It's all fun and games until the baby throws up

I've never enjoyed flying much.

It's not the physical discomfort (the squishing, the lurching, the lifting, the landing, the ear-popping/bladder-expanding/knee-crunching wonder of it all), but the metaphysical discomfort that gets to me.

I worry on planes. Not the soul-crushing worry like, "how am I going to pay off my student loans?" or "have I emotionally scarred my pets?" that I experience at other quiet times. Rather, I indulge in a milder, more insidious form of general distrust and unease rooted in my lack of faith in the man-made. I worry that our aerodynamic theories are off, I worry that a woman in high-heels will puncture the hull, I worry about urban sprawl and water use in the American Southwest. But now mostly, I will worry about vomit.

Last night was a fairly mild flight, filled as it was with Spring Breakers carrying skis or bathing suits and headed off for who knows what kind of all-expenses-paid-trip (If your parents pay for it, it is all-expenses-paid). I flipped between the movie (Ladder 49 or 49th Ladder or 49 Angry Ladders, or something like that - you know, with River's younger brother? I delight in his harelip scar, and you probably do, too), Jane Jacobs, and my Zelda game for GBA.

The plane had touched down in Pheonix, and we'd lived through that tense moment where the stewardesses warn you not to get up, not to open the overheads, not to twitch a whisker, or they'll staple you where you sit. There was this young mother (let's call her YM) holding a her baby and her carry-ons in the aisle. I was surrounded by women, who, in their baby lust, forgot that we were all waiting to get off of this improbable, winged death-tube, and spent our valuable disembarking time gawking and cooing at the pink-clad infant. YM, sensing the attention, smiled, babbled something, and bounced the child a few times for emphasis. This was, of course, the wrong move.

I have to admit, that baby had range.

And capacity.

She managed to hit two in the row ahead of her on the first go, and the YM had barely stammered out an apology before her child erupted again. I, terrified of vomit under the best circumstances, shrank in my seat and may have blacked out.

YM was mortified, as she should have been.

Personally, I mostly refrain from associating with individuals who vomit on strangers in public.

Mostly.

Who can resist the anus...

...in the end?


I can only imagine the thrill of it all:

It's cold, you shouldn't be out this late. The snow crunches underfoot and it's icy in patches - dangerous, dark. It's past twelve, and the only ones out are you and the creatures of the night...not the types to bring home to mother.

Swish, swoop, wiggle.

And you sense it, in the corner of your mind. You are not alone. (Not again, it's too early in the year, too cold for this.)
Your heart speeds up, your breath comes fast, and you tilt your nose gently skyward. Can you smell it? Can you taste it in the air?

God. Damn. It.

You promised yourself never again. After the pain of the last encounter, you swore that you'd resist the next time.

(But she looks so innocent, could you get hurt again? You're stronger now. It won't be like last time.)

So pink, so sweet.
Surrounded by the softest fur...

You're done for.
You run as fast as you can towards that prize - so close! The joy bubbles up from your belly...

Oh. God, no. Not again.
Her vitriol hits you square in the face. You cry, you moan, you drool in desperation.


Then, afterwards, you drag yourself home and tap gently on the door. Mother's up. She takes one whiff and her lips curl in disgust. She drags you to the bath and scrubs you with caustics, all the while screaming of your stupidity and your filth. You just take it, head low, as she roughly lathers your face, your chest, between your legs...you close your eyes to the shame, and promise yourself that next time it will be different. Next time you'll be strong.



Recipe to de-skunk dogs:

1/4 c. Baking Soda
1 Tbs Dishwashing Soap
1 Qt. Hydrogen Peroxide

Tampons and Grape Jelly

When I arrived at a client's house last week, the cops were already there. She'd been accosted, she said, by her neighbors, who had thrown at her door...you guessed it:

Tampons and Grape Jelly.

It was horrifying, three sodden (but clean, thank god) tampons were strewn on the doormat, and great gobs of government-grade jelly oozed slowly down the door frame.

Who inspires that kind of mad hate?

More evidence that "It's not too late"

I hopped onto one of the computers in the senior resource center where I intern, and began to type in my blog address, and the following options popped up when I typed "f":

flabbyfemales.com
freakishcocks.com
freebigcocks.com
freebigtitezine.com
frisky-farms.com
fuckmyfat.com

Which of course, made me begin to search other letters (A=assbreakers, assgate, assmunchers. B=blackcockswhitesluts, bigtitladies, bustybeauties, bigsausagepizza - I'm not sure that last one is a porn site, and I'm not going to check it out here, but it's an awesome name for porn, either way)

Here's the moral of this story:

You think you will be so wise when you are older, that you will grow and mature, and not do stupid things like look at porn on a public computer in a senior center.

