Sometimes, I wish I was a lesbian. My constant rage would be honored, my flannel, adored. My make up would be discarded and my ratty cotton skivvies a mainstay. This notion of gender roles would be at the wayside, with my female partner by my side, raising our fists, and cursing the man, together. But then there would be a lot of talk talk talking, reruns of Murder, She Wrote, lots of Indigo Girls and a ton of control issues. In the long run, there are just as many problems as being hetero. I'm better off nonsexual and misanthropic. So why the sudden interest in lesbianism at the moment? I was eating dried apples earlier, and came across one that looked like my cootchie. I have yet to eat it. I can't bring myself to. I tell my self that it's not so much that it looks like pussy, but that it looks like MY pussy (without the hairy asshole), and I couldn't possibly put that it my mouth, it's not right. I'm not afraid of snatch, I'm afraid of MY snatch. But honestly, I think a little part of me thinks, that if I eat this pussy-looking piece of fruit, there will be no going back. It's like those movies you were forced to watch in middle school in the '70's/early '80's. You see kids stealing a pen, breaking a fence, or taking a drag off that first cigarette. And that will eventually lead to stealing cars, joining a female gang with feathered hair and switchblades, rolling in your own vomit, only to grow up running a drug cartel or become a toothless crack whore giving fi'ty cent head on Capp st., because that's what happens when you steal a pen. It's that kind of conditioning that makes me think that maybe, if I eat that pussy, I mean, apple, just maybe, I'll end up in twenty years, in a trailer in Olympia or Buffalo, sporting a mullet, scheduling activities around reruns of Xena, going to marches, and talking to my therapist about my partner and her damn acrylic nails.
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Sunday, April 25, 2004
What's that smell?
Oh yeah, it's me!
It's not my regular effluvium of bitterness and spite, this is the scent of a different kind of pain. The pain that shoots out of the ass of a very large rodent-like creature.
Yes, yet another adventurous night at the Jerky home. After a full weekend of other peoples dogs, I was ready to relax alone with my dog. She had to share me with four others this weekend, she needed 'her' time. And we have a resident skunk, squatting next door, and from that set-up, I'm sure you all know what happened. Kali got sprayed in the face again. This has been the third or fourth Hard Core skunk spraying she's had. You'd think she's have learned something by now. That the vomiting and stinging eyes is directly related to her chewing on the tail of a foul smelling creature. Even now, as she's stalking the fence separating property, I know she will never learn. She must get it from me. Because that's much like me and most of my relationships, because, I too, will never learn. I'll think, 'well it looks like something I should put in my mouth...OH! That tastes awful, and it went in my eye!' And all I'm left with is a nasty smell that won't go away, and a bitter taste in my mouth, only to look up and see the offender with a silly grin on his face, remarking, "it's a defense mechanism".
That's what they all say.
But in my case, it takes more than some tomato sauce and a bath to get rid of the taste if 'old relationship', and rolling in the grass won't take away the fact that I was with that guy. Like the skunk, that stench will linger, and that dirty feeling doesn't go away for a long time, and others can smell the shame reeking off your conscience. Yes, others will point and shake with laughter, like a dashboard hula girl in a Chevy nova. And I'll have to hang my head in shame until the scent fades away, or until there is such a collective scent of shame that is pervasive in all directions (which is not uncommon in LA), so that the olfactory senses have become dulled to the aroma of disgrace, and once more, I'll be able to hold my head, well, level.
I should market that scent...I'll call it, "Ignominy".
We're not talking about my dog getting sprayed anymore, are we?
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Thursday, April 22, 2004
Yes, it's happened to me.
Ever wake up with something like this? Yeah, me too, for almost 8 years... Just kidding ex, this is just 5 of those years. But I will admit, I blew up too when we were together.
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Tuesday, April 20, 2004
It's a Small World
I have a lot of studying to do, so naturally, I procrastinate. I read up on blogs I haveneglected, then I started hitting their links. I never realized how incestuous this blogging thing was. From one of my comments on a random blog, someone ran into my blog, which prompted me to read and comment on hers, which got one of her readers to read mine, and thusly, read some of my links, and now, piss and NG are chumming it up in Texas together. Now, while reading NG and her links, I come across a blog (I had to read it, it has jerky in its title)and his links have the blog of the last boy that I was sleeping with (Trigger), and no, I'm not going to tell you which one it is. And, by the way, we met online. And a friend of Trigger's and fellow blogger happens to know many of the people I am in cahoots with from piss' introductions. One of those people (no link, that I know of) happens to be courting the woman I started doing the online dating thing with. So it's all very interconnected, and now I feel like I've slept with all of these people, and now I'm going to have to leave LA, even though half of these people are in Texas. It's all very six degrees of sex, but in this case, it's more like three degrees.
