Wednesday, December 21, 2005
People who talk on their cell phones while they’re driving.
People who talk on their cell phones out in public like they are in a private place.
People who Nextel each other in public over the speakers.
I just hate phones all together.
I hate chatting on the phone.
People who ask me “How are you?” and don’t wait for an answer.
People who leave their dogs outside at night.
People that don’t say their name and phone number clearly when leaving a message.
People that can’t say what they want specifically in their voice mail messages to me.
Junk email, especially for male enhancement products.
Taking out the garbage.
Going to work every single day.
Not winning the lottery (Please Lord…let me prove to you that winning the lottery won’t spoil me.)
Not being able to remember names.
Employees in stores, banks, etc. that chat with each other while I’m waiting for service.
Exercise. (But I like long, solitary walks.)
Margarine (Butter is better.)
People that ask my opinion of something and then tell me I’m wrong.
People that preach their religion to me.
When I’m mean to someone.
When I don’t control my smart-aleck mouth.
When people think I’m giving them mean looks and I’m just thinking about something else.
That I can’t tell a decent joke.
People that drive too close behind me (I like to slam on my brakes to see how good their reactions are.)
People that use the last of anything without having the common fuckin’ decency to replace or refill. (Toilet paper and soap are biggies.)
People that have to fill ever itty bitty little aural space with the sound of their own voice. SHUT UP!
People who drive down the street at 3am with the base in their car so loud my house starts vibrating two blocks away.
People who drive up to someone’s house and beep the horn instead of getting off of their lazy ass and go to the door.
Car alarms (Never a more useless and annoying invention.)
I could go on and on and on, but you can see I pretty much hate everything and everyone.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
It’s funny to me and not in a ha ha sort of way, how everyone wants what they don’t have. I’m so bored, I could spit toothpicks. I feel like something is missing and I don’t really know what it is. The problem is that I’m in a rut and everything I think of doing just seems like it will be another chore to add to the long list of the same things I do day in and day out.
I think I need to get out and go to a bar. I used to go out a lot in my younger days. I haven’t really gone out to a bar in like 9 (ugh!) years. Why you might ask? Well, I’ll tell you. I did it so much before that I started hearing the same conversations regardless of where I went and it wasn’t even from the same people, although the same faces did show up many times. Then, since I’m not much of a professional drinker, I get drunk easily and have to learn the art of always having a tall glass of ice water on hand to space between my G & T’s. And then, the truly pathetic reason is that I hate to give up the next day to a hangover. I spend all of the next day on a major guilt trip over what I’m not doing because I over-indulged the night before.
But, I think I’m really on to something here. There is nothing as entertaining as watching a bunch of drunks and of course the drunker you get, the funnier they seem. Plus, I don’t know about you, but the drunker I get, the wittier I am.
So, tonight, I will tell my husband that one night this week he is going to have to give up his male sanctuary and allow (I’ll tell you another time, it’s not as barbaric as it sounds and you feminists out there don’t get bent out of shape) me to invade his bar so I can get wrecked and stagger home. I need to break some patterns.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
June’s stomach began talking to her. It gurgled, rumbled and complained about its empty, lonely state. It tightened and twisted, creating an agitation in other areas of her body. The sole of her feet tingled and her hands itched. June scratched first one palm then the other and the itch moved to her elbows. It crawled up her arms, neck and sides of her face and lodged in her scalp. She scratched at her head until she felt a dampness under her fingernails. And she cried.
She sobbed, great heaves, loud, frustrated wails. Her lament echoed and bounced around the empty walls, running back to her in panicked gallops that slammed into her eardrums and silenced her. She sucked in a huge gulp of air, held it and blew it out in a slow streaming whistle.
Her hands felt their way up the walls and her body followed, until she stood. She pressed a hot cheek against the ancient cool stone. She read her way around the room, back to the door. Nothing blocked her path. She used her fists to pound on the door. She pulled and twisted the handle and fell back on her ass as it swung open on her. A halo of bright light shining around a dark figure blinded her and she covered her eyes.
"Is there a problem?"
