School Supplies, Similes, and Shame

I went to Staples yesterday because I had a 6 dollar coupon and 6 dollars can get you 25,000 staples. When you consider that just one staple can comfortably bind together 20 sheets of paper, that's 500,000 sheets or 100 reams of paper once carefree and loose now bound for eternity. What I'm saying is one 6 dollar coupon can save a lot of paper from isolation and loneliness.

Now I happen to be the kind of person who lives with the kind of person who thinks school supplies make perfect Christmas presents. She's also something of a softy, so I'm sure once I run my staples = cure for loneliness hypothesis by her, she'll be excited about receiving 3 pounds of them for Christmas. That or she'll exchange them for stationary. Either way it's fine because 1) I'm not really stupid enough to buy someone staples for Christmas and 2) this has nothing to to with my actual story. My point is, I wouldn't have been at Staples yesterday if not for the coupon. If not for the coupon, all of the more factual events of my story could have been avoided, and I wouldn't have had to belabor a too long, not funny enough fantasy about buying staples at Staples.

So I'm standing in line with my 3 pound bag of staples (obviously staples don't really come this way, but the image of someone standing in a checkout lane with a bag of 25,000 loose staples in a bag slung over her shoulder amuses me almost as much as the image of that same person trying to load those same individual staples, one-by-one, into a stapler, so I'm going with it) and I glance over my shoulder, and there she is.

The she in question is none other than the subject of my previous blog, But Would You Walk Across Hot Coals?  The woman who inspired me to write every day, no matter how frustrated I got. The woman who offered (without giving me the chance to ask) to write me a letter of recommendation for grad school admission. The woman who I lovingly (and, as far as I know, without her knowledge) refer to as Aunt Erin. This woman lit a fire in my belly that no amount of over-the-counter, prescription-strength acid reducer could relieve. I hadn't seen her since May when I accepted an award for an essay I wrote--you know, back when I still had promise. So what did I do the second I realized that Aunt Erin was standing seven feet behind me? Did I run out of line and jump into her outstretched arms, wrapping my legs around her waist like an excited 3-year-old? Did I tell her how much I enjoyed her last book (which I haven't read because I'm not reading anymore either)? Did I inquire into the health of her husband and her dogs? No. No I did not. I didn't even think to do those things. Instead I turned my back like a girl who's 20 years and forty added pounds out of high school when she doesn't want the homecoming queen to see her in the ice cream aisle. I think, if I don't make eye contact, she can't hold my not saying hello against me. For all she knows, I don't realize she's behind me.  I conduct my entire transaction with my back to my old mentor, knowing that, as she is next in line, she will see me and recognize me. I mumble and make my voice slightly lower than it typically is. I do everything short of putting on a pair of Groucho Marx glasses (which, had I had them handy, I wouldn't have hesitated to throw on for good measure).

I think the why of my behavior is pretty obvious. I haven't written anything in months. The only pieces I submit are essays that I wrote a year or more ago. The well is dry. Not that I've been trying. Maybe I don't want to work. Maybe if it doesn't all come to me in a flash, I'm not interested. Maybe I like having money to spend and the though of going to grad school and trying to live on $12,000 a year doesn't really sound appealing to me (even under the guise of chasing my dreams). Or maybe I'm just trying to convince myself that that's the case. Maybe Aunt Erin saw me too. Maybe she turned around and pretended to see something interesting in the opposite direction, something more interesting than the look of disappointment permanently plastered to my face.

    

Now for something a little bit different

I didn't blog the entire month of July. Obviously this is unacceptable. Suffice it to say there's been a lot going on. Some of it is not interesting enough talk about (I got a job as a personal banker). Some of it is quite interesting and quite none of your business. The other reason I haven't blogged has more to do with the fact that I am, apparently, emotionally and, therefore, creatively crippled. Yes, it is sad. At this time I'd like to give a shout out to my best friend, Tim. He's on my ass in the most loving way possible, and I appreciate it. "I don't care if it's one sentence, just write something." Well, I've stumbled upon a website that will allow me to do just that, so until I get my words back, check me out at www.twitter.com/carriekosicki

On this new site, I am limited to 140 characters. That includes spaces and punctuation. Even I can handle 140 characters a day, dead soul or no. See, I'm making vague references to Russian Literature--that's how broken my creative bone is right now. Anyway, just click the link. Add it to your bookmarks. Do whatever it is you actual bloggers do. See you there.

I Think I'm Going to Throw Up

I walked into my quite clean apartment a few minutes ago and turned on the light. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted something defiantly frolicking across my kitchen floor. It was, how do I say this? THE BIGGEST FUCKING BUG I HAVE EVER SEEN OUTSIDE OF INDIANA JONES AND THE TEMPLE OF DOOM! Now, I'm kind of like MacGyver when it comes to killing bugs. It's all about thinking outside the box. In this instance I needed there to be absolutely no way of actually coming into contact with the kitten-sized creature. I also needed to not hear the impending crunching sound. Most importantly, I needed not to take my eyes off it or make any sudden motions lest I scare the thing into hiding and, therefore, have to break the lease on my apartment leaving all of my stuff behind in the crippling fear that the thing might wish to feed on me in the night. I was standing between my coffee table and my television. Within arms reach I had a few lightweight paperbacks, a mason jar full of pens and nails, my television, and some bamboo. The thought of throwing my television at the thing (let's call him Beelzebug) was, thankfully, fleeting. I knew I couldn't do much damage with the paperbacks, and, while you can make everything from hardwood floors to bed linens out of bamboo, I didn't think it would be of much use either. Then I spotted it. My large, hardback copy of World Philosophy: An Explanation in Words and Images. Let's just call it what it is. It's a book on world religions. So, I picked the thing up, slowly so as not to frighten my uninvited guest. I did a little mental calculation of the distance so as to determine the force with which I would need to toss the book (I knew I only had one shot at this). I said a brief prayer, "bless me Father, for I am about to crush the shit out of one of your children." I launched. Do you know what it sounded like when it came crashing down on Beelzebug? It sounded like a heavy, wide book being dropped on a tile floor. No crunching noise. I was half expecting the book to just bounce off the back of this six-legged equivalent of a linebacker. Or for there to be a two second pause before Beelezebug carted my book away on his back. Thankfully, the book seems to have done the trick, but now I have a problem almost as dire as the bug being in the apartment in the first place. I can't just leave the book there. I mean, I could, but I shouldn't. At some point cleanup is going to be necessary. Here are some of the things I'm struggling with. Do I first jump up and down on the back of the book so as to ensure that the little fucker is dead? Do I just plow ahead and pick up the book like a girl with ovaries and tell myself that I'm not completely repulsed by the carnage? I think I'll definitely slip the book cover off and put the book back on the coffee table. I didn't need the cover anyway. This is going to be among the most ghastly things I've ever had to endure. Why do bad things happen to good people? Well, I guess there's no time like the present. Be right back........Turns out the answer is, jump up and down on book, remove book jacket, back away in case the thing really is from the devil and it wants to jump out at you just to prove a point, lift book jacket off floor, push contents of stomach back down your esophagus, take picture for blog, sweep up carcass with broom and dust pan, flush carcass, flush once more for good measure (I like to think that even Al Gore would approve of this waste of water) mop floor with undiluted Mr. Clean, forget about sleeping tonight, instead lay awake in bed scratching at phantom itches that can only be explained by giant bugs crawling all over you.

Tim Russert

There are lots of reasons that Tim Russert's death sucks. The thing that makes me saddest is no one loved politics more than this man. Now we're in the middle of the most historic election season of a generation, and now Russert doesn't get to experience it.

Let the Looting Begin

I know we in Columbus, OH don't have much to complain about on the shitty weather front. There's no flooding. We haven't had any tornadoes this year. We're too far inland to worry about hurricanes. But fuck me if we didn't have some crazy-ass lightning tonight. There were downed trees everywhere. I'm not talking a branch here and a limb there. I'm talking entire 30 ft tall trees scattered throughout my neighborhood. When I came home after the rain, more than a few streets were blocked off due to the fact that there was a big fucking tree laid out in the middle of the road. The park by my house looked like a disaster area; however, as a sign that everything would be okay, the local juggling club was outside the rec center tossing and catching various blunt objects. It's like I always say, if the Columbus Juggling Society doesn't get together and practice on Thursday nights, then the terrorists--I mean Thor-Norse-God-of-Thunder has won.

