What is on the seat?
It can't be what it looks like.
Happy to hold it.
The hover method
Requires constant training.
Shaky legs will fail.
You are not sneaky.
You weren't in there long enough
to have washed your hands.
When men leave bathrooms,
I cannot help thinking they
just touched their penis.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Rejection...
...happens to me frequently. Thankfully, I have someone in my life who believes in me like the streams believe in mountain snow to sustain their bubbly flow.
Granted, I do have my days. From time to time I permit myself one day to let the rejections sink in; to grab onto their meaning and let them steer as they take me places I don't recognize. As I drift into the heavy thickness, my wife is always there to snatch and bring me back. I never invite my wife to my pity parties but she always shows up, throws the cake on the floor, pops all the balloons, and beats the shit out of the DJ.
If you want to pursue something that requires competition, that requires overcoming close to impossible odds, your resolve must run like cement through your veins, pumping into your heart like tiny shots of belief. Perseverance must become your bff. And above all, you must know quitting is crazy talk.
But if you have a day when none of that works, having someone reflecting (back to you) what they know you already are makes all the doubt evaporate like silly steam.
Granted, I do have my days. From time to time I permit myself one day to let the rejections sink in; to grab onto their meaning and let them steer as they take me places I don't recognize. As I drift into the heavy thickness, my wife is always there to snatch and bring me back. I never invite my wife to my pity parties but she always shows up, throws the cake on the floor, pops all the balloons, and beats the shit out of the DJ.
If you want to pursue something that requires competition, that requires overcoming close to impossible odds, your resolve must run like cement through your veins, pumping into your heart like tiny shots of belief. Perseverance must become your bff. And above all, you must know quitting is crazy talk.
But if you have a day when none of that works, having someone reflecting (back to you) what they know you already are makes all the doubt evaporate like silly steam.
Monday, January 10, 2011
15 Minutes
When the weather turns snowy, a local news station sends a few of their minions to various locations around the city. They always send someone up to our area and broadcast on the side of the road.
It snowed overnight, and we were told last night that road conditions would be a concern.
This morning, as my wife and I drove around the bend, making our way down the snow-packed main street, there they were. The van with the call numbers. The news crew on the sidewalk. Camera hoisted onto the cameraman's shoulder. The light was turned on. The female reporter was lit up and pointing at the street.
I couldn't believe it. We were half a mile from being on TV!
A million thoughts raced through my mind. Wave. Smile. Make a face. Say Hi to Mom. Smash my boobs against the window. Pull down my pants and do the same with my butt. Flip the bird. Pick my nose. Kiss my wife. Show one of my tattoos. Roll down the window and whistle the universal you're-a-sexy-lady tune.
But I didn't do anything. I even turned my head when we passed by the camera to say, "We're on TV!" to my wife. She said I should yell something to plug my book. Smart. If only it was published.
It was a "fifteen minute" opportunity and I blew it. However, winter isn't over yet. I will not leave the house again without my JOHN 3:16 sign and face paint!
It snowed overnight, and we were told last night that road conditions would be a concern.
This morning, as my wife and I drove around the bend, making our way down the snow-packed main street, there they were. The van with the call numbers. The news crew on the sidewalk. Camera hoisted onto the cameraman's shoulder. The light was turned on. The female reporter was lit up and pointing at the street.
I couldn't believe it. We were half a mile from being on TV!
A million thoughts raced through my mind. Wave. Smile. Make a face. Say Hi to Mom. Smash my boobs against the window. Pull down my pants and do the same with my butt. Flip the bird. Pick my nose. Kiss my wife. Show one of my tattoos. Roll down the window and whistle the universal you're-a-sexy-lady tune.
But I didn't do anything. I even turned my head when we passed by the camera to say, "We're on TV!" to my wife. She said I should yell something to plug my book. Smart. If only it was published.
It was a "fifteen minute" opportunity and I blew it. However, winter isn't over yet. I will not leave the house again without my JOHN 3:16 sign and face paint!
