Yukon Tickertape

The Blood Off Your Tendons (and thoughts on circles)

2011-04-03T18:35:00.007-04:00

It's the blood off your tendons that makes the leather of your new shoes soft. The pain of a long journey and the regrets we feel when we step on cracks in the sidewalk. The backs we've broken. The callouses we've built that our loved ones won't rub at night. The pain of a long journey and the burn on our cheeks where our rose-tinted glasses failed us.

It's strange how we soldier forward; strange that we've stood naked- in degrees between literal and analogical- so proud, so strong and sure, for men we've lost the addresses for. Strange how we looked with eyes so soft and shaded when the winds blew wild enough to knot and noose our hair.

The pain of a long journey, like when you stare too directly and too long at passerbys on the train, when you look at the edges of two objects too color-contrasted they seem two-dimensional, the embarrassment you feel when you're caught. The vanishing of the thought that maybe one day you'd mindlessly rub their callouses in front of a blaring television without wondering where they came from, that one day you'd stand naked in front of them- in degrees between literal and analogical.

It's the blood off your tendons that makes the leather of your new shoes soft.

Harmony

2010-12-06T16:21:00.001-05:00

"Took some broad here on our first date cause shes vegetarian. I figured "hey, its a chinese place i'm sure i'll like something." I figured wrong. Everything tasted like funnel cake! I don't get it. Granted I'm sure if I was a weirdo vegan and this is the best I could do I'd love it but alas I'm normal and like meat. Vegan food is too much for me and I would assume the same for most normals."

an actual review for Harmony Vegetarian restaurant in Philadelphia (via www.urbanspoon.com)

Just Old

2010-12-05T22:13:00.002-05:00

I just feel old.

Every morning I'm more surprised that my knees don't creak and my back still straightens. My chest feels old, my stomach, my eyes- all old.

All "oh, I've seen it all before." All "time will tell."

I think I've always been this way. Maybe I was born like Benjamin Button, except different.

If I feel this way now, how will I feel when my skin is actually crumpled crepe paper? When I actually have clouded eyes? When I can open pickle jars or button my clothes?

I do wonder if I'll get any better at crossword puzzles...

Georgia

2010-10-23T10:38:00.004-04:00

With stakes and some twine, we made a rectangle and decided which soft green bed of grass would be turned and made to garden. Not for ourselves, but for those who let us sleep on the floors of their now-grown children. We were in the mountains somewhere, in the South somewhere, sometime in the spring, but the sun beat down on our cheeks and made them flush, coaxed the sweat and salt from our skin.

I had a shovel, and you had one too. Carefully, I lined up the back of my shovel with the twine on one side. I bore down, with the handle pushing hard against my ribs. I didn't make it down more than a couple inches, embarrassed and frustrated with my feminine physical incapabilities. My cheeks flushed more. The sweat dripped and dampened the small of my back, and the back of my neck, and my underarms, the space behind my knees. I watched you, casually, pick up a shovel- its handle like splintered bone and its dull metalic blade- watched you position next to the twine and drive deep straight and solid into the grass to the blade's hilt, reared back, and turned the soil.

I watched your arm bulge when you lifted the Apalachian soil, turned it and pushed aside the rocks. I saw the rivulets of sweat on your temples and through the hair on your chest, the beads on your forehead, saw the veins in your arm deliver oxygen to your extremities. I watched you drive deep into the earth, over and over, and over, turning it inside out, leaving it exposed and rough.

Hurricane Musings

2010-09-03T11:38:00.004-04:00

I didn't want to stay. In fact, I protested quite violently that mandatory meant mandatory. But no, my father paid for a week and we would be staying for a week, in this house by the sea. Just wind and some rain.

That ended the family meeting. Patriarch had spoken.

Over a dinner of box pasta and sauce out of a jar, of salad out of a bag, served in a pot, we held hands and they said grace.

"Jamie, you're not saying grace with us?"

"Grandma, I've told you I'm agnostic. I don't say grace" She frowns the same way when I told her that my boyfriend's an atheist (even worse), that eating animals is cruel, that I don't believe in Santa Claus, or for that matter, Jesus Christ, that I was drunk and upset that we were still there while a hurricane loomed off the shore and our neighbors' houses boarded. She pressed on to find happy things to report, but we all did the same thing today- sit in front of the weather channel with the evacuation notices scrolling across the bottom, fancy maps with possible path projections, stock footage of floating dumpsters and traffic signs bent nearly ninety degrees.

We bring in the rocking chairs.

The house owner, the management company and a local government official called to remind us that after the storm starts, there will be no emergency response, but father said, "I think we'll wait it out." No response say if my father has an overdue heart attack, or my grandmother falls down some stairs with her bionic hips and knees, or if our entire matchbox house is lit up like a lantern. "I think we'll wait it out."

After dinner, dad fell asleep upstairs from too much wine. Little Brother and my grandparents ate icecream and watched a spaghetti western with an actress strongly resembling Bridget Bardot. I drank in my room with the windows open- the breeze flowing in from one window, swirled around my the ceiling fan, and out the other window. I kissed everyone goodnight, moody, so they'd know I still stood where I stood. Kissing everyone goodnight is mandatory so I do that, even though I'm mad.

Friday, September 3, 2010 - 4:09am

My bed is shaking. The whole house is shaking. It sounds like waves are crashing outside my window. It's the sound of waves climbing on each other's backs until their knees are taken out by a sand bar and they come falling one top of the other onto the shore. We're flooding outside. I can hear us swished like the inside of the washing machine. Rain is coming down not evenly. I secretly wish a plank flies through the living room window so that they know I had been right.

I'm lying in bed, listening. I hear a bird somewhere outside and I wonder why it hasn't left. Why it didn't feel the drop in pressure, heed warning and leave. Then I remember that we didn't leave either.

"As of 2 a.m. Eastern Time Friday, Earl was located about 85 miles east-southeast of Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, or about 515 miles south-southwest of Nantucket, Massachusetts, and had top winds near 105 miles per hour. This makes Earl a category 2 hurricane on the Saffir-Simpson hurrican wind scale. Earl is moving to the north-northeast near 18 miles per hour, and is expected to speed up its forward progress and make a gradual turn to the northeast over the next day or two. Earl is also expected to gradually weaken, but its wind field is expected to spread out. " - Mark Avery, Lead Meterologist, The Weather Channel

Outer Banks

2010-09-02T19:37:00.005-04:00

mocking

little brother

flutterfly.

stilts.

old romance

Book Worm

2010-03-18T14:59:00.001-04:00

Some people read to escape the world, their lives, the ringing of the telephone, the incessant blurb in the bottom of your screen that tells you that you have another email, the screaming of your children. Some people open books at night so that they’ll think about a romance which pales in comparison to their own, or carpet rides, Arabian nights, a handsome vampire who will whisk you away from the angst you still feel when you think about high school.

Some people read to escape.

I read to remain. Books don’t take you away from the world; they bring you closer. They amplify the sounds of grass growing. They force your ears to the chests that hide beleaguered hearts, and bellies that churn with indecision. With gentle articulation, authors make the world tangible, graspable, digestible.

Books aren’t wings, they’re cement shoes.

like/love

2010-03-12T13:47:00.000-05:00

In times of unbounded affection, he says “I like you.”

And that feels more right than “I love you.”

Love will always be there. Like is fickle.

chemistry for valentines day

2010-02-05T16:12:00.001-05:00

"When two atoms with incomplete outer shells react, each atom either shares, donates, or receives outer electrons, so that both partners end up with completed outer shells. These interactions usually result in atoms staying close together, held by attractions called chemical bonds." Biology Concepts and Connections, p. 22, Campbell, et. Al.

Snow Daze

2009-12-20T11:06:00.000-05:00

Sheets taught and snow to the knee. Kisses pressed to your cheek like a kitten gently kneading, needing. The walls of your ventricles worn thin with excitement, and shoveling, and heavy lifting from the back, not the knees. Your hands are calloused from the presses and stained with the ink of printing checks, balancing.

Happy Thanksgiving (teacups II)

2009-11-26T10:56:00.001-05:00

My favorite teacup, the Tiffany-box-blue one, has a chip in its lip. The saucer is, in fact, not in tact. I’ve come to terms with the Twister cups that I once thought were tacky and outdated (I think they’re rather retro-chic) Over those tacky teacups, sob stories as sticky as honey, romances as sweet as honey, laughter as thick as honey.

What can be learned in a year? Sip slowly. Take the higher ground. Take lots of pictures. Take your vitamins. Wear a helmet. Wear socks. Don’t leave pomegranates on top of your fridge in excess of a month. Lock your door, and turn out the lights when you’re not there.

I learned to appreciate you and me, and tea for two. I learned that it’s not the time in between us, but the time when we’re together, and the time you’re on my mind. I learned to send letters when email isn’t fast enough. I adjusted my camera’s view.

"The richest person is not the person who has the most, but who needs the least"- Grandma

happy thanksgiving.

Wuthering

2009-11-05T11:17:00.003-05:00

Chapter 15:

You teach me now how cruel you've been - cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they'll blight you - they'll damn you. You loved me - then what right had you to leave me? What right - answer me - for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart - you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you - oh, God! would you like to live with your soul in the grave?'

'Let me alone. Let me alone,' sobbed Catherine. 'If I've done wrong, I'm dying for it. It is enough! You left me too: but I won't upbraid you! I forgive you. Forgive me!'

'It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands,' he answered. 'Kiss me again; and don't let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer - but yours! How can I?'

prose used to keep me up at nights

2009-10-22T22:34:00.002-04:00

Surely no one has ever burned in moon rays, and waves and women aren't pulled into rhythm by the sun. By its very nature, the sun's face must be ever changing, what with all those violent flares. But the moon has always looked upon us the same, though its face is ugly and crater-pocked. They tell me that the sun is getting bigger, that it'll swallow up planets, that it’ll swallow up us. I believe it- not because science tells me so, but because I’ve felt myself burn when it looked too hard upon me.

Goals before Expulsion

2009-08-31T10:33:00.000-04:00

I have 30 weeks of classes left before I’m expelled from the womb of academia to fend for myself as a “real” adult. Therefore I need to get crack-a-lacking on the following goals:

FALL
- visit this market Phil speaks of in DC
- get to the beach at least once
- make frozen lemon whips with blueberry-basil topping
- have a picnic near the Lincoln Memorial
- submit Fulbright application to Malta
- see the leaves change in New England
- finish reading Anna Karenina by Tolstoy
- get whisk tattoo

WINTER
- complete the 500 piece puzzle on my shelf
- read Ahab’s Wife by Sena Naslund
- present Allie’s baby with a 9’ paper-mache Mexican devil
- paint the “Shitwhore Series,” an acrylic ode
- make zucchini tarts with butternut squash soup

SPRING
- attend Cherry Blossom Festival
- have an actual birthday celebration, for once
- jump out of a plane
- go camping with the people I love
- read Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov
- finish MBA, acquire job

Childhood

2009-08-26T23:00:00.003-04:00

This picture was taken about 14 years ago in the Outer Banks, NC. It's by far my favorite picture of myself.

I was just thinking about summer...

2009-07-27T14:54:00.002-04:00

Fireflies flicker and fall like wayward lost stars. Toddlers like Titus stand in the shadows with stiff nets waiting to collect galaxies to light their night stands.

Bullfrogs guttural love song, mating gurgle that sounds melodious in summer heat thick enough to wear like a sweater. Chime in, cicada shiver cymbals.

The neighbors dance on the patio.

Peeled back bathing suit and hair combed from our faces, we’re placed to bed with wet sun-bleached heads. Our fingers still sticky from watermelon drips.

Tip-toed and bath-robed, Grandma comes to set free the stars from their mason jar. Morning came and we all believed that they indeed did disappear.

Time

2009-06-30T11:02:00.000-04:00

Face sweaty, half hung in a toilet bowl, with alcohol-laced perspiration beaded in top lip whiskers- What do you need?

“Time,” he said. “I just need TIME”

Time? Time?

Time that tells and has 20-20 vision retrospect? Time like money that pays the piper? Let me tell you about time, I thought. Time knocks over pillars and dirties knees. Time whispers in my ear that your old analogies really didn’t make sense at all. Time is a rotation of the earth that clouds eyes like cataracts, or clears them.

Turn My Swag Off

2009-06-22T21:56:00.001-04:00

Last year, around this time I commenced the first annual Summer of Celibacy Abstinence Challenge. (I didn’t mean this to be annual but what the hay) It started off as a 40 day emo protest and I was thankfully relieved 120+ days later. Because it was funny and it gave me something to talk about when meeting new people, I’m giving it another go. The boo will be road tripping for about a month and I’m going to wait it out. Any support you can send my way will be greatly appreciated.

Perhaps I’ll also start a cleanse diet too. Anyone want to be miserable-but-empowered with me?

New England Roadtrip

2009-06-12T21:04:00.008-04:00

Scenes, June 7-12:

Howe Caverns, NY
underground gondola ride

Lake George, NY
first time camping

Our 8-person tent

Waterbury, VT
Ben and Jerry's Factory

Camping in Vermont

Waterbury Dam

York, Maine
Cape Neddick

Point Judith, RI
Waiting for the Block Island Ferry

Block Island, RI
what we stumbled upon

Garden Summer

2009-06-01T20:19:00.011-04:00

(written for Creative Nonfiction course)
Two gardening hats hung on a hook by the back door. Outside, a wire basket with green plastic handles hung from a rusty nail under our deck, next to a yellow water can with a long thin spout. In the shed that smelled like mothballs, on a shelf, there were two pairs of gloves stiff with dirt and two shovels, one larger than the other.

Our backyard had a big pool, framed in by a vine-covered fence, and matted by Astroturf. Along one side there were trees that dropped mini pinecones that cracked and popped when thrown in the fireplace. Along the other side there were bright Forsythia bushes that hid us from our peeping neighbor, Dave. In the far corner there was a compost pile, where all our dinner scraps and coffee grounds ended up, and a giant pine tree whose base was a pile of rocks. We had a clothesline that we used for bathing suits in the summer; in the winter, we hung a small wire cage of sinew scraps for the birds. The best part of our yard was the vegetable garden, a rectangular chicken wire enclosed oasis. These are the stories of one garden summer.

Beets, April

Beets are the one vegetable that grew in our garden whenever it wasn’t snowing. This is mostly because beets are roots, not vegetables, and therefore largely protected from bitter frosts. By April, the shaggy beet leaves fountained from the far end of the garden, the stems closest to the earth turned a rich crimson magenta.

Picking beets took a great amount of care because if you tugged too hard on the leaves, they would just rip right off, sending you backwards. And then you would have to dig up the bulb with your hands, and get dirt under your nails, which you had to thoroughly clean before school the next day.

Beets are terribly creepy fresh from the winter ground. They have long tapering rat tails and straggly roots growing from their bulbous cores. They smell like bicycle grease, and sometimes the tails would slip through the wire basket and tickle your legs while you walked.

After you cut off the leaves and tails, you have to scrub them really hard with a bristle brush under the hose before bringing them in the house. Then you boil them until you can push a fork into them, about 20-25 minutes. Run under cold water (this make peeling easy). After thoroughly cooled, use a fork or fingers to push the skin off. Slice and serve plain or with fresh goat cheese on bread rounds.

The leftover water in the saucepan will turn dark reddish purple, like the inside of a beet. Boil this down for an additional ten minutes and use for dying Easter eggs, or as a paint for arts and crafts.

Asparagus, May

This is the first real spring vegetable to sprout in our garden. At first the little green sprouts are unimpressive, especially when, as a ten year old, you were expecting the sunburst of daffodils, their trumpets heralding spring. They grow quickly, straight up in neat rows, before they meet their fate with gardening shears.

"A hand and a half tall."

(Well, one and a half Grandma-hand measures. Two of mine) That's how tall each stalk should be when you cut them down and place them gently in the wire basket. When we take them in, each stalk is thoroughly rinsed with cold water, rolled in olive oil, sprinkled with just salt and pepper, and layered single-file in a baking dish. Roast at 400 degrees for approximately 10 minutes or until tender. Serve plain or with grated parmesan cheese.

Strawberries, June

June is the sweetest month of all, finally freed from cramped classrooms and stiff uniforms. Strawberries and wild blackberries grew at the edge of the yard, away from the neat fenced in vegetable garden. We don't use the wire basket for strawberries, because the smallest ones slip through the wire. For berries, we use the berry bag, which is also in the mothball laden shed. This is the one thing in the shed that Little Brother and I could retrieve without supervision. Because it's near the front of the shed, we don't have to step around the steel teeth of the snow blower, the sharp picks of hoes, the razorblades at the end of the rakes, the sharpened beak of the bush shears.

The berry bag is made of a single square of canvas, whip-stitched along the sides with two lengths of rope used as handles. It's stained blue and red and black all over. We romp over to the edge of the yard, near the compost pile, and begin plucking at the most engorged orbs. Patience is paramount in plucking berries. Time will yield darker berries, and the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice. By the end of June, in one trip, Little Brother and I could fill the canvas, requiring each of us to grab a handle to walk it back to the house.

Upon showing our plunder to Grandma, she inspects each one under the running faucet, praising the color, the shape, our berry-finding skills. Each strawberry is halved and plopped into a medium sauce pan with 1/4 cup of orange juice and 1/2 cup sugar. Over medium heat, stir until sugar has dissolved. Bring to a rolling boil and cook until strawberries soften. Take off heat and serve over vanilla icecream, waffles or cheesecake.

Cucumbers, July

Cucumbers didn’t take up that much room in the garden (because they grow up a fence), but even a couple plants produced way more cucumbers than we could possibly eat. Every other day I could fill the wire basket, carefully brushing off the prickles that you don’t see on supermarket cucumbers. Four would go to Grandma, and the rest would go to our neighbors. We had an abundance of cucumbers in July, the Coxes an abundance of plum tomatoes in June, the Wilsons too many apples in the fall, and basil by the bushels came from the Russes.

Nearly every other day Grandma made cucumber salad for dinner. Four cucumbers were cut in rounds, then quartered. Toss with 2 tbsp mayonnaise, and a small amount of diced onion. Add salt and pepper to taste, and a handful of diced cilantro. Serve cold.

