Friday's Questions Totally Overslept Today

Sammitches.

This is not a question. Also its misspelled. Also it's not a question.



If there was a meteor ready to obliterate the planet, Chicxulub style, in about one week, what would you do with your remaining seven days?

I would just start driving, and I would probably head West, since the border would be chaos. So I would head towards Yellowstone, or really anywhere in Wyoming. And I would pick up people and convince them to come with me, or some random guy to come with so at least I could have a lot of sex while thinking about death and destruction. And once I got to a mountain top, somewhere beautiful and high, I would stay there and drink, get fucked up, wait, talk about waiting, think about waiting. And then we would die. Cause we were going to die anyway.

Oh, OR I would drive to the ocean. But only if it was going to land in the Atlantic, because I don't think I would make it to the Pacific in time. I mean, this question really depends on where the thing is going to crash. Cause I don't want to be boiled to death. I would so much rather suffocate. I think. I don't know, that's a tough one.



What is the best way to disengage a silicone marital aid from a thick mass of long human hair?

How tangled are we talking? I think just running it under the shower should do the trick, unless it's all up in the mechanisms. I am of course assuming the hair is still attached to someone's skull, because if not? Ew gross shut up.

Why do they call them marital aids still? That's like naming your puppy Ethel. Which has it's charm, but really.

Shit, now I've just gone and named my future dog Ethel. And it was totally going to be Oliver. Cause Oliver is the most popular name right now for kids, so I think it would be great to have a dog with the same name as most of the 4 yr olds on the block.



Who is the best urbex photographer in Cleveland?

This is tough, and I'm not going to answer it, because I think it's hard to pick one you like most when you talk to them. What if someone gets offended and won't share locations with me? Although it's a stupid thing to get offended by, cause basically you're admitting you think you are the best, which is obnoxious. No one should be caught doing that.

I mean, I like mine the best, is all. But that's cause they're both pretty and sentimental to me.



If I said "DS is the best in the business," what would you say?

P.S. We got dicks like Jesus

What is the best Mickey Avalon song?

I mean, obviously Stickey Mickey, because, hello, Ke$ha.

Have you ever done cocaine with David Blaine?

Look, it's not like I know every lyric. But the fact that you, in your blue collared shirt and nice shoes, know all these lyrics is fucking great. I think. I'm actually not sure.

Have you ever fucked a falcon?

No. And thanks ever so much for showing me these lyrics. That was fantastic. I hope you get roofied tonight.

No, no I don't. I take it back. I hope nobody gets roofied tonight, anywhere.





I like this girl but she died a long time ago. What should I do?

You should probably spend all your available time at her grave site, to show your loyalty and love.Don't talk to or even look at other girls, cause that would be cheating. And when the nights get really cold and lonely, maybe you should dig up her dead body and cuddle with it, watch a movie, go on a road trip. No one's judging you. It's Halloween. Also, this is America.

And if you're serious, then I'm really sorry, but there's probably nothing you can do except change your attitude about death.



Who slit the sheet?

I did, I'm sorry. It's really cold.



Summer or winter? (None of that preferable fall or spring, please.)

Yeah well, Fall and Spring are my favorite seasons, so fuck off. They are the best ones.
Whatever, fine. Summer. Just cause I like being able to drive without fearing for my life.
But I also really like wearing sweaters. And icicles. And summer is always when I get into fucked up shit, whereas winter is generally cool for me, socially speaking. Oh, and I really love hot cider and fires and hot tubs and how it gets really quiet.

I guess the answer is as long as everything is pretty stable in my heart, then I like all the seasons, cause what's not to like? I'm pretty happy when I'm not miserable.

Summer wins. I really hate driving in the fucking cold. Oh god, that shit is coming.

Ask Me Anything

Things My Cats Will Chew On

I love this song.


Edison:
-bathtub chains
-pennies
-electrical wires
-necklaces
-magnets
-fingers
-metal cutlery
-nails
-bells
-space heaters
-sink faucets
-bobby pins
-cans
-bottlecaps
(will eat ice cream but no other human food.)

Nina:
-ballpoint pens
-Bic lighters
-Styrofoam packing
-plastic cutlery (of which there has been a lot of in my house recently)
-straws
-USB cords
-plastic bags
-Nuva birth control rings
-plastic shower curtain rings
-Qtips
-the tops of takeout coffee cups
-plastic spatulas
-toothbrushes
-broken glass






PS If you're still stuck for a Halloween costume, I think you should take Christine O'Donnell's advice

"She pointed to a cardboard box in the kitchen—the kind that 12-packs of Coca-Cola come in—and told him to cut a hole in the middle and put it on top of his head. We weren't sure what she was suggesting.
"You can go as a cokehead!" she said, bursting into laughter."

We Couldn't Stay Away That Long, There was Something in Our Blood That Drew Us Closer

Hey Everyone! Sarah and I Wrote a Screenplay!

It's called Sarah and Bridget Live Blog America's Next Top Model

The Tango and the Hookah Bar

Do you remember when I told you the story of that magical restaurant in New York City that Cat took me and Jere to, when I was there for my birthday? The place where the opera singers came and sat around drinking with friends, while the piano player did requests and they all sang OPERA? For fun? It was a convergence night. Everything turned up as wonderfully as it could, the beautiful white haired gentleman owner, the free drinks, the just sitting there in awe for hours not wanting to leave. And then when we came out, the empty city air of the street and the lights.

Those nights can't be planned at all, because even though you'll go back there, and probably bring friends and tell them how awesome it is, you'll never quite bring back the shared discovery of the whole thing. The feeling of sitting there with someone else being completely entranced. And that feeling doesn't happen if anyone is aware of what they're in for when they arrive.

