The Grrl With The Most Cake Throws It Up.

There are certain things I have no business doing, For instance, I have no business blasting "No Air" in the car and attempting to sing both Jordin Sparks’ and Chris Brown’s runs simultaneously, at the top of my lungs, all the while illustrating the fact that I am singing by using overemphasized hand gestures of an X-tina Agulera nature. No business, do I have to do that.

Not that that stops me.

I also have no business attempting to transition from anorexia (which I am not convinced that I have, but my shrink is) to bulimia, a disorder which involves several components, none of which I have ever been good at.

Not that that stops me.

I’ve been hungry lately and I have to do something to get rid of the extra calories I find myself consuming. That "something" is the very thing I ought not to be doing, not just for health reasons, but for capability reasons. To put it bluntly, I am a sucky bulimic.

The typical bulimic binge is supposed to involve thousands upon thousands of calories. Mine involves eating not one Skinny Cow ice cream cone, but…wait for it, wait for it….two. Even I know that 300 calories does not a binge make. Still, its enough for me.

Next comes the purge, which is where I really shine. People like me have no business attempting to throw up. What should be a quick finger down the throat expulsion of reduced fat salt and vinegar chips turns into a song and dance routine of epic proportions, complete with its own introductory monologue ("Just do it! Just do it! That Lean Cuisine is affixing itself to your abdomen as we speak! Just do it you candy-ass—oh. Candy. That sounds good right about now…."). I always manage to get the job done, so to speak, but it’s a massive time suck, what with the half-hour of cheerleading that is required for me to get anything up.

I have no business doing what I am doing. Still, in this case—and in the case of so many other things in life— I continue to seek the instant gratification that comes from doing something I shouldn’t.

Which is why, the next time you see me walking around my house completely naked, blinds up, windows open and neighbors likely gawking, don’t try to intervene. Yes, it’s true, I have no business doing that.

Not that that stops me.

I've Got (Excess) Baggage

"Can't you drive any faster?!"

My husband and I had rushed home from our respective workplaces only to rush to the “further-away-but-significantly-cheaper” airport to make our “ridiculously-late-but-significantly-cheaper” red-eye flight, which we’d booked in a moment I can only attribute to sheer stupidity. What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I was exhausted, frustrated and wearing 5 inch platform wedge shoes which, although devastatingly cute, were clearly un-airport friendly and I’d put on in a moment I can only attribute to sheer stupidity. What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Not that we could relax when we arrived to our destination or anything. While it had been a busy week, an even busier weekend awaited us…one complete with its own itinerary; One which was apt to entail more than its fair share of feigning interest in perfect strangers, being utterly selfless and politely rebuffing drunken advances from wedding-goers both overeager and underage.

I excel at none of these.

So when it was time to check our luggage and it was 51 pounds, exactly one pound over, it was the proverbial suitcase that broke the TSA agent’s back.

“You’re going to have to take something out or pay an extra fee,” I was informed.

“You know what?” I said cocking my head at the agent.

This is a rhetorical question I begin all my tantrums with. As the speaker, I neither expect nor do I care if the target of my rage “knows what”.

My husband, however, does know what. And he knows that when I ask someone else if he or she knows what, it almost always means trouble. He attempted to run interference, but by then it was too late. I’d already begun my anti-luggage weight limit verbal manifesto.

“You know what? I weigh 91 pounds. I weigh less than everyone on this damn plane. And you know what else? I bet me and my luggage combined still weigh less than everyone on this plane. So you know what? Screw your stupid weight limits. If I want to have an extra pound in my damn suitcase, that’s my damn prerogative.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to take something out of your bag or pay an extra fee.”

Guess I told her.

My husband had already begun removing something from our suitcase; another devastatingly cute but clearly un-airport baggage-friendly pair of wooden clogs that I didn’t really need but packed anyway in a moment I can only attribute to sheer stupidity. What can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

As my husband stood in my wake apologizing profusely to the agent, I wheeled my now 50 pound bag to the X-ray machine.

