in jurassic park, the older sister (is it lexy?) panics at, well, several points, but at one of them she regresses to a 4 year old child and shrieks "aminals!" it reminds me of one of my classmates in high school screaming "ohmygod it's a waps!" at top volume. oh, the horror.
now, aminals and i have flexible relationships, each to varying levels of success. my cat, for example, is ornery and stubborn, and yet generally obeys my commands. miles, on the other hand, is needy and sweet and a bit of an exhibitionist with most people, but unless he's desperate i do not exist. my turtle equates my presence with food.
in a zoo, however, i do my best to remember that these aminals are not mine, are not remotely human, are in fact locked in cages for both their protection and mine, and for all intents and purposes i am trespassing on their territory. having said that, i've still had quirky encounters:
1) zoey the elephant: in a word, angry. she hates people except for her handlers, we were told, except she finds it amusing to torture them. first she farted at us, and then she turned around to pick up rocks with her trunk and fling them over the moat. she has surprisingly good aim...we should all be grateful she's not a carnivore.
2) peaches the cockatoo: i think it is difficult to describe birds as having particularly human emotions, but i am neither bird not bird expert. this cockatoo immediately declared "I LOVE YOU!" to my companion when we walked through the door, then proceeded to jump down on her and tear at her watch and clothing and use her as a general jungle gym. peaches would only leave when bribed with a ranch dorito. she has good taste.
3) the camel: my companion shares this story at every opportunity. it was one of those drive-through safaris, you see, and while i was gradually dribbling out my food from my cup in a very democratic manner, she was hoarding it to feed to aminals at the end. she decided that the camel was worthy of feeding, and gently offered her cup out the window. said camel latched onto the cup with its teeth, tugging and pulling and drooling and pulling said companion halfway out of the car. she finally gave up, whereupon victorious camel slung back the cup like a jello shot, spat out the cup to the side and ambled on away.
4) the rheas: these birds, also in the drive-through safari, enjoy sticking their necks through open windows to get to food. once was enough....the beaks are sharp, the eyes are red, the feathers are furry-ish and black....and so driving through that section felt a bit like guerilla warfare: okay, you feed the deer...oh, alright, i'll feed the deer too, but keep an eye out...2 of them at 6 o'clock! oh wait, 3! 4! ROLL UP THE WINDOWS!!! hurry! gah, woman, don't your windows roll up faster? they're coming!! they're here!!!! THWUNK THWUNK! hahahahahaha, you missed!
5) sex. i don't know what it is, but it seems like we are privy to an uncommon amount of sex amongst aminals. perhaps we are not, but we're the only ones to talk about it. at any rate:
a) turtles: not too exciting, really. a bit silly...the shells seem difficult to maneuver.
b) porcupines: highly interesting. we were at the fort worth zoo, in a dark exhibit, and of course in dark exhibits it's the game of "where's the aminal?" and whoever finds it wins their own smug satisfaction. i don't remember who found the porcupines this time, but the sounds gave them away. besides the vocalizations there was the odd sound of bashing straw bundles together. the visual is pretty much what you would expect.
c) more cockatoos: moderately interesting. for a good 40 seconds we couldn't tell WHAT was going on....in fact, it was the telltale whine of a child, "ma, what's wrong with that bird?" that clued us in. and, of course, the mother's hasty reply: "oh, that other bird is eating it." now to be sure it looked quite unpleasant, but is that really the best the mother could come up with on the fly? now this poor child will think that cockatoos make a habit out of devouring each other.
d) ostriches: bizarre. being both bird and walking ground aminal, they mate a bit like both birds and walking ground aminals. there is a lot of flapping of wings, which stirs up a lot of dust, which you would think in the wild is dangerous. if i were a lioness i'd simply scout for dust clouds: "yup! there's one, now's our chance!"
e) lions: nothing exciting. lions are a perfectly good example where the parents of human children are more entertaining to watch than the aminals. "um, richie, don't look at the lions. they, um, are sick. yeah! and that's what animals do when they get sick." and of course little richie is GLUED to the glass window, mouth open in shock, oblivious to everything else around him. and mama nearly has her claws out trying to pry him away, bribe him with ice cream, mcdonald's, a new bike, an ipod, ANYTHING to spare her the embarrassment of having to explain the lions. and i can't help it; i have to run commentary on the lions under my breath so that mama is losing her mind between those perverted lions and that dirty human that are all probably going to turn her child into some sexual predator. it's just too funny.
f) now, all of these experiences were in the states, in various zoos and safari-thingies and pet stores. this last is from bali, in the monkey forest sanctuary. we are literally 3 feet past the sign that reads "monkey forest sanctuary" when voila! two monkeys going at it (well, one monkey, with the bottom monkey looking decidedly irritated) on the side rail. perhaps it is because these monkeys look mildly human (or at least capable of holding conversation) that i avert my eyes. i look back up to make sure i don't walk off the path and lo! male monkey sees that i am holding bananas (which i had nearly forgotten), pats female monkey on the butt as if to say, "off with you now, i'm hungry" and scuttles on over to grab a banana out of my hand. i look at my companion, thinking, should we head back now? which, in retrospect, perhaps we should have...
