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Today, I deleted 81 spam messages from my e-mail account. 77 of these messages offered me “male enhancement drugs.” Either every spammer everywhere thinks I’m an impotent man (named Rebekah), or the entire internet thinks I’m such a turn-off that I should scatter Viagra everywhere, like a homecoming queen on a pharmaceutical parade float. Spammers, you insult me.
For the past nine years or so, I have been having variations on the same two nightmares: 1) I am mingling with friends at a crowded party/church meeting when I sense the presence of my first boyfriend — let’s call him “Aardvark.” In some dreams I search twisty hallways, desperate to find him; and sometimes I’m equally desperate not to be seen. He always wears a suit. Whether I confront Aardvark or not, I’m unsettled for hours after waking. THAT’s what makes this a nightmare. In real life, I’ve tried talking to Aardvark and avoiding him for years at a time; neither approach seems to alter the dreams. 2) I am sitting in a parked car/pickup/semi truck, minding my own business, when suddenly it starts barreling downhill/uphill/through herds of innocent bystanders/into the ocean. I try to take control of the car, but the brakes NEVER work, and the steering wheel’s not much better. Last week, this dream was different: after totaling a zippy red rental car in a head-on collision, I prepared to be arrested for driving without a license. I remembered that Mr. Jaunty was out of town; who would feed my pet rats? This was by far the most vivid of my driving nightmares; I clearly saw my car and hitched a ride with the crash victim… the ‘not having a license’ issue was a realistic touch, funny it never cropped up before. In college, the actor’s nightmare joined my personal late-night lineup: 3) I find myself backstage at a play/recital/opera, totally unable to remember my lines/song text/reason for living/entrance cue. I spend the entire dream panicking, and fighting to remember the imaginary play. My friend Amy suggested that if I mastered lucid dreaming, I could stop the runaway car and tell Aardvark to go suck an anthill. Hell, I could even improvise that play. Have you had recurring nightmares? Saturday night, an adoring fan — no wait, it was Angela — asked me “Did you really have a buzz cut previously?”
Yes, I did. Getting ready in the morning was a breeze. Freed up lots of time for… Photoshop, evidently. When I buzzed my head, well-meaning acquaintances warned me that no man would find me attractive. I retorted that I didn’t WANT to date men who’d write me off over a haircut. I stuck to my guns, and six months later met Ian — known here as Mr. Jaunty.
So there.
Recently, Mr. Jaunty walked into our bedroom and asked “Should I buzz my head?” ANSWER: Yes, always. It’s like asking me “Wanna eat a cake single-handedly?” or “Care to nit-pick lyrics for the next three hours?” So obvious. I’ve given up my buzz cut, but keep an electric razor for just such occasions. I didn’t take any action shots – my hands were busy wielding the razor- but here’s most of Mr. Jaunty’s hair: And here’s the resulting look:
Not too shabby, eh? We’re a moving testament to the power of good genes and – in my case – makeup. The hours I spend primping are now offset by Mr. Jaunty’s wash-and-go haircut. Go team! Over lunch a few weeks ago, my friend Andrew told me, “DON’T BE A THROW RUG!” I stared at him, wide-eyed and puzzled, until he remembered that the American slang is “doormat”. Apparently, ‘throw rug’ is the German equivalent. If the floor fits, wear it; I took Martha Beck’s Doormat Quiz, and it confirmed what friends have said for years; I let people walk on me. Nay, I practically encourage them. Late last night, I went walking at the college track. Ambling under the stars is a wonderful meditation, plus it saves a fortune on sunscreen. Because the track’s fountain is inconveniently located (and somewhat icky), I bought my aluminum water bottle along and parked it on the ground. After I’d walked my first mile, someone turned on the floodlights at a nearby baseball field. “Awww, curses,” I thought, “Now strangers can see my shiny water bottle.”
Sure enough, by the end of my next lap, the bottle was gone. I squinted into the darkness, looking for thieves. Was it one of the four Indian girls? No, they were empty-handed. The hulking giant with a flat-top? No, thankfully. Across the field, I saw a flash of copper. A shirtless man on a cell phone was hustling toward the fence with my bottle in his hand. In the past, I’d have let him go. I’m shy, and dread confrontation the way polar bears do climate change. Besides, nice girls don’t accuse strangers of stealing, even when said stranger obviously has. Niceness be damned; that was MY water bottle, and he was getting away. “Excuse me!” I called. The shirtless man kept walking. I observed that his muscles had muscles. I tried again: “EXCUSE ME!” He’d almost reached the exit. I broke into a run. Only when he was five feet away did I realize that he was 1) a head shorter than me and 2) one of my old computer lab patrons. What luck! Mr. Shirtless looked up from his phone, surprised. “The water bottle with blue flowers?” I asked. He handed it over, saying “I thought someone had left it behind.” Now, I don’t believe he meant to steal anything— but whatever his intentions, the bottle WOULD have disappeared if I’d kept my mouth shut. Friends, my doormat days are drawing to a close. While researching The Great Gildersleeve, I happened upon this *cough* truly memorable photograph of Willard Waterman and Stephanie Griffin:
Leave your witty remarks in the comments below. Ready, set, GO! When I was little, my family’s Chevy Citation had a cassette player. On long drives, we’d listen to Mason Williams’ Classical Gas album, or perhaps a tape of the 1940′s radio classic The Great Gildersleeve. Last year, in a fit of nostalgia, my little sister discovered Old Time Radio’s The Great Gildersleeve archives. Being slightly obsessive, I set out to listen to every episode. Otr.net lists 468 episodes, each 30 minutes long.
