Thursday, December 31, 2009
Happy New Years, dearest Reader. Seriously, if you drink, don't drive & if you drive, don't close your eyes. Stay safe & we'll meet back here tomorrow (I'll cook up some bacon and butter the english muffins for your hangover.)
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
(When you don’t know how to say something it helps to begin with a quote.)
I am pretty sure Woody Allen made up that figure, that 4 out of 5 doctors don’t necessarily agree and that there was no testing on animals involved. But it’s true, nonetheless, don’t you think?
When you’re little you think that fame is inevitable. Fortune. I was going to be a Runner! No mention made that I never ran anywhere or that running is not really a job for most. But there it was: a Runner! Or a Writer! I was going to be a Millionaire! The Queen/Ruler/Boss of Something! Big! It was a given, the future capitalized like that; why, it said so right there on the rainbow-lettered poster I taped to my bedroom door.
And then you get to junior high and care more about whether or not your period has leaked through the back of your capris. You master the art of changing into your gym clothes without ever once showing skin. You shrink. Shirk. High school: you fall in love and become two. Then one again, which feels like half of what you once were, less. Smaller still. College is fun and then you graduate and get a job but your business card does not make a very impressive poster for your bedroom door and HR refuses to print exclamation points after your title. (Just a fax number which is communal and never works anyway.)
I hate it when bloggers write about blogging. The meta-me-ness of two mirrors facing inward into infinity. Dude. And yet.
Not to be an asshole, but... this usually means someone is about to be a total fucktard asshole, and me stalling here means I am about to write about my writing, i.e. be an asshole, a fuck, you ready? Here we go.
80% of blogging is about self-promotion. And yes, 4 out of 5 doctors tasered lab rats to prove this statement true.
Blog rolls, awards, rankings, nominations, kudos, Kirtsy, Digg, Babble, Stumble, stats, technorati, and twitter. Followers. Fuck. I was the kid who tried very hard not to care, the studied nonchalance of a girl who held out the hem of her shirt so her boobs wouldn’t cast a shadow. I write because I love words, yet I would be lying if I didn’t also admit to loving an audience, all the www a Slam Book in which, god forbid, I do not merit a mention.
My stats have teetered a bit since I stopped posting so often. Which is, well, duh. Days go by now with no comments. Something about a tree falling in the woods, I am sure. It’s silly, this feeling. The addiction to response. Sick, really. If I write for the sake of writing, then why do I care? (And boom goes that tree, yet another victim of scale.)
What do you think of the girl who says it out loud? I want to be popular. The very word makes me cringe. Popular. (She who says it is usually not.) Popular brings me back to wannabe, to the days when we said face to each other coupled by the gesture of scratching down your, um, face. Did you do that? Face? Squirmy-wormy here in my Keds complete with friendship pins I made for myself? (And yes, I know that comparing the blogosphere to school is hackneyed at best, but it's not enough like my daily commute on the bus to find an analogy there, so-)
I suck at self-promotion, preferring, instead, to pretend that I don’t care. Vote for me. Or don’t. Whatever. As long as I don’t care I cannot fail.
There are bloggers who are great at self-promotion. They are big on blog rolls, they have pages dedicated to badges, they rank. Some write well, some not-so. On small days I think they are lame. On days that I feel big I admire them, their confidence. How do they do it—put themselves out there? Market themselves? Treat their writing as something of worth?
Short of showing off my tits (the shadows now longer like the end of a day), how do I comfortably sell myself? Paste a poster on my 37 year old door? Perhaps in black Sharpie for sophistication’s sake? Petunia Face! Blogger! Writer! Me! What do you think of self-promotion? The awards and links and lalalalala of the www? What would you think if I cared? Do you care?
Incidentally, Woody Allen also said in Annie Hall that he wouldn’t join any club that would have him as a member, although I think he stole that line from Groucho Marx.
(When you don’t know how to stop something it also helps to end with a quote.)
