originally posted May 8, 2007
I have been tagged by Cognosco to write 10 weird facts about myself. It is then my task to tag 10 other people to do the same. Unfortunately, I have no friends, so I may be dropping the ball on that part of the deal. Because some of these will no doubt be annoyingly wordy, I will highlight the important points so as to facilitate the wade through the bullshite.
Okay. 10 things:
1) When I was in high school, we had to form little groups and put on puppet shows in drama class. Kristin and another girl and I decided to do a Barbara Walters special with an interview with Terrence Trent D'Arby (another something ridiculous motivated by a crush, no doubt), complete with the Madonna 'Like a Prayer' pepsi commercial. Kristin made a choir on a stick – an entire choir – with little 'o' shaped mouths. I made Terrence Trent D'Arby out of a fey little beige sock. He had dreadlocks and that hat TTD'A always wore. I wonder where he is now? I ask this with regard to both man and sock.
2) When I'm in need of cheering up, this is what I do. First, I go here:
http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/sam
Then, I sit at my computer quietly, waiting. I do other things until some well-meaning yahoo (i.e., BS) comes by and offers some unsolicited piece of advice. It's usually not a long wait, because BS is absolutely brimming with such things. Then, I click on the upper-left-most option and try to look bad ass. Try it. It feels GREAT.
3) I can't wink with my left eye, and only recently learned that there are people who can wink with both eyes (independently of one another, that is. When you wink with both eyes at the same time it is called "blinking", which I do with surprising ease.)
4) I have recurring unpleasant dreams in which either a) I am forced to skydive, b) my teeth crumble in my mouth, c) I have a huge slimy wad of gum in my mouth that I must get rid of, but I can neither spit it out nor swallow it, as it is so slimy and huge. Go figure.
5) I used to LOVE Jethro Tull until I saw them live last year and Ian Anderson made a ton of asshat remarks about the sexy female violinist who was performing with them. Seriously Ian, you tooly flautist, you cannot prance around on stage in tights and say things about keeping your young violinist chained up and expect me to ever listen to Bungle in the Jungle again, no matter how much I like that song. Do you understand that whenever you come on the radio I remember this and get all cranky and turn you off? Thank you for ruining you for me. A pox on you.
6) I got busted on the last day of my freshman year in high school for having 14 wine coolers at school. It was part of a poorly executed plan to drink for the first time. Motivated by guilt, I volunteered at a hospital that summer and had to deliver containers of bodily fluids to the lab. It was horrid. I'm not really down with carting around the mucus of strangers. Bleh. All in all, it was a pretty traumatic summer, and I don't really think I learned anything.
7) Jeez, none of these things are weird. It turns out I'm a really boring person. Let's try to sexy this up a bit: The day after I moved to SN, I had an unpleasant interaction in the middle of the day with a masturbating stranger in the parking lot of Trader Joe's, of all places. I thought he just wanted my parking spot, but I was wrong. Eeew.
8) It doesn't matter how much I hate you, if I see you eating alone I will get teary and have warm feelings for you.
9) I feel sympathy for inanimate objects, e.g. mushrooms. Say you are a mushroom that has come all this way with your little mushroom pals, from your origins in a little heap of shit to your mushroom destiny as a key player in a sauce I am making. And say I drop you on the floor or deem you too ooky looking to be a part of the sauce. I feel bad for throwing you away, little mushroom.
10) I have a lovely collection of Ren & Stimpy cards, encased in protective plastic sleeves and housed in a special binder. I will show them to you if you like, and serenade you with the Log song.
There. Done. Now I need to make friends and cajole them into participating. Frack.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
i might regret this in the morning
originally posted May 4, 2007
6:00:00 – Searing uterine pain.
6:00:30 – Vicodin.
6:00:33 – Beeeeeeeeeer…..
6:45:00 – Party with faculty!
So there I was, talking to a woman who had never ridden a bike. She had never heard of Lizzie Borden either. I guess I can see the Lizzie Borden part happening, maybe, but the bike part? I mean, never? Where did I find this person? I'll tell you – at a party full of math computer people and computer math people and (if it happened they were the variety who has been able to successfully simulate human-human interaction) their spouses. And this woman was none of these people. She was a new faculty member from a seemingly normal area where you assume people ride bikes and know stuff. Naturally, because I was full of merriment and substances, I thought it would be a good idea to tell her about my house ghosties and the zombies I fear. I'd already told another complete stranger who complimented me on my dress that I found dresses to be awesome because they are handy for a person like me who doesn't spend enough time doing laundry – you never need pants! It was that sort of night.
