Kitties. Fried Chicken. Poo Friends.

I work in this building downtown. It’s shiny. From the outside it looks like a massive phallic mirror (I assume this was an attempt at looking modern. That, or the designers were narcissists). Inside, it holds a number of lavatories… and an even greater number of dysfunctional poo poo-ers. As a fellow blogger colleague of mine has referenced in a number of his blogs—there are some rather comical scenes to be observed in the restroom.

Firstly, I’ll preface by bringing up a subject we all struggle with: the work place poo. (stop blushing. It’s healthy and enjoyable to drop the kids off at the pool at least once a day.) So, in facing the potential dilemmas associated with the work place poo we all strategize. We scour for a hidden bathroom. We plan for low traffic hours. We dawdle around at the drinking fountain until we are certain the coast is clear. Well, friends, today I’ve encountered an entirely new strategy: The Poo Friend.

I’m overjoyed that the first Poo Friends I ran into just happened to be hillbilly ladies. I couldn’t have asked for a better first experience. So I enter the bathroom to find 2 hillbilly ladies pooing together and talking about how they both love to feed Church’s Fried Chicken to their cats. This is not a joke. I can only assume they work in the building and plan their poo breaks together.

I would hear one lady start to do some tooting, then the other lady would start fiddling with the toilet paper dispenser to cause audible distraction. They had definitely come to an understanding at some point--- this was a team effort. Maybe once at a previous work place poo experience--- before they were Poo Friends--- they both made some embarrassing sounds--- both walked out heads hung low--- made eye contact in the mirror--- and EUREKA! Poo Friends! I imagine they have some code. Maybe some toe tapping. Maybe when it’s poo time one friend walks by the other friend’s cubicle eating a chocolate candy bar. It’s hard to say.

I’m not sure when or where they decided it was a good idea to feed their kitties Church’s fried chicken (or name a pet “Whitey” for that matter, I think I smell a Klan revival over the pungent scent of poo)…

You know how they say that 90% (or whatever) of important business deals are made on the golf course? Well, 95% of hillbilly lady’s pet care decisions are made on the 2nd floor shitter.

A day at the zoo.

Gerald: "This zoo is amazing. They've procured an owl, an elephant, a lion AND a turtle. Truly remarkable."


Rebecca: "Bullocks! The lion has me cornered. I'm toast."
Bill: "Quick, Rebecca, throw your iphone to Gerald so it doesn't get eaten along with your body!"

My new toy.

The battlefield.







A Bad Case of the Mondays


"He is threatening to jump because they are taking away our water coolers and the status of the implementation of the new process has gone to poo!"


Bill: "Quick! Someone call security!"

Rebecca:"I'm trying to call the security office, but the chick who answers the phone said to call back later because she is busy eating popcicles and blogging."

Playing hookie.

It's a tempting thing, playing hookie. I love the ghosttown feeling of streets and businesses mid "workday", it's precisely like the feeling of a college campus over Christmas or spring break. It's nice. People seem happier to see you-- to see other signs of life. Like there is some hidden understanding as to why neither person is at work. As though you make eye contact and get this immediate rush of common thoughts... a disdain for uncomfortable business clothes, a passion for solo matinee flicks. More up for a chat or a free early afternoon beer. Back in my server days I spent loads of time wandering around Broadripple during the day or shuffling aimlessly around Target, Value World, Luna, etc... and I drank way to much coffee. As though the coffee would somehow propell me into actually trying to do something with my life. My internal dialogue: "COFFEE, coffee, more coffee, after this cup maybe I'll feel awake enough to get on monster.com and find a new job! Drink it black, it will travel to your brain faster..." Instead I would just get really hyper and clean my apartment or go running or have a solo dance party. This is another bonus to being home alone all day: dance parties. I do love a good dance party.

Today should've been a dance party day. I feel the urge to boogie.

Total eclipse of the heart.

Funny song... I had hoped it would come on the radio last night as I drove home sans moonlight-- due to the lunar eclipse. A solar eclipse would be way more apocolyptic and awesome. Apparently this eclipse has had a dramatic effect on my horoscope-- it seems the moon is drawing on my center of creativity and desire to organize my life?? You will notice that after reading each horoscope for each sign that they essentially say the exact same thing--- just different placement and usage of words/phrases such as; "cosmic alignment" and "inner tigress".

I remember being a part of my middle school newspaper and adamantly opposing a proposal from creepy wickka chick to create a horoscope section. This had me totally fired up-- I stood and stated something along the lines of "my MOMMY and that guy from the 700 Club says that horoscopes are the devil's work and that stuff is a bunch of fooey." VETO. In your face black dog collar girl. You can't get away with that kind of nonsense in God-fearing-drive-your-tractor-to-school-day-havin-country. booyah. Score 1 for Jesus.

