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

Tuesday morning update: Can we get a warning label put on Johnny Cash’s last album? It has turned my good mood blue.

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Thanks to my new psychopharmaceutica, sometimes I have some crazy-ass fucked up dreams. And while I have always been a prolific dreamer, my nocturnal visions as of late have been intensely weird and emotional.

Last night, I had this weird series of dreams which included this snippet:

I was in a nightclub facing the stage. Red velvet curtains framed the stage, a series of platforms of differing heights. Suddenly, the show started. Meg White, of the White Stripes, was doing a DJ set. She was chunkier than reality’s Meg White. And while she was standing in front of turntables and wearing headphones, she was lipsynching to some weird ’60s torch song. And then she did spoken word. And then there were these go-go dancers. It was one big indie-rock-faux-country episode of Laugh-In. Thanks, psychopharmaceutica.

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She ate the flowers one by one until they were all gone. Their stems were a different kind of beauty.

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The waves lapped at the dog’s feet as he walked along the surf. A flash of light caught his eye, a stirring in the waves. He leapt over the walls of water which got higher with each yard out. He ignored the calls of his master.

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As she typed, her hands buzzing pain through numbness, she wondered if these little bits she wrote spoke more about what was going on inside her than any hour of dedicated thought. She reviewed her pieces. Most of them about the marriage of pain and pleasure, some about water, almost all about loss. She broke for coffee.

Wednesday Morn Update:

So I’m taking a break from my coffee-induced writing flow (which is probably not the best idea, but I have a short attention span and think it’s best to get this over with) to tell you about this stupid thing I’m doing now. It’s sort of cute, but mainly dumb.

I’m listening to Blur…again. And there’s part of one song, a refrain, that makes me stop what I’m doing, look in my monitor’s rearview mirror, and lip-synch. I AM MY OWN BRIT POP STAR! I am this year’s hot xmas gift.

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When I feel heavy metal/
And I’m pins and I’m needles/

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I’ve decided to take January to make a bunch of slightly retro clothes that actually fit me. How lovely, how divine. I need some twinsets and petticoats.

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I spent last night by myself for the first time in a long time. I nearly tossed up my beret a la Mary Tyler Moore. And why? I had bags full of groceries and my own little apartment. I was not sobbing. This is different from the last time I lived alone. I like it better this way.

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The office Christmas party is today. Potluck, no booze. I will not be attending. And why? During my absence, I’ll remember all the times I had way too much fun at the office work party.

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Ryan and Trista’s Godawful Vagina-Pink Wedding

Yes, I think I’m finally ready to talk about the travesty ABC inflicted upon the American public last Wednesday. Deep breath.

Bachelorette Trista and her fireman cum shitty-ass poet fiance Ryan wed in a posh Southern California resort. Yeah, yeah. But oh, the ceremony!

I hope that when I get married, I can find a reverend who also sounds like a bullhorn. He will herald my nuptials like he’s calling to ships lost at sea. If it was good enough for Trista and Ryan, it’s good enough for me.

Ok! I guess reading Elizabeth Barrett Browning really took it out of them, so the Rev’ stopped the ceremony for a little craft time. He took turns with the dismal duo pouring different colors of sand into a glass cylinder. The sand poured into the glass and kicked up a very cute cloud of shit that spelled wedding! The result looked like something you’d see at a county fair between a stand that airbrushes comedy and tragedy masks on t-shirts and a stand pushing elephant ears.

Oh, shit. Back the fuck up there, buddy. So, the guest’s chairs were covered with pink fabric. Fine. But the colors were graduated from pale pink to deep fuchsia. It appeared (to me, at least) that Trista wasn’t so much walking down the aisle as she was emerging from a huge vagina. Live with that visual.

And they spent $15,000 on a cake. Now I understand jihad.

Can this day be any more boring? Great God in heaven. I’m trying to occupy myself with writerly bits, but still. C’mon already.

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She checked her other e-mail box every hour waiting to see if he’d replied. He had not. She hoped her would because she really, really wanted nsa sexual activity away from the glaring eyes of her neighbors. Their suburb was killing her.

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The repair shop was decidedly musty and far too warm for someone just in from the cold. Gail rang the counter bell and a lumbering repairman holding a staple gun came to the counter.

“How can I help you?”

Gail cleared her throat and asked, “Yes, when will our recliner be ready?”

He tapped the staple gun on the counter tunefully. Gail thought it might be “A Whiter Shade of Pale.” The repairman shook his head, “At least a week. The damage was pretty severe, you know. Both arms just split off, you said? No reason?”

She thought he might ask that and she blushed. In the car, she’d rehearsed a cover story. “We have this dog….”

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The Careful Selection of Pole-Dancing Music

Ladies, take note. Ours is a cliche-ridden profession and we must do our best to avoid the obvious. Not all of us have drug problems or were abused. Not all of us support “musician” boyfriends.

