Friday, August 17, 2012

Oh And...

Panic is setting in...I'm leaving tomorrow for my trip, alone with a two year old. Pray. Pray hard.

I've mentioned before that there is no reception and no Internet where I'm going. My grandmother doesn't have a computer. She doesn't even have a cordless phone. There's no cell phone reception where she lives. In fact, the area is so remote that the TV doesn't even come in right and everyone is mad that they had to switch from analog because of it. I'm bringing an air card, but there's still no guarantee, so if posting is spotty and I'm not on Facebook, well, KEEP PRAYING for me. 

Wish me luck. I hate flying.

Also, I'm reading  In the Shadow of the Banyan: A Novel . It's really good. Read it. I'll tell you more about it when I have time.

Adventures at The Nekkid Beach - Part 2

Scroll down a hair for Part 1.

Do you feel badly about your body? Do you have body image issues? 

I have the cure. Go to a nude beach.

Up until I was about twenty-two or so, I had a body that most people would sell their soul to the devil for. And I took it for granted because I was young and stupid and didn't have the sense enough to dress like a whore when I should have. If I could go back in time to my younger, pre-thyroid disease, pre-baby, pre-the-hardships-of-adult-life, destroyed self, I would say: "Take off those baggy jeans and those awful t-shirts, throw away your pilgrim shoes and your drop-waisted, Peter Pan collared, Little House dresses and wear a mother fucking thong and some stilettos!! Tube tops! Halters! Mini-skirts! Show off that flat stomach while you have it, younger self!"

It's so unfair that we can't have our sixteen year old bodies and our thirty-eight year old brains at the same time.

Anyway, I had this rocking body, but then a lot of really hard crap happened to me and when I'm sad or stressed I tend to eat more. My thyroid went wacky and I got lazy. Ok, I've always been lazy, it's just that my laziness finally caught up to me. There was a point in my life when I could eat nachos, Twix bars and a slice of pan pizza and wash it all down with a half cherry, half coke Slurpee, call it a balanced dinner and stay at a hundred and ten pounds. Yeah, that's not going to happen again unless my ideas of paradise in the after-life are accurate.

Eleven years ago, when I went to the Nekkid Beach in Jamaica, I didn't look as good as I did when I was twenty (I was twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight) but I sure as hell didn't look as bad as I do now. I comfort myself by saying that right now I look better than I will at seventy-three. Back then, I had a decent amount of self-esteem about how I looked and my friend T looked fantastic, being one of the small percentage of human beings on the planet who can be skinny and have big boobs at the same time. 

But although I felt I looked halfway presentable, I still wasn't entirely down with running around buck naked all day on a beach in front of a bunch of other people. Yet, the allure of seeing all those other people (by which I mean men) without their clothes on, was enough to make me shed my bikini and head over the rocks to the mythical land of Nekkid Beach.

I don't really care if people see my bare butt. I'd prefer they didn't, but seeing my flat, white ass is much better than seeing me naked from the front, so I decided to strategically carry my towel in such a way that it hid everything I didn't want seen. Then I had an even better idea. If I went in the water, no one could see me, I'd still be naked and thus, not breaking the rules and incurring the wrath of the naked beach guardian, and I'd be able to have a perfect view of everyone else. I had found the ultimate loophole in nekkid beach voyeurism.

Now don't even ask me what I thought I was about to see. I think I assumed everyone would be beautiful - that the cast of Friends, which was still on back then, would be cavorting clothesless on the sand. Well let me be the first to tell you that they weren't. And neither were any of the other individuals who have populated my fantasies over the years.

The first thing I saw were a pack of elderly Germans playing beach volleyball. This is not something you want to see. It was like Oktoberfest on a bad trip and there were a lot of wieners, but none you'd ever want to, oh just never mind.

So I paddled around to see if I could find anyone else remotely attractive to stare at.

The Germans were just the start. I almost began to think that this was also an over-60 beach. Old people love to get naked on the beach apparently.

Hairy people love to get naked on the beach too. There was a lot of hair. 

