Million Dollar Insult

So yesterday, we went to Singleton's Appliance Resale (you know, used stoves, washers, dryers, the like) in the sketchiest of sketches in Decatur. And if you can't imagine what kind of atmosphere might be like in a place that sells old used kitchen electronics, its that place you could pass on the road every single day of your life and never recall, if asked, what exactly existed in that shoddy little building. Hand painted window lettering, ply-wood panel walls, and a chatty redneck man behind the the counter. Singleton, with white hair, a beer gut, Hulk Hogan tan, and a sparklin' of gold teeth when he told story after story about his years in delivering washer and dryers in Atlanta. His partner in crime, J.R. (or Junior, whichever you prefer to call him) had the most interesting patch of facial hair on his 65 year old face. His salt and pepper mustache seemed to be sprinkled across the entirety of his cheeks and the space between his nose and upper lip. It only ended where his hair line began. Junior was described to us by our first friend as a man "who likes to talk" (pot.kettle.black.)

There was one other fellow in the shop besides the two fish-out-of-water blonde girls, their new friends J.R. and Singleton. This was "the guy cutting the grass out back" --- which struck me as odd only because, upon further inspection, I realized the only thing resembling a patch of grass amongst the sea of gravel was the few weeds desperately fighting their way up through the cracks of asphalt. I looked again at this so-called lawn care man, his baggy jeans, bugged-out eyes, and limping walk to see where exactly he was heading to do his work and what "cutting the grass" could perhaps be code for.

Apparently, the topiary tender was giving me the once over at the same time I was taking him in because upon eye contact he proceeds to ask me,

"Scuse me. You a boxer?"

(silence)

A boxer? A BOXER??!?! A boxer. This man asked me if I, all 5'3(and a half inch) blonde boobness of me, was some sort of fighter. I believe it had something to do with my regrettable attire of workout shorts, sports tank top, and running shoes (maybe the mouthguard might have been off-throwing?) but -- still! I look at him. I glare at him. He stares back at me. I give him a resounding NO, look over at Liz in dispair, and he spits out something under his breath about "well, cuz you look like youz in shape."

Oh no, nononono. the damage had been done.




What I want to do, in looking back on it, is go back and ask this dear landscape architect a few simple questions as to what could possibly have been running through his head besides where to spread the fertilizer.

A) Do I look like a man? A burly snarling man-woman? Do I even have a hint of over-grown muscle going on that I seem to have overlooked, making me more Million Dollar Baby than babe?

B) If I was wearing this outfit (see below)



PLUS




Would this appear most suitable for: Aerobic class instructor? Jogger? or BOXER?? Maybe what it actually was -- a sunny Saturday afternoon rental bike ride through Piedmont Park with my friends?

C) If you saw a young woman who you took, from first glance, to be of the "working-out type" and you wanted to know what she was doing to create her butch-y physique (so maybe your lanky ghetto ass could steal her secrets and earn a little more Decatur street cred) -- do you immediately assume she prefers knocking bitches out over Pilates?

D) Lastly, (and this is more of a statement, than a question) If you are trying to make new friends of the female gender or perhaps open conversation with a stranger in the room, never default to wondering aloud what man-dominated sport she prefers. No disrespect to the small percentage of women that do participate, the smaller of them that are actually reading this (that would be asking for quite the ass-kicking, wouldn't it?) but Laila Ali I am not.

That is all, young man. Now get back to your hedge-trimming before I beat yo' ass.

Not my words, but in a way -- they are.

I've been getting into books on tape lately as a way to fly through some of the novels that I always mean to read but never get a chance to get to. Right now, I'm in the middle of reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love and, while I love the whole thing so far, I literally almost had to stop my car when she was reading this particular description of her love life ---

It was me.

It was, in short, the relationship history and pattern I had created for myself since the age of 14. It was the same story I have been harping on to myself and to friends when I find myself wondering what I stand for without a guy. Its like I had lived up to the exact same vantage point she was telling her story from. I felt like she was speaking about me, to me, or stealing a page from my journal and reading it out loud over my car stereo. I know its mostly cliche boy drama, but as an overall guilt in my life, its been something I've really struggled with. Especially when I came back to Atlanta.

I've included the excerpt I'm talking about because, in a way, I find that her writing voice even SOUNDS like mine in this excerpt (or at least what I wish mine to sound like)

And I thoroughly recommend the read or, if you're like me, the listen.



Im not having sex for now. When I get lonely these days, I think: So be lonely, Liz. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person’s body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings.

It’s a kind of emergency life-saving policy, more than anything else. I got started early in life with the pursuit of sexual and romantic pleasure. I barely had an adolescence before I had my first boyfriend, and I have consistently had a boy or a man (or sometimes both) in my life ever since I was 15 years old. Each overlapping the next, with never so much as a week’s breather in between. And I can’t help but think that’s been something of a liability on my path to maturity.