I soon found myself at the cheese table. The good BS had interrupted my conversation with the bike-eschewing luddite to present me with a glass of green tea liqueur, which I promptly seized and ran away with. I needed to figure out the alcohol content of said liqueur so that I could establish an appropriate rate of consumption. Standing about the table I found the following:
1) the guy who at some point may have been a philosophy professor, but now is just the guy who shows up at colloquia all the time and asks long, ridiculous questions;
2) the undergraduate guy who manages the pigeon lab;
3) the new-to-us faculty guy who is supposed to a) be a really big deal, and b) be a really big ass. To wit: The whole reason for this party was to lure another big deal guy to come to our school. Earlier in the day the big deal guy we were luring had given what I've been told was an awesome talk in which he discussed affordances – the idea that objects have affordances, and so you look at objects and appraise what you can do with them and such (I would tell you more, but I wasn't there. I just asked BS to tell me about the notion of affordances, briefly, so that I might better explain it, and he's just going on and on and on. I listened for a while, but now I've given up. He's still talking as I write this. Jeez, now he's just invited me to join a reading group because there's an article I might be interested in and blah blah blah. Note to self: do not ask BS stuff.) Anyway, Awesome Talk used as an example a chair. He explained how you could use it as a tool for flinging a rattlesnake off a porch, for fighting off a lion, etc. I've been told this involved him actually picking up a chair and flinging imaginary rattlesnakes around and fighting off imaginary lions and things like that. I've been told that the momentum he'd built was incredible, and everyone was completely enthralled – I mean, do you know how often that sort of colloquium occurs? A colloquium in which there is a really good talk that involves chairs being hoisted in the air and lions attacking?? Not bloody often! So I've been told that just when Awesome was really making his point, and who knows what was about to happen, Guy 3 Smarty Smart yelled out, "What about a CLOUD? A cloud has no affordances!" Thwap. That is the sound of the gauntlet hitting the ground. Consider it thrown. You have been challenged by Guy 3. Of course this cloud question wrecked the momentum Awesome had going and I'm sure pissed the bejesus out of everyone there because suddenly Awesome had to address the issue of cloud affordances and this put an end to the chair waving. Yes – Guy 3 is THAT guy.
Now, returning to the scene: if you are picturing these men and have conjured up some sexy professorial types, or dorky-sexy busmen (ahem, Kristin, I am talking to you), please stop. These men are not those men. Let me help you with your mental image. First, be sure that Guy 1 is carrying a book bag, the sort you get for free in the mail with address labels from the World Wildlife Federation, and be sure the book bag is crammed full of wrinkled papers and journals from 1973. Now, cover the lower half of Guy 2's face with an enormous, bushy beard, and make it red, but allow him to continue wearing the dorky-sexy bus glasses. Finally, make sure Guy 3 is dressed like Bob Ross, and stop imagining him bald and goateed. Rather, give him hair that has been cut by a flowbee. A homemade flowbee. Your image of me is probably already sufficiently developed – remember, I'm the one who never needs pants, and I am sauced.
The conversation turned to me pretty quickly when I approached the table and smiled at this motley academic crüe. I will spare you the details of the actual conversation, as it wasn't that interesting. As you might have predicted, Guy 1 appeared easily startled, Guy 2 was a pleasant pigeon enthusiast who seemed afraid of me, and Guy 3 was a complete ass. Some words were exchanged as we established who I was, what program I was from, and what I studied. I steered the conversation away from me and on to the topic of pigeons, and Guy 2 was more than happy to wax on about the joys of the lab. I was fixing to ask him if he had a paperclip fetish, but then thought better of it. What I actually thought was "Fuck this", and so I began initiating the nice-to-have-met-you-handshake-goodbye activity so that I could leave. I wanted to go back and find No Bikey and engage her in a conversation that did not involve references to popular culture or those new-fangled penny-farthings.
Before I could get away though, there was a wonderful moment of dork-waddery in which Guy 3 distinguished himself as King Dork of Cheesetable – no easy task, mind you, as he was in the company of some of the finer specimens of D, myself included – by forgetting the name of the only female in the group. (Ahem. Me). Not only that, but he thought my name was Merick. Yeah – Merick. I said, "Dude, that's not even close. That's just his name with an 'M' on it." I pointed my finger at Guy 2 (a.k.a. "Erick"), smiled and shook my head sadly at Guy 3, tipped my glass to Guy 1, and wandered away.
It seemed the conversation wasn't over. Guy 3 followed me outside to where I was attempting to hide in a group with BS and other quasi-normal people. I tried to blend into this bunch, but Guy 3 saw me hiding in a chair, marched up to the group, interrupted the conversation and said to me the following:
"So. You're in the quantitative program? Tell me then: in multidimensional scaling, given that it's a linear model, what circumstances would give rise to a toroidal space with a wrap around?"
