All right, you jittery little housewives, it's time to give props to Leo Sternbach, a 95-year-old man Jewish man who fled to America during Hitler's reign, all in order to bring you what you need most in life: Valium.
Yes, it's valium's 40th birthday this year, a time for...relatively sedate celebration. In reverence of this event, I started doing some research about the miracle drug, but I got really tired about halfway through, and life's too beautiful to waste on research anyway, right? I love you. Let's sing!
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday dear Valium
Honk-shoo, honk-shoo.
In a related story, it's the one-year anniversary of highly controversial gay marraige of Viagra and Benzocaine, a substance featured on many new condoms that helps to delay orgasm. In celebration, they're throwing a party for themselves, but since their homosexuality alienated them from so many of their friends and family members, they report that it will probably be a long, hard night, and they don't expect anyone to come.
On with it.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
So, a man walks into a bar, and the bartender asks "What's wrong, buddy? You look like shit."
The man explains himself. "I'm a locksmith, and this woman I installed a new lock for accused me of exposing myself to her after the job was done, while we were sitting down for tea. She says she saw my penis sticking out the end of my shorts."
"Well," says the bartender, "Did you do it on purpose?"
"That's just it," Says the locksmith, "I didn't do it at all. I've got a incredibly tiny penis, there's no way I could have done it. But she's taking me to court."
The bartender poors the guy a whiskey and says, "Well, I guess she's gonna be a little short on evidence, eh?"
Don't get it? That's because it's not a joke. This is fucking really happening.
This is the true, current story of a Pennsylvania locksmith, Robert M. Peters, Sr., (who evidently has thighs fatty enough to have a roll capable of being mistaken for a semi-erect penis.) and a woman who has just recently split up from her husband (despite breasts that the locksmith allegedly described as being beautiful).
One has to wonder who the real victim here is-
A- The aging woman, who's breasts probably aren't as beautiful as they used to be, who's husband has left her because she, evidently, can't tell the difference between a roll of fat and a penis,
B- The grossly overweight Peters who may be able to unlock many things, but never the secret to a woman's sexual pleasure,
Or C- the Doctor who had to examine The grossly overweight Peter's peter in order to testify that it's only an inch long when flaccid, four inches when erect.
You be the jury.
My favorite line from the article:
[The Prosecuting attorney] told the jurors he would build a road to lead them to find Peters guilty of indecent exposure, but [The defense lawyer] disagreed.
"The road that [the prosecution] is trying to build for you will be missing by five inches," [The defense lawyer] said.
Classic. On with it.
The man explains himself. "I'm a locksmith, and this woman I installed a new lock for accused me of exposing myself to her after the job was done, while we were sitting down for tea. She says she saw my penis sticking out the end of my shorts."
"Well," says the bartender, "Did you do it on purpose?"
"That's just it," Says the locksmith, "I didn't do it at all. I've got a incredibly tiny penis, there's no way I could have done it. But she's taking me to court."
The bartender poors the guy a whiskey and says, "Well, I guess she's gonna be a little short on evidence, eh?"
Don't get it? That's because it's not a joke. This is fucking really happening.
This is the true, current story of a Pennsylvania locksmith, Robert M. Peters, Sr., (who evidently has thighs fatty enough to have a roll capable of being mistaken for a semi-erect penis.) and a woman who has just recently split up from her husband (despite breasts that the locksmith allegedly described as being beautiful).
One has to wonder who the real victim here is-
A- The aging woman, who's breasts probably aren't as beautiful as they used to be, who's husband has left her because she, evidently, can't tell the difference between a roll of fat and a penis,
B- The grossly overweight Peters who may be able to unlock many things, but never the secret to a woman's sexual pleasure,
Or C- the Doctor who had to examine The grossly overweight Peter's peter in order to testify that it's only an inch long when flaccid, four inches when erect.
You be the jury.
My favorite line from the article:
[The Prosecuting attorney] told the jurors he would build a road to lead them to find Peters guilty of indecent exposure, but [The defense lawyer] disagreed.
"The road that [the prosecution] is trying to build for you will be missing by five inches," [The defense lawyer] said.
Classic. On with it.
Monday, July 14, 2003
This month, we celebrate the 20-year anniversary of Mainer Samantha Smith's goodwill mission to the Soviet Union to ease the tension of the cold war and help end the threat of nuclear bombings. Samantha, who was 11 at the time, went halfway across the world to speak to world leaders on behalf of the common man, woman and child, quite possibly saving us all from nuclear annihlation.
When I was 11 years old, my mother grounded me for a week for operating a toaster in my living room. Food for thought.
On with it.
When I was 11 years old, my mother grounded me for a week for operating a toaster in my living room. Food for thought.
On with it.
