I Love AHM from New York

See, Rachel: I told you I was going to do it. Jonathan, please disregard.

Mild Kingdom

You know, I am coming to love going to the grocery store. Oh, not because it is a great place to cruise; although it would be if I were in the market for old women who line the aisles like arterial plaque in a giant scale model of a blood vessel. No, what I love is getting to observe the mating rituals of the late teen bag boys. Nothing says romance to me like watching a spotty callow youth sullenly flirt with the not-having-anything-to-do-with-it cashiers. The perfunctory passes are not always begrudgingly carried out: the other day, I was able to witness preening behavior of such splendor, I decided to write it up and share it with you.
The male specimen was quite a splendid example of his species. Although most of his plumage was concealed beneath his drab garb (navy aprons and grey shirts don’t flatter anyone), we were able to observe several of his distinguishing features. He had close-cropped hair. This was accented by a piece of lip fuzz, the likes of which probably took him several weeks (and would take me approximately three hours) to grow. His eyes were close-set; the brows fine and dark. His skin was mostly clear. All of this was set on a thin frame. It is important to note the lack of a shell necklace (a la Chaci in Joanie Loves Chaci) that indicates he will be willing to have sex with men for money in about 2 years; even sooner if the necklace wearer has a piercing anywhere on his body. As for the female, well who really cares what she looked like?
I was unable to witness the opening of the mating display as the woman in front of me was quite repellent and I spent the whole time she was wasting good air imagining her imminent demise, preferably by large squishing object of ironic proportions. An African Elephant dropped by a helicopter, let’s say. However, the bag boy had the grace to include that woman as part of his display; perhaps to indicate that he would still be interested in the cashier when she becomes unattractive (which in my estimation will be shortly after her first child and shortly before her first divorce).
After I was barely acknowledged, the male resumed his display. I noticed at this point he was also preening for the cashier (C2) in the next aisle over as well. She was a little more cruel (which made me respect her immediately) and subtly encouraged him to direct his attentions to my cashier (C1). Although I was unable to secure a recording of the mating ritual, here is what I was able to discern:

BB: You going to watch me when I go for it?
C2: Sure, baby.
BB: (to C1) Yeah, I’m going to go on American Idol
C1: (unresponsive)
BB: You going to watch me when I go on?
C1: Well, I’m probably going to have to work.
BB: Yeah, but will you tape it?
C1: When are you going to be on it?
BB: Well, I don’t know yet.
C1: How can I tape it then?
BB: Well, like when I go on, I’ll tell you.
C1: (almost inaudible sigh) Okay.
BB: So you’ll watch it when I go on?
C1: If I am not working and it’s taped, I guess so.
BB: (pleased) All right.

Now, I almost felt sorry for the lad at this point. But then I remembered I don’t have human emotions, so I didn’t. I did, however, manage not to laugh at him. I thought that was a big accomplishment, all things considered.

Will-ful Behavior

I was talking with a homo friend of mine about how I had given up on ever finding a decent guy for myself, but that I was all right with that, because what I want more than a relationship is a kid, and how extremely unlikely it would be to find someone else who wanted that anyway (Yeah, it was a real fun conversation). So after I had finished pitching my tale of woe (which I think is more for my benefit, so that I will feel okay with ending up alone), he says to me “I am thinking about that episode of Will & Grace where Will and Grace are at the therapist’s office discussing having a kid.” (For your reading pleasure, here is the excerpt of the episode in question:

GRACE: Ok, well, what about Rick? Where is Rick? Is he in the TV room where you spend every Saturday night? Does he appear on the gay channel that you added and don't think I know about? I mean, you sat here, and you listed my--my failures! At least I have failures to list! At least I tried! You haven't had a serious relationship in five years!

WILL: No, I haven't!

GRACE: Well, then maybe you need to ask yourself why you want this baby. Is it because you are so full of love? And there's no one in your life? And so now you wanna make a little guy or girl to give it to?

WILL: So what? Isn't that a perfectly good reason to have a baby? I mean, isn't it? [TO THE THERAPIST] Isn't it? [TO HIMSELF] It isn't, is it?)

