, I suffered with a "lesbian" haircut for far too long (to be noted, however, that it was NOT a mullet). Now that my hair is different, I get different reactions from people. So anecdotally, I can tell you there *is* something to this Politics of Hair.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
And now, I'm dead...
Well, that didn't take long.
It was a brief foray through Old Age for my Alter Ego. She gave up the ghost while getting a coronary bypass.
Never got married. But apparently, she was quite the belly dancer.
Well.
I guess I can move on now.
It was a brief foray through Old Age for my Alter Ego. She gave up the ghost while getting a coronary bypass.
Never got married. But apparently, she was quite the belly dancer.
Well.
I guess I can move on now.
My Alter Ego is back!
For the past few weeks, I haven't been able to continue pursuing the life of my Alter Ego, on accounts something was wrong with the Web site. But I was able to hook up today, and ...
*gulp*
I've surpassed my actual real-life age. My Alter Ego has made it through "middle adulthood," a phase I've only recently entered in real life. I've got an ulcer, but I've finshed college and I have a live-in boyfriend.
I'm looking at this progress report and wondering what's next. (I can feel death starting to breath down the back of my neck.)
"During this phase of life, your body doesn't always respond the way your mind would like it to. A sore back after a hard day's work or sore feet and legs after a long walk are not uncommon. In general, you are not very healthy.
...
"You've never lost that youthful zest for life, have you? Unfortunately, your walks on the wild side have gotten you into more than one spot of trouble.
"You've seemed to have negotiated your "midlife crisis" without becoming depressed. You can be sensible and understanding. You are usually cool, calm and collected.
"People see you as an extremely wise person. They rely on you often for advice and are pleased with the results they get from interacting with you.
"The next phase of life is full of mixed blessings. You may feel old and lonely some days and cheerful and strong on others. Our society certainly has its share of prejudices against older folks, but you can have rich and rewarding experiences despite this.
"You will have your chance to thumb your nose at people who think you are too old to live it up a little. After all, you were doing most of these things (and enjoying them) long before these people were toilet trained."
So that's all nice and dandy. But I'm not liking this bit where I'm turning into an Old Person. If there's a fear I've got in real life, it's becoming decrepit and senile.
*gulp*
I've surpassed my actual real-life age. My Alter Ego has made it through "middle adulthood," a phase I've only recently entered in real life. I've got an ulcer, but I've finshed college and I have a live-in boyfriend.
I'm looking at this progress report and wondering what's next. (I can feel death starting to breath down the back of my neck.)
"During this phase of life, your body doesn't always respond the way your mind would like it to. A sore back after a hard day's work or sore feet and legs after a long walk are not uncommon. In general, you are not very healthy.
...
"You've never lost that youthful zest for life, have you? Unfortunately, your walks on the wild side have gotten you into more than one spot of trouble.
"You've seemed to have negotiated your "midlife crisis" without becoming depressed. You can be sensible and understanding. You are usually cool, calm and collected.
"People see you as an extremely wise person. They rely on you often for advice and are pleased with the results they get from interacting with you.
"The next phase of life is full of mixed blessings. You may feel old and lonely some days and cheerful and strong on others. Our society certainly has its share of prejudices against older folks, but you can have rich and rewarding experiences despite this.
"You will have your chance to thumb your nose at people who think you are too old to live it up a little. After all, you were doing most of these things (and enjoying them) long before these people were toilet trained."
So that's all nice and dandy. But I'm not liking this bit where I'm turning into an Old Person. If there's a fear I've got in real life, it's becoming decrepit and senile.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Blaming the victim
I'm sitting at a table in a restaurant during Happy Hour with some classmates -- all of them acquaintances at best -- when one of counseling psych majors announces the following:
"I believe that people choose the life they are born into, and that they do so because they have some kind of lesson they need to learn."
This isn't the first time I've heard someone express that opinion. Normally, I sit quietly, but this time I replied, I don't believe that at all.
She looked a bit offended, so I didn't pursue the discussion. But if I had, this is what I would said to said "counselor-in-training":
I sure as shit hope you don't ever tell your clients crap like that. There are many ways to look at the idea -- all of them fantastical and absurd, in my opinion -- but one of them is that the individual human is *ultimately responsible* for the circumstances of their birth: their biological construction, their socioeconomic status, their parents and family situation. EVERYTHING.
In that way of thinking, this planet is populated by millions of children who were born into poverty, don't get an education, even experience famine ... because they CHOSE to do so.
And four year old girls molested by a neighbor knew what they were getting into when they chose the body in which they would be born.
Some apparently also chose really beautiful forms, while others, myself included, decided to choose average forms? Some of us chose to be brainy, while others chose to be intellectually deprived.
