Geez Louise

At this very moment I'm winding down from my evening, preparing my sweet little head for slumber.  I'm a wee bit wound up because tonight I attended my ten year high school reunion.  I had been hit upside the head with a migraine this morning (it's about my second one ever - they are TERRIBLE) and every fiber of my being wanted to save 30 bucks and just stay in.  Alas, as I've never been very trusting of my inner voices I decided to make the 5 mile trek to downtown Modesto and brave the social elements.  Within moments of walking in the door I wanted to leave... my healthy self-talk dwindled to a murmur, then a mumble, then a merest hint of whisper until I simply couldn't hear it.  All those grandiose ideas of my having lived life well (see two posts below) were not only irrelevant, they seemed hopelessly naive and idealistic.  As a wise man once said, hopes and dreams might get you out of bed in the morning, but they don't keep you warm at night, and they sure as the devil don't pay the rent.  Nevermind the fact that I overheat while I sleep and my rent's pretty cheap (thank you Cathy), hopes and dreams also don't buy you street cred when you're called upon to validate your last decade of existence.

Here's the kicker - I saw some people that I really enjoy, made some promises to keep in touch (some of which I intend to fulfill), and even refrained from making a fool of myself... but at one point I walked away to respond to a text message and as I stood there alone, I looked around and realized that my life - in whatever form it takes - is independent from these things.  My friends, whom I love and by whom I am loved - they weren't there with me...  I had a profound sense of freedom, knowing I could walk away and go be with people that fit in my life.  And so I left.  I took in my surroundings and, in that moment, cut my ties with the past in order to grab onto the present and hope for the future.  And I left, albeit without my 30 bucks - but at this moment I think that what I lost in cash money, I gained in wisdom.

Here's hoping, sports fans... until next time...

The Starbucks Quandary

If I meet a man and he's gay, and married and then I try to seduce him to "turn" him... is it adultery?  Good people, I'm just aksin'. 

It's just that today, I had a daydream - I saw a beautiful man drive up to Starbucks and then saunter in, order his coffee and, for a brief moment we made eye contact.  Then his venti soy mocha, (no whip) was up & he was gone.  Of course, my first reaction was "He's probably married."  Then I thought, "No, he's gay."  Then I thought, "He probably has a terminal illness." Then I thought, "He's probably gay, married & has a terminal illness... a veritable trifecta of unavailability."  All that got me thinking about my damned if you do, damned if you don't approach to men.  Tawny and I were just discussing that if they don't sidle up to your table, unbeckoned, on the strength of their own initiative we must only assume (from the argument of silence) that they are emotionally damaged, gay, taken, or otherwise preoccupied with various and sundry world issues (i.e., solving 3rd world hunger, curing cancer, terminating terrorism).  Of course, should a man display the unadulterated gall to speak to us while we're existing in a public place, unattended - well then!  I cower in fear, Tawny experiences a swell of residual indignance and we both present what amounts to the least amenable countenances possible... perhaps so unpersonable that we could solve the aforementioned global issues simply by staring them down, Chuck Norris style.  So fellas, sorry - you might be just bum outta luck.  To be fair though, I haven't been approached by anyone under the age of, say, 80 in the past several years... so it really isn't my problem.  

I should be doing homework...

Which means it's about time for me to blog!  Now that all this blog traffic has died down, thank you Tawny (and really... who are you people?  Bucharest?  Buenos Aires?  What are you googling to get here?!), I feel like it's time to recap some recent developments.  I haven't got any lovely anecdotes, or tantalizing quips, but what I have got is looming dread.  On Saturday, I shall attend my 10-year high school reunion.  This, dear reader, means that I have been released from the cocoon of adolescence for a full decade, expected to unfold my tender wings and soar upon the winds of life.  Like the butterfly I have metamorphosed from unsightly chrysalid into new creature, vastly altered from its pupa state.  Unlike the butterfly, I have become something of a cautionary tale - a ghastly warning to those who ponder treading upon my worn path.  WALKER BEWARE!  DESTRUCTION AND UNAFFORDABLE THERAPY AHEAD!  

