Snippy Little Thing

Let's Just Kiss and Say Goodbye (or you can just go to my new blog)

2011-12-26T00:05:00.000-05:00

Thank you to everyone who sent me emails and love notes on Facebook about my plans to start a new blog. Now that I am on Christmas break, I have time to do things like figure out WordPress and sleep ten hours a night. (I really love sleeping right now. Can ear hair and an affection for fruit cocktail be far behind?) Anyway, here's the link to the new blog. Thanks, as always, for reading. xoxo -- Kerry

Kerry Headley

Taking off the Training Wheels

2011-11-19T15:36:00.001-05:00

I started this blog a few years ago when I was recovering from an injury -- an arm injury that ended my high-powered career as a massage therapist. At the time, I was developing a crush on my pain medication and speaking my words into a speech recognition software program so that I could still write. I managed to finish my undergrad degree thanks to the disability resources department at my school and the automated doors that opened themselves for me whenever I pushed the silver buttons bearing the handicapped signal -- a stick figure in a wheelchair. I often turned to this blog when I was frustrated. And let's face it. I was frustrated a lot. Those of you who have been reading this since the beginning might remember some of my greatest hits: I Want to Kill my Misogynist Sociopath Housemate, Out to Pasture Spa Whore, Why Did I Wait so Long to Consider the Sex Industry as my Next Employer?, and I Still Want to Kill my Misogynist Sociopath Housemate. I enjoyed the emails some of you wrote me. I enjoyed being linked to an amateur porn site under the heading Cute, Funny Women on the Internet (or something like that.) I also inadvertently became a pundit regarding the television show Hoarders. In short, Snippy Little Thing has had a good run. However, it's time to put this thing to bed. I've changed since 2006. I'm not so little anymore, for one thing. I take up more space -- physically and psychically. (Relax fat phobics; I'm still hot. I'm just not the twig I was back when I was vegan.) I'm snippier than ever. Just ask the people who frequent my reality. (No apologies for that. By the way.) Nevertheless, I'm not the same person I used to be. So, I need to create the space for what's new.

I'm kind of busy this weekend. I was given a poisoned cup of mead, and I'm preoccupied with transmuting what could kill me into something I can use. But I will be back. Probably with a new blog entitled kerryheadley@wherever.com or something. I'll keep you posted. Thanks for reading.

xoxo

Kerry

Hot Birthday Slut of the Day -- Again!

2011-10-15T17:17:00.003-04:00

This is what I want for my birthday:

A personal chef.
Regular massages.
Every episode of What Not to Wear on DVD. (I know, you were expecting Hoarders.)

I know my friend Vera is sending me some ylang-ylang essential oil in the mail. It smells like pure goddess and I intend to use it to throw down some serious juju this year. Consider yourselves ~~warmed~~ warned. (I left in the typo because it also works.)

I received a little money. That's probably going into my savings account because I am boring like that. I'm like my grandmother who used to wash and reuse tin foil repeatedly. Except she never did anything nice for herself with that money she saved unless you consider buying cigarettes a treat. I, on the other hand, splurge on high end hair conditioner.

I don't think I have anything profound to say about my birthday this year. I feel more like a grownup than I ever have. Maybe that's profound. But only to me probably. I love my job -- really love it -- for the first time in my life. I love teaching. I love being paid to read and write and talk about it with students experimenting with how to tell their own stories.

I hate that term later bloomer, especially because I know some people (read: my parents) probably consider me one. But I don't know. Is trying out many options until you find where you click something that necessitates a timeline? I suppose if I had really wanted children it would have. I suppose if I had ever desired to own property it might have. (That still hasn't kicked in. Why would I want to spend all my free time doing yard work and pricing roofers?) I look back at my years as a massage therapist and my years as a spiritually-confused yogi as central to my development. My angry-woman-poet-with-the-shaved-head self from twenty years ago informs who I am now just as much as my actually-employed-writer self does today.

Years ago, right before I enrolled in a school in which I studied herbal medicine for nine months, my father said, "I hope this isn't another pipe dream." I haven't ever dreamed about a pipe, so to have another one would have been impossible. However, I knew he was trying to tell me that I was continuing to defy the norm for reasons that made no sense to him. All I can say is that every choice made sense to me because every choice was one toward authenticity. (Except for that sales job. And that online math book editorship. "Oops" is all I will say about those poor choices.)

But in regard to choices, I've gotten much better at making them. I've come to, as Kenny Rogers would say, know when hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away and know when to run. I'm a much savvier dater than I used to be. (Turns out men I like sometimes lie!) I'm also a much more compassionate person than I used to be, partially due to the many times over the years I screwed up by acting like my agenda was more important than being kind. More important than noticing that somebody else needed someone to ask them if they needed a ride or someone to bring them orange juice. Oh, I still fear every driver on the road and bitch about people in my way (!!! ) at Target. And I still read online gossip columns. (Hello Celebitchy.) So, I'm not saying my emotional core smells like daisies and that I can turn the world on with my smile. But I'm better. I'm a bigger person with a heart more capable of loving.

So, somehow over the span of all these years, most of which I lived in poverty, I became who I always wanted to be. But with better hair. And with a more satisfying outcome than I could have predicted. So happy birthday to me is what I am saying.

Note: Today is not my actual birthday. So, if you were thinking of running my astrological chart or anything, don't bother. It won't be accurate, and it will ruin your whole perception of me. Especially, if you incorrectly believe the moon is in Pisces or something.

Knitting Bones Back Together

2011-09-26T12:32:00.000-04:00

Right now I should be grading papers for both of the classes I am teaching this semester. A quick glance at one stack of them indicates that the students did learn something about how to analyze poetry for form. Pretty exciting stuff for a teacher. The other stack I've avoided. Those students too seem to be learning. They're learning how to structure works of nonfiction in a way that intrigues the reader so that she wants to continue reading. They're also doing a good job. But I can't dive into that stack of grading right now. I need a nap.The truth is that this semester has been kind of rough.

First, there was Hurricane Irene, which damaged my roof and showed me that, for the most part, it's every woman for herself. Joking about being left behind by those I called to warn about the approaching hurricane would be in my nature. And I have joked about it. But I went through my first hurricane alone with my cats while friends who chose to flee mocked me for being afraid. It was one of those life-altering experiences in which I chose to feel grateful for Skype and for the fact that I somehow I never lost power. But friends? I did lose a couple. Actually, I realized that I never had them. That hurt in a way that losing part of my roof didn't.

Then I broke my toe while engaging in the high-risk activity of walking around my apartment. I'm limping around with a special wide shoe that is part Birkenstock and part flipper. The good thing is that it doesn't hurt too much. It could have been a lot worse. I could've broken a toe on my driving foot. I could have broken my foot. I'm grateful that I can limp and still get to most classes. I'm especially grateful for my friend who came to my house with some groceries, including some gourmet coffee from San Francisco. She baked me a sweet potato and offered to unload my dishwasher. Since relocating to the South, I'd had only one truly good cup of coffee prior to that day. It was dark and full with no cigarette butt aftertaste. And sweetened with a bit of stevia, it went down easy. Like empathy -- something that's been mostly missing this semester.

Do I sound like I'm having a pity party? If I do, trust me when I say that it's temporary. Change is difficult sometimes. It hurts. Like congested sinuses, which I also have at the moment due to a head cold. I think I am still too young to describe myself as "a tough old bird." However, I am resilient. And it is my belief that each setback is a chance to transmute poison into power. Right now, I am still in the murky, in-between stage. The messy one that requires that I get extra sleep and take baths instead of trying to fit into a box which can no longer contain me.

I see many blessings already. They pop up before me like daisies in the form of new friendships and new professional opportunities. New insights. In a few weeks, I will remove this ugly-ass flipper-sandal and walk on my left foot without limping. Wait. Let me correct that. I will remove this ugly-ass flipper sandal and sashay. Away. (Thanks, RuPaul.)

My Charming, Self-Deprecating Summer Recap

2011-08-21T17:02:00.000-04:00

So, the truth is that I didn't write as much as I thought I would over the summer. I started a short story, revised an essay, blogged and typed out some nonfiction pages that I am not willing to look at yet. I did these things. And I read a fair amount -- between eight and ten books. I accomplished enough so that I can start year two of grad school and teaching with, if not confidence, then confidence-lite. And that needs to be enough because over the summer I also spent time doing an excellent impersonation of a slug. A slug that has learned how to navigate the Netflix streaming feature and locate the restaurants with the best deals on tapas. (Best tapas would be at Circa 1922, Monday through Thursday five to seven.) I also put the Kerry in Carrie Bradshaw. And while it wasn't exactly Sex in the Southern City, my summer of circulation rewired my circuitry. And that was necessary. As necessary as writing a ton, as necessary as reading until my eyes teared.

I suppose I embodied what the Buddhists call the middle way. I avoided extremes and sought balance in all things. For example, a typical day for me this summer consisted of sipping coffee, reading the headlines online (and by headlines I mean Dlisted, Celebitchy and Dan Savage) and deciding which shade of eyeshadow to apply before shopping for cat food and more coffee. At some point, I would do yoga or not. I might clean my bathroom. I might read fifteen more pages of Gertrude Stein. Or I might realize I hadn't watched Ugly Betty in three days and remedy the situation stat. And of course, I kept up with two of my obsessions -- true crime and cults. It was a working vacation is the point.

I feel like I used my time well even though my original plans for summer were to read twice as much as I did and to write three times as much as I did. But if I had done that, I wouldn't have gotten to relax much. I wouldn't have met certain people and gotten to know others better. I wouldn't have lived much. And really, living is what informs my writing. So, what I am trying to say is that keeping up with Kat von D was probably necessary. And if it wasn't, I've almost made my peace with that. Regardless, in two days I will show up for my first staff meeting of the year. In three, I will attend my first classes. In four, I start teaching. And by the middle of next week, I will barely remember summer. I'll be scanning my to-do lists and congratulating myself each time I cross off another task accomplished. Tonight, I'm going out for a glass of wine. Maybe I will have finished rearranging my office by then. Maybe I will have written two more pages. Or maybe not. I can't say. That's the luxury of summer, and I intend to enjoy these last seconds of it.

TOTALLY UNRELATED: Congratulations to the West Memphis Three! I wish you peace as you settle into freedom. And here's a tip for media acclimation: Keeping Up with the Kardashians is not worth your time, but Hoarders totally is. So is RuPaul's Drag Race. And Real Time with Bill Maher.

And to those who don't know what I am talking about, these men were imprisoned for 18 years for crimes they did not commit. Check out the documentaries Paradise Lost and Paradise Lost 2 or CBS 48 Hours.

The "Hoarders" Drinking Game or How Much Do I Wish I Had Written This?

2011-08-02T18:45:00.000-04:00

I'm a generous writer. I enjoy showcasing the wit of other writers, especially when they've done something better than I could have done. In this case, it's someone from the "Hoarders" discussion board who came up with a drinking game to go along with the show that asks us on a weekly to basis to play the fun game I like to call: Living Room or Giant Litter Box? (Yes, I do occasionally browse the "Hoarders" discussion board. Enough with the judgment already. The term is cultural anthropologist.) So, for the first time ever, this post focuses on someone else. Someone who has clearly seen just as many episodes of "Hoarders" as I have. Here's to you Dave p.

Hoarders Drinking Game

Threat of Eviction - 1 drink
Threat of Jail - 1 drink
Dead Cat - 1 shot
Cannibalized Cat (just the skeleton) - 2 shots
Child Protective Services threatened – 1 drink
Child Protective Services shows up – 2 drink
Kids taken away 1 drink for each
Cats taken away (1 for each five) don’t want to get too wasted
Hoarding has been “caused” by relative who has been dead for at least ten years 1 drink
Hoarding has been “caused” by relative who has been dead for at least twenty years double
Hapless Co-dependent Family Member/Enabler - 1 drink for each
Failure to Launch – hoarder has adult able bodied children living in the hoard 1 drink

Marylyn Munster - hoarder has normal looking child double

Book on organization or de-cluttering spotted 1 drink

Relative who hasn’t been in the house in years 1 drink

Same relative has a temper tantrum 1 drink

1-800-Got-Junk Trucks show up 1 drink for each

Hoarder pulls stuff off truck - double

Organizer trips in the hoard 1 drink
Organizer offers to take off their shoes in the hoard Chug
Dead Rodents (Includes Squirrels) - 1 drink
Feces (Animal) - 1 for each fece
Feces (Human) - double
Maggots - double
Clean up worker smells something bizarre - Gags - 1 drink
Matt smells something bizarre – calls it an “experience” triple
Utilities Cut Off - 2 drinks
Running Out Of Time To Clean Up Before The Episode Ends - 1 drink

Texting with the Enemy

2011-07-29T14:18:00.003-04:00

It started in a meet-cute kind of way. I was taking notes on the interior of a bar for a short story I was procrastinating writing. He was drinking with some friends. He smiled at me as I sat sipping a three-dollar beer. I smiled back and thought, Wow, he's really cute. And I know it sounds corny, but I had this sense that he might be a kind person. Genuine. Nice, I thought. But then I went back to my note taking. I was on the job and not looking to be distracted by men. Even one wearing a tie and a shirt that showed off his muscular build. But twenty minutes later when he said, Are you a writer? I found myself inviting him to sit next to me. And then we were flirting and touching each others' arms and laughing. It was, as they say, on.

It turned out that he was significantly younger than me. This didn't surprise me because the majority of the men who approach me are significantly younger than me. Why this is I don't know. I've given up trying to make things be different than how they are, especially because being a younger man magnet probably qualifies as a very "first world problem." Or as my friend Eric put it: No one feels sorry for you, bitch. Just enjoy it. Further, I've dated enough younger men to know that age truly is just a number. Maturity and age do not necessarily come together and result in a well-seasoned individual. Look at Mick Jagger or Anthony Weiner or Courtney Love. One younger man I dated a few years ago stands out as one of the most responsible and considerate (and sensual) men I've ever dated. The point is I have reasons to believe that being open-minded pays off.

So, I let this attractive man chat me up and kid me about my notebook as he tried to take it from my hands so he could read what I had written. We argue-flirted about why I chose to take notes in this bar. We argue-flirted about current events and which one of us was enrolled in the more prestigious graduate program. (This is when I found out that my school does actually offer a few full-ride funding packages. They just don't go to the artists.) The back-and-forth between us rivaled the wit on 30 Rock and the light flattered us and we were drinking the same kind of beer. Oh my God! And then he just leaned in and kissed me. Like he had a right. Like I was his for the taking. Who does he think he is? I asked myself as I watched him walk to the end of the bar to talk to his friend. But the confidence had won me over. I agreed to go out with him.

And then it happened. As date number two crumbled into disaster before it even happened I was telling three of my friends his first and last name over ceviche and salsa. In case I end up stabbed or abducted, I said. My friend Mike repeated the name aloud and nodded his head. We were kidding, but we weren't. Because when someone you thought you were going to have sex with reveals themselves to be possibly psychotic, you never know. I've seen enough CBS 48 Hours to know that more than one man has stuffed his lady love into a garbage bag after she did something unforgivable -- like enroll in courses at the community college or wear lip gloss to the grocery store.

The specifics don't matter. You can watch a clip of The Burning Bed or any Lifetime movie to get a sense of the irrational trip to Crazy Town this guy took on my cell phone. And he never hurt me, so there really isn't anything to worry about. I'm not going to see him again. Unless he shows up on campus with a rifle to put you in your place. What??? Who said that? See? Those are the thoughts that punctuate my rational thoughts. Because people go nuts on each other every day. People who hold prestigious fellowships and jobs with many responsibilities. People who look hot in an oxford shirt in a rustic bar close to where I live. People who don't seem mentally unstable right away. People who inspire me to test my pepper spray to make sure it works.

I don't usually write publicly about recent (truly) upsetting events in my life. I find the best writing comes from at least a few months of seething, which I alternate with hyperbolic reenactments over the phone with various friends. And then I turn it all into comedy that I share while disguising the person's identity. Because I'm that spiritually mature. For those who may have forgotten, my personal motto is: I am a being of unconditional love, despite being surrounded by pigs. (No offense to pigs.)

This post serves multiple purposes. The first is that I just needed to vent. I needed to articulate for myself what happened so that I can shake him off and approach the other men in my life with openness while still remaining alert to red flags signaling I may be trading sexy emoticons with an abusive man. (Although, truly there were no overt, unmistakable signs here, which is why the whole thing is so nerve-wracking.) The second is that this post can serve as evidence. A trail of breadcrumbs perhaps if I really do suddenly disappear. The investigators can pore over my blog and see that it was all written here first. They can track down Mike who will remember the guy's first and last name, which will enable the dragnet to be enacted days earlier and allow my abductor to be subdued. Who knows? I may even still be alive.

Third, this post can operate as a public service announcement for all the single ladies. Hell, it can warn all the single men too. I'm pretty sure that anyone anywhere has the potential to be a lunatic or at least highly, inexplicably dysfunctional. So, what's the lesson here? I don't know yet. For today, maybe it's something like: Keep one hand unbuttoning his shirt and the other gripping your cell phone taser. Just in case. Happy dating!

Update: As I finished writing this, someone else asked me out. I said yes. So, obviously I'm not scarred for life. Or maybe I really am a little whore. I'll put up with a lot for a good essay.

Vacation: All I Ever Wanted

2011-07-18T16:52:00.000-04:00

I'm afraid to step away from the laptop because I wrote today. I wrote today and it was more than the minimum of five hundred words that I can often barely produce. It was possibly a couple thousand words. I won't look at it for a while because as I was writing it I kept thinking to myself: Didn't I used to be witty and fascinating? Didn't I used to be writer-fabulous? What happened to the woman who used to offer unique, sardonic, yet oddly charming slices of humanity on a platter of cute and delivered with surprising word choices and refreshing candor? Superficiality with a black licorice aftertaste* of depth was how I got into grad school. It's how I got my job as a teaching assistant. But now look at me. I'm drinking Emergen-C on my bed and checking TMZ and Dlisted because reading just one story about Rachel Uchitel returning the hush money to ex-paramourTiger Woods probably isn't enough. Plus, Hoarders and Intervention air tonight. And I no longer watch those shows to play the I-feel-comparatively-healthy game. It's an anthropological study. Just like online dating. So, please, who has time to write? Except, of course I do. I have time to write, and I think it's starting to kill my soul a little.

The thing is, I really did need a vacation. I did. This first year of grad school pushed me more than my mother when she was trying to convince me to enter a teen beauty pageant. I'm happy to say that while I said no to my mother, when it came to grad school, I just said yes. To everything. I read until my eyes burned. I took notes on what my classmates said about my work and paid attention to the choices they made as they wrote their own essays and stories. I stole as much as I could without being obvious about it. I considered every bit of advice my professors offered and then asked them for more. I even pulled an all-nighter, and I am as much against staying up all night as I am against getting up early. I attended every thesis reading and went out for drinks with a visiting writing teacher when all I wanted to do was sleep. The extremely drunk and momentarily sexually-confused gay man touching my boobs was the only thing that kept me from taking a nap on top of the piano in between Lady Gaga and Rhianna songs. So, once the semester ended, I settled into a state of sloth because I knew I had earned it.

So, take a vacation I did. I toured the mind-numbing and restorative cities of YouTube, Hulu and Netflix. I enjoyed it so much, I went back -- repeatedly. In fact, I'm writing this post from the high thread count sheets of my tour bus -- my bed. A box fan on the floor simulates a rejuvenating summer wind that keeps me cool when I occasionally freak out about how much writing I am not doing. In a few minutes, I'll get up and do yoga. Because if I'm going to ruin my life by failing to live up to my potential I'm going to need something to fall back on. I'm counting on a nice butt. And that brings me to my other much needed distraction -- dating.

I didn't date even one person during the whole of my first year in grad school. Not even a drunken kiss with someone I knew I shouldn't be touching. NOTHING. I had my priorities. Being a prolific writer and teaching creative writing were all I thought about. Plus, there are maybe three straight guys in my program. One is sometimes single. So, yes, Stella needed to get her groove back and how. And since half of what I write about comes directly from my dating life, this was almost as good as writing. I was running low on material to feed my what-in-God's-name-was-he-thinking? stories. And guess what? After a few weeks on the Internet and a few dates later, I am happy to say I am all caught up. My confusion regarding the male brain has been restored and I had a great time doing it. And I actually still like men, which shows even more growth on my part. Wait. What am I stressing about? Maybe it's the Vitamin C or the extra sleep, but all of a sudden I feel like I've worked much harder than I've given myself credit for. As a matter of fact, I think I deserve a night off.

* Thanks to Jessica Thummel and Crow Hill for the black licorice aftertaste inspiration.

Sleep and Mosquitoes

2011-07-06T13:29:00.002-04:00

How is it possible that at this point in the summer I am still needing so much sleep? I gave up on trying to become a morning person because of how groggy, crabby and disoriented I felt all the time. And at this point, it's heatstroke-hot by about seven, so motivating myself with exercise is no longer possible. So, whatever. I've chosen to spend the time mourning the quick passing of summer by taking lots of naps, watching Ugly Betty on Netflix and, of course, doing lots of writerly things -- procrastination, drinking, and spacing out on the couch. Still, I'm reading Sophocles and hoping to move onto Shakespeare by tomorrow. Okay, I am not hoping to move on to Othello, especially when I have yet to get into The Sociopath Next Door and a book about mega hot-mess-diva-fashionista-gay-icon Little Edie Beale. The literature is part of a course for which I will assist a professor this fall. I am expected to be able to answer questions other than What if every stapler on campus is out of staples? What then, teacher-lady with a way intense attachment to stapled work? So, I'm reading as much as possible ahead of time and trying to come up with ways to make ancient poetry exciting and relevant. It's very tiring. Hence, the napping.

At the moment several scratched-open mosquito bites dot both my legs because I watched the Independence Day fireworks without applying bug repellent first. I forgot how terrible the mosquitoes here are until I woke up in the middle of the night scratching like the protagonist from every 80s anti-drug after-school special. It was usually PCP or LSD that caused the bad kid to hallucinate bugs crawling all over his or her skin just before leaping out the window of the biology lab to die in bloody shards of broken glass while McGruff the Crime Dog or the gym teacher would shake his or her head, muttering, "So young. If only Paul would have resisted peer pressure like we talked about in class. Tsk. Tsk." Long exhalation, followed by someone like Tatum O'Neal walking onscreen in Jordache jeans and launching into her post-rehab propaganda. Hi, I'm Tatum O'Neal and although the after-school special you just saw was a fictional story, the dangers of drug use are very real. I should know. The point is, I was itching bad. I woke up several times and covered my legs in After Bite, the active ingredient of which is ammonia. I suppose this is slightly less toxic than nail polish remover, which is what I used last year when I decided it was safer than using a lit match.

I didn't get enough sleep due to waking to reapply After Bite. Therefore, my agenda for today is read a few pages of Antigone, eat some Cheez-Its, drink some orange juice, read a few more pages, nap, wake up, drink more orange juice, pet cats, read weird emails from men on dating websites who tell me what a cute princess I am, disable online dating profile, reapply After Bite, read a few more pages of Antigone and then take the evening off. Spend much time choosing between meeting my writing quota or watching Ugly Betty. Or maybe I will go out and sip a cocktail since that cute bartender is working. I don't actually want to go on a date tonight. My legs are too itchy. The welts distract me like tiny, whiny babies. I am the Octomom of insect bites and my decision to venture outside without bug repellent was nearly as unwise as her decision to start her own child army.* But that sounds kind of judgmental, doesn't it? I'm crabby, which can mean just one thing. It's nap time. Can't fight it. It's summer in the South, and the weather is perfect for sleeping.

* The term child army belongs to Michael K of Dlisted. I wish I could take credit for it, but he would shank me in the neck if I plagiarized him.

Born This Way

2011-06-27T19:02:00.002-04:00

I got up at six this morning. It wasn't for anything good like still-half-asleep sex or my cats somehow figuring out how to make me a latte. I got up because this summer I've been trying to transform into a morning person. Many of the writers I know start their days, some as early as five, making sure that the first thing they do is to write. I hate these people because they possess something I fear I never will -- the ability to form sentences at an early hour. I don't like to do anything at an early hour except sleep. In truth, I am more or less dysfunctional before eight. This is inconvenient because I have to teach at eight in the morning in the spring (and I am already worried about it.) Thus, I am trying to fool my natural rhythms into submitting to my will. But like all of my previous attempts to morning-ize myself, this one has also been difficult.

I am a night person, which means that I start getting squirrelly around seven or eight p.m. I often start writing at eleven o' clock in the evening. I can easily write until three in the morning and have to force myself to go to bed. My best ideas come well after sundown and well after everyone else I know has gone to sleep. And while I have come to accept this about myself, I find that the world around me has not. Employers generally expect people to be present in body and mind at nine a.m. Thing is, I'm usually right in the middle of my me time at nine a.m. I have this whole routine: turn on the coffee pot, shower, perhaps exfoliate with grapefruit salt scrub, drink my first cup of coffee, scan the online headlines (Dan Savage, Salon... Dlisted), do yoga, sometimes while sipping a second cup of coffee and listening to ambient, chanty hippie music, worship my cats in a variety of ways and finally psych myself up to go out into the world and interact with humans. It is very difficult for me to complete all of the above before ten a.m., which is also the earliest time I ideally would begin speaking.

In a more fair world I would have been born with a knack for mixing drinks or driving eighteen wheelers so I could work nights. As it is, I am afraid of both drunk people and driving. And while being a freelance writer does address my most nocturnal of needs, so far I've succeeded only at the free part. But living in the South provides me with further motivation to get up and go as early as possible -- the heat. Walking four miles in the heat of the day in North Carolina is like being date raped in the sauna by Satan. Walking along the Cape Fear River early in the very early morning while it's still relatively cool is more peaceful and beautiful than I ever could have known, and I love it. Not as peaceful and beautiful as me remaining asleep, of course, but I've motivated myself with the exercise, telling myself that being up early will get me to the page to write sooner. This is how the internal dialogue went:

I will be so fucking efficient! I'll have a chapter of my book done by the end of July! You are so awesome, Kerry! No, really? Oh, girl, just own it. Hee hee, thanks. I guess you're right. I am a writing, exercising goddess of the page and overlord of my reality. I kick so much ass! And look at my hair!

Reality: Post-four-mile walk, I zombie my way through the rest of the day, confused by things like paying bills and using my phone. Today, I nearly fell asleep while drinking coffee. I fell into a deep, REM sleep as soon as I laid down my head. And if today is like the rest of my early morning days, I will start to fall asleep by around ten p.m. In short, I am needing more sleep than ever to cope with forcing myself to get up earlier than my instincts want, making me wonder if becoming a morning person is even possible. I've been able to make myself get up, but my mind has been too foggy to write much. And the ever-present desire to nap makes getting motivated to clean my house even more difficult. And get this: I barely had the stamina to flat iron my hair. Uh-huh, it's that bad.

But the truth is that I still have that eight a.m. class to teach, so I'm hoping to find some kind of middle-ground. I don't want to feel headachey, crabby and confused for an entire semester, so I'm hoping all this morning training I am putting myself through will pay off. The morning walk has paid off in the form of my new and improved body. Just ask the creeper who sits on the bench and watches me for the entire half mile he can see me. I want to design a t-shirt that reads: Carrying pepper spay, by the way. But the good news is that, at that hour, I'm still half asleep and unable to fully register pig vibes. Here's hoping that by August I will be able to! Wait. I mean something else. Something empowering about the crack of dawn. Maybe I'll find it tonight at bedtime, which can't come quickly enough.

6/29/2011 UPDATE: I slept in until 9:30 this morning. Guess what? My brain is functioning properly for the first time in over two weeks. Dishes done, writing started. Outlook on life improved. Can't be helped.

Sick of Sick

2011-06-23T21:41:00.000-04:00

I don't know if I can watch Hoarders anymore. The new season just started, but where I once possessed a rabid fascination with people who keep six year old blocks of cream cheese and Cabbage Patch dolls covered in mouse droppings, I now own a sneering sense of disgust. Maybe I shouldn't have watched the pre-premiere episode, which provided updates on hoarders featured in previous episodes. A year after the 1-800-Got-Junk? crew literally shoveled paths through her house to clean it, Betty has replaced all of the discarded crap with a new, depressing pile of filth that spills into every room in the house. Adult Protective Services removed her sick husband from the home for the second time, calling the environment unfit. Once again, the counselor-lady assigned to the case put on her Celestial Seasonings Tea voice and said, "Betty, do you want your husband to live here?"

Hey counselor-lady, I think we all know the answer to that question. The day Betty's husband required a home oxygen unit would have been the day a woman who loves her husband would have scraped the cat shit off the floor. I know, I know, Betty's husband maybe did something vile thirty years ago. And maybe prior to becoming seriously ill he was a slob and expected Betty to pick up his underwear every night. Or maybe he used to beat her when he had muscle control. I get it. But really? Condemning your own home is easier than getting a divorce? I'll fix his wagon! I'm going to fill the house with empty Cheez-It boxes!

I don't think I can witness this anymore.

Betty, in her smug, no-one's-gonna-touch-my-stuff neurosis, has been threatened with jail time. She's on the verge of losing her house altogether because the city wants to condemn it. And yet she stares down the counselor like she's holding all the cards. Like she's got it all together and the counselor, the cleanup crew, and her family members are merely bothersome idiots in her world. I want the counselor to break protocol just once and slap one of these pack rats across the face like she was Cher in Moonstruck. "Snap out of it!" But no. The counselor presses her lips together and nods her head and says something like, "This is really hard for you, isn't it?"

Tonight I couldn't take it. I looked into Betty's cloudy, angry eyes and saw that it isn't really that hard for her. It is, however, hard for me. I can't take hearing that Betty started hoarding over at her son's house too and that she did it to such a degree that Child Protective Services took away his kids temporarily. AHHHHHH!!!! My mind can't take this. And the show didn't answer the question that's been biting my brain ever since: How does a hoarder hoard at somebody else's house????? It's called locking the door, Betty's Son. It's called saying, "Mom, you're tripping and I am done." And now I have to wonder if Betty's son is crazy too. And I don't want to wonder that right now. I want to think about redemption and recovery and trauma transformed into something useful -- like all those newspapers recycled and turned into pulp to make drop ceilings or something.

Maybe I've been spoiled by too many episodes of Clean House on Netflix. Everyone on that show is neurotic too, but they all seem to want to get clear from the clutter. And nobody needs to explain to them that Depends are not a reasonable alternative to functional indoor plumbing. Plus, there's that hot guy who fixes things. Nobody on Hoarders is hot. (I'm sorry, Dr. Zasio, your hairstyle disqualifies you.) So, I don't know. Maybe my sudden aversion to hopeless abnormal psych cases means I've reached some inner conclusions of my own. Ones that pertain to the mental hoard known as my mind. Or maybe I just need to go back to watching documentaries about Scientology and Jonestown.

On a positive note, the adorable kid from Novato, California who once feared cleaning up his dog's hair was shortening his dog's life seems to be doing well in his recovery. And his alcoholic father says he's down to just one or two beers a night. Um, yeah, okay, let's just leave it at the adorable kid from Novato is doing well...

Young Writers in the Not-So-Wild

2011-06-22T13:43:00.000-04:00

When friends of mine asked me if I would be interested in helping out with summer camp I believe my exact words were, "Fuck no." But I hadn't understood. Where I had visions of hiking until I cry and eating Clif Bars they had intentions of black-and-white composition notebooks and brainstorming sessions. My friends were talking about summer camp for high school writers, which includes air conditioning and daily access to showers. And since all they wanted me to do was lead morning writing exercises, I didn't even have to live on campus. I just had to show up and attempt to generate some writing-related enthusiasm. Once I clarified that morning exercises did not include any actual athleticism I decided it would be great fun. Today was Day Two at camp. I'm happy to say it's been the highpoint of my summer. (Though those strappy sandals I bought on sale were pretty thrilling.)

