That's Me Inside Your Head...|
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|Saturday, April 8th, 2006|
Goddammit, I don't think I'll ever sleep tonight. I'm a fucking cocktail of adrenaline and a bundle of reclusive artsy-fartsy nerves. Now, I'm beginning to see why Van Gogh went all emo and lopped off his own ear.
So here's the battle plan for tomorrow.
I may or may not hit the gym. Then, I work 9-5. Then, I'm dancing with Colleen at the Turkish restaurant. Here's the truly glamorous part: Somewhere in the craziness, I need to alter my NEW new costume. (Bright royal blue, orange, purple and gold Neckelmann's to match my A'Kai Bird of Paradise hand-painted silk skirt. MUST wear tomorrow). Then, I need to pick some music because I have NOOOOO friggin' clue what I'll be dancing to.
La dee dah.
Now, it's looking like I'll do veil to "I Put a Spell on You." As for an opener, it's either Nawal al Zoghbi's "Ellitmaneh Toh" or the Nancy Ajram classic that Colleen and I affectionately know as "Pussy Pussy." (Or at least that's what she sounds as if she's saying).
Oh, and not to mention, I've got to be extra slick because a hot Italian guy is coming to see me tomorrow and I can't blow my cover just yet.
Eep. Between all of the caffeine and the nerves, I'm also starting to feel a lot like Tweak from South Park. *twitch* SO. MUCH. PRESSURE.
Anyway. It was a fun night. Got out of work an hour early (the department was dead, Rosemary was on with me and even though my boss is very cool with letting us go home early when unexpected stuff comes up, I don't abuse the privelege of skipping out of work early). Colleen brought me along to a gig at an Italian restaurant. It was a private party for a total fuckwad, who tried to ask her to give a lap dance for his friend. Colleen threw her veil over his head, did some bellyrolls and essentially handed this nimrod his ass on a silver platter while still pulling off some gorgeous undulations. So while he thought she was going to give him a private show, she told him what's up: we're professional dancers who represent an ancient art, and we won't let people like him bastardize a dance that represents female wisdom. Fucking cool. The people at the party were a bunch of dead fish, but we enjoyed a beautiful dinner and some expensive wine afterward. And then a gorgeous Italian boy named Alessandro was involved in things, and he may or may not have kissed me. And then, Colleen and I may or may not have gone back to her house to watch bellydance videos and talk about boobies and asscracks for the rest of the night.
And now I must go to sleep. Perhaps, I'll learn to say something really seductive in italiano for Alessandro.
Facciamo amore. E poi, mangeremo un bambino.
So many things are wrong with what I just said, and the grammar is just the beginning.
Ah, such is the life of the mysterious Sarab.
~Lisa Current Mood: crazy
|Saturday, March 25th, 2006|
|Sleep Deprivation is My Anti-Drug
Just got back from a night at the Turkish restaurant with my dance teacher. Meaning, if there's a weekly quota for how many times I can say "asscrack" and "pussy," I filled it in about 15 minutes. Sweeeet.
Anyway. So much going on. No time to write. Gahhhhhhh.
Remind me to tawlk about the following tawpics (over cawfee, dahlings):
Popping my cherry (As in losing my restaurant gig virginity; my hymen, on the other hand, still is available to the highest bidder)
My outstanding customer service skills in the face of a query on ass lube and BUTTSECKS
A bunch of Egyptian costume shit that I bought
And so on, and so on.
Until then, some words of wisdom. As tempting as respiration may sound, don't EVER inhale while spraying a hair tonic that contains fenugreek and cayenne. You may as well do a line of curry powder.
And now, to quote Creamy: Alas, Cottage Cheese. We will never be. For you are a slut, and I am but a lactating fool.
~Lisa Current Mood: sleepy
|Wednesday, March 15th, 2006|
|Roly-Poly Fluffballs of DOOM
Guess what we're getting on Sunday....
I'll give you a hint:
That is all. Perhaps I'll write more when I'm coherent.
~Lisa Current Mood: surprised
|Monday, March 13th, 2006|
Huzzah, I actually have a life again! Or, depending on how you see it, you might say I'm back to having no life. Either way, I'm living the veritable vida loca once again of a Nature's Wage Slave going pro in bellydance.
I spent basically all weekend and today soaking in the infinite and often Yoda-esque wisdom of Colleen (aka Adina), my dear friend and beautifully insane dance teacher, so there have been many new developments in my dance life since I last wrote.
For one, I have a Turkish costume! A friend of Colleen's was selling it for $100, which is a fucking steal for a beaded set that includes the bra, belt, headband and gauntlets. It's actually quite a cool old-school set: think Princess Leia goes to Vegas. It's predominantly rich coppery brown sequins with a sparkly gold swirl motif around the edges of the bra and belt (just like Princess Leia's slave costume!), and it's dripping with loooooong gold and amber beaded fringe. Everybody needs a campy Cabaret costume--non-bellydancers included, but we won't go there. Colleen helped me take in the belt, hike up the straps and pad the bra today. It took several hours of simple-yet-unpleasant manual labor to get the damn thing to fit, but it was well worth it. The colors are perfect for my complexion and my hair, and the fringe really flies when I move.
In other news, I've decided that my dance name will be Sarab. It means mirage in Arabic, which is pretty cool because I wanted a name that would symbolize the mysterious nature of women, and that there's more to me than what meets the eye. (Like, you think you're seeing a dark, exotic vision of grace and seduction, but what's really there is an un-ladylike perv and a spaz of Napoleon Dynamite proportions). Not to mention, Sarab just sort of rolls off the tongue without sounding too over-the-top in its lyricism. And I actually like that it doesn't end in an "a" like most dance names seem to.
On Thursday, Colleen will take some pictures of me in costume in the salt marsh behind her house. The cool thing is that she worked as a model in L.A. for several years and can probably help me pick some flattering poses so I'll look all photogenic for posters, fliers and business cards. I can't fucking wait to get my own business cards. It'll make me feel all grown up. Even though my cards will be more campy than corporate, with my pseudonym and glamour shot and all.
But yeah. Crazy times. Friday, I burned some Turkish music with Colleen and she taught me about the stylistic tendencies of Turkish dance and music. (Very fast and sexy, lots of hair flips, quick hipwork and shimmies, usually done to crazy techno. Apparently, I am a perfect fit for the Turkish look: small frame, slim hips, no tits, very long dark hair).
Saturday, after working 9-5, I went straight to Colleen's, then to the Turkish restaurant to watch her perform. The restaurant was awesome. It's a lot like being in somebody's home. The owners are a huge Turkish family who are a little quirky, but really cool, accomodating and happy to sit down and get to know you. And the food was amazing. Colleen brought me up to dance with her and everybody there LOVED me. Everybody kept asking if I could dance so well because I was Turkish, which really is the fucking coolest compliment because I'm not at all Middle Eastern and yet I've managed to show that the dance is in my blood. (I'll have you know that Mata Hari was also Dutch). We ended up at a bar, where two really lame guys tried to hit on me and I brutally rebuffed them.
