From ye olde MySpace
Apr 22, 2008
how ’bout some cheese, please?
Current mood:bummed
Or, further proof of why I am too immature to live alone:
So last night after another exhausting rehearsal for a show my two readers better be in attendance for--I went home and had some ice cream (cause fat is as fat does these days) and was watching John Addams, my new favorite show, while sitting on the loveseat, and Phoebe was next to me under her blankets, when I heard a very freaky sound behind me. Behind me, for those of you unfamiliar with the layout of me digs, is my dining room table, beyond that a half-wall, behind which is my tiny island orange kitchen. Also the door is located over that way. So in essence my back is to all potential proceedings in my tenement. so that is the set-up.
Now back to the mini-din. It was sort of a crackling sound. I froze, muted my forefathers, and sat tense and electrified. Nothing more was heard. I strained to hear something. Heard nothing. Convince myself it was simply the death rattle of some plastic bags on the counter, rustled into animation by a breeze from the barely open window. I know this is a lie but sometimes, I say, lie to me. I'll believe.
Unmuted the tv--and crackle crackle there it was again. Now I am completely freaked out. Again I put the great orator to silence and forced myself to stand up, albeit atop the loveseat, and peer in the direction of the kitchen, where nothing appeared amiss from what I could see. Not that I can see much or specifically where the noise was coming from. But what I can see is all-clear of disturbances. But I can no longer lie to myself. Thr truth will set ye free, I tell myself, and so hiss "Phoebe!" through clenched teeth.
Nothing. I gently prod Ms. Snoozy Beagle's blanketed form with my toe. No response, though more scuttle-butt noises ensue now from behind the kitchen wall where I could not see. I begin simultaneously laughing and crying. Cause I think I know exactly what that sound is--and I think it is rodent in origin.
[Lengthy side note here. My first mouse house experience was in the famed Tara 201, beloved college house that was nevertheless infested with wildlife. I would sit on my narrow bed studying out my marrow bones and out of the corner of my eye see something skeetering around in wild concentric circles on the floor beyond the bed. My response was generally to scream and point and stand up on the bed.
Why this is my fight or flight response I have no idea, but that is what I do. It is so cliche. Anyhow, in college the large begrizzled environmental services guy would show up, chomping a dead cigar, and inform us that "where there's mice, there's squirrels follow, then rats." A comforting though, n'cest pas? This gentleman would then pump foamy stuff all over our place (ok I realized as I typed that how wrong that sounds, but that is what happened) and advise us to keep our small stock of foodstuff in metal containers with padlocks and retina scan-only access. As the piece de resistance he laid traps all over the place. Always a delight to come home and find large dead things by your mini-fridge. I took to shaking out my shoes before putting them on and beginning a life-long affair with hoods since college beds don't come with canopies. I guess they went away after a while, the mice, or at least retreated back to behind the wainscoting where they belong. I don't mind 'em in the walls. I just prefer that they stay there (but not die there as that is another matter altogether.)
2nd mouse experience. Circa 1997? D, Tim, Charlie, and I lounge around our lovely home watching the telly when my spidey senses begin to tingle and I see a mouse doing a dosi-do in the center of the adjoining dining room. I point it out to D who tries to convince me I am imagining things (though he later admits he had seen Minnie prancing about for a full 10 minutes before I caught on. bastard) Luckily two boys, a lot of plywood, an overexcited puppy, and a teary animal-lover make for a not-so-shabby A team. Mousy was trapped and released into the wilds of the Aquavita Pools, where presumably she found Mickey and they had a lot of little mice which leads us to
Episode 3 of mouse house, many years later, during my dark ages, when I couldn't sleep in my bed but could lie as lifeless on my couch and take 2 hour naps throughout the white nights. Lucky for my bed, I reconsidered this Plathy position on my 3rd night in my new-old house when 5 feet away a pint-sized production of the Nutcracker Ballet was staged in my dining room. Sadly no one transformed into my prince, and I later lost not walnuts but loaves of bread to the corps. I was told by my landlord that it happened and i could set traps, but the idea of disposing of the little creatures stopped me from that end. I learned to keep my bread in the fridge and to scour my counters with anthrax and more or less got over the fact that these guys liked to come out and play. It did force me off the couch and into the bed though for a more permanent slumber, which I suppose was a nice side effect. Good times.]
So back to the big 4, my experience last night.
I look around and grabbed Phoebe's blue toy and threw it into the kitchen hoping thing will come out. At this point Phoebe deigns to wake up, stretches lazily, and trots into the kitchen, where she retrieves the toy and returns it to me. Apparently noticing nothing amiss. Doesn't even sniff the air! I mutter "you're no help" and then creep over the love seat, gingerly setting one foot on the floor while reaching for a dining room chair which I then leap to in some kind of insane pas de deux. From my new and higher vantage point I can see more of the kitchen but not the whole floor.
Now awake, Phoebe is very confused, especially when I start hopping the chair across the room to get closer to the kitchen. She thinks it is a game and will not go into the kitchen and get the mouse for me! I start to feel very sad now. Partly because I realize that I am very old and grown-up and am behaving like a child at this point (ok I realized it earlier but still) . So I gear up my courage to get off the chair and stop trying to make my kiddo do the dirty work. I awkwardly dance into the kitchen, on my toes, with the rest of my body contorted in a frozen limbs way, a la Fosse.
This twisted sister sees nothing and hears nothing. Though in front of the dishwasher I spy what could be two mud flakes--or could be the waste by-products of a mouse. (It is difficult to tell when the front of your house resembles London after the blitz and so you and your dogs and your friends track in actual dirt on a daily basis.)
So because we have dug in for trench warfare outside (who knew this was how porches got built), I think the mating mice have come home to roost--to my home. They need to pay rent or leave. Or maybe I just need to leave. Here I come to save the day indeed--nothing good will come of this!
______________________________________________________________
May 9, 2008
Weekly News
Current mood:breezy
Have been remiss in my blogging and feeling the yen to write so here's what's happening
Homeland Security closes this weekend. Everyone who comes to see it seems to very much enjoy it so if you get a chance do come on out--especially you theater types who want there to be a CTC so you can perform in great stuff in the future--so get your act together and get set to laugh and see your pals!
