My talented teacher mother has been chosen to teach a study abroad class in FRANCE! Next year, isn't that spectacular? Claps for mama. It is so depressing that my mother's career is taking off like all those planes in LAX while mine sags like an empty balloon. Dramatic. Actually, its more like an elderly man's shlong. It's feeble, it's trying, but its not quite there.
And its not depressing, its utterly amazing. I am so proud of you...Mademoiselle Mama.
Anyway, I am at post college job number two, trying to gain my footing. I am having difficulty sleeping because I have an interesting set of responsibilities this time around. I have been doing research, brainstorming, pleading with my bored friends for ideas, trying to "become the job." So far I am only half of the job, half Sonia, half uber stressed and getting fat because to deal with halving myself three times my carb consumption is, like, way up there. But I am actually liking me a little more this time around so I am hoping for the best. Who knows, perhaps next week I will be digging my own vocational grave, but for now I'm alive and kickin!
Before this blogage, I was laying in bed, kicking my sheets around and I kind of did a little in-my-head career montage of all my past jobs. The summer of my senior year my mother told me solemnly, "You will work." Okay, whatever Mom. I'm 18 and AWESOME and no longer a virgin, so whatever no big deal.
Having absolutely no job skills, I was lucky enough to get a job through a dear friend of my mother's. I was an office assistant at a dental office. What means is I did things like filing, recording Perio charting (that thing where they stick a pokey thing in your mouth and a mirror and call out 3,2,3...4,3,2...224 until you feel like your jaw in unhinged), recording X Rays, putting the cookies out for the patients in the lobby. But mostly I cleaned. I cleaned and sterilized rooms, tools, chairs, trays. Everything you put your mouth on at the dentist I cleaned. In scrubs with my hair undid, no makeup, and a bad attitude that I quelled by stealing the frozen cookie dough for the lobby cookies, storing it in my scrub pockets, and eating it in between cleanings. It didn't seems to phase me one moment I was putting a bloody tooth scalpel in the sterilization thing and the next minute shoving frozen caramel chocolate chip into my mouth.
One of my jobs was to set up the patient rooms according to procedure. Hygiene was cake, it was the same every time. But the "surgery" rooms where they fixed rotten teeth or bleached out the highlighted and large-breasted soccer mom's smile until her teeth looked like Chiclets called for different set ups. My enemy was the tool tray where, depending on procedure, I would lay out a set of 8-10 metal sticks. They were supposed to be in a certain order, and discernible by their tiny little "heads" or end points. These things cost big money, and I was supposed to handle them delicately. I could. not. tell. them. apart. Many an hour I spent squinting at the tiny little spoon at the end of the metal stick asking myself :
"Is this a blah blah blah spoon for smoothing the gums, or is this the blah blah blah hooky thing he uses to cut people? Fuck."
Needles to say, it wasn't my dream job. All I wanted to be doing that summer was make out with my first cool boyfriend and pretend to smoke cigarettes. I remember one time being very upset I had to go to work the next morning and therefore had to go to bed early. I was so angry, resentful, and upset. Why the hell do I have to work? Hello? I'm going to college. I know everything. I hate wearing scrubs.
I was busy moping when my mother probably called me out on it. I let loose 18 years of spoiling and sheltered-ness when I raised back my in indignant fist and...
Grabbed a pile of discarded bank statements and threw them about the room. Take that Golden 1! Not paying you on time Hawaiian Airlines Credit Card! What, USAA Federal Savings Bank? Yeah that's right, YOU GOT THROWN!
My mother watched me get in a bar fight with paper and to her credit, did not laugh. Rather instead, she followed me to my room (where I had stormed off to, duh) and calmly talked me down from stabbing her VISA statement with my scissors. She told me that you have to pay your dues in some way or another because they will give you the background and tools to get where you want to go.
Great lesson, huh? It's funny that I only remembered it now, dealing with shady ex-employers and feeling truly hopeless as my second security deposit in 4 months is hungry for the meager amount that resides in my USAA checking. Because at the end of the day, I no longer look like an extra from Grey's Anatomy and spend mornings cleaning up blueberry muffin puke. I paid that due. I am past the minimum wage job! Its time to accept me, real people world, I am one of the entry level big dogs now!
...Although I do miss the caramel chocolate chip cookies.
Showing posts with label anecdote. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anecdote. Show all posts
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Sistergurad
When my sister and I were younger, it seemed we were ages apart.
We are not quite two years, and she is really my best friend; so much so that it seems the only thing separating our ascent to doing everything together is her inability to legally drink in bars. She is my best gal pal, if not slightly on a protective sisterly pedestal. I start gnashing my teeth and cracking my knuckles when my boy friends talk about her sex appeal or whereabouts.
As in its 10 p.m. and we're all 5 shots deep and my charming neighbor inquires, meaningfully: "Sonia, where's your sister?"
Or, "Sonia, you're sister's so hot...Where is she?"
So, yes my sister is hot. And yes, if you try to hit on her in front of me I am immature enough that not only will I cock block you to Hades, I will also defriend you on every social networking platform, ever. I know, terrifying. Testosterone is quaking in its boots.
But anyway, when we were younger our two year span seemed more like four. We were different, and disagreed on many things. One large nugget of dissension was the welfare of our mother. My sister was very protective, she didn't condone any roughhousing like chicken fights in the pool or that weird game where you swim around, pushing your opponents head down into the water, trying to drown each other.
I on the other hand, was older and had an attitude. I saw myself as an equal opponent to my mothers head-dunking abilities, and would challenge her. When my 8 year old core strength failed, I would get mad, exact revenge, and cling onto my mother's neck like an enraged koala, hoping for an advantage.
My mother would laugh, my sister would cry, and then my attempts at winning the drowning game would be thwarted as we'd all have to stop to calm Sasha down.
But there is one moment in my sister's brief career as my mother's bodyguard that truly bested me. My mother is athletic, and growing up she coached quite a few of our sports teams. When we lived in Virginia, Sash and I were just starting to play soccer, and my mother was the coach for my Under 8 soccer team, dubbed "The Geckos."
It was one of our last practices. All seven year olds want to end every game or practice by throwing water or Gatorade on their coach, because it is hilarious and adults look funny wet. Exactly the kind of physical humiliation, however, that my sister did not allow in our house. The instant Sasha caught wind of my team's giggly plan, her protective instinct kicked in.
Meanwhile, I was deviously unscrewing the cap of my water bottle, chuckling to myself.
During our post practice huddle, all the girls are looking at each other, mischievously, clutching their water bottles. My mother knew what was coming, and began jogging away as 13 Geckos took after her, shrieking.
I hung back a bit, wanting my dousing to be just me and the coach, for full hilarity. As I began jogging towards the pack, something felt off. I began to hear a vague buzzing sound, getting louder. I stopped my cleated pursuit, and turned around to face the growing hum...
WHAM
"WAHHHHHHH!!"
I was full on flattened by my midget of a sister. She sprang up from kicking my ass, wailing in fear and sadness, and took off like a demon towards my mom. I sat up in disbelief as I watched the back of her pigtailed head cover the field alarmingly fast.
"Mom! Sasha hurt me!" I immediately complained. I wasn't even mad, I was more humiliated that my awesome water throwing moment was ruined by a shrimp wearing a Winnie the Pooh shirt.
My mom couldn't really feel sorry for me, considering she was busy comforting my sister/bodyguard as well as holding back laughter at the grass and dirt in my hair, evidence of my ass beating.
It was the first time I was taught never to underestimate my younger sister. Though I may have height and 1.75 years of life experience, she assess situations in a different, and often far more bad ass way than myself. But now I feel like her protective instinct has grown to encompass me, and I am her quarterback instead of, er, the other team. She protects me, just as vehemently and insanely as she protected my mother that fateful day on the soccer field.
She was just giving me a preview of her services.
I miss you, Sasha.
We are not quite two years, and she is really my best friend; so much so that it seems the only thing separating our ascent to doing everything together is her inability to legally drink in bars. She is my best gal pal, if not slightly on a protective sisterly pedestal. I start gnashing my teeth and cracking my knuckles when my boy friends talk about her sex appeal or whereabouts.
