12.10.09
In Search of Euphonies.
I may still pop a post up on this page here and there, but I'm packing up my words for higher ground at this page here. I'm attempting to herd my absurd into a package to market and sell. Not exactly. I'm attempting to stick to a theme more so. Something along the lines of prose or who knows. Wish me luck. I wish you luck, too. Practice some of these moves until next time.
11.10.09
6.10.09
If That Angel Never Came, We May Have Never Known What It Sounds Like When Doves Cry.
I realized today while I should have been doing some work that I haven't recalled hearing anyone call Prince "The Artist Formerly Known As Prince" in a long time. So instead of letting this thought pass through my mind like a wispy little cloud, I had to instead research it. And then I found this inspirational Prince fact on Wikipedia:
And now he can live on robustly in his buttcheekless pants. How beautifully life works itself out.
23.8.09
20.8.09
My Hot Date at My New Job with the Sultry Midget Version of Tom Waits
I had a dream last night that it was my very first night working in a dumpy dive bar. It was two levels, super loud, and pop-country music was all its customers had to choose from on the jukebox. All the servers and bartenders were too busy to train me, so I had to just kind of figure things out on my own.
Until a slumped over man dressed in black with a hat cocked down over his eyes put his arm around my waist and growled, "Hey, baby. You're all right."
It was Tom Waits.
I ended up getting him five beers and not charging him for a single one because no one taught me how. He was about three feet tall, but still masculine as all hell being Tom Waits and all.
He ended up in my car by the end of the night and reached over to read what the cocktail napkin said that was folded up in my visor.
"I LOVE TOM WAITS!"
This along with a mountainous pile of his cds in my backseat made him a little uneasy.
I tried to cover it all up by saying something along the lines of "They're not mine! All this stuff! It isn't mine!"
But it was too late. I can't really remember what happened next other than Tom Waits was both disgusted by me and attracted to me.
And that's good enough for me.
Until a slumped over man dressed in black with a hat cocked down over his eyes put his arm around my waist and growled, "Hey, baby. You're all right."
It was Tom Waits.
I ended up getting him five beers and not charging him for a single one because no one taught me how. He was about three feet tall, but still masculine as all hell being Tom Waits and all.
He ended up in my car by the end of the night and reached over to read what the cocktail napkin said that was folded up in my visor.
"I LOVE TOM WAITS!"
This along with a mountainous pile of his cds in my backseat made him a little uneasy.
I tried to cover it all up by saying something along the lines of "They're not mine! All this stuff! It isn't mine!"
But it was too late. I can't really remember what happened next other than Tom Waits was both disgusted by me and attracted to me.
And that's good enough for me.
18.8.09
The Mighty Lesson of the Boner
I'm trying not to be too pessimistic, but this summer really blew some major chunks all up on my bikini. I looked at a calendar opened to July 2009 today and felt anxiety and horror building up inside me. It's been awful, just awful. I seem to only rely on God (yeah, I said the "G" word) and yoga when life is beyond my comprehension and feeling out of my grasp to control. But there's always chocolate and there's always whiskey, and then there's always that anxiousness that arises once again when my body decides to actually metabolize that chocolate and whiskey. Such a terrible feeling.
And it's strange to me that whenever us people on this planet experience a bad day or a bad week or a bad year, we feel as if it's the absolute end. This is it. How will I ever move on? And we forget that throughout the timelines of our lives, we've already made it through so much, patched up our hearts and heads and flesh wounds, and then moved on to thrive and help others once again.
For instance, I remember in 6th grade when Peter (I'll leave out his last name) started talking about boners. I had NO idea what a boner was, but all Pete could tell me was that Matt had one and he was "lifting up his desk with it". Like I said, I had no clue what a boner was, but the word alone absolutely terrified me — as it often still does. I thought maybe he meant that Matt had accidentally brought one of his dog's milk bones to school in his backpack.
But then Pete kept motioning to his crotch when he said that horrible word "boner", and immediately I knew that there was something beyond my 12-year-old mind's comprehension going on with the crotches of males that I didn't experience as a female. For some reason, this pushed me over the edge, and I did what I do best for many months when I would come home from school. I cried.
Pete's boner and penis talk went on for months. And it catapulted me out of my oblivious childhood innocence and into a warped world of incomprehensible adulthood with genitalia that lifted desks.