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Solitary Funk
I should be working on my second novel, sending out queries, writing blog posts, but I can't stop reading. In order to write this, I had to put the book I am reading aside, promising to pick it back up once I knock this out.
Something is going on with me. When I think about doing the things I should be doing, I can feel my heart sigh, my lungs seize, and I want to curl into a ball. I don't feel particularly funny. I don't feel remotely insightful. And I know I have been here before.
I can officially say I'm in a funk...again.
Did the funk start before or after reading? I think the books I've been reading might be a contributing factor. The subject matter hasn't been overly cheery. I devoured Emily Gould's memoir, And the Heart Says Whatever, and did the same with the novel Room, by Emma Donoghue. I couldn't put either book down. They both took me on dark journeys I had not been on before. And they were both wholly magnificent.
The isolation of what I do is catching up with me. I read alone; I write alone. There is no one for me to talk to about the books I have read because no one around me has read them. There is no one for me to talk to about writing because everyone around me is taking a different path. But this isn't a Bell Jar situation. I just think the characters I've been spending my time with are garnering more attention than the people I see everyday. And I'm finding that a real bitch to deal with.
Something is going on with me. When I think about doing the things I should be doing, I can feel my heart sigh, my lungs seize, and I want to curl into a ball. I don't feel particularly funny. I don't feel remotely insightful. And I know I have been here before.
I can officially say I'm in a funk...again.
Did the funk start before or after reading? I think the books I've been reading might be a contributing factor. The subject matter hasn't been overly cheery. I devoured Emily Gould's memoir, And the Heart Says Whatever, and did the same with the novel Room, by Emma Donoghue. I couldn't put either book down. They both took me on dark journeys I had not been on before. And they were both wholly magnificent.
The isolation of what I do is catching up with me. I read alone; I write alone. There is no one for me to talk to about the books I have read because no one around me has read them. There is no one for me to talk to about writing because everyone around me is taking a different path. But this isn't a Bell Jar situation. I just think the characters I've been spending my time with are garnering more attention than the people I see everyday. And I'm finding that a real bitch to deal with.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Ah, Morning
The alarm beep-beep-beeped at 5:30 this morning. It took me a minute to realize what was happening. The dogs circled the bed, wagging their tails, making little happy whining noises. They were glad it was time for my wife and me to get up. I, on the other hand, couldn't believe it. I just went to sleep! But no, I was mistaken. I tossed the covers to the side, threw my pillow away from me, and reluctantly swung my legs over the bed. I sat there; I needed a minute to collect myself. I sleepily made my way up the stairs, the cold air nipping at my legs. I dressed without a sense of urgency. I used the facilities and made my way back into the living room where my wife was prepping for yoga: adjusting her mat, pleading with the dogs to find their way to a bed, getting the television ready. We don't normally do the same thing in the morning, but I decided to do yoga with her.
I rolled out my mat. Sat down. Staff pose. Rodney Yee's voice soothed me into downward dog, forward bend; from triangle into warrior pose. My muscles were gratefully stretching. My heartbeat quickened in response to the swift pace of the poses. And then, all done.
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.
I headed up to the loft, where the weights are located, to finish my morning exercise. My mind followed suit with my body and started to wake up. I laid down my mat, looked around to see what I was in the mood to do and set my mind to it. My wife jumped on the bike, attached to a trainer, and started peddling like her life depended on it, with the television remote in hand.
Loud techno music followed by uncomfortable metallic sounds. People fighting. People screaming. People dying. Utter mayhem.
"What kind of shit are you watching?" I asked.
"It's one of the Blades," she responded.
How weird? That's exactly what I was thinking. Get out of the warm bed. Walk up the frigid staircase. Get dressed. Listen to Rodney's lotion-y voice. Connect with your breathing. Gradually welcome your mind and body to the day. Blow out the living room with a movie that revolves around a human-vampire hybrid who kills vampires who in turn kill humans.
