Thursday, November 22, 2007
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
If I was a tree, and rings were days, you couldn't count all my rings. You'd give up at ten thousand one hundred and three because, after all, counting tree rings is boring and don't you have anything better to do?
How did I get here? 32 is old. Why didn't anyone warn me?
have you ever heard the cell phone ringer that sounds like a small child laughing? I was in the produce department at the grocery store and I heard what sounded like a playground, but instead of making me smile, I looked around for the demon who would surely materialize after such a creepy, CREEPY sound. It was terrible and I ask you, who in their right mind thinks that's a good ringer for their cell phone?!
People are weird.
We spent the day with our friends at the Summer Festival yesterday. It was their little girl's 4th birthday so we took a break in the middle of the day to go to Evergreen Park (down behind Pine Street) to have her birthday party. And what we saw there confirmed my belief that South County folk are...speshul folk.
There was a wedding going on. The bride came out of the port-a-john in her white dress, sat down on the sidewalk, yanked up her dress, and slid her garter belt on. It would go no further than her knee. That garterbelt displayed amazing self-preservation skills. She yanked and she tugged and her knee was its limit, so that's where it stayed. I know this because I was standing over by the playground, staring open-mouthed at the spectacle. The bride finally stood up, tugged her dress down and smoothed out the wrinkles over her 8 month pregnant belly. Ahh...to wear white on your wedding day. Wonderful tradition.
The guests were arriving and setting up the chairs. The chairs each guest brought with them. The CAMPING chairs each guest brought with them. Nice.
By this time, I had waved Steven and Tesa over to share the moment with me. We watched in shock and awe as the guests took their (literally, THEIR OWN) seats and the groom backed a 1991 Plymouth Acclaim (I knew what year make and model it was because it still had the dealer stuff painted on the windshield. don't ask me.) up over the curb and onto the grass. What the...? We watched as he parked it not two feet from the guests, got out, opened the trunk, and all the doors...and inserted a tape into the tapedeck. Voila! Wedding music! It was all too too and very very.
That's when I called my sisters to share the moment with THEM. It was like a trainwreck waiting to happen. I couldn't turn away. The (presumed) father of the blushing bride walked her down the aisle, the groom took her hand, the "dude wearing shorts and t-shirt who performing the ceremony" read some stuff from a typed piece of paper, the birds fell dead from the trees and the institution of marriage took a serious blow. The ceremony took all of 1 minute, the bride and groom walked back down the aisle and the groom hurried over to the Acclaim to turn off the wedding march and turn on the "get down & boogie music".
That's when the cops showed up.
While flipping through the channels on late night TV the other night, I saw something that made me stop and stare.
Everybody knows that Cinemax late night features soft core porn. It's what made me sneak down to the living room as a kid to try and catch a glimpse of something naughty. It's the reason my husband stays up past 9:00 p.m. But since the rise of plastic surgery, it's gotten ugly.
What I saw on the TV last night was a woman. She was naked and her abnormally large breasts perched high on her narrow chest. The nipples were lopsided, one pointed down in silent dismay, the other one gazed off to the right in wall-eyed shame.
The skin that held the womans breasts to her torso was taut and, when she moved, it wrinkled unattractively, making the boob look like an orange swinging at the bottom of a sock. Made me want to never eat an orange or wear a sock ever again.
Now, don't get me wrong, I don't mind boob jobs if they're good. The thing that amazes me is that women pay thousands of dollars for this procedure. Personally, I wouldn't pay $3000 for a wrecked car, yet women pay that kind of money to have someone totally destroy their breasts. After surgery, after recovery, after the swelling has gone down and the boobs look the way they're gonna look from then on, you can't tell me these woman stand in front of a mirror, admiring their lopsided nipples and stretched out skin, (skin so tight that a drill sergeant could bounce a quarter off it!), and think, "Hmm. THOSE are nice boobs! I think I'll take my clothes off on Cinemax!" But, obviously, some of those women do think it, because I see them on there all the time.
The thing about a boob job is that when it's a good one, it's impossible to tell it's a boob job at all. And the bad ones just leave me wondering what will happen when that bra unsnaps like a slingshot, unable to take the torque for one more second. Those lopsided nipples could take someone's eye out and that, boys and girls, is a tragedy you just don't want to have to explain to your mother.
The question is why? Why would anyone do that to their boobs? Sure real boobs droop, sure they sag, but they're soft and fun to play with, comforting and pillowy. Who wants to lay their head on their partner's chest, only to find their head is resting on two rock-hard, sand-filled beach balls? Not comfortable, nosiree.
My brother swears fake boobs are just boobs the way they were meant to look. Wrong. If fake boobs were the way boobs were meant to look, we'd all have wall-eyed nipples and dangerous torque in our bras. For my husband's safety, I'll pass. I like his eyes just the way they are.
There's something to be said for bad things happening to you. Bad things sometimes lead to good things…sometimes even great things. Corn Flakes were an accident, as were Post-It Notes and Silly Putty. In the beginning they were mistakes, but in the end they were good things.
Now, I'm not a religious person, but I do believe in a greater power, something bigger than all of us, guiding us along the spokes of our journey, teaching us cosmic lessons and leading us all toward our individual purpose. My life is a prime example of this universal wheel.
The past 18 months have been an incredible journey for me. I went from complete nervous breakdown to healed and happy in that relatively short period of time. 18 months ago I was emotionally wrecked, barely able to face a single day, afraid of leaving the house, unable to bear seeing a single familiar face. Time crawled and I was adrift. My husband helped me through it, with his truly amazing, completely unconditional love. He helped me find my way and he made sure I knew things would get better. And after some time, they did.
