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Monday, May 31, 2004

Well, the trip to the beach never happened. It turns out my mother needs open-heart surgery with in the next couple of weeks, and I was waiting for a phone call to let me know when it was scheduled so I could get a ticket to come up to see her.

You know, I'm only 35, and I've lost my father already, and I'm not ready to lose my mother, too. My parents had me late in life; I was truly an surprise to them -- a good one, I hope. What I've been thinking about lately is I've been wondering if all of those couples who are waiting so long to have children, or even using fertility drugs to make a pregnancy take place in what are usually the menopause years, have thought about leaving their children parent-less at a much younger age. Sure, shit can happen at any age, but the chances of having your parents die while you are still young are much greater if they're older to begin with. And I'm not feeling sorry for myself here, I'm just a little scared of the prospect of being parental-less at 35. I feel like we still have so much to share with one another and I still have a lot to learn from them.

I also attended a funeral on Sunday which, I'm sure, helped the carefree feeling I've had all weekend. Just kidding. I mean, despite the funeral and my mom's health, I've had a great weekend hanging around with friends, watching movies -- In America (too fucking treacly), Barbershop, Kill Bill Vol. I (so much fun)-- swimming in the lake with my dogs, walking, reading -- Mother Goddam and A Cook's Tour.

Speaking of A Cook's Tour, I just love Anthony Bourdain. He's the one I blogged about before in reference to his book Kitchen Confidential. He's crude, talented, pissy, and fun. He's also a realist. Yes, he cooks $100-a-plate entrees at Les Halles is NYC. Yes, he spent his summers in France, eating all of the miraculous food the South of France has to offer, but he's not a food snob. He's a foodie, just like I am. I love this excerpt. It sums up my feelings about great meals exactly:

"Of course, I knew already that the best meal in the world, the perfect meal, is rarely the most sophisticated or expensive one. Context and memory play powerful roles in all the truly great meals in one's life. I mean, let's face it: When you're eating simple barbecue under a palm tree, and you feel the sand between your toes, samba music is playing softly in the background, waves are lapping at the shore a few yards off, and looking across the table, past the column of empty Red Stripes, at the dreamy expression on you're companion's face, you realize that in half an hour you're probably going to be having sex on clean white hotel sheets, that grilled chicken leg suddenly tastes a lot better."

Wednesday, May 26, 2004

Woo Fuckin' Hoo Life Can Be So Damn Sweet

I can't believe the number of good things that are happening in my life right now. Here are a few examples:

1) Aaron and has graduated school! You have no idea how hard marriage is until you're married and one of you works full-time and goes to school full-time. We actually had to set up a 'date night' to ensure that we'd even be able to spend time with one another. He also started his new job today. It's not great, but it's a start, and a start is what you need to break into IT. I am so proud of my husband. It was a long and rough two years, but he handled it so well. Much better than I did, and certainly much better than I would have if I were in his shoes.

2) My painting business is actually starting to gain some interest. I'm designing my business cards as we speak, but I just need to come up with a name for the company. I may just use my name. I'll post one as soon as they're finished. I also have my next job lined up, and it's a big one.

3) A friend has a daughter who's autistic. My friend called me tonight and asked if I would be willing to take a special course in the most advanced treatment for autism called ABA. We aren't all that close and she really wasn't sure why, but something told her to call me and ask me to take the course with her. What she didn't know is, that while I'd love to get paid to do something arty and prestigious, like be an interior decorator or personal stylist or curate a funky art museum, what my true heart's desire turns out to be is working with mentally challenged children. I have always been extremely comfortable with them, and I love to interact with them. She will pay the thousands of dollars it costs to work with the counselor to become trained. I will then be a 'therapist' of ABA' and can help other parents using the ABA method to help their autistic children. There is nothing like getting paid for what you love to do, especially when the training is free.

4) I'm leaving for the beach tomorrow. I'll check you out on Monday.


Tuesday, May 25, 2004

A's Ride is Bonafide Slammin', Y'all

My car is the coolest. Yes, I know it's a Saturn, but it's gotten me from here to PA on a single tank of gas. Plus, it's equipped with something called 'Invisibility Factor,' an extra that most other cars don't seem to have.

See, every time I drive at least 10 people (only a minor exaggeration) end up pulling out in front of me. They all seem to do one of three things: Pull out in front of me and drive 20 miles an hour under the speed limit; pull out in front of me and cause me to slam on my brakes; or they pull out in front of me, causing me to slam on my brakes, and then immediately make a turn at the next block, with or without a turn signal, effectively making me slam on my brakes again. I have concluded that this phenomenon is caused by the Invisibility Factor being turned on; hence, they can't see me coming. It's the only reasonable excuse I can find.