Grace under pressure. Packing light. Making nice to airport workers who are just trying to do their jobs.

I excel at none of these.

The Grrl With The Most Bruschetta and The Fewest Friends

I promised an acquaintance that I’d go to the charity event she was chairing. The anticipated crowd was described to me as "over 500 young professionals" which was just perfect considering I am neither young nor professional.

Of course, those in attendance were going to be the antithesis of everything I am or aspire to be. A mix devoid of any substance; the kind of people who I’d fit in with at face value, but would never be friends with: douchebag guys with $75 haircuts, Seven A-Pocket jeans and twill J-Crew blazers; girls in towering Jimmy Choos, cuffed skinny jeans and oversized Gucci bags. People in fields like PR or marketing or advertising or any of the other image-conscious professions young, dead-behind-the-eyes, up-and-comers get into.

When I arrived I recognized one girl, a friend of a sort-of friend. She perfectly epitomized the sea of people in whose stupidity I was now very actually drowning: Vapid. Mindless. Shallow. During the Obama/McCain elections, when she heard that Black Panthers were stationing themselves at the polls, she wondered aloud to our mutual friend about how the people got the cats out of the zoo and, when they got them to the polls, how they were able to keep them there without being bitten.

My premonition about the guests was correct, and I spent most of the night in a corner by myself watching the Summer’s Eve mingle with the Dead Air. I listened in as they discussed the important topics of our day, like tooth whitening and frozen yogurt and—the biggest insult to writers with integrity everywhere— the accolades and merits of the "so well-written" Lauren Conrad "LA Candy" series. If they kept talking this way, it was likely I wouldn’t have to use my fingers to purge the bruschetta I was nibbling on.

Morons.

But as I stood there alone, in the corner, talking to no one— not as much by my own choice as by their choice—it became very clear who the moronic loser was.

I crammed another few pieces of bruschetta down my throat and headed to the restroom.

hot potato

most days at work i run across the street to get a baked potato for lunch, hanging a "be back in 5 minutes" sign on the door of the store. while i run or half-jog or speed walk or scurry as fast as my 4 inch heels will allow, my mind inevitably begins to formulate what i have begun referring to as my "story of the day".

simply put, the "story of the day" is that day's excuse, concocted to make the D-cubed store clientele (demeaning, demanding and degrading), who may or may not be waiting to get into the store when i return, a little less so. as a writer i think making up stories (translation: flat out lying to strangers) is something to which i am predisposed. im sure my other artist friends have their own version of the "story of the day" game. tell me about yours.

some days i go for hours without seeing another living soul (not that i see any dead souls either; im no haley joel osment). still, no matter when i run to get my stupid potato, it seems there is a direct correlation between my leaving the store and people arriving. many a time i've returned to find a woman (or five) angrily tapping her (so-last-year) tori burch flats, arms crossed, botoxed face pseudo-frowning, waiting outside the locked door when i return. these women's glares tell me i should be sorry i made them wait three extra minutes to play a rousing game of slave-massa. my potato gets cold while i run back and forth fetching size 2 garments for their very un-size 2 asses.

one day when i returned to find a lady waiting at the door, she unfurled the wrath of hell on me, all dante's inferno-like. where was i and people are waiting and leaving the store is not good for business and shes a paying customer blah blah blah. because, you know, wanting to peruse racks of overpriced clothing is as critical to survival as food and water and how dare i be so irresponsible so as to make her wait an extra three minutes and nearly deprive her of that. and that's when it just came out.

"im diabetic and i was about to go into shock."

"huh?"

