Tuesday, December 28, 2010

There’s something I’m embarrassed to admit, but I’m going to admit it anyway because, right now, I have nothing else to talk about and this revelation I’ve just discovered about myself has been bugging me because it’s pretty incredulous, because there are things I think I should know at my age or things I should have figured out and yet, here I am figuring out a thing I should’ve known for the past 20 years or so.

That was a huge run on sentence.

Let me preface this with, I have never worn boots. I had one pair of cowboy boots that a friend gave me back when leggings were in style. I would wear the boots with leggings or tights. Not often. But when I wore them, that’s what I would wear them with.

Switch to present day and suddenly, within the past month, I am wearing boots, AND I LOVE THEM! I have now bought two pairs of boots and BOOTS WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE?!?! Man, not only do I feel badass when wearing boots, but they look good and they are comfortable. But there is a hidden science behind boots that I am inadvertently learning like;

-What do you wear under boots? Socks? Trouser socks? Sweat socks? Nothing?

-What height boot do you wear under your pants? Like, if you buy knee high, I assume you wear them outside of your pants, and anything lower you wear under your pants or do you tuck your pants in?

And that last part lead me into the embarrassing thing I didn’t realize I didn’t realize…which is I NEVER REALLY UNDERSTOOD WHAT ‘BOOT CUT’ JEANS WERE FOR.

I guess I just thought boot-cut jeans were jeans that were straight legged, and tight to your entire leg like how ‘flare leg jeans’, flared out. etc. I didn’t really understand how the word, ‘boot’ got involved. I didn’t actually think or realize it was actually SO YOU COULD WEAR BOOTS OVER THE JEANS. I guess I thought it was like one of those weird ‘word origin’ things like where we used to say, “I have to go Xerox this page,” when you just meant make a copy of it in a copy machine which is a bad example but anyway either which way it cannot erase my ignorance or stupidity.

I came to this realization when I was stupidly putting on every pair of jeans I owned trying to find a pair where I could wear my boots OVER the jeans. I was sitting in my closet stuffing my jeans into my boots like I was packing my calves for Fed Ex, muttering to myself in a frustrated manner, saying things like, “This is stupid! It’s all bunched up!” and, “How do all those women have smooth jeans tucked nicely into their boots? Mine look like BUNCHED UP JEANS ON TOP OF BOOTS!” and that’s when the light bulb came on. “BOOT CUT JEANS! THAT’S WHAT BOOT CUT JEANS ARE FOR! WEARING UNDER BOOTS!”

And, in that moment, I felt like the smartest person and the dumbest person all at the same time.

So, I’ve been walking around for a week with this knowledge that ‘boot-cut jeans’ are for wearing under boots and feeling like a complete tool for not ‘getting this’ earlier in my life. I am such a failure at being a woman it’s incredible.

On a side note, I think I have some sort of thigh tumor.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

The Fighter was good. Maybe Christian Bale should get best supporting actor or something. Maybe Amy Adams looks too good in black lingerie. Maybe I will stop feeling sick from too much lunch some day. Maybe. You never know.

Maybe my toenails are too long. Maybe. I don’t care. They are painted red, and the red still looks wet. No chips. Not yet. Miracle. Sexy. I feel them sometimes. With my fingers. I reach down. I feel them. They feel strong. And long. I should probably cut them. That’s the thought I have. But then I do something else. Whatever it is I was doing that brought me to accidentally look at my toes; get in the shower, finish peeing, put on socks, etc. It’s always secondary, it seems. Looking at toes. Never a first thing. Unless you’re into that sort of thing, which I’m not. But they do look good. My toes. Right now, anyway. Maybe.