Jeremy "Kip" Mousekataire has been caught and relocated to Trinity Vicinity, so let us hope that there will be no more midnight feedings at Casa de Kiki. After checking the PETA-approved humane trap obsessively every time I went near my kitchen, and no signs of mousie for a good 2 weeks, I had nearly convinced myself that the evening I saw the back end of said mousie scrambling into my stove was an illusion brought on by too much vitamin water. Then on Tuesday morning I went to make my morning java and realized that I had no coffee, so needed to break out the emergency single packet fancy-like caffe I have set aside for such occasion. Of course in my half-asleep rushing state I opened the foil packet incorrectly and awhoosh of coffee grounds spilled all over the place. grabbing paper towels and muttering a string of Catholic-inspired epithets I cleaned up the counter, and managed to kick the little mouse house at my feet, which then made me think I should check to see if any grounds had spilled on the floor. No grounds but a mouse dropping--more cursing as I thought damn these vermin laughing at me as they poop all around the trap I have cunningly laid for them.
Then I see him--Kip--tiny paws pressed against the house looking at me imploringly--I begin to yelp and dance around the kitchen, arms and legs flapping like a marionette--I grab the phone and call Jim praying he is still home, and while he is not he listens to (and laughs at) me as I continue my puppet dance outside and around the block and back inside. I decided in the end that I simply cannot relocate Kip myself, because every time I gingerly move the trap Kip gets very confused and begins scuttling to and fro and COMPLETELY FREAKING ME THE F OUT. Also the mouse house is slightly broken, due to an earlier accidental falling to the floor, hence my fear is the release door will fall off while the house is in my hands and Kippy will go scuttling either to his free fall fate or worse touch any part of my foot or arm or anything to do with my body. So I decide f this, and I crate P and take myself off to work, where all day I imagine the soul-bonding glances I had with Kip earlier and fear that he will manage to break free while I am out.
Jim being a better man than I, came home before me and took Kip (who he thought looked more like a Jeremy) to the other side of town where we hope he will find new friends and a new and thrilling life from from the maddening crowds of Cool Springs. I continu eto feel extremely skittish in my home feeling every noise or scratch or breath means Kip's kin are scurrying about, but so far so good. Though a sad footnote is my landlord telling me the tenant next door discovered some of Kip's pals yesterday in her house, and unlike me has no qualms about actual extermination of innocent creatures, so has set about poison in her house which makes me sad and also afeared that they will all just be wise to that game and instead come over to where the eats are good and the relocating bonus is a sure thing--but so far, no signs.
The other exciting thing that happened is that after 8 weeks I am no longer PT--having finally retrieved my poor car Esme from the body shop where she has been held hostage since being cruelly smacked in the side by Sinn Fein. After 5 tries at replacing her subframe--which is apparently what all suspension and car workings are based around--a brand spanking new one arrived and was duly installed and she was repainted and announced good as new. I am relearning how to drive a manual after finally mastering the good old automatic, and very glad that I am driving the car that I am still paying for rather than the funereal 40s-esque PT Cruiser.
and so it goes.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Conversation Hearts, Part Five
KISS ME
TRUE LOVE
I'M SURE
I LOVE YOU
These are the phrases left after plumbing the box of chalky treats for the previous parts of this five-part series. And I am unable to sugarcoat it, the reality is that they all apply to this final installment, so leading off with them seems the right thing to do. Other phrases also apply, but sadly are not found in the traditional 10-cent package. If they did I would buy them and feed my snarky self with sweet nothings like IRONY AND PITY and EFF THIS NOISE and my personal faves, REALLY????
Although barely a toddler, baby new year aught-eleven is swaddled with a motto sash that reads FD11 in the world according to Claire. This stands not for every city's finest but for Full Disclosure Eleven. This super-secret blog is of course all about the FD no matter what the season, and I think it has helped shape the course of true love as it runs smooth or otherwise. So in the interest of FD11 and the SSB, it needs pointing out that even when you pass Go and collect your $200, you may just roll yourself some snake eyes one too many times and find yourself not on Boardwalk but back in Jail.
FD V-Day 11. As aforementioned, the day of hearts and flowers has really never been what we'd call a smashing success for Claire. I think the latter years are best summed up with a poem that goes "roses and red, violets are blue, it's valentine's day, so Claire, fuck you."
Pretty boo-worthy. And this year everything is different, yet somehow February 14 in FD11 is not different, and I am old enough, I am wise enough, I am me enough to find that fact simply hi-larious. I began this particular series of heart attacks because I knew that this year would not be different, despite all evidence to the contrary. All four hearts consumed left more than enough room for channel #5. This particular entry should be chock-full of nasty, because for once in my life I am all blinded Stevie-style, but someone else has decided to take away my piano so I am not allowed to tickle the ivories. This was to be the definition of all is fair in love and war. The pen-ultimate rage against the machine. A piece-de-resistance that was going to skewer our first landlords for their single-minded ids while we struggled beneath the weight of our generational sub-prime superego.
But for better or for worse, at present the exercise I have enjoyed as I ran down memory lane the past few days has tired me out. And as I curl up to rest, on my own, I know with diamond-bright precocity that I am healthy and I am happy and I am whole, and I love a lot, and I am loved a lot. And really there is nothing of material gain nor showy affectations that can change that, and that is an awfully amazing Valentine to myself, so thanks, self. Let's go hang out on Park Place, shall we?
And for everything and everyone else, there's McCartney-Lennon, and they especially want to give a shout-out to a certain someone who may or may not be paying attention. Doesn't matter really either way. Love you....mean it. Happy Valentine Heart's Day.
There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more
TRUE LOVE
I'M SURE
I LOVE YOU
These are the phrases left after plumbing the box of chalky treats for the previous parts of this five-part series. And I am unable to sugarcoat it, the reality is that they all apply to this final installment, so leading off with them seems the right thing to do. Other phrases also apply, but sadly are not found in the traditional 10-cent package. If they did I would buy them and feed my snarky self with sweet nothings like IRONY AND PITY and EFF THIS NOISE and my personal faves, REALLY????
Although barely a toddler, baby new year aught-eleven is swaddled with a motto sash that reads FD11 in the world according to Claire. This stands not for every city's finest but for Full Disclosure Eleven. This super-secret blog is of course all about the FD no matter what the season, and I think it has helped shape the course of true love as it runs smooth or otherwise. So in the interest of FD11 and the SSB, it needs pointing out that even when you pass Go and collect your $200, you may just roll yourself some snake eyes one too many times and find yourself not on Boardwalk but back in Jail.
FD V-Day 11. As aforementioned, the day of hearts and flowers has really never been what we'd call a smashing success for Claire. I think the latter years are best summed up with a poem that goes "roses and red, violets are blue, it's valentine's day, so Claire, fuck you."