Corn, August

Blackbirds are the bane of our existence. They chase the gold finches from the feeder and squawk at the squirrels, but why we detest them the most is because they pick at the corn. Raccoons ruin a fair amount of our garden's yield too, but it's impossible to detest an animal so closely resembling the Hamburgler. Besides, the chicken wire does a decent job of keeping small animals out.

Corn takes up nearly a third of our garden and is visually stunning. There are green stalks so much taller than I am, and not all its ears are reachable. The ears shoot off the main stalk and have Repunzel silk strands spouting from the ends. It's hard to tell when corn is sweetest and ready to be picked, so this is a chore when Pop comes with us. Checking the undressed gold and white flecked kernels, Pop snaps the ears off and places them in the wire basket. We only take as many as we need for dinner, since corner hardly ever over-ripens.

From the garden, Little Brother and I move to the garage, sit on small folding chairs with a bucket between us. Little Brother is brutishly strong for an eight year old and is good at pulling back the green husks. I'm more attentive, even at ten, so I'm good at plucking off all the silk strands, placing them gently back in the wire basket.

From the basket, they go to the grill for 5-7 minutes. After lightly charring, let cool. Remove kernels from the cob and toss with 2tbsp olive oil, juice of 1 lime, 1-4 oz. queso fresco, 1 bunch of green onions (thinly sliced), ¾ c. chopped cilantro, a pinch of salt, and a pinch of pepper.

Watermelon, September

There is a great debate over watermelon: to sprinkle with salt or sugar. At our house, we ate it plain after dinner while sitting on the deck waiting for the fireflies to come out. Whatever sticky dribbles landed on our legs or chins could be rinsed in the pool, but only if we were out of the water by dark and if we waited 20 minutes after eating.

It took nearly three years to grow our first watermelon. It would have been much sooner if Dad hadn’t run over the vines, twice, with the lawn mower. Watermelon’s curly cues do look like weedy vines, so it’s a common mistake if you don’t first see the yellow blossoms. For Little Sister’s birthday, Grandma spent the entire afternoon cutting watermelon slices an inch thick. It took me half an hour to use cookie cutters to cut stars and hearts. A healthy, but sweet, alternative to cupcakes.

Spinach, October

No child likes spinach, and to make sure it didn’t land on our dinner plates often, Little Brother and I would pull the bushes out when not supervised and hide the leaves in the compost pile. We blamed the rabbits.

Spinach used to smell funny fresh from the ground- it smelled musky and mushy, if mushy had a smell. When Grandma got to the garden first to salvage what we had not destroyed, it was chopped roughly and tossed in a medium skillet with two cloves of chopped garlic until wilted. In the meantime, roast one handful of pine nuts at 400 degrees for about 5 minutes or until golden brown and nutty smelling. Toss pine nuts with spinach and top with enough grated parmesan cheese to make appealing to children.

By November the weather turns brisk, which means preparing the garden for winter. We pulled up flower bulbs, and turned the compost. We took stock of canned spaghetti sauce using the plum tomatoes from our neighbors. Apple pies, homemade, with lattice tops were frozen in the big freezer downstairs. The bushels of basil were made into pesto and stored in gallon-sized bags. Quince, pears and cranberries were turned into preserves and canned in small jars that we gave to our friends throughout the winter, so they could taste summer, spread on fresh bread.

I read once that dirt, good dirt, contains bacteria called Mycobacterium vaccae. Exposure to these bacteria in humans boosts serotonin in the brain, the neurotransmitter responsible for feelings of serenity and joy and peace. It is these feelings that flood back when I think of summers and springs working barefoot in the garden with my grandparents and my younger brother. It is that feeling I still get when I pluck the fruits that blossom in my modest urban garden, and when those fruits find their way to my kitchen table to fill the bellies of people I love.

What I learned from that 10' x 14' garden was intimacy- with the smells. touches and colors of food; with stove top and kitchen table; with earth and with my family. When I miss these memories most, I take off my shoes and stand in dirt.

Itinerary

2009-05-27T14:47:00.000-04:00

So far we have one sleeping bag and a tent for eight people, for two people. We have one pan and a plan to loop New England. The itinerary:

An underground gondola ride in a cavern, NY. Sleeping on a lake in the Adirondacks. Ben & Jerry Factory, VT, ice cream for free! Sleeping in Waterbury woods. A desert in Maine. Sleeping and eating in a bed & breakfast, compliments of Momma and Poppa. Stroll streets like JFK. Getting lost near Salem, seeing seven gables. Petting alpacas. Eating lobsters on crates for cheap. Ferrying to Block Island to throw rocks at the Atlantic. Sleeping in a landmark, with an ocean view of nude beaches.

I bought a white floppy hat. I’m wearing only sundresses.

A Very Interesting Day

2009-04-26T11:35:00.004-04:00

The first half of the day was dandy: my fabulous gay friend (not my gay husband or gay mistress), my deceptively innocent friend and I laid out by the volleyball courts and watched half naked sweaty men roll in the sand while we soaked up some sun. And that was lovely. Afterwards, as practice for traveling abroad, I took a siesta, spent some time with the boy when he got home from teaching, got pretty.

I went for a girls night organized by someone who I suspect is very much me on 90% of levels. We went for hibachi, which was good. A girl there just got engaged, which is cute, but my mind automatically shuts off if the story includes the words “candles,” “beach” or “Mexico.” So I continued to look in her general direction, but right over her head at the Playoffs game. [can you believe the Sixers ebbed out another close win?!?]

After hibachi we went to Capogiro, which is in my top 5 favorite places in the city. Flavor selection was at an all time high: cucumber, thai iced tea, champagne mango, dark and stormy, rosemary honey goat milk, single malt scotch, sea salt, AND orange and cardamom?? Half the ladies had to leave and the other hung out on the street corner watching a couple across the street play an accordion and a ukulele.

[[THIS IS WHERE THE NORMAL EVENING ENDED.]]

We crossed the street to hear better, and a man in a top hat, vest and old fashioned goggles herded us to the upstairs of a used book store for “the show.” Now, not knowing what kind of show this is, minds went reeling. Maybe it’s a Vanilla Sky-esque masked swingers club. Or maybe it’s storytelling or a sacrificial hog offering. There were a couple general misfits in folding chairs, but a stage with some familiar instruments likely ruled out anything with nudity. Damn.

Then a very creepy man in a purple and yellow swirled overcoat with not a hair on his head offered us absinthe and heroin. We took the absinthe, and got silly in our seats listening to the accordion and ukulele. By the end of their set, four white college girls and eight members of the societal fringe engaged in an enthusiastic sing-a-long rendition of Edith Pilaf’s “La Vie en Rose,” enhanced by the inability of everyone to clap to a beat.

This is where we bounced.

Outside, I handed off one friend to a gentleman waiting and two other girls and I headed to the
subway so I could go to the Drexel Sierra Club Drinks Day, which is just a way of saying that the head hippies are having a party. I was heckled the entire three blocks from 40^th St. Station to my friends place. A fine young gentleman and his clique told me I was a turkey, which I looked up this morning on urbandictionary. Neither option is flattering but I think he meant this definition:
turkey (noun): The opposite of virgin for a girl, because they have "received a stuffing"

and probably not these definitions:

(noun) a loser; an uncoordinated, inept, clumsy fool
-OR-
(noun) a tool; a person who is not in with current culture and slang or is just generally uncool.
This slang usage of the word "turkey" was mostly used during the late 60's and 70's by urban-dwelling blacks.

-OR-

(noun) a country that's incredibly fun to be in because it's not quite European, but not quite Asian either.

So whatever. I get there. I have a Lionshead, sing a little happy birthday to our gracious host. Then shots ring out, which shots are wont to do in West Philadelphia. Within five minutes of my arrival, there are helicopters with search lights scanning the area and the sirens of cop cars are so loud, I can’t hear the person next to me. Yet beer pong continues.

Looking through the rickety fence that encloses the tiny backyard, that gives a false sense of security, we see hundreds of people pour into the streets. Four kids sprint past. The man next door leans his head out the window and tells us that someone has been shot. People yell. Glass shatters. Car horns are going off everywhere.

We watch from the roof as cop cars try to herd people away. Sunshiny Hippy and I make the poor decision to go outside to see what’s going on. [I know as soon as the boy reads this, I will get a talkin to] So after asking “hey, what’s going on?” and getting “Imma tryna get cho numba is whats goin on” as an answer, a classy broad of perhaps nineteen tells me what happened.

(Translated) Two high school kids got in a fight, one pulled out a piece and fatally shot the other, and then the cops came and beat people up, thusly prompting the crowds.

Plans for walking back with a couple of the other ladies and risking harassment, kidnapping, rape, gun wounds, knife wounds, etc. were quickly reevaluated. I could wait for someone to sober, but that would take time and really, game over, I just want to go back to my white bread dorm room and finish off the Yuengling in my fridge and watch “Tough Love.”

The boy, bless his soul, was quite concerned and came and picked me up. Traffic, of course, wasn’t moving, but he persisted while I perspired. Meanwhile, the party people were doing “shots for shots,” which means they are significantly more badass than me. I just talk a good game.

When back to my comfortable existence, I curled up on the boy’s bed, ate a pb+j with gourmet blueberry jelly and watched as Aviola took the hot seat because she didn’t take the “Cute or Crazy” game show well.

Also, during this debacle I was utilizing the popular micro-publishing site, Twitter. Within ten seconds of posting that shots were fired, I got four texts asking me if I was okay. This tells me that if I happened to be kidnapped and I could make one phone call, I’m texting Twitter.

Apocalypse

2009-04-15T15:41:00.005-04:00

I think the world is ending. I don’t much read the news unless it pops up on digg or google, but in the last week I’ve heard that pirates are now a considerable threat. Pirates. Next, we should worry about a plague of ninjas and saber-toothed tigers.

Then I heard someone tapped into the US electrical grid and installed software. I don’t even know how this happens, logistically.

And now, I’ve read that Phil Spector has been convicted of murder after over 30 hours of deliberation. This man has been dead for what looks like a decade.

Fabulous Yacht of Fashion...of Love

2009-04-12T22:09:00.004-04:00

While watching VH1, aka the “Broken People Channel,” I have often said that I would be a shoe-in on any of the dating shit shows we like watching. I think this because I’m not an idiot, I think I’m at least moderately attractive and I can make pancakes, hook up a sound stage, and hurdle floating beds, at the same time. A dream I had last night, however, tests my confidence:

I’m on a helicopter with 8 glittery-titted sluts. Seth Rogan is flying, which would be terrifying if this were real life, and the challenge is to jump from the helicopter onto a yacht, sponsored by Tresseme Professional Hair Care Products. After the jump, we swim to the yacht and get our next challenge. And remember- tonight is elimination!

So in walks our Ray J/Bret Michaels/Bachelor, Marc Jacobs, who I have never even seen a picture of, but in this dream, he is strikingly handsome and wearing a kilt (since that’s springs must-have piece for men). Seth Rogan stays on as his Brandy who will obviously hand out passes or something tonight at elimination.

In the library (as if my competition could read), we are presented our challenge: to pretend we’re schoolgirls and present our best argument to get out of detention. Of course, we all interpret ‘schoolgirl’ as if it’s Halloween. And while other girls writhe on the floor sans panties in a puddle of bisexual tequila, I try to impress Marc Jacobs by balancing a stack of books on my head and reciting the Obama inaugural address. I feel this is a better strategy than trashing my competitors because Becky “Buckwild” has already shanked two other chicks and I may be next.

We don’t find out who won the challenge yet, because there needs to be the prerequisite solo date. On our date, Marc Jacobs and I sit in a hot tub surrounded by tubs of cool whip, which Seth Rogan is somewhere salivating over. Marc told me that he thought my ass looked immaculate in my skirt, and I look at him quite plainly and say, “aren’t you gay?”

He replies, “uh, I’m an American fashion legend. Of course, I’m gay. I’m fucking fabulous.”

And then we make out, I wake up, and eat copious amounts of candy in celebration of the resurrection of Christ.

Cotton Undies

2009-04-10T12:22:00.002-04:00

I only date long-term, as in preferably at least one academic year. Over fancy cocktails, a friend asked me why this is. Like I’m young and not getting younger so I might as well not waste the pretty, right? To my friend, I offered this explanation:

1. Dating is hard.
Using my collegiate career in marketing and studies by Reinartz and Kumar, I have learned that it is less strenuous to retain a significant other than it is to prospect for new ones. When my immediate networks were getting a little threadbare in the attractive mate section, I played with okcupid for a tiddle and found that to be a momentous disaster, fraught with Jeff Goldblum lookalikes and not-really-lesbian lesbians. And then when you find someone who you’re initially attracted to, you have the awkward task of figuring out what’s wrong with them.

2. Dating is expensive.
COST ANALYSIS

Date Night, 6 mo.
Bottle of wine…. $11
Indian Takeout… $30
HGTV marathon… FREE
Sweatpants… FREE
TOTAL: $41

Date Night, first week
Glass of wine x 4…$32
Dinner out…$65
Movie…$11
New Date Outfit…$60
TOTAL: $168

3. Long-term means low maintenance.
I remember the first time my magnificent other told me I had a visible booger, and then got it for me. There’s a lot less self-consciousness as time goes on. You learn to pee with the door open. Drama is significantly reduced and less brain space can be devoted fretting on where he is at any given second.

4. It keeps bad guys at bay.
Having a steady beau means never having to make excuses for not spending time with other guys you have no desire to see. For instance, I have a gentleman in my life that has requested to be first on the list when I’m single. If I’m not ever single, then I won’t have to be straightforward and say “actually, I’m not interested in you outside of bubble tea and literary discussions.” In the meantime, we can have a lovely time discussing Salinger, during the daytime, in public.

5. I have a surplus of cotton undies.
Personally, I think plain white cotton undies are pretty sexy in an understated way, but I understand that many men would disagree. I would estimate that 90% of my underwear collection is cotton-based, meaning my limited arsenal of pretty, lacy, frilly, impractical underwear largely inhibits frequent flings. Because the opposite is true of my little sister’s panty assemblage, I can deduce that more than one young lad has seen her britches in the last couple of months.

6. It feels fuzzy.
Best friend you can make out with? Awesome.

Heppy Bersday

2009-03-27T21:55:00.001-04:00

I brought in the year with a bang, glass table. Plucked paper lemon trees, duct taped, extras cut and added when the weather warms. Del wrapped me sunshine in a solar paneled mason jar for when it gets dark and I want to seem candle-lit. (Girls peek confident when candle-lit, keeps bad guys at bay). Mideast feast munchies, yes please.

Heppy Bersday sung by three Japanese sushi-rice-smiling waitresses, in blue, with little sister. I blew out one previously used glittery pink candle atop a scoop of green tea ice cream, forgot to make a wish.

Daddy passed high school sweetheart class rings, inscribed, to the eldest, saying “she should have been your mother, the one who got away.”

Thanks all who shared my birthday with me! xo

To a Furrow-Browed Perfectionist, Who Studies Too Much

2009-03-25T12:08:00.000-04:00

I learned an important lesson from someone who paid $600 to join a cult for a couple days. (maybe not one of those super radical ones, but enough that France thinks so).

This morning, you dressed yourself in plaid not stripes, and the choice you made was right. Every daring confession and dinosaur dream mumbled in vulnerable unconsciousness was said just in time and with poignant purpose. You choose one city of elaborate architecture over another and immediately you are where you belong.

The world spins, supposedly, with gravitational, tidal and convectional intention to keep our feet on earth. Have faith that Newtonian apples fallen were meant to cause revelation. Let the exclusion of stripes strip the reservation from plaid. Forget buyer’s remorse.

And I know well enough that you measure jumps with yard sticks, calculating distances, parabolas, on Excel spreadsheets, risk versus reward- graphed in pies and lines, tabulated. But sometimes when you’re too high to see the paths below splitting with just an inkling of where you should land, you should just maybe hold your breath and jump. Land infallibly- you always do.

hearts,
boo

Punk'd: Mac Edition

2009-03-17T00:02:00.004-04:00

These people would be named Ed and Dolores.

You know that Mac app where you can distort your face all crazy? What. the. fuck. The other night me and the boy sat in front of his computer, his lap numb from me parking my fat ass on it, making the most absurd faces at his computer. We made aliens, and camels, and today he showed me the birth scene he made after I went to bed. And we did this happily for the greater part of an hour.

If I weren’t doing it in good company, I would totally petition to get back that hour of my life. But I had a brilliant idea today when I was working -- how funny would it be if you could webcam your friends’ faces as they played with that stupid app? They would be so embarrassed. And being a good friend, you would conveniently send them the youtube link where you’ve already uploaded this hilarity for the larger online community. Try explaining that video to your parents who still aren’t sure how to program numbers into their cellular telephones.

Aliens

And can we talk about some of the options? Yay! you no longer need any photoshop skills to make yourself into a comic book character, or put yourself in an aquarium scene, or my personal favorite, pop “art” of yourself. (Warhol would have loved this) Can you imagine the first people that invented the computer, the kind that took up entire rooms, and have to explain to them?

“Yeah, we got this computer thing down to 5ish pounds and when you’re not accessing all the world’s knowledge on the (insert finger quotes) ‘internet,’ you can make yourself a cyclops!”

The Camel

Just judging by the stupid shit I did to make that camel face, I can imagine how creative some people get. (Confession: I smooshed my boobs together using the fish eye lens to see what it would look like if I got fake titties. (and I hate that MSWord tells me that ‘titties’ is spelled wrong, because I’m 100% sure it’s not))

Why hasn’t someone been punk’d by this yet?

DISCLAIMER: the male figure in these pictures is fictional representation. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental. This person is definitely not running for public office in the future. So forget you saw it here.

Erin Expressed

2009-03-16T13:14:00.003-04:00

Erin Express is perhaps the saddest holiday celebrated by my generation. For those too cool to acknowledge that you know exactly what Erin Express is, it is a day where college students and still-irresponsible young professionals wake up early the Saturday before St. Patty’s Day and get wasted at a variety of Irish pubs. This day is also sometimes called “St. Practice Day,” as if you need to practice your shitfaced waddle, and keeping down everything you ate during the 8am “Keggs and Eggs Party.”