I remember that year's Christmas so well. I was 12, and it was the first year that I celebrated Christmas knowing the truth about Santa. (You can read more about that story here.)
But still, Santa or not, gifts were involved and that typically was enough to get any kid out of bed. Not me. I cried and I cried and I cried. My surrounding bedroom walls turned into a misty pink fog as my dad tried to shake my listless body to come downstairs and join the fun. I felt different and utterly alone. I wanted the old me back.
My parents had no idea what was going on with me. I couldn't tell them that a boy was saying dirty things to me at school in the same way young girls never speak up about being molested by the shirtless man with the watering hose down the block. I felt as if I did something wrong; that I had something to be ashamed of.
It wasn't until the day that Pete had said the words "boner", "penis", "nocturnal emission", "erection", and "Matt thinks you're hot" one too many times that I went to my teacher. Mrs. Markini was waiting on edge for some reason to kill Pete everyday, and my "Umm...hi. Yeah. Excuse me. But. But, umm. But. Well, excuse me...Peter is saying disgusting things to me," was all it took for her to grab him by the collars and slam him against the wall. I knew Pete came from a messed up home, and I remember thinking that this moment was only going to make his life worse. But he ruined my little life for a long time. I wanted to feel protected then like I often do now.
I remember going through that time feeling so helpless. I couldn't talk to anyone, I couldn't understand what he was saying, and I didn't want to understand any of it. I felt that way even into junior high when I'd walk into my classes on the first day and instantly scan the room for Pete. Luckily for me and unfortunately for him, he had a learning disability and was placed in his own special program. I don't think I saw him more than a couple times after 6th grade. And after high school, I heard he was in the county prison on rape charges.
And the moral of that story is that I made it through that time. I've made it through much worse times in my life, we all have. Because I have a bad day or month or entire summer, it doesn't mean that I won't thrive again in the fall and winter and maybe again next summer. Our bro
Barack is a big fan of change, and we've heard that word over and over and over for the nearly a year now, but it seems to be just hitting me. I'm changing, and I'm surrendering.
Yesterday my yoga instructor based our lesson on stillness and how all can be conquered — love, truth, purpose, contentment — through stillness in the heart and breaths. Today our practice was based on change — shedding what you do not want through breaths and drawing in what you need through breath. Change on every and any level is always possible. And then I'm still always sitting back wondering about why I feel the way I am, when am I going to stop feeling sad or worried, and at what exact moment in time can I put a mark on my calendar and expect to receive this change. I get the lesson, I hear the lesson, I comprehend the lesson, and then boom. Out the window.
However, I haven't stopped breathing yet. So with each of those breaths, I must be taking in something new and letting out something old. I find it so easy to be patient with others and dish out advice like the crappy peppermints out of my trick-or-treat bag, but with myself, I slap myself and yell, "What the hell is wrong with you, you dumb ding dong!?"
So I've made the conscious decision to fill my life with more goodness these days. More hugs, more good friends, more compassion and patience for myself, more yoga, more thanks, and less whiskey and chocolate.
If I survived the boner extravaganza of '95, I can survive the summer of '09.
Everything is going to be just fine. And I'm not just saying that, I'm believing it, too.
And it's strange to me that whenever us people on this planet experience a bad day or a bad week or a bad year, we feel as if it's the absolute end. This is it. How will I ever move on? And we forget that throughout the timelines of our lives, we've already made it through so much, patched up our hearts and heads and flesh wounds, and then moved on to thrive and help others once again.
For instance, I remember in 6th grade when Peter (I'll leave out his last name) started talking about boners. I had NO idea what a boner was, but all Pete could tell me was that Matt had one and he was "lifting up his desk with it". Like I said, I had no clue what a boner was, but the word alone absolutely terrified me — as it often still does. I thought maybe he meant that Matt had accidentally brought one of his dog's milk bones to school in his backpack.
But then Pete kept motioning to his crotch when he said that horrible word "boner", and immediately I knew that there was something beyond my 12-year-old mind's comprehension going on with the crotches of males that I didn't experience as a female. For some reason, this pushed me over the edge, and I did what I do best for many months when I would come home from school. I cried.
Pete's boner and penis talk went on for months. And it catapulted me out of my oblivious childhood innocence and into a warped world of incomprehensible adulthood with genitalia that lifted desks.
