Dear email inboxes,
I'm back after a 19 day absence from the land of lollipops, video games, and frequent naptimes! At heart (or at a tangled mass of grey* matter in my noggin), I am a hopeless addict with many vices. Fortunately, I also have the attention span of a 9 year old without ADHD meds, so my addictions don't last long because I forget about them. Two negatives do make a positive! Cue Wyclef Jean.
In my last post some 19 days ago, I promised something funny. And unlike the politicos you see on the tele, I do deliver on my promises, if somewhat vastly late. With much ado:
(If you don't know what raincoats are, please ask your little brother or any adolescent male for that matter)
(overshare alert)
So my friend, who overshares quite frequently (which I am never guilty of!**), told me a few weeks ago about her raincoat buying experience. Apparently in downtown Houston, prophylactics belong in Gore's lockbox along with the nicotine supplements, razor blades, OTC antacids (the fancy PPI ones), and diabetes kits. Being that it was nighttime literally and in the economic proverbial sense (I'm still out of work, btw), the establishment only had a person working the front register with a throng of people in line trying to get things not usually meant to assist in getting one's 'swerve on.'
My friend fully intended to get those raincoats that night because it was going to rain very soon, and she didn't want to get caught unawares. So after waiting several minutes in line she stepped up to the counter to semi-discreetly mention that she needed the raincoats which were lockboxed. The clerk, swamped with customers, paged the manager who promptly showed up more than several minutes later 'after finishing a solitaire game' as managers are apt to do when no one is making sure they're working.
In the manner of one intending to protect someone's privacy while inevitably revealing an embarrassing fact, the clerk informed the manager of 'assistance in aisle 8' with a sheepish grin/frown.
So after more than a half hour affair, my friend finally left with her 12 or 24-pack of raincoats in assorted pigments and/or flavors.
'Ha, I have no shame!'
--
I, on the other hand, have lots of unhealthy Catholic guilt in buying prophylactics. I remember the traumatizing experience buying the damn things for the first time. I casually entered the OTC section of the store, pretending to look at some antacids (I did need Pepcid for my Asian flush) while truly surveying the dizzying array of colorful water balloons (some 'ribbed for pleasure') with my peripheral vision. After making sure everyone had vacated the area, I quickly turned my sights on my mark, walked confidently but a bit hurriedly to the area, and picked the moderately sized pack (12) of the brand name I knew (the one with the Greek helmet, though the story behind the name doesn't exactly inspire confidence: after the horse gets into the fortress, all the seamen evacuate to pillage the town).
With the merchandise in possession, I extended my fingers to obscure the face of the product. I walked to the front of the store, wondering if I had aroused the attention of the shrink cop with my furtive movements. Of the 5 open lines, I went to the shortest one with the guy who would be least likely to make any comment; the 2 with the pretty girls were absolutely out of the question--I felt that would have been like shooting Bambi's mother for some reason.
When it was my turn, I placed the product slightly more than halfway up the conveyor belt, so that it wouldn't take too long to reach the checker. I heard the total and handed a $20, with only a brief glance at the dude's face which was thankfully expressionless. Taking my change, I wrapped my purchase tightly in an upsettingly translucent plastic bag. I walked out feeling the same guilt as if I had stolen the thing(s).
I made a promise then and there ('Never again!') which I soon recanted after I made use of the merchandise ('But this is way too much fun!').
Nowadays, I do feel a slight bit of shame but there are stores with a self-checkout line. And I make sure those lines are open and sparsely populated before I make my purchase.
--
A random memory: Some girls in high school had asked a male teacher about the sinfulness of prophylactics (the school was like 90% Catholic because it was 90% Hispanic). He responded, 'If you're going to do wrong, do it right.' Then he smiled in a way that male teachers weren't supposed to smile at underage girls. He was an English teacher, and we had just read Bless Me Ultima, which was the first time I had ever seen the F-bomb in a legit novel.