I had the pleasure of working the front desk Saturday morning, and at 9am I bid farewell to a harem of girls dressed in green terrycloth dresses and green eyeliner shamrock tattoos. They looked beautiful, and I’m glad they didn’t wear coats so that I could see more of their outfits. They were home and passed out by 3. lightweights.

My favorite Erin Express memory this year (which I’ll cherish because so many will not have any memory of this day), was when I was walking to the library around 2pm. A girl was crying because she had peed on her own Uggs while a Public Safety officer tried to pull her out of a bush, in front of the library’s giant glass windows, which face Market Street.

Like maybe I’m a dowdy old hag who would rather work on her research papers than rehash stout and scrambled eggs, but isn’t this holiday a wee bit silly?

(Get it? Wee?)

Erin Express is kinda cheap and trashy if done right, but if you’re looking for something for uncool people- you’ll find me doing $5 carbombs at J.L. Sullivan’s this Tuesday after work, in my sensible heels and slacks.

Jesus Loves Me

2009-03-12T21:59:00.003-04:00

About a month ago, I was standing on campus handing out condoms with labels that read “Save the Wood.” It was my ever-clever membership campaign for Sierra Club. A fine gentleman came up to me and handed a couple condoms back to me and told me he didn’t need them- which was quite brazen, I thought.

“Don’t you think you’re encouraging pre-martial sex?”

And this is how I met John. He asked me a couple questions about my religious beliefs as I continued to hand out rubbers to strangers. He seemed particularly concerned that I did not believe in heaven or hell, and my ideas about premarital sex were quite liberal. After 10 minutes, he left and said he would check out Sierra Club. Yeah, right, dude.

But he did. And afterwards we had a long conversation about our individual beliefs. He’s an evangelical christian, which I nearly had a “virtual baby” over. According to John, if you get a hard-on, you’ve had sex, and thusly have sinned. Additionally, very few people get into heaven because we’re all filthy adulterous sinning thieves. And if he had to console a woman who had just had an abortion he would simply say, “It’s not the first time you’ve killed someone” because technically she (and everyone else) has killed Christ too.

In short, we have very few things in common, except that we both find the Flying Spaghetti Monster hilarious. (personally, I think it’s the creation of pretentious atheists who love picking on scrawny christians. So dick.)

Because John came and checked out my tree-hugging crew, I was obligated to check out his bible-thumping crew: Campus Crusade for Christ. As soon as I walked into the meeting, there was a huge banner and those flags you see at used car dealerships. It was a Christ Carnival. Walking towards the front of the room, I was greeted by literally every person I passed. At last I found John and he told me that I could sit next to Holly. Well I sat down, and within five minutes, Holly moved her shit to another seat. She could smell my heathenism, and it smelled like Origins’ ginger perfume, burrito, and pheromones.

The meeting started off with everyone standing (now I remember why I disliked church: you just can’t casually sit and bear it. There’s all sorts of sitting-standing-kneeling-standing involved). So the Crusaders have their own house band, and John’s the drummer. Everyone sang along to a couple songs about loving Jesus, the guitarist frequently interjecting things like “All together now! Jesus we love you!”and “We are not worthy!”

Then my favorite part: Prayer Points!

And this is not something you cut off your Jesus Wheaties box and mail in for a free t-shirt. Prayer points were things you should pray for, in groups. So I found three random dudes to pray with. One guy introduced himself as “JC” and I couldn’t help but say “Oh! Like Jesus Christ!” He didn’t seem to get it. When JC suggested that I take the “help sinners bear fruit in Christ” bullet point, I politely asked the skinniest christian to do it for me, being that I was new and all. Pretty much this is the script for prayer points:

“Dear Lord, I just want to thank you for your grace, and bringing me to you, Father. I want to pray for ___(Insert Prayer Point)____. Father,_____________. Dear Lord, we are nothing in your glory, Father,” etc. etc.

After prayer points, there was a speaker on how to live an evangelical lifestyle and how to convince unbelievers to come to the christian community. He gave an outline of questions to use to engage unbelievers, and god damn it, it was the same script John used to get me there in the first place! So much for going as the open-minded atheist. I was duked.

After the speaker, there were some more prayer points. And more singing.

Now it’s two hours later, and really, I’ve had all the Christ I can take for one evening, so I tell John politely that I have to leave. Later he would email me to thank me for coming out and to invite me and a guest to “35,” one of the Crusade houses for a potluck dinner. I plan on asking my atheist other if he would like to go to the epicenter of organized evangelical Christianity, a plate of vegan tacos in hand.

Washington, Washington

2009-03-02T18:44:00.002-05:00

This past weekend I was in Washington DC for PowerShift 2009. IT WAS FUCKING AWESOME.

“Civil Rights, Hip Hop and the New Eco-Equity Movement” was by far the best workshop. Reverend Lennox Yearwood put some fire in our bellies (at 9am) and I’m furthermore convinced that I want to drop out of college, move to Oakland, and sell my soul to Van Jones.

But after three days in our national’s capitol, I have come to another important realization, one that has implications for my own personal life: Washington has no soul. Cool people who go to Washington DC will inevitably be drained of whatever made them unique and special in the first place.

See, the boy has been accepted at Georgetown Law, and at first I was super stoked because Washington seemed like a cool town that I’d like to visit. Plus I guess it’s a pretty good school or something.

But then I had to pay $10 for a Cosi salad, which angered me some. And then I realized that everyone is a sad walking Brooks Brothers suit, aged 30-50 years. Even at a café called “Bus Boys and Poets,” the people were dreadfully one-dimensional. Also, the White House is not so cool, which is kinda surprising.

I think much of this stems from the fact that Washington is a city carried by diplomats, while Philly is rooted by immigrants. There is no cheesesteak equivalent in DC. It’s a third of the size of Philadelphia, and there’s no “cool” part of town. A block of Chinatown was kinda groovy- you can even get duck blood with scallion and ginger there. Oh la la.

So I know this post is fraught with self-serving intentions (DON’T GO! GEORGETOWN, BAD), but seriously, Washington DC is not that cool when Reverend isn’t there. Not even Obama can make it look less… pasty.

Lesson Learned: Blog Smack

2009-03-02T15:15:00.003-05:00

I’d like to say that I’ve learned a valuable lesson today, that talking smack online is wack. But the bigger lesson learned is that creeps will find you no matter what. And by resurfacing in unconnected facets of my life, they will reveal their true character. This is factual. The link to this blog is not posted on my facebook, myspace, or bebo. I think I might have included a link to a post via twitter, but that was a long time ago.

Likely, you are reading this because:
- I sent you the link
- a friend sent you the link
- it was featured somewhere and you randomly checked it out amidst thousands of other blogs
- you’re a lesbian who’s into social networking

If you fit into the above criteria and you dig me, I dig you. Welcome to the Yukon Tickertape. If you do not fit into these criteria, you are source for suspect. Tread carefully.

This is kinda feels like that time when a past love got really upset because I casually mentioned on this blog that I found a complete stranger attractive. Well, he was good looking. I can say such things without prosecution- online or off. And similarly, six months ago, I realized this other person was totally not for me for a variety of reasons that I outlined quite comically. (or at least I thought so)

The fact of the matter is that I speak truths, son. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. I know your outlook towards the opposite sex is already iffy. Girls are mean, even the nice ones. It’s a good thing that you learn this now while you’re young.

p.s. stop texting me, please.
p.p.s. my man doesn't apprec

T and C Dog Present... Methedrine

2009-02-17T18:51:00.001-05:00

“You see, I started calling your grandfather the tea dog because he was in charge of setting up the tea cups and sugar and vitamins in the morning. And then he started calling me C-dog because I get the afternoon coffee ready. The other night we were lying in bed and we couldn’t stop laughing! Because tea dog is the same as T-Dog. And I’m C-Dog. After fifty years, too giggly to fall asleep.”

This was humor. And the thought of my aging grandparents, laughing together in a bed they’ve shared for fifty years, well, that was love.

+++

I let my robe drop. I wasn’t sure when to stop the faucet, not knowing how much water my body would displace. I took inventory: my legs to the knee are quite long- 2.5 hand spans’ worth, but not very wide (four gallons displaced maybe?), a stomach full of wine (nearly a bottle’s worth), hips and thighs (a quite meaty section)… better stop the water now. The water was hot enough to scald feathers off. I laid out the towels, the bubble bath, some candles, a cup of tea with an exorbitant amount of honey- like this was some ritualistic baptism. I had to break the surface slowly, already my feet were pink.

Submerged to the neck, I read some heroin-Dexedrine-Methedrine-influenced Ginsberg (as if there were any other kind), but I put it down after I finished “Howl.” I know some chick with “Howl” tattooed across her wrist. I wonder if this is where it’s from. Probably.

Dexedrine. Methedrine. Heroin. Soup.
Dexedrine. Methedrine. Heroin. Soup.
Dexedrine. Methedrine. Heroin. Soup.

The Shepherd

2009-02-16T23:30:00.003-05:00

In researching for my thesis on the publishing history of On the Road for my out of control English class, I’ve falling truly, madly, deeply in love with Jack Kerouac. I’ve always been pretty convinced that I was supposed to exist during the fifties as a housewife with a wild side, but I’m more convinced than ever that I’m a reincarnation of one of his muses—I think maybe Edie Parker.

So I’m doing all this research on Jack, reading 1957 New York Times reviews, navigating the original scroll, planning my own roadtrip, when I get to a blurb about the Shepherd. The Shepherd was a bar I frequented in high school with my then musician boyfriend. I really dug it then- it’s a dive with a huge bookshelf, and an owner who (when you’re really trashed and feeling intellectual) will read you passages from his book on the duality of man. It turns out, however, that the Shepherd is an official shrine to Kerouac. Also, it’s right next to Paterson, where Kerouac started his On the Road trip. This clearly is a sign that our love was meant to be.

So in honor of my love for Kerouac, I’m going to have a couple whiskey highballs at the Shepherd this Saturday. Come buy me a drink.

How-To: Valentine's Day

2009-02-16T00:58:00.003-05:00

How to have a not-sucky Valentine’s Day:

Prerequisite: Have a valentine. Generally people who don’t have a valentine on Valentine’s Day are bitter.

Step 1: Make your valentine a valentine. And write something witty and meaningful on it. This is what I wrote on mine:

Now daddy comin' home
And I'm lookin' for a little bit of action
I be comin' through wanna do that thang
Let me bless you with thug passion

Step 2: Cover your valentine’s door in those little word candy hearts, but don’t forget to eat all the ones that say stuff about love and getting married.

Step 3: Get sexy. Wear a dress that other bitches will hate you for. Wear minimal underwear. Repaint your nails. Spend an extra minute on your eye makeup.

Step 4: Go to Red Lobster for dinner. You may be surprised at this one, but there are several reasons why this is a good idea:

a.You’ll generally look better than 90% of the other chicks there
b. You can watch the dunk contest on ESPN while you sip the house red (which is, like, $4/glass)
c. Biscuits

Step 5: Have another glass (or three) of wine when you get home while watching Talk Soup. Joel Hale is hilarious, but do not be intimidated by all the big-breasted skanks of VH1/MTV reality television.

Step 6: get some.

Step 7: Retire early, and make sure you snag your favorite pillows. This is the only day of the year where you are allowed to take all the good pillows for yourself without your valentine complaining.

Step 8: Supposedly talk about how you “want to go see the dinosaurs in 3-D” in your sleep.

Step 9: Make eggs over easy with the leftover Red Lobster biscuits that you stole the night before. Daddy told you to bring the big bag, and now you know why. [Oven at 350 for 5-8 minutes]

NOTE: Only call your valentine ‘Daddy’ if you’re not really serious and because it’s funny in an Alabama kind of way.

Thank God for Darwin

2009-02-12T21:31:00.004-05:00

Today Darwin celebrates his 200^th birthday. I was absolutely horrified to read today that about half of Americans believe that humans were created by God in their present form. (Does this correspond to the approximately 45% of Americans that voted McCain?)

I was thinking today about survival of the fittest. And although I would totally buy my man, Chuck Darwin, a beer, I have a bit of a qualm. I don't think "survival of the fittest" is accurate. It should be something more like “survival of the most willing to spread their legs.” Let’s face it, those willing to spread their legs are spreading their seed, and you know who’s not spreading? Apparently people like me.

That doesn’t mean that I’m not ya know-ing (Valentine’s Day is also right around the bend), but my Grandmother made a point a couple years ago to formally request that I have children—for society. Half of her reasoning was because “the Blacks” and “the Hispa…latinos or whatever” are populating a lot faster than white people. (please forgive her non-PC-ness. She's old) The other half of her reason was that typically the more successful a person is, the less likely they are to have children, or to postpone having children until their lazy dusty eggs are defunct and they’re forced to an Angelina-Jolie-esque adoption spree.

I took this as a compliment and foresight of my incredible future success. (thanks, Grandmama!)

Or if not “survival of the most willing to spread their legs,” then definitely at least “survival of the prettiest.” Being completely realistic, which of the following classic stereotypes is more likely to get their swerve on: the frumpy, super-smart girl or the is-chicken-of-the-sea-chicken? hot idiot.

Idiot, exactly. And this isn’t just limited to humans. The often plainly colored females (birds, fish, bugs) look for the most brightly colored males to sperm her eggs. Is he smarter? Who knows, who cares, he’ll make cute babies. And how often have I heard this in real life?

You’d be surprised. As a woman, I have heard my fellow birthers express this exact sentiment. I mean, why would I water down my hot genes with a stupid law degree?? I don’t want your ugly nerd baby.

Ew.

We can’t force the sterilization of idiots because that would be unethical, and we’d lose a lot of biodiversity. Though on the bright side, Darwin has explained why as a society we’ve gotten increasingly sexier. And this is true if you happen to get your hands on a yearbook from as early as 1950.

So thank you, Darwin, for explaining why we’ve gotten sexier and inspiring those Jesus-fish-with-legs magnets for our cars. They’re a cute rebuttal against people who are actually reproducing, a lot.

Cheers!

Kerouac

2009-02-11T13:50:00.003-05:00

If I could have one lusty affair for the rest of my life, with any person, dead or alive, it would be with Jack Kerouac.

Obama's My Stepdad

2009-02-07T12:47:00.002-05:00

I’ve been having the most absurd dreams lately, and I think it means that not eating for 3 days was not a good idea. Within those 72 hours, I dreamed about a very smart yellow paper snake, dating Steve Jobs, and taking a honeymoon in a snow fort.

By far this was my favorite:

My mom is dating Barack Obama. For publicity purposes, she and I have to spend lots of time together and act as if we’re each other’s best friends. (In real life, I haven’t spoken to my mother for nearly six years). So they’re planning their wedding, buying a house, and dragging me along. I’m obviously not thrilled.

We’re having dinner at TGIFridays, which is weird when you consider Obama’s the president and all, and Friday’s is kinda gross. All the attention he gets is annoying. Fucking Tracy Morgan comes right over to our table.

“Yo Obama! Yo I love you Obama, man. I donated, like, five dollaz to your campaign. Come to my show sometime, man”

(and this is exactly how Tracy Morgan talks)

Tracy Morgan leaves, finally, and Obama gets up to go to the bathroom. Since he’s going to be my stepfather, I ask my mother what I should be calling him. I’m certainly not going to call Barack Obama 'Daddy' (ya know, because he is kinda handsome and I want to outwardly avoid mixing kink and our President... publicly) And “hey, Barack, can I borrow ten bucks to go to the movies” sounds weird.

“Like what am I supposed to call him?” I ask.

My mother replies, “You can just call him Ricky”

And this sounds like a perfectly acceptable answer to me.

Ricky.

Talking Shit

2009-01-23T20:38:00.003-05:00

The dude I’m dating got into Duke Law yesterday. Today he got a full ride to Temple.

Don’t get me wrong, I am super stoked for him, but this whole ‘wow you’re like the cat’s meow’ is making me feel inadequate, like perhaps he (gasp) ‘settled.’ But I am far from an underachiever! My GPA is near perfect, I’m the officer of three student organizations, I work 15 hours a week for an economic development firm, I volunteer and recycle, and I’m a nice person who regularly bakes goodies for her small and accommodating circle of friends.

So what could I do to reaffirm my self-worth? What could I do to prove to myself that I am just as much a catch?? Naturally, test my willpower. duh.

Starting Monday, and for the following ten days I will drink 6-12 glasses daily of a lemon-maple syrup-cayenne pepper concoction while I commit to going to the gym every other day.

Kat von D tried this cleanse on her show so I think it’s okay. She passed out, but whatever. I think I’m more hardcore than some chick that has a gold tooth and not a square inch of untatted hide. Totally, man.

If I don’t continue to at least semi-regularly update, there’s a good chance I passed out in the shower and drown. Wish me luck.

Jaibee, OUT.

Vision

2009-01-21T20:03:00.006-05:00

In the last five minutes of my "Strategy and Competitive Advantage" class, my professor casually assigned the following question for tomorrow's class:

What is your life vision?

Really?? After several hundred false attempts, this is what I have. This is my life's vision:

To have a vision implies having a plan, a path. And while I understand that in order to accomplish D, you must sometimes first complete A, B and C, this nonetheless means that eventually you’ll hit Z. And then what?

We live our lives by our own philosophies, benchmarking against own expectations, deciding when the box is fit to be checked. And what’s the big deal about D anyway? Is D the goal? Is Z? Or is it simply to learn the alphabet? At what point are you satisfied enough to fly your ‘Mission Accomplished’ banner?

It would be nice to leave accredited from this institution of higher learning, would be nice to go on to get shinier degrees with more elaborate frames, would be nice to make six, seven, eight figures, but my vision is not to be student, nor planet-saver, nor wife to bear beautiful children. My vision is rather simple: to be 20/20. My vision is to live stories worth re-telling.

How do you justify 13,000 feet of falling, holding the hands of someone you hardly know; swimming in the Atlantic, in January, twice; or sleeping on the plastic-lined couches of strangers. What rationale do you use to explain biking across the state with nothing but a twenty, a jar of peanut butter and a bouquet of flowers; eating a box of clementines waiting for the sun to rise, with sand in hair. They were stories to share and things I saw when I remembered to not blink too much.

If these pressing economic times persist, I’ll still have a pocketful of gems for the willing ear, which may be more than your eight-figure job and your hand-carved frames. Really, it’s all about ROI.

