u s e y o u r h a n d s

Enjoy these select Missed Connection ads from the Chicago Reader and the LA Weekly. The stories below the ads have come from, or behind, my interpretaion of the ad. It should be noted that I don’t do this every Friday to mock the posters. I applaud the search for love and wish these folks well.

WEBSTER POT BELLY’S. Cute boy in blue turtle neck, tan pants, on Friday 2/21, 7:30pm-ish. You: Asian with glasses, kept touching your hair–I assume you just got it cut? Me: Caucasian female with brown hair, just a few people behind you. Would love to chat if you’re free! (From the Chicago Reader)

That barber did a great job. I am stylin’. I asked myself in the mirror, “Who’s that looker?” Answer: me! It’s the perfect cut, just short enough to really make me feel like I’ve just gotten a haircut, but not too short so I feel naked. It’s good. I am loving this new haircut.

#66 BUS, BLUE Line, Jackson stop. You: cute indie chick, brown coat, red scarf, cool Fluevogs, smoky gaze. Me: black everything, spiky hair, shaky knees. We’ve got to stop meeting like this, or start meeting somewhere else. (From the Chicago Reader)

John Fluevog stepped out of his Boxter early on Saturday morning. His size 10, resoleable Houtans crunched on the gravel as he lumbered toward the dry cleaner’s. A chilly Vancouver wind prompted John to tighten his scarf. Outside the door, he inhaled smoke from a pedestrian’s cigarette, and was glad he could only smell leather.

SEABISCUIT WRAP PARTY Union Station, 2/21, you wore pink halter w/black slacks. Me in all white, you asked for cigarette, let’s see if we can start a fire. (From the LA Weekly)

The bartender-for-hire sees all. I work all kinds of parties: corporate meetings, weddings, Hollywood parties. It’s ok when people remember to tip. And I can usually sneak out a bottle or two of something top-shelf. Last week, I had to work this party at Union Station for some horse movie. There were actual horses there, walking and shitting on the tile floor. I took three bottles of Ketel One that night.

AT BEVERLY DRIVE & OLYMPIC THURS 11AM You, driver for older man. You looked several times. I looked too. Let’s try. (From the LA Weekly)

The Rolls-Royce is a comfortable vehicle. Smooth, plush. Expensive to maintain, but projects an appropriate image. My driver has been with me for ten years. He is capable and, generally, invisible. At times, he lacks discretion and displays his natural effete manners. I know that constant reservation injures the soul, but I manage to stifle these impulses.

Overheard: [on clark street in andersonville] “ok, one, two, thr- you ass! you cheated!” these guys decided to have a foot race. shortly after this comment was made, the speaker’s wallet fell out of his pocket, spilling credit cards everywhere.

Worrying: about where I’m going to live. Our lease isn’t being renewed and I’m sort of afraid to live somewhere random by myself.

Accepting: a world where some people have decided I’m in no way redeemable.

I was thinking about the sad and tawdy life of Tonya Harding yesterday. I heard on the news that she’d just been ordered to pay her former landlord $20,000 and that she’d lost her professional boxing debut. She got married again only to get divorced quickly. Throwing hubcaps at said husband. Ill-advised eye makeup. Celebrity Boxing. Banishment from skating. Clubbing Kerrigan.

Harding’s list of humiliations is staggeringly long and funny. The judgement was for unpaid rent. The boxing debut seems like a stunt, but it’s not. Harding says, “I have put a lot of effort into boxing. This is not just a one-fight thing. I am making it my second career. I am not working eight-nine hours a day for nothing.” But she lost. And, in general, she seems to lose a lot.

It’s all her fault of course. She finds and marries losers. The spotlight she craves so terribly seems to always find her when she’s at her worst, in court or in scandal. I think most people who have endured so much would have gotten the hint by now and maybe learned a useful trade. She would probably be a good travel agent, beautician, or bank clerk. It would be a quiet life, though. But she’s determined, through bad choices and laziness, to rise to the top of the shitpile.

She’s a fool, but at one time, she was the best in the world at something. Harding was the first woman in history to do a triple axel in competition. That’s amazing. Think about what that means, to do a triple axel: Skating very fast on a razor blade, leap, rotate three times, and land on tangled feet. All to music and in front of a crowd. That’s got to be amazing. She figured out a way to be the best in the world at seconds at a time. Flying, dressed in sequins, in a spotlight.

Who can blame her for trying to be that again? To be that girl everyone was proud of before her life became ridiculous. I thought she was a hoot at the time. A working-class girl with way too much makeup, thighs like Virginia hams, and not an ounce of that gap-toothed Kerrigan grace. I hope Harding pulls out a victory somewhere and does something classy with her life. There’s nothing better than a come-from-behind win. Something excellent, on earth, with tangled emotions, and no crowd.

