My ovaries have been sabotaging my otherwise healthy sense of self-preservation since the first alpha-male caught their attention. Seems they're obsessed with creating a SuperBaby.
They've caused me to go for all kinds of unworthies, based solely on my womb’s draw towards these guys' perceived genetic superiority.
This desire to create a being capable of taking over the world in its free time has gone largely unnoticed by me. I realize, in retrospect, that my conscious self has just been more or less a vessel for very horny ovaries.
I should give them a talking to. I’ve dated way too many hot motherfuckers who couldn’t tie their own shoelaces. After teaching them such helpful tips as, ‘pretend this is a rabbit ear, now make the other one,’ they’ve left me, spermless and back at square one. Without a superbaby.
Bad ovaries. Bad, bad ovaries.
But, like petulant children, my ovaries block my lecturing out. They may even already be aware that I don’t plan on letting them take a nine month break anytime soon, if ever. But I can’t know for sure what they think. We’re not speaking these days, after my last bad-boy encounter.
I bet you can guess the ending to that fling. Here’s a clue. Nothing good comes of volatile unreliability. No matter how many hot times you call each other bitch and exchange smacks.
But goddamn did it keep me, my suitcase labeled ‘Past’ and those naughty ovaries coming back for more, more, more.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Friday, April 21, 2006
The New 420
2006 seems to mark the definitive advent of texting as the dominate mode of communication.
'Puff puff pass: this is an electronic blunt, so take a hit in honor of today's holiday and pass it on! Happy 4:20.'
This text was sent to my cell a total of four separate times. And I felt as if I had celebrated the day even though I didn't actually get high or talk to anyone about it.
Virtual reality takes it one step further.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
"I'm the Decider" inspired one blogger to write in dr. seuss-style:
I'm the decider.
I pick and I choose.
I pick among whats.
And choose among whos.
And as I decide
Each particular day
The things I decide on
All turn out that way.
and check out the salon.com article: Clinging to Rumsfeld as generals lead an unprecedented revolt, Bush reveals his weakness and his disdain for the lessons of history.
Morning Snapshots
Touch: skin as creamy and smooth as chocolate fondue.
Taste: an 'organic smelt carob frosted' vegan donut. it was a gift. made me laugh out loud when i realized rich people actually buy these paste-like, sawdust-flavored things.
Sight: a hot, blonde woman in a red convertible, openly picking her nose.
Sound: Prince's 'I want You' followed by a classsical Debussy.
Smell: groves of lavender bobbing with bumble-bees at my work's front door.
Taste: an 'organic smelt carob frosted' vegan donut. it was a gift. made me laugh out loud when i realized rich people actually buy these paste-like, sawdust-flavored things.
Sight: a hot, blonde woman in a red convertible, openly picking her nose.
Sound: Prince's 'I want You' followed by a classsical Debussy.
Smell: groves of lavender bobbing with bumble-bees at my work's front door.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Dating 101
When I was 15, I came very close to kissing my first boyfriend.
Ben had told everyone how much he wanted me during the courtship phase. He pursued me with hand-written letters and word-of-mouth compliments. We shared lingering gazes and moonlit trysts (okay, only one). Once I gave in to his advances, however, the relationship skidded to a halt. After failing to solicit the attentions I required for commitment, I sent him a scathing note intended to spur him to action, which instead resulting in us breaking up. He told everyone I was a bitch, and we never spoke again.
In fact, except for eight words, we never spoke at all. The entire six-months or so interaction occurred with a single verbal and no physical interaction.
Such was dating in the controlled environment of the Christian fundamentalist Church I was raised in.
But despite my intimidated leanings towards good-girl conformity, hormones had other plans for me. They punched a hole, one, two, in a bible-box I had hitherto supposed impenetrable. But they didn’t stop at just flailing outside of the box. They thought outside it, too, looking over their collective shoulder as guilty and flushed as could be, even as they marched over and demanded that Ben and I get together. I just held on for dear life as they dashed over to my best friend Ruth, told her to tell Ben’s sister where we’d meet, set up a nod, nod, wink, wink code-system, and shuttled my helpless feet over moonlit potholes and into a crouching position behind a tent.
He actually showed up. We looked quakingly at each other for a moment.
I rose out of my crouch and leaned, as coyly as one can, into the wall of the tent. This didn’t work at all, so I stood up straight. I looked up at him and let the moonlight play with my eyelashes.
"You like me?” I said.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, looking away.
It occured to me that the full moon was actually creating a glare off of my bottle eyeglasses. I subtly shifted position.
“I like you too,” I said.
We stared at each other for a moment, our hearts pounding, lips (well I know mine were), throbbing. And then fear overcame desire, and we split in opposite directions, without another word.
