Artifice, Love, and Dicks

Last night, Rugelah and I watched a show in which older women and younger women competed against one another for the attentions of a tall guy with an accent and a pea for a brain. Really, though, how intelligent could these women be? You may be wondering why I'd watch with my daughter. It's because I'm a bad and hypocritical mother. Besides, the day before, I made a major effort to attend the Impeach Bush/Cheney protest in Kennebunkport, so my Good Mother Points were way up there. Rugelah didn't come with me, but I set a helluva good example. Big Kid said it was futile to go, and that really set me off - a cynical teenager - so I had to go. And with my Mommy and Daddy, no less.

There were lotsa people there. On the shuttle bus, I sat next to an amiable fellow who spends half the year around Maine, half in Florida. He looked maybe fifty-five, and he chatted about Bush's many violations of the law. As the bus neared its destination, he lowered his head and said something on the evidence that 9/11 was really an American, home-grown job. Oh Lord, I thought to myself. I can't abide conspiracy theories: they're just too hokey, or something. Even when Ball & Chain was convinced Rugelah had conspired to lose her glasses, it caused terrible turmoil in our home, and it turned out to be untrue. At the rally, some talented speakers did a good job of making a point. Some other people campaigned for Kucinich and I'm like stick to one issue, puhleez.

So back to my low-brow activities. After a day of blathering on about the inadequate and inaccurate media coverage at George Bush's summer shack, I needed some down-time. Way down. I think it was called Love Connection, or something like that. Ooh, remember that show? People would try to figure out if they had the connection. there was some catch, like they couldn't see each other? Horrors. On the show last night, a buncha women just prayed that a guy would choose them over the others. The so-called man was an utter boor, kissing everyone, and whining on about how hard it was for him to choose. Each woman, in succession, talked about her growing feelings for him. It was a little like an election, I suppose, with everyone getting all hyped up about someone we don't really know. We feign strong feelings for the person, but then if we find out he got an illicit blow-job, we're like 'kick him off the island,' or the show, or the Presidency.

Who the hell would ever join a gang of a buncha women waiting to be noticed by one guy? How utterly demeaning. Each of them, Rugelah pointed out, had flat tummies, large breasts, and - I noticed - a pleading expression (please pick me!). We agreed that neither of us would ever sit around in a herd, hoping not to be dismissed. Yet as a public policy matter, it seems we all do that. Who are these people who run for the Big Office? I never met them. They are strange men, literally strangers, pretending to know us. The point is, don't fuck around with strangers, especially on t.v., and probably if they're the President, and absolutely not if you are meant to compete with a herd of needy Barbie-dolls. (No offense, Barb, I'm sure you're monogamous.)

We missed the best part of the show, though, or what looked like it would be: one of the women was getting ready to ditch the guy. There was no chemistry, and she was ready to be done. She talked empowerment, but that ended quickly. He asked her to stay, then there was a commercial, and then by the time we got back, she had returned to the herd of girlfriend-wannabes. So, begging your pardon, this really is like the Presidency. It's a lot of artifice, it's televised, people feel passionately. The problem is, after the Presidency Show, the dumbass main character is truly still living in the White House, and he's already chosen a scary partner, a real Dick.

Intermittent Me/ How to be "A Writer."

As anyone can plainly see, I have been on yet another hiatus from blogging. Ironically, I have been trying to get back to story-writing, but instead of doing that, I've been somewhat paralyzed. Some folks tell me to blog, some folks tell me to get back to stories. My writing is definitely a metaphor for what's going on in my head, and it is definitely not a linear matter. I need guidance.

Perhaps some of my former readers will come back and tell me what you think? Truly I want to pursue my writing my I'm sorta slogged about which to do. Perhaps the answer is to try to do it all, and I could post some stories and poems. Anyway this, is meant to be brief, as the navel-gazing is not warranted given the circumstances. Any advice about How to Pursue One's Writing would be appreciated.

Did I Really

say "I'll be riding tonight" yesterday? I did, of course, and upon re-reading it, I am stunned that I wrote something so very absurd. How ridiculous. I was channeling a college guy in Arizona, maybe, or just writing something that would look embarrassing later. I am purposely not deleting because it is so ridiculous and I can be a doofus and demonstrate that it is okay to appear foolish and live to write about it.

Back when I wrote that, I looked like a regular forty-ish gal. Now, on Chrystal's advice, I look like a punk wannabe and it does not work. My hair color was too light, she said. Make it darker, like your natural color, she said. Use this and that crap from the store she said. And after an apparent channeling of Lucille Ball on one of her most hysterical days, I neglected to read the side panel and I ended up with purple hair. No, I am not exaggerating. Both children laughed. Even I laughed. I washed and washed and washed it. I thought it was better, but yet another friend said to put brown over it. I did that, too - this is all month-long color, nothing too damaging - and now I look even more witchy. Fair skin , dark hair, circles under my eyes even more visible. I'm already rehearsing the easy laugh for tomorrow when I return to work looking like I had a mid-life goth crisis.

I told Rugelah: "This is what vanity gets you." At the time her face was contorting this way and that, in an attempt to express her thoughts about the red stain in my hair.
"But you're not vain," she answered.
"I'm vain enough to color my hair," I told her.