And looking around, I gained a tremendous amount of confidence. Wow, I thought. I can't believe I'd ever think I didn't look good. Compared to these people I looked like "The Birth of Venus" coming up out of the ocean. All I needed was a pink clam shell.

I had a small revelation. Attractiveness, which is obviously very subjective, can also be relative. Relative to the people backstage at a Victoria's Secret runway show, I am a hideously deformed mess, but relative to the people at the nude beach, I'm a goddess and it felt pretty good. You take what you can get.

And I was about to get hit on.

Normally I'd be alarmed and maybe call for help if a naked man approached me on the beach, but hey, I was at a nude beach, so I tried to refrain from hysterics when a man waded out into the shallow water to hit on me.

He was a few years older than me and he was relatively attractive - kind of Jewish looking, which I sometimes like, being half, sort of Jewish myself (at least when I want to date Jewish guys). He also had an enormous penis.

There are pros and cons to meeting someone on a nude beach.

On the pro side, no surprises there. It's like getting a box of bonbons without the chocolate coating. You definitely know what you're going to get.

Con side? You're meeting someone at a nude beach. What will you tell your family? 

Besides that, I was still paddling on my stomach, trying to be discreet, but this dude was standing in front of me, with his enormous schlong right in my face. It reminded me of one of those big Polish sausages, the kind that they have to loop around to fit in the package. It was distracting to say the least. Small talk was impossible.

So where are you PENIS? Where you go to PENIS? Do you have any brothers and PENISES?

I'm just not mature enough to get to know someone who's naked, I guess.

But the guy was relentless and wouldn't go away. This was eleven years ago and he made such an impression on me that I still remember his name. Glenn. He lived in Calabasas, California. I will never forget him. Or his penis.

Finally I got him to go away, but as I saw him exiting the nude beach, I discovered another con. You can tell a lot about a guy by the way he dresses. Before he left, he pulled on a hot pink Speedo.

Moral of the story - if you want to feel sexy, go to the nude beach, but try not to get picked up by men who might be wearing hot pink Speedos.

And no, if you're wondering, I haven't been to another nude beach. I'm a strong advocate of bathing suits.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Nasty Assed Recipes - Hearty Huh?

This one's for Whiskey Marie. I've never been to the Midwest except for Iowa four years ago, and I don't know a lot about the cuisine other than that it is as well known for nasty-assed recipes as my beloved Dirty South. I think the only difference is that in the South we call it a casserole and in the Midwest they call the same thing "hotdish." That's just because we southerners are fancy and casserole is french. Midwesterners are known for being more practical.

The New York Times doesn't get much into nasty-assed recipes, but this article about the Twin Cities embracing its Nordic heritage mentions something known as Hearty Hodgepodge and as soon as I heard that name, I knew we were in for something absolutely disgusting, so I googled it. Laws a mercy. 

Hearty Hodgepodge is a soup of sorts, made up of other soups and cans of things. Ground beef, a can of minestrone, a can of pork and beans. It's just wrong. I can imagine someone just combining a bunch of cans of stuff out of their pantry one day and heating it up and deciding it was a meal. Here is the recipe, should you be interested in eating such a thing.

Another reader wrote to me recently. She'd been on vacation with some relations in Appalachia who shared their favorite recipe for an abomination called Seven Can Casserole. Again, with a name like that you just know you're in big time trouble. The reader's family's version contains: 3 cans of chicken in water, 2 cans of cream of mushroom soup (naturally), a can of evaporated milk (I may throw up) and a can of chicken lo mein (lo mein comes in cans??). Stir it together and bake. Pray for the salvation of your taste buds. I want to cry just thinking about this. A google search for Seven Can Casserole will turn up many other equally horrifying variations because you can combine seven cans of a lot of different things if you have a good enough imagination and a strong enough stomach.

Dear Lord, deliver us from sodium.

This post is dedicated, with love, to the commenter who called me a snob for posting Nasty-Assed Recipes every week. I'm classist, apparently.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Adventures at The Nekkid Beach - Part 1

Just last week I was talking to my friend T about how, oh dear lord, it was exactly eleven entire freaking years since we went to Jamaica and where does the time go?

