Pound Cake

The Most Southern Place I Know

2010-10-15T11:33:00.000-07:00

A left, a right, another left, a slow bounce over a pair of railroad tracks and a careful turn into a parking lot gets me to Wright’s Restaurant on 26^th Avenue, a little capsule of Southern essence 1.6 miles from my apartment in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. I’m a newcomer, a transplant from the West, and I have lived here for just one month, which isn’t nearly enough time to explore the South given the merciless heat. Before moving here, I certainly had a hearsay-and-media-driven idea of the American South. My idea was romantic: All buildings would either be colossal Greek revival or decrepit little shanties, lush greenery would be growing at every street corner and in every driveway, large folks dressed in white would be on their patios drinking mint juleps uttering racist comments and calling each other “y’all” while Scarlett O’Hara or maybe Foghorn Leghorn hollered from the television inside. A visit to Wright’s squashed all that. Well, almost all.

Wright’s is a strip mall diner. There are no dramatic columns or any elaborate design elements; just a brick rectangle prism with doors on the façade, facing a massive treeless parking lot. The doors expose a post office, a grocery store, and, of course, Wright’s. Across the street, a custom furniture store displays sofas wrapped in plastic under a tent outside. Judging by the exterior, this place could be found anywhere: Las Vegas, Springfield, perhaps Toronto, but once the door to Wright’s swings open, the place becomes the most Southern place I have ever known. Sometimes “place” isn’t contained within some politically-bounded solid line on a map. Sometimes it’s through a door in a strip mall.

The first meal I had at Wright’s was a Saturday morning breakfast and it holds my first memory of being in the South. It was the list: bacon, sausage, bologna, streak of lean, red hots. I had never seen bologna on a breakfast menu and I had never, ever heard “streak of lean” or “red hots.” I wanted a Southern breakfast, but wasn’t brave enough for the meat of indeterminable source. I went with the grits, the smooth, sticky whitish blob that didn’t taste like much of anything until I stirred everything on my plate together and gave the grits a purpose. The waitresses (they still call themselves “waitresses” here) strangely looked like relatives of mine: The plump and sturdy dark-haired woman with speed and authority seemed very much like my mother and the shuffling blond was definitely my aunt.

Water dripped from the ceiling and onto the floor in the walkway between the first and second booths, which alarmed me a bit (“It’s just condensation, it does that”). Pale yellow coated the walls and the only décor was the blend of people sitting at the tables and the counter. The clanging utensils and mix of conversations made such a noise that it drowned out the child two booths over banging his spoon on his highchair.

Today was my second visit to Wright’s. The parking lot had that musty smell of diesel on asphalt, which somehow ended up smelling more like dogshit on Velveeta. Nothing at all like the pine forest-after-rain smell I had always imagined. I was meeting a friend, so I waited outside. It was only 10:30; the temperature hadn’t had a chance to get up to 425˚F yet. The humidity, however, had already formed a layer of slick on my forehead and upper lip.

“For a white woman, you pretty.” A compliment thrown in my direction, I suppose, from the man sitting on the bench near the door to Wright’s. I held back a response that would have included a sarcastic review of how physically hideous my race is, but thank goodness someone with average looks like myself can attain a level of loveliness. I held back for I am not in Nevada anymore. I simply said “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment since I am white” and I sat next to him on the bench. I opted for conversation instead of confrontation: “My friend tells me this place has the best burgers in town.”

He took a slow, seeping drag off his cigarette, shifted his weight towards me—which showed off his bony knees through his grey work pants—and said, “No they don’t.” I nervously scratched the bug bites I’ve collected this month. “They don’t? Well then, who does?”

“My son” he said. “He got a place down 69 called Rachel’s. They name it after his daughter. I tell you, have a burger there one time…” He closed his eyes and sucked in his lips “…and you’ll go there all the time. “ Then he confirmed himself with the word “yes,” but drew out the‘s’ at the end like he was a hissing snake. The South is sitting on a bench outside of Wright’s.

Inside, my friend and I slid into a booth and the waitress—the version of my mom—came over to us and said, “What can I get y’all?”

Apps.