I mean, so we knew it was a hookah bar, which is why we went there. And we knew there were dance lessons happening that night. But I had misheard salsa when he told me. Salsa is a lot different than tango. I like salsa, believe me, I think salsa is fucking amazing sometimes, and so much fun. But tango is...it just totally evokes everything you think is romantic. Not silly kissy romantic, but serious, life or death, Paris refugee in South America, bare light bulb and cheap bottle of wine, smuggling guns for the resistance, cigarettes romantic. Combine that with being there with your writing group, everyone's notebook out in front of them, drinks, sipping mint flavored tobacco in a dimly lit rim? Yeah, fucking good luck with that. You're dead, you're stuck. That's a Henry Miller tar trap is what that is. That's Rudolph Valentino day dreams for the next 6 weeks, easy.

And the instructor, who looked just like a bit character from SyFy Channel, until he started talking. Then he still looked like the bit player, but the version you would allow to pick you up, and probably marry, and have lots of kids with. Cause that is apparently what knowing how to tango does for you. It doesn't matter how old, or plain you are, or what kind of weird nose you have, or if you totally popped your collar (and I can't even believe anyone does that anymore), if you are good at it, and have the right expression, you are just walking sex. It's sort of unbelievable. Meaning, I have read descriptions of people thinking this, but thought they were full of it. Now I know better. I am so sorry for ever thinking your descriptions too flowery. It is completely that kind of thing, and it sort of bites down on your soul.

There was this song they were playing during the beginner lesson, which kept starting and stopping as they gave instructions, teaching the girls how to walk backwards. I got the name from the instructor during the break, and then Andrew also got it and ran back to write it down for me, because it was that good of a song. La Poema. Francisco Canaro. This is not the song playing right now, though it's by the same orchestra. I can't seem to steal a good copy of this particular song, so I'm going to have to buy it, and I will immediately, and add it to the volumes of tango music now on my computer. I had no idea I loved it this much. It's rediscovering the waltz and the military march at the same time. Add in the huge blowings winds, dark gray skies, and rain all day today, and geez whiz, you can see where I'm at. I'm thrown is what I am. I'm tossed for a loop.

My mom and dad have this one poster, and its been our house since I was little, usually hanging by the stairs. It's exactly like this.

M.Berre, 1955

Oh Beer, Someday We'll be Best Friends, But I Like to Take It Slow

So I'm convinced that Brewzilla was actually a social experiment in zombie preparation. Someone was sitting around in the Hidden Headquarters of the Cleveland Behavioral Management Corporation (the CBMC), and said to themselves "we should really do something to prepare for the inevitable zombie apocalypse. Let's put a bunch of people in a mall, get them really intoxicated, and see what happens." So they organized this thing, in the Galleria, which nobody uses anymore, and got a lot of blackhearted breweries to go along with this plan. We all herded in there, and they gave us an obscene number of tasting tickets, and got a cover band to play the One Tree Hill theme song, and gave us free hot dogs and cheese. Then, around 9pm, the beer started to spill, and people started to bump into each other, and the band started playing Green Day, and I realized what was going on and ran for my life, barely making it out of the parking lot before the serum kicked in. All the while, the CBMC was watching from satellite, tracking the tagged subjects with red little dots as they stumbled through the darkened stairways.

No, that didn't happen. But what did happen is that they gave us 25 beer tickets, 25, and I think I got through about 10 of them? And I had a lot of good beers, but the one I really remember is the Stone Chipotle Smoked Porter, which at the time I was drinking it I though was really too strong for me, but now I'm still thinking about it, so obviously it made an impression. Apparently I like beers like I like men. Obnoxious aggressive come-ons followed by pepperiness, and the anticipation of heartburn. I ran into lots of people I hadn't seen in a while, and didn't run into all of the people I was supposed to see, and it was a pretty good time. There was beer ice cream. Seriously though, zombie walk people? Missed opportunity.

We left soon after I found myself taking out my camera, because there are situations in which I am not allowed to play with my camera, and one is being fucked up at the beach and the other is being drunk in a large crowd.

And wandered off through Downtown to the secret billiards rooms, and I drank a little more, and listened to cute engineers and lawyers talk about funding for astrophysics and developing the lakefront and building robot life, and yes, I played with my camera a little more. Then I drove home listening to Cat Stevens, but only the faster songs.

Dear Kanye, Please be the next Matthew Barney

Found at Disco Potential



Next in the race for best video ever, and also possibly best song to fuck to:

Inspirational

Last night, as I was snuggling under covers,( holding the cat hostage next to me because goddamnit you do nothing else to contribute to my life cat, so at the very least you are going to add to the collected body warmth under the comforter), I had the idea that we should take 15 minutes out of every episode of the Kardashians reality show, and hand out cards with vocabulary words on them. Then the family members could stand around quizzing each other, like a spelling bee, only a spelling bee where we get to watch Kim try to spell Sassafras for five minutes.

Because I would totally watch that. Also, it would be educational.

One Last Question for the Week Because I liked this one and wish I knew who it was from

Do you think mystical experiences are possible? Ever had one? I'm not particularly neurotic (or religious, for that matter) but I think I just had one. It's left me at a bit of a crossroads. Do I shrug it off and have a beer, or change my life posture?

I'm not religious. I don't believe in ghosts or fates or curses or all the invisible creepy stuff that goes bump in the night. I don't believe in some higher power that gives our lives meaning or direction. I think we're pretty much on our own, and because some people find that a terrifying thought, our imaginations invent things to help us cope. Myths give us a sense of control, naming what we don't understand. And they're sort of fun because everyone likes fear that isn't mortal. It gives us drama, death and blood and afterlife, good and evil.

I do, however, believe in psychology and the power of the brain. I think the brain is an insanely complicated wonderful tool, and we are just chimps beating it against rocks. Well no, I don't think we're really that primitive, but we aren't even close to understanding how it works. I believe in biology though.

So when someone tells me they have seen a ghost, or have had a religious experience, I don't automatically think they are full of shit. I just think we don't know what electric-chemical cascade caused it. Okay, maybe sometimes I think they are full of shit.