Eleven years ago last week I quit my job at the Bubblegum Kittikat, South Florida's finest gentlemen's club, and hopped a plane to Jamaica, because a year earlier, when my fiance threw me out of my own house, sued me for it, and moved another girl in, all within the span of a couple weeks, I said to myself: "If I survive this bullshit, when it's all over, so help me, I'm going my ass to Jamaica and I'm going to sit on the beach and drink virgin pina coladas until I go into diabetic shock."

I'd always wanted to go to Jamaica for the following reasons: they speak English, I like patties, reggae is good and it's close enough that I don't need to endure a very long plane ride (I'm a horrendous traveler and I hate flying). Oh, and they have British kitkats there and British kitkats are way better than American kitkats. I have no idea why, but they are. I also remember watching "Wheel of Fortune" as a kid and whenever someone would guess the phrase and win a trip to Jamaica, they'd always show a short video of people climbing up Dunn's River Falls and I thought that looked precisely like something I'd like to slip and fall on my ass several times while doing. Which I did. So lifelong dream completed there.

My girlfriend T and I spent a week at an all inclusive in Runaway Bay, and how can you not immediately fall in love with a place with a name like Runaway Bay? It immediately sent me into fantasies about wearing a flowy, white linen sundress while riding The Black Stallion barebacked down the beach. I am prone to those sorts of fantasies and all those "Come Back to Jamaica" commercials that I'd been seeing on TV since I was little had made a major impression. Remember that song? I can still sing the whole thing, but I will spare you a YouTube video of my rendition. It would probably go viral, but for all the wrong reasons.

For the first few days of our trip, we sunned ourselves on the beach, swam, ate jerked chicken and went on an excursion to the hideously touristy Ocho Rios, which was filled with white people from Indiana all saying "Hey Mon!" while buying tacky wood carvings from street vendors. I am not that kind of tourist.

I am a different sort of annoying traveler. I'm a hipster tourist. I've watched far too much Lonely Planet in my life and every time I go somewhere I convince myself that I'm on the show and I eschew all things potentially touristy because I am just entirely too cool for that. So no red, gold and green crocheted beanies with fake dreads sewn on for me. I'd rather eat jerked chicken at a roadside stand and get diarrhea for a week, because it's just more authentic, you know? 

T and I sailed, snorkeled and hiked and we were getting, dare I say, a little bored. We'd heard rumors that our resort had a naughty side with a nude beach and even an adults only, nude pool area where at night, people did all sorts of unmentionable things. This intrigued me immediately because I have watched HBO's Real Sex, people. I love observing some good old fashioned perversion. I wanted to see what was going down while T and I were sitting in our room drinking Ting all night, wolfing down British kitkats and watching Jamaican TV.

Ok, I say that. Truth be told y'all, I am ALL TALK. I say I'd like to see some kind of crazy sex orgy going on in a hotel pool, but I think if it were to actually happen I'd be all like "EWWW! Stop! Don't put that there! Don't touch that! Put that thing away!!"  Because that's how I am and I'd also be very concerned that someone was going to get an infection.

So I chickened out about going to the adult pool, but I agreed to go to the nude beach. I had, after all, just quit working at a strip club. On one hand you'd think I'd have had enough of looking at naked people, but on the other hand it had kind of become second nature and plus, I'd only been looking at naked women for the past ten months. I wanted to see some men without their clothes on for once.

T and I had this brilliant idea that we were just going to go to the nekkid beach to look at other people and that we were just going to keep our bikinis on, but we were incorrect in assuming this was a "clothing optional" situation. It wasn't. I don't know what the opposite of "clothing optional" is, but I suppose it would be "nudity mandatory" and that's what this beach was. There was even an enforcer and she stopped us right at the entrance.