Pretty boo-worthy. And this year everything is different, yet somehow February 14 in FD11 is not different, and I am old enough, I am wise enough, I am me enough to find that fact simply hi-larious. I began this particular series of heart attacks because I knew that this year would not be different, despite all evidence to the contrary. All four hearts consumed left more than enough room for channel #5. This particular entry should be chock-full of nasty, because for once in my life I am all blinded Stevie-style, but someone else has decided to take away my piano so I am not allowed to tickle the ivories. This was to be the definition of all is fair in love and war. The pen-ultimate rage against the machine. A piece-de-resistance that was going to skewer our first landlords for their single-minded ids while we struggled beneath the weight of our generational sub-prime superego.
But for better or for worse, at present the exercise I have enjoyed as I ran down memory lane the past few days has tired me out. And as I curl up to rest, on my own, I know with diamond-bright precocity that I am healthy and I am happy and I am whole, and I love a lot, and I am loved a lot. And really there is nothing of material gain nor showy affectations that can change that, and that is an awfully amazing Valentine to myself, so thanks, self. Let's go hang out on Park Place, shall we?
And for everything and everyone else, there's McCartney-Lennon, and they especially want to give a shout-out to a certain someone who may or may not be paying attention. Doesn't matter really either way. Love you....mean it. Happy Valentine Heart's Day.
There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more
Friday, February 11, 2011
Conversation Hearts, Part Four
GOT LOVE
I spent a decade of my life as someone's sweetheart, but aside from the earliest of early days there wasn't much sweet involved between these young hearts as they ran free and trampled each other's nearly to death. Valentine's Day was so annually unexceptional that I cannot recall even set a mood here as to what kind of things went on for nine consecutive February 14ths. The details are sketchy.
I have a vague feeling that V-Day in our house consisted of me making dinner (a nightly occurrence, so not much special there) and maybe some McLovin'? I don't remember much in the way of gifts, and certainly never received anything particularly thoughtful or super-nice or in the easiest packaging on the eyes known to (wo)man (think blue boxes with white ribbons and black lettering--ah, happy place.) I think he usually gave me flowers--and maybe a card? Year one I believe it was when I didn't get real flowers--I got a sleazy purple thong cut for an Amazon woman that was presented as if it was a flower--in this case a rose by any other name did not smell as sweet. The sole purpose of this gift was D's first legit visit to ye olde X-rated shoppe and he was too cheap and too chicken to get me anything else, so this is how I went. I tried to be nice about it, but I don't think it worked out so well. I think I still have them somewhere, more intact than my virtue. The second V-day he upped the game with some VS lingerie. I put it on, and it stayed on because we ended up in some kind of tiff. I do not know what kind of tiff this was, I only remember that I had tattooed myself with little hearts and flowers for what I thought would be fun and ended up lying in bed staring at the ceiling in a red strappy camisole with matching underpants, listlessly smoking and scraping said tattoos off with my fingernails while the angry young man snored beside me. Now that's what I call love!
Subsequent years--I think flowers, and a card--maybe? It never really bugged me that I can recall, probably because the one-two-punch of Christmas and my birthday the months prior still had me reeling from the blow of how much they, well, blew. I am pretty certain that for my part I followed the annual tradition set out by my family years hence, and always made sure there was presents and chocolates and cards from both me and the pup to say hey, on this day, guess what, we extra-special love you, ya lucky bastard! One year my bestie called to wish me a happy day and informed me she had gotten flowers from some strange boy destined to be her husband. I did not get flowers that day, I do recall, because Big D "forgot." He got shrimp scampi. Jerk.
And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. The last night I spent under our shared roof was Valentine's Day. I cried all night and slept with the dog (a gift that would keep on giving over the course of the next few months, albeit under a different roof--moral is, I got the dog, aka the best boy I ever knew, and eventually you just can't cry anymore.)
What did I learn from all this? I am not even sure there are Six Sigma rules to apply. I think I learned that one probably should not spend ten years entangled in a life with someone who would actually forget to buy your naive, romantically inclined 20-something self a bouquet from a gas station at least on V-Day, let alone not give you a housewifery night off by taking you to eat somewhere that did not feature televisions on the wall to look at and thus effectively eclipse all conversation, and maybe do something more thoughtful than bang you (maybe) as a nod to your long-term love. I also learned that by my thirties I was through with love and never going to fall again, and that that was okay, and that what I liked best about Valentine Hearts Day was that I loved me, and plenty of other awesome people did, and that was kind of the whole point. Except then I did kinda sorta fall in love again, and then there was more V-Day dancing around, and again the expectations were simply not exceeded. They were not in point of fact even met. Sometimes that is just how life is like that proverbial box of choclates. Not only do you never know what you are going to get--sometimes what you get must be spit out of your mouth immediately.
I spent a decade of my life as someone's sweetheart, but aside from the earliest of early days there wasn't much sweet involved between these young hearts as they ran free and trampled each other's nearly to death. Valentine's Day was so annually unexceptional that I cannot recall even set a mood here as to what kind of things went on for nine consecutive February 14ths. The details are sketchy.
I have a vague feeling that V-Day in our house consisted of me making dinner (a nightly occurrence, so not much special there) and maybe some McLovin'? I don't remember much in the way of gifts, and certainly never received anything particularly thoughtful or super-nice or in the easiest packaging on the eyes known to (wo)man (think blue boxes with white ribbons and black lettering--ah, happy place.) I think he usually gave me flowers--and maybe a card? Year one I believe it was when I didn't get real flowers--I got a sleazy purple thong cut for an Amazon woman that was presented as if it was a flower--in this case a rose by any other name did not smell as sweet. The sole purpose of this gift was D's first legit visit to ye olde X-rated shoppe and he was too cheap and too chicken to get me anything else, so this is how I went. I tried to be nice about it, but I don't think it worked out so well. I think I still have them somewhere, more intact than my virtue. The second V-day he upped the game with some VS lingerie. I put it on, and it stayed on because we ended up in some kind of tiff. I do not know what kind of tiff this was, I only remember that I had tattooed myself with little hearts and flowers for what I thought would be fun and ended up lying in bed staring at the ceiling in a red strappy camisole with matching underpants, listlessly smoking and scraping said tattoos off with my fingernails while the angry young man snored beside me. Now that's what I call love!
Subsequent years--I think flowers, and a card--maybe? It never really bugged me that I can recall, probably because the one-two-punch of Christmas and my birthday the months prior still had me reeling from the blow of how much they, well, blew. I am pretty certain that for my part I followed the annual tradition set out by my family years hence, and always made sure there was presents and chocolates and cards from both me and the pup to say hey, on this day, guess what, we extra-special love you, ya lucky bastard! One year my bestie called to wish me a happy day and informed me she had gotten flowers from some strange boy destined to be her husband. I did not get flowers that day, I do recall, because Big D "forgot." He got shrimp scampi. Jerk.