If this is all so, what's up with those who got to be brainy, beautiful, mentally healthy and rich? Because I do think those people exist (more or less). And if I actually had a CHOICE -- as in, I could've had all that -- why the hell didn't I choose that?
It doesn't make any sense.
And it puts the ultimate responsibility of everything that occurs in someone's life at their own feet because they made a choice to be born into those circumstances. Give me a fucking break. But more importantly, give the people who've got really SHITTY LIVES a fucking break.
I know there's a deeper philosphy at play here, and I'm well aware of what it is. But I still think it's a really dumb fucking idea. And I don't think suggesting to clients that they chose the misery in their lives from the moment of their birth has any therapeutic value whatsoever.
But I didn't say anything of the sort. All the teaching students would've stared at me while nervously fiddling the crucifixes hanging 'round their necks. And if the teacher's (flattering but weird) comments about my "directness" in class discussion are any indication, I've already done enough work on those people.
Still, though, to my colleague I say, Keep that idiotic belief to yourself when you're doing therapy.
(And, yes, to myself I ask: Just what about this is bothering me so? Perhaps we'll here more on that later. But I can't imagine any "soul-searching" (ha!) on this topic is going to change my opinion.
"I believe that people choose the life they are born into, and that they do so because they have some kind of lesson they need to learn."
This isn't the first time I've heard someone express that opinion. Normally, I sit quietly, but this time I replied, I don't believe that at all.
She looked a bit offended, so I didn't pursue the discussion. But if I had, this is what I would said to said "counselor-in-training":
I sure as shit hope you don't ever tell your clients crap like that. There are many ways to look at the idea -- all of them fantastical and absurd, in my opinion -- but one of them is that the individual human is *ultimately responsible* for the circumstances of their birth: their biological construction, their socioeconomic status, their parents and family situation. EVERYTHING.
In that way of thinking, this planet is populated by millions of children who were born into poverty, don't get an education, even experience famine ... because they CHOSE to do so.
And four year old girls molested by a neighbor knew what they were getting into when they chose the body in which they would be born.
Some apparently also chose really beautiful forms, while others, myself included, decided to choose average forms? Some of us chose to be brainy, while others chose to be intellectually deprived.
If this is all so, what's up with those who got to be brainy, beautiful, mentally healthy and rich? Because I do think those people exist (more or less). And if I actually had a CHOICE -- as in, I could've had all that -- why the hell didn't I choose that?
It doesn't make any sense.
And it puts the ultimate responsibility of everything that occurs in someone's life at their own feet because they made a choice to be born into those circumstances. Give me a fucking break. But more importantly, give the people who've got really SHITTY LIVES a fucking break.
I know there's a deeper philosphy at play here, and I'm well aware of what it is. But I still think it's a really dumb fucking idea. And I don't think suggesting to clients that they chose the misery in their lives from the moment of their birth has any therapeutic value whatsoever.
But I didn't say anything of the sort. All the teaching students would've stared at me while nervously fiddling the crucifixes hanging 'round their necks. And if the teacher's (flattering but weird) comments about my "directness" in class discussion are any indication, I've already done enough work on those people.
Still, though, to my colleague I say, Keep that idiotic belief to yourself when you're doing therapy.
(And, yes, to myself I ask: Just what about this is bothering me so? Perhaps we'll here more on that later. But I can't imagine any "soul-searching" (ha!) on this topic is going to change my opinion.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Should I become a slut?
I have what one person (so far) has called the "sexiest bed on the planet." I don't think I would go that far. The sexiest bed would have be, uh, *my bed* swathed in white linens in the shade of a billowing muslin canopy on an isolated stretch of white South Pacific sand being lapped by warm tropical water that looks lit of turquoise. Now we're talking....
Nevertheless, the arrival of my much-anticipated, made-to-order, hand-crafted solid mahogany sleigh bed has dramatically altered the interior design of my living space. It has gone from loft living space with bed to boudoir with kitchen. The transformation has been prompting sexual talk by visitors.
"You do realize," one said, "that you could rent your loft by the hour on the weekends for a very high price, don't you?" (It hadn't occurred to me, but as it has occurred to *someone,* I will issue this warning to all who have keys to my place: No madame action permitted. Not without giving me a cut anyway.)
Others, however, have been looking at that bed and thinking it might result in some action for *me,* versus a high-priced call girl. (Man, still ... I can't believe I hadn't thought of that!)
Anyway, the other night S2 and her hubby came over for some pre-sushi libations and S2 started commenting on the bed. Which, OK, I preen over these things because I'm shallow and materialistic when it comes to gorgeous wooden furniture. (I don't preen or fawn over furniture if it's not made of wood and highly crafted at that. Obviously, it's some kind of fetish.)