Loving: The chocolate Snackwell’s in the vending machine. Damn you, Nabisco. Damn you to hell.

Reading: Empire Falls by Richard Russo. I am a quarter done and really wish it would pick up the pace.

All About: Waffle fries at the Deluxe Diner on Devon and Clark. Boy, howdy.

I stopped off at Dominick’s on the way home from work yesterday to pick up some supplies for the sad evening in front of me. Here’s what I bought: A snickers bar, a chicken pot pie from Marie Callender’s, and a bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz Cabernet. You tell me what happened.

I felt like cleaning, sifting. It was like I was looking for something, but I didn’t find anything. I wanted order. I wanted sense. The thing I’m best at, the thing I really do well, is prepare. I am bad at execution, but I am an exquisite planner. The tubs I packed with all my shit before I drove here are still in the closet. I hauled them out, sorted, and prepared three bags for Goodwill. When I finally shut the closet door, the two packed tubs were poised to go. But not just yet.

There are still miles to go. There are still months left. I can’t afford to move, but yet I know there’s going to be a cost to staying. Whatever. I can’t figure it all out. What went wrong and why is part of me so incorrect, so inappropriate? People have asked what have I learned. Nothing. I’m not to the reflection part yet. I only really know what I’ve always known. You only have yourself, yourself to blame and yourself to trust.

Part of me wants to get the hell out of here as fast as I can. Nobody would miss me but the Peedger and there’s a few who would love to see me go. I’ve been lonelier here than anywhere else. I’ve felt lonely before, but mainly due to self-imposed exile. But here, I felt sad a lot of the time because, for the first time in my life, nobody was interested in me at all. If not for the Peedger, there were weeks that I wouldn’t have said a word.

But part of me wants to stay. Because there’s nothing I love more than the underdog, and in this fight, that’s me. Because fuck everyone who didn’t give a shit. Because I’m so afraid to be caught doing the wrong thing. Because it’s a wartime economy. Because, bitch, I want to win. Because I felt safe here. Because I’m wanted here.

We’ll see, I guess. Goddamn you, California. I miss you so much. I don’t know what it is, but I cried when I left you and I’m crying now because I’m coming back. I’m going to choke when I smell the beach in the mountains and I’m going to smile when I see ten thousand miles of concrete. But the whole time, you’ll know I was somewhere else for awhile and happy at times. We’ll be together again, but it’s going to be a wary reunion, won’t it?

This rambling entry lacks detail because I don’t want to add shade and light to a terrible thing. But let me end it like this. When I was cleaning out one of the tubs, I found this poem Phineas had left in the closet for me when I moved in. I never read it. I didn’t read it last night when I found it again. Maybe it started then or maybe it didn’t. I don’t know what it means, but I thought it should be said.

Running: through my head is “Girl’s Room” by Liz Phair. Who knows a girl named Tauryn?

Avoiding: my neo-fut class tonight. It’s all about your life and I don’t want to think about mine today. Especially not in front of sixteen-year-olds.

Hoping: that Lacey isn’t suffering from the tummy grumbles during her spiritual fast.

Do old people still keep their savings in mattresses or the freezer? Did they ever? I have a little bit of money now and I decided to investigate housing options for said funds. My mattress was out. I don’t have a real mattress, just a shitty futon mattress, which isn’t a mattress at all, just a cloth envelope for rocks. I decided against the whole freezer thing. Early in life, I met a gypsy along the road who prophesied that a legion of frozen chicken breasts would rise up and bankrupt me. The only logical choice was the bank.

I haven’t had a bank account in a year or so. I prefer to deal on a cash-only basis as it prevents me from making short order of my limited funds. If I see two twenties in my hands, I like to hold on to them; however, if I’m holding a little plastic rectangle, game on. I chose Bank One, and so far, the excellent lever of service I’ve received totally trumps those fuckers at my last bank.

Yesterday, I decided to exercise my small amount of funds at a nearby shopping mall. I have been afraid of the Woodfield Mall since I moved here. I’ve heard stories of this mall, this huge, huge mall, with more chain stores and restaurants and people. But there was a store I really, really wanted to go to, and in all of Illinois, the only one is at the Woodfield Mall. I would brave this Woodfield Mall in order to get tights that fit and long skirts. Yes!

I would never visit any dense population center on the weekend. Every time I do this, I end up crying. I pulled in to a spot at Woodfield at a quarter to eight. The mall was sparsely populated and I powerwalked between marauding groups of teenagers and stationary old people. It seems that these two groups peacefully share the mall by completely ignoring each other’s presence.