We are so often told to look to the future, to the horizon, to beyond. We are recommended to plan, often meticulously, the highways which will assumingly eventually lead us to a goal, or to the end of a continent. In such a case, I can only recommend a swim.

We Is Full Grown

2009-01-18T21:48:00.002-05:00

A new study by UK’s leading sociologists have concluded that if you want to find happiness in later life, it is best to avoid puppy love altogether.

I don’t usually like to include characters from my own personal love life as examples (unless you’re this guy… or this guy), mostly because I promised them I wouldn’t, and it’s tacky. But I will say that those Brits are onto something. I may or may not have been with someone in the maybe not so distant past, in which there may have been a hypothetical relationship largely based on butterflies, of the intestinal sort.

In the end, it was him, not me, and maybe we loved, but weren’t in love. (or something like that)

I can’t say that my current relationship is in any way shadowed by the shallow affections and junior highness of that former flame, but I’ve learned that puppy love is a lot of work, and a lot of compromise, and prime brain real estate, and a lot of undeserved fawning.

Puppy love is fucking stressful, and let’s face it, nothing good ever comes of it. I’m ready for relationships based on, I dunno, maturity, respect, realistic expectations, communication and all those other things Cosmo says. Also, I’m ready to trade in hallway notes for other fun presents. I’m the farthest thing from a needy girlfriend, but sometimes girls like presents. And like L’Oreal, I’m worth it.

To quote one of my dearest friends: Imma get mine, in ’09. amen.

RANT: Reading Isn't Hard

2009-01-14T15:21:00.000-05:00

For the last four years, I've worked diligently on acquiring my bachelor's degree in Marketing. I even found time to get a minor in Corporate Communications. When I'm not in classes, I'm putting theory to use, working at a reputable economic development firm. I pay attention in class; I show up on time; I take this college deal seriously.

Praise be to Jesus, this is my last term of a full workload. After signing up for three marketing classes and "Competive Advantage and Strategic Management," I thought I'd use one of my electives on something that would be fun, relatively easy, interesting... English "The Beat Fifties."

Sounds groovy, right? I have the fondest memories sitting in Ms. Rosalind Jones' AP English class in the spring, with the windows open, the urge for munchies just subsiding- discussing metaphor in Siddharta. Oh, it was beautiful! Nine beautiful nerds sitting in a circle trying to get in Hesse's head, and seven out of nine of those beautiful nerds received the highest score on the AP exam. Those other two degenerates got 4/5.

+++

Fast forward to this morning's class, a veritable collection of barely-there potheads, embittered chicks in combat boots, and a guy who shows up half an hour late to a 50-minute class and probably hasn’t bathed in recent history. Whatever, dude, they're artists. Now the professor goes on her anti-organized religious rant, and something about "making dirty sex to the dark woman."

Chick in the front row, can you tell us the setting of this novel?
"It's just... it's just fuckin hell. Everyone is so pretty and clean with their polo shirts and white picket fences. It's fuckin miserable. Everyone is just pretending they're happy, but deep down, they fuckin hate themselves and everything they're pretending to be. So fake."

Yeah, thanks Chick-in-the-Front-Row. 'Westport, CT' would have been an acceptable answer too.

And why are you so damn bitter, Chick-in-the-Front-Row!? Your major simply requires you to lie in bed and read. Also, it’s not like the books have gotten progressively more difficult as you’ve gone through college. If you are literate, I think you’re going to be okay. And paying 40k a year to read poems at a well-respected engineering school? Well, maybe you should be the one taking a couple business courses…

Here, I wrote you a haiku:
Chick-in-the-Front-Row,
Why are you so damn loathsome?
Reading isn’t hard.

Author’s Note: I don’t hate on all English majors. Just the self-righteous, bitter ones who aren’t honest with themselves.

Leap Second Flashback

2008-12-31T23:59:00.002-05:00

Things Not to Say to a Naked Woman

2008-12-30T01:45:00.004-05:00

Men’s Health magazine published a list of “T he 30 Hottest Things to Say to a Naked Woman.” Advice for men, from men, about women is awesomely hilarious. And while a woman (say myself) could easily publish a similar-minded list of things I actually want to hear while in the buff, it’s too priceless to watch men fumble looking for the right buttons like it’s some kind of Narnia.

I’m sorry, Fine Writers of Men’s Health magazine, I have to put the kibosh on the following:

#10. “I’ll get the light.”

What have most men learned from men’s magazines? Don’t say anything that can be misconstrued because it will. You’ll turn out the light? Why? Because you don’t want to see me naked? Why not?? Am I not beautiful?! Am I FAT?? DO YOU NOT LOVE ME ANYMORE?! etc.

#8 "Hungry? Stay right here. I'll go make you a burrito."

If she’s naked, and she’s hungry, you probably just got lucky. And if you think there might be a round two in the anywhere near future, may I recommend NOT the burrito? I personally prefer ice cream, or if you really want to impress me- grilled cheese. And, babe, turn on VH1 when you get up? Thanks.

#15 Nothing. Total, deliberate silence. You can stare at her, grab her, touch her, but don't make a sound. If she tries to talk, place a finger on her lips.

!!!AWKWARD!!!

#16 While looking out the window at people not currently in bed with her: "Suckers."

…because we’re like 14 in this scenario.

#17 While looking at moonlight reflecting on the ceiling: "What do you see?"

Grilled cheese and Real Chance of Love re-runs. chop chop.

#22 "Squeeze my hand when it feels really amazing."

Uh yeah, sure, dude.

The rest of the items on the list range from holy hell hot (“I love the way you taste”) to sweet (“Is it okay with you if I take this slow?”) to the yeah-that’ll-never-happen (“You sleep. I’ll go check on the baby.”)

Landmarked

2008-12-28T23:32:00.000-05:00

I haven’t been home for this extended a time (7 days) in four years. I wish I had brought my camera to capture the things that used to be so ordinary that I forgot to notice them:

Two tuna cans and a Spam can full of cigarette butts on the rail of our porch- sorta covered in snow. A gargoyle on the stump in our back yard- also sorta covered in snow. One hundred and eighty four individual instances of lighthouses- on hand towels, on shower curtain rings, on paintings. An encyclopedia series from the sixties where all the facts are outdated because our population has bloated and because the lines of countries shift. Judy Garland overdosed.

A lopsided Christmas tree, each branch holding something from somewhere else- Cape Cod, Maine, Tokyo, the Paris of the South. There are three ‘Baby’s First Christmas’ ornaments. And a disco ball I bought in Mystic, RI and a sock puppet from… can’t remember. Jackson Five Christmas songs are playing in the background and somewhere my dad is feeling sentimental.

A gem-bedazzled pimp cup that says Sexy Bitch, and a sweatshirt for every day of the month. A rack of still-knotted blue, gray and green ties because my dad doesn’t know how to re-tie them. There’s a varsity jacket from ’61. A cheerleading skirt from ’00. Two empty dressers. A trunk of awards and pictures, movie stubs and love letters. Four identical toothbrushes (though two are hardly ever used)

A carton of soy milk untouched from Thanksgiving, seven varieties of Pop Tarts, an almost empty tub of cookie dough that has never seen the oven. Lean Pockets.

The closet under the stairs that smells exactly like the attic. A TV remote whose battery is failing but if you push the buttons really hard…

Ugh Season

2008-11-21T00:56:00.001-05:00

Fashionably-speaking, fall has to be one of my favorite seasons. Though for some females, it is a time of confusion, resistance, and desperation. The not-so-elusive loose-dressing female is forced from the comforts of bikini and short short, and into something a little less revealing. Travesty.

The cold season boon for these females has been the unfortunate rise of the Ugg. Some words sound like the thing they describe- not quite like onomatopoeia- but say ‘clap’ aloud. Sounds like a clap, right? Now say ‘ugg’- it is a befitting name for the Neanderthal of footwear.

Oh, but they’re soooo warm, they tell me. So comfy, I am told. I want nothing more than to clothe the skimpily clad, and I’m all for warm when it’s cold, but it is the manner in which this primitive footwear is deployed that makes me shake my head. Here I would like to take a moment to communicate the appropriate and inappropriate utilization of the Ugg boot.

NO: The Slutty Snow Bunny
Jean skirts are an anomaly in themselves, but paired with Uggs, you get a slut-tastic outfit. The whole argument of oh so warm goes right out the window. Like other comfy articles of clothing- granny panties, thick high socks, sports bras- they should be hidden from public viewing. So why would you put your painfully hideous boots on display? This trend is not mitigated by the use of leggings (which should never, ever be used as a sole replacement for pants).

NO: The Viking
Sweatpants are for indoor use, or during fat-days exclusively. Some may argue with me, but I wholeheartedly believe that taking an extra minute to put on real pants and to brush your hair will project the message “I prefer not to look like a slob.” That said, pairing sweatpants (and god forbid, a sweatshirt too) with Uggs, screams “I want to look like a tank, even if I weigh 80 pounds.” This is the white flag surrender of self-appearance. You are not even trying.

Back to the not-so-elusive loose-female. Somehow this combination, usually with a stylish top and a full face of makeup, is an assuming next step from the simple skimpiness of summer. I’m not sure of the logic either, but I know you know what I’m talking about.

DOUBLE NO: The Gaucho
“The Viking” trend takes a far dip south when said sweatpants are hiked up to the knee leaving about six inches of exposed leg. This is a what-the-fuck on so many levels, and I refuse to address why this makes you look like a time-traveling hobo.

OK: The Completely Sensible Answer to Cold
Wearing warm shoes on snowy days is not an option; it is necessity. If they can be high, waterproof and faux-fur lined, the better. Paired with jeans, Uggs can be one of the greatest contributions to modern comfortable footwear, but the heinous misuse of these boots make even the most sensible women feel like an asshole. Thanks.

Just slipping my foot into an Ugg propels me to stuff my bra, apply liberal amounts of lip gloss and practice promiscuity.

OK: The Mugg
Uggs for men are so much more acceptable because they are a physical manifestation of those who sport them: a simple, function-driven solution to cold feet. Men would never wear Uggs with shorts, and if they do, it’d be okay because it means he’s probably on his way to take out the trash.

Author’s Note: Not all women who wear Uggs are sluts (but there’s probably a good chance).

An Open Letter

2008-10-30T23:27:00.001-04:00

I took a book off the shelf. It’s a book that was intimately tied to a specific time, and a specific place. But we can forget that. I can even disregard the inscription on the inside cover. I mean, who reads the inside covers of books they already own and have read? I flip to my favorite chapter, the one that I have the first lines memorized:

Bring your ear down closer. Put your hand over the other ear. Think of seashells. There. Now you can hear me.

A photo falls of us, kissing in a photobooth. I studied each slide and how we looked, where your hands were, where mine were. We were younger then and it even looks it. Our brows were less knitted, our smiles much wider. I was wearing someone else’s dress. You were wearing someone else’s shoes. And nothing, not even the clothes on our backs, belonged to us. Not really anyway.

Did we dance that night? I can’t remember. With whom did we mingle? I forget all their names. I remember looking at a dodo bird. Not a real one, of course, because those are all extinct- dwindled off by their own stubbornness to reproduce for the survival of their own species. I remember penguin servers with trays of hors d’oeuvres. I remember your eyes when I took off my coat.

How did it come to this? My present arachnid state. I was young once, I was beautiful, I was sought after, I had picturesque robes and exceptional talents. I uttered portents in caves: there were lineups, there were waiting lists for them. How did I come to be so tiny, so translucent, so wispy, so whispery?

For all the times I’ve hid treasures in borrowed library books for others to find- train stubs, unsent postcards, little doodles in the margins- I never surmised that I would find my own. All at once, I am regretful, I am proud, I am rendered helpless, I am better off, I am missing, and I find myself, crying- for what I’m not sure.

Fear is synonymous with the future, and the future consists of forked roads, I should say forking roads, because the roads are forking all the time, like slow lightening. A road is a process, not a location.

I feel as if I’ve missed an exit, for the rest stop. A place where we can sip coffee slowly, and find relief when we’re bursting at the seams. And like most interstates, expressways, turnpikes, the further away from the missed exit, the harder it is to turn around. The less justified you feel. The further you travel, the more you hope there’s another comparable stop in the future, one that you surely will not miss, not this time. One that has a café that serves soy chai lattes, at the right temperature.

Regret will follow this open letter, a hurried mistake for which I will burn my tongue, but perhaps I’ll learn to wait. Or I’ll learn to keep my foot heavy on the pedal. Or perhaps I’ll learn nothing and instead always wonder. But for now you are a photograph, and a story whose lines I’ve memorized. We promised always.

We are both the kind of person who takes the corks out of bottles. Not bottles of wine: bottles of sand.

Autumn in New England

2008-10-22T09:19:00.001-04:00

Friday October 17, 2008
7:56amEating biscuits, grits and eggs (over easy) in an unnamed restaurant chain fashioned after a country general store. As I spoon the last of my grits into my mouth, each piece conveniently finding a wedge between my teeth, I look up at the mounted deer head on the wall and below it, also mounted, the shotgun that presumably killed it. I wash it all down with some coffee. I think there was bacon in that hash casserole…

11:10am - Point Judith-Montauk Point Ferry to Block IslandMy brother and father are arguing over a dentist appointment. Dad reaches for cigarette, before he realizes there’s one already fuming between his lips.

I watch Montauk fade and think, I would have waited forever. I give up on coincidence and have another cup of coffee.

2:13pm - Mohegan Bluffs
Flashback to family vacation, same place, 13 years ago: Climbing the 80+ rickety stairs down the cliff seems less daunting. It’s either because my legs are longer, stronger; because I am braver and more adventurous; or maybe because, according to Daddy, they’ve been rebuilt.

When I was 8 and my brother was 6, we sat in the same place, near the water’s edge, in our matching Navy sweatshirts, picking snails off the rocks. It was especially gratifying for Justin when he was able to throw a snail and have it bounce off another rock. Personally, I thought I was saving them- returning them to the sea, to their homes and families. It wasn’t their fault that their undersides were sticky. My dad watches us atop a large rock, contemplative.

Now, my brother throws fist-sized rocks at larger rocks. It’s particularly gratifying when they burst into pieces. My sister is giving herself an oceanic Facebook photoshoot. I’m balancing rocks atop each other to make “fuckin hippie sculptures.” My dad watches from atop a rock, contemplative. His beard’s a little grayer.

I feel this is a good representation of my family.

5:00pm – BeachHead Tavern and Restaurant
Jen: I haven’t seen any cops here.
[Immediately I flashback to RA training, city tours. Of course I have noticed that there are not many cops. I’ve completed a sociogram of the hotel staff and shop owners we’ve met, I’ve proactively met my neighbors and I’ve done a demographic scan of my environment]

Daddy: There’s probably only one or two. Not a lot of people here in the off season. Fire department’s all volunteer.

Justin: What happens if that one guy gets shot? Probably just get another from the mainland. Oh man, that guy’s prob so pissed. ‘fuck, Block Island duty’

The gulp of Dogfish Indian Brown Ale I just took is fully expelled through my nose, into my hand. After realizing that our plates have been taken away, I let said expelled beer splatter on the table, absorbed by the paper placemat. I would have been embarrassed if we all weren’t laughing so hard and if my nose didn’t burn so bad.

8:30pm: The National Hotel, Water Street, with an ocean viewWe all shamelessly go to bed and immediately fall asleep. There’s a big orange man made of cheese outside our window, but the wind blows cotton over his face to make a fluffy beard.

In 13 years I’ll be back here with my children.

“Give me liberty” -or- “Give me death"

2008-10-05T23:21:00.002-04:00

My ancestors lassoed a velociraptor
In funky wooly mammoth sweaters

In sweaters we don’t need right now
Because God, with a capital ‘G’
Is giving us an extra big hug
With just a little more smog

We walk streets glittering with the American Dream
-or- shards of last night’s Colt 45
(guess we forgot to recycle)

Passing beggars who don’t want your coins
They want
Change.

Change?
Can we?

Because I’m not so sure.

When we rear our own ugly heads
When someone else looks into our eyes
To see into our souls,

What will they see?

g-stringed pandemics when we can’t get food on our tables

slur gunslingers in cities supposedly built on brotherly love

where killing a man, makes you more of one
but where loving a man, makes you less

Turning our noses up when we peep into our neighbor’s windows
Coveting their mail order wives
We should ask what they see, just past our patchwork curtains

We have lost boys in our own backyard

We have men that beat their wives in the room down the hall

We build bombs in our own basements

But I’m not saying that we’re wrong
Or that we’re right

but “we are”
-or- “we can”

Grandma Voicemail

2008-09-24T14:49:00.003-04:00

gooThis is an actual message left today by my grandmother at 2:37pm. I’m pretty sure she’s on drugs.

Heyaaaa kiddo!
I see you called me the other day and we weren’t home. You didn’t leave a message. I saw your number on the caller …ID. How you doing? Gooood. We’re ok too. Hahah

Ooooh.

I’m cooking clams now. The guy across the street gave me five dozen clams. Sixty clams. Now I gotta figure out what to do with all these clams. It’s too bad you’re not here to help me. I think I’m gunna-steam’em. I’m just jibber jabbering.

[background: Joanie! Where’s Jake’s leash?!]

Oooh my.

I’m reading that book you’re reading now, the president one. We can read it together. So much dirty sexy though. Slut, she is [note the Yoda-like syntax] tramping around with that boy’s brother.
Hmph.

[something metal drops]

I love you hunny, take care! Call me!

Heirlooms

2008-09-21T21:45:00.002-04:00

Amid the dark procession, hands clasped, my sister and I sat in the second pew. We wore our family’s heirloom pearls and jewels. As the oldest daughter, I wore my great grandmother’s modest engagement ring, “I will love you forever” engraved inside. The parishioners all turned to watch the most able men bear the palls, my father among them, the only one without a jacket, without cufflinks, in a tie that’s hasn’t been untied in 13 years. A man who had bore Life on his shoulders now struggled to pick up the Dead.

It seemed ironic.

There had been an ungraceful gospel, a halting homily. Standing, sitting, standing, kneeling. The pew creaked under the weight of my cousin Cindy, the adopted one, the one who had half her foot amputated. Green won’t take over us though, because we don’t really share blood.