2010-02-13T11:07:00.000-08:00

Writing my "Statement of Purpose" for grad school. I am supposed to include strength(s) and weakness(es).

Weakness?

Considering my love of Burt, ca. 1972, I'm writing down

Chest hair.

Still works.

2009-09-08T17:32:00.000-07:00

Is it so wrong? I'm only human!

Over the summer, I had a bad case of bronchitis which led to losing my sense of smell entirely. Most of the sense has returned and I went to a follow-up appointment today. Plus, I thought I was growing a sty. Little did I know, the "lovely" time I would have.

The doctor comes in and starts chatting with me about things. As he was writing, I couldn't help but stare at his petite feet in suede lace-ups. Then I looked at his face and it held such a prominent nose. Nothing of the attraction sort, just observations. I don't know that I've ever seen a man with dainty feet and a brick-breaker of a schnoz. After a bit, he directed me to sit up on the bed for a look around, you know, the eyes-ears-heart sort of thing. He was asking me about how I felt about going back to school, blablabla, and doing a fine job of concerned, interested, bedside manner. Then he looked at my chart for more info. That's when the tone completely changed.

About 8 years ago, I had half my thyroid removed. Along with a nasty little malignant vascular tumor. Apparently, he needed to check that.

He slid his sterile office temperature hands under my hair and gently wrapped them around my neck. My neck happens to be a spot that, if handled correctly, renders me defenseless. I could feel my air vibrate at the back of my throat as I attempted to restrict the speed. My breath was quickening, I could feel my chest heaving. I'm sure my pupils were dilating as he thumbed his way across the front of my neck. Then he stood behind me, thumbs at the base of my skull, fingertips softly moving over my clavicle. Oh lord! I'm sure he could feel my jugular swelling with hot, fast blood. I could feel the heat moving down from my throat, through my chest, into my organs. Just as it was about to move further south, and just before I felt a whimper come out, he let go.

Yes, I was turned on by princess-toed, soft-handed, average man. So what.

I made the snacks, b@#%hes!!!

2008-11-06T19:59:00.000-08:00

All this and I still can't land a husband!!! Um, what?

2008-09-15T10:57:00.000-07:00

I haven’t felt much like dicking around with this blog thing lately, but I was purging some files and came across a blog I wrote, on another site, awhile back. It was about seeing a band (one of my favorites) from Denver that scheduled a show in San Francisco. I love strange, live music in small clubs. Here it is:

Leading With My Shoulder

The place is freaking crowded. I need to get to get to the bar but people are clustering all the way. The greasy-haired cool guys leaning against the cigarette machine with their big feet in the walkway, the pretty girls having a conversation but never looking at eachother. So I lead with my shoulder. I wave my 20 and ah, a drink is in my hand.  

The band is about to start. Not THE band, but the band before the band before THE band. San Francisco. At home it’s 25 degrees, but here - here I am in a tanktop. It’s a good night, even if it does smell like tires in here.

The first band has me for a while. I like the idea of an accordion as part of the four, but they’re a bit mopey. I’m going to go make eye-contact back at the bar. Saw a few handsome fellas earlier. Lead with my shoulder.  Second band up. The guitarist is wild. He’s playing a red Epiphone with a bow. Alright, kudos to you then. Do something wacky, but he does have soul. I think about my violin lessons and note to myself to take them up again.  

I’m not leaving the front. The band is setting up. I like that I don’t see a bunch of pretend roadies setting up their gear for them...Rock and Roll, man. Carry that f-ing amp! That’s what I’d do. Maybe.  

The band, yes THE band.

I’m glad I drove this far to see them. They’re going to haunt me like bearded phantoms for a while. I will talk about how great the show was to everyone. I will replay the 1st song of the 1st set through my head over and over. Show’s over. All I can do is lead with my shoulder and wonder why I am not a rock star.

  (France and

I at the Munly and the Lee Lewis Harlots show at the Hemlock 11/09/06)

2008-09-13T22:18:00.000-07:00

Nadji and I...heading to the KISS concert in Lake Tahoe. Oh my god, I can't believe I have lived this full of a life without ever seeing KISS. I was never much a KISS Army kindof gal, but 'Strutter' happens to be on my life soundtrack. Oh, and Love Gun.