6) the macaques: as anyone who has seen the golden compass knows, monkeys are cute, but they are not cuddly. they aren't even friendly...there is no benevolence there. people are amazed at their fearlessness: it's because a monkey knows that it knows how to use its teeth, and a monkey knows that we do not know how to use ours, and furthermore, a monkey knows that we do not know that a monkey knows it knows how to use its teeth. a monkey also knows how to use all four limbs plus its tail, and really, what chance has a poor human against a troop of monkeys?
one of the main temples in the monkey forest sanctuary is open to the public if you wear sarongs and scarves and, of course, are respectful. i was taking a picture of my companion posing in front of the temple when a monkey crawled onto her shoulder. oh, how cute. said monkey crawled over to the other shoulder and looked down her shirt. i'm thinking that monkey must be thinking that she's hiding fruit in her shirt, because monkey is not used to seeing humans with larger chests. monkey seems disappointed in her shirt and clambers onto her head. monkey settles comfortably and begins sifting through my companion's pony tail, and i'm thinking that monkey must be thinking she's hiding fruit in her hair because it has never seen curly hair before. monkey tries to remove glasses, and tugs at headband, whereupon my companion begins to get a little stressed. then a second monkey from nowhere jumps onto her back, and this is when it gets serious. a third monkey jumps up to latch its teeth into my purse, which i really don't mind except i'm trying to figure out how to get rid of two other aggressive monkeys. i think the third monkey bites down on keys and so gives up, but the other two monkeys are really doing a number on my companion. i cannot help but think: okay, really now? we have 4 degrees between the two of us and we cannot figure out how to get rid of these stupid little things. i'm afraid to specifically antagonize the monkeys for fear they'll bite her. i sort of imitate the monkey growling face (which is quite smiley) and raise my arm and yell a bit. to be honest, i don't think it was effective in the least, but eventually both monkeys grow bored and we are left with nothing but claw marks. all's well that ends well. a caveat, however: if you're going to ubud, bali, and you visit the monkey forest sanctuary, do not buy bananas unless you REALLY want to be physical with a monkey. the signs in the sanctuary say "do not hand bananas directly to monkeys," which is quite funny considering that most monkeys will simply climb you to tear a banana directly out of your hand.
7) fruit bats: they are beautiful, and sort of cute, and a bit creepy when you can feel one flying over your head. they are so confident in their echolocation, of course, that they don't care if they miss you by a half-inch as long as they don't hit you. but the exciting bit was that when the feeder came through with fresh fruit (this exhibit, in singapore, was like a lot of open aviaries with a walkway...what is a bat aviary called?), all the bats promptly left their feeding stations to fight for new food. in the commotion, one bat spat up on my brother's shoulder. delicious!
8) spa fish: this was also in singapore. apparently there are species of fish that eat dead skin. they have been used to treat psoriasis, but in our case they were merely going to nibble on our feet and ankles...a primitive pedicure. pictures, in this case, are the best description, but suffice it to say that i spent a good 10 minutes cramped from laughter at the tickling, combined with a slight nausea if i paused to think about what was actually happening. when my brother entered the pool, though, it must've been the grand buffet at the bellagio because our feet were abandoned. i guess i'm just a mcdonald's beef-soy patty compared to his kobe beef porterhouse steak, and that's just fine with me.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Monday, December 3, 2007
VS Holiday Song
to the tune of "jingle bells"
holiday's getting near
and i'm just thinking 'bout rest
but men are thinking about beer
and women think about sex
it's true that we sell more
than pink pleather mini skirts
but the average broad who walks in the store
just wants it where it hurts. oh!
chorus:
monday's hell, tuesday's hell
when will the holidays end?
wednesday's hell, thursday's hell
teeny boppers setting trends. oh!
friday's hell, saturday's hell
if you want to dress like a whore
crotchless panties, and nippleless bras
and you betcha we've got more!
there's a wench who wants some bling
so get her sweats from PINK
she's got a 4-carat ring
doesn't ever have to think.
her issue of right and wrong
in her grossly privileged life
is whether or not that slutty little thong
will make her a slutty little wife. oh!
(chorus)
SLT* as a whole
was made to show more skin
and encourage playing a role
french maid? yes, you'll fit right in!
very sexy makes men roar
with animal print and lace
and a tacky gold ring at your back door
so he can feel like an ace! oh!
(chorus)
now i want to make it clear
i don't hate our clientele
only when they call me "dear"
then i wish they'd go to hell.
or when they like to treat
us like servants of some kind,
then i want to knock 'em on their feet:
"are you out of your freakin' mind?" oh!