I very much did not want to receive communion, but in the midst of your elders is not the place to dissent. I looked at my grandmother, all puffy and red-eyed, I rolled the diamond ring around my ring finger, and walked up anyway. Is it your left hand under your right hand or the other way around? I skipped the wine altogether. More irony. Reformed to an eight year old, I challenged myself to not chew the Eucharist, to taste but not swallow- in the Christian tradition.

Mass used to be tangible, used to make me holy by the transitive property, but all this education makes it so abstract. My body, his body. His blood, our blood, my veins. Your sins, my sins, Eve’s sins, my unborn child’s sin.

The stained glass window depicted the coil-haired Angel Gabriel delivering the news of child to the Virgin Mary.

“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,’
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.”

All around the glassy Gabriel and Mary were eleven cherub faces, with wings sprouting from their ears. Missing unknit masses.

We oldest daughters were tucked under our father’s arms. Our younger sisters were tucked under ours. And our brothers sat solemn and strong, as if to prove their shoulders broad enough already to bear life under our father’s roofs and under our family’s name.

As a good Christian family we rose and prayed- the Blomquists, the Murrens, the Barkleys-nee-Barcowski’s together, bonded by deviled eggs, Easter eggs and not infrequently infertile eggs. I wondered what I would do when my own mother dies, if in that church I could smell flowers, of peach roses she’s so fond of.

I thought about the children I would knit in my womb, and the tiny booties I would knit for their knitted feet. I thought about my grandchildren who would come home to attend the funerals of aunts they barely knew. I touched my abdomen and felt the pains of knitting needles, I heard them clinking out the seconds.

I can’t say I much believe in faith, but I paid two dollars to light a little red candle- palm to palm and on my knees.

Morning

2008-09-13T14:12:00.002-04:00

You look beautiful in the morning. It always seems to happen that I’m awake just before, early enough to watch your limbs stir to life; to hear your vocal cords vibrate and groan, your knee and neck joints click; to smell the sleep still on your breath, escaping from a mouth like a fruit ripe enough to split; to see your lashes shutter open, to see your lens focus and shoot from the safety of a comforter shelter. You look beautiful in the morning, all the night’s façade streaked clean from your cheeks so that I can see your skin underneath. There are freckles only in the morning. I love the way your hair falls around your face unlacquered, wild and untamed. I love that I smell only you and not the things you wear.

You roll and stretch towards me. The sheets are unable to obscure the dip of your waist and the climb of your hips, wider than mine. Your browned shoulders are freckled too. There’s a scar on your right blade though I think you forget that it’s there. Skin pulled taut over your accented collar, like an emphasis in a language foreign, above a protruding bust that’s always warm. Two round breasts that know the calluses of my hands, that know the friction of my cheeks. Your form is more solid and more concrete than anything I have known. It is there and not all at once. I acknowledge you and I acknowledge what you are and where you are not.

We don’t say anything in the morning- just watch each other break into consciousness, break into the knowingness that our lives are fleeting and complex, that there is a parade of circumstance and we must march onward in step else risk tripping and scraping our knees, figuratively. I don’t care to sleep with you. I don’t care if you are there when I fall asleep or that you meet me in a dream-state Cairo. I care only that you open your eyes when I open mine.

Post Date Assessment: Copenhagen

2008-09-09T00:32:00.000-04:00

Let’s review. He’s:
Tall, handsome, well-mannered and well-traveled, intelligent, established, educated and employed, accented and artistic

We met for coffee and found a bench at Rittenhouse, close enough to hear the Rastafarian music, but not close enough to smell it. We talked about dogs and the powerfulness of the Constitution (which he could passionately quote). About the Mediterranean (where he studied) and literary classics. He goes to church every Sunday and volunteers helping the homeless. He paints on the weekend and isn’t shy to sing a verse of a song I’ve never heard. He even forgave me for my Copenhagen Lie.

He suggested I go to church with him sometime, that he teach me to paint, to speak a little Norwegian. Upon hearing that my parents are still relatively young, he said that I would have to start soon to keep up. Yes, he suggested that I start a family soon. And talked about the importance of commitment in a relationship.

This.is.the.knight.in.shining.armor

And yet I am so dissatisfied, because I am not disappointed. I dread that he might call again, and ask for more, for dinner at least.

This dating deal is like groping the bathroom cabinet above the sink looking for Dimetapp.

You drink it down because it’s supposedly good for you, because it’ll cure your malaise and make you feel better. But before you even bring the little plastic cup to your lips, you know it’ll throw your stomach into knots. It’ll make your body cower and stomach churn. It’ll feel…medicinal. But you do it, because they tell you that it’s good for you.

You do it because you’re hoping that you’re feeling a just a little cold.

Copenhagen, Sweden

2008-09-02T14:17:00.002-04:00

Finals week is upon me, and of all the things I would like to be on me, this is the least preferable option. I woke up late Monday, and enjoyed the holiday from the 12th floor lounge in my pajamas. There I worked a feverish four hours of final-paper-writing. And to applaud my commitment to academia and my own personal integrity, I took the rest of the afternoon off, and spent it reading in Rittenhouse.

I wasn’t even there for a hot minute before a godly-looking man came up to me and asked me my opinion on his painting. I don’t think I even really looked at his painting because this man was fucking beautiful. A perfect smile, blue-eyed and light haired, which is totally not my bag, but I want it like Fendi.

(I don’t own a Fendi. I don’t have a bag in my possession that cost more than $15, but it sounded good so I’m rolling with it… like Mercedes)

I said that the lighter leaves painted in the background make him look almost glorious, that the details, though obviously difficult, were beautifully executed. I thought this was a very astute observation until he said:
“Well, it’s a woman”

“What?”

“The statue. It’s a woman”

“Oh. So it is”

He tells me about the sculptor and we bullshit a little. I deduce that he’s Norwegian, which would explain his sexamaholic accent and he works for some Norwegian firm here (read: employed). And I say, “Oh Norwegian. My family is Swedish.” This is 25% true.

And he remarks how beautiful Sweden is and I say, “Oh, I know.”
This is about 50% true. I don’t really know what Sweden looks like, but 25% of my people came from there so it must be okay.

“I just got back from there”
THIS IS A COMPLETE LIE: 0% true. I don’t even know why I said such a thing. I was so mesmerized by this European-ness that I wasn’t thinking at all. The fitted shirt, the peeking chest hair, his canvas slip-ons. To boot, I think I started imitating his accent.

“That’s fantastic! Where did you go?”

And then I realize that I don’t even know the capital of Sweden, nor can I think of a single city, because I’ve never been there. Ever.

“Uh, Copenhagen”

“… That’s in Denmark”

“Yeeaaah, but that’s where we flew into and then we drove”

“To Sweden.”

“Yep. Swedish… countryside”

“I love the Swedish countryside!”

At this point, I’m mortified, but three kids on a skateboard roll into our legs, cleverly distracting him from my floundering. Looking back, I think this was an omen that I would have lots of babies with a successful handsome Scandanavian man, just like Daddy wanted. Besides, I’ve dated musicians and poets and those didn’t work out so well, and certainly no one’s ever painted me a picture.

He gave me his number and name, Arne (pronounced Ar-nay) and we parted ways. And he said something to me in Swedish, but I didn’t understand because, again, I’ve never been to Sweden.

When I got home, I consulted a map and it turns out that Sweden has lots of cities, including its capital Stockholm, and it’s right next to Norway, where he’s from. Also there’s a big fucking ocean between Copenhagen, Denmark (which is on an island) and Sweden.

A big fucking ocean you can’t drive on.

Chapter Three: Burma Hot Dog

2008-09-01T02:50:00.001-04:00

On a sliding scale of bitterness, I would say I’m around brussel sprouts sans butter, which is actually not that bad for a Sunday. My grandmother called to tell me all about what she had for dinner with Jack and Jane, and Lew and Lynn; about her rheumatoid arthritis; that persistent bruise; about the creaking in her hip; about what she had for dinner with Jack and Jane, with Lew and Lynn.

After the Manchild woke up, I sent him out for cigarettes, because we’re beyond faking our addictions. Among our favorite vices now are: chain smoking, covert solo drinking, meaningless sex, and spicy chicken sandwiches, extra mayo. (The extra mayo part makes it a deadly sin. The pickles just make it gross). Oh, these are a few of our fav-o-rite things.

We made it out of our flea motel by noon and went to Disney for the day. I know we’re old. I don’t really have an excuse for going.

That’s the end of that part of the story.

+++++

There’s a reason why Burma only gets a hot dog cart in Epcot.

And that reason is rampant intestinal plagues.

When you are helplessly and hopelessly dependent on another human being for your survival, you know you have been humbled. This power is horribly abused when said Other is dangling a bottle of pepto bismol over your head bargaining the confiscation of your cigarettes because even smoke is making you puke. And honestly, they’re probably just tired of hearing your dry heave, but this person does not respect you.

But they probably do love you. As a girl, when you can finally number two in the same living space as the person you’re dating-but-not-living-with, it is love. They don’t even necessarily need to be home for it. Sure, it might be love if there’s a diamond ring, or poems, or sex where afterwards you really do want to cuddle, but the proof is in the pudding. (Emergencies do not count, though they are hilariously mortifying)

Example: in college I dated someone whose testament of love was the unconditional acceptance from his stepsister. I never really got that far, but I did poop while he was at work. Thusly, I can say, without shadow of a doubt, that I was definitely in love and if his sister weren’t such an overbearing cunt of a skank who can’t take even take a fucking joke, we’d be happily married with our retarded Shiva babies, and our white picket fence, and our dogs that we let piss all over the carpet.

Chapter Two: Patron Saint of the Retarded

2008-08-28T12:43:00.000-04:00

We’re visiting Aunt Millie, Patron Saint of the Retarded, the first day of our vacation. Her house is a couple hours from our hotel, and he felt obligated to visit the woman who’s been sending him “Happy Birthday. God Bless You” cards all his life. I wouldn’t even so much call it a house as I would call it a petting zoo for the mentally impaired. She never married, never had kids, and when she found god at age 58, she started taking in foster kids: twitchy crack babies, the droopy downward faces of Downs, and the shifty-eyed crouching abused. You name it, she housed it.

In my late 20s I wondered if I would ever have children. Karma and all that college hash would have it that if I did, they’d have eight arms like Shiva or be retarded. Either way, they’d have a dandy time at Aunt Millie’s. I wanted them. Want them. Want one, but I’m already taking care of a big baby. It’s just that instead of carting a kid to soccer practice, I’m carting one to his AA meetings. For all intensive purposes, he’s pretty much useless. He repairs guitars from our one bedroom in New York. Our curtains, our couches, our sheets all smell like varnish like someone glazed over our lives in an attempt to trap us in that moment, just like that mosquito in Jurassic Park. And he pisses on the seat, which he doesn’t lift (goes without saying I guess). And he leaves empty ice cream containers in the freezer and leaves cold pizza on the counter, not on a plate. I’d leave him, but I like his version of me better than I like my own version.

It’s not like I’m barren. My mom had had 5 kids, would have been 6 if she didn’t abort the first one (but I’m not supposed to know that). My grandmother had 4 kids. The other one had 3. Heretically speaking, I should be capable of getting knocked up. If I fail at even that… well, I’m not sure what I would do.

Aunt Mill is offering us peanut butter cookies she probably made 6 months ago, and she serves them in a plastic container that has a macaroon sticker on it, with tea. Scotty, who has a lisp, wantsss me to puhlay Hot Wheelsss with heem, so I roll it around the table a couple times. I’m kind of hoping he has ADD because I do and I’m already bored. Fuck this. How can this be entertaining for you? Stop picking your nose god damn it.

Upon closer inspection, I can see that the driver of this tiny vehicle is a booger, seat-belted in by its own gumminess.

Aunt Mill must have done something awful in her lifetime to be doing this kind of penitence. Like awful, awful. I-killed-a-man-in-Reno awful, because watching Scotty with his plastic car, and Liz with her spandex pink stained leggings, saliva softened cookie plastered to her sleepy elongated face, I think

this must be hell.

I look over to see my boyfriend, the manchild I share my bed and life with, the man I come home to after work to make frozen pizza for, the man I’m actually faithful to, with smooshed cookie in his beard and another in hand. He offers me one.

I taste nickel and feel the flames lick at my feet.

+++

“Thank god we’re fucking out of there” as I light a cigarette on the way to our car, which still smells like the entire McDonald’s dollar menu.

“Oh it wasn’t so bad. The kids are cute.”

I roll the half-lit cigarette between my top and bottom teeth. I don’t even care that the smoke will stick to my hair, my face, my teeth and tongue. It’s not like I showered for this. The only consolation to this day thus far has been the voluntary singeing of my lungs. It reminds me that I have insides. I would have lit up in Aunt Millie’s Petting Zoo, but I was afraid that if I accidentally dropped it, the carpet Margot has so often peed on would have gone right up in flames, Carrie-style. There are two types of people in this world: those whose houses smell like dog pee and those whose don’t. Millie was of the former group.

“Babe, I thought you quit”

Thought I quit smoking. Thought I quit? Really? Did he not see that the first thing I did when I woke up was go outside for a smoke. Probably not, because he was probably jerking off onto the shower stall walls. That’s how it usually works. I work on giving myself cancer, and he works on himself.

Idiot. I have to remember to take my pill when I get home because if this man procreates, the entire world will be at a loss.

I take another drag.

Chapter One of the 3am Novelletta

2008-08-26T16:02:00.002-04:00

I don’t have the heart to tell him that I’m not an alcoholic, or have ever been. In fact, I rather enjoy drinking. Vodka martinis with those cute little olives when I’m feeling like Marlene Deitrich, Dewar’s on the rocks when I’m feeling like John Wayne. I let him think that I’m in recovery because it makes our relationship feel legitimate somehow, like we share something other than towels and toothbrushes. I don’t tell him that I frequent the happy hours.

But now sitting at this AA meeting I wonder even how much I can take. We’re on vacation and this is our time away, but the oh-so-fabulous thing about AA is that ex-alcoholics are everywhere: in Outer Bumblefuck, PA driving your kids to school, in Newark pushing your pot that you still smoke because it makes you feel young and rebellious, in Memphis cutting your grandmother’s head open to work on that tumor, in Florida your boyfriend who plays crappy guitar and cries writing lyrics about Asian genocide (but has never written a song about you).

Everywhere, everywhere- alcoholics, recovering.
And not a drop to drink.

Ohp, here comes the tears, and snot which will inevitably end up absorbed onto the sleeves of my tshirt. I love this tshirt. And I hate doing laundry. I’m not sure if I love or hate this person on my arm though.

“You are a good girlfriend. You are a good person who does nice things. You even donate blood regularly. You are going straight to heaven after this.” This is what I tell myself.

I wonder how his other girlfriends dealt with this. The last one had been a dyslexic stripper with fake tits and an underbite. This would be fodder for resentment, but there was the whole booze thing, and blah blah blah. Sure, I have a nervous tic where if people yell, I squint my right eye tight like a pirate who’s just sat on something I’d rather not say. The squinting usually pulls my mouth into an unflattering grimace and then the squint eventually turns into a fluttering ADD wink. I feel that’s pretty minor though. At least my tits are real. And I can spell.

Joel McHale would say this is an upgrade for him.

Though I can’t help but think he’d be more fun drunk.

+++

After he rolls off me, I know I can count to 10 and he’ll be fast asleep. That’s just how it works. I lay there and “ooh” and “ahh” and the louder I say said “ooh”s and “ahh”s, the sooner I can go to bed. Let’s face it, we spent 8 hours in the car today with cramped knees in a sea of McDonald wrappers and rather then get the romantic walk on the beach I was hoping for, we were in a florescent-lit windowless room talking about strength and persistence.

Let me tell you about strength. When a 200 pound man falls asleep on you and you see the drool river a-comin,’ you find strength. And when you get snuggled in at last just as he finds himself with a hard on, you come to witness persistence.

I get out of bed, and put my sweatpants on. (Okay, they’re really his sweatpants but they’re unofficially mine.) I dig through all my fabulous outfits packed, now wrinkled, and find something to cover the stench of an unsatisfying night. Sitting outside of a cheap hotel in a plastic chair with 4 airplane-sized plastic bottles in your lap really puts things in perspective. Certainly, this isn’t Cinderella’s castle.

Not yet, at least, as I open a fifth.

Working

2008-08-22T13:52:00.003-04:00

Me At Work: what do you think about <"so and so">?

Skinny Gay Dude: I’d hit it

Skinny Gay Dude: split it

...

Skinny Gay Dude: re-live it

...

Skinny Gay Dude: then ditch it

Me At Work: and then roll it flour and fry it up with some okra

Skinny Gay Dude: and serve it with a side of two sticks of butter

...

Me At Work: dude, I’m lol’ing by myself in my office. i’m going to get fired.

Skinny Gay Dude: tell them you have ADD

Stuff White People Like

2008-08-22T10:58:00.003-04:00

After reading through stuffwhitepeoplelike.com, I am convinced that I am the White Ambassador. See below:

#32 Vegan/Vegetarianism
“As with many white people activities, being vegan/vegetarian enables them to feel as though they are helping the environment AND it gives them a sweet way to feel superior to others.”

Case-in-point: Call it taking the higher moral ground, but the White Ambassador loves questioning peers as to if they know where their food is coming from. I mean, you like your dog, right? But you wouldn’t eat it, right? The fact that soy “chikn” is tearing down the rainforest and PETA objectifies women is an impossible dilemma though.

#61: Bicycles
“And of course, it goes without saying that white people who ride bikes like to talk about how they are saving the earth. If you know a person who rides to work, you should take them aside and say ‘Hey, thanks. Sincerely, The Earth.’”

Case-in-point: Hey, you’re welcome, Earth.

#28: Not Having a TV
“Though these people often fill their time by talking with other friends who don’t watch TV about how they don’t watch TV, looking at leaves, cooking, reading books about left wing politics, and going to concerts/protests/poetry slams.”

Case-in-point: Also add to that list watching documentaries about factory farms, Clark Park environmental movie night, and Sierra Club bike rides.

