I was planning on writing about Valentine's Day because I was gonna pretend that I got a ruby bracelet. I would create a morality tale about the epiphany that I am superficial. Then I had a true revelation. Forget the goddamn morality thing. I would like the ruby bracelet. I imagine a gold clasp. I want an inscription, too. A word both cryptic and eclectic. None of this forever crap. How's about more or insane or vulva? Something catchy.
I am not getting a ruby bracelet. Don't get all indignant about how spoiled I am, how mainstream and regressive, complaining about a ruby bracelet. I'm hot for rubies. My students give me little notes from home in envelopes, and I say "ooh, finally, my ruby earrings." Why not? Am I supposed to settle, on this, the holy day of women-chained-to-men getting good crap, for some perfumed lace? Do I willingly ignore the gems I see on other women's fingers, as I do every other day of the year? I would accept any ruby, but I need a bracelet. It could represent all of my hypocrisy, so that when my teenager hurls that word at me, I'll say "I know! Isn't it a beauty?" Hypocrisy - the perfect inscription!
My friends would look at it and wait for me to tell them at which used clothing store I picked it up. And I'd chuckle to myself and shake my head slowly. "Oh no, Ball & Chain had to take out a loan." Their eyes would light up with admiration, and they would beg to hear how much it cost. When he purchased her engagement chunk, my grandmother had my grandfather admirably bow to her will. He bought her a diamond. When he showed it to her, she laughed heartily at its miniscule size. They went back to the jeweler's together, and she chose an absolute planet of diamond: it's so heavy it lolls to one side on my mother's finger. My grandfather had to borrow money to pay for it. Now that woman had ovaries.
Contemporary marriage is fucked up. If I ever rejected an item of jewelry, it would be cause for much stewing. And when I insisted it was too small, I hardly think I'd get a friendly response. Who's the boss over here if I can't even get some pricey stuff in the deal? One time I gushed over a lapis lazuli fish that B&C presented to me outside a shop. A year later, back in the same shop, I saw the fish - and a hundred others - in a glass jar for $2.95 My grandmother would be ashamed.
I'm currently reading Maus by Art Spiegelman. So if you can figure out how a Jewish girl can read about her ancestors starving and suffering, and then blog about gem deprivation, write in with a diagnosis. I think it's ASD/MA, or Appallingly Shallow Disorder, with Materialism Anxiety. If you check out the DSM IV (Psychological Diagnostic Tool), I meet all the criteria, including "believes material goods will genuinely create feelings of well-being." Oh, come on! Doesn't everybody?
Back to some light reading.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Dracula, Dresses & The Lifestyle to Which I am Accustomed
I have had the opportunity to watch a lot of television. I have had the opportunity to look at a lot of people in a lot of bad dresses. It's a bit of a blur since I was doing the recuperation thing, but some of the dresses were like alarm clocks, causing me to rise up from the couch, and cough a lot. I suppose that's the intention. I like how they say 'Nicole is wearing Eve,' to refer to a designer, as if there is an actual person draped over the celebrity. We could also drape a celebrity over another celebrity. I'd like to see one of the super-skinny ones, maybe Calista Flockhart, although I really have no idea what she does now (I know who she does, but that's different), draped over a genuine beauty with a female figure - Queen Latifah, for example - like a stoll around her neck. Queen Latifah would be in her glory, and when she took Calista off, she could just drape her over her chair.
Dontcha just adore a great dress? On my 35th birthday I thrifted a stunning red vintage piece that was velvet and snug and silk - off my shoulders. The little darts were too high for my tits, but I kinda nudged them up and no one seemed to notice. I inhaled the attention like so many chocolate-covered cherries: easily, graciously. "Thank you," I smiled. Internally, of course, I was cramming it in like a Big Mac after 3 weeks on the island. Yes, I am still hot. Yes, I am a beauty. Yes, I am still about as superficial as they come. And the most important: can I really sit down in this thing without busting the back zipper?
How politically abhorrent, you say! I thought this woman was a feminist, or at least progressive. I am, I am, but I gotta be me. An entire childhood of adult appraisal regarding one's face does not create a balanced self-image. This is not to say it was hard, but merely to say it is the lifestyle to which I was accustomed. And most days I can only accustom myself up to good-enough-to-present- one's-self-at-work. Going out at night, however, draws the vanity back in, as if Dracula vamps a bite as the sun sets and I am re-obsessed with the face and the dress.
The ball and chain, well, he does not accommodate. At all. Why, it's as if he married me with a blindfold on. In fact, at the above-mentioned party, another man had to tell him to tell me that I looked good. I may have complained about this before. Nevertheless, Ball & Chain is a fool, a withholding manipulator, and I think he should tell me how pretty I am.
But back to the dresses. Teri Hatcher was wearing something akin to Fleetwood Mac's early days, and Madonna is now attempting to out-bizarre Michael Jackson. I can't see her face. I can see something, but the components don't match. I cannot recognize Susan, and I wouldn't seek her, desperately or otherwise. There were some others, and if you visit Go Fug Yourself, you will see the fugliest there, plus have a good laugh.