Yesterday, I helped at an Arabian Princess Party at the Turkish restaurant. Mildly horrific, as it involved being surrounded by TEH BAYYYBEEEEEZZZZZZ and TEH CHYYYYLDRUUUUNNNNN for a few hours. After wrangling up 6-year-old girls to help tie on hip scarves and put bindis on their foreheads, I actually think my fallopian tubes started tying themselves up in protest. I was a good politician, though, and put my childfree snark aside. I hate to say it, but at this point, it's all about free advertising and getting my face out there. If that means sucking it up for two hours and pretending to be utterly enchanted by the antics of screaming howler monkeys in hip scarves, so be it. Actually, though, it was sort of fascinating to watch how quickly the kids learned basic dance moves, and really made me think seriously about the role that social conditioning plays in the brain-fart period all of us adult women go through when first learning to bellydance. Of course a 6-year-old girl will approach a hip circle differently from a 40-year-old woman, who has probably come to feel at least some degree of shame toward her body.
This Saturday evening, I'll be opening for Colleen, which really sort of scares the shit out of me because it'll be my first restaurant gig. As for performing, Colleen thinks it's best to push me right into the deep end without floaties. And she's right. My own hesitation is the only thing holding me back from getting out there, having a good time and becoming a good performer. And, really, I have nothing to worry about. Colleen believes in me, and so do the owners of the restaurant. So it'll be fine. Maybe I can even wrangle up a few of my friends to come see me and cheer me on. It also looks like I may be replacing Careesah at Cafe Bottega some nights, and there's a prospective gig at a new Asian restaurant in New Haven. So before you know it, I'll be making my way out there. Scary shit.
So that's my dance life. The lurve life hasn't caught up, and I'm giving up on chasing the personal trainer. He's moving back out to California, and also, he basically blew me off with some bullshit psychobabble about himself that didn't conclusively or directly answer ANY of my questions when I asked him why we've been out of touch. It figures that even a 38-year-old man could be such a piss-ant, bratty little boy. Maybe someday, I'll stop looking for love at the sandbox and start pursuing people who are actually worth their weight in something. But, fuck, he could have given me some sort of disclaimer if he'd intended on a one-night stand all along. Like, he could have said something along the lines of "Just to make things clear, I'll screw around with you tonight, but after then, I intend on blowing off your phone calls and pretending you don't exist, because I really never regarded you as a worthwhile human being in the first place. Are we on the same page?" If men like him could communicate their sleazy-ass intentions, maybe I'd be smart enough to run far, far away and seek better company instead of treating them like decent human beings and trusting that they might actually mean it when they act interested.
Nothing hurts me more than the fact that I'm slowly starting to see all men as liars, cheats and deceivers, and I'm not genuinely respecting prospects whose intentions are actually pure. What if I finally find somebody who wants to love and understand me for my mind, my character and my every quirk and nuance and I get cold feet and leave him because I'm convinced he's only out to use me? Sadly, I haven't seen any break in the paradigm since I left Wally over a year ago, so I'm almost beginning to accept people who objectify and alienate me as the norm.
It's a sad, sad world where any nouveau June Cleaver or any heinous bar skank or any garden-variety nobody has a far better chance of attracting and keeping a man than an attractive bellydancer with a genius I.Q. does. I'm far from perfect, and I'm a bit difficult, but fuck, my "issues" are slim to none compared to those of the "girl next door" who's too busy doing menial work, minding her manners and pleasing people who don't give a damn to devote an ounce of energy to truly pursuing happiness and will one day become a bitter psycho because of her null identity. Though I appear to have many a flashy alter-ego and a weird double life, as a bellydancer and performer, I see myself as far more real than those ever-popular "down-to-earth" sorts of girls who devote a lifetime to cultivating their perfect faux tans and paying Abercrombie to destroy their jeans for them (because God forbid they go outside and get some sun or engage in some activity rough enough to rip up the jeans a little). It's depressing as all hell, and you'd really think that Darwinism would put intelligent women at a huge evolutionary advantage in the scheme of sex.
I really shouldn't worry about this, as I just spent a valuable hour ranting and raving when I could have been doing shimmy drills, reinforcing hooks on my mirrored costume, or standing before a mirror waxing poetic on my nice little ass, my defined obliques and, of course, my Healthy Handfuls. In other words, I could have done something either constructive or unabashedly self-loving. But fuck it. He wasn't my type. You can't expect any rational action to come from a man who shaves his entire body twice a day, anyway. *shrug*
I suppose it's time to shut the fuck up and stop writing. My sanity's depending on it. And my Leyla Jouvana 20 Shimmies and 1001
Variations DVD is waiting. Yee-fucking-haw.
|Tuesday, March 7th, 2006|
Am I feelin' the LiveJournal lurve or what? I take a little break from blogging, only to come back to a veritable search party where I last left off (okay, two comments--but still, it means I have two friends!). So fear not, wild and crazy readers. I'm back to fill your lives with my dewy-eyed and girlish brand of wonder. Or, rather, to inundate your Friends list with unnecessary personal information.
Without further ado, I'll have you all know that I am on my period.
You know what that means? The world is spared, if only for this month, from a second Immaculate Conception. (We all know how much trouble the first one caused). No, scratch that. If I ever produced TEH BAYYYBEEEEEZ at the will of a higher power and sans
sex, my spawn would probably be the next Antichrist.
Oh, but how cute would she be. A petite little wild-haired she-devil, tempting Earth-folk to watch porn, make fun of cripples and hunt anti-choice Republicans for sport.
All in the course of my last menstrual cycle, women of South Dakota lost their legal and goddess-given right to choose their reproductive destinies. With all of this scary stuff going on in the news, I seriously wanted to stand up and cheer to the world when I found myself bleeding the other night. Not like anybody would really care, and not like I've done anything careless with myself (or perhaps with my personal trainer), and not like the rapture continued when I persisted to bleed like a stuck pig for two days straight. But periods are SUCH a joy compared to being barefoot and pregnant for Dubbya.
I couldn't imagine how the women of South Dakota are feeling. They must be living in sheer terror. I mean, the fundies WANT to revoke women's sexual freedom and the last thing we should do is help them maintain their Universal Law that men have orgasms and women have babies. But knowing that no contraceptive is foolproof, how can you NOT be a bit worried in the back of your mind?
Out of curiosity, I did a bit of research on herbs that may induce miscarriages, and found some scary shit. Doing megadoses of vitamin C, massaging accupressure points corresponding to the uterus, and taking dong quai and black cohosh are one thing. If you absolutely must take the process into your own hands, herbs are a fairly successful, fairly safe way to go. But I stumbled across a website that actually tells you, in depth, how to perform your own D&C abortion. No information in sterilizing equipment. The only mention of antibiotics is a suggestion that you get them from Mexico. Are we really that close to living in an earthly hell where what used to be a safe medical procedure will be an unsanitary, life-threatening hackjob that we leave in the hands of a buddy with a strong stomach and an A in high school anatomy class?
These are all tangents from a point that I'm not even sure I've made, but men should NOT be allowed to speak on behalf of all women. Unless, that is, they're preaching the infinite importance of the clitoris, or enlightening the masses on the art of oral pleasure. In which case, I expect nothing but full-blown televangelism.