"i usually have some snacks here but one of the other girls ate them. if i didnt go grab something to get my blood sugar up, i could have lapsed into a diabetic coma."

its times like these that i begin to question my sanity. or, rather, not question it, but question the degree to which i had previously believed it had deteriorated. clearly, i underestimated things.

diabetic? really? who does that? diabetes is not a laughing matter and definitely not something to exploit, unless your name is bret michaels. or wilford brimley.

but it caught the lady off guard and she totally backed off. she was almost nice about it, going so far as to regale me---as people so often do with any affliction---with tales of her diabetic cousin, and insisted that i eat my potato immediately and nevermind her. she could pick out her own size 2 jeans.

and thus, the "story of the day" was born. while i avoid the admittedly repugnant illness-faking lie i told initially, it is now the highlight of my day to see what strange and twisted tale i can weave to justify a (what should be an unjustifiable) need for lunch. some days i get to use my story. others, no one is pounding down the doors for overpriced garb and i wind up keeping it to myself.

but, should anyone today need to know, im on a strict diet for a story im writing for a major publication, requiring that i eat at least one potato a day. really.

You're So Vain, You Probably Think This Post is About You...

…and one very well may be.

Which is directed at you? Is one directed at you? Now, don't be vain....

I hate it. I absolutely hate it.

I think—I know— I love you more than you love me. That hurts.

I know you’re mad at me. However, if I had it to do all over again I would still make the same decision. You go on and keep being pissed. And while you’re at it, eat me.

Sometimes when I am telling a story about you, I refer to you as "my best friend,_____" even though that is something that would have to be mutual to be true.

The more I see, the less you matter.

For the love of all that is holy, will you please change your shirt?

I want to be just like you when I grow up. Only much, much thinner.

I thought you hated me, so I told everyone you were a "fugly stupid bitch". And it turned out that you didn’t hate me and then I felt really bad about that. Especially since you turned out to be really nice, and are not at all fugly.

As far as my writing is concerned, your opinion is the only one that matters to me. So when you say you believe in me, sometimes it makes me believe in myself.

I know it’s mean and wrong and ugly but I’m secretly rooting for you to fail.

I’m waiting for you to call me even though I know you never will.

Before I buy something, I think about whether or not you would wear it, and base my decision around that.
　
　

I'm Snow Angel

People don’t shovel their driveways in the city where I grew up. They hire a twice-daily snowplow to clear the white death that falls from the sky and drifts from the neighbors’ yards; There’s just too much snow for a human to tackle without assistance.






In the city where I now reside, there is just as much snow, only it falls twice a year instead of every day. Twice a year means no snowplowing services. Twice a year means shovel it yourself. During a hypermaniacal episode on my day off, I decided to do just that.






And now, for a quick math lesson. What do you get when you take a 91-pound bipolar chick, subtract her medicine and add a foot of snow? You get a really interesting sight for the neighbors.






As readers of this blog may remember, I tend to forget my surroundings when engaged in yard work. Last spring I went all Joan Crawford on my rose garden while loudly and obliviously serenading the neighborhood with my rendition of Anarchy in the UK, along with a few Rebel Yells, just so Billy Idol wouldn’t feel left out. I performed an encore last fall, which received mixed reviews from legions of horrified and perplexed window-peeping housewives.
Shoveling the driveway on Tuesday found me similarly engrossed in my work and disengaged from the outside world.






The snow that has fallen is the heavy, waterlogged kind and it takes a lot of strength to clear. This task is made easier when your manic state enables superhuman strength and your I-pod playlist provides aggressive music for momentum. For this task I only dabbled in the very angry but low BPM Hole, and skipped over the pussyish Toad the Wet Sproket entirely. Yes, something’s always wrong, but that wasn’t going to get the driveway clear.

Things would have been fine, had I not forgotten to consider the following:

---You don’t realize how loud you are singing when listening to an I-pod.
---Normal people do not stretch their backs in public by doing back walkovers and other gymnastic moves up and down their driveways.

What follows is the scene countless neighbors—out shoveling their own driveways, a fact to which I was fairly oblivious—were privy to. I cannot be sure exactly how much they heard or saw, but I’m pretty sure it was enough to maintain my status as the Street Pariah.