These kids have come to UNCW from all over the state. One camper came all the way from Colorado. They're learning about the writing life and how to workshop from the counselors who spend all day and night with them. I come in just after their breakfast of fat, sugar and caffeine and warm up their brains with quirky, no-pressure writing exercises. Yesterday, I had the students write about themselves as their superhero selves and begin a creation myth type autobiography. I revealed that I myself am a superhero, which I thought they took fairly well since I told them my weapons were humor and aromatherapy. We also wrote a list entitled 26 Things You Should Know About Me. I read my list first. One of the campers then read his list, which contained this item: I don't like prissy people. He looked directly at me and paused after he said it. It's possible that I talked about my hair conditioner more than was necessary.

The point is that I'm having a great time working with high school students. Compared to undergrads, they talk a lot more while I'm trying to talk. But they laugh more easily, and they seem more willing to reveal themselves to the group. Many of them probably don't fit in at their high schools because they read books voluntarily and want to try to write them. They are happy to meet grown up versions of themselves. People who once dyed their hair burgundy as I told them I used to do. I nodded my head. "Yeah, I even had a shaved head for a while." Their eyes popped out. I wouldn't say I impressed them or became one of them. (Those days are over anyway.) But I did feel the room settle into a collective She seems okay. High praise from high school writerly campers who are just dipping their toes into their own artistic potential. As for me, I'm blazing a trail in a pair of red flats and lip gloss. That's what I call camping.

People Who Live in Glass Hard Drives

2011-06-09T15:41:00.000-04:00

So, are Dan Savage and I alone in our lack of desire to see Rep. Anthony Weiner run out of town on a rail? It's true that each day reveals new and even seedier details about his tweeting, texting, sexting and giving PR advice to his online chat mates. And if the penis photo he sent to that 21-year-old woman really was unsolicited, then, yes, he needs to go. Now. That's sexual harassment and an abuse of power on his part. This young woman seems to be the only person reporting that the sexual nature of Weiner's tweet was not something in which she ever wanted to participate. And like I said, that's enough for him to need to pack up his office and audition for Dancing with the Stars. But beyond that, Weiner seems to be being judged more harshly than other politicians who have each had their own sex scandals. Media figures like Rachel Maddow and Dan Savage and Lawrence O'Donnell have all written and spoken about this with more eloquence than I could, naming people like David Vitter, Larry Craig and Mark Sanford as other politicians who also refused to resign in the aftermath of their sex scandals. So, you can look them up if you want to hear that angle discussed.

What strikes me as I watch pundits and everyday people weigh in on the events is how unaware of reality they seem to be. I can only suspect that the women and men who find sending dick pics and sexts shocking and offensive haven't ever tried to get a date using the Internet. And to those people, I need to say this: The Internet is full of men who send cock shots to just about anyone they happen to connect with online. Whether you are shopping for a dresser on Craig's List or surfing for eligible bachelors on dating websites, there is no shortage of men whip out the sex talk and the crotch shots almost immediately. What I am saying is that Anthony Weiner didn't do anything different than many, many other men do. I'm talking about men with families, men with and without girlfriends. I'm talking about men. All men? No. But a shitload. A SHITLOAD. I don't think we do ourselves any favors by holding Anthony Weiner up to a standard that many men do not meet themselves. And why are these women coming forward if it was consensual? Are they embarrassed because each thought they were the only one? If the contact was actually consensual, then why is it our business?

If I were his pregnant wife I would likely be pretty pissed right now. Mostly because he comes off as a fifteen-year-old infatuated with his penis: I have a wee-wee! I seriously doubt she gave him permission to behave this way. And if she did, as I heard one person say, surely she would have insisted he do it in a way in which he wouldn't get caught. (Maybe Weiner's stupidity is enough for him to be ousted.) But it's her business, not mine. And if an ethics committee investigation reveals that Weiner acted improperly while using official resources, how about if he accepts his punishment as it's handed down to him and every other scandalized politician?

The number of men who love taking snapshots of their own dicks is high. The number of men, married and otherwise, using the Internet to get off is high. These men are choosing to remain largely silent right now. They're allowing Weiner to be held up as an anomaly. But they are out there. Yes, they are. If you really don't know that, I'm telling you now. And if you don't believe me, place a personal ad on a dating website. Place an ad looking for a housemate. Dick pics are as common as the expression LOL. Anthony Weiner may have acted like an idiot, but he's not alone. In fact, he's got a lot of company. I think that's relevant. As relevant as the concept of family values and professionalism. As relevant as reality, which comes with a lot of nakedness on the Internet.

Just saying.

The Importance of Being Earnest

2011-06-06T12:24:00.000-04:00

So, I've been playing The Dating Game on the Internet. Years ago, I posted profiles with what I thought was the right balance between wit and accessibility. I wanted to come across as charming yet in possession of more than a teacup of brain cells. ( I now realize that nobody but me and maybe two other people consider a lack of brain cells a deal breaker.) I met lots of people, but dated just two. One turned out to have a God complex and spent most of our dates belittling my poor spiritual development. The other was a funny, writer type who, unfortunately, stunted himself by dating underage girls to the point where adult interactions befuddled him. Like they were mystical experiences. He left me for a pipsqueak on MySpace. Enough said. That was too bad because I really liked him. And then I decided that the Internet was a bad pimp. And it was a lot of work to weed through all those responses. Who was lying? Who was crazy? No, I was better off on my own, meeting men at the smoothie bar at Whole Foods. I viewed the experience as a worthy anthropological experiment and nothing more.

Fast forward a few years to my friend Eric who decided that with or without my permission, he was going to score me some dates. It was after midnight when I got the email on my phone. It was my username and password to the online profile Eric had created for me. At my house a few hours earlier he had said, "You should let me write a profile for you for a dating website. I love to do that kind of thing." I had shrugged my shoulders and scrunched my nose. "Ugh. Maybe. I don't know." I'd said.

"Sounded like a yes to me," he said later when I asked him if he had lost his mind. "And anyway, look how many people want to go out with you." It was true. In just a few hours, I had received thirteen messages. I had nothing to complain about was his point. So, I left the profile up. Turns out he did a pretty good job with the write-up. Where I had always wanted to make sure I came across as sincere and deep and intelligent with a bit of sass he stuck to lighthearted and fewer words. "It's all about the picture anyway," he said. "Half the men aren't even going to read your profile." Oh. Good to know. This is why I hang out with gay men. They know everything.

This is the part where I write about how awesome online dating was the second time around. Except it wasn't, unless you count the collection of six-pack abdomen photos I gained. Right away a man who called himself Spencer started sending me daily messages. He suspected I might be fabulous. (How intuitive!) We traded emails for a bit. I'll spare you the whole cliche story and get right to the end. A guy who is too busy to meet is either married or not who he said he is. And so that was that. I never confronted him. (Why would I? To prod him to spontaneously grow a conscience?) I just disabled my profile and went back to what was working in my life -- everything else. Who needed to date? I was, however, irritated that I had devoted even a minute of time I could have been reading or writing to a man who had no intention of ever meeting me in real life. I didn't intend to make that mistake again.

But now it's summer. I have time to do things like get enough sleep and get my car inspected. I even got a haircut. (Fabulous, by the way, thanks to Jessica.) Again it was Eric with the ideas. "You should reactivate your profile for summer," he said. This was after his best efforts to be my wing man at a straight bar proved unsuccessful. Most of the men out that night were packed together in tight groups of male bonding. They didn't seem interested in meeting women at all. Or as Eric put it, "What's with all the bromance?" And then I got hit on by a woman who spent the rest of the night putting herself in between me and any man she thought I liked. The cock-blocking lesbian did me no favors.

So, I'm back online. I'm barely participating because I still don't find it all that useful. I'm not looking for my other half, not looking to be completed. It'd be nice to sip a martini with somebody kind and cute who is also complete and maybe just cocky enough to tell the truth on the Internet, knowing it's enough. Fate can take care of the rest. But I know that's a lot to ask in the era of penis pics and disembodied sexts from strangers. For now, I am grating ginger so I can make yellow curry. I am shopping for sandals and reading Oscar Wilde. I'm reinventing myself for year two in grad school. I'm doing this with sincerity and self-love, with one eye peeking at the Internet. Just in case. Hoping to be surprised.

Southern Discomfort: A Guide to Dating in the South

2011-06-01T14:48:00.000-04:00

First, write a list of the positives. My list contains things like this: Southern men open doors for me. Southern men volunteer to carry heavy bags and walk me to my car after dark. The words Nice to see you again sound especially sexy in a North Carolina drawl. Southern men, unlike California men, tend not to cry while hitting on ladies they like. You get the idea.

After you have written your list, attach it with a magnet to your refrigerator. You'll want to refer to it immediately when you return from your latest failed date or scouting mission. It will not provide much solace, it's true. However, the fact that you have written such an optimistic list suggests that you are a mature person, which grants you the right to call your friends in other less southern areas of the country and reenact your underwhelming evening in a one-woman show. I have a matinee performance slotted for New Mexico tomorrow. (Get ready, Vera.)

Based on my experience, I've compiled a list of tips for surviving dating in the South.

* Practice in the mirror a variety of neutral facial expressions you can whip out to cover your horror when your southern gentleman says things like:

"I only watch Fox News."
"Obama is a socialist Muslim."
"Do you feel safe where you live?" (translation: I notice you don't live in an all-white neighborhood.)

* Be aware that your potential southern soul mate might find the following things offensive and or threatening:

yoga (because of the Devil)
MSNBC & The New York Times (because of the Devil)
your interest in sex (because of the Devil)

* Remember, it isn't enough to impress him only. You've also got to win over Jesus. In other words, don't offer to give him a tarot card reading or wish him a happy Equinox. Turns out Jesus isn't as unconditionally loving as he was back in your bible school days. Yikes!

* Don't disrespect the barbecue. Just don't do it. (But if you truly dislike pulled pork as I do, just tell him you ate at church.)

* Just let him think those ginormous roaches are "water bugs." You can't win this argument. (But I looked this up online. They are roaches.)

Well, that's all I have for today, but summer just started. Hopefully, by the end of June I will have sucked down enough mint juleps to have absorbed some additional bits of wisdom. Or maybe not. Whatever. I am reading Mark Twain and enjoying the smell of honeysuckle. Perhaps that is enough. Or maybe I will go out again tonight. Later, y'all.

End of Year One in Grad School

2011-05-22T12:28:00.001-04:00

That was the busiest semester of my life. I wrote poetry, fiction and nonfiction in three different workshops and taught Introduction to Creative Writing for the second time. I also read the slush pile and logged submissions for the literary journal Ecotone. In addition, I used my flat iron several times to straighten my hair. In short, I worked hard and accomplished a lot. It's been a couple weeks since school ended, and I am still trying to unwind. My shoulders remain knotted into balls of tension. My house remains messy even though I remember cleaning it at least twice in the past couple weeks. Whatever. I am drinking coffee in bed until mid-morning, lounging over articles in Salon, watching episodes of Hardball. ( I recently admitted on Facebook that I think Chris Matthews is a little bit hot, especially when he's asking Michelle Bachmann if she's a robot.) I am trying to construct my long to-do list, which will carry me through the summer as I prepare for the fall. Here's what it looks like so far.

I aspire to get back into walking four miles a day. Despite buying two new sports bras and four new shirts whose labels boasted about their wicking properties, the working out has proved challenging. I did it for several days before I began to feel the pain of an old foot injury. I stepped on a chunk of cement (concrete?) outside the health food store in October while wearing flats. My foot has never been the same. I had hoped it would have healed by now, but four miles seems to aggravate the injury. This leaves me with yoga, which I am not in the mood to do right now. I don't feel like being that evolved this week. So, I think I am going to buy a copy of that book The Secret and learn how to manifest a perfect, healthy body by demanding it from the Universe as my right. Why didn't I think of this earlier?

I am falling in love with Jane Austen as a writer. Pride and Prejudice has sucked me in. What is it about rigid etiquette and the aristocracy that appeals to a smart alecky, raised-on-foods-stamps girl like me? The simmering, unspoken passions and the wit of Elizabeth. God, it's so... much better than anything I've seen on Say Yes to the Dress. So, that's what I am doing today -- indulging in the role of voyeur as Elizabeth rejects Darcy, not realizing he will soon occupy all of her thoughts against her wishes. And then I have to come up with a lesson plan that might convince my students that reading this book was worth their time. Actually, I need to convince them to read it first. I'm open to suggestions.

I want to rearrange my apartment. No, I don't. I want someone else to do it and then come back once a week to put it all back together again after I rip it apart making curry and leaving books everywhere. Actually, I want someone else to also make the curry. But I can chew my own food. Thanks.

Back to reading. Maybe writing. Maybe taking naps and dreaming of a summer spent reading and writing.

Self-Promotion

2011-04-18T22:53:00.001-04:00

I'm taking a tiny break from reading the engaging work of one of my classmates. It's hard to do a close reading when you're preoccupied with your own writing. I don't even qualify as a blogger anymore. However, I'm posting a link to my essay "The Undergraduate," which was just published by Tawdry Bawdry, an online journal that focuses on sexuality. If you've given up on me as a blogger, you can follow this link and see that I really have been writing. It has not been eight months of instant viewing on Netflix. Definitely not. I hope you like it. If not, well, I've developed a tougher shell since starting grad school. I can take it. But really, there's no real need to email me your disappointment. Enjoy!

http://tawdrybawdry.com/Essays/Essays.html

Even More Random Thoughts I Failed to Make Relevant

2011-01-08T12:56:00.000-05:00

At this point it is a cliche for me to start another blog post about how I have more or less abandoned my blog, so I won't do it. I'll just leap forward into my next cliche and tell you that it's time for my year-in-review-type post that I've been doing for the last ten years. Okay, three. I've lost track. I remember one year I wrote a New Year's post sitting on the sidewalk behind a closed coffeehouse sucking up free Wi-fi. God, that was a sucky time. I think I have since deleted all my posts regarding that sociopath of a housemate I had for a while. The one that also hated women. I'd like to say I deferred to my higher angels and offered myself as a being of compassionate grace. I'd like to say that. But the truth is that, after a week or two of giving said psycho the benefit of the doubt, I recycled him into satire to preserve my own sanity. I guess this the place where I need to establish some kind of connection between all that and this year: THINGS IN MY LIFE NO LONGER SUCK. Except I don't have the attention span for that today.

Here's what's new: I gave my sister a massage for her birthday. It's the first full massage I have done in (really?) four years. She was a smart aleck about it and asked me to wear a polo shirt (the corporate spa whore uniform.) Nevertheless, I tuned my Internet radio to the Krishna Das station and slathered lavender oil and ylang-ylang lotion all over her. I remembered how my arm used to hurt just from tuning my radio or using an eraser. I recalled how I considered lying about my age and working as a stripper because I was so broke after I lost my job. And because I already felt exploited. How much worse could stripping have been? I will never again earn my living as a massage therapist. It sucks my creativity, and my arm could never handle more than part time work. However, I reclaimed the skills I worked so hard to cultivate. I gave them as a gift and on my terms. I didn't know whether I would ever recover enough to do a massage, so that was a big deal. Go me.

Actually, writing that makes me realize how far I have come. I am remembering one particular former co-worker who made a snide comment about me collecting workers' comp. She was not a massage therapist, and she had no idea how hard I worked for ten years before I injured my arm. The rumor in the spa was that she dipped into the massage therapists' tips to buy her pot. I never knew if this was true. Her hard edges remained sharp, as did her viciousness. If she was high, she was not high enough. Thinking of her now, I am surprised how much of a burn there is in my chest. I never thought of clever comebacks to counter the insults she hurled until I was back at home. It wouldn't have been worth it anyway. She would have enjoyed the attention. So, why am I wasting my blog on her? Hmm.. I could make some connection between leaving behind the less helpful people and where I am now. However, the truth is that it was really a stream of consciousness moment that I am too lazy to edit.

My friend Ben wants me to stop talking about "Hoarders." I had dinner with friends last night, and Ben wasn't there, so I got it out of my system. We discussed the show for at least twenty minutes, including our impersonations of Dr. Robin Zasio. Two of the three of us agreed that she needs a consultant with a better hair stylist. The other did not care. And I was not the one who brought up the subject, so I don't think that conversation should be held against me the next time Ben tells me: "You always talk about "Hoarders!" But I do want to let people know that this week's show involves live, free-range rats. Way better than Monday Night Football.

I start school again in a few days. Yikes. I mean, I can't wait! I am excited, of course, to dive into my second semester of my MFA program. It's just that grad school is an exercise in extreme time management. I just found out that one of my workshops also requires that I read eleven books. I also decided to write nonfiction, fiction and poetry all in one semester. I wanted to get some out-of-genre requirements out of the way, and I also wanted to challenge myself. I started writing fiction and poetry over break. I am officially challenged. Ugh. Writing nonfiction is my comfort zone. I know how to deal with the roadblocks I encounter in nonfiction. I know how to dive to greater depths to discover what's even more true about telling the truth. Making up characters and thinking about meter? Not so much. But I have to do this if I want to grow as a writer, so there's nothing to do but chain myself to my laptop until I produce something.

Non-writing goals for 2011: Learn how to make Pad Thai (maybe.) Find a way to get back to walking four miles a day. Find out if my cat is un-spayed or if she is simply an artistic personality. Drink coffee RIGHT NOW because I am falling asleep. (My cat decides what time I get up, and today it was too early.)

Happy New Year, y'all! Thanks for reading another series of unconnected ramblings.

Semester Season Finale

2010-12-07T13:11:00.000-05:00

I just returned from dropping off my five million page final paper for my pedagogy class, which details week-by-week how I brainwashed undergraduate creative writing students into switching their majors from chemistry and poly-sci to poetry. I'm very tired from all that proselytizing, so I hope I can find some poor quality viewing tonight either via Netflix or the Internet. Or I might just wrap myself in my newly purchased electric blanket and fall asleep. My short term goal is to engage in some hardcore sloth for at least 24 hours or until I can't stand the fact that I still haven't folded my laundry. Then I will emerge and get busy because over break I have to write new work in three different genres -- poetry, fiction and nonfiction. It will be a working vacation is the point, which means that I really am entitled to be a lazy slob for at least one day.

Wow, I'm already worn out from writing this. That's saying something, considering I don't hold myself to any real standards on this blog. I've reduced my online use of the term "bitchslap"since I became a TA, and I do attempt to spell correctly. Aside from that, however, it's a free-for-all. So, what I'm saying is that this is going to be short because I don't want to have to sit up right now. So, how about if I do a brief semester recap for those who haven't seen me since I left California and Oregon for the southern charm of Wilmington?

I still love my writing program. My writing is getting stronger and I have not come close to becoming an alcoholic. My low, low tolerance remains in tact, despite the fact that I am surrounded by folks who can throw back the booze like professionals. I am usually on the sidelines making my one glass of wine last three hours and trying to figure out how I can downplay that I am borderline drunk from it. However, the girl who barely drinks is always a popular party guest because she leaves plenty to drink for everybody else AND she might fall asleep in your arms like a cat if you wait long enough. It's working out is the point.

My classes were great this semester. I got graduate school credit for reading Jacqueline Susann's Valley of the Dolls and Stephen King's Carrie, for one thing. For another, I got to workshop with very talented classmates, some of whom I suspect I'll be trading work with for the rest of my life.

I read from my work at the graduate student holiday reading the other night. Since I had already read in front over a hundred undergraduates in lecture, I didn't think I would be nervous. So. Not. True. This crowd was composed of my peers and faculty members I haven't yet met. People who are talented enough to judge me. Nevertheless, the crowd was with me and every other writer who read that night. I felt like I was on an HBO special showcasing up-and-coming literary figures. It was totally fun. I also used a flat iron for the first time, which gave me hair power of the straight variety -- a new and still mostly untested level of fabulous that I plan to whip out more often.

There's more, of course, but that's enough for now. Like I said, the desire to marinate in my own end-of-the-semester success beckons, and I need to either take a nap or invite over some classmates. One way or the other, I'm celebrating, even if I do it in my sleep.

Sniffly Little Thing

2010-11-03T22:26:00.000-04:00

I'm sick, which is inconvenient when you are a graduate student and a graduate student who teaches and attends her own classes. Fortunately (and unfortunately) normally scheduled classes are canceled this week for UNCW's Writers Week, which brings writers to campus who give craft lectures, readings, participate in panel discussions and, for those who take Writers Week as a class, provide manuscript feedback. It's a pretty incredible event because the event essentially expands the faculty for a week and provides even more access to even more writers. So how much does it suck that I was lying in bed with my cat and herbal tea instead of listening to Denis Johnson read? How much does it suck that I missed Rivka Galchen's fiction craft lecture? A lot. However, I'm focusing on the positive.

The positives are many. I didn't have to cancel any of the classes I teach, which is fortunate considering I don't even know what the protocol is for calling in sick. We never went over that in pedagogy. It's hard enough to keep up without me canceling a class. And right now we're doing poetry, which my students are mainly tolerating because of the goodwill I've managed to generate among them. They are humoring me when I tell them "I promise you, it can be interesting if you find the poetry that appeals to you." I gave them poetry by Pittsburgh poet Jan Beatty because it seems very grounded, tangible and accessible to me, especially her poem entitled "A Waitress' Instructions on Tipping or: Get the Cash Up and Don't Waste My Time." It's as straight forward as the title suggests. My students liked it, so point one for teacher-lady. I don't think I have the physical strength this week to convince anyone to remain open-minded about poetry. My sinuses are too congested to keep my airways open let alone my mind. So, it was good that I got sick during Writers Week.

Okay, one more bad thing. I was too sick to vote. I really was. So blame me. North Carolina turned an even deeper shade of red due to my negligence. I had the sample ballot filled out and everything. This is why I do absentee ballots. But I forgot to sign up this year. Even though I've been driving past candidate signage daily since September, I've been too busy to actually process the meaning of it. Ditto for the mailings I received nearly everyday last month. Oops. But dare I say it? My vote wouldn't have helped this time. Not this time. Not in this county.

Back to my better angels though. I did make it to some of the events of Writers Week. On Monday I didn't yet realize I was sick, so I attended a craft lecture by poet Jon Pineda, which was fantastic. I now know how to perhaps convince my students that they shouldn't trash me on Rate My Professor dot com when I make them discuss poetry. I also attended a poetry panel discussion on revision and publishing. And this morning, though it was a struggle, I attended a fantastically informative lecture by nonfiction writer Katie Fallon. She focused on research methods, which was great because I can't fit the UNCW course on research for writers into my schedule this spring. I had to suck on cough drops for the entire lecture, and even then I still coughed up enough phlegm to receive a few Shut-it-bitch glares.

I'm having a manuscript meeting with writer Jay Varner on Friday, which is also good because by then I will have to be significantly better. Varner graduated from UNCW, and his memoir Nothing Left to Burn just hit stores in September. Get this story. Varner's father was the town fire chief. His grandfather was the town's serial arsonist. What? He had two choices: Become an alcoholic or write the book. Of course, that's my interpretation and not his. Of course those options are not mutually exclusive. Anyway, I submitted my manuscript "Confessions of a Reluctant Cougar," so hopefully, he has a sense of humor. I figure I stand a better chance if I can refrain from making him physically ill. I should be able to handle that by Friday.

I had to get home early today though. So, like I said, I missed Rivka Galchen who wrote Atmospheric Disturbances and was named on that list of badass writers under 40. That's not really what it was called, but I can't remember the actual title. I'm sick, remember? So, while I was home drinking soup and grapefruit seed extract, I got some extra sleep. I had a dream that one of my classmates was trying to put his flash-drive into my computer. Uh, yeah, well, the unconscious will have its say even without cold medicine.I'm hoping to revisit that one tonight to better assess the gigabytes. I also indulged in some Internet viewing:

2 episodes of "Hoarders" (Fifty-seven birds this lady had.)
1 episode of Intervention (Weight lifter guy who realized too late in life he had no depth.)
The MSNBC Posse, which helped me mourn the election results (which I caused.)
The film "Hurlyburly," which I had from Netflix, but watched on my laptop because I wanted to watch in bed.
Some true crime show on Hulu. Typical: Man kills wife. Duh.
An episode of "Law & Order: SVU" Ice-T has apparently dyed his beard.

That's all I can remember. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to chug a nighty-night dose of grapefruit seed extract and see if I can catch up with Jon Stewart before my health returns and I have to return to my normally scheduled grad school program.

Hot Birthday Slut of the Day

2010-10-17T14:51:00.000-04:00

Today, because it is my birthday, is like New Year's Day might be for others -- a time for reflection and of setting new intentions I hope will propel me toward empowerment and away from unnecessary pain. Since I barely drink, I am not nursing a hangover. I am also already in fairly good shape, except for my weird cough that seems to be neither asthmatic nor strictly allergy-related. So, I don't need to make any empty promises to myself about working out or eating less red meat; I'm good with those elements of self-care. So, what is it that I do want to embody with my new year of life? Having both finished my undergraduate degree in writing and earning a place in one of the better regarded creative writing MFA programs means that I've accomplished two of my most thought-occupying endeavors. So, what's next?

It's hard to make the time to write everyday. I manage to do yoga and or walk and meditate nearly everyday. This has done me a lot of good and has perhaps prevented a couple homicides and an emotional breakdown or two. I start my day more grounded and as a much more pleasant person as a result of these morning choices I make. My morning choices also include reading the blog of sex columnist and badass Dan Savage, The Huffington Post and Dlisted -- an online gossip column that includes posts like Hot Slut of the Day (past winners have included marshmallow peeps, Sizzlelean and the host of the disco-based dance show Dance Fever Deney Terrio.) But now I'm getting the feeling, in that psychic birthday power way, that I now need to make writing much more of a priority than it has been. Well, duh, you may say, noting that I worked my middle-aged butt off to get into grad school and to be taken seriously by a writing community that has the potential to help me achieve some degree of writerly success. But now that I am here and fully engaged in the process, I find myself a little surprised that I am here in North Carolina, sitting at my writing desk and getting paid to write and read for three years. That was the goal, of course, but, well, I am not used to things working out like this. Like they were supposed to for me to exist in ideal conditions suited to create. So, I am adjusting.

So, I do this birthday thing in which I set the tone for the year. It may be a bunch of hooey to others, but I believe that how I spend my birthday is me setting the template for the year. So, it's important that I live this day consciously because I am invoking the cooperation of the universe (as much as I even have that ability) so that I might live these next twelve months in a proactive way that, hopefully, results in me contributing more positivity than negativity to the world and to myself. So, here's what I've been doing:

I've making my home more cozy by buying some artwork and more furniture. I am considering buying, for the first time, a sofa that is completely new instead of gently used. I also bought new twin sheets for my massage table and some almond oil because people have asked me when I plan to start offering my services as a massage therapist again. Now would be the answer, and it is just this weekend that I realized that this is true. Considering I didn't know if I would ever be physically healed enough from my arm injury to do massage again, this is kind of a big deal. A phoenix rising from the ashes of her burned out spa whore self-imprisonment kind of moment.

But writing, yes. I'm carving out the time to post this. It's just a blog post, I know, but I have student papers to grade and my kitchen is kind of messy right now. There are at least five other things pressing for my attention at the moment, and I am making time to do this instead. If I can do this every day and focus on the revisions that stand a chance of getting published, I might actually prove to myself that I am as committed as I suspect I am, but usually prove to myself in safe, sporadic bursts that don't take me over or push me into places I can't control. So, I'm making my yearly promise to myself that this year the writing needs to be as important as meditation, as cleaning the hair from my drains, as making notes in the margins of the stories my students turn in for grades.

The other part of the birthday ritual is to decide what I can let go of now that they no longer serve me. So, here's what I have let go of: I let go of my California phone number and changed it to a local one. Unfortunately, my new number is very close to one for UPS, so now I get at least one wrong phone number call a day. I can't wait for Christmas.

I also let go of some relationships that stagnated because one or both of us allowed the thing to wither and die. Our expectations shriveled like grapes on the vine. And sometimes even sorry doesn't pump life back into what has deflated. It was painful and disillusioning, but it's left room for what it is vital, growing and within my grasp. There are new friendships with writers. Some of them have already disappointed me, as I believe I have disappointed at least one of them. Nevertheless, this is where I belong, pulling in and pushing out, creating based on who I am now -- another year older and, if I am lucky, a tiny bit wiser than last year when none of what I have now seemed possible.

Take this Post as a Non-addictive Sleep-aid

2010-09-17T23:17:00.000-04:00

I'm too busy to blog. If I am not at school, absorbing the writerly knowledge of my professors and classmates, I am teaching Introduction to Creative Writing to undergrads (and reminding them of the awesome benefits of things like staples.) If I'm not doing those things, I am working on my own writing, grocery shopping or staring at my dirty bathroom and wondering how long I can put off cleaning so I can go to bed early. Oh, and there's my high maintenance cat, Chloe who is suffering from separation anxiety now that I am gone so many hours of the day. She's peed on a few things and she meows so loud at night ear plugs reduce the volume from a ten to nine and a half. But she's a cute little package of damaged goods that I intend to rehabilitate in all my free time. So, really, this post is just so I can say that I still have a blog.

Today was the day I ordered myself to buy sheets with a higher thread count. I know I am sensitive, but those poly-cotton sheets I bought in Queens a few years ago now feel like an exfoliation treatment instead of sheets. I had a no-more-wire-hangers moment and drove myself into the masses of Wilmington to upgrade my slumber accouterments. I washed them, as Chloe watched, wondering what I'd bought her because everything in this house belongs to her now, including all my cough drops and hair ties. Now they are on my bed all askew because the top sheet and the bottom sheet aren't even the same size. The flat sheet is a queen, the fitted one is a full. Guess who has to go back to the hell that is Target on a Saturday? But I am sleeping on them tonight. I only take up half the bed. I can enjoy my Princess and the Pea dreams on fine, organic mismatched sheets.

I went out last night with some new friends from school. I made my glass of pinot grigio last three hours and was yawning the whole time, but I stayed out until midnight. I left just as things were getting good. We were discussing which is the better TV show: "The Golden Girls" or "Designing Women." Now that I have had a chance to mull it over, I don't know why I couldn't decide last night. Clearly, "The Golden Girls" is the superior show. Bea Arthur? Rue? Betty? That lady who played Sophia? Please. Of course, I haven't seen "Designing Women" since I was in high school, so a little You Tube research is probably in order.Again, this will happen during my many minutes of free time.

My plan for tomorrow is to clean more and do homework. I really, really want to sleep in. Like big time sleep in until maybe eleven. But Chloe would never let me sleep that late. There are things to yowl about by 8:30. Still, I could sneak a nap. I am craving sleep like others crave cigarettes. My eyes are shutting as I write this.

I think this would be a good time for me to present myself The Most Boring Blog Post of All Time award and call it a night. Chloe agrees. And she's the boss of me, so that settles it.

Random Notes on the Night Before Grad School Orientation

2010-08-15T23:14:00.000-04:00

A friend of mine saw former presidential wannabe John Edwards at a local bowling alley with his children (well, not all of them) and their grandfather. He posed for a few photos with my friend and her group and then went on his way. I sort of want to run into this guy while we reside in the same city. Do I think we will bond or make a sex tape together? Probably not. But I will blog about it if I see him. (Unless we make a sex tape. Then I'm keeping quiet until the market will bear the price I intend to demand for it.)

I found a new cult to research -- The House of Yahweh. Texan Buffalo Bill Something-or-Other changed his name to Ysrael, constructed a compound and, yep, started preaching polygamy and child ~~raping~~ rearing via scriptures he wrote himself. I saw a Brian Ross Reports thing about this guy on Hulu. Grad school's going to get in the way of my research, which generally starts with several hours of hardcore YouTube research. I'll get back to you when I know more. For now, just know that everybody in the group uses the same last name and they're storing food for regularly predicted nuclear wars.