And a random thought: I wonder if Mama has ever found my stash. I know she knows what they are, because I unfortunately stumbled upon her cache while searching for the TV remote. I think she follows the U.S. military's stance: don't ask, don't tell. And we all know the results of that program are simply fabulous.
--
*one of my friends (a dude) and I have agreed that the proper and English way of spelling 'grey' is with an 'e'. 'Gray' is drab and boring and has a thudding sound when you say it. 'Grey' on the other hand, has a delightful ring and reminds me of the hue of certain pants women wear which makes me swoon.
**What is a blog without oversharing?
Monday, May 24
Wednesday, May 12
Tender is the 2am Insomnia
Dear the not-forgotten,
A few of my friends had very nicely reminded me of my absence from my blog. So this is for you. My excuse this time is that I didn't want to distract my schoolmates from their studies. Hope you all passed with flying colors, or at least C's for "continue."
The nighttime is when I have my deepest thoughts. It is also unfortunately when I go to sleep, so I lose (or return) those thoughts to my subconscious. If there was a woman who would listen to my nonsense and play it back to me in the morning and make me sound really smart and froody, I'd marry her this instant! But I should think such an angel would be driven mad after a short while. I might just learn to use the recorder function on my phone, and it would likely be much cheaper than buying a shiny bauble.
Tonight (or this morning) I'm reflecting on the tumult of emotions during the past fortnight (and considering how to bring back the word 'fortnight'). And I'm realizing that such heady reflections are best done without the backdrop of South Park on the CW at 1:30AM. Though some television is art, even high art at times, syndicated reruns of pre-pubescent bathroom humor probably doesn't make the cut. And that's not an insult of South Park; it's just a statement of general truthiness.
One of the few good things about Twitter is that it limits your narcissism to 140 characters or less, so even Ashton et al are forced to curb their self-enthusiasm (though I don't see why you can't just serialize your tweets, but I have a feeling multiple tweets in rapid succession would somehow violate Twitter etiquette if there happens to be one). I am thankfully not bounded by such artificial caps though I probably should be, considering the length of some of my posts.
And tonight there's a jumble of things in my mind I need to straighten out. There are some good ideas, some random ones, some stupid ones, some funny ones, and even some romantic ones. And by romantic, I don't mean the stuff that leads to the horizontal tango.
So here's something 'romantic' I'll put out there, which hopefully won't cause me to lose too many man cards:
Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald is rapidly becoming one of my favorite novels. At times my homophobia flares when I think about how a dead man can move my emotions so much through clever placements of words. It's sickening how good the prose is. Sure, Jane Eyre made me tear up a little (-1 man card), but Bronte was like one of those really good one-pitch pitchers: elicit sadness, elicit joy, and repeat with increasing levels of absurdity* (think about the overall plot of Jane Eyre and tell me that isn't as contrived as Days of our Lives).
And as I think I might have written previously, I enjoy books which I can relate to (and thus, I'm writing my memoirs because I think many people can relate to my story). The more the story resonates with my own, the more it enthralls me into submission. And I am completely under Mr. Fitzgerald's mercy in a romantic but hopefully not a horizontal-tango kind of way; I am in love with Fitzgerald as the male characters are in love with Dr. Diver (who is a dude) in the novel.
My favorite paragraph thus far:
The truth was that for some months he had been going through that partitioning of the things of youth wherein it is decided whether or not to die for what one no longer believes. In the dead white hours in Zurich staring into a stranger's pantry across the upshine of a street-lamp, he used to think that he wanted to be good, he wanted to be kind, he wanted to be brave and wise, but it was all pretty difficult. He wanted to be loved, too, if he could fit it in.
That describes my last few weeks perfectly: figuring out what is truly important in my life, the clarification of wants vs needs, whether or not my values are my own or have been borrowed from others, the nature of love and if I am capable of it, and the realization that I will fall short of my grandiose expectations of myself. But I shouldn't ruin perfection with my further commentary, so I'll leave it at that.