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Tuesday, April 13, 2004
There are lessons to be learned at the gym
Like for instance, make sure you have the correct schedule, or you will find yourself in a class that is way too difficult, especially if it's the first time working out in a long while. You will find yourself dry heaving in your car and getting a haircut at Fantastic Sam's because your legs are shaking so hard, you can't drive
But the biggest lesson to be learned, at least for my first day, is that it is impossible to hide the fact that someone farted in the steam room. That room is small, glass enclosed, and close to hermetically sealed, so the gas will just linger and linger, and not go away for a very long time. And no one can figure out who did it, because it's just circulating in the room, and no one is going to take the blame, and most women are too polite to leave, because that would be acknowledging that someone farted, and that's just not lady like. I'm not going to point fingers, but it had to be a vegetarian, because it smelled like rotten soybeans. So if you're one of those people who has constant gas, don't fart in the steam room. It doesn't make for a pleasant experience.
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Saturday, April 10, 2004
Under Where?
I have a few thoughts about undergarments:
I HATE the word "panties". It seems so vile. Even the way it comes out of the mouth, starting with the harsh pop of the lips, with the possibility of flying spittle, to the snap of the tongue pressing against the front teeth, ending with a sharp hiss, all of it surrounded by whinny cow noises, it all feels so evil. It's something heard from little kids and pre-verts, both of which I find distasteful and objectionable. There is something I find slightly offensive about the sound/feeling of the word. If someone should call me a f**king bitch slut cunt, I'd just say, "Whatever, mom". But should someone point at me and say poopy-panty head, you better KNOW I'll get all Shannon Doherty on their ass, and they ain't gettin' back up.
It's time now to buy new underwear. A few days ago, I had a Major Wardrobe Malfunction, but not as cool as Ms. Jackson (cuz I'm nasty), and without the FCC riding my ass. One of my favorite pairs of pants (since we know I'm popping 'em like Rush Limbaugh and his pills) had a zipper incident, that caused me to spend a good 25 min. in a public bathroom stall trying to figure out how to fix it. And in said tiny stall, in my ratty cotton fruit of the looms, I bend over and cause a nasty split tangential to my butt crack. Unable to mend my pants or underwear, I forego repairs and tie a sweatshirt around my waist for the remainder of day, swearing to buy more bloomers and pants, as I felt the cool breeze waft up against my butt cheeks.
Practical vs. Pretty. Shopping for drawers is interesting. I thought I'd check out a Vicoria's Secret, you know, since Bob Dylan is pushing it and everything (whahuh?), but I realized, as I perused $13 skivvies, there was absolutely no reason to buy nice underwear. I'm not fucking anyone right now. While with Trigger, I was sure to wear my nice underthings, scratchy as they might be sometimes. I even went so far as to wear a matching brassiere once or twice. Same with the ex, for the first 6 months or so, it was all the nice stuff. Then, when you get comfortable around someone, it's all about the comfort. The ex was living with me, I can wear my ratty drawers and stop shaving my legs. I would don the nice stuff for special occasions, but come on, the ex has seen me in my ratty things for 8 years, held my hair back while I vomited, been in the bathroom when I've had explosive diarrhea (but not for long), some cheap cotton underwear will not cause harm. So now I'm back to the ol' Hanes value pack. No more hand washing, no more strategic moves to dislodge underwear out of my butt crack, and no more yeast infections from unbreathable nylon. That is, until the next one comes along and I'm back at Victoria's Secret trading my kin for a pair of drawers.
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Friday, April 09, 2004
Missed Manners
Since I'm trying to fit into my regular clothes, I've been watching what I eat. And during this period, I've found one of the best ways to cut down on calories is to shop at health food stores. But not for the obvious reasons. It doesn't necessarily make me consume a healthier diet, but shopping there does make me eat a lot less. The food is either too expensive or just unappealing, so I never buy a lot of junk. Heck, I barely buy anything except what I went there for in the first place. Excuse me for being un-PC, but I'm not about to pay $5.25 for a pint of Tofutti, or $2.25 for a carob bar sweetened with prune juice. There may be a special on "meat-free" fish with tofu cheese and soybeans, but who wants to eat that? (Don't answer that, ex). So usually walk out with exactly what I need and pass buy the popcorn with yeast with no yearnings.
