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  1. I’m Running for Office

    May 11, 2012 by kim

    Today I realized that if I ruled the world, I could probably take naps whenever the hell I wanted.

    Wait a minute….

    My Dad, in his more charming and lucid days, would declare he was running for Tyrant. He had ideas that generally ended with, “…and shoot ‘em all!” They weren’t terribly rational and frequently didn’t incorporate the ideas of either funding or reinforcing his sweeping changes. I think I would like to challenge him in that election. Only I don’t want to call it Tyrant, (which, total side note derailed train of thought, is what the ruler in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series is called. Best author ever. I highly recommend you spend a pleasant few hours with one of his books), I want to call it Mom. I shall be Mom, and treat the world as I treat my children.

    First, as I have said before, naps are going to be mandatory. You don’t have to SLEEP, but an obligatory hour between, oh, say, twelve thirty and one thirty, must be spent in some form of quiet time. Wouldn’t that rock? Come on, I have your vote based on that alone, don’t I? Imagine if the whole country just stopped for an hour. You would’t have to do anything because you COULDN’T do anything! The buses would pull over and cots would fall out of their ceilings, elevators would all be equipped with comfy cushions and cozy quilts in case you were in between floors when nap time hit, every mall in the world would have pop up daybeds in every parking space that would flip over, spinning the car underneath. There would be a few dispensations, I mean, ambulance drivers, airline pilots, etc., but even they would have to circle rather than come in except in proven life-threatening emergencies. ‘How inconvenient!” you say. “I surely should be an exception as well! I have shit to do!” Well, that’s where being Mom comes in. I KNOW it’s in your best interest to have an hour of quiet time, so an hour of quiet time you will have.

    Our penal system will run like I run my time outs. None of this “trial by a jury of your peers” bullshit, and no justice for profit either. You commit a crime, you go to a time out, to be determined by how severe your crime was and how close to my period I am. (My husband is grateful that I’m leaving the country this coming Wednesday. He says he’ll be out of the, “Path of Wrath” for a change.) Then, when time out is over, you come out and SAY YOU’RE SORRY AND MEND THE DAMAGE YOU’VE DONE! My kid doesn’t get to throw her clothes all over the ground in a tantrum, bite me, then hop out of her time out and off to McDonald’s. Hell no. She picks up her mess and indicates some awareness that she affected someone in a negative way. If she doesn’t, back she goes. (Another parenthetical here, since I seem to be going for a record of some sort. I do not force my child to actually say she’s sorry. I don’t believe in insisting she express something that may or may not be true. However, I DO expect her to acknowledge her actions and what their results were.) Plus, I like this idea, while incarcerated, criminals will work for their room and board. You broke society? Mend one of its roads. Prune some of its trees. Even while incarcerated, you should continue to be a member of society.

    They don’t do this now, because I understand that was considered “cruel and unusual punishment”. The good news is, as Mom, I would get to decide what cruel and unusual punishment is. And, lemme tell ya, although you’re not allowed to beat your students, I certainly found some ways to cause pain when I was a speech teacher. (Ever try pressing REALLY hard on that muscle just below your cheek bone back next to your ear? Yeah. Amazing how often I had to help unruly students relax that muscle.) I can punish with the best of them, but that won’t be the focus. Fixing the damn problem and not doing it again will be the focus. And I can wait all night, young lady.

    I will encourage creativity, but it will remain in the realms of creativity. If you can’t show me SCIENTIFIC proof that something is true, then it counts as creativity. And that’s AWESOME! I love art! I love expressing. I love even believing some unbelievable shit. But it will not be allowed to become “fact” and our family will not act as if it is. You are all free to express and believe what you like. If you say something that hurts someone’s feelings, then you can hug it out or not be friends any more. However everyone will be treated equally, according to fact and not opinion. It may not be CONSISTENT, but it will be equal.

    I will create rules according to my whims and your needs. Again, I will not be consistent and sometimes I won’t be fair. But I’ll own up to it and I promise I’ll always admit my mistakes and try to do better and always explain my reasonings.

    I also will remind you that everything’s okay. So much shit goes down because people don’t think everything’s okay. There isn’t enough food or money or jobs or something, so we gotta get what’s ours. Which means now we gotta identify who “we” are which inevitably leads to identifying who “they” are and ain’t it funny how “they” always seem to be the enemy? I’m gonna put a stop to that shit right now. You will be nice to each other. It’s not okay to kick the dog, just because you want to eat on the floor too. Different people need different things but EVERYONE WILL HAVE ENOUGH. Because there fucking IS enough. I will rock you gently if needed and remind you over and over that you are safe and everything is okay. “But!” you say, “What if it isn’t?”

    I’m Mom. If I say there’s no bogey man in the closet, then there’s no goddamn bogey man in the closet. And there is no “them”. Only us.

    Finally, I promise never, ever will I utter the phrase, “Because I said so!”

    Whaddya think? Do I have a platform?

    Category general musings | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

  2. Fucked Expectations

    May 10, 2012 by kim

    I grew up thinking we were truly dirt poor. I wore home-made clothing and got bags of hand-me-downs from my father’s friends that my mom would save for Christmas. A pot of beans would last us a week. Anything that could be done at home for free WAS done at home for free, from oil changes to perms. Ice-cream buckets from Baskin Robbin were smuggled home and decoupaged into garbage baskets. I did draw the line at eating the squirrel my dad shot in the back yard, but it was an option.

    My folks said it was, “So you kids will have it when we are gone.” My sister and I were of the opinion we would be better served to have some of it spent before that fateful day, please. My bedroom was unheated with no insulation. I had to crack the film of ice on the toilet bowl in the winter when I had to pee. (Yes, I could have just let the pee melt it, but that wouldn’t have been as dramatic, now would it?) The garbage bags we would rubber band over our shoes when it rained didn’t work as well as my father insisted they did. We didn’t do family vacations beyond driving to the beach and I vividly remember having hamburger on our home-made pizzas because sausage was too expensive. Still, the mantra of, “One day you’ll get it, after we are gone,” seemed to make everything okay. At least, to my folks it did.

    We went to college because our entire family dropped dead in the span of five years and the cumulative effect of the inheritance payed for a couple of state college educations. The mantra subtly shifted from, “One day…” to, “If you need anything, just ask.” Well I wasn’t gonna fuckin ask. I had penny pinching drummed into my head. Only bad people spent money on themselves. I cut my own hair. I shopped at places that sold clothing by the pound. But deep in the dark, dusty, grimy basement of my heart, I thought things would be okay when they were “gone”. Then I’d get to be safe or rich or have a vacation or something.

    I never worked enough to let go of that idea. I was successful, but not successful enough to garner lifelong wealth. I borrowed money from my folks from that vast treasure trove to buy a house, but payed back every red cent. Then went through foreclosure rather than borrowing it again. But some day…. some day…

    My mother died on two hundred thread count sheets because my father was still, “Frugal, bordering on parsimonious.” She had no one but him for help because they wouldn’t pay for added care. He was so drunk she needed an air horn to get his attention. Then he would drop her. But that money was being saved for the girls, goddamnit. We begged and pleaded with them to spend it to make their own lives worth living, but they were steadfast. The night before she died, my mother apologized for staying married to this man, but she knew we’d be okay once we got that money.