And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. The last night I spent under our shared roof was Valentine's Day. I cried all night and slept with the dog (a gift that would keep on giving over the course of the next few months, albeit under a different roof--moral is, I got the dog, aka the best boy I ever knew, and eventually you just can't cry anymore.)
What did I learn from all this? I am not even sure there are Six Sigma rules to apply. I think I learned that one probably should not spend ten years entangled in a life with someone who would actually forget to buy your naive, romantically inclined 20-something self a bouquet from a gas station at least on V-Day, let alone not give you a housewifery night off by taking you to eat somewhere that did not feature televisions on the wall to look at and thus effectively eclipse all conversation, and maybe do something more thoughtful than bang you (maybe) as a nod to your long-term love. I also learned that by my thirties I was through with love and never going to fall again, and that that was okay, and that what I liked best about Valentine Hearts Day was that I loved me, and plenty of other awesome people did, and that was kind of the whole point. Except then I did kinda sorta fall in love again, and then there was more V-Day dancing around, and again the expectations were simply not exceeded. They were not in point of fact even met. Sometimes that is just how life is like that proverbial box of choclates. Not only do you never know what you are going to get--sometimes what you get must be spit out of your mouth immediately.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Conversation Hearts, Part Three
BE TRUE
Sugar and spice and everything nice! Senior year of college found a staggering number of us co-ed cupids sans steadies, or even the potential for same. What were girls of a certain age to do about this? Answer: celebrate the plain and simple fact that whilst boys may come and go, girlfriends are forever--aka, celebrate the sisters of Eve with affection and aplomb. To this end, we declared the motto for that year's V-Day to be No Lovin' and made up signs to that effect and posted them all over the house. We used our latent decoupage skills to create personal ad valentines for ourselves and our friends, each with her own slogan and the silliest photo we could find (mine was "date with an angel.") I have no idea what we did that Valentine's Day proper, but I imagine it involved black and tans at the local quackhouse and a lot of laughing. And all the prixe fixe menus, long-stemmed roses, and Victoria's Secret outfits in the world cannot in my estimation hold a candle to the romance of a lifetime--the one you can have, if you are lucky, with your gal pals.
I am a lucky chick in oh-so-many respects. And the one aspect of my life that makes me hands-down the luckiest girl in the world? I have the best girlfriends going. As Charlotte York once observed, "Maybe we could be each others soulmates? And then we could let men be just these great nice guys to have fun with?" Well said, you little Park Avenue princess. Coupled or estranged, my favorite V-Days have never lacked for lovin'--just not the wham-bam-thank-you-man kind. Two years back a crowd of friends (both men and women) had a good dinner and caught a movie--that was a good V-Day. In years past I have indulged in fun girly things like bath oils and Jane Austen novels as tokens of my affection for the ladies who lunch with me. These bitches throw down all E.E. Cummings-style--they have my heart, and they carry it with them wherever they go, and I carry theirs. No fancy gestures. No false promises. No delusions of grandeur. No sex either because, well, as we collectively discerned about the time No Lovin' V-Day was declared, we all like Dick Whitman. Before we knew who that was.....
Point made, point taken. It's a groovy kind of love, that of the sisterhood. And it makes us all that much more ready and able to romance those great nice guys that come along--if and when they do. In the meantime and in-between time trust me, we got fun. Lesson #3, barely legal: equal pay for equal work sometimes means benefits that far outweigh the occasional bonus.
Sugar and spice and everything nice! Senior year of college found a staggering number of us co-ed cupids sans steadies, or even the potential for same. What were girls of a certain age to do about this? Answer: celebrate the plain and simple fact that whilst boys may come and go, girlfriends are forever--aka, celebrate the sisters of Eve with affection and aplomb. To this end, we declared the motto for that year's V-Day to be No Lovin' and made up signs to that effect and posted them all over the house. We used our latent decoupage skills to create personal ad valentines for ourselves and our friends, each with her own slogan and the silliest photo we could find (mine was "date with an angel.") I have no idea what we did that Valentine's Day proper, but I imagine it involved black and tans at the local quackhouse and a lot of laughing. And all the prixe fixe menus, long-stemmed roses, and Victoria's Secret outfits in the world cannot in my estimation hold a candle to the romance of a lifetime--the one you can have, if you are lucky, with your gal pals.
I am a lucky chick in oh-so-many respects. And the one aspect of my life that makes me hands-down the luckiest girl in the world? I have the best girlfriends going. As Charlotte York once observed, "Maybe we could be each others soulmates? And then we could let men be just these great nice guys to have fun with?" Well said, you little Park Avenue princess. Coupled or estranged, my favorite V-Days have never lacked for lovin'--just not the wham-bam-thank-you-man kind. Two years back a crowd of friends (both men and women) had a good dinner and caught a movie--that was a good V-Day. In years past I have indulged in fun girly things like bath oils and Jane Austen novels as tokens of my affection for the ladies who lunch with me. These bitches throw down all E.E. Cummings-style--they have my heart, and they carry it with them wherever they go, and I carry theirs. No fancy gestures. No false promises. No delusions of grandeur. No sex either because, well, as we collectively discerned about the time No Lovin' V-Day was declared, we all like Dick Whitman. Before we knew who that was.....
Point made, point taken. It's a groovy kind of love, that of the sisterhood. And it makes us all that much more ready and able to romance those great nice guys that come along--if and when they do. In the meantime and in-between time trust me, we got fun. Lesson #3, barely legal: equal pay for equal work sometimes means benefits that far outweigh the occasional bonus.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Conversation Hearts, Part Two
SWEET TALK
In was the days of 99 red balloons, and I was cast in a tale of much [eventual] woe, playing the penultimate Juliet to my hands-down all-time Romeo. What follows is Act III, designed to show just how lovesick teenagers will bring nothing but tragedy upon themselves and everyone around them.
The prologue and Acts I and II of this epic disaster offered plenty of foreshadowing that this star-crossed alliance was doomed from the start, but I was head-over-heels. And I was thrilled to be one-half of an honest-to-goodness relationship during Valentine's Day--a completely novel experience for this little Capulet. Sure, I had my shares of fine young Paris-like callers in the past, but none of them ever lasted until or coincided with the so-called Hallmark holiday (completely false by the way, like most holidays this one sprung from pagans and got all mixed up with Church matters. Calling it the H.H. is merely a defense mechanism for people who do not wish to get all immortal beloved on their someone. I say, love is all around you and celebrate however that comes to you on V-Day. Don't ruin it for the rest of us who appreciate the sentimental journey even as a singleton.)
