How soon is too soon? One year? One month? One week? How about two days? My mind is curiously over-wraught with possibilty. How is it that it takes me 23 years to meet someone of note and when we encountered our demise I find something teeth-sink worthy is two days? I recognize the rebound potential of my situation - mind, heart, body are still freshly reeling with the loss of what was a best friend. And yet. I sat across from him, butterflies swimming in the pool of my belly, head intoxicated with something completely foreign. How, in two and a half years, did I never experience even a glimpse of what I felt in one 3 hour evening.
I've given up looking for "the one". I think. I don't know. I guess what I mean is that the romantic ideals of youth are fading. I'm thinking that maybe there are several kinds of good fits for me out there. Like jeans I suppose. Some low rise boot-cut just leave me with an incurable pooch, while others hit me right in all the best places. Same with relaxed fit, really. So how can I in good conscience pick between the two? Even if this new encounter of mine pans out into nothing, I'm more sure of what I'm really looking for. It's not tangible, or even practical. It's a feeling. It's what makes me lose my grip on my purse so it spills open during dinner. It's what makes me stare at someone and have moments where I stop hearing the spoken words. Ultimately, it's a feeling that drives me to be the best version of my authentic self.
It's hard. This starting over thing. Will he call? Does he like me? Does it matter? Why do I care so much? Why am I such a girl? Breathe. Count to five. Start over again. Oh well. I guess the most important thing is to continue having a high regard for myself. Not settling for anything less than what I value and deserve. Learning from each interaction.
But I still hope he calls.....
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
The Breakdown
One minute he's there, the next he's not. One moment moves you from feeling comfortably shrouded in his companionship to naked, cold and insecure. Who knew how much the little things would matter - the smell of his forehead, the feel of two torsos pressed against eachother, the ease with which he could be called about any little thing. It's an undefineable loneliness. Two years lived, and gone. The singular moment it's over, it becomes harder to remember the game of Jenga we've been playing for sometime. Blocks removed from a seemingly stable towering structure until one by one it's wavering in insecurity. All it takes is one final pull, no matter how delicate, to send all the pieces crashing down around you.
I understand the rebound relationship now more than ever. Give me something else to cling to. Show me I can be loved again. I've spent more of my life single than not and yet, the last 2 years have ironed me thin with a need never before experienced. Starting over is exciting yet paralyzing at the same time. How quickly one is reminded of the russian roulette of the single's scene. I know in my head all the information my heart is not privy to. That no lonliness is worse than the lonliness felt in an empty relationship. That being alone and treating yourself with respect is better than being with another who can't meet you half way. But man.
I know I'll be fine. I'm always fine. Regardless of what has befallen me in years past, I managed to be, well, fine. So this little valley will be no different. I will grieve the death of a hope and move beyond it. Today finds me wading through the wreckage and the struggle to not dwell. Maybe tomorrow will find me letting my proverbial hair down and once again dancing for no reason at all.
I understand the rebound relationship now more than ever. Give me something else to cling to. Show me I can be loved again. I've spent more of my life single than not and yet, the last 2 years have ironed me thin with a need never before experienced. Starting over is exciting yet paralyzing at the same time. How quickly one is reminded of the russian roulette of the single's scene. I know in my head all the information my heart is not privy to. That no lonliness is worse than the lonliness felt in an empty relationship. That being alone and treating yourself with respect is better than being with another who can't meet you half way. But man.
I know I'll be fine. I'm always fine. Regardless of what has befallen me in years past, I managed to be, well, fine. So this little valley will be no different. I will grieve the death of a hope and move beyond it. Today finds me wading through the wreckage and the struggle to not dwell. Maybe tomorrow will find me letting my proverbial hair down and once again dancing for no reason at all.
Movin' On Mon
The Top Ten Signs I Need to Leave Flatbush
10.) I actually put in a harder days work than all of my neighbors combined – and I'm unemployed.
9.) I sometimes confuse my cat Grace for one of the super-sized rats.
8.) I prefer excreting in a toilet rather than the corner of Nostrand and Lenox.
7.) The average wait time for a train is 45 minutes, as one of the resident stinky bums is sure to leap on the tracks before the subway hits Winthrop St.
6.) My skin color is such a novelty, it is hard to make the three block walk home without being pet at least once.
5.) I've begun to eschew the name Christie, and answer only to: Snow White, White Girl, Bitch, and I'd Hit That.
4.) My new perfume is called, Eau De Friedchickenpizzapoop
3.) My neighbors fervently reassure me daily of Jesus' pending arrival and I just don't have enough room for all of us in my junior one bedroom.
2.) I am not the only Christie Cassano on the block – some other nice ladies like me enough to borrow my identity when getting a manicure or even an abortion.
1.) Tyrannosaurus Roach infestation. Yummy...
I'm going to hell, but bear with me. I've kept mum all year regarding my living situation, but reticent I shall be no more. Tomorrow, I pack up my shizzle and leave dis crib (sorry, ahem. I'm under the influence of hood-speak) for the next unlucky, unknowing New York newbie eager to catch a domicile deal. I thought of etching a note into the closet to the effect of "RUN NOW", but we each need to travel our roads and learn our lessons alone, no? After all, a year ago, this felt right. Even after two months I could write off my more interesting days as "roughing" it. Somewhere between the furniture-grinding sex above me and the apparent donation of my wallet to Key Food, it became virtually unbearable – that I would sooner spend the weekend with my parents than in Brooklyn. Walking down Nostrand Ave is like taking a cheese grater to my nerve endings.
Maybe it's the black supremacist who waits at the subway exit (I do a pretty good Russian accent now to ward him off… "No speak English. Just walk home…"). Or maybe it happened when my neighbors decided to steal some speakers and blast the new 50 Cent album on repeat at all hours, base vibrating the light fixtures. For fear of coming across as a racist I want to make one thing clear – this is hardly an issue of skin color as it is human decency. If anything, the denizens of Flatbush have a bigger issue with my skin color than visa versa.
It's strange, but a part of me wishes I could just bottle up a piece of this experience. That way, I could never get too carried away with myself as things grow better. Of course, if it were possible to bottle up certain pieces of life experience, I think we'd all have shelves full of bottles to reflect upon (and they'd be a bitch to move). I came to New York resolute on holding onto the peace I found in Oklahoma, not letting this abrasive place rattle me so much outside of reality. Flatbush definitely shook me up beyond remedy of friends and wine, but I observed the change happening. I think it's okay to get a little hard when the ultimate goal is survival. Now I have no excuse. I have my cute little apartment with it's cute little balcony and my cute little cat and my cute little boyfriend and it's time to start living in New York.
Arrivederci Little West Indies!
10.) I actually put in a harder days work than all of my neighbors combined – and I'm unemployed.
9.) I sometimes confuse my cat Grace for one of the super-sized rats.
8.) I prefer excreting in a toilet rather than the corner of Nostrand and Lenox.
7.) The average wait time for a train is 45 minutes, as one of the resident stinky bums is sure to leap on the tracks before the subway hits Winthrop St.
6.) My skin color is such a novelty, it is hard to make the three block walk home without being pet at least once.
5.) I've begun to eschew the name Christie, and answer only to: Snow White, White Girl, Bitch, and I'd Hit That.
4.) My new perfume is called, Eau De Friedchickenpizzapoop
3.) My neighbors fervently reassure me daily of Jesus' pending arrival and I just don't have enough room for all of us in my junior one bedroom.
2.) I am not the only Christie Cassano on the block – some other nice ladies like me enough to borrow my identity when getting a manicure or even an abortion.
1.) Tyrannosaurus Roach infestation. Yummy...