Jesus. That question again? I should mention that in six years of graduate study, the only time the term 'toroidal' has come up has been during my attempts to plot jumps through hyperspace.
Qwanty: "Yeah, I don't study multidimensional scaling."
Guy 3: "Well, surely you've heard of it."
Q: "Yeah. But I don't study it."
That was all. Flick. Like a tiny, pesky gnat. Get your flowbee'd arse off my arm. I turned and resumed conversation. It was later reported to me that Flowbs looked like he'd been kicked in the chest, so uninterested was I in his little beer spattered gauntlet. Hooray Vicodin!
6:00:00 – Searing uterine pain.
6:00:30 – Vicodin.
6:00:33 – Beeeeeeeeeer…..
6:45:00 – Party with faculty!
So there I was, talking to a woman who had never ridden a bike. She had never heard of Lizzie Borden either. I guess I can see the Lizzie Borden part happening, maybe, but the bike part? I mean, never? Where did I find this person? I'll tell you – at a party full of math computer people and computer math people and (if it happened they were the variety who has been able to successfully simulate human-human interaction) their spouses. And this woman was none of these people. She was a new faculty member from a seemingly normal area where you assume people ride bikes and know stuff. Naturally, because I was full of merriment and substances, I thought it would be a good idea to tell her about my house ghosties and the zombies I fear. I'd already told another complete stranger who complimented me on my dress that I found dresses to be awesome because they are handy for a person like me who doesn't spend enough time doing laundry – you never need pants! It was that sort of night.
I soon found myself at the cheese table. The good BS had interrupted my conversation with the bike-eschewing luddite to present me with a glass of green tea liqueur, which I promptly seized and ran away with. I needed to figure out the alcohol content of said liqueur so that I could establish an appropriate rate of consumption. Standing about the table I found the following:
1) the guy who at some point may have been a philosophy professor, but now is just the guy who shows up at colloquia all the time and asks long, ridiculous questions;
2) the undergraduate guy who manages the pigeon lab;
3) the new-to-us faculty guy who is supposed to a) be a really big deal, and b) be a really big ass. To wit: The whole reason for this party was to lure another big deal guy to come to our school. Earlier in the day the big deal guy we were luring had given what I've been told was an awesome talk in which he discussed affordances – the idea that objects have affordances, and so you look at objects and appraise what you can do with them and such (I would tell you more, but I wasn't there. I just asked BS to tell me about the notion of affordances, briefly, so that I might better explain it, and he's just going on and on and on. I listened for a while, but now I've given up. He's still talking as I write this. Jeez, now he's just invited me to join a reading group because there's an article I might be interested in and blah blah blah. Note to self: do not ask BS stuff.) Anyway, Awesome Talk used as an example a chair. He explained how you could use it as a tool for flinging a rattlesnake off a porch, for fighting off a lion, etc. I've been told this involved him actually picking up a chair and flinging imaginary rattlesnakes around and fighting off imaginary lions and things like that. I've been told that the momentum he'd built was incredible, and everyone was completely enthralled – I mean, do you know how often that sort of colloquium occurs? A colloquium in which there is a really good talk that involves chairs being hoisted in the air and lions attacking?? Not bloody often! So I've been told that just when Awesome was really making his point, and who knows what was about to happen, Guy 3 Smarty Smart yelled out, "What about a CLOUD? A cloud has no affordances!" Thwap. That is the sound of the gauntlet hitting the ground. Consider it thrown. You have been challenged by Guy 3. Of course this cloud question wrecked the momentum Awesome had going and I'm sure pissed the bejesus out of everyone there because suddenly Awesome had to address the issue of cloud affordances and this put an end to the chair waving. Yes – Guy 3 is THAT guy.
Now, returning to the scene: if you are picturing these men and have conjured up some sexy professorial types, or dorky-sexy busmen (ahem, Kristin, I am talking to you), please stop. These men are not those men. Let me help you with your mental image. First, be sure that Guy 1 is carrying a book bag, the sort you get for free in the mail with address labels from the World Wildlife Federation, and be sure the book bag is crammed full of wrinkled papers and journals from 1973. Now, cover the lower half of Guy 2's face with an enormous, bushy beard, and make it red, but allow him to continue wearing the dorky-sexy bus glasses. Finally, make sure Guy 3 is dressed like Bob Ross, and stop imagining him bald and goateed. Rather, give him hair that has been cut by a flowbee. A homemade flowbee. Your image of me is probably already sufficiently developed – remember, I'm the one who never needs pants, and I am sauced.