Nadji and I were having a very serious conversation. Not about McCain or Obama, Pakistan or Afghanistan, or the impacts of globalization on the LDCs. We were concerned, that day, with WHAT TO WEAR, as a couple 30-somethings should. When she dropped it on me: We're painting our faces for the concert.

What?!?!

It took very little nudging, actually. I think I heard myself say, "that's a great idea" before actually considering whether it was or not. We made a plan. I'd get Detroit Rock City as my next home-delivered DVD and go over to her house to practice painting stars or kitties.

Here it is. My girly-version of 'the Starchild.' And yes, the concert turned out to be one of the best productions, ever. Say what you want about the arrogant assholes...they're worth it.

Lessons

2008-07-02T16:56:00.000-07:00

Wednesday mornings, I work for a farmer out of Northern California, selling fruit. Today was an especially fine day. I learned a couple extra things:

1. Blenheim apricots: The way to pick them is to go for the ugliest ones. This idea can have so many other applications, but it is interesting when trying to sell the damn things. We are so convinced that the best must be perfect-looking (I'll keep it to fruit before I start waxing philosphic on life!), but really, the ones that are pushed aside are the most satisfying.

2. The difference between the old folks, the children, and the rest of us in-between: First, when the children, the ones where their eyes can just barely be seen over the table while they are up on tippie-toes, are standing in front of these big bins of fresh fruit, they are amazing. Their eyes are big, nearly glazed, and they seem as though this is the first time they've ever seen anything like this. They are silent, but their expressions seem to be squealing. When a mommy gives them one of their very own peaches, or cherries, or apricots, they eat it like it was birthday cake.

Secondly, the old folks. I hear the stories about how the stuff in the store isn't nearly as good and how they were raised with apricot trees and would pick them right off the tree themselves. But today was different. Today an old man came to the table. The farmer, who runs the fruit stand, took a piece of fruit, tore it in half and gave a piece to the man. After one bite, he lowered his head and said "I feel like I'm back in the 50s."

In that moment I cherished him. The nostalgia he was experiencing was overwhelming and I wanted a piece of that. I told him we aren't just a fruit stand, we are a time machine. We talked for a few more minutes - about life, and getting through it by laughing.

A bit later an old woman came up. Didn't tell the usual story I've heard, instead she leaned in (didn't have to lean too far, she was hankered down from osteoporosis) and gave the peaches a big sniff. She kept her eyes close and a slight smile appeared on her face. I wish I knew what she was thinking exactly. She opened her eyes, looked at me for a quick second, still holding that smile and said, "I'll take a pound."

I could tell she was not going to rush through any of it. She was going to hold each piece in her hand, roll it around gently to see every color and dent, smell it, and savor each and every bite.

Lastly, the in-betweeners: overall, not much to say. I told my co-fruit-seller-guy that I noticed how the old and the very young are most affected by the farmer's markets and the in-betweens don't have the same reaction. The in-betweens hurry through it, with a few conversations going on with a few people. The co-seller-guy said "maybe they are too busy living too much life." Well-put. Maybe they have too many worries and distractions that they've lost the glazed-eyes of childhood and haven't quite reached the point where a little nostalgia gives a quiet grin.

I need to remember this. I'm one of those in-betweeners and I want to be glazed and I want a simple smile to easily appear and I DON'T want to get good at multi-tasking. But I wonder, 50 years from now, will there be something that makes me say "oh, that takes me to the 80s" and dear god, what will it be.

Just keep 'em comin'

2008-06-10T19:23:00.000-07:00

So I was doing the usual, a little internet dirty talk with a friend while on a break at work. Then something funny happened:

First let me explain something. The office I work in had a huge water leak that caused a flood about 1.5 years ago. It got nicely patched up and everybody went back to work as usual. A couple months ago, there was a leak again. One of the 'Buildings and Grounds' fellas came to investigate, to see if the leak had caused mold. Now, on with the rest of my story.

