Friday, July 23, 2010

Happy Piffle Post

For no real reason at all other than my cat is curled up on my desk with me after playing fetch for 15 minutes, the weather is nice, my family and friends are awesome, I love love, and the plant I thought I had killed is sprouting new growth all over the damn place I give you happy random pictures:
You may be penned in a dank soviet era-looking zoo, but on the plus side you do have a cello soloist that plays Bach and Vivaldi every Thursday and Sunday. (I found this picture with absolutely no explanation so I am just going to go with my story.)

FINALLY. And I will take 500 stickers for my trapper-keeper, walls and body (don't ask), thank you.
Oh heavens, rainbows are wonderful. And Judy Garland knew very well the wish to find a place of comfort and grace when she sang this song. But we all do at times, I suppose. And this is such a pretty poster from Music Philosophy. Many more song lyrics to look at and order if you like.
Baby duck butt in shimmery water should be self-explanatory.

Istoleyourprozac hopes you are feeling like sticking your tuckus in the air and head under water this weekend. I know that is my plan.

Friday, July 16, 2010

I'm A Poop Hero (You Can Be One Too)!!

As so often is the case, the answer to the question hanging in your head after reading something odd and vaguely concerning on this this site (such as the title of this entry) is YES. Yes, this will be a post about my bowel movements. Hey, fecal matter is furiously funny (and alliteration often annoying), so resign yourself to the fact that although I am not a mommy-blogger who can regale you with hilarious antidotes about the funny-runny that just won't stay in little shmoopy's diaper, etc I still think I have the right to talk poop. I mean if you can laugh about Dooce's Shit Storm entries, than I deserve a little leeway. If you think it is only funny when it is about babies, then that is just ageism, man and I can't hang with that kind of discrimination.

Thus I present, Poop, A Story of Success.

It was a Sunday late afternoon. I was just putzing around my apartment, likely putting off all work that a responsible adult would be engaging in. It was Sacramento summer heat so I was doing my putzing in underwear and a t-shirt. I was relaxed, well fed and unknowingly preparing for one of the best poops of my life.

If you have read here before, you are aware that my GI track is perpetually plagued by stress, bad food reactions, etc. You know, the Generation Y "something really serious is wrong with me, because my stomach is not perfect at all times, and IT'S PROBABLY CANCER you guys" complaint du jour. (However, Celiac Disease is no joke for those contemporaries of mine that have it, so you are exempt from this judgement.) I'm not pretending that I don't lean more towards the "small bad thing= DISASTER" end of the nervous/calm spectrum. I know this is true, but just as I freak at the sign of gastrointestinal broo-ha-ha, I also can celebrate the success. Oh Yes I Can (thank you Obama, for believing in me).

Okay, so back to my useless story. I was changing the music on my stereo, taking out the Tom Petty CD that had been in frequent rotation and putting in Raphael Saadiq (seriously, check him out. Of Tony Toni Tone!, but his solo stuff blows my ever lovin' mind. Think early Marvin Gaye, but with more current RnB sensibilities.) to dance around to in said underwear. I have it on good authority that pretty much everyone like to dance around in their underwear, in a manner they do in no other setting. A little booty-wiggle into the first song and I was all I need to poop, I think. No more than five notes later and it became I definitely am about to go take an awesome crap. In fact I can tell right now that this will be a superwoman kind of poop. And then out loud to my empty apartment, "I AM GOING TO GO BE A POOP HERO RIGHT NOW."

And I did. Oh did I.

Details are not necessary (you're welcome) as the act was not the main point. No, rather it was the satisfaction that beamed from my face afterwards. You have had them, I know you have. Shits that make you want to pat your own back and record what you ate and then eat that every day for the rest of your life if that means you take craps of that caliber more often. I know it isn't a common topic of discussion, but it is a feeling that can unite us. Bring peace to the earth, be a poop hero.

Hmm, so maybe the slogan and supporting argument needs work, but you get the idea. It is as simple as this: Right before you go to the bathroom announce to your cat (or internally if your family is really not into this idea) "I AM GOING TO GO BE A POOP HERO" and then go forth and shit bricks of awesome. Afterwards I advise standing in front of the mirror with you hands on your hips and your chin up. Power exudes from every pore, fire light flicks in your eyes, but it is a benevolent strength you possess. The world for a brief moment make sense and you see through time and that gravity is an illusion and all the strings wiggling as the basis of everything makes sense. It is quite the sensation, people.