At first, I thought my hubby and I were the only people who noticed the Invisibility Factor, but when my sister was in town last month, she wanted to know what the fuck was up with all the the crazy-ass motherfuckers pulling out in front of me (she's a Yankee). So, I then understood others could experience it as well.

Since I can't seem to locate the mechanism, and since my Saturn dealer doesn't seem to know either, if anyone has any idea where the Invisibility Factor switch is located on a Saturn SL1 circa 1999, please email me ASAP, as the situation is becoming increasingly dangerous.

Monday, May 24, 2004

Straight Men

While painting at my hairstylist's house today, Todd, his lover/partner, said the most brilliant thing. Todd said one of the best truisms ever about straight men just as their new, French, antique bed was being delivered, and one of the men rested the slats against the wall of the guest room, a room I had just finished painting less than a week ago. Todd said, "Straight men have no sense." Jeff and I stood in wondrous agreement.

Don't get us wrong. We love straight men, a whole bunch of them. We love their masculinity, strength, bug-killing ability, chivalry, scents (straight men do have scents, just not sense), physiques, hands and various naughty bits and their functions, but their seeming inability to function with common sense astounds us.

We understood the fact that the delivery man didn't know the room had just been painted, but one should never, regardless of the paint's age, place any object up against a painted surface that may scratch or damage it in anyway. One should just gently place it on the floor. See, Common Sense.

Last night a person very close to me, who would kill me if I divulged his name, summed up this lack of common sense in varied ways, but most particularly in this conversation which occurred after I defrosted our fridge in our laundry room, a room with no air conditioning or heating, and was putting everything back into it:

Him: Why didn't you put the light bulb back in?

Me: I couldn't find where you'd put it.

Him: Maybe we should just leave it out. That would keep it cooler in there.

Me: Er, the light goes out when you shut the door. (Insert hysterical laughing here.)

Him: Um, yeah, well, I knew that.

This is a man who graduated at the top of his class in school and had Harvard knocking on his door to attend. The sad fact is, though, he's straight. Poor man. It's no wonder straight women and gay men treat you all only as mere sex objects.

Friday, May 21, 2004

Moe's Toes

Just a quick one today because I have to go paint my hairstylist's kitchen. It is sort of stressful painting this man's house, as it is IMMACULATE, like most uptight gay man's houses are. It is also beautiful and expensive, hence the nervousness. I am not the type to spill paint, but I guarantee that if I am ever going to spill an entire can of paint it will be in this man's home.

I know I've just about killed the "searches that brought people to my site"-type thing, but they've just been too damn good this morning to let them pass.

Here they are:

"Hillbilly tickling"

"Burns from dry humping" -- Now, that's some serious dry humping action if you have to treat the burns afterwards. Maybe he was dry humping the carpet.

"The 3 Stooges tickling each other's feet" -- Ugh! Can you imagine what their feet look like, esp. Moe's?

"Flogging monkey"

"Stranger wanking free watch" -- Is he a wanking stranger looking for a free watch? Imagine if you got a free watch each time. Some of you could open up your own watch outlet in a week. 'Big Ed's Watch Emporium' would make a great name. I can see the commercials now.

Thursday, May 20, 2004

My Jaw Hurts Just Thinking About It

What are Yuppies called in this day and age? I know they have some new moniker, but as I am not up on the latest acronyms, I don't know what it is.

Anyway, the other day, I was in a crowded room full of people, doing what I usually like to do in a space like that, I was people watching. I saw this one person and thought about how she seemed to me, from her dress and job, a Yuppie-want-to-be. She can't possibly be a full blown one because she literally has the most annoying Southern accent I've ever heard, and a real Yuppie would have paid to get rid of that shit long ago. She also thinks that low-fat pimento cheese sandwich is the best meal a person can eat, which put the last nail in her yuppie-wannabe coffin.

When the word Yuppie was new and I was young(er), I couldn't stand them. I saw films like Wall Street and realized just how shallow, cut-throat and appearance-oriented they are. I never thought I'd be here today about to actually give them credit for changing my world for the better and to thank them, but here I am.

I would like to personally thank all members of yuppiedom for introducing decent cuisine, foreign and domestic, to this country and making it widely available. There are items in our regular grocery stores which, before the yuppies came along, one never could have found, such as: Goat's milk cheese, along with a tremendous variety of other domestic and imported cheeses; sundried tomatoes; pasta other than spaghetti and macaroni; imported olives; grape leaves; fennel bulb; fresh herbs; heirloom tomatoes; cherimoya, star, prickly pear, and sapote fruits; cilantro; decent wine and beer; langoustines; ground buffalo; baklava and many other desserts; organic fruits, veggies, eggs and meats; remoulade in a jar; different types of teas; gourmet ice cream; gourmet coffee, and many many more. They typically love good, fresh food and, because of that, it's now available without a trip to some foreign market, specialty shop, or through mailorder.