Mystical experience is an open ended term. Is it a chain of coincidences so bizarre you find it hard to believe there isn't a reason behind it? Or did you see something glowing and shadowy? Did you see the word Cat written on a cat? I think the mind has to process a lot of data constantly, and that there are thoughts you are having beneath the thoughts you are consciously aware of. Dreams are sort of like that, your mind cleaning up the debris from the day before, having wild freakouts based on tenuous memories of stress. So I think, and yes this is guesswork, that mystical experiences are the waking equivalents of dreams. Or you had a seizure. Or you have a tumor. Or maybe something just tripped up in your circuitry. OR, in the far more conscious area of our fucked-up-ness, sometimes we see things because we want to see them. I mean, sometimes it's good to glimpse the narrative.

If it pointed you towards god, well, whatever, that's your choice. But I think a desire for god is indicative of a desire for something else in your life, and if you just name it god, then you're missing the real point. I don't know what it is you're missing, or what you're scared of, or what you want. Obviously though , whatever the stimuli was, your brain is trying to make a connection between A and B, and there is no reason to ignore that. But don't just write it off as a mystical unexplainable thing. Find out what it is about yourself that makes you want to interpret the event this way.

As for changing your life posture? Take every opportunity to reevaluate that, whenever possible. Cause most of the time we are wrong about everything. Right now, for instance, I was wrong about trying to make rice and beans without an onion. You just have to move on.

Ask Me Anything

Fridays Questions Are Sort of Pissed at Wednesday But Will Suck It Up

Do you consider yourself a feminist? I like to think of you as an ultrafeminist but I bet I'm wrong.

I don't know. I mean, I believe that every person should be treated equally and paid equally, and that there is a structure of oppression in our culture that convinces girls they have to look a certain way and act a certain way that is detrimental to their health and well being. I also believe that even in my lifetime, I see that diluting, and that the amount of time it takes to change how men and women have thought about each other for centuries is something our impatient minds can't comprehend fully, so we get disillusioned and give up and accept that certain ideas will always exist, which is why it's important to have activists who keep chipping away for the ideal. I think it's easy to surround yourself with people who think like you, and perceive it as the world changing, when in fact most people still don't think that way. So it's important to remember how women are treated around the world, and how the opportunities I got as a little girl are in fact fantasy for most little girls. I personally like men who want to protect me to an extent, but if I was a lesbian, I would like girls who did that too. It's just who I am. I crave security from someone elses hand, and frankly there are lots of guys I've met like that too. But I would never trade that personal want for a life of being told I had limitations to my intelligence and to my role in society.

I think it's most important to believe in the right of the individual to exist, and the responsibility of a society to protect that individuality, because it's where creativity and ingenuity come from, and it's a waste as a culture to not draw upon and learn from all your available resources ie every super computer we have in each of our fragile little egg skulls. Also, it's evil and immoral to treat anyone as less valuable than someone else.


Are our parents' generation completely stupid, irresponsible and crazy (as of 2010, if not before) or is this simply the typical, clichéd, aeons-old griping one generation always does to the preceding?

I mean, the problem with this question is that yes, our parents' generation is completely stupid, irresponsible, and crazy, but so is our generation. And the generation after us. And the generation after that. And the one after that. And after that. Get my point? That's why we're always bitching about each other. It's like being the girl with the teddy bear bookbag making fun of the kid with the cat bookbag. Or something. No, it's nothing like that.


Why have I never gotten a good haircut in my life?

There are several reasons for this, one of them might even make sense.

1) Do you find yourself attractive? I'm not talking about thinking you're the hottest thing in the universe, necessarily. But do you like to look at your own face? If you don't find yourself pretty or even at least pleasant, then you're not going to be capable of choosing a good hairstyle for yourself. Let someone else do it.

2) Going right along with that - find a hair stylist you like, based completely on a shallow evaluation of their clothes and hair and demeanor. Then tell that person to do whatever they want to your head. When I go in for a haircut, I say one word - short, and I let them do the rest. If you don't like it, it's hair, it grows back. Also there is a wonderful invention called scissors, and I use them frequently if I don't like something.

3) Finding a cheap good haircut is like finding a miraculous rock that weeps champagne. So pay some money for a really good one like the rest of us, and experiment with places, and someday that one person will show up who does everything right all the time, and then you'll tell all your adoring friends about them, and then you'll never be able to get an appointment again or they will move to Las Vegas, or something. This is the hair stylist cycle. Love and loss.

4)Are you a baby elephant? If so, you are just fucked. Wear a hat. Because then you will be a baby elephant in a hat, which is awesome.

I personally have never gotten a bad cut from the guys at Crazy Mullets on W.150th and Detroit, on Monday mornings. I have no idea about the rest of the week, but that's magic time over there. Emily or Jake. Or Erica, but she's never there then.

Why?

Because when I asked the giant metal robot that lives underneath the broken bridge next to the glass factory, he told me this was the only way you were ever going to get home.


What if I nominated you for Cleveland's Sexiest Singles?

First of all, it would be weird. Second, I'm too fat, for a girl. If I was a guy, it would probably be okay. Third, I don't make enough money. Sex = money. Fourth, I spend more time at home with the cats than I do at bars, so I think I'm disqualified automatically. Fifth, last time I checked, the definition of sexy was not "able to tell you funny stories of depraved and debaucherous one night stands until you sleep with her just to shut her up and find out if that one thing is really true."


Ask Me Anything

Things Have Been Going On

This going to be a thing now, so just get used to pressing play.





This is going to be one of the posts where I just ramble on about some things, and I'm not going to strive for any coherent theme, other than, you know, my life. Which is a theme of some sort, just not the sort you would expect to get any kind of passing grade on. Doug gets mad at me if I don't do things like this every once in a while, because then he doesn't know what I've been doing in real life, and that's my fault because I've been rocking the "I hate having a phone" lifestyle.

Let's talk about that first. I love not having a phone. I mean, I actively love it, wanna make out with it, wanna spend the rest of my life in a non-phone having state (which I think is Montana, right?). I turned it off originally in the pits of the summer, as a way to not only ensure the Ex couldn't call me or text me, but also that I couldn't call him or text him. I mean, no one is more notorious for the drunk text than me (also him). In this respect, it has been awesomely and wonderfully effective. I talk to my friends through Facebook and twitter, which is the main way I was talking to them through out the day anyway. People email me. It's only been a pain a few times, when coordinating goings out, but I'll trade the peace of my daily existence for a few inconvenient evenings.