As in its 10 p.m. and we're all 5 shots deep and my charming neighbor inquires, meaningfully: "Sonia, where's your sister?"
Or, "Sonia, you're sister's so hot...Where is she?"
So, yes my sister is hot. And yes, if you try to hit on her in front of me I am immature enough that not only will I cock block you to Hades, I will also defriend you on every social networking platform, ever. I know, terrifying. Testosterone is quaking in its boots.
But anyway, when we were younger our two year span seemed more like four. We were different, and disagreed on many things. One large nugget of dissension was the welfare of our mother. My sister was very protective, she didn't condone any roughhousing like chicken fights in the pool or that weird game where you swim around, pushing your opponents head down into the water, trying to drown each other.
I on the other hand, was older and had an attitude. I saw myself as an equal opponent to my mothers head-dunking abilities, and would challenge her. When my 8 year old core strength failed, I would get mad, exact revenge, and cling onto my mother's neck like an enraged koala, hoping for an advantage.
My mother would laugh, my sister would cry, and then my attempts at winning the drowning game would be thwarted as we'd all have to stop to calm Sasha down.
But there is one moment in my sister's brief career as my mother's bodyguard that truly bested me. My mother is athletic, and growing up she coached quite a few of our sports teams. When we lived in Virginia, Sash and I were just starting to play soccer, and my mother was the coach for my Under 8 soccer team, dubbed "The Geckos."
It was one of our last practices. All seven year olds want to end every game or practice by throwing water or Gatorade on their coach, because it is hilarious and adults look funny wet. Exactly the kind of physical humiliation, however, that my sister did not allow in our house. The instant Sasha caught wind of my team's giggly plan, her protective instinct kicked in.
Meanwhile, I was deviously unscrewing the cap of my water bottle, chuckling to myself.
During our post practice huddle, all the girls are looking at each other, mischievously, clutching their water bottles. My mother knew what was coming, and began jogging away as 13 Geckos took after her, shrieking.
I hung back a bit, wanting my dousing to be just me and the coach, for full hilarity. As I began jogging towards the pack, something felt off. I began to hear a vague buzzing sound, getting louder. I stopped my cleated pursuit, and turned around to face the growing hum...
WHAM
"WAHHHHHHH!!"
I was full on flattened by my midget of a sister. She sprang up from kicking my ass, wailing in fear and sadness, and took off like a demon towards my mom. I sat up in disbelief as I watched the back of her pigtailed head cover the field alarmingly fast.
"Mom! Sasha hurt me!" I immediately complained. I wasn't even mad, I was more humiliated that my awesome water throwing moment was ruined by a shrimp wearing a Winnie the Pooh shirt.
My mom couldn't really feel sorry for me, considering she was busy comforting my sister/bodyguard as well as holding back laughter at the grass and dirt in my hair, evidence of my ass beating.
It was the first time I was taught never to underestimate my younger sister. Though I may have height and 1.75 years of life experience, she assess situations in a different, and often far more bad ass way than myself. But now I feel like her protective instinct has grown to encompass me, and I am her quarterback instead of, er, the other team. She protects me, just as vehemently and insanely as she protected my mother that fateful day on the soccer field.
She was just giving me a preview of her services.
I miss you, Sasha.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The Punch
I once had a friend punch another in the face.
I remember what he looked like, before he struck. I have seen his face do so many things; smile, laugh, set up jokes, yell things across the street, but I'd rarely seen his face like this. His mouth looked strange, flattened and snarled, preparing. I tried to look at his eyes, but they moved too quickly to lock onto. They flashed up on my face for brief moments, but I may as well have another passerby.
And in a flash, there was blood.
He was gone.
And we all stood on the curb in mediated silence amidst the threats and the swearing, losing his back into the swell of the night.
I know far more violent things happen everyday. But witnessing this intimate glimpse of a hate's manifestation sticks with me like a bug I just can't shake.
I still have strange dreams about this ferocity, but it mutates itself into different scenes. Sometimes more carnage, sometimes no blood. But in those dreams I see the thing I never did during my waking memory.
I see his eyes. And it is a disappointment. I used to see a thousand lifetimes when I caught his gaze. But in my dreams, within the blue irises, there is only emptiness.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Beating a Dead Horse
A bit ago, I posted a story about a jilted lover whose rage took on the task of destroying some valuable property.
A friend of mine messaged me, relating a similar situation, in which his buddy got a lovely and pricey bike sawed in half by a similarly jilted lover.
My friend, who is the best guy you could ever know, asked me "Is this a common thing you girls do?"
It is sad, when I think if it, that pretty bikes and fancy guitars get demolished when a love turns ugly. I can imagine it is like the sadness that happens when you watch old Civil War movies and the horses are being gunned down, their spindly legs grasping at the air as they fall into a puddle or something. During my seventh grade history class we watched one of these, and I whispered to my classmate Ben how sad I was for the dying horses.
Ben looked at me in slight disgust, "What about the men?"
Yes, Ben! What about the men!
Perhaps things like guitars and bicycles sometimes fall as casualties in love and war. It doesn't stop there, people get nasty divorces and then houses, money and children are suddenly spoils as neatly suited lawyers engage in paper battles.
With my experience in all things jilting, it does not surprise me when I hear of a slashed tire, broken bicycle, or splintered guitar. In fact, the naughty little drag queen inside of me claps her hands and says "You go girl."
I don't know what it is, why I feel vindicated instead of sad for the proverbial dead horse. 70 cents to the dollar? Menstrual Cycles? Childbirth?
I remember once I was absolutely enraged, heart broken, sobbing, and very drunk. I gazed on the sleeping, passed out drunk form of my perpetrator, angry at how hurt I was, angrier that he was not awake to witness my clearly devastating hurt. I couldn't sleep, and began noticing objects in his apartment. Stupid chair, stupid pillow, stupid cheese grater. Then the objects began to vibrate with potential.
Ha! I thought! I will take them! That will show him who he thinks he is.
I really didn't have much of a strategy when gathering items; candles, the book I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by Tucker Max, a tiny, electric fan, sunglasses. I grasped the loot in my arms, feeling devious and successful. Wait till he wakes up without his tea lights!
Then I realized I was hammered, it was 4 a.m., and I was twenty minutes by car from home.
I replaced all the items, defeated. Then I decided on a new form of revenge. I threw his lighter across the room, and planning to leave as soon as I sobered up, hid his "water pipe" in what at thought at the time was the last place he'd ever look.
Morning came, and with it two gut wrenching hangovers.
"Why is my [water pipe] on top of the refrigerator?"
... Perhaps not the cleverest hiding place.
I think that when a fiery, fiesty, woman feels the pain of heartbreak, she radiates it in her body like a new form of energy. That night I felt like I could shoot my pain from my fingertips, like a crazy Spiderwoman. It is so affecting, it is so resonating, it is red like fire and beautiful like the sun. It is the reason my friend's father said, "My whole life has been about keeping the woman happy," it is why a spider can eat her mate. A woman's pain consumes her being, and she lets it, as she has accepted it as a natural heritage.
So to answer your question friend, it is perhaps more common that we girls mess up some men stuff in the wake of our splintered hearts. We'd just like you, or your guitar, to understand what it feels like to have something of yours broken.
"Nobody will ever win the Battle of the Sexes. There's just too much fraternizing with the enemy." ~Henry Kissinger
A friend of mine messaged me, relating a similar situation, in which his buddy got a lovely and pricey bike sawed in half by a similarly jilted lover.
My friend, who is the best guy you could ever know, asked me "Is this a common thing you girls do?"
It is sad, when I think if it, that pretty bikes and fancy guitars get demolished when a love turns ugly. I can imagine it is like the sadness that happens when you watch old Civil War movies and the horses are being gunned down, their spindly legs grasping at the air as they fall into a puddle or something. During my seventh grade history class we watched one of these, and I whispered to my classmate Ben how sad I was for the dying horses.
