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Monthly archives for March 2008
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I Want All That Stupid Old Shit (Like Letters and Sodas)
A very, very close second would be cut-to-the-chase, sexual propositions … like this one I got today through an online dating site:
Hello there gorgeous lady, how are you? I was wondering if you are interested on strap on/dildo sex with a guy. If not, its ok, sorry if I had bothered you.
Phew! I’m sure glad it’s okay that I don’t want to discuss my feelings about strap-on dildo sex with a complete stranger. I mean, I’d hate to think there were any hard feelings between me and … someone I’ll never, ever meet.
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Wee Wee Wee, All the Way to Bed
Okay, I made a promise, and a promise is a promise. Week one of the just me, spin-free zone.
- Sadly, the first banal thing that I had planned to mention about myself has fallen through at the last moment. See, I was going to regale you with the story of one of my most proud accomplishments of 2008, so far: training my dogs to use Wee-Wee Pads in the house … they’re old girls, long story. Anyway, when I tried to NOT line the entire kitchen with said Wee-Wee Pads, Molly deemed it necessary to pee riiiight along the margins of the pads, so as to best allow the urine to seep underneath them all and cover a very large area. [Ed. Upon re-reading, I realize this is every bit as banal as I'd originally planned. Maybe more so.]
- It is Friday night and:
- I opted to stay home and catch up on my RSS feeds rather than getting a drink with friends or, ya know, going out with one of the hapless fuckers who thinks he wants to date me.
- It’s 8:52 and as soon as I hit Publish I am off to bed.
- This morning as I drove to work, I had an entire imaginary conversation with my imaginary husband in which I tried to dissuade him from towing our imaginary child around the unsafe streets of Boston in one of those bike baby trailers. Oh, don’t worry. It was all in my head … I barely moved my lips at all.
I think that might be about all the me any mere mortal can—or should try to—handle at once.
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Fair and Balanced
I put a lot of effort into taking a, well, journalistic approach to blogging. Hmm. No, no, I don’t think journalistic is too strong a word. I’m conscious, at every turn, that I must resist the biggest temptation of being a
famousinfamousblogger.No … not the free blow I get at parties. And sure, the slavishly devoted male underwear models are enticing, but that’s not what I’m talking about either. The most dangerous pitfall of having a blog is turning it into a forum for self-validation.
You know what I’m talking about … those blogs where the author endlessly yabs about what a great writer she is, how witty she can be, and how her bod is smokin’ hot. (Okay, I couldn’t actually find a post where I brag about my bangin’ ass. It’s bangin’. Trust me.)
In all seriousness, it is tempting to present yourself in a flattering light, to try to control your so-called image, to put forward only the parts of yourself that (rightly or wrongly) you’re excessively fond of. Of course, this happens IRL as well. It’s human nature to want to make a good impression. In writing, though, there’s a level of calculation involved that just seems, I dunno, creepy to me.
I try to avoid self-spin … sometimes obsessively, in fact, but let’s face it … getting naked—emotionally, intellectually—ain’t easy. It’s the hardest thing there is. When Mimi told me recently to stop using the blog to brag, I began to wonder if I’ve been a little neglectful of my journalistic responsibilities lately.
To counter this possible trend, I’ve decided to begin making one post a week that’s just me … no spin. It may be a bit like trying to have a rational discussion with Bush about why we can’t use Norway as a penal colony, but the journey of a thousand miles and all that.
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What the Frig Is Going On?
Okay, okay … I admit it. I was (mostly) joking about my iPod trying to send me messages. Sometimes I milk a fleeting thought for twisted comic purposes I myself only dimly understand. Still, I can’t ignore the fact that some weird shit has been happening to me lately.
In the latest installment from the mixed-up files of Ms. Monkey-Gurl, my high school boyfriend, Seth, joined Facebook recently. I wouldn’t call it reconnecting, exactly. We hang out every once in a while, send each other birthday texts and so on, but it had been long enough since we spoke that the friend request seemed kind of random.