Monday, December 28, 2009
1. Santa brought Zoey exactly what she wanted. Which is not of the joystick variety per se, but just as creepy in a purple plastic flying pony that is not very pretty way, plus it talks. A lot. When you touch its foot, its belly, its mouth, its ear, seemingly when you think about taking out its batteries and maybe submerging it in cold bathwater while the children are asleep. Apparently its name is Starsong and she has a short curly 'do where her mane should be; in fact, she bears a striking resemblance to El Debarge, just as falsetto bad, and if I close my eyes I can almost smell Drakkar Noir mixed with Oxy 10 and the Drake High Gym. (Goddamn ponies and that fat fuck Santa.)
2. My apologies for the above--it's just that the pony now sleeps with Zoey and Zoey still sleeps with us and my god, if I roll over one more time at 3am only to set off a high-pitched plush la la la la la! I'm sleepy! I swear to god--I don't know. That's how tired I am. Anyone ever seen the flick They Shoot Horses, Don't They?
3. Next Monday I leave for Mexico which is reason enough to roll your eyes and stop reading, but wait--it gets worse. My in-laws are taking us, paying for us--my in-laws who I love and really like. Built in babysitters at a resort and the promise of a slack-jawed nap in the sun. In anticipation I tried on my bathing suit a few weeks ago, which is a big ol' Glamour magazine Don't during the month of December, but there I was nonetheless: white and puffy, veiny, hair where there is no hair on women in porn. Or men, for that matter. But I told myself no problem! With all the optimism of time. Why, I'd just cut out bread! Drink water! Forgetting, of course, about the boulange near work with the warm hazelnut croissants, seasonal eggnog chai, sugar cookies shaped like trees, See's candies (but it's not a bread product!) and panettone, a loaf of which I ate to see if I even like panettone which it turns out I don't. And then last night I racked my knee on the exposed corner of my bed, slicing it just a little but bruising it a lot. By the time I get to Mexico my leg should be the sick yellow color of a turned banana; I will look like a sloppy stripper in my bikini, over-the-hill and just waiting for the DJ down at the pool to play me some Bon Jovi. Livin' on a Prayer, man! Fuck Yeah!
4. I hate women who talk about how they look in a bikini, jeans, naked, diets, ohmygodamifat?, i.e. I suck.
5. And lastly, I just realized Christmas is over and I did not hear my favorite song, not even once. Do They Know It's Christmas? Which kinda' begs the question: Do starving Africans even care if it's Christmas or not? And what kind of sentiment is well tonight thank god it's them, instead of you???
Oh well. It's a great diddy nonetheless. (Band-Aid brings me back to that one Christmas I got a yellow walkman and zebra-striped Guess jeans that zippered down each ankle and I sat in the rocking chair for days afterward listening to this song and feeling lucky because I was. Am.)
Just a little post-Christmas coital, that is all.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
This past Sunday I went to a psychic. And when I say went to a psychic I mean I paid a woman in Florida to read me over the phone for an hour. Oh, I know how it sounds, paying someone to do something to you in italics. All hoo hoo ha ha Sequoia Na Na con carob when of course we all know now that carob is just as bad for you as chocolate and tastes like shit. But here's the thing: I believed it. Her. Everything. In things that hide and then come out again, in the vastness of strings.The psychic came highly recommended, my left brain having struck a deal with the right. Backed by media claims, testimonials, slips of paper somewhere I am sure. I made an appointment for Sunday morning and waited for her call with a list of questions, a pen, photos. Before me I set a bowl of Native American fetishes that had been my paternal grandmother's. I was nervous.
I thought about not even telling you about this because it was personal. But then I remembered that one times a dozen that I wrote about having panic attacks, the post about how my step-father has been dying for years now, how I have told you that I have absolutely no ass to speak of: just two dimples and a crack. The psychic said I was a writer but why wasn't I writing? No, really, she said--why? Apparently my spirit guides are pushing me forward, she said, and then I nibbled on my granola bar, but still, I listened. Writing. She told me about Zoey. She said that I would give birth to baby #2 when Zoey is 5, that he is very intuitive and waiting. She talked about my dad, and then she said my grandmother was there. I reached for my Native American fetish bowl but she said no, this was my mom's mom. My mom's mom left when my mom was 8. She did not know her. I never knew her. She died in August and we just found out in November. But there she was--she has one hand to her chest and she is saying sorry, she is so sorry, tell your mother there was love there and she is so sorry.