Before I even got to the park, I was shunted all around Third Street which was closed for a couple blocks due to waist-high water. When I drove back through a couple hours later, the water had all gone, but the street was caked in mud, and the poor bastards who'd been parked along the street when the storm came were either having their cars towed off the sidewalk or trying to will their newly fried electric to correct itself.

After driving through town for a bit, I would say that roughly 50% of the traffic lights are out. Speaking of which, I'm sure my educated readers know this, but just in case someone else stumbles across this blog, when a traffic light is out you are supposed to TREAT IT LIKE IT'S A STOP SIGN! I can't say how many people I saw just barreling through busy intersections without even slowing down. See, when people do that, THEY CAUSE ACCIDENTS!

When I finally came back into my neighborhood it was dark. Lots of power out. Not mine, but just about everyone for the 10 blocks north of me. I live in a part of the city where it's never completely dark. To see it that way was a little creepy. Creepier still was the little old shopkeeper I saw standing outside his storefront, sweeping and looking at the big hole in the front of his store where his window used to be. For the first time in my life, I'm glad I sleep with a loaded gun under my pillow--did that fool anyone? I'm trying to practice my bad assness in case there's trouble tonight.

Insert REM Lyrics Here _____

I made the mistake of watching the news for five minutes today. Here's what I learned:

**Parts of Washington State are expecting 10 inches of snow today.
**Aspen, Colorado still has some slopes that will be ski-able this weekend (less than a week before the official start of summer).
**A river in Iowa is getting ready to crest at 25 feet--a mere 13 feet over what the levees can withstand.
**two eleven-year-old girls were shot on a dirt road outside Tulsa, Oklahoma.
**House republicans have blocked a bill that would tax the five major oil companies on the windfall profits that they have made by charging $4.00/gallon for gasoline. The bill would also have taken away $17 billion in tax cuts over the next 10 years for those same companies.

Here's the thing that really chaps my ass over the whole oil thing. Yes, a barrel of crude costs more than it ever has, but gas does not need to be $4.00/gallon. A barrel of oil now cost around $133. At $4.00/gallon, that brings the consumer cost for a barrel to $168. Now, $35 might not seem like all that much of a mark-up. It's about a 26% mark-up. Other things in this capitalist economy get marked up a lot more severely; however, Americans consume about 9,253,000 barrels a day. That's a total mark-up to the consumer of $323,855,000/day. I get that everyone who touches the gas has to take their share of the profits, but last quarter Exxon reported a net profit of $10.89 billion. That's a 17% increase from last year. All I'm saying is, fuck those guys.

I don't get math, and I've never taken Econ. I'm sure I've fucked up something in my rant, but still--$10.89 billion? And that's just one of the major oil companies. There are four others.

Poetry Kills

I just finished reading The Caged Owl, which is a collection of poems by Gregory Orr. Reading poetry is something that I've only recently gotten into. I think I don't have the attention span for prose right now. Anyway, there's this poem, "Everything," It goes like so:

Is this all life is then--

only the shallow breaths

I watch you struggle for?

That gasp right now--

if it was water

it would be such a small glass.

And I could lift your head

from the hospital pillow

and help you sip it

to comfort your parched

throat

into the ease of sleep.

Your agony makes no

sense when air

is everywhere, filling

this room where you lie

dying, where we move

as if in a trance, as if

everything is under water.

So anyway, this poem got me thinking about my grandfather. Not a huge leap since, once a person gets to the gasping for air portion of the living/dying process, the experience really sort of becomes universal. I was looking on my old blog for posts around the time my grandfather died. I remembered posting the eulogy that I wrote for him, and I wanted to give it a gander. I remember getting a couple laughs and a few tears, and I wanted to look back over my own brilliance. I went to October 10, 2006 and remembered that I pulled the eulogy after only a few days, because keeping it posted seemed lame or disrespectful or something. Instead what was there was the post the I put up just a few minutes after he died. I'll include it here. Why not?

Then Came the Dry Humping

Grandpa died last night, which sucks the proverbial ass.
Here are some funny things about the situation.
There's this nursing home on the way to Hospice in Dayton. I forget the last names of the families running it, but the initials are S and M. On the awning outside the entrance is written, "S&M". I'm picturing leather and latex clad funeral directors whipping the shit out of those dirty, naughty corpses.
There was this group of folks parading around the circular corridors of Hospice last night singing gospel music. The organ music was prerecorded, and it was rather creepy sounding. Very Count Chocula. One of the songs they sang went something like this, "King Jesus is a listenin' for the sinners to pray." That feels perhaps more suitable for a prison than a Hospice, but maybe they had a limited number of prerecorded numbers on their little ChristCasio 5000.
At one point last night, the aids came in to change my grandpa's bedding and his diaper (obviously this was before he died). I averted my eyes, not because I was embarrassed or ashamed, but because my first concrete memory of my grandfather is of his penis and I was very aware that I didn't want that to be my last memory as well. Not quite the book end of 25 great years of memories I'm interested in.

Better Late than . . . Wait, That's Ridiculous

Today I filed my 2005 tax returns.

Like a Cat out of Hell Pt. II

I slept at my friends' house last night. They're on their honeymoon, so I'm rabbit sitting. Unlike my cat friend from the previous post, Sugar the rabbit does not try to kill me in my sleep. That coupled with the fact that my friends with the rabbit own season 3 of Frazier on DVD made the decision to stay over pretty easy.

When I came home this morning, Cat did not immediately come strutting out of my bedroom to say hello. I found this puzzling since he normally likes to lull me into a false sense of security when he first sees me. I walked into my kitchen to check on his food situation and found the above wreckage. I know this seems pretty cut and dry. He climbed above my cabinets, knocked over the bottle of Pernod which then landed on his food bowl, causing said food bowl to shatter. Here's the problem with that. Say the wall in my kitchen is ten feet long. The food bowl is at foot 0 while the Pernod bottle is at foot 4. How the fuck did this cat catapult the Pernod bottle 4 feet east? Does he have opposable thumbs? Did he knock it over then roll it down to the end of the cabinet before tossing it over? How did the bottle survive an 8 foot fall without breaking? Strange things are afoot is what I'm saying.

After I noticed the situation, I immediately panicked that my friend's cat's corpse, having bled to death, was going to have to be ferreted out from under my bed. This is not a phone call you want to make. "Hey friend, remember how you said your cat would find a way up on my cabinets and I stubbornly decided not to take the bottles down? Well, I've got good news and I've got bad news. The good news is, you were right. Good for you for having such prophetic psychic abilities. The bad news is, I killed your cat. Fear not, I have a friend who owns a pet cemetery, and I'm sure once I explain the situation to her, she'll give you a good rate. Will you still be my friend?" I was thinking this and planning my escape to Mexico when Cat came around the corner, limbs in tact and both eyes in their respective sockets. As I write this, he's drinking out of my toilet.

And now I take the bottles down.

Like a Cat out of Hell

Look at that shifty-eyed little nix-nux to the right. I'm cat sitting this special little guy, and he's causing me to behave in ways I would never behave otherwise.

I keep these empty booze bottles lined up above my kitchen cabinets. For the last four days el gato has been trying to figure out how to get to these bottles. My concern is that I'm going to wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of something shattering and that I will come into the kitchen to find broken glass and a profusely bleeding cat sprawled across my kitchen floor.

People tend not to trust you when you kill their loved ones, even if the loved one in question is a trouble maker. I know the obvious solution is to get rid of the fucking bottles. More specifically, the obvious solution is to come to terms with the fact that I am a 27-year-old woman and not a frat boy and that empty bourbon bottles are not art.