Shoveling while singing along with Bikini Kill, a band I’ve only recently allowed myself to listen to after a 15-year hiatus: Oh baby/ I want you/You’re so big and hard/You've got such a big cock/ Push it in deeper now/ Oh deeper, harder/ I'm almost cumming/ I'm almost cumming! Wooooooah! Sugar!

Pause to do some back flips as my back hurts. Declare, en masse, that "I’m a self-fulfilling porno-queen."

Commence shoveling while listening to Weezy: I’m not trying to offend the women/ I defend the ladies/ Commend the women/ I cum on the women/ Next night cum in that woman/ Next morning come out that woman/ Next day I don’t remember shit about that woman/ What I do know/ I effed the shit up out that woman!

More back flips. Jumping jacks.

Resume Shoveling. Resume Singing. How about a Grammy selection this time? Whoop that trick/ Get ‘em!/ Whoop that trick/ Get ‘em!/ Whoop that trick/ Get ‘em!/ Whoop that trick/ Get ‘em!

Pause to look at progress. Utter a few choice profanities as progress is not where I’d like it to be.

Resume shoveling. Relive 1999. "Girl you look good/ Won’t you back that ass up/ You’se a fine mother-effer/ Won’t you back that ass up/ Call me big daddy/ When you back that ass up/ Ho, who is you playin’ wit/ back that ass up!

Make a snow angel. Chuck some snowballs at the house for no good reason.

Repeat from beginning until job is complete, approximately two hours later.

After making a spectacle of myself I think two things are clear: First, I need assistance shoveling my driveway. Second, I need assistance, period.

WF ISO Blanket

As kids, my brother and I both had security blankets. My brother’s actually had a name, Frank Blank, which is not only stupid sounding but even more idiotic in light of the fact that this was his blanket’s nickname, shortened from the even more ludicrous Franket Blanket.

When I was four or five my blanket got "lost". In actuality this was my mother’s tough-love method to break me of what she perceived to be my blankie-addiction. Either that, or she was really, really evil—a proposition which, to this day, I am not convinced is entirely untrue. At any rate, she snatched my blanket while I slept, hid it in a closet, and let me throw myself on the floor in hysterics for a few days until I wore myself out.

I eventually had to put myself back together and trudge on—blanketless—in a cold, cruel world. I had to figure out how to soothe myself sans outside influences, something I’ve never really mastered. (You will note the difference between "soothing" oneself and "satisfying" oneself. I am quite skilled at the latter). Interestingly enough, my mom allowed my brother to keep his pal, Franket, indefinitely. Brat.

My brother grew up to be self-assured, successful and grossly confident. I, on the other hand, have spent the last 25 years in hot, messy, desperate pursuit of anything that will to make me feel secure again.

My blanket has yet to resurface.

Rebel Girl, Rebel Girl...You Are The Queen of My World.

My foray into the music of Bikini Kill can only be described of as brief. It was 1994ish, an era that found me consumed by the music of Hole, L7, Babes in Toyland and Seven Year Bitch. And while I was reluctant to listen to anything that might detract from the time I spent listening to the aforementioned bands, listening to Bikini Kill was a natural and somewhat mandatory progression. If I was going to run around school with "RIOT GRRL" emblazoned on my knuckles in messy blue ballpoint pen, I was going to have to listen to Bikini Kill.

And I really liked them, I did. I liked Hole a lot better and thought Jennifer Finch was cooler, but I liked Bikini Kill just fine. In fact, I will still admit that there are few things as satisfying to the burgeoning sexuality of a 14 year-old than the repeated singing of the graphically perverse "Sugar." I am surprised that my stereo’s "rewind" button didn’t malfunction, the way I listened to the first verse over and over and over again. I am also surprised that my mom completely ignored the fact that her child was upstairs screaming "I’m almost cumming! I’m almost cumming!" at the top of her lungs on a semi-daily basis.