Namaste.
I rolled out my mat. Sat down. Staff pose. Rodney Yee's voice soothed me into downward dog, forward bend; from triangle into warrior pose. My muscles were gratefully stretching. My heartbeat quickened in response to the swift pace of the poses. And then, all done.
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.
I headed up to the loft, where the weights are located, to finish my morning exercise. My mind followed suit with my body and started to wake up. I laid down my mat, looked around to see what I was in the mood to do and set my mind to it. My wife jumped on the bike, attached to a trainer, and started peddling like her life depended on it, with the television remote in hand.
Loud techno music followed by uncomfortable metallic sounds. People fighting. People screaming. People dying. Utter mayhem.
"What kind of shit are you watching?" I asked.
"It's one of the Blades," she responded.
How weird? That's exactly what I was thinking. Get out of the warm bed. Walk up the frigid staircase. Get dressed. Listen to Rodney's lotion-y voice. Connect with your breathing. Gradually welcome your mind and body to the day. Blow out the living room with a movie that revolves around a human-vampire hybrid who kills vampires who in turn kill humans.
Namaste.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Weddings
Prologue:
L.A. Story used to be one of my favorite movies. There is a scene in the movie where Steve Martin is trying to win back the affection of a recent ex-girlfriend, running around outside her house from window to window. In his hand is a book. He stops outside one of the windows and excitedly says, "Let me read to you from this book of poems! 'Oh, pointy bird, oh, pointy pointy!'" It makes me laugh every time.
When the we-are-gathered-here-today started, I had on my wedding face. Mouth stern. Eyes soft and pleading-like. Face serious. No big deal. I knew I wouldn't cry; weddings don't affect me that way. I might have been sweating in places that felt unnatural, but I was going to make it. I was attentive. I was engaged. My wife, sitting very closely beside me, seemed to be in the same place.
We were welcomed. There was prayer. Everything was going really well...until the woman officiating announced that the bride's sister wanted to read from a book of poems.
Oh, holy mother of hell.
I could feel it, welling from a place deep inside of me; so deep I didn't think to put it in check.
The sister started reading, from the book of poems, and son-of-a-bitch if she didn't mention something about a goddamn bird.
You have got to be kidding me!
My body started shaking. I looked into my lap. I snorted. I looked over at my wife. Big mistake. She, too, knew all about the pointy bird.
We were cooked. Done for. Over.
Her shaking body mimicked my own. Together, we laughed into each other like two lunatics, completely mad from something so unbelievably hysterical that nothing could bring us back. Tears leapt from my eyes. My stomach hurt. Keeping it inside was proving to be almost too much. I lost track of what was going on. The people around us were looking at us like we'd farted. They crinkled their noses, tsk-tsked us by shaking their heads, kicked us off their list of respectable human beings.
Come on, people. Why do weddings always have to be so serious? Who says love can't be silly and strange and comical instead of riding-white-horses-on-the-beach, making-love-by-the-candle-light romantic? Because if that's your idea of love, you're fucked. Love is sloppy and weird and hysterical and cute and overwhelming and normal and warm and running-down-your-leg fantastic! This whole notion that weddings have to be this showy, serious event is killing me.
When the day comes that I get to marry my wife, I will cry, but not because I'm taking it too seriously. It will be the direct result of finally being able to marry the person I love. No matter, really, because after Steve is done reading from his book of poems, there won't be a dry eye in the house.
L.A. Story used to be one of my favorite movies. There is a scene in the movie where Steve Martin is trying to win back the affection of a recent ex-girlfriend, running around outside her house from window to window. In his hand is a book. He stops outside one of the windows and excitedly says, "Let me read to you from this book of poems! 'Oh, pointy bird, oh, pointy pointy!'" It makes me laugh every time.