You know how after 9.11, people kept doing shit in the name of not letting the terrorists win. Musicians the country over were all, "I thought about canceling the show, but then I realized that if I canceled this concert, the terrorists will have won." This is, of course, complete and utter malarky. People trying to make themselves feel justified in their selfish decision to move on with life by playing for the door. Anyway, if I take down the bottles, not only has the cat won, but also he has not learned a lesson. Since I was specifically told that the cat should be returned a better cat than he was when he was dropped off, the bottles are staying put.

Back to the story. A few minutes ago, cat figured out that the hood over the stove is wide enough and sturdy enough to support his weight. He jumped from the floor to the stove top to the hood and finally, victory of all victories, on top of the cabinets to my own little Jim Beam graveyard.

The thing is, when I took the cat, I meant to ask for the spray bottle. Most cats don't like getting wet, so spraying them with a light mist can be at once horrible and surprisingly refreshing. Sadly though, I did not actually go through with asking for the spray bottle. I thought to myself, Carrie, you're a 27-year-old woman. You should have a spray bottle. Play it cool. Don't let on that you don't have a spray bottle. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Well, with cat running back and forth behind the bottles like a feline possessed, I was staring at the bridge. Here's where we get to the part where I'm doing shit that I would never do. I turned on my faucet, pulled out the spray hose, and doused that little fucker. Yeah, it occurred to me that maybe I didn't want to get my ceiling, cabinets, and wall soaking wet. It also occurred to me that if I scared cat bad enough, he might panic and inadvertently knock over a bottle and hurt himself, which was the thing we were trying to avoid. Well, he did panic, and all my shit did get wet, and now it seems like he's not speaking to me. It also seems that I've turned into the kind of person who blogs about their cat, or, sadder still, someone else's cat. Shit, maybe the cat has won after all.

Harvey Korman

One of my heroes died today. Harvey Korman was a brilliant comedic actor who was best known to most as one of the cast members of The Carol Burnett Show. He was best known to me as one of Mel Brooks' go-to guys, costarring in such films as Blazing Saddles, High Anxiety, and History of the World Part I. While on The Carol Burnett Show, Korman was best known for the work he did with Tim Conway. He had a near impossible time keeping a straight face any time he and Conway acted in a sketch together. Below is one of my favorite such incidences. Korman plays the patient.

My Best Friends' Wedding

A few folks at Tim's and Susan's Wedding asked if I'd post the poem that I read. It ain't literary, but they liked it. At one point, about three stanzas in, Susan and I had one of our world famous giggle fits. After the wedding, people asked me if I had gotten choked up because I had looked down for a few seconds. The truth is I was trying and failing to not be the kind of douche bag who laughs at her own jokes. Anyhooter, here it is for those of you not there or in the back and unable to hear my mumbling.


Observations from the Third Wheel



Painting his toenails

was the exact right way

to get the girl of his dreams



and the weight of holding

her purse is a small price to pay

if he gets to watch her dance.



After five years, laughing

until they cry is

better than holding hands anyway.



There’s good and then there’s gyood,

and it’s important to find someone

who knows the difference. And it’s hard



to get mad at a man in a green facial mask.

Sometimes he puts on that sweater

just to see the look on her face right before



she tells him to change. I see the way

they look at each other, and I know what I have

the right to hope for. I realize I already have it.

I spend all day in a low-walled cubicle taking shit from people and talking to answering machines in the naive hope that someone will actually be stupid enough to call back so that I can verbally break their kneecaps over their unpaid medical bills and Lane Bryant credit cards. Yesterday, as an added bonus, my headset was busted and I spent eight hours with a fundamentalist Christian radio station chirping in my ear. Between 11:00 and noon, I was treated with an infomercial in favor of virginity until marriage. The woman giving the talk was nice enough to tie science into her argument. It seems blind faith and a strong desire not to get knocked up or The HIV is no longer enough of a reason for people to abstain. Now the Christian right is trying to scare us with neurochemistry. According to our host, semen is God's "superhuman glue." I left my phone in idle for a couple minutes to jot that one down. Spooge is "God's superhuman glue and it's used to make new life." Additionally, one of the chemicals released in the brain when we have sex is diminished with each subsequent partner. According to this woman, the awkward, fumbly sex that I had as a sixteen-year-old with my first girlfriend was the best it was ever going to be. Maybe there's something to this. For example, the most mind-blowing orgasm I've ever had was while my first girlfriend and I were watching The Color Purple. If I'd known then what I know now, maybe I would have fought a little harder to keep her. I am hereby
instating a three partner limit. This Christian brain juice stuff could be for real, and I don't want to risk a life of mediocre sex. Sure this means that by the time I'm forty I'll be limited to dating 15-year-olds and ugly people, but hey, I can't possibly enjoy myself if the girl I'm with isn't.

Nose to the Grindstone

"Sir, I'm sorry your wife's heart transplant didn't go as well as expected, but someone has to pay this hospital bill."

Earn More Sessions by Sleeving

Tonight I came home from hanging out with my friends and I watched the Steve Martin movie, Roxanne for the four hundred seventy-sixth time. It's based on the Rostand play, Cyrano de Bergerac.

When I was six, my aunt made me a tape with three movies on it--Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, Splash, and Roxanne. I watched the tape in it's entirety every day for a period of time that could easily be considered clinically insane. I learned something different from each movie. From Willy Wonka, I learned that sometimes good things do happen to good people, even if those good people are poor. From Splash I learned that sometimes being in love means abandoning everything you know and spending the rest of your life under water. And from Roxanne I learned everything else I needed to know about getting by in life.

There's a scene where Steve Martin's character, C.D. Bales, is sitting on a roof with an overweight boy who is upset because he's getting teased at school. Bales asks the boy if he's talked to his mother about his problems and the boy replies, "Once I tried, but she said I had to clean up my plate first."

Bales, thinking the boy has just made a joke says, "Now see, that's good. You're way better than those guys who make fun of you. You're smart and you're funny. You can make things up."

All through the movie, Bales lives by his own, smart+funny+the ability to make things up=better, equation. The scene most remembered by anyone who's ever seen the movie is the scene in which Bales has to come up with twenty insults about his nose better than "big nose." One of my favorites, "Fashionable: You know, you could deemphasize your nose if your wore something a little larger--like Wyoming." Or how about, "You must love the little birdies to give them this to perch on."

I applied the things I learned from Roxanne to my own life. I remember being in the sixth grade and making my Art teacher, Mrs. Cadic, laugh. Referring to my hairy self I said, "Gee, now I see why some people think we descended from apes."

These are the things I generally think of when I watch Roxanne--how to be the kind of self-deprecating person that is liked by all and maybe stumbling upon some hot, brainy chick like the movie's title character who will be so swept up in my charm that she won't notice my faults.

When I watched Roxanne tonight though, another scene caught my attention and gave me pause. Towards the end of the film, Bale's is yelling at Roxanne through a closed door. He says, "Ten more seconds and I'm leaving." Roxanne opens the door and asks him to repeat himself. When he does, she turns to go back inside and he asks her what she thought he'd said.

Roxanne replies, "I thought you said 'earn more sessions by sleeving.'" As far as my current station in life is concerned, this might be the most important line in the movie.

I suppose now is as good a time as any to disclose that I have a slight, yet completely annoying, hearing problem. The ability to hear sounds is not my problem. I can hear a pin drop from three rooms away. My problem is in differentiating sounds.

I remember the old days at the cookie store, taking orders over the phone. The customer might tell me that the person receiving the cookies name was Nora.

ME: "Is that Nora or Maura?"

CUSTOMER: "Nora."

ME: "With and M or an N?"

CUSTOMER: "N."

ME: "As in Mary or Nancy?"

CUSTOMER: "What is your fucking problem? It's Nora, NOra, NORA!"

I found that mashing the phone into my ear to the point of giving myself and Indian . . . I'm sorry, a Native American burn served only a psychological benefit. My point is, "bat" and "pat" have always sounded the same to me, and according to an audiologist, they always will.

Now, I'm a smart girl. Context clues are helpful, and I'm a fan of looking at people when they talk to me, so I can see on someones lips what is being said whether my ears can figure it out or not. The problem is the telephone.

