Silly String On a Loofah

Let's see: it's been almost six months (fuck! really?) since I was last laid off, five and a half if you're counting pennies and pity, commes moi. So I'd say we're about ripe for a post on things I'm going to Shop the Shit Out Of Once I Am Employed Again, (SSOOOIAEA, for short. Feel free to use that on your next Facebook Scrabble game. I'm pretty sure it'll be accepted, especially if you're playing against me and your name is Rosalie and you have already beat me with words like qi and qua and reif and shit, yes, SHIT even though Facebook won't accept my graciously proferred and perfectly acceptable word of ZEN. That's right: Facebook hates breastfeeding, Buddhists and apparently me.) Ah, but I digress.

Shit, yes, shit. I want this shit even though this economy has taught me it doesn't mean shit but shit happens and I want me some of the following (shit):

1. This funky Swedish Lampel light. What can I say? I am a child of the 70's; I grew up in a house dripping with ferns, warmed by orange shag carpeting and quaaludes. I'd drape some air plants in these bad boys and call it a day. Day. Moving on.

2. A Becky Kelso ring. I realize that last time I was unemployed I listed this in my SSOOOIAEA list, but once I got a job I wasn't employed nearly long enough to buy it. So yes, Becky Kelso redux, preferably rose gold with diamond, although a moonstone will suffice. (Don't tell, but sometimes if someone is tailgating me and Zoey is not in the car I daydream about slamming on my brakes so the person behind rear-ends me. Of course in my daydream I am not hurt and the person behind me is a wealthy alcoholic who has too many DUI's so he--it's always a man--pays me off with wads of cash, hush money that then becomes my Becky Kelso ring money. Check out the bauble below and tell me it isn't worth slight whiplash. Sshhh.)

3. When I was in college I had a fake leopard print coat that was too plush so I bought some clippers at a drugstore and spent the afternoon shaving my coat. My neighbor was the Hispanic son of strawberry farmers and I saw him peeking through my living room window at me surrounded by puffs of leopard fur as if I were nuts. And maybe I was, because that shorn coat was sheer perfection and somewhere along the way I gave it away or threw it out or lost it, whatever. My neighbor avoided me for the rest of the time that I lived there, and ever since I have mourned that coat until this: 1950's Fur Leopard Print Faux Fur Trapeze Coat. Good God, with my Becky Kelso ring, a few lamps dripping with sexy time greenery--koo koo ka choo Mrs. Me, and yes, I am trying to seduce you with this swingy feline number.

4. But I am not entirely selfish in my SSOOOIAEA. No, I would love to purchase this Moroccan Leather Pouf for Zoey's room. And then I would ban all markers, crayons, paint, juice, milk, sweaty food stuffs and chapsticks from her room. Or just keep the pouf in my possession until she turns 16. (She would thank me later, of that I am sure.)

5. And lastly, once I am gainfully employed with benefits and the luxury of ignoring the evening news, once the world is again round and good and plenty, I would like me one of these:
Perhaps I should have marked this as NSFW. Whatever, just tell your IT department it's silly string on a loofah and they will never ever know that it is indeed an extreme close up of sperm fertilizing a human egg. Beautiful, right? While it rounds out my list at #5, this desire pretty much trumps all, if for nothing else than it would give me something to blog about rather than stuff I want to Shop the Shit Out Of Once I Am Employed Again.

Happy Hump Day. (You have my express permission to tell your partner tonight that you would like to spray some silly string on a loofah. It sure beats saying you want to "do it.")

Commercial Break

Well I'll be damned if this is not a commercial for Coca-Cola, spermicidal soda of the new generation, or something like that (again, not sure why I have yet to receive offers of employment as a copywriter/marketing maven):


Usually I hate commercials that get me in the gut. Makes me feel like the sap that I am. If this is the case for you, never fear: I got a little wiseass for you here!

Coke or no, Have a Smile.

Back tomorrow with our regularly scheduled deprogramming.

On The Elasticity of Time (And Again)

*There once was a Zoey so bright,
Who grew up faster than light.
She set out one day,
In a relative way,
And returned on the previous night.

We bought a daybed this weekend at Ikea, spending money to make money. We bought the bed to stage our third bedroom for selling our house. And yes, for the very futuristic idea that years from now, maybe when she turns 14 and cars levitate and I can order a venti non-fat, no water chai latte from the surface of my sub-zero fridge, that one day the bed would become Zoey's big girl bed. Of course once we got home Time snapped its rubbery ass right in my face because Zoey demanded to sleep in her new big girl bed that night. Now. Then, the dilation of length, time, mass and energy sighing before my very eyes: my baby has become a big girl and I have become a puddle of particulate cliche. They just grow up so damn fast.