She was like something out of a Greek myth - an enormous guardian, gate-keeper of the nekkid. She was at least six feet tall and wore a head wrap and a muu-muu and carried a clipboard with God knows what on it and as soon as she saw us she put her hand up and said "AH NA YA NA CU GWIN TA LA NA HYA!" which is Jamaican for "Take your god damned bathing suits off and don't you for one second think you're going to set foot on my nekkid beach with your clothes on just so you can look at some other nekkid folk without being looked at your damn selves."

T and I looked at each other and shrugged and reluctantly took off our suits.

To be continued (not because I'm trying to make a cliffhanger for you but because I have to wake up my child, or pickney, as they say in Runaway Bay).
Monday, August 13, 2012

Heading Home

I'm supposed to be packing for my trip to Delaware. I'm leaving Saturday, but the last thing I feel like doing is making lists, folding clothes and trying to remember all the ridiculous crap the little one needs. I hate packing. 

I'm excited to see my family. I really am. I even joked to my husband last night that I should move back to Milford, the small town where I'm from, for a year so I can write a memoir about the experience of going back. But even though I'm excited, I'm in a mild state of panic.

It's Delaware. Not Wilmington. Most people think of Wilmington, home of every credit card corporation in the world it seems, when they think of Delaware. I am not from Wilmington. Wilmington is civilization. It has a Trader Joe's. Joe Biden lives there.

I'm from Milford. It's about two hours south of civilization. There is one store and that's a Walmart, but rest assured that it's a SUPER Walmart. I mean, in case you were worried about me having to go to a simple regular Walmart. There used to be more stores. There was a main street and a plaza, but Walmart put everything out of business and most people don't seem to mind because before there were just too many choices. Now you don't even have to think. You can just go to Walmart and get your Spam and your hunting gear and some duct tape and bungee cords to fix the rusted trampoline in the front yard of your trailer and you're good to go.

There is no Starbucks in Milford. They don't sell organic milk in the Super Walmart, but there is plenty of purple drink.

In Milford the people wearing John Deere hats are not being ironic and if you bring up hipsters, you're probably talking about what you wear to go clamming in the bay. That or something to hold your gun. 

People in Milford eat muskrat. Fried.

If I were to ask somewhere for the nearest yoga studio, they'd tell me they don't eat sour milk.

Democrats? I think that's something they have up in New York. Like Jews.

In Milford, the people driving enormous SUVs actually need them and they'll also be very quick to tell you that a combine or a discer costs a hell of a lot more than your god damned BMW.

Yella is both a color and a greeting.

But I love the place I'm from. I love the dusty stink of chicken shit hanging in the humid, dog-days haze. I love the swallows swinging through the twilight, the lightning bugs, the ponds full of otters. I love the goat farms and the gossips, the teenagers heaped into the back of pick-ups licking cones in the DQ parking lot. I love chicken and dumplings at the diners and bitching with the locals about the god damned beach traffic and the tourists. I love my family and I can't wait to see them. 
Saturday, August 11, 2012

August Reading

As promised.

This summer has been a big drag when it comes to reading. So many of my favorite authors had new books out, yet all of them disappointed and I don't write about books I dislike, so aside from Wild, I haven't had much to rave about.

Until now. Sort of anyway. I'm researching potential agents for my book and on the agencies' websites they list the books they represent. This is an excellent way to find new reading material! But more on that later.

I read  A Door in the Ocean: A Memoir by David McGlynn and it appealed to me for a variety of reasons. Here's my recap - as a teen, McGlynn's best friend and swimming partner is murdered, leaving McGlynn behind to try to make sense of the loss. At the same time, his parents divorce and his dad moves to Laguna Beach and turns into a Jesus Freak. McGlynn wants to live with his dad, moves to California and succumbs to the allure of the Evangelical culture. Eventually the allure fades and I won't spoil the rest, but the one constant throughout the book is McGlynn's love of water and swimming. This book is not without flaw - McGlynn leaves too many unanswered questions for my satisfaction and there's a bit of a pacing problem towards the end, but the overall quality of the writing makes up for those minor issues. It's a beautiful book. I found it particularly appealing because he does a good job at explaining why people get sucked into religious fanaticism. Not how, but why. I'm warning you though, the first third of the book deals with an unbelievably horrible, execution style, mass murder and it scared me so badly that I had actual nightmares, because this isn't fiction and that murder was never solved.