On to my next tawpic. Palpation.
Last week, I got to palpate my personal trainer. And let me tell you, I palpated much more than just his finely sculpted sartorius. Rawrrr.
For those who aren't in on the personal-training-with-benefits saga that is me and Rob, there's not much you need to know. I join the gym. I meet the tall, gorgeous, sandy-blonde personal trainer. We click instantaneously. He threatens to spank me when I fall off the core board. I dazzle him with my Ass of Fire. We hook up. And so on, and so on.
Who knows what will become of all of this. So far, it's looking good. We still talk dirty at the gym, and we're still rather touchy-feely. We have a pretty hot dynamic. He's been a bit preoccupied, though, as his mother is in the hospital and will be staying with him for awhile when she gets out. So I'm trying to find a way to be relatively unobtrusive, but still show him that I'm interested. It's tricky and I especially don't want to blow it this time, because I'm very attracted to him.
I have fun with him, though, just because we both have such dirty minds. Not to mention, he's 38. Which could probably put me in the running to overthrow Diana as president of the Old Man Club. Flippin' sweet.
It's time to go fight a losing battle against my hairbrush and then maybe write Rob a poem so that I can rub my butt all over it and give it to him tomorrow. Or maybe I'll just hump his leg. That works, too.
Since when did I become so sketchy?
~Lisa Current Mood: predatory
|Wednesday, February 22nd, 2006|
If wanting to palpate your new personal trainer's bracchialis is wrong, I don't ever want to be right.
That is all.
~Lisa Current Mood: sore
|Tuesday, February 21st, 2006|
My day has been full of pleasant surprises.
For one, I just found out that, yes sir, I am still capable of waking up before noon on a day off. It fills me with childlike hope to see a possible end in sight to my recent loafdom. Huzzah.
Also, I passed up THREE hot corsets at Charlotte Russe simply by reminding myself of my long-term goal to go to chiropractic school. Yes, sir, there just may be hope that I'll stop being such an ass with my money and learn the fine art of penny-pinching. Really, rice and beans are not so bad.
I also joined a fitness club today. It was quite painless. I didn't have to sell my soul. Hell, I didn't even have to bend over and take it up the butt. It was $99 down, and will cost $14.95 a month. Not bad, considering the cost of things like exercise DVD's and the stupid things I'd probably otherwise be doing with that money. I don't see belonging to a gym as a luxury--for me, as a dancer trying to rebound from a serious injury, it's a necessity. When I was in school and using the weight room every day, I never suffered from back pain (or really any kind of discomfort) and I could execute all of my movements with the confidence that I was doing them safely. Not to mention, the back problems and the mono made me go absolutely stir-crazy for a few months. I need physical activity to keep me sane. So yeah. I'll probably become a total gym rat.
Yeah. My days have been pretty slow since my last entry. Herman, the guy I went out with a few times last week, dropped off the face of the earth on me. I called him once last week, nobody was there, and I gave up on him from there. There may have been extenuating circumstances--but I'm fucking sick of making excuses for people who simply aren't worth their weight in anything. Even if you're in the hospital or if your parakeet died, there's still enough time in a day to pick up a fucking phone and say hello. If a guy's going to flake out, he's not good enough for me. Plain and simple. But yeah. Life goes on with or without men. I'll live if I go to movies by myself, or eat three-course meals in beautiful restaurants by myself, or have wild monkey sex with myself. Hell, it's really not the end of the world. In the end, when I stop holding myself up to the unrealistic expectation that I might actually make somebody fall in love with me, I'm much happier doing my thing on my own time than I am compromising myself or putting up with bullshit just to stay afloat in the dating pool. Every time I get involved with somebody, I lose a piece of myself. I can't afford to keep being so stressed. Especially not when I see that I'm literally making myself sick, and that I already have a few little lines around my eyes.
As for Maggie, I can't get used to how empty the house feels without her. I still feel a huge hole in my heart when I come home and see the empty space where she used to sleep. She's not suffering anymore, and that's all I could ever want for a best friend. It'll take time to fully come to terms with her passing, but for now, I can't help but to feel such a lack of unconditional love. Dogs never hold grudges, or laugh at your big hair, or tell you that you're not good enough. That's why I love them. If you're good to them, they'll repay you with a richness and purity that not even the best human being can match. If people could only live so gently, the world would be such a better place.
It seriously warmed my heart to see so many loving comments in my last entry, though, and I thank you all for your sincerity and compassion. I haven't had the time to respond, but I'm so comforted to see that so many of you are thinking of me during this hard time.
Anyway, yeah. Guess I've got to keep on truckin', or whatever they say. Come spring, I'm hoping things will start looking up. If I can get through this dastardly cold weather with my sanity intact, I guess I'm golden from there. We'll see.
~Lisa Current Mood: contemplative
|Monday, February 13th, 2006|
My apologies for dropping off the face of the (LiveJournal) universe the past week or so.
My dog died today. I'd been bracing myself for this all weekend, but part of me secretly was in denial of how old and sick she was. We had to rush her to the emergency vet last Thursday night because she got really sick again. Since then, she stopped eating and seemed too weak to stand or to function as normal. So my parents and the vet decided that it would be the most humane to put her down. That's one decision you hope you'll never have to confront when you have a pet, but it wouldn't have been right of us to prolong her suffering just to buy her a few more weeks--if even that--to be with us. Her body had begun to shut down and, quite honestly, she just seemed to have lost the will to live. Animals know when their time is up. It seemed like Maggie was ready.
I wasn't there when Maggie died. My parents say she went peacefully, though. She didn't struggle. She just closed her eyes and drifted off, with her chin rested on my mom's hand.
Last night, I spent a few final moments with her before I went to bed. I put my arms around her and just kind of told her that it's okay to leave and she shouldn't be afraid. She looked very much at peace. I'm happy that I got to say my goodbyes and send her off with all of my love.
What a gentle little soul Maggie was. She won over everybody who ever got a chance to meet her with her sweet face, her goofy mannerisms and her bright, affectionate disposition. She truly loved everyone, from repairmen to the toads that live on the front porch. She knew when you were feeling sick or upset, and would stay by your side and comfort you. I have yet to meet a human being so full of love.
It just feels empty without Maggie. Losing her has been like losing a best friend. In fact, she's the closest thing I've ever had to a childhood friend. We grew up together and she's been there for me for the greater half of my life. I don't think I've even fully processed the fact that she's gone yet, because I can't remember what exactly life was like without her.
Life goes on. Maggie is no longer sick and she's not in pain anymore. I'll always have happy memories of our life together, and all the times she's done yoga with me in the backyard, or cuddled up to me when I'm sad, or just been a dork with me around the house. But she's always been a friend and it's so hard to let go of somebody you love--whether or not they have fur and four legs.
Anyway, that's the story.
Rest in peace, little dog.
~Lisa Current Mood: sad
|Wednesday, February 8th, 2006|
|Scientists Uncover Intelligent Life of the Male Species
What just happened? Was this all a dream?