You won't.

However stupid you are now, just get used to it.

I work with clients all the time who are still dealing with the crap I always believed you just outgrew. 72-year-olds with addictions, 58-year-olds who antagonize their families, 63-year-olds who keep their dogs locked up in a cage for 23 hours a day, 59-year-olds who believe their siblings are satanists...these are people who NEVER LEARNED.

If someone ever shakes their head at you and mutters "Don't you ever learn?"

You can respond with confidence "No. And neither do you."

On washing electronics

My sister Jess dropped her phone in the tub and lost my number. To clear memory - wash with warm water...

Reminds me that Alexis once washed my cell phone. The fact that she washed it is not that shocking to me. After ten years, I've become inured to a wide variety of laundry insults - impromptu dyings, violent feltings, frivolous shrinkings, surreptitious bleachings, global inkings - I've seen it all, people.

So I can only imagine the cold horror that ran through Alexis when she looked to the bottom of the washer and saw my little Motorola, cold, wet, and apparently passed out. She did what any of us would have done, I suppose...

She hid it in her sock drawer.

She left it to dry for over a week, all the while deflecting my increasingly frantic search requests with "Have you checked under the passenger seat?" and "Maybe the cats took it." or even "Did you put it in the freezer?" (Okay, I'm sure she didn't ask that last one, but I have lost things in the freezer before - you know the scenario - juggling too many items, reaching for the fudgsicles...something's gotta be put down.) Meanwhile, to her immense relief, it turned on again and gave a happy little chirp.

I was in the living room when she magically "found" it under the couch. I think she accidently kicked it from it's hiding place with her toe. Imagine my delight, I even went so far as to attribute the blurry screen to whatever evil ritual the cats had used it for.

As I've mentioned before, I am the suggestible type.

It was over a month before she confessed to the deception, and I was so intrigued and amused by her cover-up I forgot to be angry.

Well, I mostly forgot. I think this public shaming might be belated payback.

I am a liar

Only this once, okay?

Don't tell anybody, and don't look at me that way.

It's a lifestyle choice.

To not include links on this blog.

I find it is such an issue of time suckage when I stumble across fully linkable blogs. If someone else thinks a link is important, who am I not to follow? And follow, and follow, and follow.

I'm no lemming, but I am the suggestable type.

Plus, though I've looked it up within and without blogger, have gone so far as to query the Mysterious Satadru, and I cannot figure out how the hell to link from within the text.

So, by the grace of my own incompetence,
this is now,
officially,
a terminating blog.

How I mix with "the straight"

When we have to hang out with a bunch of straight couples, I start to feel like I have something to prove. I want to be manlier than the men and girlier than the women, like some super-powered hermaphrodite.

Of course, as you might guess, my understanding of gender roles is kind of, well, off...this manifests in me trying to:

Out-cook the women and out-drink the men.

I almost always out-cook the women, but I'm not sure about the drinking. Let's just say that I get *drunker* than the men. Last night, I started early with several hastily-gulped glasses of a German Reisling that knocked me off my ass and gave me a wicked headache. I was standing in the living room discussing manly things like cords of wood and butchering, and I think I was actually tilting. I did manage some pretty funny anecdotes, but screwed up the "manly" thing when I mentioned that we used to go pick up frozen meat from the butcher right after my weekly ballet class.

(As an aside, those who are wondering should know that we used to keep a meat locker in a freezer in downtown Watkins Glen. My mom and I would traipse in - me in tights and tutu - to pick up meat and cider for the week. We kept a locked drawer in a huge multi-room freezer. The butcher was a huge woman in white, covered in smears of blood and bits of brain. Even today, the blood-bleach smell can bring me back to that moment, coat wrapped tight around me, shivering in my pink tights.)


So, let's see how I did at the party, shall we?

Girl Factors (GF) vs Boy Factors (BF):

Told bloody stories about butchering.
-BF: Damn manly
Discussed tiling bathrooms in great detail.
-BF: Darn tootin'
Completely uninterested in other woman's pregnancy. Made jokes at her expense.
-BF: Manly, but jerky

Hugged all the girls and made squealy hellos and goodbyes
-GF: Damn girly
Discussed accessories
-GF: Embarassingly girly
Brought Stephanie a present of homemade goats milk soap for her birthday
-GF: Fairly girly, but in a sort of 1890s, Anne of Green Gables way. Historical points.