Cereal is also good. I remembered to buy Grape Nuts after several years of touting its significance. I poured a bowl. Sprinkled some fake sugar on it. Served it up. Received favorable responses. I nodded my head, puffed out my chest, felt vindicated for some reason. Like for a crime that I never committed and one that never existed. Some sort of small victory I didn’t know I was ready to have. Anyway, the moral of the story is that, later, I poured myself that same bowl and as I ate it, it tasted like disappointment. I looked into the bowl. It looked like a bowl of Grape Nuts. I looked at the spoon. It looked like spoonful of Grape Nuts. I chewed it. I swallowed it. It tasted like crap. WTF Grape Nuts? Where did all the good times go? We used to be bros, you and me. Heck, two seconds ago I stood up for you. Told everyone how great you were, and I guess they fell for it emperor’s new clothes style. My blinders are off, Grape Nuts. The bloom fell off the rose and I didn’t even want it to. I’m so sad about this, Grape Nuts. So sad. You’ve now made me afraid to go re-try Count Chocula or watch episodes of Good Times. Way to go, a-hole. Way to go.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

I waited all week to make coffee in my new French press that I bought at Bed Bath & Beyond with my 20% off coupon that they mail out like letterbombs every week.

I waited all week to drink the coffee i would make in my new French press out of a new cow mug I bought for $8.00 last weekend at Pier One.  I thought it was on sale for $5.00 but I was wrong and even though i am the cheapest person alive I had to buy it BECAUSE IT WAS TOO CUTE NOT TOO!  It is a regular mug..in a very big size...in a cow print and THE BOTTOM OF IT IS PINK UDDERS!  It basically sits on four pink udders.  HOW CAN YOU NOT DRINK OUT OF A BLACK AND WHITE COW PRINT MUG THAT HAS FOUR PINK UDDERS ON IT??? Answer: You cannot. You must.

Result of all of this waiting?  Warm deliciousness served up in a ceramic vat of FUN!

Friday, December 17, 2010

Hello.  I want to drink champagne right now.  Cold, bubbly champagne.  I want to drink it until I feel giddy. Well, giddier than I do right now.  I want to drink it until my blood has the same bubbles and I could cut my skin and bleed into another champagne glass and serve my giddiness to someone else. 
I just did a handstand.  Did you see it?  I did a handstand, and walked on my hands for a bit and then I released into a backflip onto my feet like a freakin’ gymnast!  Then I did a cartwheel and then I did The Running Man and then I high-fived forty seven strangers.
The past two days have been first place.
You are jealous.  I laugh at you.  Because I can.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

I like when you buy a bunch of pizzas and they are all on a table in a little line or grid, or whatever and people all gather round the table grabbing plates and grabbing pizza and everyone is usually happy and talking excitedly.  

I like how pizza brings everyone together like a sports game or a tragedy.

I also like the pizza aftermath. I like lifting the lids of each box to see which pizza went the fastest. My findings are that it’s always the pepperoni or the combination or the cheese. So, this means, all varieties of pizza pretty much disappear at the same rate.

I like consolidating the leftover slices. I like making a new, crazy pizza out of all of the remaining pizza slices. It’s like art.

I like carrying the empty pizza boxes out the front door and around to the side of the house to put them into the recycling bin. It’s usually nighttime, and the outside is very still and cold which is in direct contrast to the inside of the house; full of energy and warmth. I like hearing everyone’s voices from inside the house filtering out into the night’s quiet, slightly muffled by walls and windows. I put the boxes into the bin and let the lid slam and sit there for a minute taking it all in. I pretend I’m a neighbor or a passer by.

It’s what I do sometimes. I pretend.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Things made of cheese.  Things that felt important at the time.  Long things and square things.  Orange chaos.  Staining my most useful fingers.  I licked them and it turned me on.  I thought the words, "Lake Havasu" and, somehow, they just felt right. I rattled the bowl and it meant, "Yes."

My mom says 'fuck you' shouldn't be 'anything anymore.'  Like the phrase should no longer be taboo, banned or bleeped.  "It needs to be considered the same as 'treebranch' or 'Rocktober'.  Everyone says it! All the time!  Fuck you!  See?"  I waited for her to point at her mouth.  (She didn't)  And I could see her point but I also didn't like the thought of six year olds telling their play dates, "Fuck you!" when they refused to share their crayons. 

Okay, maybe she didn't say, 'Rocktober' and maybe she didn't even say, 'treebranch' and treebranch is probably two words and you probably think I'm a dipshit and i'm too lazy to go check or correct so I will instead say, "Fuck you."

