Not that I had a lot of junk in my trunk to begin with, but the stress of the last few weeks has really taken its toll and now my ass is no longer a Rootie-Tootie-Fresh & Fruity but a lonely little flapjack without even a pat of butter. Why, just the other day I was sitting on a wooden bench with my friend Rosalie who is on maternity leave (because that is what you do when you are unemployed or on maternity leave: you sit on benches outside of gelato stores without buying anything, just to talk) and my butt actually hurt from sitting there. The wood seemed to cut into my butt bones and I don't even know if there even is such a thing as a butt bone. It seems a little suspicious, like a ham hock or something you would throw in a pot to make stone soup. I contend that there are people who eat from stress and there are people who lose their appetite due to stress. I'm a loser. Ha. Not only that, but I'm also fairly convinced that you either expand as you get older or you shrink with age. And guess what? I'm a shrinker. It's genetic. I look at my mom and she is basically just a pile of QVC necklaces on a sweater. You can hardly see her she is so tiny and her butt might actually face inward. Sorry Mom, but it's true. If my ass is a flapjack then yours is the little splatters of batter that brown up on the edge of the grill, a dot of a pancake. What am I doing today other than talking out of my ass? Well, my dad is coming over later to talk book proposals with me. He is a writer. And I want to be a writer. And this should be an interesting afternoon because talking about your writing is really very intimate. Especially if you want to write about motherhood as I do because by its very definition that means I have a VAGINA and that is something neither my dad nor I are very comfortable with: the fact that I have one. I remember when I got my first period my mom yelled into the kitchen "Hey Ed! Can you go down to Center Market to get some pads for Susannah?" and I am fairly certain that something inside of both my father and I curled up and died from embarrassment that day. So Dad, get ready. I want to be a writer and I have a vagina. But apparently I have no ass so perhaps we can somehow take solace in that.
Friday, April 11, 2008
IHOP: Leave Happy
It's official: I have no ass.
Not that I had a lot of junk in my trunk to begin with, but the stress of the last few weeks has really taken its toll and now my ass is no longer a Rootie-Tootie-Fresh & Fruity but a lonely little flapjack without even a pat of butter. Why, just the other day I was sitting on a wooden bench with my friend Rosalie who is on maternity leave (because that is what you do when you are unemployed or on maternity leave: you sit on benches outside of gelato stores without buying anything, just to talk) and my butt actually hurt from sitting there. The wood seemed to cut into my butt bones and I don't even know if there even is such a thing as a butt bone. It seems a little suspicious, like a ham hock or something you would throw in a pot to make stone soup. I contend that there are people who eat from stress and there are people who lose their appetite due to stress. I'm a loser. Ha. Not only that, but I'm also fairly convinced that you either expand as you get older or you shrink with age. And guess what? I'm a shrinker. It's genetic. I look at my mom and she is basically just a pile of QVC necklaces on a sweater. You can hardly see her she is so tiny and her butt might actually face inward. Sorry Mom, but it's true. If my ass is a flapjack then yours is the little splatters of batter that brown up on the edge of the grill, a dot of a pancake. What am I doing today other than talking out of my ass? Well, my dad is coming over later to talk book proposals with me. He is a writer. And I want to be a writer. And this should be an interesting afternoon because talking about your writing is really very intimate. Especially if you want to write about motherhood as I do because by its very definition that means I have a VAGINA and that is something neither my dad nor I are very comfortable with: the fact that I have one. I remember when I got my first period my mom yelled into the kitchen "Hey Ed! Can you go down to Center Market to get some pads for Susannah?" and I am fairly certain that something inside of both my father and I curled up and died from embarrassment that day. So Dad, get ready. I want to be a writer and I have a vagina. But apparently I have no ass so perhaps we can somehow take solace in that.
Not that I had a lot of junk in my trunk to begin with, but the stress of the last few weeks has really taken its toll and now my ass is no longer a Rootie-Tootie-Fresh & Fruity but a lonely little flapjack without even a pat of butter. Why, just the other day I was sitting on a wooden bench with my friend Rosalie who is on maternity leave (because that is what you do when you are unemployed or on maternity leave: you sit on benches outside of gelato stores without buying anything, just to talk) and my butt actually hurt from sitting there. The wood seemed to cut into my butt bones and I don't even know if there even is such a thing as a butt bone. It seems a little suspicious, like a ham hock or something you would throw in a pot to make stone soup. I contend that there are people who eat from stress and there are people who lose their appetite due to stress. I'm a loser. Ha. Not only that, but I'm also fairly convinced that you either expand as you get older or you shrink with age. And guess what? I'm a shrinker. It's genetic. I look at my mom and she is basically just a pile of QVC necklaces on a sweater. You can hardly see her she is so tiny and her butt might actually face inward. Sorry Mom, but it's true. If my ass is a flapjack then yours is the little splatters of batter that brown up on the edge of the grill, a dot of a pancake. What am I doing today other than talking out of my ass? Well, my dad is coming over later to talk book proposals with me. He is a writer. And I want to be a writer. And this should be an interesting afternoon because talking about your writing is really very intimate. Especially if you want to write about motherhood as I do because by its very definition that means I have a VAGINA and that is something neither my dad nor I are very comfortable with: the fact that I have one. I remember when I got my first period my mom yelled into the kitchen "Hey Ed! Can you go down to Center Market to get some pads for Susannah?" and I am fairly certain that something inside of both my father and I curled up and died from embarrassment that day. So Dad, get ready. I want to be a writer and I have a vagina. But apparently I have no ass so perhaps we can somehow take solace in that.
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