After that, I resigned myself to holding Ben’s gaze over the hundred-foot gap separating the young sister’s section from the young brother’s section, and pressing retrieved butterscotch candy wrappers he’d dropped, between the pages of my Bible.
Three months after the moonlit tryst whose mental replay button still kept me up at nights, I went on a youth trip to the Ottowa fellowship in Canada where Ben lived. He slipped me a note on Sunday afternoon, an hour before my return trip home.
It said, ‘I love you.’
I almost lost my mind on the car-ride home. The sunlight through the car window felt like my lover’s touch. Passing license plates held coded promises of future conjoined initials. The throb of my heart threw me into such dizziness that the Sister driving asked repeatedly if I was OK. No drug since then, not even the most potent, pure aemphetamines available on the west coast, has ever come close to that first burst of pure ecstasy.
And when, two months later, I’d failed to receive another message from him, despite three letters of my own, I sealed my fate with a spicy little ‘how dare you diss me’ page of notebook paper folded in the origami-reminiscent tidiness perfected by adolescent girls and delivered crisply on a designated rock by the west dorm at Victory.
The news came, via the sibling-express, forty-five minutes later.
“He’s mad. He said you’re a bitch.”
And thus concluded my first lesson in the dynamics of male-female companionship. In fact, despite (or perhaps because of) the general absence of interaction, I see now that I had learned everything I’d ever need to know about dating.
I would be happily doing my own thing, when along would come the unexpected and disruptive attentions of a random male.
I would then be, in this order, distracted from my own happy tasks, flattered by the attention, and then, rabidly desirous of more, more, more.
The male would withdraw instinctively, as I would instinctively find a way to get closer.
When I got closer, conducting 7/8’s of all verbal discourse, he’d be induced by my natural charms to give me what I wanted, in this case, an affirmation of undying affection.
Content that he’d pleased me, the male would then withdraw and find other things to do.
I would then flail frantically to regain his attention, it would be too slow in coming, I’d sabatoge it all by freaking out, he’d run in the opposite direction after insulting me for making him feel small.
It would all conclude by both parties feeling slightly stunned, a bit bewildered, and definitely hurt, which would induce us to find an immediate aphrodisiac in the form of a new drama-partner.
Repeat unto death do us part.
In my case, the replacement came in the form of my actual First Kiss, one pot-smoking, beret-wearing, chain-dangling, nunchucks-swinging member of the Portuguese mafia...
Monday, April 10, 2006
nice.
first email on this monday morning was the word of the day.
skeet - v. to ejaculate. Also n., semen, male ejaculate. Also used as a
reduplicated interjection: "skeet skeet!" Categories: English. Sex &
Sexuality. Slang.
LA Fable
Once there was a land where pretty, happy creatures with smiles on their faces lived. They played together all day, and had a dreadfully good time.
The sun was always shining, the air was always warm, and in the distance tall mountains shone green and the blue ocean sparkled.
The creatures were of the fortunate variety that does not have to work very hard. Delicious food grew everywhere, and other creatures to prepare it, were plentiful. The other creatures also built beautiful, spacious dwellings for them. The pretty, happy creatures were free to sit around and have good ideas, and sometimes, even make them happen.
But despite appearancs, the creatures carried with them a tragic deformity of which they themselves were unaware. You see, the creatures were each enclosed in a two-foot wide, clear, protective plastic-like covering.
Each creature was very like one of those self-sustaining universes, if you've ever seen one. If you haven't, you should sometime. They are little round balls sealed off, where miniature shrimp live out their whole lives without ever knowing about the big world we live in.
It was very nearly the same for these unfortunate, fortunate creatures. When they shook hands, or so they thought, they bumped into each other, shoulder to shoulder. The firm, clear bubble around them bounced them back, several feet away from each other even as they greeted one another.
But the worst was when the creatures tried to kiss. They bumped and bounced awkwardly. Then each waddled off in their separate directions, going back to their happy, fabulous lives, feeling as if something special had happened. And no, there was nothing necessarily not-special about bumping and bouncing, but the tragedy was that the creatures did not know that that was what had taken place.
They did not know they were enclosed in a thick layer of protective air, so they did not know what it really was to touch or feel.
They even went so far as to sometimes share air. They'd pop a little hole in each other's protective layering and suck air out of each other to refill their own layer. And still, the creatures found this normal, even fun, because it was all they knew.
And when they happily waddled off in their separate directions, going back to their fabulous, insulated lives, they didn't notice that the holes leaked a little, leaving them each a bit deflated. And so, the happy, warm creatures lived, content to be safe and warm, never knowing and therefore not caring that they did not, in actuality, know what it was to touch, and therefore know, another creature.
Until one day.
A small, exposed creature, shorter, thinner and yet with a certain, shall we say, thickness to her, at least in comparison to the clear bulbousness of the more-fortunate creature, pointed this difference out one day.