It's a hard love

In the process of coordinating plans for Cy's birthday, I let drop that I would be happy to host a few people at my house at some point, but that there was one person who was unwelcome. Karen asked if there was "bad blood" between this person and me, and, admittedly there isn't.

No, no bad blood. I just hate her. I reserve any and all right to dislike people intensely with little or no provocation. Fortunately (or unfortunately) I generally come to this conclusion within about 30 seconds of meeting someone.

There have been times when I have second-guessed myself, tried to give second-chances, benefits-of-the-doubt, and shit like that, and I've always been sorry I did so. It's not a judge of character, per se, though I tend to classify those I dislike as "bad sorts". It's more that I know I can't trust them, and I don't want people around me who I cannot trust.

I'm right about this. I'm always right.
And I like this about myself.


So, can you trust me?
I want you to call me if you wake up in bed with a dead hooker. I'd dispose of the body, wash you up and probably make you breakfast. If I like you, you will do no wrong. I will want all of you, especially the parts you're ashamed to show anyone else. Those are my favorite parts, the ones I lean close to see.


It's all good - just don't fuck with me.

I used to take betrayal and turn it in on myself, wear it close to my heart as the only truth. Not now. It turns out I can defend myself, I can be quite cold, quite cruel, quite lowered-lid, even breaths, turn around and walk away.

I like this about myself too.

Is it a paradox? Don't be daft, it's a part of Kali - the mother/destroyer.
Tra-la! She's a dangerous type.

But for in our hearts

I can't believe it - the birds are singing. And not just one crazy one, either. Several. Having a conversation.

The ground is snow-covered, and the earth underneath it is iced, but slowly we are turning back towards spring.

I'm not ready, but that doesn't matter.

Actually, I am ready, I am replacing the rose hedge in the front with yellow Rugosas in late April. Right after finals, I can't wait. Anybody who is reading this, and is going to be anywhere near Ann Arbor at that time - beware! You will be roped into helping. Also, I'm thinking of putting in a low fence to surround the front yard.

By the way, you all might be coming back from Minneapolis, Aptos, Chicaco, New York, DC, Pittsburgh, Cinncinnati, Sacramento, and Seattle to help put in the firepit in the back. When can you be here?

When is a minute more than a minute?

When you've just missed the bus.

Then, standing in the plume of exhaust, you reflect back on your morning and find it filled at its dusty corners with wasted moments. Do they all come together to add up to this? Add up to you, cold, limping, and late for class?

If only you had managed to find a pair of socks on the first try, instead of rummaging desperately like you always do. If only the dog had come in when you called, instead of taking a final swipe at the compost pile. If only you hadn't checked the headlines to see if the Pope had finally died (why won't you die, you bastard?!). If only the coffee hadn't spilled across the counter, soaking some important-looking financial aid documents, which then needed to be blotted between paper towels. If only you hadn't lingered over the hutch, biting the ends off of grapes and stroking a small, angry bunny.

Moments add up to minutes, minutes to hours, and hours to days. It all stretches and contracts, and I only understand the container by what I put in it. Silly, I know.

Time doesn't exist for me to fill it with distraction, with wind-mill tilting, with chocolate cake baking and silver-leaved raking.

I think I exist for time to use. Like a small bit of oil, not even a cog, not even a wheel, in some machine of grand designs.

Perilous

Something happened today on my walk to school that unnerved me. I passed a man on the street whose face I recongized. My terminator screen flashed and blipped, coursing through the millions of places I could have seen him.

Then it struck me. I saw him last night. A friend of a friend, with an interesting photolog. Damn these linkable blogs.

I knew that he'd cut his hair recently.
I knew about his hobbies.
I knew about his taste in men.
I knew that he had come to Ann Arbor only a few days ago.

In short, I knew too much.

The feeling I'm left with is half giddiness at the wonder and connectivity of my world, and half sliminess at pseudo-cyberstalking. Eep.

Tell me this, though...does this mean it's gone too far for me, that I should turn back now? Don't go outside, stay by the fire. Don't follow that link, are you crazy?!

Or

Does it mean I am just now tasting the true power of interconnectivity, that it is global, local and supercedes all efforts we make to confine it.

Do I take out my AirPort card or do I submerge myself deeper. I can't decide.

It's not too late

This morning as I was standing on one foot in front of the copier, one of the seniors who works at my placement came in reeking of pot.

Hmmmboy. This is a very nice older gentleman who helps out around the agency.

Made me giggle and giggle.