However, I totally didn't make any sort of post about it, and now that I'm out being more social, I keep running into people who are all like "hey, I sent you a text like a month ago". I apologize profusely and quietly.It'll be snowy before long, and I'll get a phone then. Probably. This is how I've ended this particular conversation with everyone, but I feel less and less confident in each repetition.

So listen, if you're not willing to work with my retro-ness, just send me a postcard.

Speaking of plans, it's sort of like if I don't keep a tight leash on my evenings, they run all around the neighborhood and do things like eat bologna from strangers that they shouldn't, and poop in other people's yards. I realized yesterday that I have exactly one night free for the next 5 weekends. And there is something I could do that night, only I suspect by the time Nov.5th comes around, all I will feel like doing is staying home and eating pie. Yes, doesn't that sound great? Having every fucking weekend filled with stuff I want to do, (though yes, the pie thing sounds great too). Except, when that thought formed in my head last night, I immediately got dicey. Like, what the fuck, what if better things come up? That is exactly the attitude I hate in some people, the whole "I can't commit to this not because there is something definite but just because". Screw that. I will embrace each and every one of these plans, and then I will not commit to anything for the rest of January, deal? Every time I go out, I will bring home embossed paper napkins and use them to build an igloo. I will cement them with my spit. Biodegradable.

I work hard
(she works hard)
Everyday of my life - and I try and I try and I try -


There's this Turning River thing, which has turned into a wonderful excuse to get together on Monday nights, play writing games, and write about uncomfortable things. You should submit things there, and join in the fun. Jere and I are awesome at that kind of thing, so now there's also Andrew, and other people I like. I've learned to drink hard liquor, like, almost magically. So I got to hang out with Sarah more, which is always a highlight, she's like sunshine. Really wry sunshine. We did this on Ohio Authority recently. I've been really enjoying my friends this last month. Everyone is just as interesting as I need them to be. Thanks for being so considerately you, you.

I'm shutting the storm windows in my house one by one, as I get cold piece by piece. My house is still very dirty, but I feel that storm coming too. It's one thing to have a dirty house when you never leave it. It's a different thing when you are regularly experiencing "coming home" to it. You start to notice smells, for one. I've gotten leaps and bounds better about buying groceries, and I've cut my smoking down to 3 a day when I'm at home, which is a huge improvement from the half a pack I had descended to in July. This is where my mother, reading this, shakes her head and inwardly yells at me. I currently have no dirty dishes in my sink. Because I haven't used any since I threw the last sinkful out. (that is a joke, but also, it's not)

My hair is going through a super cute phase. Mad Men was fucking awesome this season. Italian Vogue is on crack and in love with Tyra. Christine O'Donnell is like a Sarah Palin Halloween costume your stupid aunt wore two years ago.

What else? Oh, yeah. This feeling that a wall has been built around me, brick and stone, and no matter what I choose to hand you over the wall, it doesn't mean you got anything important. That's a good winter feeling. I'm all stocked up on feelings for the cold months.

Anything Else? Ask Me. Also, because Doug asked for it. This whole post is just for you Douggie. Tell Buddy he will get a post too, when I get my fucking tiara in the mail. Fuck yeah tiaras.

It's All In Code at the Apple Farm

Please Press Play First. Do It. I'll be mad at you if you don't because you have no idea how long it took me to figure out how to embed this.



Looks Like: a picture of pumpkins for sale
Hidden Message: You are a jerk for not carving pumpkins with your parents still, even though you are over 30 and your parents may say that they are glad to not have all the mess anymore, or the danger of Daddy cutting himself, or having to clean up the porch after the neighborhood kids smash the damn thing, because really they are longing for you to sit at their counter drinking cider and bitching about how hard it is to cut the teeth. Also, you're not even carving pumpkins with your friends? What kind of person are you? (answer, the type of person who doesn't like cleaning up squash)


Looks Like: weird gourds
Hidden Message: Playing with Barbie brainwashed you into thinking everything thin and white is pretty. No, not really. Actually, there's a lesson about how every gourd is pretty even if they don't fit in with the other warty gourds. Or its about how ugly misshapen things are all beautiful when you ask money for them. Or it's about Mandelbrot's infinite coastline. No, I'm sticking with the first one.

Looks Like: a kid climbing on some hay
Hidden Message: God, do you know how hard it is to take pictures at something like an apple farm, without it looking like you are taking pictures of other people's kids, especially with a point and click? Thank god I am a woman, cause this would be ten times creepier if I was a man.

PS I totally just noticed that cloud looks like a skull. Which means that kid is probably a Death Eater, right?

Looks Like: an orchard in the sun
Hidden Message: There is no such thing as a bad picture of an orchard in the Fall, or frankly, any other time of the year. Trees in rows are awesome. There is however something known as the Orchard Money Shot. If you are riding on a tractor, it is a little hard to get, but just like the brave polar bear will wait on the ice for days to get that damn seal when it comes up to breathe, you can get the money shot. You just need to take about 100 pictures of trees. I would like to see an olive grove some day. There is a girl somewhere out there who lives by olive groves and is thinking the same thing about an apple orchard. There should be an exchange program for this. We could get the Orange girls and Banana girls in on it too.

Looks Like: a cornfield
Hidden Message: We don't get enough chances in our life to jump out and scare someone. I need to work on that.

Looks Like: more corn
Hidden Message: Get a box of cornflakes, and take out a few flakes in the palm of your hand. Look at them. Then look at the picture. Then the flakes again. THIS IS HOW THE WORLD WORKS.

Looks Like: A field of dying sunflowers
Hidden Message: Did you know dead sunflower paddles can be used to kill a man? Or at least knock him unconscious, those motherfuckers are solid. Also, you should really learn to go to the apple farm earlier in the year, so you can see them when they are pretty, instead of dead and looking very much like a field of people up for execution. I mean, it's still pretty, but in a way that requires you to feel mean for taking pictures of them.