#6 Organic Food

“As seen by the image on the left - when faced with eating food that has been processed and loaded with nitrates, sodium and saturated fat, or organic rat poison, 10/10 they will take the rat poison.”

Case-in-point: Decision: Don’t eat at all. You’ll look less bulky in that sweater (#103) that you bought from the GAP.

#10 Wes Anderson Movies

“White people love Wes Anderson movies more than they love their kids. If a white guy takes a white girl to a Wes Anderson movie on their first date, and neither of them have seen it, they will immediately commence a relationship that is reflected in songs by Ryan Adams and Bright Eyes.”

Case-in-point: I know that Ryan Adams and Bright Eyes have never been on a Wes Anderson movie soundtrack.

“wigwam” – bob dylan

“needle in the hay” – elliot smith

“where do you go to (my lovely)” – peter sarstedt

“kite flying society” – mark mothersbaugh

“rebel rebel” seu jorge

ALSO QUITE RELEVANT: #17: Hating Your Parents, #58 Japan, #21 Writers Workshops, #90 Dinner Parties, #24 Wine, #64 Recycling, #88 Having Gay Friends, #12 Non-Profit Organizations, #55 Apologies, #106 Facebook

Stubs

2008-08-19T16:04:00.001-04:00

I am the Had, the Having, and Been

I am the Having Had and the Had Been

I am the Having Had Been

But not the Had Been Having

+++

I swirled my wine in circles, more out of boredom than to catch undertones- whatever those were. I was thinking about a ten-card spread where I was the knave, of coins, living by the moon, just waiting for some fire. I’ve been a rogue all right, throwing all my pennies in fountain [drinks].

+++

Ever notice how falling snow gulps up the train squeals, the distant grandma spills, the celestial twinkly white pills?

+++

Today, I wore a new dress that everyone told me was quite pretty. It’s the kind of dress I would wear to someone-else’s-family’s party. And I found a dollar, crisp, on the floor. I told my baby sister how proud of her I was. It’s her birthday today, which seems like a good time to tell her. After I get out of work, I’m going to the market to buy a couple of my favorite things so I can cook for some of the people I love most. I wish I’d get some sleep but almost nothing can wipe this stupid grin off my face. Yeah, sleep would be nice.Icecream? Baby, I thought you’d never ask.

RANT: Chemistry

2008-08-14T13:48:00.002-04:00

There’s a reason why they have business majors take a plethora of liberal arts classes like chemistry, and history, and English… I’m just not sure what that reason is. I’m not sure how my high powered job selling cigarettes and booze to children has anything to do with molecular compounds.

[Although I learned that many Asians are not equipped with the correct enzyme to break down alcohol and therefore, like every other substance we learn about in chem, it is toxic. So perhaps not the best market segment]

Maybe I’m just too pragmatic, but I have a hard time believing that floating hexagons are responsible for turning my bananas yellow. And if two of these hexagons combine, you get mothballs. So why don’t I have mothball bananas? Even better, if you get a hexagon orgy going on, you get cancer.

Supposedly, this is organic chemistry, and if Amanda has any say in it, I should thoroughly enjoy it, with a side of blanched kale and granola. However, sitting through the two hours of lecture, taught by a toothless troll of a man, is comparable to pouring nitric acid on my hand. And I only know that because of Fight Club.

Plus you’d think the labs would be awesome- like making fireworks or something. Yesterday we ground up aspirin and filtered it a hundred times to get something that resembled packing peanuts. Next week, we’ll weigh it and throw it out. Way to leave thousands of hang-over headaches without relief.

I want to believe that this will have zero relevance in my life, but perhaps if FedEx and the US postal office and UPS and every other mail service blows up, I can filter my Tylenol through some coffee filters and safely pack plates or something.

Boo(radley)Yah!So, that's chemistry for business majors, a subject only made relevant by Tyler Durden.

high school bunsen burner smores... relevant.

Pennsylvania Dutch Festival

2008-08-10T22:48:00.003-04:00

zygoats

Post-Date Update: The Bloop vol. 2

2008-08-08T10:41:00.006-04:00

The more I go out into the world scouting new people, the more I have the reaction of “what the fuck. They still make you??”

Case: I still talk to the Bloop Guy occasionally, or rather, he texts me while I’m out doing fun things and I just casually ignore it, because the truth is I’m neither available nor interested. I mean I did agree to see him again and I’m not dick enough to flat out cancel, though he was downgraded from dinner to lunch. (ouch) It’s true the real reason I don’t ever want to see him again is because my heart is elsewhere (though unappreciated), but still there are so many red flags for this Bloop dude that I can’t help but think RUN like DMC.

Exhibit 1:
He hates his dad, which is whatever, but because he hates his mustachioed dad, he also hates all men with moustaches. Does he not know how awesome the ‘stach is? Jesus.

Exhibit 2:
And his dad is Jewish. So he openly hates on Jews, right after I said one of my close friends is Israeli. One, his reasoning is ridiculous. Two, did you just listen to a word I just said?

Exhibit 3:
And then he accused my dad of “extreme faggotry” because he owns a Creed album. I’m sorry, you just told me that one of your top three favorite songs EVER was “Brass in Pocket” by the Pretenders. It’s an awesome song, but it’s also the song that Scarlett Johansson sang in “Lost in Translation”

Exhibit 4:
And then this was the last straw:

+++++++++
Bloop Guy: im surprised some crazy muslim asshole hasn't tried to pwn that thing yet

me: so you dont like jews or muslims?
or guys with moustaches?

Bloop Guy: hahahaha
never met a muslim
they seem a bit off.
jews
meh
moustaches? unless your burt reynolds or tom selleck, lets take it easy

me: how can you live in a major city and have never met a muslim?

Bloop Guy: meh
mostly indian people
they're something different

me: and having not met them, how can you say they're "off"?

Bloop Guy: easy now

me: well i think you made a very brash statement
no?

Bloop Guy: idk they don't seem to be the nicest of people. considering they move to places like europe and dictate how people should live.
theres a dog in that billboard! dogs are filth!
lets blow shit up!

me: and christians dont do that?
and jews dont do that?
and atheists dont do that?

Bloop Guy: i dont really want to get into this man
its not something i like to discuss
because of one thing i said.
+++++++++

PS this guy is an Atheist Republican from a single parent home. I know. Identity crisis abound.

I guess I can only blame myself because I went into this knowing that he was a “Cantankerous Conservative”. I was swayed by impressive vocabulary (wouldn’t be the first time, won’t be the last). This guy gets the pleasure of my company Saturday at the Pennsylvania Dutch Festival, where he’ll likely rag on Mennonites too. THE MENNONITES, who mind their business and make delicious bread. Ugh.

Bigotry is so passé.

40 Days and 40 Nights

2008-08-07T17:51:00.005-04:00

It’s very rare we celebrate ourselves. We wait for others to remember our birthdays, and we don’t make our own cakes. We wait for someone else’s pat on the back to validate our accolades, and we raise glasses to everything and everyone else.

Today, I’m toasting the Collective Me.

On this day, August 7th, I am noting on my calendar that I have made 40 days and 40 nights of straight abstinence. It didn’t start as a personal challenge. I suppose it started as stubborn self-spite, but it has evolved into an experiment of self-love, minus self-love. It has not been easy, and it has not been fun. It is a mission comparable to Operation Desert Storm, though I think I shall deem it Operation Desert Panties. I could have easily let my fingers do the walking or I could have taken my bike across some cobblestone (or sit on a washer, or hit the gym, or ). I could have made a couple phone calls because let’s face it- it’s not that I’m cocky. It’s that I have a vagina and all 10 of my fingers. And even then, I know some guys who would compromise on those criteria.

And oh, there have been naysayers, those who promised I wouldn’t last a week, and in those faces of oppression, I flashed my chastity and flashed a smile, and then had a hot flash myself. Then there are the friends who have looked at me much in the same way parents look at their children before deployment- with love, with pride, and with concern.

A wise woman once promised that 6 months without sex would be equivalent to regaining virginhood. That wise woman was Samantha Jones, from Sex and the City.
Well, if you consider that you self-service about three times as much as someone services you, then that means I am but 3 weeks away from reclaiming what I once lost. (thought I left a breadcrumb trail…)

Regardless, tonight is for me. It is a time for me to look in the mirror and be proud that I still shave my legs. It is a time of reflecting, wondering how the girl once described as ‘kinda looking like a porn star’ ever refrained from one of the most basic and miraculous of god-given gifts. We erect our glasses to the power of will, and the potency of unrequited love.

Tonight is Forties for 40.

Cheers!

snatch.

2/2000 of my Lever parts

2008-08-03T23:21:00.004-04:00

Scribbled Homebound

2008-08-01T17:55:00.001-04:00

scribbled on a napkin, Newark Penn Station 8/1/2008:

God, these days are long and lolling. I have a cancer just skin deep, not quite in remission, but not willing to kill me either. The only consolation to this summer heat, are the subway’s dirty knave children on their white bucket drums. I’m waiting at the terminal [I wish this was terminal] at the bar sipping a little Sodom and Gomorrah through two thin red straws. Bring a little sunshine to my veins. Bring a little heat to my cheeks. I’m still wearing my sunglasses, indoors, because my future’s so bright.

The man next to me is on the phone with “Lise.” They’re going to bring the deviled eggs tomorrow and if there’s anything else, “Lise” can let them know. I thought at that moment I could smell eggs, their manipulated yokes spiced and smeared against the cellophane, scent escaped and spoiled in my nostrils. I dislike the way you write lately- so crude and tactless. Can we leave his asshole out of this?

I check the schedule, its letters and numbers flick-flick-flick-flick like a timpani staccato against the church garble. I stuff the last of my bagel in my mouth, wash it down with warm bitters, grab my bags and make my way to the platform. And on this platform, dear friends, I do my ditty. On trains heading North.

Post-Date Assessment: The Bloop

2008-08-01T12:37:00.004-04:00

So I thought Jeff Goldblum was a safe bet for at least a couple hours of decent company, but alas. Seriously though, this one had a much smaller margin of error because I had been talking to him quite frequently for the last two weeks-ish and had at least a general idea of what this guy’s about. He sends me texts to say goodnight, and good morning, and ‘how’s your day going,’ and ‘hey I’m bored at work’ and here’s a cute story about me and my mom, and, and, and RED FLAG: Cling Alert.

He seemed nice enough- a CompSci major from Temple. Tall. Nice smile. Good posture. His music tastes are a bit spotty and we don’t share any socio-political opinions, but at least he’s working on a decent [boring] career. So you’re an educated 20 year old product of single parenthood aaand you’re a Republican? Huh.

His AIM speak is peppered with “omfGEEZ,” puns and scathing sarcasm. So middle school. So nerdy.

We arranged our “bloop” (as ‘date’ was too grown-up a word for him) at the art museum for wine and cheese. I brought juice box wine, because he’s not old enough to buy booze and he brought the cheese, the good kind. With expensive crackers. Points.

I only had to wait a minute before he made his way down the stairs as everyone else was pretending to be Rocky on their way up.

“Like the fuckin storming of Bastille around here”

I’m sorry. Did the first thing you ever say to me in real life- a French Revolution reference, as a joke? Whoa. Impressed.

We proceeded to sit on the steps with our little picnic and just bullshit. I think he’s cute. I dunno. His pants are a little snug, sexy? Can’t tell. I definitely dig that he’s a history nerd, or a nerd at all. He’s kinda funny. I think?

But let’s talk about baggage and the momentous amount of it that this dude has: Whaaa two bad break ups in my entire life! Girls are so mean. Whaaa my dad’s a douche with a moustache. My mommy’s so sad now. My big brother doesn’t like me. There’s no god.

Shh. Listen. Hear that? It’s the world’s smallest violin, and it’s telling you to shut the fuck up, because, dude, I don’t know you.

Ultimately, I agreed to a second “bloop” even if it’s because I haven’t come to a definitive conclusion. More research needed. Besides, he complimented me on my nose and my clavicles. Points for creativity. And the most important litmus test is the goodbye. So much rides on this single gesture. Hands down, if you try kissing me, I’m never going to take your calls again. If you suggest we go back to your place (or worse, mine), I’m going to kick you square in the ballz.

And what did this gentleman do? a decent hug.

July Status Report

2008-07-28T01:46:00.003-04:00

Sticky summer heat lulls down my back like honey. It’s sugary for certain though sometimes, or rather often, sweaty too.

Art:
I’ve come to the burning realization that all my friends are artists. Every single one. They are the makers of melodies, the pens behind poems with the eyes like camera lenses. Life is a lot prettier when every conversation is a sonnet, and that’s how it feels. Even the weather feels like a song. The baroque heat and the whimsy of breeze. Mozart ain’t got shit on this.

Summer of Celibacy 2008, Abstinence Challenge:
My body has not known the feel of hands- neither mine nor others- for a solid 30 days. It began as an internal protest to love lost, then a personal challenge, but now it’s completely different. Often I feel my body tinge in wanting, but something tells me to be patient. The distance between will sweeten. And it’s not an impatient waiting and it’s not an expectant waiting. My head and my heart are open for what will come, whenever that may be.

All in all, it’s been a month marked by healing sans scar, of opening outward but reaching inward.

I think they call it making peace.

Chesil

2008-07-24T14:41:00.010-04:00

I've just finished two Ian McEwan novels, and I'm onto a third (Saturday). And yet I'm so deterred because they will all end the same. There will be a love story between two people so tragically flawed, so helplessly human. Then add the catalyst of some some mistaken identity or perception of what is not there, and voila! our star-crossed lovers are subjected to an untimely death, or a life of mediocracy, or worst of all, the sting of self-righteous martyrdom.

And I'll finish the last page, and cry, and wonder why Mr. McEwan can't write something that makes me believe that there is good in the world and that having loved at all is better than love lost. Why, Mr. McEwan? Why find the sorest nerve and prod it? Is it to counter all those pharmacy paperback love novels, so idealistic in their romances? Let the hardened lawyer have her coffeeshop poet. And let them die old together in their bed, like that scene from Titanic, while the world comes flooding in.

Like Maroon 5 says, "It's not always rainbows and butterflies. It's compromise that moves us along" and I get it. There will be heartbreak and there will be blood. And there will be pages tear spattered. This I know. But I would rejoice if ever Mr. McEwan followed this up with (again in the words of Maroon 5) "My heart is full and my door's always open. You can come any time you want." Can you leave the door open rather than nailing it shut like a coffin? Will you do it for me?

With Love,
JaiB

+++++
"On Chesil Beach" by Ian McEwan:

"When he thought of her, it rather amazed him, that he had let that girl with her violin go. Now, of course, he saw that her self-effacing proposal was quite irrelevant. All she had needed was the certainty of his love, and his reassurance that there was no hurry when a lifetime lay ahead of them. Love and patience- if only he had had them both at once- would surely have seen them both through. And when what unborn children might have had their chances, what young girl with a headband might have become his loved familiar? This is how the entire course of a life can be changed- by doing nothing. On Chesil Beach he could have called out to Florence, he could have gone after her. He did not know, or would not have cared to know, that as she ran away from him, certain in her distress that she was about to lose him, she had never loved him more, or more hopelessly, and that the sound of his voice would have been a deliverance, and she would have turned back. Instead, he stood in cold and righteous silence in the summer's dusk, watching her hurry along the shore, the sound of her difficult progress lost to the breaking of small waves, until she was a blurred, receding point against the immense straight road of shingle gleaming in the pallid light."

Idiot Troll

2008-07-22T15:15:00.004-04:00

“You know what? I am actually not that much into voting. I think it’s kinda crazy that a woman is running, because I think that women deal with a lot of emotions and menopause and PMS and stuff. Like, I’m so moody all the time, I know I couldn’t be able to run a country, ‘cause I’d be crying one day and yelling at people the next day, ya know?”—Brooke Hogan

Post Date Assessment: Jeff Goldblum

2008-07-22T04:33:00.003-04:00

This is the first edition of post-first date assessments. If they’re all as hilarious as this, I think I might publish a book.

I pinned this guy for having some potential. He’s a professional musician (which covers the artistic outlet criteria), brews his own beer (yay, interesting hobby and free booze), and he wears cool glasses (style points). Granted I didn’t talk to him much pre-date, but he seemed nice enough and I dug his music. He asked me out to give me a beer tasting lesson and I gave in for a Sunday evening date. (but not before giving friends all possible details, just in case he roofied my drink and made me his house pet. Also I arranged for a couple escape route calls in case it was unbearable)

A friend dressed me, so you know I was looking... fly. And we got a big breakfast at the diner so I wouldn't vomit right away. (Although there was some weird licorice gravy that was questionable in nature) I got there 5 minutes early and he got there 10 minutes late, sweaty. I thought, 'well at least he ran and called to say he was running late.' I didn't take points off, but he didn't get any either. We sat at the booth and I let him order for me. I admitted that I didn’t like the first beer, a super heavy IPA, even though that was his fave. Conversation went fine. I smiled a lot, not because he was particularly funny, but I think you should be smiling when you meet new people. I dig that he teaches kids guitar, but doesn't dig actual kids. Plus he has two dogs, sorta. They're at his parents, so I guess not really.

The waiter came around and asked if we wanted another round. My date looked at me and said “yeah, same thing.” Uh, yo, dude. Didn’t I just say I didn’t like it?? So I had 3 (or maybe 4) more.

On our fifth or maybe fourth drink, he looked at his watch and said that he had to go feed the meter. So we downed whatever number drink that was, he went to the bathroom, I put in money for my drinks, and we headed out. He had asked me if I had paid and I said yes, but after we got a couple blocks away I realized he was asking me if I paid the entire bill, which I did not because why the fuck would I do that? I only paid for myself, and I thought that was a kind gesture. Essentially we only paid half the bill. Soooo, I'm never going back there again.

We got to his car (which was right in front of Woodys), and I gave him all the change from the bottom of my bag because he didn’t have any. We walked all over god's green earth (or Philadelphia's gross sidewalks) looking for this one bar, and eventually ended up at Nodding Head, where we had another drink- another IPA that I didn’t like. He paid, the entire bill this time.

At this part of the date I realized that he had really bad posture and girly hands. And god, that Jeff Goldblum mouth! And his hair was blah. What you do with your hair says a lot about you. Maybe I was being overly harsh. Or maybe all that walking sobered me some. I kinda liked his glasses and his shoes, but if I ever saw him naked, all he would have is bad posture AND THAT MOUTH.