I'm going to hell, but bear with me. I've kept mum all year regarding my living situation, but reticent I shall be no more. Tomorrow, I pack up my shizzle and leave dis crib (sorry, ahem. I'm under the influence of hood-speak) for the next unlucky, unknowing New York newbie eager to catch a domicile deal. I thought of etching a note into the closet to the effect of "RUN NOW", but we each need to travel our roads and learn our lessons alone, no? After all, a year ago, this felt right. Even after two months I could write off my more interesting days as "roughing" it. Somewhere between the furniture-grinding sex above me and the apparent donation of my wallet to Key Food, it became virtually unbearable – that I would sooner spend the weekend with my parents than in Brooklyn. Walking down Nostrand Ave is like taking a cheese grater to my nerve endings.
Maybe it's the black supremacist who waits at the subway exit (I do a pretty good Russian accent now to ward him off… "No speak English. Just walk home…"). Or maybe it happened when my neighbors decided to steal some speakers and blast the new 50 Cent album on repeat at all hours, base vibrating the light fixtures. For fear of coming across as a racist I want to make one thing clear – this is hardly an issue of skin color as it is human decency. If anything, the denizens of Flatbush have a bigger issue with my skin color than visa versa.
It's strange, but a part of me wishes I could just bottle up a piece of this experience. That way, I could never get too carried away with myself as things grow better. Of course, if it were possible to bottle up certain pieces of life experience, I think we'd all have shelves full of bottles to reflect upon (and they'd be a bitch to move). I came to New York resolute on holding onto the peace I found in Oklahoma, not letting this abrasive place rattle me so much outside of reality. Flatbush definitely shook me up beyond remedy of friends and wine, but I observed the change happening. I think it's okay to get a little hard when the ultimate goal is survival. Now I have no excuse. I have my cute little apartment with it's cute little balcony and my cute little cat and my cute little boyfriend and it's time to start living in New York.
Arrivederci Little West Indies!
Top 5 Things New Yorkers Know....
The Top 5 Things New Yorkers Know
(that you have to figure out for your damn self)
Planning a move to the big city? That's lovely! Look forward to having you among the masses! I just wanted to take a moment to offer a public service. See, there appears to be a code that resident New Yorkers are born knowing - the rest of us are left to fend for ourselves. So in lieu of any new citizens having to decipher the code on their lonesome, here are the top five important secrets I've unveiled in my short time here:
5.) Welcome to the land of invisability. Sing, dance, fall, fly, fart, spit, puke, kick, bite or flip - it does not matter one little bit. No one sees you anyway. Upon entering Manhattan, you become invisable to the world (until the next time your get yourself in someone's way)!
4.) Tiny butts = no butts on the subway. Should your BMI fall below, say, 25, you are only granted 1/3 of the allotted subway seat space. Expect to be sat on, smushed, pushed off, glared at, hoisted, grabbed and or groped. This is all because, as we've discussed, in subway/Manhattan terms, you simply do not exist.
3.) Everyone is better than you. Many years ago, I think a space ship landed and 90% of the city got off. How else would everyone seem to pretty much be carbon copies of eachother. What's more? They know more, make more, smell better, look better, and are not afraid to let you know. I let them know I pack a better punch.
2.) Gangstas have the right of way. If you come across someone, of any sex or ethnicity mind you, wearing jeans from the Big & Tall and what resembles an overstuffed down comforter with Times Square and Scar Face emblazened on the back - watch yo back. I'm telling you. These peeps are the hardest of the hardcore. Never need they move or aid you in anyway. No, not even if your ass was in flames would they move the thug steel of their legs to let you by. Peace.
1.) The world is your toilet. Why haven't we all been dropping trow and relieving ourselves on a whim? It's not rare to see someone curbing themselves with the dogs, whipping it out to let it out, taking a pitstop on a station bench or, hell! Just taking a dump in their drawers wherever nature calls. Ah what a relief it is....
(that you have to figure out for your damn self)
Planning a move to the big city? That's lovely! Look forward to having you among the masses! I just wanted to take a moment to offer a public service. See, there appears to be a code that resident New Yorkers are born knowing - the rest of us are left to fend for ourselves. So in lieu of any new citizens having to decipher the code on their lonesome, here are the top five important secrets I've unveiled in my short time here:
5.) Welcome to the land of invisability. Sing, dance, fall, fly, fart, spit, puke, kick, bite or flip - it does not matter one little bit. No one sees you anyway. Upon entering Manhattan, you become invisable to the world (until the next time your get yourself in someone's way)!
4.) Tiny butts = no butts on the subway. Should your BMI fall below, say, 25, you are only granted 1/3 of the allotted subway seat space. Expect to be sat on, smushed, pushed off, glared at, hoisted, grabbed and or groped. This is all because, as we've discussed, in subway/Manhattan terms, you simply do not exist.
3.) Everyone is better than you. Many years ago, I think a space ship landed and 90% of the city got off. How else would everyone seem to pretty much be carbon copies of eachother. What's more? They know more, make more, smell better, look better, and are not afraid to let you know. I let them know I pack a better punch.
2.) Gangstas have the right of way. If you come across someone, of any sex or ethnicity mind you, wearing jeans from the Big & Tall and what resembles an overstuffed down comforter with Times Square and Scar Face emblazened on the back - watch yo back. I'm telling you. These peeps are the hardest of the hardcore. Never need they move or aid you in anyway. No, not even if your ass was in flames would they move the thug steel of their legs to let you by. Peace.
1.) The world is your toilet. Why haven't we all been dropping trow and relieving ourselves on a whim? It's not rare to see someone curbing themselves with the dogs, whipping it out to let it out, taking a pitstop on a station bench or, hell! Just taking a dump in their drawers wherever nature calls. Ah what a relief it is....
Faith is The Fashion
I believe in my choice. To be here. New York. Deep in the bowels of my gut, my decision is founded in faith. Unfortunately, lately I'm finding faith in myself to be lacking. I arrived in Brooklyn Heights, suitcase filled with my midwestern motivation and drive. The rest of my life was bubble wrapped in boxes somewhere over the Great Plains. Invigorated with the passion of everything new, I dove into my simple life head first; it appears upon later inspection that perhaps I should have taken greater care to fill life's pool first. It only took moments for the dust of whimsy to clear, revealing a colder world in which I would have to fend for myself in a way unfamiliar to the senses.
I keep trying to make the struggle look a little prettier. Others seem to do a damn fine job of glorifying it to no end. They write songs about it. Make movies about it. Fall in love over it. Barf. There is nothing beautiful about trying to pull oneself back together after their shitty, humble, beginnings. The struggle is hardly artistic. Let's be honest; it fucking sucks. And all the subway poet-types can just kiss my ass over it. The hardest part is maintaining some semblance of authentic nature within the wind tunnel.
In Manhattan, the fashion status-quo changes every 7.5 minutes. As in, I enter the subway a trend savvy diva, and come back out SO ten minutes ago. It can be very intimidating if one lets it – and I did for a millisecond. How easy to feel inferior when confronted with a herd of uniform firm asses with "7 for All Mankind" slapped on and staring me in the face. When just that morning I had been pleased as punch pulling on my $6.49 Old Navy sale rack find, the afternoon finds me tying a J. Crew outlet sweater around my waist. Whatever. It's a retail name dropping game, and I want to play too.
So, after getting myself in serious credit card doo doo and then returning it all, I begin the process of letting it go. So what's the actual truth of the struggle? I can't even afford the Starbucks coffee everyone totes around with tourniquets. I brew coffee at home (one step up from Sanka really) and pack my lunches and dinners. Until the day comes I end up on Wheel of Fortune or I'm a diva superstar, my style shall be cultivated with the wardrobe I already own. It's enough. I knew that before. New York made me forget who I was for a moment, making me believe I had to be everyone else. That's never really worked for me. Maybe I'm so last year. Or, perhaps I'm so two years from now. One really never knows. Meet me a few subway stops down and we'll see what the fashion holds. I have faith things should look better for me by then.