I look like an ass, or rather, a dumbass. It's a bit Ronald Reagan, with my wrinkles and other skin flaws more pronounced. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? I may need to visit a salon so I can be presentable again. Or maybe my hair will be a family science experiment. What exactly does nutmeg to auburn to light brown highlights actually look like? I wish I could see that I am embracing the very idea of looking foolish and managing it, but it was much easier when I was using lame language on my blog. Looking stupid, now that's harsh. Did I really? Yes, I did. Gimme a broomstick, pierce my tongue, my cheek, my brow, I'm ready to ride.

Eating, Fake Television Eating, and Sexy Food

I ate so much I sorta made myself sick. Sick because my intestines were crammed full, and sick in the figurative sense, as in disgusting myself. But it was all so good. An analysis of food and television is in order. Of course, this will not be a comprehensive analysis; it will be from a more engaging and Lucy-ish perspective. Yummy and entertaining!

We all know in the old days, people pretended to eat on t.v. Why? Maybe they were worried about food in the actors' teeth? Or perhaps it was the concern that food doesn't film well. Thus the use of wax or white glue or something on cereal commercials. Perhaps that's an urban myth? What does it mean to watch television and eat, and watch people eat? Not much, but it could be a proper analogy for the show, and logically, and excellent analogy for actual people. But it's not even an analogy. Like if you drink coffee from a diner mug whilst watching Seinfeld, there is no analogy, you're just sticking yourself into a diner with them, or pathetically paying homage to an actor (in a re-run, no less). Eating crappy food while watching crappy television - that's appropriate. There's nothing left in the house so you're stuck with something like a can of old soup, and there's nothing on t.v., so you're stuck with an infomercial, or even worse, the Unfunny UPS guy sitcom re-runs, and his perpetually annoyed wife. How did they ever get Jerry Stiller to agree to that? Television imitates life, and life is like television, especially at the mediocre moments, and people eat, or not, in both places.

When I first stayed over at a girl we'll call Priscilla Harrington's house - we'll call her Priscilla Harrington but we won't name her house - I was aghast at the small servings her mother gave us. It was a fraction of the amount we gobbled at my breakfast table, which made me realize how big and uncouth we were. We always had seconds and thirds and we argued over the toy inside. These folks discussed the day's activities, an apparent imitation of a scene they had watched on television. Priscilla's family was preppy and put-together. In later years, her sister developed an eating disorder, but I digress.

Take the mushroom. People who like mushrooms are foodies. People who don't like mushrooms are either young children or unable to get in touch with their sensual side. When Will and Grace go with their dorky friends to The Olive Garden, and the friends rave about the food, you just know that Will and Grace have had risotto, and they are aghast to even be seen at the de-classe establishment. They have tasted of something a little sweeter, if I may. I'm betting the Olive Garden is tasty, but I am not raving about the chain-restaurant-frozen-shrimp flavor.

Another show on which people actually eat is Malcolm in The Middle. I didn't watch it much when it was on for its regular run, but the repeats are hilarious for any person who has ever been a parent or lived with boys. For people who have done neither, it probably seems like a perverse and cruel take on the American family. And they do eat. With their mouths full. Dad also feeds the boys as if they are puppies, throwing morsels into their mouths. They may not be foodies in the mushroom sense, but they do eat a realistic amount of food.

Back to not-television, and my mostly-excellent culinary experience this week: Halvah, which was sub-standard (tahini paste Middle Eastern candy that is crumbly and almost-buttery, akin to a scone but with no ingredients in common); papaya and avocado salad with arugula; and chocolate hazelnut mousse. Also: fresh and still-warm -from-the-machine/cooker maple syrup. Shrimp curry, and naturally, mushroom soup.

I do not associate eating and sex simultaneously but I do associate them. The very idea that an oyster is meant to be an aphrodisiac, and the fact that they are pulpy and salty and smooth in my mouth, definitely puts me in the mind of something smooth that feels good. This cannot be experienced on television. Also, a great meal seems to have been the predecessor to much of the great sex that I have had, but I think that gets back to the sensual food and sex connection. I cannot fathom, however, the food-sex combo. Like I'm not hungry for the oyster when I'm hungry for the meat, if I may be a bit less refined than I claimed to be a few paragraphs ago. I may have written awhile back that I have no interest in licking any food item off of any body part. I would be open to it, I suppose, but really I don't need it. It seems like the overlap of two things that are not meant to be together.

There was a scene in the movie, Blaze, years ago, with Paul Newman and a voluptuous dark-haired actress - in which they shared a watermelon as she rode him, and they laughed and talked as they fucked. He may have worn a cowboy hat. That was memorable - my first exposure to sex as a fun activity. But not anything that would make me want to chow down while getting down. It seems when I write, that I get back to sex a lot. Perhaps I am not so different from your average male: a lotta talk about feelings may be included, but it's the sex she really wants. Or maybe I'm just menstrual - which affects me similarly to ovulation - and I am a wee bit more interested than I am at other times. Some days sex is like that can of old soup. Prediction for this day: I may eat something tasty, I may watch a movie or a re-run, but I will be riding tonight.