Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Dumpster Diving or Fuck You Vermont!

My parking lot (and the dumpster located conspicuously at its center) is forever full of mysterious and wonderful things.

It's like fucking Narnia out there.

Each morning (or afternoon, depending), as I drag my weary ass out of bed, I get a renewed sense of anticipation as I leash up Melvin for his ritual pee. Euphorically and anew the truth of my bounty washes over me like a love tide: What wonders will the dumpster yield today?

Jewels of the past have included a discarded couch, complete with used condom and a severed vampire head. In April.


So yeah. Dumpster = magic place where dreams come true.


As with all things wonderful, my parking lot has been a little crowded recently. On more than one occasion, I have been forced to park so far up the street as to constitute a "walk."

I have grumbled about this.

I have scowled and glared the Glare of a Thousand Daggers.

On more than one occasion, I have chucked my flop at the cars in my lot with out-of-state tags. "You're not fooling anybody asshole! GO BACK TO VERMONT!"

But while I harbor an unnatural resentment for virtually all of the cars in my lot, recently one particular parker has really chapped my bum.

While others have raised my ire at stupid states like stupid Vermont, this she-devil has caused me to once again question the future of all mankind. Her villainy is so great as to warrant a true evil moniker--BLACK VW. So called for her audacity to 1. drive a black Volkswagon something or other (local tags. Still, "Fuck you, Vermont!) 2. take up space in the world, especially the space by the dumpster where I claim my morning treasures and 3. park directly behind the dumpster, thus making it literally impossible for anyone else to exit the lot. (A villain if there ever was one! I bet that bitch wears tights!)

More than once have I plotted the demise of BLACK VW. More than once have I been denied. For, every morning, there she sits--taunting me. A dark villainess with her proverbial tongue extending from her European "bonnet." Bitch.


As Melvin and I headed out on our usual quest this morning, I noticed my arch nemesis had ONCE AGAIN parked her traitorous German tank directly in front of the dumpster.

The tears welled as I prepared myself to tell Melvin that today would be yet another day of disappointment. That today we had once again been robbed of our joy and splendor by the hellbeast in the BLACK VW. That all was lost because some people were evil people...some people punch puppies and kitties...some people leave babies in dumpsters (OH! Maybe my surprise for tomorrow? *Fingers crossed*)

But as I prepared to once again chuck my flop at the injustice of it all, it happened! There it stood, a beacon in the darkness. A ray of hope amid the world of treachery. A win in the war of BLACK VW versus Good People of the World Everywhere Except Vermont.

It was nothing short of A MIRACLE. There, in pink/purple marker, carved as if by the hand of the Almighty into the side, front and rear windows of the BLACK VW, the immortal words: "You fucking idiot! Don't park here!"


Monday, June 25, 2012


Dear Escada:

I do not like your new smells.

Bring back your old smells.



Get On That

Yes, I am madly in love with you.

So if you could just return the favor, I'd be much obliged.

Touch It

Palpable loneliness.

Tactile emptiness.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Mild Sauce

While having a little chatty chat with my friend Ethan today, he (a soon-to-be third-year law student) dropped some political pearls of wisdom on yours truly.

According to Mr. Ethan, where one lies on the political spectrum depends on where one believes personal responsibility ends and government obligation begins.

I shushed Ethan right after he said this. After all, such profundity demands a moment of silence.(Plus, I knew what he just said required all of my mental attention, and thus I could no longer be bothered with his actual presence.)

As I predicted in that moment, the truth of his statement has been with me since.

Ever tried to put on a bathing suit while contemplating the nature of your political affiliations? Seems both activities require two hands...

Anyway, two-handed or no, it all boils down to balance. Trouble is, people continue to disagree on where the balance of personal responsibility vs. government obligation lies.

An easy example: government bail outs. Proponents said without the bailouts, thousands would lose their jobs, lucrative businesses would go under, the American economy would crash. But where is the personal responsibility for those who ran, say, General Motors into the ground to begin with? Why should our government bail out a wealthy CEO but not the hundreds of thousands of American small businesses that fold every year? Are not those closures also--and equally--affecting the economy?

Who's right?

Well, your stance on the issue likely says much about your views on personal responsibility vs. government obligation.

The examples here are endless, and I won't suffer the hand cramp of articulating each of them. Suffice to say that it's something to think about. Especially in an election year.

Friday, June 22, 2012


The transient nature of my hair color has revealed to me a personal paradox.

Rather than keep you in suspense, I'l lay it on the line: I am both terrified of and completely open to CHANGE.