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

I was going to come here and talk about groceries.  I wanted to talk about how the grocery store always offers a ‘buy two’ special and how I always fall for it.  Although I don’t think of it as ‘falling for it’ so much as, ‘telling myself it’s something I always eat/use’ and ‘what a deal!’ and ‘stock up!’ 

Things I bought two of today: salsa, ranch dressing, queso dip, various snack chips, soup and sandwich bags.

I could back up here and also tell you that I made a grocery list before I left to go shopping and then promptly forgot to bring it with me and how this act of stupidity led me to the next thing I will tell you which is how when I got home and started putting the groceries away I wanted to kick myself in the shins and say, “Dumbass!” because now I have a pantry full of three jars of salsa, FIVE bottles of ranch dressing, three jars of queso dip, and three boxes of the wrong kind of Ziploc bags.  (I needed the gallon size, not the sandwich size…DUMBASS!)

I was going to type about all of that but then I got yet another rejection (Three just today.  It hurts. Getting rejections.  I don’t like it.  Please make it stop.  Thanks.) and decided to write about that instead so...

I got rejected.  The end.

Friday, December 3, 2010

Bluestem, a revitalized magazine published by the English Department at Eastern Illinois University, published my story, "The Demonstration of Gravity." 

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Let’s play Survivor.  Today is a day where I will play Survivor. Today I will only eat blackberries and cherries and coffee and oatmeal.  I will drink water. I will struggle thigh deep through emotional mud for team blue so Jeff Probst will treat me to a helicopter ride to a scenic location where indigenous people will treat me to a native feast.  Oh wait, I lost. Team yellow gets the feast. I am just left thigh deep in emotional mud.
The word for today is ‘tristful’. Look it up.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

What would you do if you could eat all of the fruit you wanted? Would you start with mangos and pineapple or go straight for the traditional bananas, apples and oranges?

I think I would start with different varieties of melons cut into colorful cubes, a mélange of radiant sweetness awaiting my gaping maw. I think, after I tired of melon, I would move into the mangos, the pineapples, the grapes. Maybe after those I’d go on a berry binge. Berries can be mixed into things; curdled dairy products or flakes of corn. Pies. You know the drill. Summer fruits would rule a long couple of months for me; peaches, plums, nectarines, etc. I would squish the overly ripe ones in my fists before throwing them over cliffs, into landfills, into oceans, rivers, storm drains. I love summer fruits and how you can feel the heat trapped in their skins. It’s like eating the sweat of the sun.



Passion fruit?

I don’t know. Put them on a pretty dish. Serve them to me while wearing lingerie. I’ll think about it. But eventually I know I’m going back to the basics; apples, oranges, bananas. They have never let me down. I trust in them; my fruit friends. Like on Seinfeld. But with peels.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

My mom has a new refrigerator. It’s the kind that you can’t put any magnets on. For the last 20 years or so she has collected refrigerator magnets. She will buy them from all of the places she visits and put them on her fridge. Every time I visit her, her refrigerator has been completely covered in magnets. This year it is not. It’s weird seeing my mom’s naked fridge.

My mom also finally bought a new washer and dryer. The previous washer and dryer she had had since the 1980’s. The dials were all busted off and the buttons were missing and didn’t push in or were permanently stuck out. The rubber around one of the dials had been eaten away by rats. Rats that my little brother used to keep as pets, or rather, they were food for his boa constrictors and then, eventually became pets because they would breed so much he couldn’t feed them to the snakes fast enough. Much like the snakes, the rats would escape every so often. My childhood home was a house of animal horrors. You would never know when you’d run into a ball python or a huge rat.

These new appliances bring a further erasing of my past. I can see bits and pieces of my original home between, underneath and behind the new my mom has brought to this place I grew up in. I am just a little sad about it, but that’s just the nostalgia talking. Old gets replaced by the new, eventually. I have been replaced already. I’m just not entirely gone yet.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Yesterday, I shopped until my legs collapsed.  Crawling through the mall is no laughing matter.  People didn't even stop to help.  I couldn't even get a security gaurd to look at me sideways.  Note to self: don't wear pretty shoes when you plan on walking through a mall for four hours.