Why then, you might ask, did I just accept a job offer for a position that will have me talking on the phone forty hours a week? I suppose this weekend I should spend some time thinking up deaf jokes.

PERSON IN DEBT: "I'll pay it Sunday."

ME: "Sunday or someday?"

PERSON IN DEBT: "Sunday"

ME: "As in the Lord's Day or just when you get around to it?"

PERSON IN DEBT: "I'll pay it right now if it'll end this conversation faster."

Huh, now I think I know what people in wheelchairs mean when they say they're handicapable. I'm going to be the best collections agent in the city of Columbus. See, you really can learn everything you need to know about life from Roxanne if you're willing to connect the dots yourself.

Adventures in Hair Removal

As anyone who knows me could tell you, I am one hairy chick. When I was little, my classmates teased me by calling me Hairy Carrie. Yeah, rhyming is fun. I was so famous throughout my school district that even older kids that I'd never met would shout, "Hairy Carrie" at me from across the mall then laugh to the point of wetting themselves when I turned around and gave them the old stink-eye. I've always had enough hair on my forearms to make it look like I'm permanently wearing long sleeves, and I can grow a mustache that would make most sixteen-year-old boys jealous. Well, no more. And for my Spanish speaking friends, no mas.

I remember a conversation I had as a little girl. "Mom, when will I stop having all this hair?"

"When you're older," she said, leaving me with the impression that sometime during my adolescence, I was going to wake up to discover that all of my body hair had magically fallen out. I wish some teacher would have taken me aside and taught me the importance of follow-up questions, but since none ever did, I just took my mom's response at face value. At the ripe old age of twenty-seven, I found myself still waiting for the shit to fall out, all the while growing more and more self-conscious about my looks.

The one bright spot in my adult life (if being humiliated can ever be considered a bright spot) was one time when a friend and I went out for Chinese. This was one of our favorite restaurants in Dayton, and we'd had this one tiny little Asian waitress at least a dozen times before, but for some reason on this one night she decided that she had to pay me a "compliment." When she brought our check, she started stroking the hair on my right arm and said, "Oooh, so sexy." My friend had to immediately excuse herself from the table. I could hear her crying with laughter as she walked away. Sure, it's a funny story now, but at the time I was mortified. I thought only little kids and retarded people were allowed to get away with commenting on people's physical shortcomings like that. I know. I know. What she said was theoretically nice. How was she to know she was pointing out the thing about which I was most self-conscious?

A few years later, I was working at a bookstore when another Asian lady caught my attention and motioned for me to come join her in the children's section. In a rather broken accent she told me, "I used have hair like you. I know where you can get fixed."

"What?" I asked, not quite sure I'd understood her.

"Hair. Your arms. Can fix."

"Thanks. I'm good."

I wasn't good though. I was again embarrassed by the cards the Geneticist in the Sky had dealt me. And what was it with these Asian people? Seriously, is there some sort of cultural propensity toward inappropriate frankness that I didn't learn about in school?

So jump to yesterday. Yesterday I woke up feeling like shit. I felt unattractive for the 3876th day in a row, and, frankly, I was over it. Carrie, you can't go to job interviews looking like this, I told myself. Looks do matter, no matter what your mother tells you. This hair would have to go. I thought the best place to shop for hair removal products would be with other classically unattractive people, so I drove to Wal-Mart. You would think that in all the places in all the world, Wal-Mart would be the place to take care of all your hair removal needs. I mean, look at the people who work and shop there. I know I'm sounding like a real a-hole, but seriously. Wal-Mart isn't exactly a bastion of trendiness and good grooming. Sadly though, my choices were limited. There were creams. I had tried these when I was 8 and I already had hair under my arms. I think my mother felt that 8 was too young to wield a razor. In the end, she had to entrust me with a Lady Bic, because these hair removal creams, turns out, are total bullshit. So creams were out. There were waxes that needed to be heated up and applied with wands. This seemed like a disaster waiting to happen. I mean, how do you get hot wax out of your eyeball? Or what about 2nd degree burns? I don't need that sort of mayonnaise in my life. Then I glanced the bottom shelf. Nads. I'd seen Nads on tv. I'd seen the Australian woman who created the product rip the hair off her beast-like daughter's arm with three easy motions. The daughter, she didn't even wince. I mean, Nads has kava in it, for Christ's sake. Who else is going to offer me all this in in one ready-made-wax-preapplied strip? No one. That's who. I bought the face kit as well as the full-size strips and went about my business.

When I went home, I waxed my lip. I'm not going into great detail about it, because I owned that shit, which makes it not that interesting and not at all funny. So I'm moving on.

Later that night, all the optimism about life and the feeling less hideous had already worn off. There was still the matter of the arms. How could anyone ever love me with these arms. Did I say love? I meant hire. Is there a difference really? It was 1:00 a.m. and I was as unattractive as when I woke up that morning. For a moment I thought, Carrie, is this really something you want to get into in the middle of the night? I thought, this is one of those mistakes that you know you're making even as you're making it. Like asking a friend for a cigarette or driving to Canada to marry a drug addict. The hair will still be there in the morning, I assured myself as I walked into the bathroom and took out the full-size strips. Well, here's the thing about applying a waxing strip to some part of your body--there's really only one way to get it off, and, whether you mean to or not, you're taking some hair with you. What I'm saying is, once you've got the strip on, you're fucked, so you might as well go for it. I stood there for a moment, looking down at the 3x6 inch strip pasted to my left arm. You're a fucking idiot, I thought. There's a reason people pay to have this shit professionally tended to. Deep breath. Yank. Stars. I saw stars. My eyes teared. I looked down. There was a perfect patch of perfectly smooth skin that I'd never seen in its full, hairless glory now exposed on my left arm. Fuck, I thought. I can't walk around like this. This is the thing you don't think about. Once you start the process, you have to see it through. An hour and a half later, after several breaks to stop the cold sweats and the shaking, I had two bare arms. Well, mostly bare. I spent half of the next day meticulously plucking any extra-fortified follicles which had been strong enough or sneaky enough to thwart the kava-infused wax.

I'm told that the hair will not come back all black and brillo-paddy. I'm told that someday, the hair will recognize its own futile need to grow and I'll hardly ever have to wax at all. I'm told that looks don't matter, and now that I feel a little less like a wereperson, I'm sort of inclined to agree.

The View from the Mountain

So it's been a while since I've written anything. I'll go ahead an apologize now for this not being "typical" Carrie. It's the 40th anniversary of Dr. King's death. I thought I'd post links to the transcript of the "I've been to the mountain top" speech that he gave the night before he was killed as well as a video clip of it.

Transcript with brief clip: www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/mlkivebeentothemountaintop.htm

I just stumbled upon this website when I was trying to find a transcript of the "I have a dream" speech for my mom. It's pretty cool. All these rhetoricians have gotten together and picked the top 100 American speeches. The site has full transcripts of all of them as well as audio and video clips of the speeches that were given at times when that technology was available. I recommend checking it out. http://www.americanrhetoric.com

As for the speech at hand, and for Dr. King's speeches in general, they were the best. Period. He was the best. Period. I'm not saying that Senator Obama's speech on race wasn't a good speech. I am saying that it wasn't soul stirring. I've heard the "I have a dream" speech 50 times and I tear up every single time. When I watched Senator Obama's speech, I just saw an eloquent man trying to keep his poll numbers from sliding, which is, let's don't forget, exactly what he was doing.

From the Road #4

Saturday, March 22, 2008
5:16 p.m.
Out back of the Chalet
We went into town and I had the kind of cramps that could drive a girl to grab a steak knife and cut out her own reproductive organs. I mean, what the fuck? I’ve got no plans to use the shit. Cramps are SO the antithesis of everything bachelor party.

While the men sat in the bar watching West By God Virginia beat up on Duke, I walked down the main strip and tried not to spend money. But what’s a girl to do when she walks past a store and see’s “Designer sunglasses $9.99?” My mother’s voice shoved and elbowed its way from the back of my head past the worry about what I’m supposed to do with my life and the resentment for my reproductive system and it said, “Get yourself some good sunglasses.”

