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

I really enjoy this series of Missed Connection ads and stories. For some reason, I’m in a groove today. Look out world! You may get hit with my flying beret.

Enjoy, peeps.

5/19 HIPPIE HOLLOW. You: blue/white Hawaiian shorts skipping rocks in the lake. Me: nude under tree. Couldn’t stop looking at your beautiful body. Let’s have a good time. (Austin Chronicle)

[Editor’s Note: Okay, I got into the Missed Connection game because I generally think that MC posters are wistful dreamers looking for love and understanding. I don’t do this to make fun. But this cat! Naked hippies with a staring problem probably don’t lean toward love.]

Dan had come out to the lake to think through his breakup with Gina. At first, the naked guy staring at him sort of freaked him out, but he tried to be cool and ignore it. He wrote a poem about it when he got home:

You are bare
Under an oak tree
Wearing leaves.

Why do you stare
at me?
Not my type, guy.

You are great
in your
own way, Hippie man.

YEAR OF THE Rabbit show. Hey, what’s going on? Had fun talking to you, but forgot to get your number. D’oh. Talked about Plessy vs. Ferguson. Me: red shirt, had to leave to go say what up to Chris. Drop a line. It’d be cool to hang out. (Chicago Reader)

Ted met Frank at the bar and they talked a little about the show. Frank followed him back to where Christie waited for her beer. Although Ted was no longer interested in Christie in a sexual way, he was a little perturbed by her instant interest in Frank. Ted chimed into their conversation every now and again, but Christie and Frank were talking rapid-fire. He had no idea how they started talking about Jim Crow laws or why Christie looked so turned on.

“DASH” I THINK that’s what you said your name was… Anyway, you approached me at Birds on Franklin a long time ago. You said you had a friend who wanted to meet me. I said that I was on a date, and that was that. Now, I regret it; and now, i have craigslist Missed Connections. So, here it is, the long shot of the hour. (LA Craigslist.com)

Birds sits across the street from the Scientology Celebrity Center, a guarded, castle-looking building that casts a perpetual shadow over Franklin Avenue. The Celebrity Center’s presence threw Lisa off a little bit as she sipped a very strong 7&7 on the patio. This first date was heading straight into the toilet.

DENTIST OFFICE BEAUTY on Merchants Row. You were at the dentist office waiting to get your teeth cleaned on Monday, I walked in to schedule an appointment. I was wearing the designer jeans and silk dress shirt. We made eye contact and said hello before I walked out, I never asked for your name. That was the worst mistake I ever made, please email me. (Boston Globe)

Keith knew he was the total package and could “score any tail” he wanted. He checked his teeth out in the mirror that morning, comparing them to a photo of Donny Osmond he’d torn from a magazine. Keith’s pearlies didn’t quite measure up so he ran - not walked - to Dr. Morrison’s office. That chick had a nice rack for sure, but he should have looked at her face. Even Keith would have noticed the dramatic swelling from her impacted wisdom tooth.

In the past, I’ve written about my decision - no, my capitulation - to take antidepressants. As I get older, I am less able to control the wild tide of my emotions and while I’m sure I could stand a big dose of therapy, a stumbling block prevents me from hopping on the couch. People in their twenties are the group most likely to lack insurance, and that’s the boat I’m in.

I’ve priced my own insurance and it seems to run about $100-150 a month for coverage for catastrophic illness, including neither doctor’s visits nor medication. Sort of like basic auto insurance. Anything more than that is going to run me, a healthy 24-year-old girl, much more. It doesn’t really pay to, well, pay that much. So I’m taking a bye. If I need to go to the doctor, I’ll fork out a hundred bucks or so. The cost of my prescription will come straight out of my pocket.

And so I’ve been pricing drugs online. I’m sort of screwed when it comes to purchasing antidepressants online. If you don’t already have a prescription, a few sites will actually write you a scrip, but only for a limited range of drugs. OnlinePharmacy will prescribe sleeping pills, a few obscure antidepressants, Viagra, and Zyban, a smoking cessation aid. But I was thrilled to discover that Zyban and Wellbutrin are in fact the same fucking drug. They’ll write me a scrip for Zyban no problem, but it will run me $150 a month. I can score it in Canada for half that.

But why should I have to go through all of this just to get a drug I need? Our adversarial insurance system needs to change pronto. Over 40 million other people are in the same pickle as me.

In other Shylo-related news, I’m in the middle of a water bender. I’ve just consumed my 64th ounce of crisp, cold water and it’s only eleven in the morn. I’m planning on chugging down a few more of these today to keep a migraine at bay. It’s either that or a mallet.

This entry seems sort of whiny. To pick it up, I’m going to end on a high note.

Have red onions always been this good? Why have I so foolishly been avoiding them all these years? They are sweet, without the creepy B.O. smell of white onions, and provide a needed cruch to my Subway sammich. They are pure, lovely goodness.