    Yesterday my father disowned me. He moved a meth addict, her felon boyfriend, and their six year-old daughter into his house. He will not take my calls. He will not allow anyone speaking on my behalf into the house. His financial advisor says he is blowing through about five thousand dollars a week now, but has no clue where it’s going. He has no memory of making the withdrawals, but our point of no return was when I reminded him the bitch he’s now living with has been the only constant in the magically vanishing cash. She’s an addict. Trust me, I know how money melts around addicts. He said I was not to speak to him again.

    This is a learning opportunity.

    I don’t need the money. I am okay. I am working. I can downsize. I can sell. There are millions of people in this world who get along fine without their parents’ windfall, I am one of them. Obviously this isn’t about the money.

    I really expected that fucker to pay. I expected SOMEDAY he would make everything right.

    Here’s the thing. I expect it to get light in the morning. I expect an object dropped will fall to the ground. I expect my border collie mix will ignore an attacking coyote if a tennis ball is in play. I expect my husband to kiss me when I pucker my lips and my child to giggle when I poke her armpit, assuming she’s not in a carnivorous mood. I expect these things because this has been my experience. So why the FUCK do I expect my father to be anything other than what he is? I have no evidence of his courage, his sobriety, his sanity, his awareness or even his willingness to be accountable. It has been my experience that he takes everything away that he gives me, be it chocolate cake or praise. Clearly, my expectations have not been formed on reality.

    I’m going to let this go. I have no other choice. I am powerless and preventing my own serenity by my expectations. I can live happily without the money which represented the healing of a lifetime of wounds. I can do this, because I have the capacity to heal these wounds myself. In fact, ONLY I can heal them, with the help of a God of my understanding. The money isn’t needed and is of fear.

    I think my father is the same.

    Category a bit more serious | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 22 Comments

  3. Identity Crisis

    May 2, 2012 by kim

    I have a problem. A quandary. A conundrum. I’m in a bit of a bind, or a…. a pickle, if you will. No, back to conundrum. Most likely a conundrum.

    I am happy.

    Thirty per cent of you just went, “Huh?” and the rest of you nodded and said, “Oh dear. That is a conundrum. Possibly a jam, Kim. Possibly a jam.”

    I am having the urge to do unwise things. Not like strip off all my clothes and go dancing merrily through the golf course. I have that urge all the time, happy or not. I’m having the urge to do things I usually have my guard up against. I want to send my ex an email that says something like, “So how are you? Really?” I want to donate to charities and buy myself flowers. I want to take a nap. I want to spend an inordinate amount of time helping a young actor get his career started. I want to get new photos taken of myself. These are all bad ideas. They have the potential to really kick my ass. I mean, except for the nap, but then I would have spent time I should be Doing Something in NOT doing something and then there’s the stress of being relaxed and well-rested to contend with. It ain’t pretty. But I know there is only so much money, time, patience and love allotted to my life. I KNOW this. I have to ration this stuff if I want to be happy. Happiness is telling me otherwise.

    Happiness always seemed to be a goal. There were steps to take to GET there and I’m pretty sure I haven’t taken all of them. I’m not financially secure, I’m not universally beloved, I’m not hailed as Universal Champion and Victor, and I don’t seem to have anyone near me who’s sole purpose is to kiss my ass. All of these things were on my to-do list before I’d get to happy, yet somehow I’ve arrived. But… I’m… still…. going. Hmmmmmmmmmm. I thought it was like a play with happiness being the closing number. Yet here I am, most definitely not having dropped dead of a heart attach or salmonella poisoning.

    I will inevitably leave again. This cannot be my perpetual Facebook status. Kim Rhodes is…. happy. I don’t know how I got here, so I’m pretty sure I don’t know how to get back. I can’t point to an incident or event that MADE me happy, I just am. I should immediately be rendered miserable by this awareness, but you know what? In this weird state of happiness, I’m actually NOT WORRIED! I got here once, I’ll do it again. It will be amusing and enjoyable.

    WHO THE FUCK AM I???? Really, I don’t know who I am. Kinda. I had assumed that if this ever happened, I would immediately drown in the toilet of self-doubt. Who am I now? What am I if not the battered but unbowed victim?

    I did a mental inventory and noticed a lot of stuff has gone missing. Stuff that I really believed made me the person I identify as being me. First, my body issues seem to have been misplaced, resulting in what will most likely be a catastrophic exposure of thigh for tomorrow night’s red carpet event. There may be screams of terror. I don’t know. I won’t even know I caused them, since all of a sudden I think it’s a terrific idea to wear a skirt that barely covers my butt, so any cries of, “It burns! It burns! Make it stop!” won’t have any impact on me at all, I’ll be blissfully believing I’m being described as “leggy”.

    I’m trying to figure out where my temper has run off to. Now I’m usually quite adept at not flipping people off. This is Los Angeles. People carry guns and I do have a self-preservation instinct. I don’t always have time to write snarky tweets to people who’s idiocy renders me incoherent. I frequently leave the letters to my father in draft form rather than sending them. Still, the rage is always simmering nicely under the surface, even if I don’t act on it. But I just went to look for that cauldron of piss and discovered it’s taken a leave of absence. At first I doubted myself, so I double checked by reading some political news. I got a bit irked by the pastor who advocated smacking the shit out of your kid if you think he’s gay, but even then the dominant emotion was pity, not anger. I blame happiness. It’s out to get me. Who am I if not angry?

    Happiness is even draining the sea of resentment I’ve spent a lifetime cultivating. I tapped a little of the rage to water it, fed it with self-pity, and watched it grow into something I could really be proud of. It was a moat of protection. Truly! I picked an old, confused man up off the ground a couple of days ago, waited until the police came, got him home, and then went in to call my old, confused Dad and tell him I love him. And I meant it! Oh dear.

    I’ve mentioned before that I lost my virginity to a rape. I have pruned that resentment like a bonsai tree. I wore it like a shield, vowing that my venom was mother’s milk and as long as I held the pain, I could guarantee it never happened again. AND, I would be an interesting, damaged, dark, brooding, intense and deep person. Wow. When you put it like that, a life-changing incident of brutality is a small price to pay! Yeah…. I can’t quite seem to find even that! That’s usually my go-to spot to work up a good head of steam, and I can’t be bothered. So you KNOW my lingering issues with the ex are like bubbles I’m trying to fan upward, knowing they’re only going to pop too. I was talking about my old job yesterday and felt…. GRATITUDE! Fuck me! I’m so used to equating that job with losing my house, I was totally thrown mid-stream when I found myself crediting that job for giving me my child. Which, by the way, the bank CAN’T take back. (I’ve looked into it.) No! No! If it were up to my conscious self, I would keep that shit strapped to me like sticks of dynamite! It keeps me wary and watchful, it keeps me strong!

    I can’t find it anywhere. I’m not saying it’s gone for good. There is a lingering aroma, but…. this is a pickle indeed. I have this completely unreasonable optimism that’s making me act in a foreign manner, what with all the taking care of myself and helping people and spending money like I’m gonna get more somehow. Say what?