Wait. Now that I am a TA and setting an example for students, am I supposed to tone it down? I don't think I want to ask that question during orientation. What if the answer is, "Um, yes, you over-sharing nitwit."? Guess I should think about that. My blog is Snippy Little Thing not I'm a Fantastic Role Model. But here's what's true: I do swear a bit, and I vent my life with and without sarcasm on the Internet. However, I do not use drugs (anymore), I barely drink and my most transgressive habit is admitting that I love watching true crime documentaries. I am kind to cats. I recycle. I vote and show up for jury duty. I return my carts to the empty cart corral, even when it's far away. So, that all balances out. I'm pretty sure it does.

Today my cat started letting me pet her! She made cute little baby meows and then bumped her head into my outstretched hand. She's still not completely sure that I won't suddenly kill her, but that's okay. I'm not completely convinced that she wouldn't eat me if I died in my house and nobody found me for a couple weeks.

I have to go to bed now. It's a school night, you know.

Sunday Afternoon Affirmations

2010-08-08T14:59:00.001-04:00

Just for today I will pretend that I do not suffer from the Headley OCD and can, therefore, stop checking the washing machine mid-cycle to make sure I haven't drowned my cat.

Just for today I grant myself permission to not understand the David Lynch film "Blue Velvet."

Just for today I recognize that my relationship with the Divine Feminine is only partially weakened due to the lack of hair power I am currently experiencing due to the poor quality of the water with which I am forced to shampoo.

Just for today I know that not being able to touch my cat in over a week doesn't mean that my electromagnetic field emits threatening vibes.

Just for today I am okay with the fact that the "International Foods" section of my grocery store consists of frozen pizza rolls.

Just for today I see the inherent potential beauty in being called "a soft cracker" -- a white woman.

Just for today I see everyone I meet as a potential friend instead of another reason to seek grief counseling.

Just for today I remind myself that I am a being of unconditional love, despite being surrounded by pigs.

Namaste...

Scaredy Cat

2010-07-31T15:49:00.008-04:00

There is a cat in there somewhere.

So, my feline bundle of joy has taken to living behind my stackable washer and dyer, rendering her impossible to pet or even see unless she wants me to. I didn't see her for over 24 hours, and there was no evidence of her having eaten or using the litter-box. All my years of wrangling cats have taught me that this is normal new-and-still-kinda-skittish kitty behavior. And yet. And yet we had put in some serious snuggle time as far as I was concerned. Not only had she given me several loving head butts she had licked my fingers while she was cleaning herself. Plus, she'd given me the squint-and-smile stare several times while purring. Any cat person understands these behaviors as signs that kitty-kitty has agreed to put up with you and possibly even enjoy it. That's about as close to I Love You as cats get, and god knows I earned it. I spent hours lying on my living room floor reaching my arm under chairs to love her on her terms. Really, I figured we were about ready to sleep together. Chloe, who recently spent an entire day in my bathtub being cute and friendly, considered the options, crept behind my washer and dryer and said, "Eh, not so much."

Dissed. Dismissed. Whatever. I can handle it. The truth is that she's just scared and needing to define her home space in a way that makes sense to her. I get it. I've been nesting in my new apartment since the end of May, and I still have lots to do to really settle in and energetically pee in every corner to claim the space as my own. The good news is that this morning she appeared long enough to eat some kitten chow and use the litter-box. I even saw a flash of fur disappearing back into the dark alcove where she hides, so I know it's her doing these things and not some rogue cockroach who's decided to call me Mom. For a few hours I worried that she'd escaped through the dryer vent and hopped a boxcar train to Canada with some tomcats. But no, she's fine. She's probably writing up our contract right now and will shortly emerge to present me with the terms of agreement. I'm ready to sign, but I'm going to play it cool. I'm acting like she doesn't exist to me by cleaning my apartment and snuggling with someone who doesn't have intimacy issues -- my laptop.

For real now, I have to get back to what I am supposed to be writing -- my essay collection. Collection is not really the word, but it sounds impressive, doesn't it? Essay-ettes? Vents with direction? Really, anything I can spit out that's vaguely connected to my thesis would be helpful.Of course, reading always helps me to get my groove back. I'm looking at Jacquelline Susann's "Valley of the Dolls" right this moment as it sits on my coffee table. Yes, I am getting grad school credit for reading this book! One of my first classes centers on literary fiction vs. popular fiction, and I can't wait. If I can somehow work the film version of this book into the class I will be a happy and educated consumer who follows an Ingmar Bergman film with a DVD set of "What Not to Wear" and some true crime documentaries like "Dear Zachary." (Note: Do not watch "Dear Zachary" unless you are, like me, already scarred for life. This is one of the most upsetting documentaries I've ever seen.) Do I have a point? Uh... cat hiding... me embracing popular culture because it's freaking interesting and because analyzing highbrow stuff to impress people just isn't my thing. (But I might look good smoking a pipe and wearing a cravat.) Nope, this whole thing has collapsed into a low key rant with no real focus. So, on that note let me move on to setting up my new printer and reminding my cat that she loves me.

I Will Survive

2010-07-26T23:27:00.003-04:00

The answer to the question Kerry, why do you do this to yourself? is most likely tied to some unresolved emotional issue that seeks to express itself in a controlled manner so as to facilitate stress relief. (Yes, I took Psych 101. And I've been looking for the monkey mother covered in fur instead of wires ever since.) So, I've been watching some true crime documentaries because I am convinced one day I will put all this crime-related knowledge to good use and also (probably) because I am about to start grad school, I am working on a book and my unconscious might suspect that I am going to die from those challenges and seeks to compensate by immersing itself in somebody else's homicide. Makes sense, right? This brings me to my newest favorite show -- an offshoot of the genre that I am embarrassed to blog about (but clearly not embarrassed enough.)

I Survived. That's the name of this show I started watching on Hulu while making my famous lentils-and-rice-with-caramelized-onions. This show scares the crap out of me, and that's the point. And it's not just one person barely outsmarting death like one would expect from 48 Hours or 20/20. No, this show always interweaves the stories of at least three people who have all almost died. The usual line-up covers one or two stories that are nature-related, such as the one featuring a couple who literally rode out a hurricane perched atop the rafters of their home as pieces of it were carried out to sea. Or it could be a shark attack, injured and stranded hikers or a trucker driving a tanker truck full of chemicals through the biggest forest fire in Utah's history.

As if that were not enough there is the psychotic act-of-violence segment that rivals Lifetime Television for Women in its presentation of women being kidnapped, beaten and left for dead. This part is usually the worst and the part where I really do ask myself what unhealed wound in me causes me to watch these women recall the most horrific thing that's ever happened to them. Whether it's a crazy ex-boyfriend or some random evil bastard out walking who decided to throw a coat over a lady's head and abduct her with her own truck, these women have faced every woman's greatest fear and somehow lived through it. I listen to the woman who laid still with her eyes open without blinking to convince her attacker she was dead. "I could have laid there not blinking and not breathing all night," she said, describing her will to live. I take note of this and ask myself if I could pull it off, hoping that I never need to.

I saw a hijack survivor, a pregnant woman who was almost killed for her unborn child and a woman whose legs were accidentally mangled in a machine intended to process fish. One of the strangest parts in the story of a family who survived a home invasion was that one of the burglars shot up the young son with meth for no apparent reason other than he could. The burglars stayed all night and well into the next day, stripping the house of anything of value. They even took food. At what point did one of them think Oh, and let me inject speed into the kid?

Perhaps the real question is why I find these stories so compelling. Am I indulging in schadenfreude, enjoying the suffering of others as paraded in front me courtesy of Hulu and the apparent need the survivors have to tell their stories? Am I dipping my toe into my own fears and memories of being brutalized, but from a distance and confined to the screen of my laptop? I can pause or exit the episode at will, and therefore, make these traumas more manageable -- something these survival storytellers couldn't. But usually, I don't pause. Nor do I exit. I might chop onions or wash the windows in the doors to my living room while I watch, but I am listening. Rapt and caught between an adrenalin rush and taking mental notes in case I ever need them.

Sorry if I creeped you out. If King of the Crown were still on the air I could've written about that because I loves me some gay (with a capital G, girl) beauty contestant consulting. I adore it especially when it takes place in South Carolina and the consultant sports a rotating collection of bejeweled humongous crosses, worn like I wear my pepper spray when I go walking -- just in case.

Tried to veer away from the morbidity at the end there. Failed. Time to snuggle my cat and eat some Nilla Wafers or take a bath with a Care Bear...

The New Boo Review

2010-07-20T23:30:00.002-04:00

I have a new boo. He's not some sultry, Southern wordsmith I met at a party for the Creative Writing Department. No, I'm trying to avoid sleeping with people who will savor critiquing my work in public after we've sung "You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore" to one another. Workshop will probably be challenging enough without a failed romance poisoning the well from which I am supposed to draw writerly inspiration. There are other ways to develop a thicker skin, and I think simply living my life has already toughened me to Turkey Jerky. So, no, my new boo is not a writer. In fact, my new boo is not even human. (Too easy to make the joke. Not going to do it.) So, I'll just tell you because I can sense the collective irritation with my attempt to be coy. Plus, I just took a couple generic sleeping pills so I can sleep through it in case the juvenile delinquents come back to my house to set off more fireworks outside my window. And I still haven't met my word quota of the day. So, my new boo...

is a cat.

Yes, I did officially become a single cat mother thanks to a persuasive cat pimp at PetsMart who gave me free cat litter and free cat food as well as a $35 discount because the placement organization she volunteers with has too many animals to place and not enough people looking for new boos. So, I did it. I'd post a photo, but she's been hiding ever since I released her from bondage and showed her her new palace. I figure it'd be cruel to snap a photo of her while she's still hiding. I'd feel like a paparazzo cornering Lindsay Lohan.

Since I'd attached all my hopes and dreams about love to her, I admit, I was sad when I watched her turn her head away from me and smash her face into the wall to try to pretend she was somewhere other than my house -- a place cats normally refer to as The Place Where Cat Dreams Come True. If you read my recent post Whipped, then you know that I fully embrace my place in the cat/human hierarchy -- bottom. I serve tuna juice in crystal stemware and provide daily massages. I use the special I'm-psychotic baby voice to ask my cats questions like "Do you know I'm in love with you?" and "Who's my little pumpkin pie?" "Are you my little pumpkin pie with fur on it?" Whatever. Don't hate. We all have our thing. Point is, I provide a feline Nirvana, and this little kitty has been a bit slow on the uptake.

The good news is that I am a Cat Whisperer to such an advanced degree that I should have my own reality show. "It's Me or the Cat" or "Lockdown at the Litter-box." Or something. I've already convinced Chloe that the pair of shorts I left on the floor are not nearly as awesome of a place to take a dump than the litter-box. And today she not only tolerated me petting her, she fell asleep with her head in my hand. It's true that I had to lie down on the floor and extend my arm under the chair in a very uncomfortable position and just hold it there for, I don't know, an hour. However, any seasoned cat lover knows this is to be expected. Anyone can throw a catnip sachet across the floor, scrape some Friskies out of a can and call it an attempt to bond. That's strictly amateur. No, to be taken seriously by a cat you must be willing to go as far as chewing up the kitten chow in your own mouth first and then gently depositing it into the mouth of said kitten. I've never actually done this, nor have I been asked to by any of my previous cats. However, I wouldn't be who I am today, at least in feline circles, if I had not learned how to communicate I'd sell my soul for you, babe. For money to burn for you. I'd give you all and have none, babe. Just-a, just-a, just-a just-a to have you here by me. (Thanks, Billy Idol.)

Uh, wanna play Guess Who Can't Handle Her Safeway Sleeping Pills? Jeez, what a lightweight. I'm going to call it a night before I start getting "Requiem for a Dream" on y'all. (Hee, hee, I said y'all.) Oh. My. God. Stop typing. For the love of God. Stop. Typing.

G'night, Boo!

UPDATE: There has been purring. At the moment, Chloe is curled up against the bricked-over fireplace in my living room. This is because I turned over both chairs in the living room to force her to interact with me in the hopes that she would realize that she is, in fact, in love with me. She was so scared she was trembling, and then I felt like an abuser. Thank God she got over it in a few minutes and was willing to nibble food from my hand because I could not deal with her looking at me like Please make it fast if you're going to kill me. Why did I think this would be easier than dating?

GloZell -- Must See TV via YouTube

2010-07-06T13:08:00.000-04:00

This chick has so many videos that it seems that no matter what words you enter into your keyword search on YouTube, one or more of her videos pop up. GloZell is a gifted comedienne, and I sincerely wish her success because that will mean that there is a place for intelligent, hilarious women in the world of comedy. I can't decide which video is my favorite -- the one in which she eats handfuls of cilantro in an attempt to acquire a taste for it, the one in which she complains about the lack of male hygiene commercials or this one. Girl is funny, that's all I know. So, for the first time ever, I am giving out a Snippy Little Thing Badass Funny Chick endorsement. Check her out. If you can tolerate me, you will probably dig her crazy magnificent ass. Enjoy!

Whipped

2010-07-04T14:18:00.003-04:00

The other night I dreamed that two kittens were playing on my porch. I opened the door to look at them and they ran into my house, playfully chasing one another until they retreated back to the porch. I suppose one could interpret this dream in many ways. The most obvious centers on the fact that two cats (and now a kitten) come to my house to be fed every day. I inherited these kitties when I inherited my house from a graduating writer who casually mentioned the cats as a last-minute minor detail when I said, "So, are there any quirks about the house I should know about?" Besides the fact that the lock to my door is located just above my head, nearly out of reach, the main quirks are the cats. "They tend to keep the roaches at bay," Graduating Writer said. And that was when the deal, as they say, was done. I'd feed a slug the size of a vacuum cleaner if I thought it'd keep the roaches at bay. (I haven't seen any since I started keeping my drains closed at all times, but still, that last one with the wings, for sure, charged me.)

So, by default, I have cats. Unfortunately, these cats seem to be fairly feral, which means they don't quite understand how I somehow make food appear each morning, but they are willing to take quick nibbles while giving me the suspicious side-eye the whole time they eat. And then they run away from me. Graduating Writer told me that the black one is named Withers, and I assume that's after Bill you-just-call-on-me-brother-when-you-need-a-friend Withers. The other one is named after someone in the writing department who I have not yet met, and therefore, do not understand the implied joke about not having a neck. And the kitten, who showed up just a couple days ago, I should just call Soon-to-be-Dead because it's too young to be out on its own. It hangs out on my steps for hours, creating the impression that he or she is actually mine, creating the impression that I am crappy cat mommy. Because let's be clear, kitteh's looking rough.

Sure, I could have just ignored the two bags of food Graduating Writer left behind for me as well as the food and water bowls left neatly on a plastic mat next to the dead potted plants. By ignoring the cats, I could have silently communicated I'm sorry you've been lulled into sense of security by the temporary benevolence of a person who had someone to split the rent with, and who therefore, could afford to buy twenty-five pound bags of cat chow. But hey, there's a new sheriff in town, kittehs. Sorry, go stare at someone else with your creepy, feral I-can-manipulate-this-sucker face.

Except I am, in fact, already in love with these flea-bitten sad sacks. I am already whipped. These cats saw me coming, as all cats do. Cats possess a superpower that is knowing who will feed them, who will take them in and who will do both of these things without receiving the slightest acknowledgment except for the occasional look of tolerance, which I choose to interpret as love. Now that I see this on the page, I realize that my dates seem to fall into this category as well. The difference there, however, is that I have the potential to change and demand something more, better. With cats, not so much. Once you go cat, you never go back.

But I've been thinking about adopting. It's been almost two years since my Buddha kitty Shepherd retired to the big catnip cloud in the sky. She really was the perfect cat. (Sorry, Mama Kitty. You had your own volatile, I-have-a-metal-plate-in-my-head charm. RIP.) I'm a little nervous because cats tend to be my longest serious relationships. Both of mine outlasted every man I've dated. When my boyfriends packed up and left, leaving guitar picks in my bed and new neuroses in my head, my cats were always there. They'd snuggle close to me and bump their heads into my tear-soaked chin. They would purr and knead my pajamas into my legs, reminding me that love comes in many forms. They would do this for as long as it took for me to shift the focus back to what's really important -- them. Via kitty telepathy (read: mind control) they made sure I got it and fast. "So, we done here? I'd like some fucking tuna if you can spare a moment from your elective melodrama."

So, I've been scouring the Internet for pussy. Thanks to sites like Petfinder.com and other kitty porn sites, I'm getting close up and personal with potential cat mates. Just like match.com, you can check the list of qualities you prefer: short-haired, long-haired, in-between. You can pick the age and the sex of your kitty as well as what shots it's had or still needs to get. My friend CC (who is currently in puppy lust) and I have decided that these pet-to-owner meet-up sites need to provide even more in-depth information. Since animals cannot create their own more-about-me type profiles, we thought it would be helpful if would-be adopters could submit questions to a particular animal. Like CC would ask leading dog candidates What's your stance on eating tampons? Presumably, the current caretakers could respond, with a little artistic license, directly to her. Something like I'm not gonna lie. Back in the day, I could throw back one or two a night, but, well, that was my puppyhood. Of course, a trashcan with a lid is always a good idea. Just kidding! LMFAO!

I don't know. It's a big deal for me to adopt again. We're talking usually a fifteen plus year commitment. It's true that I'm ready to settle down. I bought a bed, for God's sake, which, for me, is more or less like a commitment ceremony. So, I have a place for a cat to claim, I mean sleep. And I'm buying food anyway since my porch has become the Cape Fear Feline Soup Kitchen. For now, I'm going to make sure those withholding little critters outside have everything they need. I'm not convinced I can't con one of them into being my significant other or at least a friend with benefits, including free refills on the purified water.

How You Like Me Now?

2010-06-25T22:45:00.002-04:00

Clearly, I did something that pleased the sky gods or whomever it is that doles out the fabulous. I'm living in the largest rental unit I've ever occupied. I've managed to halfway furnish it for less money than it costs to keep myself in good haircuts for six months. I'm walking distance from the river. And, oh yeah, this neato, innovative writing program picked me to be on its team AND gave me a job.On the month anniversary of my living in the southerly parts of the country I'm looking around and I am liking what I see.

If you think this here post is going to be just an overly long brag-a-thon, you are wrong and clearly not a consistent reader of my blog. (See pretty much every other post to see how cursed my existence has actually been.) But the truth is that I cried tonight, and not because I saw another roach (aka "water bug") the size of a George Foreman grill. No. I'm a little scared to admit it, but I've moved from waiting to exhale to lounging in a rare moment of unguarded happiness. It's weird. And I may need a while to adjust.

Before anybody emails me and reminds that bad things will still happen, that I will eventually see another monster cockroach and that countless gallons of oil continue to kill the ocean as I write this, let me cut you off to tell you that I know this. I know that I will, for sure, suffer from PMS and bloat to manatee size on the day of a presentation. I will teach students who will, at some point, hone in on my weaknesses and possibly pass notes about how I think I am so (ha ha!) edgy. I will continue to see photos of pelicans choking on oil, and there will be times when I wonder how I am ever going to pay off the student loans I am taking out to pay for all this fucking fabulousness. I know this.And yet, these small sips of respite renew me like rain and call me to the altar of gratitude. Like a priest I kinda sorta trust won't fondle me.

Here are just a few of the things that have helped me put the juju in rejuvenation:

* My hair seems to have made its peace with the humidity. There was a short learning curve while I figured out exactly how much lacquer I needed to apply after shampooing. However, I am back in the beauty bidness, and I have the hair power to prove it.

* Now that I live in a beautiful beach town, everyone I have ever known wants to reconnect with me to rejuvenate long-standing and, in some cases, long-abandoned relationships. Reunited, and it feels so good is what I am talking about.

* Seriously, I just walked onto my porch to see fireworks in the sky. I think this happens weekly here in the summer, but I did not know I could view it from my porch. If I were in the mood to slather lemon thyme mosquito repellent all over all myself I would go out there and enjoy the fact that my inner world is matching my outer world right this minute. Like a six-armed goddess just flew over my house, smiling and shouting out to me, "You go, girl!"

* The other day I awoke to find that one of my neighbors took out my recycling for me. I don't know which one of them did it, but this small kindness made my day. So did the fact that a youth group has been painting the house of an elderly neighbor who lives across the street from me.They've arrived everyday this week with water dispensers the size that football teams use and have worked all day in this muggy, impossible North Carolina heat. People are good here. Plain and simple -- these are good people. They might laugh at my fear of roaches and alligators (why did my school issue a warning to incoming students about chiggers and mosquitoes, but skip all mention of alligators?) but they wave at me now when I step out onto my porch to get my Netflix. People I hardly know are watching my back is the point, and wow, it does make a difference.

As I've walked along the Cape Fear River I've seen a certain boat docked there more than once. I don't know anything about boats, so I don't know if it's a high-end yacht or a crappy dinghy. But the name of this boat is the How You Like Me Now, which makes me wonder about the owner. Is this boater some local-kid-done-good kind of hero who went through high school as the boy who smelled or the smart girl with her nose in a book who couldn't get a date but who now runs a multinational corporation? Is this person trying to make a point to all those who wouldn't let him or her join in any reindeer games? As in: See, I did have it in me to make something out of myself, ya bastards! Or maybe this sailor with the sassy comeback for a boat is like me, taking a new inventory of where she's been and where she is going. Perhaps she's looking in the mirror, relieved to still be able to surprise herself and in a way that is not horrifying. "How you like me now?" she might be saying to nobody but herself. I keep walking by this boat and asking myself the question, just a little embarrassed that I cannot help but smile at my answer.

First Impressions

2010-06-05T19:50:00.000-04:00

Here's what I have learned about the South in my first twelve days of residence:

1. You cannot bring your gun with you into Goodwill.There is a sticker on the door of a gun in a circle with a line through it. So, just forget about it if you're planning to carry a concealed weapon while you decide which is the better buy -- a home spa foot bath or a Smurfette mug.

2. Men running to beat you to the door are not actually trying to mug you. "Let me get that for you, ma'am," is my new favorite phrase. Men here open doors for women. They also offer to help them load their cars and carry their groceries. After a long day of gun-free shopping at Goodwill, these small kindnesses really make my day. This is a refreshing change from Portland where men, trying overly hard to avoid oppressing women, go out of their way to allow doors to swing back into said women with enough force to knock the wind out of them.

3. It is not too personal to ask a customer whether or not she has found a church yet. Excuse me? I thought I was just trying to buy a car from you, not ensure my everlasting salvation. (Although, that would be quite an extended warranty.) Likewise, you may have to decide, as I did, that the racist joke casually tossed into the price negotiations over a Toyota Camry was not actually a teachable moment but apparently standard white person customer service along with complimentary bottled water and Car Fax reports.

4. Things really do move at a slower pace in the south. Slower than molasses, slower than Elmer's glue, slower than the clean-up efforts of the worst oil spill in US history. I spent three and a half hours at the DMV getting my North Carolina license, over an hour at the bank and the better part of a day hammering out the details of the purchase of a car (see above.) I seem to be taking to it well though because the heat has rendered my get-up-and-go a little go-lie-down.

5. Flash floods are not the beginning of the End of Days, but what happens in the afternoon during hurricane season. The speed at which water filled the streets during a storm scared me so badly I thought I might be swept away by actual waves as I tried to listen to the lady on my GPS direct me to the DMV. The water outside my house was calf-high seemingly within minutes. And then it was gone nearly as fast as it had accumulated. Forecasters have predicted a harsher than normal hurricane season for this year, and apparently I have arrived just in time for it. I asked someone what they do about it. "Bedrolls and whiskey," she said. This conjures images of me sleeping in a high school gymnasium three inches away from a stranger with too many children who want to braid my hair while their parents try to convince me to take another swig from a ceramic bottle with a cork in it. I'm not doing this.

With all the settling in I have been doing I have not even begun to really enjoy my beautiful new surroundings. The Spanish moss hangs from the trees, languid and without a to-do list. Today I am like the moss, a little frizzy, motionless and absolutely in the right place.

Southern Comfort

2010-06-01T01:16:00.000-04:00

"And get the hell back on your blog, bitch." These were the final words from my very small, but very much appreciated fan base in Portland, Oregon. I gave a very small reading for my very small Portland fan base right before I left Rose City for good. It was 48 degrees and wet, and I had had just about enough of being a good sport about the weather. I was totally broke, unemployed and more than a little annoyed about how many times a week I still needed to wear a scarf in May. Picture one of those photos of a furious, sopping wet cat. The caption reads something like I don't like Mondays or No Talking Before Coffee. (You know what I'm talking about. There is one of these photos pasted to the front of the cash register of at least one coffeehouse in every city in the United States.) I'm glad to be in North Carolina is the point.

I've been here a little less than a week. My hair has poofed into some kind of Robert Plant/Phyllis Diller nightmare. Right before I left Portland I added another expensive diva-level anti-frizz serum to my repertoire of hair power practices. "I jus luhv yawr hay-ah." The older saleslady in a clothing store told me this as I was flipping through racks of clothing I had no intention of buying. She had her own fuzzy hair helmet thing going on, so her sweetness only reinforced the notion that it was not my imagination. I did, indeed, resemble a hobbit -- a hobbit having a bad hair day. But whatever. I will, no doubt, master the hair vs. humidity learning curve and emerge to reclaim my rightful place in the hair power pantheon. For now, however, I'm basking in my I-don't-live-in-Portland-anymore glory. (No offense, Portland. It really is me, not you. We gave it a shot, but we're just not that into each other. I loved your Powell's and your Glendoveer fitness trail. Your mold and your damp and your massive unemployment? Not so much. And let's face it, you hated my California sunshine and my disdain for your fleece. I always told you it was temporary anyway. Remember? But hey, if I ever join Facebook I will add you as a friend. But I'm taking you out of my phone.)

So, yeah, I did get accepted into an MFA program. More than one actually. More than one kick-ass program, I might add. So, this is the part where I change the headings on my blog. Like checking the box for In a relationship and unchecking the one for It's complicated. It's no longer complicated or tedious or a never-ending reach toward the door handle to the cage formerly known as my life. I'm here now in an apartment I rented from across the country, having assessed how sweet the home might be from blurry cell phone photos sent three thousand miles between strangers. I just ran my dishwasher for the first time. It's full of thrift store china and glasses. Empty boxes divide the living room in half. Half empty boxes sit everywhere else, open and waiting for me to figure out where I'm going to put the the wine rack and the sex book and the huge pine cone I took from the campus at Sonoma State before I left California.

I do not miss Portland. I will not miss Portland. I've been missing my future for years it seems. It's here now, and so am I. I haven't adjusted to the time change, and my feet have swollen from the humidity. But I'm where I am supposed to be -- off my fat feet, my fat hair pulled on top of my head, possibly out of my mind and off my rocker. But I made it, dammit. So, for now I'm drinking it in. Like sweet tea sipped from twenty-five cent glasses picked up at the Cape Fear Rescue Mission.

Dragged into Distraction

2010-03-02T16:55:00.000-05:00

I'll tell you right upfront that this blog post is my attempt at self-help. I am writing this while listening to music I usually use for my daily yoga (Deva Premal.) That should tell you how far from the light I have strayed. After ten years of massaging the masses to the Greatest Hits of the New Age, I only listen to this airy-fairy music when I am trying to get into the Cobra position or I am on the verge of having a stress-induced seizure. All this grad school acceptance stuff has rendered me unable to digest food, unable to write and unable to relax. I couldn't even enjoy last night's episode of Hoarders, for God's sake. (And that is a damn shame because Peoria's Claudie has a case of the hoards so bad she chose to live in a homeless shelter rather than clean out the crap. They devoted the entire hour to her, which is a Hoarders first. And yet, I sat there wishing I were simply asleep and, therefore, unable to check the MFA Blog for a status update.) So, I am here forcing myself to write. That's it. Feel free to move on to another blog if this is too low-brow. I'm fine with it. If you choose to stay, however, know that you have agreed to be a part of my distraction.

So, the normal response to high stress, I think, would be to drink. It would be the writerly thing to do. But I'm already nauseous, and my alcohol supply is currently limited to crappy and crappier. There is a bottle of white zinfandel under the kitchen sink. (Please. My mother bought that. Back in her day it was the you've-come-a-long-way-baby drink of choice.) The three bottles of Hefeweisen, while tasty, do not agree with my experiment with a gluten-free diet because beer contains wheat or wheat byproducts or something. (I am aware that I sound like a high maintenance nightmare right about now. Let me know when I venture into full-blown Woody Allen territory.) The point is that alcohol is out.

After Hoarders, I watched a marathon of RuPaul's Drag Race. I recommend it, especially if you are, like me, running low on gay boys and need a fabulous injection. These ladies are fierce. Like Olympics-level fierce. In fact, I think most of them deserve medals for their ability to apply makeup. I don't care enough to pay attention to exactly what they are competing for. I mean, it's money and some PR contract. But mostly it's about being the center of attention at all times within a room filled with others who are all used to being the center of attention. They catwalk, they pole dance and they competitively sell cherry pie on the street. Last night they mimicked a version of one of my childhood favorites, Match Game. (Charles Nelson Reilly anyone?) Here it was called Snatch Game. All the queens impersonated celebrities and tried to provide the witty comebacks to RuPaul's game show host with the most. Pandora Boxx owned the stage as Carol Channing. And Tatiana, who probably is the prettiest, worked her game face as Britney Spears. Tyra seemed oblivious to how much she sucked as Beyonce. I think I want her gone next. She embodies a smirk -- with lip gloss. And while Morgan also sucked as Pink, she ruled the stage when she had to lip sync for her life to Stacey Q's Two of Hearts. It was an 80s Shirley Temple meets the circus. And it was supreme.

When I was just a slip of a writer girl going to college in New York City, I used to sometimes party at the Tunnel and the Limelight. Drag queens, including RuPaul, were everywhere! I mostly had my nose in the books because I had to maintain a certain GPA to keep my scholarship. Or I was at as my job as a reservationist at the Russian Tea Room to make sure I could come up with my share of the rent for the one bedroom I shared with a classmate. But occasionally, I would go out. I would go out and see those ladies of the night. They would dress as Marie Antoinette with hair twice as high and in a dress with the ass cut out. One queen showed up dressed as The Queen of Hearts with an actual body-sized playing card affixed to her magnificent gown. Clearly, it took hours for these people to get ready. I wouldn't say I got it. I mean, I was from a town populated by Amish people. (There were hitching posts at the mall.) At the time, it seemed like an awful lot of work just to end up in the basement of a club that smelled like piss and vomit, depending on what time you arrived. But I knew there was something special there contained underneath the layers of sparkly eye shadow and Manic Panic dye. It was a tiny escape from the stress of being a poor student adjusting to living in Manhattan and trying to be a writer.

So, now that I am blah-blah-blah years older, perhaps my problem is a lack of drag fabulous. I didn't apply to any grad schools in New York City, so I won't be getting my groove on in the meatpacking district anytime soon. I don't know how this whole thing is going to turn out. And that's why I am eating applesauce and almonds and drinking copious amounts of herbal tea as my intestines rumble and my manic little rat brain tries to make me panic. But it's almost the end of another business day, so I think I survived today. Turns out knowing just a little can be just as hard as knowing nothing at all. Yeah, I've been accepted to grad school. It's too early to talk about it, but it's also too late to pretend I don't care. But I managed to write today. And that's enough to make me sparkle just a little. Like the glint in the eye of a beautiful drag goddess giving me the sultry side-eye, saying, "Hey, girl, hey..."