It did not matter that we had no sheets yet for the bed. It did not matter that the bed was not set up in her room, that she did not have her ballerina light, her night-night music or her books. It did not matter that I was not ready. Zoey, I said while stuffing one pink toenailed foot into her fleece heart pajamas, what is the purpose of the Federal Reserve? I wanted to remind both of us that she is still a baby, but then she answered, The Fed is the Central Banking System of the United States, created in 1913 by the enactment of the Federal Reserve Act. And that's when I knew it was over.

Okay, so maybe that last part didn't really happen, but she did watch 60 Minutes with us last night much too quietly, her hands folded in her lap just so, her eyes narrowing with doubt over Ben Bernanke every now and again. When did this happen? The Cult of Quick and Now and Oh, Grow Up? When did the alarm on my bedside table become an Atomic Clock? When did I care about who sleeps where? And why and how and who.

Nacho, my what, my cat. My baby of fur and tail and whiskers the quality of prized porcupine quill. Last night he discovered Zoey's abandoned crib and set up shop on the plush pink blanket and damask rose pillow, all purr and mine and lickety split.

Time is elastic and indifferent. Transparent, or maybe that's just me. In my town there is a woman of questionable mind who pushes her dogs down the street in a Graco stroller. They each have a blanket, one blue and one pink, I can only assume because one dog is a boy and the other a girl. The woman is friendly, chats you up if you stop to stare. And I do: stare, because I have seen my future, 30 years from now in the sting of a rubber band. I have known what it is to baby something, to love, to tuck in, to kiss closed eyelids like a prayer laced with faint capillaries.

Knowing that, I don't think I could ever not love, not tuck in, not travel to Zoey's marriage bed to tickle her back, not stand in the doorway with reassurances unasked, I'm here, Mama's here, right here, (her husband or partner sighing and rolling over, vowing not to come to Thanksgiving dinner at my house ever again). And suddenly, the particulars of the behavior of time as specified in the theory of relativity do not seem quite so questionable, quite so insane, dogs in strollers and cats in the cradle, kisses on eyelids and whiskers on kittens.

*Limerick a take-off on this one, published in 1923 as a critique of Einstein's Theory of Relativity.

Disappearing Ink

Question (bordering on rhetorical, most certainly hypothetical): how dumb would I be to get this statement tattooed somewhere on my body? Like a 36 year old tramp stamp, only rather than a sexy, curling tribal design the tattoo would be these very matter of fact words on a flat black background that does not flatter the post-maternal hip spread one freaking iota.

As dumb as the time I was 19 and got a dolphin tattooed on my ankle because I had seen a particularly riveting episode of "House of Style" featuring Nikki Taylor who had the same tattoo? What can I say? It looked oh-so-cute on her, riding around on a golf cart as she was with Cindy Crawford. (I'm just lucky I didn't get a mole tattooed on my face.)

Or would it be as dumb as the time I was 23 and for the briefest of moments fell in love with Bruce Lee and thought to my 23 year old self, self! I want to be as strong as water just like Bruce Lee. Punch the surface, its strength lying in the fact that water flows around any force! Phenomenal woman, that is me! (I had a tendancy to identify myself with books and movies back then, often confusing myself with characters, mixing them together like a bowl of stone soup to which I had contributed nothing.) Later I went to the library and looked up the Chinese character for water, not knowing if the symbol I ultimately chose meant still water, tap water, river water or sewage. I tattooed the symbol on my ankle next to Nikki Taylor's dolphin, and then I went to the farmer's market with some friends and cried when a large man stepped on my freshly bandaged foot. Phenomenal woman that I was, like water for chocolate seemed more like it, so I went to Cold Stone Creamery and ate a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream cone to find my strength.

I guess what I'm trying to point out to myself is this: there was a time I thought I was a dolphin, a martial artist, a time when I thought my life could be summed up by a symbol in a language I don't even speak. Now, of course, I look back and laugh, the tattoos now blurred, turning blue like the bicep of an aged sailor who has long since lost the line of his horizon. I am wiser and have no desire to ride around in a golf cart with supermodels. So maybe this, this year or years of what seems like something that will forever define me: failure or liberation, moving on down and out and in some sort of direction far, far away. Maybe this will one day blur, too. Fade blue by the sun accompanied by a thousand yard stare of my very own. Maybe one day I will look back at this and laaauggh. Remember when I used to blog? I will say. How I sat at the kitchen table wearing that sweatshirt with the embroidered birds and sighed, thinking it was the end of something, when really, it was just the beginning? And then I will smile. Yes, of this I am sure: and then I will smile.