Ben looked at me in slight disgust, "What about the men?"
Yes, Ben! What about the men!
Perhaps things like guitars and bicycles sometimes fall as casualties in love and war. It doesn't stop there, people get nasty divorces and then houses, money and children are suddenly spoils as neatly suited lawyers engage in paper battles.
With my experience in all things jilting, it does not surprise me when I hear of a slashed tire, broken bicycle, or splintered guitar. In fact, the naughty little drag queen inside of me claps her hands and says "You go girl."
I don't know what it is, why I feel vindicated instead of sad for the proverbial dead horse. 70 cents to the dollar? Menstrual Cycles? Childbirth?
I remember once I was absolutely enraged, heart broken, sobbing, and very drunk. I gazed on the sleeping, passed out drunk form of my perpetrator, angry at how hurt I was, angrier that he was not awake to witness my clearly devastating hurt. I couldn't sleep, and began noticing objects in his apartment. Stupid chair, stupid pillow, stupid cheese grater. Then the objects began to vibrate with potential.
Ha! I thought! I will take them! That will show him who he thinks he is.
I really didn't have much of a strategy when gathering items; candles, the book I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by Tucker Max, a tiny, electric fan, sunglasses. I grasped the loot in my arms, feeling devious and successful. Wait till he wakes up without his tea lights!
Then I realized I was hammered, it was 4 a.m., and I was twenty minutes by car from home.
I replaced all the items, defeated. Then I decided on a new form of revenge. I threw his lighter across the room, and planning to leave as soon as I sobered up, hid his "water pipe" in what at thought at the time was the last place he'd ever look.
Morning came, and with it two gut wrenching hangovers.
"Why is my [water pipe] on top of the refrigerator?"
... Perhaps not the cleverest hiding place.
I think that when a fiery, fiesty, woman feels the pain of heartbreak, she radiates it in her body like a new form of energy. That night I felt like I could shoot my pain from my fingertips, like a crazy Spiderwoman. It is so affecting, it is so resonating, it is red like fire and beautiful like the sun. It is the reason my friend's father said, "My whole life has been about keeping the woman happy," it is why a spider can eat her mate. A woman's pain consumes her being, and she lets it, as she has accepted it as a natural heritage.
So to answer your question friend, it is perhaps more common that we girls mess up some men stuff in the wake of our splintered hearts. We'd just like you, or your guitar, to understand what it feels like to have something of yours broken.
"Nobody will ever win the Battle of the Sexes. There's just too much fraternizing with the enemy." ~Henry Kissinger
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Baby
Yesterday I was social.
So now I am going to negate any personality points I would have received and talk about my social evening on a virtual platform.
I met up with a friend who I haven't seen before she left to study malaria in Uganda. IN UGANDA. She told me a story of how she assisted in two births, C-Section and vaginal. The medical assistant wasn't available and the doctor snapped up my friend's capable hands.
One of the babies, the family named after her.
Isn't that unspeakably beautiful?
I started to cry when she mentioned that small tidbit. She said it slightly offhand, like oh and I got an A on the test I completed blindfolded. If I had a child named after me, I would have T-Shirts made. I am probably still going to have them made and distribute them to family members so we can take a group picture to solidify an accomplishment I had absolutely no part in. Everyone grinning, in little stadium rows wearing red shirts that say "My friend has a baby named after her in Africa, and all I got was this lousy T-Shirt."
This story makes me wildly enthusiastic about things I may have not been before. My friend will forever be connected by something so intricately personal to this little girl who will one day live and grow to have hands just like those who delivered her. It is not an immediate, perhaps typical connection, but it exists, and strongly. I believe in it like I believe in coffee and the cold light of mornings. I believe in it like a realization.
Somethings are easy to believe in; sports teams, democracy, microwaves. But somethings, like those hidden in the spaces of human conscious which we choose often to not explore as they may hurt or scare us, those things are difficult to commit to. And if you can find something that inspires you to believe...Go on and let yourself be a little in love. Because somewhere in Uganda, in a village full of people, there lives a baby named Kaitlin.
So now I am going to negate any personality points I would have received and talk about my social evening on a virtual platform.
I met up with a friend who I haven't seen before she left to study malaria in Uganda. IN UGANDA. She told me a story of how she assisted in two births, C-Section and vaginal. The medical assistant wasn't available and the doctor snapped up my friend's capable hands.
One of the babies, the family named after her.
Isn't that unspeakably beautiful?
I started to cry when she mentioned that small tidbit. She said it slightly offhand, like oh and I got an A on the test I completed blindfolded. If I had a child named after me, I would have T-Shirts made. I am probably still going to have them made and distribute them to family members so we can take a group picture to solidify an accomplishment I had absolutely no part in. Everyone grinning, in little stadium rows wearing red shirts that say "My friend has a baby named after her in Africa, and all I got was this lousy T-Shirt."
This story makes me wildly enthusiastic about things I may have not been before. My friend will forever be connected by something so intricately personal to this little girl who will one day live and grow to have hands just like those who delivered her. It is not an immediate, perhaps typical connection, but it exists, and strongly. I believe in it like I believe in coffee and the cold light of mornings. I believe in it like a realization.
Somethings are easy to believe in; sports teams, democracy, microwaves. But somethings, like those hidden in the spaces of human conscious which we choose often to not explore as they may hurt or scare us, those things are difficult to commit to. And if you can find something that inspires you to believe...Go on and let yourself be a little in love. Because somewhere in Uganda, in a village full of people, there lives a baby named Kaitlin.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Me and my Dad
Yesterday my father graciously opened up an account for me at a nice, fancy gym.
My membership, however, exists on the condition that once I become "established," I will take over payment.
I asked my father what he meant by established, just to be a shit. I know what it meant. It means not sleeping till noon, haphazardly job searching until your eyes get tired, then making yourself cocktails with the different fruit juices that your mom buys. Pretending, while you cocktail, that you are the star of your own highly successful snarky, hip cooking show. Or putting on the first act of Les Miserables on the house stereo system, printing out the lyrics, and performing for two sleepy, non-plussed poodles.
I don't think that constitutes "established."
On my gym member application form, there is a box where you list two friends for a referral and a free week trial membership. After a deliberation that was a bit too long, and a scan of my contacts, I grudgingly listed one acquaintance. Proud of myself, I announced my successful listing to my father.
"You need more friends."
Dad! I said.
"No, it's not a put-down!" he explained. "It's a fact."
"What?!"
"It's a fact! We all need friends, you and I. We need friends."
"Dad, that's worse. It's worse that it's a fact."
We had a brief word scuffle, me finally conceding that he was more of the opinion that I needed friends because it's a general need of the human race, as in we are not really solitary creatures, even if you live in Folsom.
So I don't need friends because I haven't brushed my hair in two days, or plan to perform Act 2 for Bear and Otto tomorrow. I need friends because I'm human.
My membership, however, exists on the condition that once I become "established," I will take over payment.
I asked my father what he meant by established, just to be a shit. I know what it meant. It means not sleeping till noon, haphazardly job searching until your eyes get tired, then making yourself cocktails with the different fruit juices that your mom buys. Pretending, while you cocktail, that you are the star of your own highly successful snarky, hip cooking show. Or putting on the first act of Les Miserables on the house stereo system, printing out the lyrics, and performing for two sleepy, non-plussed poodles.
I don't think that constitutes "established."
On my gym member application form, there is a box where you list two friends for a referral and a free week trial membership. After a deliberation that was a bit too long, and a scan of my contacts, I grudgingly listed one acquaintance. Proud of myself, I announced my successful listing to my father.
"You need more friends."
Dad! I said.
"No, it's not a put-down!" he explained. "It's a fact."
"What?!"
"It's a fact! We all need friends, you and I. We need friends."
"Dad, that's worse. It's worse that it's a fact."
We had a brief word scuffle, me finally conceding that he was more of the opinion that I needed friends because it's a general need of the human race, as in we are not really solitary creatures, even if you live in Folsom.