So after a bit, S2 stands next to the bed and asks, "Have you imagined yourself having sex in this bed yet?"
Well, I have imagined myself having sex while in this bed, but I hadn't actually made the bed a central figure, I replied. Not yet anyway. It's such a sexy bed that it's only a matter of time.
This evening, The Good Witch stopped by for a visit and at one point said, "That bed is going to stand up to a lot of sex. You do know it probably will be around for centuries, don't you?"
That's one of the reasons I got it, I replied. If it doesn't get destroyed in a disaster, it's going to survive for generations. And so, yeah, it's going to see a lot of sex.
"Well, you must have had sex in mind when you bought it," she replied. "Because it has sex written all over it. Plus, it would make a great conversation pit."
So The Good Wiitch is seeing not just me and someone else, but multiple parties in the bed at the same time. It's making me think I should draw up the invitations for that Bacchanalian Orgy I was talking about a few weeks ago. We eat loads of food, drink tons of wine and all drop into the bed for a drunken ... -- oh, wait, we should all drop into the bed AFTER the wine, but BEFORE the food. Duh!
Back from fantasyland...
I've had two suggestions that I have a "Bed Warming" party. I like this idea, too. I can dress as Hugh Hefner (in some jammies, that is) and simply invite a bunch of women over with a request they go the bunny route....
Enh. I guess that's a diversion into fantasyland, too.
But what about becoming a slut? Surely, there must be something to be said for casual sex these days. Some of the most erotic sex I ever had was with a woman who fell into a relationship category that was somewhere between fuck buddy and friend with benefits.
Why not go down that road again? As my sister said recently, at this point in my divorce development, I would probably "a menace" to any woman who wanted a serious relationship. Because in that regard, I'm not especially available.
I'm off on some strange path of self-discovery again. I'm trying to reclaim myself as myself, be an independent woman here on Planet Earth. That doesn't mean I'm not acutely missing a signficant other at times. Of course I am. But it's going to take a while for me to want to be in another such relationship.
In the meantime, I'm 37 years old and my libido periodically finds the stratosphere. I have been feeling desire in ways previously not experienced. This is, I gather, partly to do with my age, but it is also related to the strange path of my sexual development thanks to so many years of repression and denial about my sexuality. All of that shit is gone now, and I'm in some place totally different.
A few months ago, Bubba told me she didn't believe it possible to carry on a casual sexual relationship without having all sorts of muddled and queer feelings, such as falling in love. She asked me if I thought it was possible for myself.
I don't see why not, I answered. I mean, if you're up front with each other about what you want and don't want but there's some chemistry there, I think it's totally possible. I was thinking back to what could have gone a little better with that fuck buddy/friend with benefit of mine. She hadn't been clear about what she wanted, and I had no clue what I wanted.
Bubba told me such relationships never go as planned and that she's had a hard time keeping the gals at bay in her own experience.
It's true, there is that whole bit with the lesbians and their U-hauls. And that is a concern to me when I think about getting all slutty. Because I don't want some girl moving in on me. Not any old girl, that is. There are, no doubt, some I would be quite pleased to have. But ... later!
In the meantime, what about sex?
Just how long can one live in a space with a bed as beautiful and sexy as mine and not think about putting it to good use? It hasn't even been here for two weeks.... It is quite comfortable for sleeping, but that's just the MATTRESS.
The bed itself? It's a sexpot.
I've been expressing concern to some of my friends that having casual sex in such a pretty bed -- and something I'll have for the rest of my life -- might bring bad ju-ju to the bed. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if it might not be just the opposite. Casual, fun, charged-up, erotic sex without a whole bunch of "meaning" attached to it might be just the kind of energy a bed like this needs. It might be good ju-ju, indeed.
I'm beginning to think that rather than a set of European shams, this bed needs a slut.
As Anais Nin once said, "There comes a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud is more painful than the risk it takes to blossom."
Nevertheless, the arrival of my much-anticipated, made-to-order, hand-crafted solid mahogany sleigh bed has dramatically altered the interior design of my living space. It has gone from loft living space with bed to boudoir with kitchen. The transformation has been prompting sexual talk by visitors.
"You do realize," one said, "that you could rent your loft by the hour on the weekends for a very high price, don't you?" (It hadn't occurred to me, but as it has occurred to *someone,* I will issue this warning to all who have keys to my place: No madame action permitted. Not without giving me a cut anyway.)
Others, however, have been looking at that bed and thinking it might result in some action for *me,* versus a high-priced call girl. (Man, still ... I can't believe I hadn't thought of that!)