I keep trying to make the struggle look a little prettier. Others seem to do a damn fine job of glorifying it to no end. They write songs about it. Make movies about it. Fall in love over it. Barf. There is nothing beautiful about trying to pull oneself back together after their shitty, humble, beginnings. The struggle is hardly artistic. Let's be honest; it fucking sucks. And all the subway poet-types can just kiss my ass over it. The hardest part is maintaining some semblance of authentic nature within the wind tunnel.
In Manhattan, the fashion status-quo changes every 7.5 minutes. As in, I enter the subway a trend savvy diva, and come back out SO ten minutes ago. It can be very intimidating if one lets it – and I did for a millisecond. How easy to feel inferior when confronted with a herd of uniform firm asses with "7 for All Mankind" slapped on and staring me in the face. When just that morning I had been pleased as punch pulling on my $6.49 Old Navy sale rack find, the afternoon finds me tying a J. Crew outlet sweater around my waist. Whatever. It's a retail name dropping game, and I want to play too.
So, after getting myself in serious credit card doo doo and then returning it all, I begin the process of letting it go. So what's the actual truth of the struggle? I can't even afford the Starbucks coffee everyone totes around with tourniquets. I brew coffee at home (one step up from Sanka really) and pack my lunches and dinners. Until the day comes I end up on Wheel of Fortune or I'm a diva superstar, my style shall be cultivated with the wardrobe I already own. It's enough. I knew that before. New York made me forget who I was for a moment, making me believe I had to be everyone else. That's never really worked for me. Maybe I'm so last year. Or, perhaps I'm so two years from now. One really never knows. Meet me a few subway stops down and we'll see what the fashion holds. I have faith things should look better for me by then.
Sidewalk Cracks
I've always known that somehow I would end up in New York City. The exact means of this endeavor were somewhat hazy, but I knew I would make it happen. August 21, 2006 was my first day as an official New Yorker; only I'd never felt more like a Tulsan in my life.
How easy to get accustomed to slow, semi-city life. It whispers soft, humid dreams in south western ears before bed. The screeching subway brakes catapulted me into the reality of my new life. So much so, it made introspective bystanders smirk. I couldn't help but wonder if they could also hear the bluegrass fiddling through my iPod earphones. Inhaling my first breathe of Manhattan sewage and exhaust, anticipating the familiar invigoration of past visits, I was surprised when all I exhaled was a grandiose and wide-eyed fear. The fear of my life, my choices, and of knowing there was no longer a nest tucked away across the country waiting for me to curl back into.
The first wave of "home-sickness" hit on my first shift at the new place of occupation. So familiar with a yoga family where everyone is so passionate about what they do, the stark commercialism and over glamourized feel of this new studio began sapping the very yogic marrow from my bones. A virtual Lululemon fashion show of sleek haired blondes with perfectly articulated sweat and cheekbones. Topless toned legs three miles long tossed sweaty towels at my feet without once sharing eye contact. I held onto my heart and softened into my shell. This is their yoga; washing their towels would be my yoga.
The studio is a hot studio, meaning classes are heated to a stifling 100-104 degrees. The whole experience was new to me, so I could hardly foresee the slip and slide action that would become my mat. My arms and legs shot through slick perspiration to move to the next pose. I received one adjustment from the male instructor, whom upon taking my hips into his hands groaned and he lifted them upward. Folding back into child's pose, I bit my lip so I would neither cry nor throw-up.
Sometimes maybe all we need is a little validation or an unprecedented pat on the back that lets us know we've made the right choice. As I sat at the front desk of my new job (that is my job no more), a woman came up and told me I looked familiar. She then asked if I was on Broadway. I had to laugh, telling her no. She just smiled back and said, "Not yet". I told her she made my day. Then, on the way back to my friend's apartment, after a long day of shedding and swiping sweat, someone asked me for directions. Little lost me. Who knew such little moments made by perfect strangers could give me the necessary boost I needed to venture into another New York day.
Its a beautiful city, a smelly city and shortly it will be my city. Who knows if I'm Broadway bound? I'm okay with that. I need this time to bask in the glory of my fallible decision. Of a goal pointed towards and realized. This is the perfect time for me to be here; when I have just enough Oklahoma left in me to keep me grounded and authentic. Let New Yorkers have their cynicism and speed. I'll stay cool and easy within the tornado, building myself a new nest closer to where my heart's always been. Give me organic days of heartache and mystery. I'm ready now. Okay. Now.
How easy to get accustomed to slow, semi-city life. It whispers soft, humid dreams in south western ears before bed. The screeching subway brakes catapulted me into the reality of my new life. So much so, it made introspective bystanders smirk. I couldn't help but wonder if they could also hear the bluegrass fiddling through my iPod earphones. Inhaling my first breathe of Manhattan sewage and exhaust, anticipating the familiar invigoration of past visits, I was surprised when all I exhaled was a grandiose and wide-eyed fear. The fear of my life, my choices, and of knowing there was no longer a nest tucked away across the country waiting for me to curl back into.
The first wave of "home-sickness" hit on my first shift at the new place of occupation. So familiar with a yoga family where everyone is so passionate about what they do, the stark commercialism and over glamourized feel of this new studio began sapping the very yogic marrow from my bones. A virtual Lululemon fashion show of sleek haired blondes with perfectly articulated sweat and cheekbones. Topless toned legs three miles long tossed sweaty towels at my feet without once sharing eye contact. I held onto my heart and softened into my shell. This is their yoga; washing their towels would be my yoga.
The studio is a hot studio, meaning classes are heated to a stifling 100-104 degrees. The whole experience was new to me, so I could hardly foresee the slip and slide action that would become my mat. My arms and legs shot through slick perspiration to move to the next pose. I received one adjustment from the male instructor, whom upon taking my hips into his hands groaned and he lifted them upward. Folding back into child's pose, I bit my lip so I would neither cry nor throw-up.
Sometimes maybe all we need is a little validation or an unprecedented pat on the back that lets us know we've made the right choice. As I sat at the front desk of my new job (that is my job no more), a woman came up and told me I looked familiar. She then asked if I was on Broadway. I had to laugh, telling her no. She just smiled back and said, "Not yet". I told her she made my day. Then, on the way back to my friend's apartment, after a long day of shedding and swiping sweat, someone asked me for directions. Little lost me. Who knew such little moments made by perfect strangers could give me the necessary boost I needed to venture into another New York day.
Its a beautiful city, a smelly city and shortly it will be my city. Who knows if I'm Broadway bound? I'm okay with that. I need this time to bask in the glory of my fallible decision. Of a goal pointed towards and realized. This is the perfect time for me to be here; when I have just enough Oklahoma left in me to keep me grounded and authentic. Let New Yorkers have their cynicism and speed. I'll stay cool and easy within the tornado, building myself a new nest closer to where my heart's always been. Give me organic days of heartache and mystery. I'm ready now. Okay. Now.
Grandma Got Run Over By A Jetta
Grandma Got Run Over By A Jetta
Current mood: violent
Category: violent Automotive
I rarely, if ever take stark notice of the automobile ahead of me. I may visually remark on a tacky bumper sticker, or perhaps secretly envy the make. This is the greatest extent of my relationship with the driver before me. I am the kind of driver who zones into a happy driving place, listening to music and annotating the grocery list. Most days, I'm lucky to get to the appropriated destination. Dont fear me as a driver; I'm conscious! I just like to stay calm and collected within the realms of my own vehicle, whilst the world rages outside. I let as many folks go before me as I can, and try to come to a complete stop whenever possible. Maybe it's the yoga, maybe it's the three trips to driver's retraining school. I'll render that up to ones own discerning.