So there I was, a little hot from the messages I was sending/receiving. I internetally implied that I was about to have my way with myself and was feeling a little rambunctious. (You should probably know that I had been moved into a different office since the walls in the back, by my usual office, were wet.) Suddenly, I heard a man's voice in the reception area and he was asking the lady at the desk if anyone was "in there" - meaning the office I was sitting in. Since she is not used to me being in there, she said "nah, go on in."

I'm sure there's no need to explain why he should NOT have just gone on in, but when he did, he was surprised to see me sitting there (evidence concealed, haha!) and could only utter:

"I'm just looking for dampness."

Are you kidding me?!?!?! If he only knew, there was good chance of him finding it!

Just might be a true story.

Father's Day

2008-05-26T11:18:00.000-07:00

It's been a strange weekend. Lots of rain and my aunt died Friday, this makes the third relative since August to die. So yes, another funeral.

I was out and about, and the displays of 'Father's Day' gifts and cards got the best of me. I had a moment, in that bright box-store, right there in the aisle next to the cards. For the first time, I have no one to give a father's day card, or phone call, to. The last time I spoke to my father was 2 years ago, Father's day.

But we've got nothing, him and I.

Grandfathers? Lost both of them within 6 months. Dead. That was a real hard-hitter. Father's Day, what a crock! I'll be heading to Northern California tomorrow. I'll see my uncle, the one who just lost his wife to cancer and his father to a ranch accident, who may need to be carried out of the bar...

Oh so angry

2008-05-25T19:18:00.000-07:00

You ever seen a crotch that was so crazy looking, it just seemed angry?

The semester ended, so I went with three friends to a 'clothing optional' hot springs for the weekend. It's a bit calm for my tastes, but what harm could a retreat weekend do? I mean, I have been rather on edge lately.

So the Saturday after finals week, the 4 of us gathered up our things for the weekend and headed out. The nudist of the group, I'll call her 'flowerhead,' was driving. Then there was the youngster, the little stoner -chick, she'll be 'burnblossom' and the only guy and he is, well, I'll call him 'Broadway gay.' And me.

The place is B-and-B style with a few small rooms, but it also has a campground. There is a communal kitchen, so you bring your own stuff and cook. I liked that plan. We take the hike, in the hot-ass heat to the springs and head inside the shower room. Apparently you are supposed to wash all oils off your body before getting in, but it was at this moment I forgot it was clothing optional. In the shower area were a bunch of naked men. I thought, for a moment, I was in the wrong place. Nope, right place - get in the shower.

Flowerhead immediately took all her clothes off. Burnblossom was in a bikini and kept it that way. Broadway headed to one side, obviously disturbed. I maintained my modesty - kept my dress on.

Out by the hot springs, which actually looked like an in-ground swimming pool you'd find in any backyard, Broadway and I struggled to share a belt-strap of shade. The others soaked in all that nasty heat. I nearly vomited. We all decided it was time to head back to the lodge. As we started hiking, we saw a bus drive by and we thought - we hoped - it was lost. This place accommodates 15 people comfortably; no way will this be good if a busload of folks is dropped off.

As luck would have it, it's a busload of hippies fresh from a hippie festival. Once each year, they have this festival and when it is over, the staff of the festival descends upon this little lodge and takes fucking over. Thank god Broadway brought some wine.

Next day: the hippies have given the lodge a fine (as in not fine) odor. And they have taken over the kitchen, which means we had a 4-hour wait to cook our breakfast. Oh well, we got it done, Flowerhead whipped out an awesome meal, and headed to the springs again.

It's the same story: Flowerhead is completely, birthday-suit-naked. Burnblossom is bikinied, lying in the sun. Broadway Gay and I are struggling for shade, fully-clothed. Then HE walks by:

He was with the group from the bus, rather attractive fellow, about 5'9" with pale skin and mosquito bites. He had a strong, somewhat stocky-like build and the reddest hair down there I've ever seen. The hair on his head is blonde, so the contrast was interesting in the least. He settled in about 10 feet from us. I looked over and he was lying on his back, eyes closed, fire-red flames of long hair standing straight up from his crotch. I swear, I was ready to crawl into the shade his cock-wig was making! It seemed so cooling, yet so hot at the same time. It seriously looked like he had caught his dingdong on fire.

Broadway Gay leaned over to me and whispered, "It looks so, so…angry."