But back to the hallowed halls of Tara--for once my big romantic dreams would come true on Valentine Hearts' Day--there would be music, and wonderful roses, and all sorts of lovey-dovey goodness. I was eager for the big day. I fretted over appropriate gifting for the boy who clearly had everything already (a.k.a, me.) My dear pal Deerslayer was also eagerly anticipating celebrating this holiday with her honey, who being a responsible R.A. type was scheduled to be on duty in his hall that night--hence, no romantic dinner a deux for them. Deerslayer was not overjoyed at this prospect. But being as compassionate and charming and courageous as Natty Bumpo before her, she planned to thoroughly love-fest the love-nest by renting a gigantic helium tank and purchasing 84,000 balloons and ribbons. Idea being, when her said hunk o' burning love returned to his cell on lockdown, he would find it filled with the very Plathiest of guileless orbs of red and white. In the meantime, it was quite exciting for the rest of us, who got to use the helium tank to blow up the balloons (and subsequently huff a few in order to munchkin-up our voices) as well as participate in the sweet subterfuge involved at keeping 84,000 balloons a secret from said HOBL.
Mid-day, Project Luft Love was starting resemble Project Panic Mode. My pals enlisted the aid of my Romeo in my absence. I returned home to find him gossiping and deftly working the tank and tying on ribbons with them. Supportive guy, be still my heart. Old Romes then told me to leave the room and come in again when he gave the go-ahead. I complied--and when I walked in he was in the process of grinning his fool head off at me whilst blowing up one of the handful of the balloons that were imprinted with three little words. Yes! I thought. What better time to be told for the first time, officially, by your boy toy that he loves you? There is no better time than the fourteenth of February for that shit! Love, love me do buddy is what I thought, and later on when we are alone on our awesome evening date you have surely planned for us, I will let you know that I love you too.
So that evening I accompany Ro on an audition. The drive there is as swell as our drives always were. Post-audition as we drove homeward, I kept expecting us to stop at one of the 500 restauants we passed along the way. We didn't stop at any of them, not even the last one which was a Wendy's (hey, loaded baked potatoes could be very romantic to poor college kids, right?) I was a bit disappointed, but still flush with success regarding the big step he had taken earlier. We decided to check in on the balloonists, since the big reveal had occurred in our absence. On our way in, swinging hands through the parking lot and being not a little sentimental, I said what I wanted to say ever since big red was blown up in front of me, for me--"hey R....I love you."
Big kiss finish right? Wait for it...wait....keep waiting....nope. No, he isn't responding. Maybe....no. He isn't responding. That seems odd. Awk-ward. In fact, "panic bells it's red alert there's something here from somewhere else." Huh? Okay then, moving on.....?
Moving on was us infringing upon our friends whose love did dare to say its name for a slightly uncomfortable meal of take-out from some local place, for which I. Paid. Half. Happy V-Day to you, sucker. For dessert, we were on our own, so treated each other to a chat that began with "You say you love me, but I don't know that you know me well enough to say that," (note: we had "known" each other two-and-a-half years at this point, and college years are like dog years so really like 18 years, and we had been having a torrid affair for the past six months at this point--just saying.) I pointed out that I was not the one who had started this shit, that Mr. Montague here had gone there first with his balloon-blowing-upping move earlier in the day, and I was only responding in kind. The next words out of his mouth? Ah yes, the classic, "I do not know what love is." Here's the full for you Monty, if you don't know what love is, don't blow up a balloon on purpose for your girlfriend on V-Day that claims you know enough about it to have it for her.
So, no, the night did not end well. And though we floated back into each other soon after and there was no lack of the love, he ended up cheating on me for some fascinating piece of non-me trash. Somehow that surprised me at the time. Clearly when I review the lay of this scene, it should not have. And I am pretty sure, "just to prove the world was here" that I still have that deflated motherfucker somewhere--as my little souvenir.
And so love lesson number two, aged 19: getting it in writing by no means seals the deal, and a verbal contract could table negotiations. Otherwise known as, "here is a red balloon; I think of you, and let it go."
In was the days of 99 red balloons, and I was cast in a tale of much [eventual] woe, playing the penultimate Juliet to my hands-down all-time Romeo. What follows is Act III, designed to show just how lovesick teenagers will bring nothing but tragedy upon themselves and everyone around them.
The prologue and Acts I and II of this epic disaster offered plenty of foreshadowing that this star-crossed alliance was doomed from the start, but I was head-over-heels. And I was thrilled to be one-half of an honest-to-goodness relationship during Valentine's Day--a completely novel experience for this little Capulet. Sure, I had my shares of fine young Paris-like callers in the past, but none of them ever lasted until or coincided with the so-called Hallmark holiday (completely false by the way, like most holidays this one sprung from pagans and got all mixed up with Church matters. Calling it the H.H. is merely a defense mechanism for people who do not wish to get all immortal beloved on their someone. I say, love is all around you and celebrate however that comes to you on V-Day. Don't ruin it for the rest of us who appreciate the sentimental journey even as a singleton.)
But back to the hallowed halls of Tara--for once my big romantic dreams would come true on Valentine Hearts' Day--there would be music, and wonderful roses, and all sorts of lovey-dovey goodness. I was eager for the big day. I fretted over appropriate gifting for the boy who clearly had everything already (a.k.a, me.) My dear pal Deerslayer was also eagerly anticipating celebrating this holiday with her honey, who being a responsible R.A. type was scheduled to be on duty in his hall that night--hence, no romantic dinner a deux for them. Deerslayer was not overjoyed at this prospect. But being as compassionate and charming and courageous as Natty Bumpo before her, she planned to thoroughly love-fest the love-nest by renting a gigantic helium tank and purchasing 84,000 balloons and ribbons. Idea being, when her said hunk o' burning love returned to his cell on lockdown, he would find it filled with the very Plathiest of guileless orbs of red and white. In the meantime, it was quite exciting for the rest of us, who got to use the helium tank to blow up the balloons (and subsequently huff a few in order to munchkin-up our voices) as well as participate in the sweet subterfuge involved at keeping 84,000 balloons a secret from said HOBL.
