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

Having a birthday in such close proximity creates weird mental crossover. The holidays bleed together and it’s all one big blur of wine, pie, and more wine. But as today is the big 2-5 and because I had felt so weird about the day, I present a list of what I’d like to say to myself on this, the day of my birth.

Ed. note: jittery from way too much caffeine/excitement today.

1. I am so glad I threw that party. Sometimes, it’s difficult for me to feel competent, but I do throw good parties. No idea why. Not going to analyze it too closely. I like having them, people show up, that’s that.

2. I have a large and lovely group of friends and acquaintances who actually seem to enjoy my company. Why this baffles me, I’m not exactly sure. But I’m so glad. I’m so pleased.

3. I might still be a mess in some areas of my life, but I’m trying. I’m getting better. I have large therapy bills that I do not mind paying.

4. CAUSE NOBODY CAN DO IT LIKE MIX MASTER CAN DO IT. Sorry, that was in my head.

5. I’m developing my own sense of shit. I broke out of the futon/framed print/tv mold and painted the living room pink, slapped up a bunch of pictures of half-nude pin-ups from the ’40s, and bought a very comfy couch. It works. It’s me. And I don’t know if I’d have done that a few years ago. I leave embarrassing books on the shelf when I used to hide them under the bed.

6. Because who I am is becoming slightly more clear and I’m way cool with that.

7. I’m trying to understand that not everyone will/can like me. And that’s fine, because I’m really good at making fun of you behind your back.

8. There’s this weird little domestic chunk of me that wants to be a frilled-out housewife who plans the perfect soiree in high heels and sends the perfect gift. And while that’s way too gag-me Martha, it’s also sort of cute.

9. I’m dating this lovely boy who’s just so right for me in so many ways. And I’m working very hard to keep him. And if you ever saw Brian dance, so would you.

10. That car is almost paid off. And then, fucking flames up the front. Word.

11. I’m just so happy. Thanks again to everyone who came to the party, drank, then made out. You all rocked me, Amadeus and we should do it again. Thanks for making my golden birthday the best yet.

12. And you, Shylo, thanks for sticking it out. There have been times - there have been times. Try harder. Try longer. And remember, there are times when you are so proud of yourself.

The party was amazing. Fucking amazing. Let us see this party through the eyes of my dress. A simple, ’50s-era full-skirted number with tulle peeping out from underneath. At the end of the night, it was splattered with wax, the sash untied, soaked with wine, and the tulle was torn. Bitchin’ time.

Here are some hazy memories and observations. Note: these are not parent/square friendly.

1. I really should have eaten that day. A taste here or there of cupcake batter is not a meal. I should have eaten.

2. Brilliant Idea #1: Jell-O shots. One of the most important parts of a party is to get everybody inebriated at the same time. And Jell-O shots can help. I made 50-100 cranberry Jell-O shots and passed them around on trays. I think I had five. And so did you, didn’t you?

3. Tater tots. Enhance the hipster ghetto vibe with this old standby. Add some salt, some ketchup. I made six pounds of tater tots and it was like they never existed. Of course, I also made fifty sandwiches which also vaporized. And 60 cupcakes! Gone, gone, gone.

3(a) (I don’t want to renumber) Everybody sang “Happy Birthday!” And I cried. Really, I didn’t think I’d be in Chicago this time last year. And I am, and I’ll probably be here next year. I’m happy about that.

4. The weather was the perfect temp. And it rained a little. But you could still go outside and smoke because I really needed one more room.

5. People came and brought WINE! Nearly 20 bottles of wine. Plus lots of beer. Plus lots of lots. And it is all gone. Every bit of it.

6. Oh my god! That guy from the street that we invited in then kicked out is totally hitting on a ten-year-old! Ew, ew! Lock the door.

7. Some randy little party guest proposed spin the bottle. And we played! We all marched into the kitchen and played with gusto. I remember sitting down to play, but the rest is one hazy fun time.

