Toilet Seat Zen?
Friday, March 31, 2006, 8:28 PM
To raise or not to raise ... that is the effing question.
For the last month, I've kept the toilet seat lid up.
I've let the bad toilet Zen run amuck in my apartment. I don't know why. It just seemed the thing to do. But maybe that always-upright, cream colored plastic orb is testamount to those weird sexual dreams that leave me gasping and unfulfilled, my missing orange sock, and the fact that my grocery store never has a bottle of Nair to sell.
Since I'm clearly over run by bad toilet Zen, I think I should be exempt for any and all bad behavior. For at least a month.
That said, you have to know how inconvenient it is to lift the toilet lid and then to lower the toilet lid after you're done. It's bad enough wasting time going pee. At four seconds a pee/pop and at six times a day per bathroom visit, that's 24 seconds a day, 168 seconds a week. That's three minutes a week, and a half hour a month.
I say reclaim that time! Zen, schmen. You can save a life in less than three minutes. Or commit murder, it's entirely up to you, but dammit. You should at least have the choice.
Anyone who doesn't agree with me clearly ... obviously ... must be intimidated by me.
Because there couldn't possibly be another explanation. Nope. Nope.
This message brought to you by Unhiingism, where all mistakes, stupid misunderstandings, crazy miscommunications, lapses in attention, bad odor, burnt turkey and bad jokes can be laid to rest at the doorstep of Ego. T. Izzim.
Which means anyone practicing Unhiingism automatically has carte-blanche.
Stay tuned for more lessons.
New members welcome. New members encouraged.
Also, ass kissing.
Oh my God, no
I just got back from a big, BIG kinda party (wha-hah-hah) where I ate lamb, veal and a raw kind of something or other. It was chewey and I had a hard time swallowing it.
And, uh, I drank lavendar flowers with a splash of vodka. (Blame it on Holly-fricking-wood.) However, I have it on the best of authority that vodka doesn't stink--that you can't smell vodka on someone's breath in the morning. So I drank two or three of the lavendar pear vodka things. God.
Now I just want to barf. I wonder if I can call in tomorrow?
Well. That's what I've been up to today.
Around these parts
I pulled a muscle in my back while sleeping last night and I've been wondering how it could have happened. Five minutes after my head hit the pillow last night, I was out. And I'm thinking that I slept in the same position all night long, one minute too long. So while a can of Coke is helping to make me feel more widey awake, there's this crick in my back that's keeping me from hunching over at the computer like I usually do.
Why am I drinking Coke? Because it comes in a half-sized can and goes well with rum. Slurpy, slurpy. Wine makes me sleepy. Rum and coke make me springith about. And I have laundry to do. Cleaning. Taxes to finish. Stuff to hang. Until all of this is done, my Zen will be like a dry corn cob stuck up my butt.
Isn't it funny and tragic how your life never turns out the way you think it will? But interesting, too? Recent events have yoinked me hair-first backwards through the hole of my imaginings, proving yet again that I am mistaken about how I am perceived by others, how what I think about myself isn't shared by others, and how to feel certain sure about something is akin to having a two-by-four slammed into my stomach. And it all hinges on taking a chance--to risk it all, even though I'm terrified and can't get a feel for the way it might play out.
And I'm getting far too introspective.
I bought a pair of knit slippers today from a 96-year-old lady who used to cook for Hugh Hefner back in the day. Paid top dollar for them, too, but not because I need a pair of knit slippers--I live in Los Angeles fuh Christ's sake, it doesn't get below thirty degrees here--but because this lady was a saleswoman. She didn't focus on the clean knitting of the slippers, nor the perils and unhappiness that cold feet can cause. She justht shared her Hollywoothd haydays, the death of her hushband, sister and son. Yeah, she had a terrible lisp and I was afraid her lower tooth plate would fly out onto my lap, but this woman had a metal walker and wore a pristine white sweater. It's possible she did cook for that womanizer, Hugh Heffener. Who am I to say that she didn't, just because now she's pushing grocery bags of knitted slippers and scarves up my street at one thirty in the afternoon on a Saturday?
She asked me a dozen times if I lived around here. And for the first time I felt as if I did.