So I don't need friends because I haven't brushed my hair in two days, or plan to perform Act 2 for Bear and Otto tomorrow. I need friends because I'm human.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Green Girl
Anybody been seeing previews for that new exorcist movie?
Why is evil always wearing a nightgown?
I still have to close my eyes and ears.
The Exorcist scares the living diva out of me. I will briefly glimpse a preview of the new possessed girl's sweaty head snapping back at an unnatural angle and start shivering mentally. It just takes me back to dome spins and pea soup vomit. My first experience with Linda Blair was when Billy Crystal hosted the Oscars. I can't remember what year that was, but I remember my mother had let us sleep in the living room on a large fold out futon. It was really exciting.
Billy did a historical montage of cinema in which he dubbed himself into famous movies of alternating genres. Horror was represented by The Exorcist, and Billy tried to reason with crazy ass Linda as if she were a distraught lover, not DEATH ITSELF.
I remember thinking, hmm, I wonder what movie this is, its kind of a strange scene, just a bed and this little weird girl OHMYGOD SHE IS FREAKING OUT AND THROWING UP EVERYWHERE AND TALKING LIKE AN OLD MAN WITH LUNG DISEASE. OHMYGOD I AM SO SCARED AND TEN YEARS OLD OHMYGOD.
I was paralyzed with fear. For years. From then on I referred to this mysterious character as "the green girl." I would try to explain to my sleepy and befuddled parents when I would wake them up at two in the morning, but I couldn't set the scene or context again as I was too afraid saying it aloud would make it real. It really disrupted my ability to be an adolescent, I could never sleep over at friend's houses, stomping off to my room was out of the question as I got too terrified alone; I was literally a sophomore in high school still creeping silently into my parents bedroom to huddle at the foot of their bed. Trembling in fear over green girl, over the possibility that my dad would wake up and find me, the refugee, and send me back to my deep dark bedroom.
I know I have been talking way too much about how to deal with demons, specifically those boy related. But the overexposure to this new demon-in-the-backwoods-of-Louisiana movie reminded me of the time I learned to man up and sleep in my own bed. It took, um years, but now I can curl up in the nook of my temporary air mattress (oh college) and clock a good ten hours of slumber. I remember at one time thinking i would never be able to sleep again, but today I am longing for my rubber bed as I type this. I guess if I can overcome green girl, what's a little bit of heartache?
Why is evil always wearing a nightgown?
I still have to close my eyes and ears.
The Exorcist scares the living diva out of me. I will briefly glimpse a preview of the new possessed girl's sweaty head snapping back at an unnatural angle and start shivering mentally. It just takes me back to dome spins and pea soup vomit. My first experience with Linda Blair was when Billy Crystal hosted the Oscars. I can't remember what year that was, but I remember my mother had let us sleep in the living room on a large fold out futon. It was really exciting.
Billy did a historical montage of cinema in which he dubbed himself into famous movies of alternating genres. Horror was represented by The Exorcist, and Billy tried to reason with crazy ass Linda as if she were a distraught lover, not DEATH ITSELF.
I remember thinking, hmm, I wonder what movie this is, its kind of a strange scene, just a bed and this little weird girl OHMYGOD SHE IS FREAKING OUT AND THROWING UP EVERYWHERE AND TALKING LIKE AN OLD MAN WITH LUNG DISEASE. OHMYGOD I AM SO SCARED AND TEN YEARS OLD OHMYGOD.
I was paralyzed with fear. For years. From then on I referred to this mysterious character as "the green girl." I would try to explain to my sleepy and befuddled parents when I would wake them up at two in the morning, but I couldn't set the scene or context again as I was too afraid saying it aloud would make it real. It really disrupted my ability to be an adolescent, I could never sleep over at friend's houses, stomping off to my room was out of the question as I got too terrified alone; I was literally a sophomore in high school still creeping silently into my parents bedroom to huddle at the foot of their bed. Trembling in fear over green girl, over the possibility that my dad would wake up and find me, the refugee, and send me back to my deep dark bedroom.
I know I have been talking way too much about how to deal with demons, specifically those boy related. But the overexposure to this new demon-in-the-backwoods-of-Louisiana movie reminded me of the time I learned to man up and sleep in my own bed. It took, um years, but now I can curl up in the nook of my temporary air mattress (oh college) and clock a good ten hours of slumber. I remember at one time thinking i would never be able to sleep again, but today I am longing for my rubber bed as I type this. I guess if I can overcome green girl, what's a little bit of heartache?
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Angel Cum
Today, on my second to last day of vacation in Hawaii, my grandfather cooked us dinner. He insists that the best way to prepare food is to keep it simple.
"Sauces," he'll scoff.
"I tell you what delicious," he looks my sister and I, bouncing his eyebrows up and down, lapsing into Hawaii's pidgin dialect. "You make it simple, wheew and it's ono."
My grandfather made beef macaroni and it was delicious. We melted cheese on top and sat around in the living room, eating off plates balanced in our laps and talking story. My mother had been looking through old pictures before dinner and she had found some from my aunt's wedding. As soon as she turned to my aunt and uttered the words I began to get a knotted feeling in my spleen. I knew picture talk would lead to talk of the DVD. Moments later, my knotted spleen tightened.
"Ohhhhh! We should watch the DVD!"
I was just about to turn twelve when my Aunt and Uncle tied the knot. Around that age I was inspired by things of the theatrical nature. I was enthusiastic about my eventual ascent to stardom, so much so that I was genuinely upset when Brittney Spears kept churning out more refrained hits. The competition, I thought bitterly to myself, was heating up.
Despite my limited resume consisting only of a few solos in the catholic Children's Choir, I trusted that my shaky soprano was the stuff of greatness. So I prepared myself to bestow upon my engaged Auntie and Uncle the honor of a song. Not just any melody, but a song composed by myself and consequently performed at the reception.
It took me a long time to write the lyrics. Since I did not know how to play a musical instrument, the tune was improvised. I only remember a bit of the verse.
Like an Angel, you came for me.
God must have sent you, we were meant to be.
We gave each other all we had.
And I will always love you.
You gave me all the strength I needed.
You're the reason I've succeeded
We've helped each other through so much
And I will always love you.
(Two more verses, a bridge with the climax of the song, in which I hit a high note, don't know which one because I DON'T KNOW HOW TO PLAY MUSIC, and then a wrap up, repeat verse in which I sing the first verse all inside out like B Spears on "Crazy")
Telling this story is making my fingernails want to separate from my skin. Under the lover as an angel metaphor, I had made a joke about orgasms. I desecrated the purity of angelic love with a preposition. I am not sure how much a 12 year old student of works such as "Baby one more time" knows about the institution of marriage, but apparently the idea of everlasting love and godly destiny resonated with me.
And, once again, the song was going to be sung acapella. In front of a wedding reception of about 200.
So amidst heartfelt and trembling speeches from relatives and close friends, my little warble of a accidentally porny Christian rock love song was to debut. The parts of this build-up sometimes hit me in waves of reflective shame and embarrassment. Acapella. Age 12. Inside Out Last Verse. High Note. Awkward Stage. God Love is Lyrics.
However, those things I can usually let go. Chalk it up to inexperience and 12 year old bravado. But what makes me wince as my mother and aunt gush over the idea of watching the wedding video is the bit of improvisation I decided to throw in before I performed my song that fateful evening.
As I made my small way to the podium I felt a sense of increasing dread. I hadn't really bargained for these nerves, I thought, as my hands started shaking bit. Then I remembered my secret weapon, tucked away in my funny-things-to-say arsenal.
My aunt introduced my song and me to the patient audience. I stepped up to the podium and accepted destiny.
"Thank you all for coming tonight," I quoted. (I hadn't invited them) "I just wanted to say a few words before I begin." Pause for effect. Intake for breath. "For those of you who have your hearing tonight, I'd like to apologize ahead of time."Pause. Still holding breath. "And for those of you who are hard of hearing," Pause for effect. Lungs hurting "Tonight, you are the lucky ones."
Sound familiar?
