Breakfast E-piphanies

So I had a long holiday weekend, and I took full advantage.

Having wanted to go to the city, I made my way - by plane, train and automobile, save the plane part. I hate those. Thank God it doesn't take one of those to get there.

But everyone from this hellish frozen metropol-is-not goes there this time of year, the only really difference being when we choose to go, or where we spend our time, or which train we take. We go, if for nothing else, to see the people swarm in the streets, like some thousands of sperm on a festive petri dish, tails swishing from side to side, flitting as if flitting was all that mattered. I can't decide if the people are my favorite part, or if it's the form of the buildings and their outline against the sky. Maybe it's something entirely different - a combination of those things along with some hallucinogenic gas pumped up from the grates you step over every few feet.

The holidays seem to make people jolly. Remind them to love. To notice red and green with some seemingly new found appreciation. And they want to dance, and drink, and watch people take on the persona of someone else. Elphaba, or Fiona, or Sophie or some lanky leg-kicker. And the special thing about this place is the people. You somehow expect them to be too busy to be pleasant, to as a whole be too hardened with overexposure to extend common courtesies. And be sure, some of them smile and nod and speak only because it pays their bills, but others will share pieces of their personal stories if given the sign of interest. I think I could write a book were I given the time to hear enough of the nearly unlimited number of stories, told in accents of everywhere you can imagine.

Under the guise of going with friends, to not worry loved ones, I left for a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss, and walked the streets of another world, being careful to chalk up the vagrants, begging through their own cloud of $7 cigarette smoke for money and nothing more. It was once suggested they might actually stand and make money offering to take cutsie little photographs for the tourists standing in awe with their shiny new pink coolpix cameras, wishing some of their jpeg memories included them. I always wonder why they are where they are, and why they cannot change it.

In fact - that's part of the city you can barely drown out - the disparity between the lush park side condoites, the fashionable ritzy store patrons, and the others....those who comb the street for meagre opportunity. It's like having cancer along with an everlasting orgasm, you don't know which is more deserving of your attention, and which will notice your inability to cure either.

In any case - I was - if only for a moment - completely left to be me. To explore, enjoy, and to a certain extent, exploit my individuality. I had no plan, though I brought directions, if only to expedite my freedom from the confines of navigational unawares. I soaked in the glamour of the uptown windows and the quaintness of the faded paint on the signs of walls covered in brightly, sometimes artistic graffiti. Everywhere was old so ingenuisly blended with new, it was obvious there was no grand sceme to screw it up.

It was purely ingratiating, being there. I walked and walked, devouring the scent of life above the stench of a city with so many people that it must thrust them upwards to make room. I sat on the stone steps of a circular monument, soaking in the sun in one of the few places it hit directly, knowing I could be here forever, as long as forever wasn't too long. I paid my $16 for a glass of Cabernet I could drink a jumbo bottle of at home for under $20. I took chances with signals to walk, and dodged the drivers that wanted to play chicken, even though they had the advantage. Its possible I should get some life insurance before I go again.

And I came home drunk with the me I want to be. As I drove through the picturesque Norman Rockwell towns near home, I could feel the weight of normalcy laying itself back across my shoulders where it resides. A cat curled on a clanky, worn radiator in the middle of winter. But the streets were familiar. They didn't take thought, but they brought no surprises to demand a genuine smile.

I had been filled with the city. And still today I am tired with knowing it so well. I am sore from it bringing me so high, pumping me full of new feeling. I am thankful, even all these days later, that I can go again. I am reminded that life is full of possibilities, and that some of them should be recognized before they have passed in a cloud of smog, smug and Starbucks lattes.