Anyway, we’ve been messaging back and forth the last couple of days. He asked if I was still single. I asked if he was still into dudes. (Yeah, we didn’t really have a prayer.) He teased me about being too old for Facebook. I posted a picture of him I knew he hated. We made plans to get together for drinks. It was all very usual, very ordinary.
Then this morning, I got a text from him:
Is it possible I saw you walking down Summer Street yesterday?
Fuck it if he didn’t see me out on my run last night. Of all the gin joints … seriously.
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There Once Was a Man from Nantucket
I know this will come as a huge shock to you … me being such a social, joiner, crowd type and all, but I’m not really a fan of the many beloved St. Patrick’s Day rituals. Waiting outside in the bitter cold to get into a crowded dive bar, wearing “Kiss me, I’m Irish” flair and barfing green beer are strictly amateur night. If St. Paddy’s Day had a slogan, it would be “I’m not an alcoholic, but that won’t stop me from drinking like one.”
When I was out earlier, though, I saw something that made me kinda wish I wasn’t such a scrooge.
Karaoke and limericks? Word. That’s How I McRoll™
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5 Words You Use that Support My Suspicion You Have a Small Dick
Now, I enjoy using big words to make others feel stupid and/or uncultured as much as the next person. I also understand that every day a man has fewer and fewer socially acceptable ways to demonstrate to potential mates how desirable his genetic material really is. However, there’s a fine line between being erudite and, ya know, trying way too hard.
- Erudite. Yeah, yeah. I know I just said it … I do not have a dick. See how that works?
- Rubric. Dude, this sounds fancy, but it’s so fucking vague you might as well start making up your own words. Well, I found Richard Dawkins’ last book a little egloserous. At least then you’d get points for creativity and flat-out ballsy-ness.
- Copacetic. I know this one seems like it can’t miss. It’s four syllables, and it’s used a lot in alterna-rock/hip hop/rap songs. Can you say street cred? Umm … yeeeeeeeeeeah.
- Praxis. Praxis? Really? And I suppose you can tell me how this is different from a plain old practice or custom. Mhmm.
- Heuristics. I’ve saved my personal favorite for last, and I don’t think it needs much explanation. It’s the verbal equivalent of driving a bright yellow Hummer … with a pair of bumper balls. [Ed. Think long and hard before you click that link.]
Why, god, why?
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Serendipity Is Not a River in Egypt
As you’ve probably noticed, Song of the Day has become something of a regular item in recent weeks. You might think it’s just a case of me casting about for filler because my life is so full and fabulous. Hey, could happen, but … no. The SOTD trend reflects a serious and rapid deterioration of my mental health.
See, I don’t really choose the song of the day. It kinda, well, “presents” itself to me. Hmm. Let me try to explain a little more … better.
About two months ago, my commute went from T‘ing it to driving. Back in the T days, I passed the time by doing a crossword or reading or people-watching, but now that I drive, my morning pat-check is pretty much: keys, phone, lip gloss, iPod.
I can’t be bothered to make quality playlists, so I almost always set the music to shuffle. I also just really dig that feeling of glee you get when a beloved song jams unexpectedly. (This, in fact, is how SOTD got started. I believe it was Soundgarden’s “Spoonman.” It came on one morning, and I was like Duuuuuuude! Song. Of. The. Day. Rock fingers may or may not have been involved.)
Okay, sane so far.
Well, more and more, the shuffle seems … less than random. What I mean is, I get the feeling that the iPod is pushing certain songs or particular artists. So, for example, every single goddamned morning last week the iPod wanted me to listen to “Save a Prayer,” by Duran Duran. (And this is exactly how I’ve come to think of it, by the way. “The iPod wanted …” is no literary device.) The iPod also has an intense fondness for Massive Attack and Bright Eyes. It doesn’t matter how many times I skip, I get at least five Massive Attack and three Bright Eyes per morning.
Sure, all this may seem like nothing but a petty nuisance … fodder for the blog or first-date schtick, but there’s a darker side: I’m increasingly interested in what the iPod—and, by extension, life—is trying to tell me.