It's from the film Mr. Holland's Opus, in the last, dramatic and tear inducing scene. A line that made sense in the movie because Mr Holland was addressing a room full of hearing disabled people, not, a party.
I plagiarized. Poorly.
There I was, a twelve year old junior bridesmaid in a red halter dress reciting pilfered lines from a film she saw on Lifetime as the preface to a song that began with a line that could have been substituted into a soft core.
This is why I cannot watch the video of me. The physical evidence of it happening will shatter any dignity I am trying to hold on to from that memory. I told my Aunt that we could maybe watch it when I am thirty.
Congrats on 10 years of marriage, Auntie and Uncle. I love you guys. Sorry I plagiarized at your wedding.
"Sauces," he'll scoff.
"I tell you what delicious," he looks my sister and I, bouncing his eyebrows up and down, lapsing into Hawaii's pidgin dialect. "You make it simple, wheew and it's ono."
My grandfather made beef macaroni and it was delicious. We melted cheese on top and sat around in the living room, eating off plates balanced in our laps and talking story. My mother had been looking through old pictures before dinner and she had found some from my aunt's wedding. As soon as she turned to my aunt and uttered the words I began to get a knotted feeling in my spleen. I knew picture talk would lead to talk of the DVD. Moments later, my knotted spleen tightened.
"Ohhhhh! We should watch the DVD!"
I was just about to turn twelve when my Aunt and Uncle tied the knot. Around that age I was inspired by things of the theatrical nature. I was enthusiastic about my eventual ascent to stardom, so much so that I was genuinely upset when Brittney Spears kept churning out more refrained hits. The competition, I thought bitterly to myself, was heating up.
Despite my limited resume consisting only of a few solos in the catholic Children's Choir, I trusted that my shaky soprano was the stuff of greatness. So I prepared myself to bestow upon my engaged Auntie and Uncle the honor of a song. Not just any melody, but a song composed by myself and consequently performed at the reception.
It took me a long time to write the lyrics. Since I did not know how to play a musical instrument, the tune was improvised. I only remember a bit of the verse.
Like an Angel, you came for me.
God must have sent you, we were meant to be.
We gave each other all we had.
And I will always love you.
You gave me all the strength I needed.
You're the reason I've succeeded
We've helped each other through so much
And I will always love you.
(Two more verses, a bridge with the climax of the song, in which I hit a high note, don't know which one because I DON'T KNOW HOW TO PLAY MUSIC, and then a wrap up, repeat verse in which I sing the first verse all inside out like B Spears on "Crazy")
Telling this story is making my fingernails want to separate from my skin. Under the lover as an angel metaphor, I had made a joke about orgasms. I desecrated the purity of angelic love with a preposition. I am not sure how much a 12 year old student of works such as "Baby one more time" knows about the institution of marriage, but apparently the idea of everlasting love and godly destiny resonated with me.
And, once again, the song was going to be sung acapella. In front of a wedding reception of about 200.
So amidst heartfelt and trembling speeches from relatives and close friends, my little warble of a accidentally porny Christian rock love song was to debut. The parts of this build-up sometimes hit me in waves of reflective shame and embarrassment. Acapella. Age 12. Inside Out Last Verse. High Note. Awkward Stage. God Love is Lyrics.
However, those things I can usually let go. Chalk it up to inexperience and 12 year old bravado. But what makes me wince as my mother and aunt gush over the idea of watching the wedding video is the bit of improvisation I decided to throw in before I performed my song that fateful evening.
As I made my small way to the podium I felt a sense of increasing dread. I hadn't really bargained for these nerves, I thought, as my hands started shaking bit. Then I remembered my secret weapon, tucked away in my funny-things-to-say arsenal.
My aunt introduced my song and me to the patient audience. I stepped up to the podium and accepted destiny.
"Thank you all for coming tonight," I quoted. (I hadn't invited them) "I just wanted to say a few words before I begin." Pause for effect. Intake for breath. "For those of you who have your hearing tonight, I'd like to apologize ahead of time."Pause. Still holding breath. "And for those of you who are hard of hearing," Pause for effect. Lungs hurting "Tonight, you are the lucky ones."
Sound familiar?
It's from the film Mr. Holland's Opus, in the last, dramatic and tear inducing scene. A line that made sense in the movie because Mr Holland was addressing a room full of hearing disabled people, not, a party.
I plagiarized. Poorly.
There I was, a twelve year old junior bridesmaid in a red halter dress reciting pilfered lines from a film she saw on Lifetime as the preface to a song that began with a line that could have been substituted into a soft core.
This is why I cannot watch the video of me. The physical evidence of it happening will shatter any dignity I am trying to hold on to from that memory. I told my Aunt that we could maybe watch it when I am thirty.
Congrats on 10 years of marriage, Auntie and Uncle. I love you guys. Sorry I plagiarized at your wedding.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Hag Time
Right now I am in Hawaii, on vacation.
I never realized I had anal tendencies. What I have realized about my newly discovered anal tendencies is that they are not the slight OCD type that manifest themselves usefully in things like recycling or wiping bathroom mirrors down. My tendencies tend to lead me to do things like try on all my clothes as I attempt to pack them for a trip, inspect the divots in my shoes at four a.m., or blog on vacation.
So, here's to all those with unproductive anal tendencies. This wandering, gap-in-thought of a muse is dedicated to you.
While I was driving home from being graduated, sort of, I saw a hawk hovering over I5's uninspiring strip of grass medium. One time my good friend saw a beautiful white bird as we drove together, going somewhere. She was so excited at the make and model of such a lovely animal, she called her mother who was equally enthused about the fowl. I understood her excitement then, when I saw the large bird who was able to sustain his position by his instinctual knowledge of the buffering air currents and his own physical ability.
It got me thinking as I flew by inland central California's monotonous landscape, how I wish I could AIR HOVER. It reminded me of that enviable athletic ability of hang time. In seventh grade I was the first girl who had a jump shot. This jump shot of mine had the accuracy equivalent of a first time urinal user. Still, I was the first pick of the girls for the Folsom Youth Basketball Association that year. I remember my coach discussing my impressive hang time. However my glory was short lived. In eighth grade, all the girls had jump shots and mine was still the pee hitting the wall.
But I think hang time is an impressive skill. To be able to delay one's return to the ground; sounds like something R Kelly would sing an inspiring ballad about. I wish this skill could translate to the non-corporal realm, since nowadays I consider shopping a cardiovascular activity. I don't really get my kicks at the gym.
So maybe something like emotional hang time. The strength to delay a reaction or outcome that is often unpreventable, like gravity. Often times I am placed in situations that...rub me the wrong way. Dramatic, violin-music scenarios, the kind that even your friends will roll their eyes over as you explain it to them over a salted margarita rim. I wish in those instances I could leap high into the subconscious and half conscious state of my slanted, charged deliberation, and instead of plummeting magnificently back down into an angry text message or booze induced monologue,I would hover. Like the hawk, I'd employ my knowledge of previous mistakes and current irrational state and stay their until I figured the best time or way to swoop back down.
But do I hover? Nooooooooo. I plummet.
My girlfriend once told me (after I described to her a particularly embarassing case of plummeting) that my, erm, displays work for me.
"I knew you would," she said, as we lay on our beds. "It's just so you. And you get away with it. More power to you."
I guess I can sort of get away with the crazy. But then I have to own up to the crazy. And while I think that people who are sane aren't really as much fun (cue Kerouac quote yeech), I don't always want to be mad, as it drives me nuts.
I think I am going to work to my hang time.
I never realized I had anal tendencies. What I have realized about my newly discovered anal tendencies is that they are not the slight OCD type that manifest themselves usefully in things like recycling or wiping bathroom mirrors down. My tendencies tend to lead me to do things like try on all my clothes as I attempt to pack them for a trip, inspect the divots in my shoes at four a.m., or blog on vacation.
So, here's to all those with unproductive anal tendencies. This wandering, gap-in-thought of a muse is dedicated to you.