Due to the bizarrely circuitous manner in which the glass and metal walkways were constructed, I had to consult a directory twice before I found myself in some sort of teen-themed corridor inhabited by Hot Topic, American Eagle Outfitters, and the Wet Seal. My target, a Hot Topic spin-off called Torrid, was here. Torrid’s a store, it seems, for the plus-size goth. While I am in no way a goth (and liking Morrissey a lot does not a goth make) and barely a plus anything, I like funky clothes that fit. Torrid has them.

I’m going to divert from my Shopping Journey as Interesting Blog Entry for a moment here to explain how I feel in the plus-size store. When I have occasion to go to a Lane Bryant or a Torrid, I feel tiny. I wear one of the smallest sizes in these stores and pants are always long enough without being crazy, tall-girl-store long. I don’t buy anything else at these stores but pants. Pants, pants, pants. I feel like a lithe gazelle, the pick of the savannah, in these stores.

But Torrid was great. They have cool shit at great prices. I picked up some glittery bits for my hair and a pair of fishnet stockings who’s crotch won’t hang down to my knees. I enjoy this store. I’m sure little portly girls with style across the land are jumping for joy.

Reading: Empire Falls by Richard Russo. I will begin this book today.

Opening: A savings account. Each dollar I save is one more minute I don’t have to spend in this hellhole.

My frien Ethan has been reading a lot of Algonquin Round Table folk recently. Alexander Woolcott, Robert Benchley, Dorothy Parker. I got an email from him the other day telling me about a Parker biography he’d picked up recently. “She had a really sad life,” he said - and I imagine, wistfully - “There’s one person who would have benfitted from antidepressants.”

I’ve weighed that very question. To take or not to take. Do I really want to pick up a trend this late in the game? Is Prozac passe? But that’s a silly concern and it keeps me from really considering the issues that frighten me.

Not least among these concerns is the idea of shame that my brain or sheer willpower can’t improve my outlook. How trivial. Why can’t I transcend? Do I not deserve contentment? It’s something that runs very deep and I’m not going to go into in on my webbity not only because I don’t want to talk about it, but also because I wouldn’t know what to say. I’ve been running away from that question a long time and I think the road’s almost up.

I went to go see The Hours this weekend. I guess I should have realized it was about depression and suicide, but I just didn’t think about it. It was not the movie for me to see. There’s a part that resonated too deeply. Virginia Woolf discovers that she can use suicide as an out when pain becomes too much. That’s something that we all think about at some point. If this gets too tough, I can choose whether or not to endure it. It’s a question of legislation for some, morality for others. And while it’s a great source of comfort to many terminally ill patients, I can speak only as a chronically depressed person. That choice to live - that some people make every day - is too much. It’s too great a temptation and too empty a comfort. I’d rather not have to think about life in terms of days or weeks of pain.

But without insurance, I guess even pondering the question of chemical mediation is moot. However, it’s good, solid thought in advance. If I ever find myself in the thick of the shit again, I can always rely on this cogent pro-prozac argument. I can print this out and take it to a pharmacist and say, “I’ve given myself license!”

I’ll make reference back to the title of this entry. Will I have an even day? The same day that I had this heavy Hours/depression experience, I was flying high in a happy way. I really enjoyed watching an MTV reality show called Sorority. Wow. And I wasn’t making fun of it all the time. I was engrossed. The politics of an all-female organization. And in pastoral California! And I had yummy Entenmann’s. It was sunny-ish. The morning was good.

But then I turned some corner and my head and took a nose-dive into the shit. That happens way too often and always has. The ups and downs take too much out of me now. I need better shocks on this car.

Let us segue.

The 11 a.m. air is heavy with the smell of fried food and ketchup. How, on earth, can that be?

In the suburbs, it’s snowing. Horizontally. Every time I use “vertical” or “horizontal,” I think back to 7th grade and a mnemonic device courtesy of Patty DeHaven: “Vertical is upright, like a virgin. Horizontal is flat, like a whore.” I know the difference, but every time I use those words, that’s what I think of.

Overheard:

[at home] “Your face smells horrible.”

Listening to: Liz Phair’s Exile in Guyville. It’s got my song on it, “6′1″ Because that’s how tall I am.

Every Friday, the proprietress of the webbity, the lovely miss shylo, chooses several Missed Connection ads and develops a backstory for them. This week, I feature selections from the Chicago Reader and Seattle’s The Stranger. If your town weekly has Missed Connection or I Saw U ads, send me a URL.