8. TONGUE!

9. I spilled everything.

10. TONGUE! TONGUE!

11. Wait, you left when we started the game! Did we freak you out? Please say no. I know the game was not everyone’s cup of tea, but we’re all friends here, right?

12. The rug is ruined!

13. At some point, my speech turned ghetto. This is not my normal drinking accent.

14. Wha? lkja;lsdfj! lkjlaserohbhuurt!. word.

15. Golden Angel. uoj.

I had so much fun. The party was a good excuse to finally put my apartment together and buy a fun dress on eBay. If I made an ass out of myself, you must forgive me for I am sorry though I can’t really remember. But if you had a great time, it would make me so happy if you kept talking about this party for months. Because that would be the best gift ever, if you remember the fun time you had at my house.

See you in February. I’ll be throwing a fete to get us through the long winter.

Say
My love
I came to you with best intentions
You
Laid down and gave to me just
What I’m seeking

There’s only so many punches in the puss you can take before drunkeness sets in. The brain damage of experience. And if you are at all self-aware you will see the fist in the corner of your eye and duck. And if you’re feral, you’ll swing back and you’ll hit your foe’s jaw square. You’ll watch your fist go through and up, if you’ve got good follow through. When you hear the sound of hitting the ground and you’re still standing, you’re the king. You’re alone.

Hey
My love
Do you believe that we
Might last
A thousand years?

But sometimes you want to stop punching but find your fists fly on their own. They’ve been trained to protect and defend. Your own personal bodyguards have a hair trigger. It’s embarrassing; you’re so, so hard. And wouldn’t the therapist have a lot to say about it?

Hey
My love
You came to me like wine
Comes to this mouth
Grown tired of water all the time
You quench my heart and you
Quench my mind

I am tired and the muscles are sore. I am weary of the fight. And it’s time to put down the dukes. If I get punched again, it will sting. But if I don’t get in the game, my own punch will hurt infinitely more. Because I’ll know it’s coming. And, sometimes, when you expect the pain, it makes it so so bad.

/end

In other news: Ever taken a kick from your kidneys? It’s not good, just sayin’.

There’s this feeling in my stomach that starts well before the actual party. Days in advance, even. The lists are forming — bolded, underlined, befonted — and I’m getting afraid.

I’ve thrown many dinner/drinking fetes that I’d like to think were successful. But this one’s going to be a biggie. It’s my 25th birthday party, to be held on the 22nd. And I think the reason I’m so nervous about this party in particular has a lot to do with the actual birthday.

I have written about my weird associations with my upcoming quarter-century mark, and instead of further mulling, I think I’ve transferred all this anxiety about my life’s performance to this party.

How many times have I rethought the menu? I’ve redecorated the apartment several times in my head, imagining spackled walls, heatgunned and varnished woodwork, a really fucking shiny pot rack. But I’m settling for one Necco-wafer-pink wall, one French’s-mustard-yellow wall, pages from a book in really cheap frames, hanging candles, a suspicious lack of chairs.

But it will be great, this party. People will wear tiaras and fezes at this party. There will be noise and laughter and stories formed at this party. I will remember this party.

I’m not necessarily bringing back the old-school Missed Connex, but here is a sampling of the bounty that is fucking Craig’s List. Holy G-O-D.

Ed. note: “pickle-tickle” is the new black.

i hate hiking

i fucking hate hiking. there is nothing i would like to do less than pack up a bunch of shitty granola, walk around some bullshit meadow or mountain in my cargo shorts and retarded clown boots from Wal-Mart, and wipe my ass with poison oak. don’t get me wrong, i like the outdoors as much as the next asshole, but hiking sucks. and what’s the deal with camping? don’t try to tell me that cooking tiny-ass fish on the side of a shopping cart over a smokey-as-shit fire is any fun. then you have to sleep in a stuffy ass tent with a heap of jackasses who, at best, smell like ballsacks while a pack of bears are patiently waiting outside with eating utensils and fucking napkins wrapped around their necks. plus, whereever you are, you know that at some point you are going to have drive about 4 hours to get home. ah, yes. nothing like sitting in traffic on 80 on sunday afternoon. and was it worth it? did you really get in touch with nature or did you just manage to scrape the hell out of your Chevy Tahoe while trying to pack your stupid backpack with those lame metal back-support things on top of your tent that reeks.

no thanks, friend. i’ll take my saturdays with a healthy dose of bbq chicken, Giants on the tube, and maybe give the old lady a pickle-tickle. thank you.

