Ok, so. Here I am again, with nothing to say. But see, the thing is, I'm compelled to write. I don't know why. Perhaps the words that are in constant motion inside my brain reach maximum capacity and have to come out.
Sometimes, what I write is pretty good. Sometimes what I write is crap. In fact, most of what I write is crap. But I've decided to stop being my own internal critic and embrace my crappiness. I have come to realize that there are many crappy writers who can call themselves writers because they've actually published something. (No, self, your Master's thesis does NOT count. Shut up.) And I can only assume that what they have that I don't is 1) determination and 2) lots of material.
So, in an effort to increase my material, and, perhaps, my determination, I'm just going to write. Whatever pops into my head. Lucky you, my one reader. Not only will you be privy to all my rants and raves, but also my angst-ridden insecurities.
Today, we talk about my frog costume. Yes, you read that correctly, frog costume. Growing up a preacher's kid is more or less a passport into the realm of demeaning roles in church musicals. And, if your elementary school teacher happens to attend said church, you win an additional all expense paid trip into the realm of demeaning roles in school plays.
I've been an orphaned boy (yes, BOY), a professorial pigeon, Queen of the primeval forest, the Big Bad Wolf, a reporter, a child's ghost, the niece of a Scrooge-esque character, and a fish. (The fish was, technically, a dance recital, at the tender age of 3. I wore a green-sequined tutu and tappa tappa tappa-ed my way into everyone's hearts.)
But my favorite role, or at least my favorite costume, was the frog. My Mama sewed it from brilliant kelly-green broadcloth. It was exceedingly well constructed, as my mother is a very good seamstress. The body was a one-piece jumpsuit with a zipper in the back. I wore four fabric flipper-gloves (ffffffff) with elastic at the ankles and wrists. And the glorious hood covered my hair, encircled my face, and snapped securely underneath my chin. With stunningly enthusiastic jazz flippers, I led the congregation in a rousing chorus of "This is the Day that the Lord has Made."
I was a hit. I received so many pats on the back after that performance that I am certain at least half the audience got warts.
I recycled the costume that Halloween for dress-up day at school. Yeah, not so much. Turns out it's extraordinarily difficult to hold a pencil with flippers. And my science teacher was not at all amused when I flicked my tongue at her.
I have precious little to say lately. My one current thought is "Boy, American Idol is going to suck this year."
Enjoy.
It occurred to me as I was watching last week's TiVo-ed episode of ER, that life is not comprised of years, months, or even days, but of moments. Moments that change your life in some way forever.
Like the moment you are offered a promotion.
Or the moment...
You find out you'r'e pregant.
You accept a proposal.
You kiss someone for the first time.
You hold your newborn for the first time.
You turned your back on your toddler and she got into the cleaning cabinet.
Your best friend's car crossed the center line and hit a semi head-on.
You cry at the altar and give up the struggle.
You shoot up heroin.
You steal money out of your mom's purse.
You lie to your spouse.
You have cyber sex.
You drop out of school.
You wrote something that gets published.
You lose a parent.
You help someone in need.
You don't help someone in need.
Until the moment you take your last breath.
Ok, I spend a fair amount of time on the WW message boards. Somewhat out of boredom, but mostly because if I'm there, reading and posting, I'm not in the kitchen rifling through the cabinets and fridge for things to put in my piehole. So, anyway, as you can imagine if you've ever participated in any sort of internet forum, there are a plethora of just plain stupid people out there. It's scary, really. The scariest part to me, is that there seem to be so many nearly illiterate adults. Adults who can't spell "lose". They all want to "loose" weight. Or "wait." The grammar is also marginal. But the worst thing is the total lack of reading comprehension skills.
People just DO NOT or CANNOT READ.
For example, I recently started the following thread. The following is my post, verbatim. Please note that I PURPOSELY put in some guidelines for the poll, so I wouldn't end up with a thread full of Wham! songs.
Title: Feeling Old as Hell; Need some NEW Music (note the NEW in caps)
Body of post:
Ok. I will admit that I have not kept up with the current music scene because I thought most of it was krap.
Actually, I still do.
However, having recently downloaded a song which I will not admit I downloaded *cough sexyback cough*, I have found some dance songs that have some level of merit.
So, please list here your current (not stuff like Rhythm is a Dancer or Baby Got Back, but CURRENT..i.e. Shakira, Justin Timberlake, Beyonce, etc) dance favorites.
And thanks up front, because I am going to lie down, so it will seem
like I posted and ran, but I am going to come back later and read your
suggestions.
So, when I did "come back later" this is what I found:
"Even though it's a couple of years old, "Smooth" by Santana and Rob Thomas..."
"...The Tainted Love song. Remember that one?"
"...B52's Love Shack"
"Tainted Love" and "Love Shack"? LOVE SHACK?!?!?! SERIOUSLY?!?!?!? That song is FIFTEEN years old, at least. I was in junior college when it was popular. Plus, if "Love Shack" is "dance," then Ludacris is easy listening.