Okay, so I'm being dramatic... it's not so bad really.  I've had more fun than I deserve in my ten years since graduating.  As a matter of fact it's mainly due to the fun I've had that I'm quasi-terrified of the upcoming celebration.  I've accomplished less than I intended to, but the curious thing is that I've lived more than I expected to.  When trying to figure out exactly what I wasn't looking forward to this weekend, I realized that all I really dislike is the parade of achievements.  I don't know that I have so much to brag about except this: I have learned the power of discovery.  

Some people call it life-long learning, but I think that phrase may have become trite through overuse.  It misses the crux of the issue - seeking and finding, investigating and solving, questioning and answering - this is what it means to learn.  Whether or not I have achieved what my peers have achieved I now understand that this process of discovery is available to me at every phase and stage of life.  Whether emerging from a cocoon to a brave new world, or finding that I can still fly when my wings have been damaged, or beginning to grasp what it is to have unique beauty... there's something to be appropriated and gleaned.  And although I am indebted again, encumbered in school again, cloistered in life - again... I believe that I am richer and deeper for it.  Ten years on, I might not be winning the rat race - but life is sweeter, and I am better.

When I just can't focus...

I blog. Let's talk about today, shall we? I woke, bright and early to the promise of a new day filled kicks and giggles. You see, I had promised my Tawny that I would accompany her to her appointed day in court - strictly in the interest of justice (less strictly in my own selfish interest... I was kinda hoping for some gruesome mishap brought on by the questionable ethics of the long arm of the law). Without going into too much detail, it turns out I might be rooming with a criminal - a real life, hardened con, convict, criminaloid, crook, culprit, delinquent, desperado, evildoer, felon, fugitive, gangster, hoodlum, jailbird, malefactor, miscreant, mobster, outlaw, thug, wrongdoer - in my very house! Of course, justice being blind and all, I suppose we can presume her innocence until the matter is settled by court system of these United States as found in Redding, CA.  All I know is that when she talks about becoming somebody's ball & chain, this probably isn't what she has in mind. 

At any rate, off we trot to the county court house, intent on Tawny meeting her destiny on time.  One must never be late when destiny is waiting.  It should be noted that the court house sits atop a hill paved with 14% grade walkways.  I am fully convinced that the laborious hike to the doors of due process is designed to make one mull over the grievous acts committed (if, indeed guilt is the state of affairs) and through the pain of physical exertion vow to never trespass the boundaries of right behavior ever again.  Luckily, I've been working out so the steep climb extracted no such repentance from me.  

Tawny checked in with the bailiff who, although a fairly nice looking lady, seemed to have but two facial responses to every human interaction the first of which was a malevolent rancor etched into her marvelously uncreased face.  How one contorts one's face to resemble the leprechaun and then effortlessly revert it to a more or less pleasing visage is a mystery to me.  I should have asked for pointers, however any attempts to relate to the woman were met with the second response: an exasperated rolling of the eyes.  I can imagine Ms. Bailiff sees the same brand of riffraff day in & day out - I only hope that she remembers to roll her eyes equally clockwise & counterclockwise.  I'd hate for her ocular muscles to be unevenly developed.  

The judge, defying all expectations, was a kindly, humorous and thorough man with what seemed to me to be inexhaustible patience.  If the wheels of justice turn swiftly in Redding, it's only because His Honor has a can of sartorial WD-40 ever-present.  God knows the other players were less than stellar.  But I digress - this man exhibited such grace & wit, I couldn't help but smile and nod enthusiastically as he gave instructions.  Then I'd remember that I was seated among the ignobility and cow my head in assumed shame.  That's neither here nor there... and this is getting tedious.  We heard how a deal is being negotiated in which the public defender is working diligently to counteract the vile absurdity of the DA's office and that the proceedings will be delayed yet another month.  The judge is hoping for a resolution that accurately reflects the character of the defendants, as is the public defender whereas the DA's office in keeping with my suspicion that the occupants are little more than colossal pricks is working hard to stick it to the (common) man.  I have every hope that my roommate will be vindicated and the question of her innocence will be resolved permanently... otherwise I'm moving out.