Ass

2008-03-10T15:18:00.000-07:00

To the boy in my history class, the one who clears his throat every 34 seconds:

Get a fucking drink of water already! Jesus!

How many ways can you say "single?"

2008-03-03T19:01:00.000-08:00

I have managed to become screamin' single. Yes, that's different from my prior state of singleness. See, here's what happened...

I had the most beautiful, perfect bed. It was firm, big, and I rolled myself all over it. There was wrought iron head and footboards that were perfect for the occasional tie-up. Or tie-down, whatever. The pillows were billowy and I wanted to always stay there - forever and ever - until one day...

I moved back in with my mom so I could go back to school. We have become more like roommates rather than a 30-something living with her parents. The problem is the space I get to live in is quite small. The den is stacked with my crap and my bedroom is a bit on the tiny side. So I made the decision to get rid of my bed and get a gasp! smaller one. Mom's bed is far too old so I said she could have mine (I feel a tear cracking out right now), it's better for her back.

I moved her bed out of her room, and then moved mine in. Mine is so dense and heavy, I needed her help. However, I forgot my little bag of, ahem, tricks were under the bed. Once the boxspring was up a huge "uh-oh!" crashed out silently. I tried to nonchalantly pick up the bag, pretending it was nothing, really. But, oh me, I picked up the wrong end! But I was saved from the embarrassment of my mother seeing my pink glittery dildo because it is contained within a medicine bag, which is inside a shoe box, which is inside the bag. The shoe box fell out but I was able to pounce on it and keep the lid on. "Ha-ha!" I yelled, to myself, in my head, because I made quite the save. As I shoved it in the closet, still as calm as can be, I noticed a square purple thing on the floor where the bag had just been. A condom. An unused condom snuggly contained in loud, purple packaging. Fuck. So I tried to hide it by stepping on it. So sure she had not seen it, and shuffled it away, ninja-style. I think I am cooler than I really am. How could she not notice all that nonsense? Me: not cool, dumb-ass.

Now I am in a bed that fits ONE. Hi single. I used to flop about in my other one, and now I rest like I'm in a coffin. I had to push it against the wall so I had only one side to fall out of. But now I bang my arm on the wall. Dear god. My first night in my bed-for-one, something on the floor caught my eye: A clear, plastic travel-size of lube. Please, please make it STOP!!!

White Bread and Optimism

2008-02-22T13:50:00.000-08:00

Oh, I must express. I am trying to approach with positivity, but I can't help but be annoyed. There was a presentation of the documentary of "Chisholm '72, Unbought and Unbossed" at our campus. I mean, here's the story of a woman who ran a campaign for the Presidency of the United States. As if being a woman wasn't a big strike against her at that time, she was BLACK!!! Anyway, NO ONE SHOWED UP.

I tried to think that maybe the planning was off. It was at 6pm, on a Wednesday. Perhaps that is too much to ask for. But really, I can't help but be dismayed at the people who live here. Are we that isolated from the struggles of that 'big, scary world out there?' Is there not one female student who appreciates the women in our history that paved the way for us to have rights and to be able to do little things like, I don't know, RUN FOR PRESIDENT!?!?!? Is there not one student who is interested in the American history with regards to civil rights?!?!?! Geez, where do I live?

TMI I'm sure

2008-02-01T13:49:00.000-08:00

Although I have had a few misadventures (is that really a word?) when I have gone to get a-waxin'. Like the one time the petite el salvadorean lady forgot to lower the bed down and I fell off of it, onto her. Nothing like getting slammed into a cabinet by a puffy, half-naked, pasty white girl! Nonetheless...

I just visited the lady who has been handling Julie and Alejandro for 1.5 yrs now (Don't know Julie or Alejandro? Read the Jan 13th blog). Apparently, she is quite comfy with my business, because she doesn't make me hold anything to the side or do cute, discreet poses. She takes care of it. She wipes me down like I'm a pee-pee-poopy baby and moves things where they need to go. She's also a bit cruel, quite the ripper-outer, but she's fast. A sturdy, older, blonde lady with a job to do. The only issue: I have to do the whole "dead puppies, dead puppies" thing. Staring at the ceiling, my body finds it very easy to react to fingers in the hoo-hah and hot wax. Geez. What a forgiving lady. I just wish she had an accent.