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
This seems a day for quickie posts: In "Shallow Hal", a movie which frequents my twelve HBO's, there is a line wherein Gwenyth Paltrow's character, Rosemary, burns Jason Alexander's character, Mauricio (or something, I do not pretend to know how to spell it or to care enough to look it up) when he is rude to her upon their first meeting. She asks if he is wearing a member's only jacket, and when he affirms that he is, she says, "So, what are you, the last member?"
Hal laughs. Maurypovichio seems genuinely embarrassed. But I never understood why it was funny.
Today, this popped into my mind at work, and I decided that it was my mission for today to find out why- why is this funny?
It turns out, as far as I can ascertain from my research, is that the reason it is funny is because the coats which used to be incredibly stylish have fallen out of fashion, and are now only seen being warn by old men. I guess.
If you have any further information, please e-mail me at suedecaramel@dog.com.
On with it.
Hal laughs. Maurypovichio seems genuinely embarrassed. But I never understood why it was funny.
Today, this popped into my mind at work, and I decided that it was my mission for today to find out why- why is this funny?
It turns out, as far as I can ascertain from my research, is that the reason it is funny is because the coats which used to be incredibly stylish have fallen out of fashion, and are now only seen being warn by old men. I guess.
If you have any further information, please e-mail me at suedecaramel@dog.com.
On with it.
Sunday, July 06, 2003
"Who the hell was I when I liked who I was?"
I was bike riding today when that line, somewhere mixed into the context of my thoughts, popped into my head.
Zack had been expecting to entertain guests today, and I had spent the majority of the early afternoon with Emily, walking the beach of Reid State Park and making idle conversation. On the way home, I bought her a feast of McDonald's, then I went home and thought better of sitting the rest of my last day off of the weekend perched at the computer, so I went for a bike ride. Recently, I've been sticking to the areas around my house while bike riding, for fear that I would be more out of shape than I expected to be and be far away when I found myself exhausted. That kind of mentality, however, tends to take away from the point of bike-riding: When I was young, my mom wouldn't let me bike ride anywhere without someone being with me except for the streets that touched my house. And I did it like crazy, up and down Vining, up and down North. (It was North at the time, now called South, but, hey, things change.) When someone was riding with me, we'd almost indefinitely go to the paths behind wing street. I tend to think I was only supposed to go there when accompanied with someone's parents, or perhaps only in the day...some stipulation, anyway, but that only made it more exciting to be there. Amanda, she was my best friend at the time, she would always convince me to do things I wasn't supposed to, she was the only person in the world with whom I ever got into real trouble. In subsequent years, I would return the favor of her bad influence, and when she called me now and again from her new house in Topsham seeking advice, I'd prompt her to make the more exciting, if constantly wrong, decision.
With Amanda with me, the world was my playground. We biked in and around those paths, invigorated by the danger, the taboo, the way our bikes bucked over the sticks and mud. There was a place there-- a little bridge built for snowmobiles to get over this little ravine-- and it quickly became my favorite place to stop and talk or play Truth or Dare. I was always drawn to moving water, there seemed to be so much life in them, and I was easily pleased despite the tiny status of the stream that ran through it. And so, when I was rewarded, finally, with the allowance to ride at my will (within a reasonable distance) by myself, I spent a whole summer going there any time I wanted to sit alone, put my feet in the 8 inches of water, and lie back over the bridge, thinking and listening to the water and getting in touch with me.
As I was leaving the house, my mother reminded me to watch the heat as I was riding. My new bike has no place for a water bottle and it's easy to get dehydrated, so the warning was appropriate, but I blew it off, despite. "Sure, Mom, I'll watch the heat." When I got onto my bike, I turned up towards faith street, instead of down Vining where I normally make my commonplace rounts. I was going to the paths.
I went years without bike riding in between my pre-adolescents and now. A few rides or so a year, perhaps, but I never broke back in to the habit the way I did this year. A few years back, I remember, I one day got the urge to find my little bridge, my little stream, so I went off on a hot day like today. The paths start at a large sandpit that's visible from the road, and then the main one runs parallel to wing street and little ones branch off. That day, I started at the pit and went up the main path, unable to find the right turn-off that once was so unmistakable to me. Eventually, I took a guess and rode on in, then made a few wrong turns and ended up on something that only vaguely resembled a path. It was beginning to get dark, and even in my younger, more fearless days, I was afraid my mother's tendency to worry about me. She always gave me ample reason to, crying and getting hysterical if she didn't know exactly where I was for a half hour at a time. So, lost in the woods and years away from having any sense of where I was, I drudged out, hopelessly aiming for the road and almost hysterical myself.