It's ironic because it is this sort of "better than thou" attitude that drives many away from Christianity, from organized religion. Sometimes it takes a bit of travel and reading-- maybe hop the pond or head to the big city-- to open your eyes to the closeminded hypocrisy in which many were raised. The dogma and "tisk tisking"... not the best way to show love.

I guess I've decided it's best to sarcastically degrade things on the internet... instead of literally pointing my finger in someones face. dunno. Maybe I should refer to my horoscope for guidance on this matter.

mind the gap

Please mind the very tiny gap between 2 blogs posted today... I just found a stack of old notes and doodles on my desk and found a few things inspirational. Both simple... but both useful for self reflection.

A proud man is always looking down on things and people; and of course, as long as you are looking down, you cannot see something that is above you. (C.S. Lewis--- Mere Chrisitianity snippet)

Love= wanting what's best for the other person. Lust= wanting what's best for yourself.

The love vs. lust thing may sound trite--- but I think the L-bomb gets tossed around a bit casually from time to time. Words can seem to fall from our mouths like clothes from our bodies at the end of a long day. Words are all too powerful. Always a struggle to mean what you say and say what you mean.

Peace.

Bold Statements.

Brace yourself. I'm about to make 2 bold statements. Maybe I'm big on making bold statements and rarely following through... but these 2 statements, these 2 are life or death.

Statement 1: I will not spend next winter in Indiana.

Statement 2: I will use my passport again before it expires in 2010.

(Maybe you cannot tell, but the above statements are in bold font. Bold font means no bullshit. It's common knowledge that bold font is meant to be taken seriously.)

That is all.

more fun with words.

it's pretending you aren't what you are... but you is.
it's tripping when you are walking past judgemental "cool" folk.
it's spilling a red slushie all over your crotch.
it's looking at the word crotch and wondering where it came from.
it's the way my health teacher pronounced "puberty".
it's picking food out of your teeth with a reconfigured paper clip.
it's getting busted picking a wedgie.
it's having a dad who thought atomic wedgies were hillarious.
it's an uninvited staring contest with a stranger.

it's bitting someone when they needed a kiss.

it's being told "you're the kinda girl that made cavemen draw on walls". (that's a good line for all you young bachelors out there). That was said to me long ago, and I still remember it.

it's the little stuff that keeps things comical, makes life tolerable.

I took a mini-road trip this weekend. Sometimes there isn't anything better than driving alone with some good tunes and coffee. I love the crap they sell in truck stops. Those weird little spoons. T-shirts labled INDIANA in front of a picturesque mountian scene. Then there is the truck stop/adult superstore combo. So practical. Every road trip needs a blow up doll and fuzzy handcuffs.

It’s nice to reminisce about good old times… it’s good to tell funny stories—stories that are fresh and new to old friends who you don’t see too often. Everyone has their stories—their good stories that make people laugh each time… stories that morph each time they’re told with artistic license.

It’s nice to miss and be missed sometimes. I’ll tell you something I realized I don’t miss: Goldschlagger (sp?). Hadn’t missed that a bit. Barfaroni.

Friday.

Once upon a time a girl met this guy. Then the guy went all crazy and made the girl cry. Then with those tears, she pushed and she pulled. She stopped going out until her life became dull. Then she remembered booze and how much fun it can be... so she drank and she drank, and she peed and she peed.

More drunk dial calls, therapeutic shopping in malls--- until, until, she was broke as balls. She was broke as balls.

And then a bright light, Friday is here! Friday means payday, good times and good cheer. Money means happiness, isn't that true? It makes everything so pretty and shiny and new. It pays for things that love just can't buy, like binge eating, accessories and shots on the fly.

Gotta spend money to make money, isn't that right? $40,000 in college to snag a job which steals your life. It makes perfect sense. "THEY" say it's true. They've fooled us and them. They've fooled me and you.

The end. I must go spend my money now.

Valentines Day.

So. Valentines Day. The day for people who forget to tell their lover they love them EVERY other day of the year--- and, in some attempt at redemption, buy their lover carnations from a van on the side of the interstate and a corny card. Awesome holiday.

My Valentines day usually includes a bit of drinking... I'm lucky that I am a female and therefore am not responsible for buying gifts or making silly arrangements on this "big" day. I'm not one to buy into the typical male/female roles (nor do I buy into these consumer/Hallmark driven holidays) ... unless these stereotypical roles work to my advantage. Hehehe. We are a conniving lot, we ladies. We know when to use our sexuality to our advantage, when to file complaint that we are being taken advantage of based on our sexuality... I see why so many men claim they "can't figure us out". I'd like to believe I'm different from the typical gal, but lately I'm not so sure.