Mid-day, Project Luft Love was starting resemble Project Panic Mode. My pals enlisted the aid of my Romeo in my absence. I returned home to find him gossiping and deftly working the tank and tying on ribbons with them. Supportive guy, be still my heart. Old Romes then told me to leave the room and come in again when he gave the go-ahead. I complied--and when I walked in he was in the process of grinning his fool head off at me whilst blowing up one of the handful of the balloons that were imprinted with three little words. Yes! I thought. What better time to be told for the first time, officially, by your boy toy that he loves you? There is no better time than the fourteenth of February for that shit! Love, love me do buddy is what I thought, and later on when we are alone on our awesome evening date you have surely planned for us, I will let you know that I love you too.
So that evening I accompany Ro on an audition. The drive there is as swell as our drives always were. Post-audition as we drove homeward, I kept expecting us to stop at one of the 500 restauants we passed along the way. We didn't stop at any of them, not even the last one which was a Wendy's (hey, loaded baked potatoes could be very romantic to poor college kids, right?) I was a bit disappointed, but still flush with success regarding the big step he had taken earlier. We decided to check in on the balloonists, since the big reveal had occurred in our absence. On our way in, swinging hands through the parking lot and being not a little sentimental, I said what I wanted to say ever since big red was blown up in front of me, for me--"hey R....I love you."
Big kiss finish right? Wait for it...wait....keep waiting....nope. No, he isn't responding. Maybe....no. He isn't responding. That seems odd. Awk-ward. In fact, "panic bells it's red alert there's something here from somewhere else." Huh? Okay then, moving on.....?
Moving on was us infringing upon our friends whose love did dare to say its name for a slightly uncomfortable meal of take-out from some local place, for which I. Paid. Half. Happy V-Day to you, sucker. For dessert, we were on our own, so treated each other to a chat that began with "You say you love me, but I don't know that you know me well enough to say that," (note: we had "known" each other two-and-a-half years at this point, and college years are like dog years so really like 18 years, and we had been having a torrid affair for the past six months at this point--just saying.) I pointed out that I was not the one who had started this shit, that Mr. Montague here had gone there first with his balloon-blowing-upping move earlier in the day, and I was only responding in kind. The next words out of his mouth? Ah yes, the classic, "I do not know what love is." Here's the full for you Monty, if you don't know what love is, don't blow up a balloon on purpose for your girlfriend on V-Day that claims you know enough about it to have it for her.
So, no, the night did not end well. And though we floated back into each other soon after and there was no lack of the love, he ended up cheating on me for some fascinating piece of non-me trash. Somehow that surprised me at the time. Clearly when I review the lay of this scene, it should not have. And I am pretty sure, "just to prove the world was here" that I still have that deflated motherfucker somewhere--as my little souvenir.
And so love lesson number two, aged 19: getting it in writing by no means seals the deal, and a verbal contract could table negotiations. Otherwise known as, "here is a red balloon; I think of you, and let it go."
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Conversation Hearts, Part One
BE MINE
Love is in the air everywhere you look around, because it is fast-approaching February 14, also know as St. Valentine's Day, also know as a day of excruciating pressure for both couples and singletons, also know as a day in which this Juno has been treated pretty, pretty badly.
It wasn't always the case. Growing up, my mom made sure we had the nicest reminders that we were in fact loved beyond all measure--heart-shaped boxes of chocolates at the breakfast table, a gaily wrapped memento to give us joy. I dubbed this holiday Valentine Hearts Day and loved every minute of it. When I came of age and was delighted by all things Victorian, the quaint gestures and ineveitable decoupage that accompanied this beloved celebration made me swoon as the sheer romance of living, of dreaming, of true love's potential swept me off my feet. In school we were all very fair-minded and those tiny little cards featuring kittens or Smurfs dotted the desks so that everyone, even those you hated, had a chance at a little love on this sacred occasion.
By high school, the stakes through the heart became pointier, as all-important first dances loomed and no teacher was sending home notes dictating in no uncertain terms that no child would be left behind without a valentine. A girl had to work it if she planned to satisfy her sweet tooth in the big leagues. So, this is how that went down: Claire and a pal plot to snare two doofuses into taking us to the Valentine's Day Dance. Claire was up first because she had 7th period English with a young lad we will call Amos. During the traditional vocab quiz that opened every class, Claire hisses to Amos who is blatantly cheating off her paper, "You are taking me to this dance, okay?" Cue confused Amos, who whispers back frantically "Is that the definition for #4?" Claire rolls eyes, smacks Amos on the shoulder, informs him of the correct definition for "kismet", then repeats the command-question. As the reality of the situation sinks in, Amos turns purple with terror and stutters something along the lines of "Um, I guess that is okay I don't know are you sure do I have to does that mean I am supposed to buy the tickets?" At which point the teacher arrives to stop this lover's spat and remove Amos to a desk at the back of the room, where he will remain in solitude for the rest of the school year, this falling in placement and seriously hurting his chances at graduating in the top ten.
But I digress. Re the dance, I ensured my desires would be fulfilled by cornering old Amos at his locker the next day after 3rd period, and dragging him down to the Activities Office for the golden tickets that would lock this deal down. Ah, the memories. My first high school dance with a date, my first requiring semi-formal attire, and despite my take-charge 'tude I had a bit of a crush on this hapless honey. I had high hopes. For what, I have no idea.
Here is where these hopes led: I went against my better instinct for romantic beflowered Gunne Sax dresses and instead decked myself out in a hot little pink and black number that featured gag-worthy little pink bows down the back. It was so cute you could die. On the big night, after dealing with my mother who raged and cried because my entourage refused to go 30 minutes out of their way to retrieve me, my dad dropped me off at my friend's house where we spent some excruciatingly awkward moments in front of a camera and her 6 siblings. I believe I scored a sweet wrist corsage. When we arrived at the high school cafeteria which was a miasma of eau de donut and fries, our dates immediately left us alone for a good 20 minutes. Upon their return we saw that my friend's date (we'll call him "Hilary") was sporting suspenders. She nearly fainted with the dorked-out horror of this. She stumbled a bit as well when, upon reaching us, he gave a vigorous snap to them and commented with a big grin, "Ya like 'em?" We did not.
Then came the dancing. Ah, the dancing. Moving around in a circle game with room for about 50 Holy Spirits between me and Amos. Who I should mention was wearing a navy blue suit that clearly had been with him since his First Communion since the wrist and pant cuffs were riding almost to the elbow/ankles. Yet still, we danced. On rotation #1 I saw we were in proximity with a couple making out furiously, the girl part of which was wearing the same dress as me but in blue. Party foul, no? I commented this to Amos, who looked at me blankly (the only time all night he did make eye contact) and blurted out "You don't move your feet much when you dance." I retorted back "This isn't dancing" and then we orbited a piece of tile for what was surely the the three-hour live and in concert version of "Heaven" by Bryan Adams.