I just stayed out all night with a guy who worships Jacques Cousteau, loves marine life as much as I do, does yoga, finds beauty in all world religions, thinks outside of the box, gets a high from accupuncture, and actually seems to be a pretty credible feminist.
Even weirder? We actually spent all night talking
It seems I've stumbled across a true gentleman who understands that connections come from long, deep discussions and soulful looks, not just from inserting Tab A into Slot B.
Don't get me wrong, I'll be thoroughly moaning in my sleep tonight, just thinking about the hot intellectual intercourse I just had. And I would have kissed him insane amounts if I didn't mind giving him my cold. But man. Nothing like finding a person who respects you as...*gasp*...a whole human being. I'm reeling, and I kick myself for not having told him this.
We're going out for sushi on Thursday. Can't fucking wait.
~Lisa Current Mood: ecstatic
|Monday, February 6th, 2006|
Loopy loopy loopy!
Jamaican cold remedies rock my life--and they may as well rock my ass, too.
First, you take some tea. (Fruity hibiscus tea, like Tazo's Passion, is faboo). Then, add lemon juice and lots of honey. THEN comes the rum. I went for a full shot tonight.
I don't know if it actually makes you better, or if you just FEEL like you feel better, but it works, and I have my old crazy housemate Lisa Campbell to thank for this remedy, which I have cherished in sickness and abused in health.
I have been known to climb doors under the influence of this Special Tea. It's the beauty of me when I'm both sick AND a little drunk.
My dad was generous enough to give me whatever upper respiratory tract bug he's had this past week or so. With my immune system being worn down by mono, it probably wasn't too hard for me to get sick this time. But seriously. ENOUGH with the sicknesses and injuries. I'm so tired of not feeling like a normal, healthy person.
I'm always a little odd when I'm sick. When I had mono, I felt uber-squishy and needy for affection. All I wanted was for somebody to come along, cuddle up to me and read me Dinah, the Christmas Whore
by David Sedaris. This time, I'm feeling a bit reclusive and VERY loopy. Like, I want to prance around my room in my skivvies to the Underpants Dance, while cracking a whip. (Maybe I'll go back to VIP and buy that book on how to crack a bullwhip, along with fuzzy pink handcuffs for Josh to use when he becomes a cop).
Ah, to think I can get away with being this delirious when I am sick. But I was supposed to fraternize with a customer tomorrow, and I'm pissed that we'll probably have to wait until this weekend. Most Nature's Way shoppers are total wingnuts, but there's this cool guy Herman who comes in a lot, and we actually got to bond quite a bit the other night because, for once, he came in to shop when there weren't a million people in my department. Some of the things he said just sort of shocked me because I felt like I was talking to, well, me
. And he had some interesting stories to tell, too, like how he can't stand to drink mass-produced Starbucks coffee when he knows that the coffee his grandfather grows in Puerto Rico is earthy and pure and grown with love. Not to mention, every time I've ever helped him choose a product, he's always such an intent listener and asks a lot of smart questions and, well, genuinely cares about the nerdy trivia with which I tend to inundate my customers. (Unlike some men, who get all pissy and say shit like "Whoa now smartypants, did you just come from chemistry class?") The guy seems very articulate, intelligent and sensitive, and I just couldn't let him leave the store without inviting him to join me sometime for a night of dinner and troublemaking. In other words, he just might be an enlightened specimen.
I actually hit up my co-worker Christine for the scoop on Herman, seeing as she performs accupuncture on him on a weekly basis and I sort of wanted to know what I could be getting myself into. She was stoked. Apparently, he's a very deep soul, and one of the most giving people you could ever meet, and Christine said she's surprised nobody's snatched him up yet.
I expect nothing, because history's taught me that way, but I sensed a connection that I needed to act upon. So who knows. I'm only going on a few conversations and some hearsay (and the fact that he actually called when he said he would), but I feel like I may have actually stumbled upon somebody worthy of my time.
Anyway, I suppose I should actually attempt to sleep at some point tonight.
Note to self: don't EVER Google "calcified dead fetus." I'll have nightmares for the next twenty years, thankyouverymuch.
~Lisa Current Mood: sick
|Sunday, February 5th, 2006|
|Josh and I are "Special."
I win at life.
Instead of being a fucktard all by myself on a Saturday night, I actually got to be a fucktard with someone else for once.
Tonight was a night of many firsts, and not only in the sense that I actually like, did something other than palpating my own teres major or discovering my quadratus lumborum. This marks the first time I went to a sex shop with a co-worker.
Josh and I are going to make lots of sly remarks about "last night" and dildos at work tomorrow, although keeping a straight face will probably be futile and we'll blow our cover and tell everybody why we really went to VIP.
No, dirties, I didn't buy anything to use on my own coonever. (As for Josh, he was torn between the Antonio Banderas blow-up doll and the Lil' Bow Wow Pocket Ass, but he's saving to study kung fu in China and, therefore, luxuries are unattainable on a Nature's Way salary). We were at the Gay Stand (Starbucks) until they kicked us out, and, since I'd expressed a great hankering for a new corset, he graciously volunteered to go shopping with me if I had nothing else to do. (The guy's a gem, what can I say?)
We saw some great stuff. There's a plaster penis party kit, perfect for making a mold of your own penis so you can stick it up your own ass. They also had a buttplug with peacock feathers attached--because if you're going to stick things up your butt, they may as well have feathers! And they had things in the bondage cage that, even with our pooled dirty minds, we couldn't figure out a use for!
Anyway, yeah. It's refreshing to know somebody who's seen my full fucktard potential and isn't completely scared of me...yet.
Ah, yes. Time to go eat some Healthy Handfuls, which are like Goldfish crackers, but shaped like ducks. With a name like Healthy Handfuls, though, you may as well be talking about my perky little boobs. It's such a positive way of describing a small chest. A nice little handful, complete with happy nipples. It's ironic how women get implants to "feel sexy," but most of them end up losing all nippular sensation, thus making one wonder who really benefits from augmentation....but that's a whooooole other story. It's about time, though, that somebody stood up and said, "DAMMIT, my small breasts are sexy!" The paradigm won't change until somebody makes that call.
Anyway. I need to sleep. Ughhhhhh.
Lucky that my breasts are small and humble, so you don't confuse them with mammary glands.
~Lisa Current Mood: nerdy
|Friday, February 3rd, 2006|
Why, God. Why?
This morning, my mom was gushing to me about how the Queen Trailer Trash Slut of my high school is now an E.R. nurse.
Normally, I'm pretty conservative in my use of terms like trailer trash and slut, so you know this girl was a veritable haven for thousands of endangered species of STD's if I use both slurs in one sentence. Besides, she was dumb as rocks and mean-spirited, and got her kicks from beating up hapless nerds. So I don't feel the least bit remorseful for calling spades spades.
I can seriously picture her in the face of a life-or-death situation, deciding that her patient's glasses are too thick, and being like "SCREW THE HIPPOCRATIC OATH!" Or, possibly, not knowing the difference between a Hippocratic Oath and a hypocritical oaf.