Yeah. No one has asked me that question before. But it had been tripping quietly through the back of mind, along with the rest of my neuroses and insecurities. Yes, I am full of love (or at least the parts of me that aren’t filled with bitterness, spite, hate, and fat: I’m the emotional equivalent of gumbo.) but that is not the whole reason I want a kid. I mean, homos get pets when they want someone to give extra love to. I love kids, I like working with them, and I want to give one a chance in life that they wouldn’t otherwise have. I know this is going to be really tough, and that it is going to cost me something, not just in monetary terms, but emotionally: I am going to have to give up my dream of earning my doctoral degree. I might not even be “allowed” to adopt for one reason or another. But I know I have to try. Okay, enough personal revelatory for tonight: I have a cake to frost.

P.S. You can find lots of media clips and entire Will & Grace transcripts at Rob’s Will & Grace Web Page. Enjoy with love!

Ommmmmmmmmm

I just bought the best book! It’s called Yoga in Bed: 20 asanas to do in pajamas. No, it’s not some kind of freaky sex book (sigh). Instead, it is a book of simple yoga poses you can do in your bed. The book is split into poses to do in the morning upon waking, and poses to do in the evening before retiring. It just arrived yesterday, so I cracked it open last night to check it out. I had quite a bit of fun going through the poses: I was practically giggling the whole time. Yeah, I’m worried about me too: why am I so happy? Apparently, the yoga is breaking through the bitter evil crust and releasing the soft nougat center (I love the word nougat; the actual thing though, not so much) of gentle goodness. I would write more, but it is time for child’s pose, goddess stretch, and more. Whee!

Sick

I know this is just a one-line post, but I HAD to share this. I know: I can't believe they let me work with children either.

Ugly

Do you remember the woman I was recently wishing death upon? Well, today she came into work dressed in a short denim skirt with a hot-pink top and either a wig or one of those horse-hair ponytail extensions all of the poor people are just nuts for. Her black boots were cut just low enough to reveal the highly stylized tattoo on her right calf (it looked to me like a horseshoe crab, and who knows? Perhaps the Limulus limulus is her personal spirit guide or some such shit). Her make-up was thickly applied (of course) and not complimentary of either her skin tone or any of the colors she was wearing. All in all, she looked like a two-dollar tranny hooker. Now, I have seen some hootchie skanks in my lifetime, but this outfit put her in the top three (the other two are the woman who sold me my house and this crackwhore wearing a baby doll nightie I saw in Minneaplois). If she continues to dress this way, I will retract my death wish. After all, I am never one to turn down an opportunity to belittle someone based on their appearance.

Butt finger

For mother’s day, my mom, dad, aunt, uncle, and cousin decided to come up here and have dinner at one of the restaurants in the little downtown area where I live. While dining at this establishment, my mother happened to glance over at the white board the servers use to reference the daily specials and desserts and what not. One of the dessert items read “Choc bourbon butt finger”. She turned to me and said “Does that say butt finger?” I peered at it, and said “Why, yes it does.” We had a bit of a chuckle over that. We figured either it had been an unfortunate abbreviation or a wicked wipe-off of the “er” from Butterfinger. Then my dad had to pipe in with “Does that say butt finger?” I told him, “We’ve already covered that: it does.” And, much like my great-aunt’s new vagina remark, the family just went off with it. At one point I belted out “Butt finger; he’s the man, the man with a stinky touch, a fudge-y touch. Such a brown finger...” complete with hand motions: it was a Shirley Bassey moment for me. My mom (!) made the grossest remark: “It says it’s butt finger chocolate cheesecake swirl.” And you know, don’t you, that dad had to order some.