Anyway, the other night S2 and her hubby came over for some pre-sushi libations and S2 started commenting on the bed. Which, OK, I preen over these things because I'm shallow and materialistic when it comes to gorgeous wooden furniture. (I don't preen or fawn over furniture if it's not made of wood and highly crafted at that. Obviously, it's some kind of fetish.)
So after a bit, S2 stands next to the bed and asks, "Have you imagined yourself having sex in this bed yet?"
Well, I have imagined myself having sex while in this bed, but I hadn't actually made the bed a central figure, I replied. Not yet anyway. It's such a sexy bed that it's only a matter of time.
This evening, The Good Witch stopped by for a visit and at one point said, "That bed is going to stand up to a lot of sex. You do know it probably will be around for centuries, don't you?"
That's one of the reasons I got it, I replied. If it doesn't get destroyed in a disaster, it's going to survive for generations. And so, yeah, it's going to see a lot of sex.
"Well, you must have had sex in mind when you bought it," she replied. "Because it has sex written all over it. Plus, it would make a great conversation pit."
So The Good Wiitch is seeing not just me and someone else, but multiple parties in the bed at the same time. It's making me think I should draw up the invitations for that Bacchanalian Orgy I was talking about a few weeks ago. We eat loads of food, drink tons of wine and all drop into the bed for a drunken ... -- oh, wait, we should all drop into the bed AFTER the wine, but BEFORE the food. Duh!
Back from fantasyland...
I've had two suggestions that I have a "Bed Warming" party. I like this idea, too. I can dress as Hugh Hefner (in some jammies, that is) and simply invite a bunch of women over with a request they go the bunny route....
Enh. I guess that's a diversion into fantasyland, too.
But what about becoming a slut? Surely, there must be something to be said for casual sex these days. Some of the most erotic sex I ever had was with a woman who fell into a relationship category that was somewhere between fuck buddy and friend with benefits.
Why not go down that road again? As my sister said recently, at this point in my divorce development, I would probably "a menace" to any woman who wanted a serious relationship. Because in that regard, I'm not especially available.
I'm off on some strange path of self-discovery again. I'm trying to reclaim myself as myself, be an independent woman here on Planet Earth. That doesn't mean I'm not acutely missing a signficant other at times. Of course I am. But it's going to take a while for me to want to be in another such relationship.
In the meantime, I'm 37 years old and my libido periodically finds the stratosphere. I have been feeling desire in ways previously not experienced. This is, I gather, partly to do with my age, but it is also related to the strange path of my sexual development thanks to so many years of repression and denial about my sexuality. All of that shit is gone now, and I'm in some place totally different.
A few months ago, Bubba told me she didn't believe it possible to carry on a casual sexual relationship without having all sorts of muddled and queer feelings, such as falling in love. She asked me if I thought it was possible for myself.
I don't see why not, I answered. I mean, if you're up front with each other about what you want and don't want but there's some chemistry there, I think it's totally possible. I was thinking back to what could have gone a little better with that fuck buddy/friend with benefit of mine. She hadn't been clear about what she wanted, and I had no clue what I wanted.
Bubba told me such relationships never go as planned and that she's had a hard time keeping the gals at bay in her own experience.
It's true, there is that whole bit with the lesbians and their U-hauls. And that is a concern to me when I think about getting all slutty. Because I don't want some girl moving in on me. Not any old girl, that is. There are, no doubt, some I would be quite pleased to have. But ... later!
In the meantime, what about sex?
Just how long can one live in a space with a bed as beautiful and sexy as mine and not think about putting it to good use? It hasn't even been here for two weeks.... It is quite comfortable for sleeping, but that's just the MATTRESS.
The bed itself? It's a sexpot.
I've been expressing concern to some of my friends that having casual sex in such a pretty bed -- and something I'll have for the rest of my life -- might bring bad ju-ju to the bed. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if it might not be just the opposite. Casual, fun, charged-up, erotic sex without a whole bunch of "meaning" attached to it might be just the kind of energy a bed like this needs. It might be good ju-ju, indeed.
I'm beginning to think that rather than a set of European shams, this bed needs a slut.
As Anais Nin once said, "There comes a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud is more painful than the risk it takes to blossom."
Monday, July 10, 2006
Cancer in them there cells
So Dear Old Dad called yesterday and mumbled something -- a couple of times -- about the possibility that the prostate cancer he was diagnosed with five years ago and for which he has been treated numerous times is now "running amok."
It may have "escaped containment," he says.
This cancer has killed my grandfather and four of my dad's five uncles.
Dear Old Dad would *never* mention a "possibility" unless it was quite serious. This is what I fear anyway.
But then, to complicate things, I have been wishing he was dead. Actually, I've been wishing both of my parents were dead. But if I had my druthers, my mom would go first.