Happy Friday the 13th, tout le monde. Stay lucky.

A Lil' Paint

I'm beginning to think there are some benefits to having less money. For one, I don't have all that bulky cash so my wallet sits as sleek and thin as it did when I bought it in the store. Dark cloud, meet silver lining (cliche, meet I don't care). But by far the best part about having no money is that it forces one to get creative.

I used to be super creative in college. I painted, made lamp shades, adorned a coffee table with broken shards of colorful ceramic tile. Somewhere along the way I got a job, had less patience, no time, more money. I bought a coffee table. And it was this:

1999, Crate and Barrel does Rachel Ashwell, did me fine while watching Friends. But these days I cannot stand to watch reruns of Friends. Something about the purple walls and comic timing. And I can't stand that coffee table. So I painted it. And then painted it some more. Staple gunned oil cloth to the top, screwed in some purdy knobs, and voila!

Rachel Ashwell would hate it. Zoey, on the other hand, loves it.

As do I. This is a coffee table with superb comic timing. It's funky and clunky and bright and garish and me. Plus, it wipes down clean, key when you have a marker-loving toddler in 'da house. Here's a close up of the oil cloth pattern I chose:

Next up: my car. Not to worry, no oil cloth was involved in this home makeover. (Although, hmmm...). In the process of downsizing, we are selling my new Toyota 4Runner. I will be driving a 1995 Honda Accord Wagon that my mother gave me. (Just a perk to having a mom that doesn't drive: the car only has 38k miles on it.) However, the paint job was badly oxidized, and I'm embarrassed to admit how very much that bothered me. So I got it painted (thanks, Andy!). Ta-da!

The paint place was supposed to match the factory color, a dark grayish-blue. And it is this color, in the shade. In the sun, however. Well, I have come to realize I am driving the wheeled equivalent of a mullet: business in the shade, party in the sun! Because check out the jazz hands on this bad boy station wagon:

I call him/her Ziggy Stardust. He/She is androgynous and sexy, an aging starlet with too much frosted eyeshadow, my own Norma Desmond with blinkers. Fitting for a girl with an oil clothed coffee table. (And believe me, this photo does not do the iridescence justice.)

A $19 refurbished coffee table. A $600 fresh mullet on wheels. Tell me, what are some ways you are getting creative in this new world of ours? Do you find that the failing economy is fueling your imagination? Any good tips, paint, fabric or otherwise? My glue gun is warming up and I'd love to hear your ideas!

Bum Bag

(Not to be confused with fanny pack.)

Yesterday my dad was helping me pack up some stuff and schlep it to storage to get the house ready to sell and blah blah, zzzzzzzzzz, moving on. Yeah, so we got hungry and since my kitchen cupboard contained an empty box of teddy grahams and a bag of stale marshmallows my dad suggested we open up one of his homeless bags. Turns out he makes these individual baggies, each containing two protein bars, one juice box, a handful of coffee flavored hard candies and a few pounds of quarters. When he sees a homeless person standing with one of those cardboard signs at a red light he grabs one from his glove box and hands it to him. Genius.

So yes, in a way I took a protein bar from a homeless person yesterday. In my defense it was a little chalky. But now I have a Bum Bag in my own glove box, ready to hand out to the next homeless person I see. (I must admit this makes me a little nervous as the last time I gave a perfectly toasted untouched bagel to a homeless person on Haight Street he yelled at me and hucked it at my quickly retreating back, leaving a horseshoe print of cream cheese on my dress. But I suppose I'm willing to give it another shot. From my car.)

And yes, I know Bum Bag might sound a little un-pc, but I like the alliteration and maybe the allusion to fanny packs, if I have to be honest. Anyway, my dad inspired me to make some Bum Bags to store in my car for those times when the red light lasts an eternity and you can only fiddle with your ipod for so long. Lord knows, if I'm having a hard time in this economy, many others are having it so much worse. I hope you're inspired to do the same. While wearing a fanny pack. And matching halo.