Surmise my surprise when my lowly little self became the victim of road rage. The culprit? Why she could she could have been Uncle Sam's grandmother - and she had HER mother in the passenger seat. There I am, gallivanting along on a sunny, sticky Tulsa day, enjoying my day off. My cranberry VW Jetta, Velma Kelly, is cruising like a dream. Resting at a stop light, debating the merits of Panera for lunch, I notice the chartreuse Villager van before for the first time as the brake lights release and we cruise forward. Letting the van cruise first, I tail after, but not late enough. The van abruptly slams on its brakes out of nowhere. I can't stop, and despite most valiant efforts, poor Velma Kelly finds herself making out with the trunk of the wretched Villager.
Responding to my inner complex that instantly assumes everything is my fault, I jump from my car to apologize, and make sure the other driver is okay, especially when I see she is the poster child for assisted living. My empathy ebbs quickly once I see the smirk crease across her pruned lips. She crosses her arms and hisses, "That's what you get! You've been tailgating my ass since we got off the highway two miles ago! I'm calling the cops on your ass". As it begins to dawn on me that what has happened was no accident, I decide reticence is key. Collecting pieces of silver along the road that together once spelled VW, I listen to her go off on me. The front of my car is all bashed, and I feel my heart as it flushes into the toilet of my gut. Surveying the bumper of the villager, viewing scratches of different colors and sizes stretching to all sides, the old bitty comes up right up to my face and says, "You have insurance, right?".
Meanwhile, because we surely haven't created enough of a scene blocking the intersection, grandma decides to pull her fossil of a mother out of the passenger seat. OF COURSE the mother has one arm in a sling and one foot in God's waiting room. She seats the corpse on the grassy median and starts fanning her. "We'll all be OK". That's when considered citizens start pulling over to help. Oh no, not help me. The Devil's Spawn, and her mother. Naturally, the daring duo are telling their soliloquy to anyone who will listen, and naturally everyone is letting me know what they think of me for tailgating and running into two helpless old farts. Little did these "concerned" folks know that this Villager was just the Insurance Scamobile. The Jaguar and BMW were parked at the mansion. The Beamer is mom's. Yeah, you guessed it. The sling? Part of the act.
So when Tulsa's finest decides to show up, the geezer wheezes out her side before I can even hand the copper my license. He listens to her rant, and lets her go. Of course, she claimed to be injured from our massive collission. She gets on her cell phone and calls my insurance right from the parking lot, while mom glares at me through the passenger window of Hell on Wheels.
Could it end here? Of course not. Tulsa trooper makes me get into the car with him to tell him my side. Funny; He didnt invite the old bag in. He then starts telling me how pretty I am, asking if my eyes are really that blue. Saying that he's just flirting to make it easier for me. Let me just say, he was a fine specimen of human being, what with his gut protruding from his pants, his balding head, and his missing teeth. Oh, and a good twenty years on me. So after what seemed like a half-an-ever of Merle Haggard and smelly rent-a-cop graduate, he tells me the convalescent convicts basically told on themselves in their raving. She accidentally said she slammed on her brakes to get me off her ass. Sweet as pie, no?
So, after all this, I turn to leave. I can get in my poor dented Velma and take her to Panera for some lunch (about two hours overdue). As I grab my keys, Lieutenant charming halts me abruptly. "Not so fast, Missy"! Naturally, I'm panicked I'm going to be stuck in the copper car forever. "I need to give you a ticket"! When I ask him what for, he looks at me appalled and says, "For hitting two old ladies, of course!".
Current mood: violent
Category: violent Automotive
I rarely, if ever take stark notice of the automobile ahead of me. I may visually remark on a tacky bumper sticker, or perhaps secretly envy the make. This is the greatest extent of my relationship with the driver before me. I am the kind of driver who zones into a happy driving place, listening to music and annotating the grocery list. Most days, I'm lucky to get to the appropriated destination. Dont fear me as a driver; I'm conscious! I just like to stay calm and collected within the realms of my own vehicle, whilst the world rages outside. I let as many folks go before me as I can, and try to come to a complete stop whenever possible. Maybe it's the yoga, maybe it's the three trips to driver's retraining school. I'll render that up to ones own discerning.
Surmise my surprise when my lowly little self became the victim of road rage. The culprit? Why she could she could have been Uncle Sam's grandmother - and she had HER mother in the passenger seat. There I am, gallivanting along on a sunny, sticky Tulsa day, enjoying my day off. My cranberry VW Jetta, Velma Kelly, is cruising like a dream. Resting at a stop light, debating the merits of Panera for lunch, I notice the chartreuse Villager van before for the first time as the brake lights release and we cruise forward. Letting the van cruise first, I tail after, but not late enough. The van abruptly slams on its brakes out of nowhere. I can't stop, and despite most valiant efforts, poor Velma Kelly finds herself making out with the trunk of the wretched Villager.
Responding to my inner complex that instantly assumes everything is my fault, I jump from my car to apologize, and make sure the other driver is okay, especially when I see she is the poster child for assisted living. My empathy ebbs quickly once I see the smirk crease across her pruned lips. She crosses her arms and hisses, "That's what you get! You've been tailgating my ass since we got off the highway two miles ago! I'm calling the cops on your ass". As it begins to dawn on me that what has happened was no accident, I decide reticence is key. Collecting pieces of silver along the road that together once spelled VW, I listen to her go off on me. The front of my car is all bashed, and I feel my heart as it flushes into the toilet of my gut. Surveying the bumper of the villager, viewing scratches of different colors and sizes stretching to all sides, the old bitty comes up right up to my face and says, "You have insurance, right?".
Meanwhile, because we surely haven't created enough of a scene blocking the intersection, grandma decides to pull her fossil of a mother out of the passenger seat. OF COURSE the mother has one arm in a sling and one foot in God's waiting room. She seats the corpse on the grassy median and starts fanning her. "We'll all be OK". That's when considered citizens start pulling over to help. Oh no, not help me. The Devil's Spawn, and her mother. Naturally, the daring duo are telling their soliloquy to anyone who will listen, and naturally everyone is letting me know what they think of me for tailgating and running into two helpless old farts. Little did these "concerned" folks know that this Villager was just the Insurance Scamobile. The Jaguar and BMW were parked at the mansion. The Beamer is mom's. Yeah, you guessed it. The sling? Part of the act.
So when Tulsa's finest decides to show up, the geezer wheezes out her side before I can even hand the copper my license. He listens to her rant, and lets her go. Of course, she claimed to be injured from our massive collission. She gets on her cell phone and calls my insurance right from the parking lot, while mom glares at me through the passenger window of Hell on Wheels.
Could it end here? Of course not. Tulsa trooper makes me get into the car with him to tell him my side. Funny; He didnt invite the old bag in. He then starts telling me how pretty I am, asking if my eyes are really that blue. Saying that he's just flirting to make it easier for me. Let me just say, he was a fine specimen of human being, what with his gut protruding from his pants, his balding head, and his missing teeth. Oh, and a good twenty years on me. So after what seemed like a half-an-ever of Merle Haggard and smelly rent-a-cop graduate, he tells me the convalescent convicts basically told on themselves in their raving. She accidentally said she slammed on her brakes to get me off her ass. Sweet as pie, no?
So, after all this, I turn to leave. I can get in my poor dented Velma and take her to Panera for some lunch (about two hours overdue). As I grab my keys, Lieutenant charming halts me abruptly. "Not so fast, Missy"! Naturally, I'm panicked I'm going to be stuck in the copper car forever. "I need to give you a ticket"! When I ask him what for, he looks at me appalled and says, "For hitting two old ladies, of course!".