A Friday Fiver for Olde Tymes sake
2. Which TV character is most like you?
3. Which literary character is most like you?
4. Which song describes you?
5. Which animal is most like you?
1. Which movie character is most like you?
Remember that movie Dirty Dancing with Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey? Well, I'm Baby with flat feet. The shy side of her personality was mine all over in that movie. We both have moxie to spare!
2. Which TV character is most like you?
Raymond of Everybody Loves Raymond. Just something about the way he talks. I know he frustrates the hell out of his wife, but he's sweet, funny and pesky.
(Wish I was like Kramer. Or Ally McBeal. Or Carrie on Sex and the City).
3. Which literary character is most like you?
Haven't a clue. I only read literature if someone holds a gun to my head. But I think I have traits of both Scarlett O'Hara and Melonie What's-Her-Face who nabbed Ashley from under Scarlett's nose. Impetuosity and a hot temper/patience and a sometimes seemingly stubborn belief in someone I care about.
4. Which song describes you?
Suzanne Vega's Left of Center. Yep, that's me. Over there. On the fringes. In my pink Mary Jane sneakers. Yow!
5. Which animal is most like you?
A hampster running around on the floor in one of those clear plastic balls.
Who's in charge of this kind of stuff?
Okay, so the building in which I live has two nifty laundry rooms. Seven washers, seven dryers, a snack machine, a soda pop machine, and! And they also sell little packets of detergent. It smells great in there, by the way. Like Bounce, you might say.
Anybody who knows me knows how I hate doing laundry. Actually, it's not the doing it part that I groan about. It's the putting it away part. Of course, if I had about three pounds less of clothing around, I wouldn't loathe the putting it away part so much. But I can't bear to part with much more stuff. I just can't. It's like throwing away pieces of my life and it hurts too damn much.
That fouldie-oldie green vest that's unraveling at the front? It's been with me for about 15 years. It was there with Doug, that guy I had the embarrassingly awful crush over, it was there with me the time I took a spill on the dance floor, it was there with me when I went pee in a men's restroom. I can't just throw it away. I can't give it to Goodwill, either, because the thing's unraveling and no one's going to want it.
And then there are the monogrammed sweaters. Andi. Who'd want a nubby sweater with the word Andi on it? That sweater was there with me for Mark, Jeff and Meeee-chelle, my bell. And Kurt. And George. Oh, and Jim, too. My late high school years, my early I know it all and then some early adult years. I barfed in the magenta sweater. Jeff patted the shoulder of the navy blue sweater after Mark gave me the heave-ho. Michelle and I wrote love letters to our boyfriends while I wore those sweaters. And Jim asked me to sit on the friggen handle bars of his bike while I wore one of the sweaters.
Anyway, back to the here and now and the laundry room down the hall. It's rush hour at the soap-n-suds. So here I am, typing on the computer. Isn't that what everyone does?
So, uh. Dang. I was going to say something ... oh! The layout of my apartment building is a perfect setting for a fictional story of a single girl in LA. There are windy, twisty halls that it would be easy to get lost in that lead to different courtyards as you wade throughout. I went wandering yesterday and got lost for about sixty seconds, then beat it to the floor level and back to the pool so I could find my place again. At night, it could be pretty scary ... like if this building was in the heart of anyplace but the ever-hopping LA. Always something going on here.
But there are so many apartments. So many people here. A lot of guys. Surely all of them can't be gay. And we all must do our laundry. Of course, that makes for a poor meeting--over the laundry table. Yick. But it does have possibilities and my brain is percolating over them. Has been ever since I saw this place.
What does this have to do with laundry? Nothing and everything. And now it's time for me to go see if a washer has opened up. (No, I did not do my laundry yesterday. Doing my taxes was bad enough. I owe Indiana! For the first time ever, I owe Indiana taxes! Mary! Kat! Do you owe taxes to the state you left? This doesn't make any damn sense to me.)
Anyway, all temperature cheer to you.
Earlier today, my neighbor upstairs was listening to some kind of Indian music with drums. There was a lot of repetitive sounds, beats, whatever. After a while, it became ... sort of soothing. Especially when I was hearing the same song for the fourth time. Then I felt like laughing, because I understand that kind of repetitive mania.
But I don't foist my pesky manias on others. That's the difference.