You have to know my family history for this to make any sense. But let's suffice it to say: NO, I am *not* a cold, heartless bitch and ungrateful child. I'm just looking for a little congruence between practical realities and technical ones.
Seriously, the mother in this case should go first. Not the father. The father has been showing signs of some redeeming qualities over the past few years. But then, maybe that's because he has known for a while that his time is limited.
Life is so fucking complicated. I don't actually want my dad to die. I just want him to learn to be a dad.
He may be getting there. At the end of our conversation, he actually said, "I love you." Not once (which is rare enough) but twice (which is downright suspicious).
Why are fear and greed the only real motivators for change? Why isn't love enough?
It may have "escaped containment," he says.
This cancer has killed my grandfather and four of my dad's five uncles.
Dear Old Dad would *never* mention a "possibility" unless it was quite serious. This is what I fear anyway.
But then, to complicate things, I have been wishing he was dead. Actually, I've been wishing both of my parents were dead. But if I had my druthers, my mom would go first.
You have to know my family history for this to make any sense. But let's suffice it to say: NO, I am *not* a cold, heartless bitch and ungrateful child. I'm just looking for a little congruence between practical realities and technical ones.
Seriously, the mother in this case should go first. Not the father. The father has been showing signs of some redeeming qualities over the past few years. But then, maybe that's because he has known for a while that his time is limited.
Life is so fucking complicated. I don't actually want my dad to die. I just want him to learn to be a dad.
He may be getting there. At the end of our conversation, he actually said, "I love you." Not once (which is rare enough) but twice (which is downright suspicious).
Why are fear and greed the only real motivators for change? Why isn't love enough?
Sunday, July 09, 2006
No room for dessert
We ate so goddamned much sushi last night -- it came out in three stages and took us two hours to eat it -- that, in the end, there was some suggestion that *someone* wasn't doing his or her "bit" to finish off the last three pieces of spicy tuna roll.
As far as I'm concerned, when you come within three pieces of sushi of satisfying the hunger of everyone at a table of five, you've done a very good job of ordering.
However, the downside is that none of us had room for dessert, even though at least three of us had a burning curiosity about a particular item on the menu:
Deep-fried cheesecake.
Yeah, you read that right.
Deep-fried cheesecake. With whipped cream, melted chocolate and a maraschino cherry on top.
"That must be your kind of food," The Clairvoyant told me. "It sounds like a Southern thing."
Not that I've heard of, I replied. It must be some kind of Japanese thing. It was, after all, fried in some kind of Japanese batter.
S2 shrugged and said, "I want to see it, but I'm not sure I want to eat it."
Briefly, I considered ordering it just so we could all look at it and poke it a little. But with a full stomach and an allergy to dairy products (and being aware of what a really awful thing a full stomach and a dairy allergy can be in combination), I made no move to do so.
Then the bill came without the waitress offering us dessert. (The restaurant was empty by that point.)
Cheesecake tempura. A missed opportunity....
As far as I'm concerned, when you come within three pieces of sushi of satisfying the hunger of everyone at a table of five, you've done a very good job of ordering.
However, the downside is that none of us had room for dessert, even though at least three of us had a burning curiosity about a particular item on the menu:
Deep-fried cheesecake.
Yeah, you read that right.
Deep-fried cheesecake. With whipped cream, melted chocolate and a maraschino cherry on top.
"That must be your kind of food," The Clairvoyant told me. "It sounds like a Southern thing."
Not that I've heard of, I replied. It must be some kind of Japanese thing. It was, after all, fried in some kind of Japanese batter.
S2 shrugged and said, "I want to see it, but I'm not sure I want to eat it."
Briefly, I considered ordering it just so we could all look at it and poke it a little. But with a full stomach and an allergy to dairy products (and being aware of what a really awful thing a full stomach and a dairy allergy can be in combination), I made no move to do so.
Then the bill came without the waitress offering us dessert. (The restaurant was empty by that point.)
Cheesecake tempura. A missed opportunity....
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Dispatches from The Other 32 Percent
Statisticians measure *everything,* it seems. And one has recently estimated that fully 68 percent of my life is covered on my blog.
Personally, I dispute this finding because I see most of my blog entries as covering events that last anywhere from 30 seconds (like the drivers who insisted that I cross the street) to an hour (my cello lesson). Some of my blog entries do not even cover experiences of my life, per se (my dismay about Warren Buffet giving all the money to Bill Gates), while others mention things that occurred YEARS ago (and thus take up no more of my time than what's used in the recollecting).
But as I have learned, you can't argue with statistics. They can be bent and molded and played with and otherwise manipulated to mean anything. Any agreement over the meaning of a statistic is as ephemeral as a french fry placed in front of the right person.