What part of "not stuff like Rhythm is a Dancer...but CURRENT..." screams out "Please reminisce about the 80s/early 90s?"
At least the one person gave the little disclaimer that they knew it was old. But, come on. The only "current" suggestion I got was "Hips Don't Lie" by Shakira. But I GAVE Shakira as a guideline. So coming up with that took very little effort.
Honestly, is it that hard READ and FOLLOW simple directions?
If you don't have a truly CURRENT suggestion, then how about NOT posting?
I suppose these are the same people who would go into a thread entitled "People With Cancer, Come Here Please" even if they did NOT HAVE CANCER and post...
"I don't have cancer, but Tiffany really sets my feet to tapping."
Two more things.
1) I am boring.
2) No one that I tagged reposted, not counting Erin, who had already been tagged by someone else.
5 Things Tag
Ok, first off, I don't know if I have 5 other VOX people to tag, so there's that disclaimer.
Anyway, here are my five things.
1) My brain runs a constant commentary on everything. I am like those guys on Mystery Science Theatre 3000, and my life is the bad sci fi movie they're snarking on. Sometimes, I really crack myself up. It's nice when I have someone to toss my little thoughts out to, but more often than not, it's just kept inside, which, I have decided, is driving me slowly and completely insane. But, as insanity goes, it's a pretty entertaining way to go nuts. I mean, it's way better than cutting articles out of the newspaper and pasting them on my walls, or convincing 908 people to drink some wicked Flavor-aid.
2) I'd be really great at a lot of things if I weren't so
lazy. If it takes much work, though, I lose interest. This
is especially true of hobbies. Like, I was going to start making
bead jewelry, but it's pretty meticulous work to get something that
doesn't look like a Bible school art project, and well, I just can't be
arsed (see #3). Hence, I have a tackle-box full of beads and wire
that have no real function other than to take up space in a guest room
closet. I have similar containers of felt, sewing notions, etc.
from other various failed hobbies, including an acoustic guitar.
3) I tend to latch onto particular words and phrases and overuse them to the point of obnoxion. (I also make words up) This is especially true of British phrases. I think this has something to do with British men being so hot. Even the not so hot ones are hot, just because of the accent. My currently overused items are "dude" and "for fuck's sake."
4) I'm not as cool as Aging Hipster what with her hob-knobbing with the rich and famous, but I have a couple of fame stories. I used to attend a church where Michael Stipe's parents were also members. He actually came one Sunday for a family baptism. It was kinda weird sitting one row behind him, staring at his semi-bald head the whole time, singing "Losing My Religion" in my head. Yes, my insanity also enjoys a bit of irony now and then. I've also actually met James Brown, at a bar in Augusta, and he was pretty laid back and cool.
5) I have this thing I do when I am interested in someone, where I kind of start to emulate them a little. I guess it's like a "sincerest form of flattery" thing, or somehow, I believe that by being LIKE them, I can be NEAR them always. Of course, now that I am married, I don't do this anymore. But when I was dating, I used to do it all the time, especially if I REALLY liked someone. Like, for Todd, I bought cowboy boots, because he was a cowboy. And for Clint, I started wearing flannel, because he was into Pearl Jam. With Billy, it was an interest in all things Confederate, and with Mike, a brief obsession with The Beatles. With my husband, it was classical music and saying things he said like "Little known facts, known by few."
I tag Rachety, Simon, Erin, Bob, and Kiernen.
3 things I saw/noticed/realized yesterday:
SAW
A folding chair in the handicapped stall of the restroom at Home Depot
What? In case I need to put my feet up during a particularly long or stressful bathroom session? Or maybe so I can have company during same?
NOTICED
There are a plethora of women who have no idea what length pants they should be wearing.
It's especially evident in the 55+ crowd. Noah is not coming anytime soon, ladies. Let those hems out. I really should NOT be able to see your socks if you are standing up.
REALIZED
No matter how many times you sign (and that's "sign" not "sing") the lyrics to Styx songs in the car, you won't be able to talk to the one deaf person you know when you see her.
I could barely sign "I forgot my signs." There was a VERY awkward period of silence and non-movement that made me feel like an asshole for even trying to say hello.
Maybe I should have sung "Lady" for her.
I mean, why not? If we can have vagina monologues, then why not scary stomach stories?
So, just because I can, I'm going to chronicle all of my vomitry (that I remember) my whole life through.
First off, it's extremely important that you understand my obsession with vomit. You see, I'm deathly afraid of it. I am a virtual emetiphobe.
Now, I'm not one of those people who sees or hears someone else vomit and also gets sick, but I do get the urge to run like hell. Mostly, because I'm afraid I will catch something.
AND, I. HATE. TO. VOMIT.
HATE. IT. Those people that can throw up once and then suddenly feel much better can bite my ass. Because, for me, once I start, I can't seem to stop.
I'm not as put off by someone who has a non-contagious reason to be sick, i.e. drunk, cancerous, or pregnant...but I still don't really want to be around it.