Perhaps I should go write some journal entries about my warped self-image. No, I think other people can judge me for my warped self-image. I'm going to go buy valentines, and perhaps some chocolate-covered cherries.
Dontcha just adore a great dress? On my 35th birthday I thrifted a stunning red vintage piece that was velvet and snug and silk - off my shoulders. The little darts were too high for my tits, but I kinda nudged them up and no one seemed to notice. I inhaled the attention like so many chocolate-covered cherries: easily, graciously. "Thank you," I smiled. Internally, of course, I was cramming it in like a Big Mac after 3 weeks on the island. Yes, I am still hot. Yes, I am a beauty. Yes, I am still about as superficial as they come. And the most important: can I really sit down in this thing without busting the back zipper?
How politically abhorrent, you say! I thought this woman was a feminist, or at least progressive. I am, I am, but I gotta be me. An entire childhood of adult appraisal regarding one's face does not create a balanced self-image. This is not to say it was hard, but merely to say it is the lifestyle to which I was accustomed. And most days I can only accustom myself up to good-enough-to-present- one's-self-at-work. Going out at night, however, draws the vanity back in, as if Dracula vamps a bite as the sun sets and I am re-obsessed with the face and the dress.
The ball and chain, well, he does not accommodate. At all. Why, it's as if he married me with a blindfold on. In fact, at the above-mentioned party, another man had to tell him to tell me that I looked good. I may have complained about this before. Nevertheless, Ball & Chain is a fool, a withholding manipulator, and I think he should tell me how pretty I am.
But back to the dresses. Teri Hatcher was wearing something akin to Fleetwood Mac's early days, and Madonna is now attempting to out-bizarre Michael Jackson. I can't see her face. I can see something, but the components don't match. I cannot recognize Susan, and I wouldn't seek her, desperately or otherwise. There were some others, and if you visit Go Fug Yourself, you will see the fugliest there, plus have a good laugh.
Perhaps I should go write some journal entries about my warped self-image. No, I think other people can judge me for my warped self-image. I'm going to go buy valentines, and perhaps some chocolate-covered cherries.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Supreme Reproduction
I haven't mentioned politics much because politics make me crazy. Not because I cannot make up my mind but because when I listen and when I read it all becomes one unscientific morass of how could this possibly be happening? Do we really have to find out whether a man supports my right to have an abortion before he sits on the Supreme Court? I know I have a goddamn right to an abortion. Why the hell do I have to listen to this idiocy over and over? Must I pretend that there is another side? Is Mr. Alito gonna come on over here and give me my next pap smear? Maybe he could like be my rabbi or something, or my lesbian partner.
I hear and read many intelligent people critiquing this and other subjects. Yet - and this is not some tirade about why I don't vote because I do, or why I don't do anything, because I do - I am hard-pressed to stick with a conversation about his swimmer and my egg and the future of the resulting zygote. The tiny little doober is inside me, get it? I feel that if George Bush does not want me to have an abortion he does not have to perform the procedure. I wasn't planning on inviting him, anyway.
Do we ask nominees how they feel about male circumcision? How about peeing standing up vs. sitting down? Vasectomy? Testicular abnormalities? Premature ejaculation? Impotence? Do you notice how none of these are very good analogies? Maybe I'm irresponsible when, after a few minutes, I cannot bear wasting time listening to the governmental preoccupation, no, obsession with my uterus, when they should be protecting all the babies who are already here. I'll bet there are even babies in Iraq, and other strange countries like that.
Perhaps I was too hasty about that invitation to George W. If I decide to have a third baby, I'm inviting the Supremes and George (not Laura, she's too busy advancing literacy) and they can watch my whole genital area puff up like a basketball, my labia inflate into man-eating suckers, the blood and the mucus all over the head, and the blobby baby in all of his of her veiny glory. Before they can sing Hallelujah! I'll give birth to the placenta. George will have brought an old Maine lobster pot, and I'm sure Ruth wouldn't mind supplying the Dansk bowls. Mmmm... placenta stew. And sweat pouring off me, my protectors gathered around, I'll be like, "Hey Rose, Guys, what do you think I should do with my baby?"
I'm just grateful they'll be there to help.
I hear and read many intelligent people critiquing this and other subjects. Yet - and this is not some tirade about why I don't vote because I do, or why I don't do anything, because I do - I am hard-pressed to stick with a conversation about his swimmer and my egg and the future of the resulting zygote. The tiny little doober is inside me, get it? I feel that if George Bush does not want me to have an abortion he does not have to perform the procedure. I wasn't planning on inviting him, anyway.
Do we ask nominees how they feel about male circumcision? How about peeing standing up vs. sitting down? Vasectomy? Testicular abnormalities? Premature ejaculation? Impotence? Do you notice how none of these are very good analogies? Maybe I'm irresponsible when, after a few minutes, I cannot bear wasting time listening to the governmental preoccupation, no, obsession with my uterus, when they should be protecting all the babies who are already here. I'll bet there are even babies in Iraq, and other strange countries like that.