When Kat (Bikini Kill) and Courtney (Hole) had their infamous Lolla-Spat (for those not in-the-know or as ridiculously obsessive as yours truly, you can read about it here: http://nogoodforme.filmstills.org/blog/archives/2008/04/02/nostalgia_court.html), I was horrified, disgusted and immediately through with BK. Kat Hanna was cool, but my allegiance was to Courtney Love. I wanted to be just like her, even going so far as to adding a cute Cobain-lookalike boyfriend to my arsenal. I would not tolerate anyone trying to hurt, deride or fuck with her. I was so disappointed with Kat Hanna, I could no longer look at her pictures on my wall. I trashed anything even remotely connected with her and her stupid, crap-ass band. She'd failed me.

To further demonstrate my newfound hatred for Bikini Kill, my friend EB and I gathered our long-neglected Barbie dolls, put signs on them that read "KAT HANNA" and hung them in our respective lockers. From nooses.

I didn’t hear Bikini Kill again until almost fifteen years later when a grad school professor opened her lecture with the playing of "Rebel Girl". It had been forever since I’d even thought about that song, but from the first "that girl thinks she's the queen of the neighborhood", I remembered every word.

I’ve had my fair share of Rebel Girls over the years, women whom I admired for their revolutionary thinking, talent, cunning, wit and beauty. Women whose clothes I wanted to try on, women who I wanted to make my best friends, women who were the queens of my world. I saw them as perfect, I put them on pedestals. I held them to standards to which they could

not be--or did not want to be-- held. I’d refuse to acknowledge, or even to see, their fallibility; I put too much pressure on them. And when you hold someone to unrealistic standards, when you expect her to be something she isn't, when you expect super-human behavior from another human being, she will disappoint you every time. Just like Kat Hanna did me.

It is still exceedingly difficult for me to view my Rebel Girls as people; people who are also grappling and fumbling their way through life, people who need to make mistakes and learn for themselves, people who don’t know what they’re doing any better than I do. Rebel Girls may hold the revolution in their kisses, but ultimately, they are only human. That notion presents a challenge to me, but I’m working on digesting it.

That said, I still can’t allow anyone to slam my beloved Courtney. Sorry, Kat. I'll put Pussy Whipped back into rotation, but I can't fully forgive you yet.

Eff Health Class

I’d say health class pretty much ruined my formative years.

To be fair, my parents didn’t help much either, but if I had to provide a definitive answer to the question “Grrl, what would you say caused you to become the complete and total fuckup that we know you as today,” I’d have to say that it was health class, hands down.

Health class was where I learned the skills that would later enable me to become a more effective bulimic. While anorexia was my eating disorder of choice, on the off chance that I ate something which needed to be quickly eliminated, I learned from the health class screening of an after school special that toothbrushes are far more effective than fingers.

Health class supplied me with a wealth of information on drugs. I could not OD on pot and, as long as I was supervised to ensure I didn’t jump out of any second-story windows, hallucinogens were a fairly safe bet. Leave it to another after school special to teach me that, in a pinch, that can of whipped cream in the fridge could work wonders. Unfortunately the aforementioned after school special didn’t warn me that if I sucked all the CO2 out of the can the whipped cream wouldn’t “whip” and I’d ruin the Thanksgiving Day pumpkin pie.

Of course, nothing screwed me up more than the sex education units. Early on, we were provided with one basic message: if you have sex, you WILL get pregnant. End of story. My parents beat the shit out of me when I spilled milk on the floor; I could not begin to imagine the horrors that would ensue should milk spill from my (sorry excuse for) tits. I decided to be on the safe side. As a virginal catholic friend told me, oral is moral.

Early in my high school career the health teacher, Mr. S., was holding one of his infamous Q & A sessions when someone posed the following question:
“Is it true that cum has two-thousand calories?”
Everyone in the class busted out whooping and laughing.
“Settle down, settle down!” Mr. S. tried to recoup the totally un-recoupable class.