I walked into the store and recklessly tried on sunglasses that countless other folks, lice infected honeymooners and blue haired old ladies already on the lookout for Christmas discounts for their grandkids, had already slid behind their greasy ears. Nothing looked good and as soon as I heard the clerk recommending “a pair of Nike’s that are perfect for wide heads” to a man with a wide head, I took off, afraid that he’d look at me and make the same embarrassing suggestion.

Thinking I was destined to leave Gatlinburg sunglassesless, I moseyed on down the road. I walked not fifty feet and was greeted with another in a long line of Easter Weekend miracles. There to my left was an Oakley store. I went in thinking I would just look around. As far as I knew, these were expensive sunglasses. Imagine my delight when I realized that these were rip-offs too. I can’t even tell you what the sunglasses I bought look like, but I know that I’m staving off cataracts and crow’s feet and it only cost me ten bucks.

From the Road #3

Friday March 21, 2008
2:29 p.m.
Off the mountain—a retrospective
Today I drove us off the mountain, through Gatlinburg and into Pigeon Forge, thinking it would be good practice for Sunday morning when I’m fleeing at the ass crack of dawn. Now that I know I can do it without getting myself killed, I feel a lot better about things.

Tim really wanted to go go-cart racing, so we did. My wide ass barely fit in the car, and then I needed the help of the local guy running the place to expand the seat belt enough to get it over my massive triple d’s (since I know you want to know). Though, the way I had myself wedged in there, I’m not completely sure the seat belt was necessary. When we got the green light, the four of us took off in our little go-carts, and it wasn’t ten seconds before Tim passed me. He and Collins are nice enough to insist that the only reason they lapped me is because I had a slow car. Given the fact that I could feel my undercarriage scraping the concrete on every turn, I’m more inclined to believe it was because my fat ass wasn’t meant to be carted around on a lawnmower motor. I paid Tim and Collins back for their words of encouragement by accidentally calling both of their families retarded, but more on that later.

After the go-carts, we decided to go to Pigeon Forge’s classiest tourist attraction—Jurassic Jungle Boat Ride. We paid fifteen dollars for fifteen minutes. I don’t mean to imply that there was a pay by the minute option. That’s just the way it worked out. I can’t really do this ride justice with my words, but basically here’s how it went. We sat in a boat and inched forward through a dark warehouse. Every few feet, the boat would stop and a loud screeching sound would come over the blown speakers. Then a light would come on and illuminate whatever horrible animatronic dinosaur-like thing was in front of us. At the end of the ride, we sat, in our boat, in front of the door that led to the outside world. Just when we thought we were going to have to get out of the boat to push the door open, the boat was reared back to a 50 degree angle. Even though the front of the boat was pointed uphill, I’d call this the climax of the ride. If there was a falling action, it was that the door finally opened and we got out.

Last on our list of touristy shit to do was Hillbilly Golf. I’m not sure what exactly made it hillbilly, but I do know that we had to take this gondola thing halfway up a mountain and that most of the holes had farm equipment incorporated into them. This is where me calling Tim’s and Collins’ families retarded comes into play. I don’t know how you play putt-putt, but in my family and with every family I have ever played, each person in the group putts, then everyone goes and has their second put, unless, of course, you’re and all-star like me and you only get holes-in-one. Anyway, Tim and Collins always played that each person in the group kept going until they got their ball in the hole. Then the next person would go until they got his ball in the hole and so on. I was astonished by this silliness, so I said, “What the hell kind of family did you grow up in that you played like that?” Tim took that to mean that I was calling his family retarded. In hindsight, I can see how he might have interpreted it that way, though that’s not at all what I meant. For the next 16 holes, Tim made jokes about his retarded/inbred family. I laughed hysterically and felt like shit simultaneously. The ability to make me do this is a unique gift of Tim’s. I guess maybe I had the last laugh. I won at Hillbilly Golf. Maybe I can put that on my resume.

The Candy Man Can

The votes are in. It’s official. I am the spokeswoman for lesbians everywhere. I was having coffee with a friend today, and out of nowhere he looked at me and, as if he'd been waiting for this moment since the first moment we became friends he said, “Carrie, I need to ask you a question.”

“Is it personal?”

“Yes, and please feel free to tell me that I’m over the line or answer as much or as little or not at all.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“I love going down on my girlfriend, but I was just wondering, from a woman who loves women’s perspective, is there anything I can do to make it better?”

I have to admit. This question was a relief. I’m used to people feeling like they’ve all of a sudden reached some sort of level of emotional intimacy with me, specifically the level of emotional intimacy that makes them feel like they have the green light to invite me to have sex with them. The reason that I know that these other people feel like they’ve reached that level of emotional intimacy is because they then ask, “Carrie, would you ever consider joining me and my wife/girlfriend/husband/boyfriend in the bedroom? You know, for the sex?” The answer has always, and I think will always be, “no.” I know I’ve strayed a little from the topic at hand, but I just thought I should include some example as to why this particular gentleman's question came as a relief.

I will admit, this question made me a little uncomfortable, not because of the subject matter, but because I didn’t have a ready made answer for him. “It’s all about the amount of pressure you apply,” I said.

“But how much?”

At this point I’m thinking, how the fuck should I know? No two vaginas are alike. Yay for you for having the rest of your life to figure just this one vagina out. I didn’t say that though. Instead I just said, “You’re going to have to rely on her to tell you that.” I felt bad for not being able to help the guy out more. The thing is, for me sex, in all its forms, has always been very intuitive. If you read people well, you can pick up on what’s working and what isn’t. How do I tell a guy that he should pay more attention to the minutia of his girlfriend's sexual responses? The answer is, I don’t. Instead I tell him an embarrassing fact about myself in an effort to make him feel better. “In the two years we were together, Liza never got off. Not once. I couldn’t get her off. She couldn’t get herself off. It fucking sucked. That’s what being on a shit ton of illegal drugs and antidepressants can do to you.”

“Not even with vibrators and shit?”

“Buddy, we could plug a fucking jackhammer into the wall and it wasn’t going to give that girl an orgasm.”

We contemplated this. Rather, I watched him contemplate it, and I tried to come up with something more helpful to the question that, I was mildly offended that he had the audacity to ask. “I don’t know how you straight people get along. Do you ever just use your fingers? Or is that something that grown people don’t do?”

“Well, you know, not often.”

“All I can suggest is, if you know how to get her off with your fingers, try recreating the same sort of thing with your mouth. It’s all about friction.” This seemed to bring this part of the awkward conversation to an end. When I thought we could move onto sports or something, my friend started up again.

“What about the g-spot?”

“Buddy, unless you have a dick shaped like a candy cane, you’re not finding it with what you’ve got below your waist.” Okay, so these weren't my exact words, but you get my point. I wish I had thought of the candy cane thing. I think we both would have laughed about that. I did make a hook shape with my index finger and told him where the illusive spot should be.

“I hear it’s like a come hither motion,” he says. I suppose he’s right.

“Can she find it?” This is the best question I can think to ask. I mean, seriously. Why don’t people understand that, unless they know what works for them, no one else is going to be able to figure it out either?

This whole line of questioning continued until I finally knew that his girlfriend had three vibrators when my friend met her and that she had names for all of them. “Well does she still use them?” He just looked at me. “Why don’t you guys incorporate whatever works, let her do whatever she needs to and just watch and learn?” Christ almighty. I haven’t had sex once during President Bush’s second term, and I’ve got this guy asking me how to get his girlfriend off.

I thought, why don’t you give old Carrie a crack at it? I’ll take notes and get back to you.

Bruce Springsteen is not the Boss of Me

I have a friend with a lovely and generous mother. This lovely and generous woman invited me to go along with her and her daughter and future son-in-law to see Bruce Springsteen. Though I've never really been into The Boss, I do have one of his albums, The Seeger Sessions, which is amazing and not his music. It is, in fact, Pete Seeger's music hence the name of he album and its ensuing awesomeness. I knew that none of the songs I like would be played at the concert, but I also knew that Bruce Springsteen is a musical icon and anyone who claims to be a music buff should, if given the opportunity, see him in concert just to see what it's all about. This is why I happily accepted the invitation of the lovely and generous woman.