That memory was fresh in my mind today, as I made what may well have been the exact same turn off into the woods. I, again, had no luck in finding the path that I was sure would take me to my bridge, so I, again, took my best guess. At points, the path was so diminutive I couldn't tell at all if it were a path, and at others, the rain had soaked so far into it that the four-wheeler tracks were almost two feet deep, making crossing on a bike impossible. The determination I had aimed at finding my bridge was quickly usurped by anxiety, and I felt sick and scared and helpless. I was listening to Tabitha's Secret, and "Dear Joan"-- a terribly depressing song-- was on. And about the time I was almost totally disoriented, I was deep in rememberance of how exhilirating I might have once found a situation like that-- there, in the forest, where I always wanted to be, going down new paths and seeing new things, a real adventure. How it might have felt to be alone and unafraid or with Amanda by side, the two of us unstoppable. I started wondering what ever happened to that fearlessness in me, that wanderlust, that part of me that remains now only in the form of everpresent my hatred of boredom. And somewhere in there I started examining how I wasn't confident of my ability to guide myself out of the situation, I wasn't confident in my sense of direction or my strength or my perseverance, I wasn't confident in anything about me, and I was afraid of everything inside and out, of the trees and the paths and my body and North street becoming South and, and, and...
And who the hell was I when I liked who I was?
At first, it struck me that it sounded like a great title for a self-help book. I thought about writing one, then I thought about reading one, and then I thought that I still didn't know where I was. But somewhere it kinda clicked. Now, it didn't click loud. It didn't click strong. It didn't click in such a way that most anyone would notice it really at all. But I think it clicked, and if I was imagining it, it didn't much matter: I wanted the fearlessness back.
It wasn't easy to listen to. I still wasn't exactly sure where I was, and I hadn't the slightest idea how to get where I was going. And I was thirsty, and the sweat was tickling my face and it felt like tears in my eyes...but it wasn't. It was just sweat. It wasn't at all easy to convince myself, but the situation wasn't that bad. The song had changed by then, it was more upbeat by now, and the CD wasn't that long, so I couldn't have been gone too long, and it really was kinda exciting. And so what if I couldn't ride up that hill, I could push the bike. And so what if I was breathing pretty heavy, I could have rested if I had wanted to. And I kept picturing horrible things happening to me, but they were all pretty unlikely.
And it grew. Now, it didn't grow fast. It didn't grow much. And it might shrink back the second I let it, and probably will if I do. But the "So what?" grew. So what if I can't have sex, I will be able to some day. So what if Zack thinks other women are pretty, he loves me more. So what if I work at Burger King, I'm on my way out. Oh, it was just barely there, and it wasn't easy to hear....but so what?
So I trudged on. I rode through the four-wheeler tracks, and I walked through those deep puddles that just swallow you up, and that felt good. And the sweat all over me felt okay, and I thought that I was probably losing weight, but so what if I wasn't? And I trudged on.
And I started thinking of Amanda, and she was kinda with me in a way. And I miss her, but things like that can be fixed. So what if she doesn't live across the North Street that is now South street any longer, I carried her along up the hill and down into the place where the trees were thicker and the forest was very dark. And I started thinking that I should write to her, or for her, I should let her know I was thinking about her. And so what if she didn't respond? Your god may be in the details, mine is in the process.
And don't you think I didn't lose the click, the fearlessness, the "so what"? The hills kept coming and I kept expecting at the top of them I would recognize something, and it didn't happen for a long time. Don't you think that it got any easier to hear it at all...but so what?
Eventually, I trudged out. I found myself on Route 9, somehow, and I went down wing street. There's a great big hill on wing street, and I found myself forgetting the fearlessness riding down it. Something about the forest had strengthened me, and now I was on the street again. But I rode on home, through Huston Park a little, and I saw Amanda's car parked outside her boyfriend's house. I thought about knocking on the door, but then thought better of it. I wanted some water, and more, I wanted time to make the effort perfect. But if it wasn't exactly perfect, so what?
So I rode my back to my house. My house was located on North street once, a long time ago, and now it's on South. But, hey, things change. Along time ago, Amanda lived just across it, and her and I were crusaders, and I miss it. I don't have exactly have an Amanda anymore- not and Amanda, or a Jenn, or a Casey or anybody, really, not like that. But I do have a lifetime of memories and decades to fill with more. A long time ago, my body seemed okay to me and I was fearless in life and in love....and that's not true anymore.
But maybe...not just maybe, it will be again. And until then, I'll just trudge on with it.
I was bike riding today when that line, somewhere mixed into the context of my thoughts, popped into my head.