Looks Like: fall foliage
Hidden Message: Dude, trees are like the most honest things ever.

Looks Like: a guy on a tractor
Hidden Message: use this as a litmus test. Anyone you meet who doesn't want to be this guy for at least five minutes is an asshole.

This is an 800 dollar Fanny Pack

You can purchase it here. You can then also be my best friend for the rest of my life, because I will have to keep you around when you are super old and wrinkly, since you will obviously be the best retiree ever. And at this late stage in my life, I'm really looking to build up a stable of the wackiest and wildest elderly cohorts I can find, who will do really wacky old people things with me, like wear Chanel fanny packs and be really rich. (that last part is your job. Since you're the one who spent 800 on a fanny pack when you were 30)



PS This fanny pack is more than my rent. So if you were really my best friend, you would just pay my rent for a month. But then I wouldn't respect you. Cause this fanny pack may be many unexplainable things, but it demands respect.

Monsters in Bars

Oh tonight I am full of dreadful intent. Tonight the fuel behind my touch is enough to burn this city block down, refinished floors and all. The patterns of my fingertips are dangerous code, and when they reach behind your neck and stroke the short hairs that graze your collar, I am a living feverish stream of data, warning signals sent straight into your brain stem, flushing through your spinal fluid, clouding into your nerves like blood rushes into water, right down to the soles of your oh so well shod shoes. Destruction is what communicates in my touch tonight, the hunger of the universe to crack you open and suck out the soft parts like candy. Butterscotch is what your fear will taste like, or salted toffee, gold and thick and smoky. You'll pretend not to notice it as you look into my eyes, though you really want to turn away. But no matter how delicately the shadows of my lashes fall on my cheeks, the fear will be what you feel. You'll feel weak. You'll get angry. You'll try to manufacture outrage as a natural antibody. It won't make a difference. I hide in the place where they tell you not to be afraid of girls.

The trick is to find the ones who want the fear. Then I don't feel bad for being so hungry.

This is as close to office talk as I will ever get

Recently an email went out, honoring some employees who had gotten high results in customer service for our department.
That's nice. Good for them.
But then every manager hit reply all, and one of them said this, "Wow, I can't imagine a better list to be on!"

Really?
Can't you?
What about the list of people who will never get sick and never die? Or the list of people who will make billions of dollars by being the prettiest? Or the list where everyone on it becomes a genie and gets to make wishes for themselves, which is like genie masturbation. The list of people who get to be a dog for one day out of every year. The list of people who live in space and live off sun sparkles and moon rainbows, and never have to poop. The list of everyone who can breath underwater. The list of people who secretly carry alien DNA and can read minds.

This is why I stay quiet.

I wasn't lying about the dog thing

So lately, like, in the last two weeks, whenever I go over anyone's house, their dogs are really into me. Like, Nate's dog, washed my entire jean leg and wouldn't stop. Chris's dog was all up in my shit. The puppy who lives downstairs is wild for me. Andrew's roommates dog sniffed me like I was a lost shipment of gold covered pig ears. I don't know, maybe they think I'm an earthquake? Or I smell like cheese? (or, and this is gross, maybe I'm about to start the other side of my cycle, and they like the pheromones? I told you it was gross. Dogs like me when I'm ovulating. )

Well, my doggy karma worked out for me, because I just won two tickets to Brewzilla next week, courtesy of Jason over at Three Beers Deep. I'm ordering you to go over there now, not only because I want to build a reputation as the blogger who if you give her stuff will send people to your site and therefore you should give her more stuff, but also because the video of how they chose the winner is AWESOME and illustrates why I'm, like, the Queen of Dogs.

So if you ever really wanted to meet me, but didn't want to seem like a needy bitch, here's your chance.

Or you could have just sent me an email (see below)

This is the Proper Way to Ask Me Out.

An email from a friend...

"Bridget:

I realize that it's usually considered déclassé to discuss exs during
the first date, and probably even more so before the first date. But
this is a funny story. And, in a roundabout way, it serves a function.

Once upon a time, the year before I came to law school, I went out
with a guy named S. He was a a PhD candidate from the
Anthropology (don't you always want to spell that like the store now?)
department at ---. On our second date, I went over to his house so he
could feed me fresh fried chicken from his deep fryer. His idea, I
swear.

Anyway, so a bottle of wine or two later, he leans in and kisses me.
One kiss turns into a full make out session. Then he starts to get a
little hands-y. I stop him, because it's the second date and I'm a
recent graduate of --- looking to reform my image into "career girl"
from "crazy undergrad slut who hit on her broadcast prof." After a bit
of blocking, he gets all flustered and says, "You know, L.? We're
going to have to reach a compromise here."

"What are we compromising, exactly? My boundaries and your reputation
as not a rapist?"

"It can't be all about you, L."

I wish I could have spoken. I wish I could have said something really
clever. Instead, I tried to see past the red that blinded my vision,
and I left.

He called the next week and told me that he was sorry, would I have
dinner with him? Because I was still in that transition phase and knew
more about vibrators than I did about boys, I accepted his apology and
went out with him.

At this point, I should mention that he only owned a scooter. No car.
Just a tiny little scooter. And I knew enough not to trust him to
drive.

So he gets in my car to go out to dinner, and the first thing he says
is, "I want to talk about last weekend."

"Go for it."

"I just feel like things are moving too fast. I just can't handle it
when you're affectionate and attentive."

No lie. Word for word, he said that.

He went on and on for a few minutes about how he wasn't used to being
treated well by his girlfriends and said, "You know, sometimes, I just
wish you would be more of a bitch."

He was so busy waxing philosophical on the deeper meanings of why he
wanted me to change everything about myself to cater to his needs that
he didn't notice that I turned the car around until we were five
minutes away from being back to his apartment.

"Did you forget something?" he asked.

"No."

"Why are we back here?"

"Because you said that you needed someone who would be a bitch. Well,
this is me being a bitch. Get out of my car. And don't call me again."

We're facebook friends now.