Rehab is for Players

2010-02-20T23:29:00.000-05:00

My car wouldn't start today, which prevented me from buying groceries at Trader Joe's. Not going to Trader Joe's caused me to be home when the TV was on. Being home while the TV was on caused me to see a couple minutes of Tiger Woods apologizing for being a cheater. Seeing Tiger Woods do this caused me to throw up in my mouth a little bit. (This is how synchronicity works for the blogger.) In the snippet I watched, Woods looked, well, wooden. And on mood stabilizers. And insincere. But here's the thing. I almost support Woods in his insincerity. He shouldn't have had to publicly apologize in the first place. In private to his wife? Yes. During a meeting with his corporate sponsors? I guess, since he probably violated a morals clause. To the whole damn country? No way.

I'll admit upfront that I don't follow sports. And if I did follow them, golf would not be among those I would follow. (Am I wrong, or is golf primarily about walking a lot in ugly clothes?) Woods never impressed me as an athlete because I never paid attention to him. Therefore, Woods has not let me down as an athlete. Others, however, disagree. They equate his inability to keep his marriage vows with an inability to be that guy who plays that boring-ass sport amazingly well. Even I, in my sports ignorance, have been exposed to the media coverage that, until recently, presented him as a golf genius. Why can't Woods be a golf genius and a serial cheater? Are the two mutually exclusive? I don't get it.

Before the sacredness-of-monogamy hordes issue a death threat, allow me to state how sorry I am for the pain that Woods's wife, Elin Nordegren has been dealing with. It's very unlikely that Nordegren married Woods with the understanding that they would be polyamorous or that he could sleep with other women while she stayed at home with the kids. I'm just going to assume that, and I don't think it's a big leap to make. So, yeah, Woods was a jerk -- a disrespectful, lying and selfish jerk. And he's got to find a way to make it up to her in a way that makes sense to them -- in private and preferably without the bullshit I-recovered-after-three-weeks-of-rehab.

But what about the rest of us and our pain? Who seriously thinks that Woods owes the world an apology? Really? For violating his marital vows? Exactly how has this hurt anyone outside of his family? Okay, outside of his family and his corporate sponsors who had a vested interest in him keeping his extra shiny, wholesome family man image. To those who somehow feel actual hurt feelings and betrayal because Woods cheated on his wife, I say this: Point to your heart and show me the seeping wound that you attribute to Tiger Woods. Now identify the true source of your pain. Now find a good therapist.

The public beatings issued for infidelity seem to run at least one a week these days. Despite our supposed collective preference for monogamous marriages, the numbers of cheaters continually reveal themselves. I'm not committed to finishing this blog post, let alone committing to a marriage if it means that taking vows with a spouse requires taking vows with the entire world too. I guess I just don't know how realistic this monogamy thing is for everybody and for everybody all the time. I mean, I've always managed it (though not without pain), and I think that those who agree to it should do their best to live it. However, is it really the crime of the century? In the case, of Woods, he really was a ho about it. And some of the others like John Edwards, Larry Craig, Mark Sanford, et al were straight up scummy. But I don't know that I equate political hypocrites who run on family-values tickets with celebrity athletes who run in family-values sneakers. And polo shirts. And visors. Even on the wife.

Maybe the bottom line is that everyone is a hypocrite to some degree. If Nike were really about family values wouldn't they pay a better wage to the ten-year-olds who make their shoes? And if Woods were really sorry he'd do better than record one of his 12-step meetings in which nobody else gets to talk. "I felt entitled." Blah. "I'm sorry." Blah. I'm a corporate whore singing for my supper is more like it. Granted, I saw just a couple minutes, but I wasn't buying it. I don't believe he regrets a minute of that sex with those women. And while he probably feels bad about causing his wife pain and humiliation, my sense is that he resents that his apology had to be a global one. But there were endorsement monies at stake and the hopes of returning to professional golf. So he sucked it up. But not well. I don't know that he was even in his body as he read from the script of contrition. And believe me, it was a script. It was a script that nearly choked him so incongruous was it with what he I suspect he really felt, which was: I don't owe you people anything. If his public apology proves anything it's that the person Woods betrayed more than anyone was himself.

But on a lighter note, if he falls off the monogamy wagon and ends up on Intervention, I will totally watch it (especially if Elin becomes a hoarder to deal with it and gets her own segment on Hoarders.) And that's what you call a stand-up hypocrite. I admit it and without shame. See how easy that was, Tiger?

MONDAY! MONDAY! MONDAY! (said in loud monster truck commercial voice)

2010-02-16T20:57:00.000-05:00

I swore to myself that I would stop mentioning Hoarders on this blog. But let's face it, I'm addicted. (I prefer Candy Finnegan to fill the role of my interventionist, for the record.) So, did you see last night's show??? As my stepmother used to say, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Holy Mother of God, how do they do it? How do the producers of this show manage to disgust me even more each time I watch the show, but not enough to force me to stop watching altogether? They must possess a Jedi mind trick level of skill because neither a carpet beetle infestation in one girl's bedroom nor footage of one of her ten cats throwing up convinced me to turn off the TV. Yes, I had to scream "Eww!" and turn my head toward the back of the couch, but I was hooked. I just had to find out how Dr. Zazio and the Got Junk crew would handle what may turn out to be the Hoarders all-star couple of destruction: Nadine and Dennis.

I don't know who is kuh-razier, Dennis or Nadine. Sarcasm aside, these folks need the assistance of mental health professionals immediately and against their will, if necessary. Dennis spent most of the cleanup lying in bed because he's ill. He said he hasn't been in the kitchen at all in the 21st century. This is probably a good thing since the amount of bugs on the floor make it look like it's moving. I am not making this up. Dr. Zazio, in her most I-can-be-diplomatic-even-in-this-filth-pit voice said, "So, have you had an exterminator in recently? Because I notice that the floor seems to be... moving?" That, people, is a lot of bugs.

But back to Dennis. He had 100+ weapons in his room! Because Social Services offices were already involved, a police officer was there to safely confiscate the mostly loaded weapons. Every time Dr. Zazio asked him if that was it, Dennis would point to some corner and say, "There are some knives under there." "Some knives" would be cases of knives. Not of the butter variety either. Then there was the James Bond stealth weaponry like the hardcover book that contained a gun instead of pages. And the umbrella that was actually (gulp) a sword. They found an additional stash in the garage. Apparently, Dennis was prepared to fight in case anyone managed to scale the hoard and make it to his bedroom to rob him of his trash.

Dennis also wins the award for Best Non Sequitur Contained in a Homicidal Threat. His wife, Nadine, who lives in her own ninth circle of hell level of insanity was bitching at him for some hoard-related issue. Dennis busts out with, "If I could get my hands on one of those weapons I would kill you. Do you have a pickle? Can you bring me a pickle?" What?! And Nadine just sassed right back, "I don't have a pickle! I'm in a pickle!" I got the feeling that this is how these people talk to each other every day.

Nadine, at first, I swore was a man due to her very obvious and sharp-looking whiskers. (I know people who don't watch the show think I am exaggerating, but, trust me, I am not. In fact, people who follow this blog AND who watch Hoarders should feel free to comment and back me up on this. There is no shame, people. I laid the foundation of trust already. This is a safe space without judgment sometimes.) So, what I learned about Nadine is that she would win a gold medal if smoking were an Olympic sport. She would win another gold for cussing (Tourette's level here.) Unlike the Hoarder stereotype, which seems to be obese and slow, Nadine was wiry, fiery and possibly in need of a 5150. She refused to part with much, which, in the end, caused the cleanup to fail. It was easy to see that the professional organizer was out of her depth. She was about five seconds from grabbing the umbrella sword and slicing Nadine into two halves of a hoarder. And Dr. Zazio? I saw fear in her eyes, and with good reason.

I hope Nadine and Dennis do receive real help in the form of mental health services and probably medication. There is no way these two will take care of this on their own. There was raw sewage pooling in the basement! (Note to Hoarders editors: Icks-nay on the ose-up-clay of raw sewage! We got the point when somebody said, "There's raw sewage leaking here." I didn't need to see the decomposing poop up close and certainly not more than once, for God's sake. I'm not that sick.)

The Best Supporting Actress in a Foreign Film Award goes to daughter Heather, who returned to Cleveland to help after living abroad for seven years. She was clearly damaged by growing up with these people because she spent the entire show speaking in a fake Englishy-Irishy accent -- evidence that she would likely benefit from some therapy also. At one point, she ran down the street punching herself in the head. She has her reasons. Two of them are named Dennis and Nadine. But the fake accent was creepy and distracting. It was a constant reminder that the supposedly healthy one in the family was a bit of, as the English say, a nutter herself.

Nadine and Dennis were so appalling that they nearly overshadowed the other hoarders -- two hoarder sisters living with their hoarder mother. However, they had carpet beetles, so they are still fairly good competitors in the Nastiest Hoarders Ever contest. When the crew lifted up a mattress there were egg casings and beetles everywhere. It also looked like cat food was smeared on it. Note to future professional clutter clearers: I noticed it was very effective for the organizer to shout out "Contaminated!" every time one of those ladies wanted to keep another one of their bug-encrusted stuffed animals. Of course, I did see an episode where a lady dug through the dumpster to retrieve a dirty plastic Big Gulp cup. So, that probably doesn't always work.

Both of those houses remained nearly as cluttered as they were when the cleanup crew and the therapist and the professional organizer arrived. The plumber came by to address the sewage leak, so that was an improvement. But overall, both Hoarder houses remained chaotic, unsafe and unsanitary. If the Carpet Beetle Ladies continue to get help, then, I guess there is hope for them. And I truly hope they seek it. I don't know about Dennis and Nadine. I guess it depends how patient and how skilled their social workers are. They need more help than can be found in an episode of Hoarders, certainly.

As for me, I swallowed the maximum dosage of the healing power of distraction. I don't think about getting into grad schools at all while watching Hoarders. And that's a good thing. My friend Vera told me I needed to write a new post that didn't have anything to do with MFA programs and my obsession regarding whether I am accepted. So, this is it. I still mentioned grad school, I know, but I did the best I could. And the truth is that we are all neurotic. My hoard remains neatly stacked in my head and is composed of regrets, wishes and snappy comebacks that I didn't think of until it was too late. Maybe I find good company in the open messiness of those who collect dishwasher detergent and dog hair. We are all pretty messy, one way or another. Or maybe I'm just trying to end this post on a philosophical note so I can justify why I watch this show. Anyway, the moral of the story is lost on me because, right now, my brain is mush. Like a rotting pumpkin left on the living room floor for seven years.

The Disillusioners

2010-02-07T21:29:00.000-05:00

Jill Conner Browne wrote a hilarious book entitled The Sweet Potato Queens' Field Guide to Men. I read almost the whole thing while standing in the humor aisle at Borders. (I'm broke. I can't help it.) I was instantly jealous that she had gotten to it before I did. And you will be too if you read it. At the time, I was, in fact, already writing about my dating experiences and coming up with my own list of characters that could all fall loosely under the heading The Disillusioners. My list made me laugh instead of cry. It made my friends laugh too. So, I've hung onto it and hope to find a way to include it into my essay collection that right now centers on dating. I've decided to post it here because it's a great distraction from choosing which rough draft to revise next. So here it is. The Disillusioners.

The Cry Guy: This guy will suck your will to live. He attracts women drawn to the shy, sensitive underdog types. Often emaciated and sickly-looking, he looks up at you with large, victimized and tear-filled eyes. How can you not be the one who helps him transform his never-ending torment? He is usually ruined for life by a domineering ex-girlfriend, mother issues or a chemical imbalance. He is often actually gay. He prefers crying to kissing and views you as a free therapist who makes dinner. Likely to be a Pisces.

Clues to watch for:
Likes to sit in your lap.
Accidentally calls you Mom.
Tries to breastfeed when you're making out.
You never actually have sex.

The Cry Guy is a three-tissue date, for sure, but he will make you feel comparatively healthy. Plus, for some reason, these guys always have great CD collections. Diagnosis: Cut the cord and kick Junior out of the nest!

The Tweaker: The Tweaker, with his addiction to crystal meth, offers a one-way ticket to Hell at warp speed. Sure, he can go all night, but with his rotting teeth grinding in your ear and scabs he leaves behind, you could do better. When you realize his sexy, brooding intensity was simply too much rat poison, you'll wish you'd left him on the park bench where you found him making lists.

Signs you are dating The Tweaker:
Your CDs and appliances disappear. (Check the flea market by the river.)
He tells you he controls the weather with his mind.
Rabid nail biting accompanied by paranoia. Note: People really are trying to kill him. They just don't have wings.

Bad, Bad Man Who Knows How to @*%!: Often a Scorpio, this man has no regard for your feelings. He demands and steals and criticizes while eating all your food and hitting on your friends. He will tell you that it is your fault that he cheated because "you were the one who chose to go to work." And yet, his instinctive sense of sex and the art of manipulation make him the one you think you can't give up.

Traits to watch out for:
restraining orders
walks with a swagger (He knows he's packing heat.)
penetrating gaze (He wins all staring contests.)
hickeys -- not from you

Fortunately, an STD or an outstanding arrest warrant usually takes care of him before you truly lose everything you have to this charming and horrible @*%! machine.

The Bore: This man, no matter how cute he can be, is best used as a temporary, non-addictive sleep aid. He likes to talk ceaselessly and then talk some more, usually about things like life insurance and the finer points of the employee handbook. He voluntarily takes day trips to places where the sole points of attraction are things like the remnants of a shovel once owned by Thomas Jefferson. And then he wants to talk about it. Snore! The Bore, however, deserves a good (though medicated) woman because there are none more stable than he. He is neatly trimmed, presentable to Mom and a genuine stand-up guy. The car will be washed. The bills will be paid. The conversation, unfortunately, will be tedious. Sex? Who knows? I've never gotten one to shut up long enough. But he is a great guy to send to grocery store while you call and hang up on Mr. Bad, Bad Man one more time.

Signs you are dating The Bore vary from Bore to Bore. However, if he picks you up bearing an itinerary and more than one map, be on alert.

The AARP (rhymes with carp): The AARP is way too old to be looking at you in any other way besides grandfatherly. Nevertheless, Pop-pop ignores all the cool women his age and leers at you like you were a Metamucil milkshake. Help! He's fallen, and who wants him to get up? He's most often seen just barely outpacing a sickle-waving hooded figure. Rich AARPs are the worst as they are convinced that their velour jogging suits and Porsches distract you from their distinct smell of decay.

Best defense: Ask him for his autograph. Then tell him how much you enjoyed him in Tales from the Crypt.

Shaman-man: Shaman-man knows his way around a self-help book. He's in touch with his feminine side, and he wants to be in touch with yours. He's studied yoga and works the words nectar and tantra into as many conversations as possible. He's usually in an "open" marriage with a wife who is unaware that she's in an "open" marriage. He sports a well-practiced smile 'o love, creating the impression that God just whispered something amusing about you directly into his hairy, wax-filled ear. He'll offer to help you get into Downward-facing Dog pose even outside of yoga class, preferably naked.

Spot Shaman-man by noticing:
He carries chopsticks with him in a crocheted bag.
He wears a necklace that is:
a tooth
a claw
a big rock with spiritual powers

This guy is usually a harmless, though annoying sad sack who can't let go of his glory days when all he needed to get laid was to be the guy with the peyote. If he's a self-righteous Sagittarius Shaman-man, however, you may have to lay down the law. Grab his Talking Stick when he's not looking and beat the living crap out of him. Trust me, this would be good karma.

The Non-caller:
A date with the Non-caller usually goes great from your perspective. He seemed to get all your jokes. He sounded interested in your work. He asked to hear even more stories about your cat. The back and forth was easy and light -- a revelation even. You thought, Wow, maybe dating isn't God's reality television. Even the waiter could tell: You were headed for second and third date status. And his kiss goodnight indicated that all was well. The problem is that he turned out to be the Non-caller. And he won't ever call. Not ever. Not in a few more days, not in a month, not in a year, NEVER. We're talking you-don't-even-exist-to-me-babe status.

Signs to look for: There aren't any. The Non-caller is a random punch to the gut that you will never see coming. You will never know why. It's best just to pretend that he's dead. I'm partial to the fantasy that he was so stymied by my elegance that he feared himself unworthy. Insert the face-saving delusion of your choice.

The Cat Hater: The Cat Hater is not the kind of person who non-judgmentally prefers dogs to cats. (That is called misguided.) Nor is he simply allergic. No, the Cat hater truly hates, as in despises, cats. He gives your cat dirty looks when he thinks you're not looking, and later, even when he knows you are. Talk about distemper! This man views your feline love as a character defect -- like an addiction to Vicodin or a compulsion to collect Beanie Babies. It's true that you serve her tuna juice in a crystal dessert cup. You'll even admit to being a little whipped, but the Cat Hater needs to wake up and smell the kitty litter if he thinks you'd ever choose him over Mama Kitty.

Warning signs of the Cat Hater:
He says, "Oh... you... have a cat..." followed by nose wrinkling.
Frequent glaring contests between man and cat.
Fails to appreciate the concept known as in-and-out-of-the-house-300-times-a-day.
Says, "I hate cats."

You know what you need to do. Toss him out like a hairball found on the windowsill. And, do not, under any circumstances, give this man any of your Tender Vittles.

The Supermodel/Rock Star/Actor: This man has known a degree of success in the entertainment industry. Therefore, it really is all about him. Contending with possessive fans and groupies while reassuring him that his receding hairline isn't that noticeable will likely fill your days. For a couple months it is fun to be with the guy everybody wants. He usually does look fabulous. More fabulous, in fact, than you -- something he will eventually begin to tell you. Do you really need your eyeliner-wearing boyfriend telling you that your butt looks too big in those pants or that your halter top days are over? That's what gay men are for. If you are dating one of these men, you don't need anyone to tell you. Their nipple rings and heroin habits are mere reminders. But do get off the bus and go home. What would your cat think of you in a kiddie pool ankle-deep in tequila with Courtney Love?

Multiple Chemical Sensitivity Guy: Ironically, MCS Guy is probably the most insensitive man you could ever date. He shows a fierce commitment to pointing out all the ways you sicken him. Who knew, for example, that your favorite wool sweater gives him a rash when you hug him? And your sixteen dollar hair conditioner? Turns out it poisons him, as does your bed, your body and your breath. Soon enough, you'll find him tossing your possessions into the yard so they can "off-gas" without choking him. If you don't choke him yourself, you'll discover that MCS Guy smokes cigarettes. And he hides a secret fast food fetish he wants to share with you. He'll buy you a Whopper and then tell you he can "smell the toxins coming through your skin." My best suggestion is to pretend to take him very, very seriously and then spray him in the face with Country Fresh Raid, careful to avoid your own eyes and throat. Repeat if necessary. Then let him float off in his plastic bubble back to whatever God-forsaken biosphere spawned him.

Strippy Little Thing?

2010-01-22T23:32:00.001-05:00

Awright, I know my last post was a bit of a downer. I'm usually such a burst of sunshine, I know. I admit I'm a little testy. When I haven't been wailing into the wind about how much I want the rain to stop, I've been stalking the mailbox for letters from grad schools. We have officially entered notification season, the time in which grad schools decide to either give me a rose and allow me to proceed to the potential winners' circle or shrug their shoulders, saying, "Eh, not so much." I've worked for over a year on this goal of mine. I mean really worked. Insert the chick flick montage of me working out, learning to apply makeup, pulling an all-nighter to complete my innovative proposal for my curmudgeon of a boss and then exhaling so that one sexy wisp of hair blows up momentarily and makes me look even more cute and plucky while I take a well-earned sip of wine and lounge back onto my fabulous couch that I can somehow afford in my also unrealistically large New York City apartment.

Now picture the whole thing happening in Oregon. I am wearing fleece. I am drinking mostly ginger ale in tiny plastic cups. My innovative proposal is actually two essays which are either brilliant or a sad display of unresolved interpersonal issues. I have managed to hang onto some hair power, despite the perpetually spitting rain that has tried to undermine me and my attempts to preserve any SF Bay area hipness I may still possess (as if I ever did.) I've also done yoga or walked nearly every day for the past year. And I have, in fact, updated my entire makeup collection. So, despite my too frequent wearing of a horrible navy raincoat I borrowed from my sister, I do look fabulous. If I were ten (okay, fifteen) years younger I would consider stripping as my Plan B. And that really would be a good idea because stripper memoirs are the new hot ticket. Everybody wants to know the details of what it's really like to work as a stripper. Actually, now that I think about it, a stripper memoir for the peri-menopausal crowd could be just the thing to land me on Oprah's couch. Okay, I've just cemented my Plan B. For real. Maybe.

The average person has no idea how extremely selective graduate writing programs are. Many are harder to get into than medical school. For serious. One school I applied to admits just 4% of those who apply. Of all the schools I applied to the highest percentage of admitted students is around 15%. I applied to eight of them to try to work with the odds. Many people apply to fourteen to twenty schools and find themselves opening rejection letters from all of them. Making things even more tense is that I absolutely need to be awarded a teaching position (which usually comes with a stipend and, at a minimum, in-state tuition.) I'm broke and, at the moment, the economy seems to have rendered my degree in Communications worthless. I couldn't even get an interview for a receptionist job at a cosmetology school. I didn't even get a phone call to interview for work in a day spa. I was a spa whore for over ten years! So, you see, if this grad school thing doesn't pan out, I'm in a world of trouble. My student loans will need to be paid whether the economy improves or not. If I don't get into grad school I really may have to go on the ho stroll. (I think my mother would stage an intervention, for the record.)

Gosh, maybe I should have sent this post as my statement of purpose. So you see, my time at the University of Fucking Fabulous would serve a dual purpose. I would sharpen my skills as a writer as well as postpone working in the sex industry for a few more years. Looking forward to it. Thanks!

Maybe I should stop referring to myself as a spa whore since I was not ever actually associated with any business that provided Happy Endings. It was a rare client who asked me for one, but when he did I would tell him this: "I'm afraid I don't offer Happy Endings, but I'd be happy to give you an Unhappy Ending, which includes terminating this massage, which you still have to pay for and then telling both the front desk and your wife." Best. Tips. Ever. So, I guess I could add experienced blackmailer to my resume. Things are looking up!

So this is my neurosis for now. It helps and hurts that I read the MFA-related blogs. We're all waiting to hear. We're all in similar positions. We're all freaking out. And many of us are in direct competition for the same few spots awarded by grad schools near and far. I hope to post good news shortly. I hope to post more than once about what excellent program picked me to be on its team. Until then, I watch live streaming puppies. It's the puppy cam! I don't even like dogs and their Spanish rice breath, but these bitches are cute. I sometimes keep them on my laptop all day, minimizing them when I need to do something important like refresh my email for the hundredth time in case my school of choice decides to add me as a friend. I'm pretty sure looking at newborn puppies is healthy. My only other distraction is wondering how I would look in Lucite heels and whether or not I will be able to walk in them.

A Day Without Fleece

2010-01-19T19:24:00.000-05:00

Today I hit the weather wall. The sky began to slobber on me while I was taking out the garbage. While I was taking out the garbage with extraordinary hair power, I should add. I had just put on my sneakers because the temperature was in the mid-fifties and I thought I could squeeze in a walk. Wrong. So wrong.

It's not any more gray today than it is most of the other days in Portland. I guess the difference is that my reserves of content-despite-the-weather are a little low. My friend who fled Oregon for Florida used to talk to me about this kind of thing before I moved here. She said, "I was actually furious at the weather." Like the weather was a person who had betrayed her. She diagnosed herself with seasonal affective disorder aka sunlight deprivation and got the hell out of here. She left behind her full-spectrum light, and I have been using it like a vampire slayer uses a crucifix and garlic. I've taken Vitamin D and exercised nearly every day I have been here. But today I was mad at the weather. If I were not such a mature person, I would have shaken my fist at the rain and had a Job-like meltdown: Why, God, why??? Why hast thou forsaken me?

Some of us on the MFA Blog have been comparing climates as we wait to hear which schools have rejected us and which have decided to give us a shot. This one poster said about Oregon: "You get used to the gray."

It took everything I had not to fire back, "Yeah, the key word here is YOU. As in YOU got used the gray. YOU, freak of nature, should be strung up and slapped for misleading the MFA masses. Take it back, I say! Take it back!" That's when I realized I was closer to the edge than I thought.

The truth is that Portland has one of the highest (if not the highest) consumption rates of anti-depressants in the United States. (If I were a real journalist I would cite or link the article. All's I know is I read it last year in one of the local independent newspapers while I sat in a coffeehouse seething in wet fleece.) My take on that, especially now is: Duh. Of course, these people are depressed. The sky spits on them at least eight months of the year. On top of that, the sun is elusive. The sun is a big tease. We see it for five minutes and run out into the street. By the time we remove our raincoats (people here do not use umbrellas), that big ball of hope has already vanished. In comes the flat gray sky, which looks like a giant dryer vent full of lint. And now I am sun-whipped, doing whatever my beloved says, according to his time frame and according to his whims. I have it in me to become a stalker if this whore of a sun doesn't start giving it up.

So, I suspect that this used-to-it guy is only able to say he's used to it because he owns a big bottle of Prozac. Or he's an alcoholic. Or maybe he really has gotten used to it and doesn't mind it. In that case, I have no choice but to hate him.

As I drove to the library to drop off my book (The Hope by Andrew Harvey), I told myself to think of something positive. The planet needs rain, I told myself. And Portland's just doing what it always does, I added. I'm the one who is out of place here. The locals take pride in their outerwear and don't really see a problem with needing to medicate themselves to live here. It is me. I am the outlier. I am the schlub who doesn't appreciate nature in all its beauty, and not just the perfection that is northern California.

But you know what? That is not even freaking true. No. I've given this climate a chance. I've been proactive about enjoying the trees as I walk the fitness trail and smiling when I see the beauty that is Mt. Hood (even though hikers die there every year.) I'm just having a bad weather day. That's it. It will pass, as will my stay here. And yes, I know it could be way worse. I could be in Haiti. Or Wasilla.

Okay, this was really just a vent. Plus, it prevented me from going off on a stranger on the Internet. I can always just go to bed early. Maybe when I wake up I will think better thoughts. For now I am all kinds of jonesing for the sun and a day without fleece.

Haiti

2010-01-14T23:36:00.000-05:00

I'm thinking of the people of Haiti. I'm sending them good thoughts, and I am hoping they get the aid they need. I don't understand why helicopters can't just lower huge nets filled with bottled water. Why is this? I know that I am not a politician or an ambassador, but I don't understand why this very basic thing can't happen. My mother and I were watching MSNBC's coverage while eating tofu. We have plenty of water. We even have cookies, if we want them. My mother said, "If women were running things, there'd be peanut butter and jelly sandwiches already. And milk. For everyone." Maybe that's true; maybe it's not. But I see so many hurt, so many dying, and I think: We should be able to do better. Haiti, you are in my thoughts, my prayers.

If I were a better person I would be praying for Pat Robertson to remember that he was probably once a loving person. A person who didn't the blame victims of natural disasters to draw attention to himself. Maybe I'll muster the compassion to pray for Robertson later. God knows he needs it. But not tonight. Tonight I reserve the right to say, "Shut up, douche."

Snippy New Year 2010

2010-01-03T00:39:00.001-05:00

I admit it. For New Year's Eve I impersonated a slug who learned how to utilize the Watch Instantly feature on Netflix. I had a bag of mini Milky Way bars next to me and nearly six hours' worth of What Not to Wear episodes. Yeah, well, I was housesitting. I had a house to watch. And two dogs and a cat. Plus, I had to pick up my sister at the airport just before midnight. Apparently, my sister instantly thought of me weeks earlier when she'd booked her flight and asked herself the question: Who will, for sure, have nothing better to do on New Year's Eve? But that's fine. House/pet sitting gigs are the only paying gigs I've been able to land in this town of bearded folks who exude an odd superiority about the fact that they know how to ride a bike. They have excluded me from the ranks of the gainfully employed, which has left me learning how to figure out how to work other peoples' coffee makers and get good at cleaning up cat puke from windowsills.

My preferred way to celebrate the new year is to thoroughly clean my house and get rid of what no longer suits me, be it clothing, papers or relationships that have expired like sour half and half. I toss out worn flip-flops, too-stretched hair ties, my final project from Media Ethics that I didn't even know I still had. I wash every surface with a yellow and green scrubber sponge while listening to talk radio or an old movie. I usually rearrange the furniture too, not content until I've found a completely new way of inhabiting my space. And suddenly the same old same old feels renewed. Open for business. And just to keep the ghosts of the past moving, I burn something -- copal, sage or an ex-boyfriend's shirt.

I did it last year, back when I thought I was moving to South Korea to teach English. I was already starting to say goodbye to friends. I had already told my landlord I was leaving. Portland was my back up plan -- the place where I figured I could just get a boring office job and lay low while paying off my credit card bill and applying to grad school. I threw out the staff phone lists for two spas I used to work for. I poured the last of my massage oils into one bottle to give away to a friend who still sees clients. I took breaks to talk on the phone with friends who live far from me now. I sipped wine and lit a candle, feeling the insides of my home exhale pieces of me that didn't fit with who I thought I would become in the new year. And then I entered the year 2009.

So this year there was none of that. This year I do not even have my own apartment to purge and reshape like some book nerd fertility goddess performing an exorcism. This year I had only a bag of clothing, some library books and a laptop. With no real space of my own and nothing in 2009 turning out the way I thought it would, burning incense at my sister's seemed like a paltry attempt at reverence. Besides, the last time I did that there, one of the dogs made I-might-kill-you noises at me. Better to lock myself in my sister's bedroom and toss back another glass of ginger ale while vaguely recapping my year and watching movies. (Rachel Getting Married was the best.)

My sister's flight was late, so at midnight I was turning my headlights off and on just to make sure they were actually working as I drove through black velvet curtains of Portland rain. My trunk is still full of what I never unpacked when I moved here -- my massage table, some books and kitchenware, so my sis had to pile all her stuff (including her foster daughter) into the back seat. She was wet and wearing a nicotine patch. "I've only had two cigarettes today," she said. "I usually have fifteen." And I saw that there was something to celebrate because cigarettes have killed several people in my family. I have a cough just from knowing these people.

"How were the dogs?" she asks.

"I wanted to give them Ny-Quil," I say.

We spend the next day and a half at her house watching the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy. We both notice how often the term "man flesh" is used by various villains. As in, "You will taste man flesh!" Her brand new robot vacuum cleaner bumps into the front door and repeats the word Error. Too much dog hair. I've also loaded the dishwasher. I have a chocolate hangover.

I don't know what is in store for me for 2010. I didn't get to do my usual thing. But then nothing has been usual for a long, long time. I am a dog-fearing dog sitter. I would not have predicted that.

Happy Solstice from the High Priestess of Snickerdoodles

2009-12-21T22:24:00.000-05:00

I helped bake even more cookies for the third time with my family yesterday. It was more fun than I thought it would be, primarily because nobody followed me into my bedroom when I needed to take a break. It is mostly a curse that I get overstimulated rather quickly. If there is a blessing it is that everyone I am friends or family with knows this and accepts it at least half the time. I hit the cookie-making wall when the Russian Tea Cakes burned. My sister was browsing the cable music selections between batches of date pinwheels, yelling into the kitchen, "Hey, can you do this?" She wanted me to do the Running Man dance to what sounded like an Eminem Christmas rap. The smell of mint chips and white chocolate suddenly got to me. I didn't want to put sprinkles on anything else. I wanted to take a bath and read my library books.

Let me be clear about the fact that this was not a small baking adventure. We had two mixers going. My mother and my sister occupied two work stations in the kitchen where they formed dough and melted things in the double boiler. My sister's foster daughter and I manned the dining room table, dipping pretzel rods into pans of chocolate and then rolling them in sprinkles and sliced almonds. My sister's girlfriend hunched over the sewing table where she was making Christmas gifts for relatives. There was a lot going on is the point.