Yoga Farts
Before last year, I considered yoga to be an activity for the super calm, super limber, and super latte-toting soccer-mommish. I, being none of these, stuck with my irregular regime of gut wrenching jogs and dates with Denise Austin Pilates. Whatever. The most elevated my heart got in two years was probably during my at home renditions of Flashdance – but that's another story altogether. Basically, my stubborn will refused to succumb to some yuppie yogic trend. I denied dancing visions of myself riding a rusty bike all over town in hemp shoes with a mat tied like a California roll over my back, consuming only soy products and forever swearing off gelatin, gluten and Milk Duds.
The change in my thinking occurred during my time in New Orleans. My belief system about everything was changing, and yoga became the best complement to my increasing compassion toward myself and others. It was also a highly valued source of movement when all motion was held at a premium. Each pose was almost a gift in that I was alive, awake and moving at that moment.
There is such an active mind component to yoga that is visible on the changed faces of all who leave class. My teachers here say, if you can breath, you can do yoga. I've been in classes with them all. Pregnant women, 70 year old men, football players, heavy people, skinny people, injured people. And yes. We must get down to it. Smelly people.
Honesty time. Now, I like getting into the "yoga zone" as much as the next yogini. Sometimes however, I buy it about as much as I buy inexperienced method acting. Maybe I'm just too much of a naïve neophyte still. Maybe I'm just too downright freaking judgmental. Or maybe, I'm just human. Here's all I know for a fart. I mean, fact. Yoga will make the air move through the body.
One night, in a more intense class, we all went to raise our legs into navasana, or Boat Pose. Clear across the room, someone cut one like I couldn't believe. Now, this wasn't the petty, child's play, whistling, hissing, refugee type of fart. This was a full fledged, one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three, reverberating, rattle the cork floor, flatulence. As if the kind deliverer was raising their legs for the exact purpose of setting it free.
Now, it appeared that everyone else was still in afore said, "yoga zone". I, on the other hand, with the gas humor of an eight year old boy, dissolved into a shaking fit of inconsolable church giggles. Just when I thought I had finally recentered myself, the odor had finally wafted over in my direction, causing the travesty to replay like a sound-byte in my head. Navasana became SmartAssana. It was over for me.
It happens all the time. I wish I could say I've gotten better at handling myself. I have gotten more compassionate with myself when I dissolve into the giggle fit. That's what yoga's all about for me anyway. Accepting where I am in that moment. Even if it is surrounded by a slew of 80 year old cheese-cutting senior citizens. I know it's really only a matter of time before I get my due and I'm the ripper.
At the end of class, after savasana, or corpse pose, everyone comes to easy sitting. At this point, we all say Namaste, to honor the light in each other and ourselves as we honor it in all things. Well, to end this, I would like to add my own NamGaste. I honor the gas in you, as I honor it in all things.
The change in my thinking occurred during my time in New Orleans. My belief system about everything was changing, and yoga became the best complement to my increasing compassion toward myself and others. It was also a highly valued source of movement when all motion was held at a premium. Each pose was almost a gift in that I was alive, awake and moving at that moment.
There is such an active mind component to yoga that is visible on the changed faces of all who leave class. My teachers here say, if you can breath, you can do yoga. I've been in classes with them all. Pregnant women, 70 year old men, football players, heavy people, skinny people, injured people. And yes. We must get down to it. Smelly people.
Honesty time. Now, I like getting into the "yoga zone" as much as the next yogini. Sometimes however, I buy it about as much as I buy inexperienced method acting. Maybe I'm just too much of a naïve neophyte still. Maybe I'm just too downright freaking judgmental. Or maybe, I'm just human. Here's all I know for a fart. I mean, fact. Yoga will make the air move through the body.
One night, in a more intense class, we all went to raise our legs into navasana, or Boat Pose. Clear across the room, someone cut one like I couldn't believe. Now, this wasn't the petty, child's play, whistling, hissing, refugee type of fart. This was a full fledged, one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three, reverberating, rattle the cork floor, flatulence. As if the kind deliverer was raising their legs for the exact purpose of setting it free.
Now, it appeared that everyone else was still in afore said, "yoga zone". I, on the other hand, with the gas humor of an eight year old boy, dissolved into a shaking fit of inconsolable church giggles. Just when I thought I had finally recentered myself, the odor had finally wafted over in my direction, causing the travesty to replay like a sound-byte in my head. Navasana became SmartAssana. It was over for me.
It happens all the time. I wish I could say I've gotten better at handling myself. I have gotten more compassionate with myself when I dissolve into the giggle fit. That's what yoga's all about for me anyway. Accepting where I am in that moment. Even if it is surrounded by a slew of 80 year old cheese-cutting senior citizens. I know it's really only a matter of time before I get my due and I'm the ripper.
At the end of class, after savasana, or corpse pose, everyone comes to easy sitting. At this point, we all say Namaste, to honor the light in each other and ourselves as we honor it in all things. Well, to end this, I would like to add my own NamGaste. I honor the gas in you, as I honor it in all things.
Dear, Automatic Flushing Toilet
Dear Automatic Flushing Toilet,
I do believe technology has come along far enough at this point that you are no longer necessary. From your very inception, you have been flawed, yet there you proudly flush in airports, movie theaters, why even Tulsa's Pei Wei restaurant.
As I first walk into your less than cordial stall, I am always greeted by the excrement of the person before me. Why can you never do your job on time? We are both aware that you come specially equipped with a sensor. You should know very well when the ass arises from the seat. Why hold out? When you finally do decide to flush, you do so a good 3 or 4 times consecutively, so I know the dramatic pause is hardly in the name of water conservation.
I realize quarters are tight. By the time all three of us (red roller suitcase, Christie, automatic flushing toilet) are in said stall, getting the door shut is a feat in and of itself. The genius who designed the stalls with the door swinging in deserves to spend his afterlife in public restroom purgatory full of automatic flushing toilets. While I'm attempting to get myself situated, delicately laying out the hygienic toilet seat cover, naturally my bracelet rolls off my wrist and into your bowels (no pun intended). Wasting no time you opt to flush again. Fine! I get it! You're excited to see me, but is all the flushing really necessary? And dammit! You swallowed my bracelet. Two flushed seat covers and a searing temper later, I beat you at your own game, popping a squat before your sensor knew what hit it.
All seems to be going well. Then, because you can't leave good enough alone, I feel the tissue slowly riding out beneath my rump, followed by your familiar triumphant gurgles. This time even water splays up on my butt cheeks like you have confused your self for a bidet. You choose to be silent when all is done. As a matter of fact, I can't get you to budge. I wave my hands in front of the sensor, even jump up and down. Nothing. Only as I fumble and kick my way out of the inverted door do you once again flush. Yes, when I am jammed between the suit case and the open door, you laughingly spit all over the back of my pants.
Your partner in crime - automatic flowing faucet - is no better. I swear you're in cahoots. It turns on when my hands are in front of it, but promptly shuts off when they try to dip beneath the stream of water. I come at it from both sides, even the top. Nothing works. When another women walks up to the sink beside me, I smile sure she will join me in my frustration. I decide to damn every sensor to hell when her flowing stream of water turns on and stays on.
Fine automatic flushing toilet. You and your cohorts have outsmarted me this time. But this isn't over. Technology being what it is, sensors are so a thing of the past. Why, I bet it's only a matter of time before we can even pee via the world wide web. Bathrooms will be eradicated altogether. Till then, flush your heart out you porcelain piece of crap.
Christalina
I do believe technology has come along far enough at this point that you are no longer necessary. From your very inception, you have been flawed, yet there you proudly flush in airports, movie theaters, why even Tulsa's Pei Wei restaurant.