I went back to work after a five month break. It was time I needed to get a grip, on life, on my emotions, on myself. But at the end of five months, my healing was almost done and I was ready to move on. I shifted career fields and applied for a State job; my old field was someplace I didn't ever want to be again.
The very first day at my new job, I met someone who would change my whole life. She would become my very best, closest, and most wonderful friend. She would help me to know myself better and to accept myself more. She was the missing piece in the jigsaw puzzle of my life. Her name is Tesa.
We hit it off so quickly and so completely that I'm still amazed at just how well we fit. Within a few months, we were good friends. Today, we can hardly make a move without each other. It's such a wonderful feeling.
The time I spent in such darkness now seems so far away. When I found Tesa, the memory of all that pain began to drift away, like dandelion puffs on the wind. I've never known anyone like her. She's the friend I wish I'd had with me on my wedding day, when I had my kids, during every important moment of my life. It's like I've been waiting for her, like my entire life's journey was really just a slow and inevitable drawing of me to her.
She's an amazing person, so kind and beautiful and funny and smart and compassionate...well, I could go on and on. I lived for 31 years before her and now it's impossible to imagine life without her. She's my best friend.
Bad stuff happens. That's just life. But every turn I've taken, bad turns, good turns, terrible turns and every daily turn led me to her. And that is most definitely a good thing.
So, I heard from the one person who actually reads this blog about my last posting. He didn't actually use words but instead made noises like "ack" and "gag". I guess he doesn't find that sort of thing interesting, you know, good friendships and serious depression. Maybe if I'd interjected my heartfelt emotions with some dirty talk he'd find it more (blowjob) interesting. Maybe if I'd used more slang, he'd find it more (doggy style) interesting. But then again, maybe not, because he's a man and men…are complete idiots. No, wait! I have proof!
My husband flops around on the couch all day every Sunday and laments the long grass on our front lawn. Does he actually get his skinny butt up and go mow it? No. He just keeps on flopping until he's worn himself out and needs to take a nap.
Men love the "Rocky" movies and yet won't watch "Brokeback Mountain". Do men not realize that there's more homoerotic imagery in "Rocky" than in the tent scene in "Brokeback"? There's the "Rocky and Apollo frolic in the surf. In silky short shorts. And knee socks" scene in "Rocky III". There's the way Rocky eyeballs Captain Ivan Drago's sculptured physique in "Rocky IV". You can practically see his shorts twitching.
A man can be made to do anything if his stomach or penis tells him to. If man could have sex with pot roast, men would have no need for women at all...except to cook the pot roast. A bachelor may say he doesn't need a woman, but bachelors are simply untrained husbands. Give a bachelor a woman with a nice rack and a tasty pot roast, and he's completely whipped. Two years after the wedding, he's sitting on a rose-chintz patterned couch, putting his glass of lemon ice water on a coaster, and watching "Seventh Heaven" re-runs on the Hallmark Channel. The penis is the reason Sir Paul McCartney's about to pay $275 million to his estranged wife. She said "No pre-nup", he said, "Ok ok, whatever you say. Can you put on that red leather harness again?"
Don't get me wrong. Men aren't completely useless - who else is gonna change the lightbulb on the front porch? But smart? Well, just ask Sir Paul how smart a man is. He'll tell you, as he weeps over his checkbook, "Not very."
Imagine. Your 7 year old firmly believes in the tooth fairy and has no doubt that the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus play rounds of golf together on the off-season. He loses his tooth and places it under his pillow. He wakes up the next morning and flips his pillow over with much anticipation only to find...his tooth is still there. So you tell him the tooth fairy must be on vacation and to try again the next night. He does. He wakes up the next morning and flips his pillow over with even greater anticipation, only to find...his tooth is still there. At that point, he bursts into tears and gives an anguished cry, "Did I do something bad?"
And all I can say in my own defense is…whoops. What kind of MONSTER am I?! I just forgot! I had a sinus headache so I took some Sudafed and passed out! Do you think I should tell the heart-sick 7 year old that the tooth fairy had a sinus headache and couldn't make it? Somehow I don't think he'd believe it. He's truly disturbed by this unbelievable tragedy. A tragedy that I created. HOW COULD I LET THIS HAPPEN?
Famine, drought, war - at this moment, they all pale in comparison to this very very terrible thing that has happened in my own house. OH THE HUMANITY!
Sigh. WHERE did I put that darned parenting handbook? Oh. I forgot. THEY DIDN'T F*CKING GIVE ME ONE!
I asked her. She says that song's on some show called "Laguna Beach". I looked it up. It's reality TV. So that makes it TWICE as not ok.
Journey. Ahh, Steve Perry. "Oh Sherry". It takes me back…to makin' out until my spit was gone and my lips were chapped…to sneaking out the back door and running down a dark, midnight street to meet the 8th grade boys who somehow got their hands on some beer…to spending whole afternoons in front of the mirror wondering when my boobs would get bigger (the answer, as it turns out, was: after kids. After breast-feeding, those boobs got bigger. Then they got longer.)
And Steve Perry. What a fox. But was it my imagination or did he have a potato shoved down the front of his Levis? Or else his penis was rolled up like a tube sock. Either way, a man with a camel toe – mmm, what a turn-on, right?
Anyway, back to the point. My niece. She's singing this song and I feel…betrayed. Did Journey sell out the soundtrack of my formative years to a reality TV show to make a few bucks? How dare they?! This is an unacceptable betrayal. At this point, I think my niece may be making out with boys…and listening to the same songs to which I made out with her uncle. That's just sick and wrong.
I am not happy about this. I want to find Steve Perry and cram that potato right up his cramhole. Most of all, I want my niece to go back to listening to songs I can't stand by bands I've never heard of and leave my memories alone.