Zack had been expecting to entertain guests today, and I had spent the majority of the early afternoon with Emily, walking the beach of Reid State Park and making idle conversation. On the way home, I bought her a feast of McDonald's, then I went home and thought better of sitting the rest of my last day off of the weekend perched at the computer, so I went for a bike ride. Recently, I've been sticking to the areas around my house while bike riding, for fear that I would be more out of shape than I expected to be and be far away when I found myself exhausted. That kind of mentality, however, tends to take away from the point of bike-riding: When I was young, my mom wouldn't let me bike ride anywhere without someone being with me except for the streets that touched my house. And I did it like crazy, up and down Vining, up and down North. (It was North at the time, now called South, but, hey, things change.) When someone was riding with me, we'd almost indefinitely go to the paths behind wing street. I tend to think I was only supposed to go there when accompanied with someone's parents, or perhaps only in the day...some stipulation, anyway, but that only made it more exciting to be there. Amanda, she was my best friend at the time, she would always convince me to do things I wasn't supposed to, she was the only person in the world with whom I ever got into real trouble. In subsequent years, I would return the favor of her bad influence, and when she called me now and again from her new house in Topsham seeking advice, I'd prompt her to make the more exciting, if constantly wrong, decision.
With Amanda with me, the world was my playground. We biked in and around those paths, invigorated by the danger, the taboo, the way our bikes bucked over the sticks and mud. There was a place there-- a little bridge built for snowmobiles to get over this little ravine-- and it quickly became my favorite place to stop and talk or play Truth or Dare. I was always drawn to moving water, there seemed to be so much life in them, and I was easily pleased despite the tiny status of the stream that ran through it. And so, when I was rewarded, finally, with the allowance to ride at my will (within a reasonable distance) by myself, I spent a whole summer going there any time I wanted to sit alone, put my feet in the 8 inches of water, and lie back over the bridge, thinking and listening to the water and getting in touch with me.
As I was leaving the house, my mother reminded me to watch the heat as I was riding. My new bike has no place for a water bottle and it's easy to get dehydrated, so the warning was appropriate, but I blew it off, despite. "Sure, Mom, I'll watch the heat." When I got onto my bike, I turned up towards faith street, instead of down Vining where I normally make my commonplace rounts. I was going to the paths.
I went years without bike riding in between my pre-adolescents and now. A few rides or so a year, perhaps, but I never broke back in to the habit the way I did this year. A few years back, I remember, I one day got the urge to find my little bridge, my little stream, so I went off on a hot day like today. The paths start at a large sandpit that's visible from the road, and then the main one runs parallel to wing street and little ones branch off. That day, I started at the pit and went up the main path, unable to find the right turn-off that once was so unmistakable to me. Eventually, I took a guess and rode on in, then made a few wrong turns and ended up on something that only vaguely resembled a path. It was beginning to get dark, and even in my younger, more fearless days, I was afraid my mother's tendency to worry about me. She always gave me ample reason to, crying and getting hysterical if she didn't know exactly where I was for a half hour at a time. So, lost in the woods and years away from having any sense of where I was, I drudged out, hopelessly aiming for the road and almost hysterical myself.
That memory was fresh in my mind today, as I made what may well have been the exact same turn off into the woods. I, again, had no luck in finding the path that I was sure would take me to my bridge, so I, again, took my best guess. At points, the path was so diminutive I couldn't tell at all if it were a path, and at others, the rain had soaked so far into it that the four-wheeler tracks were almost two feet deep, making crossing on a bike impossible. The determination I had aimed at finding my bridge was quickly usurped by anxiety, and I felt sick and scared and helpless. I was listening to Tabitha's Secret, and "Dear Joan"-- a terribly depressing song-- was on. And about the time I was almost totally disoriented, I was deep in rememberance of how exhilirating I might have once found a situation like that-- there, in the forest, where I always wanted to be, going down new paths and seeing new things, a real adventure. How it might have felt to be alone and unafraid or with Amanda by side, the two of us unstoppable. I started wondering what ever happened to that fearlessness in me, that wanderlust, that part of me that remains now only in the form of everpresent my hatred of boredom. And somewhere in there I started examining how I wasn't confident of my ability to guide myself out of the situation, I wasn't confident in my sense of direction or my strength or my perseverance, I wasn't confident in anything about me, and I was afraid of everything inside and out, of the trees and the paths and my body and North street becoming South and, and, and...
And who the hell was I when I liked who I was?
At first, it struck me that it sounded like a great title for a self-help book. I thought about writing one, then I thought about reading one, and then I thought that I still didn't know where I was. But somewhere it kinda clicked. Now, it didn't click loud. It didn't click strong. It didn't click in such a way that most anyone would notice it really at all. But I think it clicked, and if I was imagining it, it didn't much matter: I wanted the fearlessness back.