Speaking of coffee, I believe they are solely responsible for the proliferation of a decent coffee shop on just about every corner, too. You all know how much I love the stuff.

I was thinking of ways to thank them as a group, which turned out to be difficult. What do I have to offer those people? I mean, I could give each and every one of them a blow job, but I still wouldn't be able to get enough of them thanked. The only thing I'd get was my stomach pumped and TMJ surgery. And that wouldn't help anyone.

Wednesday, May 19, 2004

I Just Gotta Be Me

I did some big thinking about this blog while I was sick, away, and painting. Well, I wasn't sick, away, and painting all at the same time, understand, but I'm guessing you're smart enough to get my drift. Hmmmm. Maybe I'm not a very good guesser.

Anyway, back to my big thinking. It has dawned on me that I am not true to who I am or what I actually think when I write this damn thing. That's gotta change. I think I was trying to 'fit in' some how by trying to be intelligent sometimes, and creative, pretentious, curmudgeonly, droll, witty, arty and sane other times. Don't get me wrong -- I am intelligent, creative, curmudgeonly, droll, witty and arty off and on (and don't forget cute. Damn, I'm cute.) and perhaps, even on an occasion or two, pretentious and maybe even slightly sane, but I still found that I wasn't tending to use my own voice most of the time.

I believe I was trying not to offend anyone, to fit in, as I mentioned earlier (with whom, I'm not so sure), and I was trying to get comments and get linked to. After I wrote the fable about the Birthday Hug Monkey, a story which gave me more than a handful of giggles, if I do say so myself, and no one commented (other than Tom in an email) or linked to it, I realized that I was just as satisfied with that post because it made me so damn happy.

Well, honesty is the best policy. Firstly, it hurt my feelings, then it made me a bit angry, then I decided that I was really happy with it regardless of what others thought. Life is too fucking short for me live to trying to please others. I am not going to look to get my happiness, self-respect or props from others anymore. I mean, I don't do that in real life for the most part, so why the hell should I do it on here?

So, from right here and right now until the demise of Way Down In The Hole, I will write what pleases me and only me. Like it or lump it.

Oh, and be warned: I am not going to clean up my language anymore. If you are offended by foul language and my ability to curse like a sailor who just got an unbelievably twisty purple nurple -- fuck off.

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

I'm Pissed Off At David Bowie, Yes I Am.

Okay, I know it's been a while but, in addition to my regular job, I've been painting someone's house (interior) everyday I have off. As a matter of fact, I am starting up my own painting business, specializing in all-natural, homemade, milk-based paints, although I can and do do the regular kind of cancer-in-can painting, too. The person's house I'm currently working on is my hairstylist's. It's really cool because no cash will change hands -- we are bartering my painting expertise in exchange for some free hair cuts and some awesome antiques for which he no longer has room.

I just got back from PA and the Bowie show. We had awesome seats at a small (7,000-seat) arena in Hershey. We were so damn close that I can tell you a few things: He has a better body now than he ever did; there was no reason to airbrush his pictures so much in the current Tommy Hilfiger ads because his skin still looks good, and he lies about his height, like most short men -- he's only about 5'8" and he says he's 5'11" or some shit. He's still dramatic to watch and slightly effeminate, which I find a turn-on, and he's still got the best live voice in the business I've ever heard. He even had a decent opening band, The Stereophonics, who, from what I understand, are just HUGE in Europe.

Okay. Now comes the bad part. It's so bad I almost cried. Really, I did. The main reason I wanted to see this tour was that I had read so many interviews and accounts of the shows to know that he's singing at least three songs per show off my favorite Bowie album, Low, and he's singing my two favorite songs of all time, Be My Wife and Life On Mars. None of those things happened. I don't know if he took a look at the overweight, smarmily-dressed-in-the-Eighties-style, Middle-PA rednecks and just decided that he'd be better off singing fucking Let's Dance and Modern Love and Shit, but that's what he did. I couldn't believe it. Yes, he sang a few from Hunky Dory and a few from Ziggy Stardust and some from Young Americans, etc., but he didn't sing any of the five I specifically came to see. AND he only did one stupid encore. Disappointment doesn't even begin to describe it. Heartbreak is more like it, I think. Oh, well, at least I didn't pay for the tickets.

Congratulations to Michael and Christine, by the way. I had no idea the guys could clean up so well, either. I was going to attend as Tom's "date," but my love for David blew my love for Tom right out of the water. I learned a harsh, cruel lesson, kids.

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