When the we-are-gathered-here-today started, I had on my wedding face. Mouth stern. Eyes soft and pleading-like. Face serious. No big deal. I knew I wouldn't cry; weddings don't affect me that way. I might have been sweating in places that felt unnatural, but I was going to make it. I was attentive. I was engaged. My wife, sitting very closely beside me, seemed to be in the same place.
We were welcomed. There was prayer. Everything was going really well...until the woman officiating announced that the bride's sister wanted to read from a book of poems.
Oh, holy mother of hell.
I could feel it, welling from a place deep inside of me; so deep I didn't think to put it in check.
The sister started reading, from the book of poems, and son-of-a-bitch if she didn't mention something about a goddamn bird.
You have got to be kidding me!
My body started shaking. I looked into my lap. I snorted. I looked over at my wife. Big mistake. She, too, knew all about the pointy bird.
We were cooked. Done for. Over.
Her shaking body mimicked my own. Together, we laughed into each other like two lunatics, completely mad from something so unbelievably hysterical that nothing could bring us back. Tears leapt from my eyes. My stomach hurt. Keeping it inside was proving to be almost too much. I lost track of what was going on. The people around us were looking at us like we'd farted. They crinkled their noses, tsk-tsked us by shaking their heads, kicked us off their list of respectable human beings.
Come on, people. Why do weddings always have to be so serious? Who says love can't be silly and strange and comical instead of riding-white-horses-on-the-beach, making-love-by-the-candle-light romantic? Because if that's your idea of love, you're fucked. Love is sloppy and weird and hysterical and cute and overwhelming and normal and warm and running-down-your-leg fantastic! This whole notion that weddings have to be this showy, serious event is killing me.
When the day comes that I get to marry my wife, I will cry, but not because I'm taking it too seriously. It will be the direct result of finally being able to marry the person I love. No matter, really, because after Steve is done reading from his book of poems, there won't be a dry eye in the house.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Hump-day Haiku: Resolutions
I'm resolved not to
Treat you like an idiot
When you are silent.
There is more to it
Than saying you'll do something.
I give it three weeks.
I think it's great you
bought running shoes. They look
nice with your work pants.
Treat you like an idiot
When you are silent.
There is more to it
Than saying you'll do something.
I give it three weeks.
I think it's great you
bought running shoes. They look
nice with your work pants.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Give It a Rest
For fuck's sake, O'Donnell. Give it a rest already.
The election is over and yet Christine O'Donnell cannot accept her fate quietly. The Delaware Doofus cannot keep her hand out of the bank account--I mean the headlines--hitting the airwaves on Sunday, protesting that she's being unfairly targeted by a left-wing-nut-bag group for campaign fraud.
Permit me a moment of absolute honesty: I'm so disgusted with people doing shady shit and then blaming someone else when said shit hits the new's cycle. What happened to personal responsibility? Nut up, Christine! I find it odd that in the midst of your alleged crimes you're talking about who is attacking you instead of taking a position. If you're innocent, or guilty, why does it matter who launches an investigation?
Your strategy reeks of immaturity. My grandma changes the subject when you bring up something she doesn't want to discuss, too.
Gee, Christine, maybe you shouldn't have "paid" your mother money from your campaign account. And maybe you should have taken a step back and considered how it looked to pay rent, again from your campaign account, on a townhouse you now say you didn't live in. Surely you're smart enough to know that the political world isn't a kind one and these things should have been taken into account?
If you're innocent, great. If you're guilty, great. Regardless, stop acting like a child being asked by your parents, Who ate the last cookie? Chances are if you keep blaming your parents for looking in the cookie jar, people are going to start to wonder what the hell you're talking about, tarnishing your legitimacy even more.
Too bad you're not a witch. I'm sure there is some kind of spell you could cast to make us understand bullshit.
The election is over and yet Christine O'Donnell cannot accept her fate quietly. The Delaware Doofus cannot keep her hand out of the bank account--I mean the headlines--hitting the airwaves on Sunday, protesting that she's being unfairly targeted by a left-wing-nut-bag group for campaign fraud.