It wasn't easy to listen to. I still wasn't exactly sure where I was, and I hadn't the slightest idea how to get where I was going. And I was thirsty, and the sweat was tickling my face and it felt like tears in my eyes...but it wasn't. It was just sweat. It wasn't at all easy to convince myself, but the situation wasn't that bad. The song had changed by then, it was more upbeat by now, and the CD wasn't that long, so I couldn't have been gone too long, and it really was kinda exciting. And so what if I couldn't ride up that hill, I could push the bike. And so what if I was breathing pretty heavy, I could have rested if I had wanted to. And I kept picturing horrible things happening to me, but they were all pretty unlikely.
And it grew. Now, it didn't grow fast. It didn't grow much. And it might shrink back the second I let it, and probably will if I do. But the "So what?" grew. So what if I can't have sex, I will be able to some day. So what if Zack thinks other women are pretty, he loves me more. So what if I work at Burger King, I'm on my way out. Oh, it was just barely there, and it wasn't easy to hear....but so what?
So I trudged on. I rode through the four-wheeler tracks, and I walked through those deep puddles that just swallow you up, and that felt good. And the sweat all over me felt okay, and I thought that I was probably losing weight, but so what if I wasn't? And I trudged on.
And I started thinking of Amanda, and she was kinda with me in a way. And I miss her, but things like that can be fixed. So what if she doesn't live across the North Street that is now South street any longer, I carried her along up the hill and down into the place where the trees were thicker and the forest was very dark. And I started thinking that I should write to her, or for her, I should let her know I was thinking about her. And so what if she didn't respond? Your god may be in the details, mine is in the process.
And don't you think I didn't lose the click, the fearlessness, the "so what"? The hills kept coming and I kept expecting at the top of them I would recognize something, and it didn't happen for a long time. Don't you think that it got any easier to hear it at all...but so what?
Eventually, I trudged out. I found myself on Route 9, somehow, and I went down wing street. There's a great big hill on wing street, and I found myself forgetting the fearlessness riding down it. Something about the forest had strengthened me, and now I was on the street again. But I rode on home, through Huston Park a little, and I saw Amanda's car parked outside her boyfriend's house. I thought about knocking on the door, but then thought better of it. I wanted some water, and more, I wanted time to make the effort perfect. But if it wasn't exactly perfect, so what?
So I rode my back to my house. My house was located on North street once, a long time ago, and now it's on South. But, hey, things change. Along time ago, Amanda lived just across it, and her and I were crusaders, and I miss it. I don't have exactly have an Amanda anymore- not and Amanda, or a Jenn, or a Casey or anybody, really, not like that. But I do have a lifetime of memories and decades to fill with more. A long time ago, my body seemed okay to me and I was fearless in life and in love....and that's not true anymore.
But maybe...not just maybe, it will be again. And until then, I'll just trudge on with it.
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
"What do you do in your spare time?" I would say. And he would probably answer, but that would be irrelevant. "Uh-huh. That's cool." (It would sound interested.) "So, uh, you and I get out at the same time on wenesday." (We would...he's on overnights for while, so it won't happen, but we would in this scenario, which would be convenient.) "I don't mean like a date or anything, because, ya know, I'm engaged and all, but we should, I don't know, do something together after work. A movie, or, a store or something. We could go to Bull Moose on disagree on so much music that we both regret agreeing to go, or stick around here and play a fifty by fifty game of dots. Something."
Maybe the list would be longer. "We could go to bookland and brood over some really deep cliffnotes. Read all of 'War and Peace' in an hour." Or "You play air hockey? Wal*Mart's always fun." Or "We could both pick a group of three-syllable or higher words secretly and see who gets the other to use them all first."
Wouldn't matter what. He'd say yes-- he'd marvel at my casualty, and my great ideas, and be all too eager. This would all be going on in his head, of course, but I'd know, and I'd know further that he'd wonder why someone so confident and resourceful as me would ever want to hang out with someone like him, so I'd explain myself. "Most of my friends-- the ones I like hanging out with, anyway-- are gone for the summer, or, ya know, forever. And Zack and I are trying to arrange it so I got time for myself and other people, which keeps ending up being time for Spider Solitaire. Anyways, I thought we could have fun, or some reasonable facimile."
And, despite the fact that he works at burger king, he wouldn't be confused by the word "facimile." In the ideal scenario, he'd say "Ha! Facimile! That was the first word on my list!"
And we'd both be smiling, and laughing, and no one around would get any of it. Because they all work at Burger King.
That's how it plays out in my mind. But my mind has a lot of things playing, on and on and on, and so few of them are ever close to being accurate.
I wrote that because I kinda left everyone hanging on that second-to-last post, the one about work Ben. Being drawn to work Ben. Being drawn to the idea of being drawn to someone. Maybe that wasn't in the post, actually. Maybe it was just implied.