And while I like to think of myself as green (Environmentally aware green, not inexperienced green), I'm still uneducated as to proper nouveau hippie etiquette, because I can not get past my distaste for hippies, I can not learn correct eco-friendliness. I don't want to be green, like smelly, nappy white kids screaming, "down with the Gap!" and buying their placards at Target. I refuse to wear patchoulli, participate in drum circles, don tie-dye and forego bathing, but I still want to do my part.
So when I went through the checkout at the local Wild Oats with my handbasket full of items needed, that I paid 25 bucks for, I was approached with the question, "Paper or plastic?", and I felt a momentary stab of panic. Should I have grabbed a hemp cloth reusable bag for 12 dollars? Of course not, I'm broke! But I don't want to destroy the environment! So what's the proper response? Things have changed nowadays, plastic bags break down faster, it takes tons of water to recycle paper, blah blah blah. A million of those thoughts raced through my mind, from, determining where we stand as far as natural resources, to, Do I need more poop bags? And in my indecisive floundering and desire to pick the more responsible option, I blurted out, "I don't need a bag. I can carry everything." The checker gave me an odd look, "are you sure? That's quite a handful." "Well, then I'll just have to use both hands! ha ha eh." So after pocketing what little change I got back, I awkwardly shoved various items in pockets and teetered off with the rest of my booty, looking like a brand new waitress in a very busy diner. I looked more the fool than if I actually picked the wrong bag.
Moral of the story? You can never have too many poop bags.
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Wednesday, April 07, 2004
A thin film of ice has formed over the nether regions of hades
Yes kids, I joined a gym. The whole world is about to explode. I just can't bear the thought of not fitting into any of my pants that don't have elastic waists, and that's where I'm headed in a speedy manner.
So I broke down because it's cheap and they have kickboxing, so I can smack the shit out of some bags and fantasize it's the idiot of the week.
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Tuesday, April 06, 2004
Nasty Habits
Can we talk about the way you eat? Because I need to know HOW to eat. Apparently, I eat like a cow, literally. I look like a cow chewing its cud, on speed. I can finish my plate before you finish cutting off your first bite. Somehow, food always ends up on my clothes. How the hell do I get chicken in the cuffs of my pants? I have a horrible habit of chewing with my mouth open. And EVERY SINGLE TIME, I believe I can fit a piece of lettuce the size of the ex's open hand (read: very large, yes ladies, you want girth, I'll give you his number), riddled with dressing and salad accoutrement (croutons, carrots, onions, etc) into my mouth in one fell swoop, and EVERY SINGLE TIME, I fail. I end up doing noggin gymnastics while dragging my hair through my and everyone in the vicinities plate. Resulting in food hanging in various places and my dining companions getting nauseous. I am the only one I know who regularly finds bits of food in her eyebrows and is not surprised. I once found a piece of pasta in my pants, and not from anything kinky (darn), just a noodle near my nubbin.
I've been aware of my eating habits for a quite a while really. When I noticed that most people don't choke regularly from eating too fast, or that people usually SAT and ate, rather than shoveled food in their face while on MUNI/BART or running to where ever they had to be, was a clear indication that something was amiss. I wasn't raised like that, I don't think. My family taught me manners as a young child, until I became a latchkey kid (do they still have those?). I believe I had a relatively normal eating regimen (although in every childhood picture in which I am eating, I am usually surrounded by a mess and the dog, a sure indication of oft dropped food.
Later, as my abnormal eating habits developed into maturity, it didn't bother me much, as no one complained. The ex would sit beside me, rather than across from me while dining. At the time, I thought it a romantic gesture, as to be closer to me. Now I know it was to avoid looking into my mouth and seeing masticated cow exploding out of my mouth while he ate.
I'm obsessing over this now because 1) Someone brought it up while dining ("Um, Jerky, you can finish your food before you launch into another story...etc.) and 2) I have a friend whose eating quirks far exceed my own. While I eat like an amphetamine induced bovine, she looks like a beached, gasping fish, working it's pursed lips, mouth full of bait, chewing with its tongue and roof of its mouth. I've never really noticed this before, but I've been watching others eat and was slightly appalled when it came her turn. Funny thing though, apparently, her dining style is legendary among past associates which with whom I've been socializing as of late. Back in the day, she was known for her unique gastronomic process. Even my mother remembers her like that, and was careful not to serve food that might appear more than unsightly while in said friend's open yaw. Why then, was this never brought to our attentions until recently? Why had this been suppressed for so long? If this has been going on since high school (15+- years), why has no one mentioned it? Because not doing so is just plain mean. It couldn't be for others amusement, it's just gross.
So now, I'm asking you all to help me in my quest to turn my culinary foibles into something more appropriate for the dinner table. And this time, I'll sit down.