I remember that year's Christmas so well. I was 12, and it was the first year that I celebrated Christmas knowing the truth about Santa. (You can read more about that story here.)
But still, Santa or not, gifts were involved and that typically was enough to get any kid out of bed. Not me. I cried and I cried and I cried. My surrounding bedroom walls turned into a misty pink fog as my dad tried to shake my listless body to come downstairs and join the fun. I felt different and utterly alone. I wanted the old me back.
My parents had no idea what was going on with me. I couldn't tell them that a boy was saying dirty things to me at school in the same way young girls never speak up about being molested by the shirtless man with the watering hose down the block. I felt as if I did something wrong; that I had something to be ashamed of.
It wasn't until the day that Pete had said the words "boner", "penis", "nocturnal emission", "erection", and "Matt thinks you're hot" one too many times that I went to my teacher. Mrs. Markini was waiting on edge for some reason to kill Pete everyday, and my "Umm...hi. Yeah. Excuse me. But. But, umm. But. Well, excuse me...Peter is saying disgusting things to me," was all it took for her to grab him by the collars and slam him against the wall. I knew Pete came from a messed up home, and I remember thinking that this moment was only going to make his life worse. But he ruined my little life for a long time. I wanted to feel protected then like I often do now.
I remember going through that time feeling so helpless. I couldn't talk to anyone, I couldn't understand what he was saying, and I didn't want to understand any of it. I felt that way even into junior high when I'd walk into my classes on the first day and instantly scan the room for Pete. Luckily for me and unfortunately for him, he had a learning disability and was placed in his own special program. I don't think I saw him more than a couple times after 6th grade. And after high school, I heard he was in the county prison on rape charges.
And the moral of that story is that I made it through that time. I've made it through much worse times in my life, we all have. Because I have a bad day or month or entire summer, it doesn't mean that I won't thrive again in the fall and winter and maybe again next summer. Our bro
Barack is a big fan of change, and we've heard that word over and over and over for the nearly a year now, but it seems to be just hitting me. I'm changing, and I'm surrendering.
Yesterday my yoga instructor based our lesson on stillness and how all can be conquered — love, truth, purpose, contentment — through stillness in the heart and breaths. Today our practice was based on change — shedding what you do not want through breaths and drawing in what you need through breath. Change on every and any level is always possible. And then I'm still always sitting back wondering about why I feel the way I am, when am I going to stop feeling sad or worried, and at what exact moment in time can I put a mark on my calendar and expect to receive this change. I get the lesson, I hear the lesson, I comprehend the lesson, and then boom. Out the window.
However, I haven't stopped breathing yet. So with each of those breaths, I must be taking in something new and letting out something old. I find it so easy to be patient with others and dish out advice like the crappy peppermints out of my trick-or-treat bag, but with myself, I slap myself and yell, "What the hell is wrong with you, you dumb ding dong!?"
So I've made the conscious decision to fill my life with more goodness these days. More hugs, more good friends, more compassion and patience for myself, more yoga, more thanks, and less whiskey and chocolate.
If I survived the boner extravaganza of '95, I can survive the summer of '09.
Everything is going to be just fine. And I'm not just saying that, I'm believing it, too.
4.8.09
Yesterday's Conversation between the Clintons.
Hillary: (Wears periwinkle pantsuit with moderate heel. Hands on hips. Chin elevated.) Bill. Bill! Put down that goddamn saxophone.
Bill: Huh?
Hillary: They need someone to go to Pyongyang.
Bill: Huh? What about my wang? (Scratches crotch.)
Hillary: They need someone to go to Pyongyang to help release those two journalists held hostage.
Bill: (Scratches head. Flakes pile up at Nikes.) Are they interns?
Hillary: (Rolls her eyes as she pulls cookies out from the oven.)
Well, I'm busy. We couldn't get Jimmy Carter because he's busy with his peanuts. I called Jesse Jackson, but he's still finishing his beer at the White House.
Bill: I'll go, I'll go. Put the lamp down, Hill.
Bill: Huh?
Hillary: They need someone to go to Pyongyang.
Bill: Huh? What about my wang? (Scratches crotch.)
Hillary: They need someone to go to Pyongyang to help release those two journalists held hostage.