Jiggity Jig (the) Jig (Is Up)

Last night I picked up Bryan from the airport. The boat he sailed on came in second place; he is now deliciously tan and relaxed, although his knobby knees resemble two bubbling slices of pepperoni from crawling around the grippy bow of the boat all week long. Here is a pic Zoey snapped of us once we got home: What can I say? I like my men veiny.

Okay, fine. That's not really us. Truth in advertising: Bryan is just a cafe con leche away from personifying this crispified version of Todd Wilkins on steroids, although he doesn't look quite as dirty/oily, nor has he worn a tank top since 1989, praise be to the god of male armpit hair everywhere. And while the fraulein on the left bears a striking resemblance to yours truly (if you squint your eyes after liberally dousing them with nail polish remover, vinegar and a dash of salt), maybe, just maybe my abs are a tad doughier than hers, my hair not quite so yellow, my nails not quite so, uh, picky. Although I would totally rock that Frederick's of Daytona bikini number if ever given the chance.

So, for those keeping score at home, here is a brief synopsis of what I did for the past ten days:

• Consumed 4 entire bags of Cadbury mini eggs
• Drank 2 quarts of chocolate milk
• Watched 17 total hours of slutty drunk bitch reality tv
• Painted my coffee table what was supposed to be a brick red but in the light of day tomorrow Bryan will discover is truly a carmine pink

What Bryan did for the past ten days:

• Lived off of fresh Caribbean fish
• Drank cold beer
• Sailed aggressively all day
• Slept in a $15k/week mansion complete with infinity pool on an island covered in sand the consistency (and probably the taste) of powdered sugar
• Partied with the Wailers at night. Yes, of Bob Marley and the...

I think we can agree that I sure showed him for going away.

Bubblegum Puff

I once saw a woman blow up a sheep's lung. It was 1980; I was in the third grade and the woman was the mother of a girl in my class named Shawnie. I watched the woman put her lips to a hole in the sheep's lung, watched her inhale deeply and then blow, blow, the bubblegum flesh of the lung expanding like a slick-sacked lopsided balloon. I remember hearing the collective eeews of the kids, and I glanced over at Shawnie and felt terribly, deeply sorry for her. I knew she would never be able to live it down, how her mother had put her bare science-lady lips to a dead sheep lung in front of the entire class. And from that day forward Shawnie was branded with the faint mark of childhood ick, like a guppy growing mold. As if somehow sensing that fateful day in the third grade, Shawnie's body quickly grew too tall, her brain too smart, her hair styled in a Dorothy Hamill haircut long past socially acceptable. The girl whose mother blew up a sheep's lung.

It was part of the Just Say No to Tobacco program of the early 80's when classroom blinds were drawn and we counted down the 3, 2, 1 of the crackly projector to watch film reels of black lung and a cowboy singing campfire songs through a trach tube. We were impressionable and they knew it. After school I would go home and write messages to my mother on tiny scraps of paper and slip them into her many packs of Marlboros: Please don't die! I don't want you to get emphysema! You stink! At first she generously asked me more about what they had taught me at school, but soon she was telling me to knock it off.

I smoked one cigarette in high school. Mad at my parents, I stole one from the kitchen counter and sat outside by our pool. All would have been right and addictive if I had just known how to hold it. But I didn't, and at 16 it's funny how even inanimate objects can mock you. The shrubs snickered, a chaise stared at me haughtily, one slightly deflated raft floated gently past me in the water and rolled its sun-bloated eyes in my general direction. I was no longer deterred by cancerous growth and arterial plaque so much as the fact that I felt like a total fucktard.

This weekend my mother stayed at my house. She let Zoey use her dark lipstick, picked California poppies with her and put them in a juice glass filled with water. (I grew up thinking it was illegal to pick poppies, that the minute my hand touched one I would hear sirens.) Later, Zoey and my mom took a bath together and my mother laughed as Zoey tried to scrub the palm tree tattoo off her butt. When we got home from taking my mom back to her house, Zoey turned to me and said, "I'll be right back, Mama. I'm going to go smoke a cigarette."

And I nearly died.

Hearing those words--that word, in my girl's tiny little voice. I thought of that cowboy with the trach tube, the Indian crying in the PSA from my childhood. Give a Hoot! Don't Pollute! I thought of Nancy Reagan and Shawnie. Is she still too tall? Too smart? Her hair a wedge of misfortune? Are her lungs still pliable and pink and young? And then for some reason I thought of the Kool Aid Pitcher bursting through wooden fences and into backyards, spilling that sticky red shit everywhere. It must have been in the same commercial break.