Anyway, the whole point of this is, if the situation was reversed, if
I had to be me again and you were S., I would be that bitch for
you. And this time, I wouldn't drive off and ignore your phone calls
for three weeks and tell you, the next time that I saw you at our
favorite Indian restaurant (okay, fine, the only Indian restaurant in
Baton Rouge) that what you really needed was to pay a hooker to be
your dom for the night, in front of your friends and that boy who I
later learned was your brother. No. I would stick around and be
bitchier than a dog in heat. Because I care.

Now, when are you free for dinner and drinks?"

The Night David Came to Town

I am easily loving. I love too easily. If you put me in a situation where there is anything, anything at all to be ecstatic about, I'm there. My eyes open, and I smile continuously, and I'm willing eager ready to love anything that has to do with that scene. I'm ready for beauty, is all I'm saying.

Tonight, my friend organized a small group of other friends to go to see David Sedaris read at the State Theatre. We drank 3 dollar glasses of wine beforehand, and talked about football players with no boundaries, and then we drove to the theater separately which gives you the added bonus of waiting for someone you already found, and watching the lobby and then finding them. Outcast, and then elation. Never underestimate the meet up. There's this level of anticipation it's always good to keep in your pocket, and this is an easy way to make a girl feel found. If you want to sleep with a girl, make her wait for you in a public place.

The reading was amazing. He, the author, the one everyone was there to see, was amazing. First I sat in the seat, sipping my wine, and thinking how funny it was that everyone was laughing at things I found sweet and right and melancholy, and staring at the grey ghost ballroom dress of a chandelier that sits above the audience, it's crystals lighting up just the edges and the painted ceiling fading into this blue gray olive picture that I wish I could have taken a picture of for you. But I didn't bring my camera. My loss, always. I sometimes feel like I've relied on the camera too much, but that's the point of our digital age, the merging of fact with fiction and documentation. Anyway, he was fantastic. But I sipped my wine, and then I sipped the Johnny Walker that Andrew had brought in his magical flask, and I had to piss. So I waited for an appropriate time to visit the head, and when I couldn't squeeze my thighs together anymore, I walked out.

Into the balcony lobby, and then the girls bathroom, with the chest high radiators and comfy grandmotherly armchairs, where girls should come in scratchy dressed and dry clean only cloaks. I emptied my bladder like a race horse, all tight from its misuse, and walked out to the lobby with a clear head. Where I stood by the marble railing, staring at the lights and paints and chandeliers, the dark audience sitting below me laughing, and I didn't want to leave. So I didn't. I stood there, listening to his words, on the empty carpet. The ushers were below me sitting on the stairs, and everyone was focused on the stage, but I could stand right here, alone and beautiful, hearing everything clearly. I sipped my whiskey, and it burned my throat like a promise of yes, yes this is where you should be. Emily came down too, eventually, and then we sat like urchins on the marble staircase, with a clear wonderful view of the stage, next to the ushers. We stretched our legs on the edges of the staircase, hard and fast, and I ran my hands over the thick industrial carpeting, and looked up at the painted cameos of the ceiling, and the darkened chandelier, and everything was funnier and brighter. We were lawless. We were winning. Everyone was happy and pretty and funny. The ushers always have the best seats, it turns out. Through the marble railing posts, into the darkness, with the sound coming right at you. Against the wooden pillars, with their carefully carved gutters.

I was drunk, and giddy on my own smile. Emily and I stood in line, to speak with the great and powerful author. Our lawlessness gave us the advantage. I may have gushed about things, I don't remember, I was wearing plaid and red lipstick, which leads to forgetfulness and a feeling of your own awesomeness, your own inevitable grandness. Then we went outside and talked to lawyers. Unemployed lawyers. Television producers. City Year alumni. Valets with secret literary ambitions. I stood outside that brightly lit marquee, in the center of people coming and going, and I felt...interested. In everything. In every pompadoured man with a sports coat, and every uniformed employee, and all the shiny cars.

There's that feeling, I could have danced all night. I could have talked all night. To everyone in that place. All I want is to talk to you and know you and have fun. That's the theme right? We go from loss to love and back again, and up and down where sometimes you become aware of the adventure and engrossed in it, and you feel sorry for everyone that wasn't you that night, that wasn't with you on the stairs, feeling the carpet and thinking of all the well shod feet that crossed the very place where your fingers are touching right now.

The Quietest Place

Is up in the sky.

Is in between the canyons.

Is in a place out of time.

Like how you use to imagine the neighborhood houses talked to each other, only now you understand that they are not actually talking, but communicating on the level that only rocks understand. Flighty chatter from the fast moving glass. Low infrequent murmurs from the concrete. Superiority complexes from the quarried quarters.

Downtown was empty when I took these, their cars sitting like dead weight on the streets while they stuffed themselves in the stadium for a football game. I had to pay to park, which made it even more apocalyptic. But I wandered around alone and perfectly happy for an hour, looking at all the pretty colors and shiny windows.

I was taking this shot when the game started to let out, and like lake monsters, they crawled onto dry land and invaded the city. All oranges and brown gimmicks. I thought it was kinda cute as I saw them swarming towards me, very, you know, game day. I can't get into crowd sports. But I can understand the appeal, the festivity and military brotherhood of it. Getting drunk and cheering for stuff is good! But then the wave hit, and I became a barrier to them. It started with sullen petulant looks, distaste that I would just be standing there on the sidewalk taking pictures, of what? Buildings? Some guy, as I was trying to frame this, actually said to me "there's no point in taking a picture of that, they should just knock it down." Are you fucking serious?

Every time I stopped, I could hear people in the crowd talking about me. "What is she doing?" "Why would anyone do that?" "No, stay away from her, I don't know what she's doing." I was floored. Fine, so you don't wander around Cleveland thinking how pretty it is. But are you so barren that you can't even comprehend why someone else might take a picture of it? You just come down here for games, complain about the walk, stare at the sidewalks and girls' tits at packed bars, then clog up the highways with your fucking Hummers and Lexus (oh my god, when I left, every goddamn car I got stuck behind was a Lexus crossover, and none of them knew how to merge) and at not a single point do you look up or around and have any ghost of appreciation for the monuments around you? I cannot even comprehend how someone like that functions on a day to day basis, and frankly, it's so ugly a thought I don't even want to. That's not a person. That's a thing. That's a cog.