I've written about my lack of interest in Christmas before. (See Ho Ho Hold It and Oh Holy Night.) But this year I am living in the same town as my family, my family that celebrates Christmas and is happy that I am here to celebrate with them for the first time in perhaps twenty years. I started worrying about this in October, hoping I could find a way to avoid the whole thing like I usually do. But then I woke up enough to realize that this opportunity might not present itself again. I realized that the moment to enjoy my family has never been more possible than right now. We annoy the crap out of each other, so it makes sense that I flee into the safety of library books (and online gossip columns), my mother stalks the Home Shopping Network and my sister busies herself with the never-ending to-do list that most married people devote themselves to when the actual dating phase of the relationship has mostly ended. (Shoot me if I ever replace sex with rearranging the spice rack.) In my family, we are all "the crazy one," depending on who's doing the talking. So, I chopped pecans and carried water -- just enough to feel the bond without feeling bound.

It seems fitting that I am in Portland for the shortest day of the year. It was nearly dark by 4 pm today. I ventured out only because four of my holds at the library came in. Years ago I attended a Solstice ritual in Berkeley. The woman who led it told us that the darkest day of the year calls us inward to reflect. But it also asks us to light candles, she said, to illuminate the darkness within ourselves and in those we encounter. I think this is one reason why Christmas freaks me out. I am pulled to go inward with a library book or my own thoughts just as everyone else is peaking on their sugar rushes and forcefully cheerful, rigid holiday itinerary. My solution is to pull a Runaway Bride and hide until it's over, no matter who really wanted to see me or who I might have wanted to see.

So, for Solstice I am lighting a candle. My illuminating foundation makeup will wish to be as sparkly as I will be in about five minutes. I might shine so bright that I will accept the things I cannot change. Like the fact that there is unbaked cookie dough in the refrigerator with my name on it. Like the fact that my sister saw my new hairstyle and said, "You kind of look like a hobbit. But in a good way."

I'm having a darkly, sparkly holiday. May you also be so lucky.

But She Blogged Anyway

2009-12-17T23:23:00.000-05:00

Random possibly connected thoughts:

It is the season of gross in Portland. The dark gray skies blacken around 3 p.m. It's wet and cold. While I was walking today I passed a lake with fountains. Clear, solid-looking patches covered much of the surface. I thought: Eww, what is all that crap on top of the water? Upon closer inspection, my ex-East Coaster voice piped up and chastised me: It's ice, you nitwit. Seriously, I failed to recognize ice in nature. I stared at it like it was a metaphysical phenomenon. Perhaps I left my brain and not just my heart in the San Francisco Bay area.

I've fully recovered from applying to eight grad schools. Yoga helped. So did watching every available episode of What Not to Wear, Hoarders and Intervention. I'm also reading a book by What Not to Wear co-host Clinton Kelly called Freakin' Fabulous: How to Dress, Speak, Behave, Eat, Drink, Entertain, Decorate and Generally Be Better Than Everyone Else. A couple of my friends suspect I've thrown myself into superficiality with this What Not to Wear phase I'm in, but if you have seen the show, then you know that these friends are mistaken. Besides, I think there is a balance. I meditate, do yoga and strive to be a better person while reserving the right to use high end hair conditioner.

I baked a couple pieces of salmon last week. It was the best salmon I ever made. It was perfectly cooked. The word is exquisite. Kind of made me wish I'd done it for a date and not my family. We also had a spinach salad and baked sweet potatoes. And we watched The Jersey Shore. That is a truly horrible, annoying and boring show. And if I really cared about my image I wouldn't admit that I watched it. I usually only watch reality TV shows if they offer redemption stories like getting off the sauce and going to rehab or finding out that goats eating the corner of your house is not ideal. (Hoarders!) I won't watch the drunk, Guido-libido-based train wreck again (unless my sister makes me, which she will.)

I wish I could get more excited about Christmas. It would mean a lot to my mom. She asked me about Solstice, thinking that maybe I would be more proactively festive if we did something more earth-based. The truth is that I tend to hermit away no matter what the holiday is. But I thought about doing some kind of ritual that involves the lighting of candles and acknowledging how freaking dark the darkest day of the year really is in Portland.

I had coffee today at Stumptown. This is what's true about that place: no public bathroom outside of a Port-a-Potty is that cold. Plus, it smelled in there. Frozen bathroom stank. I don't have a point. I just haven't stopped typing. I'm removing myself before I become as mindless and annoying as an episode of Jersey Shore. Too late! (Do not call me Snooki.)

Dog Afraid, Cookies and Cats

2009-12-07T19:19:00.000-05:00

My Surprised Kitty clip got taken down because, well, it wasn't actually mine. Oh well, you can find it on YouTube if you want to see this cat. And really, you should. It will make you smile against your will, and rainbows will burst out of your chest. I don't understand why someone would fight the power of Surprised Kitty and refuse to let it turn all our frowns upside down, but such is life. But now I am going to have to find a way to be all chipper on my own to make up for it. For you guys (my readers), that's like winning a can of Turtle Wax instead of the brand new Corvette on The Price is Right. However, I had a rare 3:30 p.m. cup of coffee, so who knows? I might have some Joy to the World in me after all.

So, my mom wants me to make Christmas cookies with her tomorrow. I'm trying to whip myself into a cheerful frenzy, imagining the hours we'll spend trying to not get so irritated with each other that one of us has to leave the room and play Morrissey for a few minutes really loud to calm down. (I hate it when my mother does that.)It's like pretending to be a dog person when you are really a cat person. Saying "Hi puppy! Hi puppy!" repeatedly in a shrill voice while stifling the urge to scream as you throw out tentative, fearful pats in the general direction of the dog's head is something that people (and the dog) sort of notice. "You're not really a dog person, are you?" they say.

I usually try to play it down, especially if I'm trying to date the person who loves the slobbering stinker in question. "Ohhh, I'm just kind of used to cats, you know..." I say. And then they usher the beast from the room to my relief. They say, "You should have told me you're afraid of dogs."

It always surprises me when they bust me. Always. I say, "How could you tell?" They always laugh. Always. "You were sort of screaming," they say.

So, without trying, I've equated making cookies with my mother with my fear of dogs. I'm sure somewhere in my subconscious this all fits into some hodgepodge of puzzle pieces that could reveal further clues as to who I really am and what's blocking me from realizing my full potential. But we're not going there. I have to leave the house shortly and my mother's at the store right now shopping for even more sugar, so it's too late. I'm going to just do it because it will mean a lot to her. I don't like to cook, and I have a fairly low tolerance for sugar and chocolate. I also usually avoid Christmas if possible. However, sometimes saying "I love you" to another means saying "Suck it up" to yourself. At least that's that's my understanding of family dynamics. So, like a not-so-jolly Old Saint Nick I am prepared to sift flour and possibly wear an apron for a few hours. Hopefully, we can skip the Christmas music and turn the TV to MSNBC. I know my mom won't let me defile Christmas by watching any true crime or cult documentaries while baking, so that's my plan for a compromise.

Everything would probably go more smoothly if I had a cat. I want a Surprised Kitty of my own who will snuggle up with me in between batches of fudge and Snickerdoodles and purr hard enough to hurt my ear. I believe I am a better person when I am with-cat, and it's been a year and three months since my last kitty died. I still miss her crossed eye and her weird fondness for white things, including powdered doughnuts and plastic bags. She also liked me to smack her butt while she ate, which, I admit, was weird and vaguely sexual. But I loved her unconditionally. It's significantly more difficult to do that with people, especially when they want me to bond with them in ways that stretch me in ways I don't want to stretch. And unlike my cat, they won't forgive me in five minutes if I spritz them with a squirt gun for messing with my stuff. Still, I'll do the best I can because it's important to at least try. At least that's what my cat would tell me.

In Lieu of Tiger -- Kitty

2009-12-03T20:39:00.001-05:00

I was going to throw out my opinion on the Tiger Woods side dish drama, but I just ate a cauldron of soup, which has made me too sleepy to do anything but stare at the cover of my library book Understanding Jonestown and Peoples Temple by Rebecca Moore.(I will probably go into that book on my other ghost town of a blog Kerry's Library Books.) Also, I recently took the five minutes it required to learn how to embed video clips from YouTube, so now all I really want to do is post clips of cute kitties and puppies. I am jonesing for a new feline companion bad, but I am waiting until I relocate to re-cat myself. So, in the interim, I sometimes watch other people's cats on YouTube. A good friend of mine gave me the idea when she confessed her need to procure "dog porn" from the Internet when she's feeling bereft and without someone to stick a wet nose up her butt. I don't do it often, but I did hijack somebody's kitten for an hour on Thanksgiving, and I have been literally dreaming of cats every night since. So, I watched a little kitty porn today instead of working on my rough draft. And I thought about Tiger Woods and Jonestown.

I'm too inarticulate to post anything witty or consciousness-expanding. And it's not just the soup. I'm premenstrual too. The combination means that I need to just get off the laptop before I either break down in tears or post some inflammatory anti-marriage manifesto that results in me being eviscerated by Puritan zombies. We can't have that. I have to get to grad school after all. So, for tonight I leave you with one of the cutest kitties in the world. This cat will lighten your heart -- like an ad for Country Time lemonade. Like all you need tonight is cuteness. It's working for me, and I'm a miserable little bitch right now, so that's saying something. Enjoy!

Happy Thanksgiving: Strangers Make Good Camouflage

2009-11-25T20:06:00.000-05:00

In the dining room sits a Styrofoam cube containing a frozen chocolate mousse that tomorrow I will deliver like a cover charge to the people I barely know who have agreed to let me be a part of their Thanksgiving festivities. If my sister was allowed to marry her domestic partner then these people would be some form of in-laws to her, which means, I guess, that I, in turn, would be sort of loosely related to these people. I don't know. My sister isn't really looking to get legally married right now. And I don't care very much about holidays. This event is the easiest way to show up as a group and get daughter points for doing something sort of in public with people who are, to varying degrees, members of my family. I remember from Easter that these people can cook. There will be wine is one of the more important points.

Easter with these folks was really nice. I ate and drank to the point of discomfort, which allowed me to mostly fit in. And the unexpected bonus was the hour long conversation I had with an actual ex-resident of Antelope, OR -- the town next to the infamous cult city of Rajneeshpuram, which, for a short time in the 80s, was the home and wannabe Jonestown of charismatic leader Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh. I know! It was an Easter gift straight from the sacred heart of Jesus. If only I had known in advance. I would have brought a tape recorder. If this guy is there tomorrow I might have to pepper him with follow-up questions. If not, I will head straight for the cat.

I won't be in this town next Thanksgiving (unless I am rejected completely by all eight MFA programs I applied to.) So, I'm trying to do the family thing as much I can stand. And I can't stand much. I tend to feel claustrophobic and stretched too thin when forced into all-day cooking marathons that require a lot of prudent planning and well-thought out and discussed trips to the grocery store. I don't actually enjoy cooking very much unless it's to impress a man I want to be my boyfriend (who will later resent me for being a cooktease when I tell him months into our relationship that peanut butter crackers are too a totally legitimate breakfast.) And even then, it's more about presentation than anything: A dish of pistachios, a plate of olive oil, torn crusty bread, wine, stuffed grape leaves and me in something flammable. On Thanksgiving, I prefer to arrive late, after the majority of the real work is done and that monster bird carcass has been transformed into something that no longer resembles a *censored*. I don't usually eat much, and I always offer to help clean up, so I think that's fair.

I am hoping that we can all enjoy each others' company in a safe and fairly superficial way in which nobody probes too deeply to uncover anybody's political affiliations or religious leanings. If anybody tries, I think I am deciding right now that I will bring up something from TV as a distraction. Since I've been in Portland I've seen more television than I have for most of my adult life. I've managed to avoid American Idol and Desperate Housewives, but I am up on my Hoarders. I'm thinking we might find common ground around the idea that 75 cats (35 of them dead) are too many. If not, I can just pretend I am ten and dissociate on the edge of the couch until someone nudges me in the ribs and tells me it's my turn to say what I am thankful for. This year I am thankful that my mother knows that QVC sells frozen deserts. I'm also thankful that I am here to be with my family in the best way I know how -- skittish, but still willing to be pleasantly surprised. Like marshmallows and sweet potatoes might not be so bad once or twice a year.

Here's a clip from Hoarders in case you want to play the I-feel-comparatively-healthy game -- a classic Thanksgiving pastime. Enjoy!

Sanctified

2009-11-23T19:04:00.000-05:00

I'm listening to the Simple Minds right now. It's a double CD I placed on hold at the local library. I really just wanted to hear two songs: "Promised You a Miracle" and another one whose name I can't remember. That one isn't on either of these CDs. But I'm sort of digging "Sanctify Yourself" in this moment, mostly because I like the word sanctified. Years ago I used to listen to a gospel singer whose name I also cannot remember. (You thought you knew me, I know. No, I am not just an aging high priestess of the 80s, friends. And by the way, I still consider Public Enemy's "Fear of a Black Planet" one of the best albums of my young adulthood.) Anyway, this gospel singer used to sing like he had nothing left to lose and, therefore, knew levels of freedom that, back then, I didn't even know existed.

I'm not a religious person, but I know what it is to be sanctified. Dictionary.com defines the word sanctify as follows:
1. to make holy; set apart as sacred; consecrate
2. to purify or free from sin: Sanctify your hearts.

I'm thinking about purification these days. As in separating the wheat from the chaff. (Dictionary.com defines chaff as "the husks of grains and grasses that are separated during threshing.") I think I've spent the majority of my thirties threshing, figuring out that men who refuse to use the word "boyfriend" in regard to me in public are chaff. So are all jobs that require me to be customer service-ready before ten a.m. It's not easy to figure this stuff out. I mean, who doesn't want to throw out the baby with the bathwater when the baby is screaming and pooping and ruining your social life?

So, I've made some mistakes. I worked as a massage therapist for at least three years too long. It was the best money I knew how to make without having to take off my clothes or shove heroin balloons up my ass. Still, it drained my spirit of the creativity I needed to apply to my writing. And when I injured my arm so badly I had no choice but to quit altogether, things were even worse than I thought they would be. That one psychotic and misogynist housemate I had nearly drove me to fashion a shank from a busted wine glass and drive it through his horrible little heart. In short, I always feared that loosening the reins with which I held my illusions of safety would lead me to Hell. Turns out I was right. But what I didn't know is that I would also learn endurance. I would also learn how to be alone. Like really alone. Not in the I'm-taking-some-me-time vein. No, we're talking I'm-walking-in-the-shadow-of-the-Valley-of-Death. I actually forgot who I was for a while.

So this friend of mine called me and told me about the most wonderful plans she has for her life. Then my best friend from high school looked me up after she found my blog. And then there was the ex-boyfriend who showed up and confused things for a while because we never really ended things. Each reminds me of who I used to be and who I still am. I was a writer back then. I was a writer with an unfortunate wing of hair covering one eye in the 80s. Then I was a writer with dreadlocks (!) who thought the way to godhead was paved with self-denial. Then I was a bitter former massage therapist spitting nails at anyone who tried to tell me to do positive affirmations. Sometimes I threw out too much in my attempt to get clear and to get clean. In my attempt to sanctify myself. The important thing is that I am still here -- irreverent in my devotion, but still here. Sometimes threshing looks a lot like thrashing, which looks a lot like failure. Turns out I was simply setting apart as sacred the things that matter.

Skilled at Avoidance -- My Other Transferable Skill

2009-11-19T18:48:00.001-05:00

I'm supposed to go to this literary event tonight. It's another one of my attempts to get to know the smart, funny and literate side of Portland that supposedly exists just everywhere, but remains fairly elusive to me. Of course, I haven't left the house in a while. I'm easily discouraged, it's true. But at a certain point Greenpeace decided to line both sides of the streets in parts of town where aging slackers like me once could have browsed books, ordered au laits and sorted through the bargain bins at thrifts stores in peace. These young, aggressive activists just don't take no for an answer. They smile and wave at passersby from half a block away, as if greeting friends who happened to wind up in front of Powell's at the same time. The faux joy of young hippies who will pretend we are friends in order to get something from me always makes me want to carry a concealed taser. Not being able to afford to donate to save the polar bears bothers me. But the truth is that if I had extra money (instead of not enough of it) I would probably donate it to a literacy organization or a library. Literacy is my chosen path of service. As such, I volunteer as a tutor. And on principle, I don't give money to manipulative groovy people -- ever.

What's the point of this post? None that I can see. I was supposed to be writing, figuring out if my latest project has legs or merely unrealistic short term goals. Does anyone really want to hear about all the horrible dates I've gone on? Should I just turn the whole thing into fiction so I can make things turn out the way I want them to without being bothered by pesky things like the truth? I fear that the whole thing reads like a low rent Sex and the City. You know, the much cooler one in which Carrie (Kerry) lives with her sister because she can't find a job and has had her condoms so long they have expired. I think I'm just having a why-didn't-I-major-in-marketing moment that I simply need to endure. I'm going to go out tonight and hopefully come away with some inspiration. Writing has been a lot of work lately. I'm going to watch someone else do it. I hope that it will save me -- like a well-placed donation to Greenpeace or a pocket-sized pepper spray affixed to my key chain.

UPDATE: Consider me redeemed by the power of art and one citrus-infused beer. I had a great night watching writer/comedians respond to the theme "Get Me Outta Here!" I also stopped by the library and picked up Francine Prose's Reading Like a Writer on CD. I turned my frown upside down is the point. I'm off to bed...

All About Me (Or: Don't Be an Ass, You Narcissistic Wench)

2009-11-16T14:51:00.000-05:00

I'm thinking about selfishness. I'm thinking about the need to be selfish if you want to get any writing done. I want to lock myself in this room and stay here for twelve hours today so I can dive into this piece I'm writing about antidepressants and how lonely I feel sometimes when I consider that I may be among a select population -- those who have not given up on the idea that their brain can function without being manipulated with prescription drugs. But then who am I to judge? It's going to take me weeks or months to answer that question, finish this piece. I have to sit around staring. People mistake that for daydreaming. It's not. I'm writing in my head. I hear them -- the words exploding like popcorn, wanting to be strung like a garland around some idea that I will couch in jokes and self-deprecation. It will take me a long time to do this. I don't want anyone to see me do this. "All you really seem to care about is your own work." Someone recently said this to me. Someone said this and had no idea that I am not even close to getting the privacy I need. Someone said this, not knowing that what I wanted to say is, "You're right." I am thinking about selfishness.

Tonight is my night to be selfless -- at least on paper. I am meeting with the student I've been tutoring in grammar, punctuation and sentence structure. Her native language is Cantonese. She is the one person I don't resent for interrupting me today. She's reliable. She shows up on time and always does her homework. She's also started bringing me little treats -- dim sum and bubble tea. We write each other stories every week. She writes about what she cooked that week -- bok choy tofu soup and barbecued chicken. She writes about the Chinese festival where she spun a wheel and won a tea bag. Her husband won a bottle of Japanese sauce. I write stories with mistakes in them that I will ask her to find and circle while she reads them out loud to me. She's gotten better at knowing when to use -ing and when to put an -s on the end of a word. It's the only thing in my life that involves other people that feels simple to me. I brought her a bag of M&Ms for Halloween. She put them away after thanking me. Maybe she feels about chocolate the way I felt about that thing she gave me a couple weeks ago. I can describe it only as deep-fried pork-flavored Crisco. I choked down two bites and then filled up on sesame balls, hoping it would convey my gratitude. The simplicity of not making a big deal out of things. It's a lost art. I am grateful to meet her each week and to know that things will be simple. I need this. And so, my work as a tutor is not selfless. Not even close.

I imagine myself moving across the country to devote myself to two to three years of study. To be paid to write. To teach my own class full of young students testing the limits of blood alcohol levels and pretension. I'd like to make some friends. Writerly friends who get it. They also shut themselves away for days at a time in pursuit of the right way to say what they selfishly assume is theirs to say. I posted my resume on Monster.com because the student loan people said this would mean that "no one can say that you aren't actively seeking employment." Meaning I don't have to pay them back yet. I'm getting daily emails from life insurance companies who want me to join their team by signing up for trainings. They say all I need is "an entrepreneurial spirit." I don't have an entrepreneurial spirit. I'd sell my writing for money, but this isn't what they mean.

I imagine what it would be like to give in fully. To just dive in and become an alcoholic. To become brutal with my loved ones -- like Picasso. No, I don't want that either. I don't actually drink much at all. I sort of hate to fight. And there's just no need to throw anything ever, so... no. While I was writing this I received an email from one of the schools I applied to. "Your file will be forwarded to the department for review in the next business day." That's what they said. A different school also emailed me early this morning telling me the same thing. And someone has just knocked on my door. "How are you today?" is the question. I lie. I say, "I'm working on my lesson for WeiSheng. How are you?" But I don't want to know the answer. Not right now. Maybe later. An answer is mumbled through the closed door. I pretend to listen, say something appeasing in return. It is easier to lie. People think I am a good person. People get what they want and I don't have to come up with a response other than "yes" to the question: Is that all you want to do all day -- write?

That Not So Fresh Feeling

2009-10-31T18:19:00.000-04:00

So, it turns out that it wasn't just PTGSAS -- post traumatic grad school application syndrome. I'm actually sick. I don't think I have the pig flu because my main symptoms have been low-grade feelings of fatigue and apathy, which can easily be mistaken for failure and PMS. When I realized that the chest congestion, loss of appetite and cough were not among my usual responses to fears of an unjust MFA god, I decided I needed to get proactive about my healing.

I wasn't well enough to drive all the way to the health food store, so I went to Safeway to see what kind of healing I could squeeze from Celestial Seasons tea and Stovetop Stuffing. I spent fifteen minutes scrutinizing the ingredients of all the herbal teas, muttering to myself about the lack of selection. Where was Grandma's Tummy Mint? Isn't it against the law to not stock this? I did find a few boxes of fantastic teas from a company based in the town in California I used to live in. But Safeway is apparently ignorant about which herbs would have been most helpful to me. Their buyer is clearly not an herbalist. So, I settled for Sleepytime tea and Tension Tamer. It was the best herbal combination I could come up with from the limited selection. Plus, it was two for five bucks, so that meant I would have enough money left to buy a piece of ginger root for maximum stomach settling power.

I bought a frozen dinner because I am sick of miso soup. I drank tea. I absorbed the super healing powers of two movies -- Planet of the Apes and Psycho. Yes! Anthony Perkins puts Vince Vaughn to shame as Norman Bates. (The remake was on last week. I watched it. Don't bother. Fake lezzie Anne Heche is okay as Marion Crane, but Vaughn was terribly miscast. He gave it a good shot, but he came off like his character from Swingers with a bit of Down's Syndrome.) And while Charlton Heston is largely annoying as the lost astronaut known to his ape captors as Bright Eyes, that movie remains compelling. Maybe it was my sickness, but I threw up in my mouth a little bit when Heston (as Taylor) decides his beautiful and mute (and therefore perfect)
mate (played by Linda Harrison) should go by the name Nova. He tries to teach her to say it. His misogynistic smirk pretty much conveys, "Damn, I love stupid snatch." Nevertheless, it's a great flick to be sick to. There is one scene in which three gorillas stand smiling and posing for photos behind a stack of humans they've killed. It is so Abu Ghraib it ain't funny.

Since it's Halloween, I may have to conclude my healing with more horror movies. I'd prefer to see a marathon of What Not to Wear, but I may have to settle for Bridezilla. No, I won't. I can't take that level of bitchiness, even if it is one of my father's favorite shows and I have yet to watch it enough to determine exactly where this places my father in the DSM IV book. Really, I'd like to finish my library books. I'm trying to read this memoir written by a potential future professor of mine. But I can't do that either. It hurts to read right now. It makes me feel worse. You would think that spending a few hours watching crime shows on the Investigation Discovery network would also make me feel bad. But no. Oddly, I feel just a tiny bit better. Maybe because I consider myself matching the paces of the forensics team and figuring out before the narrator says it that "the neighborhood sweetheart has a taste for murder." Actually that's not a quote. I made it up. But it sounds right, doesn't it?

So, here's where I confess the truth. I didn't find Grandma's Tummy Mint. No. But I did find Mom's Pharmaceuticals. Holy crap! All I can say is that there must have been some magic in that old pink pill I found because when I put it in my mouth I began to dance around (no, I fell asleep for twelve hours.) And actually, she gave it to me. I didn't raid her apothecary (I mean her strictly legal medicine cabinet.) But I might tonight. For now I am drinking Tension Tamer and eating fresh fruit. The MFA application process didn't kill me, but it may have made me sick. Still, my applications are all where they need to be -- out of my hands. If I could I would hibernate like a bear and wake up just in time to pee and to read more than one acceptance letter. For now, I am accepting the things that I cannot change. Like the fact that Safeway doesn't know jack about herbs and that there is a long time between now and when I find out about grad school.

Shiny, Happy Applicant

2009-10-29T19:19:00.000-04:00

I have a hangover -- an MFA applicant hangover. I am nauseous, headachey, unable to sleep well at night and unable to stay awake well during the day. I had a dream that I was walking on a very wet sidewalk semi-covered with autumn leaves (the Portland rains have begun) while carrying my letters of recommendation from former professors. I dropped one. True to stress dream form, this letter landed on one corner and balanced precariously between the wet street and the storm drain. It hung there, waiting for my slightest exhale to knock it into the storm drain and into the sewer where it would be washed out to sea. Great. My letter would become litter, and it would likely contribute to the deaths of plankton. Perhaps I would even be arrested. I had to act. I reached, holding my breath like I was disconnecting a bomb. Once the letter was back in my hand, my sigh of relief turned into panic as I saw that the wetness of the street had loosened the seal of the envelope. My officially sealed letter was now officially unsealed. My efforts to simply press the flap back into place only warped the envelope. Soon I found myself suffering from some kind of cognitive disorder that rendered me unable to figure out how to deal with this situation. Fortunately, I woke up before I had to do the unable-to-scream-and-forget-how-to-walk thing.

Underneath the shackles of my merciless unconscious lies some good news. A couple days ago I released my final application to the ethers also known as the US Postal system. Wow! I am going to take a moment here and give myself the pat on the back that I deserve because that was one long obsession. I know that I could not have submitted materials better than I did. In that regard, my applications were perfect, and so were my efforts. I wouldn't have made it through as semi-sane as I am without the people at the MFA Weblog and the MFA Chronicles. At this point, my friends are more or less pretending to pay attention when I talk about grad school, so my cyber peeps have saved me and validated my reality. It was helpful to have people say, "We do, in fact, need to open our envelopes and recheck the materials for a fifth time." And when I accidentally applied a stamp so that the American flag flew upside down? For a few seconds, I seriously worried that this could potentially cost me acceptance at a school that might view my harmless mistake as treason. I mean, I've been a blue state dweller for a long time. I'm applying to some schools in areas where let's just say there is a renewed interest in tea. And bags. And parties. Fortunately, wiser MFA applicant heads prevailed and reassured me, saying. "It's not like you mailed in an upside down crucifix."

Nevertheless, the whole process has drained me. I've decided to go get a massage if I can ever get off the couch. I am too tired to lay on a table and drool while somebody rubs me. For real. So, for now I am trying to rebuild my strength by eating miso soup, drinking lots of herbal tea, taking baths and watching some serious TV. Last Sunday was the MSNBC Cult Marathon, which was must-see TV for me, for sure. (Jonestown and Waco and Manson -- oh my!) One of my alternative careers besides FBI profiler, dominatrix or cosmetologist is cult expert. Some would find renewal in a nice long hike or maybe drinking. I feel more one with myself and the universe when immersed in an investigative journalism piece that involves the words "compound," "charismatic, but with a dark side" and "spiraling out of control." It's like Behind the Music, but with God instead of gold records.

My sister made me pancakes for dinner last night. I watched old episodes of My Life on the D-List on You Tube. I fell asleep after rubbing clary sage essential oil into the soles of my feet and pushing an eye pillow into my face so I would go out in a cloud of aromatherapy and flax seeds. I still feel pretty crappy, to be honest. But I am on my way. I researched MFA programs for over a year and worked on my applications for months. Next year at this time I will most likely be living in another part of the country, laughing about how hardcore I was about this whole process. This is what I hope anyway. For now I am kind of messy and in need of some fresh air. Still, I did it -- even when it was hard. Nevertheless, I should consider my back up plan. I think I would make the most money as a dominatrix, but find more personal fulfillment as a cult expert. Both fields have potentially large and loyal customer bases. Wait, why did I apply to grad school again?

MFA: My Fading Attention

2009-10-14T21:50:00.000-04:00

I've been away a few days due to obsessing over completing my applications for grad school. Can I get a Hoo-hah, Hoo-hah? It's a sickness really. I've read every snippet on every creative nonfiction MFA program in the United States on every blog and website in existence. I've made notes. I've made a list and checked it twice (a day.) I've decided that, should I be lucky enough to be admitted, I do have the strength of character to live in a state whose supreme court just upheld the illegality of vibrators and dildos. I've revised my statement of purpose so many times that I think I accidentally became somebody who has a five-year plan. I have a stack of partially addressed envelopes that are partially filled with my writing samples, transcripts and the glitter I've glued to the hopes and dreams I intend to manifest as a writer at one of the better places to study writing.

If I had a real circle of friends in this city I would probably go have drink and, as my stepmother used to say, "go blow the stink off." I considered throwing myself into a willfully casual and strictly low maintenance relationship with a man with no apparent redeeming qualities outside of his knack for finding creative ways to make me sweat. But no. I guess I am officially old if I admit this, but um, that's just too much work right now. Besides, I am making myself sweat every day on my walk -- my walk that just became a six-mile walk instead of a four-mile walk. Yes, I am bragging. But if you read me regularly then you know that I am still more or less a big wuss. I'm just a wuss with a much tighter butt and blood blisters underneath her water blisters.

So, I guess I don't have much to say. My brain is mush. I should find a nice true crime and forensics story on TV and try to guess who the real killer is. (Duh, it's the husband.) Last week MSNBC lied to me and said it was airing a show about Jonestown. Maybe I got the date wrong, but as an unofficial expert on cults, I considered it required viewing. Of course, I've probably already seen it, but I probably haven't seen it enough. I mean, they aren't called charismatic leaders for nothing. I watched a show on David Koresh and Waco recently. I hate to admit it, but the man had some mojo. Not a lot, but enough, clearly. Plus, he whipped out a guitar at one point and sang a song about "There's a mad man living in Waco..." I don't know, it kind of got to me. I should include him on my list of people I am sort of attracted to against my will. The top of that list is the lead singer of the Free Credit Report dot Com commercials. I can't believe I just admitted that in public. Did I already mention that I am having some mental instability brought on by grad school applications?

I've got three library books to read. I need to pay my car insurance. I need to write thank-you notes to the professors who wrote me letters of recommendation. Oh, and it's my birthday this week. So, I've got to find a way to celebrate myself. On this year's budget I'll likely be considering one-with-nature options that don't cost anything. I think I should write a new sacred contract for my life. One that includes unlimited funding to the grad school of my choice. I could do a commitment ceremony between me and myself, pledging my loyalty to the creative spirit within. I promise to love myself for better or for worse, in sickness and in health and regardless of what happens with grad school. So, I guess it's done. I'm my own ball and chain. I'm more than a little wiggy due to mental exhaustion, but I have a feeling that I've made a good choice. If not, I will start my own cult. I will be my own rock star. Okay then.

Sucking the Marrow From the Metaphor

2009-10-01T20:53:00.000-04:00

I'm back to walking. It's been a few days now, and I am glad to be back. And, as I was surprised to find out, my absence was noted by some of the people who got used to seeing me there. Baggy Sweatshirt Lady is probably my favorite of all my co-walkers. I am pretty sure she is emaciated underneath that big sweatshirt. Maybe she has an eating disorder or maybe she's rehabilitating herself from cancer or some other illness. Or maybe she's an ultra marathon runner who takes the sport so seriously that she wears Depends so she can poop and run at the same time. The mother of an ex-boyfriend of mine did that kind of thing. I don't know about the diaper part, but she literally ran with a crowd that would run all night and into the next day without sleeping. I have to think there was at least a small degree of pants-peeing involved. These people were hardcore. Many were recovering alcoholics. They had to be intense about something.