    This happy shit is really throwing me for a loop, because, see, I actually feel MORE myself after losing so many of those things I thought were me. My “rooms” have many sayings. One of my favorites is, “I used to be a victim, now I’m a volunteer.” Is it possible that all of that shit that happened TO me wasn’t actually ME? Is it possible that my continuous reaction to them, clutching on to the wounds like an Armani jacket that’s been thrown in the 25c bin is detrimental to my happiness? And maybe, juuuuuuuust maybe, that my misery is in my control no matter what’s been done to me in the past?

    I dunno. That sounds suspicious. I’m sure I’d want those questions answered if I were in a slightly more miserable mood. As it is, I have a chiropractor appointment.

    Category general musings | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 17 Comments

  4. The Ages of Woah, Man

    April 27, 2012 by kim

    Let’s all have a moment of silence for another lost comrade. He was a good friend, a smart dude, a cute guy…. he just succumbed to the belief that “age doesn’t matter”. No, he didn’t go skydiving at the age of seventy-two. That I would wholeheartedly support. The sad truth is, we lost another one to an inappropriately younger woman.

    Now at this point you would probably expect a blog about how dumb dudes are and why do they only think with their knobs, but you’d be wrong. I was pondering this phenomenon when I realized, no one has written warning labels about us. How are they to know? When a doe-eyed nymph looks hungrily down from her straddled position on the couch saying, “But I don’t CARE about the age difference,” no one has told men that the appropriate response should be, “I do!” So I have decided to decipher the decades that make us us in simple, no-nonsense terms.

    WARNING: MEN, DO NOT EVER EVER EVER GROSSLY GENERALIZE WOMEN, ESPECIALLY ACCORDING TO THEIR AGE. DON’T DO WHAT I AM ABOUT TO DO AND WILL PROBABLY NOT GET AWAY WITH. YOU DEFINITELY WILL NOT GET AWAY WITH IT AND WILL BE FED YOUR OWN TESTICLES IN A NICE BOLOGNESE SAUCE. But…. if some of this helps….

    0 – 10, The Power Years: It would be easy to underestimate a female during this decade. After all, her nasal ridge hasn’t even fully developed, how dangerous can she be? AHA! There’s where we get ya off the bat. My daughter was all of three months old when I noticed she would look me in the eye when I was holding her, but when DADDY held her, she dropped her head, looked up at him through her lashes, and put her tiny hand on the side of his face. Three months. Take us very seriously. When a seven year old comes up to you screaming, “Be my horsie! Be my horsie!” know that she is calculating all the necessary factors to get you down on your knees. This is when a girl learns that, yes, when the boys hit, she COULD hit them back, but if she doesn’t, Daddy kicks the crap out of them way better than she could. Everything is an experiment in this decade, and men are simply lab rats. Hold on to your cheese tightly and don’t take it personally. It’s just what we do.

    10 – 20, The Am I Pretty Years: Just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, suddenly you’re free. You’re not being chased or accused of having cooties. You’re not being bombarded with your essence of wrongness. It’s like the rooster crowed and the orcs realized the sun was coming up. All you hear is wind. Why is that?

    We have turned on each other. This is the decade of cannibalism. Of treachery. Of cruelty. We have tasted power easily gotten, now we fight for dominance with foes worthy of us. The life of a lame baby gazelle in the middle of a lion-infested, draught-plagued veldt is infinitely longer than that of the twelve-year old fat girl with a home perm and braces. Boys just beat the crap out of each other at this age. We craft weapons of mass destruction and unleash them on opposing cliques. This is when we put to good use all the things Barbie taught us in the last decade and see how they work on the WHOLE WORLD. Athletic? Fine, whatever, I guess. Smart? Really, who cares. Pretty? DING DING DING! (Although rich is a nice second place, affording the less desirable girls to buy their way into favor.) I don’t see why “Game of Thrones” is so big. Every middle school in America has its own version.

    We don’t really care about boys at this age. They are merely the spoils of war. Even the most boy-crazy among us would ditch the real Justin Bieber in a heartbeat for his autograph that we could wave in the face of our frenemy. But the sad thing is, halfway through this decade, boys start to fall in love. Oh, God help you. So right now I want you to recall all of the damage done to you by teenage girls and just ditch it. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was inevitable. Even that one girl who truly cared about you, the one you KNOW loved you back, didn’t have the capacity or understanding to express it. It would have been the equivalent of giving her throat to a pack of wild dogs. It would have killed her. Let it go and know that at least it wasn’t you. It was the teens. It’s the war years.

    *20 – 30, The Plutonium Years: Mother. Fucker. Those first two decades were leading up to this. This is when we will do anything, say anything, and be anything to get you to love us, even though it’s widely recognized we only want to change you. We should be treated like radioactive waste during this decade – always contacted with protective attire and with an alarm system in place. I’m sure enriched uranium is lovely to look at, but we all agree that anyone dumb enough to touch it deserves to lose his pecker. Twenty-something girls are the same way… you will lose your pecker. Now, to be honest, our hearts are in the right place. It’s just everything else around it is all fucked up. We’ve been damaged by at least one decade of adversarial relationships with the opposite sex, we don’t have any female friends we trust, we haven’t realized we are mortal, and we still haven’t figured out that dudes are people too. STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM WOMEN THIS AGE! We are insane. We are inconstant. We are the genesis of the phrase, “Enough about me, what do you think about me?” because you will be commanded to define us, fix us, capitulate to us and then be blamed if we don’t feel good about ourselves.

    This is also the decade when we really learn to fight since we are out on our own and Mommy and Daddy can’t be counted on to save us. Or tell us to shut the hell up. So we have to practice. A lot. There is drama. There is passion. This is the most extreme part of a woman’s life. This is when the shock and horror of NOT being the pretty girl really sets in, or the terror of not STAYING the pretty girl becomes our driving force. Either way, our brain is so wrong-sized with identity issues, there’s no room for you. Plus, there’s no moral compass. It’s wrong to fuck another woman’s husband? Really? It’s wrong to give your boss head for a promotion? Really? It’s wrong to screw your best friend’s boyfriend? She didn’t find out, it’s fine! We are truly monsters. I think we all should be locked in a closet for these ten years. I should have been.

    30 – 40, The Jekyll and Hyde Years: This is the decade when the girls separate from the other girls. Some of us adopt the attitude that we just haven’t been wishing hard enough or found the right guy/girl to make everything the way it’s supposed to be. Those are the equivalent of a vampire that’s been denied blood for a century. Easy to spot, but tough to get away from if she sinks her fangs into you. However, there are many more of us who decide enough is enough. We admit we aren’t happy and the one constant in all of the scenarios is ourselves. So we get therapy, religion, hypnosis, a gym membership and a puppy. All in one day. Tomorrow, who knows? You sure as hell don’t. The good news is, a lot of us stop blaming you. The bad news is, we have NO problems blaming ourselves.

