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Archive for August, 2007

“Leave me scattered like leaves by winds that never blew”

This evening I did something I haven’t done since somewhere in the midst of junior high, I’m sure of it: I upended a can of whipped cream and sprayed it straight into my mouth, unashamed. It hadn’t been sullied by pie or mussed up with ice cream; there was just the whipped cream, impossibly light and barely sweet in my mouth. Only air on a precise springtime morning tastes that good. I suppose it was fortunate that there was only about an eighth of a can left. It hissed and popped and died, that can did, thankfully enough.

Or maybe that’s just the Rolling Rock talking, boys.

I passed her room the first time this evening without preparing myself for it beforehand. Realization startled me after a nasty, sick fashion. she’s not there, she’s not there, oh godddd, she’s just not in there is what my brain was blubbering, seating it squarely front and center, drowning out the rest of the customary noise that stomps around every nook up there.

‘Missed My Chance’ by Griffin House is pushing slow and easy out of this machine, but I swear it has a machete behind its back.

And the sands have now fallen to the evening of my afternoon / I was always so ready to stay and always leaving too soon / And I don’t want to think about it now, but I do / And my spirit is restless, ’cause I know it’s true / I missed my chance with you

Piper is beautiful.

Piper is gone. It ended rather poorly. I think I am numb just yet.

|| August 30, 2007 || 5:53 pm || Comments (1) ||


Sometimes I want my fairy godmother to be Boba Fett.

If Boba Fett was my fairy godmother, then I could ride shotgun and we could Fuck Shit Up.

‘Sea of Love’ (Plant version) is on the radio right now at the office (yesohyesIamSTILLHERE, but only just because I have no desire whatsoever to go home today). It is making me both stabby and wanting to fall slap apart all at once.

|| August 29, 2007 || 3:08 pm || Comments (1) ||

the shutterfly effect

Does everyone remember Dario? He was the Italian man who, some eight years ago, was homesick for family and friends and hometown. In light of this fact, he wrote his bests a letter proposing that they meet at a specific location eight years later.

Well, he and I have corresponded a little bit, and the last thing he sent was this:

“You can’t imagine how proud we are knowing that the story of our meeting went all around the world! I saw that you linked to my blog… I’m not writing a lot on it, unfortunately… I think I can express much better myself through the photos…

“Thank you again!


“P.S. I sent the link of your blog to all the guys who came to the dinner and someone said “we should meet in USA next times!” It will be on the 15th May 2015!” ;-)


|| August 23, 2007 || 10:07 pm || Comments (3) ||


Everytime I think one of you* might be beginning to believe I’m somewhat normal, a Fully Jett Moment occurs and I’m able to holler, “SEE? THE CRAYZAAAAY is like, sucked in toward me. I am a tractor beam for insanity.” One of those times happened last night while I was on the phone with THE VERY MANLY AND CAPABLE Wretchedee.

I’m not here to talk about that right now, though. I’ll tell you that little ditty laters on, because in retrospect it is highly comical to me. What I’m here to tell you right now is somewhat loosely related to the crayzaaaay but actually emanates from me.

Usually I’m not one of those girls who goes all a big emotional maelstrom during my period. However, tonight I am prone to mild hysterics and hot, wanton tears. I am also inclined to stack up about fifteen Little Debbie cakes and have a go at seeing exactly how wide I can stretch my mouth in pursuit of cramming that whole stack in at once.

Ah, ambition.

You will be relieved to know that I am chewing on my fist instead.

*where ‘one of you’=one of the people that have made some realtime contact with me. sorry, I don’t mean to be exclusionary, it just sometimes works out that way.

|| August 22, 2007 || 10:59 am || Comments (6) ||

because j00 are needing to know

Right now, in this office, there is a spirited discussion going on about anorgasmia.

Oh, sweet and terrific Muffinasses, how I wish you could be here in this moment. Some things just defy explanation.

|| August 21, 2007 || 10:39 pm || Comments (2) ||

Just another yarn.