But in regard to Baggy Sweatshirt Lady, I don't know because I don't know her. I don't know her name or anything about her except that whether I arrive at 10:30 a.m. or 11:30 a.m. she is always there, charging ahead with her headphones and her sweats in muted colors. I could tell she was hardcore right away. She never looked at me or acknowledged me when I passed her, and she seemed very focused on just pushing through the next lap. I made sure to give her plenty of room when I saw her heading toward me. And then it just happened. She started smiling at me. Then sometimes she waved. It's a stretch to say I felt like I had tamed the meanest dog in the development, but I did feel like somehow she had decided to let me in just a tiny bit for the few seconds it took to pass one another a few times.

I guess very social people might read this and wonder why I would perhaps obsess over something so small and insignificant. My answer is that I tend to find refuge in the small things like smiles between strangers. I also find solace in the synchronicities. Due to my minor knee injury I was unable to make it for my daily four-mile walk. Hell, I could barely make it four feet. I was holed up with a bag of ice, a hot water bottle and a high level of annoyance that one of my favorite parts of my day was at least temporarily off limits. This pulled muscle also caused me to cancel a date -- with a man, I mean. I figured I was already injured enough. Why add unnecessary variables? I didn't have that many pain pills.

As it happens, the man showed himself to be unworthy of my time even before we ordered coffee. Or maybe the kinder way to say it is that we would not have been compatible. He didn't know it, but he would have hated me. And I was well on my way to despising him, I realized rather quickly. Had I not injured my knee I would have met him that night. Mutual squirming would have occurred as we sipped overpriced coffee drinks and tried to gracefully exit without saying anything too horrible to each other. I am grateful to have been spared from this, and I have to thank my swollen knee for that.

Likewise, it turns out the trail I walk on was scheduled for maintenance for several days. New cedar chips were laid while I was laid up, meaning that for almost half the time I was unable to walk I would have been unable to walk anyway. The fitness trail had been closed completely. I didn't notice the signs until today. I actually stopped walking for a moment to take in the coincidence. Only, I don't believe in coincidence. I believe that things usually do happen for a reason, even if I never get to know what those reasons are. My God, it's just a knee and a few days of missed walking, you might say. And for you that might be true. For me it was a little reminder that sometimes missing out on what I think I want is the best possible outcome. I'll take that where I can get it.

A few days ago I got it partially from Baggy Sweatshirt Lady who greeted me with an actual "Hi!" so loud that it busted its way through David Byrne in my mp3 player. She hadn't been able to walk all those days either. I suspect she still found a way to move even if it was up and down the stairs in her own house. Like I said, she's hardcore. As for me, I think I've probably wrung most of the moisture from this Kerry-working-out topic. Of course, I still want to get up to six miles. So, we will see. For now I hope for the wisdom to remain grateful even when my feet are blistered and my heart hurts with the pain of unknowing. Wish me luck.

Not Extended -- For Her Pleasure

2009-09-23T00:02:00.000-04:00

Am I the only one who is totally creeped out by that smirky spokesman for Extenz? No, not the semi-harmless, kind of effeminate gym teacher-ish guy who delivers his pitch in a gym. That's the commercial that also makes sure to show us a woman doing whatever people do on a treadmill in tight workout clothes so that we basically see her ass for the duration of the advertisement. That's annoying, but not nearly as gross as that weirdo who does way too good of an impersonation of a 70s swinger. He ends his gross spiel by saying, "And that increase in size?" (Pause for women to swoon.) "Well, (heh-heh), that was kinda fun too..."

Kinda gross actually. Somebody tell me they also feel the need to shower after seeing that commercial...

(My shortest post ever, but believe me, this is far from over...)

Riding the Couch to Health Care

2009-09-19T18:08:00.000-04:00

Well, that was short-lived. My athletic glory, I mean. Thanks to pulling something or contracting an as-yet-to begin killing-me flesh-eating bacteria in my knee, I have officially been suspended. As in I haven't walked my laps in almost two weeks. As in I am warming the bench and not liking it. As in do those stretchy knee braces actually do anything?

I've iced. I've heated. I rubbed my magical St. John's Wort oil into my knee, trying to convince myself that maybe I was always lopsided and am only now noticing this. My mother wants me to see a doctor so badly she's insisting she will pay for it. I don't want her to do this because underneath my whiny and wussy exterior I am sure that it's just a pull or a twist or some other form of tweaking that has temporarily put an end to my seriously considering the racks of "active wear" at Target that I have purposely never looked at my entire life.

The thing is that in other lands, socialist, pagan-atheist, no death-penalty-having lands, I would be able to pop into a doctor's office for free (via taxes.) I'd limp onto the table, hold out my right leg and say, "Am I crazy or does this knee resemble a water balloon?" It'd be over in five minutes. The doctor would assure me that all was fine in knee-town. He'd indulge me by making me prove that I can still point my toes. He'd make a little joke at my expense. So, have you like never done anything athletic ever? Maybe I'd even get a fun prescription just for being a good sport. In short, I'd get the tiny pep talk that would convince me to hang onto my sneakers, and I would get it without having to sell myself on the Internet (several times) to pay for it.

But no. Apparently, for me to receive this level of care is to take away the country from others -- others who are so riled up they are bringing semi-automatic weapons to rallies about health care. They carry these weapons without irony while holding bibles in their other hands. They fear a government takeover, death panels and federally-funded abortions, and therefore, they fear people like me, who simply want to be able to get their teeth cleaned twice a year.

It is too late, people. The country you are trying to preserve is, in fact, already gone. Most of us are happy about this. We want change, for better and for worse, which includes having to share voting ballots and media access with people like you. It's rough for us too. We know that the work before us is hard and requires sacrifice. I'm willing to do what it takes. I eat in a fairly healthy manner, I exercise and I don't smoke. It's a significant contribution that I make toward maintaining the health that I have and hopefully preventing conditions that I want to avoid.

I've gotten very attached to my daily four-mile walk. It clears my head of the obsessive compulsive disorder I am developing in response to applying to eight MFA programs. It feels good to sweat out the residue from my statement of purpose essays and GRE scores. And yes, I look cute in my tank tops. But I am also taking action by walking. I'm taking care of my health proactively because I can't afford to see doctors. So when a wuss like me pulls a muscle it scares me. I lost my career as a massage therapist a few years ago due to an injury that I thought was just a pulled muscle. I'm just now getting back on my feet -- my feet that, at least on one side, lead to a temporarily tweaked knee. It scares me a little to be limping, even though most of my gut says, Seriously, you just need more ice and more downtime. Turn on "What Not to Wear," take that half a Vicodin you scored off your mother and be done with it.

And so I have. It's a break, and it's fine. But it wasn't fine when I permanently injured my arm. And it's not fine for people who are in far worse shape than I was. To those who would deny us basic health care, I have to ask you, why are you so mean-spirited about this? And for those of you who claim to be Christians while fighting hard to make sure that those who need coverage the most remain excluded, I congratulate you on your certainty that Jesus would be proud of you. Nevertheless, you'll be leaving for the Rapture soon enough. You'll have an eternity before you in which you can keep out the rest of us and feel good about it from the safety of your Heavenly chariots. For now, you're still on Earth, which, in theory, should be big enough for all of us.

Change I Can Believe In

2009-09-01T00:34:00.000-04:00

People who know me know that I am loath to feel the burn. I tend to limit my exertion to the mental realm, focusing on books and whatever random topic I feel the need to research exhaustively for a few months -- cults and murderers being my longest running themes. I've been able to get away with this because I inherited the doesn't-get-very-fat gene and because I eat fairly well. Every once in a while I reignite my yoga practice for a few months, and I have made a point to walk while running errands when conditions permitted. I can assure you, however, that I have never voluntarily strapped myself to a weight machine, jogged or hiked unless one of my boyfriends pressured me into it. I think working out is boring. I'm also easily intimidated by reminders of my poor performance in gym class. (It is possible to get a D in Phys Ed.) So, it is with no small amount of surprise that I find myself working out and liking it.

The truth is that it started as a purely preventive measure. I had just relocated to grey, wet Portland, OR from sunny Sonoma County, CA -- a place that boasts a climate I consider perfect. The damp chill settled into me almost immediately. I was not accustomed to dressing like a lumberjack. I didn't like it. I am strictly tank-top-and-platform-sandals. Or at least I was until I was forced to borrow heavily from my sister's ginormous collection of fleece. I needed to move my body to stay warm. After a few laps around the neighborhood I felt heated enough to wear two layers of clothing instead of three. After a few more I felt like I could counter the creeping grey that threatened to take me down in a seasonal affective disorder stranglehold. One of my best friends here had become dependent on her lightbox like it was a little plug-in Jesus. I saw how far I could potentially fall if I didn't take action. And so I began my transformation.

I just kept walking is how it happened. I was pissed because the sky was hailing on me like a curse from God. My ears were going numb even covered by a hat I found in the street and claimed as my own. (I washed it first.) I was so irritated that I decided to just keep walking. I moved here without a job. Dammit. I moved here without an apartment. Double goddammit. I moved here on the heels of a doomed romance that just wouldn't die its good death. What-freaking-ever dammit. So I walked because I sort of hoped I would fall off the edge of the planet. I would walk until there was something besides my own fear to focus on.

Spite, I've found, is not a bad motivator. Turns out I was walking a lot further than I realized. That's the thing about not knowing your way around. You don't know that when you get to the Asian bakery you've walked at least a mile. When you pass the 7-11 on Division St. you've walked close to two. As the days passed and I still couldn't find anyone to hire me, I knew that I had done at least that. I had walked. It was the one thing that I knew, for sure, was positive and that would maybe keep me sane. I walked and I wrote. I unloaded the dishwasher and walked. I walked and scrubbed the bathtub. My sister lent me a raincoat and an mp3 player. She pointed down her street and said, "There's a bike path down there..." I got up and went because by now my legs were craving the daily movement and my mind still needed a release from the extreme clerical sport that is grad school applications.

By the time the sun began making regular appearances, I was walking on the fitness trail that circles a nearby golf course. I was sweating to the oldies like Grandmaster Flash and the Smiths. I wore a brand new pair of magical sneakers my sister found on sale -- half off and the only seriously athletic shoes I've ever owned. She surprised me with them as a gift. She said, "You're like, working out now." She said this with a mix of confusion and respect. As a naturally gifted athlete, she has always been the one to hang the ribbons of recognition on her wall while I have hung them in my hair, trying to think of ways to get out of having to play kickball during recess.

Currently, I'm up to four miles a day. I see the same people: The super skinny woman in the huge sweatshirt, the really old guy with the cane, the high school boys with no shirts and loud jokes, the moms with strollers and tired smiles. They're starting to say hi to me. Like I belong there with all the other joggers and power walkers. I admit that it means something to experience even this tiny shred of community in a town that has been less than welcoming. There's a cute guy who waves hello to me every time we pass each other. I've been too afraid to take out my ear buds and actually talk to him. I mean, what if he thinks I'm (God forbid) sporty? The last thing I want is to be dumped for being a jocktease. Still, the whole things gives me hope, even if I haven't worked through all the scar tissue.

I have muscles. I am, in fact, feeling the burn and loving it. I've surprised myself -- in a good way, and I know that this means more than a good cardio workout. I guess what I see is that I'd still pick myself to play on my own team. There's no fucking way I'm wearing one of those visor hat things though.

Hide My Face Book

2009-08-03T00:08:00.000-04:00

I do not get social networking. I signed up for Facebook for exactly one day at the urging of my sister who promised to send me "something really cool" that she was too embarrassed to post on YouTube like a normal exhibitionist. The video didn't even load correctly, but instantly my laptop screen was popping with people -- people I hadn't seen since fourth grade and people I broke up with fairly recently. Uh, eww. Actually, I was kind of scared. This is why I am going to die alone in a housecoat and be eaten by cats. I'm starting to wonder if it's a problem.

If you follow this blog then you already know I abandoned you for close to two years. Like a mother on meth. I'm sorry. There were papers to write. And my cat died. Then I almost moved to South Korea. Plus, there was that suffocating feeling of failure that descended shortly after I finally finished my degree just in time for the economy to nosedive. And, of course, there was a man. Isn't there always? Another inappropriate companion to make sure I don't forget how to be bitter. Actually, I'm mostly joking about that. When someone from your past asks you out for coffee, you go. You go because you still look hot. You go because you've always wondered what happened to him. You go because you have to. Against all better judgment and all common sense. I don't regret it. But on top of everything else, it rendered me preoccupied.

So, guess what? People in Oregon really do hate people from California. How fun for me now that I live here. Here's how it went at the DMV. I approached the clerk who said he would take my photo for my new driver's license. I handed him my Dept. of Homeland Security-approved documents, which he read with a scowl. This is the dialogue verbatim:

DMV DICK: Aww, two California people in a row! Why???

SNIPPY LITTLE THING: (cheerful and still glowing from passing the written exam) It's just temporary.

DMV DICK: That's what they all say.

SNIPPY LITTLE THING: (misplaced dogged optimism) You never know, I could make some improvements.

DMV DICK: (not kidding) I doubt it.

Okay then. No credit for hair power at all. People here actually screw up their faces like you've pushed a green apple Jolly Rancher into their mouths against their will when you tell them you're from California. One friend of mine was told more than once at job interviews "Go back to California." So, fine. Whatever. I guess I'll scrap my plans to build a strip mall. I'll forget about driving up housing costs by plunking down my fat wad of California bills on all the best property. I'll take my captain of industry self elsewhere just as soon as I can persuade an MFA program that I am good enough, smart enough and gosh darn it, people like me. Just not in Oregon.

For now I am all about giving back. I want to say thanks to the folks who asked me when the hell I was going to get back on my blog. Now. That's the answer. Thanks to friends who talk me out of taking sales jobs. Thanks to friends who read my writing and find the typos that I can no longer see after so many revisions. Thanks for still talking to me even though I didn't get your birthday present in the mail on time and I talk nearly all the time about grad school. Facebook scares the crap out of me, so please forgive all the times I ignored your requests for cyber friendship. If there had been an auto-reply that diplomatically communicated I'm sorry, but I'm not yet ready to identify with this paradigm, I would have done it. It's safe to say I won't be Tweeting any time soon. Not until I have a book to hawk anyway. Til then, thanks for reading. And hey, Portlanders, if you see me at Powell's, do me righteous and say hi like you mean it. Like even a Californian is welcome.

Snippy New Year 2008

2007-12-31T22:34:00.000-05:00

I fell today. We're talking help-me-I've-fallen-and-I-can't-get-up. My cell phone flew out of my purse, and when I hit the ground I heard someone yell "Goddammit" at the top of her lungs. As I felt the dull thud of frontal lobe damage, I realized it was me. Oh great, I thought, now I'm going to have to wear a helmet and take public transportation. And I still won't qualify for food stamps. A kind stranger suffocated his desire to laugh at me and instead asked me if I needed help. I appreciated that because I know I looked hilarious. The sidewalk wasn't wet, I wasn't wearing heels and I didn't trip over anything. In short, my fall probably looked like a metaphysical phenomenon. Like I was mugged by the Invisible Man. I politely declined the kind stranger's offer to give me mouth to mouth resuscitation and attempted to recover my dignity. The kind stranger smiled at me. He said, "You just need to get out of 2007 and into 2008." I couldn't agree more. So, under the influence of more than one glass of ginger ale, I bring you the year in review -- snippy style.

1. Last year at this time I was living with two housemates, three cats and the realization that I do, in fact, have it in me to murder people in their sleep. I discovered what I don't like about a house share -- the sharing part. It was like being on The Real World without the hot tub. Each of us assumed she was the hot one as opposed to the crazy one. To be clear, I wasn't kicked out after a heated drunken house meeting. I left on my own to move into a studio. It's true that my apartment is is so tiny that I can saute onions on the stove while sitting on my bed. It's also true that I have more than enough room. Lesson learned about people: If you're not having sex with them, don't live with them.

2. My arm/shoulder continues to heal. I've reignited my yoga practice, which has helped me way more than simply taking pain pills and crying. I'm still being treated like a crack whore by the powers that be in workers' compensation. The so-called neutral doctor told me that I can go back to being a massage therapist if I want to. He said, "You won't make the injury any worse, you'll just be in pain." Um, yeah, and losing the ability to pump my own gas again won't hinder my lifestyle at all. How am I supposed to fight the war on terror by shopping if I can't carry my own bags? Nevertheless, I've seen improvement, so I'm keeping hope alive. Like Terry Schiavo.

3. I completed another semester of school, which means that I am that much closer to infiltrating a media outlet near you. Once I've secured my writer's paycheck and stocked up on my favorite hair conditioner you can be sure I'll start asking the tough questions. For example, I want to ask Mitt Romney if he wears that special Mormon underwear. I'll ask Hillary why she voted in support of the war in Iraq. And I won' let her say, "It depends on the meaning of in." And of course, I'll respond to pop singer Fergie's demand to know why reporters keep asking her about plastic surgery. (Because before you were Fergalicious you were Snuffalufagus maybe?)

4. Dating? Dating-schmating. Let's not even go there. Except I should give a big Thank-You and-Thank-the-Lord to the guy who brought me chai. Thank you for not traumatizing me and thank you for not giving me a reason to use my bunny rabbit-shaped taser.

5. My father bought a handgun this year. I bring this up only because next year at this time I will probably be sending a shout-out to him in prison after he accidentally shoots a neighbor. Fortunately, my law officer brother talked him out of buying a shotgun or I'd be phoning in anonymous tips to the authorities. Freaked out after a petty burglary, my father decided to upgrade his security. Some of us were concerned. A niece asked him why he didn't just get a dog. My father replied, "Because a gun won't take a shit in the middle of my living room." Caught with no counterargument, I laughed. Sometimes that is the only option.

So, I fell hard today. I swore like a sailor with tourette's syndrome and road rage. And then I laughed. I laughed because it hurt so bad. Laughing distracted me from thinking that I might have broken my good arm. The arm that carries the heavier bags of groceries and pumps gas when the other one can't. It was like my life flashed forward to me in a housecoat being eaten by my cat because nobody knew I died. Yeah, I went to the bad place. For a split second it made sense and seemed likely even. But still, I laughed. What else could I do? Another year has ended, and I expect to be here next year -- laughing.

Oh Holy Night

2007-12-23T15:22:00.000-05:00

As most of you know, I do not celebrate Christmas. I don't care if it is Santa Claus' birthday, I have better things to do than pretend to be grateful when somebody gives me a coffee mug with a wreath on it. Fortunately, my friends and family gave up on me a long time ago. They consider it another one of my charming quirks that they tolerate, much like my refusal to answer the phone before ten a.m. Nobody ever thinks it'd be a good idea to spend the holidays with me. I won't give them any presents because I don't like a calendar telling me what to do. (Plus, I'm poor.) My studio is too small for even a bonsai Christmas tree, and I am fairly allergic to sugar and alcohol. What's the point? My spiritual life is private, and I express it in ways that don't seem to make sense in the little town of Bethlehem. But I did sort of celebrate this year, and I think I've started my own tradition. For the past two days I've been cleaning out my apartment.

The season of Solstice is the true inspiration for my Christmas purge. I found myself depressed and seemingly friendless just a few days before Christmas. Because I am a hermit this normally doesn't bother me. I usually meet my social needs via safe and predictable relationships with bank tellers and the cashiers of grocery stores. Not much chance of betrayal and heartbreak at Safeway. (Although, I am pretty upset when I can't find the half-n-half.) Still, once in a while I would be willing to suffer the inevitable emotional consequences of interacting with humans to go to the movies with somebody. Currently, my friends fall into one or more of three categories: 1) They live far away and can only kick it over the phone. 2) They are married with or without children, which means all social plans are likely to be cancelled (or simply forgotten) at the last minute due to pressing needs like buying a napkin holder. 3) Their new and fabulous soul mate forbids them to associate them with me. If I strike you as wallowing in misery, don't worry. I consoled myself by watching a series of A&E Biographies about serial killers. And then I started cleaning.

Determined to turn my frown upside down, I decided that I would honor the longest night of the year by diving into the darkness that is my storage space and doing a ruthless inventory of my belongings. I lit a seven day candle that I bought from the Mexican aisle at the grocery store because nothing throws down the juju like a candle that claims to be able to dispel demons. I said a small prayer. Scrutinizing my stuff for the fluff, I found that I no longer needed a whole carload of crap. The lamp with the crooked shade, a microwave oven and a collection of junk jewelry that I forgot I had all got tossed. I even said goodbye to my high school year books. I mean, do I really need a reminder of my Belinda Carlisle haircut? That's what my sister is for.

The more I removed the objects of my past, the more ready I felt to embrace my present (as opposed to my presents.) Yes, I did throw away the framed photograph of the friend who has decided that her mate really does get to tell her who she can be friends with. I have fond memories, and I wish her well, but I have no room in my house for dead plants or dead relationships. And it feels better to admit this and move on than to wait for her to come down my chimney like Santa Claus with a bagful of the gifts of Christmas past. In this way I did make my peace with several chapters of my life. Why, for example, did I still have a boxful of massage linens? That career ended two years ago when I hurt my arm. My attachment to it ended two days ago. The empty spaces left behind can now be filled by finishing my degree as a writer and being willing to meet new people, despite my fear of them and their weaknesses. Despite my fear of myself and my own weaknesses. And in this I do feel renewed -- like somebody up there likes me even though I won't join in any reindeer games.

Down the Tubes

2007-11-10T01:31:00.000-05:00

I guess you wonder where I been. I searched to find a love within. I came back to let you know. Got a thing for you, and I can't let go.

Not really, but I'm listening to Bobby Caldwell circa 1979 and I'm feeling kind of sentimental. I found the video on You Tube by accident. One of those random links that somehow popped up as they do only on You Tube. You start out looking for the Smiths. That turns into guinea pigs dancing to Jungle Boogie from Pulp Fiction, which leads to Filipino prison inmates doing the Thriller dance complete with a man in a halter top playing Michael Jackson's love interest. That led me directly to the Bollywood version of Thriller, which was actually really scary. I don't think they were faking being dead.

I've learned a lot since diving into You Tube four years after everybody else. Apparently, I am not the only person who thinks her cat is way more fascinating than she actually is. My cat really is spectacular, despite her crossed eye. And those who've seen the photos on my cell phone will back me up. Making bird noises at a moth, however, is not what I would consider post-worthy. Neither are the clips of meows with subtitles that translate what the cat is supposedly saying. To the person who showed video "proof" that his cat meowed a cover of Gimme More while he shook the bag of Meow Mix: What your cat actually said was "Dude, put down the pipe." Nevertheless, I watched about a mini-series worth of cats mewing in tongues. Loser? I prefer the term media anthropologist.

I never did watch that Chris Crocker guy cry about Britney Spears' disastrous performance at the VMA's. I'm so sure. I was busy watching the Bee Gees perform Jive Talkin' in what looked like white full-body Speedos with plunging necklines. Tragedy indeed. I'm pretty sure no one was wearing underwear. That led to the obligatory walk down Saturday Night Fever memory lane. What exactly is someone if she is More Than a Woman? A hermaphrodite? Sensory flashbacks of my stepfather dancing to Donna Summer forced me to move on or I would have been in the disco round all night.

When I see children at Target I usually despise them. If they aren't already screaming, they or some close to them will surely start within seconds. And when one starts they all start -- like all the neighborhood dogs barking simultaneously when they hear a siren. It's just what Target does to children. Like the moon and werewolves. I want no part of it. On You Tube, however, people post their kids being hilarious, precocious and just straight up crazy. Why do we think it so funny when kids swear or slap their fathers across the camera? I admit I was laughing. But I also saw stuff I don't think Children and Youth Services should know about. Then again, teenybopper slut pageants are legal, so what do I know? Besides, the secret to success for girls these days seems to include telling the press you're a virgin while simulating sex onstage.

I admit I haven't actually looked for anything of real educational or spiritual value, so I don't know if it exists. Of course, I do place value on things like being able to watch Tim Curry belt out Sweet Transvestite while I'm at the library studying. And Jesus singing I Will Survive inspired me -- as an artist. When I was in ninth grade my mother decided that our illegal MTV had ruined me. Madonna. My mother was clear. I wasn't supposed to be like a virgin. I was supposed to be a virgin. I was forced to wear pantyhose and attend a Christian youth group where nobody would talk to me. I sat there silently, trying to memorize bible quotes, playing with my black rubber bracelets. I knew that one day I would grow up and say whatever I wanted to say even if it was stupid. Okay, not true. I always thought my running commentary was brilliant. Like a cat who meows Britney Spears on the Internet. And I guess that's what we're all doing these days. We're having our say and convinced that we are fabulous.

Day of the Dead Dates

2007-11-03T02:35:00.000-04:00

Not to be a culture co-opting gringa or anything, but the Day of the Dead rocks. I did not go to a cemetery and pour a can of Schlitz on my grandpa's grave. Nor did I make an altar of tuna fish in honor of Mama Kitty. In fact, I failed to follow the dead-honoring tradition at all. Instead, I chose to acknowledge those who should be dead. If you read my comic book Dating Sucks My Will to Live then you know who I am talking about. Cheapskates, haters and spiritual terrorists a.k.a. my would be suitors. And truly, I don't want to give them any more attention than I already have. As it is I probably owe at least one of them a settlement because he recognized himself as the star of my other comic classic The Break-Up Diary. Still, I recently found myself haunted by memories of men who put the dis in dysfunctional. And I realized I had to do something about it.

Bad memories are bad juju, and I've got more than a shoeboxful. Maybe I don't need to rent a storage unit to hold mine, but I probably need an extra bookshelf and some Tupperware. The guy who divided our cafe check in half after he'd not only ordered for me, but eaten half my food reminded me to "leave a little something for the waiter." Another guy complimented my choice in wine by saying, "Not bad for the two or three dollars you probably paid for it." Rounding out the list is the man who stood me up, the man who gave me a used negligee and the man who said he could never get serious with a cat owner because he doesn't believe in "that lifestyle." Add to that the speed freak who thought he was Jesus, the Jesuit who thought I was the devil and the Svengali who tried to make me start a cult with him. It's enough to traumatize even the most optimistic of daters.

So imagine my dismay when an actual nice guy makes himself known to me in a charming, can-I-carry-your-books-for-you kind of way. He takes me out for dinner. And then again and again. He tells me right up front what I can expect from him -- endless foot massages, access to his film collection and a reason to shave my legs on a regular basis. And while he is not pushing for a commitment, I find myself already committed -- to the ghosts of dating past. I find myself cringing in anticipation of the insult or the disappointment. At any moment he will ask the question: This isn't a date, right? Except he doesn't. His ex-girlfriend doesn't make the operator do an emergency interrupt during our phone calls. He doesn't tell me my breath "smells like a rotting animal." He doesn't go home early to have cybersex with an underage online hooker.

Dating without drama? I am disoriented and afraid. Like a lab rat, monkey or bunny that never leaves the jar or the maze even after the lid is taken off the lipstick or whatever. I am conditioned for the bitchslap. I need to be exorcised of the demon dates of my past. I need those memories to die their good deaths and be gone. I am even willing to sacrifice excellent satire at their expense in the name of freeing myself. I write to the misogynist monk and the nutrition Nazi. I write to the tweaker, the cheater and the cat hater. The movie star, the rock star, and the pirate. I knew I was making progress when my chest no longer burned and it seemed reasonable that I might no longer desire to stab anyone in the heart with my pen. I burned these letters to ash and then threw them into the garden to give them a chance to reincarnate as something good for me -- like chard.

All of a sudden I remembered how uniquely and beautifully human each of us is. I felt each of my offenders for a moment and remembered details of their lives that made them feel small and mean and ready to lash out at other people -- women in particular. I believe that none of them actually meant to hurt me as much as they did. And I never meant to hurt them. Except when they deserved it, of course. And except when I was being as human as they were. I know for sure that one of my former boyfriends sought therapy due to the pleasure of knowing my love. (In fairness to myself, he's a psychotic loser, but still...)

I don't know how many people I killed today. It was a bad memory massacre. I hope that I have freed myself. In order to get my freak on I had to get the freaks out. And like all good ghosts, they may return to haunt me occasionally, but I will gently remind them (and myself) that they are dead. I will encourage them to go into the light already. Maybe next year I'll pour a Schlitz on their graves. If I'm lucky, I won't remember where they're buried at all.

Not So Snippy

2007-10-26T01:30:00.001-04:00

I'll just go ahead and tell you. You'll find out anyway when I accept my sparkly statue at some televised awards show where I'll be stuck sitting between Kid Rock and William Hung. I'm trying to make a deal with The Man. To sell out, preferably to the highest bidder. We're talking syndicated column. There have been lunches. There have have been half-caff au laits and a few hallelujahs. There have been tentative offers, but not without a few catches. The main one being that I need to find a way to tone down the snippiness just a bit. Maybe stop mocking religion. (Calling the Pope a drag queen did not go over well anywhere outside of my gender studies class. For the record, Margaret Cho said it first.) They asked me to consider limiting the use of certain words -- words like dickhead and panty wad. (There goes the recap of my summer fling.) So, what I am saying is that I need to find a way to pay for my hair conditioner once and for all. In all likelihood I will be published in a respectable paper near you, provided I can become a kinder, gentler Kerry. A Ker-Bear who maintains the mockery, but stops just short of endorsing workplace killing sprees. So, this is my experiment in toning down my Tourette's. You be the judge.

So, this morning I was thinking about my Grandma and the Lord. No, for real. My Grandma Grace used to read a tiny paperback book about Jesus every morning while she smoked her cigarette and drank her Folger's instant coffee. Sometimes she would read the lesson of the day to me. It was my first exposure to the self-help/spiritual genre. Jesus was all positive, of course, so what could you do but remind yourself how lucky you were because you were, for sure, going to Heaven? Even if you stole your sister's Sugar Babies, all you had to do was say out loud, "Forgive me, Jesus." Done. Hellfire averted. Jesus was awesome. I just wish he didn't resemble all the guys who stalk Whole Foods forcing people to sign their petitions. Seriously, they will tase you if you say no. And you do not want to die in the Whole Foods parking lot. Those people will eat your skin off like cats.

I found the Bible quotes boring because I didn't understand words like anoint and lo. Still, now that I am supposedly a grown up I find myself praying every morning. Doing yoga and invoking the Divine before school makes me feel fabulous. Like I totally understand that song Dust in the Wind. Like some of humanity might actually be worth saving (as long as I get to pick who.) I drink my coffee and breathe in the beauty that is a caffeine buzz. Is it just me or does the Lord feel just like a whole lotta latte? I decide that I can have both a bad attitude and a heart that loves. In fact, I'm feeling so inspired that I suspect that I can string a series of sentences together without swearing, over-sharing or hate criming anybody. In short, I am sanctified and renewed with a purpose. In fact, I'm writing a new book. It's called The Power of Not Right Now, and I'm going to get to it, but just a little later.

New Age Mutant Ninja Turtle

2007-07-04T16:15:00.000-04:00

Recently I was poring over several magazines in hopes of finding one or two that might publish me and pay me with more than a laminated bookmark. I was looking at magazines with a distinct new age feel because in my non-writerly life I have somehow acquired twenty years of experience in the healing and esoteric arts. I've shaken my groove thing with shamans, meditated with medicine men and choked down more wheat grass than Deepak Chopra. In short, I put the woo in woo-woo. And through no real fault of my own, I find myself sort of an accidental expert on just about everything you can conjure in the metaphysical section of the bookstore. So, imagine yourselves in my flip-flops for a moment as I am forced to realize that I actually despise much of the New Age and its shiny accouterments.