Should I get some shirts printed up? "I'M A POOP HERO" on the front and "You can be one too!!! Just ask me how!" on the back. The movement will gain momentum for sure this way.

Heh. Movement.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

The JOB OF MY DREAMS Is Not Invited To My Super Awesome Party Of Rad

That'll teach it. You don't pass me by without consequences!!

Umm, unless it isn't clear (or you haven't already heard from me on Facebook/by phone) I didn't get the job. I will not be the director of anything besides my own misery and spite, let alone communications and special projects. Which, when you think about it a Directorship of Spite sounds pretty bad-ass, however it mostly involves me struggling to get up in the morning and not drink gin straight from the bottle while hurling mental insults at the sun and the people on the street walking to THEIR JOBS, and all around being a crazy bitch. I may be good at it, but the benefits are shit.
Note: I am not waking up and drinking so just relax. I did enough of that in college to last a lifetime.

Also, there is no super awesome party of rad planned so don't get your panties in a bunch when you don't get an invite with ladybugs and flowers printed on it. It was just to make the JOB OF MY DREAMS jealous.

And the answer is yes to both of your questions; I have now really anthropomorphized a job that I didn't get and it will always be referred to in all-caps.

Welp, I think that is the extent of this blurb. It's 4pm and I need a shower before I go sing some acoustic songs this evening including this gem:

Monday, July 5, 2010

Bathing Suits

Hmm, so this entry needs to start with a disclaimer/warning. It is going to be a bit emotional, but more so it may have trigger elements if you have/do self-harm. I don't say that to sound dramatic, I say it because there is a community of women and men that struggle with this issue and require a heads-up when the subject pops up online. If we are not in the right head-space to deal with some heavy-duty shit, a warning gives us the option to skip over it. SO, now you know.

Bathing Suits. As a woman, they are innately stressful. You find one that finally covers your ass nicely, but not too modestly and the tops are itty-bitty and not in a fun, sexy way. You finally find something that fits like a glove but it happens to only come in neon green that reflects putridly on your pale, pale skin and clashes with your red, red hair. Okay, MY pale, pale skin and MY red, red hair. Point it, bikinis, tankinis, and suits are a mean beast to tame all on their own let alone approach when you have marks you want to cover up.
Last summer I didn't really spend any time in a just a suit. I layered shorts over the bottoms or stayed wrapped up somehow. In fact, the same went for the year prior and prior to that, etc. Not because I felt fat (although, let's be real, I had my terrified moments of "wait how much skin that jiggles am I thinking of showing?!" here and there) but because I had welts, red marks, jagged edges. I cut in the same places and over the same scars for a few years. I couldn't show the scars because, they weren't just scars. They were scars layered with new cuts. New and sad and painful.
There was no question what I would do when summer came those years. I would wear shorts. Or pants. And not get in the pool, not get in the river... Hold back more than I wanted because some one might see and the chlorine might burn too much.

This year I am hurt free, except for the memory suggested by old scars. Little and not so little white lines lightening across my hip and thigh. Some raised like a melted marshmallow smooshed out the edge of a smore by the campfire when I pull my legs in, some indented like a river bed gone dry when I stretch my legs out on my towel in the sun.

So what do I do about these lines? Will people notice? If they do, will they comment, ask, change how they interact with me? Worst of all, will they pity me? I can't stand that.

I don't have the answer about how I should deal with it really. So far I have only been in a bathing suit around people I trust and they didn't even seem to notice so perhaps there is nothing to worry about. Maybe I am the only one who sees the ridges of pain on my skin and maybe that is a blessing. The other week I asked the Boyfriend if it looked bad and obvious as we got ready for sunbathing and pool time at a friends house. He said you could hardly see them unless you were as close as only he should be getting to my upper thighs and even then, they were good friends and it was okay and you are beautiful. If he hadn't been there to say those nice things I would have gone in my high-cut black swimsuit anyway, but it helped to have it told to me before I stepped outside into the balmy summer air.
Truth? I love my scars. I touch them sometimes, running my finger-pads along their length to remember what I went through to do such things to my soul's carrier, to my temple. As a reminder to not do it again, but also as a homage to those old pains, struggles, hatreds, longings, worries, fucked-up moments. I can't ignore them and I don't want anyone who cares for me to pretend they don't exist either. You don't have to mention them if they flash in the sun this summer, but just know they are there for a reason and although I never, ever want to go back I am proud that they are a sign of how I made it through.

Yes, I am that pale. Suck it.