Friday, December 09, 2005
I hate SUV’s. You know, the Suburbanites’ Ultimate Validation. It snowed here today and because of Mother Nature, I have to be tortured by soccer Moms on SUV steroids. They drive where they want, as fast as they want, without any regard for the people around them. I don’t think they even see anyone else.
There was ice and snow mixed with rain, which started to freeze and this bimbo, Martha Stewart-wanna-be, didn’t know that no matter how big your truck is, 4-wheel drive doesn’t work on ice. But no worries, so she hit someone. Ran right up the ass of the car in front of her. She slid-slided away right into a young girl who was on her way to work. Martha charged from her vehicle, yelling down at this poor child, screaming that it was her fault she got hit because she was in the way. Madam apparently had an appointment with her manicurist, and now she would be late.
You should have seen her face when the police officer handed her a ticket for following too close and reckless driving for the road and weather conditions. She turned purple when the officer told her the young girl wasn’t getting any ticket at all. Some obviously jealous people in economy cars must have told the policeman how aggressively HumV lady was driving.
Just as I’m writing this, a news story is on about an SUV that ran into the house of a family with 3 kids this morning. The driver killed both parents by landing his truck on top their bed while they were sleeping. Granted, other factors were involved too, but SUV’s are evil. Satan’s Ugly Vice. Oh, I’m sorry, SUV’s are like guns, they don’t kill, people do.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
I love these sayings. Little bits of wisdom meant to help us on our way. They all contain a kernel of truth. The only thing is, they make me nuts because they don’t really tell you any thing of value, like this one. Yeah, I know I should be friggin’ buttressed from within, but how the hell do I build it. I know all about doing the positive talk thing and I guess that’s what old Markie Marc means, but then again I’m not sure. And that’s my point right there. Did Marcus Aurelius have complete certitude in his righteousness? Did he have the internal dialogue that I always have?
I hear my mother’s voice point out every little indiscretion, dust speck on my coffee table, fur ball in the corner, wrinkled shirt, the fact that I never became President of the US, that I didn’t marry anyone but the one I did marry, that my daughter is not girly enough, that I’m just not ever right. How the fuck do you maintain a buttress against that tide of negativity? I get worn out just getting out of bed some times. It takes real work to be satisfied with my life and me. And I am generally happy, but I often think in a superficial way. I feel damaged at my core, with my temple crashing around my ears. I want to be arched and buttressed, but how do I begin building amongst the rubble. Where do I start and how do I keep going when I lose heart?
Monday, December 05, 2005
I was in the checkout line today at a popular convenience store, getting a nutritious hotdog and rice pudding for lunch. At first, I was the only person in line. Then, a woman purchasing a gallon of milk came into line before I was done with my transaction. I moved over slightly to give her counter room to put her gallon of milk down so she wouldn’t freeze her fingers off (I’m thoughtful that way.) We had the proper amount of space around ourselves, no auras infringing on each other. But, she moved over closer to me. I still wasn’t done my transaction, so by rights I should have been allowed the open space next to the register, but I moved over again anyway, because she was practically up my butt. Well, the dumb bitch moved over closer to me again. So, now I’m like, “What the hell’s going on here? Hasn’t this woman heard about personal space [me drawing a sphere around myself in the air]?” Again I move. This time I move in front of the register, almost out the door. I still don’t have my change. And what happens? She actually nudges me with her elbow and I swear she looks at me out of the corner of her eye, with a little shit eatin’ grin on her face. I have visions of a major blood bath, her entrails strewn across the aisles, limbs torn off and tossed in the sandwich case. I just take my hotdog and go.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Today is December 1st and it’s the start of the Holiday Season.
The sun shines bright and low, getting right in your face so you know he’s there. You have to struggle against the rays to see properly when you’re driving. The crisp air invigorates you as you step out the door, slapping the sleep out of your eyes.
This is the essence of men, boundless energy bursting for release. An erect, throbbing penis, seconds before ejaculation. Men are the impetus, the drive, and the pounding need of creation.
