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.