The Bigger - Albeit Uncomprehensible - Picture

I have a thing for history, and if you want to know the truth - I think maybe I, and people like me, may just have a closer connection with past lives. In this regard, I think this is the main point in which my Catholic upbringing is in direct contradiction to what I actually believe. How can souls not be recycled when space is definitive? Heaven being, in reality, climbing a latter in subsequent lives, and hell being forced to endure the same trials again, or trials even worse than before. And besides the fact that certain traits I know I possess must've come from somewhere other than genetics, I choose to consider my past lives in a simplistic, but romantic way. After all - if I am Christian at all, and I think I am, I must acknowledge free will. I know that I fought for the rights of women, and in fact, that I always have been a woman - and in that -I consider I have not been so bad in one life, as to be forced into anything less.

By the way - I am watching Pride & Prejudice for at least the umpteenth time while I write this. I love Jane Austen, though I refuse to read the "Jane Austen Book Club", and I doubt that Kira Knightly is part of a past life - though it would explain her lack of breasts - she is nonetheless younger than me. She would've stolen part of my soul - and so would not be able to act so well as Elizabeth Bennett. I still get lost in the rhetoric, mannerisms, and ribbons. I still wonder why society "et al" does not appreciate the rituals that once governed all interactions of substance.

There are certain time periods that draw me more than others, and I know there is some correlation between those, and who I am now. Or maybe - who I should be. I have always felt I was confused about things I couldn't explain. Flailing around in today's world with traits that don't fit - don't make me old fashioned, don't make me modern. Whatever the case, I don't always feel at home in the world in which I live.

I am an utter romantic.

But I don't believe love exists in it's purest form anymore.

I believe in propriety.

But I don't believe sin has anything to do with how people should interact (except that they should not kill one another).

I believe in looking at the past errors of humans to know what should be done today.

But I don't believe you can be dogmatic in anything. Our financial crisis of today may not end the way it did with the Great Depression, though I hope we have an equally fit leader, and no World War.

Maybe there are no answers in the past, and all I long for when reading old books, or watching The History Channel, or day dreaming of pinafores and butter churns - are honest and simple ways to cope. Back when people were more in tune with nature - at it's mercy even. The eloquence of the written word moved people to change. The harangue of a crowd, who could not read, told leaders of unjustness that required attention. The respect people had for things they could not be sure of. Ghosts. Saints. Love.

I think - as I sit here typing away on a laptop - conveniently expressing myself to anyone who cares to listen with the click of a button - I know we have lost much more than we've gained.

And if not - at least we'd do well to recognize where we are.

Some tiny dot in a larger matrix.

Can't Write On Fridays

I’ve come to the conclusion recently that I have the strangest, most perverted friends on the planet.

Birds of a feather, I know.

Anyway, I was looking for a certain reference, whilst blowing off large amounts of extremely dull work-related stuff, and went searching through my emails, texts and chats. I came to the above conclusion after noticing certain trends in communications with all of them, except the few who know so little about electronic devices that the most they manage is forwarding crap that’s been forwarded 10,000 times in the last minute.

In order to illustrate why I love the pool of genuinely amusing people I consort with (and also to continue blowing off work) I have compiled my favorite one-liners, or snippets for your reading pleasure. This isn’t exactly my idea, as a friend of mine used to do this on his MySapce profile, and they can be extremely hilarious when taken out of context.

I swear to you – I will correct no spelling.


“He said he broke his penis BTW. You might want to make note of that.”

“I read typoese quite fluently.”

Line 1: “my stil wrist hurts.”
Line 2: “proof that you haven’t been doing the hand technique correctly :P”

Line 1: “am i interrupting?”
Line 2: “interrupting me trying to cajole you into chatting?”

“its really a shame were not lesbians”

Line 1: "OMG GUESS WHAT!
Line 2: "you have a third nipple?"

"asshats dont deserve my brainpower."

"there are worse men. hes not in prison after all".

"the click was NOT in my head."

"I am SO not going to muff dive for him."

"that would be impossible. but it would still be anal."

Line 1: okay...I PROMISE we'll talk at least briefly
Line 2: i hope that's a tightey-whitey reference ;)

"I kille brain cells by drowning them in Coors light."