I'm growing to enjoy a friend of work Ben's, as well-- work Joe. Maybe it would seem less like I was hitting on either of them if I were to invite both. The one thing I don't want-- definitely DO NOT want-- is any confusion anymore about what kind of relationship I'm getting into with someone.
But it defintily would be nice to connect with someone again. Learn about someone, instead of just know everything about them. It's always nice when it starts happening, I can generally deal with it when it ends. As it always does, despite my endless optimism. I need to come to terms with that shit.
So, as a first step: My name is Linda, and I'm a chronic optimist. (Hi, Linda!) On with it.
Maybe the list would be longer. "We could go to bookland and brood over some really deep cliffnotes. Read all of 'War and Peace' in an hour." Or "You play air hockey? Wal*Mart's always fun." Or "We could both pick a group of three-syllable or higher words secretly and see who gets the other to use them all first."
Wouldn't matter what. He'd say yes-- he'd marvel at my casualty, and my great ideas, and be all too eager. This would all be going on in his head, of course, but I'd know, and I'd know further that he'd wonder why someone so confident and resourceful as me would ever want to hang out with someone like him, so I'd explain myself. "Most of my friends-- the ones I like hanging out with, anyway-- are gone for the summer, or, ya know, forever. And Zack and I are trying to arrange it so I got time for myself and other people, which keeps ending up being time for Spider Solitaire. Anyways, I thought we could have fun, or some reasonable facimile."
And, despite the fact that he works at burger king, he wouldn't be confused by the word "facimile." In the ideal scenario, he'd say "Ha! Facimile! That was the first word on my list!"
And we'd both be smiling, and laughing, and no one around would get any of it. Because they all work at Burger King.
That's how it plays out in my mind. But my mind has a lot of things playing, on and on and on, and so few of them are ever close to being accurate.
I wrote that because I kinda left everyone hanging on that second-to-last post, the one about work Ben. Being drawn to work Ben. Being drawn to the idea of being drawn to someone. Maybe that wasn't in the post, actually. Maybe it was just implied.
I'm growing to enjoy a friend of work Ben's, as well-- work Joe. Maybe it would seem less like I was hitting on either of them if I were to invite both. The one thing I don't want-- definitely DO NOT want-- is any confusion anymore about what kind of relationship I'm getting into with someone.
But it defintily would be nice to connect with someone again. Learn about someone, instead of just know everything about them. It's always nice when it starts happening, I can generally deal with it when it ends. As it always does, despite my endless optimism. I need to come to terms with that shit.
So, as a first step: My name is Linda, and I'm a chronic optimist. (Hi, Linda!) On with it.
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
That last post is a prime example of the reason I'm trying not to force myself to post anymore. It's useless to do it that way. It comes out so badly.
Zack and I, on our way home from Massachussetts this weekend, stopped in Best Buy. I heard Best Buy Radio say the name of one of Casey's favorite artists-- he had never heard pronounced by anyone with any real authority on how to say it, so I called him to tell him. Ler-che.
While we were there, we bought a CD buy someone neither of us had ever heard of so we could listen to it fairly-- rather than something one of us liked and the other did it. The album we ended up with is "O" by Damien Rice. I judged it by it's cover, knowing instantly when I saw it what kind of music it would be. Slow and lyrical and kind of Indie. Accoustic. It was obvious. I felt bad because it's not really what Zack's into, but when I tried to explain to him that he wouldn't like the kind of music I knew it was, he said something about not judging a CD by it's cover.
It occured to me then that that phrase really isn't as meaningful as it once was- don't judge a book by it's cover. Oh, it made sense in the say-- you've seen older book covers, they're very rarely revealing at all. But nowadays, while I'm sure it still applies that you shouldn't really judge anything by it's outside...you really can glean certain things by a book's cover. Some of them, anyway.
The rest of the weekend was all more pleasant than that day, and all probably more deserving of mention. But, as I've just told Emily, I'm trying to work on obeying my creative impulses more. I've just now written poetry-- a quick little thing with no painstaking concentration, just the flight of urges and words, and it came out exactly how I might have wanted it to, had I known that that's exactly what I wanted.
The urge was fueled by the music, my CD player. Damien Rice turns out to be inspiring, the way Ani is. Not all that much like Ani...slower, for the most part, but inspiring as well. Fueling, if you will. I should really make it a point to listen to this kind of stuff more often. I'd have so much more to write.
