Archive for December, 2006

The curious incident of the mouse in the house

December 31, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“New Year’s Day: Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual.” ~Mark Twain

I had been sitting quietly contemplating important matters such as electrolysis and the number of road runs I should sign up for. I have developed this peculiar belly ache, which really shouldn’t be that peculiar given the amount of mac and cheese I’ve eaten over the past few days and that I’m a firm believer that Starbucks eggnog lattes should be consumed everyday during the last week in December because they are damn serious when they say they’ve run out: Which means finding yourself verklempt and saddened while traipsing around the city of your choosing in dire need of frothy caffeinated eggnog. All of this while deep into a Criminal Intent marathon and questioning whether or not Robert Goran and I could make sweet, sweet love.

There had been flashes out of the corner of my eye since yesterday, which could be a manifestation of the aforementioned Law and Order watching with intermittent viewings of the Real World/Road Rules challenge. Perhaps all of the murder and cattiness got to me and I developed a brain disorder whose symptoms could be an eye thing. Maybe. So the mass had been drifting about for days, but I blinked it off and went back to testing out the chocolates and writing things like, stop being an overly obsessive bitch in 2007, in my moleskin.

And here is where I point out how truly fascinating my life is. Also? I’m not sure it’s possible to be more boring, but for fuck’s sake be less boring in 2007. And do away with eating fish, given that I only eat fish so that I can eat as many filet of fish as I desire. It’s a sickness.

And so this evening, I figured that this was just more imaginations and also a really awful side effect to not having any fermented grapes for almost nine days, which is a record somewhere. That is until the mass came out of hiding. For the mass is a real live little baby mouse. A little baby mouse that warrants standing on the couch and doing Lamaze breathing while stealthily (well stealthily as possible with the loud ‘hee hee hoo’ going on) grabbing all of the Twizzler nibs that had fallen on the floor in addition to the DVDs and turning off the television with my nose. Of course the DVDs were unnecessary given that I left the blasted DVD player in the room with the little baby mouse that at some point this evening will gnaw my face off.

Now, in case you were wondering, I am not a tiny little person nor am I a complete girly girl who fears spiders and snakes. No. I can man the fuck up when needed and the very rational side of me knows that I am roughly 1.2 million times the size of the little baby mouse which I could easily stomp dead with my size 11 foot (see? Not tiny). But instead I take the not very calculated hopping up on the couch and gathering the necessities (see: DVDS, but no DVD player and lack of sneakers) running out of the room, and slamming the door behind me route. One that leads to me running up the stairs and tripping over a very well placed kitchen island, which came out of nowhere and should really be moved in the event of a rabid field mouse that will bite my arms off, of course after magically getting through the glass sliding doors and into my bedroom at the other end of the house. It might even claw my eyeballs out, but again…I’m not really sure.

And hopefully next year, I’ll not only be slightly thinner and less obsessed and maybe I’ll grow some balls of the brass and pseudo nature, that is.

Lexicon

December 27, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“One man’s frankness is another man’s vulgarity.” ~Kevin Smith

Just minutes after professing my love for the c-word. Yes, the c-word the one that causes the Swiss to go into a catatonic state, which she can only be brought out of with the offering of a generous offering of Chardonnay. We’re talking goblet, people. Anyway that c-word…I was told: “no one splices the f-word in with such a large prolific vocabulary like you do.” Which induced an aww, how precious out of me, but also a mildly disturbed type feeling that I am truly unable to find a post without rampant use of the f-word. It’s like the search for the Giants in the playoff: you think you might find one, but whoops, nope, almost, not quite. Any piece of writing that I can find without saying motherfucker to people in the grocery store, isn’t all that entertaining and mostly me being angry about how incredibly unfair my life is. It’s like No Pasa Nada: We complain so that you don’t have to. How thoughtful!

In some ways, it’s funny the way in which I can toss the word ‘fuck’ around and the different ways that one can use it and well…anyone who can use ‘cunt’ in a sentence without flinching and with utmost authority is one that you might not want to fuck with. But it’s so very crass. And none of this is coming from a power up on high who scolded me for calling someone a douche bag whore, but because ‘douche bag whore’ is just so very uncreative. It’s as if I never stepped foot into a classroom and that $34,000 tuition went straight to Ben Ladner’s foie gras addiction, and actually that last bit is true, for it did.