As I first walk into your less than cordial stall, I am always greeted by the excrement of the person before me. Why can you never do your job on time? We are both aware that you come specially equipped with a sensor. You should know very well when the ass arises from the seat. Why hold out? When you finally do decide to flush, you do so a good 3 or 4 times consecutively, so I know the dramatic pause is hardly in the name of water conservation.
I realize quarters are tight. By the time all three of us (red roller suitcase, Christie, automatic flushing toilet) are in said stall, getting the door shut is a feat in and of itself. The genius who designed the stalls with the door swinging in deserves to spend his afterlife in public restroom purgatory full of automatic flushing toilets. While I'm attempting to get myself situated, delicately laying out the hygienic toilet seat cover, naturally my bracelet rolls off my wrist and into your bowels (no pun intended). Wasting no time you opt to flush again. Fine! I get it! You're excited to see me, but is all the flushing really necessary? And dammit! You swallowed my bracelet. Two flushed seat covers and a searing temper later, I beat you at your own game, popping a squat before your sensor knew what hit it.
All seems to be going well. Then, because you can't leave good enough alone, I feel the tissue slowly riding out beneath my rump, followed by your familiar triumphant gurgles. This time even water splays up on my butt cheeks like you have confused your self for a bidet. You choose to be silent when all is done. As a matter of fact, I can't get you to budge. I wave my hands in front of the sensor, even jump up and down. Nothing. Only as I fumble and kick my way out of the inverted door do you once again flush. Yes, when I am jammed between the suit case and the open door, you laughingly spit all over the back of my pants.
Your partner in crime - automatic flowing faucet - is no better. I swear you're in cahoots. It turns on when my hands are in front of it, but promptly shuts off when they try to dip beneath the stream of water. I come at it from both sides, even the top. Nothing works. When another women walks up to the sink beside me, I smile sure she will join me in my frustration. I decide to damn every sensor to hell when her flowing stream of water turns on and stays on.
Fine automatic flushing toilet. You and your cohorts have outsmarted me this time. But this isn't over. Technology being what it is, sensors are so a thing of the past. Why, I bet it's only a matter of time before we can even pee via the world wide web. Bathrooms will be eradicated altogether. Till then, flush your heart out you porcelain piece of crap.
Christalina
"Not So Much" No More
It is said that love alights on our shoulder when we are carelessly looking in the other direction. Perhaps my perpetual singledom is due partially to a constant state of cross-eye; keeping one eye fixedly placed away from the goal, while the other gazes with deliberate wanderlust over my shoulder. It’s all Felicity’s fault, really. Yes, Felicity and every other hour long melodrama and chick flick that insinuated I could go a little off my gourd and still win over Scott Speedman (all without even smudging my mascara!). I too could nab the emotionally accessible, sensitive, good looking guy – who, naturally, would always smell good. Alas, how disillusioned I was. The truth? Very few can put up with my frayed ends longer than a fortnight. The so-called ‘sensitive’ ones really just seem to be fraying even quicker than I am. Most who appear overtly good looking put more time and energy into upkeep than I do (no thanks!), and let’s just face it. They all stink. All the while, I’m still single.
DISCLAIMER: I am not any kind of navigational expert in the land of delirious dating debacles. Actually, I can stench it up just as royally as the rest of them. More often than not, despite my best intentions, I impulsively react to all my relationship endeavors from the most aching corners of my spirit. It’s hard to soften into the bruised and embittered places when the wrong gut instincts are repeat offenders. Yesterday’s pain orchestrates today’s guarded reactivity. When I am finally able to put on the big girl panties and pull my self up by the bra straps, I find myself faced with the same three scenarios time and again. Let's begin with the all too self explanatory “not so much”. They fall hard, despite our asserted disinterest in Star Trek and spelunking, and seem to be next to impossible to be free of. A polite break-off on our part then BAM, there they are again on the caller ID. On the flip, it’s all too easy to fall prey to playing the “not so much” ourselves. I, for one, would be an Olympic triathlete in the events of relationship fear, falling hard, and having a certain magnetic draw towards those who just plain don’t want me. All three perfect fodder for the “not so much”, and a surefire way to stay single. The next and most popular scenario, “I just don’t know”. A wishy washy non committal wade pool that usually results in a comfortable dead end. When are we merely settling and when is it worth taking a risk? The difference for me comes with a certain willingness to stretch beyond my familiar skin. This leads me to the final scenario of, “I think this could work.” This is the time when I finally decide to stop blockading my feelings for the sake of safety. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, hold my nose and – yup – become a complete moron.
Why does it seem that in the initial stages of letting go into a relationship that we believe in, we have this ability to become a complete anomaly unto ourselves? There’s a certain insatiable openness that leaves me helplessly fumbling after stolen words and wished for moments. I’m a toddler, tripping over myself. Ordering food I don’t like, uttering phrases my ear filters as lies. “Why yes, I’ve been to Mexico!”, or “I love basketball!”, then “Gee, that sure sounds swell”! While the words careen from my mouth, my head assaults me, “Just be honest, damn oaf. Oaf”? It’s not that the truth is shameful, per se. It’s that possibility can sometimes be so completely intoxicating. My whole self tends to give way to reckless abandon as my logical mind struggles to walk with me through something that truly circumvents all reason.
Fast forward to today. Bad date #76 draws to a triumphant close, my bridesmaid balance is slowly creeping toward the 2 grand marker, the baby shower tab is not far behind, and now the extended family is fully convinced I’m a lesbian. It’s a couple’s world that likes to place the seemingly woebegone singles at life’s kiddie table. This seems like a damn good time for a celebration all my own. I’m one stellar cat lady – why not marry myself, a la Carrie Bradshaw. Register at Saks and Neiman’s. Get myself a pair of Jimmy Choos that are not off E-Bay. Hell, I’d even register at Target. Just to make the ultimate single statement to myself – whilst inheriting new wine glasses. This way after bad date #77, I can come home to my cat, very well dressed, and enjoy my fine furnishings. All silly materialistic reminders that I’ve always been okay, I’m still okay, and I’ll always have myself till death do us part.
Well, here I land. Ahem. Valentine’s Day. More a commercial holiday than anything else (and an oblong nudge to the singles to remind us that yes, we are indeed single). In years past, I’ve gotten real drunk and just mooned cupid in all my bitterness, half wishing he would take the opportunity to shoot his arrow square in my ass. My favorite Valentine to date? An expensive dinner out with the girls. Now there’s love. The most amazing love I know? Playing dress up with my God babies, or having coffee with my best friend. I think I’ll shake the bitterness thing this year, and let myself go in a different way. I’m going to fall passionately in love with what’s already mine. Maybe that’s what is really meant by “not looking” for love. We stop the selfless lying and aimless trying, to paint the moment with what is.