The conversation turned to me pretty quickly when I approached the table and smiled at this motley academic crüe. I will spare you the details of the actual conversation, as it wasn't that interesting. As you might have predicted, Guy 1 appeared easily startled, Guy 2 was a pleasant pigeon enthusiast who seemed afraid of me, and Guy 3 was a complete ass. Some words were exchanged as we established who I was, what program I was from, and what I studied. I steered the conversation away from me and on to the topic of pigeons, and Guy 2 was more than happy to wax on about the joys of the lab. I was fixing to ask him if he had a paperclip fetish, but then thought better of it. What I actually thought was "Fuck this", and so I began initiating the nice-to-have-met-you-handshake-goodbye activity so that I could leave. I wanted to go back and find No Bikey and engage her in a conversation that did not involve references to popular culture or those new-fangled penny-farthings.
Before I could get away though, there was a wonderful moment of dork-waddery in which Guy 3 distinguished himself as King Dork of Cheesetable – no easy task, mind you, as he was in the company of some of the finer specimens of D, myself included – by forgetting the name of the only female in the group. (Ahem. Me). Not only that, but he thought my name was Merick. Yeah – Merick. I said, "Dude, that's not even close. That's just his name with an 'M' on it." I pointed my finger at Guy 2 (a.k.a. "Erick"), smiled and shook my head sadly at Guy 3, tipped my glass to Guy 1, and wandered away.
It seemed the conversation wasn't over. Guy 3 followed me outside to where I was attempting to hide in a group with BS and other quasi-normal people. I tried to blend into this bunch, but Guy 3 saw me hiding in a chair, marched up to the group, interrupted the conversation and said to me the following:
"So. You're in the quantitative program? Tell me then: in multidimensional scaling, given that it's a linear model, what circumstances would give rise to a toroidal space with a wrap around?"
Jesus. That question again? I should mention that in six years of graduate study, the only time the term 'toroidal' has come up has been during my attempts to plot jumps through hyperspace.
Qwanty: "Yeah, I don't study multidimensional scaling."
Guy 3: "Well, surely you've heard of it."
Q: "Yeah. But I don't study it."
That was all. Flick. Like a tiny, pesky gnat. Get your flowbee'd arse off my arm. I turned and resumed conversation. It was later reported to me that Flowbs looked like he'd been kicked in the chest, so uninterested was I in his little beer spattered gauntlet. Hooray Vicodin!
like lon chaney jr., but without the special shoes
originally posted April 30, 2007
So I was sitting here making a mental list of people Who I'd Like to Meet, and I remembered that I'd already met one of the people on my list. Thus was born the very short list of people Who I'd Like to Re-Meet, which I submit here for posterity. I vow to re-read this again and again. Learn from this, dammit. LEARN!:
1) David Cross
It happened like this. Dr. Brain Scientist and I went to see DC with friends H and H, and it was after the show. Dr. BS and I were standing around outside at the side of the building waiting for H and H, who were off getting Brian Posehn's signature on a body part or something. So there we stood, all alone, leaning against a railing, when who should approach but DAVID CROSS? Yes. He was going to pass us on his way to go stand in a box and sign things. Not only was he going to be going past us, but he was going to potentially be squeezing awkwardly past us, as we were actually standing on a ramp thingy and I was bulky with a womb full of BS Jr. We were going to interact with him. It was going to be awesome.
So what happened? When DC smiled and was all bashful and charming and made his move to reposition his body so as to avoid my girth as he passed us, Dr. BS said something really clever about us enjoying the show, like "We really liked the show." And me? I said nothing. I didn't even attempt to agree with BS. Nope. Instead, I stood and stared at DC and rubbed my belly.
I waved at him with a hand that was clutching a wadded up kleenex.
I smiled in a panicked, confused way.
I wore overalls.
I was a giant man-child. Hello David Cross, I'm Lennie. Pardon me while I cover my face with my huge paws and bleat with terror.
There was more to the interaction between BS and DC, but I was not an active participant in any of it, unless you consider nervously wiping spittle from the corners of one's mouth active participation.
Bah. I want a do-over.
Learn from this.
Learn.
So I was sitting here making a mental list of people Who I'd Like to Meet, and I remembered that I'd already met one of the people on my list. Thus was born the very short list of people Who I'd Like to Re-Meet, which I submit here for posterity. I vow to re-read this again and again. Learn from this, dammit. LEARN!:
1) David Cross
It happened like this. Dr. Brain Scientist and I went to see DC with friends H and H, and it was after the show. Dr. BS and I were standing around outside at the side of the building waiting for H and H, who were off getting Brian Posehn's signature on a body part or something. So there we stood, all alone, leaning against a railing, when who should approach but DAVID CROSS? Yes. He was going to pass us on his way to go stand in a box and sign things. Not only was he going to be going past us, but he was going to potentially be squeezing awkwardly past us, as we were actually standing on a ramp thingy and I was bulky with a womb full of BS Jr. We were going to interact with him. It was going to be awesome.