Line 1: i know youre probably busy, and im bout to go to bed anyway, i just wanted to tell you i love you :)
Line 2: Awwww.... are yous drunk?


"good. now tell me why your avatar here looks like a diaphragm"

" wait - facebook? why? Are you going back to high school?"

"youre just thinking about my keychain, arent you?"

Line1: which end?
Line 2: the big pokey end

Line 1: i have nothing against strippers
Line 2: me neither, unless they have no ass

Things That Go BUMP in the Night

I think my original decision to have a family bed may have been selfish, and now I can fully understand why pediatricians urge parents to tuck their little angels into their very own comfy little cement-truck-princess-plum-fairy adorned beds.

Sanity, and children who are not afraid to be alone. In the dark. At night.

Two nights ago I babysat for one of the doctors I work for, who has a 12-year old stepson, 3-year old daughter, 2-year old son, and 8-month old foster son. Oh, and one slightly crazy wife, who I “get” completely. My own toddler came with me, as she is extremely impressed with 3YO’s collection of princess-wear, mini kitchen appliances, books, and the full-sized bounce house in the basement – and because no one else will watch her while I babysit. The three youngest of their kids basically went to bed an hour apart, starting with the little one at 6:15, and they each went into their own rooms, and their own respective beds. (The 12YO basically put himself to bed, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t need me to check his pull-up). There was only a slight glitch in this, as my daughter and the 3YO, when left to their own devices in a small section of the house, cordoned off my multiple baby-gate barricades while I put 2YO down at 7:15 – decided to make a beach/castle out of all the bedding from the parents room, along with a couple sections of the newspaper for blankets, and Mom’s 10 pound hand weights for beverages. (I later tried to convince them their sippy cups would work too and that 10 pound tropical umbrella-ed drinks may hurt when dropped. I listened from 2YO’s room as they screamed and giggled with delight, obviously buzzing from the weights, and oblivious to the fact that sleeping was going on elsewhere in the house.

Not the point. I get home from an evening meeting last night, grab some dinner, slump my exhausted self onto the couch and immediately begin the Shower-war with my 11 –year old son, who for whatever reason, thinks being dirty and stinky constitutes some new “grunge” look. He balks, and starts looking for clothes in the downstairs bathroom, thinking again he’d wear whatever he took off this morning and left crumpled on the floor.

“Those clothes are in the washing machine A, go upstairs get some from your room.”

He walks out of the bathroom, and turns as if he’s going to the laundry room.

“No A, go upstairs! There’s nothing clean down here”, I said, a little more firmly this time.

“I don’t need to. I have some clothes down here”, he says, going to retrieve the backpack he brought to sleep over at his cousins over the weekend. He sees the bag has been emptied, and comes back to the living room.

“A, just GO get some clothes and get your BUTT in the SHOWER.”

“Mommy, can you just go get me some underwear.”

“No. YOU go get you some underwear. And get moving because if I have to tell you again, you will NOT go to practice tomorrow.” There was a small gasp as he processed this threat, aware that I am 75% likely to follow through, even with that most heinous of punishments. But he is obviously more nervous about going into the dark abyss of the 2nd storey than he is about not starting a game because he missed a practice.

He turns to his 2YO sister, who sits in her recently dumped toy bin watching Dora. “C, will you go get Bubba some underwear?”

“Okay, Bubba”. And she climbs out of the bucket, and heads upstairs.

“A, GO WITH HER! She can’t even turn the lights on by herself!”

He takes her hand and heads up the stairs with her. To get his underwear.

I called after him, “What in the world kind of boogeymen is SHE going to protect you from?”

He yells back, “She’s not, but if they eat her first, maybe they’ll be too full for me!”

Pinata of Nada

I’m sitting here. Just waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Break the monotony of the day, brighten my outlook, maybe even make me laugh. It’s been hectic at work lately, and the halls and faces and emails whiz by in a hurry for diagnosis and completed follow ups. I can safely say, I’ve done much, and absorbed very little of it. Some days just go unnoticed.