Maybe people only exist to build things and then they should disappear into the ground, and let the rocks talk to themselves. But it doesn't matter. A couple of asshole Browns fans can't stop things from being beautiful and scary. Did you know the BP building is a tiger shark? It's true.



more photos here.

The Bunny and the Butterfly

Couple of liner notes: First of all, how fucking great is that cake? It tasted as good as it looked. Second, the weather was the most perfect weather known to wedding history. I'm pretty sure Dawn sold her soul for that. Third, everyone you didn't know at the wedding was really nice. Fourth, do not let boys from the Southwest convince you that tequila shots with salted limes covered in siricha is a good idea. Fifth, always let them convince you. It's fucking awesome. Sixth, I got the bride's garter just because I was the last one standing, this is how you win things, like lingerie that's been around your friend's thigh. Seventh, how fucking happy are these two going to be? I mean they were already. It was a rhetorical question. Eighth, I like when people's new names fit so well together. Rebecca Fischbein Shure. Lori Lent. Dawn Durdella. Ninth, I am covered in glitter. Tenth, I got nothin. Except I love you.

more photos here.

The Traveler Consigned

This is the Austin airport. Cleveland's Hopkins looks nothing like this. At all.

This weekend is a friend's wedding. It's going to be wonderful. The Bunny and the Butterfly are made for each other, and it's just one of those occasions that are completely clear of any shadow, any doubt, any recognition of worldly troubles. Of course, that's how I feel, as a guest. Hopefully the couple at the center of it will feel that way tomorrow as well, which is why I volunteered to pick up one of her guests at the airport today, being my off day, and being an easy thing. The flight was coming in at 1:34, I live like 5 minutes from the airport, and yet and yet and yet, I still got there twenty minutes early. With lots of time for pacing back and forth trying to decide the best place to catch them when they came off the place, because I didn't know this guy and I didn't know if he'd have luggage, and in the end it turns out I need to travel more because I had completely forgotten that Hopkins bottlenecks every arriving person down this hospital hallway to one door and one door only. So all I really needed to do was sit there, get some coffee, and wait. Which is what I did.

It was wonderful. I love airports. I love how occupied everyone is in their own thoughts. I love the pace of it, which gives this wonderful impression of all of us being cogs in this great and complicated machine, this thing that is happening around us, the process of people flying and landing and traveling. The numbers glowing on the Departure screens. The airport employees walking around in their uniforms, chatting with others. The stewardesses arriving in their smart belted ensembles, smiling at security guards. And the steady ebb and flow of people checking in, their pants comfortable, sweatshirts on, bright newly applied lipstick and everyones hand on their cellphone, the other on their rolling suitcase.

I loved the Atlanta airport, all sprawling and thick with its own importance. The Austin airport was graceful, with sunlight and artwork. Houston looked like a very big very new public school. Chicago is like a spinal cord. I've taken the bus more times than flying, which is a whole 'nother entry now isn't it? The thrill of flying hasn't worn off for me. I prefer to think it never will. I remember the one time I went up flying thanks to science group, just on my own, with the pilot, in a small Cessna like thing. And I got to have control for just a little while, to steer on my own. I don't even remember the details of it, I just remember the elation, the jump of my whole little body when I felt the power in that plane connect with my fingertips.

So I think that's what remains in airports for me, that constant excitement of Holy Fuck we are going to load hundreds of people into these metal and plastic machines, and we are going to fly across thousands of miles in this vast coordinated design, and it will work day after day after day. And at the helm of each of these giant flying robotic brains, there will be a person, guiding a crew, like little ants coordinating the recovery of an entire mouse body back to the nest. Human beings will throw themselves across vast distances of time and space, and it will not be magic, but precision and consolidation, and effort so much effort. Science is the most noble achievement of man, it's the most heartbreaking and beautiful and true. It makes miracles happen just because we decide they have to.

I also thought that perhaps I should try and get a job with the airport, if you got discounts, and I could spend my life wandering around from hub to hub working, moving from apartment to apartment. Not as a stewardess of course. But just a worker bee. Stay in one place for a few years and then try something new. I doubt it works like that for workers B. But I wonder if it could. My grandmother used to work for the airport. She worked the counter, checking people in, and traveled constantly because she could. I never really thought about what that said about her. Its something we ended up having in common. I wish I could have talked to her about that before she lost her mind.

The Spider and I

I'm in the habit during work days of waiting until later in the day to take a shower. This evolved into my ritual because I am incapable of waking up more than 15 minutes before I absolutely have to. I mean, I'll lay there in bed, telling myself to get up, and it's just physically impossible to move my muscles. My body's on switch is panic activated.

So that also means when I am finally sick of myself enough to shower, I do it quickly, cause it's in the middle of my work day. The way I see it, this makes me an environmentalist, as does the pile of empty toilet paper rolls building up on top of the toilet. I could explain that one to you, but then I would have to ignore your existence for the rest of my life.

Today I jumped into a very very hot shower, looked up at the ceiling, and froze. Hanging directly above my head was a medium sized reddish brown spider. I have to say medium sized because it definitely wasn't what you would call a small spider. But it wasn't a large spider either. I would feel like an idiot calling it a large spider, because one time I saw that wolf spider sitting on the shelf at the X's parents apartment, and thought it was fake Halloween spider, that's how large that motherfucker was. So this was nothing like that. The spider above my head was a Charlotte sized spider.

But I was stuck. I couldn't turn around, cause then my back would be towards it. It was directly over the spot where I usually stand under the water. I just stood there in the back of the tub, watching it. It was crawling back and forth frantically, weaving a web, which meant occasionally it would do this cute trick where it fell on the web towards me, front legs outstretched. But then it would stop, reconsider, and climb all the way back up again. Over and over again, getting further down each time. I told myself I was being ridiculous, that I was in the shower, so it would hit water way before me. But what if it saw my head as a perfect anchor? This went on for like ten minutes, me watching it, it busily not watching me. I kept expecting it to write something out for me, like "Move over" or "It's 3 o clock, how was I supposed to know you'd be showering now?"