Update: I ate the yam and it was gross. I still think I got confused with Forrest Gump. I had my dream analyzed...it was work-related. If you care. Yawn.

Fur Locker

2008-01-23T13:44:00.000-08:00

I have these really screwed up dreams. Although there was more to it, I'll share a bit of the dream I woke from this morning:

I was a waitress and a man came in to the bar/restaurant with a black dog and sat down. I asked for his order and he replied "a ferlacher." (I'm guessing on the spelling, it could have been "fur locker") So I went to the bartender (which is another wacky story) and asked her if she knew how to make a ferlacher. She said she did and told me to ask him how he liked the fruit in it. Okay. I went back to him, asked him how he liked it, and he said, "lots of grapes and no anchovies."

For kicks, I googled ferlacher today. Apparently, there is a Ferlacher horn in Austria.

Anybody?

God

2008-01-23T13:03:00.000-08:00

Monday, I drove back home from my Grandma's and it gave me plenty of thinking time. Grandpa died two weeks ago and since I didn't make it to the funeral, I went for a visit after everyone had left.

Grandpa's funeral was the day after my grandparents' 62nd wedding anniversary. That blows my mind! I don't think I'll know anyone for 62 years, but to be truly and deeply committed to one person for that long? And to have it gone in a poof. I kept Grandma company, watching golf all day with her. Did you know that nearly every commercial during golf tournaments, is for either erectile dysfunction pills or financial planning?

We went to the graveyard to visit. The dirt was still cool and soft and the name plaque had not been put in place yet. Grandma was very upset because she wanted to put flowers in the little cup, but the cup is coming with the plaque. So I got down on my knees and dug a hole with my hands and planted the flowers. My tears dropped into the dirt and I felt sick. This was Grandpa's dirt and now it was stuck in my nails and the knees of my pants.

We tried to keep ourselves together for the rest of the weekend. I busied myself in her garden, I cleaned out Grandpa's truck. It smelled like skunk. Probably from the ranch, Grandpa loved that goddamn ranch and that's the place that led to all this. The morning I left, I lost it. I cried so hard, my grandma sobbed and we hugged tight for a long time. Grandma doesn't show much emotion so this was strange. Plus, she sure has shrunk. She had packed me a lunch (grandma's are awesome that way) and the 8 hour drive began.

Plenty of crying moments came and went, but there was one defining moment. There was an area that had chain controls. So here I am, driving 30 mph through the snow with chains on my tires. It was a nice distraction from my thoughts. Eventually, I took the chains off, and was driving in sunny weather surrounded by snow. A mom let her kid out on the side of the road to make a snow angel and I couldn't help it. A few yards down I pulled over so I could make one too.
As I laid on my back in the cold snow, I stared up to the sky and wondered if this is why people believed in God. When you imagine the dead, living on somewhere nice, it is strangely comforting. I tried to imagine how different I would be feeling if I believed in God. Would it hurt this bad? Would I feel this disconnected? The cold air was building up and starting to sting my tear-soaked cheeks. So I got up, dusted the snow off, and was back to driving.

My va-j-j has a first name...

2008-01-13T16:26:00.000-08:00

A few days back, I was unable to get a line from a movie out of my head. I think it was a movie, anyway. I can't , for the life of me remember which movie it was. All I know, is there was a 'mentally challenged' boy that loved a girl, named Julie, and at one point, in his crooked-jaw language, said "mah joo-lee." That kept playing over and over again in my head.

Once I really thought about it, I realized how pure, true, innocent, and intense retard love is. And you know what? That's how I feel about my kitty. So my vagina is now named Julie. Because my love for her is pure and true.

I just wish I could remember the movie! Maybe I'm confusing Forrest Gump's Jenny with something else. Jenny. Julie. Whatever.

I look at it now and lovingly holler, "mah joo-lee!"

I guess I could tell you my bummyhole is Alejandro. No reason for that, but that I like to say "Alejandro is muy caliente."

Longing..(but should be: How Did I Get to be Such a Perv?)