I like making up very short songs containing a very few words. Lately, all of my songs have contained the word “kitty” in addition to a few others, or sometimes solo. Now, this is where today’s entry sort of sucks because I lack the ability or will to post audio of me singing the kitty songs. So, when I post the lyrics, they aren’t going to be as evocative as I’d like them to be.

I also write songs about Phineas. I call him my pigeon.

Kitty Song #1

(Insistent, rapid) Kitty kitty FACE head
Kitty kitty FACE head
(Swing-style, with jazz hands) Kitty face! Kitty face!

Kitty Song #2

Kitties are nice
Kitties are good
Kitties always do what kitties should.

Kitty Song #3

Kitties!
Kitties!
Kitties!
Kitties!
Ki-ttttttieeeessss!

That’s just a small sample, mis compadres. For more, you’re going to have to wait for the complete Kitty Songs album. They are silly, but they are fun. Intense, but easy-going.

Okay, back to that last line. “Intense, but easy-going.” Last night at the gym, I was doing the EFX and treadmill while watching this Dateline special about dating. The show followed four New York singles wookin’ pa nub at speed dating, in bars, on the Internet, and via a matchmaker. The lady who tried out match.com actually had this sentence in her profile. How, pray tell, can one be both intense and easy-going? Can you be tall but short? Ugly but pretty? Not particularly. I bet that when this woman thinks she’s being easy-going, she’s got such single-minded focus as to be scary. That’s how she looked on the show, anyway.

I need to cut my hair. Ideas? It’s pretty long, very thick and just hangs there like a dry brown curtain.

My meter for measuring summer/spring happiness was set by a Riunite commercial I saw when I was seven. The image I remember, that I try to capture, is of linen-clad adults seated in comfy deck chairs near a lake at someone’s summer house. The sun is setting and the light turns that delicious caramel color. Broad smiles shine over the rim of a glass of Riunite Asti Spumante. And, my, how they laugh!

I don’t try to find the exact setting because I don’t have a summer place nor know anybody who does and it will be a cold day in Hell before I bring Riunite anything to my lips, but that feeling of relaxation, comfort, and joy is what I chase.

This weekend was lovely. On Friday, Phineas, Stephen, and I met up in Wicker Park and grabbed some pizza while scoping out the very declasse foam/mesh trucker hat. We sat a spell in Bigwig, then attended a gallery opening. But were were not done! At midnight, we cruised to the Music Box and watched Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

Phineas and I started Saturday early and drove up to Milwaukee to visit the absolutely fucking stunning Milwaukee Art Museum. If you haven’t been, you must. The MAM looks like heaven’s waiting room. Or an airport. Either one. We saw one of my favorite conceptual art pieces by Robert Gober and a bizarre Bill Viola. We had a lovely lunch in the Brady Street district and headed home. We swung by the Naturalizer outlet and I scored some super comfy, moderately cute sandals for $12.

That night, we had a lovely dinner at the Creperie to welcome Louisa back to America. The group trekked to Gramercy on Lincoln and I had two very potent, very yummy gin martinis. Decadent.

We loafed for most of Sunday, puttered about. Enjoyed the day. On Monday, we cleaned up the place, and prepped food to take to the Cooper-Huffs delightful condo up in Roger’s Park. We had a truly delightful time, enjoying both the 70 degree weather and chat with our hosts. Andrew treated Phineas to a bit of his very nice, very rare Ladyburn scotch.

And we headed home and collapsed. A lovely weekend. A Riunite weekend.

Hey, hey, hey! It’s Friday. You know, reading MCs here at good ol’ Use Your Hands is a great way to top off another great week! With no further ado, campers, take a gander at these select Missed Connection/Second Chance/I Saw You ads from around the country, with my story below.

BEAUTY AND GRACE - Wish To Talk At Wollaston T stop, we both like the last car. We meet around 8:35. You, beautiful well dressed redheaded lady with glorious blue eyes. I’m tall dark hair guy in green North Face jacket. Our eyes meet all the time. To shy to date to introduce myself. Would like to start conversion on the daily commute. (Boston Globe)

Today, Bryan sits forlornly in his North Face jacket. He sips his coffee loudly and frowns like a little boy. At the Wollaston Stop, he tries to forget about her. She must have started taking the train at a different time to avoid him because he hasn’t seen her since the ad. The train pulls away from the stop and he watches Wollaston grow smaller as it slips rapidly from his fingers. Someone sits down next to him and elbows him in the ribs. “I’ve been on vacation,” she says and smiles.