I want everything to stay the same. This is MY world, DAMMIT. It's how I've built it. And world's whims be damned if I'm not gonna remain stalwart at my post!

But nothing ever changes and I am so bored that you know what I need? A CHANGE!

(It's no wonder I drive pretty much everyone I know nuts.)

I want stability. Stability in the home. Stability in work. Stability in relationships.

But the very moment I reach stasis and things are looking good...ennui sets in.


So I shake it up a little bit. By simultaniously changing EVERY SINGLE ASPECT OF MY LIFE.

Moderation? I know it not.


Some envy me. I AM the type of person who can just get fed up with everything and say, "Fuck it. I'm moving to Guam." And then actually do it.

People envy that sort of "courage". So many people I know are stuck. Stuck in a dead end job, a dead end relationship, a dead end dead end of dead ends.


But then there are those that I envy. Those who aren't stuck but who can actually make stasis work.

I watch these people with a proverbial magnifying glass. I study their every move. HOW is it possible that they can go into the same office every day, return to the same four walls every evening, enjoy the company of the same woman or man day in and day out...watch baseball!?!?

Same, same, samey, same, same, same.

It has its allure.

I find it appalling.

Because somewhere just below the surface, there is a restlessness in me. It's a restlessness whose origins I cannot account for, but whose presence reverberates in all the actions of my life.

It's the reason I am a voracious reader. The reason I cannot sit still for too long. The reason I get the shakes. The reason I am never satisfied. The reason I cannot commit to anything long-term (except Coke and fruit snacks). The reason I dye my hair.

Because somewhere along the line, the idea of permanence became equated with the idea of cessation of intellectual growth.

And I want to grow like a weed.

I want to see, taste, do, experience everything under this G_d-made sun. From the Acropolis and The Pieta to that box of Clairol Cinnamon Toast Brown 3R, I want to lie on my death bed knowing I've seen, touched and smelled everything my senses have ever longed to sense.

I guess you could say I am a sensual being.

A hedonist.

And at the heart: a weed.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Three Wishes

If only I could make you

shake you

break you

take you to the ground



and harm you

so my peace of mind was sound.

If only I could pluck you

suck you

fuck you


Sunday, June 17, 2012



You can hurt me.


It will get you what you want today.

But I warn you:

You only have the power

to hurt me so many times

before I choose

to take that power away.

Saturday, June 16, 2012

It's All Greek To Me

In the Greek, "utopia" has two meanings. The first is the traditional: "eutopos"--the good place. The second? "Utopos"--"the place that cannot be."

In other news, all of my spoons are dirty.

Friday, June 15, 2012


There are times I wonder if I should reveal

If I should show

those cracks in the veneer that so many others choose to hide

in cupboards or back rooms

If I should really open my hands

and my heart

to complete strangers

and treat them with the intimacy

of friends

and lovers.

But in those times

when I see those few turn away

walk away...

I am reminded that it is worth it

if I can make just one person

turn around.

My sister once told me

that I lay bare

those things everyone feels

but no one else says.

You walk

the walk

of daily life

harboring squalls

beneath the veneer of smooth seas

My squalls rage


Ships grounded

lives ruined


But I wonder which

--your storms or mine--

really cause the most damage.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Big Pimpin'

"It's hard out there for a pimp."?

Sadly I can neither confirm nor deny this.

Brothers Grimm?

I used to loathe you for your unbridled stupidity. Now I find it is our one unifying factor.


Since childhood, I've harbored this (some miiiiiight call it "irrational") fear that I am distinctly unfeminine. That somehow, in somme way, if I didn't have my ears pierced and my hair long...if God hadn't given me rather prominent D cups...that people worldwide would mistake me for a boy.

This fear PLAGUES me.

Though I cannot be sure of the demon's origins, I'm pretty sure it manifested with the birth of my younger brother.

Unnaturally beautiful with big blue eyes, long lashes, and curly blonde hair, Ryan was the "pretty" one. (I was born damn near bald, with squinty eyes and a squashy little body. Did I mention I was fat? Of my mom's kids, I was born the shortest but weighed the most. This is not a statistic of which I am proud.)

Anyway, Ryan gets to be about one or so, and my mother cannot bear to cut his beautiful hair. Consequently, when we ventured out as a family, strangers would stop and comment on the "beautiful baby girl." (When they said this, they were not looking at me.) Despite dressing him in all blue all the time, Ryan never heard the end of praise from strangers. And I never heard the beginning of it.

Yep. I was the homely child. A fact I knew too well by age four.

It was right around this age that my preschool paranoia reached epic proportions. While Ryan was allowed to continue on with his flaxen locks and angelic face, I was somehow selected for the visage guillotine when my mother decided to saddle me with a boy's haircut.

