Monthly Archives: September 2008

an eloquent way of explaining things

Boy and I visited with a friend this weekend on the peninsula.  And he nonchalantly threw out the word “perineum” in conversation. (No, really, I don’t recall what we were talking about.  But it’s boy, he easily throws these words in without a second glance from the casual listener.)  I heard him use it and my automatic response is to whisper to myself “perineum, not perennial, not perennial, they’re separate things” and then I inevitably use the word perineum in relation to this lovely ficus I bought at the nursery last week.  Our friend asked “what’s perineum?”  And I looked at boy wide-eyed, not sure how to explain this one without coming across like a crass potty-mouthed trashy girl.  And without a pause in cadence he threw out this definition:

“You know that strip of land between your dirty bits and your naughty bits?  Perineum.”

And wouldn’t you guess that the way he balanced the situation, bringing up the word and then backing it up with such an eloquent definition, that’s why I find him attractive.

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something’s wrong with people

I read this on Wandering Bella‘s blog.  So I’m forwarding it on.  Because for those of you who have met Jack or read about Jack and know how important he is to me, you’ll understand why these guys need to be saved.

Go here – http://www.igpr.org/ – make a donation.

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Imagining Death

The topic came up in the car tonight.  But it’s not the first time we discussed this.  With boy being 11 years older than me, we’ve discussed who might die first.  I think he will.  Because he’s old.  He says I will.  Because I stress out too much. 

And in the car he mentioned my death, and I cut him off to correct him.  “My death will be spectacularly dramatic.”  I went on to describe it as a car wreck, while on my way to the hospital where I work.  Hit by some driver that has no respect for life or humanity. 

Boy looked over to me and said “you’re joking, right?” 

“No, there will probably be a lot of blood.”

“Because I’m writing a story and in it that is exactly how you die.”

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an introduction

I’ve talked about my sister a lot here and to most people I talk to in real life.  We’re very much alike, more so as we get older.  This is my favorite picture because it shows our personalities:

That’s Lauren on the left, me on the right, and mom in the middle.

She finally started a blog.  And it’s weird to read about her life and realize that I’m sitting here struggling with issues and she just states what they are without all this wondering and I read it thinking oooh, that’s what it is I’m feeling.

Anyway, world, meet Lauren: Twin Times

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a “dry run” he calls it

About five or six years ago, boy came up to Saratoga Springs for my college graduation.  I was always ecstatic to have him come visit and on top of that, I had family coming as well.  It was the first time in my 4 years that my family had come to see where I was going to school.  It was a big weekend for me and boy knew it.

We were clowning around in my apartment on the evening before my family arrived when he pushed me down on the bed and pulled a ring box out of his pocket.  Just for some background, I was 21, we had been dating for all of 2 years, and I had NO idea where I was going to live after graduation.  He, on the other hand, was 33 and working a really bad retail job in Pensacola.  So what did I do?  I wouldn’t take the box.  He held it out for me to take.  I shook my head then stuck my hand out and pushed the box away from me and said “no.”

Okay, now here’s the lame part.  Or not so lame.  It was a pair of diamond earrings.  Yes, very sweet.  BUT WHO DOES THAT?!  It looks like a ring box so WHAT DID YOU THINK I WOULD THINK IT WAS?!  It was funny at the time, but boy was so discouraged after that experience he often used it as the reason he would never propose.  Because I would do the same thing again.  Obviously, right?

Fine.  Whatever.

You know that episode of The Office where Jim fake proposes to Pam?  Here it is.  I’ll give you a second to watch it:

While walking Jack on a very unseasonably gloomy evening, boy and I passed under an archway of trees that covered part of the sidewalk.  He turned around sharply, and did EXACTLY what Jim did.

I stood there, waited for him to tie his shoe, and let him stand up.

Then I slugged him.

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the black-bottom cupcake incident

I hate sharing food.  When I eat, I’m hungry and I usually intend to finish everything on my plate.  Really, I don’t like to share anything.

Why?

The black bottom cupcake.

One night several years ago (more like 4) boy and I spent the evening walking around Rockridge.  We bought some desserts from that little pastry shop by Peabody’s before driving back to the Creek where, at the time, we lived together.  I sat on the floor leaning against the couch and he was sitting on the couch and we watched TV in the dark eating our desserts.  I offered him some of my cupcake before I finished it.  And when he gave it back to me, all the cream cheese was GONE.  He stripped the cupcake of the best part, the part I was saving for last, because it was the BEST PART!

In his defense, he thought I was offering him the rest because I didn’t want any more… (as if I’d ever not finish a cupcake?)

And I entered into one of those completely unjustified rages that had me throwing a temper tantrum and him offering to drive all the way back to buy me a cupcake and I narrowed my eyes and sharply said, “no. but you owe me.”

And since then, he cannot pick food off my plate.  Ever.  And when I divide desserts in half, if there is a slight size difference, I get the bigger piece.  And if he looks away, damn straight I’m going for that raspberry in chocolate sauce on his plate.  But if I see his fork near my honey chocolate crepe, he will be reminded of the cupcake.  The one where he took the best part, and left me the crumbs.

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Blank Stare

I’m really good at the blank stare.  My pre-school class photo has me cocking my head to the side with my jaw slightly dropped doing the same blank stare I still do today.  Lately I’ve been walking around with this look plastered on my face.

Ever have a conversation with someone and no one was around to witness it, and then you walk away thinking am I crazy or was there something way fucked up that just went on there.  And then you try and recount it to someone else and it’s nearly impossible because the only thing you can say is “I have no idea what just happened.”