When Zack left for work, and even before that, I was bored bored bored bored. Stayed like that for a while, determining that there's little to nothing I hate more than bored-bored-bored-boredom. Then I got off the damn computer, away from the bor-bor-bor-boring conversations that always rope me in when I'm like that, and changed out of my work clothes. That, in itself, seemed to do a world of good. Went to Movieland. Rent whatever I had an urge to rent-- Days of Wine and Roses, which I've seen, and Angels with Dirty Faces, which I haven't, but I vaguely remember seeing one of the characters mentioned on this Heroes and Villains documentary my mom was watching a while ago. I think, unless I've mixed it up with something else, that it appealed to me. I don't know that I'll have time to watch these movies in the near future, but it was the walking down to get them that was really important.
There's these two maple trees in a yard on main street that are very tall. I love the time of day when the sun's just starting to set, or maybe mid-set, I don' tknow, but the sun is touching the tops of things but not the bottoms. And it set so perfectly on these trees today...I was underneath them, and their branches and leaves were cascading into each other, and the sun was cascading into them. I stopped and looked up. I was thinking of how I must have looked to the passing cars, and thinking whether or not I would write about those trees on this. I figured I wouldn't, but since I was writing anyway, it seemed worth a mention.
I wonder if I'm still interesting anybody.
Mr. Ladd called today to check up on me. I was worried that he'd be insulted, somewhat-- once I started work, I just sort of phased him out of my life, with no intentions of it being permanent, but having no real drive to call him right away. It turned out that he took my not showing up for a while as an indication that my life is going well, and he seemed so happy about it. I didn't correct him. No real reason to-- life, in some aspects, is going swimmingly. In many, it's falling apart at the seams. But I don't, as of right now, see how my interaction with him can continue to help me with it until I've given it some thought on my own for a while. To be honest-- and I open with that warning because I believe he still reads-- I've been considering another therapist. Not because he doesn't help me, as everyone seems to know he does me a world of good, but...well, a feeling I have no real definition of. Firstly, I think I love him to the point where he can't have the effect on my he really should in what's coming up. He's the one who's gotten me this far in my current issue-- dangerously, defeaningly, horribly low self-esteem. (Except to call it that seems to take away from the hollow of it all.) But, having had him to help me realize it...for some reason I think I want to talk to a woman about it. I guess I really don't know why. But it's him. I don't have to worry too much about his feelings...he's always telling me not to, and, anyway, I've done far worse.
So I've decided that all of you should go out of your way to ask me about the poem I wrote today-- "Ascension", it's called. I don't feel like pushing it on anyone individually, knowing how little time I put into it, and something else; embarrassment, I suppose. But I do want people to read it. So ask me. Go on.
Go on and on and on with it.
Zack and I, on our way home from Massachussetts this weekend, stopped in Best Buy. I heard Best Buy Radio say the name of one of Casey's favorite artists-- he had never heard pronounced by anyone with any real authority on how to say it, so I called him to tell him. Ler-che.
While we were there, we bought a CD buy someone neither of us had ever heard of so we could listen to it fairly-- rather than something one of us liked and the other did it. The album we ended up with is "O" by Damien Rice. I judged it by it's cover, knowing instantly when I saw it what kind of music it would be. Slow and lyrical and kind of Indie. Accoustic. It was obvious. I felt bad because it's not really what Zack's into, but when I tried to explain to him that he wouldn't like the kind of music I knew it was, he said something about not judging a CD by it's cover.
It occured to me then that that phrase really isn't as meaningful as it once was- don't judge a book by it's cover. Oh, it made sense in the say-- you've seen older book covers, they're very rarely revealing at all. But nowadays, while I'm sure it still applies that you shouldn't really judge anything by it's outside...you really can glean certain things by a book's cover. Some of them, anyway.
The rest of the weekend was all more pleasant than that day, and all probably more deserving of mention. But, as I've just told Emily, I'm trying to work on obeying my creative impulses more. I've just now written poetry-- a quick little thing with no painstaking concentration, just the flight of urges and words, and it came out exactly how I might have wanted it to, had I known that that's exactly what I wanted.
The urge was fueled by the music, my CD player. Damien Rice turns out to be inspiring, the way Ani is. Not all that much like Ani...slower, for the most part, but inspiring as well. Fueling, if you will. I should really make it a point to listen to this kind of stuff more often. I'd have so much more to write.
When Zack left for work, and even before that, I was bored bored bored bored. Stayed like that for a while, determining that there's little to nothing I hate more than bored-bored-bored-boredom. Then I got off the damn computer, away from the bor-bor-bor-boring conversations that always rope me in when I'm like that, and changed out of my work clothes. That, in itself, seemed to do a world of good. Went to Movieland. Rent whatever I had an urge to rent-- Days of Wine and Roses, which I've seen, and Angels with Dirty Faces, which I haven't, but I vaguely remember seeing one of the characters mentioned on this Heroes and Villains documentary my mom was watching a while ago. I think, unless I've mixed it up with something else, that it appealed to me. I don't know that I'll have time to watch these movies in the near future, but it was the walking down to get them that was really important.