I will say, Bruce Springsteen puts on a hell of a show. I may have only known two full songs and one refrain of "sha la la la, something or other," but the man busts his ass and he still nicely fills out a pair of Levis. And, as a longtime fan of Late Night with Conan O'Brien, it was pretty cool to see Max Motherfucking Weinburg panting and sweating and pounding away behind the drum kit. I've never watched The Sopranos, but Little Steven's, as in the guy who played Silvio, do-rag was a sight to see. The thing I liked most about the concert, though, was the same thing I like most about being out in public in general. The people watching, in general, was top notch. This one man in front of me, specifically, was amazing.

The man in front of me was, I think, a retired marine. I say this because he was wearing a tee shirt that said "jarhead," a jacket with patches all over it, one of which said "combat veteran" and a cowboy hat with some other mariney pins on it. Yeah, I'm sort of like Sherlock Holmes. So, Jarhead was there with either his wife or the woman he's cheating on his wife with (he was wearing a wedding band) and he could not have been more excited about seeing Bruce. As soon as Springsteen took the stage, Jarhead got a major emotional hard-on, and it became pretty apparent that he needed some sort of outlet for this pent-up, Bruce induced (should I say inBruced?) sexual energy. When The Boss sang, Jarhead immediately grabbed his girl and started giving her such an intense back rub that I thought he was going to pop the poor girl's head off like a cork from a champagne bottle. This went on for the first couple songs, then some love song came on, so he stood up and started serenading his lady friend and doing some sort of pantomime that I guess sunk up with the lyrics. My favorite part of the evening was about 3/4 through when the "sha la la la something or other" song came on and he stood up, turned around, and looked me right in the eye, "come on you know this one." I just nodded.

In the end, it was refreshing to see a grown man get that excited about something. I have always had this theory that once a kid stops believing in Santa Clause, there really isn't any magic left to be found in anything. Who would have thought that it would take an ex-marine with a man crush on a New Jersyite to re-instill hope that maybe someday I'll have something to be that excited about too.

From the Road #2

Thursday, March 20, 2008
2:15 p.m.
At the Chalet:

Three stories. Three balconies. Six beds. Eight boys. Looks like snuggle time for Tim and Carrie.

I can’t begin to describe the train wreck that is Pigeon Forge. It’s like a hillbilly extravaganza. Giant arcades. Go-carts. An enormous upside down theater that just does Laser-light-Christian extravaganzas. Easter’s a big weekend for the Bible Belt. Luckily, we’re not staying in Pigeon Forge. It’s just the first stop off the highway. The little redneck strip of land set aside for the lesser-thans. No, we’re in Gatlinburg, the Swiss Alps of North America. You drive down the main strip and right after you drive past Cooters (the Dukes of Hazzard themed attraction) the scenery changes. All the airbrushed tee shirt shops have an outside façade that suggests, we’re part of a luxury ski resort. There’s faux timber everywhere. Everything is the color of evergreens. There are restaurants and bars and wax museums and a Ripley’s Believe it or Not haunted house. It’s everything a southerner with a bit more cheddar in their bank account would want to do in Pigeon Forge’s snobby older cousin.

We got here earlier than we were able to get into our chalet. What are seven thirsty men and one uptight lesbian to do when they can’t get into their vacation paradise? Well, for us the answer was clear. We paid ten dollars to park downtown and spent an hour at the local hangout, Puckers. Inside this wannabe Hooters establishment, there were big bosomed bartenders with dirty blond hair eager to take our drink orders, and more eager still to ascertain which of the men were single. “I’m thirty-two, have been married for fifteen years and have four kids,” said the woman behind the bar. “Can I get you fellas a shot?”

With the help of sweet baby Jesus, the man responsible for all that is good in this part of the country, we were called and notified that our chalet was ready early. We settled our tab with Chesty McGee and made our way to the top of the mountain.

Before I came down here, I was adamant that mama was going to have to periodically come down the mountain. After the harrowing experience of making it up here, I now realize just how foolish this idea had been. To get up here, we crisscrossed the 3500 ft mountain for ten of the most terrifying minutes of my life. We made 270 degree blind turns shitting our pants and praying that no one was headed around the corner in the other direction, because there was no way to do it without wandering five feet over the yellow line. When we made it I announced, “I’m not doing that again until I leave Sunday morning.” Everyone agreed and we came inside. Like an atypically boring reality show, we all picked our rooms. I’ll be sharing the master suite with Tim. To answer your next question, yes, there will be cuddling. There are plenty of nooks and crannies where I can see myself stealing away for all the alone time I could ever want. Like now for example.

I have to say, the view here is one of the most breathtaking I have ever seen. As I sit typing this, I’m sitting on one of the three balconies. To be specific, I’m I on the balcony that is perched right outside Tim’s and my bedroom. I’m listening to the boys on the balcony above me, and not one of them has asked where the fuck I’ve run off to. This is as I like it. I’m sitting across from a frost covered mountain. These ain’t your mama’s foothills, it should but does not say on the brochure.

I’ve had three beers and a shot of Jaeggermeister. I am not even tipsy. I will be drinking plenty of water.

One last thing—there’s an eleven pound brisket sitting in front of our fireplace. I think it’s marinating. I hope it’s marinating. Otherwise I’m confused. Maybe it’s a boy thing.

One more thing. I’m eavesdropping on the boys on the balcony above, and at this bachelor party, the men are talking about childrearing. Their women would be so proud.

From the Road #1

Thursday, March 20, 2008
7:20 a.m.

From a hotel that I’m told both Ted Bundy and Charles Manson stayed at—not at the same time:

Cold. It’s the only word I can really think of to describe my first night on the road with the boys. We initially reserved 3 rooms for 8 people, but once we got to Jellico, TN, most everyone decided that it would be best to just pay the extra fifteen bucks for the extra room so everyone could have a bed. This was fine by me. Collins and I roomed together. I guess this was because we drove together, though that wasn’t my idea. It all worked out though, and it’s probably best he was with me, because it snowed/rained the whole way down, and the visibility was shitty, and I’ve always found that when it’s like that, it’s nice to have a friendly voice chirping alongside me.

I’m pretty sure Collins is radioactive. This might be the real reason he finagled his way into my man-hating lesbian heart. His temperature is always 99.8 degrees. I never really believed him or cared until we were driving and I noticed that all the windows on his side of the car and his half of the windshield were fogged up for the entire five hour trip. It didn’t matter how high I cranked the defrost. In fact, turning it up only made matters worse, because the poor bastard was sweating to the point where steam was rising off him.

Now the unfortunate thing about a girl who’s always cold rooming with radioactive boy is, someone’s going to be miserable. Being the kind and generous person that I am, I told Collins that we could sleep in this icebox of a room (the very room that I’m sitting and typing in now) without turning the heat on. Now, I don’t know if you’re aware, but they don’t wash the comforters in these hotel rooms with any regularity. So, the first thing I do anytime I check into one of these swanky establishments is tear that fucker right off the bed. I don’t even sit on top of the thing. Well, last night it’s Collins sleeping happy as a pig in shit on top of what I’m sure is a very warm sleeping bag and me wrapped up like Nanuk of the North under a measly top sheet and thin-ass blanket. By about 4:00 a.m. my muscles were all tensed up from shivering and trying to conserve what little body heat the Good Lord gave me. The attempt failed and now I feel like I got run over by a truck. In case you’re wondering if I ever actually fell asleep last night, the short answer is no. The long answer is nnnnnoooooooooooo.

I’m told that the last part of our journey entails winding around a mountain for an hour or so, white-knuckelling it the whole way. If radioactive boy and I go over the edge of the mountain, could whoever finds this give it to my mother, and mom, could you make sure Jen T. gets a copy of this?

More later, hopefully.