And so I began listening to Throckmorton Philharmonic Gildersleeve and co. while cleaning the apartment, baking, or filing my nails. Radio: the multitasker’s friend. It’s a great show, well-written and sometimes surprisingly relevant…. but not worth 234 hours of lifetime when all I wanted was to hear that one episode. Now, what was it called? You remember, the one with “Why Do I Love You?” and doughnuts? After a few misses guesses, I tracked down Episode 42, A Quiet Evening at Home. Siblings, you may want to check it out. If you have boxes to unpack, a floor to mop, or a tub to scrub, visit Old Time Radio and multitask to your heart’s content. I have returned from guarding the piano, accordion, three cats, treehouse, garden, fruit trees, badminton net, basketball hoop, a Wii, great Lego collection, movies ranging from Gilbert and Sullivan to Eddie Izzard, and maybe a thousand books. The man next door DID share his pool; he even dropped by twice to remind me to swim. True to my word, I wore absolutely nothing worth photographing. In fact, I wore so little— desert summers are vicious— that I had to scramble desperately for clothes any time the doorbell rang. Color me shy. Meanwhile, Mr. Jaunty has spent the past ten days helping Jean move from Arizona to Oregon. He’ll be home in New Mexico at 2 or 3 AM. I am now sitting in my [dismally] humble apartment, suffering slight cat withdrawal and awaiting Mr. Jaunty’s return. Consider yourself up-to-date on the endless roller coaster of thrill that is my life. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to watch the dishes dry. Today, Sal‘s link to the Jezebel’s catalog fantasies post took me back to my not-so-distant youth. In the late 90′s, my mother, little sister and I lived in a li’l southern Indiana town with two traffic lights. We couldn’t always pay the bills, so occasionally various utilities would be shut off. Sometimes we had a car, sometimes not. My best friends lived at least an hour away, and I felt cut off from the world. Since we didn’t have the internet at home— our computer was so useless, we called it “The Solitaire Machine,” — I relied on catalogs (you remember, the paper kind) to feed my daydreams. Luckily, my family got LOTS of catalogs: Delia’s, Williams-Sonoma, J. Peterman, Alloy, Land’s End, the Vermont Country Store, Sundance, Signals, JC Penney, the now-defunct Zoe, Smithsonian, L.L. Bean, Pyramid Collection, Things You Never Knew Existed, Musician’s Friend, Wireless… sometimes we even got Hamakor Judiaca: The Source for Everything Jewish. We are not Jewish. In reality, I was a frumpy, frizzy-haired, depressed teenager who dropped out of school after 5th grade and wore men’s clothes. I chose to live mostly in my head, where I was the kind of edgy chick who’d wear the barbed wire chokers shown in Delia’s, the then-trendy bootleg corduroys from Zoe, maybe that $30 silver hair clip from Sundance. I’d throw slumber parties in my perfectly-coordinated bedroom, lounging carelessly in a hand-shaped chair.
Soulful-looking boys would long for my touch. Popular girls, though intimidated by my breezy charm and wholesome good looks, would want to be my friend. Mind you, I cared about more than clothes and decor—I also needed the Williams-Sonoma toaster (available in an array of Easter-y pastels!) complete with two bagel slots and a THIRD slot for a sandwich-toasting rack. Clearly worth $115. I wanted old-fashioned candies from Vermont, and practically everything from Musician’s Friend. Hell, I even wanted pretty yarmulkes. If I had nice things, maybe I’d have beauty and success to go with them. I’d have loved to live in a catalog. A lot has changed since my teen years; I no longer subscribe to any catalogs, and that same Sundance hair clip now sells for $90. But sometimes I still expect beautiful clothing/jewelry/instruments/kitchen appliances to transform me into someone new, someone with an air of mystery and fewer stretch marks. No luck so far. Have you ever had a catalog-fueled fantasy? Andrew showed this to me weeks ago, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. What do you think? |
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