He offered to drive me home and I accepted because nobody likes the subway and drunk driving sounded preferable. (don't worry. i wore a seatbelt) He pulled up in front of the building I live in, put a hand on my back as I reached for my bag and said he thinks he's going to call me tomorrow to ask if I would like to do this again sometime. I mean I guess he was still debating it at that point. And then he leaned in... and I thought "omg you're touching me. Jeff Goldblum is touching me. Jeff Goldblum is watching you poop. Bathroom stall. Poop. Kiss." So I quickly offered my cheek and drunkily made it to my room, totally forgetting and neglecting the fact that I had feet (and a sprained ankle).

I fell asleep fine (read: I was intoxicated enough to pass out in my clothes), but awoke to the smell of fried chicken. The cleaning lady was frying chicken at 6am this morning. what. the. fuck. Immediately, I ran to the bathroom and puked up milkshake and biscuits (or what I think was biscuits and milkshakes). And then I proceeded to lay in bed and think about Jurassic Park, as a music video, while scrolling through the progressively incoherent, hilarious texts I sent last night.

Alchemy

2008-07-21T14:48:00.001-04:00

Alchemy: “spagyric art,” from Greek meaning to pull apart and put back together again. An art of sciences: chemistry and astrology, mysticism and spiritualism. We are deduced to parts- to hands and palms, faces- heavy eyes and mouths, sloped noses, ears, napes, necks, breasts and shoulders, tummies and hips, shins, knees, toes, heels… We are deduced to parts- to protons and neutrons, electrons, fermions, bosons, undulating photons shot at foil, not repelled but penetrated, gravitons, axioms, polaritons with their dipole-carrying excitation.

Sometimes I can feel the glowing charged particles spring from my skin like photons, bumping and bouncing off the bodies around me. The positives and negatives lounging their atomic masses towards each other until their forms overlap, electric shared, and at once something entirely new is made.

Call this making gold -or- making love. And in taking that gold, which so many men have died to touch- panhandler kings- we shape our rings around our fingers, part to part, while we're swirling, twirling those bodies apart, then together again.

How learned men can be so ignorant to search for forever in a cauldron, when by bed posts we stand so brave and so proud. Every answer to every question and every cure to every pain are held in hands not gilded, but guided. Our parts welded. We thought we were making history, making precious of base metal, aligning stars, but really we were just exploring those napes, those neurons.

We map the metaphysical, we pant the paradoxical.

We built an empire.

We called it El Dorado.

Luno

2008-07-17T22:53:00.002-04:00

I looked up to find the moon-
Once again
an orange sickle poised
to

d
r
o
p

cutting oceans into
seas,
into
undulations,
waves that
crashed onto shells that house Fibonacci.
splashed unto faces that beam Fibonacci.
carried flagrant flowers that bloom Fibonacci.

[1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21]

The fattened sickle
Now pregnant, full
coaxes the fetus from the womb

Inhale [pull]
Exhale [push]

The lunar father smiles
Lets flesh-and-blood fathers cut the umbilical cord
That tied us to our earth-and-mother

We passed cigars
And cheered
“Congrats!
A boy!”

Pulmo

2008-07-17T22:52:00.002-04:00

The white filter delivered
To chap sticked lips
And I
d r a g g e d,
left a greasy kiss behind.

Carbon monoxide tickles bronchioles
Then singes

Plastic Flamingos

2008-07-11T10:25:00.002-04:00

Union Products, Inc., the manufacturer of pink plastic flamingos, after 50 years, is filing bankrupcy.

These gracefully tacky white-trash lawn ornaments are staples of American culture! Quintessential Florida trailer home flair! Their spindle legs and their creepy misshapen spray painted eyes (or sometimes unpainted eyes, which is way creepier) are looking us all square in the face and asking what kind of Americans are we if we let them go extinct. First polar bears and now plastic flamingos.

How can we let this happen?

According to the Boston Channel, "Union Products president and majority owner Dennis L. Plante said in 2006 that the plastics industry has hit hard times because of the cost of electricity and resin, a petroleum-based product that is a key manufacturing ingredient."

I'm writing my congress person to voice my support of the war in the Middle East. Bring home oil! Save the flamingos! America fuck yeah!

please save me.

Summer of Celibacy 2008!!

2008-07-11T00:11:00.005-04:00

The abstinence challenge is well-underway and I am pleased to announce that my lack of endeavors has raised thousands for children living with spinal bifida! [not really]. I’m not sure why I started, but there was a definite beginning. Of this much, I am certain.

So what do you do with your hands all day?

Lately they’ve been up to the wrist in flour, as I’m trying out new recipes for the bakery that I’m going to open up just as soon as I have a master’s degree in something. I’m going to call it “Roux” and if you get the reference, yeaahhh. Also, I’ve finished four books since the beginning of summer and I’ve enlivened lots of coloring book pages. I’m into friendship bracelets.

As I much as I support (just about) anyone’s sexual habits, I have learned that the parents that have taught their children that ‘true love waits,’ hate their children.

Why are you doing this?

I like to challenge myself each and every day. I set out to master the paper crane yesterday. Do you know how aggravating it is to follow those god damn origami directions? Infuriating. Though I have made the crane, and if I make 999 more I can cure someone of leukemia.

Also my battement tendu could use some work.

What have you learned on this journey?
N/A

When will it end?!
A) when my willpower gives out
B) when someone worthwhile gives out
C) when the world comes to an end
D) all of the above

Now donate to spinal bifida.

Happy Birthday America

2008-07-06T10:45:00.003-04:00

Happy Fourth of July! A day of fake-meat grilling, beer, volleyball and explosives!
Oh, and these:

Blast. Collision. Bang. EXPLODING CANDY TIP.

yep.

Oh, and these:

Della Primavera Trasportata al Morale

2008-07-03T22:21:00.000-04:00

APRIL
William Carlos Williams

the beginning- or
what you will:
the dress
in which the veritable winter
walks in Spring-

Loose it!
Let it fall (where it will)
-again

A live thing
the buds are upon it
the green shoot come between
the red flowerets
curled back

Under whose green veil
strain trunk and limbs of
the supporting trees-

Yellow! the arched stick
Pinning the gragile foil
-in abundance
Or
the bush before the rose
pointed with green

bent into form
upon the iron frame

wild onion
swifter than the grass

the grass thick
at the post’s base

iris blades unsheathed-

BUY THIS PROPERTY

-the complexion of the impossible
(you’ll say)
never realized-
At a desk in a hotel in front of a

Machine a year
later – for a day or two-

(Quite so-)
Whereas the reality trembles

frankly
in that though it was like this

in part
it was deformed

even when at its utmost to
touch- as it did

and fill and give and take
-a kind

of rough flowers
and April

STOP : GO

-she
opened the door! nearly
six feet tall, and I…
wanted to found a new country-

For the rest, virgin negress
at the glass
in blue-glass Venetian beads-

a green truck
dragging a concrete mixer
passes
in the street-
the chatter and true sound
of verse-

-the wind is howling
the river, shining mud-

Moral
it loses me

Moral
it supports me

Moral
it has never ceased
to flow

Moral
the faded evergreen

Moral
I can laugh

Moral
the redhead sat
in bed with her legs
crossed and talked
rough stuff

Moral
the door is open

Moral
the tree moving diversely
in all parts-

-the moral is love, bred of
The mind and eyes and hands-

But in the cross-current
between what the hands reach
and the mind desires

and the eyes see
and see starvation, it is

useless to have it thought
that we are full-

But April is a thing
comes just the same-

and in it we see now
what then we did not know-
STOP : STOP

I believe
in the sound patriotic and
progressive Mulish policies
and if elected-

I believe
in a continuance of the pro-
tective tariff because-

I believe
that the country can’t do
too much-

I believe
in honest law enforcement-
and I also believe-

I believe
in giving the farmer and
land owner adequate protection

I believe

I believe

I believe
in equality for the negro-

THIS IS MY PLATFORM

I believe in your love
the first dandelion
flower at the edge of-

taraaaaaaa! taraaaaaaa!

-the fisherman’s bugle announces
the warm wind-

reminiscent of the sea
the plumtree flaunts
its blossom-encrusted
branches-

I believe
Moving to three doors
above- May 1st.

I believe
ICE- and warehouse site

No parking between tree and corner

You would “kill me with kindness”
I love you too, but I love you
too-

Thus, in that light and in that
Light only can I say-

Winter : Spring

abandoned to you. The world lost-
in you

Is not that devastating enough
for one century?

I believe
Spumoni $1.00
French Vanilla .70
Chocolate .70
Strawberry .70
Maple Walnut .70
Coffee .70
Tutti Frutti .70
Pistachio .70
Cherry Special .70
Orange Ice .70
Biscuit Tortoni .70
25c per portion

trees-seemingly dead:
the long years-

tactus eruditus

Maple, I see you have
a squirrel in your crotch-

And you have a woodpecker
In your hole, Sycamore

-a fat blonde, in purple (no trucking
on this street)

POISON!

I believe

WOMAN’S WARD
←

PRIVATE
→

The soul, my God, shall rise up
-a tree
But who are You?
in this mortal wind
that I at least can understand
having sinned willingly

The forms
of the emotions are crystalline
geometric-faceted. So we recognize
only in the white heat of
understanding, when a flame
runs through the gap made
by learning, the shapes of things-
the ovoid sun, the pointed trees

lashing branches

The wind is fierce, lashing

the long-limbed trees whose
branches
wildly toss-

Limericks are the New Haikus

2008-07-03T00:24:00.004-04:00

“Poet”
There once was a girl named Jai
Who dropped bombs all night and day
Limerick rhyme feats
Haiku kept beats
I’m gangster, son, see NWA

“Math”
Greater than X but lesser than Y
3.141592 equals pi
Oh academia!
Threadbare bohemia!
Love everything you are divisible by.

“Moon”
You have a face like a lunar crater
First lesser, then growing greater
Come, succumb,
Celestial alum
Twirl along your magnetic equator

“Geography”
Come over for a lesson in bodily geography
With hands on my warm flesh topography
You don’t need a map
This is a booby trap
Navigate me like the Black Sea.

“July 4th”
The sky is heavy, drip and drizzle
Arsenic flair, aluminum glare, tin fizzle
Fishes zoom
Illuminated bloom
Fleeting red, blue, amber thistle.

“Summer”
Stained blue-tongue kool-aid giggle
Strawberry blueberry jello shot jiggle
Kiss cheeks
Math geeks
Poetry notebook pen ink squiggle

“Black Eyes”
Sweetheart, baby, I’ll always be by your side
Or I’ll quietly pack and leave if you decide
I won’t ask whys
I’ll wear your black eyes
Darling, darling, I’ll be your porcelain bride.

“Illumination”
Uniforms that sin, death in Berlin
Hand grenade grin, pulled pin
Mass graves
Atomic waves
Everyone everywhere, a small violin

“Thee Our Father”
Carnation bouquet for a passion play
We fast the day and together we pray
A book of psalms
Hands palm to palm
Father, forgive us for our moral decay

“Trois”
Our sisters’ sneeze, our neighbors’ knees
Our children’s uneaten peas, our enemies
The scribe’s pen
The brooding hen
Our given-word guarantees, written-word decrees.

Our lovers’ eyes, grocery store quarter prize
Our lovers’ thighs, grand orchestra finale reprise
Told attic stories
Fallen hero glories
Purple sky sunrise, lunar night goodbyes

Our fathers’ seed, our mothers’ knead
After school tricycle speed, wobbly indeed
Bride and groom
Forever I presume
Slow dance lead, slow mouth plead

June Status Report

2008-06-23T16:38:00.002-04:00

I needed a whole weekend home, in the burbs no less, sans car, plans, money, or internet to figure out where I am.

This was the official business agenda:

Friday
-wrap up loose ends in Philadelphia
-train home
-party like emo-scenester years

Saturday
-figure out where your head is

Sunday
-enjoy family
-make peace

Where am I?

Around 2am on Saturday I was skinny dipping, in the rain, unabashedly floating on one of those plastic raft thingies. And I went through the extra effort of lighting the torches around the pool. I was feeling primal. I was tasting the tail end of a pot-opium cocktail and a Riesen chocolate- which reminds me a lot of my great grandmother who invariably lived on cookies, bacon fat and Pabst Blue Ribbon, bought at a discount because the cans were dented.

Chicks love candlelight, or in this case, torchlight because it makes them look less flawed. Couple that with being wet, and naked, and I thought this was the best state to be in to evaluate the state of my unions. This evaluation, on past several occasions, involved my best “There Will Be Blood” rendition- I’ve lost my boy!! (nix handlebar moustache)

Not tonight though.
The theme of the night is quiet introspection. I spent a lot of time looking at my feet. I enjoyed seeing the light bounce off the water pooled in my belly button. Cold air teased my tits into standing a-ten-shun! Fingertips got pruny quick.

Where am I?

Pretty discombobulated, I concluded. I certainly wasn’t in my own skin. I can compare this month to when you slipped down a few stairs as a kid: more frightened and surprised than actually hurt. Ego bruise.

My feet that I had been ignoring- they could use a fresh painting. Pink, I think.

My legs were particularly sore, as my bike has been a conveniently cheap getaway vehicle. You go fast enough that you can’t really drift off, but slow enough that you can breathe. Besides I don’t feel like I’m running away, per se. It’s on the same level as ‘Oh, I’m going for a walk,’ which is a-okay. I’ve covered the three corners of Ardmore, Front Street, Manyunk. South Philly tomorrow if the weather holds out.

My stomach. My core has caused me more stress that I care to admit this month. I’m sitting here now reveling in the dull ache of cramps because it’s at least better than the vicious cycle of being too stressed to get your period and then stressing that you didn’t get it yet. Two weeks of watching home births on YouTube, making sure I was eating, and praying to a God that I haven’t talked to in forever. I’ve never been so happy to see a panty Rorschach inkblot. Know what I see? No more YouTube videos and babysitting for a while.

Fingertips still pruny. Nailpolish chipped, but eh.

Stupid lopsided boobs. What sucks is having these stupid lopsided boobs. I want to feel someone, and not those unwelcomed, unsolicited pity-party hugs that are handed out to the newly single. Hugs are fantastic, but I miss hands, not arms.

Shoulders, browned and used to carrying boulders like Sisyphus.

I obv can’t see my own face but I guarantee my waterproof eyeliner wasn’t holding up. So lying on this cold plastic float. I put my hand on my stomach and feel that it is mine. I can feel my hair swirl in the pockets of now-warmer water. The rain had stopped by this point.

I look at my hand on my stomach. I give myself the car crash test.

Conclusion, Where am I?: Jamie, my love, it is time to get your shit together. You have said all that you needed to say. You are clean and you are whole, singular. What will be, will be. You are human- no tougher, no softer. No apologies are needed. Buy yourself flowers, but only daisies- this isn’t a funeral. Ride your bike to somewhere, not from somewhere. Sleep. Eat. Breathe, or even sigh if necessary. Touch your own belly.

Lather.
Rinse.
Repeat.

I went to bed with a wet head, but not a heavy one.

Dog, Car

2008-06-20T15:23:00.002-04:00

Remember those nights where the air was heavy enough to bellow not breeze? Those nights thick enough to keep the taste of cigarettes on our lips, our teeth, our cheeks, and boy, did we breathe deep.

The road is narrow. The road, it curves, sometimes sharply. It goes up. It goes down.

And the car floats mindless of the footprint it leaves- touches and rolls, taking small pebbles in its tread to ogle later of places been. Takes seashells, takes petals, takes rocks, and dirt. Takes the hair interlaced in sweaters, wound and wiggled into the fibers that be. Then, you see, when it gets dark, it’ll have pieces of places past to keep it warm.

Heated nights with its opaque air and its sparkly flairs, we’re not looking at what’s illuminated in headlights or at what walks the yellow line with us, slower.

Without thought, without brakes, it’s there suddenly ribs askew, and paws at awkward angles- like a restaurant receipt signature scribble. You see this animal (and that’s what it is) pumping its own blood onto the concrete through ruptured veins, arteries, capillaries, and whatever other tubes that carry us through. It probably would have picked up its head had its vertebrae not been shattered. It probably would have said sorry if pieces of its voice box were not scattered.

Metaphorical red light.

Now, think, think damn it! What do you do? Do you sit in humbled agasp? Do you curse? Do you apologize for circumstance? Because really it wasn’t your fault. You can’t predict the future. You can’t help it if that dog met your car. Had it not bolted out… Had it not stopped to look into your headlights… This is not what you wanted. You’re going places, and I just wanted to enjoy the view.

Stuff'ed

2008-06-11T11:21:00.003-04:00

A clock face
And clock hands too
Irish plague potato eyes
Greens and blues on Yukon golds
Corn ears
To bring your mouth to in summertime
Curved pitcher lips
spill the sangria, vamos!
Pearly white comb teeth
To hold back all that spitfire
And a bubblegum bell tongue
a sneaker tongue before the morning brush

Down along a long bottle neck
just as floozy
Down a straight chair back
Posture! Posture!
Over rose hips and a treasure chest
corset ribs protect my artichoke heart
Slide down sturdy table legs
tablecloth skirted, of course
To poised bathtub feet
A tub that held me like a womb

Pão de Açúcar Mix

2008-06-11T00:14:00.002-04:00

"through the roof and underground" – golgol bordello

"you love me" – devotchka

"elephant gun" – beirut

"falling down" – tom waits

"messenger bird's song" – bright eyes

"grace cathedral hill" – the decemberists

"golden slumbers" – ben folds

"start to melt" – peter, bjorn and john

"boy with a coin" – iron & wine

"how naked are we going to get?" – the blow

"how it ends" - devotchka

Moon Phase 1

2008-06-08T23:33:00.001-04:00

Last night the moon was an orange-sickle and it's poised to drop.

Soma Holiday

2008-06-06T13:24:00.002-04:00

I walked to work today, down South Broad and I am furthermore convinced that apocalypse is imminent.

I’m particularly hypersensitive today compliments of Tylenol Cold, which I hope harnesses enough witchdoctor power to cure the Bubonic plague plus tuberculosis. I think I accidently took the nighttime soma (blue). I’m feeling a bit drowsy.