Perhaps I was too hasty about that invitation to George W. If I decide to have a third baby, I'm inviting the Supremes and George (not Laura, she's too busy advancing literacy) and they can watch my whole genital area puff up like a basketball, my labia inflate into man-eating suckers, the blood and the mucus all over the head, and the blobby baby in all of his of her veiny glory. Before they can sing Hallelujah! I'll give birth to the placenta. George will have brought an old Maine lobster pot, and I'm sure Ruth wouldn't mind supplying the Dansk bowls. Mmmm... placenta stew. And sweat pouring off me, my protectors gathered around, I'll be like, "Hey Rose, Guys, what do you think I should do with my baby?"
I'm just grateful they'll be there to help.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
The Artless and The Unchanged
If Hazel is sick in bed does she hafta get dressed? Does she hafta change her pajamas? Her underwear? I rather enjoy letting the clothing warm to the body temperature and then remaining in said night clothing for the length of time one is sick or until warm underwear becomes blotchy with female fluids and such at which point one may want to remove the underwear and put the same cozy pajamas back on.
Fear not! If you have read about the hypertonic pelvic floor, Hazel is not bothered by that currently - it has become regular tonic, or maybe gin & tonic, but not hypertonic. Thus, the underwear is dry, toasty, and unchanged for days. Oh, admit it, you do it too!
Why refer to Hazel rather than myself? Well, I went to type this post and the image of Hazel in her apron outside the little house came to me. She was bold, so 'out there' about all kinds of taboo issues. You know when she went out at night, she took off the uniform and wore only the apron? If only. Hazel was a television maid, of course, beloved to all: white skin, quacky voice, red hair, stout posture. She loved her little family and needed nothing more than to make them happy. Kinda like the tree in Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree. No! I am not going to link to Amazon.com here. Find it yourself. Hazel was happy to be a stump and let her family take the apples, the branches, the wood. She'd just watch and shake her head happily.
So Hazel's watching the world go by, except this Hazel's contemporary, wearing dirty underwear, reading, and watching bad t.v. And not giving a goddamn thing. I did watch t.v. yesterday - what a mistake. I think it made me sicker seeing Vicky doing her split personality again. Honestly, I have been watching bad t.v. my whole life: Ryan's Hope, All My Children, One Life to Live, Room 222, The Partridge Family, Family (Kristy McNichol), H.R. Puffinstuff, and other varied horrors. Twenty five years I've been watching a bad actress pretend to have multiple personalities. Every time I have been utterly embarrassed for her, yet riveted to her ability to continue, unabashed.
They useta have a commercial in which a reporter-type would knock on someone's door and ask when a housewife had last changed her Arm & Hammer Baking Soda. "Last June," said one. "Thanksgiving?" asked the second. And the third shrunk her face up. "Was I supposed to change it?" My friend from across the street switched the question to "When was the last time you changed your underwear?" Thirty years later, I dare to ask the same question, but slightly edited. Last time you were sick in bed, how many days did you go without changing your underwear? Hazel is heading for a record at 4 days. In this endeavor, I follow Vicky's lead: unabashed, but also unwashed.
Fear not! If you have read about the hypertonic pelvic floor, Hazel is not bothered by that currently - it has become regular tonic, or maybe gin & tonic, but not hypertonic. Thus, the underwear is dry, toasty, and unchanged for days. Oh, admit it, you do it too!
Why refer to Hazel rather than myself? Well, I went to type this post and the image of Hazel in her apron outside the little house came to me. She was bold, so 'out there' about all kinds of taboo issues. You know when she went out at night, she took off the uniform and wore only the apron? If only. Hazel was a television maid, of course, beloved to all: white skin, quacky voice, red hair, stout posture. She loved her little family and needed nothing more than to make them happy. Kinda like the tree in Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree. No! I am not going to link to Amazon.com here. Find it yourself. Hazel was happy to be a stump and let her family take the apples, the branches, the wood. She'd just watch and shake her head happily.
So Hazel's watching the world go by, except this Hazel's contemporary, wearing dirty underwear, reading, and watching bad t.v. And not giving a goddamn thing. I did watch t.v. yesterday - what a mistake. I think it made me sicker seeing Vicky doing her split personality again. Honestly, I have been watching bad t.v. my whole life: Ryan's Hope, All My Children, One Life to Live, Room 222, The Partridge Family, Family (Kristy McNichol), H.R. Puffinstuff, and other varied horrors. Twenty five years I've been watching a bad actress pretend to have multiple personalities. Every time I have been utterly embarrassed for her, yet riveted to her ability to continue, unabashed.
They useta have a commercial in which a reporter-type would knock on someone's door and ask when a housewife had last changed her Arm & Hammer Baking Soda. "Last June," said one. "Thanksgiving?" asked the second. And the third shrunk her face up. "Was I supposed to change it?" My friend from across the street switched the question to "When was the last time you changed your underwear?" Thirty years later, I dare to ask the same question, but slightly edited. Last time you were sick in bed, how many days did you go without changing your underwear? Hazel is heading for a record at 4 days. In this endeavor, I follow Vicky's lead: unabashed, but also unwashed.
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