After the dance ended, Bub's sister and her boyfriend--bored seniors--picked us up and we went to a diner that was not heated. This did give me the opportunity to snag Amos's jacket since every girl knows that is how to mark your man when in post-dance territory. We ate fries and drank sodas and finally got back in the car to be driven home. By this point we had picked up another couple, with whom I shared the back seat along with Amos, Bub, and my friend. Said other couple spent the entire trip ramming their tongues into each other's mouths and fogging up all the windows in the car while the rest of us sat in uncomfortable silence, speaking up only when we realized that we had missed the girl's house. Eventually we rid ourselves of them, and the next stop was Amos's house. We rolled up his driveway, and he leapt out of the car so fast I worried for a second that a Godfather-style hit was about to occur on the rest of us. No such luck. No good night kiss. Not even a "good night." Ah, young romance.
Amos and I stayed good buds, despite this auspicious beginning, throughout high school. He even wrote in my yearbook senior year "I've always wanted you, but when I had the chance I was a scared little sophomore. Damn me." Which was nice except he followed it up with "KIT have a good summer." I did have a good summer, but I did not KIT. Lesson number one learned at the tender age of 15.....the rate of return does not always meet or exceed expectations where love is concerned.
Love is in the air everywhere you look around, because it is fast-approaching February 14, also know as St. Valentine's Day, also know as a day of excruciating pressure for both couples and singletons, also know as a day in which this Juno has been treated pretty, pretty badly.
It wasn't always the case. Growing up, my mom made sure we had the nicest reminders that we were in fact loved beyond all measure--heart-shaped boxes of chocolates at the breakfast table, a gaily wrapped memento to give us joy. I dubbed this holiday Valentine Hearts Day and loved every minute of it. When I came of age and was delighted by all things Victorian, the quaint gestures and ineveitable decoupage that accompanied this beloved celebration made me swoon as the sheer romance of living, of dreaming, of true love's potential swept me off my feet. In school we were all very fair-minded and those tiny little cards featuring kittens or Smurfs dotted the desks so that everyone, even those you hated, had a chance at a little love on this sacred occasion.
By high school, the stakes through the heart became pointier, as all-important first dances loomed and no teacher was sending home notes dictating in no uncertain terms that no child would be left behind without a valentine. A girl had to work it if she planned to satisfy her sweet tooth in the big leagues. So, this is how that went down: Claire and a pal plot to snare two doofuses into taking us to the Valentine's Day Dance. Claire was up first because she had 7th period English with a young lad we will call Amos. During the traditional vocab quiz that opened every class, Claire hisses to Amos who is blatantly cheating off her paper, "You are taking me to this dance, okay?" Cue confused Amos, who whispers back frantically "Is that the definition for #4?" Claire rolls eyes, smacks Amos on the shoulder, informs him of the correct definition for "kismet", then repeats the command-question. As the reality of the situation sinks in, Amos turns purple with terror and stutters something along the lines of "Um, I guess that is okay I don't know are you sure do I have to does that mean I am supposed to buy the tickets?" At which point the teacher arrives to stop this lover's spat and remove Amos to a desk at the back of the room, where he will remain in solitude for the rest of the school year, this falling in placement and seriously hurting his chances at graduating in the top ten.
But I digress. Re the dance, I ensured my desires would be fulfilled by cornering old Amos at his locker the next day after 3rd period, and dragging him down to the Activities Office for the golden tickets that would lock this deal down. Ah, the memories. My first high school dance with a date, my first requiring semi-formal attire, and despite my take-charge 'tude I had a bit of a crush on this hapless honey. I had high hopes. For what, I have no idea.
Here is where these hopes led: I went against my better instinct for romantic beflowered Gunne Sax dresses and instead decked myself out in a hot little pink and black number that featured gag-worthy little pink bows down the back. It was so cute you could die. On the big night, after dealing with my mother who raged and cried because my entourage refused to go 30 minutes out of their way to retrieve me, my dad dropped me off at my friend's house where we spent some excruciatingly awkward moments in front of a camera and her 6 siblings. I believe I scored a sweet wrist corsage. When we arrived at the high school cafeteria which was a miasma of eau de donut and fries, our dates immediately left us alone for a good 20 minutes. Upon their return we saw that my friend's date (we'll call him "Hilary") was sporting suspenders. She nearly fainted with the dorked-out horror of this. She stumbled a bit as well when, upon reaching us, he gave a vigorous snap to them and commented with a big grin, "Ya like 'em?" We did not.
Then came the dancing. Ah, the dancing. Moving around in a circle game with room for about 50 Holy Spirits between me and Amos. Who I should mention was wearing a navy blue suit that clearly had been with him since his First Communion since the wrist and pant cuffs were riding almost to the elbow/ankles. Yet still, we danced. On rotation #1 I saw we were in proximity with a couple making out furiously, the girl part of which was wearing the same dress as me but in blue. Party foul, no? I commented this to Amos, who looked at me blankly (the only time all night he did make eye contact) and blurted out "You don't move your feet much when you dance." I retorted back "This isn't dancing" and then we orbited a piece of tile for what was surely the the three-hour live and in concert version of "Heaven" by Bryan Adams.
After the dance ended, Bub's sister and her boyfriend--bored seniors--picked us up and we went to a diner that was not heated. This did give me the opportunity to snag Amos's jacket since every girl knows that is how to mark your man when in post-dance territory. We ate fries and drank sodas and finally got back in the car to be driven home. By this point we had picked up another couple, with whom I shared the back seat along with Amos, Bub, and my friend. Said other couple spent the entire trip ramming their tongues into each other's mouths and fogging up all the windows in the car while the rest of us sat in uncomfortable silence, speaking up only when we realized that we had missed the girl's house. Eventually we rid ourselves of them, and the next stop was Amos's house. We rolled up his driveway, and he leapt out of the car so fast I worried for a second that a Godfather-style hit was about to occur on the rest of us. No such luck. No good night kiss. Not even a "good night." Ah, young romance.
Amos and I stayed good buds, despite this auspicious beginning, throughout high school. He even wrote in my yearbook senior year "I've always wanted you, but when I had the chance I was a scared little sophomore. Damn me." Which was nice except he followed it up with "KIT have a good summer." I did have a good summer, but I did not KIT. Lesson number one learned at the tender age of 15.....the rate of return does not always meet or exceed expectations where love is concerned.