Today my boss treated himself to an entire bag of Reeses peanut butter cups. When I say bag, I mean he scarfed a bag the size of those you buy to hand out to an entire neighborhood full of kids. Polished it in under 15 minutes. It was like watching a trainwreck, but I couldn't look away out of sheer astonishment. He should be snoring within the hour. Happy Valentines day Phil.

Is it seriously this cold.

Monday Feb. 11...

I mean, seriously. You know when you step outside and it is so cold that you immediately feel the snot in your nose freezing? Ya, well, I'm fed up with it. Completely sick of walking into a building with tears streaming down my face gasping for air. Why don't I live in California? Or Capri? Or maybe the cold would be tolerable if I had something nice to look at... maybe snow capped mountains? Penguins and polar bears? Throw me a bone here. Somebody. Please. My nips can only stay hard for so long before they become exhausted and fall off.



How come the weekend can't be 5 days and the week 2 days? That would be way more awesome.



I went to the Eiteljorg museum yesterday (for those of you who aren't familiar, the museum focuses on Western American and American Indian art). The building is architecturally stunning. Ansel Adams was my main draw for visiting the museum, though I found much of the other photography more interesting. Don't get me wrong, Adam's photos were beautiful- he is legendary- but they were all much smaller than I imagined.

I found my mind stirred by much of the other work. The photos which depicted the "Americanizing" of American Indian people. The destruction our society has brought to the earth. I found myself reminded of America's selfish greedy nature. Of our desire to conquer, divide and steal. I'm reminded that sometimes we "Americans" are a bunch of assholes. I feel like sometimes american doesn't deserve to be capitalized. And then, I go to the gas station and I get really pissed.

I also thought a bundle about inspiriation. About where it comes from... about whether creativity exhists inately in all humans or whether it is learned or passed from person to person. Think about this-- what led cavemen to draw on walls or native people to make jewlery or paint their skin? Were they instinctively inspired by nature-- were they attempting to express themselves, or were they just doing what the guy before them did? It's incomprehensible for me to think about the first time a person on earth sang or decided to paint a picture. The very first song! How did they know to do it? Was that first song one of sadness or praise? Why did others think the sound was beautiful? Why does music and art still grip so many in such a profound way?


I'm starting to spin out... yes, I know... don't worry I'm not sitting here stroking magical crystals or anything as I think about these things. But, really, humans are so much more alike than they are different. We all feel love and sadness-- we all laugh and cry and sing in the same way. Beauty is beauty is beauty. Though our opinions of what is beautiful may vary, we all see it in the world. Each and every human.

Writing about writing about words.

Isn't it strange the way we over analyze things. In school a professor would ask me to write about a piece of writing which was a review of a piece of writing ... which the professor would review and grade using words. Essentially the prof would write about my writing which was written about a piece of writing about writing.

Silly, right... we do this often in life.

I actually spent some time yesterday writing events down in my calendar book that had already happened. Dumb stuff, stuff I had already done, like- "Yoga class 5:30" or "Gyno appointment 12:00". Oh, and this is embarrasing, I wrote down all the presidential primaries-- "Super Tuesday" and such, after they had already happened...Backwards, yes... I'm convinced I wrote these things down so that when I happened to have my calendar out around someone they would think I had been busy and attentive. They might think I was organized. A functional member of society. Most people who know me would see right through my ploy. Same with the To-do lists. I find them crumpled in jacket pockets... torn to bits in the washing machine.

I tell you what.

My Grandma always said that. She also used the expression "You're being windy"... which meant that I was being fecicious or silly. One of a kind, that lady. My Grandma was the shiznit, as the young kids would say. She loved chocolate and playing records and laughing and scratching backs. She had big boobs that she used to catch the spaghetti noodles that fell out of her mouth as she ate. Her shelf.

She caught me smoking a cig on my balcony when I was 16. I locked the bathroom door and took a shower for 45 minutes trying to avoid the talk she intended to give me. The talk where she took the turban from her head.. the turban that covered the chemo induced baldness. The chemo that was battling the lung cancer. The lung cancer that was friends with the cigs. The cigs which stole all her oxygen. The oxygen which God decided we need to call people windy and scratch their backs.

Say no to cigs kids.

Sanity in Music

Oh boy. It's back. That feeling in my body. It's that same feeling I get when I'm driving to the airport. The feeling in your gut that you get when you see those signs for the airport exit... when you know you are about to say good bye to someone you really love. Really love. And you know all to well what it's like to miss the person you are about to say goodbye to. It's a mix between nausea and butterflies and mania.

Where am I going?