Moreover, I have boundary issues with men. Or maybe that’s not fair to say. To have issues with boundaries, one must HAVE boundaries in the first place, right? But I disappear into the person I love. I am the permeable membrane. If I love you, you can have everything. You can have my time, my devotion, my ass, my money, my family, my dog, my dog’s money, my dog’s time – everything. If I love you, I will carry for you all your pain, I will assume for you all your debts (in every definition of the word), I will protect you from your own insecurity, I will project upon you all sorts of good qualities that you have never actually cultivated in yourself and I will buy Christmas presents for your entire family. I will give you the sun and the rain, and if they are not available, I will give you a sun check and a rain check. I will give you all this and more, until I get so exhausted and depleted that the only way I can recover my energy is by becoming infatuated with someone else.

I do not relay these facts about myself with pride, but this is how its always been.

Some time after I’d left my husband, I was at a party and a guy I barely knew said to me, “You know, you seem like a completely different person now that you’re with this new boyfriend. You used to look like your husband, but now you look like David. You even dress like him and talk like him. You know how some people look like their dogs? I think maybe you always look like your men.”

Dear God, I could use a little break from this cycle, to give myself some space to discover what I look like and talk like when I’m not trying to merge with someone. And also, lets be honest – it might be a generous public service for me to leave intimacy alone for a while. When I scan back on my romantic record, it doesn’t look so good. It has been one catastrophe after another. How many more different types of men can I keep trying to love and continue to fail? Think of it this way – if you had ten serious traffic accidents in a row, wouldn’t they eventually take your driver’s license away? Wouldn’t you kind of want them to?

This much I know – Im exhausted by the cumulative consequences of a lifetime of hasty choices and chaotic passions. By the time I left for Italy, my body and spirit were depleted. I felt like the soil on some desperate sharecropper’s farm, sorely overworked and needing a fallow season. So that’s why I’ve quit.

RIP Clean clothes.

We bought a used dryer in September and it died on us this week. Of course, of the three people doing laundry in this house, my wet clothes were in it during its last stuttering, gasping, puttering-out attempt at a cycle. And now, thanks to a combination of an unfixable dryer and my lack of motivation to go elsewhere, there are two wet piles of clothes in the kitchen. And its beginning to smell a lot like mildew.

Rest in peace, crappy Whirlpool. Thanks for your short-lived laundry service, I hope there is a place for you up there in home appliance heaven.

The picture is intended for Elijah, who I discovered running around my house with my still-not-dry Hanes granny panties inside-out on his head.

Self-Detonated Blackmail

There was a time in my life when this was all I wanted for my birthday. It was a dark period -- one I've tried desperately to forget.
I'd like to point the finger at my mother for letting me think this was okay -- she should have had the foresight to know I would only suffer more self esteem issues for having proof of my awkward vanity and bad sense of style. I mean, seriously, couldn't the nice lady in the costume closet dress me in something a little classier than faux leopard fur? Sequence and crushed velvet, perhaps?

The nerve of some people...

Fun for all ages.

I haven't seen a good animated film in a while but Im happy to report that Disney Pixar's Ratatouille was delightful and delicious. The only reported side effect being the insatiable craving for wine and cheese that followed.

And as the 5 year old critic walking out of the theatre behind us exclaimed,

"That was great! It was the best animated movie I have seen in my ENTIRE life!"


Now THAT, my friends, is a five star review.

Nose Candy for the kids

"Its sNOt What You Think," reads the tagline -- but Im pretty sure I'm pickin' up what they're puttin' down. And as far as I'm concerned, it is, in theory, the best candy I've seen on the market since I was of age (candy-eating age, that is). Which means, of course I had to buy it. In regards to flavor, I can't say it was exactly worth the purchase: if they were trying to capture the essence of mucus in a sugar-based syrup, I think they succeeded. On entertainment value alone, it is, well, priceless.



As you can see, there are two black straps which are for appropriately affixing your Hose Nose to your face (the straps are adjustable, like bras, to fit over any schnozz). Then, once your new plastic-warted orange nose is in place, you twist the snot cap off the nostril area. From there, you're ready to enjoy all the leaky goo that drips down to your ready and waiting tongue.

Brilliant, I say: 5 stars on concept, 1 star on taste (Sorry Sniffles, but how hard can it be to make sugar goo taste good?) 1 star on mechanics, as it appears my leaky nose was a little overactive and, while i wasn't looking, left a nice gooey surprise on my dress to discover later. Let me tell you -- quite the adhesive snot we have on our hands.*


Who gets to write the tag lines for this stuff?? Leaky Nose makers, if you're reading this, hit me up. And get your tissues ready, because my snot puns will blow you away.

But seriously, bless you, thank you, and Gesundheit to you for creating this product. I can't wait to see what you might think up next. (but here's a start: Pickable Scabs with an oozing Cherry-flavored center)



** includes other unsuspecting extremities -- legs, clothing, and midgets standing below you.



SIDENOTE: Just for kicks, here's a look at the life-sized Marshmallow hamburger that also struck my fancy at the Chevron checkout counter. It comes complete with mallow cheese and sesame seed icing on top. I'd compare it to a 1/4 lb. burger, so maybe if there are some mallow fries out there (I feel like I've seen them) you could get that side and a Coke and make a nice "diabetes-meets-Disney" Happy meal. And don't think I would forget including a toy..... But believe me, its'not what you think.

