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Archive for November, 2006

 
|| November 20, 2006 || 12:36 am || Comments (0) ||

flip sides of the same coin

Last night:

I left the restaurant teeny and grubby and full of good food and interesting people of all dimensions. In other words, just like I found it. Just like I found it last time and will find it one more again.

Four of us were ringing the table, and there was laughter and shenanigans of the low-key variety. It was noticeable nonetheless, I suppose: I kept looking up, around the room –as is my habit– and a guy two tables over managed to meet my gaze every single time.

He was probably five years my junior, two inches shorter with close-cropped hair and sporting sideburns. Nice build, attractive. There are italics on that attractive because while he was decent-looking, there was that something that struck like flint and stone when our eyes hit across one another’s: He had the kind of green eyes that are soft in hue but loud in application.

We finished our meal, hugged out our goodbyes, all smiles and goodpal warmth, and took leave of one another. The night was just cold enough, just late enough to crisp up all the details and lend a sharpness to things that made me feel dialed up about two notches higher than usual.

I got into my car and dialed, “Yeah, we’re just leaving. I’m on my way.” Then I started the engine, flicking on the heat and turning on an interior light. I used the precious little of it to eyeball my out-thrust jaw in the rearview and carefully applied a shiny black cherry to my lips. As I looked away from my mirror and snapped the lipstick case shut, I looked through the windshield. Sandwiched between it and the plate glass window of the restaurant was the night air drenched in mercury-vapor glow. On the other side of the window glass, Green Eyes was fixed on me and for the span of an impossibly eternal three seconds, we locked looks and it was treacherous in there, in that moment.

There was no wanton lust. There was a snap-hiss of an altogether different kind, one that happens to me on occasion. I used to know what to do with it, which was To Act. Increasingly these days, it makes me unsettled somewhere in the depths that are nobody’s real business. I looked at him levelly, broke cleanly, threw my lipstick in my purse and backed the car out.

“Bye, nice boy. There was something about this encounter.”

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

This afternoon:

We have a dollar store here in town that is just so *pleasant* to go to. It’s not the typical dollar store: It’s clean, well-lit, spacious, good upkeep. Sometimes you can find some really great crap there. Bonus, for a dollar per item! We went there today, meandering up one aisle and down the next. Maxim browses slow on days like today, and I was all keyed up. The music…I don’t know who programs it for them, but they do a fabulous job of it. It was spot-on today and I couldn’t help but move about to it (who can stand still in the face of Stevie Wonder’s magic, I ask you??).

At one point, I was walking directly behind Maxim and, hooking a finger into a belt loop, swung around to his front side. Looking up at him, I said with a smile, “I wish you were the kind of boy who broke out into dancing in the middle of the dollar store aisle, because I am the kind of girl who does that sort of thing and it’s fun with a partner.”

My brain checked me hard: ‘You ass.

“It’s okay, though. I like you the way you are; I’ll dance enough for both of us.”

As we are wont to do, an aisle or two got between us and I began to people-watch and browse simultaneously. There were a broad mix of specimens available, and that was nice. A couple of times I noticed a man, maybe five years my junior (again?), who was mentally retarded. He was high-functioning, obviously, and I surreptitiously watched him with a measure of pleasure, as he was Taking Great Delight In This Day. Apropos for the Sabbath, no?

He was drinking everything up, enjoying everything with a purity and a freshness that made him very incredible to behold. I made my way around the store and every few minutes would find me and this man five or so feet away from one another. He began to look at me curiously, a curiosity mixed with an engaging and wonderfully nice smile, and once I smiled back broadly, which only widened his own smile exponentially.

I hate the human race, but boy do I love to connect with it.

As Maxim and Mathias were checking out, I was looking at some cheap jars; I tend to buy these up and stuff them with baked goods during the holidays. It’s about time for me to pick some up. The man once again showed up, touching merchandise, somehow gleefully involving himself with it. He looked up, there I was, one more surprise, and I swear there was an expectant look on his face.

I did what I am sometimes led inexplicably to do: I listened to a pull inside of me and jumped on the moment. I smiled a no-teeth smile to match his, put the jar I was examing back on the shelf, closed the small range of distance between us and hugged him. He was ready and hugged back. When I pulled away, I said, “Okay!” and he said, “Thank you.” and that was that. We were both warmed. I met my family at the doors of the place.