I'll try to be humorous the next few posts, but no promises. Please excuse my nonsense--it's late and I haven't found the one who will make me sound good. I'm taking applications for the position, but the job pays very poorly (and may come with a prenupt unless the applicant makes more than me of course).
--
*not used in a derogatory sense
A few of my friends had very nicely reminded me of my absence from my blog. So this is for you. My excuse this time is that I didn't want to distract my schoolmates from their studies. Hope you all passed with flying colors, or at least C's for "continue."
The nighttime is when I have my deepest thoughts. It is also unfortunately when I go to sleep, so I lose (or return) those thoughts to my subconscious. If there was a woman who would listen to my nonsense and play it back to me in the morning and make me sound really smart and froody, I'd marry her this instant! But I should think such an angel would be driven mad after a short while. I might just learn to use the recorder function on my phone, and it would likely be much cheaper than buying a shiny bauble.
Tonight (or this morning) I'm reflecting on the tumult of emotions during the past fortnight (and considering how to bring back the word 'fortnight'). And I'm realizing that such heady reflections are best done without the backdrop of South Park on the CW at 1:30AM. Though some television is art, even high art at times, syndicated reruns of pre-pubescent bathroom humor probably doesn't make the cut. And that's not an insult of South Park; it's just a statement of general truthiness.
One of the few good things about Twitter is that it limits your narcissism to 140 characters or less, so even Ashton et al are forced to curb their self-enthusiasm (though I don't see why you can't just serialize your tweets, but I have a feeling multiple tweets in rapid succession would somehow violate Twitter etiquette if there happens to be one). I am thankfully not bounded by such artificial caps though I probably should be, considering the length of some of my posts.
And tonight there's a jumble of things in my mind I need to straighten out. There are some good ideas, some random ones, some stupid ones, some funny ones, and even some romantic ones. And by romantic, I don't mean the stuff that leads to the horizontal tango.
So here's something 'romantic' I'll put out there, which hopefully won't cause me to lose too many man cards:
Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald is rapidly becoming one of my favorite novels. At times my homophobia flares when I think about how a dead man can move my emotions so much through clever placements of words. It's sickening how good the prose is. Sure, Jane Eyre made me tear up a little (-1 man card), but Bronte was like one of those really good one-pitch pitchers: elicit sadness, elicit joy, and repeat with increasing levels of absurdity* (think about the overall plot of Jane Eyre and tell me that isn't as contrived as Days of our Lives).
And as I think I might have written previously, I enjoy books which I can relate to (and thus, I'm writing my memoirs because I think many people can relate to my story). The more the story resonates with my own, the more it enthralls me into submission. And I am completely under Mr. Fitzgerald's mercy in a romantic but hopefully not a horizontal-tango kind of way; I am in love with Fitzgerald as the male characters are in love with Dr. Diver (who is a dude) in the novel.
My favorite paragraph thus far:
The truth was that for some months he had been going through that partitioning of the things of youth wherein it is decided whether or not to die for what one no longer believes. In the dead white hours in Zurich staring into a stranger's pantry across the upshine of a street-lamp, he used to think that he wanted to be good, he wanted to be kind, he wanted to be brave and wise, but it was all pretty difficult. He wanted to be loved, too, if he could fit it in.
That describes my last few weeks perfectly: figuring out what is truly important in my life, the clarification of wants vs needs, whether or not my values are my own or have been borrowed from others, the nature of love and if I am capable of it, and the realization that I will fall short of my grandiose expectations of myself. But I shouldn't ruin perfection with my further commentary, so I'll leave it at that.
I'll try to be humorous the next few posts, but no promises. Please excuse my nonsense--it's late and I haven't found the one who will make me sound good. I'm taking applications for the position, but the job pays very poorly (and may come with a prenupt unless the applicant makes more than me of course).
--
*not used in a derogatory sense
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