Oh, I know I have a few years before anyone lets Zoey bum a cigarette off them. A few years of me drilling it into her that smoking is bad, dangerous, gross, stinky. And yes, there was a small part of me that thought that maybe it was very slightly funny, my not-quite three year old announcing a nicotine break. But there is an even larger part of me that wonders just how badly the lung of a dead sheep would taste on my lips.

Photo by Sally Mann.

A Few Good Things (And One Very Good Man)

Hey there Friday, I like your shoes. Did you get a haircut? Because something about you looks different. Not that you didn't always look good, but, you know. Today you're looking particularly swank.

Perhaps it is this snippet of genius: The Bright Side Project where Sunshine is Delivered Daily.

Tristan of the lovely Blah Blah Blahg hatched the idea as a way to stay positive in these dour times. Don't you just love a girl with a little get up and go? Every day she will be giving away something for free. That's right Friday, I said free. Pretty baubles, beautiful art, coveted home decor, maybe a mortgage payment or two if all goes well. All you have to do is visit and answer a question formulated to get you thinking about the bright side. Don't believe me? Check it out for yourself. No catch, I wouldn't do that on this, the beginning of the weekend.

Oh Friday, you with your happy hour. You'd think that being unemployed I would not be as affected by your charm, but you'd be wrong. Friday: job or no job, you still make me want to dance. Which makes me all the happier for finding this DJ Lance Rock Motion Activated Dance Hat that I will officially buy Zoey for her birthday and then wear every night after she goes to bed complete with glasses (included) and fuzzy orange socks to keep my feet warm (not included):

Just think Friday! I can have a party in my tummy (So yummy! So yummy!) every You night from here on out. Break it down, now.

And then there's this:

Dear Friday of a lost weekend, behave. How I have always loved me some James Franco, from greasy bad boy in Freaks and Geeks to slightly greasier stoner in Pineapple Express, grease has never looked so good. And now I hear that my celluloid lover has just signed a book deal for a collection of short stories? That all this time he has been going to graduate school for a degree in Creative Writing? That he is slated to star as Allen Ginsberg in a biopic centering on the obscenity trials for "Howl"? Push me over with a Smith Corona, Friday, and do not hit return: you are too, too good to me.

So Mr. Friday (for some reason I feel you are a man), casual You in those sexy ass jeans: Thank God It's You.

Sex, Lies and Pap Smears

Name, rank and serial number. Sometimes I like to be boiled down like a Scantron bubble. A, B, C, or D, (and sometimes Y). Because I'm a fraud, I suppose, and a fraud likes nothing more than the legitimacy of multiple choice.

The other day I had my annual exam. It was a new doctor, so I sat in the waiting room and filled out the new patient questionnaire. Yes, no, this, that, last name, first, middle. I hesitated at filling in occupation. Because what am I, really? Unemployed? Lapsed Product Developer? Occupationally Agnostic? The pen hovered over the form briefly before I scribbled in: Writer. And then I handed the clipboard to the front desk and sat back down to read a very riveting article about casseroles in Family Circle.

What do you like? Huh? I looked up and there was one of the nurses whispering to me: What do you like? I thought it a strange question considering I had just filled out a form detailing my sexual history. Long walks on the beach? A little dirty talk? Huh? I must have looked really confused because she repeated herself a third time. What do you write? I saw on your questionnaire that you are a writer. Ah, write, right. Shit. Short stories, I whispered back. Fiction. Children's books. I felt as if I had been caught stealing something. Great! she said. I'm a screenwriter myself. She was wearing one of those square cotton smocks that nurses wear, the kind with a pattern of kittens tangled in yarn. Are you on Facebook? I nodded. I'll look you up! And then she went back behind the front desk to read more about the first day of my last period.

I wonder if Obama ever feels like a fraud. If Stephen Hawking maybe feels as if he is the 'um' in quantum theorum. I remember when I used to go to China for work, how the people in the factories would follow me around their showrooms, how I would stop to look at a frame or a fake flower and they would almost bump smack dab into me. Stop following me so closely, I wanted to say, I have no idea what I'm doing. Instead they would start chattering in Chinese excitedly if my fingers so much as braised a product when really, all I was trying to do was steady myself.

And then sometimes I feel as if I am standing beside me when I hear Zoey call me mommy. Me? You talking to me? I'm a mommy? It is absurd, this life of being who I am. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. When I was little I would sit in the back seat of my dad's car and stare up at the tiny pin holes on the upholstered ceiling until my eyes went slack and the naugehyde seemed to float down in transparent layers. I would reach my hand up to try and touch the pin-holed phyllo of the ceiling, Susannah, Susannah, Susannah. If you stare long enough, think hard enough, say it enough times it all seems illusory.