So what happened? When DC smiled and was all bashful and charming and made his move to reposition his body so as to avoid my girth as he passed us, Dr. BS said something really clever about us enjoying the show, like "We really liked the show." And me? I said nothing. I didn't even attempt to agree with BS. Nope. Instead, I stood and stared at DC and rubbed my belly.
I waved at him with a hand that was clutching a wadded up kleenex.
I smiled in a panicked, confused way.
I wore overalls.
I was a giant man-child. Hello David Cross, I'm Lennie. Pardon me while I cover my face with my huge paws and bleat with terror.
There was more to the interaction between BS and DC, but I was not an active participant in any of it, unless you consider nervously wiping spittle from the corners of one's mouth active participation.
Bah. I want a do-over.
Learn from this.
Learn.
a shameful tale
originally posted April 27, 2007
Once upon a time there was a girl who liked to read scary books. She liked the tingly adrenaline feel they gave her, and liked the sense of superiority they fostered in her because she knew she would never do something as completely fucking stupid as living in a house situated over any sort of burial ground. She was quite smug about this point.
As she grew older, she no longer enjoyed these sorts of books because the woman she grew into was kind of a ninny when it came to scary shit. M. Night Shyamalan movies were okay, except for the Sixth Sense – yes, even that was too scary for this big ninny, even though it took her years to see it and she already knew how it ended. Frightening experiences like The Ring were only sought occasionally, like when her tiny, ancient, Korean obstetrician put her on "pelvic rest" during pregnancy, and she was forced to quarantine her pelvis from all visitors and any activity, so she watched a lot of scary stuff instead because she needed to feel something somewhere. Of course, this proved to be a bad idea, as it lingered in the woman's head, and led to her always doing a stupid rapid walk-dash down her darkened hallway every time she returned from the linen closet, because she imagined the Ring girl might be crawling after her.
One day the woman decided to buy a house because she finally seemed old enough and she had sort of a real job. She also had a house-buying companion who had an actual real job, and so together they decided to buy a house in Satan's Nethers. After they bought the house and moved in, the woman watched a movie about zombies, which turned out to be a bad idea, because it made the woman not want to ever be alone in the swimming pool (the house had pool, as lots of houses there did, because Satan's Nethers taint a very comfortable place to live.) The reason the woman didn't want to ever be alone in the swimming pool was that she imagined aqua-zombies might swim up from beneath and grab her legs. She felt this way even in the day time, and even in the shallow end, and the knowledge that zombies probably don't like swimming did nothing to allay her fears.
One day the woman was sitting in the house, probably thinking smug thoughts about something, when she was struck by a thought SO HORRIFYING that it made her cry out and get all cold and sweaty. While she understood at the time of the house purchase that the house was located next to a place where a large tribe of prehistoric people once lived, and she understood that there was an actual archaeological dig going on at this place, the full implications of this had never crossed her mind, because she was a person who had a hard time connecting the dots sometimes. The women realized that, in all likelihood, she was living in a house situated over some sort of burial ground. These fears were later confirmed by an archaeologist who offered to come over and dig up her yard.
Now the smug girl who liked scary books until she grew into a ninny lives in a house over a burial ground. She is secretly afraid to plant trees in her yard because she thinks she might unleash a vengeful spirit of some sort. She doesn't like it when the television gets staticky, because she secretly fears that someone might come scrambling out or someone might get sucked in. She has a small child who has conversations with invisible people situated high in the corners of the room. This small child also smiles at empty air and says "tanka?" The woman doesn't know who or what a tanka is, but the small child also says it when he points to a picture of a ghost in his Corduroy's Halloween book. Worst of all, the small child once looked completely frightened as his gaze followed absolute nothingness as it moved across her bedroom and into her bathroom, where the small child pointed to the absolute nothingness and said "someone?" Then the small child insisted on being taken to the living room immediately. Now the smug girl sees that she really should have been more understanding about the idiots living over burial grounds. Nice going, smug girl. You really had this coming. Have fun appeasing the ghosties, you stupid twit.
Once upon a time there was a girl who liked to read scary books. She liked the tingly adrenaline feel they gave her, and liked the sense of superiority they fostered in her because she knew she would never do something as completely fucking stupid as living in a house situated over any sort of burial ground. She was quite smug about this point.