    Many of us can, indeed begin to be trusted at this age. We can masturbate by now, so it’s no wonder our sexual peak is around this point. We’ve adjusted to the idea of having an “imperfect” body, so many of us will wander around naked more frequently. We learn how to have fun finally. We have decided that men aren’t inherently the enemy and can actually see you as individuals. We learn how to stop drama before it starts because, quite frankly, it’s not so much fun anymore. Not nearly as good as a good grilled-cheese sandwich after a really good fuck, at any rate.

    A few will stab you in your bed for not turning out the way their idealized memory of their father is. So…. heads up on that.

    40 – 50, The Mother Years: We’ve gone from Maiden to Mother and finally realized the transition. We might stop blaming all together and just start accepting what is. We still kinda have perky breasts but we’re past competing with the young chippies. We are unrestrained and unapologetic sexual partners, even with ourselves. We have experienced love and can comprehend it being unconditional. We are earning money and achieving our potential. We have knowing grins. We are patient with other women and children. We slow down and take care of ourselves. We are ideal women… except we don’t need you for fuckall. Good luck getting one of us at this age. We got shit to do.

    or

    We go back to the cannibalistic teens. But this time we have better cars. For some reason these women are very very tan, but other than that, you’re on your own spotting them. And a lot of tan women are perfectly nice.

    50 – 60, The Holy Shit Years: No, that’s YOU going, “Holy shit!” There is magic in this decade. The responsibilities are gone, but the energy and body still exist. This is the age of the cougar. The merciless predator who suddenly can drink until dawn and fuck you raw without knowing your name. This is when women suddenly realize we are mortal and you know what? There’s some fun to be had! Men approach this decade with a feeling of doom, which is why they buy fast cars and screw young women. We, on the other hand, embrace it with frenzied joy. Which is why we buy fast cars and screw young men. They are the only things that can keep up with us. This is the decade of really letting it out. Let’s see what this puppy can do! We don’t have to set good examples any more, the kids are gone or fully formed. We don’t have to worry about what tomorrow brings, we might be dead! And if we want to have zero regrets when we go, we are damn well going to eat, say, fuck, and do whatever the hell we want now.

    OR

    Holy shit, how did we get so mean? Bitter and judgmental, this is the decade of the hated mother-in-law. She never let go of her need to be needed, and now the only way you can see that you need her is if she helps you recognize what roadkill you are and how she, and only she, can somehow wrangle your intestines back inside of your body. Sometimes it is necessary to be the car that renders you roadkill. Feel pity for these women. Preferably from far, far away.

    60 – 70, The Bemused Years: I love women this age. We have realized there’s a door to this room we’ve been milling around in, trying to decide what shape the ball is and do we get to use our hands or not. We don’t have to play any more. This is a more sedate and grounded version of the forties. We wear purple because it amuses us, yes, but also so we can be spotted if we get lost in the mall. Good sense. But, unlike the forties, there isn’t the urgency to share that wisdom any more. Women this age know that time and experience are the only true teachers. It’s not that we don’t care, it’s that we have learned to conserve energy. And sharing our wisdom unasked is a waste of energy. Like leaving the refrigerator door open. And what seventy year old woman do you know who would do that?

    OR…. yeah. HAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! Angry and still packing a punch? Don’t’ let her fool you. She doesn’t have a bum leg, she just wants an excuse to carry a cane so she can brain you with it and plead dementia.

    70 – 80, The Joke’s Gotta Be on Somebody, Dammit: Well, by now most women have outlasted our partners. We are cleaning up our affairs. Men get ready to die by denying it. We make lists and organize our funeral wreath delivery. Don’t be disturbed or shocked when a woman who seems hale, hearty and full of health suddenly hands you a piece of china so that, “Maude up the street doesn’t get it when I’m gone.” If you’re having problems dealing with a woman in this decade, check to see if she’s actually getting ready to die. Not physically, mind you, but mentally. Some telltale signs: casually mentioning her preference of burial plot and lily, leaving the number of her hairdresser in an obvious place, taking a nap with a sign that says, “Just napping,” things like that. If she used to be an avid ingredient reader, this may let up. Whatever you do, do NOT confront her with her behavior. She will bring it up herself, possibly over and over and over and over, or she will die rather than admit she’s dying some day.

    80 -….. Yeah, well, at this age we can do whatever the fuck we feel like.

    There. Men, from this point on, I expect you to know what the hell you’re doing when you date a twenty-two year old. Seriously. You’ve been warned.

    * In all sincerity, there are twenty-year old women out there with more fortitude, wisdom and courage than I will have in my life. They are smart, funny and passionate. They are deep, honest and committed. You should not stay away from ALL of them… just the ones who were like me when I was in my twenties.

    Category general musings | Tags: | 5 Comments

  5. I Like Girls Who Like Girls

    April 17, 2012 by kim

    So today I brought up the fact that I am proud to be crushworthy of women. I got a concerned and well-meaning message asking if I wanted to open myself up to “that kind of attention.” It took me a good five minutes to even figure out what the question was. I realized the answer is so much longer than I had space for there, that I am going to rhapsodize here.

    First, on the subject of graphic conceptualization, shall we say… I’ve been asked a few times what I thought of various lines of fantasy, specifically fantasizing that certain actors have secret homosexual relationships. Here’s the thing. IT’S MAKE BELIEVE! If someone wants to pretend I had sex with someone I kissed on screen, I’m not offended. If someone is going to pretend I roll around in the guts of a Tauntaun to get off, I’m not offended. I’m fairly certain that is the case with most people on television. (The only time any of that gets under my skin is if it is material that would disturb me no matter who was starring in it. I try to stay open, but NAMBLA’s take on “Zack and Cody” skeeves me. You’re welcome for putting that in your head.) In real life, I am only going to have sex with my husband. Sorry, but it’s true. So I don’t give a flying fuck WHO imagines they’re having sex with me or what their genitalia are. Same holds true the other way around. I don’t give a shit if someone is gay or not. I really don’t. The only reason I would is if I personally wanted to sleep with them. Which I believe is covered under my previous explanation.

    Okay. Off my soapbox. If it ever comes up again, I shall refer the inquisitor to this page. I would like to spend the rest of my allotted time talking about how lesbians are better than anyone else on the planet.

    A few years ago, before I was married, I was working at a Shakespeare festival and decided to revisit a piece of my youth. I wanted to go out dancing. A particular club claimed to have an “Alternative 80′s Night” so I made a date with myself. However, I am now significantly older than I used to be, you know, actually IN the 80′s. This meant that I got ready in a whole different way. Instead of dressing to impress, I dressed for comfort and sweating. I threw a bandanna on my head, cut a pair of slightly baggy jeans off at the knees, and tossed a tank top over a sports bra. I completed my ensemble with some Jelly tennis shoes. I put on some makeup, since I didn’t want to actually be turned away, and took a gander at myself.

    “I look like a lesbian.”

    I was THRILLED! Yay! Being a lesbian has always been a club I thought was for the cool kids and I’m not that cool. I mean, yes, I understand it is a primal part of a woman’s being and all, but I was enthralled with the image and culture. I put on some lipgloss since I always figured I’d be the “lipstick” type, and headed off.