BROWN LINE, MONDAY 2/10, 10:50am, between Sedgwick and Merchandise Mart stops. I sat in the handicap seat kitty-corner to your left. You had sandy-blond hair, 5 o’clock shadow. I had a charcoal pea coat, black stocking cap, later shaved dark-brown hair, sporting backpack/ black portfolio case. Me: exited at Mart. You: looked lost with directions in hand. “Can I help you find your way?” is what I should have said. (From the Chicago Reader)

It was horrible. The first interview I’ve had in 14 months and I totally blew it. First, I get there fifteen minutes late. Wasn’t my fault. The HR lady told me to “turn right at the Dunkin’ Donuts” but there were two on that block. Fucking turn where? When I finally got in there, she told me she really meant “turn right at the White Hen.” Whatever. So, I got in there and they started talking to me about the position, the company and I start yawning uncontrollably. Holy fuck.

Angelic White Subaru Wagon. Ubiquitous Subaru, I am lost. Drive to me and steer me to the truth. If you love me, show me or set me free. I saw your Valentine, you have wings, learn to use them. My two wheels are rolling nowhere without you. (From The Stranger)

Sir? Um, sir, please don’t do that. “….” That’s completely inappropriate, sir. People are here with their families. “….” Oh, Jesus Christ, sir. Pull your pants back up. “….” Yeah, I think it’s a lovely car, too, sir, but you just can’t do that. If you’d like to purchase the car…. “….” Oh, God. You’re sick. Get the hell off the lot. Hey, Ted, can you get the detailing guys to take care of this?

the architecture of a kiss. You were walking downtown and stopped to adjust your fishnet stockings…I saw infinity then the wind began to howl through my mind and down the streets. Would love to meet you and bake a cake…not vanilla. (From The Stranger)

Goddamn fishnets. They look amazing, but this particular pair is always shifting in odd ways. But I wear fishnets all the time. I love the first wearing out of the package, but I also like wearing them when they’re shot to hell and have rips in them. The first is my Bettie Page look, the second, my Courtney Love look. Both make me look fuckable, in my opinion.

I THREW GLOVES in your face Sunday, 2/9. Brown Line? Loop? I was trying to toss them off the train for whoever had just dropped them. I tossed too forcefully. Sorry. (From the Chicago Reader)

There are things that I do that can be misinterpreted. I am often told that I am brusque. With the help of Dr. Tim, my therapist, I’ve begun to take a good, long look at how others view me and how I view myself. Turns out, it’s not the same way. I’m going out of my way now, to be nice. Holding open doors, smiling. I’ve been told it looks like growling, but at least I’m on the road to happiness.

Esprit d’escalier of the day: I made an appointment for a lady exam and the receptionist instructed me to “not put anything in [my] vagina for 24 hours.” I should have replied, “Well, guess that means I’ve got to get a wallet.”

Waiting for: my fucking bank card to show up. So far Bank One, you’re just like those assholes at Wells Fargo.

Wearing: Leopard-print Mary Janes with sparkly socks. I keep it real in my slate-gray cubicle.

Overheard: [at work] “Jeremy’s wearing painter pants. I saw you come around and saw the little loopy and thought, “Oh, Jeremy’s wearing painter pants!”

[at work] “Erroneous Monk.”

If your heart is breaking and you feel the urge to cry, ball up your fists and press them to your eyes, little camper. The intense surge of pain will be stifling at first, but will make your forget about your sadness, if only for a minute.

Everybody has a thing. A thing they do to get through. Some people - in fact most people - become little drinky crows when they are sad bunnies. Others eat, purge, eat. Lots of people fuck indiscriminately. Whatever. We’ve all got our thing.

Last night, I thought about this fucked-up summer after high school. I was 16, and didn’t have the regularity of school nor upcoming college to occupy my mind. On the patio one day, I found a flat of tomato seedlings half dead. I figured, “What the hay!” and planted them in a patch of sand outside my bedroom window. I had no idea. They grew incredibly fast and soon my window was obscured by lushness.

I had more tomatoes than I knew what to do with.

I was so excited that they’d survived. Each morning, I’d pull off all the tomato worms and kill them by burying them in the sand. I loved smelling the leaves, the stalks, the tomatoes. Everything about those castoff plants smelled clean. I’d run my finger along the stalks and feel the damp fuzz that left a pleasant residue.

Late in the season, the tomatoes started displaying odd mutations. Weird hooks began growing from the sides. They grew into weird heart shapes. I didn’t know whether or not to eat them. But eventually, I gave in and made a tomato-black pepper sandwich on wheat toast with a particularly odd heart-shaped tomato.

It tasted great. And nothing happened.

Thanks to: Hopper and McInnes for running excellent sites.

Drinking: Shit-ass coffee out of a starbucks paper cup.

Let Down By: The Life of Pi. It wasn’t as good as I’d hoped, but was set in a lovely font.

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