Right now I have a headache. And a slight stomach ache, probably because I ate one chocolate too many. If I thought it'd help, I'd hide the pieces of chocolate around this place to slow myself down, but I think I'll just put the bag in the freezer instead. Frozen chocolate doesn't taste as good as room temperature chocolate.
I haven't felt creative or inspired much lately. In small bursts, yes. Like one day this week when I was walking to work. The weather was beautiful, the morning air smelled great and I wished I'd had my camera with me. And I want to start hanging things in my apartment, but I'm missing my hooks for the bamboo rods that my fabric hangs from. And then there's the nagging urge to do my taxes. The dishes. The laundry.
I'm going to do them all tomorrow. Oh, such excitement! Such is the glorious life of a Hoosier hottie in LA.
So, um, I don't know
Hunh? What the?!
Why would a feed-notifcation service nofify subscribers that a blog was down for maintenace? Especially if a blog isn't? But even if a blog is down for maintenance, why would a subscriber need to know this?
Plus ... what a snoozer of an email. Thith blog ith down for mainthenance. Not at all in the unhingey tradition. No footly goodness. No laughs, no confidences, no graphics. Just a you can't read this blog now. Neener, neener, neener, sucka.
So can you read this? Can you? Let me know if you can't.
(Hah, hah, hah. Let me know if you can't read this. I'm such a dork.)
No, really. Burp or something so I know you're here if you're here.
And yes, I mean you people from Nottingham, Lisbon and Thailand, too.
Down with maintenance!
Only a test.
If it was an emergency, you would have received further instructions on where to go and what to do.
Yes, Carol, I smell that.
A modern wage slave, a monkey-bark horker, and a polygrah test
Sort of. Because writing here is like my memoir--albeit loosely. Still, things are as I say they are, at least here. Unless I lie, embellish, or fudge like memoir writers are wont to do. Who'd know, except those who know me? Muahaha.
Time for the polygraph.
Almost anyone can seem more convincing in a lie than I can in the truth.
True. Why the hell am I doing this again?
(The needle scribbles furiously.)
I am allergic to the pill patch thing.
True. If anyone wanted to kill me, all they'd have to do is to slap one of these puppies on me. My body will be decaying inside of a month.
My laugh embarrasses friends and family.
False. My laugh, which sounds like a monkey-bark hork, usually makes others jump a foot, then laugh with me. It's a glorius thing, laughter. And sometimes surprising as hell.
I lie to myself often.
50% True. I only lie to myself about how my butt looks in the mirror.
I am a true redhead.
False. But I should have been, oh, I should have been.
I would rather shirk responsibility than take it on.
False. I love being relied on 24/7.
(Buzzer. No, wait. The sound of a gong.)
Others underestimate me moreso than I do myself.
False. Damn it to hell. But at least I'm aware of this, no?
There is nothing wrong with that pair of brown slacks I wear to work.
True--as long as I'm wearing a long shirt.
This is all my fault.
True. Ain't anybody freaking else's.
I sat next to someone who farted through the first 15 minutes of a flight from Fort Wayne to Los Angeles.
True. I am a lucky, lucky girl.
There isn't enough coffee in the world.
Crunchy peanut butter is better than smooth.
Uh-uh. Not by half a bush of peanuts.
I'm just a lowly modern wage slave.
True. But it's a living.
(And the needle is silent.)
This entry inspired by a Newsweek article
So, so, suck my toe
Anybody who knows me knows I like feet. Actually, I'm more about shoes and foot prints, but any ole foot will do for me when I want a giggle. And so I give you Toe-Food Chocolates!
A friend sent this website to me after watching a podiatrist talk about his successful venture with foot candy on The Food Channel. Apparently the doctor came up with the idea of chocolate in the shape of feet as a way to thank his clients. Makes total sense, right? After all, he's a foot doctor.
There was probably the same sense of horror when someone came up with the idea of making rabbits into chocolate molds, at least with tender hearted females. But little girls have been biting the ears off of chocolate rabbits on Easter for a long time. As a little girl, I remember looking at my luscious chocolate bunny and feeling a wee twinge as I took a nibble from the tip of an ear. But he was always good enough that I would heartlessly and without remorse take another bite. Then another.