"Good for her," I said. "But I sure wouldn't trust my life in her hands."
"BUT SHE'S GOT TO BE REALLY SMART IF SHE'S A NURSE!" my mom said.
"Anybody can be a nurse," I said. "Some of the smartest people I know are nurses, yet some of the dumbest people I know are also going to nursing school, or majored in med tech."
"BUT NURSES ARE COLLEGE GRADUATES!"
"But college graduate does NOT EQUAL SMART.
"You're just jealous! I think it's so inspiring how she got her act together!"
So, okay. This girl, who couldn't have an I.Q. higher than 75, is a STORY OF INSPIRATION because she decided to enter a medical profession. But I'm actually smart and, with the exception of rants like these, kind-spirited and I'm too stupid
to be a chiropractor???
It's a fucking slap in the face. My mother has more support for a dipshit that bullied me and my sister throughout elementary and middle school than she has for her own daughter.
Maybe the only medical profession worthy of her respect is nursing, because nurses are essentially assistants to (usually male) doctors. Nothing's intimidating or threatening about nurses, because I guess nothing really changes about the status quo when you're following orders.
Or maybe I first need to smoke crack and get an STD before I can be respected for finding myself? Because it's typically considered selfish for women to spend long periods of time working on, well, themselves. Unless, that is, self-discovery saves them from becoming wanton hussies of the night, or whatever.
I can't even rationally express my frustration with the conversation, because it's not rational to not respect your own daughter's goals, especially when she respects my sister's job and plans, and not mine. I've always gotten the impression in my family that my sister was the only one who was allowed to have dreams, and I'm beginning to think my suspicions were right. Anything I've ever wanted to do has been dismissed as my inherent futility or frivolity. I'm beginning to think fear and self-loathing must be passed on through mother's milk. Why can't mothers let their daughters live fearless, fruitful (NOT in the reproductive sense) lives?
I don't know. I guess I should be happy for now, because on another note, my chiropractor says I CAN DANCE AGAIN!!!
Until then, I leave you with my Master Plan for Life:
1. Smoke crack.
3. Become a chiropractor. (PROFIT!!!!)
~Lisa Current Mood: weird
|Thursday, February 2nd, 2006|
|E.T. and T.S. Eliot: The True Love Story of a Wrinkly Turd and a Highbrow Modernist Poet
Oooooowwwwwwww, it hurtsssssss.
Just when I'd thought that I'd heard the dumbest question ("OMGWTF!!!!!111111!!! What happens if I use night cream during the day????"), Jan from the Supplement department shared this gem:
(customer picks up a bottle of one-a-day multi's, confused) "How many of these do I take a day?"
Seriously, no comment.Mi fa male la testa!
Then, there was the time last week when this guy, who was on his cell phone, came up to me and said, "My friend wants to talk to you."
Taken aback, I answered the phone. It took the guy approximately two minutes to even utter a word. He then said, in a hush-hush voice: "I have a problem with CONSTIPATION."
He didn't even ask if I worked in the store, so I could have been a just a random stranger. Then again, maybe some people like discussing their ass problems with strangers? Who knows.
Combine this with the time when a customer picked up the box of Smooth Move laxative tea and asked "What happens when you take this?"
I can't tell whether I just have a problem relating to the world because I'm smarter than a good chunk of the population, or if it's because people really are that stupid....but eeesh.
Quick, I must distract myself!
On to the next topic: E.T. would have been a much better movie if they replaced the little boy Elliott with T.S. Elliot. Every little boy I know has been molested by aliens at least once. And what could possibly be more heartwarming than a ham-headed, freakish alien of indeterminate gender palling around with an uppity Modernist poet?
For my intents and purposes, T.S. Elliot has a British accent, even though he was American.
"Let us go while the night is spread upon the sky like a patient etherized upon a table! Ooooooooh, yes! Do I dare to part my hair? Do I dare to eat the peach? Do I wear white flannel trousers and walk upon...?"
"Heavens, Eetee, I cannot enjoy meaningful discourse with myself on the emptiness of life with your mindless drivel on phoning home! Oooooh, 'E.T. phone home.' Why don't you just go home, you wrinkly turd?"
"Oh, why must you look at me like that, Eetee?....Oh, oh Eetee
*cut to close-up of E.T.'s penis finger sticking up*
*cut to shot of poor Indian children packing fudge into boxes in a factory*
*cut to fireworks*
*cut to shot of E.T. and T.S. Elliot in bed, smoking cigarettes*
"Let us never speak a word of this night again, Eetee."
I wonder if E.T. would have traumatized me so much as a child if they cut right to the chase and made it a tale of true love and TEH BUTTSECKS! Probably not.
I really thought I was the only kid on Earth who was scared shitless of that movie, but almost all of my friends were equally disturbed by it. It IS creepy shit, though. I'd call the dog catcher if I looked in my backyard and saw a crane-necked walking sphincter muscle waddling around like it has a dirty diaper and leering at me through the bushes.
Hell, I already know what it's like to be leered at from behind the Sea Vegetable rack by a middle-aged man who looks like a squashed Tootsie Roll with a mullet. His name is Larry. I don't care what they say. The spaceship left him behind because even aliens from his home planet think he's a creepy dipshit.
Also, I know Ballchin. How is this at all relevant? I dunno. I do hate him, though.
But seriously. I wonder if there's a big market for E.T. fan fiction. I'd so totally submit my version, as it's far more realistic than the novelization that I never read where he supposedly grows a giant turnip and flies back to Earth. Then again, E.T. IS a kids' movie, and they'd probably have me banned from the kiddie section of the library, for fear that I sodomize little children. In which case, a pen name of Mo Lester might not be a good choice. Damn.
And don't get me started on stupid moo's that think all men are child molesters and have actually gotten some states to pass laws prohibiting men from entering children's sections of bookstores or libraries without a child in tow. Hello, discrimination. What if you're a father looking for some books to bring home to your little sproglet, or hell, if you're simply looking for a copy of The Little Prince
But yes. My high modernist version of E.T. is probably one of my highest ambitions as a writer since the Judy Poopypants saga, or Chutney, or the time Wally and I started writing erotic "friction" for American Grizzly
. (I really miss that mofo sometimes, but that's another entry).
Anyway. Time to go learn some more muscles, do a few exercises and call it a night. Funny how now that I put on 8 pounds from not dancing and now have the "womynly curve" I'd always wanted, I feel flabby and miss my six-pack and want to be ripped again. I'll check with my D.C. tomorrow (or maybe e-mail the chiro cutie I met at Borders) and ask if it would be out of line to ease my way into weight training with my back still on the mend, but I'm starting to get all antsy about joining a gym and working out again.
The bad thing is, with my history, I could very well be overreacting to a normal and healthy weight gain. (I'm also so small-boned and petite that as little as a 3 pound gain can make a difference in the way my clothes fit and the way I look all around). But for health reasons, I could afford to be stronger. Not to mention, with any amount of physical activity, I get very muscular. That's just my natural body type.
Ah, I've blabbed too much. Good night, kids.