So…now thinking on this…I’m not exactly ready to you know, curb the use of the word ‘fuck’ it’s just such a glorious word, but I am committed to creativity with the English language. It’s hard and it sucks like a 16 year old on prom night, but there’s so much that can be done with it. And sometimes…well sometimes I get giddy. Heartbreakingly giddy when I go through and realize that I’ve called tourists ‘fucking mother fuckers who can’t fucking drive’ no less than three times. And perhaps, I could refer to them as ‘asinine dip shits who couldn’t retrieve there head out of their own asses even if John Roberts himself did the pulling. And even then they might be too busy attempting to kiss his ass in excitement.” I was going to add an Ann Coulter reference, but even that was too dirty for a family site like this one. Eh, whatever maybe I’ll just call annoying people ‘fucking cocksuckers’ and leave it that. Oh what fun it is to be completely crass.

All of this was written and saved to my mother’s laptop. Upon finding this her head will immediately fall off of her body and her heart will shrivel up to the size of a raisin. And if she hasn’t yet died from that, she’ll see the c-word written in plain sight and her brain will explode out of her nostrils. Deep down inside, she’s really, really proud.

*btw, I’m number one on google for “wry single female blog”. Rock on.

Release therapy

December 26, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” ~Ray Bradbury

When one begins quoting Ludacris in a totally serious non-Move Bitch kind of way, that usually means that there is some sort of serious problem lurking below the service or perhaps now I have a penchant for telling people that I’ve got ho’s in different area codes. No matter, because this really is not about Ludacris, as tempting as it might be to write an entire post as to his genius (‘Get back, get back, you don’t know me like that’? Brilliant), this is more about that release of letting things go and letting things out. Despite having that ability to be as prolific as possible there are just those things that are untouchable. The things that I can obsess and fret over and question how exactly I go about finding a remedy to something that’s probably innocuous and then I end up elusive and here we are with me writing as to not explode all over my mother’s precious upholstery.

I like that writing can get me to say things that I wouldn’t otherwise say. It’s a matter of who I am saying it to, who I am writing for. It’s for me but I sometimes need the opinions of others to tell me what to do, not make my decisions of course but to make me feel less like I’ve fucked up egregiously. But in the end I think that writing about not being able to write because of some other bullshit, is just a waste of time and adds to the risk of carpal tunnel without ever really saying anything. I want to be able to say things without sounding pretentious or uptight or anal or a flaming ass bitch who writes just for the sake of writing something. I want to be able to say something, not just say anything. The latter is my goal for the year, a resolution of sorts, to not just write for the hell of it about whether or not I wholeheartedly agree with leggings, which I totally do if they’re keeping you warm, but not to wear with a sweater and Uggs, which serves no purpose because ladies, the ass! It is still bare! And also, not 1988! But I digress…oh so none of the above and no lists unless it’s a deep and heartfelt list as to why I could live at home for awhile, number one being, my mother brought me starbucks in bed. Number two being, and then the food was in the refrigerator and I didn’t have to fear for my life while driving through Thomas circle to get to the grocery store. All good.

Though I should touch on the beauty of having people who know me, and know that I would fall madly in love with anyone who gives me both gift cards to Target and Whole Foods and also the sweater I wore on Christmas Eve and subsequently got ridiculously drunk in, smells like nine week old baby. Yum. And that my friends, is the sign of a very Merry Christmas and I hope your Holidays were groovy as well.

*I started this talking about Ludacris and ended with Christmas, so clearly with more time to write ‘something’ I can work on segues. Clearly.

Takeoff

December 22, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“If we had no faults of our own, we would not take so much pleasure in noticing those of others.” ~Francois duc de la Rochefoucauld

Any story that begins with ‘so I was in the airport bar…’ is bound to be doomed. It feels rather inevitable especially after recent viewing of Red Eye. I mean that’s how Rachel – I was a mean girl now I’m lovely and did I mention Candian – McAdams and her soon to be psychotic stalker yet ridiculously handsome killer meet, of course from there the whole psychotic-ness comes into play and it’s down hill from there. But of course the above hardly warrants fear nor precludes me of all people from venturing into the bar at Thurgood Marshall airport (If people are going to say ‘Reagan’ than I get to say ‘Thurgood Marshall’, period) and imbibing on some Chesapeake crabs and cabernet and yengling and apparently there was a moment in which I had turned into one of those creepy airport bar dwellers and soon I’ll be joining the ‘mile high club’ this is all very sudden.

Regardless, there are really creepy airport drunk people. I just want to sit and hear more about Eli and how Isaiah has suddenly made people fear the Knicks, that’s all. Closed captioning not withstanding of course, yet alone, to dwell in my misanthropic and lush behaviors, while fucking around with the crackberry. Of course the hint is not well taken by others specifically a gentleman who seated two seats down from me decided to spit tobacco in a bar glass and then involved himself in the conversation of the woman sitting between us. The woman whose hand I came quite close to ripping off when she drunkenly poked me in my fleshy side to question whether or not the seat beside me was taken. Startled, I mistakenly said no and allowed her to sit between me and drunken spitter while she loudly berated her boyfriend on the phone. In a public small bar. And every once in a while…ok, every 10.98 seconds…drunken spitter would holler “Call him an asshole!” or “he’s an asshole and not worth” or “Fuck yeah, asshole”. While she intermittently gave him the glary eyes of death and then shot daggers at me as if drunken spitter and I were BFFE from way back.