I Don't Want to Show You Mine

On my first day of kindergarten, Kelly Simms was the girl who showed up dressed like she was competing in a pageant. She wore a powder blue, frilly dress. At recess, I sat on the swing next to her. I think we must have become friends that day, but I don’t remember why or how that could have happened, because, while she was the girl that showed up dressed like she was competing in a pageant, I was the girl who showed up wearing shorts and a tee shirt, and, let’s face it, those aren’t the types of girls that usually become friends. In fact, I remember in the third grade finally telling Kelly Simms that she was the kind of sort of pretty girl who only wanted to be friends with girls who weren’t as pretty as she was, just so she would always look much better by comparison. I guess that made me kind of an odd third grader. I digress.

So, one day, in girl scouts (Girl Scouts?) Kelly Simms comes up to me and pulls her shirt away from her chest and says, “look.” As in, look down my shirt. What was a girl to do? She told me to look, so I did. To this day, it’s one of my biggest regrets. After I looked, she closed her shirt and said, “now you.” Well, I was already quite modest by then, so I did the only logical thing I could do. I ran away. I don’t remember exactly how Kelly Simms retaliated, but I know she wasn’t happy. I believe she may have gone with the old, I showed you mine, so you have to show me yours, defense.

Well, one day, later on in our kindergarten careers, this group of old ladies with puppets came to our classroom to talk to us about “personal space” and how it was never okay for someone else to invade your “personal space.” At the end of the old ladies’ routine, they took some questions from the class. I don’t remember what sorts of questions my classmates asked. All I remember is that I sat there, ready to throw up, convinced that Kelly Simms was going to raise her hand and tell the little old ladies and their puppets that I had molested her that day in the girl scouts (Girl Scouts?). I don’t remember ever being so nervous before or since. Well, that’s a lie. One time since.

When we were in the first grade, Kelly Simms and I were still friends. One day, without any warning at all, the little old ladies showed back up with their puppets. They gave the same routine. I sat there, once again, ready to throw up. I might have sweat profusely, or I might just be making that part up to help increase the dramatic tension of my story. In either case, I was sure I was going to jail. Thankfully though, Kelly Simms did not rat me out, but this didn’t help the guilt, because now I was thinking, are these little old ladies going to put me through this every year? I don’t remember if it was the same day, or a few days, or a few weeks, or a few months later, but eventually my guilt and fear started to erode the productivity of my everyday life.

Here’s where we get to the climax. One afternoon, after school, I said to my mother, “I have to tell you something.” My mother asked what was wrong. I don’t know how long it took me to spit it out. I just remember the two of us sitting on the floor in the hall, and me sobbing, and my mother probably thinking that I’d killed someone, because that really is how hard I was crying. I think I finally choked out, “one. time. at. girl scouts (Girl Scouts?). I. looked. down. Kelly’s. shirt. and. then. I. wouldn’t. let. her. look. down. mine.” It was the hardest thing I ever had to say to someone, ever.

“Well, why in the hell did she want you to look down her shirt?” My mom has always had a great way of making me feel better by pointing out that everything I feel bad about is someone else’s fault. I love that about her.

In case you were wondering, I’ve never been arrested for molesting Kelly Simms. I’m not sure what the statute of limitations is on that sort of thing. I feel like there isn’t one. I feel like, even when I’m seventy, Kelly Simms might still be able to tell on me, and the cops could still arrest me, and I might have to register as a sex offender.

So that’s my Kelly Simms story. Now for a much shorter Kelly Simms’ mom story. This kid, Nathan Yux, had a birthday party at Hardees when we were in the third grade. During this party, Kelly’s mom not-so-casually leaned in and asked me, “Have you started your period yet?” What kind of a question is that? I think, without my knowledge, I must have been in a race to menstruation with her daughter, and she wanted to make sure I hadn’t won. It was at that moment that I decided that maybe Kelly came from an even stranger family than I did.

Number One Reason I Suck at Life

Dear Carrie,

Please stop assuming that no one knows what you're talking about. You are not the queen of trivia and pop culture. Billy Joel, for example, is one of the most popular singer/songwriters of our time, so please do not talk to me like I'm three and spoon feed me thinly veiled references to his songs. I have his Greatest Hits CD too. Also, who hasn't watched, Scooby-Doo? I know who Hanna-Barbera are, and I know what cartoons they were responsible for. What's that, you say? The Flintstones was inspired by The Honeymooners? Gee, I had no idea, because I've spent my life under a rock.

In the future, if I don't understand some not-so-clever little pop culture reference in one of your stupid blogs, I'll ask. Stop treating me like I'm a moron. It's insulting, and it makes you look stupid.

Thanks,

Your Jiminy Cricket-Like Alter-Ego

Friction Down Below

Because Josie called, "bullshit" on me, I'm reposting this.  I wanted nothing to do with it, so I had to reproduce it from memory.  It's a bit beefier this time around.  Pun intended.  I'll get back to the funnier posts soon.  I promise.  Unless, of course, you find my self-loathing funny, in which case, I'd like to dedicate this post to you.

I'm conscious of the swish swish swishing that announces every step I take through the library.  You look up, slightly annoyed that I've broken your concentration.  Embarrassed, I break eye contact and switch to a wider corn-cob-up-the-ass kind of gait.  It's only a matter of time before I rub a whole in the crotch of these jeans too.  I try, for as long as possible, to put off my inevitable trip to Old Navy, worried that this will be the time I discover that I've expanded further than their biggest sizes can contain.  If I'm lucky, I'll be able to buy a couple pairs in colors that I don't particularly like, but that I'm stuck with because they don't bother stocking all the sizes in all the colors.  I'll walk away, like I did on Friday, with a light wash, the likes of which I haven't seen since the early '90s.   

I'm in a German Village State of Mind

For those of you born after 1976, that title's a reference to a Billy Joel classic. Also, in the interest of full disclosure, it should be noted that I've been drinking. Six pints (the American 16 oz. and not the British 20 oz. that is) of New Castle are coursing their way through my bloodstream. What I'm saying is, this is the drunk-dial version of a blog post.

I hate snow. I have always hated snow. I don't hate the situation it puts people in.

Today, I didn't even bother putting underwear on until 6:00 p.m. I had Ramen Noodles for lunch, and couldn't bear the thought of having them for dinner. I was hungry. "Mom, you don't understand. Where I live, the people working in the restaurants live close enough to walk. They will be open, because the people eating and drinking there also live close enough to walk. I will not starve to death." My mother, who lives in a suburb of Dayton, didn't sound convinced.

It took me fifteen minutes to walk two blocks. The snow was up to my knees, and, even though I was wearing my Dr. Martins, I was sliding all over the place. I peered into the Easy Street Cafe and saw dozens of folks drinking and laughing and eating (in that order). Thank God, I thought.

Sometimes people feel sorry for the pathetic single person sitting at a table alone, pretending to read a book. Fuck that. People watching is so much easier when you're by your onesy.

As I sat and read, The Other Paper, Columbus, OH's free newspaper, I saw all the heads in the bar swivel to my left. At the traffic light outside, not one but two trucks were stuck in a 2 foot ridge of slugde. The man in the second truck got out, realizing that he was in a, "we're-in-this-together" situation with truck driver #1. As truck driver #2 pushed the other truck into one of the worn down, icy track marks on the main road I asked, okay, now who's going to help driver #2? The answer was, no one. Ten people, at least, stood up and pressed their hot moist noses up to the window of the bar, just watching and laughing and placing bets as to whether the poor sonofabitch would ever free himself and asking why in the hell he was driving in the first place. I thought, "this is so Seinfeld, I should help." As I thought this, another woman from the bar stepped outside. My thoughts changed. She's kind of cute, I thought. The two of us watched, she from outside in the cold, me from inside holding a newspaper, waiting for the man to rock back and forth, building the momentum to free himself. This failed and I thought, how pissed would I be if that was me and no one was helping? Then I thought, that girl is cute, and she'll think I'm a wonderful example of a human being if I go help. I shot up and walked outside. I looked at cute girl and said, "let's go." It was very, super-hero. The short version of this already too long story is, we unstuck the guy. It took us a few minutes, and I fell twice, and the other woman fell and hit her chin on the last push, but we got him out. We got him out while a bunch of men stood by and watched. Chivalry may not be dead, but it's the women picking up the slack in German Village. I spent the next two hours considering how cheesy it would be for me to buy the mystery good samaritan a drink. I can't lie though, I was also thinking, this was a two woman operation; she should buy me a drink. My point is, we shared a moment.