I wish I were on a plane. A plane to anywhere or nowhere at all – just loving the anticipation of the destination. There’s something intrinsically exciting about travelling. The hubbub of the airport, the beer before boarding, the detailed checklist of what to bring. Do I bring my hair dryer – or hope that the hotel has an ionizing (or whatever the hell it is) one like mine? Do I attempt to smuggle in my toothpaste, or just bring a lot of Trident? Do I smoke 6 cigs before going into the airport in hopes that I can make it through the connection without walking 10 miles to the nearest designated smoking area?

It’s been a boring day in reality. Reality being where I live begrudgingly. Luckily I can drag my camping-tent sized umbrella outside every now and then to chat and puff - not in that order. Today at least I had a couple amusing stories come across my path to keep me from puking up tedium.

They’re not my stories, but I’ll share them anyway.

A doctor, who is insanely good at his job and does it with a passion, has no time for the small details of his life, and can be called ditzy at times. He’s good natured, so he doesn’t mind that we call him that. He flies home to see his parent’s last weekend, and accidentily leaves his keys there. It’s not the first time he’s done this, so he has an extra set. He calls his dad when he gets home and requests he overnight the keys. His father runs to the post office and sends them Express Priority. The package is delivered into the large metal box that houses the mail for all of his posh neighborhood’s residents. The doctor realizes then, standing in front of the large, fortified receptacle that the only key he never made a copy of was the one he needed to access his mail. No key. No package. No clue.

A coworker talks about the Paula Abdul workout video she found, and is very into. It has dance moves that make it much more engaging than plain old aerobics or tai-bo, and she swears she’s firming the gut, toning the butt and losing a couple pounds. She loves this video so much, she convinces her fiancé to do it with her. Because their living room is so small, she stands in front of him, and a little to the left, so he can still see the TV, but they won’t collide while sweating to Straight Up. She’s into the movements when his shirt flies by, landing in front of the TV. No big deal, he’s getting hot. A few minutes later, his athletic break-away pants drop onto the pile that is his shirt. Okay, this really IS good exercise. But when his boxes join the heap of clothes, she finally turns to find him still moving in unison with the figure on the screen. Butt. Ass. Naked. I told her I understood completely why she was marrying him, and that if she took his lead, they really wouldn’t need to watch the video at all.

Moral of the stories? You can fly to California and back for a butt-naked man in your living room but you’d better have a key to get to his package.

Top Floor Please: Revisiting SBT

I was nervous, or excited, almost impossible to tell which now. Maybe a little of both. So I crossed and re-crossed my legs a dozen times, the sweat from my half-full glass of beer raining tiny droplets onto my bare legs that stretched out from beneath the thick wool of my coat. It was crazy to wear a dress in the throes of winter, but the bar was warm with the body heat of out-of-towners who filled the room with clamor of holiday shopping, tonight's football favorites and diminishing gas prices. The waiting was almost too much, and made it almost impossible to sit, still and serene, leaning with one elbow on the sleek wood of the bar, as if it would keep me in my skin.

Sitting with a head-dotted view of the door, I saw the moment he came in. My belly stirred, but I didn’t get up. Watching as he walked, his eyes smiling, looking for me among the faces, I held my breath when he finally met my gaze. Anyone watching would’ve blushed, not at the expression, but because the room became noticeably warmer. Like someone had finally got the fireplace lit, after dumping in wadded newspaper page after page. Maybe it was just me.

I continued where I was, unmoving, like an Italian marble statue in a museum, afraid of what I’d betray if I rose to meet him. Or that my knees would buckle.

He didn’t speak, only reaching me and taking my hand in his, motioning to the bartender, a cute girl with a blonde ponytail, for one of the same. He winked at me, not missing that I’d ordered his favorite. And then he pressed into me, wrapping his arms around me, brushing his lips against my neck. He obliterated everyone in the room, and I pulled him closer, spreading my knees just enough to accept one of his legs, bringing his body to me, cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt, arms under his cost, around his waist. His leg, my leg, his leg, mine.