2008-01-04T10:03:00.000-08:00

Too early in the morning. I have no cream for my coffee. I guess it's a quick run to the market.

Cream in hand, I head for the produce section. Why must I live in a place that lacks interesting, exotic produce? for some strange reason, I head for the yams. I don't eat much of the 'yam.' What am I...

I take a yam and wonder what the difference is, really, between a yam and a sweet potato. Fondle, fondle...Whoa! Like a hot fleshy slap, I am filled with thoughts of a certain boy. Sweaty, salty, throat-heating thoughts. My logical side (is it the 'right brain' you psych-lovers call it?) thinks I'm nuts. Honestly Nikki, a curvy, rusty tuber reminds you of...him?!?!

Perhaps it's the weight of it in my hand. It certainly isn't the shape. But it's comfortable, it's stirring. The produce guy says something, I give some auto-response and he turns away. I bring the yam to my face and breathe deep through my nostrils. Under the bright glare of the market lights, with my eyes closed, I absorb his musk. I find myself to be a silly girl right now. No, he does not smell like a yam, but somehow his scent is here. It's strong. The heat rises, the skin on my face tightens.

Quit it. Get some coffee, you've gone bananas. You're caressing a yam! It's not even a cucumber! Or a zucchini!! Get home. Dork.

I bought the yam. It's sitting on the kitchen counter and if I look at it through squinted eyes, it looks like a dead rat. I sigh then turn my gaze to the snow outside, wondering how I should cook the damn yam.

Christmas '07

2007-12-27T09:44:00.000-08:00

Oh joyous occasion. My day: woke up to the sounds of a stranger's dogs needing to pee at 5:30 am. I am housesitting for a couple who are on a Xmas cruise to Mexico. Precious. Anyway, big house and my cell phone is dead. I left the charger at a party in San Leandro. I popped the "Rollerball" dvd in and knitted a potholder while watching James Caan and his manly chest roll around. I spent the day lounging until dinner at a friend's where I ate lamb and burped it up all night.

Had a great time at dinner. But went back to the big house and the stranger's dogs and watched Children of the Corn and went to bed.

Perfectly Christmas.

More than this

2007-12-26T16:13:00.000-08:00

I just realized how much it annoys me when someone says, "you'll like him...he has tattoos."

I certainly hope that is not how I am presented when matchmakers are up to their shenanigans. "You'll like her...she has tattoos" sounds like quite the turn on, no? No. I expect a description of me to include how charming, funny, nerdy, sexy I am. I'd rather hear that I have a brain the size of Texas, and an ass to match. Feel free to follow that up with how cool my tattoos are.

It is true, I have acquired quite a collection of tattoos. Quit touching me.

Now that I think about it, the last time I dated a man with tattoos was 1996. Hmmm.

One other thing. Just because I have dark hair with babydoll bangs and tattoos, does not mean I am rockabilly and worship Johnny Cash. I guess I'm just not that nostalgic.

A Simple Raving About Tube Socks

2007-12-01T10:30:00.000-08:00

Dec 1, 2007. First winter snow in Carson City. Thank god my mom, being quite the mom, bought me a package of tube socks. Wow. I haven't yanked a sweet pair of striped whities up since I played catcher on a softball team in the Bobby Sox Girls' Softball League in Las Vegas in 1983 (yes, that made me 11, for those of you attempting math right now). Our team colors were white and baby blue, which accentuated my developing nipples in a most insulting sort of way. My boobs still haven't quite developed, but boy, my nipples did! And as far as the lovely knee-high tube socks are concerned, I'm sure the last thing a girl approaching puberty should do is wear tube socks. Oh and that Dorothy Hamill haircut, I guess the socks were the least of my concerns.

Back to today. I think I'll go sit in a quaint little cafe, a few blocks from my house, and quietly watch the snow. Perfect time to pull up some "over-the-calf tube with longer lasting double toe." These should definitely keep my legs/ankles/feet/toes warm! I mean, if the beautifully warm-looking chocolatey brown man on the package is any indication. I might be warm already!

I think 'tube socks' is now my 3rd favorite word (or word combo). Third, because it still doesn't top 'cumulonimbus' or 'maxi-pad.'