I'm going to finish (hopefully) two books on my vacation. I just discovered Suzanne Morrison's   Yoga Bitch: One Woman's Quest to Conquer Skepticism, Cynicism, and Cigarettes on the Path to Enlightenment.And oh my God, it is the perfect book for me right now, as a floundering yogini. If you like my writing, you'll appreciate Morrison because she's snarky and hilarious and cusses about doing yoga and I love it. I've been telling everyone about this book lately and I'm a little troubled that a book this funny and delightful hasn't been better and more widely promoted. It deserves more attention, especially with how many people are into yoga now. I was so intrigued by the author, that I looked up her blog, where you can read the first chapter, and her website and it turns out she's writing a show (like on a stage?) about her family's friendship with Ted Bundy. Really? I kind of imagined a serial killer as more of a loner, not someone who'd be friends with a family, you know? I mean, I can't exactly see a man who bit the nipples off a sorority sister kicking back at the family reunion. Naturally, I'm intrigued and can't wait until this comes out in some form that I can watch or read all about it.

My other vacation book you may have heard about, as it's getting a lot of recent hype. M.L. Stedman's The Light Between Oceans: A Novel is not my usual fare. But you know what? I don't have a usual fare. I don't even know why I said that, maybe because it's fiction. I like good writing. Period. I've only read the first chapter because I'm saving this for my trip. but I can already tell it's going to be good. There's a depth and richness to the writing, a level of detail, that I can only aspire to and it's the best sort of fiction - the kind that takes you to a far away time and place and makes that time and place very real for the reader. The novel also poses a wonderful moral dilemma and I love, love, love any writing that presents difficult choices for its characters, putting them in situations where right and wrong are blurred and where the reader can see both sides to the story. We need more of this kind of writing. And if you'd like to know what happens to a lonely lighthouse keeper and his wife who have longed for a child, when a baby and a dead man wash up on their desolate island, off the coast of Australia, in the early 20th century, then read this book. I have a feeling they are already planning the film and casting Cate Blanchett somewhere in it.

I'd like to start sharing with you the books I send my grandmother. I love recommending books and when I taught, I always made reading lists for my students. Likewise, I recommend a lot to dear old Mommom. Mommom has always been a big reader and her tastes tend towards more commercial, female driven stories. The Help is a perfect example. She doesn't like anything too edgy and she likes stuff set back in a time some. She's a big fan of Louise Erdrich, and I take 100% credit for that. Yay me. So the book I'm gifting Mommom with this summer is  Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford. It's a really lovely book with two parallel stories. I love Asian American literature and I love WW II stories, so this was perfect. It's a love story between a Chinese boy and a Japanese girl in Seattle during the Japanese Internment. Just read it. I'm telling you. Mommom's going to love it and so are you.

What books have you loved this summer? What are you reading now? Share away.
Friday, August 10, 2012

My China

God help me. No matter how hard I try to do the right thing as a parent...

So the other day I was reading some blogs by mothers about teaching their toddlers the appropriate names for their, umm, parts and I hadn't given this much thought. I grew up saying pee-pee, but apparently that teaches your daughter to be ashamed of her womanhood and somehow causes child rapists to go free in a court of law, so I was like, ok, vagina. I have to teach her vagina. Head, shoulders, knees and toes and VAGINA. Fine. I will teach her vagina so that she can grow up and perform Eve Ensler and go to a small, expensive liberal arts college and feel empowered. Because I didn't do any of those things myself and it has to be because I called it a pee-pee.

I taught her vagina and she was all like, whatever Mommy, vagina.

Now, all week we've been watching the Olympics and the child is just entranced. Loves watching all the events. Yesterday we were particularly loving synchronized swimming and the Chinese team came on, in gorgeous swimsuits and Little Lawns latched on to the announcer saying "China." A look of confusion crossed her face which gave way to excitement.