Susannah Clay M, PhD. Dr. Susannah Clay M, M.D, DDS, STAT. The Honorable Miss Susannah Clay M., Esq., Jr., CPA. When I send away for catalogs I add a suffix if given the option. (Which may tell you more about why I am sometimes surprised to be a mother, not exactly mature but it's fun.) Who am I? What do I do? The truth does not fit on a line one inch long.____________

I should have written this--Occupation: I'm not really sure right now. Mother, wife, one of the legions of the unemployed. I spend my days on the internet blogging. Looking for jobs. Doing laundry. Thinking. Sometimes I nap. Yesterday I watched The City. You want to know my occupation? It is this: waiter. Not like in a restaurant, but in the world. Waiting for Something to Happen with an advanced degree in Watching. Not quite sure what, or why. Maybe this is it. This today of feeling like a fraud. Maybe that's what we all are. Doctors and lawyers and mothers and writers and physicists, dreamers and pretenders and

I would have written all of that in the margins of the form, and then I would have run out of room. Because that's what it is, anyway. Life--the pressing need to define yourself until you run out of time. Who the fuck cares what I think I am anyway? Susannah Clay M., Writer of Things. I could wear cotton smocks with kittens tangled in yarn, don a papal robe, tattoo your name on my neck. You could stare at me until I become transparent layers of pin-holed plastic floating toward you. 1, 2, 3, 4. Does it matter if you cannot reach your hand up and touch me? Because in the end, none of it matters, none of it changes the cellular makeup of my cervix.

And Now, Our Feature Presentation

Because every now and then it's wise to return to one's roots. (I defy you not to smile.)



Filed under: shameless, petunia face, precious giggles, high-waisted acid wash jeans with a brag book crammed down into the front pocket behind the inverted pleats and just above the camel toe, mommy blogger salami lager, so sue me it's not like I actually file away anything but resentment anyway.

Happy Hump Day, party people.
xoxo,
the OG Petunia Face and her Nasturtium of a Mother.

Slurp

My apologies for the late post today. I was out this morning running errands, ultimately trying to find Waldo on the ceiling poster at my gynecologist’s office. For the record, I did not find Waldo, but I did find uncomfortable and good-lawd, la la la la la, and then my happy place which just so happens to be right around the corner from holy pointer finger Batman, where is he going with that? If you must know I highly regret marking YES next to the box asking if I have any family history with colon cancer. Shoosh.

In the name of all that is Oathy and Hippocratic I leave you with this WTF from the annals of medicalia:

Because nothing says maternal love like sucking up your baby's snot through 15 inches of plastic tubing. Shut up. You know you want to try it.

Abraxas

This much is true:

1. My husband left for the Caribbean yesterday, where he will be sailing in the Heineken Cup regatta in St. Maarten for the next ten days.
2. We are renovating our house: new shingles, new bathrooms, new deck, new paint.
3. We have three cars now and only a two car garage.

At the same time, this is also true:

1. My husband is sailing as crew: an all expense paid trip to help someone else win a race.
2. We borrowed money to renovate our house in the hopes that someone will buy it so we can go back to renting. The house goes on the market April 1.
3. My mom gave me her 14 year old car so we can sell my new car and get rid of the payments.

I realize now that the sun never truly goes down. It's just an illusion caused by the world ceaselessly spinning.

This time last year: my favorite game. This time last year Bryan was in the Caribbean for the same regatta. I did not go because I could not take the time off from work. While he was gone I blogged about buying a new coffee table. To buy or not to buy: that was the question.

This time next year: a game I dare not play. But I'd be lying if I didn't hope for the strong Caribbean sun to slap me flat across my face.

I never did buy a new coffee table.

It's going to happen quickly now, the process of downsizing. Selling the car, the house, the dream if I am to be dramatic about it, and let's face it: I blog, therefore I am (dramatic). Still, it feels strange, this anti-Jeffersonian unfolding of moving on down. Somehow it seems antithetical to being American, although I don't remember anyone ever promising me anything. (But if Bryan hums the theme song to Sanford and Son one more time, I will scream.)


This time next year: I don't know. We are shrinking from a double-income household with a hefty mortgage and car payments to a single-income household (for now), no mortgage, no car payments, no debt at all. (Of course no new coffee table, either.) I feel both free and restrained, light and beaten down, hopeful and dashed.