It went on, of course, and while I know that more specifics would improve the post I will just say this: it was true. Whatever that means. Because here my thoughts are made of light, of smoke, and I imagine your eyes are absent. Do you believe? Maybe? The possibility of it like a climbing vine? If you'd like information on the psychic please email me and I'll give you her website.
Monday, December 21, 2009
This video reminds me of that night. And of Serge Gainsbourg. Strangely enough it reminds me of the way I dance, too, all emphatic elbows and knees, except maybe without the panache of a blond Italian woman who sees little reason to button her shirt.
The lyrics here are pure gibberish, of course, intended to sound like American English as heard by a non English-speaker. But to me the song sounds like Hello Monday Morning of a Short Holiday Week with a rousing chorus of Rad. I don't know--it makes me happy--this disco rap goodness from 1972 like a giggle in the back of my throat. *Flashback* If I close my eyes I can still hear the traffic from Polk Street below, the sound of the prostitutes calling to each other in the night.
Happy Monday! (Oll Raigth!)
Friday, December 18, 2009
An oral hygiene model. Don't know why really, but I'm fairy certain it's smiling at me. Me! This would look pretty darn frisky in my bathroom, though at $55 I'm hoping it either gets wrapped up and handed to me with a tube of vanilla-mint Crest or is severely marked down post-12/26. Honestly I can't stop staring. I really really want this, don't you?
Oh, how I do want this, nay, need this. A tit for my tree. $8.50. Somebody please gift me with this handblown breast and forever after my holidays will be happy, I just know it.
And then this, the most confusing gimme gimme of them all:
'Tis the season, I 'spose. For miracles and vinyl mouths, resin boobie balls and--honestly, you guys--WTF IS UP WITH COCO?
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
There will be no image to go along with that paragraph.
I have a birth mark on my right thigh like a thumbprint. Over the years it has become dotted with freckles, a smattering is what I guess one is supposed to call something like that. Instead I call it my freckle farm, and each spring when I once again warm my legs in the sun I find that I have missed it, my birth mark.
I used to have beautiful feet.
But this is not about my body, believe it or not. My freckles or face or the faint scar on my stomach shaped like the continent of Africa. No, this is about me in mourning for Zoey's tummy. Her pot belly. Because suddenly it's gone, the round curve of her stomach now flat with time. She has grown, stretched out, and last night as Bryan and I watched her sleep we both whispered it: she's not a toddler anymore. Who knows the exact parameters of what happens when; more important are the long legs thrown from the covers like that, the vector of her tummy a different degree while the curvature of a straight line remains zero. Three and a half.
She is three and a half, three years and eight months if we are to get truly mathematical, equal to the inverse and extrinsic. She has one dark freckle on her back and no scars, eyelashes I imagine on a deer; one of her front teeth is very slightly crooked from when she was learning to walk and did not. The oldest she has ever been and the youngest that she'll ever be and yet I cannot help but try and flatten time. When next I see her tummy curve like that she will be a woman and pregnant maybe, her own baby inside, my grandbaby, the points sharply bent into a circle the only constant.
Neither here nor there, but this: for Christmas I asked my dad for this yellow Measure Me stick so we can keep track of Zoey's growth no matter where we live. I am pretty sure he got it for me seeing as how just the other week he mentioned something about a very large package being delivered to his house...
Monday, December 14, 2009
Honestly I don't know if this is a scam or not, but I do know this: right now there are microscopic mites living in your eyelashes, chomping away at secretions and dead skin debris, one adult capable of laying 25 eggs inside just one hair follicle. IN YOUR MOTHEREFFING EYE. You're thinking about them now, aren't you? Those itty bitty creepers with their fat stump legs and mouths like sharp-needled hoovers. So really? Is it so far-fetched to think someone might be living in my pantry?