At this time of year, we should take the time to celebrate the men in our lives. They are suppressed, belittled, confined and driven to dampen their urges so much of the time that we have emasculated men, thus causing so much useless destruction. Thank the men in your lives for the things they do, which are so often the dirty jobs, like taking out the garbage. Let them watch football without nagging, look the other way when they scratch themselves, let them be men without making them feel bad about it. They do so much for us: our young men in all branches of the military, my dad who rocks his new great-grandson to sleep in his arms, my husband that cooks dinner every night, my brother the firefighter, our neighbor that watches our house when we’re away, the young man that holds the door open fro me at the store, the stranger that gives up his seat and that penetrating look from your co-worker that makes your blood race.
Now is the time to wallow in the darkness leading up to the Winter Solstice. The days are getting longer and the nights are getting colder. Use the next few weeks to allow the absence of light to cleanse your soul; sweep out the cobwebs, empty the debris of the past year. Instead of turning on all of the lights in the house, light a few candles and watch the flickering shadows dance a long the walls. Reminisce about years gone by, how things are different, how they’ll never be the same. Cry your sorrows deep into your pillow and sob for the losses you have suffered. Take a hint from our ancestors and live the darkness instead of fighting against it.
Then, on the day The Son/Sun is reborn you can rejoice at the coming of The Redeemer, The Savior, The Bringer of New Life, and The Great Male Power of Surging Energy. You can celebrate the great driving force of all life to keep surviving despite all of the odds, the need to procreate in all its forms and the simple joy of a new sunrise and the coming of spring.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Sea birds soared and danced in the cornflower sky, their voices singing out to each other. The sun warmed the beach. Its bright light sparkled along the edge of the surf. It danced across the gentle waves, highlighting the peaks on the swells. The water caressed the shoulder of the promontory cradled in its heart. Pillows of soft downy clouds reflected in the abyss, pierced by the bedrock. The tides pulsed. Just below the surface, life throbbed in abundance and tickled the shore. Evergreens sprouted erect and stiff along the embankment, their ebony shadows pierced by white rays.
* * *
Birds screeched at each other, slicing across the darkening sky. The air stank of damp and cold. Thunderclouds broiled across the face of the sun. Shadows hunted along the foaming swells. The water churned green and putrid. Waves beat against the crag protruding black against the gray firmament. Fish hid from the teeth of the rolling currents. The sea bit into the coastline, leaving deep gashes. Brine pierced the trees standing guard along the banks, ripping needles from their limbs.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
It’s Christmas time again, one of my favorite times of the year and most stressful, just like for everyone else. In an effort to add more meaning to my life, to add more –isms besides materialism, I’ve been looking at my spiritual life.
I was raised a Roman Catholic, but with an Austrian flavor to it. My mother is Austrian, from a small town called Oberalm, near Salzburg (think Sound of Music.) Now, Austria, my mother’s area in particular, is definitely Catholic. It was the seat of the Holy Roman Empire for a very long time. The Catholic Church has ruled there since the 6th century. Every church we went to was like a cathedral. My mother wasn’t particularly churchy (she thought she had been excommunicated because she did the evil thing of marrying my protestant father in City Hall – which is also like a cathedral over there.) Even as a child, she didn’t care much for church.
I loved church. I have distinct memories of my First Communion classes. I really got into praying, speaking with The Old Man. Then, some of the other girls made fun of the way I held my hands when I pray. My first religion related trauma. That’s when I began having problems with people and religion. Let’s face it. Religion is just about the people. God doesn’t care what religion you are. She just wants to be loved. But people will screw up religion every time.
Anyway, getting back on topic. Where my mother is from is also a very pagan area, part of the original Celts (the Hallstatt era.) And many of my relatives come form that stock, alpine farmers, salt miners, that sort of thing. My great-mother said a complete rosary every day and could recite all of the psalms by heart, then, she would go read cards (like Tarot only with a regular playing deck) for a witch who lived in the swamps (the witch had five kids, each child with a different father, she was a local midwife and she dispensed questionable herbal remedies and she was referred to as a witch.)
Saint Nicholas Day is December 6th, 2005. On this day, the Catholic saint, who is no longer officially a saint, St. Nicholas, travels around to all of the children dispensing nuts and fruit to those who have been good. He has a companion called Krampus. This is a hairy horned being that switches bad children and leaves them coal. He looks like what Christians think of as the devil, but he’s not, he’s older than that. When I was about 8, my brother got a St. Nicholas puppet and I got a red Krampus puppet. I was traumatized again. I made such a fuss, screaming and crying horribly. I love St. Nicholas Day. I still celebrate it and I make sure all of our children keep it up. It’s so popular in Austria now, that hordes of Krampus travel the streets in packs, switching people’s legs and carrying women off.