But if you have unexplainable regurgitation, you might as well be stumbling down a cobblestone street ringing a bell and shouting "Unclean! Unclean!"
Anyway, this is why I tend to obsess over it. I suppose it's kind of like sharks and tornadoes. The fear is, in and of itself, oddly fascinating.
But here they are, my most retch-ed moments for your personal enjoyment.
Ok, obviously, there were some spitting up situations from my infancy. Those don't really count.
The first time I remember tossing my cookies was as a toddler. Perhaps age 4 or so. There was a nasty stomach bug that passed to almost everyone in our family. Most of that experience is sketchy, but I do remember a pink nightgown, a blue bowl, and being chastised by my father for dry heaving into said bowl while he was trying to watch TV.
Next came the proverbial schoolhouse hurl. It happened in first grade. I felt bad all day, and at lunch could only manage to eat some carrot sticks, which resurfaced later in a brilliant display of xanthophyll on the floor of my classroom. I was excused to the bathroom where I sat on the floor in front of the toilet. The janitor ('cause that's what we called them back in the day) came in and, although I was very obviously positioned nowhere near the sink, told me very sternly "Do not vomick in the sick."
The next instance that I can recall was in 4th or 5th grade. Something had upset me so that I cried to the point of puking all over my shoes and the kitchen floor. Those shoes were never the same.
Also in 4th or 5th grade, was staying with my grandmother during the summer and lost a tooth. Swallowed too much blood and threw up corn flakes. Grandmama soothed me with a glass of Coca-cola.
Move along to 6th grade. Stomach virus again. Threw up a cheeseburger. At 3 am. Nasty.
Nice dry spell from then until 10th grade. Stomach virus again. This time, it was chili at midnight. And let me tell you, that is NOT a pleasant food to revisit.
(Aside: why do you always seem to get sick in the middle of the night? Why do you have to deal with not only the terribleness of the illness, but also the sleep deprivation it brings?)
Again, good to go until junior college. Got sick from the antibiotics after a nasty bout of strep throat. Threw up an orange.
My one and only time to be drunk enough to lose it was on River Street in Savannah, following the ingestion of not one, but two Attitude Improvements. And, just so you know, puking into a Burger King cup in the backseat of a car is not that much fun.
Had too many cigarettes one night in pharmacy school and tried to take a doxycycline on top of that. Yeah, not so much.
Ate some questionable chicken taco soup once after I was married, and, although I didn't actually throw up, it was very touch and go for an entire afternoon.
Had debilitating gastroenteritis my first year after starting work at the hospital. Almost every employee at the hospital had it. It was like our own little cruise ship. Anyway, that sucked major ass, as there were substances exiting my body from nearly every orifice. I actually spent the night in the ER with that one. *shudder*
I never threw up while I was pregnant, although, there are times I would have, had I not hated to do so so very much. See, I can often talk myself out of it.
And, most recently, after much holiday debauchery, I spent the better part of an evening perched on the porcelain with a trashcan nearby. I never did actually hurl that night either, but there were some rather impressive dry heaves.
So, there you have it. My emetic existence. My life, mapped out in basins and cold tile floors, wet washcloths and ice water. Enjoy.
So, yesterday, I took down my Christmas decorations and packed them away for another year. Normally, I'd have already done this (before the end of NY day) but Rachel was coming to visit, and we had not yet exchanged gifts, so I wanted to leave the tree up, festive, blah blah...
Anyway, as I was de-elfing my tree, it occurred to me that what we really need is some "ease back into the regular year" music.
It would defintiely help me to be motivated while I was packing away the gajillions of ornaments that I have accumulated. Just like I listen to carols when I'm decorating.
Take your stuff down off the mantle
Fa la la la la la la la laaaaaa
Pack it up in totes with handles
Fa la la la la la la la laaaaaa
Label it with tape and marker
Fa la la la la la la la laaaaaa
Shove it in the attic corner
Fa la la la la la la la laaaaaaaaaaa
And, it would help me get my eating back on track, too.
Post Christmas fridge, Post Christmas fridge
Thy shelves are bare and emp-ty
Post Christmas fridge, Post Christmas fridge
I have to now restock thee
Red velvet cake, you were so fine
But now I must get back on plan
Ohhh diet fridge, oh diet fridge
Thy shelves are full of lettuce.
I mean, it's kind of a shocking transition to go from belting out "Sleigh Ride" with Harry Connick, Jr., to singing "Rikki Don't Lose that Number" again. And It's very surreal to return to your regular diet and work schedule and everything else after a week or two of festive debauchery.
Un-Christmas carols would just make the whole thing smoother, I think.
You know, when I was a kid, the has been actors and actresses whose careers were getting near the end, or had already tanked always guest-starred on Love Boat and/or Fantasy Island.
Nowdays, they dance and/or skate.
It's kinda sad.
Although, what would be cool would be if Herve Villechaize skated and wore one of those flouncy ass skirts.
Now THAT's entertainment.