Friday, December 11, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Which is a total lie because while I love this video and would be disappointed if you did not feel the same I still think we could be friends if you gave me all your People magazines after you were done reading them and the page corners were not smudged with something horribly brown in my no-good imagination, or if you do a spot-on Kim Zolciak impression, or if maybe you also like nutella on toast with butter and then a second slice with slightly more butter and nutella. Yeah. (Things to consider: please order me a chai if you are going to Starbucks before meeting me--I'll pay you back--and you'll need to overlook the fact that I suck at doing accents even though sometimes I feel moved to speak as if I am from some British enclave in the Deep South.)
Screw it. The video is cool and all but being friends with you is the awesomest.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Thing One, appendix 1a: Recently it has come to my attention that I have been a bad friend of the blogosphere. And when I say it has been called to my attention I mean pretty much nothing by it, i.e. I am probably the only one who's noticed. Here's the thing: I now commute to the city via bus, a 40 minute ride for which I bought an iphone with the express purpose of doing my blog rounds, personal emails, time suckage/dry humping the www/blah di blah while en route. What I have found, however, is that buses are wont to stop a lot, start, float over lanes, lurch. Buses have the nerve to turn corners, and without fail a few minutes into my commute I feel like this:
On my first day I sat in the front row and asked the driver if maybe he could not ride the brakes so much? Which did not go over well as I have found there are unspoken rules of commuting. Such as no talking. No coffee. No puking. No eye contact. No change for a twenty and no telling the bus driver which route would be best when the bridge is backed up onto Beach Street. And so I have come up with an alternative method which includes me hunched forward over my iphone with my hair falling down over each side of my face creating blinders so I lose some sense of motion at least, and then I cruise the internet. Thing is I have not found a way to comment on your blogs without feeling that forboding cold ring around my lips, without saliva collecting in my mouth like a promise, and so I don't so much. And I am sorry. I miss you. Send scopolomine.
Thing One, appendix 2b: Happy birthday Jenny! Please make loud, slightly dirty love to your husband tonight because he is adorable. Seriously. The backstory here is that Jenny's husband emailed I-don't-know-how-many bloggers and asked us to give his girl a Casey Kasem shout-out on her birthday. In his email he even called her his girl which pretty much made me pee rainbows. If you don't know Jenny from My Favorite and My Best you simply must go visit not only to wish her a happy happy but also because her blog is above and beyond funny. And I totally would've said that even if it wasn't her birthday but it is, so, yeah. Happiest of birthdays to you :)
Thing Two: Here is a dramatic reenactment of what Zoey and I are doing today:
Today Zoey and I are flying down to LA to visit my brother and his wife and to take Zoey to Disneyland again. Gratis. My brother asked if maybe Zoey would like this as her Christmas present and I made the executive decision of hell-to-the-princess-dress-yes. And so we are off for three days and will try our very bestest to look as groovy as these ladies.
*Seriously Japanese Reader, knock that shit off. I suspect you're spam and so I will not be publishing your comments ever. Except here. Where I made fun of you and did not include that web link you attached. Fucker. The end.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
But there is one thing that has been irking me for quite some time now, me who buys Us Weekly and People magazine every Friday, my own little happy hour complete with (no) think specials. It's this: Sexy Face. The increasingly popular deadened eyes at half-mast, mouth agape, body twisted torqued to thrust out boobs and butt and-- well, that's it really. Variations of Sexy Face include one finger precariously close to mouth, pursed lips and possibly sneezing, or being caught in mid-sneeze. It would seem. I don't know. Here is the latest offender, this pic of J Lo in the back of Us Weekly under the title Unshorn Celebrities! Because god forbid her bangs are too fringe-y but no problem if she is looking at the camera as if caught in mid-shart.
Mid-blink, mid-sneeze, somebody cut the cheese. Imagine the possibilities...
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Later, when I crept into her room that night this is what I found... All the world a ball to balance on her nose for a time. (My heart styrofoam wet and heavy, & so I kissed the plum of her eyes and let myself be swallowed whole.)