    Not one woman hit on me. And it was a gay bar. WTF?

    As I was getting a drink, a friend I worked with commented on my presence and I lamented that I wasn’t passing as being a part of the sisterhood. She snarfed her beer and said, “Oh, you are SO not a lesbian.” I was heartbroken.

    “I could be if I wanted to be!”
    “No,” she deadpanned. “No, you couldn’t.”
    “I’ve come really close to having sex with a woman. A couple of times. Sober!”
    “Nope.”
    “Come on. Not even a little?”
    She just laughed at me.
    “Well, how can you tell?
    I will never forgive this evil evil woman for smiling serenely and saying, “I’m not telling.”

    Bitch.

    There were lesbians there who could dance, I can dance. There were lesbians there drinking dirty martinis, I was drinking a dirty martini. I certainly don’t shirk from admiring the presence of a lovely woman, so it wasn’t like, “Oh look at the straight girl acting like we all have cooties!” What the hell was it? I wanna have it! This is not to say the life of any gay human right now is a life of ease. But men have their version called “metrosexual”, when they know how to accessorize and use hair product, but still want to put their penis in a pussy. What’s the female equivalent? How do I learn it?

    For some reason, a straight guy has some level of fear about being hit on by another guy. I, on the other hand, think lesbians are FAR more discriminating and tasteful than men. After all, they don’t have the Little Brain screaming stupid shit at them all the time. They tend to be pretty fucking smart about a lot of things. I know that’s a stereotype, and I apologize. It’s like, Gay Men Can Decorate, Gay Women Can Think! Sorry. I don’t mean to be insulting. But I am enamored, I truly am. The first time a woman ever confessed feelings for me I was so profoundly flattered I almost couldn’t react honestly. For a second I thought, “Well, if SHE likes me, I must really be worth something. I mean, dudes just want to fuck things that are warm and semi-mobile. Maybe….” I mean, I don’t actually WANT a woman to hit on me, but only because I’d have to turn her down and I don’t like hurting people’s feelings.

    Apparently guys are enamored too. I don’t quite understand this. Is it a numbers thing? Like if one vagina is good, two is better? Or is it the masculine ego thinking it’s just going to take his massive cock to make them see the light? (Which means a lot of dudes have never truly seen the dimensions of a strap-on and done a side-by-side comparison.) But the point is, it’s not just me that’s smitten. I’m pretty sure that we could be on the third to the last lap of the Indy 500 and if someone shouted, “Holy shit! Two chicks are making out live on YouTube!” every television in America would be abandoned.

    Anyway, I am a huge supporter of girl-on-girl in any way shape or form. Be it poetry readings, motorcycles, vegan restaurants, volunteering in cat shelters, or even having sex with each other. So if the closest I am going to get to having whatever that thing is nobody will tell me what it is, is being crushed on by some women, I gotta admit, I am blushing and honored. And if I offended anyone I am trying to praise, I will humbly eat…. crow. I will eat crow. Stop it! Shut up! I’m married!

    Category general musings | Tags: , , , , , , | 33 Comments

  6. If I Told You What to Do, It Would Look Like This

    April 16, 2012 by kim

    Blogging is a weird thing. I mean, why don’t I just keep a diary? Why must I publicize this private stuff? Well, honestly, I blog because I want to write, yes, but I want to connect. I want to tell stories. I want feedback. I am, after all, an actor. I DON’T blog because I think I’m better than you are. I swear I don’t consider myself to be any bastion of wisdom. I’m no font of knowledge. I’m not the paradigm of intelligence. In fact, I’m so dumb I will use words like “bastion”, “font”, and “paradigm” when I don’t REALLY know what they mean, they just kinda seem like they would fit. I don’t publicize my thoughts because I think they are inherently good, I do it because it’s fun.

    HOWEVER, it occurred to me today that I have a few ideas that kinda kick ass. They make my life a little more worth living and put a little spring in my step. Some are tiny little ripples on the pond of What Is and some are tidal waves, but I realize I owe it to you, dear reader, to share some of them. You might be helped. You might be inspired. At the very least, you will know a little more of the crazy that is me.

    First of all, I think it’s important to be naked as much as possible. Now I live in Southern California where it’s possible to forget you didn’t put on a robe when you go out to fetch the paper it’s so damn balmy most of the time. But even when I was an East Coast resident I was a fan of being naked. Why put on clothes fresh out of the shower? Why not wait as long as possible? It’s freeing and liberating. It makes me familiar with me, rather than thinking of my body as an inconvenient stranger I have to contend with at least once a day. It takes the mystery away from that which shouldn’t be mysterious and puts the fun back in some things that should be fun. Naked is good. It puts you into the mindset of a four-year old when air was a friend to skin. Plus, when you have a hectic schedule, it’s always nice to know there’s one less impediment to having sex when the opportunity presents itself. Most things are better when naked. Just try and fight naked. You will get to the point faster and reach an agreement sooner even if you’re not having sex. It just puts things in perspective. (NOTE: I do NOT, under any circumstances, recommend cooking bacon while naked. Said as one who will repeat that painful lesson over and over and over.)

    Next, I think silverware should be optional. Yes, I am having to set a good example so my child doesn’t get kicked out of school for slovenliness, but all in all I think we are better off without the stuff. I want to be intimate with my food, not keep it at fork’s distance. Texture is a vital part of the gastronomic experience. If it’s too hot to hold, chances are it’s too hot to eat. I love the feeling of chocolate dripping down my arm. Hell, I love the feeling of ketchup and grease from a cheesesteak dripping down my arm. I love licking off my fingers. I love pulling bread apart and breaking off a hunk of cheese to put on it. And, I’m sorry, I think it’s sexy as hell. As God is my witness, before I die I will have the perfect filet mignon that I can eat with my hands (naked) and then immediately fuck my husband under the table. Talk about juices! Now, unless you know any lenient and understanding restaurants, I know this will have to happen at home. I am not advocating making people uncomfortable in restaurants, but when possible in life, I say eschew the flatware! Embrace the fingerware!

    This one may disappoint a few of you, but I let my dogs clean up the floor. I only have one child, but the amount of crap she spills, throws, or otherwise manifests onto the floor is incredible. I can’t keep up with it. My dogs, on the other hand, are like lightening. Their mouths have fewer bacteria than ours. They are happy to comply. Why would I add countless hours of unnecessary cleaning to my regimen when I can just say, “Linus! Hit it!” and voila! no more yogurt on the linoleum? True this may not be the healthiest option for my dogs, but they are subject to my whims often and seem to be surviving. I mean…. well, okay, I might as well admit this…. one of my dogs loves eating crayons. I let him for two reasons. One, when they get down to being nubs, I know my daughter won’t use them any more and they are only going to get left out again and again and again until I finally throw them out.

