Archive for March, 2007

Up on high

March 7, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum

“…I pick the prettiest part of the sky and I melt into the wing and then into the air, till I’m just soul on a sunbeam.” ~Richard Bach

There is nothing better to me than flying. I love to fly in a way that is a complete antithesis to the average person who finds flying some horrifying experience akin to jumping across a volcano for fun. I find my window seat. Sit down and pass out for 50 minutes to 10 hours and I just chill the hell out.

What I dislike about flying is the airport. Actually I didn’t mind the airport that much until the woman next to me decided to call her friend and loudly and obnoxiously complain about how awful her watery queso was for her chips. “Literally, unbelievable” that’s what she keeps saying about her fucking queso dip. She’s going to write her friend who apparently has the stellar position of being high up in the California Tortilla hierarchy, to tell her about her displeasure with the fucking queso.

Flying should be calming. Flying shouldn’t lead to violence. Flying should make me want to toss my filet o fish at the woman with her fucking queso dip complaints. Not to mention the fact that she’s not only complaining about the damn dip, but also doing so with her mouth open. Damn BWI, once again not being up to par for the masses and their need for high quality queso dip.

I’m just going to sit here, relax, and think of flying.

*Penned today at 3:57 PM from the B terminal in Baltimore/Washington International airport.

The mouse will play

March 6, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum

“I like the word ‘indolence.’ It makes my laziness seem classy.” ~Bern Williams

When Mel moved in, she promised furniture including a glorious wine rack and table combo. She delivered exceptionally as that was pretty much the selling point for her. It also helps that if I were to ever find myself stranded in Hawaii, I’d have a free place to stay.

As she mentioned the wine rack, my eyes lit up with anticipation, because she doesn’t drink. Not a sip. Something about enzymes or another. To which I replied, that I only drink occasionally. And only wine, as I’m sort of an oneophile. The first night she slept here, I drank an entire bottle of yellowtail while telling her about the price of shots in Salamanca. Poor girl didn’t realize that I have the capability to be completely full of shit, especially when I come in Wednesday through Saturday, having enjoyed my share of an open bar. My feelings on that are as follows: It’s free and someone has already paid for it. Why let all that delicious Ketel One go to waste?

The other day she said that she would be going to Texas for a few days. My heart skipped a beat though I doubt I let it show. I said “oh ok” while envisioning walking around the apartment in my Calvin Klein’s and eating everything and not putting the dishes in the dishwasher. I had to keep myself from clicking my heels and confessing my plans to party up and be irresponsible with housekeeping for four. whole. days. It’s like my mom was going away and I had free reign to turn the living room into a disaster area and not get the stink eye for being and indolent lush. It’s like the woman of the house is away and I, the man, can, do as I please without the old woman being all up in my shit.

For the past three days I have consumed crustini and gouda for breakfast and as a quick hors d’ouevre. After that I went straight for the bottle of wine and the egg rolls. And tonight I’ve gone to a new low: Rum and diet coke and a bagel pizza with some peas on the side.

My laundry is strewn through out the apartment and I can watch House without her covering her eyes and saying ‘ewww’. My bras are hanging on the back of the front door, the bathroom door handle and the outside of my bedroom.

I feel like such a fucking rebel. Tomorrow I’m going to watch Sports Center all day and polish off my case of Yeungling. I’ll just be sure to hide the bottles so mom doesn’t find out.

Notes on a weekend

March 4, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum

“It doesn’t hurt to be optimistic. You can always cry later.” ~Lucimar Santos de Lima

Let me be brief in this startling look into my weekend. Despite the popular believe that I live lavishly and fantastically, thus the copious amounts of wine and overpriced apples. The sad truth is that I’m woefully boring and I spend a lot of time doing stupid shit. And though I’ve asked this once before, why would anyone care how I spent the last 48 hours? But then I could also question why anyone would care to read me on a daily basis, which then delves into why people blog etc, and my God, with the amount of Amstel consumed, now is not the time to get into deep psychological discussion of why others are attracted to a stranger’s trainwrecky life. Besides, it would involve a lot of words and as we all know, I do not do well with words.

There is nothing exciting or enthralling about dropping a bottle of rum on one’s foot. Really. Nothing. Save for the large bruise left on said foot and the accompanying awkward gait. Sadly, had I already consumed the alcohol I would not have felt it and yet at 4 PM, I was uncharacteristically sober and my I was most certain that my foot was broken because large bottles of alcohol can cause serious injury.

To say that I’m merely looking forward to the next two weekends would be an understatement. Let’s just say I’ve turned a new leaf from complete dire straits and wondering when exactly a lightening bolt would strike me down and (thankfully) kill me to cautiously optimistic. And that’s all that will be said on that.

The hits, they just keep on coming. Next up: I will discuss, in detail, my nail growth, because nothing can get as exciting as the state of one’s cuticles. Nothing.

Impromptu

March 2, 2007 | Filed under: Humdrum, La Madre

“A daughter is a mother’s gender partner, her closest ally in the family confederacy, an extension of her self. And mothers are their daughters’ role model, their biological and emotional road map, the arbiter of all their relationships.” ~Victoria Secunda

El Madre came down for meetings yesterday. Approximately two hours of meetings and one hour chasing me down Connecticut Avenue, in heels. While I stomped and swore and tried to keep my tights from falling completely below my ass. Which they did and I was wearing a wrap dress. And my does that early spring air feel good.

There was a miscommunication and she felt bad that she almost missed lunch but my anger was somewhat assuaged when she mentioned Raku and since I’ve had this insatiable craving for sushi as of late (Note to self: DO NOT get pregnant. Ever) I grumpily accepted her accord only to begin crying over salmon and avocado maki.

We’re talking deep tears here, people. The kind that have been waiting to make an appearance at some arbitrary time wholly unconducive to my life or schedule. She petted me and suddenly turned into full on ‘I’m going to kick those motherfucker’s respective asses’ mode. The woman who once shuddered at the thought of having her own children, felt protective and said she didn’t realize that I had been that upset. Not that I’ve been at all surreptitious about my misgivings on every facet of my sad and pathetic existence as of late. Clearly the phrase “I’m seriously going to lay in front of a bus on Pennsylvania Avenue and pray that it hits me” didn’t carry much weight for her.

But no matter. Tears were shed. Mothers show up at the perfect time and are equipped with rational behavior. They become understanding and equally as upset and frustrated. They can impart knowledge that despite the ‘take a number’ mentality, soon all will be right with the world.

And permission is granted and money shelled for random vacation sprees and a much needed sugar cane scrub*.

*that was for you, Marci.