"I'm sick of following my dreams. I'm just going to ask where they are going and meet up with them later."

-- Mitch Hedberg

Summer Self-Lovin'

Recently, I've gotten the chance to get reacquainted with the little girl inside of me. A girl who spent hours in the basement building forts and listening to Fine Young Cannibals and Rainbow Brite on cassette tape. She had an imaginary friend named Kate and, as far as friends were concerned, Kate was enough to get by. More than Kate meant having to split toys evenly, which never ended well.

Who could have predicted that this imaginative girl could grow up into the type of woman she would never understand? The grown up version could be lazy, uninspired, and hesitant. Worst of all, she was so influenced by the masses that, at the end of the day, she had no energy left for catching lightning bugs.

The self-sufficient girl was, I guess, outgrown in middle school. I got over whatever it was I found fascinating within myself and started looking to others for example. What were the pretty girls wearing? Who was eating at the popular lunch table? What was Natalie telling Jessica about who Michael had a crush on? Ohhh, I wanted to be in on it. I wanted it to be me.

I continued on through awkward middle school years, dropping out of band because I didn't want to be "seen" as a music nerd, even though I was good at it. I stopped playing tennis because I had gotten to a higher level than my friends -- which meant Id have to go off on my own and take things seriously. Instead of becoming a tennis junkie that no one could relate to, I picked up soccer on a whim. After all, it was a team sport and I would always have someone to to socialize with -- even if it was on the sidelines.

The pattern continued -- highschool, college sorority life (don't even get me started), then the real world -- and then??

It took me until about a year ago to pick up on the bad behavior. How I always substituted validation from others for actual self worth. I came back to Atlanta from LA, breaking up with a truly wonderful guy who loved me for four unfaultering years. At 23 years old, I had finally stepped back to look at the reflection and found nothing I could be proud of. Yes, I had a great boyfriend and an easy life in that regard, but it didn't mean anything unless I had something that defined me on my own. I wanted to do something with my life that I enjoyed. Writing and getting to be creative was what, at the end of the day, always filled me from the inside in.

So I finally re-steered myself onto the right road. But looking back on it, I most recently hit an obstacle. While I should have been more focused on school and what that entailed, I switched gears to focus on always being around a guy, always wanting something for US to do. It was fun and exciting but here I was back in my pattern, and unwittingly, losing what little I had gained.

A few weeks ago, that chapter came to an end (as chapters tend to do) and I was left feeling like someone had scooped out my insides -- leaving nothing but a drafty midsection and the awkward sensation that something big was missing. Not only had he moved out and moved on to new adventures, but with him, he had taken so much of what I had put into the last year -- my time, energy, emotions. I had unwittingly given them all to him. It was so goddamn frustrating because I had no one to blame but myself. And no one to commiserate with me but me.

So, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I met up with that little girl I used to know from our years in fort construction. As the days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into lonely weekends, I found that I actually enjoyed quiet time. There were nights spent desperately wondering what I would do because I was so alone but that gave me a reason to find little projects, self-improvements. It was a slow, rejuvenating therapy administered by the child with the side ponytail. As part of treatment, she had me listen to cheesy music, dance and sing at the top of my lungs. I started working out hard to push myself again, to rebuild and, not to just to go through the motions on a social level. I felt BETTER than I had in ages, just from a few weeks alone. I started to realize that maybe the type of girl I had always wanted to be was someone I already was -- she just never really got a chance to strut her stuff.

So here's to long-awaited reunions with old friends that turn out to be your best. To the lessons in life that truly are all learned in kindergarten. Maybe its just taken this many years to finally slow down into an uncongested, traffic-free road with no distractions. Just me, my thoughts, and a rear-view mirror in case. There's still a lot of terrain to figure out. But whatever comes, I guess it'll be quite a fun adventure -- as it seems I've lucked-out with a pretty kick-ass navigator.

Saturday Morning Thoughts on Vanity

I feel like I shouldn't even try to be presentable on days following a hard night's work on the town. Instead, I'd like what I wear to address what people already might think of me. After all, self expression through t-shirt slogans seems to be what all the cool kids are doing these days.

No More About Me

R.I.P. Old Myspace Profile (as you can see, Im updating Myspace, so its getting really boring around here -- need.school.now -- losing.sanity.)

I usually have to write everything down or, chances are, I'll forget. I could use a personal secretary. But I'll settle for the neon pink post-its next to my bed. ====== I consider myself the ultimate Georgia Bulldawg fan, but have recently caught myself shit-talking about my own team more often than supporting. ====== I want to play more scratch-off lotto. I think the roller coaster of emotions that are experienced while coin-scratching that silver crap is totally worth the buck spent (a chance at a couple G's doesn't hurt either). ===== I never can make up my mind. Though I always mean well. If a flake could be charming, then I'd be a total catch.