    The second reason is that it makes his poop look like confetti. That’s another one of my ideas I’d like to share. If you can find any way to make the mundane shit you have to deal with a little more colorful and amusing, do it! Put a bumper sticker on your car that makes you laugh. (I drive a Prius. I am going to make one on Zazzle that says, “Hummers should be given, not driven.” If you steal this idea, please include me in the profits. I’m broke.) Wear ridiculous sunglasses. Have conversations with babies and animals, pretending they are responding. Answer telephone solicitation calls and make up uncomfortable personal anecdotes to tell them, (“I would order the LA Times, but I’m dyslexic and just remembered that my baby sitter used to use the newspaper to rape the dog when I was twelve. And it’s 2012, which really is fucking with my head when I write a check. I’m so sorry.”) I recently received a supplication for funds from a politician I happen to disagree profoundly with. So I filled out all of the requested information indicating that I would love to donate $3,200 of my hard earned dollars to combat the heinous attacks he was facing for his, well, illegal actions. But I digress. Then I sealed it and sent it off. This was five days ago and I am still deriving such glee from the amount of time someone will spend looking for the check I didn’t include. My husband asked why I did it. I did it because it was fun.

    That’s my bottom line, I guess. I read that all back to myself and discovered I didn’t present you with a bunch of thoughts, they are different aspects of the same thing. What little I’ve learned in my long life can be boiled down to just… have fun. As it turns out, true fun isn’t harmful to others, doesn’t demand exorbitant monetary resources, and is available at any time. True fun is nothing I ever feel guilty about. In fact, true fun somehow seems to make the world a better place AND brings me a little closer to God. So go have some. That’s my advice for the day.

    Category general musings | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

  7. Girls Being Girls is Good

    April 14, 2012 by kim

    Usually I am one of the first to roll my eyes at “girl stuff”. You know, beauty regimens, purchasing puppies based entirely on their ability to fit in a Louis Vuitton purse, spending more on pedicures in a year than the state of California does per student, having a car custom painted to match a phone… shit like that. I think girls can be the dumbest things on the planet. And I’m including inanimate objects. Girls rank right above gefilte fish in some areas of cerebral dexterity. I know. I was one. I AM one.

    However, there are some other areas that I am just realizing are often scoffed at that should actually be applauded. Possibly emulated. Certainly encouraged. I would like to list a few and suggest, to those of us born with ovaries, that perhaps we wear the behavior a bit more proudly. I will go so far as to suggest to my more testosterone-riddled readers that they might benefit from taking notes. Maybe. A teensy bit.

    I was on the phone with a male friend the other day. This is in the day and age of portable phones, so I multitask. I’m sure I’m not the only one who, at some point in a conversation, was met with a long silence followed by, “…. are you peeing?” Yes. Yes, I was peeing. He tried not to be, but I could tell he was appalled. We girls pee and talk. It is possible to do both, dudes just don’t. For some reason they won’t even make eye contact with each other in bathrooms, I’ve been told. We, on the other hand, borrow each other’s lip gloss. Now for a long time, I ascribed to the masculine notion that this was proof of our idiocy and that we deserved to be mocked for always going to the bathroom together, never mind our habit of leaving the door open if we have to piss in the middle of a conversation. I am re-thinking that notion. I think we girls actually know that it is a function, like eating or breathing. Just because our pants are down, it’s not automatically sexual. Guys could stand to adopt this attitude a bit more, both with each other AND WITH US! Our freedom in the bathroom is wonderful. It makes conversation possible in a noisy restaurant and ensures that salacious details don’t get overlooked in the middle of a good gossip session just because a bladder is full to bursting. I think that rocks.

    It is indicative of a larger point of pride for us girls. It’s not ALWAYS about sex with us. In fact, even when it’s about sex, it may not be about sex with us. You ever wonder why so many straight chicks happily make out with each other on a dance floor? Because it’s amusing to watch straight guys start to gibber insanely and break out in flop sweat. Kissing girls is nice. There’s no reason we can’t enjoy it and still not make it about sex necessarily. We can be naked and it’s not about sex. We can eat phallic food and it’s not about sex. We can come into a dressing room with each other and adjust each other’s underwear and it’s not about sex. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we all know I think sex is awesome! But it’s really nice that girls can just do shit for shit’s sake and not get all hung up on whether or not it arouses us. Or DEFINES us. For some reason, if a straight dude makes out with another dude, he’s immediately in an existential quandary about whether or not he’s gay. Nine times out of ten, if a straight girl makes out with another girl, the only quandary she’s in is if her lipstick is smudged and who has to pay for drinks now. Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss. Especially if you’re a girl.

    Girls admit our mistakes and apologize. Now sometimes we do this a bit too readily with a bit too much eyelash batting. And sometimes this has been drummed out of a girl so she refuses to admit any wrongdoing even if there’s an incendiary device placed in her cat’s basket, metaphoric or literal. But for the most part, girls are the ones known for saying, “Oopsie. Sorry,” and going about our merry little way. That rocks. Dudes struggle to right wrongs, shift the earth on its axis, and rewrite history. An apology carries as much weight as a papal edict. When that’s the case, no wonder they are so hard to get. If apologies weren’t seen as signs of weakness and were a little more respected, I think this world would be a whole hell of a lot better off. And probably we could get rid of some of that nauseating eyelash batting that’s employed to distract from the aforementioned apology. Wouldn’t THAT be a bonus?

    Girls like animals. You ever hear of a “cat man”? No. They probably don’t exist. “Cat lady”, on the other hand, has its very own wikipedia entry. People mock this fact in girls. They mock that we love cute fuzzy things and adore the sounds they make. If a guy wants a guaranteed pick-up line, he borrows a friend’s dog and goes for a walk. But chances are, he’s not looking for a soul mate, he’s looking to get laid. A girl’s fondness for pets is legendary and generally regarded as silly. Except…. it has been well documented that pets improve mood, lower blood pressure, lower cholesterol, predict seizures, boost immunity, decrease risk of heart attack and stroke, generate enough heat to be active in types of pain management, and other stuff. And…. women live longer than men in general. Who’s laughing now, animal haters? Hahahahaaaaa. No, seriously, don’t kill kittens.

    I think it goes without saying that one of the most obvious traits that qualifies for this entry is a girl’s tendency to talk. Specifically, to talk about our feelings. So much has been said about this subject, I’m not even going into it. Talking is better. Nuff said.

    There are so many other qualities that are equated with being weak and lesser. I could go on. I probably will some day, but I’ve been working a lot and I’m tired. I just keep seeing so much anti-woman political crap going on and it’s getting me down. Now, more than ever that I remember, misogyny seems to be okay. There are two television shows on right now with the word “bitch” in their title. What the fuck? I hear other women berating the “stupid” tendencies girls have and how we should just man up and be more like the dudes. That is such bullshit. I can sing my body electric with the best of them. I spelled womyn with the y before I knew why. I think being able to carry and bear a child is a literal miracle. But I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about some of the other stuff that is relegated to the “dumb girl” category of small discomforts. I want to wear those with more pride as well.

    Although if I see one more oompah-loompah spray-tanned chippie with a French pedicure getting into her lemon chiffon Range Rover after buying a diamond charm collar for her “teacup malti-poo”, (IT’S A MUTT FOR FUCK’S SAKE!), something might pop behind my right eye.

    Category general musings | Tags: , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

  8. My Merry Go Round of Hell

    April 9, 2012 by kim

    You don’t have to listen to the whole thing. But I need you in the mood.