Shopping for clothes makes me realize how much I delude myself into thinking I am not fat.  Why am I so lumpy?  Somebody please take a human sized spatula to my flesh and spread it out evenly until there are no lumps.

Another reason I hate shopping: clothes hangers.  And not just clothes hangers, but how the employees at the stores are forced to shove 40 items on a rack meant for 20 so there is no wiggle room to move a friggin hanger so you can try to find your size and when you finally do, you go to pull out the hanger and it catches on the sleeves or strap of the other items jammed up against it thus thwarting the attempt you are making on removing said hanger.

I let a lot of clothes fall on to mall floor this weekend AND I DO NOT FEEL BAD ABOUT IT!  #1 I am not going to pick up clothes that fell because they were stuck to the hanger I was removing because IT TOOK ME FIVE MINUTES TO SIMPLY REMOVE THE DANG HANGER, I AM WINDED!  and #2, THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR JAMMING 40 ITEMS ON A 20 ITEM RACK RETAIL BITCHES! EARN YOUR  KEEP!

Thank you. Come again.

P.S. Dear The New Yorker, it's time for my acceptance to come, thank you. 

Thursday, November 18, 2010

I am a fan of things staying the same.  Don't move that chair.  Don't change my hair.  All the same things I wear. 

The opposite of same is change.  Change scrapes my skin. Ow. Me no like.

I am not alone in this. I know.

You can all wrap your arms around this. 

While you are doing so, can you wrap them around me too?

Thursday, November 4, 2010

I like killing flies!  I could stay outside all day trying to kill flies.  They are of no value to me.  I don’t feel bad about it.  I guess I could not be Hindu.

We have a fly problem going on right now in our backyard.  Maybe it’s all the dog poo or dead animal carcasses.  Either way, the flies are plaguing back there like Jesus is pissed and sending us a message.

It’s gross.  It makes me angry and disgusted.

We’ve tried many things, from cheap-ass flypaper to expensive traps that emit smells that almost make the fly infestation more palatable.

But nothing is working.

All of the four flypaper strips are bare.  There ISN’T ONE FLY IN THE ROTTEN SMELLING TRAP. NOT ONE!

I swear to God, the flies we have are superflies.  HAHA Like the wrestler!  They like, have super intelligence and crap.  Also, they are way more stronger than regular non-super flies.  Like, today, I trapped one in the bathroom and I was like, “Come to mama!”  and I got out this can of aerosol hairspray that is called HAIR FREEZE so you know it’s super sticky.  Like, when I use this hairspray on my hair a tornado has a hard time messing up my ‘do.  So, I was POSITIVE that if I sprayed this flying speck of pestilence with the hairspray, it would render his wings useless and he would plummet to the ground where I would smash him with my shoe.

But no, that did not happen. 

Let me tell you, I sprayed the EFF out of that bathroom!  I sprayed tons of hairspray on that fly and NOTHING!  Didn’t even slow him down.  I’m sitting in there gagging on the fumes and this little effer is buzzing away, healthy as can be.  I mean, if you lit a match in that bathroom there would’ve been an explosion because of all of the hairspray I let loose in there.

But the fly lives.

As do the rest.


Wednesday, November 3, 2010

I LIKE WHEN PEOPLE GIVE ME A BAG OF APPLES!  My boss gave me a bag of apples, for FREE!  I haven’t counted them, but I can estimate there are perhaps 10 apples in the bag.  The bag is clear and has a picture of a bright red apple on it.  The red is a color that I have never seen in an actual apple.  There is also a ‘tart-O-meter’ on the bag.  The tart-O-meter goes from ‘tart’ to ‘sweet’.  These apples rank all the way to SWEET!


Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Manny Pacquiao is the most adorable boxer ever.  I would like to put him in my pocket and enjoy his tiny jabs as they bruise my collarbone because, OMG HE IS THE CUTEST PURVEYOR OF DESTRUCTION EVER!