So yeah, when I was very, very tiny I asked my mother for dance lessons. She didn’t immediately acquiesce, which could surprise me if I viewed the matter in a particular light. I mean, here was an opportunity to pull me out of the sandbox, out of the tree, out of The Land Of Boys And Ripped, Dirty Dresses. The opportunity to set me in the midst of other female creatures, where I would stay fairly clean and (likely) not get into a fistfight. As a parent now myself, though, I completely understand: You can’t run about indulging a child’s every whim. That would be a phenomenal waste of time, resources and effort. A kid’s gotta want something for a couple of minutes so that it will be savory to him when he finally gets to indulge.

No matter how much my mother wanted to see me in unbesmirched powder pink and precise bun, she had to hold herself in reserve to see how dead-set I was on having this latest idea come to fruition.

I didn’t nag her, but I kept mentioning it every few weeks until she took me seriously enough to haul my ass on downtown, up three flights of stairs and into the walkup studio of Miss Maytelle, which overlooked the stately Catholic Church and –beyond it– the Mississippi River. Damn near every sentimental thing I’ve ever experienced has the Old Man as its backdrop.

I spent two evenings per week in that studio over the course of the next couple of years. There is a lot to remember about that time, I’m sure, but the most pressing and moving of them is captured cleanly; it rests bright and calm on my gallery wall of memories, there among a great busy clutter of childhood moments.

I remember the way the light flicked golden and dim from those great broad windows. It made the floors and our shoes and our legs positively glow; dust motes became glittering air-jewelry that hopped and danced along with us.

There was tap and then there was ballet. I was all for the tap lessons, but beyond being a bit of a showoff about my limber tendencies, the ballet bored me. Just before the two-year mark, ballet slippers stuffed into the pockets of my woolen coat and tap shoes adorning my hands, I climbed into my mother’s Mustang and said evenly, “I don’t want to take these lessons anymore.” and that was that. Mother withdrew me and earnest pleas for a piano of my own began gathering steam.

I guess I got bored. I’m not really sure. All I know is that one day I had visions of tapping across a stage, prodigy-like, with Sammy Davis, Jr. and the next I was all, “Meh, I’m over it I reckon.”

Tonight I saw a (OF ALL THE THINGS!) Burger King commercial, and in it were all these ballerinas in green satin pointe shoes. I couldn’t stop looking at those shoes! Then, up out of nowhere, a voice spoke loudly and matter-of-factly in my head.

“I never would’ve quit Miss Maytelle had I known about GREEN SATIN POINTE SHOES.”

|| August 20, 2007 || 10:27 pm || Comments (0) ||

“You seem shaken, and I haven’t even hit ya yet.”

or, “Happy Birthday there, Bigtime.”

Sometimes, despite the fact that I’m a grown-ass woman, I burn my forehead with the curling iron. I get distracted. I go too fast, whatever.

Sometimes, despite the fact that I’ve had twenty-some-odd years of cleavage (and thus should know how to avoid it, as it’s always been in the same spot), I still drop food down there.

Sometimes, despite the fact that I’ve shut Way Back When Ago behind A Very Specific door, you take another foolish run at trying to barge through it. I don’t mean to conjure you up; whoopsies, it just happens.

You know, lately there are all those songs, appearing out of nowhere, each one searingly spot-on in its way, in its application, in its specificity with regard to voice and –God help me– the given moment. Like this one playing, which just so happens to be your Birthday Song this year. Lordy, you didn’t think I’d forget, did you? My drivers license expiration is your birthday and for some reason in the asshole universe I can’t get it switched to two days earlier or four days later.

Such insignificant things in one context become huge when Circumstance shifts even the tiniest bit in its seat.

Your birthday song? The one playing? How many of those things did you say to me and how many more might you have had I not been yelling no with everything I had but whispering it gently so that I wouldn’t bludgeon you with it? Your birthday song, one of the surviving traditions, because I told you I’d always mark this day:

“Well I know I make you cry

And I know sometimes you wanna die

But do you really feel alive without me?

If so, be free

If not, leave him for me

Before one of us has accidental babies

For we are in love.”

I’ll leave you with a quote from what is pretty much my favorite show as of late:

“Oh my GOD, you’re a PATHOLOGICAL narcissist!

“Goodnight; don’t decapitate any prostitutes soon.”