“Bye, nice boy. There was something about this encounter.”

 
|| November 19, 2006 || 1:03 am || Comments (3) ||

Thank you for visiting, Toilet Paper Fairy!

So, last weekend Piper broke up with her (large, ungainly, hillbilly, not-good-enough-for-her) boyfriend. There were things like an ex-girlfriend and a MySpace page and yelling into voicemailboxes involved. There was also –as you might imagine– lots and lots of hormone-saturated drama and sly mockery and the occasional tearful breakdown.

I don’t know about elsewhere, but Here In The South we have a youthful rite of passage known as ‘Rolling Yards’ (or ‘Yardrolling‘, natch). It’s great fun, it’s pretty cheap entertainment, it’s a dang nuisance but harmless in an overall sense, and it teaches all-important skills including, but not limited to:

+ stealth
+ teamwork
+ keeping your damn mouth shut when necessary
+ don’t be an asshole
+ kamikaze guerilla tactics
+ hand-eye coordination
+ artistic abandon
+ unmitigated glee
+ throwing caution to the wind
+ loyalty
+ physical prowess/fitness
+ peaceful protest
+ timing

See, a bunch of kids head on up to the local shoppy emporium and procure as much toilet paper as their collective earnings power will allow. It comes in handy to have a rich-kid friend, because then you can buy a couple of cases of the stuff and really do things up right. If said children are carless or licenseless, then a parent will accompany to serve as rein-puller and getaway driver. You head out to the intended’s place of abode and get as much toilet paper up, around and over as many stationary things in their yard as possible. If you are lucky, a light misting rain will come along just after you’ve mummied up the yard and really make a gloppy mess of things. Hell, I’ve only just now thought of it, but if you were really aggressive, motivated and bold, you could turn the victim’s own garden hose on the scene and trump Mother Nature altogether. Spiffy!

The intended victim is carefully chosen: It could be that someone is just, for all intents and purposes, a complete assface. It could be that so-and-so never gets ‘got’, so it’s about time. It could be that someone has slighted you in some way. It was the latter that motivated Piper, Scout (sisterly loyalty, you know), Cassandra (friend o’ Piper) and Meg (friend o’ Scout) to trot on over to the home of Piper’s newly-acquired ex and decorate the great outdoors of their yard last weekend.

Alas, in her hotheaded and foolish way, Piper totally discounted the freshness of the situation and this was to her detriment. Of course the doofus knew it was her, as did his mother. The calls started pretty early on in the day.

Now let me interject here that one of the cardinal rules of Rolling Yards is to never confirm and never deny. A simple “I dunno what you’re talking about, maaaan.” should suffice. Yes, technically it is a lie, but it is a lie delivered in the face of war, which is (for those of you that have yet to realize it) technically Strategy. ‘Strategy’ is a big and important barrel-chested word, not at all like ‘lie’, which is ugly and snivelling and small. You dig?

Of course Piper, She Of The Aforementioned Hot Head, couldna stand for one minute not giving up the ship (just cos you stand on the bow and look pretty and defiant, honey, don’t mean that sucker’s not sinking). She is too, too bold, this one. No matter how many times she pays for it, she refuses to surrender even an inch of that boldness to A Better Cause. Bless her heart, she will learn and learn roughly.

When Boy Genius got the confirmation that Piper was for sure the offending party, he informed her that his mother was piii-iiissssed; to her way of thinking, Piper and Cassandra should come over and help clean up (the younger girls were spared by their older counterparts and not sold down the river for a dirty nickel, I am so proud of the fealty here) the mess. Piper retorted, “OH YEAH? I’LL COME OVER IF MY MOMMA SAYS I CAN. YOU CALL HER AND SEE, BUT DON’T HOLD YOUR BREATH.”

Which, of course, was dumb. She should have merely proffered up a simple, “Suck it, stupey,” and rocked on with her day. Hot, hard head, remember?

So that boy tried to call me at home. Not getting an answer there, he tried my cell. I was out to dinner with Maxim, Scout and one of Scouty’s friends when the call came in; seeing that it was him, I killed the call. He tried again. Again I killed it. Then the dumb little sonofabitch called Maxim’s phone, who dropped his mild-mannered demeanor immediately upon hearing the stupidity that had motivated the boy’s dialfinger.