I'd never met anyone in The Easy Street Cafe, but blizzards have a way of bringing people together. "I live in Reynoldsburg," said the girl next to me at the bar, "but I saw that a storm was coming in, so I drove into German Village last night knowing, at least I'll have a bar to go to." This weather may be a little annoying, but the only inconvenience that derives from it is that people get a little more familiar with their neighbors.

But Would You Walk Across Hot Coals?

I have a rather clear memory of being 3 or 4 and having the woman who ran my preschool informing my parents that I don't eat my vegetables at lunch. Their master plan was, one day at lunch, they would give me I bite's worth of whatever the vegetable was that day. Well, somebody fucked something up, and they gave me one bite's worth of everything. A thimble full of chicken noodle soup, a tiny wedge of bologna sandwich, and one piece of iceburg lettuce with a tiny sliver of carrot on it. I sat at the end of a table by myself and ate my measly lunch. Afterwards, I was submitted to mandatory nap time. I remember laying on my cot with the knowledge that I'd eaten a vegetable at lunch, and I felt stronger, healthier, and like whatever nourishment I'd gained from the situation would be enough to last a lifetime.

My tastes have matured. I like enough vegetables to get by, but to this day, there is a quite long list of things that trigger my gag reflex on contact. Tomatoes, carrots, peas, broccoli, and mushrooms just to name a few.

Consider the last time you were in a large group situation and someone bought pizza without asking anyone what sort of pizza they like. One cheese, one pepperoni, one veggie. This is standard procedure--try to accommodate everyone without offending anyone. Imagine, if you will, the panic that set in during class last night when, out of the goodness of her heart, my professor bought the class pizza, a pizza that screamed, FUCK CONVENTION. A pizza with vegetables all over it. Green peppers, red peppers, onions, and yes friends, MUSHROOMS. This is a woman with chutzpah.

I feel that at a certain age, it becomes inappropriate to sit in a large group and pick individual toppings off your pizza. I'll have to consult Miss Manners to get the exact age, but I'm confident that it's something under 27. Couple this with the fact that I have tremendous respect and admiration for this particular teacher, that I would jump off a bridge if she told me to, and that I would, one day, like to earn her respect in return, and I was fucked two ways. I had no choice. I sat there and I ate the shit out of that pizza, mushrooms and all.

When I got home, I did an http://www.blackle.com search for the health benefits of mushrooms. This is what I found at http://findarticles.com: Researchers find new health benefits for mushrooms: The latest analysis techniques have enabled scientists at a U.S. university to find previously uncharted fibers with advantages for cardiac health in commonly eaten mushrooms. So, the way I see it, I'm good to go for another 24 years, but I still think I would have preferred jumping off that bridge.

Aww. Is Someone Feeling Sorry for Herself?

I've come to this page ten or so times tonight with every intention to write about, I don't know what. It just occurred to me that the title of my blog is "Disconnect." As in a lack of connection; a disparity. Funny seeing as how the reason I write the thing is so that I might feel a connection to something, which brings me back to why I've come to this page ten times tonight. I'm feeling a bit raw. A bit like I'd like to be in the fetal position. A bit like fucking, because, let's face it, isn't that everyone's favorite coping mechanism?

My mother is asleep on my couch. She has an appointment with her neurologist tomorrow. Next to me is a list of things we need to talk to the neurologist about:

1. White outs, because when she wakes up every morning, she can't see for about five minutes
2. Balance, because she's like a walking pinball
3. Cataract surgery, because, if nothing else, at least now she can see what she's stumbling into, unless, of course, it's less than five minutes after she's gotten up
4. Passing out, because apparently she blacked out last night and laid in the middle of the
living room yelling for my sister, who could sleep through a tornado, to come and help her
5. Need to change migraine medicine, because, the one thing we've found in ten years to help
her headaches causes severe breathing problems
6. After a bad migraine, balance issue seems to get worse, because, maybe it isn't just an
expression. What if her head really does explode?
7. Refill Percocet, because if you can't see and you keep falling over, you may as well be high.

"You know, I was thinking, there could be something really wrong with me," my mom said five minutes before she fell asleep. "I was thinking that as I was driving up here."

"Yeah, I was thinking that too," I said. I forgot to say, it's all I think about. Well, that and the fact that I'm graduating in two weeks and I have no money and no job. And how I haven't slept in a month. And, and, and, well, you can see how fucking is better.

Franz Liszt and Other Reasons to be Scared Shitless

I've been trying (and failing) to write an essay about my relationship with my father. The problem I'm finding is, I don't remember much about living with the man. So, for the last couple days, I've done nothing but think about a way into this essay. How does one deal with a relationship that one does not remember? The conclusion I'm starting to come to is, find examples of the parts of my childhood that I do remember that were directly or indirectly influenced by the parts that I don't. It came to me while watching a program about the "thrill rides" at Disney World. When I see anything about Disney World, I automatically think of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. When I think of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, I automatically think about what a huge pussy I am. Mr. Toad's Wild Ride scares the shit out of me. I don't even remember the whole post traumatic stress inducing experience. I only remember a shadowy room with weird looking sculptures and being terrified to the point of tears, praying that it would all end soon. I've had similar experiences with other child-friendly amusement park rides, which brings me back to my father.

I grew up in Dayton, OH. Forty miles south of my hometown there lives an amusement park called, King's Island. Once a year, my family would enjoy a Saturday of fun at the park. Things at King's Island have changed a lot over the last fifteen years or so, but when I was a wee thing, there was a section of King's Island designed especially for kids. This section was called, Hanna -Barbera Land. Hanna-Barbera Land was fucking sweet. All the rides were based on cartoons produced by, who else, Hanna-Barbera. For the under forty crowd, these cartoons include, Yogi Bear, The Jetsons, Huckleberry Hound, the Fintstones, Scooby-doo, and the Smurfs, just to name a few.

It didn't matter what time of day you showed up. The longest line in Hanna-Barbera Land was always for the Smurfs ride. The Smurfs ride was like an acid trip for the 2-12 set. Folks would stand in line for what felt like hours so that they could eventually climb into a taffy colored boat and wind their way through the Smurf's Village. The color's were bright. The anamatronic Smurf's were life-size. The cheery little theme song echoed at a deafening volume off of every lacquered surface. Most importantly, the air conditioning was cranked to the max. For one reason and one reason alone, I wanted nothing to do with it. GARGAMEL.

For the first half of the Smurf's ride, everything is sunshine and daisies. Who doesn't love little blue midgets living in mushroom houses? Well about halfway through the ride, the first movement of Liszt's "Piano Concerto 1 in E flat" starts to mix in with the "laa laa la la la laaas" and this sinking feeling that shit is about to go down starts creeping into your consciousness. As you round a corner, you see him. Twelve feet tall and cackling in a dark room next to a giant boiling cauldron, Gargamel stands with his branchlike arms lifted over his head, fingers spread as if he's either going to reach down and snatch you or break into the world's bitchinest air piano solo. My money was always on the former. Petrified. I was petrified. As in too scared to move. Too scared to breathe.

Every couple years I would convince one of my parents to take me on the Smurf ride again. I would explain how I knew what was going to happen and that I was older and surely not as much of a wuss. The result was always the same no matter how old I was, and until a few years ago, I couldn't understand why. Is it weird that I think Gargamel looks just like my dad? The giant hooked shnaz. The dark hair. The bald spot. The satanic, I-am-fucking-crazy-and-there's-nothing-you-can-do-about-it, look in his eyes. It all makes sense. I know at the end of every episode, the Smurfs got the best of Gargamel, but they didn't have to live with him, and there were dozens of them and only one of me and I wish that ride was still around so I could give it one last shot.