So let's just temporarily accept the premise that what you've read prior to this entry constitutes SIXTY-EIGHT percent of my life. What's in the other 32 percent? What is it that I'm not telling you? ... If I tell you about it, does it automatically get folded into the other 68 percent? Or does it simply make the percentage I'm sharing grow, so that an exta four out of 100 details would mean I'm sharing 72 percent?
I would like to suspend all discussion of math for a moment and just present these little examples as Dispatches from The Other 32 Percent:
-- A few days ago, I burned the bottom of my right foot when I came across a small fire on the sidewalk and tried to stamp it out while wearing sandals. Burning embers of bark dust got in through the openings, proving that no good deed goes unpunished.
-- There was a long, hot hike in the woods a couple weeks ago with three other people and a dog (not mine) that never made the papers. You might ask yourself how it is possible that, if my blog reports on 68 percent of my life, this never managed to show up until now. Nor the delicious nap I took afterward. In fact, there's no report of my activities on that day at all. Which should lead curious minds to wonder: Just what *was* I doing, especially when even consumption of a chocolate croissant (pain au chocolat for those of us who love such things and find French very sexy) did not warrant my reportage?
-- There was, quite recently, a lovely picnic with friends in a formal and very fragrant rose garden. The only downside was drinking wine from plastic cups and that it didn't go on just a little bit longer.
-- Problems I'm having working my core muscles are starting to make me think I might have MS.
-- There was some berry-picking out on Sauvie Island, and several people got to enjoy the fruits of my labor.
-- I never said just *what* I was doing with (the actress who played) Nellie Oleson in the parking lot. But I think that might have to stay in the unreported 32 percent.
-- There are other things I watch on television than Letterman and "The New Adventures of Old Christine." I'm ashamed to say that "The Deadliest Catch" is among them, but there you have it.
-- Sushi gets consumed with various parties, all of whom I love for reasons that go beyond the willingness to eat raw fish.
-- Back in my report on the book "Gastronaut," I concluded by noting that I had something "utterly Bacchanalian to do." You still don't know what that was, so there *must* be more to this all than just 32 percent....
-- There was a lunch recently with XGF that included a rather tedious family-related story for my dining entertainment.
-- A man with Tourette's syndrom yells at the pup on a regular basis. This is conditioning the pup in a most disturbing way.
-- Someone tried to set me up with a woman who, among other problems, also apparently has Tourette's ("not that there's anything wrong with that"), which is making me wonder about my odds of *ever* finding a decent woman. Altogether, it's making me brush up on my self-care techniques, if you know what I mean. And that pretty much stays in the 32 percent, unless I'm feeling a little loosey-goosey about what I write.
-- I've learned how to make hair meatballs, a time-saving technique that allows me even more experiences in my life that do not get reported in the typical 68 percent.
-- I have a few secret relationships (with humans, *not* body-snatcing extra-terrestrials) that no one in my daily life knows anything about, and it's going to stay that way.
-- And although I could go on at some absurd length about the stuff I'm *not* reporting on myself and life around me, I will note that all readers of this blog who have personal contact with me know there's plenty we talk about and do individually and with others that does not appear herein. That is because I value these relationships and our experiences together, and putting 68 percent of our relating online would be a grotesque violation of your privacy, as well as giving away, very unnecessarily, the rich detail of our human lives and the experience of loving one another, no matter how it's expressed. (If you want to read about that stuff, you'll have to buy the book.)
Suffice it to say, there's more. But I'll return you now to our scheduled program, The Regular Old 68 Percent, already in progress:
... which is why," he said, "that feminism has caused the decline of the American family and morality and an increase in drug abuse in the last 40 years."
And how did I respond to that? Well, I made some wisecrack about John Cheever novels being full of post-war alcohol consumption, but I decided to let others take a whack at him this time.
Anyway, later, when it was pointed out to me that I had referred to "colored people" while talking about barriers placed in front of women and minorities, I had to hang my own head in shame. Where the fuck did that antiquated term come from? I *never* use it. At least, not 68 percent of the time.
Personally, I dispute this finding because I see most of my blog entries as covering events that last anywhere from 30 seconds (like the drivers who insisted that I cross the street) to an hour (my cello lesson). Some of my blog entries do not even cover experiences of my life, per se (my dismay about Warren Buffet giving all the money to Bill Gates), while others mention things that occurred YEARS ago (and thus take up no more of my time than what's used in the recollecting).
But as I have learned, you can't argue with statistics. They can be bent and molded and played with and otherwise manipulated to mean anything. Any agreement over the meaning of a statistic is as ephemeral as a french fry placed in front of the right person.