We can fight these and other cliches by giving our customers something beyond what they get at other strip clubs. Of course, I mean routine, attitude, etc., but this memo pertains solely to your choice of music. The following songs are out. Strictly out. If your act focuses around these songs, please reconsider. We can provide suggestions/CDs upon request:

1. “Closer by NIN”. (Actually, anything by NIN)
2. “Cowboy” by Kid Rock
3. “Criminal” by Fiona Apple
4. “Cherry Pie” by Warrant
5. “Me So Horny” by 2 Live Crew
6. “Rump Shaker” by Wreckx-N-Effect
7. “Lady Marmalade” by either LaBelle or the Moulin Rouge version
8. Anything by Britney Spears
9. “Super Freak” by Rick James
10. And please, please, please! No more “I Touch Myself” by The Divinyls
11. “Girls, Girls, Girls” by Motley Crue
12. “Hot For Teacher” by Van Halen
13. “Bad Medicine” by Bon Jovi
14. “Pour Some Sugar On Me” by Def Leppard
15. “Kashmir” by Led Fucking Zeppelin

Thank you, ladies.

The Management

I went to an AA meeting once. I called myself Elizabeth and sat in a room on the side of a church in summer dusk. And I listened to people who had lost jobs, kids, cars. I went to scare myself into quitting my two bottles of wine a day, and mentioned as much to one of the women leading the meeting. She looked at me straight, her eyes utterly devoid of bullshit, and said, “Isn’t just being here scary enough?” It was, actually. Somewhere, that purple chip I got that night rattles around to remind me of that scared shitless feeling.

I drank way, way too much. But I ate way too much. And before that, I took any prescription drug I could get my hands on. And while I knew full well each time I swallowed a pill or ordered another drink that what I was doing was destructive, immature, and too simple, I continued to do it anyway.

Because I fucking loved it.

I reflect on the moment that the second glass of wine relaxes you. And, lately, due to medication and frequent absention, that happens mid-way through glass one. And I loved the feeling when all the xanax or vicodin or valium kicked in and made the world just slow and fuzzy enough to deal with it all. Like astigmatatic eyes without glasses.

I did it because I didn’t know any other way to deal with emotion. It’s what I saw and swore I’d never do. But I did. And now I don’t. It’s that easy. I fell apart once and can’t fool myself into doing it again. But I really miss these easy outs.

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In other news, I am wearing a thick rubber band with Ecstasy printed on one side and Purity on the other. On the other wrist, I have a fuzzy cuff thing courtesy of Suz.

The stray’s tail disappeared around the corner, a flash of orange against a field of grafitti. Nora tried to keep her footfalls light as she scampered after it. This pursuit had traversed several city blocks, through alleys, under porches, and during sunset. She wanted to catch this feral cat, presumably a boy, and bring him home with her.

A few times, Nora had gotten so close to the cat that she’d lunged for him. But the cat’s fur was greasy and he slipped out of her grasp. Her elbows were bloodied and she shivered in the increasingly cold air but she kept chasing the cat even though he didn’t even toss a glance at her.

She knew the cat did not want to be caught. It had paused to groom and Nora crept closer, silent all the time. Before the cat could dart away again, she caught him and held him tight. He bit and clawed. Blood dripped down her arms and the cuts sang. But he remained in her arms.

And someday, he would purr.

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Note from the Ed.: You know those times when you already know before you pick up the phone? That something’s wrong? It happened last night, but my heart did not burst, but only leapt, flipped, and gasped. Everything is ok, but I fear that someday, it won’t be.

On a happier note, I made a lovely pie and my hands are not so pained today.

While I’m pretty honest about being a hypochondriac, I’m also realizing that I’m also just susceptible (in general) to my own suggestion. And sometimes this is a good thing.

I know it’s only December and we’re only in the very beginning stages of winter, but at this point last year, I had to hide the Xacto knives. But I feel as great as I ever have. I have the bad times, but many fewer than I have had historically and certainly fewer than I expected.

Why? I started a fabulous cocktail of psychopharmaceuticals in combination with intensive and expensive therapy. So that could be it. There’s the most fabulous boyfriend ever. That could be it. But I think my elevated mood can also be attributed to choice. I’m not willing to cheat myself out of four months of happiness again. So, no more.

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Wait, weren’t we going to shut up about the whole personal life? Hadn’t you decided to just live your life rather than putting it all out there?

Well, yes, I had. But I needed to update….

So because you’re lazy and “can’t” think of something to write on said webbity, you exploited your personal life, your prescription medication, and your own sacred bliss?

Yes, but Jesus, can you not put it that way? It’s not like I raped your childhood teddy bear. C’mon!

Whatever. It’s your webbity.

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Small? You want tall or small? It’s right up there. Tall, grande, and venti. Small medium large. It’s right there. There are conventions. You have to follow them. And, up there on the board, there are ours. Order appropriately. What you do on your own time is your own concern. Now, next?