To this day, she will swear the haircut was feminine. She will tell you that, though short, the sides were "feathered" in a becoming and ladylike fashion. Like Farrah Fawcett, she will say. This is a point on which she and I will forever disagree.

I remember pleading for my thin, honey blonde whisps. But my cries fell on deaf ears. I remember crying myself to sleep the night before the cut, a scared little child in my single bed at 3914 Ebeneezer Road.

As predicted, no amount of "feathering" endeared me to the look. (Ms. Fawcett am I none). And there remains a loathed picture from Easter of that year (ironically featuring a white picket fence) where Ryan sits, smiling ear to ear in his blue ensemble and uncanny loveliness. As for myself? I am wearing a peach dress, white gloves and a white hat. I am standing, smiling ruefully. A feathered nightmare.

(See image below for reference. NOT of me. Hopefully that vile Easter monstrosity has been lost to the annals of time. Rise from the dead in three days indeed! He would have returned, had he seen me with Mary at the tomb!)

As my mother was force-fed short cuts in her youth, perhaps she was just doing as she knew best. Or perhaps she saw it as a character building exercise. I haven't the faintest idea. And I really can't blame her for the lapse in judgement, as she, around this same time, also chose to perm and highlight her naturally straight, brown hair.

The family photo of me in feathers and my mother in blonde streaks? I know what true terror is.

Time passed and my brother got his hair cut. My lackluster hair grew out. My mom came to her senses and lost the perm. But somehow I never got over knowing Ryan was the pretty one. Fearing I was somehow "less" by comparison. Knowing that little girls were supposed to have big blue eyes with looooong lashes and curly blonde hair. (Barbie anyone? Can I get an "Amen"?) Knowing that, by age four, I was already a failure to my sex.

Like Penny in "The Rescuers," I could just hear Medusa's malicious drawl: "My deeeeeeear Penny, who would want a homely child like you?"... Some two decades and change later, that scene still pains me to watch.


I was asked--last night in fact--if a film had ever fundamentally altered my life. For me, the answer was an easy "yes."

In fifth grade, seated on the floor of Ms. Zeblewski's classroom, I distinctly remember looking past my size 5 white sneakers to a screen. The framing was oddly perfect as the film pushed in on the front porch of a white columned antibellum home. There, flanked by two men with fire engine hair, sat she. I stopped listening to my friend who was yammering through the picture and distinctly remember as everything offscreen faded away.

When she spoke, she was the epitome of femininity. When she walked, she sashayed, skirts swinging in the wake. When she laughed, men fell. HARD.

I didn't know who this Scarlett was or where her 4-hour long saga would carry her...and, at age 11, I'm not sure I fully understood the journey she took anyway...all I knew was that no one anywhere would ever mistake her for anything less than she was: A LADY. At least in MY idea of the word.

Since then, she's been a bit of an obsession. One that most don't really understand.

After all, it's just a movie. And Vivien Leigh just an actress.

Her home was just a set, and her wardrobe was not her own, but the expertly-crafted vision of Walter Plunkett. Her hair was the result of hours of work by the most talented professionals. The makeup and the lighting as well.

It was all planned to precision. Not real. A world of fantasy. A world of illusion but...as Mrs. Leigh would iconically remark in her later (and second Oscar-winning role in a film) "A woman's charm is 50% illusion."

I've never forgotten that little gem either.

I think for so many women there is this undeniable pressure to portray this illusion of femininity--of grace, of pois, of helplessness (or, paradoxically, strength).

I'm not sure I shall ever overcome my fear of failing it.

Stripping away my hair, my dresses, my jewelry, my perfumes...forcing me to don shorts and socks and tennis shoes. For me it's a nightmare so severe, it may as well be feathered hair.

And, as we've discovered above, that is a desperately scary fate indeed!

Monday, June 11, 2012

Robert Keith Brooks

Now famous, I can die happy. http://weeklywomen.webs.com/apps/blog/show/16031902-week-70-my-friend-erin

Friday, June 8, 2012


When we were walking, I moved to the right

ever so slightly

and you adjusted.


to a passerby


poignant to me.

For you see

it's those little adjustments

that mean so much

that make the difference

between how you are when you are alone

and how you are when you are with me.

In some small way

I changed your day


Thursday, June 7, 2012

Like All the Rest

I guess i didn't realize that when you said, "give me a chance," what you really meant was, "give me a chance to make you cry."


I can't love you any more, and it couldn't matter any less.


I find You in emptiness.

Wednesday, June 6, 2012