Mutual Understandings.

At work, I share a bullpen-style cube with two guys, one 26 and one about 10 years older. Our area is surrounded on either side by two identical (in allotment, not population) stations.

While this communal workspace isn't ideal, it is necessary that I be in the middle of all of the action because it's really the only way I would ever know what the hell is going on. Placing me with these two dudes was strategic as well, because everyone knows that while I love my ladies, I do love them more from a distance.

When men and women co-habitate in this way, there are two behavioral outcomes that emerge: there are the activities that we decide we will force our cellmates to live with, such as perpetual blasts of foot deodorizer spray, talking somewhat maniacally to ourselves, and penis jokes. Lots of penis jokes. Then there are the ones that are better left for outside The Grotto. These include passing gas (unless, of course, you are the 26-year-old), clothing adjustments of any kind, and eating bananas.

That's about all I have to say about that. 

Graphic Violence.

Those who communicate with art,
Don’t think writing deserves any part.
They make my work tough,
Thinking imagery’s enough.
Ohh, each word they delete breaks my heart.

Fucking designers.

Fanning the Flames.

I'm 346 days in and I'm about to pull a fast one. Another one, I guess. I worked an 11-hour day today (which is a profound affront to my spiritual beliefs) and, before I left, I suggested an artistic solution to our problem, rather than a written one, because my brain was starting to feel like a toasted marshmallow.

What I'm trying to say is that I used all of the soft, sticky matter trying to respond to "feedback," and, as a result, I have nothing left to give. (I think my little diversion worked, though. Hehehe.)

While I pluck off the scorched bits, why not listen to some cool music created by the son of a really cool guy I used to work with. You can hear it here. And also here.

Exit Humanity.

Unless we're talking about spiders, typos, or an internet outage, there isn't much that scares me. I take in horror movies and books with eyes wide and palms warm and dry. I'm drawn to the genre I guess because it offers thrills and excitement minus any potential of actually being harmed. I love what peoples' deranged imaginations come up with, all the while knowing that all of it is just that: a product of the mind.

But yesterday I read a story that exceeded what any person could imagine. It seemed preposterous. Incomprehensible. It couldn't be that anyone could dream up such savagery. And I was right. Because, he, the author, didn't. He lived it. And, as he recounted back every minute of it, I sweated, I gripped the binding at both edges until my fingers ached, and I choked on the enormous swelling in my throat. When I finished it, I felt exhausted and shaken.  

The book was "Night" by Elie Wiesel. And if you ever want to be truly terrified, you should read it. Actually, either way, you should read it.  

Feast or Famine.

I was looking at myself in the mirror this morning, feeling frustrated that I can't find the will to drop the extra pounds that I've put on over the past year. There's nothing wrong with me now; I'm just a little rounder here and there, which may not be a bad thing. Except that I'm definitely not at that place that I was back in 2010 when I felt nothing short of perfect.

But perfect only in my reflection, I have to continually remind myself. Under the surface, I was sad, frustrated, & confused and had no appetite for anything--food or otherwise. It was not a good time to be me, unless I was trying on clothes or walking in heels. Even then, these were brief flits of comfort to a mind addled with emotional turmoil.

I managed to drag myself out of it and also recognize how important it was that this crisis happened in the first place. It forced me to act; to do; to change. And, in finding contentment with my life, I also found my way back to the joy of eating more than just air and self pity.

If being bone thin was a result of a malnourished soul, then maybe these extra curves signify a kind of satisfaction. And that actually tastes better than skinny feels. 

 
 

Ain't Misbehavin'.

If you've ever looked at trends in maternity clothes (and considering that 90% of my readers are men, I'd guess not), you'd realize that, until very recently, something has been very wrong. (Not that I've had any reason to, either. Let's just write it up under anthropological interest.)

High necklines, peter pan collars, delicate floral prints, and enough fabric to double as a tent in case of emergency seemed to indicate that absolutely nothing except the most immaculate of deeds created this condition. What?!

In more current times, a nice spandex blend stretched creatively over the proverbial breadbasket suffices--and is a much nicer homage to act of procreation. In my opinion.

If I can be honest, it is the permission to let my belly out in such a boastful and blatant way that has made me half consider baby making. Except there would be a baby and a belly not fit for anyone's eyes (knowing my unforgiving flesh) afterward. I'll have none of that.

Now that I am woefully off topic, I'll try to get us back.

The reason I was thinking about prudish maternity clothes is because the same phenomenon occurs in kitchen curtains. Last summer, I desperately combed sites and stores for a replacement of my current all-white coverings. And concluded that the window treatment industry has some shame issues that it needs to work out. The abundance of lace trims, crocheted borders, and pastel color palettes--and lack of anything other--suggests a conspiracy to censor the bacchanalia that goes on in my kitchen. I won't have any of that either.

I finally decided to make my own, inspired by the indulgent designers of tea towels:

They're loud and they shout: "Hey, let's make something!" As it should be.

Auto Frustrato.

We have one Fiat dealer here in town, and they seem to me to be unsure if they want to sell any of them--kind of like a reluctant garage sale host who decides his precious items are just for show right at the moment you've made an offer. Humph.

I drove up and down the parkway with the dealership lot clearly in sight, but an entrance to get in not. I started to wonder if this was really a dream. You know, the kind your subconscious sews together with pieces of your day's frustrations...

But, after my third revolution of Michigan turns, I saw what looked to be a way in, if I turned off the main road and drove in from behind. So I did so, a bit rushed since they only stayed open 'til 4:00 and don't have Sunday or holiday hours.

After I parked, I experienced what no one ever has: a car lot that's open for business without one salesperson on the ground. I wandered the lot alone, unharassed, yet I wouldn't have minded a little. When I walked into the unlocked showroom, it was empty. 

This was feeling more and more like a fantasy, as I stroked their hoods and whispered into their side mirrors--unnoticed and uninterrupted.

I left, finally. No closer to making a purchase. I don't think these ones are for sale...