The iPod wants me to listen to John Parr’s “Naughty Naughty” every evening on my way home. That much is clear. The question is why?
Don’t tell me “I don’t wanna be a girl like that.”
Do you wanna see a grown man cry?
You don’t wanna be a girl like that.
Baby, this could be the first time (this could be the first time).If there’s a life lesson in there for me, I’m missing it.
Let me say in my own defense, I’m not particularly superstitious or spiritual. [Ed. Totally untrue.] I walk under ladders. [Ed. Lie.] I let spilt salt just brazenly lie there most of the time. [Ed. Lie.] And I’d be really fucking blown away if there ends up being an afterlife, a god or an Easter Bunny. [Ed. Still holding out hope on the Easter Bunny.] Still, part of me is drawn to the idea that things happen for a reason and that the reason is discernible if we’re open to discovering it … in other words, that the shuffle ain’t random.
Run-of-the-mill hippy-dippy shit? Maybe.
I’m pretty sure when you start attributing motives and desires to electronic devices, though, you’ve jumped the rails (or you’re about to).
Anyway, I share all this with you now for three reasons:
- If you have any knowledge of the program that drives the iPod shuffle feature, contact me immediately. I fear only a deep and thorough understanding of the code will dispel the scourge of magical thinking that has taken root in my psyche.
- If you notice an inherent pattern in the SOTDs, contact me immediately. I fear it is terribly obvious … to everyone but me.
- If you know someone at McLean Hospital, contact me immediately. I fear the waiting list is very, very, very long.
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The Birth of an Idea
[15:13] Kiki: i don’t know what’s wrong with me but i’ve been eating so much red meat lately
[15:13] Kiki: like every other day … it’s crazy
[15:13] Em Em: maybe you’re anemic
[15:13] Em Em: or maybe you’re just super-carnivorous
[15:13] Kiki: if i didn’t know better, i’d think i was preggers or something
[15:13] Em Em: omg!
[15:13] Em Em: now THAT would be wacky all right
[15:14] Kiki: oh, no worries … i’m NOT preggers
[15:14] Kiki: that is for certain
[15:14] Em Em: hee
[15:15] Em Em: well, even if you are, i get the first 5 years anyway
[15:15] Kiki: oh, right. i forgot our pact
[Whoever has a kid first, we've agreed that Em Em gets to raise it from 0–5 … I get 6–18.]
[15:15] Kiki: that works
[15:15] Kiki: i’ll be kinda crazy for the next 5 years at least
[15:16] Em Em: the VERY least
[15:16] Kiki: yeah
[15:16] Kiki: too bad u can’t have kids and freeze *them* instead of just the eggs/embryos
[15:16] Kiki: cuz it would be good to get the physical part out of the way while the skin is still elastic
[15:16] Kiki: u know?
[15:16] Em Em: omg, that’s the best idea
[15:16] Kiki: right?
[15:17] Em Em: yeah, we gotta work on that
[15:17] Kiki: do i smell a business plan?
[15:17] Em Em: i hear there’s a ton of empty biotech offices in cambridge too
[15:17] Em Em: we can cook up the technology!
[15:17] Kiki: word
[15:17] Kiki: sometimes i’m so genius it’s scary
[15:18] Em Em: dude, i KNOW
[15:18] Em Em: i’m cowering in the face of it
[15:19] Kiki: rofl
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¡Feliz Cumpleaños!
It’s no exaggeration to say reading One Hundred Years of Solitude changed my life. I figure the least I can do to demonstrate my gratitude is say happy birthday to the guy crazy brilliant enough to write it … dude’s a fucking rock star in my book. (And not *only* because he’s managed to maintain his boyish figure all these years.)
Cheers. Here’s to many more, Gabby.
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Name's Kirsten. I'm a splitter of hairs, a hillbilly, a rock horns devotee, an ellipses-lovin' fool, and queen of the conceptual jinx. I'm also a geek and the grateful human of littleblackdog. I do this and that and some of the other … up to and including writing this here blog.
random linkage
cheese for dinner by kirsten k. hammann is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
SuperMini by unnerkrunt and nocreativity.