She stopped tending the plants that made the hills so green, put away her tools that made so many houses so easily, and she stood beneath a beautiful, deflating creature and looked up at him or her, she couldn't be sure, with all that bubble-wrap.
"Hey, come on out!" she said.
"What do you mean? I am out," said the creature. And indeed, in this land where 'being out' meant knowing and saying which version of creature you preferred to bump and exchange air with, the creature was correct.
"No, not out like that, I mean out here, with the green hills and the blue water, and the warm sun."
"But what on earth do you mean?" said the creature, because he was standing outside, with the smaller, skinnier yet thicker creature at that very moment.
"This is what I mean," she said, and without warning, she did the unthinkable, the unimaginable! She picked up her housing tool, and pop, pop, she punctured the protective covering and off it fell.
The creature stood in alarm. "What is that feeling?" he asked, as the sun touched his bare skin. "It's warmth," said she. And she dropped her tool to the ground, and stood on her tippy-toes and reached, reached, until she could place her lips on his. And when the creature felt what he had been missing, he forgot his so-called happy, safe life and remembered only the knowledge of touch.
And the creature knew what it was to love.
The sun was always shining, the air was always warm, and in the distance tall mountains shone green and the blue ocean sparkled.
The creatures were of the fortunate variety that does not have to work very hard. Delicious food grew everywhere, and other creatures to prepare it, were plentiful. The other creatures also built beautiful, spacious dwellings for them. The pretty, happy creatures were free to sit around and have good ideas, and sometimes, even make them happen.
But despite appearancs, the creatures carried with them a tragic deformity of which they themselves were unaware. You see, the creatures were each enclosed in a two-foot wide, clear, protective plastic-like covering.
Each creature was very like one of those self-sustaining universes, if you've ever seen one. If you haven't, you should sometime. They are little round balls sealed off, where miniature shrimp live out their whole lives without ever knowing about the big world we live in.
It was very nearly the same for these unfortunate, fortunate creatures. When they shook hands, or so they thought, they bumped into each other, shoulder to shoulder. The firm, clear bubble around them bounced them back, several feet away from each other even as they greeted one another.
But the worst was when the creatures tried to kiss. They bumped and bounced awkwardly. Then each waddled off in their separate directions, going back to their happy, fabulous lives, feeling as if something special had happened. And no, there was nothing necessarily not-special about bumping and bouncing, but the tragedy was that the creatures did not know that that was what had taken place.
They did not know they were enclosed in a thick layer of protective air, so they did not know what it really was to touch or feel.
They even went so far as to sometimes share air. They'd pop a little hole in each other's protective layering and suck air out of each other to refill their own layer. And still, the creatures found this normal, even fun, because it was all they knew.
And when they happily waddled off in their separate directions, going back to their fabulous, insulated lives, they didn't notice that the holes leaked a little, leaving them each a bit deflated. And so, the happy, warm creatures lived, content to be safe and warm, never knowing and therefore not caring that they did not, in actuality, know what it was to touch, and therefore know, another creature.
Until one day.
A small, exposed creature, shorter, thinner and yet with a certain, shall we say, thickness to her, at least in comparison to the clear bulbousness of the more-fortunate creature, pointed this difference out one day.
She stopped tending the plants that made the hills so green, put away her tools that made so many houses so easily, and she stood beneath a beautiful, deflating creature and looked up at him or her, she couldn't be sure, with all that bubble-wrap.
"Hey, come on out!" she said.
"What do you mean? I am out," said the creature. And indeed, in this land where 'being out' meant knowing and saying which version of creature you preferred to bump and exchange air with, the creature was correct.
"No, not out like that, I mean out here, with the green hills and the blue water, and the warm sun."
"But what on earth do you mean?" said the creature, because he was standing outside, with the smaller, skinnier yet thicker creature at that very moment.
"This is what I mean," she said, and without warning, she did the unthinkable, the unimaginable! She picked up her housing tool, and pop, pop, she punctured the protective covering and off it fell.
The creature stood in alarm. "What is that feeling?" he asked, as the sun touched his bare skin. "It's warmth," said she. And she dropped her tool to the ground, and stood on her tippy-toes and reached, reached, until she could place her lips on his. And when the creature felt what he had been missing, he forgot his so-called happy, safe life and remembered only the knowledge of touch.
And the creature knew what it was to love.
Friday, April 07, 2006
It's the Journey, not the Destination
I can see myself very clearly in this moment. I get myself all kinds of worked up when something minorly good happens to me. My imagination goes into overdrive, I work my expectations into a lather, and then I self-sabotage by trying to shape everything into that vision.
I truly need to stay focused in the moment. Meditate, find a zen place, control my need to over-think, and stay content with what is in front of me. Be thankful for what is on my plate in the moment, and just let it shape it’s own course.