"CHINA MOMMY!! CHINA!!" she yelled pointing at her crotch.

Yeah, I can't win.
Thursday, August 09, 2012

Thursday Morning Nonsense

The other day I called my cousin to finalize some of our vacation plans and I hadn't talked to her in a couple months because she's been really busy. Not a problem because we are true soul mates and can pick up where we left off at any moment and a couple months don't matter. Anyway, we got our plans squared away; she's taking Baby Lawns on a merry-go-round and that is all I've heard from the child's mouth since. "Mommy, trip, trip, 'cation, merry go round, ok? yeah!"

Then I asked my cousin what's been going on with her lately and her answer, verbatim, was:

"Oh you know, getting ready to go to Atlantis on Labor Day, helping Jenny with her wedding plans, dress fittings, showers all that, my mom had hemorrhoid surgery, went to the beach a couple times and I'm dating an amputee!"

Obviously it's not a big deal to date someone with one leg. It was just how she said it that cracked me up. She said she doesn't even notice. What I found more interesting is that she said he is really shy about missing a leg and that she is the only girl he has dated since his accident because girls, upon finding out he had a fake leg, would suddenly disappear. Why, I wonder? He's perfectly functional. I don't think it would bother me either and how about that South African guy in the Olympics with no feet? Not only did he come in second place, he was also hot. That's because he's from South Africa though and I remain convinced that there isn't a single ugly person in that country. So girls won't date amputees? Is that common? I mean, I can see men not wanting to date female amputees, but overall, I thought women were much more forgiving about bodily imperfections.

Also from the crazy world of dating...

My sister's friend has had a crush on this cop for ages and she finally started dating him and things were going pretty well. The other night, having planned that this was the night they were going to do the deed for the first time, she went through an elaborate crotch grooming, hair removing procedure. This should be familiar to all single women about to get some with a new person. They go on their date and end up in bed and woe to her, but the guy announces, after all of her preparation, that, and I quote, he prefers his women to have "A puffy mound." God help her. Instant turn off (not his hair preference, but his word choice). Turns out he has a fetish for wild pubic hair. Doesn't it just figure?

I'm so glad I'm not single. 

In other news, I found a nasty-assed recipe this morning that I had to share. I found it on Pinterest, of course, and the link doesn't work, but the recipe is posted under the picture. You can find it on my nasty-assed recipes board. Oreo Dip people. Combine instant white chocolate pudding, Cool-Whip, crushed Oreos and mini-marshmallows. Vile. I have no idea what you're supposed to dip into this grey, chemical sludge of sugar and artificial flavorings. Who eats this crap? Why the trend of dessert dips lately? Gross, just gross. I haven't looked, but I'll bet there exists a red velvet dip somewhere. Mark my words and I'd also be willing to bet that someone on Pinterest has put it into a Mason jar.

Have a good day, y'all. Still working on the story about the nekkid beach.
Tuesday, August 07, 2012

What I'm Up To

While I'm taking a break from writing great literature, I'm going back to blogging, my first love, but I feel like I owe everyone a big "this is what I'm doing" post. Except I'm not doing much, so it will be both short and dull.

Right this instant, I'm waiting for Chinese. I'm also waiting for my child to go to bed and this happens every night. Every single night I come up with a grand set of plans of all the amazing things I will do and accomplish once she goes to sleep and every single night once she goes to sleep, I yawn and sigh and decide I need to go to bed too. Tonight will probably end up the same way. I am the most boring human being alive.

1. So every summer I go through agony over my hair. Short/ long? I never like it. No matter the length, I always want the opposite. Here is my post from last year on this very topic. This year I've solved the problem. I'm growing it all out for Locks of Love. The end. My hair is long. I look like I'm going to come out of your TV and kill you again, but it's for a good cause and my goal is to figure out how to get it up into a purposely messy, french looking kind of a bun. You know the type. You've seen it on fashion blogs written by girls who apparently live in the Anthropologie catalog and who can wear clothes which absolutely do not, under any circumstances, match and still have hundred of readers comment about how adorable they look. I'm very jealous. I know you all would tell me if I didn't match. But my hair. My hair is ridiculous. It mostly fell out when I had Baby Lawns, but then wow, it grew back like three times thicker. I have the hair of several people on my head right now, I'm convinced. So I'm donating it and there's that. End of hair agony.