It’s a dating jungle out there. A messy safari where marriage is the endangered species. Yet a piece of all singles seems constantly on the prowl. Find me. Know me. Love me. Make me complete. Show me a new version of myself I’ve yet to know. The best version. So many hopes, so much of the future placed idly in the hands of a perfect stranger. This is why my new modis operandi is to be the best version of me regardless. To understand I am complete now, single. Our friends and kindred spirits grace our lives and enhance them. This is what I seek in relationships too. Enhance me. Embrace me. Challenge me. Take a risk. And hell, if you clean up well enough and don’t smell too bad…
DISCLAIMER: I am not any kind of navigational expert in the land of delirious dating debacles. Actually, I can stench it up just as royally as the rest of them. More often than not, despite my best intentions, I impulsively react to all my relationship endeavors from the most aching corners of my spirit. It’s hard to soften into the bruised and embittered places when the wrong gut instincts are repeat offenders. Yesterday’s pain orchestrates today’s guarded reactivity. When I am finally able to put on the big girl panties and pull my self up by the bra straps, I find myself faced with the same three scenarios time and again. Let's begin with the all too self explanatory “not so much”. They fall hard, despite our asserted disinterest in Star Trek and spelunking, and seem to be next to impossible to be free of. A polite break-off on our part then BAM, there they are again on the caller ID. On the flip, it’s all too easy to fall prey to playing the “not so much” ourselves. I, for one, would be an Olympic triathlete in the events of relationship fear, falling hard, and having a certain magnetic draw towards those who just plain don’t want me. All three perfect fodder for the “not so much”, and a surefire way to stay single. The next and most popular scenario, “I just don’t know”. A wishy washy non committal wade pool that usually results in a comfortable dead end. When are we merely settling and when is it worth taking a risk? The difference for me comes with a certain willingness to stretch beyond my familiar skin. This leads me to the final scenario of, “I think this could work.” This is the time when I finally decide to stop blockading my feelings for the sake of safety. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, hold my nose and – yup – become a complete moron.
Why does it seem that in the initial stages of letting go into a relationship that we believe in, we have this ability to become a complete anomaly unto ourselves? There’s a certain insatiable openness that leaves me helplessly fumbling after stolen words and wished for moments. I’m a toddler, tripping over myself. Ordering food I don’t like, uttering phrases my ear filters as lies. “Why yes, I’ve been to Mexico!”, or “I love basketball!”, then “Gee, that sure sounds swell”! While the words careen from my mouth, my head assaults me, “Just be honest, damn oaf. Oaf”? It’s not that the truth is shameful, per se. It’s that possibility can sometimes be so completely intoxicating. My whole self tends to give way to reckless abandon as my logical mind struggles to walk with me through something that truly circumvents all reason.
Fast forward to today. Bad date #76 draws to a triumphant close, my bridesmaid balance is slowly creeping toward the 2 grand marker, the baby shower tab is not far behind, and now the extended family is fully convinced I’m a lesbian. It’s a couple’s world that likes to place the seemingly woebegone singles at life’s kiddie table. This seems like a damn good time for a celebration all my own. I’m one stellar cat lady – why not marry myself, a la Carrie Bradshaw. Register at Saks and Neiman’s. Get myself a pair of Jimmy Choos that are not off E-Bay. Hell, I’d even register at Target. Just to make the ultimate single statement to myself – whilst inheriting new wine glasses. This way after bad date #77, I can come home to my cat, very well dressed, and enjoy my fine furnishings. All silly materialistic reminders that I’ve always been okay, I’m still okay, and I’ll always have myself till death do us part.
Well, here I land. Ahem. Valentine’s Day. More a commercial holiday than anything else (and an oblong nudge to the singles to remind us that yes, we are indeed single). In years past, I’ve gotten real drunk and just mooned cupid in all my bitterness, half wishing he would take the opportunity to shoot his arrow square in my ass. My favorite Valentine to date? An expensive dinner out with the girls. Now there’s love. The most amazing love I know? Playing dress up with my God babies, or having coffee with my best friend. I think I’ll shake the bitterness thing this year, and let myself go in a different way. I’m going to fall passionately in love with what’s already mine. Maybe that’s what is really meant by “not looking” for love. We stop the selfless lying and aimless trying, to paint the moment with what is.
It’s a dating jungle out there. A messy safari where marriage is the endangered species. Yet a piece of all singles seems constantly on the prowl. Find me. Know me. Love me. Make me complete. Show me a new version of myself I’ve yet to know. The best version. So many hopes, so much of the future placed idly in the hands of a perfect stranger. This is why my new modis operandi is to be the best version of me regardless. To understand I am complete now, single. Our friends and kindred spirits grace our lives and enhance them. This is what I seek in relationships too. Enhance me. Embrace me. Challenge me. Take a risk. And hell, if you clean up well enough and don’t smell too bad…
Dear, My New York Pizza
Dear My NY Pizza,
I am beyond ecstatic you are about to make the long journey across the Midwest. Our separation has been much too long, the withdrawal I've been experiencing overwhelming at times. Ah, but your ticket has been purchased, flight plans arranged, and in only two weekends my table will be set for only you.
Nothing I've found out here in the great bible belt can match your perfection. The way your crust lays so serenely flat, crisping just perfectly around the edges. Your dough, hand tossed to perfection, cradles your succulently sensual red sauce spiced just so. Oh, how your cheese melts. Oozing, seeping, over what seem like fixed borders of your haphazardly sliced triangular body. Oils pour from your surface. I smite those who dare to blot your carefully crafted artistry. Oh ho! Oh no! I take you as you are, My NY Pizza.
As you make your way aboard the aircraft, do not let others steal you in their greed. You are mine, and mine alone. I have been practicing the two hand hold it will take to fully encompass your great rapture. Should those devious flight wenches attempt to stow you in an overhead compartment, folding you upon yourself, do not allow it! Take your seat with the rest of the paying passengers. By all means, invade first class with every ounce of your grandeur. Make sure your seat belt is safely fastened and tightened, and your escort adeptly affixes the oxygen mask in the event of an emergency. I've even given the go ahead to utilize your mighty girth as a flotation device. What ever it takes to get you to me.
Mazzios? I think not. Papa Johns? Pardon my mockery. Marios? Hideaway? All lovely attempts, but just not the same, rest assured. When my Italian ancestors came through Ellis Island, I am sure the Sooner State is not what held out much epicurean promise for them as history unfurled. Just as in the Big Apple, BBQ is left much better off alone. Alas, My NY Pizza, I have been waiting. The count down is beginning, my mouth salivating in sheer anticipation of you.
Pears? Bananas? Childs play. And whatever it is they think they have going in Chicago or California? That can hardly be called pizza. Why those are fancy pants, fork and knife affairs. You are the original. My first love.
I am ready.
Christina Maria Cassanova III
I am beyond ecstatic you are about to make the long journey across the Midwest. Our separation has been much too long, the withdrawal I've been experiencing overwhelming at times. Ah, but your ticket has been purchased, flight plans arranged, and in only two weekends my table will be set for only you.
Nothing I've found out here in the great bible belt can match your perfection. The way your crust lays so serenely flat, crisping just perfectly around the edges. Your dough, hand tossed to perfection, cradles your succulently sensual red sauce spiced just so. Oh, how your cheese melts. Oozing, seeping, over what seem like fixed borders of your haphazardly sliced triangular body. Oils pour from your surface. I smite those who dare to blot your carefully crafted artistry. Oh ho! Oh no! I take you as you are, My NY Pizza.
As you make your way aboard the aircraft, do not let others steal you in their greed. You are mine, and mine alone. I have been practicing the two hand hold it will take to fully encompass your great rapture. Should those devious flight wenches attempt to stow you in an overhead compartment, folding you upon yourself, do not allow it! Take your seat with the rest of the paying passengers. By all means, invade first class with every ounce of your grandeur. Make sure your seat belt is safely fastened and tightened, and your escort adeptly affixes the oxygen mask in the event of an emergency. I've even given the go ahead to utilize your mighty girth as a flotation device. What ever it takes to get you to me.
Mazzios? I think not. Papa Johns? Pardon my mockery. Marios? Hideaway? All lovely attempts, but just not the same, rest assured. When my Italian ancestors came through Ellis Island, I am sure the Sooner State is not what held out much epicurean promise for them as history unfurled. Just as in the Big Apple, BBQ is left much better off alone. Alas, My NY Pizza, I have been waiting. The count down is beginning, my mouth salivating in sheer anticipation of you.