Permit me a moment of absolute honesty: I'm so disgusted with people doing shady shit and then blaming someone else when said shit hits the new's cycle. What happened to personal responsibility? Nut up, Christine! I find it odd that in the midst of your alleged crimes you're talking about who is attacking you instead of taking a position. If you're innocent, or guilty, why does it matter who launches an investigation?
Your strategy reeks of immaturity. My grandma changes the subject when you bring up something she doesn't want to discuss, too.
Gee, Christine, maybe you shouldn't have "paid" your mother money from your campaign account. And maybe you should have taken a step back and considered how it looked to pay rent, again from your campaign account, on a townhouse you now say you didn't live in. Surely you're smart enough to know that the political world isn't a kind one and these things should have been taken into account?
If you're innocent, great. If you're guilty, great. Regardless, stop acting like a child being asked by your parents, Who ate the last cookie? Chances are if you keep blaming your parents for looking in the cookie jar, people are going to start to wonder what the hell you're talking about, tarnishing your legitimacy even more.
Too bad you're not a witch. I'm sure there is some kind of spell you could cast to make us understand bullshit.
Monday, January 3, 2011
A Different Reality
Reality shows have taken over, saturating the airwaves with "everyday" people doing "everyday" things.
<Raising eyebrow.>
I've never slapped anyone in a bar. Never thrown a drink in someone's face. Never considered competing for money and stabbing someone in the back to get it. Never chest-bumped someone on the dance floor because they got a little too close to my woman. Never tried to juggle relationships. Never flown on a private jet. Never crashed a White House party. Never had plastic surgery. Never been pregnant and not known it. Never weighed so much I couldn't get out of bed. Never wrote a book simply because I had six-pack abs. Never held a competition to find love. But we're to believe these things are normal.
I understand reality programming saves networks money. But the premise is growing mold. There's too much. It's starting to stink up the place. Rot the core. And it's putting me to sleep.
It's time to start letting people die.
If you are voted off Survivor, you get left out in the middle of nowhere with no food or water. If you don't win Top Chef, you lose a hand. Can't get the people's votes on American Idol? Too bad. Off with your head. A-aw...he didn't pick you to love and cherish for forever and ever? Sorry, but stones will be tied to your feet and you will be thrown into the ocean, or a lake; whichever is closest. You're fired! Off the top of a building you go. You spend the summer perusing the boardwalk of a seaside town. Guess what? When the summer's over, you're fed to sharks. Housewife today, blown up in a kitchen tomorrow.
Reality television validates completely ridiculous behavior. If the stakes were higher, we would see how bad people really want Fame! Money! Bragging rights! The average idiots would be weeded out. Don't fret. Reality programming wouldn't disappear. It would simply be elevated with a new brand of idiot.
One person always wins, and there are egos willing to accept the challenge. We see it all the time: the one person who knows they're going to win but ends up going home on the first show. All that would change is we'll never see that person again. It puts a wrench in the reunion show, but the trade off might very well be worth it.
<Raising eyebrow.>
I've never slapped anyone in a bar. Never thrown a drink in someone's face. Never considered competing for money and stabbing someone in the back to get it. Never chest-bumped someone on the dance floor because they got a little too close to my woman. Never tried to juggle relationships. Never flown on a private jet. Never crashed a White House party. Never had plastic surgery. Never been pregnant and not known it. Never weighed so much I couldn't get out of bed. Never wrote a book simply because I had six-pack abs. Never held a competition to find love. But we're to believe these things are normal.
I understand reality programming saves networks money. But the premise is growing mold. There's too much. It's starting to stink up the place. Rot the core. And it's putting me to sleep.
It's time to start letting people die.
If you are voted off Survivor, you get left out in the middle of nowhere with no food or water. If you don't win Top Chef, you lose a hand. Can't get the people's votes on American Idol? Too bad. Off with your head. A-aw...he didn't pick you to love and cherish for forever and ever? Sorry, but stones will be tied to your feet and you will be thrown into the ocean, or a lake; whichever is closest. You're fired! Off the top of a building you go. You spend the summer perusing the boardwalk of a seaside town. Guess what? When the summer's over, you're fed to sharks. Housewife today, blown up in a kitchen tomorrow.