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Toast of Mayfair
"It'll all work out." I realized yesterday in a slightly teary fit of one-beer retro blues that this has been my modus operandi for as long as I can remember being me. And that in point of fact, thirty-odd years of said m.o. flies in the face of all truths I hold to be self-evident--because very little in my life has actually worked out in a way that has been satisfactory in the long run. I have had much joy in life, and much success, and many de-lovely delights this time around, and I am grateful for every last one of them--but a consistent hum of hurt, confusion, and ultimate defeat buzzes low with sporadic crackles sprinkled over the airwaves.
And yet, in reality, although I have a streak of the melancholic Irish coursing through my mixed-up veins, I am not fatalistic. Sarcastic, yes; practical, often; stubborn, absolutely. But I have never been one to live out my days with wholly tragic outlook. Tragicomic, yes; the whole if one doesn't laugh one will, well, cry, aka find oneself fetal in the back room of Suncoast Pictures....but even in those days of no light, like a certain teenage diarist I have always believed that people are really good at heart--even when my heart is broken by what happens to and around me. I always think things will work out--and notice this quote has no "best" or "somehow" or "in the end" attached to it. Diagram this baby and it's all quite clear "It" will be "out" (whatever that means, tangled time will tell.) Believing that it'll all work out speaks to an optimism that may feel refreshing in the heat of these fiery times we live in--but I have to wonder if it is (as it was for the speaker) merely a naivete that has long lost its power to soothe the savage beast.
"It's only politics." Party line(s) aside, it is surprisingly easy to de-loop oneself. The information superhighway offers both destination anywhere and destination overload, so it's a matter of self-preservation to filter out at least 90% of what Tammany Hall is throwing at you. And that is just the world view, at large, where cities are burning like Gomorrah and health care becomes a dish best served to Salome and immigration problems belie the phenomena of crossing the Red Sea. The suburban microcosm where you hang your hat offers its own constant streaming downloads of crazy. And suddenly your social networking begins to define your reality, when in fact it has very little to do with the living, breathing you--it is the Madame Tussaud's version of you, the molded waxen exterior that mere mortals can tour and say "cheese" beside. The political ramifications of cyberspace are staggering, and sow the seeds of discontent into its furthest-flung static IPs, where greed and malice and unadulterated evil sprout and destroy your bill of rights, your code of conduct, your fight for what is right over what you believe in. And yet we ignore the divisiveness because it is far easier to just go along--it will all work out--why sweat the small stuff even though small become big overnight and smacks you in the face?
And finally, "What does that have to do with us?" Everything, and nothing, you rhetorical double fantasy you. How many times do you get up onstage and do your routine before it defines you so wholly that there is no escaping the inevitable gaslight chamber? How much do you cling to what you know when dancing cheek-to-cheek with everything you don't? How do you reconcile then with now, now with later, once with forever? I have absolutely no fucking idea. But I will keep asking.
A bien tote....
And yet, in reality, although I have a streak of the melancholic Irish coursing through my mixed-up veins, I am not fatalistic. Sarcastic, yes; practical, often; stubborn, absolutely. But I have never been one to live out my days with wholly tragic outlook. Tragicomic, yes; the whole if one doesn't laugh one will, well, cry, aka find oneself fetal in the back room of Suncoast Pictures....but even in those days of no light, like a certain teenage diarist I have always believed that people are really good at heart--even when my heart is broken by what happens to and around me. I always think things will work out--and notice this quote has no "best" or "somehow" or "in the end" attached to it. Diagram this baby and it's all quite clear "It" will be "out" (whatever that means, tangled time will tell.) Believing that it'll all work out speaks to an optimism that may feel refreshing in the heat of these fiery times we live in--but I have to wonder if it is (as it was for the speaker) merely a naivete that has long lost its power to soothe the savage beast.
"It's only politics." Party line(s) aside, it is surprisingly easy to de-loop oneself. The information superhighway offers both destination anywhere and destination overload, so it's a matter of self-preservation to filter out at least 90% of what Tammany Hall is throwing at you. And that is just the world view, at large, where cities are burning like Gomorrah and health care becomes a dish best served to Salome and immigration problems belie the phenomena of crossing the Red Sea. The suburban microcosm where you hang your hat offers its own constant streaming downloads of crazy. And suddenly your social networking begins to define your reality, when in fact it has very little to do with the living, breathing you--it is the Madame Tussaud's version of you, the molded waxen exterior that mere mortals can tour and say "cheese" beside. The political ramifications of cyberspace are staggering, and sow the seeds of discontent into its furthest-flung static IPs, where greed and malice and unadulterated evil sprout and destroy your bill of rights, your code of conduct, your fight for what is right over what you believe in. And yet we ignore the divisiveness because it is far easier to just go along--it will all work out--why sweat the small stuff even though small become big overnight and smacks you in the face?
And finally, "What does that have to do with us?" Everything, and nothing, you rhetorical double fantasy you. How many times do you get up onstage and do your routine before it defines you so wholly that there is no escaping the inevitable gaslight chamber? How much do you cling to what you know when dancing cheek-to-cheek with everything you don't? How do you reconcile then with now, now with later, once with forever? I have absolutely no fucking idea. But I will keep asking.
A bien tote....
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
because
It has been recently pointe dout to me that I make excuses for certain people in my life. I do not think this is true, but then I only see inside myself and not what everyone else is treated to on a regular basis.
I am a big believer in taking responsibility for one's actions. I know that being aware that one is responsible is sometimes all that can be done in any given situation, and that does not always translate into puppy dogs and baskets of kittens. And so-called taking responsibility means a wide variety of things.
So I wonder where the responsibility and the excuses meet--or do they--and all I have are reasons.
1. because iced tea, pitcher, head, and I didn't stop it?
2. because I mean what I say when I say it and I don't know how to stop meaning it later?
3. because I was careful with my heart and got confused when you were the opposite?
4. because I hate to be rigid and i hate to be wrong so I am too thinky?
5. because you suck?
I am a big believer in taking responsibility for one's actions. I know that being aware that one is responsible is sometimes all that can be done in any given situation, and that does not always translate into puppy dogs and baskets of kittens. And so-called taking responsibility means a wide variety of things.
So I wonder where the responsibility and the excuses meet--or do they--and all I have are reasons.
1. because iced tea, pitcher, head, and I didn't stop it?
2. because I mean what I say when I say it and I don't know how to stop meaning it later?
3. because I was careful with my heart and got confused when you were the opposite?
4. because I hate to be rigid and i hate to be wrong so I am too thinky?
5. because you suck?
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