There’s no reason to get obsessed with achieving something that will never make me happy if I haven’t learned to be thankful for what’s right in front of me.
I just wrote one good chapter in my memoir, and my hands are practically shaking with the thrill of ‘what’s going to happen’ when I finish. My mind is in over-drive about when and where I can start publishing chapters – should I call the editor I know at the LA Times? -, how I’ll handle the fame, what I’ll say to the guys who dissed me that now think I rule, and what my next five books will be about to help me stay in the limelight.
That is pathetic. And inevitably disappointing. And unnecessary.
This guy I like is calling me again. I am imagining what will happen when he realizes in full what he’s been missing all along, meets my friends and family, falls in love with me...
Which means next time I see him I will be so off-course as to what’s actually going on, that I won’t even notice him, other than how or what he’s going to do to make what I think should happen, NOW. Whereupon, he will, naturally, go careening off into the sunset without me.
I need to chill!
ADD will be the ruin of me if I can’t learn to just focus, stay in the moment, and be thankful for what I have.
I am coming to hate this driven, dizzy feeling. It’s unnecessary, and actually creates the very opposite of what I am hoping for.
Which is fulfillment, peace, success, recognition, and love.
I have that already, in so many, many, many ways. I have arrived. Now I am going to enjoy the process of the next step, without concern for what it will look like around the bend in the road.
Surprises are fun. Life is long. This moment is beautiful. I am thankful for the friends and family I have.
I will enjoy the process.
I truly need to stay focused in the moment. Meditate, find a zen place, control my need to over-think, and stay content with what is in front of me. Be thankful for what is on my plate in the moment, and just let it shape it’s own course.
There’s no reason to get obsessed with achieving something that will never make me happy if I haven’t learned to be thankful for what’s right in front of me.
I just wrote one good chapter in my memoir, and my hands are practically shaking with the thrill of ‘what’s going to happen’ when I finish. My mind is in over-drive about when and where I can start publishing chapters – should I call the editor I know at the LA Times? -, how I’ll handle the fame, what I’ll say to the guys who dissed me that now think I rule, and what my next five books will be about to help me stay in the limelight.
That is pathetic. And inevitably disappointing. And unnecessary.
This guy I like is calling me again. I am imagining what will happen when he realizes in full what he’s been missing all along, meets my friends and family, falls in love with me...
Which means next time I see him I will be so off-course as to what’s actually going on, that I won’t even notice him, other than how or what he’s going to do to make what I think should happen, NOW. Whereupon, he will, naturally, go careening off into the sunset without me.
I need to chill!
ADD will be the ruin of me if I can’t learn to just focus, stay in the moment, and be thankful for what I have.
I am coming to hate this driven, dizzy feeling. It’s unnecessary, and actually creates the very opposite of what I am hoping for.
Which is fulfillment, peace, success, recognition, and love.
I have that already, in so many, many, many ways. I have arrived. Now I am going to enjoy the process of the next step, without concern for what it will look like around the bend in the road.
Surprises are fun. Life is long. This moment is beautiful. I am thankful for the friends and family I have.
I will enjoy the process.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
New Views
Reminder. Every man is different. I cannot hold them to the actions of their fellow selfish creatures. I have to give them a new chance each and every time.
I need to take it easier on men. They're these rather linear creatures who have to move in specified blocks of behavior. They want someone to show them something outside of this.
I'm a girl. I have a lot more freedom, at least when it comes to self-expression. I just need to remember that these guys around me, devoid of their big cars, and jobs, and muscles, and plans, are just souls passing through that would like to be listened to, really listened to, for a minute or two.
They need compassion, and sympathy, and loyalty, and the intuitiveness that a woman is capable of.
This isn't about some contest or challenge where someone comes out on top and gets a prize.
This is about not being afraid to put yourself on hold and pay attention to someone else.
When it comes to being coddled or pampered, I have everything I need already. I live well and am happy.
So I'm just going to start enjoying giving, and listening, and relaxing and caring. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.
I need to take it easier on men. They're these rather linear creatures who have to move in specified blocks of behavior. They want someone to show them something outside of this.
I'm a girl. I have a lot more freedom, at least when it comes to self-expression. I just need to remember that these guys around me, devoid of their big cars, and jobs, and muscles, and plans, are just souls passing through that would like to be listened to, really listened to, for a minute or two.
They need compassion, and sympathy, and loyalty, and the intuitiveness that a woman is capable of.
This isn't about some contest or challenge where someone comes out on top and gets a prize.
This is about not being afraid to put yourself on hold and pay attention to someone else.
When it comes to being coddled or pampered, I have everything I need already. I live well and am happy.
So I'm just going to start enjoying giving, and listening, and relaxing and caring. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.
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