2. Last weekend we had some excitement when a drunken Irish man decided to beat the hell out of a drunken woman directly across the street from our house. My husband and I were in bed and we heard it and looked out to see a man with a long, grey pony tail stomping on a woman in the grass. My husband took his paddle (from his SUP) and ran outside to save the woman and the man started cussing up a storm (that's how I knew he was Irish) but he did stop beating the woman. We called 911, the police took an eternity to come. The man could have killed seven women in the time it took the police to get here and a half an hour later the police came to our house and told us the couple was wasted and everything was fine. So I guess it's perfectly legal to beat up a woman as long as you're both drunk?

3. Also last week a woman came to the park wearing a skin tight, black, spandex mini skirt that was so short that it really didn't cover her rear end at all. She wore this with a weird, drapy, silky top and a pair of maroon suede, platform, stiletto booties. Louboutins or Louboutin knock-offs. To the park. With her child. She looked like a strung out, Russian hooker and the whole time she texted.

4. Several times I have seen a former stripper, that I used to work with at the Kittikat, at the park with her child. She still looks like a stripper, but I don't know if she's still working. She doesn't recognize or remember me, so I haven't talked to her but I want to say "HEY! You're in my book!!" Because she is. And now she has a kid that she takes to the park. I can only hope, for her sake, that his daddy is rich and very old.

5. I've been doing pretty well with yoga still, which is some kind of a record for me as I'm not great with commitment and consistency. I go about three times a week, but my goal is to keep that up for a while and then move up to four times. I'm going to two different places and one of them is Hatha yoga, which isn't hot and goes more slowly. I still go to the hot place though because I find I kind of like it and because I now babysit there once a week in exchange for free classes, which is a sweet deal. The people watching remains unprecedented.

There is this older woman who is full of silicone who likes to come in late and she always brings a book, which she opens up next to her mat. She then proceeds to do her own thing without following the rest of the class! Once the teacher asked her to follow along, because she's really disruptive and she stormed out and told off the receptionist.

Another woman I call Psycho Heater Woman. She is about 82 pounds and all sinew. There isn't a gram of fat on this woman and she looks like someone formed her out of twine. Her skin is brown and hard like a tanned hide and she gets her name because every class she drags the space heater, which is large and powerful, directly in front of her mat and turns it up as high as it will go. I don't know how she doesn't get burned and I'm like, look woman, it's 104 degrees already. Is that not hot enough for you? Jeez. I think she may do it because she thinks she burns more calories. I suspect she has a disorder because I heard someone else talking about how they always see her running in the noonday sun and how she runs many miles a day in addition to her psycho heater yoga.

In one of my classes there is a loud, flamboyant tranny who does Iron Mans. I can't figure out if he/she is male to female or female to male, so I don't know which pronoun to use, but this person is what people call a hoot and I love when he or she is in class except the one day he or she told me I was messing up the energy by moving my mat before class.

Inevitably I always get stuck beside of one of two types - the crazy old lady or the inversion maniac. The crazy old ladies like to discuss their multiple health problems with me and the inversion maniacs are big show-offs who turn every single pose in class into some sort of head stand. I can barely do downward facing dog, so I find these kinds of people intimidating and annoying and worse, there's another woman who likes to set up beside me who sings the entire time. Drives me insane. I just want to reach over and knock her out of her standing bow and be like: "Look, I get that you know the word to every John Mayer/ Florence and the Machine song, but you are seriously blocking my Qi, so shut the hell up. This is yoga, not chorus."

6. I'm taking Baby Lawns up to Delaware with me on the 18th for two weeks for summer vacation. Husband can't go this year because of work and because he got called for federal jury duty for two weeks, so I'm flying alone with an almost two year old. God help me. I'm excited though. Terrified, but excited.