Monday, November 28, 2005
I was watching TV with my brother a while back. “Wheel of Fortune” was on (very highbrow, intellectual stuff – a game which I can’t even win.) The announcer introduced Pat Sajak. The Pat Sajak introduced Vanna White (of the big-head, check it out, Andy, her head is disproportionate to her body.) Then, Pat did the introductions and mini interviews of the three contestants. Lots of giggles all around (Pat is so silly.) Then, Pat Zajak turned to the first contestant on the left and said, as he always does, “Ms. Doe, you won the draw before the show, so you get to spin first.”
Well, I was amazed. I don’t watch Wheel of Fortune often, but still what were the odds? I turned to my brother and asked, “Isn’t it weird that the first person on the left always wins the draw to spin first?”
My brother didn’t respond. I looked over at him and he was staring at me with an odd look in his eyes. Then, he burst out laughing. At me, mind you, and not with me. I didn’t take kindly to his laughing at me.
I was pretty grumpy, I can tell you, because I didn’t see what was so funny. “Whaaat?” I whined. “Why are you laughing at me?” I was still whining. I exhibited lovely behavior for an adult.
“You don’t think they, like, maybe, just maybe, they arrange them that way?” He asked me, still laughing. “I guess blonde from a bottle is just as blonde,” he concluded.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
I have a real problem with men deciding on issues of birth control, contraption and pregnancy. And it’s not just men, it’s others who want to make decisions in these areas for strangers.
I have a problem with men making the decisions because until they have to live the life, they have no way to truly empathize. It’s not that I don’t think they should have an opinion, because they can. It’s just that men can’t have a life growing in the bodies for nine months and can never know that commitment.
When it comes to those that are holier than thou making decisions of this nature for strangers, I always want to ask, "How many children have you adopted?" or "How many single mothers do you personally support?" I want to know how many priests are personally raising children of rape victims. Or how many Christians are baby sitting children born to unwed mothers while the moms are working at Mickey D’s. Are any of these people putting a seventeen year old Mom through college so her child can have a better life? Are any of them hugging these Moms when they are scared to death of their futures?
I want a personal accounting by every person, male or female, who tries to make these decisions for a woman. I want to know what exactly they have done to prevent a rape, to educate a girl that doesn’t know any thing different, to build a girl’s self esteem, to improve the life of a child not related to them, when God last told them it was OK to make a desperate person’s life more difficult.
I didn’t want to do it. Now, I’m traumatized. I am mad at my husband for making me do it. My bronchial tubes are closing up.
It had to be done though. I know that rationally, but still I’m upset. I’m a pack rat. I’ve got boxes of stuff that have sat around for thirty years. Things I haven’t touch in all of that time. I took unopened boxes from one place to another and they ended up in our basement. I don’t even remember most of the stuff. Most of the stuff has no value, monetary or emotional.
So, my husband said it was time I clean out the debris of my life. He told me it was time to unstuff myself. He said if I didn’t go through the boxes and make some tough decisions about what had value, he’d toss it all out the basement windows when I was at work. He’s lucky I don’t kill him in his sleep.
I hate it when’s he’s right. We began today. I threw out several boxes of stuff that don’t mean anything to me. I couldn’t even give it away to someone else. I could probably sell it in a yard sale (those people will buy anything.) But I couldn’t do that either. (I consider yard sales a complete and utter waste of my time – make a quarter selling a stained baby blanket or buy an Eagles plastic beer cup for a dime, yeah, right.)
I do feel freer. Less encumbered. Like a weight has been lifted. Of course, I barely put a dent in it, but it’s a start. And my hubby will have to threaten me again. And we’ll have a fight when I want to keep something stupid. But if you ever find someone that makes you throw out your crap out of love – keep em.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
We had Thanksgiving dinner at my parent’s house. It was great. I didn’t have to do anything. My Aunt and Uncle were also there.
My husband just remembered the following:
The boys were in the TV room. (Yes, they must be separated, you’ll see why.)