As she grew older, she no longer enjoyed these sorts of books because the woman she grew into was kind of a ninny when it came to scary shit. M. Night Shyamalan movies were okay, except for the Sixth Sense – yes, even that was too scary for this big ninny, even though it took her years to see it and she already knew how it ended. Frightening experiences like The Ring were only sought occasionally, like when her tiny, ancient, Korean obstetrician put her on "pelvic rest" during pregnancy, and she was forced to quarantine her pelvis from all visitors and any activity, so she watched a lot of scary stuff instead because she needed to feel something somewhere. Of course, this proved to be a bad idea, as it lingered in the woman's head, and led to her always doing a stupid rapid walk-dash down her darkened hallway every time she returned from the linen closet, because she imagined the Ring girl might be crawling after her.
One day the woman decided to buy a house because she finally seemed old enough and she had sort of a real job. She also had a house-buying companion who had an actual real job, and so together they decided to buy a house in Satan's Nethers. After they bought the house and moved in, the woman watched a movie about zombies, which turned out to be a bad idea, because it made the woman not want to ever be alone in the swimming pool (the house had pool, as lots of houses there did, because Satan's Nethers taint a very comfortable place to live.) The reason the woman didn't want to ever be alone in the swimming pool was that she imagined aqua-zombies might swim up from beneath and grab her legs. She felt this way even in the day time, and even in the shallow end, and the knowledge that zombies probably don't like swimming did nothing to allay her fears.
One day the woman was sitting in the house, probably thinking smug thoughts about something, when she was struck by a thought SO HORRIFYING that it made her cry out and get all cold and sweaty. While she understood at the time of the house purchase that the house was located next to a place where a large tribe of prehistoric people once lived, and she understood that there was an actual archaeological dig going on at this place, the full implications of this had never crossed her mind, because she was a person who had a hard time connecting the dots sometimes. The women realized that, in all likelihood, she was living in a house situated over some sort of burial ground. These fears were later confirmed by an archaeologist who offered to come over and dig up her yard.
Now the smug girl who liked scary books until she grew into a ninny lives in a house over a burial ground. She is secretly afraid to plant trees in her yard because she thinks she might unleash a vengeful spirit of some sort. She doesn't like it when the television gets staticky, because she secretly fears that someone might come scrambling out or someone might get sucked in. She has a small child who has conversations with invisible people situated high in the corners of the room. This small child also smiles at empty air and says "tanka?" The woman doesn't know who or what a tanka is, but the small child also says it when he points to a picture of a ghost in his Corduroy's Halloween book. Worst of all, the small child once looked completely frightened as his gaze followed absolute nothingness as it moved across her bedroom and into her bathroom, where the small child pointed to the absolute nothingness and said "someone?" Then the small child insisted on being taken to the living room immediately. Now the smug girl sees that she really should have been more understanding about the idiots living over burial grounds. Nice going, smug girl. You really had this coming. Have fun appeasing the ghosties, you stupid twit.
The Transformation, part VIII
originally posted April 25, 2007
Nothing happened for some time. I became concerned that I'd accidentally killed the naked man, so checked on his status in the bathroom. He was not without company. Stationed around the room was a watchful guard of cockroaches keeping tabs on things. I'd anticipated this, and had replaced my fedora with a beekeeper's hat, constructed by my husband following a particularly devastating rejection letter to his only attempt at Orwell. He was in disbelief that a prominent literary journal would not want to publish the tale of a group of brass and wind instruments that rise up to massacre a high school marching band, led in their revolt by a rusty horn. There was only a single survivor in this massacre: the son of the man whose father owned the oldest piano store in town, a trombone player spared because the instruments all recalled how lovingly he'd always polished his own horn. The person who wrote the letter denying publication—who I imagine was surrounded by other persons doubled over in laughter—must have felt strongly in his or her decision to reject, because the wording strayed from the standard 'We're sorry, but this story does not meet our current needs' format, and included the word 'asinine'. My husband spent three days in the basement, at some point during which he watched a documentary on beekeeping. He emerged, proclaiming this to be his true calling, and had fashioned a beekeeper's hat out of an old football helmet, a crusty scrap of sweatshirt, and some brand new pairs of extra tall pantyhose he happened to have on hand. At the time I'd secretly questioned the utility of this, but was now glad to have it around.
The cockroaches in the bathroom did not charge at me when I entered, my Aqua Net and lighter poised for attack. They turned their attention to me, and no one said a word. I saw that the naked stranger was still breathing, and had begun to drool a bit. In preparation for my entry into the bathroom I'd also donned my husband's Walt Whitman beard under the beekeeper's hat, as I felt I needed the added protection around my mouth, as well as whatever extra confidence it might afford me. This was the beard my husband wore when penning his own song of himself, a work I made the decision to never read after he asked me what rhymed with 'scrotum'. Now I carefully placed this beard on the naked man's face, hooking it over his ears to insure it would stay in place to absorb his drool. Still without a plan of action, I chose to take advantage of whatever remained of his nap time and tip-toed out of the room, closing the door behind me. As I left, I thought I heard the faintest of hissing sounds. This time though, I could swear someone said "sssssssssssssslut."