(chorus)
as you can see, retail has sucked out my soul.
holiday's getting near
and i'm just thinking 'bout rest
but men are thinking about beer
and women think about sex
it's true that we sell more
than pink pleather mini skirts
but the average broad who walks in the store
just wants it where it hurts. oh!
chorus:
monday's hell, tuesday's hell
when will the holidays end?
wednesday's hell, thursday's hell
teeny boppers setting trends. oh!
friday's hell, saturday's hell
if you want to dress like a whore
crotchless panties, and nippleless bras
and you betcha we've got more!
there's a wench who wants some bling
so get her sweats from PINK
she's got a 4-carat ring
doesn't ever have to think.
her issue of right and wrong
in her grossly privileged life
is whether or not that slutty little thong
will make her a slutty little wife. oh!
(chorus)
SLT* as a whole
was made to show more skin
and encourage playing a role
french maid? yes, you'll fit right in!
very sexy makes men roar
with animal print and lace
and a tacky gold ring at your back door
so he can feel like an ace! oh!
(chorus)
now i want to make it clear
i don't hate our clientele
only when they call me "dear"
then i wish they'd go to hell.
or when they like to treat
us like servants of some kind,
then i want to knock 'em on their feet:
"are you out of your freakin' mind?" oh!
(chorus)
as you can see, retail has sucked out my soul.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Requiem for a Reptile
my faithful and loving, albeit cold-blooded (haha), companion of 16 or so years, Progonoskes, passed recently.
he will be sorely missed by his loving and aging mother, somewhat missed by his lethargic tank-mate, Mercutio, and thought of fondly by his younger distant cousins, Kandinsky and Escher.
his feline step-siblings will be deeply grieved when they grope around his tank with their paws expecting to find potential turtle-sushi. Mimi has seemed especially out-of-sorts, rolling around on the floor in front of the tank with what seems like prolonged agony (or itchiness).
as it is, he was a good turtle. his most endearing trait (besides his aversion to white people) was his inability to catch fish on his own. his surrogate-mother, Natasha, often had to hold slimy live flopping fish in her hands so that he could eat one. she will probably not miss this aspect of his life.
requiescat in pace. or in my freezer. for i have yet to find a spot where a dog or a bulldozer might not dig him up, and where it is legal to bury a pet. but i will. mayhap i will take him with me to niagara and throw his small coffin-box over the falls. it would be fitting for a guy who spent 95% of his life in the water.
he will be sorely missed by his loving and aging mother, somewhat missed by his lethargic tank-mate, Mercutio, and thought of fondly by his younger distant cousins, Kandinsky and Escher.
his feline step-siblings will be deeply grieved when they grope around his tank with their paws expecting to find potential turtle-sushi. Mimi has seemed especially out-of-sorts, rolling around on the floor in front of the tank with what seems like prolonged agony (or itchiness).
as it is, he was a good turtle. his most endearing trait (besides his aversion to white people) was his inability to catch fish on his own. his surrogate-mother, Natasha, often had to hold slimy live flopping fish in her hands so that he could eat one. she will probably not miss this aspect of his life.
requiescat in pace. or in my freezer. for i have yet to find a spot where a dog or a bulldozer might not dig him up, and where it is legal to bury a pet. but i will. mayhap i will take him with me to niagara and throw his small coffin-box over the falls. it would be fitting for a guy who spent 95% of his life in the water.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Electronic Leash
my family has been overseas for the last few weeks (or months or years, depending on the family member) and today, the loneliness struck me like my cat head-butting a pillow...which is to say, not very hard, but it sure was fun to watch.
there is a sex in the city episode where maranda torments herself with the idea of dying of an accident alone in her apartment, with no one to find her until weeks later, and of no one to feed her cat. today i felt empathy with that fear, NEVERMIND the complete lack of logic behind it---i don't live alone, i have classmates and work colleagues, and my cat has an automatic feeder with 3 lbs of food just in case.
in all seriousness, what brought this to my attention was the fact that my land-line phone has not rung in 4 weeks or so, and my voicemail and answering machine are not flooded with messages beseeching an ingrate (me) to call a worried, doting mother (mom). by now there would be at least 20 messages and infinite number of calls, given that if my mother does not speak to me for 48 hours she panicks. she imagines gruesome scenarios and calls me, and my best friends, EVERY HALF HOUR...until the constant ringtones---rather like aural chinese water torture---wears me down into obedience. i used to dread the persistent repetition of the first eight bars of pachelbel's canon (my fault; i really should change that ring), but now, it would be music to my ears (HA! ok, i am officially ashamed. so ashamed that here ends this post).
there is a sex in the city episode where maranda torments herself with the idea of dying of an accident alone in her apartment, with no one to find her until weeks later, and of no one to feed her cat. today i felt empathy with that fear, NEVERMIND the complete lack of logic behind it---i don't live alone, i have classmates and work colleagues, and my cat has an automatic feeder with 3 lbs of food just in case.
in all seriousness, what brought this to my attention was the fact that my land-line phone has not rung in 4 weeks or so, and my voicemail and answering machine are not flooded with messages beseeching an ingrate (me) to call a worried, doting mother (mom). by now there would be at least 20 messages and infinite number of calls, given that if my mother does not speak to me for 48 hours she panicks. she imagines gruesome scenarios and calls me, and my best friends, EVERY HALF HOUR...until the constant ringtones---rather like aural chinese water torture---wears me down into obedience. i used to dread the persistent repetition of the first eight bars of pachelbel's canon (my fault; i really should change that ring), but now, it would be music to my ears (HA! ok, i am officially ashamed. so ashamed that here ends this post).