While I was driving home from being graduated, sort of, I saw a hawk hovering over I5's uninspiring strip of grass medium. One time my good friend saw a beautiful white bird as we drove together, going somewhere. She was so excited at the make and model of such a lovely animal, she called her mother who was equally enthused about the fowl. I understood her excitement then, when I saw the large bird who was able to sustain his position by his instinctual knowledge of the buffering air currents and his own physical ability.
It got me thinking as I flew by inland central California's monotonous landscape, how I wish I could AIR HOVER. It reminded me of that enviable athletic ability of hang time. In seventh grade I was the first girl who had a jump shot. This jump shot of mine had the accuracy equivalent of a first time urinal user. Still, I was the first pick of the girls for the Folsom Youth Basketball Association that year. I remember my coach discussing my impressive hang time. However my glory was short lived. In eighth grade, all the girls had jump shots and mine was still the pee hitting the wall.
But I think hang time is an impressive skill. To be able to delay one's return to the ground; sounds like something R Kelly would sing an inspiring ballad about. I wish this skill could translate to the non-corporal realm, since nowadays I consider shopping a cardiovascular activity. I don't really get my kicks at the gym.
So maybe something like emotional hang time. The strength to delay a reaction or outcome that is often unpreventable, like gravity. Often times I am placed in situations that...rub me the wrong way. Dramatic, violin-music scenarios, the kind that even your friends will roll their eyes over as you explain it to them over a salted margarita rim. I wish in those instances I could leap high into the subconscious and half conscious state of my slanted, charged deliberation, and instead of plummeting magnificently back down into an angry text message or booze induced monologue,I would hover. Like the hawk, I'd employ my knowledge of previous mistakes and current irrational state and stay their until I figured the best time or way to swoop back down.
But do I hover? Nooooooooo. I plummet.
My girlfriend once told me (after I described to her a particularly embarassing case of plummeting) that my, erm, displays work for me.
"I knew you would," she said, as we lay on our beds. "It's just so you. And you get away with it. More power to you."
I guess I can sort of get away with the crazy. But then I have to own up to the crazy. And while I think that people who are sane aren't really as much fun (cue Kerouac quote yeech), I don't always want to be mad, as it drives me nuts.
I think I am going to work to my hang time.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Dream On.
The other night I had one of the most vivid dreams. The type where your subconscious is trying to coerce you to sleep in just so it can find out what happens. I don't want to divulge the nature of this fancy pants dream (wizards, pot, magic school buses, college and a castle) because I believe that one day I will write it down and it will be the coolest, most money making story in the world. Then I will will have yellow tail tar-tar, as many platforms as I can drool over aligned in my closet like little foot soldiers, a gorgeous black standard poodle named Kristopherson, a German Shepard names Max or Wolfgang, and lots of over priced candles.
Anyway, I awoke reluctantly that morning and forced my boyfriend to wake up. Filled with sleepy enthusiasm I committed to relaying to him the eventual source of my enviable income!
"And then the girl...wait I have to figure that part out, I mean in the dream she was me, but I am not going to make her me...She might have brown hair but you know how I like brunettes. Anyway she is tired of going to class all the time because this guy is really boring. Are you listening? (Yes) Okay LISTEN, so she hasn't gone to class for like 3 weeks and finally one day...okay wait maybe five weeks, oh I don't know somewhere deep in the quarter, Oh wait do you think it should be on semester? Semester are more relatable don't you think? Shit okay well anyway she finally gets to the class..."
This continued for about ten minutes until I noticed I was losing his attention. I started to make up parts of my dream that hadn't happened in order to keep the room alive, but then I would lose track of my story. It began to get disjointed.
"And then there were DOLPHINS! yeaaaah dolphins and they were jumping in and out of the water as they crossed this greaaaat bridge...Wait I am not sure if they were on a bridge I mean that seems ridiculous, okay so I have to figure that part out but there was an ocean and somehow they got to an island...okay there may or may not have been dolphins..."
It finally ended with a plaintive "And there's drugs!" to which he looked nonplussed.
"What do you think," I asked, my eyes alight with a pleading excitement. "Good, huh?!?"
"Yeeeah," my boyfriend yawned. Then proceeded to tell me about his dream. Which involved a flying plank and a not-that-hot blond female co-pilot. Or something.
I don't really know. I guess I wasn't listening.
:)
Anyway, I awoke reluctantly that morning and forced my boyfriend to wake up. Filled with sleepy enthusiasm I committed to relaying to him the eventual source of my enviable income!
"And then the girl...wait I have to figure that part out, I mean in the dream she was me, but I am not going to make her me...She might have brown hair but you know how I like brunettes. Anyway she is tired of going to class all the time because this guy is really boring. Are you listening? (Yes) Okay LISTEN, so she hasn't gone to class for like 3 weeks and finally one day...okay wait maybe five weeks, oh I don't know somewhere deep in the quarter, Oh wait do you think it should be on semester? Semester are more relatable don't you think? Shit okay well anyway she finally gets to the class..."
This continued for about ten minutes until I noticed I was losing his attention. I started to make up parts of my dream that hadn't happened in order to keep the room alive, but then I would lose track of my story. It began to get disjointed.
"And then there were DOLPHINS! yeaaaah dolphins and they were jumping in and out of the water as they crossed this greaaaat bridge...Wait I am not sure if they were on a bridge I mean that seems ridiculous, okay so I have to figure that part out but there was an ocean and somehow they got to an island...okay there may or may not have been dolphins..."
It finally ended with a plaintive "And there's drugs!" to which he looked nonplussed.
"What do you think," I asked, my eyes alight with a pleading excitement. "Good, huh?!?"
"Yeeeah," my boyfriend yawned. Then proceeded to tell me about his dream. Which involved a flying plank and a not-that-hot blond female co-pilot. Or something.
I don't really know. I guess I wasn't listening.
:)
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Another Failed Relationship
I use too much toilette paper. I have a strange relationship with this instrument of cleanliness. I have clogged many a porcelain with its dotted squares; yet as much as I rely on that paper I feel as if it hates me back. It's an honestly sad unrequited love story.
I was retelling my sister an anecdote the other day of how I was sixteen and on an airplane to Germany. I had to use the restroom, so I went, all sleepy and delirious about seven hours into the flight. International coach is literally a joke. I'm not kidding, I think the architects must have sat around their blueprints stoned eating tacos laughing their heads off as they imagined row after row of disgruntled tourists and snoring grandpas forced to reside is such proximity for ungodly amounts of time. Anyway, I came back from the bathroom , enlivened, feeling good. Also, I think I was strutting a bit as I noticed a few male gazes on my backside. Naturally, it was because I was awesome. When you're sixteen you think you're super fine, and everyone looks at you because you are so super fine.
Then I sit down in my sad isle seat and realize I have a tail. A six foot snake of blindingly white toilette paper is protruding from the waistband of my pants, down the length of my airplane seat, to the floor, and across the isle. Hum. I begin to pull it out of my jeans, and it's like one of those magician's scarves that keeps growing. As each dotted line passes through my hands my horror exponentially grows, till I finally reach the end. I realize I have enough of the stuff lay strewn about my lap to mimic an Olympian ribbon dance up and down the now snickering isle. I sink into my seat, destroyed.
2)Another time, a homeless man told me I had a tail as I drunkenly waited outside of a club.
3)I had toilette paper on my shoe for two hours when covering a school district meeting.
4)I once thought I had a toilette paper tail when walking to class on campus, but thought if I ignored it, it'd go away. Nope. I went to the bathroom on a whim, and there it was. No longer fluttering like I imagine it was as I briskly made my way to my discussion, but laying there against my leggings, like a infuriatingly docile creature.
I was retelling my sister an anecdote the other day of how I was sixteen and on an airplane to Germany. I had to use the restroom, so I went, all sleepy and delirious about seven hours into the flight. International coach is literally a joke. I'm not kidding, I think the architects must have sat around their blueprints stoned eating tacos laughing their heads off as they imagined row after row of disgruntled tourists and snoring grandpas forced to reside is such proximity for ungodly amounts of time. Anyway, I came back from the bathroom , enlivened, feeling good. Also, I think I was strutting a bit as I noticed a few male gazes on my backside. Naturally, it was because I was awesome. When you're sixteen you think you're super fine, and everyone looks at you because you are so super fine.