WE WERE BOTH at Radio Shack in Downers Grove/ Westmont on May 12th. You were purchasing a metal detector. Your name is David. I wanted to talk to you but didn’t know what to say. Hope you respond. (Chicago Reader)

“I hope nobody thinks this is some gay thing,” Gary muttered when he hung up the phone after placing the ad. He simply wanted to ask about David’s hobby. For some time, he had been interested in metal detection as well, but he was reluctant to approach enthusiasts on the Lakeshore. If he doesn’t hear from David, he’ll just go to the library to look it up on the Internet.

AMTRAK 4/19 BAKERSFIELD to Fresno. Car 3 upstairs, across aisle. You: male, tank top, CD player, came downstairs when I got off at Fresno. Me: male, sunglasses, black travel bag. Would like to meet. Please describe yours and seatmate’s appearances to verify identity. (OC Weekly)

The suspicious-looking man had been shooting him sidelong glances ever since Pixley, but he knew that the worst thing that you could do while traveling Amtrak (or Greyhound) was to engage a stranger in a conversation. He exercised his peripheral vision to examine the man. The suspicious man was clutching his black bag fiercely and sort of looked Middle Eastern. After the guy got off in Fresno, the man took out his cell and reported the suspicious man to the FBI.

TMBG/CROC TUES. 5/6 U: Hot Cha man shaved bald, t-shirt, whistling in the dark. ME: Particle Man freakstorm w/ short hair, goatee, glasses. If I wasn’t shy, I’d be your evil twin. C’mon and wreck my car. (The Stranger)

If he had the money, this ad would have been way, way longer, but Burt stopped with this witty bit. Burt would have added:

I love this band. A lot, to tell the truth. I have an obsession. I have been lonely for a long time, and I’d like to find someone to share this obsession with. I just want to be able to talk with someone about this band, this band I love, and have them understand. Please write me back. I can love you and we can love this band.

She reached into the bag for another chocolate and was dismayed to discover only one left. She put the chocolate on the table gently, like a sacred thing, crumpled up the bag and threw it across the room. The plastic ball springs open like a live thing when it hits the floor. The candy’s foil wrapper sparkles seductively, but she reclines into the couch and waits. Saliva pools in her mouth and her tongue puckers.

There is a war between the chocolate and herself, and she knows she will lose, because she will be the first one to reach out. But there is also a love affair. The chocolate is coy and coquettish, knowing all the time she will be devoured.

She picks up the chocolate and slowly peels the wrapper off and balls it between her fingers before tossing it toward the discarded bag. It ricochets off the wall and rolls under a chair. In her head, she’s got this whole idea about how she’s going to eat the last candy, but she changes her mind. The windows are open. Nobody can see her, but she starts to think the last candy ritual is dumb. Instead, she pops it in her mouth, but the anticipation makes her mouth hurt when it meets such flavor.

This lady at work has a daughter chronically sick with strep throat. She mentioned that the doctors are discussing the removal of tonsils.

I had my tonsils removed in my sixteenth year. I was out of school for more than two weeks and developed a love affair with liquid codeine and the movie JFK. I’d wake up, stir more liquid codeine into warm apple juice, go to the bathroom, and rewind the movie. For weeks. I recorded my copy of JFK off tv, and all the curse words were dubbed over with “frick” and “motherfletcher.”

Update: There’s a line from a fucking 50 Cent song stuck in my head:

“I need you like a fat kid needs cake.”

**

I’m flying home for a friend’s wedding next month. I haven’t been to Merced, my Central California hometown in a year and a half or so. Now that a visit is on the horizon - tickets have been purchased and a reply card has been mailed - I pause to list memories that have been haunting me lately.

1. I went to high school with this guy named Marty. Really nice, fun guy. All through high school, he dated a girl I grew up with. One Friday, six months or so after we graduated, two carloads of kids headed home from a post-football party. There was an accident. All the kids were hurt, but Marty’s sister died.

I coached Academic Decathlon that year and the kid who drove the car was on the team. Even when all of Matt’s hard work paid off and the team won, he couldn’t rejoice. I asked him why and he shot me this look that said volumes.

The year after that, Marty wrecked his car into the Merced River and suffered brain damage. My mother wondered about his mother. I heard he got better.

2. I was friends with a girl I worked and swam with who married too young and very inadvisably. I was in her wedding. I was too afraid that I’d lose the friendship if I told her how wrong this marriage looked. Maybe hearing what the rest of our friends already believed would have made her take pause. And maybe it would have saved her and her now ex-husband quite a lot of heartache.

3. Sometimes, I’d come into town a certain way and drive by Vassar Road. About two years ago, a man with a pitchfork broke into a house and stabbed two of the four children in it to death. He was shot by the police who responded to the 911 call. Nobody ever figured out why he did it.

4. I used to ride my bike four miles into town and back to go to summer school at the community college before I was old enough to work. Once, a big truck going really, really fast literally blew me off my bike. I landed in a ditch.

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