Trailmix to Hell

There are things I want to say about why I'm dizzy and why my hands are dry. But I won't say them. Instead I will tell you that I ate trailmix while very hungry. No good comes of this. None. My stomach has been stapled to a rock in hell. My aunt had to have some stomach surgery because of eating too many nuts and seeds. Yikes! What IS good for me?

Water. And I love water. Sometimes I forget how much I love it.

I am trying to sort out my manuscript. I write about shiny stones and food a lot.

I'm trying to sort out the things in my head. I think about moving my body more than I actually move it. When I was in 4th grade I was involved in this gymnastic "circus." I was lady of the high wire: awkwardly fumbling across a balance beam a foot off the ground. Kinda pathetic. I ran track, but only for a short period of time. My ankles hurt. I hit volleyballs, ate softballs, burned my ice-skating dreams and bellydanced in a corner. At work I have the desire to stretch and massage my feet. It is generally inappropriate to spread one's legs at the ceiling when one is in a college classroom.

The horrible ice cream song is in my head...hell-oow...ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding...hell...oow...

I ate a frozen custard from Sandy's on Thursday. It had no calories because I was eating a cone of history. History is tasty. Except for Colonial America. That is bland.

See how unfocused I am? Cerberus lives in my abdomen.

She's Off Her Head!

Good news! Barrelhouse has named me the winner of their contest for rollerderby writing! The issue comes out in the fall. I'll keep you posted. I've had interviews, reviews and poetry published in the past, but this piece is mostly prose. So it's a new thing for me and I'm encouraged that others like it

In the past few days I've worn zombies on my fingers, confused my boyfriend for a girlfriend, confused faeries for mermaids, and confounded my body with strenuous dance moves. My noggin makes a hollow sound if you knock. Some strange cloud keeps landing on my shoulders and telling me when to get up and go to work and such. It even cleaned the bathroom for me and did the dishes. This cloud is not afraid of some bleach.

I'm loathe to do anything unfun right now. Cary's grandmother died on Friday--she was a most amazing woman. I was in the room when she died. I don't think I feel comfortable writing more about this right now, but this fact may inform my future postings.

Death will snap one back into place right quickly.

That's why I keep shaking my head. Shaking things up inside there till they land in different ways. Boggle pieces? There are more words in there than I can decipher in 3 minutes, but I hope to figure out a few more each day.

Yogi/Yogurt

I went to yoga last night. It's one of those things that I think I'd be really good at if I stuck with it. Like acting in musicals, being a lesbian, or working as an accountant.

I've been eating a ridiculous amount of yogurt lately. Is this harmful?

I had a dream this morning in which I was dancing the Time Warp with a small group of people, not dressed up, in the daylight on the campus of some Ivy League college of my imagination.

We won't discuss the bad dream. The one in which I was watching a junkie friend die.

I get premonitions. I can't really trust them because they are correct only half of the time. The other half is pure paranoia, so I guess I am in a cry-wolf pattern.

Can't you wait to see my crazy yoga poses in a year?

It's All Called the Weekend

Do not worry, I am not going to write in 3rd person all the time. I am eating beans and rice and sour cream. I do that--eat at the computer. It's probably a bad thing.

I love eating good food. I mean I realllllly do. But I am really over trying to prepare food. Choosing what to eat is a horrible dilemma. It's one my least favorite things. Do you have any idea what it would be like if I were to become suddenly wealthy? I would have a chef cooking delicious and healthy meals. Someone telling me what to eat! I would have time and energy to work out all day. At night I'd reward myself by going to the movies or going out dancing, or, when the chef was off, going out to eat at restaurants that buy local organic vegetables and prepare them in daring ways.

Friday. Well. We know about the pedicure. The day sort of went downhill from there. For all practical purposes, Friday did not exist.

Yesterday was White Trash day at Nicolby's House. Cary says that I should dress white trash more often. There was much Little Debbie and laughter. What stands out strongest to me is the moment when Cary was slicing potatoes into the giant human stew, in which Colby was the meat, and my brother was attempting a dance, and some friends were singing a stew song. That's good stuff. Cary favored the Jack Daniels Coke Slurpees. Or were they Squishies?


Today I worked and then practiced a fun dance and then went to Sun Harvest and struggled with the concept of buying groceries.

And that's it. A pea-sized weekend!

A Few Things I currently hate (this list will grow daily):
whistling
harmonicas
flip-flops
driving
preparing food
people who don't cover their coughs
using the toilet
Street Teams
Colonial America

A Few Things I Like:
people dressed like animals for non-sexual purposes
chocolate mousse
really good mozarella
smelling like cake
witches and their brew
arcane words
the red glow in my bedroom
really giant or really wee furniture
people who are willing to do a little dance for me

Where Does One Begin?

She begins in the middle, on a very pretty, not-quite hot Friday while other people are miserably packed on freeways. She slurps a mango. What's the trick? How do you really handle a mango? She tears into it like a savage and revolves around the giant pit. Strands in her teeth. Fringed teeth. Angry toes!

Today was her first pedicure. What nonsense! This is torture, pure and simple. After making an appointment, she had to wait for half an hour. When it was time for the process, she asked for direction. No one wanted to take that responsibility. And to be fair, there was a wee language barrier, but the message was clear: Where do I go? Where are my feet supposed to be?

Instruments of torture are stuck in small, shared glasses, feebly attempting to look sterile. The feet are fairly safe in the bath-TRY not to think about the fact that the neighboring male Nail Tech washed down the tub only by swiping it with a towel. Now parts of her skin are being shorn off. Not. Fun. Mini hedge clippers. She is not made of leaves, my friends.

The polish is on. Paper towel is between her toes. And here comes the "paper sock." It's a flip-flop made out of packing tissue. Vile. She abhors flip-flops. Our sad heroine is placed with feet under a dryer. It should be noted that people have been staring-staring-at her tattooed legs and shoulders from the moment she walked in. They are not amused. Dour menopausal women send out their self-righteous signals. You don't belong here.

Her meek Nail Tech is hiding. She'd done everything she could to avoid eye contact with the client, and now she's run off. What to do? Put on the shoes? They are wedge sandals, not her usual footwear, but fancy footwear for the occasion. The Nail Tech returns and takes her gift certificate. It's for $30, but the service is only $20. Nail Tech is perplexed. What to do? She, her, me, she must get out. No time to learn what one might do with a Gift Certificate (most people write another one for the remainder). "Keep it all," she says. She tips $7 to overcompensate for her uncomfortableness and because she wants the Nail Tech to know that freaks are not cheapskates.

She gets the sandal straps tightened and walks out, feeling relieved that it's over. In the car now, she looks at her pretty toes. The sandals have pushed the polish around on the left big toe: the polish job has been destroyed. She is laughing.