Pears? Bananas? Childs play. And whatever it is they think they have going in Chicago or California? That can hardly be called pizza. Why those are fancy pants, fork and knife affairs. You are the original. My first love.
I am ready.
Christina Maria Cassanova III
Kiss My Acne
Mount Vesuvius moved onto my forehead this morning. This isn’t one of those mere mentions of pimplage. This is a full frontal explosion. I had no warning. Oh no. No tiny little baby pimples to warn me. None of the under skin ache that is the usual pre cursor to a big drop like this. The clincher is, my complexion was cruel enough to clear up in preparation for big momma’s arrival. For a moment, I thought it was smooth sailing – Clearasil ads, here I come. But, no. Nature and hormones are a bitch, and decided to drop a bomb on my otherwise spotless surface. It’s not even in a remotely inconspicuous place. Front and center, really. In real estate terms, this would be beach front property, “Christie’s Great Estates”. When conversing with people, I can’t help but notice their eyes slowly wander from meeting my gaze, to ground zero on the middle of my forehead, and back again. I empathize with the distractibility factor, being that its circumference is so vast. I still can’t help but be mildly irritated. It’s a pimple. Not a hairy mole. It happens. It’s no secret that it’s on my face. My more ornery side hopes that if I concentrate hard enough, I may be able to pop it with the energy of sheer focus. If they were disgusted before, well! My supernatural powers would certainly put anyone in their place. Because really, we can only elude the infected pore for so long. Anyone could be next.
Maybe I need a job where I don’t have time to muse about such things.
Probably not.
Maybe I need a job where I don’t have time to muse about such things.
Probably not.
Kicking It
"Though no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending." ~Carl Bard
The past. Ah, but is it ever really that? It is that strip of toilet paper we swear we’ve kicked from our shoe hours ago but has actually relentlessly lingered. Either some seemingly benevolent soul will point out its presence or it jumps mercilessly into periphery. Damn. Do we touch it? Do we have a choice? It’s ours, along with all the shit collected along its path.
Some of the past is attractive. There can be a lot to be proud of. For most, however, the very word does not conjure up all pleasant reveries. We move on, try to forget some things, grow from some things, swallow cliché’s like the bitter pills they are and keep plugging along. There’s often a very real fear of, “If you only knew…”. Truly, that’s part of the messy fun of it all. Besides, show me a well mannered man with a steady, joyful past, and he’s probably terribly dull, and no one I’d like to know.
I, like so many others, thought I could elude it – leave it clear in another time zone really. Note to self: that doesn’t work. History lives in the folds of our skin; all it takes is a brush with a song or a smell from chapters past to send us hurdling where we’d rather not remember we’ve been. Snap! I’m an embittered thirteen or a helpless six, climbing the jungle gym walls of this twenty-something frame. Yet, this type of encounter I find manageable. Nothing a few drinks, a couple years in therapy and some amazing friends can’t get you through. The catalyst is internal, the nemesis familiar. It’s the external manifestations of the past that hang heavy on the hems, tugging on my faith.
I make loud mistakes. When I trip, it’s no mere stumble. There always seems to be a slap-stick, bring-the-whole-table-with-me sort of quality to the tumble. I’m dramatic. I can’t help it. No apologies. I wear it on both sleeves at this point. What I could never anticipate was the need to embellish on the part of others. Truly, it’s decorated enough without making my story into a disastrous episode of Trading Spaces. I’m imperfectly perfect, and every day I grow more comfortable with what it feels like to live in my imperfect skin – and love it anyway. Upon first hearing my inaccurately articulated history, I longed to print a retraction to the world. Speak my truth and disown the inauthentic shame I was feeling for someone else’s comfort. How could I move on with out setting the record straight?
Then again, what if I did nothing? What if I could trust for just one minute that truth was stronger – that I only ever needed to prove things to myself. What if we all had just the tiniest morsel of faith that those who love us either know our truth already, or get us enough to see through the lies? And those who want to love us or be a part our lives? That they would be brave enough to ask the questions, thirsty to know more, or get answers; not hungry to take us down in fear or intimidation.
So, in another blazing duel with my-so-called past what did I decide to do? Absolutely nothing. It hardly felt triumphant; nothing was gloriously gained on my part at all. A few more people think I’m crazy. Oh well, so do I. In not seeking to prove things outwardly, perhaps I proved some things to myself. I deserve (don't we all?) strong people in my life who are also steadfast in their beliefs; who will ask the honest questions and put things on the line when the truth is hard. Most fascinating, I saw what a strong influence I have over a room without even being present, spurning such a discussion of falsities. My only hope is that I may use that same presence one day to create something good. And um, hey. You may want to check the bottom of your shoe there; you’ve got a bit of toilet paper….
The past. Ah, but is it ever really that? It is that strip of toilet paper we swear we’ve kicked from our shoe hours ago but has actually relentlessly lingered. Either some seemingly benevolent soul will point out its presence or it jumps mercilessly into periphery. Damn. Do we touch it? Do we have a choice? It’s ours, along with all the shit collected along its path.
Some of the past is attractive. There can be a lot to be proud of. For most, however, the very word does not conjure up all pleasant reveries. We move on, try to forget some things, grow from some things, swallow cliché’s like the bitter pills they are and keep plugging along. There’s often a very real fear of, “If you only knew…”. Truly, that’s part of the messy fun of it all. Besides, show me a well mannered man with a steady, joyful past, and he’s probably terribly dull, and no one I’d like to know.
I, like so many others, thought I could elude it – leave it clear in another time zone really. Note to self: that doesn’t work. History lives in the folds of our skin; all it takes is a brush with a song or a smell from chapters past to send us hurdling where we’d rather not remember we’ve been. Snap! I’m an embittered thirteen or a helpless six, climbing the jungle gym walls of this twenty-something frame. Yet, this type of encounter I find manageable. Nothing a few drinks, a couple years in therapy and some amazing friends can’t get you through. The catalyst is internal, the nemesis familiar. It’s the external manifestations of the past that hang heavy on the hems, tugging on my faith.
I make loud mistakes. When I trip, it’s no mere stumble. There always seems to be a slap-stick, bring-the-whole-table-with-me sort of quality to the tumble. I’m dramatic. I can’t help it. No apologies. I wear it on both sleeves at this point. What I could never anticipate was the need to embellish on the part of others. Truly, it’s decorated enough without making my story into a disastrous episode of Trading Spaces. I’m imperfectly perfect, and every day I grow more comfortable with what it feels like to live in my imperfect skin – and love it anyway. Upon first hearing my inaccurately articulated history, I longed to print a retraction to the world. Speak my truth and disown the inauthentic shame I was feeling for someone else’s comfort. How could I move on with out setting the record straight?
Then again, what if I did nothing? What if I could trust for just one minute that truth was stronger – that I only ever needed to prove things to myself. What if we all had just the tiniest morsel of faith that those who love us either know our truth already, or get us enough to see through the lies? And those who want to love us or be a part our lives? That they would be brave enough to ask the questions, thirsty to know more, or get answers; not hungry to take us down in fear or intimidation.
So, in another blazing duel with my-so-called past what did I decide to do? Absolutely nothing. It hardly felt triumphant; nothing was gloriously gained on my part at all. A few more people think I’m crazy. Oh well, so do I. In not seeking to prove things outwardly, perhaps I proved some things to myself. I deserve (don't we all?) strong people in my life who are also steadfast in their beliefs; who will ask the honest questions and put things on the line when the truth is hard. Most fascinating, I saw what a strong influence I have over a room without even being present, spurning such a discussion of falsities. My only hope is that I may use that same presence one day to create something good. And um, hey. You may want to check the bottom of your shoe there; you’ve got a bit of toilet paper….
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