Finally, it got too low, and I swiped at it with an empty shampoo bottle, of which there are like ten in my tub, my bathroom is just a collection of empty or used thing, like a museum to the modern girls hygienic routine, only the opposite of hygienic. I was hoping to just push it over out of the shower, since I don't like killing spiders. It feels cruel to kill predators, they're just like me after all, only better and more effective at it. Also if I kill a spider, I later have nightmares that their kin are watching and are going to come after me in my sleep. There are certain places they are not allowed to exist in my home, namely my shower and my bedroom. Otherwise, whatever little bug killer, do what you have to.

So I tried to knock it over, but I missed, and the poor little thing got wet and ran for the ceiling. It was holding its legs all funny and scrunched, I felt so bad for a moment. But then it dried itself out. And started to come back. Seriously. Towards my head. This spider was turning into my fucking cat. Push me away as many times as you want to, I love you! I need to be close to you! I was just about to kill it when it changed directions, and headed down the wall to the shower head and tile line. It crawled carefully to just the spot where the water hit the tile, stayed there for a minute, and then crawled back up safely to the corner of the wall. Cause maybe all it wanted was a drink?

And this is why I took a forty minute shower this morning, but didn't shave my legs.

Cold toes

I really really love the rain. I love the look of it, the color of it, the smell of it even when you're drying off. So it's not that it makes me melancholy, and that's why I've been writing down all these stories about past kisses in parking lots and being sort of mean about it. It's just that the rain makes me hard and soft at the same time. So in fact the rain is making me very happy.

It's like being in a French movie all the time, only without being super attractive. Or good at being awkward. Or a butcher. Or a bicyclist with a secret past. Mostly the first two.

(oh! Or being a retired race horse.)

Excerpt from the Velveteen Rabbit

BY Margery Williams

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but Really loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get all loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

I think sometimes the cartoonists are the smartest of all of us

Seen at Occasional Superheroine.

An absolutely spot on mashup of Glenn Beck and Donald Duck. I'm sorry for using the word mashup.

Oh October

Last night a friend of mine had a scotch/cigar night at his house, so J. and I went. Turns out that not only can I drink scotch, which I had previously categorized with drinking Listerine (the yellow kind) or mud infused diesel oil, not only can I drink it, but I may actually like it. I won't be sidling up to bars to order it anytime soon, but when I hit my 50s and turn into one of those single women at the bar who flirt outrageously with anything in a suit, drinking scotch seems like a useful skill to have.

It was a good night, where everyone there was equipped with the necessary conversational skills to float around properly but not flippantly, just enough time to linger on subjects and feel like something was said, and then easily move to the next face. I appreciate that skill in people, it smooths over rough edges, you don't get monopolized by the guy who wants to tell you every story about him drinking scotch ever. Its probably from having to listen to so many trashed girls in bathrooms. I used to think it was cute, and maybe what? Artsy? To listen to so many drunk girls talk about their boyfriend, or their friend who wants to hook up with their other friend. Now it's a goddamn waste of time. I may look like your kindly older sister, but I am emphatically not. And you, drunk guy who has nothing but drinking stories, I am not your ex girlfriend. I don't find your ability to be an asshole at every bar in Tremont fascinating. Unless you are telling me stories about getting drunk in Prague and stealing a donkey. In which case, I will for sure sleep with you. Even if you made it up.

Point is, I judge gatherings of people by one thing: When you ask them a question about themselves, do they do the same? Because quality people are interested as well as interesting.

I didn't mean to say so much about that. I meant to talk about this morning. J. and I went to a divey little Euclid bar after, and got wasted and maudlin. His word, maudlin. My word would be "incurable". We drove home singing badly and softly to Belle and Sebastian, and then I crashed on his daughter's sometimes bed, clearing away the vast assortment of stuffed things, and the lipgloss under the pillow, the pink hairbrush wrapped up in the blankets. I love seeing evidence of his daughter around his house. Its the first time little girl things have been around in any part of my life since I was a little girl. They are familiar, but then also alien, because they belong to another person, and little girl things are theirs alone, they are marked. At my parent's house, I run across toys I used to play with, little miniatures or pieces of playmobil, and even now 20 years later I still feel that tight grab of the chest that says "mine". I had little girl dreams last night too, where my sparkly nail polish disappeared as soon as I put it on.

I woke up this morning with a stuffed weasel? ferret? under my chin, and Rikki Tikki Tavi ran through my head, like Nag and Nagaina were waiting under the bed to strike my weak little ankles. God, I'm such a fucking child. My mind is constantly full of childish fairy tale shit. Were they the only things that stuck with me? Then there is that moment, where you wait to hear noises from the rest of the house, and you stretch on the unfamiliar bed, legs and arms stiff and crackling like breaking a glo stick and letting the chemicals seep back into your muscles. I always feel best about my body in public places, other people's houses, hotel rooms, abandoned places. It feels stronger, younger, flexible. Unlike waking up at home, where it's a heavy sack of potatoes. I think it's the fear that makes me feel better, even at your friends house, that little tinge of fear at being discovered, or waking them up. Stumbling into their private morning. Walking down the hallway to the bathroom as quietly as you can, like you should be ashamed of your continued existence in their world.

I wiped the sleep out of my eyes with toilet paper, and walked as quietly as I could downstairs, to sit alone at their table drinking a glass of water and staring at the rain. Rain is always better for a morning after drive home. If it's sunny, you just feel like a loser. But when its rainy and cold, it takes all you have to focus on driving home, lighting a cigarette, finding a CD. It was dark enough at 10am that everyone on the highway was driving with their headlights on, and the streets were the same shiny color as the sky. It felt like the magic hour of 5am, when not everyone is awake, but you have front line camaraderie with those who are, and the cars travel past each other with respect. My clothes smell like cigars and fire pit smoke. My eye makeup is strangely intact. I wish I could drive all day today.