I remember feeling badly about wanting to bite the head off of my Animal Crackers elephant (I always felt the most remorse over eating the elephants and the least about eating the rhinoceros). I'm sorry, circus elephant, but you smell so good. You're not real, you can't feel pain, you're made out of sugar, flour and butter.
My point is that we all know the guilt doesn't last. And once you get over the shock of biting the big toe off a chocolate foot, you'll probably go after the second toe with great relish.
But before all of this toe nibblage could happen, the good foot doctor had to find the perfect foot model. He couldn't use a skinny foot, really couldn't go for the hammer toe look, and a fat foot would never do, either; a foot has to be aestically pleasing if one is going to eat it. When he did find his foot model in a teenaged boy, I bet the doctor had an amusing time of it trying to explain to the boy's parents what he wanted and why. I imagine the conversation went something like this:
I want to make chocolate feet, Mr. and Mrs. Phut, and your son's feet are gorgeous, just the perfect size and shape. I tell you, his toes were made for nibbling.
The Phuts, no fools they, agreed to the doctor's idea. Their boy's foot was immortalized in chocolate, dark, white and sugar-free, as well as in taffy and hard sugar candy. The podiatrist's clients loved the sugary feet treats so much that they began to spread the word about the feet they ate. The podiatrist's business grew and grew and he had so many feet, he didn't know what to do. And then other podiatrists asked him for the feet treats for their clients.
And this is how an unlikely, quirky candy idea featuring feet was born.
God, I'm jealous.
Photo credit belongs to Toe-Food Chocolates
Day in the life
On the walk home one day last week, a sedan type of car with four people inside were smoking the wacky tobacky. For some reason as I passed them, I ducked my head for a peek inside the car. And this is something I never do because of the privacy thing. It isn't any of my business what someone's doing in their car. The funny thing is, though, that at the moment I ducked my head for a look, the driver ducked her head for a look at me. And then I got a whiff of what they were smoking and totally understood the head duckage thing.
On the artsy road I do most of my walking upon to and from work, cars line the road. The people pop out of their SUVs, their convertibles, their wee-mo-biles, and feed the parking meters, then they hoppith back inside to talk on their phones, to listen to their radios, eat a hotdog, or wait for the next best thing. It's the craziest thing to a Hoosier girl used to parking her car and then getting right out of the car. That means there's no nose picking on the road--there are dozens of pairs of eyes on me at any given moment. I feel self-conscious enough as it is when I have to blow my nose.
I'm just kidding about the nose picking thing.
I haven't done it since I was about six.
Michelle was wondering about that photo I took in the last entry. "You were talking about the dining room and the bedroom," she wrote. "I thought you had a studio." And then she demanded with stark-raving-mad! Michelle-ism that I take more photos. (Girl hadn't been to sleep in almost 24 hours. There was something about wanting to do absolutely nothing with a nekkid man, although that was probably after the doing something with him 24 hours earlier--and an old boyfriend she wasn't sure she should say boo to. But she did after all. Say boo.)
I have a studio apartment, La M. One big room that I've cleverly partioned off. I'd take photos, but it's darkish now and besides, I want to get the fabric hung before I post any more here. Fabric on the walls adds so much, darling. Depth. Color. Ambiance. Warmth. Where the eff is my hammer!?
That aside, I'm still loving this place. Even if last night the upstairs neighbors were a little pesky in thumping and bumping around at 1:30 a.m. It wasn't the sexual kind, either. I can tell. This was like an oh, honey, I'm awake and bursting with go-go juice, lets hang pictures on the wall and do The Running Man for olde tymes sake in between hanging the pictures. I turned up my sound machine and fell back asleep. Just another night in West LA.
I saw a new movie last night. Saint Ralph. It was made ooot in Canada? But it was hilarious? Poignant? Bittersweet? A true gem?
Ever notice how Canadians end their sentences with question marks? Even if they're not even asking a question? Well, they do. I used to talk to lots of them for that one job I had ...
Anyway, Saint Ralph is a charmer and I highly recommend it. Especially if you need a pick-me-up. I promise you'll laugh.
Oh, my window? It's big. It's very big.