    That’s right! WOOOOO! Things going round and round and round and round! Nope, I ain’t slowing’ down for ya, you gotta hop on, muthafuckas! Oh, okay fine. I’ll pick a point and you can join me. The problem is, it’s all chicken and egg shit I’m dealing with.

    Body hurts
    Want drugs
    Drugs are bad
    Heart hurts
    Can’t function
    Take drugs
    Body doesn’t’ hurt
    Heart feels guilty
    Cops call from Dad’s house because he’s threatening to kill someone but they can’t legally take his guns away from him and he’s a right bastard to me and I voice the thought that he’s not doing me any favors staying alive and maybe one of those bullets might taste good and no, I wouldn’t mind cleaning up the mess if he put plastic down first.
    Feel like shit
    Drugs wear off
    Heart hurts more
    Body hurts

    Step right up! Step the fuck right up and just TRY and hit the target that will ding the bell and stop this crazy ride. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

    I can’t separate my emotional pain from my physical pain at this point, and the problem is the action that fixes one causes the other. I don’t trust myself. I can’t tell you if I REALLY can’t stand up or if I just don’t WANT to stand up because I know I get a pill if I can’t stand up. So I grit my teeth and white-knuckle through it, then I drop my kid on her head because I actually am NOT faking it and, lo and behold, when a spasm hits, MY BODY QUITS WORKING NO MATTER WHAT IT IS DOING. So, well, now I’ve caused enough damage to “earn” me the right to not be in pain. So then I take a pill, which eases my physical condition, fully opening me up to smack the shit out of myself emotionally for being so weak and broken. Good times, good times.

    So my Dad, my “qualifier”, my mirror, my parent, my bane, my father, my mentor, my fate, my fear, my poison, my mirage, my nemesis, my comfort and my will-o’ the wisp picks today to be in crisis. Of course, every day is today when you’re dying slowly and belligerently. I can’t separate here either. He hurts me, I hurt myself, I hurt him, it all bleeds together. Today he’s pissed because the man we’ve agreed will keep his car and drive him places has “stolen it.” No, I won’t tell him to give it back. Dad can’t drive and he wants to give it to a woman who will get him drunk, drive him to the bank, and take his money. She’s gone through upper five figures this way so far and I don’t want him broke and living with me. So I tell him I’m trying to take care of him and love him and would he please trust me and FUCKING GODDAMMIT LISTEN TO ME, YOU SENILE, HATEFUL, UNRELENTING OLD MAN! Does he? Nope. My Daddy doesn’t love me…..

    Now that’s not true, is it? That’s me. Hurting myself again. He’s the example of who I fear I am. And when he eviscerates me, it’s because I let him. They say you shouldn’t go to a hardware store to buy milk, but there I am, sitting with migrant workers in the sun with my jug in hand. And when I scream and rail and cry because he won’t listen to me, is it possible I wasn’t listening to him? Is it possible HE’S scared and sad and alone and angry about THAT?

    Is it possible he’s in pain and wants drugs and his heart hurts and he can’t function and so he takes his own drug of choice?

    What. The. Fuck. Why do I have to be in the AP class of human evolution? I think any one of these things, chronic pain, addiction, an alcoholic parent, would be enough to take in a semester. I want to have some words with my guidance counselor who told me this was a good idea. I’m so dizzy I’ve forgotten what the point even was.

    I remember as a little child going to one of those traveling fairs with the rides of dubious safety and the workers with only one name. I really wanted to go on one that looked fun, so my mom let me. It was shaped like a spider and it spun. It was a completely different experience once I was on it. It was jarring and jolting and too fast and I was too little and wanted off. But the man wouldn’t stop it. I cried and tried to lie down on the seat to make it go away, but I just had to ride it out. I kinda feel like that now in my worst moments.

    When did I decide I had to hurt enough before I “deserved” to feel good? I’d like to change that, please. Because it’s really fucking counterproductive to bash my head into the wall over and over for the relief from the headache that aspirin can give me.

    Goddammit. I think I erased a comment I really needed. Conservatorship? Bar in the hospital cafeteria? Repost please? Fucking iPhone….

    Category a bit more serious | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 28 Comments

  9. An Open and Disrespectful Letter to my Maker

    April 7, 2012 by kim

    Dear Manufacturer,

    I believe I was misled in a number of your advertising claims and would like to return the model of body I currently am working with, “Human, Late 20th Century”. There are a number of inherent design flaws I’ve found.

    First of all, if I am going to be the top of the food chain, I expect to be inhabiting a vehicle that is top of the line. Instead, I am slower, weaker, less adaptive, and less capable than most other animals on this planet. A cheetah can kick the shit out of me on land and a frigin’ squid beats me in water. I can’t even try to fly, so way to make sure I’m mocked by things that are renowned for their stupidity. Yeah. Thanks for that. I was TOLD that being top of the food chain meant I could dominate every other link. I am not finding that to be the case. Yes, I have opposable thumbs that can fashion a gun or other deadly device, but fat lot of good that does me if I’m dropped in the Serengeti with no prep time. I take exception with your definition of “top” and would like to see the small print on that.

    Also, bipedal locomotion is, forgive me for saying this bluntly, dumb as shit. I’m no architect, but I wouldn’t build my house on a pair of sticks. All the other two-legged things have wings and/or an extremely low center of gravity, which I believe compensate for the profound stupidity of the idea. What the hell were you thinking? (Which, to leave my train of thought for a minute, is my own personal reason for not believing in alien life forms. They always are described as having two legs. No advanced entity would evolve with THAT being their solution to gravity. They would have, like, at least three. Maybe some wheels.) AND it takes years to even perform the function adequately enough to be non-supervised around coffee tables. Ambulation is not this difficult for any other creature on the planet. Two words: Epic. Fail.

    The digestive system is redundant AND ineffective. How is it possible that I find myself desiring to consume so many things that will kill me? Huh? Shouldn’t it work out that stuff that’s good for me tastes good and stuff that will give me an extra arm and perhaps a prehensile tale if ingested tastes like the poison it is? This thing I’m driving can be literally obese and still undernourished! How is that possible, you asshat? And let’s not even get into the process of digestion. We have THAT much crap, literally, left over from what we eat? And how many organs have to process it? That is poor gas mileage, pun intended. Then the process of elimination itself is so ill-conceived it had to be a joke. What other function requires it’s own room?

    Well, sleep. We have bedrooms, don’t we? If my CAR was in the shop for a third of its existence, it would be recalled. But apparently you’re a-okay with me being unconscious for that amount of my entire life. What the hell? Isn’t there a more cost-effective way of refueling? Quite frankly, I think it’s a waste of my time and focus, but when I try and do without it, I become a gibbering idiot. It’s not even OPTIONAL! It’s so vital that we have a little legal document that says depriving another human body of sleep is a criminal offense and technically torture! Dumb dumb dumb. (Not to mention the fact that the little brains who need it the most i.e. the ones under the age of five that are in rapid development are the ones who wake up at the ass crack of dawn! You suck for planning that treat.)