7. I've been researching literary agents and I've discovered an unexpected side effect. On the agency websites, I've found quite a few really good books. Summer reading post soon to follow. I have not yet found a literary agent. If anyone knows one, send them my way.

8. Other than that, meh. The summer is almost over! Where did it go? My child is almost two? I'm going to be in a nursing home soon. Life is passing so quickly. I just remembered that it's been a full eleven years this week since I quit working at the Bubblegum Kittikat and hopped a plane to Jamaica. I think you need to hear about me in Jamaica and the nekkid beach. Next post, I promise.
Friday, August 03, 2012

The Post of No Consequences

A few years back I wrote my first "Post of No Consequences," a Post-Secret sort of thing, where I explained that I dream of having a day of no consequences, where nothing I do, or say, or eat will affect my life. It would be a day of swearing, debauchery and cheese; a day where I could get away with anything and the next day it would be as if none of it had ever existed. Who wouldn't long for just one day of that kind of freedom? 

I used the last "Post of No Consequences" to vent a few secrets and insults and annoying little "I wish I could say thats." It was enormously satisfying and even more satisfying were the comments readers left, venting their own secret desires, hates and frustrations. The whole thing was fantastically cathartic and I didn't feel the need to do it again until this week.

It hasn't been a horrible week by any means, but it hasn't been great either. A few things ticked me off and stressed me out, but I realized I've had a lot of crap building up inside of me and I need to get it out. This might actually be because I haven't been blogging. I took a writing break once I finished and started editing my memoir because writing a whole book and then revising it is a long slog. I took a brief writing vacation, so before I start blogging again, I figured I'd clear my head by venting again and I invite you to do the same.

Here are my secrets, my aggravations and the things I wish I could say to a whole lot of people. Some of these are directed to a specific person and some of them can apply to several people. Many of them are inspired by the crap I see people post on facebook and wish I could comment honestly on.

1. I understand that you're passionate about your politics, but you're a bully and you are one of the most intolerant people I've ever met, which makes you a gigantic hypocrite.

2. Your baby isn't cute. At all. And stop doing that to it. Because it makes it worse.

3. Even a stripper would think your wedding dress was tacky and trashy.

4. The reason why is because I heard your husband beg another woman for sex three days before he proposed to you. So there's your answer.


6. One day.

7. I overheard you guys making fun of me. Whatever. Make fun of me all you want. It's motivation. Plus, I know you're jealous.

8. You are depressed because you are nothing but a spoiled mess who has never had to work or go to school or function or do anything whatsoever for yourself and all that idleness and all that doing of nothing and never having had to accomplish anything has left you with nothing to provide a sense of purpose and self esteem. So stop with the drugs and the therapy and get a fucking job and take a class and shut the hell up about your non-existent problems.

9. Several people warned me about you and I didn't believe them. Turned out they were right. You are shallow, narcissistic and materialistic. Oh, and fake. 

10. I'm on to you. The ass kissing is because you're after the money. I get it. It makes you feel special. Whatever. It's just pathetic. Reminds me of the nerdy girls in school who ran after the popular girls and copied everything they did in hopes that one day the popular girls would like them. Guess what? They never did.

11. The other night I had a dream about you and we were playing with our children and you asked me to come sleep in your bed with you. It wasn't something sexual. It was just to sleep and then something woke me up and I was crushed by the grief and the loss and the loneliness and all I wanted was to go back to sleep and have the dream again, but I couldn't get it back.

12. When I first met you, I really respected you. I thought you were different. Now I pretty much just think you're an idiot. And mean.

13. Could you for once in your life ever just once ever please for the love of God correctly punctuate your Facebook statuses it drives me insane to read your run-ons

14. I love the hell out of you but please stop with those corny, trite cliches all the time. 

15. I've spent a long, long time worrying that you and you and you and all of you over there too were going to be disappointed in me, but I realized I am disappointed in you. Very.

16. I hate being nice to you when I'd really rather beat the living shit out of you with a boot.

What are your secrets? Whisper in my ear. Comment anonymously if you need to. I won't tell anyone.

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