Maxim said, to whit, “Everybody gets their yard rolled on occasion. Stop being such a puss and get out there and clean your momma’s property up. My daughter won’t be coming anywhere near your house ever again.” Hooray! and, We Love Maxim!

Welp, this was all Saturday night/Sunday afternoon. Can you guess what transpired Sunday night?

Thank you for visiting, Toilet Paper Fairy!
:: My street is pretttttty. ::

WE GOT GOT.
:: This was AFTER a significant portion of the toilet paper had been cleaned off of the yard. ::

Piper was pissed. Unreasonably so, I’d say. But now she knows that timing is key: “Screw this,” she said while picking up the mess after school, “next time I’ll just wait six dadgum months and go flatten each and every tire on that stupid butthole’s truck.

“I’ll be so nice in the meantime that he’ll never even dreaaaaam it was me.”

Atta girl. You make mommy proud.

 
|| November 18, 2006 || 1:31 am || Comments (0) ||

AAAAnnnd goodnight, Gracie!

It is haaaaaard to light a mess of candles with one of those torch lighters.

I don’t suppose all that booze has anything to do with it at all.

 
|| November 17, 2006 || 4:01 pm || Comments (2) ||

Precipice? Oh yeah.

Slept till seven. Actually six forty-eight. Got up and did three things: pee, drink a bottle of water, scrounged up some tax forms for Maxim.

Pretty pissed about being up so damned early on a fortunate Friday off, I went back to bed. Fitful sleep until nine. Also, guilty conscience: “Things to doooooo!” This would have been a day I’d've chosen for noonsleeping if not for that voice. Begrudgingly got up, rattled through the house; not happy, not sad. Drank hot lemonade, as my immune system refuses to get on board with my demands for its return to rights.

Did stuff. Drank more water. Did more stuff. Tess called. We made quasi-plans for a meal (comprised mostly of drinks) for Later On. Put on gym clothes, put hair in pigtails, shouldered gym bag, exited house.

Post office. There’s one clerk who is one of those people I enjoy seeing immensely. She is cute even in the shapeless post office uniform. The rest of those post office bitches can suck a dick. DICK, DICK, DICK. I don’t know why I take such immense delight in swearing; I just do.

Gymmmm, locker my bag, sunglasses and keys. Forgot lifting gloves, bottle of water and emmpeethree player are in bag. Am a little arsed by having to re-open the locker and forage for these things

(I love how the tenses in this narrative are all over the fucking map)

but get over it quickly. Set musicks up, thread myself with earbuds, stuff player and gloves into kangaroo pocket on hoody (Dear Jimmy’Z Surf Company, I heart your sportswear, thank you and amen), proceed outside to the big bank of windows where I always seat my water and stretch, strettttttch, stretch ten miles of leg ten ways to Sunday. Nothing quite so overwhelmingly satisfying as a good stretch –much less ten or twelve of vigorous ones– you know?

Select music: I am usually prone to Go Hard At It tunes while I’m working out, but today my soul says to me, “Easy; eaaaaasy, girl.” So no techno, no punk, no hardcore, no thunka-thunka of hard guitar and no aggressive vocals. No pumping backbeat or jangly bassline.

Walk five feet, decide not to fuck around, run. You are immediately all up in my head, expanding, unfolding, permeating, pushing, your brain blending into mine and why oh why can’t I mark the absolute delineation point where I stop and you begin? Runrunrunruuuuuun.

About the time I started hitting my stride, –you know, the place where you are not your body and click-click-click, the machine hums along, propelling you to chemically-induced-organically-produced freedom– my heart cracked in two, I stumbled a little, and the tears spilled out over my startled face: What just happened? They came out hot, but the day sends them cold down my windchilled cheeks. My brain registers the name of the song pushing past the membranes in my ears, ‘Please Do Not Let Me Go‘. Oh good, there is a bank of bushes, I let them envelop me. Seated behind them, elbows on knees, forearms a bridge for my forehead, I wept bitterly. The horrible and beautful red clay of this place is cold and soft-frozen and ultimately ends up cradling my cheek.

I picked myself up, forced myself forward, and for the next ninety minutes pushed every part of myself so hard that my face flamed the brightest of reds, my breath remained ragged as a constant and my jaggedy bangs stuck forlornly to my forehead and the sides of my face. Upon leaving, I was a skin-encased sack of deadweight as I climbed into my car, ravenous, tired, lightheaded.