Maybe I'm just pissed because I found out that all that meditating and talking about meditating doesn't actually allow you to wipe away your past like they said it would. Finding my power animal only gave me something else to take care of -- badly. And who has the room for anything with hooves anyway? I envisioned my chakras spinning like fabulous thrift store Fiestaware and I forgave everyone I knew -- even the ones who didn't deserve it. I knew I was a being of unconditional love, despite being surrounded by pigs. My heart center was more open than a 24-hour Wal-Mart selling iPhones. And what did I have to show for it? Nothing. Unless you count a high tolerance for men in skirts as an accomplishment.

I considered that maybe I just needed to work harder. It's true that I refused to take off my clothes and um, sweat for an hour in a flaming hole with other sweaty naked people. Somehow this did not seem "cleansing" to me. I did, however, date the reincarnation of Rumi, who in this life could control the weather and assimilate methamphetamines for healing purposes. I devoted myself to years of study. I read the Hindu scriptures, did yoga and practiced food combining. I felt extremely healthy, and I felt extremely superior. Like I was special without the ed. Holy without the shit. And if I have ever had an addiction it would be my long term relationship with all things new age. It promised me all the things I never got and all of the things I never got over with the added bonus of playing dress-up.

I see myself as an intolerant recovered addict. Having been hypnotized by the empty glamours of the New Age, I am fairly intolerant of those who are where I was a few years ago. They watch films like The Secret, demanding to know where their share is. They know their angels on a first name basis, and they send them to run their errands. "Hey, Archangel Michael, while you're out could you bring me back a boyfriend and get rid of my cellulite?" And I do get that. I'd rather read books than exercise, and dating is what I do when I want more material to write about. There is only so much room on my hardrive for black comedy. Who wouldn't want an angel who doubles as a benevolent gopher? Unfortunately, it doesn't work like that. We actually have to, you know, work at it and dive into our own shadows to find out what we were missing when we were renaming ourselves after rocks and drinking our own piss. The point is that tattooing oneself with the Japanese word for peace means less than actually making peace with that neighbor you hate.

I read an article about fairies written by some angel lady. She gave advice as to how to attract fairies into your yard -- music, tiny lanterns and flowers big enough for them to sleep in. Then she warned of fairy danger. I thought she was going to advise against hanging up those sticky flypaper things. Nothing could be more gross than a dead fairy mobile. Instead she insisted that the fairies deserved a heads-up before you mow the lawn. Why? Because they are too stupid to move out of the way of the mower, resulting in a yardful of shredded fairy? Or because they need time to pack up their tiny fiddles? I didn't understand. I mean, if I never knew they were there in the first place, why do they need me to take care of them? Especially if their main purpose is to play tricks on me and hide things. I had a housemate who did that. It's called kleptomania. I don't want Papa Smurf in my yard either. And for that I am called "negative."

When money is tight I consider starting a cult. I'm fluent in new age philosophies and I look good in a nosering. With people eating up things like Fairy Farming for Dummies and Chicken Soup for the Shaman's Soul, there's a lot of money to be made off of the new age. I could get people to cook for me and send me money. I could have minions. Our power animal would be the slug because I would promote laying around. Enlightenment would be noted by the ability to leave behind a trail of slime. And salt would be forbidden. It would cost a lot of money, of course, to meet with me in private where I would divine your past lives as a maggot and encourage you to do a ritual to embrace your inner fly. I could cure your negativity. Of this I am positive.

The Red Tent

2007-06-17T01:17:00.000-04:00

At the risk of alienating my teeming mass of male fans, I'll tell you right now that I've had PMS this week. And I'm going to talk about it. The good news is that the volatile/weepy part ended and I'm now happily skipping through the wildflowers in all my tampon commercial glory. I wouldn't say I feel super fresh, but I probably won't cut off your lips with my nail clipper either. I couldn't say that yesterday, which is why I avoided driving, speaking and interacting with humans as much as I could. I did, however, put together a little list of PMS survival tips that I have found helpful now that I don't have any more pain pills left.

It's important to monitor your exposure to the media. Watching films like An Inconvenient Truth or The Accused is a really bad idea. Now is not the time to reinforce your thoughts of the-planet-is-doomed-and-unworthy-of-saving-because-people-are-horrible-grubby-things. Don't make it worse. You're in no shape to go to a Greenpeace meeting, trust me.

On the contrary, some media does actually increase the peace. Tonight I watched Divine Trash, a documentary about filmmaker John Waters. I found it inspirational as an artist, and it made me laugh. Granted, watching the director who convinced his leading lady to eat dog poop may not be every gal's idea of a good time, but that's not the issue. The point is to find some medium that inspires you and uplifts you even if you're carrying an extra ten pounds in water weight. Provide yourself with the films, books or TV shows that remind you that you're a worthless, greasy slug less than six days a month. I downloaded several episodes of The Office and laughed my bloated ass off. Plus, I created my own media by posting on my blog and journaling for hours. I also spent a couple days re-reading much of Augusten Burroughs' work. No other author makes me laugh as hard as he does. In fact, I think he cures PMS.

Media tips for extreme PMS emergencies only: 1) Watch The Joy Luck Club. You'll be bawling the second that swan feather hits the screen. Go ahead, let it carry all your good intentions. I did, and I never looked back (within that month.) 2) Check out trashy online gossip sites. The worst (and my favorite) is awfulplasticsurgery.com. You will feel superior. You will feel smug. This is all that matters. Consider it your own Extreme Emotional Makeover. Note: Not recommended when you don't have PMS. LaToya Jackson won't seem funny at all, and you'll realize immediately that you are a bad person.

Limit your exposure to big box stores. Fluorescent lighting, screaming toddlers and loudspeaker cacophony cause your hormones to wreak even more havoc on your temporarily limited ability to make wise shopping decisions. In fact, shopping at all is ill-advised. You will regret the S'mores Pop Tarts and the low-rise jeans. The best time to shop is when you're riding that postmenstrual wave of estrogen empowerment like you were Sara Maclachlan at the Lilith Faire. You choose vegetables high in anti-oxidants. You buy kale and you actually eat it. And you buy new sponges because you can't wait to clean up the dishes you avoided for three days when you were Courtney Love.

Driving under the influence is never a good idea. I already dislike driving, but only because I have to interact with others who are also driving. I do not trust the thick-necked yahoos in their loud monster trucks or the massage therapists in their powder blue Vanagons powered by biodiesel and bumper stickers that say things like "Breathe." I've been nearly rear-ended or run off the road repeatedly by these people for my excellent skills in impersonating an old lady driver. Add PMS, and I suddenly have the desire to go Road Warrior on people. I want to be the Punisher, the one who truly makes them Fear This. Unfortunately, I never do this because I don't own one of those blade boomerang thingees. Plus, I am so hurt that no one's being sensitive to my needs that I have to go home and lay down with my cat.

Eventually, the tides shift and the moon begins to wane. Just before I get my period I snap out of it and remember that I am a goddess with special powers. All of a sudden I remember how much I like my boobs, my hair and that song Too Shy by Kajagoogoo. And, if that weren't enough, two of my books on hold at the library came in! I come to the realization that my life has become manageable again and that I don't need a social worker afterall. And I will feel grateful to be alive -- for approximately three weeks.

Snatch.com

2007-06-02T15:58:00.001-04:00

What is it about the Internet that brings out both the stupid and the disgusting in people? Specifically, I am talking about the weirdness that passes for advertisements a.k.a. "a profile" on one of the many dating websites that I have looked over in hopes of snagging my dork charming. Can I just say eeeww? My God, who raised these people? After several hours spent perusing the personals, I think I just convinced myself that marrying my cat is a viable option.

First, can we just agree that nobody should be posting photos of themselves without a shirt? Candid shots of you playing shirtless soccer (if you must) are sort of acceptable. But the up close and personal man titty shots belong on man-for-man websites, in case you didn't know. Most women don't want to see all that before the first cup of coffee has even been ordered. In addition, displaying yourself in a free-for-all shirtless manner says that your priority is sex, not dating. And while that's legal and all, shouldn't you just state that upfront instead of going on about sunsets, fireplaces and how sincere you are? Save the porn for the seventh date, is all I'm saying. I would never respond to a man who was shirtless in his profile. Even if he hinted that he might know how to read. Likewise, I would never respond to a man whose only photos disguised him behind a pair of shades. Look, we're all ashamed to be doing online dating. If you're willing to flash me your titties, take off the sunglasses, for God's sake.

Spellcheck is your friend. No need to elaborate. I do wish, however, that there was an equivalent function called cliche-check. Oh my God. These words/phrases should never be used:

Life's too short.
I know how to treat a lady (Don't use the word lady at all unless you're Kenny Rogers or Lionel Richie, and even then, it's dodgy.)
Big Teddy Bear
Bad Boy
The good things in life (What the hell is that? Buy one get one free at Safeway?)
Seeking my angel
Why not?
Fly boy (I have no idea what this means (pilot? unfortunate mutant?), but it is so overly used that I must protest.)
Many more offensive cliches abound, but those are the top make-me-wanna-puke appeals.

And why is everyone mentioning the Dalai Lama all the time? Yeah, right, you'd invite the Dalai Lama to dinner. Would that be before or after Pamela Anderson gives you a lap dance? Unless you're a wayward monk, cut the fake spiritual crap. In fact, don't mention your spirituality at all. Those who seek eighteen year old soul mates would do well to just stop acting like they're looking for a Buddha call. It's just bad karma.

Um, and why are there just hundreds of photos of guys wearing lei's? I don't get it. Do lei's convey a I'm-a-freewheeling-vacation-loving-kind of guy? It didn't really bug me until I noticed it was sort of a trend, which means that it is a subversive plot full of subliminal messages. Does lei equal lay in the language of manifestation? I suspect that some dating website suggested it as a "helpful tip" a la show her what a fun-loving guy you are outside of the office! Unfortunately, it makes the list of cliches that must be avoided.

This should be obvious, but posting photos of you embracing your ex-girlfriend is strictly verboten. Yeah, I know, it proves that someone was willing to have sex with you at one time, but it also implies that you might not actually be over her, and that you might cry on the first date. Likewise, no photos of you with your mom. Again, your plan to convey sincerity and sweetness backfires by telling us right up front that you are a mama's boy. Plus, you destroyed the sensitive thing when you took off your shirt, remember?

Of course, I do not speak for all of womankind. The more dense among my gender might eat up these tired cliches faster than Hugh Hefner gobbles Viagra. I suspect they do and that I am the one who is being too picky. Be that as it may, I'm three times a lady and I'm surfing in a website near you.

To All the Bloggers I've Loved Before

2007-06-01T00:40:00.000-04:00

I haven't been posting so much, I know. Just when I was starting to have a loyal following too. Someone even linked my blog to an amateur porn site, which got me more hits than a George Bush pinata and my date with the crazy Moroccan combined. And how do I say thank you? I come and go without warning. I fail to tell you how much you mean to me. I arrive throwing sparkly things everywhere, and yet, I never quite commit. And I sometimes drop hints about writing for other people. Don't worry, I'm not morphing into a man. But I have been seeing other websites, and I've even gotten out of the house. The truth is that I want to see what else is out there.

I started this blog under orders from an academic advisor who told me I might not have what it takes to break into social work -- namely a high tolerance for hopelessness. Plus, there was this simmering artist alter ego of mine that kept popping up. My idea of group therapy is drawing a comic book version of my life and then performing it, preferably with interpretive dance and pagan rituals. Not exactly Touched by an Angel. So, I dove headfirst into the blogosphere, not really caring what I wrote except that it made me and my cousin laugh. And that made me forget for five minutes that I was broke and in desperate need of a new career.

Turns out that letting your artist self do the talking can turn your whole five year plan on its head. The blog led led me to pick up where I left off in my unfinished degree in media studies. That led me to wind up in a screenwriting class, which led to meeting other writers, which led to studying film more seriously. I woke up today and realized that yes, I really do need to find a way to fit that unpaid intern position into my life. The one that isn't practical at all -- unless I am taking myself seriously as an artist. (Gulp.) So, that's what I've been doing, and it leaves me less snippy and less available to blog. (In addition, I am this close to finishing my endless online course in statistics. I've been the prison bitch to this class for the better part of a year. The probability of me blowing a statistically significant fuse is quite high.)

So, I am here officially thanking you guys for reading. I also want to thank the people who wrote to me and told me how much they like my blog. If I didn't write back it was more likely due to computer illiteracy than snobbishness. If I am not here as much it is due to two possible reasons: 1) I finally did end up homeless, penniless and without hair conditioner, and I can't figure out how to hack into the wi-fi at the shelter. or 2) I am hard at work on writing a variety of projects that will someday allow me to make some kind acceptance speech that does not include the words "the serenity to change the things I can." To whet your super loyal appetites, I am working on a piece entitled: Sensei and Sensibility: A Spiritual Girl's Guide to Dating. I will also hopefully be participating in some local film festivals this summer. If they think I am qualified to pour coffee, that is. Maybe I'll see you there.

Birds Gone Wild

2007-05-23T00:54:00.000-04:00

Blue Jays have issues. In fact, Blue Jays are straight-up psychotic. To be clear, I am talking about the birds and not baseball or basketball players. I'm talking about birds gone wild, birds who have overestimated completely my cat's ability to raid a nest. It's a take-no-prisoners stand off between us and them, with blue jays dive bombing both my cat and my front door on a daily basis. I am afraid. And I am really pissed that no one is filming this. We're the stars of When Animals Attack, and no one is watching. No one is protecting us either.

It started without warning one day last week very much like Alfred Hitchcock's classic movie The Birds. I was minding my own business, maintaining my cute hairstyle (much like protagonist Tippi Hedron), when I heard what sounded like women screaming with mouthfuls of broken glass. When I looked out my front door I was face-to-beak in a stare down with what I assume was the Big Bird on Campus -- a sleek, beaked pecking machine with an attitude. She made a point to look past me into my door to glare at my cat who was sleeping off a morning of plastic bag shredding. Then she looked back to me. "What's the problem?" I asked, knowing that my cross eyed cat is such a bad hunter that she once brought home a hot dog with the tip bitten off. Surely, my long term cat companion was no threat to anyone, bird or otherwise. The bird was not amused. Her answer was a high pitched screech that was ( I swear) just like those dino-bird things from The Lord of the Rings. And then she tried to fly into my house to kill my cat.

And things have been more or less like that ever since. Daily dive bombings have rendered my cat somewhat of a shut-in. If she so much as steps onto the porch, fighter birds are immediately scrambled and assembled into maximum strike position. Sometimes they fling themselves into the lattice that fronts my deck. They do this kamikaze-style with so much force they could break a wing. It's a very effective technique of communicating: "Look how crazy I am. I will take out all of us to make my point. What you got?" I got nothing. And they know it.

It is truly disturbing to be summoned to the front door by a bird who has a bone to pick with your kid. Especially when it's Jerry Springer style. "Talk to the wing cuz the face ain't listenin'..." She really said that, complete with the requisite head swiveling. And so my cat and I wait, like prisoners, for the day the babies learn to fly. And people whine about pit bulls.

Snippy Little Author Endorsement

2007-05-12T01:22:00.000-04:00

I watched the Brad Pitt/Edward Norton movie Fight Club three times this week. Once like a normal person with a bowlful of popcorn and a pale ale. The other two times I watched two different commentaries, and tomorrow I will watch at least one more. (Shut up, I took a very tough statistics test last week.) Anyway, I realize that I am embarrassingly behind the times in recommending this movie. And while I do give this film two snips and a Hallelujah Chorus, I am not writing about this gem of a film to make anyone watch it. I mention this film to encourage people to check out Chuck Palahniuk, the writer who wrote the book that the screenplay was based on. If you've been reading my posts for a while and you haven't been offended one time, then you will probably dig him. My edge goes down like lemon drops compared to being skewered by Palahniuk. Personally, I am in love. And I plan to start stalking him as soon as possible.

My (non-consensual) love affair with Palahniuk started a little over a year ago when a man-child I was actually having an affair with led me to his work. Said man-child's poor sense of direction regarding the clitoris and post-punk sensibilities aside (tough-looking man purse), the guy could write and he had a wicked sense of humor. So I took his suggestion, took out two books from the library and never looked back. In short, Palahniuk puts the freak in freaky-deaky. He walks a twisting, jagged line between the beautiful and the absurd, the dark and the lovely. And the man makes me laugh -- hard and with disgust and recognition. In the book Invisible Monsters the protagonist is a former model disfigured by a gunshot that renders her unable to speak and requires her to wear a veil to conceal the fact that she has essentially no face. The girl is so bitter she spikes her ex-boyfriend's drinks with hormones until he starts developing breasts and weeping spontaneously. And the transvestite diva/nemesis Brandy Alexander makes breaking all kinds of laws and taboos seem like just another day at the office.

Another favorite of mine is Choke. Not for the faint of heart, faint of heart meaning you are offended by the idea of a man faking choking in restaurants to win friends and influence people. This book will make you say "Oh my God" out loud almost as much as Geek Love, a book that redefined jaded and force fed it to the jaded. Those who made it to the end felt like they'd made a pilgrimage to the devil's butthole. We were grateful just to have survived. Palahniuk's books are like a game of limbo stick on very bad drugs. How low can you go? It is Palahniuk's creepy invitation to explore just that very question that keeps me coming back. Consider me R.S.V.P'd.

Being palatable in a Laura Ashley-FDS-soccer-mom kind of way (with or without Prozac) can take some of us only so far. To quote Fight Club's Tyler Durden, "You're not your fucking khaki's." Some of us want to know where the stinking black ooze is coming from. Some of us can't help but notice how weird we all are, despite (because of?) our flat screen TV's and our obsession with celebrity stomach stapling. I once made a greeting card that read: Happy Extreme Make-Over. I want to mass produce it in shades of pastel with an aromatherapy insert and maybe a few bars of Whitney Houston's I'm Every Woman. If I sneaked them into a Hallmark store at the mall I might do very well. Or I'd get shot. It's pretty much one or the other these days. I am all for a little sacred cow tipping. And that's where Palahniuk comes in. He's running one messed up rodeo, for sure. But damn if I can take my eyes off him. You may find yourself drawn to stalk him also. Just try to keep it to the library like I do.

Deep Thoughts

2007-05-04T00:39:00.000-04:00

Tonight I watched a stupid movie. It was foreign. One of those foreign films. The kind where even the extras have their black belts in smoking as an art form and everyone is casually, ruggedly, poignantly beautiful. Ugly people in tattered scarves smolder with not-from-the-US sexiness, and even the dogs seem deep. Makes me want to put on a heavy wool sweater, not comb my hair and stare pensively in my shabby kitchen with excellent coffee -- smoking. Unfortunately, the movie was crap. And as I am learning, even one class in screenwriting can forever alter one's perception of what makes a good story.

Is it a bad thing that I adored the movie The Break-Up? Do I have pedestrian tastes or am I right in thinking that Jennifer Anniston is a fine comedic actress? And Vince Vaughn? I think I have dated about three different incarnations of that guy. (The one on coke was the funniest.) So, it's fair to say that I have a bias toward razor sharp humor. But people either love or hate that movie. There is no in-between, as I found out when I realized that both my sister and a good friend haven't quite forgiven me for recommending that movie to them. Others swear loyal allegiance to my flick picks, in part because of that one film. And if you've seen it, you know that that movie is worth seeing solely for Michael Higgins singing Owner of a Lonely Heart at the dinner table. And Judy Davis is a freaking goddess. I would watch her on QVC.

Still, last week I made friends with the Criterion Collection. The name alone suggests that everything in the collection has the potential to make me smarter (or at least up the chances of getting slapped at the next party I attend.) Brain Viagra? Well, I guess that depends on who you hang out with. Most of my friends couldn't care less about Ingmar Bergman. And as of this writing, I am the only person I know who watches the DVD commentary for every film she watches. Sometimes twice. And you know you got it bad when you watch both the actors' commentary and the director's commentary for a film like How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. (Kate Hudson is actually very good at turning crap into crepes, for the record.) Listening to a director or writer discuss what she intended to convey scene by scene fascinates me even if I didn't enjoy the movie. And when the actors talk they reminisce about who gave the performance of her life with walking pneumonia. You also get to find out who is really stupid in real life. GED on the set, my ass.

Tonight's cinematic selection was lovingly suggested to me by Netflix. They want to give me the impression that they follow my film preferences so carefully that they feel confident in picking them out for me. Reminds me of when well-meaning friends try to fix me up with dates, forgetting that I don't date men whose necks are wider than my thighs and that I don't actually consider Vicodin a hobby. Occasionally, I get a nice cup of tea out of it, but usually I am left resenting an evening away from whatever book I'm reading. At least this time I didn't have to leave the house or shave my legs. Still, it was a pretentious film with a boring story full of characters I didn't care about, no matter how cool they looked at the bar being vague and intense about going to Rome. And thanks to a beginner level class in screenwriting I heard my teacher's disapproval in my head the entire time. "Nope. That's not story. Doesn't tell us anything at all except you didn't do your job as a writer so you threw in a montage and a voiceover." And damn if he isn't totally right.

The film was so bad that I wouldn't have watched the commentary even if there had been one. My attempt to gain insight through watching an interview with the lead actress only turned me off further, so I turned her off after a minute of her existential propaganda. Of course, it is possible that the great meaning of this film simply sailed far above my vapid little head. I won't tell you the name of it because maybe you've seen it and you loved it. Maybe you'd write to me and tell me what a superficial mosquito I am. But I don't think so. I'm the kind of dork who takes two subways in freezing rain on my day off to see The Trials of Henry Kissinger -- on the big screen. Seeing that in print makes me realize that I am a sick person. And now I am a sick person with just enough film knowledge to make me a little dangerous. Like a sultry smoking ingenue who walks the streets of Stockholm in fine boots with great purpose and very messy hair.

Operation Gray Area

2007-04-20T13:12:00.000-04:00

So, my brother's exit strategy succeeded and he is now the Marine formerly known as a resident of Iraq. He will reunite with his wife and three year old daughter tomorrow in Philadelphia along with three hundred other tired and freaked out men who put their own lives on the line to maintain the party line of a government that won't even guarantee them proper health care. A government whose inventory of protective equipment is so shoddy that my brother had to arrange for the donation of used bullet proof vests from the police department where he works. Nevertheless, I am so grateful for the safe return of my brother. I am grateful for the safe return of all troops who make it back, including the fiancee of one of my best friends.

War is divisive. It divides families and friends who may find themselves living in states of a different color. The more liberal among us took to the streets and trashed public property and blocked traffic. The more conservative among us plastered magnetic ribbons to our SUV'S and said that those who questioned the war were "betraying the troops." And while I do not for one second support this war or any part of this so-called War on Terror, I did not betray my brother or any of the other troops for stating what is becoming less of a talking point and more of a fact: the emperor wears no clothes. And when a lifelong rabid Republican like my father says he bitterly regrets the day he voted for George Bush, the president has some serious 'splaining to do.

The good, the bad and the ugly political debates I leave for the suits on TV. I'm just a snarky blogger who had to turn off the news every time I heard another report of casualties in Iraq. I mean, it's not bearable to think that a CNN news bite might include the death of one's brother. It does not compute that good people from this country are off trying to kill good people of another country who are trying to kill them in return -- all in the name of freedom. I'm one of those people who falls more into line with Gandhi -- passive resistance. Preemptive strike and passive resistance do not sit well at the same Thanksgiving table. There was me and my sister representing the blue states and then there was the rest of the family -- red as Rudolph's nose. But what we had in common was a brother, a son, a grandson -- a member of our family who put himself in harm's way as a move toward a better career. We had to join our own forces, become a coalition of the willing -- maintaining love despite our disagreements. And we did. Through email, photos, phone calls my family grew just a little closer by uniting under one cause -- concern for my brother. Friends of mine also regularly asked about him and said that they would pray for him. Other anti-war friends remained absolutely silent, refusing to even acknowledge what a hard time my family was having. Their political beliefs closed their hearts. Their despair over world events closed their minds. I learned quickly who I could talk with. Turns out that not everyone in the blue states can be neighborly when one of their own doesn't fit into the box of this-is-what-a-liberal-looks-like. I too learned some lessons of war.

The truth is that I wanted to kill my brother myself when I found out he signed up for the Marines on the eve of war. I wanted to throttle him and force him to read back issues of The Nation and listen to journalists like Democracy Now!'s Amy Goodman. Hell, I wanted to impose that sentence on any of my friends who I felt were doing shockingly good impressions of ostriches. But I restrained myself because it would have been just as rude for me to pop their versions of reality as it has been for others to refuse to acknowledge mine. It feels petty to even complain since I write this from the safety of my studio with no need for a bullet proof vest. But it's the only reality I know. And that reality just got a lot brighter with the homecoming of my brother. Welcome home, JB!!!!!!!!!!! I'm going to seriously kick your ass if you ever do that again!

Here's to Me -- Mrs. Robinson

2007-04-06T03:26:00.000-04:00

So, I know that the so-happily-married-that-I'm-down-to-just-two-cocktails-and-an-Ambien-a-night-crowd likes to look down upon those of us who haven't yet succeeded in securing a mate. You know those friends, the ones who met in college and managed to turn a drunken party trick into a marriage. Having married while dating was still fun, they fail to understand that dating past thirty is just pure Hell. I retired from the club scene about five minutes after I could drink legally. And after some therapy, I no longer found drunk stalkers in leather pants so appealing. The only thing that could get me to shake my groove thing at a club would be a gaggle full of gay guys who like my new haircut as much as I do. And that is a whole different evening entirely.

I didn't find out I was old until last year. I dated two different men who were three and four years younger than me respectively. One asked what my friends thought about me "dating a younger man." The other was both titillated by and slightly squeamish about dating "an older woman." Um. Yeah. I'm thinking that anyone who could have attended my high school while I was still a student there fails to fall into the younger man category. But what do I know? I'm halfway to Alzheimer's and still wearing my nosering. One was a straight up freak who cancelled a date to attend court ordered anger management. Needless to say I lost no sleep (or blood) over that one. The other one, however, kind of traumatized me.

We worshipped the same authors, got each other's jokes and both appreciated extended make-out sessions in his car. I still haven't picked up my jaw from where it fell when he told me he wasn't quite over the nineteen year old he had dated a couple years ago. The one who had been seventeen and still living at home at the time. "She was so precocious," he said wistfully, wondering still if somehow it could have worked out. Turns out that most of the women this guy dates are borderline jailbait. It's so normal for him that dating a woman his own age is the transgression. And he did leave me for a pipsqueak he met on My Space. And then he stole one of my Tupperware containers, which, at my age, is one of the few pleasures I have left.

Of course, there are certainly men who would be willing to settle for an old maid like me. The older ones are super happy to treat me like a laptop Lolita. They try to woo me with the correct pronunciation of shiraz. They offer to show up with charcoal briquettes, hunks of meat and the knowledge that a clean shirt is enough to turn first base into second. And they do find me precocious. They think my little writing hobby is cute. Thing is, I'm not actually a Smurf. I don't want to be anybody's kewpie doll, and I don't like being patronized, which, unfortunately, has been my experience with the more experienced crowd. Can I say with anymore sincerity how much I appreciate my cat?

So last week I had two dates -- with the same guy even. He's just a bit younger than me, and he does think I am old. He also thinks he's old. "We're both over the hill, Kerry," he said with a smile after dinner. But somehow it didn't seem like an insult or an accusation. And over a shared mug of Medimusil it was really quite romantic.

Best and Worst

2007-03-28T16:03:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I've been remiss in my posting duties. I am still trying to recover from my three hour statistics test last week. Plus, all the women at work have synchronized menstrual cycles now, so the past week has been like a chick flick gone horribly wrong. Not Thelma and Louise. Not even The Joy Luck Club. We're talking Steel Magnolias, only everyone is bloated and bi-polar -- without the charming southern drawl. So, since I don't have the option of offering ya'll a rerun or a medley of my greatest hits while I wait for my hormones to cease moaning, I thought I'd give you a glimpse of my far from finished list of best and worst. It's random and unedited for public consumption, but it's the best (and worst) I have to offer at the moment. Enjoy!

Worst food and wine pairing ever: cabernet sauvignon with peanut butter crackers. (Oh yes, I did. I needed some protein and I really wanted a drink. It was as disgusting as it sounds. Funny enough, I did not stop.)

Second worst food and wine pairing: Munchos and sauvignon blanc. This is a munch better combination. Dancing Bull is quite good and costs only $7.99 a bottle. The Munchos are so salty that they sear your mouth flesh on contact, but it's easy laptop eating for multi-tasking career girls like me.

Best I-Desperately-Need-Something-that-Rhymes rap lyric: (From Rapper's Delight) "I don't mean to brag; I don't mean to boast, but we like hot butter on the breakfast toast."Go ahead, try to not rap along to that line.

Best reason to date a younger man: Jake Gyllenhaal.

Worst female impersonator: Celine Dion.

Best place to sell a refrigerator, find a psychotic housemate and locate a White Power meeting within 15 minutes: Craig's List.

Another super disgusting food/wine pairing: Ravenswood Zinfandel with honey/mustard/onion pretzel pieces. (I threw up.)

Best reason to listen to talk radio: (TIE)
1. Dr. Joy Browne tells callers how to deal with their parents, paramours and poodles with wit, wisdom and the occasional well-placed bitchslap. Very interesting and informative if you are a psychology dork or you need alternatives to firebombing your ex. Note: Do not confuse her with Dr. Laura, the sadistic hater-shrink who defines herself with the insipid tagline: "I'm my kids' Mom." (Note to said kids: I will totally read the tell-all (a la Mommie Dearest) book if you write it.)

2. Coast to Coast A.M.: Oh my God. If you want to hear call-ins from truly mentally ill people then this show is for you. Stay current with the latest in parapsychology, conspiracy and UFO chat in discussions led by a lot of truckers, drunk people and a surprisingly high number of folks claiming to be archangels, time travelers and the antichrist. Seriously, I totally dig all this stuff. Especially when the numerologist Glynnis is the guest. Turns out I'm not the only one who thinks Brad Pitt is way out of his league with his batty bombshell Angelina Jolie. That is a Barbara Walters/Oprah interview weep-a-thon in the making, trust me. Get your psychic vibes validated on a.m. radio. It's more awesome than a parallel universe full of astral projecting Bigfoots.

Best Example of Girl Power at its Best (this week anyway) -- The Dixie Chicks as seen in the documentary Shut Up and Sing. I've had a soft spot in my heart for those women since they released that song about killing Earl the wife beater. I had no idea, however, how genuine, funny and fierce they could be when faced with boycotts, bashing and a death threat. For those who don't know the back story, lead singer Natalie Maines made anti-war and anti-Bush comments before a show in Europe just at the onset of the Iraq leg of the War on Terror or Whatever Else Seems Worthy in the Moment. This film is for you if you value free speech or if you just like witnessing what happens when people with no real ability to think for themselves get bees in their bonnets.

Unfortunately, Natalie Maines also ends up in the category of Worst Hairstyle on a Beautiful Woman. Girlfriend, why on earth are you spraying your hair into a makeshift mullet? Your stylist cannot be a gay man. No gay man would let you do that to yourself. I'm sorry. You still totally rock. But seriously, you look just a little bit like a piranha.

Okay, gotta dash. More later, my fellow snipsters. Thanks for reading!

Service with a Snarl

2007-03-16T21:01:00.000-04:00

You can almost always tell when somebody's held a service position at some point in his or her life. Waitresses, hair stylists, waxers and massage therapists -- they all understand the beauty and brutality of working for tips and tiddlywinks. They generally treat other service slaves well. And they always tip. They are all subject to random abuse and terror by those who exploit the bejesus out of the totally not true proverb: the customer is always right. Um, not on my watch, bee-yatch.