No one saw, or even attempted to see what his hands did. No one even turned as we continued the embrace just a little too long. The trembling of my bottom lip as his hand moved swiftly from just above my knee to just between my thighs, the cold from outdoors still on his fingertips. I could feel the pounding in his chest, and his face showed nothing but happiness to see me.

He turned suddenly. Flipping a bill on the counter, we left the glasses as they were to make rings on the surface for the girl to wipe up after we’d gone, the only sign we’d even been there. His hand in mine, we made our way through the quiet of the nighttime lobby to the elevator, and gave the impression of complete calm as we watched the numbers light one by one.

10…9…8…7...6…5…4…3…2…L

~Ding~

As the doors slid closed, what seemed an eternity, I listened as the regifting-quarterback-3-dollar-a-gallon chatter became a whisper and then nothing. And when his hands slid firmly around my waist, I was glad for once to be going to the top floor.

Keep Your Ass Next Door

I’ve written before about my religious beliefs, briefly, and that if anything – while I believe in God, I can be considered more an agnostic, or existentialist than anything. I am jaded on the subject of organized religion, and sadly disappointed in the Catholic Church in which I was raised, possibly because I am offended that priests don’t like girls – and they always seemed to stick us with the Nuns, who had no urge to touch unless using a large paddle.

Yes, I was a Catholic school girl at one point. Go figure.

Anyway – for those who will choose to be offended by the sacrilege I am about to spew forth, go quietly, or rant – whichever you choose. Either way – I am going to thoroughly discuss the last, and my favorite, of the ten commandments.

10. You shall not covet your neighbour’s house; you shall not covet your neighbour’s wife, or male or female slave, or ox, or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbour.

Let’s start with thy neighbor’s house, shall we? Let me see – if we want to get into that, we’d have to thoroughly pick apart property values, quality of lawn care, and age of the roof of the house next door. And since I know little about value, and cant see mine neighbors lawn or roof, what with all the crap they sell at continuous weekend tag sales piled everywhere, let’s just say this is not a problem for me personally. I’m not even sure why you would want to own your neighbor’s house unless they have a really big yard and an equally hot lawn boy.

I’m thinking this applied more back when homes were made of mud and thatch and the guy next door had better mud. Or a good wheel barrow with which to haul it.

The next part is important.

If you’d seen my neighbor's wife, who is a slovenly, ill-educated young woman that seems to own an endless number of sweat pants, you’d realize why I cannot force myself to covet her. Standing outside smoking one day, I heard her, from across both yards, hock a loogie and spit it into the street with an audible “splat”. Besides, since her name is apparently “You Stupid Bitch”, I have to assume even her husband doesn’t covet her all that much.

My neighbor’s male calls his wife “Stupid Bitch”. Need I say more?

As for my neighbor’s female slave, I believe he calls her “Mom”, and likes her more than Stupid Bitch. I don’t envy her, and certainly don’t want her for my own. She walks past a couple times a day, apparently in a mad dash for her understandable smoke fix, and I wonder at the fact that her family drives up and down the street like Earnhardt at Talladega and no one can give her a ride. She's very scrawny, and I wonder sometimes if they even let her eat.

So far, I think I am less of a sinner.

As for the ox and the ass, well – let’s just say that seems to be redundant - as mentioned under "wife" and "male". Even if they really had these beasts of burden, which wouldn’t surprise me in the least given the full set of living room furniture in their driveway – I am almost certain I would want them more than anything else my neighbor has to offer. I wonder sometimes, if they did have an ass, if I could obtain it fair and square for a case of Bud and carton of Lucky Strikes.

When it comes right down to it - if I did want anything that rightly belongs to my neighbor, I'm quite sure I could buy it for $1.50 this Saturday.