This happens every time I talk to one person.  And I’m starting to think I’m a little crazy.  Don’t get me wrong, this happens quite often with strangers.  Like how I talk to Jack while we’re walking and the person in front of me thinks I’m talking to him.  So I pass the person and say “oh no, just talking to my dog,” and I walk away with the scene from Dirty Dancing flashing through my mind where she says “I carried a watermelon…?”  But it’s not like I’m trying to have a worthwhile conversation with a stranger, so who cares.

But sometimes I want to have a worthwhile conversation with someone.  And this past time, it was like trying to slap a brick wall in an attempt to get it to say “ouch” and guess who’s the only one walking away saying ouch?

So here’s my little lesson from that experience.  Don’t walk up to a brick wall and think it will shake hands with you.  It won’t.  And then don’t try and beat it up.  It doesn’t care.  But if you walk around it, you might find a friend standing there on the other side.  And then you won’t have to look like an idiot staring blankly at a brick wall.

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i’m sitting here smoking a cigarette

I just finished Love in the Time of Cholera.  And if Gabriel Marquez treats his women like he does his words, he can have his way with me any time.

Don’t read the rest if you actually want to read the book.  Though I suspect I am the last person to have read this.

All last week I was reading this on the BART, slowing down, occasionally closing the book, looking up, hesitant to continue.  I was depressed.  Anxious.  About the book and about real life.  I was convinced that what would happen in the book would mimic what I believe is true in life – reality kills love.  Love is wonderful, but only an ideal that has no place in reality. 

This afternoon, I decided to take the time to finish the book.  I sat in a chair with a cup of coffee on a quiet Sunday and read.  And when I finished, I turned around to boy and Jack who were sitting silently on the couch, and with teary eyes I said “it’s so beautiful!”

Something about the end is post-orgasmic.  I know, that’s not something people want to hear from me.  But without the climax.  There’s never any climax.  Just the end; a satisfying end. 

When she grabs for his hand and he wasn’t prepared?  And the line “they made the tranquil, wholesome love of experienced grandparents”…  It makes me fear age a little less.  Makes me appreciate my grandparents’ love a little more.  Even if each character smells of old age, like a “fermenting body”.  It’s still love. 

And all day I’ve been thinking to myself I wonder if I missed something.  Did they die at some point and I missed it?  Was the river a metaphor for death?  Did I mention that in my women’s lit class in college I read right through a rape scene and hadn’t a clue that it was supposed to be a rape scene?  Anyway, I’m convinced I missed something.  But I refuse to go back, because I don’t want to be wrong.  I don’t claim to know much about love.  But I am not convinced that once you fall out of love that it’s possible to fall back in love.  I know that the next time I do fall back in love, I will hold on to it until my finger nails fall off and bleed.  And there was that moment Fermina Daza fell out of love.  And I empathize with her on that.  She has a short temper in response to things that should be flattering.  She puts on airs.  I relate to this woman so much.  And it takes up until the end of her life to let her guard fall on love.  I don’t know, there’s something very tragic there.

And did you notice with all the love letters Florentino Ariza writes, there’s not a single love letter in the book?  Do you know how much this makes me crave an old fashioned love letter? 

Anyway, now I have to stick to magazines and chemistry and physics books for a while.  There’s no way I can pick up another book without it disappointing me because it can’t compare.  But that’s just because I’m post-orgasmic.

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this is when i sit in the corner. alone. and pout.

The other evening I dropped a compact of pressed powder on the bathroom floor.  (I don’t use pressed powder.  My make-up routine is all of 2 products – Boots No. 7 true identity foundationand a good pair of tweezers for these oddly curly eyebrows.  I use the compact mirror to pluck the unruly brows.)  But when that compact hit the floor and ivory powder spread in clumps impossible to pick up before smushing into the tile grout, I was on the verge of frustrated tears.

Then I was putting clothes away and slammed my funny bone into the door frame that sent my nerve endings a nice jolt.  Frustration.  Hate the world.  Tears.

I didn’t get into any labs this semester.  This will prevent me from moving any further until Spring of 2010 (mind you, I’m going to do as much as I can despite this and despite course pre-requisites, eff pre-requisites I say.)  Frustration.  Hate the world.  Now I’m just pissed off.

And Jack?  He has a new trick that involves him being able to pee on his own head when he’s scared.  (For the record, I love my retarded dog.)

It has been a solid 2-3 weeks of me being very pissed off when I get off of work and have to go home.  And it’s draining.  And today – I cried in the BART station.  I know, it’s a big fat pity party.  Barely a few tears, but that’s enough to turn my whole face red and keep the girl in the stupid red beret staring at me.  (Right?  I was totally staring back because, seriously, a red beret?)  But thoughts and doubts started racing, and I can only hope this is because I am ovulating BIG time, but my eyes welled up and before I realized crap I’m in a public place I was trying to let a tear run over my finger so it wouldn’t streak my face. 

So there.  I’m stuck in a pity party.  And when I come out, hopefully I will have prettier things to say.  Because nothing beats a blog post where I appreciate the world a little bit more after having written about a great day.

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My second favorite line from Grabriel Marquez

Yes, I’m still reading Love in the Time of Cholera.  Yes, I am a slow reader.  But reading this is similar to how I eat figs.  I usually take a bite out of the bottom to see the inside, then I shove it up in boy’s face and say “see!  see how pretty figs are?!  how can you not like them!”  And then I pick out the meat seed by seed with my front teeth enjoying every bit. 

This line is a close second for my favorite from this book.  (My first is back over here.)

I adore you because you made me a whore.

See!  See how awesome that line is!  I am putting that one in my pocket to use on the right guy at the right time and it will blow his mind away.  And then I will turn around, toss my hair back over my shoulder, and walk away knowing all the while he is looking at my ass and that it is an ass worthy of being looked at.  That’s the kind of empowerment this line gives me.

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