My Monthly Cycle

If you guessed that this post would deal with the ebb and flow of my female hormones, you guessed correctly. Congratu-freakin-lations. My darling roommate and I were discussing these difficulties earlier today and I don't really remember who said they'd blog about it... so I'm jumpin' all over this beeyotch. Moving right along - while discussing the pervasive hazards of life we happened upon the curse of menses. I doubt that any men read this here collection of musings, so it seems more or less safe to air what ails me. You'd think that after a period or two, we'd start to get the hang of this menstruation thing, right ladies? I mean, I only had to fall off of my bike a few times before I realized that it sucked & that I had to maneuver deftly to avoid the crash and (road)burn. Not long after I learned how to stay atop the bicycle, I was hit upside the uterus with a different cycle - and this one has been kicking my ass ever since. For sixteen years now I've been dealing with my period, averaging at once a month that puts me at roughly 192 womb-sloughing epochs of hell and hormonal fury - I wince at the thought. So you'd think that by now I'd be pretty good at this, right?

If by "good at this" I mean something like "I have yet to give in to the irrational, demonic wrath that infests me fully, and maim harmless bystanders," then yeah, I suppose I'm good at it. Except that's not what I mean. I mean to say that every month I ought not be blindsided by the bone-wracking pain, Goodyear-worthy inflation of my joints, nor by the fact that every cell of my 6' frame is on hiatus from osmosis, but because I've retained so much water that none of it can diffuse to a lower pressure environment... there is no lower pressure to be found. Have I mentioned that by the time I become cognizant of the tenacious misery overtaking my physical members my blood has converted to white-hot magma, coursing through my veins in a kind of "scorched earth" tactic designed to reduce me to a ball of quivering goo. I ought not be surprised when every muscle that I previously expected to hold my torso upright seizes, contorts, and mangles itself beyond recognition. Right around the time I start to look like Quasimodo on acid, I think to myself, "I suppose my period is coming." I've said precious little thus far about the emotional and psychological malfunction I experience somewhere in this chronological vicinity. I don't imagine that I can quite capture it with adjectives alone, so allow this to suffice: I begin to feel like the Incredible Hulk... and the only antidote is a hug, if perchance you could get close enough to attempt it.

So all that glorious child-bearing preparation takes about a week... 7 full days of antediluvian hades, all in a relatively compact space. As a matter of fact, for an entire week, the proportions of misery to body mass render me not unlike a black hole - so dense that I am wonderfully able to suck the air out of the lungs of anyone near me. My aura turns kohl black. Then, for another 7 days I am curiously devoid of energy, as if psychosomatically the disappointment of not nourishing a new life sucks my present life out of my being. During this time of detachment, I also become aware of the path of destruction I've left behind me the previous week, and I am appalled at precisely how un-pretty it is. As I recuperate I form an action plan of sorts for re-entering society... which means I formulate my damage control... and that brings us to the next 7 days. Another week of cleaning up the shattered fragments of relationships that I left strewn while in a green rage. Shall we recap? A week of PMS (Pre-Menstrual-pSychosis), a week of menstrual misery, and a week of UN peacekeeping missions. That leaves me one damn week a month in which I feel like a good version of me. Maybe it's a good idea for me to not date until menopause...

I got a little buzzed this weekend...

It's true, and I'll readily admit it - I got buzzed. As a matter of fact, I was so buzzed, my entire head felt not unlike the belly of a guitar resonating with each tiny movement of the strings. It all started out when I was camping at Pinecrest last weekend. As a kind of last hurrah with some of my oldest and dearest cronies, the Labor Day camping trip is about as rustic as a Holiday Inn Express in Kalamazoo, but it always promises memories. This trip was well on its way to becoming one of the less eventful outings in large part due to the excessive number of children under the age of 2. I'm no pansy when it comes to the wee ones, but after awhile seeing so many humanoids inching around on their bellies, I began to feel like we had an infestation. In an effort to regain some semblance of pathos, I held my favorite baby, sweet Baby D, Drew Balsbaugh. You must understand that this child holds a place in my heart that far surpasses even my best expectations. He is perfect.