~Lisa Current Mood: dorky
|Wednesday, February 1st, 2006|
|It's Just Like Night Cream, But You Use it During the Day!
Ughhh, retail will be the death of me.
Every Weird Motherfucker Wednesday, when I'm beginning to think that the local Mental Ranch opens the barn door and sends the loonies right on down to Nature's Way, I come home, bleary-eyed and speaking in tongues and ruminate on the same existential bullshit.
Why do I shortchange myself and my talents only to be underpaid and underappreciated for what I do? Why do I settle for unliveable wages and nonexistant benefits? What, in the Long Run, the Big Picture and the Grander Scheme of Things, will come out of this not-so-glamorous stint of prostituting myself to the Devil for 40 hours a week? Is life all some fucked-up, no-win video game that God created? And if so, why can't I be like Mario and Luigi, who get to eat magic shrooms, swim around in sewer pipes and stomp on Goombas and Koopas, all in a day's work?
Let me set a few things straight. Nature's Way is, for the very most part, a nice place to be. My co-workers are, for the most part, very friendly and easygoing. My boss is so laid-back, understanding and eager to help. And let's face it: this is where I became interested in naturopathy in the first place and, without Nature's Way, I probably wouldn't have given chiropractic a second thought as a career path. I'm actually very thankful for the fact that the grunt-work I'm doing now has opened so many doors as far as my life's vision goes. I should actually consider myself very lucky to be in one of the more mentally stimulating corners of the retail world.
It's just that retail work really just plain sucks across the board--even on the off chance that, like me, you genuinely love the products you sell, the services you provide and most of the people you work with. Last week was horrible: nearly every day, I was sexually harassed in some way or another by a male customer. Then, there are others, usually uppity suburbanite women, who tell you how incompetent and worthless they think you are when you refuse to bend store policy for them or give them stuff for free. And you can't stick up for yourself, otherwise you risk losing your job. The customer's ALWAYS right, after all. Even when they try to scam stuff off of you because they live in Easton and they have a baa-ayyy-beee and that somehow makes them demi-gods.
You get this wherever you go in retail, and anytime you work in retail, you usually get paid the kind of null-money that looks and acts like money, but disappears any time, well, life comes up and you need to pay your bills or buy food. And then, whenever you work in retail, there's always some managerial figure who spies on you or bullies you (or perhaps you're lucky enough to get one spy AND one bully), and you're always generally underappreciated for what you bring to the table.
I'm not a perfect employee. My biggest weakness on the job is that I'm friendly--perhaps, TOO friendly--and I could probably stand to cut the chit-chat at times. But my friendliness and sense of humor are also one of my strong points as a salesperson. It's important to build relationships with your customers: that's what keeps them coming back, after all. I have customers who will recognize me outside of work and come up to me to chat, and I even had a customer run up to me and give me a hug when she saw me out shopping for shoes. Some customers even call the store to tell them how awesome I am.
I just know that I'm not in the kind of place where all of management realizes my talents, or where I'll ever get a raise that reflects how effective of a salesperson I've become. And I know I'm worth a lot more than what they pay me. Even my mother, who has no qualms with telling me I'm stupid and lazy, tells me all the time that I'm selling myself short by working in retail.
I've come to a point where I'd actually be willing to take up some sort of a deadpan office job full-time and work at Nature's Way on weekends. I can't live on what I'm making now, and I'll never be able to save for chiropractic school if I don't get the hell out of retail and start seeking higher-paying work. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I could even find a job as a chiropractic assistant, or a receptionist for a chiropractor, so that my work experience will at least be quasi-relevant.
I'm starting to look at this as a survival challenge: if I can tough it out through all of these crap-ass jobs now, then someday, I can do something I love and make something of my many talents. Someday, I'll be in a position to look back on everything I went through and say that I made it out alive, and that I'm a far stronger and wiser person because of it. In this grand video game of life, you've gotta squash a couple of Koopas first if you wanna take the princess back to your dungeon and....eh, never mind.
It sucks to feel so downtrodden when you know deep down that you're a mighty little mofo. I know I'm above caring so much about the opinions of dumb boys, or letting my mom's tirades ruin my entire day. What kills me is that I'm letting a whole lot of talent go idle because I'm so tangled up in the crap that's going on OUTSIDE of me. On my own, I'm so happy and well-adjusted. But some people I know are like vampires: they drain the life out of you to spite their own lifelessness. And I can't help but to get involved.
Anyway, that's been my life in Retail Land.
In Obsessing-Over-Politics Land, I actually found myself philosophically developing a Plan B in case Roe V. Wade actually is overturned and I ever need an abortion. Canada might be an option. (I have a feeling tourism will increase tenfold to the Great White North if women lose the right to choice). Also, certain herbs, vitamins and accupressure techniques can be used to induce miscarriage.
In Boy Land, I just may call that cute chiro student I met, and pick his brain on ways to ease my way back into dancing without mangling my back again. (He also happens to be a personal trainer).
In Geek Land, I've made a habit of learning and memorizing the location, attachment, action and innervation of one new muscle a day. It's fun. So far, I've covered the occiptalis, the frontalis, the temporoparietalis, and the auricularis superior, anterior and posterior. And those aren't even all of the muscles in the head!
In Other Worthless News Land, I might actually join a gym. And I just might actually use it.
Wheeeeeee. Anywho, it's time to shower. Seaweed soap is your detox friend. Remember that next time you make something you saw on Thirty-Minute Meals.
~Lisa Current Mood: tired
|Tuesday, January 31st, 2006|
|Break My Heart, I'll Break Your Nose.
Mononucleosis be damned!
It's 3:30 and I already feel like dropping dead.
The cruel irony is that, when you do the math, it is most likely that Andrew Brown was the one who infected me.
It's horrible enough that he spied up my personal info, used me and left me so he could go fuck his friend, but on top of it all, he had to give me mono. This is where I would love to see him get beaten up by a transvestite. It would only be right, and it would be funny as hell to see him put in his place.
Or, in a karmically just world, the girl he left me for will give him herpes. And I'll find a hot chiro student who is, on every level, an intellectual equal, and understands my sick sense of humor. And everybody wins. Except Andrew. Although he might luck out and end up on a Valtrex commercial, which would seem glamorous until everybody in the world knows him as Herpes Boy, and nobody wants to date him anymore. *snicker*
I actually did meet a cute chiro student at Borders last night. He was very positive and encouraging about me wanting to go into chiropractic, and he gave me his card and told me to call if I had questions or anything. Perhaps, I can come up with some intelligent thing to pick his brain about. Or maybe I could just be a dirty and ask him, preferably with a British accent, if he'll kindly let me palpate his greater trochanter.
Le sigh. It would be so nice if I could find an intelligent guy who is actually attainable. Sometimes it's all in my head, or other times, the guy's actually taken or uninterested--but I feel like genuinely smart guys are always so far out of my league. What I really, really need is an intellectual equal, somebody who just gets
me. I'm sick of men who regard me as an exotic species of insect, and discard me when they're done pinning me down and dissecting me. I get asked so many stupid questions and I'm spoken to in such a subtly patronizing tone. I hate having to explain myself to others; I just want to cut to the chase and connect. This is probably why Diana and I get along so well. We have very compatible personalities and similar upbringings, so we can just talk
, no need to reiterate complete autobiographies, personal political manifestos or psychiatric histories.