Ed. note: Someone should take away Brian Setzer’s computer.

Jingle Bells - 23

How ’bout a martini to go with that mistletoe? This year Santa’s packin’ somethin’ straight outta Yulesville for the hip chicks. And whether you’ve been naughty or nice, you’ll want to make sure you’re dancin’ your way into the season of joy. My question on the wire is this kittens, this fat kat wants to toe tap with a skirt this holy jolly season. Lets be friends first and rounders last, what makes a fat kat like me look now instead of then, i rather hit the dance floor with a kitten then search for one later.
What i got to give is this, I am latin Santa and landing on my 24 yr of dancing in November. Jazz, Swing, is all good as far as i see it, so why not have a hip spinning time with a large kat like myself?

Time to hit the road kittens,

Martini’s and Merry Time for everyone

As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized how stupid they sounded. More than anything, she wanted to speak again to erase their sound from the air. If she should die before the spoke again, these stupid words would be her last. Even if nobody had heard them (and surely, in the empty garage, nobody had) somewhere they would be recorded. Perhaps they would be etched in the pattern of her tombstone’s granite.

On Sunday night, he carefully smoothed the ten dollar bill and placed it on the kitchen table. It was just an experiment, he reminded himself. Eat for an entire week — breakfast, lunch, and dinner — on just ten dollars. By Wednesday, he felt like a poor little match girl, clutching his garments around his scrawny body. On Friday, he broke the stretch of meager, morally filling meals with a vast feast in his favorite restaurant. While he scooped up forkfuls, he summarized his conclusion into one ridiculous sentence: poor people are better than rich people.

Out of nowhere, she began to smell like noodles. She had not eaten noodles in months. Wet noodles everywhere.

“They’re for my daughter,” he told the check-out clerk. She gave him a hint of a smile and bagged up his puchases. He stashed the bag under the bed when he got home and joined his family for dinner. After everyone fell asleep, he crept downstairs with the bag. In the basement, he unwrapped the two dolls and played for hours.

She assumed she was dying. Suddenly, the sound of the shower, which had been so harsh, became a distant, hollow echo. She did not know she was just fainting as she watched the ground get closer.

I can’t do one thing today. I’m trying to do next year’s landscape plan, talk via IM, do a cohesive webbity entry, and “work” all at once. Any my brain will not let me focus.

He had been following the story for the past few days. After the girl’s initial disappearance, the paper was filled with full-color school portraits that he studied carefully, blinded by her even, white smile. Over her parents’ tearful pleas, the news stations played videotape of her soccer games. The missing girl played with so much vigor, he had to look away, so obscene was her vitality. The way her blond ponytail shone against her maroon uniform made his eyes leak. And as the days stretched into a week, then two, he continued to watch, even as ribbons on trees shredded and faded.

The day she disappeared, he walked down to the park near his house and watched kids play. None of these children were his; he didn’t have children at all. But he stayed until the last one left. He came back every day to watch over them. To make sure nothing happened to them. With quiet dedication he swept his eyes over their heads, counting and recounting. Every child safe. Every child accounted for.

Their parents watched from other benches, but their eyes followed only their own children. As the flock thinned, he sometimes watched the parents as well. He marvelled at how they had children and managed to still live, not completely suffocating in anxiety. Children could be stolen, they could fall ill. And this paralyzed him. Maybe parents didn’t stop to allow these thoughts. Maybe they didn’t have them at all.

One day, he turned on the news. They found a body. She wasn’t coming home. He stayed home from work; the pink bow on his door went in the trash. There were no children in the park that day. He imagined them all gone, taken, dead, or hidden away. He sat, with the creak of the swings, alone.

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