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Panty Grimoire
recently i began trading the work of my gifted and talented hands in exchange for money. i speak not of organ, nor of calligraphy, nor of cooking nor even bookbinding. i speak of that glorious position known as Panty Stocker. i actually believe the true title is "sales support." in any case, i imagined it a task which i would easily master, and to tell the truth i fold panties with the best of them (or, given my many years of origami practice, perhaps i AM the best of them)....and yet the one aspect which i failed to examine, the one minute obstacle that thwarts my inevitable conquest of All Things Undergarments, is Panty Identification.
as far as i know, there is no such thing as a Panty Guide (audubon missed out on a ground-breaking opportunity). there is the VS catalogue, of course, but that seems to be more of a "various half-naked women" guide than a true Panty Guide. or three-quarters-naked women. anyways, you see the point. how can any woman fully claim her womanhood without being able to cook, do laundry, and EASILY identify and sort all manner of panties? how could i have lived so long, and WORN panties my entire life, without appreciating every quality of each individual panty species? they were all created unique, but equal, and it is their diversity that strengthens them. for example, their shapes:
string bikini
regular bikini
low-rise string, and low-rise regular, bikini
hipster
low-rise hipster
brief
high-leg brief
v-string (thong)
boy thong (a WHAT?)
thong
boy short
girl boxer
girl short
boy boxer (okay, i was just joking about these last two)
their sizes:
xs, s, m, l, xl (disappointingly straight-forward)
their material combinations:
cotton, polyester, lace, spandex, mesh etc etc.
their colors and graphics:
from sophisticated black to innocent white to blushing pink to bright-orange ruffles on the butt of cerulean plaid (i kid you not, check the next time you visit the store).
their COLLECTIONS:
this stumped me. a lot. pink, angels, sexy little things, very sexy, body by victoria, pout. er. um. since every collections has a separate panty with every single possible variable factor (oh yay, combinatorials!) that means that i should familiarize myself with approximately 203987626 different panties. in truth, i just now made up that number. in further truth, i would not be surprised if that number were entirely accurate. who would refute me?
i found myself longing for a logical categorization of all...panties, for lack of a better description. "crotch-cover" came to mind as another description, but as some panties lack crotches it is ultimately faulty. the possibility of substituting other common terms was effectively discarded because of nomenclature issues. panties it is, and this is the Partial Panty Grimoire, installment 1 (further installments pending).
1) pout: a collection formerly known as "lifestyles," geared towards the early to mid 20s demographic. therefore every panty is plastered with cupcakes and butterflies and ruffle/plaid combinations....)
2) sexy little things: slutwear. no, seriously, a superior described them to me as "avant-garde lingerie." which immediately evoked images of grossly thin women wrapped in saran wrap and newspaper and ornamented with Cheerios. but luckily the sexy little things collection is conservatively avant-garde, and the white products are quite popular with brides. this collection probably bears the most ribbon, lace trim, beads, and sequins. perfect for drag queens.
3) angels: lingerie for the innocent adult. panties in pastels, doily-type lace, lots of bows and flowers.
4) very sexy: if angels is for the innocent, very sexy is for the corrupted. animal print galore, although i can't help but wonder: who is aroused by a zebra? very sexy also has an abundance of gold ornamentation---rings, links, chain---and the combination of the two is rather like watching a zebra wear gold chain necklaces. oh, the zebra stripe print is rarely in black and white, so imagine a zebra, dyed purple, decked out in bling. this is very sexy indeed.
4) body by victoria cotton "hi-leg brief": middle eastern granny panties. by which i mean the majority of middle eastern women that enter the store make a beeline for this panty table, pointedly ignoring the mostly-naked models and suggestive lingerie leering at them from every angle. this particular panty also attracts grannies.
5) pink boy thong: a thong built solely to train preteen girls to the sensation of string up one's butt, similar to acclimating a foal to the bridle.