You know how a crowd of people will be laughing and talking and there will suddenly be a deafening silence? That unexpected lull appeared to be precisely timed with me turning to my friend and making the following comment:
“If cum had 2000 calories, I would be a fucking beached whale,”

Of course, there was more whooping and laughter and more “settle down”-ing from Mr. S.
“No. That is totally not true,” he yelled over the class.
“No, actually I think it is,” Johnny volunteered.
“No, it’s not. Who’s the teacher here?” We had just finished a unit on the food pyramid and apparently Mr. S. did not appreciate anyone challenging his knowledge of seminal fluid’s caloric content.
“No, not that part,” Johnny continued. “The part about Grrl being a beached whale if cum had 2000 calories. That’s totally true.”
I am not ashamed to admit that I relished in the applause that followed.

Since my weight remained stable over the next year or two, I had no reason to change my repertoire. That is, until I had to fulfill my last health credit. That year Mr. S. announced that, statistically speaking, one in four college-aged women would be raped.
What the fuck? I was going to go to college someday! I had a better chance of being raped than I did of, like, making the track team. It was then that I decided I better get my cherry popped, and with a quickness. I’m stubborn; I’d rather give something away than have it taken away.
And that’s just what I did.

So for my first time (and only time with this guy) I subscribed to the adage “go big or go home.” And big it was. Very, very, very big. Too big.

I felt like I was being impaled. This was not what I signed up for. Entrance to a convent suddenly seemed very appealing. I was no Whoopi Goldberg but shit, I liked Sister Act.

I was fairly certain that I felt something ripping, and spent the entire three—maybe five—minutes silently contemplating how I was going to explain to my mother that i needed to make a trip to the emergency room for twat-stitches.
I was trying to climb over a chain-link fence and I fell?
A misogynist worker in the Tampax manufacturing plant was secretly slipping razor blades in the tampons?

The dialogue went something like this:
Him: ohmygooood. This feels soooofuckingooood!
Me: Oh my god, I’m going to be in so much fucking trouble.
Him: I’m gonna fucking come!
Me. I’m gonna be fucking grounded.

It has taken me years to recover from the atrocities I endured due to health class.
Now if only I could shake off what I learned at those high school slumber parties...

The World's Worst Burglar

I was working at the boutique, by myself as usual. It was a slow day customer-wise but there was no shortage of paperwork and I had a stack of envelopes to mail. To break the monotony that is my sorry-ass job and my sorrier-ass life, I decided to run out to the mailbox on the corner, which I’ve done a thousand times without incident.

Before leaving, I instinctively locked the doorknob from the inside so no one would enter the store and rob us blind. Not that this would be a bad thing however; it might score me a few days off. And maybe they’d steal that God-awful dress that I’m so sick of looking at and that no one is buying because no one wears lumberjack plaid except lumberjacks. And also stereotypical lesbians.

Right after I'd closed the door behind me, still thinking about lesbians and Birkenstocks and why anyone would want to take fashion cues from a mythical figure with a blue ox, I realized I’d made a grave error.

My effing keys were still in the effing store.

It’s the dead of winter here and, as one of my high school boyfriends would say, it’s as cold as a witch’s titty. The temperature rarely rises above freezing this time of year and today was no exception. At first I just stood there in disbelief. Then I became enraged, uttering a few choice phrases that would have made George Carlin blush. And then I just accepted my fate. I would be there until my co-worker arrived, which wouldn’t be for another hour and fifteen minutes.
Stuffing my hands (which by that point I could no longer feel) into my pockets, I felt the holy grail. In my pocket was credit card . (Dirty, dirty boys and girls. I bet you thought "feeling the holy grail" whilst my hands were in my pockets was a masturbatory reference. Under ordinary circumstances, you’d have been right, but not this time.)

There is no question, I am a true hood-rat. Back in the day, my students taught me a thing or two about "hitting a lick". (Look it up, white folks). Believe it or not, these skills have come in useful; I have broken into both houses and cars multiple times and I know a credit card is as good as any key; if I couldn’t get in legitimately, I would bust my way in.