Soma: “All the advantages of Christianity and alcohol; none of their defects”

A police car, with sirens ablaze, swerves to cut off traffic and a procession of maybe half a dozen vans pass. There’s a fire truck; a police truck; a Jelly Belly van painted to advertise their beans for cyclists, honking; a Commerce Bank van with four hands peeping out from the back seat, each with a Commerce-painted cowbell, further adding to the Chaos Procession.

Soma: "The policemen pushed him out of the way and got on with their work. Three men with spraying machines buckled to their shoulders pumped thick clouds of soma vapour into the air."

I think about stopping at Commerce to take out cash for the weekend, but upon nearing I see a DJ in front, blaring Gloria Estefan. I’ll pay the $2 ATM fee on campus,

and I’m switching my bank tomorrow.

I’m wearing my highest high heels. My center of balance is too high. I’m too high. I thought once heels would be comparable to horse shoes, the same clippity clop, but they’re not at all. Surely one cannot gallop in spikes that get stuck in concrete cracks.

I’m watching my feet, or rather, I’m watching my shoes, until a man obstructs my path. He’s wearing a purple fleece, though it’s 80 degrees. His hair is matted. He doesn’t blink. His hairy flat man-feet are crammed in women’s shoes. [My feet are crammed in women’s shoes. I can’t blink.]

Soma: "the warm, the richly coloured, the infinitely friendly world of soma-holiday. How kind, how good-looking, how delightfully amusing every one was! "

There’s an overweight woman sleeping with her eyes open (or at least I hope she’s sleeping) on a cardboard box. In front of her she has an orange, a triangle of sliced bread, and a coffee can full of coffee. Or what I thought was coffee until I saw the floating cigarette butt.

Nearly 9,000 children will be diagnosed with cancer this year. Buy this lemonade.

Soma: "A gramme is better than a damn," said Lenina mechanically from behind her hands. "I wish I had my soma!" "

William Sonoma is charging $300 for their Artisan buttercup-yellow mixer. I got the man, now I need the mixer. I want to bake cakes, all day, every day. I want to be flour dusted, Victorian. My darling, how was work? How I’ve missed you so! Oh how I love you so!

Soma:

''Hug me till you drug me, honey;

Kiss me till I'm in a coma;

Hug me, honey, snuggly bunny;

Love's as good as soma."

[good afternoon, Bea. I’m good and you?] I snag an orange juice on my way in, made from oranges from Brazil. I’ve never been, but I hear it’s lovely. It’s 100% pure God-made juice but it burns like hell going down, its acidity stinging my throat coughed raw. A coughing fit commences and I feel my face flush with blood that somehow isn’t oxygenated enough despite all these gasps for breath. It’s been five hours. Tylenol Cold Daytime dose 2 administered.

Soma: “Was and will make me ill, I take a gram and only am."

43 things

2008-06-02T00:21:00.001-04:00

i learn who you are.
you learn what i am.

Boomshine

2008-05-31T08:00:00.003-04:00

Daylight? Sunshine?
Hell, gimme the moonshine.
Bottoms up as we bottom out
Bathtub bubbly
Twist and shout

I say gimme the moonshine
With light that doesn't burn
On sandy towels
Not having to turn

Sand freckled French faces
Not cancer dots
Milky-eyed mender skin
Not grandpa liver spots

[Say, hunny, sonny,
pass the moonshine]

Let nightingales forget the morning blues
Let the morning glories hit the snooze
Let uncrossed lists, honey-do's
Slow letter news?
Kangaroos?

Connecting dots, four, like
Boomshine hollows.
Blue jay, Coldplay
Boomshine swallows.

Boomshine

R. Breaston, the Lesser

2008-05-28T13:30:00.001-04:00

Gently perched on the fourth rib from the bottom, a particularly peachy fuzzy area, he looked inward at Mr. R. Breaston, the Lesser, with a gentle notion of despondency and perhaps even sadness. Twitchy-nosed. Floppy-eared. Downed-bellied, under a double-breasted suit,

and one of those watches on a gold chain, like your great granddaddy used to carry. Oh, but what a magnificent night it had been!- the lightning spark, the thunder crash, the undulating sheets of rain. It’s only then, during electric storms, do rabbits like this make love, forcing themselves together, their heavy cloud bellies- one positive, one negative- then the smack of thunder, as quick as lightening, as sweat-stained as rain.

[Speaking of undulating sheets, recall: when you were little, you lay on your mother’s bed in anticipation of the warm sheets, fresh from the dryer. Remember how after all the shirts were folded onto themselves, the pant legs pressed together and bent, after the socks had met their match, that then it came time to make the bed. Your mother grabbed two corners of the sheets and with a switch of the wrist would toss the sheet out, like giant pizza dough, letting it billow gently over your tiny body. And again. And again, until your hair became so static-y, its strands shot up like lightening shoots down.]

“Why so down, my friend?” he finally said in a calm voice but with a twitch, so common to rabbits, as you know.

R. Breaston shrugged (or rather bounced) “Nothing.”

The rabbit smacked his lips to savor the last bit of bitter liquid hanging to his whiskers. Hiccup.

“Is it that you’re so much... smaller?”

…

“What I mean is!“ Now desperately searching for some way to not further offend. British etiquette and restraint overpowered by a particular fondness for whiskey, bourbon, bathtub moonshine.

Oh, dear. Oh, dear.

Before his friend could dig himself any deeper, Breaston replied, “eh, I don’t so much mind.” It was true that he had always been the family runt, always taunted, always teased, always extra tissue-padded, always second to be handled, despite the fact that anyone who’s anyone is right-handed.

The perk of being smaller, you see, is just that- the perk. While the bigger ones rounded out and flattened, dropped with age like a pendulum, falling into the crevice of arm pits (a nightmare Poe would approve), but the smaller-

well, the smaller stay true, pointing north like a compass.

The Solution

2008-05-15T15:18:00.003-04:00

Dear "Sue Dohcue,"

Every day when I come into work, I hang my coat on the hook behind the door; I put down my coffee and croissant; I immediately kick off my sensible heels underneath my desk and sit on my right foot.

Alt + Ctrl + Delete

Super secret password.

Up pops my background of Napoleon in Indian war paint.

god, i love this picture.

And then I look out my window… right into your window, right at your computer screen. I don’t want to embarrass you, so I won’t mention your name, but you’ve been working on the same su doku puzzle for about a week now and it’s really not all that hard. I watch you put in the wrong numbers all the time, cross them out and try again. Honestly, it makes me hurt a little on the inside. Do you even know the rules? You do know that there’s no math involved, right?

I desperately wish I could fling open our windows, and paper-airplane the solution to you. Or I can throw you a rope and we can set up a clothesline between us and I would shimmy it over. I know our windows don’t open or there would be far more suicides, so here:

Now you know I know, and because I know, everyone else must too.

Somnambulist Romance

2008-05-13T04:45:00.000-04:00

Note the time.

Not being able to sleep together in the same bed has little, if anything, to do with our size. Size is relative at best. It is true that you're a sprawler, spreading your limbs out like peanut shoots, selectively grounding feet and hands under blankets, pillows. It is true that I roll over, and over and over again. I steal covers. I promptly return covers, only to take them away again. Unkind unconsciousness. Overfawning awakeness. You grunt and I struggle to make out your slumber monologue. I'm early to rise, usually watching the 7am minutes flash past, waiting for a 'decent' hour to commence pre-wakeup cuddling, inching my hips back until you give in and give up, wrapping an arm around. This is not why we can't sleep together though.

There are some days I fall asleep unexpectedly. On those days I'm whisked up like an infant and placed in my egg-carton padded bassinet (or rather yours). True, my bed was made for the littlest Goldilocks bear, but that shouldn't matter I feel. My widest part, my hips are 36 inches around, which means laying down they're about 18 across. Your hips are not nearly as wide, which means we should be clearing the 39 inch measurements of my twin, especially if what we say is true. We should be like a kitten pile, an amorphous mount of hips and limbs and eyes and tails. Go ahead, blame the bed.

I've slept in armchairs and plane seats. I've slept on bathroom floors and ballroom floors, couches half my size. I've found you asleep in front of drafty windows, wearing little, arms pinned under your own weight. Tonight I came closer to finding sleep much in the same way as I would catch small prey- by standing very still.

I think I'm too kind a bedmate. I feel awful even as I write now- that the erratic keyboard taps will keep you up (though I'm convinced an atomic bomb can go off and you would not always stir). I want your peanut shoots to ground themselves and sometimes, for me, that means hugging walls or curling around the edge of the bed, one foot on the ground. An attentive nighttime farmer.

There goes the refrigerator hum. No stirring.

A train screech and yell. Nothing.

No, the reason why we can't sleep together is rather simple. It's not you, it's me. I don't sleep, even though I would desperately love to. Such a fickle friend, sleep. Capricious at best.

And though neither of us really sleeps when we're together, I would rather feign sleep with you than to sleep honestly alone. 4:30am now and you look more handsome now than you have all day. I know when you leave that my pillowcases will smell like you and there will likely be an orphaned hair or two. When you leave, I'll sleep for real, the kind where I keep my eyes shut and my body half shutters.

In the meantime, I suppose it's a decent enough hour for cereal. And needed teeth brushing. I'd say goodnight but I mean adieu.

Rittenhouse

2008-05-09T19:36:00.005-04:00

hopscotch

Urban Outfitters Wall Art vol. 2

Catholic school with Catholic rules

Sports[wo]manship

2008-05-09T13:19:00.006-04:00

via Fox News:
Opponents carry injured home-run hitter around bases

Firstly, it is an odd occurrance for me to turn to mainstream news, especially Fox News. Secondly, it's strange to have a strong emotional reaction other than disgust, dismay, or despair, but this is something else.

Sara Tucholsky of Western Oregon University scored her first home run ever and then majorly fucked up her knee rounding first. Unable to get up, she could be replaced by another runner, but then the homerun wouldn't count. Rather than muse at such luck, two girls from the opponent team carried Tucholsky around the bases so her homerun would count, thusly eliminating themselves from the playoffs.

I actually welled up reading the full story. le sigh.

Horse-talk for Marzipan

2008-05-06T00:05:00.002-04:00

Dream sequence:

Last night I rode a mechanical horse along the river. We didn’t stop to drink the water but that’s only because it’s full of pesticides and herbicides and infanticides. In short, it’s full of bugs. This horse of mine, she’s sweet tempered while I’m hot embered. I carry a split stick as a riding whip, but I’m the one who needs it because I, unlike her, enjoy uncrossed sitting and off-bridge spitting; I peep into the medicine cabinets of strangers. In short, I’m not a lady. I like to pretend though, like when I cook dinner in expensive pearls and conservative sweaters, like when I wear “slacks” not pants, like when I say “yes, please, ma’am.”

So anyway, I was riding this horse along the way when we got to the Teeth Fairies. This is the part of the trip where I realized I shouldn’t have been riding so fast, wearing so little, with so little rear padding. Wouldn’t it be strange if your parents handed you a little bag, with a little tie, with all your little teeth you thought you lost when you were little? We could use it as currency then, a value forever rooted in childhood with zero inflation, which means the aggregate demand curve will be stable (…or maybe it’s the supply).

With these Teeth Fairies we whet our whistles with mathematic fermentation. The first variable is a glass of wine, which inevitably makes you giddy. The second variable, a second glass, makes you sleepy. Therefore, they cancel each other out like factional reciprocals leaving you with two empty glasses and a fuzzy brain, which is naturally to be expected when doing math.

It’s funny that childhood snacks like grapes become so bitter with age. We’ve become less round, more fluid. We’re less sweet, more fizzy, less bounce-able, more dizzy, and all-in-all we’re swimming in horizons that teeter. No wonder why we’re cranky with age, why we demand more high-fructose happiness.

My happiness, you see, is spreadable and I call it Jiff, I call it Jelly, I call it Mascarpone, but mostly I call it Marzipan. Not that I have anything against mascarpone, but I’m swimming in something sweeter these days and it goes great with cold milk.

“Hey, horse, where you going?”

“Back to the color factory to mend these split hooves”

“Think they can fix this split lip?”

“Oh I reckon so.”

*snaps fingers*

Now, wake up.

Popped!

2008-05-01T18:29:00.002-04:00

whoa.

Dude Ballerinas

2008-04-29T18:52:00.002-04:00

what.

the.

fuck.

Hoodwinked

2008-04-29T18:40:00.006-04:00

What is the most awkward date you can imagine?

If ever again a dude ever asks me about my views on society’s treatment domestic abuse, gender equality and the wage gap, I’m going to run like hell, because it’s a trick… a very clever trick to coerce you into a date (i.e. date rape)

NOTE: no actual rape occured. It was more like social harrassment.

Introducing Ben, an unattractive, chummy, cocky grad law student who sat at my table at the Student Leadership Summit on Sexual Violence. He told me all about his dissertation on domestic violence issues and police reports and asked me if he could bounce some ideas off me, being that I felt passionate about these issues. I thought ‘oh, that’s interesting.’ He first suggested cocktails at a pricey martini bar to which I replied “nah. My boyfriend wouldn’t like that. I’m incredibly not interested.”

He wrote me back and convinced me what a harmless vagina he was since he was in the only campus feminist club and he sent me a short story so I figured this guy was really asexual and lunch on campus would be alright. I’m always down for helping someone with their studies or whatever because I’m a nice person and all.

So fast forward to this afternoon. He shows up wearing this asinine rust colored turtleneck (uhm, it’s April, dude). It went really nice with his dark-ringed eyes and his grease slicked hair. Very lawyer-ish. In his thanks-for-lunch email, he said that some chick at the flower shop complimented him on it and that he suspected she had ulterior motives, but really I think she had a good case of sarcasm.

During this entire hour-long lunch I felt like that witchy-faced beast, Carrie, from Sex and the City. What a fucking disaster. I was desperately trying to remember everything he said because it was absolutely ridiculous. It was a near impossible task, however, because he didn’t shut the fuck up. Oh, look Manolo Blahnik!

Oh, please, Ben, tell me about when you were a junior associate at a proxy-acquisition firm!

Tell me more about your evidence class! Can you give me the exact definition of an exclamatory utterance? How about a couple trite examples?: Golly! That car was going fast!

And when he wasn’t filling my head with useless law jargon, he was telling me about his “foxy” Serbian-Croatian ex-girlfriend:

“She must have had that female sixth sense because whenever I got involved with a new woman, she would magically appear in my life. And she called me one night and when I got there I thought *leans in* heh, I think this is a, heh, bootycall”

He said ‘bootycall’ and I vomited a little in my mouth. He told me about the gorgeous chick he met on the slopes during his law retreat. And some chick that he went out to dinner with that didn’t seem to be interested in him… oh, she didn’t have a good time dining with you? Weird cause I’m having a blast.

He was incredibly rude to our waiter and immediately ordered his gnocchi he’s been talking about all week. He didn’t even tip him, which was way shady.

Aaaand cue awkward rust-sweater goodbye hug.

Hey, do it again sometime?… eh, no.
Tool.

Belleville Mix

2008-04-28T11:18:00.001-04:00

young knives – “turn tail”

black kids – “i’m not going to teach your boyfriend how to dance with you”

skye – “feel good, inc”

minus the bear – “panchuca sunrise”

granddaddy – “you are my sunshine”

ima robot – “lovers in captivity”

elton john – “goodbye yellow brick road”

brazilian girls – “never met a german”

the walkmen – “louisana”

belle and Sebastian – “if she wants me”

fischerspooner – “all we are”

someone still loves you boris yeltsin – “glue girls”

Ovum Hysterics

2008-04-25T17:12:00.001-04:00

The advent of the pill ushered in the women’s liberation movement by allowing women to take control over their fertility. Our bodies, ourselves. Sanger, founder of Planned Parenthood, made the miracle drug a US mainstay and sparked the second wave of feminism in the 1960s, just in time for all that “free” love. How the pill basically works is that it stops ovaries from releasing eggs. Taken correctly, this makes you 99.7% prego-proof.

Feminists are stereotypically regarded as man-eaters, man-haters, ball-busters, dykes, bitches, cunts, because they tend to be strong-willed, outspoken, independent, stubborn, headstrong, etc.

Then how appropriate is it that, when on the pill, sperm devote their entire existence to swimming upstream looking for the holy grail that isn’t even there. It’s like putting a dog on a treadmill for days; it’s not really getting anywhere.

Maybe if those sperm asked for directions they’d know they were on the wrong track. Maybe sympathy is in order- poor sperm running the marathon of their life and no one will get to the finish line. They will all perish in the Sahara environment of my uterus. And it’s not even like a IUD or spermacide where they’ll be immediately disintegrated. Nope, they’re going to die of exhaustion (the dumb ones that don’t try impregnating body cells and such). I bet my eggs are laughing in their ovaries like an all-girl sleepover watching on the big screen.

This puts feminism and gender relations on the most basic and biological of stages, and it’s a comedy alright.

Mockingbird Snooze

2008-04-19T08:53:00.002-04:00

I curled my body around the trunk of a strong pine

with the idea of sleep.

My stomach concaved to fit its bark

my arms a circle around its waist.

“Keep an ear to the ground,” he said.

So I did.

I tried my best

to hear earthworms wiggle and turn the soil

sweat and toil

but all I heard was ticking.

And all I smelled was beets

And bicycle grease.

A pillow of half digested leaves

and a pine needle cot.

A mockingbird alarm clock,

swooping away with duel blurred white spots.

Or was it a veery or a finch?

Perhaps a barn swallow?

Though I guess it doesn’t matter much

as a mockingbird by any other name

would sing and sound the same

…as others.

Finally, those worms did rise and shine and stretch

And kissed me with their dragon breath

We lay in bed with blaring forest radio news

But rolled and hit that mockingbird snooze.

[ I lick your fingers before I turn the page.]

A Spring Day

2008-04-16T23:02:00.001-04:00

So effortlessly she appeared
Gliding on her white bike
As I was reading my white book
Under cloudless blue skies.

She spotted me
As I spotted her.
And instead of waving-
She made a funny face:

Something like an open-mouthed frown
And buggy eyes.

I half smiled.
I half waved.
And fully thought
‘go to hell’