6) boy short, girl boxer: two separate panties, each inflicted with gender-identity confusion. these are panties, i am sad to say, that i cannot yet identify without checking the label.
so perhaps i am still yet a Page of Panties, yet i sense squire-hood not far off. my heart yearns for further mastery---oh to be a knight of knickers, or a queen of questionables, or an overlord of underwear---but i fear that to delve too much deeper into study would require too much money, and kill too many braincells, than i can afford to lose.
as far as i know, there is no such thing as a Panty Guide (audubon missed out on a ground-breaking opportunity). there is the VS catalogue, of course, but that seems to be more of a "various half-naked women" guide than a true Panty Guide. or three-quarters-naked women. anyways, you see the point. how can any woman fully claim her womanhood without being able to cook, do laundry, and EASILY identify and sort all manner of panties? how could i have lived so long, and WORN panties my entire life, without appreciating every quality of each individual panty species? they were all created unique, but equal, and it is their diversity that strengthens them. for example, their shapes:
string bikini
regular bikini
low-rise string, and low-rise regular, bikini
hipster
low-rise hipster
brief
high-leg brief
v-string (thong)
boy thong (a WHAT?)
thong
boy short
girl boxer
girl short
boy boxer (okay, i was just joking about these last two)
their sizes:
xs, s, m, l, xl (disappointingly straight-forward)
their material combinations:
cotton, polyester, lace, spandex, mesh etc etc.
their colors and graphics:
from sophisticated black to innocent white to blushing pink to bright-orange ruffles on the butt of cerulean plaid (i kid you not, check the next time you visit the store).
their COLLECTIONS:
this stumped me. a lot. pink, angels, sexy little things, very sexy, body by victoria, pout. er. um. since every collections has a separate panty with every single possible variable factor (oh yay, combinatorials!) that means that i should familiarize myself with approximately 203987626 different panties. in truth, i just now made up that number. in further truth, i would not be surprised if that number were entirely accurate. who would refute me?
i found myself longing for a logical categorization of all...panties, for lack of a better description. "crotch-cover" came to mind as another description, but as some panties lack crotches it is ultimately faulty. the possibility of substituting other common terms was effectively discarded because of nomenclature issues. panties it is, and this is the Partial Panty Grimoire, installment 1 (further installments pending).
1) pout: a collection formerly known as "lifestyles," geared towards the early to mid 20s demographic. therefore every panty is plastered with cupcakes and butterflies and ruffle/plaid combinations....)
2) sexy little things: slutwear. no, seriously, a superior described them to me as "avant-garde lingerie." which immediately evoked images of grossly thin women wrapped in saran wrap and newspaper and ornamented with Cheerios. but luckily the sexy little things collection is conservatively avant-garde, and the white products are quite popular with brides. this collection probably bears the most ribbon, lace trim, beads, and sequins. perfect for drag queens.
3) angels: lingerie for the innocent adult. panties in pastels, doily-type lace, lots of bows and flowers.
4) very sexy: if angels is for the innocent, very sexy is for the corrupted. animal print galore, although i can't help but wonder: who is aroused by a zebra? very sexy also has an abundance of gold ornamentation---rings, links, chain---and the combination of the two is rather like watching a zebra wear gold chain necklaces. oh, the zebra stripe print is rarely in black and white, so imagine a zebra, dyed purple, decked out in bling. this is very sexy indeed.
4) body by victoria cotton "hi-leg brief": middle eastern granny panties. by which i mean the majority of middle eastern women that enter the store make a beeline for this panty table, pointedly ignoring the mostly-naked models and suggestive lingerie leering at them from every angle. this particular panty also attracts grannies.
5) pink boy thong: a thong built solely to train preteen girls to the sensation of string up one's butt, similar to acclimating a foal to the bridle.
6) boy short, girl boxer: two separate panties, each inflicted with gender-identity confusion. these are panties, i am sad to say, that i cannot yet identify without checking the label.
so perhaps i am still yet a Page of Panties, yet i sense squire-hood not far off. my heart yearns for further mastery---oh to be a knight of knickers, or a queen of questionables, or an overlord of underwear---but i fear that to delve too much deeper into study would require too much money, and kill too many braincells, than i can afford to lose.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Grandma, What Hairless Legs You Have
for those of you who don't know, i am short. as in, less than 5 feet short. in my immediate little family of 4, only my brother currently breaks the 5 foot mark (well done to you!) at one point both my mother and father could boast of this goal, but they have been afflicted with skeletal shrinkage due to old age. stack the three of us on top of each other and a single male giraffe would still look upon us with disdain. such is my family.
i have been helping my parents paint their house for the last few days, and with the exception of one day when i conned a long lanky friend into helping out, "painting the house" also means "scaling a three rung ladder repeatedly, developing excellent calf muscles." it's not that we have tall ceilings; we're just that short. though inconvenient, this was doable until...