There's these two maple trees in a yard on main street that are very tall. I love the time of day when the sun's just starting to set, or maybe mid-set, I don' tknow, but the sun is touching the tops of things but not the bottoms. And it set so perfectly on these trees today...I was underneath them, and their branches and leaves were cascading into each other, and the sun was cascading into them. I stopped and looked up. I was thinking of how I must have looked to the passing cars, and thinking whether or not I would write about those trees on this. I figured I wouldn't, but since I was writing anyway, it seemed worth a mention.
I wonder if I'm still interesting anybody.
Mr. Ladd called today to check up on me. I was worried that he'd be insulted, somewhat-- once I started work, I just sort of phased him out of my life, with no intentions of it being permanent, but having no real drive to call him right away. It turned out that he took my not showing up for a while as an indication that my life is going well, and he seemed so happy about it. I didn't correct him. No real reason to-- life, in some aspects, is going swimmingly. In many, it's falling apart at the seams. But I don't, as of right now, see how my interaction with him can continue to help me with it until I've given it some thought on my own for a while. To be honest-- and I open with that warning because I believe he still reads-- I've been considering another therapist. Not because he doesn't help me, as everyone seems to know he does me a world of good, but...well, a feeling I have no real definition of. Firstly, I think I love him to the point where he can't have the effect on my he really should in what's coming up. He's the one who's gotten me this far in my current issue-- dangerously, defeaningly, horribly low self-esteem. (Except to call it that seems to take away from the hollow of it all.) But, having had him to help me realize it...for some reason I think I want to talk to a woman about it. I guess I really don't know why. But it's him. I don't have to worry too much about his feelings...he's always telling me not to, and, anyway, I've done far worse.
So I've decided that all of you should go out of your way to ask me about the poem I wrote today-- "Ascension", it's called. I don't feel like pushing it on anyone individually, knowing how little time I put into it, and something else; embarrassment, I suppose. But I do want people to read it. So ask me. Go on.
Go on and on and on with it.
Wednesday, June 25, 2003
Ben. Not my Ben. Or my original Ben, anyway. My work Ben. Not really a Ben of mine at all, but I a Ben I know. And a Ben none of those of you who are reading this will know. So, for all intents and purposes, my Ben.
Ben comes to mind because he's the only one left to come to mind. Everyone else is gone for the summer or was gone for the schoolyear and now seems somehow unapproachabole for the summer. Or they're busy as fuck, or I don't want to spend time with them anymore, or I want to desperately, but can't. (None of these categories include Zack, who's spending more and more time with his unbearably selfish family. Maybe they'd let me just adopt him.)
So I look forward to Ben working, because we talk and play games when it's not busy, and write stories on the sandwich wrappers before giving them out, and try to carve religious images into the meat so that people will believe they've found a miracle in their value meal. I'd be a litte hesitant to have anymore friendships with males at all, knowing how they tend to get processed with me, but I have to see him at work, anyway, and it's safe enough...you know, unless we get put on an overnight together.
Casey's online-- he so rarely is anymore-- and I am reminded, again, of how much I miss him. I've been having dreams about him lately. Missing him ranges to and from every aspect of our relationship, but it's mostly...I don't know. Attacking him with a puppet in a Freeport bookstore. Making fun of the Ninety-Nine's decorations. Lounging on my porch in the sun. The good stuff.
Uh, it's bothering me even to get into this. Fuck it all. On with it.
Ben comes to mind because he's the only one left to come to mind. Everyone else is gone for the summer or was gone for the schoolyear and now seems somehow unapproachabole for the summer. Or they're busy as fuck, or I don't want to spend time with them anymore, or I want to desperately, but can't. (None of these categories include Zack, who's spending more and more time with his unbearably selfish family. Maybe they'd let me just adopt him.)
So I look forward to Ben working, because we talk and play games when it's not busy, and write stories on the sandwich wrappers before giving them out, and try to carve religious images into the meat so that people will believe they've found a miracle in their value meal. I'd be a litte hesitant to have anymore friendships with males at all, knowing how they tend to get processed with me, but I have to see him at work, anyway, and it's safe enough...you know, unless we get put on an overnight together.
Casey's online-- he so rarely is anymore-- and I am reminded, again, of how much I miss him. I've been having dreams about him lately. Missing him ranges to and from every aspect of our relationship, but it's mostly...I don't know. Attacking him with a puppet in a Freeport bookstore. Making fun of the Ninety-Nine's decorations. Lounging on my porch in the sun. The good stuff.
Uh, it's bothering me even to get into this. Fuck it all. On with it.
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