A commercial came on for a cell phone. It had a girl in it. My 87 year old Uncle said, "Look at the thighs on her. She’d crack your head like a walnut."
I am not funny. No really, this is not a bid for compliments. I know I’m not funny. I accept that. I might on occasion be witty or humorous, but generally speaking I am not funny.
I also do not have a smile on my face most of the time. It’s not that I am not happy, because I am for the most part. I just do not have the ability to keep grinning. When something in particular tickles my fancy, I grin, smile or laugh, as appropriate, but then it’s gone. It’s not a permanent fixture on my face.
I bring these things up because I often regret not have these two skills. And believe me they are powerful social skills. People who can make others laugh at will are very lucky. People who smile all of the time attract others with an ease to be envied. These people have gold.
If you tell someone "Go fuck yourself," while grinning from ear to ear, they think you’re kidding and you won’t get your block knocked off. When I say it, you know I hate your guts, because I’m not laughing. This does not help with my interpersonal relationships.
They say a smile requires the use of fewer muscles than a frown, but I don’t believe it. Smiling feels unnatural to me. I’ve stood in front of a mirror and practiced my smiling. My cheeks pouf up all round and my eyes get all squinchy and my jaw muscles hurt. I feel like the Joker from Batman.
Because of my lack of these abilities, I will forever be doomed to watching from the sidelines in social situations. I hate parties, unless I can sit in a corner and watch. I can’t live up to the pressure of being the center of attention. I can’t maintain the effort.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Today is Black Friday. This is the traditional big first shopping day of the holiday season. This is the day when retailers will go in the "black" because of all of the shoppers spending their money for bargains. They say they will earn 40% of their annual revenue today.
I have never gone shopping on Black Friday. This won’t surprise anyone who knows me, as they know shopping is not one of my favorite past times. Many have tried to convert me. I’m regaled with wondrous stories of tremendous bargains by folks with a wistful look in their eyes. The Black Friday Experience is like an epiphany for some. Despite the stories I’ve heard from people who do love to shop, I don’t feel I’m missing anything of value. I have decided opinions on this subject.
This is the day retailers bring out new products that have been hyped for months. They sell them at what they say are ridiculously reduced prices. They never have enough for everyone. Usually, these are items no one really needs. In January, they will be sold for even less. In a year, they will be obsolete. But today, they are "must have" items. This all sounds like Marketing 101 – Supply and Demand.
People get up at three in the morning, wait in long lines in the freezing cold and then fight over the few pieces on store shelves. As I watch the news, I see people trampling, punching and knocking each other over. One old woman had her wig knocked off and had to be removed from the store by emergency services people because she was so traumatized. Police were called in and arrested a few shoppers. Ah, our taxes put to good use.
Reporters interviewed some witnesses. One suggested the store have enough product on hand for all of the possible shoppers. Another said there should have been more security.
Here are some ideas: People acting like human beings. People using some manners. People not acting like starving famine survivors going after gruel.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
I used one of those deep cleansing pore strips today. The box says, "Pull the plug on clogged pores." I love those things. If you don’t know about these you must check them out. You wash and rinse your face. While your face is still damp, you place a strip on an area of your face, like on your nose. You let the strip dry about ten minutes. Then you pull the strip off. All of the gunk that was in your pores is now on the strip.
Here’s where it gets fascinating. Little fuzzy spikes of blackheads and hard sebum are sprouting all over the surface of the strip. At first I thought these protrusions reminded me of peach fuzz but after looking at them through a magnifying glass, they look more like insect legs. Or some alien landscape, a vast white wasteland with burnt out stubs of tree trunks. I hate throwing them away.
Just so you know, I’m not the only one who thinks the used strips are interesting. Somehow (don’t know how) these strips came up in conversation at work. Others had used them and also had Zen-like experiences with them. They’re a focal point for meditation. They can be used in relaxation exercises to take your mind off of your troubles. And you get smaller looking pores.
Yesterday I was sent an email that listed new uses for everyday things. (Did you know beer would condition your hair from the outside, too?) You can save about $5.00 by painting white glue on your face. Let it dry and peel it off. This apparently unclogs your pores too. But will I get my toy? I’ll have to give it a try.