THE STAIRWELL. yes. regular three-rung ladders don't work well on stairwells. my father's first suggestion, of course, was to basically construct scaffolding for the whole house---thank goodness my mother has some sense of reason. nono, i said, we can do it, we just have to find stuff to prop up under half the ladder so we don't send paint flying down the carpeted stairs. and so i did one side (story to come later) and my father did the other.
this is how i came to stare at my father's calves for minutes on end (stabilizing the ladder). and then i noticed: he doesn't have much hair. okay yes, he's bald, but i meant on his legs. he has some of course, but not tons. why does this matter?
well, my mother's legs are completely hairless. she doesn't shave, she doesn't Nair, nothing. her legs are the mexican hairless cats of the leg world. a natural phenomenon. my legs, on the other hand, if not subjected to frequent shaving, er....well, i'll spare you the description. if i lived au naturale, i would be hairier than my brother. i thought i inherited leg hair from my father; now i know i am wrong. as far as i know, i am the hairiest person in my entire family. just call me chewbacca.
now, the other half of THE STAIRWELL painting experience---my half. the half that is titled: Conversations With Death.
right. so, i'm climbing the ladder to tape the ceiling, no big deal, la-di-da, but the higher up THE STAIRWELL i get the more freaked out i become. i'm fighting this, of course, because i don't want my father to have to do too much---ah, nobility---but you know, my hands are sweating, my legs are shaking, my mouth is dry. all symptoms of paranoia, and then here's the kicker: i see Death.
i hate, loathe, abhor, detest, consider an abomination, would vomit at the sight of, would throw pygmy goats at, would wish a plague of boils upon, people who ask me "why are you afraid of heights?" hello! look at me! i spent 99.9725% of my life less than 5 feet above the ground! it's like throwing a pagan witch into the southern baptist convention and asking, "why are you uncomfortable?" or giving a rhinoceros snorkeling gear and freeing it in the great barrier reef. or releasing an ostrich on the tundra. ah, i see i have developed an "animals of the african savannah" theme here. you get the point. "oh, but humans adapt! that's how we have survived as a species: high adaptability!" yes, i'm sure. throw me on top of a 2000 foot high plateau that's about 7 feet in diameter and i'm sure the spawn that follows me will have grown suckers on their hands and feet and can run down cliff-sides face-first, like a squirrel. me, i will have perished from fright. or rolled off the edge in my sleep.
anywho, back to Death. he's there, far far below, like 12 feet below, about the size of an apple, going: hello! hello! would you fancy coming down here for a bit? we have fantastic billiards.
Me: what? oh, um, no thank you. not if you don't mind.
Death: but are you sure? it wouldn't be very difficult for you to come with me at all, you know, just a few inches to your right....
Me: yes, but then my tombstone would say, "here lies jo she died by rugburn." and not that it matters to you, but there are other ways i'd rather go.
Death: i think Death by Rugburn is a nice way to go! not to mention you'd die doing something NOBLE for your parents! i can't think of any more creative ways, can you?
Me: more creative? you can't be more creative? wait, i'm an experiment in creativity? what kind of morbid loser are you?
Death: well if you're going to get all testy, i might just have to come up there and nudge you a bit....
Me: alright alright. let's see...my mind could slowly deteriorate until i think i'm a hippo and that charter bus is my mate!
Death: mmmm.
Me: or i could be mistaken as a dwarf by a bigoted giant who smashes me to bits with a medieval club, oh wait that sounds painful.
Death: well if you're not coming up with anything better...
Me: wait wait! or i could be walking along a posh alley somewhere and a piano could come crashing on my head! but it'd have to be a steinway or busendorfer or yamaha or you know, something nice. no clavinovas, please.
Death: no, i like the clavinova idea. it's ironic! it's amusing! it's fitting, you know, really. *pauses* i think you've given me all the ideas i need for my next final destination movie.
Me: what, you're making ANOTHER one of those?
Death: well, it is one of my best roles, you know. i get to let loose my twisted side!
Me: you're a sick wanker, i hope you know. and now *hops off ladder* i'm done, so you lost your chance! BWAHAHAHHAHA!
Death: *poof!*
i have been helping my parents paint their house for the last few days, and with the exception of one day when i conned a long lanky friend into helping out, "painting the house" also means "scaling a three rung ladder repeatedly, developing excellent calf muscles." it's not that we have tall ceilings; we're just that short. though inconvenient, this was doable until...
THE STAIRWELL. yes. regular three-rung ladders don't work well on stairwells. my father's first suggestion, of course, was to basically construct scaffolding for the whole house---thank goodness my mother has some sense of reason. nono, i said, we can do it, we just have to find stuff to prop up under half the ladder so we don't send paint flying down the carpeted stairs. and so i did one side (story to come later) and my father did the other.
this is how i came to stare at my father's calves for minutes on end (stabilizing the ladder). and then i noticed: he doesn't have much hair. okay yes, he's bald, but i meant on his legs. he has some of course, but not tons. why does this matter?
well, my mother's legs are completely hairless. she doesn't shave, she doesn't Nair, nothing. her legs are the mexican hairless cats of the leg world. a natural phenomenon. my legs, on the other hand, if not subjected to frequent shaving, er....well, i'll spare you the description. if i lived au naturale, i would be hairier than my brother. i thought i inherited leg hair from my father; now i know i am wrong. as far as i know, i am the hairiest person in my entire family. just call me chewbacca.