Only I underestimated the quality of this lock. The damn card wouldn’t wedge in all the way. Standing there jamming my credit card into the door, I was quite ashamed of myself…not because I was trying to break into a building, but because I was unable to break into the building. What the fuck is wrong with me? Any hood-rat worth her salt can swipe a simple lock. How embarrassing. I thought of what my kids would think of me if they knew how rusty my jimmy-ing technique had become. I’d dishonored them.

By this time, I could no longer feel my feet and was quickly becoming desperate. Two women approached the store.
"I’m sorry ladies. I’ve locked myself out."
"Oh." The women stared at me blankly. Or maybe it wasn’t a blank expression. I can’t really make out the expressions of over-botoxed, women. "So is anything on sale right now?"

I had failed with the credit card, but there was still a possibility that I could pick the lock, which I’ve done numerous times on interior doors. I’d never used this technique on a front door but ultimately decided that I was raised in the 80s, a decade that left legions of kids well prepared for these exact types of situations. I watched the A-Team. On Knight Rider Michael Knight ran these kinds of rigs in practically every episode. Shit, I’ve seen McGyver do this like a thousand times. I just needed some wires or a bobby pin or something.

Of course I didn’t have a bobby pin the one day I needed it. I always have bobby pins with me to pull my long bangs back from my eyes. But no, I decided not four days earlier that I wanted my bangs to resemble those of Bettie Page. So now I had Bettie Page bangs and no damn bobby pins. Eff you, Bettie Page. Eff your stupid bangs and eff me for liking them.

I scavenged around the ground looking for any litter with lock-picking potential. I gathered my lock-pick stash and commenced with the break-in. For your reference, the following discarded items will not open a locked door: the stick from a blow pop, a long shard of mulch, a plastic cable tie sharpened at the end to resemble a key, a stem from a dead rosebush with the thorns removed, a rusty nail.

I now could not feel my face and was quickly becoming delirious. My nose is running like a faucet. This makes no sense. When it’s cold outside, your nose becomes runnier, but when something is frozen, it becomes harder. So shouldn’t my snot be turning into icicles? Why does snot get runnier in the cold? What if I blew my nose into ice cube trays? Would it freeze? I should do this for the Science Fair. Do they have Science Fairs for adults? I can put one together. And I will research why snot defies the laws of the physical behavior of matter…

I’d been outside in below-freezing temperatures for nearly an hour and a half when my co-worker arrived.

"Why are you standing outside?" she asked, puzzled.
"I locked myself out. But if Bettie Page had longer bangs I would have been able to get in. And also, snot doesn’t change states when exposed to cold temperatures, in case you didn’t know."

my own little corner of the world

and now for a momentary departure from the sarcastic, cynical, hopelessly disillusioned grrl with the most cake you all know and love (or some of you love, anyway)...

in the almost ten months since moving into our home, i have done very little in the way of decorating. i have antiques galore and beautiful oil paintings done by my artist-aunt, but beyond that, nothing. when it comes to what i want, im picky and indecisive.

so i decided, after much delay, to start with my own little corner, my night stand. with the guidance of my interior decorating sages (and for once i mean a 'sage' in terms of a wise one who guides, as opposed to my beloved cohort), ruby randall and jillian lauren, i was able to create something im really proud of.

after purchasing an antique cherry table from an antique sale, i went to work hunting for relics with which to accessorize. im really into julep cups right now, and had to have an old, slightly tarnished one to put some silk flowers in. i wish i could say the rest of the things on the table were legitimately vintage, but the truth is, the back of the picture frames have "made in china" stickers on them (i plan to put 30s and 40s era family pics in them) the lamp was purchased five years ago on clearance at marshall's and the perfume bottle was a gift from a friend, purchased from anthropologie. the hand-made doilie, however, is authentic and was given to me by my grandmother. i am still trolling for a little trinket box to keep my chapstick in. i take my lip moisture content very seriously.

the piece de resistance is my pin-ups book, filled with the most delicious work by gil elvgren, peter driben and bill medcalf, among others. while i dont have a naked woman sharing my bed, its still nice to have them around...even if they are illustrated.