While cradling perfection in my arms, gazing in tender wonder at his inestimable value, a $*(Y@(*%(*#& bug flew into my ear. Once again, nobody's calling me a nancy-girl when it comes to critters. I'm not a fan of insects, and have been known to encourage the breeding of bats and lizards simply to control their numbers, but still... I can hold my own. I shook my head a bit and swatted at the offender, rubbing him out of my orifice, as any reasonable person would do. Problem solved, I returned to my contemplative state. Not too many minutes into my renewed reverie I heard, or rather felt, an invasive vibration. I assumed the mosquitoes were swarming & again waved them away from my head. Alas, the vibration didn't cease. Amazed at their gawdawful persistence I continued my previous tactic until it became abundantly and alarmingly clear that the offending party was not hovering round my skull. No friends, this dastardly beast was instead trapped WITHIN THE BOUNDARIES OF MY CEREBRUM. I realize this may sound a bit dramatic, but bear in mind that I am the sole source of support for God's most precious gift, Baby D, which would render me on par with Jezebel if I dropped him to tend to the increasingly urgent cranial matter. I passed him off as quickly as possible to a bystander who was more moved by mirth than concern. Her appreciation of the situation was multiplied when not one, but TWO of my dear friends pointed out that bugs lay eggs. Frequently. EVERYWHERE. Let's count up the reasons I slowly succumbed to panic, shall we?

1. There's a bug in my head
2. The bug might be laying eggs IN MY HEAD

I think that's enough. When shakes, shimmies, and epileptic-force convulsions failed to remove the interloper, Joy offered to help. I'm pretty sure she poured ice cold water into my aural cavity and sucked it out with one of those baby snot baster things. I can't be too sure because delirium had more or less overtaken me. To cut an already too-long narrative down to size, I continued with the remainder of the camping trip - luckily I couldn't hear all the laughter at my expense because I shoved earplugs straight through to the membrane. May God have mercy on us all.

The Reason I've Foregone Deletion

So good people, it’s like this. I’ve got a thing for Middle Easterners. I don’t know how to explain it – I just like ‘em… that is, until they pull shenanigans on me. This is a story of exactly that. Not too many weeks ago I was having a delightful conversation with two of my Assyrian buddies, one of whom I tend to trust. We usually attempt to add to my pathetically meager Assyrian vocabulary and this day was no exception. I eagerly soaked up the words “ikhreh erah” which, it was explained, is an endearing term that expresses fond appreciation for another’s aesthetic appeal… in other words, “you look pretty.”

Armed with this pleasant knowledge I went about my life, fully prepared to employ my arsenal of charm whenever appropriate circumstances arose. Today was one such circumstance. I walked upstairs to the breakroom to take my lunch whereupon I was greeted by my Assyrian friend Ramsina and her 2 ½ year old niece. The niece and I fell into easy chatter, comprised mostly of gibberish and clucking. Aware that the precious child is fluent in Assyrian only I looked her dead square in the eye and, summoning every ounce of dictional bravery I proclaimed that she was, indeed, ikhreh erah. Her steady stream of nonsense continued uninterrupted whereas her aunt, my dear coworker, blanched. She exclaimed, “Don’t say that around her!!!! Do you EVEN know what that means?!” Astounded at the reaction I intimated that apparently I did not. Gracious as ever, she explicated the terminology which, as it turns out, has far more to do with fecal matter and genitalia than anything resembling affectionate beauty. Furthermore, the weapons of wit I had discharged appear to be exceedingly appropriate for the nautical riffraff (and by this I mean dirty pirate hookers), rather than genteel company due to their excessively vulgar nature. Apologizing profusely I made my escape, shared the anecdote with two other Assyrian fellows who found a great deal of mirth in the unfortunate episode. As soon as I figure out how to retaliate I anticipate discovering a kernel of hilarity as well – in the meantime I’m reminded of the folly of believing men. Risky business, every time.