Reality television validates completely ridiculous behavior. If the stakes were higher, we would see how bad people really want Fame! Money! Bragging rights! The average idiots would be weeded out. Don't fret. Reality programming wouldn't disappear. It would simply be elevated with a new brand of idiot.
One person always wins, and there are egos willing to accept the challenge. We see it all the time: the one person who knows they're going to win but ends up going home on the first show. All that would change is we'll never see that person again. It puts a wrench in the reunion show, but the trade off might very well be worth it.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Happy Fucking New Year
This morning was a cold one. I had the bedcovers tucked up and under my chin; all my limbs were tucked under the comforter. Anything hanging outside the warmth of the covers was returned as a slab of ice. What was once an arm, a hand, or, god forbid, a foot, came back to me as a well preserved, frozen piece of meat. I let relief wash over me, knowing I had nowhere to go, nowhere to be, nowhere but the warmth and comfort of my own bed. I sighed, nestled my head onto my pillow, and closed my eyes, refusing the idea that it was time to get up.
Rumblerumblerumble. My intestines had a different idea.
I ignored the first warning sign, not wanting my storybook sleep to end. Not wanting to step onto the cold tile just yet. But the second demanded my attention. I had precious seconds to make a wiser decision. I left the warmth of the bed and hightailed it upstairs. Yes, it was cold. Yes, I wished to live somewhere tropical. Yes, I made it in time.
A-ah. Now I could go back downstairs and crawl back into the warm bed, not necessarily to go back to sleep, but to warm up before facing a downright chilly day.
I pushed the handle of the toilet down, thinking only about spooning my wife's sleepy, warm body.
Nothing.
I pushed it down again.
Nothing still.
I manhandled the two inches of stainless steel, forcing all of my will, my prowess, my authority, into making the toilet flush.
It remained eerily silent.
Shit.
I went into the kitchen, turned on the cold water. The faucet stuck with its buddy, the toilet: nothing happened.
Motherfucker.
Fantastic. What a great way to kick off the new year. No water, shit in the toilet, cold enough to host an ice carving contest. And until it warms up, the water will not return. In the meantime, I'll be peeing in the bathtub.
Fucking funny, 2011. Is this because yesterday I said I was going to make you my bitch? Anyone keeping score, 2011: 1. Me: 0. But there are 364 days left. We'll see who has the last laugh.
Rumblerumblerumble. My intestines had a different idea.
I ignored the first warning sign, not wanting my storybook sleep to end. Not wanting to step onto the cold tile just yet. But the second demanded my attention. I had precious seconds to make a wiser decision. I left the warmth of the bed and hightailed it upstairs. Yes, it was cold. Yes, I wished to live somewhere tropical. Yes, I made it in time.
A-ah. Now I could go back downstairs and crawl back into the warm bed, not necessarily to go back to sleep, but to warm up before facing a downright chilly day.
I pushed the handle of the toilet down, thinking only about spooning my wife's sleepy, warm body.
Nothing.
I pushed it down again.
Nothing still.
I manhandled the two inches of stainless steel, forcing all of my will, my prowess, my authority, into making the toilet flush.
It remained eerily silent.
Shit.
I went into the kitchen, turned on the cold water. The faucet stuck with its buddy, the toilet: nothing happened.
Motherfucker.
Fantastic. What a great way to kick off the new year. No water, shit in the toilet, cold enough to host an ice carving contest. And until it warms up, the water will not return. In the meantime, I'll be peeing in the bathtub.
Fucking funny, 2011. Is this because yesterday I said I was going to make you my bitch? Anyone keeping score, 2011: 1. Me: 0. But there are 364 days left. We'll see who has the last laugh.
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