Ten minutes before closing Mrs. X abruptly flings open the door of the boutique where I work and struts in like she owns the place. It’s gotten chilly and she dons a fur coat extending past her ankles; the kind of coat that says 'they’re stupid animals; they’re made to be used at my disposal.'

When she makes her grand entrance, I am on my hands and knees scrubbing the faux-wood floor. In the winter the street salt and snow accumulate on people’s boots creating footprints that, when mopped, leave a cloudy residue on the dark laminate. The only way to avoid leaving white streaks is to clean the floor by hand, scrubbing and drying the 800 square foot showroom using Mr. Miyagi’s wax-on/ wax-off technique.

“Watch your step, it might be slippery,” I tell her before she can tread on the newly cleaned laminate. She neglects to acknowledge me and proceeds to track a fresh set of Frye boot prints across the section I just finished scouring.

“Good too see you again, Mrs. X. Is there something I can help you find today?” I rise quickly and obediently, ditching my bucket, scrub brush and rags behind the counter.

Mrs. X answers by raising her kid-gloved hand in the universal signal for ‘stop’, or that which my generation would interpret as ‘talk to the hand.’

“Hold on one second, Lisa,” she says gently to no one in particular, then looking directly at me she seethes “Excuse me. Can you not see that I’m on the phone here?”

Actually no. Beneath the behemoth of blonde extensions that is her hair, I cannot see the bluetooth planted in her ear.

“I apologize, Mrs. X. Please let me know if you need something.”

“Sorry about that, Lise. The girls at this place obviously weren’t trained very well….I know. So stupid.”

Mrs. X walks over to the racks of designer clothing that I have meticulously hung and spaced by hand in preparation for closing. Standing before the perfectly arranged garments, she parts them like the red sea. She proceeds to fling them aside one by one, occasionally pausing to inspect something more closely. Every now and then, without looking away from the rack, she holds something up in the air, my cue to fetch the item and hang it in the fitting room.

I am literally biting my tongue so hard that I can taste the first traces of blood. I hang each Ella Moss tunic in the fitting room with care; refold each pair of Citizens of Humanity denim that she carelessly unfolds, examines, and then stuffs into the wrong shelf; re-tie each hand-woven cashmere scarf that she unravels and discards wherever she happens to be standing.

An hour later, she leaves with nothing. As I retrieve my cleaning supplies and crouch on the floor, I begin to empathize with the animals that comprise Mrs. X’s coat.

An Actual Diary Excerpt From 8th Grade....

interesting, the 14 year-old me.....


So I am gonna get the hell out of here. I am packing my stuff and moving to LA. I’m not sure how yet though. And once I get there the first thing I’ll do is find a strip joint. And the owner will probably be a really cool guy. He’ll see me and know right away I have potential. He’ll give me room and board for free in an apartment, probably like upstairs the strip joint. He’ll sign me up at school so I could go to school during the day. And I will change my name to Vanessa Love after Courtney. He’ll pay for me to get some plastic surgery—lipo, a nose job, implants. I’ll strip nights and have weekends off. I’ll make shitloads. He’ll put me on hormones to make me taller, like 5’6-5’10. No one from home will know what happened to me or where I was or if I was alive or dead. Then I’ll go to UCLA and continue stripping. And I will become a psychologist. ["psychologist" crossed out] musician. I will get a guitar or bass and start my own band. My band will kick ass and I will live happily ever after. And also the only people who will know where I am are my grandparents and I will buy them a house in Florida.

its been a long time, i shouldnt have left you without a dope beat to step to....

this year....back and better than ever....
stay tuned.