    The procreative function is beyond ludicrous. Everything from choosing a mate to every step of gestation and ending with a dangerous and painful birth process is fucked. I thank you for the orgasm option and would like to punch you in the nose for making it such a difficult button to find for me. You could have put it someplace convenient and accessible, you know. There’s a lot of unused territory.

    Hair. Body hair. Come on. I mean, I’m aces with eyelashes and eyebrows, I don’t want to go blind because an errant piece of dandruff got caught in the wind, and I do adore cutting my own bangs, but explain to me why so much in the armpit area? What is it protecting? I can see from an evolutionary standpoint the purpose of the pubic stuff, but we’ve been around for a while. I drive a 2006 Prius. The 2012 might as well be a different species. If a car can evolve that much in six years, why are we still looking at back-waxing as a spa offering? I call that lazy.

    Finally, you failed to install any way to safely exit and re-enter this damn thing. Don’t know how that skipped your notice, but it’s more than a little inconvenient for a lot of us. Results in some pretty severe fear and war and crime and… well… most of the crap we do to ourselves. Please upgrade that, because it’s a pain in the bloody ass to be stuck here until it’s totaled. Dumbass.

    So, all things considered, I think I’d like to see something in a nice river otter. I would say dolphin, but you also failed to equip us with foresight and we have pretty much fucked up most of the environment they need to be their happy, randy selves. River otters look like they have fun. Let me know when it comes it.

    Sincerely,
    Me

    Category general musings | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

  10. Cancer Dispensation

    April 4, 2012 by kim

    About six years ago, my mom died of cancer. Eight years ago, we were attempting to shop in a Southeast Portland Fred Meyer store. Those of you unfamiliar with the genre, please imagine a store with all the variety of Target and all the class of Tara Reid’s left boob when she’s sporting a blood alcohol level of .32. It’s where you go when you don’t quite have the guts to kill yourself and you need something to tip you over the edge. Or you need to score some meth. My mother was always sorely out of place but remained the consummate lady until the one day she had enough.

    She was just trying to get Kleenex. Her nose was dripping from the chemo and she had to wear gloves because her nails had done something hideous and smelly, so she couldn’t rely on her handkerchief like usual. (She liked to know it wasn’t damp before she used it.) People would not get out of her fucking way. It was like a memo had gone out declaring: 10% OFF FOR EVERYONE WHO MAKES LIFE SUCK EVEN MORE FOR THE LADY IN THE BLUE COAT! They bumped her and jostled her and crowded her and finally, after she had obtained the box of Kleenex and was trying to wend her way to the checkout line, a huge family of huge people lumbered in front of her. She snapped.

    “I HAVE CANCER!” she declared with authority.

    The Red Sea could not have parted with as much alacrity. It was as if people thought she was contagious. There was no subtlety, people stumbled trying to get out of her way.

    “Mom!” I gasped.
    She shrugged. “Well, I do.”
    “No, I know,” I clarified, “I’m just so PROUD of you!”

    She grinned like a boy who has just discovered his pee-pee is good for something besides pissing.

    I think people with cancer should be given a special dispensation. I really do. I often told my mother, “I may be much closer to death than you are. I could walk outside and get hit by a bus or something!” but I didn’t mean it. Death is the creepy bugger who goes through your garbage when you have cancer. Death sneaks in your room and sniffs your panties. Death reads your diary and leaves misspelled and obscene comments next to your passages about masturbation. When you have cancer, Death is entirely too familiar. That should come with some compensation.

    First of all, I think people with cancer should get to fuck whomever they want once. Megan Fox, just give it the hell up. Sorry, George Clooney, this means you’ll probably have a new full-time job until the cure for breast cancer is discovered. Okay, I suppose people will get all wiggy about the “rape” issue possibly related with this idea. I’d be willing to modify it to be: People with cancer should get to fuck someone WHENEVER they want. Let’s set aside some designated go-to options and leave it at that. Maybe Mr.Clooney would be willing to volunteer. (Megan Fox, not so much, I fear.) Fucking is the anti-death. Or “the little death” if you are French. But that moment of orgasm stops your body and something triggers your awareness that you’re going to live forever. It’s possible this is connected to the fact that the act is procreative, I don’t know. I’m not God. (I keep reminding myself.) But anybody who has to deal with their mortality on a constant basis sure as hell deserves to cum often and heartily to compensate.

    I think people with cancer should have a say on what television gets made. I am sick and tired of Hollywood saying people vote with their dollars and advertisers have the final say. I think if somebody with cancer wants to see a show about a donkey and a goose haunting a parking garage, then dammit, it should be a mandate! People who don’t have cancer don’t need a distraction as badly. You just got dumped? Eat some chocolate. Lost your job? Have a drink, pussy. Facing imminent death? I will be your dancing monkey, toot sweet!

    It goes without saying they should never wait in line or have to deal with phone or cable companies. Jesus Christ, just imagine the number of precious minutes wasted fucking around with Time Warner or AT&T. They should have a special Cancer Patient area code that not only bypasses all computerized phone operators but has a designated pizza delivery system. Yeah. So that when the medicinal marijuana kicks in, they don’t have to hunt down a damn separate phone number.

    They should get to go naked if they want. Because buying clothes for a body that is not only betraying you but is also changing week to week is bullshit.

    And somebody should find a way to be really really really always funny.

    I read a book and I’m going to bastardize a part of it in the name of making a point, and also because my memory sucks. The concept was this: A long long long time ago there was this intergalactic graduation party that decided to celebrate on this little planet out in the far reaches of the universe. A couple of brothers, who were kind of pains in the collective ass, quite frankly, had too much to drink, passed out, and got left behind by the others. So they were bored and fucking around with the local life forms, and one of them watched a chimpanzee examine herself in a pond of water. She was making faces at the other monkey, clearly trying to decide if it was a threat and could she get some water anyway. This smartass brother went into her mind and gifted her with self-awareness. Suddenly she knew that monkey was her…. and that she was going to die some day.

    The monkey’s screams of terror and cries of pain were too much for the other brother to bear, so he went in her head and gave her a sense of humor.

    I really wish I could be funny on command, because I can’t help my friend Kevin and I weep for him. I weep for his mother who still can smile next to his hospital bed when she brags about what an amazing musician he is, I weep for his sister who is too smoking hot to have pain like this in her life, I weep for his best friend who survived numerous deployments to Afghanistan only to come home and not be able to do a thing for this brother, I weep for everyone who has to hold a hand that they pray will still be warm when they let it go. And it’s ridiculous that I weep. I fucking talk to dead people, right? I know there’s an afterlife. I know there’s an eternal and loving home. I know that laughter is actually one of the things that links us to it. I know that as much as a mortal is capable of knowing immortality, and I am still heartbroken at the idea of anyone having such a heaviness as a part of their lives.

    I am so sorry. Maybe my husband would let me fuck him, but I kinda doubt it. Besides, I’m old. He deserves someone sickly gorgeous and obscenely flexible.

    For anyone facing a terminal illness, anyone who loves someone in that condition, I pray to the God of my understanding you find a reason to laugh today.

    Category a bit more serious | Tags: , , , , , , , | 16 Comments

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