I had a weird conversation with a customer the other night. He was telling me what pretty eyes I have, and said something to the effect of: "I bet you're a real heartbreaker with those eyes." I corrected him: "Actually, I'm always the one getting my heart broken, but we WON'T go there." Basically, the rest of the conversation just kept getting more and more scary: he essentially vocalized all of my suspicions about men in general. He even said at one point: "I can't date these Fairfield County women. They scare me. They're far too smart, smarter than I am, and I'm really, really afraid of that." Creepy, man. And finally, he said, "But you know, you shouldn't be surprised that men are such jerks. We're only men after all.
It was rather disheartening. These are potential boyfriends, folks. There's just something so wrong about expecting women to shrug off unacceptable behavior because their significant others are "only men, after all." You can excuse any kind of barbaric shit if you trace it back to biology: you know, women can't be promiscuous because, somewhere down the line, they watched the babies while men spread their seed and hunted mastadon.
Yeah, well the mastadon went extinct. So should stone-age stereotypes.
When I date somebody, I hold him to a human standard of decency, period. If he cheats, or says something abusive, or gets upset that I don't put out easily like other girls, I don't give him leeway just because he has a penis, just as a man shouldn't excuse jealousy or cattiness just because his girlfriend is female. I'd like to think I can hold men to my same personal standards, and that they'll hold me to their own personal code. Gender shouldn't have to be an issue.
And, really, why the fear of smart women? Are some guys really so insecure in themselves that they only date women who don't threaten their Queen Bee status? I personally can't comprehend that. There seems to be this popular myth of the New Enlightened Male, just because some men in progressive parts of the country are helping their wives cook dinner and go grocery shopping. But I feel like so many of the guys I meet are still stuck in the fifties. They want the blonde bimbo who will flatter them: "Gee, Skip, you sure are strong! I never could have taken the lid off the Ragu all by myself! Now why don't you go put your feet up and relax while I fetch you a cold beer and make you feel like you really are smart and funny!" More importantly, I think a lot of guys probably are scared of smart women because if you do something retarded, we'll call you on it.
This is where it all comes down to my greatest fear and the very cause of my recent bout of depression. I'm so afraid of being the Eternally Single chick, who knows nothing lasting and only connects through one-night stands. I'm afraid that the best I'll ever have is now dead and buried; though I have been in love before, it feels like I've been suffering in meaningless or unrequited relationships all of my life. Now, every relationship I enter takes a little bit more out of me. And everybody says to me, "The sun will shine again tomorrow, and the happy little fairies of love will sprinkle down upon you someday!" These people are usually married or very happily taken, giving the advice the same sentiment as a queen telling a beggar that someday, she'll find a unicorn that craps gold turds and all of her troubles will be over. It's not that easy. Especially not when you know your own worth, and you know that you're a diamond, and the rest of the world's hitting up the Wal-Mart sale on cubic zirconia.
I swear I'll be better when I'm dancing again. That's the one merit of going pro: you don't have TIME to worry about anything stupid, like the fact that everybody on your high school Shit List is getting married and you can't even maintain a relationship for a month.
'Til then, I just might have to buy myself a new cuddle toy, like the plushy Mononucleosis that I saw on GiantMicrobes.com. How sad would that be?
~Lisa Current Mood: lazy
|Monday, January 30th, 2006|
|Not Another Childfree Rant....
Dear Miss Manners,
I have been childfree since I was a child. I only possess maternal instincts toward cockatoos, squirrels and other cute fluffy animals. As for human babies? They remind me of the grubs you dig up in the garden.
Lately, I have been attacked by friends, family and even perfect strangers for my decision not to have children. "You'll change your mind!" they say. "You'll have SIX of 'em!" Sometimes, they even have the nerve to tell me that the right man will come along and change me into the nurturing, soft-bellied domestic woman that my vagina has predisposed me to be.
I've had enough! How do I tactfully convince them to respect my personal decision and keep their opinions to themselves?
Hears Dinner Bells, Not Biological Clocks,
Tactfully? Pff. I would've ripped them a new one if I were you....wait, they've probably already had episiotomies. Never mind.
Those dipshits are making unnecessary assumptions about your vagina. Perhaps, you could return the favor and say, "My, I hope your husband enjoys throwing hot dogs down a hallway!" or something to a similar effect.
Okay, so maybe that's a bit harsh, and maybe a soft-spoken "Please shut the fuck up mind your own goddamned business" with a curtsy and a tip of the hat would suffice. But here's bottom line: don't EVER feel guilty for standing up for your life's choices.
Psychiatrists have a term for their asinine behavior. It's called projection. They wish they could be, oh, say, sexy bellydancers with very high I.Q.'s, so they impose their regrets and their bullshit onto people who have what they don't. It's like coughing on the world because you're pissed that you have mono.
Keep being you, you sexy beeyatch.
Prefers Babies With a Nice Red Wine,
Ever since the dawn of time, childfree women have had to put up with shit. After all, it's human nature to be selfish and it's human nature to spawn. Those who opt out of this evolutionary design are different and maybe even threatening.
But seriously. No means no, people. It's just plain effin' rude to tell a perfect stranger that she will have TEH BA-AYYY-BEEEEZZZZZ someday, and it's EVEN RUDER to tell the stranger that she is wrong, when she insists that she knows herself and you need to mind your own business.
I was waiting to check out at TJMaxx this morning. This woman with a huge stroller was standing in front of me, MOANING at her baby. I shit you not, she was moaning at the kid, just as me and Diana used to moan at each other.
I just kind of looked away, for fear that I'd interrupted a creepy intimate moment. I must have looked uncomfortable, for the woman turned to me and said, "Someday, it'll be YOU making stupid noises at your baby!"
I just sort of looked her up and down and said, nonchalantly, "No, it won't."
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?" she asked.
"I am NEVER having kids," I said proudly. "I already have enough fun making stupid noises at my friends, anyway."
"YOU'LL CHANGE YOUR MIND," she said. "I didn't want kids when I was young, but NOT I AM BLESSED!"
("Blessed?" I felt like saying. "Try condemned.")
"I'll never change my mind," I said. "I've hated children since I was a kid, myself. I am never, ever having children."
THEN, the worst part is, the woman behind me, who is standing there with her teenage daughter, says: "YES YOU WILL. YOU'LL HAVE SIX OF 'EM!"
I gave her a look of death and said, "I will be a chiropractor someday. I actually have a legitimate GOAL in life."
She says, "But you can be a chiropractor AND a mom!!!!!!"
The woman ahead of me stopped moaning at her kid to say, "All young girls say they don't want kids, and then they have babies when they turn thirty!"
I was fuming at this point, and said, "But some people ACTUALLY MEAN IT when they say they don't want kids. Who are you to say that everybody who isn't like you doesn't know what they are talking about?"
Then, the woman behind me says, in a snotty voice, "Well, I guess it's good that people who hate kids don't have 'em."