now, the other half of THE STAIRWELL painting experience---my half. the half that is titled: Conversations With Death.
right. so, i'm climbing the ladder to tape the ceiling, no big deal, la-di-da, but the higher up THE STAIRWELL i get the more freaked out i become. i'm fighting this, of course, because i don't want my father to have to do too much---ah, nobility---but you know, my hands are sweating, my legs are shaking, my mouth is dry. all symptoms of paranoia, and then here's the kicker: i see Death.
i hate, loathe, abhor, detest, consider an abomination, would vomit at the sight of, would throw pygmy goats at, would wish a plague of boils upon, people who ask me "why are you afraid of heights?" hello! look at me! i spent 99.9725% of my life less than 5 feet above the ground! it's like throwing a pagan witch into the southern baptist convention and asking, "why are you uncomfortable?" or giving a rhinoceros snorkeling gear and freeing it in the great barrier reef. or releasing an ostrich on the tundra. ah, i see i have developed an "animals of the african savannah" theme here. you get the point. "oh, but humans adapt! that's how we have survived as a species: high adaptability!" yes, i'm sure. throw me on top of a 2000 foot high plateau that's about 7 feet in diameter and i'm sure the spawn that follows me will have grown suckers on their hands and feet and can run down cliff-sides face-first, like a squirrel. me, i will have perished from fright. or rolled off the edge in my sleep.
anywho, back to Death. he's there, far far below, like 12 feet below, about the size of an apple, going: hello! hello! would you fancy coming down here for a bit? we have fantastic billiards.
Me: what? oh, um, no thank you. not if you don't mind.
Death: but are you sure? it wouldn't be very difficult for you to come with me at all, you know, just a few inches to your right....
Me: yes, but then my tombstone would say, "here lies jo she died by rugburn." and not that it matters to you, but there are other ways i'd rather go.
Death: i think Death by Rugburn is a nice way to go! not to mention you'd die doing something NOBLE for your parents! i can't think of any more creative ways, can you?
Me: more creative? you can't be more creative? wait, i'm an experiment in creativity? what kind of morbid loser are you?
Death: well if you're going to get all testy, i might just have to come up there and nudge you a bit....
Me: alright alright. let's see...my mind could slowly deteriorate until i think i'm a hippo and that charter bus is my mate!
Death: mmmm.
Me: or i could be mistaken as a dwarf by a bigoted giant who smashes me to bits with a medieval club, oh wait that sounds painful.
Death: well if you're not coming up with anything better...
Me: wait wait! or i could be walking along a posh alley somewhere and a piano could come crashing on my head! but it'd have to be a steinway or busendorfer or yamaha or you know, something nice. no clavinovas, please.
Death: no, i like the clavinova idea. it's ironic! it's amusing! it's fitting, you know, really. *pauses* i think you've given me all the ideas i need for my next final destination movie.
Me: what, you're making ANOTHER one of those?
Death: well, it is one of my best roles, you know. i get to let loose my twisted side!
Me: you're a sick wanker, i hope you know. and now *hops off ladder* i'm done, so you lost your chance! BWAHAHAHHAHA!
Death: *poof!*
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Olfactory Narcissism
bath and body works is what i refer to as "that smell store." true, there's the body shop, which i refer to as "that other smell store," only because i don't frequent it as often as bath and body works. this has little to do with the quality of either company's products, but rather relates directly to the fact that the body shop is always burning ridiculously extravagant amounts of aromatherapy oil in about 12 square feet of space. i imagine it smells like royal medieval paris, when people soaked themselves in herbage to disguise their own rank body odor.
at any rate, that smell store is the one which USED to sell a bergamot coriander series of products---massage oil, body washes, scrubs, etc. you know, the same aromatherapy line as the eucalyptus mint and lemongrass ginger and various other "fragrances" which remind me more of dessert or curry than cleaning putrid human bodies. not to say i don't like them, but at times i am tempted to eat a limb or at least a digit to see if i taste as good as the bottle smells. luckily i'm able to control this urge.
bergamot coriander is different. i don't understand why it's discontinued anymore than most people can understand my fascination with it. i first discovered it, in massage oil form, at a semi annual sale a year or two ago and fell deeply in love at first whiff. i scrabbled around the bins looking for any other products (let's face it; i don't get massaged with oil every day, or even every other day, or even with any frequency worth mentioning) but alas and alack! there were none to be found. to compound my feelings of woe, a very nice sales lady said, "oh, i think that's the last of it----it's discontinued."
oh the horror! if i were a soprano, i would shriek obscenely high notes at this very nice sales lady whilst collapsing on the spot, overcome by weakness from this dire news. if i were a tenor, i would croon a silky, yet sweet aria at her until she relented and gave up her secret bergamot coriander stash (i was sure she had one). if i were a hearty, stoic mezzo i might poke her with an epee just because i enjoyed vengeance. if i were a bass....well, i can't even begin to think like a bass. do basses think?