Bill: (Scratches head. Flakes pile up at Nikes.) Are they interns?
Hillary: (Rolls her eyes as she pulls cookies out from the oven.)
Well, I'm busy. We couldn't get Jimmy Carter because he's busy with his peanuts. I called Jesse Jackson, but he's still finishing his beer at the White House.
Bill: I'll go, I'll go. Put the lamp down, Hill.
2.8.09
In the Old Days, of Course, Writers Could Invent New Words and Use Them.
I haven't been writing much because I'm trying to ignore myself.
I ate a steak the other day. I haven't ate meat in ten years.
I smoked cigarettes. I'm allergic to cigarette smoke.
I watched baseball and ignored the children.
This is all good and healthy for now.
I rode my bike for almost a quarter mile with no hands.
This was the most accomplished thing I've done all summer.
Then I fell down and hit my head.
And it felt good.
Words. English words. They're full of echos.
Words fail me.
I ate a steak the other day. I haven't ate meat in ten years.
I smoked cigarettes. I'm allergic to cigarette smoke.
I watched baseball and ignored the children.
This is all good and healthy for now.
I rode my bike for almost a quarter mile with no hands.
This was the most accomplished thing I've done all summer.
Then I fell down and hit my head.
And it felt good.
Words. English words. They're full of echos.
Words fail me.
24.7.09
Rabies Vaccine and Bullets. Check.
I've had this checklist on my desk for so long that I don't even know what it means anymore. Maybe it's an old grocery list. I can't remember. I should probably get its items taken care of today.
20.7.09
This Blog Just Went Down 100% in Popularity on IMDB.
After four days of sweating and shivering in my mom's bed, I'm ready to tell a happy story because I feel so happy to not be sweating and shivering in my mom's bed.
This is another story about my dog and his symphony of brown notes, so please close this window now if you do not have potty humor or humor above a five-year-old boy's level. Also, we cannot be friends if you have either of the two previously mentioned conditions.
OK. So.
Once upon a time my mother prepared a dinner party. And when my mother prepares one of her dinner parties, the preparation alone is a full-out extravaganza that extends for hours and is packed with yelling, finger-pointing, stress, and cussing.
"Get out of my kitchen! Why won't anyone help me in the kitchen?! There are too many goddamn people in my kitchen! Can't I get any help, for Christ's sake? Do I have to do everything on my own? I need some help in here! Get out of my kitchen!"
If only the Food Network would agree to a late-night spot for her show to air.
So on the day when the Muellers were coming by for a fanciful feast, I was sure to pack up my laptop and head for the hills and not return until the dawn broke...or until I had my freelance work finished and plenty of absent-minded internet searching completed, too.
But before I left the house, I made sure to admire the lovely linens across the table making their special-guest debut, the glasses that only make an appearance when the most debonaire individuals are invited over, and the sparkling shine gleaming across the floor as white as Glenn Beck's butt.
The food was still baking away in the oven, but everything was perfect.
And this is the scene that remained in my head until I returned home well beyond nightfall after carivaning around the town to ask, "So, how was dinner?"
"Well," my dad started.
"Well," my mom continued. "The dog shit on the floor and Mrs. Mueller stepped in it. And then while that was going on, Bubba decided to knock that loaf of bread we were going to eat onto the rug. So while we were trying to clean the crap off the floor and wash off Mrs. Mueller's shoe, the dog and cat were eating our bread."
The moral of the story? No matter how you try and try and try to make things absolutely perfect, the dog is still going to crap on the floor, your friend is still going to step in it, and the dog and cat will eat your fresh bread while you are stuck cleaning feces.
Take that word from the wise with you throughout your day, and stay healthy.
This is another story about my dog and his symphony of brown notes, so please close this window now if you do not have potty humor or humor above a five-year-old boy's level. Also, we cannot be friends if you have either of the two previously mentioned conditions.
OK. So.
Once upon a time my mother prepared a dinner party. And when my mother prepares one of her dinner parties, the preparation alone is a full-out extravaganza that extends for hours and is packed with yelling, finger-pointing, stress, and cussing.
"Get out of my kitchen! Why won't anyone help me in the kitchen?! There are too many goddamn people in my kitchen! Can't I get any help, for Christ's sake? Do I have to do everything on my own? I need some help in here! Get out of my kitchen!"