I finished unpacking all of my boxes today. All of the knick-knacks are out and the bookshelves are full with books, candles and glass thingy-mah-bog-jigs. It's looking like a home and I couldn't be more pleased. I love this little place. I wish it was cheaper, yeah, and I wish the kitchen was bigger, but I feel like this place is mine and that's damn good. I sat in the huggy chair today and eyed everything, then I moved over to the dining room and sat in one of those chairs and eyed everything. I love it! Plum, black, brown, rust, tan, sage green. I love those colors together. Ewwwwww, hug me.
Did I tell you that I lost my hammer? And my screw driver and all of its bits? Yep. They were both loose, not packed in boxes, because I used both on the day of my move. And now they're gone. I'm angry and sad about that. Either I've conveniently misplaced both in a shoe I no longer wear, or they were still on the truck after it pulled away, or one of my movers absconded with 'em. Damn, my luck with movers and moving sucks.
I'm still too tired to do an artful entry, one that makes sense from the beginning paragraph to the ending sentence. I kind of made myself a promise once I came over here to Blogger. No more brainburn type of entries that leave people shaking their heads at the monitor. If you're going to blog, dammit, make it something good.
Well, too damn bad. You'll just have to settle for the sound of the rocks knocking about in my head.
Stuff I haven't said here
It was rush-rush-rush for the past week or so, and then splat. I'm wilting over like wet angel cake.
I had a dream someone came knocking at the door at 3:30 this morning. Woke me right up, made me wonder who the hell would be knocking on a door at such un ungodly hour. Wasn't no freaking way I was going to answer the door, so I went back asleep and I dreamed about kitties turning into human boys. During this amazing (and kind of scary) kitty morph feat, my blog was racking up an astronomical number of hits and I won some kind of prize because of it--something dumb, but cute, like a stuffed hotdog.
I've got bruises everywhere. Hands. Arms. Thighs. Left bun. God knows where that came from. Wouldn't have seen it, but my new apartment has this swanky dressing room with mirrors all around and lo, there it was in all its purple glory.
Hell no, I didn't write back. I never write the feet admirers back.
Yeah, I swing by her blog every now and then. I've been getting a lot of referrals from her blog--people who click my blog from hers. I suppose everyone is wondering what's going on.
I haven't noticed any red bumps, thank God.
I'd just show up. Element of surprise and all, you know? Especially if you're going to dress the way he likes. You might get that public choke of surprise yet. Why spoil it all by letting him know you're coming?
Geeze. I guffawed like a fool over this.
You be nice and do what you want for him when you want. If it gives you peace of mind, I'm all for it. If he doesn't acknowledge it, fark him. But at least you know you're trying to do what you can. His attitude can't take that away from you.
I will miss the death of an Indiana winter blooming into spring. I always loved that feeling. It's like finally, finally crawling out of a cold, dark hole and inhaling sweet relief.
You haven't told me diddly squat, but I've been wondering.
Well, but don't 'cha know, don't 'cha know? You guys have been receiving my would-be ranty blog entries.
Could be worse. There could be a snake in the john.
It takes me nine minutes if I'm walking fast, twelve if I'm not, to walk to work. It takes me about four (not including wait time for the bus) if I take the bus. On the way, I pass the Improv, a comedy club that's been around for over what? Twenty years?
I've decided to wait for the weekend to do any more unpacking. I kicked butt this weekend. And it's best to keep butt kickage for weekends, no?
Tonight on the walk home, I ruined number four's entrance, although not intentionally. There were cameramen and a mob of people on the sidewalk -- right in my frigging way, man, I'd've had to walk out into the street to pass 'em all -- along with a big white screen and maybe a light or two. "Okay, number four," some man said. And then I strutted right through everything, me and my hot pink and blue flower print hug top. Meow. I'm not sure if I'm disappointed some guy didn't run after me asking if I wanted to be number five or not, because I really wanted to get home and cook my chicken while having a glass of wine.
I painted my toe nails mud brown the other night. Stand back, Cover Girls.
I love having my own place. Part of me feels guilty about that, because I never wanted to be a loner kind of girl. But I'm here to tell you that running from who you are and what you want is a big mistake -- Grand Canyon size. I'm still learning that I'm much better off accepting who I am, even if it goes against the norm, even if it's not exactly comfortable.
I will browbeat myself into loveable submission. I will.
(Pardon me whilst I gag.)
I can't find my hammer. Good thing I'm not ready to hang pictures yet.