I titled this sanity in music, but lately it feels like music might nudge over into the insane category. I was driving. I was listening. My mind racing. Too many images. Too much. I almost went there. Not there as in I was suicidal or something. There as in that sublayer of my brain. The part I only get glimpses of when I remember my dreams. The part I feel like I'm on the verge of tapping into. The part that holds my creativity and my destiny and my ticket out of Indiana. The part that is COMPLETELY out of control.

It's an underground well of confidence and origional thought. It wants to explode from me like Old Faithful. It needs some yoga.

More old journals... same fresh feelings...

Chicago. I actually started writing this mess nearly 2 months ago. Write a novel in November. I never really planned on a novel. I expected a blog-ish journaly mess… and that is what I have. WHoo hoo. Well, now it’s December 31st and I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. I’ve just returned from Chicago and a visit with my beautiful soul mate friends Kristin and Kim. I ache to live near them. Spending time with them is beyond wonderful. It makes me realize the depth of loneliness and why some people choose to spend so much time secluded. I think that maybe for some people it is harder to see treasured people and say goodbye again than it is just to avoid seeing them all together. I get it. I think that is part of depression. As I mope about for the next few days I will force myself to remember how much I’m loved and how much my love means to those lovely beings.

I love Chicago. I had this movie moment as I hugged my beloved friends goodbye—massive wet snowflakes floating in the air—crying like a loon. There was so much noise in the street but the snow and tears made it feel silent. I buzzed through the streets- crying in my cab- a teary blur of snow, lights and skyscrapers. Then I sat. Well really I stood on the sidewalk waiting for my bus. Bus stops and airports are no place for a sad soul. Watching all those couples reuniting, sharing their trip snacks and magazines… saying goodbyes. Families holding hands. Men and women walking closely to keep warm… the man with his hand on the woman’s lower back to guide her along. Keep her safe.

I had a panic attack on that sidewalk.


I’m back to biting my nails. I had stopped long enough to grow them out and have womanly looking hands. But, now I feel like a girl and in accordance with this feeling, my hands shall resemble the hands of someone more pre-pubescent.

Can you feel the love?

So, I've been toiling with some quandries-- some trivial little questions... you know, about the meaning of life and love and the existence of God. Nothing big.

As I mentioned in a previous blog, I'm wondering where all my sparkly optimism has gone... wondering when I became such a cynic.

My Mother, lil' Sissy and I went to see the theatrical production of Doubt last weekend. ( Side note, when my father was asked if he would like to accompany us he stated "I doubt it." Funny guy, my dad.)

The general premise- for those of you who aren't familiar with it: an incredibly strict and old fashioned nun suspects a likeable forward thinking priest of having an inappropriate relationship with a young African American boy. There are a variety of factors to influence the situation-- the young boy is allegedly gay-- and, honestly, what priest ISN'T diddling young boys these days.

The play was purposely left open ended-- you are left coming to your own conclusions on the priest's guilt... I immediatley decided this priest was DEFINITELY (without a doubt) playing secret touching games with the kid, while my mother (the saint that she is) claimed he was innocent.

Okay, so, do I see the bad before the good? Has life dealt me enough bad hands that I automatically assume the worst in everyone? And then I realized--- I enter a relationship with a person under the assumption that this person will screw me over. He will screw me hard. When his phone rings it is DEFINITELY his ex girlfriend... who is probably much prettier and more interesting than I... I may not bring it up until I've had 6 vodka tonics, but I KNOW this is true. There is no doubt in my mind.

But, (and this is the kicker) I've realized that doubt IS in my mind. It's all that's in my mind. I doubt myself. I doubt my worth. I doubt I'm enough to keep someone happy and faithful. I doubt I am any good at writing.

I want to have faith. I want to have faith in myself and in love and in a higher power. I want to believe in love-- that kind of love that you read about..... The love where you and another human become one living thing... when your other half dies you follow them into the dark. Baby makin kind of love. I want to believe in that kind of love just like I want to believe that there is a heavenly being that wipes away all of the bad shit I've done and let's me have wings when I die. The problem is that you can't really see love or see God. You can certainly feel it. People express love- people sing and hump like rabbits showing each other how much love they have.

I'm an American. If I can't touch it, own it, buy it... welp it ain't mine. It ain't real.

God exhists in nature. When you stand in a forest or with your feet in the ocean, or in some indescribably beautiful Cathedral in Italy... you can feel God. Maybe it's God, maybe it's Buddha or Krishna or L. Ron Hubbard. It's something. Something cosmic. Maybe it's the collective remnant energy of all the people who have loved that spot for thousands of years.. All the people who stood before that altar or on that giant rock on the beach and felt overwhelming love for what they saw.

This wasn't an accident. It's all too beautiful.

SO, really, I think what I'm saying is that God is love. Love is God. No doubt.