Something old, something new/When Great Aunts attack

I promise this is the last of the funeral related things. It’s even kind of funny, in a disgusting/terrifying sort of way. When I say “back home” I mean the southeast edge of Ohio, just along the West Virginia border. I was actually born in West Virginia, because that is where the closest hospital was. Consequently, it should not surprise you when I say that (almost) everyone lives in trailers. The houses, which are in “town”, are built almost on top of each other; so close, you could almost reach out and rap on your neighbors’ window. Many people have satellite dishes, but only because that is easier to steal. Some people take drugs because that is all there is to do. EVERYONE smokes; even the toddlers. Okay, that is a slight exaggeration, but you get the idea. On a progressive note, I actually saw a few people of color there, which is more that I can say for Salt Lake City, or as I like to call it: “The Whitest Place on Earth (at least until you get to the airport)”.

Anyway, I am painting a little picture here with my words, a picture of poverty and ambient trashiness. However, the people are also a determined group: you’d have to be in order to scrape out a living on the side of a hill. So with all that in mind, you should be relatively unsurprised that my mother has an aunt that’s about her age. Hmm, another important thing to know about my family is that most of us are good people, some of us have problems of one sort and another, and there’s a few who are not worth a damn and which are only tolerated because, well, they are family.

This aunt of my mother’s was at the viewing. This aunt has been waiting for years for her “crazy check”: money and/or assistance from the state because she doesn’t feel like working. She was regaling my aunt’s husband with the story of how the air conditioner she dropped on her foot at work apparently traveled up her leg to her hip where it gave her hip cancer, except that it was probably actually ovarian cancer, which is truly astonishing because it means her ovaries must have grown back after her total hysterectomy about 15 years ago. You get the idea. In the middle of this soliloqouy she asks my uncle (who is not a health care professional) if he thinks the doctor could give her a new vagina. Wow. I know. I mean, my family is not all stuffy and steeped in formality, but wow.

The next day, we were talking about her (it’s okay to talk about the useless family members) in the car on the way to the gravesite. And it was just… hilarious. I mean, we went off with it. I said something about maybe she could get a “previously owned” vagina, and it ended up with “this here vagina belonged to a widow who only took it out on Sundays.” We were crying, but from laughter and it was good.

The day after the funeral, mom, my aunt, and I went to visit two of Papaw’s sisters who were now living together. The older one had moved in with the younger one and she wanted us to have some of the photos she had of the family. Of course she also pointed a loaded gun at my aunt and I, but… well, you know. It was funny in a way: she was sharing some of the things she had with us. She has guns; three guns to be exact. She was showing them to us, because one of the guns is really old, and one is really nice (I am not really a gun person, but I kind of wanted that gun. I think it must have been something in the air) and my mom and aunt’s brother was there and he said “Are these loaded?” and I was shrieking “YES!” in my head, because I had seen the bullet sitting down the barrel of one. The great aunt said “Well how else are you supposed to shoot them? Are they loaded?” She filled that last with such scorn, as if it was ridiculous to ask; like asking if ice is cold or how many handgun fatalities there are each year. And she told me that I could have one of the guns if I ever developed an interest in them. I didn’t take it partly because I didn’t want to appear to be asking for things, but also because I wasn’t exactly sure how I would be able to transport a loaded gun across state borders without asking to be stopped by the police.

My family: you gotta love ‘em, new vaginas, loaded guns and all.

I am weary, let me rest/Revenge of the Pissed

Okay: I am really about over this. Sorry to have been bringing everyone down, but you know: death is sad. Unless it is someone you hate (like Dr. Wigfield for my friends to the south). Then you are like: “Death rules!” Right now I am wishing death on someone. Yes, this moment. She’s supposedly even sick, too. I’m like “What’s the hold up? Tick tock the clock, Reaper Man.” If we had access to the Force in our galaxy, I would so reach out and crush her windpipe or, no! The lightning! Yes, I would want to watch her writhe in agony… although, I do not think I would like to hear her cry out. I wonder if I can simultaneously use force grip and force lightning… hmm, I know you can’t do that in the game… well, I’m not going to solve this any time soon. Maybe some of you are horrified (Rachel, I’ll be expecting that call any minute) or maybe you can sympathize. You all should know, though, that I am a vegetarian and have dedicated my life to non-violence. Still, that doesn’t mean there aren’t a few people I’ll be glad to see go. Besides, Anakin got to come back to the light side of the force. Why can’t I “fix” a few things and then do the same?