regardless, as a keyboardist my overflow of despair and heart-wrenching angst was manifested by lots of impotent fist-clenching. i brought home the lone bottle of massage oil and ruefully hoarded it, occasionally bringing it out for a quick sniff or two---just to tide me over. harmless fix, really. just a little bit more!!! but then...
my dearest friend (even more dear to me now) was at that smell store last week, as they are having their semi annual sale, and brought home three bottles of bergamot coriander BODY WASH! i was singing more alleluias than a catholic at easter! and tonight i bathed in it for the first time...oh what a combination of fresh acidity and musky sensuality! oh what an oasis of luxury for a nose parched in a desert of sewage! (cleveland's fault, not mine). if i were a soprano, i would shriek obscenely high notes of pleasure whilst collapsing on the spot, overcome by sheer hedonistic happiness. it's funny; it doesn't matter what they feel, they always do the same thing.
for the last half hour i have been rolling around in bed, trying to sniff random body parts (the back of my knee, the small of my back) and i'm always struck with amazement that THAT PLACE SMELLS GOOD TOO. i am in love with my smell. i can't get enough of me. i can see it now: i tuck myself into a fetal position as i inhale my gorgeous scent, and i never resurface for bland air. over time my hair and nails grow long and the gods pity me, turning me into a brown bush with black trim that smells fantastic! and a museum will buy me for my oddly human features and of course, my scent, and i will be known as The Jo. and hundreds of years later, whenever a human tucks into a fetal position, they will be doing The Jo. or if someone finds a brown bush with black trim, fragrant or not, it will be called The Jo. and then eventually a person with a smell fetish will be called a Joist, and everyone will want to plant Jo hedges and hold Jo-growing contests, or Jo-cultivation conferences, and my name will live on through all eternity, all owing to one fortuitous semi annual sale.
at any rate, that smell store is the one which USED to sell a bergamot coriander series of products---massage oil, body washes, scrubs, etc. you know, the same aromatherapy line as the eucalyptus mint and lemongrass ginger and various other "fragrances" which remind me more of dessert or curry than cleaning putrid human bodies. not to say i don't like them, but at times i am tempted to eat a limb or at least a digit to see if i taste as good as the bottle smells. luckily i'm able to control this urge.
bergamot coriander is different. i don't understand why it's discontinued anymore than most people can understand my fascination with it. i first discovered it, in massage oil form, at a semi annual sale a year or two ago and fell deeply in love at first whiff. i scrabbled around the bins looking for any other products (let's face it; i don't get massaged with oil every day, or even every other day, or even with any frequency worth mentioning) but alas and alack! there were none to be found. to compound my feelings of woe, a very nice sales lady said, "oh, i think that's the last of it----it's discontinued."
oh the horror! if i were a soprano, i would shriek obscenely high notes at this very nice sales lady whilst collapsing on the spot, overcome by weakness from this dire news. if i were a tenor, i would croon a silky, yet sweet aria at her until she relented and gave up her secret bergamot coriander stash (i was sure she had one). if i were a hearty, stoic mezzo i might poke her with an epee just because i enjoyed vengeance. if i were a bass....well, i can't even begin to think like a bass. do basses think?
regardless, as a keyboardist my overflow of despair and heart-wrenching angst was manifested by lots of impotent fist-clenching. i brought home the lone bottle of massage oil and ruefully hoarded it, occasionally bringing it out for a quick sniff or two---just to tide me over. harmless fix, really. just a little bit more!!! but then...
my dearest friend (even more dear to me now) was at that smell store last week, as they are having their semi annual sale, and brought home three bottles of bergamot coriander BODY WASH! i was singing more alleluias than a catholic at easter! and tonight i bathed in it for the first time...oh what a combination of fresh acidity and musky sensuality! oh what an oasis of luxury for a nose parched in a desert of sewage! (cleveland's fault, not mine). if i were a soprano, i would shriek obscenely high notes of pleasure whilst collapsing on the spot, overcome by sheer hedonistic happiness. it's funny; it doesn't matter what they feel, they always do the same thing.
for the last half hour i have been rolling around in bed, trying to sniff random body parts (the back of my knee, the small of my back) and i'm always struck with amazement that THAT PLACE SMELLS GOOD TOO. i am in love with my smell. i can't get enough of me. i can see it now: i tuck myself into a fetal position as i inhale my gorgeous scent, and i never resurface for bland air. over time my hair and nails grow long and the gods pity me, turning me into a brown bush with black trim that smells fantastic! and a museum will buy me for my oddly human features and of course, my scent, and i will be known as The Jo. and hundreds of years later, whenever a human tucks into a fetal position, they will be doing The Jo. or if someone finds a brown bush with black trim, fragrant or not, it will be called The Jo. and then eventually a person with a smell fetish will be called a Joist, and everyone will want to plant Jo hedges and hold Jo-growing contests, or Jo-cultivation conferences, and my name will live on through all eternity, all owing to one fortuitous semi annual sale.
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