So let's just temporarily accept the premise that what you've read prior to this entry constitutes SIXTY-EIGHT percent of my life. What's in the other 32 percent? What is it that I'm not telling you? ... If I tell you about it, does it automatically get folded into the other 68 percent? Or does it simply make the percentage I'm sharing grow, so that an exta four out of 100 details would mean I'm sharing 72 percent?
I would like to suspend all discussion of math for a moment and just present these little examples as Dispatches from The Other 32 Percent:
-- A few days ago, I burned the bottom of my right foot when I came across a small fire on the sidewalk and tried to stamp it out while wearing sandals. Burning embers of bark dust got in through the openings, proving that no good deed goes unpunished.
-- There was a long, hot hike in the woods a couple weeks ago with three other people and a dog (not mine) that never made the papers. You might ask yourself how it is possible that, if my blog reports on 68 percent of my life, this never managed to show up until now. Nor the delicious nap I took afterward. In fact, there's no report of my activities on that day at all. Which should lead curious minds to wonder: Just what *was* I doing, especially when even consumption of a chocolate croissant (pain au chocolat for those of us who love such things and find French very sexy) did not warrant my reportage?
-- There was, quite recently, a lovely picnic with friends in a formal and very fragrant rose garden. The only downside was drinking wine from plastic cups and that it didn't go on just a little bit longer.
-- Problems I'm having working my core muscles are starting to make me think I might have MS.
-- There was some berry-picking out on Sauvie Island, and several people got to enjoy the fruits of my labor.
-- I never said just *what* I was doing with (the actress who played) Nellie Oleson in the parking lot. But I think that might have to stay in the unreported 32 percent.
-- There are other things I watch on television than Letterman and "The New Adventures of Old Christine." I'm ashamed to say that "The Deadliest Catch" is among them, but there you have it.
-- Sushi gets consumed with various parties, all of whom I love for reasons that go beyond the willingness to eat raw fish.
-- Back in my report on the book "Gastronaut," I concluded by noting that I had something "utterly Bacchanalian to do." You still don't know what that was, so there *must* be more to this all than just 32 percent....
-- There was a lunch recently with XGF that included a rather tedious family-related story for my dining entertainment.
-- A man with Tourette's syndrom yells at the pup on a regular basis. This is conditioning the pup in a most disturbing way.
-- Someone tried to set me up with a woman who, among other problems, also apparently has Tourette's ("not that there's anything wrong with that"), which is making me wonder about my odds of *ever* finding a decent woman. Altogether, it's making me brush up on my self-care techniques, if you know what I mean. And that pretty much stays in the 32 percent, unless I'm feeling a little loosey-goosey about what I write.
-- I've learned how to make hair meatballs, a time-saving technique that allows me even more experiences in my life that do not get reported in the typical 68 percent.
-- I have a few secret relationships (with humans, *not* body-snatcing extra-terrestrials) that no one in my daily life knows anything about, and it's going to stay that way.
-- And although I could go on at some absurd length about the stuff I'm *not* reporting on myself and life around me, I will note that all readers of this blog who have personal contact with me know there's plenty we talk about and do individually and with others that does not appear herein. That is because I value these relationships and our experiences together, and putting 68 percent of our relating online would be a grotesque violation of your privacy, as well as giving away, very unnecessarily, the rich detail of our human lives and the experience of loving one another, no matter how it's expressed. (If you want to read about that stuff, you'll have to buy the book.)
Suffice it to say, there's more. But I'll return you now to our scheduled program, The Regular Old 68 Percent, already in progress:
... which is why," he said, "that feminism has caused the decline of the American family and morality and an increase in drug abuse in the last 40 years."
And how did I respond to that? Well, I made some wisecrack about John Cheever novels being full of post-war alcohol consumption, but I decided to let others take a whack at him this time.
Anyway, later, when it was pointed out to me that I had referred to "colored people" while talking about barriers placed in front of women and minorities, I had to hang my own head in shame. Where the fuck did that antiquated term come from? I *never* use it. At least, not 68 percent of the time.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
For Jason
Farewell today
Travel on now
Be on your way
Go safely there
And never worry, never care
Beyond this day
Farewell tonight
To all joy and to all the life
Go on, go peacefully
We can't keep your majesty
Be on your way
Make may for the last king of May
And make a cardboard crown for him
And make your voices one
Praise the crazy mother's son, who loved his life
Farewell today
Travel on now
Be on your way
Can't bear the very thought
That we could keep your majesty
Be on your way
...Make way for the last king of May
Make a hole in the sky for him
And raise your voices up
Lift your loving cup
To his long life
His long life
-- Natalie Merchant
King of May
Travel on now
Be on your way
Go safely there
And never worry, never care
Beyond this day
Farewell tonight
To all joy and to all the life
Go on, go peacefully
We can't keep your majesty
Be on your way
Make may for the last king of May
And make a cardboard crown for him
And make your voices one
Praise the crazy mother's son, who loved his life
Farewell today
Travel on now
Be on your way
Can't bear the very thought
That we could keep your majesty
Be on your way
...Make way for the last king of May
Make a hole in the sky for him
And raise your voices up
Lift your loving cup
To his long life
His long life
-- Natalie Merchant
King of May
Monday, July 03, 2006
Pollen is to sperm as...