Then I sit down in my sad isle seat and realize I have a tail. A six foot snake of blindingly white toilette paper is protruding from the waistband of my pants, down the length of my airplane seat, to the floor, and across the isle. Hum. I begin to pull it out of my jeans, and it's like one of those magician's scarves that keeps growing. As each dotted line passes through my hands my horror exponentially grows, till I finally reach the end. I realize I have enough of the stuff lay strewn about my lap to mimic an Olympian ribbon dance up and down the now snickering isle. I sink into my seat, destroyed.
2)Another time, a homeless man told me I had a tail as I drunkenly waited outside of a club.
3)I had toilette paper on my shoe for two hours when covering a school district meeting.
4)I once thought I had a toilette paper tail when walking to class on campus, but thought if I ignored it, it'd go away. Nope. I went to the bathroom on a whim, and there it was. No longer fluttering like I imagine it was as I briskly made my way to my discussion, but laying there against my leggings, like a infuriatingly docile creature.
(Editor's note: I promise these tails have been merely surplus and not, um, used. I don't think I could tell this story otherwise ha...).
In reviewing this script, my dear readers must think "What in God's name is wrong with you?" And yes, it is slightly unfortunate. Apparently I am pretty careless when it comes to, erm, wrapping things up. But something happened in the line for a club a couple of weeks ago, a sort of victory for the victim of universal embarrassment at the hands of potty humor.
I know (and by know I mean I can recognize him and vice versa) a bouncer at the club that my ladyfriends and myself end up when we HIT DA BARZ. I got separated from my group and was wandering over to said club to meet up with a girlfriend. The line at midnight is very bad. Luckily my bouncer acquaintance knows what I look like drunk and he let me in. I made a halfhearted attempt to look for my friend, but lost interest when I realized I had to pee. Then my drunklogic told me she was ACTUALLY outside again (she wasn't). So I leave the nice and warm stuffy club to find my girl, stomping around in new platform wedges that are now decorated with, yes, (fanfare) toilette paper!
As I am earnestly searching the line for my girlfriend (who was currently dancing with a trannie btw) a young gentlemen and his eyeliner-ed pink tube top wearing gf inquire of me a delicate question.
"AY, YOU USED THE BATHROOM RECENTLY OR WHAT?!?" (jokey joke jokey joke)
As I looked down, even my liquid courage couldn't prevent the spreading of shame to all my appendages. And then I look back up at the group of six of seven people who think my misfortune is hilarious. And I think to myself, this is a common human experience. We all do it. The only reason it's so funny is because it is funny. If I wasn't so drunk, I'd imagine all those folks with toilette paper on their shoes and realize Life's not so bad.
Unfortunately I was intoxicated. So instead of forgiving the young man wearing a pinstriped button down, I instead saw him as a giant toilette paper tail, taunting me. Quickly, like in a movie, my relationship with the thing underneath my heel makes a montage of blush-worthy memories that play out in my head. I am tired of being taken for a fool by this comedic social construct. Social constructs are bullshit. Gender ain't real. Race is fake. I'm Mad! So, I monologue.
"Well well well, isn't that hiiiillariouss ," I began. "I went to the bathroom and I peed. What like you've never done that? Are you immuunee to peeing. Do you just pee out your nose? Are you an alien?"
"Umm, no."
"Well, Alien, Let me tell you something. When humans pee out their urethras we use toilette paper. And sometimes that toilette paper gets on your high heels."
Then I realize that I look clinically insane. I also realize that the group I am embarrassing myself in front of is about 45 minutes from getting into the club. I ALSO realize that my bouncer friend is still working.
"Well it was nice shooting the shit with you ET. But I am going to go get into the club now."
Then I march defiantly, ass paper and all, to the front of the line. My bouncer pal looks at me curiously, then shakes his head and pulls back the velvet rope.
Toilette paper: 7 Sonia: 1/2 Dignity: -4
In reviewing this script, my dear readers must think "What in God's name is wrong with you?" And yes, it is slightly unfortunate. Apparently I am pretty careless when it comes to, erm, wrapping things up. But something happened in the line for a club a couple of weeks ago, a sort of victory for the victim of universal embarrassment at the hands of potty humor.
I know (and by know I mean I can recognize him and vice versa) a bouncer at the club that my ladyfriends and myself end up when we HIT DA BARZ. I got separated from my group and was wandering over to said club to meet up with a girlfriend. The line at midnight is very bad. Luckily my bouncer acquaintance knows what I look like drunk and he let me in. I made a halfhearted attempt to look for my friend, but lost interest when I realized I had to pee. Then my drunklogic told me she was ACTUALLY outside again (she wasn't). So I leave the nice and warm stuffy club to find my girl, stomping around in new platform wedges that are now decorated with, yes, (fanfare) toilette paper!
As I am earnestly searching the line for my girlfriend (who was currently dancing with a trannie btw) a young gentlemen and his eyeliner-ed pink tube top wearing gf inquire of me a delicate question.
"AY, YOU USED THE BATHROOM RECENTLY OR WHAT?!?" (jokey joke jokey joke)
As I looked down, even my liquid courage couldn't prevent the spreading of shame to all my appendages. And then I look back up at the group of six of seven people who think my misfortune is hilarious. And I think to myself, this is a common human experience. We all do it. The only reason it's so funny is because it is funny. If I wasn't so drunk, I'd imagine all those folks with toilette paper on their shoes and realize Life's not so bad.
Unfortunately I was intoxicated. So instead of forgiving the young man wearing a pinstriped button down, I instead saw him as a giant toilette paper tail, taunting me. Quickly, like in a movie, my relationship with the thing underneath my heel makes a montage of blush-worthy memories that play out in my head. I am tired of being taken for a fool by this comedic social construct. Social constructs are bullshit. Gender ain't real. Race is fake. I'm Mad! So, I monologue.
"Well well well, isn't that hiiiillariouss ," I began. "I went to the bathroom and I peed. What like you've never done that? Are you immuunee to peeing. Do you just pee out your nose? Are you an alien?"
"Umm, no."
"Well, Alien, Let me tell you something. When humans pee out their urethras we use toilette paper. And sometimes that toilette paper gets on your high heels."
Then I realize that I look clinically insane. I also realize that the group I am embarrassing myself in front of is about 45 minutes from getting into the club. I ALSO realize that my bouncer friend is still working.
"Well it was nice shooting the shit with you ET. But I am going to go get into the club now."
Then I march defiantly, ass paper and all, to the front of the line. My bouncer pal looks at me curiously, then shakes his head and pulls back the velvet rope.
Toilette paper: 7 Sonia: 1/2 Dignity: -4
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Fast Food Family
My sister and I eat out a lot. And by eat out I mean fast food. When we have Subway we're like OH! God! I'm faint. I'm like ana right now. Where my fries at?
It's something that I think we are sort of disgusted at, but at the same time don't really want to escape the lure of bbq sauce and salt. It got to the point where one of her roommates jokingly suggested she give up fast food for lent. We looked at each other like Aw. Hell. Naw. Christ gave his life.... well...Did Christ ever have a cheeseburger animal style with extra grilled onions? I don't think so. Kate Moss hath once spewed "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." Really? Clearly she hasn't had anything fried. ever. Dumb. (Wow Jesus to Kate Moss in two sentences. LOOK AT THAT TRANSITION)
Anyway, my sister recently told me an anecdote that I feel sums up our love-hate-secretly love relationship with all that is devilish for the corporal self. One evening she and her roommate decided to play racket ball at the school's gymnasium. My sister's roommate (I shall name her Christina) got there early and worked out before hand. My sister (I shall name her Sasha) drove to the gym.
Christina was kind of tired from her previous exertion and my sister just sort of watched the ball bounce and half heartedly chased it. After a while of playing glorified fetch with rackets, the girls decided they were hungry. Since they had clocked some time in sweating and such, they decided to treat themselves to Mexican food. Also known as Taco Bell. Luckily, Sasha had driven.