If only the Food Network would agree to a late-night spot for her show to air.
So on the day when the Muellers were coming by for a fanciful feast, I was sure to pack up my laptop and head for the hills and not return until the dawn broke...or until I had my freelance work finished and plenty of absent-minded internet searching completed, too.
But before I left the house, I made sure to admire the lovely linens across the table making their special-guest debut, the glasses that only make an appearance when the most debonaire individuals are invited over, and the sparkling shine gleaming across the floor as white as Glenn Beck's butt.
The food was still baking away in the oven, but everything was perfect.
And this is the scene that remained in my head until I returned home well beyond nightfall after carivaning around the town to ask, "So, how was dinner?"
"Well," my dad started.
"Well," my mom continued. "The dog shit on the floor and Mrs. Mueller stepped in it. And then while that was going on, Bubba decided to knock that loaf of bread we were going to eat onto the rug. So while we were trying to clean the crap off the floor and wash off Mrs. Mueller's shoe, the dog and cat were eating our bread."
The moral of the story? No matter how you try and try and try to make things absolutely perfect, the dog is still going to crap on the floor, your friend is still going to step in it, and the dog and cat will eat your fresh bread while you are stuck cleaning feces.
Take that word from the wise with you throughout your day, and stay healthy.
15.7.09
And Now A Message from the Crawfish
"Hey, everybody standin' over there! Wave yo' hands like you just don't care! From the back to the front and side to side, all the ladies, get in my ride! I said hey! I said ho! I said I've got to go, y'all. From here! To there! I'm big bad crawfish, I'm everywhere!"
14.7.09
12.7.09
10.7.09
This is My Pledge Drive.
Hi. I'm Ira Glass, and before I begin this week's podcast, I want you to consider something: Each week, you're costing us bandwith. You. At home. Listening. You're costing us money. So please, donate now. Every penny helps. Help keep public radio free.
No, but really, I wake up in the morning usually some time around ten. I make coffee. I job search. I read outside for an hour or two. I then start to crochet while listening to podcasts for anywhere from five to 18 hours. Sometimes I go for long bike rides or walks, and every once and a while I yawn and shower, but usually I'm far too busy crocheting. I would never ask my three loyal readers to purchase any of my items, but anyone else is more than welcome. I live a very hard life. No one understands. Support handmade! Support me feeding my cat! I'll have much more in my shop by early next week, so check back.
In other pointless news about my life of unitards and Benefiber, just when I thought I already subscribed to all the most wonderful podcasts available so graciously to mankind, I found How Stuff Works' Stuff You Missed in History Class. Many of their episodes deal with haunted places in history and mysterious facts we've learned at one time in history class that involve much deeper, interesting content than those few basic dates and facts. And the hosts are ladies! I think every podcast I listen to is man-centric except Grammar Girl, so it's nice to hear the girls chime in. I'd recommend one or two in particular, but I can't choose. Subscribe in iTunes by searching "Stuff You Missed in History Class" in the iTunes store.
No, but really, I wake up in the morning usually some time around ten. I make coffee. I job search. I read outside for an hour or two. I then start to crochet while listening to podcasts for anywhere from five to 18 hours. Sometimes I go for long bike rides or walks, and every once and a while I yawn and shower, but usually I'm far too busy crocheting. I would never ask my three loyal readers to purchase any of my items, but anyone else is more than welcome. I live a very hard life. No one understands. Support handmade! Support me feeding my cat! I'll have much more in my shop by early next week, so check back.
| Etsy Buy Handmade imaginationnation |
In other pointless news about my life of unitards and Benefiber, just when I thought I already subscribed to all the most wonderful podcasts available so graciously to mankind, I found How Stuff Works' Stuff You Missed in History Class. Many of their episodes deal with haunted places in history and mysterious facts we've learned at one time in history class that involve much deeper, interesting content than those few basic dates and facts. And the hosts are ladies! I think every podcast I listen to is man-centric except Grammar Girl, so it's nice to hear the girls chime in. I'd recommend one or two in particular, but I can't choose. Subscribe in iTunes by searching "Stuff You Missed in History Class" in the iTunes store.
8.7.09
This Just In!
Witches! Witches! My pierogies are indeed witches! Look! Just look how they float when thrown into the pot!
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