"I agree," I said. "People should only have kids because they want them, not because it makes them feel special. Our planet is overpopulated because too many people make poor decisions."
It shut them right the hell up.
Okay, so maybe I came off as being a little bit of an uppity, hard-ass intellectual bastard. But, you know, it's pretty fucking rude to make such huge assumptions about the lives of people you don't know. I don't go around and make dumbass comments to people about their salaries or occupations or families. There's nothing cute about insisting that your way of life is the best for everybody, even if you say it with a smile on your face. I never go up to pregnant women and tell them to abort, why should gooey Christian-freak mothers tell me that I must be deluded if I don't want to turn my vagina into a clown car?
Also, it's just in poor taste. What if I'd just had a miscarriage or found out that I couldn't get pregnant?
It's funny how women oppress each other (and themselves) probably even more than men oppress us. It's like a lot of women make sure to keep the bullshit coming just because they know they would be terribly uncomfortable if patriarchy went the way of the Members Only jacket. So they make sure not to allow anybody to enjoy freedoms to which they've been denied. This was a phenomenon I noticed a lot of as a bellydancer. Some women would just go out of their way to make rude comments because they felt it would set them back in the right to knock me and my friends down a peg. Men would do this, too, but to a lesser extent. Usually, men gave me crap because they were scumbags or didn't know how to react, but not because they felt jealous or morally superior.
So much ranting, and I didn't even begin to cover my long, horrendous week of being sexually harassed by male customers!
On the brighter end of things, my back's been a whole lot better ever since I started stretching with a Swiss ball and befriended my iliopsoas. Maybe there's actually hope for dancing again...
~Lisa Current Mood: full
|Saturday, January 28th, 2006|
|When Pianos Try to Be Guitars
Life's been so sucky.
I hate having mono. Lower back pain sucks ass.
I miss wearing jeweled bras, dancing my ass off to crazy Greek music, having money thrown at me, and coming home smelling like nasty cigarette smoke, and all the while, not giving a crap about boys.
I'd give anything to have my old life back. Or better yet, to be a chiro geek AND a bellydancer all at once.
I really want to cry now, but I don't even have the energy.
~Lisa Current Mood: sad
|Wednesday, January 25th, 2006|
Every one of my entries lately has been about abortion, being childfree, hating kids or eating babies. For my redundancy, I apologize.
I just can't watch the news anymore. All of this Roe v. Wade madness is really beginning to scare me. And I normally tend to disregard politics. The fact that I may have to waive ownership and control of my body to the self-righteous, patriarchal Powers That Be makes me sick in every conceivable way. Having been through an eating disorder, a psychologically abusive relationship, and years of general objectification and self-loathing, I've been tethered to a deep, incisive and enduring pain toward my own body for as long as I can remember. For the first time in years, something's finally clicking, and the wounds are beginning to heal. To get this far, I've had to take several Women's Studies classes, read feminist theory until my head began to spin, become a bellydancer, cancel my subscriptions to Cosmo and Vogue, and tell myself that goddammit, I'm fucking phenomenal inside and out. Most of the population probably doesn't see the world through my eyes, but freedom is sweeter than sun-kissed sugar cane when you're experiencing it for the first time. I know how amazing it feels to have full control over how I heal my injuries, what doctors I want to see, how I nourish my body, what supplements I'll take, who I want to be physically intimate with, and whether I'll go for comfortable flats or stripper boots.
It's MY body, not theirs. I've worked hard to reclaim it and death will be the day I let "them" take it away.
Awhile back, I saw a really interesting website promoting the use of herbs and accupressure techniques to induce miscarriage. I didn't know much about this until I read Cunt
. This all could be valuable information someday, if we ever do find ourselves in a society where your only two options are back alleys and coathangers or being barefoot and pregnant.
It's all too much for me to think about, especially when I have plans that, in my opinion and for my life's design, are far greater than reproducing. Men aren't sperm banks; women aren't incubators. We're all people and we all have lives to live and decisions to make. How dare "they" assume that women are not to be trusted to make sound choices regarding their own bodies? We know our bodies best, after all.
Anyway. I've said my piece. Good night, all.
~Lisa Current Mood: restless
|Kickass Poem. (Don't be mislead by the title)
Right to Life
A woman is not a pear tree
thrusting her fruit into mindless fecundity
into the world. Even pear trees bear
heavily one year and rest and grow the next.
An orchard gone wild drops few warm rotting
fruit in the grass but the trees stretch
high and wiry gifting the birds forty
feet up among inch long thorns.
broken atavistically from the smooth wood.
A woman is not a basket you place
your buns in to keep them warm. Not a brood
hen you can slip duck eggs under.
Not the purse holding the coins of
your descendants till you spend them in wars.
Not a bank where your genes collect interest
and interesting mutations in the tainted
rain, anymore than you are.
You plant your corn and harvest
it to eat or sell. You put the lamb
in the pasture to fatten and haul it in
to butcher for chops. You slice
the mountain in two for a road and gouge
the high plains for coal and the waters
run muddy for miles and years.
Fish die but you do not call them yours
unless you wished to eat them.
Now you legislate mineral rights in a woman.
You lay claim to her pastures for grazing,
fields for growing babies likes iceburg
lettuce. You value children so dearly
that none ever go hungry, none weep
with no one to tend them when mothers
work, none lack fresh fruit,
none chew lead or cought to death and your
orphanages are empty. Every noon the best
restaurants serve poor children steaks.
At this moment at nine o'clock a partera
is performing a table top abortion on an
unwed mother in Texas who can't get Medicaid
any longer. In five days she will die
of tetanus and her little daughter will cry
and be taken away. Next door a husband
and wife are sticking pins in the son
they did not want. They will explain
for hours how wicked he is,
how he wants disipline.
We are all born of woman, in the rose
of the womb we suckled our mother's blood
and every baby born has a right to love
like a seedling to the sun. Every baby born
unloved, unwanted, is a bill that will come
due in twenty years with interest, an anger
that must find a target, a pain that will
beget pain. A decade downstream a child
screams, a woman falls, a synagogue is torched,
a firing squad summoned, a button
is pushed and the world burns.
I will choose what enters me, what becomes,
flesh of my flesh. Without choice, no politics,
no ethics lives. I am not your cornfield,
not your uranium mine, not your calf
for fattening, not your cow for milking.
You may not use me as your factory.
Priests and legislators do not hold
shares in my womb or my mind.
This is my body. If I give it to you
I want it back. My life
is a non-negotiable demand.
-Marge Piercy Current Mood: awake
|Adventures in Self-Palpation
I just palpated my psoas major!
Yes, bitches, that's right. Maybe I'll feel up on my hot iliacus, too, if I can successfully locate it.
Seriously, though, I don't think I'll sleep tonight, now that I'm discovering my own iliopsoas.
Lumbar lordosis, down! Proper pelvic alignment, onward!
~Lisa, whose mood froggy has perhaps been "touched" in the most literal sense of the word. Dammit, I need to find a man who will let me wow him with my palpatory skills.... Current Mood: touched