Thanks to becoming partially disabled in a work-related injury, I no longer have to rely on tips. (I have to rely on the kindness of strangers.) Working as a reservationist at the spa that crippled me, however, leaves me in the position of having to talk down clients who have major meltdowns. Sometimes they are right. It's not cool that that one lady's massage therapist reeked of Jim Beam. Not cool at all. She deserved her refund, her gift certificate and the assurance that that guy would be fired and collectively beaten by the bath attendants. I was right there with her. But sometimes I get the impression that people confuse their underlying mental illnesses and unresolved mommy/daddy issues with bad service. And these people truly need to be beaten. Tarred and feathered even. They can make working in the service industry a nightmare because they know that most businesses will engage in at least a small degree of butt kissing to maintain their good reputations. Enter the tyrants.

Yesterday I had to call in the manager to deal with a dumbass who was complaining about his previous day's service. Actually, he was complaining for his girlfriend who wasn't allowed to speak. Right away he rubbed me the wrong way. He walked around the spa with what looked like a beer bottle, and we're not that kind of establishment. The spas that sell crank out of the laundry room are several blocks away, and just everybody knows that. He eyed me suspiciously as I offered him the treatment menu, like I was trying to pull one over on him by telling him the difference between the seaweed and the coconut milk baths. "I'll figure it out" meant "All women are bitches, including you." (I'm an excellent reader between the lines.)

And then he decided to complain, but in this mamby-pamby way that said nothing more clearly to me than "My mommy left me in my poopy diaper when she drank, so now all women are whores " (more or less.) But when you're in the service industry you don't have the option of suggesting therapy or simply slapping people, unfortunately. No, you have to pretend that said cranky complainer has a valid concern, suck up to him, let him talk down to you, and then offer a consolation prize like a refund or the opportunity to whip the staff. Basically, you need to do the customer service dance of the seven veils. Even when they don't deserve it. I am not so good at this.

Being a Libra graces me with a high level of diplomacy and charm (as well as a pathological love of laying around.) So, most of the time I am, in fact, able to play kissy-face with high maintenance clients by giving them a small discount to make up for inadequacies like a chilly massage room or a bath that was too hot. And really, I don't have to do this often because we do offer exceptional service and our clientele makes us happy to do it. But the random freaks test my patience. They arrive unhappy, and they intend to leave unhappy, no matter how many times you spritz them with rose water. And let me tell you, a person who can seethe through an entire spa package shows a serious commitment to misery. "Bring her into the light" is what I tell the therapists when I send them a client I suspect will pull a Joan Crawford meltdown in the mudbath. But even though I feel like crazy clients are on my turf, the truth is that I am on theirs. I only work there. They pay the bills.

There is a benefit of being mistreated, however. I have a massive collection of stories that I tell to my co-workers with only slight exaggeration that are even more hilarious after work with a couple microbrews. And every service worker has such a collection of tales. We also accumulate revenge ideas that we laugh about but would never actually do. I would never rinse off my nose piercing in a client's cucumber water, for example. Never. But damn, is it fun to pretend that I would. We talk shit about the crazy ones to prevent ourselves from actually doing anything crazy. Mostly we take pride in the fact that most of the crazy ones wouldn't last a week in our jobs, no matter how trivial they may appear to others. Spreading hot wax between a pair of spread legs in the name of hair removal is a job I would not want to do. Nevertheless, kind and intelligent people I know do this work. For the love of God, be nicer to them. Be nicer to all of us while you're at it. And don't forget about therapy. That refund you weasled out of the manager ought to buy at least a couple sessions.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

2007-03-13T03:50:00.000-04:00

I am among the blessed in that I have always, always, always had gay friends. It started in third grade when a queen I'll call Quentin decided punch me in the face. His reason? "You just thought you were too cute with your hair and your private reading group." This is what he said to my crying face in front of the teacher who made him apologize. I'd been read by the boy who played jump rope with the girls and who gave his mother perms. Of course, we did what many warring factions of fabulousness do -- we joined forces and became friends all the way through high school. And I've been lucky ever since to have known just gobs of great gay people. And the gayness has never mattered. Plain and simple, they've been my peeps. But occasionally, things aren't so lovey-dovey in the gay-straight alliance. And it's enough to make me want to avoid being around a whole group of them as one of the few straights in the crowd.

Specifically, I'm talking about lesbians who are straight femme-offended. Very specifically, I'm talking about the ones who swam like bull sharks around the perimeter of the party that was supposed to celebrate the union and home-buying of a couple of women in love. The antagonism was palpable as soon as I walked in the door with my chocolate cream pie and my platform sandals. Forget gaydar, we're talking J-dar, as in jizz-lover stamped all over my tank top like Monica Lewinski. And believe me, that is not the impression you want to make in a roomful of probation officers. I felt like I had just jumped out of a cake in all my feminine glory. And suddenly, I had that not so fresh feeling.

To be fair, I am aware that half of the women there had either slept with each other or wanted to sleep with each other. So it is likely that no small portion of the rage was due to simmering unresolved issues about how many ex-girlfriends is too many for a lesbian cookout. (Answer: It is preferable that everyone you ever slept with or plan to sleep with be at every social event always and forever. And their dogs.) But still, there was a distinct air of disapproval that clicked its pierced tongue every time me and the other straight girl dared to act like we had actually been invited. So much for girl power. I think I would have felt less judged at Hooters lying on a platter of wings with ranch dressing.

I don't actually get it. I mean, why dislike me solely for the fact that I don't like pussy? Doesn't that leave more for you? Not only am I not in competition with you (unlike everybody else at the party), but I don't even know how to play the game. Nor do I want to learn, which is why I think you crotchety old sourpusses need to lighten up. View me as an odd foreign exchange student if you must. I don't speak the language well, and what I eat disgusts you. Still, I brought a pie from my country. Suck it up (no pun intended) and eat it already in the name of world peace.

Is it my femme that is fatal? Would my predilection for dick be sickening, but slightly tolerable (in a don't-ask-don't-tell way) as long as I skipped the mascara? Or is it strictly anatomical? As in, get that snake charmer out of here! Regardless, I am here to tell you that being straight is not a choice. I am who I am. A straight femme in a straight skirt at a BBQ near you. I'm here, I'm not queer, get used to it.

Creepshow

2007-03-06T01:36:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid I used to love the Saturday afternoon Creature Double Feature on TV. Anyone remember The Creature from the Black Lagoon, The Blob, The Birds (and the bees in Swarm)? And then, of course, each film had its requisite Son of or Bride of sequel that basically told the same story with shorter mini skirts on the hapless halfwits that always went down into the basement no matter how obvious it was that Vincent Price was down there eating people or tying them to racks. Occasionally, I had a nightmare. This happened from only one sub-genre of the monster genre -- the technicolor vampire films in which hippies, beatniks and girls who liked to have sex somehow all ended up in a vampire's castle (conveniently located next to the beach.) Dancing, bongos and bloodletting led to my blood-curdling screams, and it took all week for my unconscious to release me. (For the record, I seriously considered therapy after I saw the Blair Witch Project.) Tonight I watched two horror films back to back, and I fear there may be consequences.

Technically, the films were documentaries, but they scared the crap out of me. Way more than Bela Lugosi or the teenage werewolf ever did. The films both focused on hardcore right wing Christians living in Texas doing their honky-tonk best to oppress the living glory out of everyone within their sanctified wake. The Education of Shelby Knox told the story over three years of how a Lubbock area high schooler fought (unsuccessfully) to get her school district to implement sex education that offered more information than the mandated abstinence-only policy. Recognizing that Lubbock's rates of both teen pregnancy and STD's were higher than a cowgirl's hair, Shelby proposed the radical notion that just maybe people can be both Christian and intelligent about their sexuality. The town's response? Don't mess with Texas. And don't go tellin' people how to use their hoo-hoos and their wee-wees. Apparently, they can't handle it.

Seriously, I felt like I was watching people with brain damage. Shelby herself does not seem to realize she's looking at a dildo when she sees her first demonstration of how to use a condom. And as a committed virgin with a strong sense of both her spirituality and her social conscience, she makes a compelling spokesgoddess for the cause. I cried with her when a pastor she viewed as a mentor tells her with pride that Christianity is the most intolerant of all religions. And then he warns her that he senses a lot of "tolerance" in her. And things only get worse when she makes friends with the fags. That crazy hater Rev. Fred Phelps comes to town with a vanload of Stepford wife Christians who make their kids carry signs that read: God Hates Fags. One sign actually marked the anniversary of the death of Matthew Sheppard like it was a holiday. These are sick people. And they live in this country, not Iraq. Talk about shock and awe. There are sleeper cells in Texas, and they hate us for our freedom.

That was the uplifting one.

The second feature was Hell House, which offers us a glimpse at damaged people damaging other people in an attempt to show them the love of Jesus -- an everlasting love that will be snatched away if you drink and drive, go to a rave or play with a Ouija board, apparently. This film was truly disturbing in that these Bible-beaters are mean spirited bullies on top of being ignorant hicks. For over a decade this Texas town has marked the passing of Halloween (a pagan holiday) by building a haunted house version of a Christian propaganda freak show. It's an afterschool special with an attitude and erroneous information. In these dramatizations, being gay equals AIDS and damnation. And you get that way because your uncle who did "stuff" to you told you it was natural. And the so-called "abortion" scene is enough to make me speak in tongues for its blatantly inaccurate depiction of the morning-after pill RU-486, which is referred to as "the abortion pill' and shows a profusely bleeding teen begging for mercy from a demon who can't act.

My prayer tonight is for the rapture. I want Jesus to come a-riding by on a holy wave of whoop-ass. He'll give those sorry suckers a talking-to so severe they won't know their Hallellujah from their Amazing Grace. And if we're lucky he'll sentence them all to mandatory birth control because apparently these people breed a lot. They haven't been taught not to. And that does scare me. A good deal more than Godzilla vs. Mothra.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

My Bodyguard

2007-02-26T21:10:00.000-05:00

The glow of the candles I've lit bathes my face in a luminous glow. I've poured wine to the soft teasing that is Billie Holiday on the stereo. The rain falls gently outside my windows. It's only 6:30, but I'm ready to slip into something more comfortable. With a sly wink at my cat, I open the plastic case and pull it out. I fumble at first because it's a bit tricky to get it in. But then it is in. And so am I. And with that, I must ask you this: Is it wrong to have such feelings of love for my night guard?

For the virgins in the house, a night guard is the super expensive (but oh so fabulous!) dental apparatus that prevents one from grinding her own teeth into a fine powder. In case it matters, (and it does) I am not actually a girl who grinds. Rather, I am a clencher, meaning I clamp down with more maniacal rage than a pitbull. Strong enough to crack three teeth. Faster than a speeding case of gingivitis. Able to leap over my dentist in a single bound. You get the idea. I'm mad about my most recent restraining order -- the one against my own mouth.

Turns out repressing rage for thirty-some years is really bad for you. And while I already knew that, wasn't all that therapy and meditation supposed to take care of that? What about all the chakra realignment and the spirulina? I spent eighteen years getting into the lotus position only to find out that I'm still so full of tension that my jaw is harder to open than Anna Nicole's coffin. And I was more than a little uptight about that til I remembered that that's my whole problem - tension. And then I found the NTI.

I don't know what the embossed NTI on the blah and un-fabulous carrying case stands for. I'm guessing Night Tension Intervention. I'm doing an intervention on my jaw. Had I known I could get treatment I would have hit bottom a long time ago. And I am here to tell you that thing is worth all three hundred eighty-something bucks. I no longer wake up with a daily headache, which for me is rare. I have the Excedrin addiction to prove it. My friend Vera suggested that maybe that's why I hate mornings as well as morning people. Maybe I've simply been biting myself into a headache all night. Fortunately, that's not an option anymore. That little piece of acrylic forces my jaw just slightly ajar. It is weird how much this relaxes me. It is also weird that I look forward to putting it back in every night like a pacifier. I have a binky. And I love it.

To eliminate any unpleasant hockey player imagery you might have going on in regard to me, I will tell you that my night guard clips onto just my two front teeth. Actually, I look a little bucktoothed in full regalia, but days without headaches are worth a little sleepytime dorkiness. My dentist's assistant told me that both she and her husband sleep in night guards that she herself fitted. I aspire to such happy endings. And since I won't leave home without it maybe I should place a personal ad specifically seeking a fellow guardian. Or maybe I should just curl up with my night guard, blissfully unclenched. Oddly, bizarrely satiated. Nighty-night!

Tech -- No

2007-02-18T16:32:00.000-05:00

It is my nature to avoid technological advances. Not because I've got a progress chip on my shoulder like the Uni-bomber, but because I don't trust that new fangled products like answering machines and iPods won't somehow wreak havoc on my life. I have not looked deeply enough into this fear to determine if I am afraid of data loss or actual blood loss. Knowing me, it is a little of both. My ability to convince myself to fear death by both appliances and technology is another one of my charming quirks that I blame on a childhood spent reading Stephen King books repeatedly. I had to sleep with the light on after I read It. And I was in college. But anyway...

So, it was my cousin who forced me to start using an answering machine in 1995 by sending me one in the mail with a card that said: "Use this." I still believed that if people failed to reach me while I was at home then it just wasn't meant to be -- a seemingly New Agey sentiment that disguised the fact that I often fear the person who might be calling me. Bosses wanting me to come in early. Would-be suitors who think the fact that we both like brown rice means something. The cranked out old lady in the suite next door needing a ride to the Circle K to buy more cigarettes to ensure that her black lung doesn't inadvertently fade to brown. No, sometimes it is better to not answer the phone. To turn off the ringer and be done with it. Incidentally, one gadget advance I snagged immediately was Caller ID. I won't pick up the phone without it. Ask my friends, who do not always appreciate my stealth approach to speaking. (Did I mention that I am slightly allergic to people?)

When anyone calls my house from school my Caller ID reads restricted. For some reason I always forget this and accidentally screen out important calls. Like ones from the academic advisor who believes my weirdness will actually make me money one day. Like ones from the campus dental clinic calling to offer me a free cleaning. In an embarrassing moment of I'll-fool-the-telemarkter, I told a confused man that No, Terry Headley has never been nor will she ever be reached at this number. Only after triumphantly hanging up on this man did I realize that his restricted number meant that he was probably the statistics expert I had asked to call me for his help in completing a class I was taking. My attempt to prove my sanity on his voice mail failed to convince him to ever call me back. He did not find me oddly funny or cute like my friends do. I do wish I could blame the whole thing on technology, but unfortunately the fault lies solely with me. And in my mind, that's all the more reason to avoid getting a cell phone for as long as possible. I might not be able to handle it.

I avoided celling my soul until this past September when I finally submitted to the wireless beast. I admit it. I now can't imagine my life without that sweet little contraption microwaving my brain and making people stare at me in the laundromat. Despite my best efforts, I often get a little boisterous with my girlfriends on the phone, especially if I'm doing something boring like enforcing segregation on my dirty clothes -- whites in the front load washer; colors in the top load. I used to think that it was my fascinating chit-chat that made the world at large take note of my verbal meanderings. And let's face it, at least fifty percent of any phone call with me is going to be laughing. I mean, why speak at all if you aren't going to laugh to attempt to deal with the traumatic event that's actually bugging you? And it so does not seem loud to me. But the woman discussing her pap smear at the deli counter doesn't think she's loud either.

A few weeks ago I asked my friend Christina to tell me what an iPod is. I still don't quite get it. But I was curious because my cousin overheard an exchange on the subway in which one girl complained about a guy to another girl with this dismissal: "He's such a loser he doesn't even have an iPod." My feeling is this: anything involving ear buds is bad. Am I the only one who finds those things so astonishingly painful that my ear hole actually hurts for hours after the phone call has ended? My ear bud died an untimely death when I accidentally threw it into a lit candle after a particularly long (and therefore ear-painful) conversation. The smell of burning plastic alerted me too late to save my ear bud which burned into a Hiroshima-like artifact that I had to throw away. I narrowly avoided an ear bud inferno. I did almost die due to technology. It will be a cold day in Hell before I get up the nerve to take a photo with my cell phone.

What Color is Your Polo Shirt?

2007-02-08T16:16:00.000-05:00

How does one become a demonologist? Is that like an offshoot of the priesthood? Or is it one of those careers where you simply anoint yourself and hang out the shingle? There aren't any courses in the subject at my school. I've never seen a cheesy commercial for a demonology trade school called Demon Tech Institute. Assuming that the study of demons somehow actually results in a paycheck, what exactly would I be doing? Consultations with horror filmmakers and authors? Random appearances on the Christian Broadcast Network? Seminars for satanists? Bottom line is this: I'm always looking for new ways to make money that don't involve taking off my shirt or wearing ugly clothes.

I detailed my work-related frustration in my soon-to-be published comic book My 27 Jobs. (If enough people request it Iwill try to post some of the panels here. But be patient, computer artist is one of the few jobs I have not had.) I've slathered crappy toppings onto baked potatoes at a fast food restaurant and I've driven forklift trucks right into the side of buildings. I've shuffled papers, people and poultry. And some poor soul hired me to be a math book editor. (I don't know which one of us cried more at that job.) In short, I've been around the bring-home-the-bacon block. And I still don't have a career.

Believe me, I have tried to just suck it up and conform already. I wore polo shirts and fake brass nametags for the better part of ten years just so I could get regular paychecks as a massage therapist. I also wore white sneakers, which offend me on too many levels to discuss here. While I am no fashionista, I am enough of an individual to cringe when faced with fencing in my uniqueness. And that applies to much more than whether I get fired for wearing white sneaker clogs as a form of protest. Am I the only one who would rather swallow staples than attend mandatory meetings to discuss whether our breaks should be five minutes or ten? Am I the only one who has a toxic reaction to copier fumes and sales quotas?

So, you can see why I've developed a keen eye for the oddball jobs that might pay me enough to afford my hair conditioner but not require me to dance like a lab monkey trying to stave off electric shocks. My friend Vera has become quite the little independent bookkeeper, seeming to acquire a new client almost weekly. She's making a living, more or less on her own terms in a way that allows her to both take care of her daughter and tend to her own needs. I envy her ability to follow the rigid straight lines of a ledger sheet. I have to use a ruler when I do the cash reports at my job or my eyes go looping all over the page, resulting in math errors I have to track down later. Clearly, coloring within the lines is not one of my inherent gifts. I am more suited to questioning the need for such lines in the first place in the most charming and sardonic way. No one, however, has offered to pay me for my well-placed wit.

Anyone who knows me knows that I regularly threaten to go work for a sex hotline. But I think I might make a better demonologist. As a feminist, I don't really dig the thought of being the one providing less-than-goddess intrigue for wankers. And a reliable source tells me that she had to quit because too many callers wanted her to pretend she was a child. Or even worse -- that they were the child and she was the mommy. Turns out there are things worse than wearing a polo shirt. But not many. Anyone need me to deconstruct your demons?

My Own Private Studio

2007-02-05T23:04:00.000-05:00

Can I get an Amen up in here? Can I get a witness? I have a burning need to testify and to give public thanks for the deliverance that delivered me to my own private studio. I write this from the comfort of my shoebox, sweet shoebox of a new apartment. There are two beers and a half carton of prawn fried rice in my refrigerator. But I am here to tell you that I feel like George Jefferson because I am movin' on up to a detached apartment. I finally got a piece of the pie. Or at least a clean plate to eat it on. Remind me to kill myself the next time I feel forced by financial reality to move in with housemates. I was this close to pulling a Burning Bed. I have the fear, the fury and the hair for it. Trust me.

And I know you all thought I was dead, didn't you? That my reality-challenged housemate would have smote me with my own laptop by now. Well, he didn't. And hopefully, he won't. Fortunately, I had the smarts to establish a loyal cyber following that would certainly alert the authorities should I suddenly and inexplicably stop posting for an undetermined time (two weeks -- max.) But truly, there is no reason to worry. My friend Robin is crazy too. Crazy in the way you want someone to be when you need someone to watch your back. The kind of person who changes her work uniform when she goes out to lunch so if she gets into a fist fight with someone at the taco stand they won't know where she works. She's helping me move. And she's helping me to move on.

A friend of mine who also had a run-in with a roomie sought help from a psychic who told her that she needed to stop analyzing it and just move on. She said, "The world is a toxic and chaotic place. Shit happens." And while I appreciate the you're-off-the-hook sentiment behind that, I do not believe in random or coincidence. Maybe I was a wife beater in a former life and said housemate was the family dog who I also kicked and tormented for my pleasure. Maybe this all happened because some super hot dork who likes independent films (and who is not actually a smarmy little wanker) will turn up as my new neighbor and surprise me by being someone I can get with as opposed to get over. Or maybe all my gratitude at living alone will grant me the serenity to change the things I can, namely my career as a spa whore. Who knows? I could end up creating such a vortex of prolific writerly abundance that soon I'll be able to afford a car with a cup holder.

Goddamn, do I feel sanctified or what?

Desperately Seeking Singles

2007-01-17T00:13:00.000-05:00

I long for the days of joined-at-the-hip female friendships. The days when we swapped parachute pants and curling irons just as easily as we did boyfriends and Menudo posters. The days when a girl could call up another girl and get her to join her for a movie or a cosmopolitan without weeks of planning and triple checking her schedule. Doesn't anyone just spontaneously go out for a tapas platter anymore? More importantly, where have all the cowgirls gone?

Reading through the calendar of events in the alternative newsweekly occasionally fills me with the desire to slather on a bunch of lip gloss and go get my groove on at some 80's night at a club or a poetry slam. And I want to do this with a gal pal more often than not. One because dating sucks my will to live. And two because no one appreciates my funky sense of style more than one of my homies. And my faux leopard jacket really does deserve more kudos than the average stranger on the street is prepared to offer. But forget about it if you think you can count on getting one of them to drop the baby and the husband temporarily. Not without a release form and a ten day waiting period minimum.

Yeah, I get it. I really do. If I had a kid I wouldn't be out running around like Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan, looking fabulous and hip and getting into all kinds of bohemian mischief. I'd be monitoring sleep schedules and trying to get my boobs to stop leaking, vaguely wondering why I don't care about sex anymore. Or so I've been led to believe. And husbands? They seem to require more supervision than a busload of crack whores in Macy's. At least that's how it seems to me from my single girl's not-so-ivory tower.

I love getting together with my married friends. They feed me things like tender gourmet lettuces, crumbled cheeses and candied pecans, all presented with the casual precision of stable married people. The kind who can throw open their cupboard doors any day of the week and find the ingredients for pad thai and taquitos. They provide me with the squarest meals of the year, and I provide them with a reason to stay married. (Married people love to invite the single ones over to feel comparatively fortunate.) Frankly, I wish they would just adopt me. I can be surprisingly happy in a small spare room when I can count on a reliable source of coffee and the occasional triple cream cheese.

I am also surprisingly happy doing things alone. I can take myself out for chicken Caesar salad and a glass of sauvignon blanc any day of the week (when I find enough change underneath the front seat of my car.) But the open mic or a small concert? That's where all the other insane single people hang out, scanning the room for anyone they haven't already stalked, betrayed or cast a spell on. A solo appearance is too often interpreted as an invitation, especially if my vibes of special cuteness are unnaturally high due to reading a great book or sleeping past ten. Not that I wouldn't welcome witty banter from a smart-alecky jokester in poindexter glasses. But that's not what I get. I get Vietnam-vet-crazy and hippies who hate women. A vortex of girlfriend fabulousness says "No thank you" without anyone even having to ask. A bonus to hanging with the girls is the gentle bulldog protection they offer against men who didn't think I would notice a Robitussin moustache.

But no. My girlfriends all live in other states. Or they are married with or without children. At this point it is a luxury when one of them gets to finish a full sentence when we talk. They either have to hang up to wipe someone's butt or one of their kids needs them. And aside from the occasional middle-of-the-night anxiety that demands to know why I can't just get married, get pregnant and get a prescription for prozac already, I have little desire to do so. But I miss my girlfriends. And I can't help but wonder if I'll feel the same when I'm fifty. By then I hope to have seen the legalization of interspecies marriage. My cat and I will be registered at the feed store. I suspect we'll be quite happy.

Goodness

2007-01-12T02:36:00.000-05:00

I find goodness where I can get it. My cousin told me that if he weren't gay and my cousin he would totally marry me. That's goodness because the man knows I don't cook or speak before 10 a.m. My dentist told me I have beautiful teeth. This was after telling me it would cost $1100 to keep them from breaking into bits the next time I bit into a biscotti. He wanted to make me feel better. And that's goodness. My extra honest mechanic calls me "sweetie" like he means it, like my automotive idiocy really is cute and not a character defect. And that's goodness too because he could scam the Hell out of me and I wouldn't know the difference. Three small and beautiful incidents in a week. Is it any wonder I feel nourished, like I'm Ms.Pac-Man after eating an extra large power pellet?

It really does suck that I destroyed my old car by not noticing that the dialy thing was on H, as in "Hello?! I'm starting to crack down the middle. Care to pull over, dumbass?" I admit it. When I hear a weird noise that might be coming from my car, my solution is to turn up the radio. It also sucks that what I didn't deduct from my savings to replace my car will go toward cementing two cracked teeth back together. Like Humpty Dumpty (in her hoopdee.) But despite my sardonic tendencies, I am a commited optimist. For example, my dentist is actually pretty hot for a dentist. It's been way too long since an attractive man who is actually a good person has had his hands on any of my cracks. So there's that.

And my mechanic? He has dimples so deep I could take a nap in them. And I would if I thought he was prepared to offer me more than sympathetic looks and timely, reliable service. But truly, he is just a good, good person who makes me feel just a bit better about being a human by interacting with him. I bought my new (actually extremely old) car from him and refer others to him whenever I can. Turns out he'd just seen my ex-landlords who I'd referred. "They think the world of you, Kerry," he said. And the circle of love was even more complete.

Speaking of the circle of love, it is a well-established fact that I adore my cousin. He's the witty, literate, sensitive, good cooking, animal loving, joke telling, artistic, esoteric and generous man I always thought I would marry. Turns out that sometimes your soulmates aren't actually mates. They're medical professionals and mechanics. And sometimes they're relatives. But goodness is goodness. And I'm here to tell you that if you aren't seeing goodness in your galaxy,maybe you're not really looking.

Murder She Wrote

2007-01-10T02:36:00.000-05:00

I creeped myself out again. I knew better, but I just could not stop myself from doing a harmless little Google search. Just out of curiosity. Sort of like when men type in the keywords "free porn" and "donkey dick." I looked up another murderer. Two of them actually. Specifically, I looked up Pauline Parker and Juliet Hulme, the teenagers (supposedly lesbian) who in 1954-ish killed Pauline's mother when she tried to put an end to their relationship. The story, which horrified the New Zealand town of Christchurch in which it happened, was made internationally famous with the release of the film Heavenly Creatures, which also introduced the world to Kate Winslet who played Juliet. The movie is probably ten years old, so this really isn't a current event. But I'm not really a journalist either. The point is that the movie so thoroughly freaked me out in its juxtaposition of the beauty of kindred spirits and pure brutality that I slept with two candles lit all night. And then I made it worse.

When I realized that both Juliet and Pauline were very likely still alive I was sickly drawn to Google them. In truth, I wanted to find the epilogue, the part where I would get to be reassured that Juliet died of her tuberculosis shortly after serving five years in prison and that Pauline took her own life while she was still in prison. Not because I think they should die, but because true stories of what real people are capable of scare me more than any Freddie/Jason/slasher du jour film. I mean, if a girl has it in her to kill her own mother, it stands to reason that she might also have it in her to travel to the United States, end sixty years of killer dormancy, break into my house and kill me next. Doesn't it?

And that's how I am. Paranoid with delusions of grandeur. I once had to leave a secluded hot tub due to my fear of being killed by Jefferey Dahmer. Keep in mind he was already dead and expressed a distinct preference for gay men. Still, one never knows when he could come back to life, go straight and straight after me, somehow locating the one-horse town where I live and developing a motive. So what? None of that matters to me when I'm in that mode. I've been this way since I was a kid, hiding under the bed when I heard about the Jonestown murders/suicides, securing the locks on the house after reading my mother's copy of Helter Skelter. People crazy enough to carve swastikas into their foreheads are definitely crazy enough to elude maximum security prison guards and the passage of time, which incidentally, would make Squeaky Fromme eligible for the Senior Discount at Ponderosa and Pauline like eighty years old.

The reason I am pretty sure that Juliet may actually come and kill me is because she ended up changing her name to Ann Perry and becoming a famous mystery writer who was outed with the release of the film. That's enough. Now, am I wrong, but aren't all mysteries specifically about murders? Are there any noir-ish settings in which people exchange veiled threats and alibis in the fog and it's all because of, say, a missing housekey or a checking account overdraft? I do not think so. Am I the only one who thinks that it is beyond shivers-up-the-spine eerie that this former killer writes books about killings? I went to her website and everything, which was a mistake because I'm pretty sure that unleashed her tracking device on me. And now it's only a matter of time. Unless Pauline gets to me first. Thanks to the God-awful power of the Internet, I found out where she lives and even saw a current photo of her. She too was outed some time after the film was released. She worked with special education children and now runs a sheep farm or something. While she plots how she is going to come and kill me in my moon-and-stars pajamas.

See why I don't have Tivo?

Gimp Makes Good

2007-01-07T01:50:00.000-05:00

Recently I experienced a milestone. No, I didn't get offered a high-paying writing job or overcome my fear of putting air into my tires. I pumped my own gas, using only one arm -- my injured arm. It's been almost a year since I've been able to do that. And between the full moon, my PMS and my arm-related joy, I am surprised I didn't just collapse over the trunk, a sobbing noodle of gratitude. The whole thing got me to thinking about my healing journey. (Cue the soft pastel lighting and Native American flute.)

Let's face it, I was burnt. Ten years of hard labor rubbing flesh and pushing my elbows into the tensions of tourists had taken its toll. I was never supposed to actually become a massage therapist, for God's sake! It was all just a way to make money so I could go back to school to take more writing classes so I would feel like I deserved it when I accepted my Emmy Award. The trouble was that I gave a great massage. I made people drool. I made men and women propose to me. And I liked having a job that didn't make me wear pantyhose. (Though I will wear a barbed wire thong before I put on another polo shirt.)

By the time I realized that my body type is simply too small (read: weak) to do six massages a day I was too exhausted to look for another job. Plus, I'd developed a disregard for my writing. I became uncomfortable with my sarcasm after I read all these spiritual books that said sarcasm was really, really bad. Like way worse than simple stupidity or not feeling bad when you eat veal. I didn't want to be that girl. You know, the one shunned in yoga class for saying she thinks South Park is brilliant. I mean, you can't be both a benevolent healer chick and a smartass simultaneously. Can you?

Thing is, you also can't work in the healing arts in a very genuine way while keeping significant parts of yourself in the closet. In my case, it was my abilities as a comic. And much as I tried to suppress them, they had their way of leaking out. I was the one who got several of my co-workers to start referring to themselves as "spa whores" and change some of the treatment names to things like the Butt Punch and Shake 'n' Bake. Seriously, when a stranger pays you money to coat her entire body with mud and crushed grape seeds before wrapping and cooking her like a frou-frou burrito, it's kind of funny. That's exactly the kind of thing I got in trouble for doing to my sister when we were children. And now some lady from Berkeley's willing to fork over 180 dollars?

The truth is that the spa industry is a brutal and unforgiving business with therapists rarely taking home more than 25 percent of what a client pays for a treatment. Combine that with rampant tip theft, physically grueling work and having to dress like a lady golfer. And stop me before I tell you about the shit pit, a.k.a. the mud bath. Your sense of humor is often your only protection against insanity and a workplace massacre. And as such, the only thing my employer ever reprimanded me for was laughing too hard with my co-workers. And then I got hurt.

I haven't done a massage in a year. I've done physical therapy and learned how to use speech recognition software. I've enjoyed the pleasures of pain medication and regaining feeling in my forearms. And I remembered that I am a writer. A spiritually incorrect satirist with seventeen years of soul searching to offer to the altar of irreverence -- with both arms.