There’s a very visceral reaction in me to ignore and drink yet ignore some more until drunken spitter yelled at me as to the quality of my crackberry and how much he hates Hillary Clinton. But drunk public boyfriend berater she’s a republican but really likes Barack Obama. And clearly my keeping my head down while slamming my yeungling (so that I could get the fuck out of dodge and sit and wait with the normal Southwest airlines patrons who line up in their proper section two hours before the plane departs) was the perfect sign for please tell me how you feel and while we’re at it, you were born where? Oh but of course I know the answer to that last question; drunk public boyfriend berater is from Cincinnati and drunken spitter is from Phoenix, and I’m from Albany which is somewhere near Syracuse and it’s cold and sometimes we get 7 feet of snow (that according to drunken spitter). My response was that it doesn’t fucking snow when it’s 57 degrees, asshole.

So I left, because there is only so much conversing that I can handle and I can’t be completely shitfaced on a plane and show up to greet my mother by licking her or some such shit. Though I did meander just far enough to walk right into someone who I’ve known since kindergarten. Right there on my flight and I’m thinking the fermented grapes had something to do with how effortlessly the conversation was and why I turned into a walking sales person for fucking leggings.

And there you have it; the rest isn’t all that exciting except…well I have no couth as my mother pointed out no less than 7 times because I stripped in front of an open window (In my defense the window wasn’t open and no one could see me and jesus lord it’s only day one). Welcome Home and Happy Holidays, clearly, we’re off to a lovely start.

Photographic Evidence

December 20, 2006 | Filed under: La Madre

“But it is a cold, lifeless business when you go to the shops to buy something, which does not represent your life and talent, but a goldsmith’s.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Gifts,” Essays, Second Series, 1844

So that I might end on a high note (pun beyond intended. I went to the pun store and found that and brought it back) dover here until Mac Fest 2007 I figured I’d post a little something that I did over at Indie Bloggers as my gift to you. Y’all I am loving that site like it’s my baby (even better that I have the lovely Swiss and Stacy). So I’m a momma bear and be good to my little cub. Visit, sign up and enjoy and apparently I put out, so that might be fun as well.

When I’m bored I procrastinate and being that the internet is a procrastinator’s wet dream, then that is where I head. So imagine my surprise during my regularly scheduled perusal to see a picture of myself in all my bathing suit glory. Right there staring at me, smiling in a two piece suit that was something like two sizes too small and my lord the fat rolls that were spilling out of the edges. It was like pork stuffed into sausage casing. That is if fresh sausage had a massive fro and oily skin.

In a word: Hideous.

And my own feelings of hideousness aside, it was in public and right there on the internet for everyone and their brother’s mother’s cousin to see: Me, with my poofy hair and giant hips meant for birthing five at a time comfortably. And all I could think and still think is oh my fuck.

Though this not just about me being terribly embarrassed, but also about the manifestation of my stalker tendencies and the way in which I almost daily look at pictures of friends and foes and strangers alike; as today I happened upon an unsightly picture of a close friend and had to stifle my laughter. And when I came to, I made wondered whether or not this friend knew of these unflattering pictures*. In fact do most people know that every picture of them snapped with eyes a flutter due ghastly flash, has the possibility of ending up on the internet? While I’m sure most are aware that it’s a possibility there is nothing worse than seeing yourself in a bathing suit on Flickr or MySpace or wherever the hell ever.

What creeps me out more about the entire thing is the way in which EVERYONE can see these pictures. I mean if I can find a picture of someone with a goofy ass smile rocking Lees from 1989 on some random website, anyone can. And it’s all anonymous…and excuse me while I breathe into this paper bag. Because oh my hell, I don’t look at pictures of myself in a bathing suit ever nor do I have any that weren’t distorted with burned edges, because – and I repeat – rolls of fat.

So just be careful out there, not with the pictures that you throw out there, because if your friends are anything like me they’ll see that picture and die a horrible death after falling head first onto a floor and forget all about the picture and focus less on the elliptical. But! Be careful and be sure not to be caught drunk in a hot tub in your bathing suit. For my sake and yours, people; Mesh shorts. Just sayin’.

*This person is actually pretty fucking cute…so that we’re all on the same page here.