Nothing happened for some time. I became concerned that I'd accidentally killed the naked man, so checked on his status in the bathroom. He was not without company. Stationed around the room was a watchful guard of cockroaches keeping tabs on things. I'd anticipated this, and had replaced my fedora with a beekeeper's hat, constructed by my husband following a particularly devastating rejection letter to his only attempt at Orwell. He was in disbelief that a prominent literary journal would not want to publish the tale of a group of brass and wind instruments that rise up to massacre a high school marching band, led in their revolt by a rusty horn. There was only a single survivor in this massacre: the son of the man whose father owned the oldest piano store in town, a trombone player spared because the instruments all recalled how lovingly he'd always polished his own horn. The person who wrote the letter denying publication—who I imagine was surrounded by other persons doubled over in laughter—must have felt strongly in his or her decision to reject, because the wording strayed from the standard 'We're sorry, but this story does not meet our current needs' format, and included the word 'asinine'. My husband spent three days in the basement, at some point during which he watched a documentary on beekeeping. He emerged, proclaiming this to be his true calling, and had fashioned a beekeeper's hat out of an old football helmet, a crusty scrap of sweatshirt, and some brand new pairs of extra tall pantyhose he happened to have on hand. At the time I'd secretly questioned the utility of this, but was now glad to have it around.
The cockroaches in the bathroom did not charge at me when I entered, my Aqua Net and lighter poised for attack. They turned their attention to me, and no one said a word. I saw that the naked stranger was still breathing, and had begun to drool a bit. In preparation for my entry into the bathroom I'd also donned my husband's Walt Whitman beard under the beekeeper's hat, as I felt I needed the added protection around my mouth, as well as whatever extra confidence it might afford me. This was the beard my husband wore when penning his own song of himself, a work I made the decision to never read after he asked me what rhymed with 'scrotum'. Now I carefully placed this beard on the naked man's face, hooking it over his ears to insure it would stay in place to absorb his drool. Still without a plan of action, I chose to take advantage of whatever remained of his nap time and tip-toed out of the room, closing the door behind me. As I left, I thought I heard the faintest of hissing sounds. This time though, I could swear someone said "sssssssssssssslut."
la la la la la, lovely labia
originally posted April 24, 2007
This afternoon I am lamenting the fact that I threw away a tiny pork rind that looked like a vulva. Not sort of like a vulva, but exactly. I mean, as exact as a nickel-sized fried pork skin reproduction of a vulva can get without the aid of human hands. This was a naturally occurring phenomenon, and I threw it away, with all its perfect symmetry and miniature realistic rind-labia. What stings the most is that I saved it for a year and a half before I did that. I put it on the book shelf by my desk next to the book Dracula – now that I think about it, a space not at all conducive to vulva-drying. I intended to get some shellac and preserve it, but never got around to it, because I CAN'T PRIORITIZE. My daughter found it when we were moving, and she asked me why I had it. She looked kind of disgusted, like she already sort of knew the answer and regretted asking the question. I laughed and was all awkward and tried to act like it was just some wayward stowaway pork rind that had been flung up high on the shelf in a snacking frenzy. In a panic I threw it in the garbage and changed the subject. I couldn't just say, "Honey, Mommy likes to save food that looks like genitalia"? Why?!? I am a weak, weak person.
This afternoon I am lamenting the fact that I threw away a tiny pork rind that looked like a vulva. Not sort of like a vulva, but exactly. I mean, as exact as a nickel-sized fried pork skin reproduction of a vulva can get without the aid of human hands. This was a naturally occurring phenomenon, and I threw it away, with all its perfect symmetry and miniature realistic rind-labia. What stings the most is that I saved it for a year and a half before I did that. I put it on the book shelf by my desk next to the book Dracula – now that I think about it, a space not at all conducive to vulva-drying. I intended to get some shellac and preserve it, but never got around to it, because I CAN'T PRIORITIZE. My daughter found it when we were moving, and she asked me why I had it. She looked kind of disgusted, like she already sort of knew the answer and regretted asking the question. I laughed and was all awkward and tried to act like it was just some wayward stowaway pork rind that had been flung up high on the shelf in a snacking frenzy. In a panic I threw it in the garbage and changed the subject. I couldn't just say, "Honey, Mommy likes to save food that looks like genitalia"? Why?!? I am a weak, weak person.