The sign of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.~F. Scott Fitzgerald.
I love this quote because I am often plagued by cognitive dissonance. If I have to be dreadfully confused, I might as well feel smart while doing it. (Although I'm not quite sure if the same holds true for a mind stuffed like a pinata with confetti-like bits of thought and cheap candy...)

Of course one question has been answered for me. To buy or not to buy. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune... Not quite what Shakespeare had in mind with that soliloquy, but there it is all the same. I will not be buying much of anything, have not for awhile now, and yet the fortunes I hold are still outrageous. I have and have not, those damn opposing ideas again, Abraxas with his truth and lying, good and evil, light and dark rolled up into one neat little package tied up with tongues. What do I think about all of this? I don't know. Everything, I guess.

Already in this post I have referenced Shakespeare, Fitzgerald, Carl Jung, The Jeffersons, Kurt Vonnegut, Bogart and Bacall, Descartes, Sanford and Son, materialism and nothing. And yet I am pretty sure I have not said much at all. (It would be so much easier to post a photo of a vagina and be done with it.) What is there to say when you are losing everything but still have all that you need?

Quite simply, Abraxas was a supreme being, a hallowed and accursed word meaning both life and death. The name contained great mysteries because it contained the seven Greek letters that when computed numerically equaled the number 365, the number of days in a year.

This time last year, next year, same time. This time. This much is true(ish):

1. The sun does not rise and set.
2. It is an illusion from where we stand.
3. A silly perception in thinking that we are still.
4. That is all.

*click on images for source.

A Modern Day Allegory (Friday Foot Fetish Edition)

Personally, it's always bothered me that one little piggy had roast beef while the other had none, and the fact that none is supposed to rhyme with home. It doesn't. Name the other pig Guillaume and be done with it, or Jerome perhaps, send him to yoga to om, give him a dish rich with truffles and loam, in his back pocket a black plastic comb, have him reside in a pied-à-terre at La Place Vendôme, or Rome. Shalom. But none? Yeah--uh, no. (Don't even get me started on the travesty that is Dora rhyming with Explorer. Bish, plz.)

Not my foot.

No matter--I've always hated roast beef anyway. Today I have some toes to tickle, so it's Wee! Wee! Wee! All the way home for me.

Happy Friday.

With love,

The Petunia Faced Girls

You Down With HSP? (Yeah, You Know Me)

Once I actually bought a book called "The Highly Sensitive Person." It might as well have been called "You're Quite the Asshole." 251 pages detailing people who are easily overwhelmed by stimuli, people who are overly affected by other people's moods, people who are easily startled. In other words: people who ask the manager at Pasta Pomodoro to turn down that god-awful music because they don't amore it... People who make their friend duct tape a new baby blanket to the kitchen window so she can spend the night on her couch without the INS-glare of the street light outside... People who call the cops on the old lady across the street because that stupid white dog with the weepy brown eyes won't stop yapping and yes I know it would have been nice to ask her first like a good neighbor but what am I, fucking State Farm? No, no I am not, and the cops are there for a reason, god how I hate confrontation. I am a Highly Sensitive Person, HSP for short, or, if you prefer: an ASS (Ack! Stop [the {motherfucking}] Stimuli!).

I inherited my HSPness from my dad. I grew up climbing over the carseat into the way, way back of his 1972 International Scout, a book of matches in hand, with the explicit instructions not to sit back down until I had located the source of that rattle and wedged the matches into the crevice to make it stop, make it stop, oh for the love of god, make it stop! My father now wears a hearing aid. Dad, do you need a refill on your juice? I ask each week when he comes over for dinner. No, I haven't seen that movie yet, he might reply, what's it about? Depending on my mood I sometimes make it up, a plot, something to do with a falcon and a farm, fuhfuh mmm, kah plahst, numnumaghhh, you know. Yeah. From across the room my cell phone sometimes emits a high-pitched sigh of interference, the ghost in the machine whispering to the toaster, a secret that we are not supposed to hear, and my dad and I look at each other. Did you hear that? I ask. God, yes, he says, turning down his hearing aid, I heard that. I hate that.

This is my birthright, to spend my life consumed by the brightness of the numbers on my clock radio. Bryan says I sleep with my eyes open. He also tells me to stop giving people the stink eye at movie theaters, on airplanes, in restaurants. He says my muscle to pissiness ratio is way off, and something tells me he doesn't always have my back when people are talking too loudly. Why must people talk so loudly?