My neighborhood is filled with stinky trees. For the month of June, these nasty devils have been assaulting my nose on every foray I've made from my home.
I don't know the scientific name of this tree, but I call it the Stinky Semen tree. This is because, the first time I smelled this wretched specimin down in California, I turned to a friend and asked, What the hell stinks to bad around here?
She replied, "Oh, it's that cum tree over there." And pointed at this large tree with a lot of yellow, pollen-covered spikes sticking out in bunches from clusters of leaves.
Cum tree? I asked. You think that smells like cum? That's not what it reminds me of at all.
"Men's," she told me. "It smells like semen. Really gnarly semen."
I'm not an expert in this matter, but my friend unquestionably is. So I have since referred to said stinky tree as a Semen Tree.
I've had several bilssful years without having to smell them. In fact, I thought it was something that only grew down in California. Until last month. When I discovered, at the height of the Semen Tree's pollen season, that my neighborhood is FULL of them.
The scent has been overpowering at times. So much that not only do I go out of my way to breathe through my mouth when near one, but I started to look for alternative walking routes to avoid them. Unfortunately, I discovered that there is at least one Semen Tree within a block of my home in ALL directions. In other words, no escape.
Having no alternative, I've just been putting up with this disgusting spooge smell in the air for the past month.
But I'm happy to report that, on my walk today, I noticed the ground below the nearest Semen Tree was covered -- absolutely littered -- with blown-out, dried-up empty pollen spikes.
By the end of my walk, my fondest wishes were confirmed: All the Stinky Semen Trees have shot their wads and the noxious scent is gone. This couldn't have come at a better time. I was getting really fucking tired of it.
Thus, it is with great relief and glad tidings that I pronounce Stinky Semen Season officially OVER.
I don't know the scientific name of this tree, but I call it the Stinky Semen tree. This is because, the first time I smelled this wretched specimin down in California, I turned to a friend and asked, What the hell stinks to bad around here?
She replied, "Oh, it's that cum tree over there." And pointed at this large tree with a lot of yellow, pollen-covered spikes sticking out in bunches from clusters of leaves.
Cum tree? I asked. You think that smells like cum? That's not what it reminds me of at all.
"Men's," she told me. "It smells like semen. Really gnarly semen."
I'm not an expert in this matter, but my friend unquestionably is. So I have since referred to said stinky tree as a Semen Tree.
I've had several bilssful years without having to smell them. In fact, I thought it was something that only grew down in California. Until last month. When I discovered, at the height of the Semen Tree's pollen season, that my neighborhood is FULL of them.
The scent has been overpowering at times. So much that not only do I go out of my way to breathe through my mouth when near one, but I started to look for alternative walking routes to avoid them. Unfortunately, I discovered that there is at least one Semen Tree within a block of my home in ALL directions. In other words, no escape.
Having no alternative, I've just been putting up with this disgusting spooge smell in the air for the past month.
But I'm happy to report that, on my walk today, I noticed the ground below the nearest Semen Tree was covered -- absolutely littered -- with blown-out, dried-up empty pollen spikes.
By the end of my walk, my fondest wishes were confirmed: All the Stinky Semen Trees have shot their wads and the noxious scent is gone. This couldn't have come at a better time. I was getting really fucking tired of it.
Thus, it is with great relief and glad tidings that I pronounce Stinky Semen Season officially OVER.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Haute couture
I love Meryl Streep.
Just saw her in "The Devil Wears Prada," and she's the most perfect mean and nasty fashion witch you can imagine. Very funny, too. (I didn't read the book, but the reviews said the film is a massive departure and is the better for it.)
But then, I can't recall ever seeing Meryl Streep in something and not liking it. I hope that woman has an exceptionally long life and continues acting until she drops. NOBODY does it better. (Makes me feel sad for the rest.)
Just saw her in "The Devil Wears Prada," and she's the most perfect mean and nasty fashion witch you can imagine. Very funny, too. (I didn't read the book, but the reviews said the film is a massive departure and is the better for it.)
But then, I can't recall ever seeing Meryl Streep in something and not liking it. I hope that woman has an exceptionally long life and continues acting until she drops. NOBODY does it better. (Makes me feel sad for the rest.)
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