The Transformation, part VII
originally posted April 20, 2007
The next several hours were spent doing the sorts of things you do after this kind of morning. First, I washed my hands. Unlike my reputation, my hands had not emerged unscathed from my bout of debauchery. To be more accurate, it was really only one hand, and it smelled like a sewer. The other hand was merely along for the ride, still holding the bottle of vodka but trying otherwise to appear innocent.
Standing at the kitchen sink, I was caught off-guard by the appearance of yet another cockroach. It might have been one from earlier, but there's no real way of telling. The cockroach in the poems had worn a hat much like the one I still was still wearing, and also had a pocket watch, none of which had ever made any sense to me. Where would a cockroach even procure these items? I'd found the notion of a cockroach haberdasher to be preposterous. Now it seemed I'd been wise to doubt, as this kitchen cockroach, like the others I'd encountered this morning, arrived completely unaccessorized. Climbing up from the drain that housed the garbage disposal, it wasn't even wearing shoes.
Despite my display of confidence with the voyeuristic trio, I was becoming increasingly apprehensive about the repeated visits from cockroaches. My skin tingled, and I felt a growing need for a larger, more protective hat. I overturned an empty pan into the sink, covering the drain and corralling the cockroach. "Go home," I told it. From within the pan came the faintest sound of hissing, and then nothing. Peeking under the pan I saw the cockroach was gone.
I gathered some supplies, and then pulled a chair into the center of the living room and sat. From here I could monitor the bathroom for sounds of activity. I felt reasonably safe here, as there were no drains in the room. I had cigarettes and a lighter, and a bottle of Southern Comfort fetched from my closet. This I kept hidden because my husband was a drunk, but not because it fit with any particular personification of competent writing. I also had a can of aerosol hairspray, found high on a shelf on my husband's side of the closet. His days as F. Scott Fitzgerald focused primarily on cultivating what he deemed an appropriate hairstyle, and on constructing a monocle from supplies found around the house. I didn't think Fitzgerald wore a monocle, and when I pointed out to my husband that he might be thinking instead of the little Monopoly man, he threw a roll of saran wrap at me. This period passed without any writing to speak of, due in part to his asthma symptoms resulting from his heavy handed use of Aqua Net, and in part to the difficulty he had writing with one eye shrouded in plastic. Now I had the hairspray ready beside me, lighter in hand, in the event I was suddenly besieged by cockroaches and needed the aid of an impromptu flamethrower.
The next several hours were spent doing the sorts of things you do after this kind of morning. First, I washed my hands. Unlike my reputation, my hands had not emerged unscathed from my bout of debauchery. To be more accurate, it was really only one hand, and it smelled like a sewer. The other hand was merely along for the ride, still holding the bottle of vodka but trying otherwise to appear innocent.
Standing at the kitchen sink, I was caught off-guard by the appearance of yet another cockroach. It might have been one from earlier, but there's no real way of telling. The cockroach in the poems had worn a hat much like the one I still was still wearing, and also had a pocket watch, none of which had ever made any sense to me. Where would a cockroach even procure these items? I'd found the notion of a cockroach haberdasher to be preposterous. Now it seemed I'd been wise to doubt, as this kitchen cockroach, like the others I'd encountered this morning, arrived completely unaccessorized. Climbing up from the drain that housed the garbage disposal, it wasn't even wearing shoes.
Despite my display of confidence with the voyeuristic trio, I was becoming increasingly apprehensive about the repeated visits from cockroaches. My skin tingled, and I felt a growing need for a larger, more protective hat. I overturned an empty pan into the sink, covering the drain and corralling the cockroach. "Go home," I told it. From within the pan came the faintest sound of hissing, and then nothing. Peeking under the pan I saw the cockroach was gone.
I gathered some supplies, and then pulled a chair into the center of the living room and sat. From here I could monitor the bathroom for sounds of activity. I felt reasonably safe here, as there were no drains in the room. I had cigarettes and a lighter, and a bottle of Southern Comfort fetched from my closet. This I kept hidden because my husband was a drunk, but not because it fit with any particular personification of competent writing. I also had a can of aerosol hairspray, found high on a shelf on my husband's side of the closet. His days as F. Scott Fitzgerald focused primarily on cultivating what he deemed an appropriate hairstyle, and on constructing a monocle from supplies found around the house. I didn't think Fitzgerald wore a monocle, and when I pointed out to my husband that he might be thinking instead of the little Monopoly man, he threw a roll of saran wrap at me. This period passed without any writing to speak of, due in part to his asthma symptoms resulting from his heavy handed use of Aqua Net, and in part to the difficulty he had writing with one eye shrouded in plastic. Now I had the hairspray ready beside me, lighter in hand, in the event I was suddenly besieged by cockroaches and needed the aid of an impromptu flamethrower.
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