After Mexican Pizzas and Double Deckers (briefly, a taco named after a bus. Do we even notice this shit?) the fearless consumers ascertained that they really weren't that full.
"I'm not really thaaaat fauoll"
"Me neither"
"Wanna go to Jack in the Box?"
I am sure the conversation was more in depth than that. I am just projecting how it would be if Sash and I were talking to one another in this situation. (Y'all are like yeah effing right. YOU ARE CHRISTINA). Thus they traveled to stop number two and hastily bought curly fries and onion rings. My sister described the instance as one of sadistic consumption. "Were weren't even hungry anymore, it didn't taste good. I just didn't know what else to do but eat. Ahhheeeeh," she moans to me, in reflection. And mimes putting a french fry to her mouth, face twisted into a remorseful and terribly sad expression.
When they got home the girls started to realize that they had overdosed. My sister describes the scene as one of greasy pain and temporary horror. I say temporary because as Sasha finished retelling me the story, she added one final detail of her trauma.
"It was so bad," she whimpers as I am rolling on the bed laughing. "I couldn't eat until like" (Brief Pause) "Eleven p.m."
I love my Family.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Boys Boys Boys
Today I went to an unspeakably lovely beach in Montecito. It was impromptu, but I was feeling antsy and had two hours to kill before class. So I drove like someone on PCP to the ocean and finished (and by finished I mean started) my first massive overhaul of academic reading.
I had found a particularly nice spot in which I was laying slightly propped up by a slopping rock. This rock was also surrounded by many other stony spheres (haha), which blocked the wind a bit. It was a perfect situation. However, I was not the only one who realized this. Two adorable little boys in red and blue swim shorts were also enjoyed the bevy of boulders. I could feel them eyeing the opportune adventurous climbing situation. Unfortunately I was sitting directly in the middle of their cool time, and I am assuming their WAPSY upbringing didn't allow them to immediately trample my beached ass. It is a fitting metaphor; man has always wanted to conquer nature, but there is always one obstacle: women.
I had found a particularly nice spot in which I was laying slightly propped up by a slopping rock. This rock was also surrounded by many other stony spheres (haha), which blocked the wind a bit. It was a perfect situation. However, I was not the only one who realized this. Two adorable little boys in red and blue swim shorts were also enjoyed the bevy of boulders. I could feel them eyeing the opportune adventurous climbing situation. Unfortunately I was sitting directly in the middle of their cool time, and I am assuming their WAPSY upbringing didn't allow them to immediately trample my beached ass. It is a fitting metaphor; man has always wanted to conquer nature, but there is always one obstacle: women.
I tired to ignore them, but their precious Elmer Fudge speak started to permeate my reading (which wasn't difficult as I was sloughing my way through Ovid's Metamorphosis eeuuchh).
"Bwu-thurrr."
"We can't climb the rwocks. She will see us."
"But look at that one!"
"But we will be cwaught. She will see usssss."
Great. I was Dark Lord Sauron. Preventing innocence and beauty from having its day. I wanted to move, but then I felt the furtive glances of their mother back at where they were playing. I didn't want to seem rude, like her children were obnoxious, because they weren't and I don't even really like children. But I also wanted to move. It was a great spot. I felt bad for being in their way. Oh and I don't like children. IT WAS REALLY DIFFICULT.
I also started questioning to myself (super secret, like in my head) how can something so cute turns into such a demon being? They looked so precious and harmless, like puppies. But when I think about all the boys I have known, the past puppies that have turned into dogs (haha!), I am wary of such cuteness. It doesn't last. I know what you will become.
Then one of the little hobbit boy puppies decided enough was enough. Like the generations of men before him, he was going to survey the land and no two-bit female was going to stop him. Hobbit puppy then took a small bucket full of sand, and dumped it on my back.
Needless to say, I moved.
Image Credit: martianchronicles
Friday, April 2, 2010
Attack of the Ego Rapists
Last night I lost my phone at a club, I have an interview for an internship tomorrow, and I am in a BAD MOOD. The memories of $3 dollar Jager shots and lipsynching Britney to a faux-hawked gay across the bar are losing their charm as my hangover gains momentum and I get grumpier. MMmm whiney. Feels SO GOOD.
So in my current state of headache, communication-less, and irregular bowel movement, naturally I begin to ruminate on all the things that have pissed me off in the past week. I don't know what it is about being hungover that makes me just start to steeeamm. Like FUNK! WHY IS MY PILLOWCASE NOT ALIGNED WITH MY PILLOW or SHITBALLS I HATE UNCUT GRASS or MY TOMATOES ARE MUSHY GODDAMMIT However, this week something actually did happened in the basement of my campus's university center that merits more pissyness than mushy vegetables (although that is supremely annoying.) And yes, I am going to rehash it now, on my widely circulated blog.
Tuesday afternoon I was traipsing around where all our overpriced books are sold in mass quantity, hungover, and starting to sweat a bit because there isn't very good circulation down there. The books are stacked in neat but tiny isles in the basement of the the bookstore, and I always got apprehensive descending the stairs to that place (hell, ha get it). I guess it's because know you're about to drop hundreds of dollars, fighting your way through equally annoyed students to pick up a big ass book, only to probably crack that $107 excuse for an educational tool open twice during the quarter. Then when you attempt to sell it back, some bouffant blond with heavy eyeliner looks at you and says wickedly "We no longer use this edition." GROWL.
Anyway I was strolling the ENGLISH isle, and I ran into a classmate of mine whom I know vaguely because we have had quite a few classes together over the years. He is very...verbose. In class he...talks a lot. He is...annoying. He is the kind of manchild who comes up to you after a discussion section and mentions your lack of participation, and then recites what percentage "actively participating" is out of your total grade. Saying, "Damn girl, you were quiet today." IM QUIET EVERYDAY. ITS BECAUSE I USUALLY DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON.
As I walked past him to find my books, we made eye contact. I said hi weakly, and he looks at me with a mixture of recognition and disgust. Then homeboy crinkles his nose as if some foul odor had just drifted up from the graying carpet and says "I was wondering what that smell was."
And I say "what?"
And homeboy says "Are you wearing perfume?"
I sniff my shirt, confusedly.
He reiterates: "Your wearing perfume, are you not?"
I say "uhhh ye, uhh may uhh this morn-ummm"
Then he monologues. "I was wondering what that like powerdy smell was. I mean I'm walking past you and I was like Whoeew (waves hands in front of face as if he is batting away killer bees. My stench is like a killer bee) I mean how much of that stuff do you put on Wheeeeewwwee. You need to tone it down. I mean seriously, take it eassyyy."
I say "..."
What I SHOULD have said is Hey! Buddy! I am sorry my stench is an affront to your nostrils. But that was a rude thing to say, and as the old adage goes, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't spray it. Your hair bugs me. It looks like Jon Goesslin. Or an aged member of the tool academy. Do you know why i said ag-ed? BECAUSE YOUR HAIR IS THINNING.
But I didn't say that. My face just awkwardly crumpled into a pissed expression and I walked away mumbling to myself in the Geology isle pretending to look at Rocks and Mountains! (or whatever it is that they read, I am sure there are more sophisticated titles). Because I still needed my books, I wait fuming, until I heard his spiel on modernism (some innocent asian girl got sucked into conversation) drift up the stairs.
Then I went to the food court and furiously ate Panda Express sushi (don't, by the way) while thinking of all the snappy comebacks I could have retorted with. I have been in quite a few situations where people I don't or barely know confront me on something negative about myself that they think I should be privy to. Which is weird, but my reactions have progressed nicely. I used to cry, then I used to get mad and cry, now I just get mad, laugh, and then excited that have a funny story to tell people I love.
And after this last time, I am going to start writing a list of general yet hilarious comebacks and memorize them. It's my proverbial pepper spray; these potential ego-rapists won't know what hit them. Next time an old lady tells me I look like a slut, I'm going to say "Takes one to know one!"
...Maybe not that one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