Apparently I have the hearing of a teenager, which might make me feel good if I aspired to be a teenager which I don't, what with the way benzoyl peroxide bleaches a perfectly good towel. Used as a deterrant for loitering teens in Britain, this high-pitched tone is such that only people under the age of 25 can hear it. I am 11 years older, but I can hear it, and something tells me that my dad, at 66, will be able to hear it, too. Check it out to see if you are also an asshole, like me:

Of course if you also hear a small voice telling you to burn down the school and break into all the lockers then you're not just an asshole, you're a dick. And crazy. And not very sensitive at all.

Now sshhhh. I'm trying to think over here.

On Death and Happy Lent

Back home, safe and sound. I drove the speed limit past rest stops and strip malls, by cow pastures and Burger Kings, around semis and Saturns, careful not so much because I am a law abiding traveler of the interstate but because I was afraid of dying and having that vagina on a bicycle the last known image on Petunia Face. Not exactly the framed photo I envision adorning the top of my casket.

Which makes me wonder: what will become of this blog if I should die suddenly? Will you come here day after day, wondering why I haven't updated? How long until you give up? Should I give my password to Bryan so he can post a farewell in case of such an event? But what if we both die together? Should I bequeath it in my will, a one word log-in worth nothing more than the time it takes to utter it? As if it were a family jewel, or a child? I was thinking of this today as I drove. And then I had to think it backwards so as not to jinx myself. Ylneddus eid dluohs I fi golb siht fo emoceb lliw tahw? And then I ate a Cadbury Cream Egg I had bought at the gas station. And then I remembered that today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. So I thought about what I should give up. And then I remembered that I am not Catholic. So I ate another Cadbury Cream Egg. And now I am home, not dead, just dead tired. I am thinking it would be good if I just go stare at a blank wall for a few hours. And then eat another Cadbury Cream Egg.

Happy Lent. Or Pious Lent. I am not sure what the appropriate greeting would be as I have never bought an Ash Wednesday Hallmark card, raised as I was a Spiritually Agnostic Lapsed Episcopalian/Southern Baptist Who Loves Seasonal Candy Regardless of What God And/Or Pastoral Animal We Are Celebrating. So Happy Hump Day instead. I know that one.
xo,
Susannah

p.s. Other on the road thoughts inspired by the mention of the dark and dirty underworld of the bedside table drawer: I'm thinking I should start a business, working title "So You're Dead Now But Don't Want Your Parents To Find Your Vibrator, LLC, Inc." Basically you hire me, tell me all your dirty secrets and where to find them. Upon your untimely passing I will be the first notified and quickly work to clean out whatever gank you have in your proverbial bedside table drawer. Possible items include sex toys, love letters, porn, dirty Polaroids and video, boogers, etc. I am working on the logistics, but something tells me this could be huge.

p.p.s. Dear Mom and Dad: I got this idea from watching tv. There is nothing in my bedside table drawer but Chapstick, cough drops and a Gideon's Bible.

Like a Vagina Needs a Bicycle

I'm going to be honest with you. I'm writing this on Sunday night, post-Oscars, pre-road trip, destination Estrogen, population: Schizo. (You there on your Tuesday: you did not know it but by reading this post you're entering a time warp, a look back when we were all two days younger and the world was but a wee blue marble. Now look at us: two days older, jaded, the earth wise.) So yes, here I am, Sunday night and buying time with this pre-fab post, the fab most certainly standing for fabricated and not fabulous. My hair is wet, freshly showered, my house seeming to sway to the hum of the dishwasher. It is quiet. I have a feeling I won't be able to write while at my friend's house. Or breathe.

No matter--in my (not so) absence I give you this: Vagina on a Bicycle. (Alternate title: Woman with Unfortunate Hat, depending on where you stand.) With the birth of a new baby, talk at my friend's house will almost certainly repeatedly turn to the source, even if it was via c-section.

So there's that, this photo; and then there's this: me on a couch somewhere two days from now, probably complaining how Bryan never hangs up his jacket. I will be eating Chex Mix, maybe, picking out the pretzels because they suck and are stale. Zoey will be playing with her friends, the Backyardigans will be on, Uniqua and Tyrone, then the new baby will cry, her bleating mews causing my own faded pink c-section scar to ache, like a sailor portending rain. And I will wonder: is it just like riding a bicycle? The vagina: does it ever forget?

Happy Fat Tuesday, tout le monde. Laissez le bons temps roulez.
With love from Sunday,
Susannah