But I had forgotten you (enough, anyway) for that hour-and-a-half.

My phone rang as I sat there in the seat. It was my mother, who said in her gorgeous voice, “Hi there, baby,” when I picked up. “Hi, momma,” I said back and fell into a sobbing mess.

I can’t wait until tomorrow, when I can again forget the missing of you is this difficult. Some days are just harder to get around it than others.

 
|| November 16, 2006 || 2:10 pm || Comments (0) ||

*gush!*

Tess, coming out of the Valley Of The Shadow Of The Eight-Day Migraine, was extremely exuberant yesterday. This was in the face of my croupy suffering, so I intended to come here and address her directly, as she lurks on occasion. To her, I was going to say something along the lines of,

Tessa My Love,

I HATE YOU. IN YOUR GUTS. HATE.

Love and no boobie touches for you,

Jett.

However, she redeemed herself late yesterday afternoon by saying, “OMFG, BBQ, SHUUUT UUUUP, do I have a surprise for you!” At this juncture she proceeded to play the custom ringtone she’s assigned to me on her phone: It was the theme song to ‘Sanford and Son‘. It is the tune that she sings to me in the gym locker room every morning after we work out, as we are getting into the shower (noooo, not together, sillies). She does this to torture me, because she knows my spastic mind will glom onto it and play the clip, ad nauseum, in a back-of-my-brain loop all fucking day.

You can clearly see why I would love such a person. It is nice, after waiting and praying so patiently for a (n estrogen-loaded) person of quality to enter my life, to have A Best Girl to call my very own and interact with on a daily basis.

Tessa Rae, I love you, you marvelous bitch.

 
|| November 15, 2006 || 1:52 pm || Comments (2) ||

“Because You Brought It Up”

I want to be the girl whose letters get saved in a shoebox for the grandchildren to discover…

No ships have to be launched in my name, but to inspire an epic poem* or two would be nice…even if they are only written down and recited in still, quiet rooms.

As it is, I am glad enough to be the girl who can stand on the sidewalk at the post office, day (deliciously) drear and misty, face (surprisingly) serene. The girl whose hoods (shirt. car.) are up, untangling the jumper cables and is gifted with three Very Kind Offers of assistance. I am glad enough, and flattered that a man making good on the offer of said assistance would stand in a two-inch puddle of water in his (pretty obviously) expensive Italian leather shoes. Those shoes prolly cost, even low-end, more than my week’s salary.

Ruined and helpful: What a terrifically nice juxtaposition.

The letters, mailed. The cough, disconcertingly deeper. The soul, sings so far beyond outward that it is startling even to me. I want to be ‘the girl’, but I am enough for even this.

*the asterisk is to remind me, not you that not all poems are comprised of words.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

I’ve been here for hours / Cutting in on every dance / I stand in every corner /
Painting red for everything.

I look to you / I’ll take anything you’ve got / And fill every waking thought / I walk with you / You come everywhere I go / Playin’ on my air stereo.

I’ll trade my arms for yours / A perfect waltz around the room / I can leave myself, or break it / On everything that once was yours.

I look to you / I’ll take anything you’ve got / And fill every vacant thought / I walk with you / You come everywhere I go / Playing on my air stereo.

I look to you / I’ll take anything you’ve got / And fill every vacant thought / I walk with you / You come everywhere I go

Playing on my air stereo.

Playing on my air stereo.

Playing on my air stereo.

Playing on my air stereo.

Playing on my air stereo.

// The Damnwells, “Air Stereo”

This is what they call ‘interacting with your readership’. Erm.

I’m thinking about killing my eMusic membership. Matter of fact, I really do believe I’m gonna quit the thing. I have forty downloads left and about a week to soak them up.

Here’s where you come in: Go meander around that site, see if they have something you’re familiar with and/or passionate about. If so, drop me your recommendations in the commentses. I’ll use up my last forty by adding the music that you yayhoos are fond of to my collection. Deal? Deal.

Don’t fuck around. I take my music very seriously. Except for when I don’t.

You know.

(This whole thing was prompted by someone sending me some Regina Spektor today. Why oh holy why haven’t I ever heard of this broad before? Why are you people letting such goodness fly under my radar? WHERE ARE YOUR HEADS AT??)

Still very sick. Getting pretty doggone pissed about it. Fillyum at eleven.