If you've recently had a baby, I'm going to ask you about it. (Did you poop on the table? I heard you poop on the table.) Vasectomy? I've got questions for you. (So, like-it's a totally different tube than the pee tube, right? But, it's all in the same spot. Right? So do you pee yourself for a little bit during recovery?) Monitor your glucose with one of those blood pricker things? (So, do you ever just poke it in random places to see what it would do? I mean, like not on your finger, but say, your elbow?) Glass eye? (Can you take it out? Can I see it? Can I tap on it with my fork?)
If it's related to the body, and I haven't experienced it, I'm deeply fascinated by it. My exploratory and sometimes socially awkward/seemingly insensitive/crowd-gasping questions are really just an indication of my curiosity. To a gay friend: "So, um, I totally get what goes on with a man and a woman, you know- with sex and all that business, but when you're on a date with a guy, and things seem to be going in that direction, do you just come out and ask who's going to be in what position, or like, do you both kind of charge and see what happens?" To someone with dentures: "So, do you really put your teeth in a glass next to your bed, or is that some horrible stereotype? Do you brush them? In or out of your mouth? Flossing? Yes? No?"
Perhaps I ask the questions other people are already thinking, but have too much tact to verbalize. I can't be the only one thinking these things. Or maybe I am. Either way, I'm fascinated.
The other night I was at a party and was seated next to a young, attractive woman who had a clear IV tube leading from the top of her shirt down to a brown purse on the floor. I'm guessing most people kind of do this: "Hi, lady. I'm going to totally NOT look at the plastic tube sticking out of your shirt and pretend like it's not there. See how accepting I can be of people with plastic tubes attached to their chest? I don't even NOTICE it!" I do notice it. Not in a bad way. In a I'd like to know more about what's going on there way.
I've been told that a gentler approach to my line of questioning might make others feel less- I don't know- like they want the ground to open up and swallow them whole. After a polite exchange of names I said, "So, do you mind if I ask about what's going on there? With the tube?" She seemed surprised, in a shy way. But willing to answer. Her body can't take in water and she has to be given IV fluids through a port in her chest throughout the day. And night, I guess. I didn't ask about that. Damn.
"So," (I'm beginning to notice that all of my questions begin with a sing-songy "Soooo.") "So, you have an IV bag right there in your purse?"
"Uh-huh."
"Can I see it?"
"Um. Okay." She rummages through her brown leather purse like she's looking for car keys or a lone stick of gum, and comes out with a nearly depleted plastic bag of clear liquid. "It's almost out," she says.
"So, you have to change it?"
"Yep."
"And, where do you buy them? The bags, that is."
"I go down there and they give me a few at a time." I forgot to ask where there is. The hospital? The IV Shoppe?
Questioning went on in this manner. "So, do you sweat? What happens to all that water? Do you just pee it out? Can you exercise?" Somehow I ended up asking if it was possible to put solid things into the port on her chest. Pills. Or small pieces of food. "No. Um. Just liquids." Although she did tell me that drug addicts with ports have used them as a place to inject drugs right into the bloodstream.
Which reminds me about a line of questioning to an ex-heroin using acquaintance that ended up with him telling me how he used his drug stuff to crush up aspirin and cook/shoot into to his kitty when it was sick once. See? Even drug addicts have a soft spot.
Back to my IV friend.
"Well," I concluded, "I think it's nice. Not that you have it, I mean. Just like. It's like having a puppy. Only not as cute. Well, right now I'm picturing a little face on the bag in your purse, and that's kind of cute. But, you know what I mean. It's something to talk about with strangers."
"I hadn't really thought of it that way," she replied. "I'm kind of shy, so, yes- I guess it does give me something to talk about. If people ask me about it. Which doesn't happen that often."
Maybe I made the last line up. I don't remember. I was picturing the clear tube protruding from her bag to be wagging like a dog's tail.
She was a great sport.
I left the party shortly thereafter and felt like I made a new friend. I have no idea what she does for a living, what her last name is, if she is married/ever been married/has kids, if she grew up in St. Louis. But I know that it was about time to change the bag of fluids that was making her able to be out of a hospital and socialize with the rest of us. And I liked knowing this.
If I'm thinking about it, I'm probably going to ask it. "Are you afraid to die? Do you think about it?" I've asked those questions to my grandma (since deceased) and my Great Uncle Joe- Joe was in his 80s when I asked and my grandma was over 90.
I've talked about it with my fabulous Aunt Patty, after her breast cancer came back with a vengeance. Sprawled out across her bed, noticing how her once comfortably doughy frame was now small and bird-like, I asked her about it. I mean- it was there. In the room with us. Not asking her about it wasn't going to make it not happen. We weren't on her bed because she was having a sleepover. I didn't wake her up from a normal nap. She was dying, and everyone knew it at this point. I asked. "Are you afraid to die, Aunt Patty?"
"Hell, yeah, I'm afraid to die, Bridge!" Not what I expected. For once I didn't have any follow-up questions. Not "Where do you think you'll go?" or "Can you come back and do things like make my curtains move?" or "If you really do go to heaven and see famous people, who will you look for first?"
Instead, this is what happened: Our faces on the same pillow, inches apart, we stared at each other in the truth of what she had just said. We held hands and let our fat tears fall into the fabric of her new pillowcase. My questions, normally swirling around in my head, fell to the floor like a box of pins and I only had one left.
And I kept it in.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
My New Phone: Or, How I Made an Ass of Myself at the Phone Store
I just traded in my old-school flip phone. It's the one that flew out of my back pocket while I was riding my scooter and still worked. But it's also the one that took a lesson in zen patience to text with: 3(D), 8-8(U), 6(M), 2-2(B), 7(P), 4-4(H), 6-6-6(O), 6-6(N), 3-3(E). And it was one of many reasons my middle school students make fun of me. When they're not busy pointing out how my arms flab about when I erase the board, how the food I brought for lunch "looks nasty," or how the running man is not a dance anybody does these days. What do they know.
My phone contract (seriously? contract? I've been committed to the 2 cell phones I've had in my life longer than most of the relationships I've been in)- was up this summer, so I took it by the local phone place for an upgrade.
The following shitty thesis goes out to the one or two students who read this blog:
In this paper, I will tell you about how I don't know much about today's phone technology. And also how I make an ass of myself. Often.
"Hello, what can I help you with today?" says the Sprint guy. Normal question. Deserves a normal response, like, "Oh, I'm ready to upgrade my phone." That's all that's needed, really. I'm apparently sometimes incapable of delivering all that's needed. I give unwanted garnish (like verbal parsley) or sometimes the wrong dish altogether.
"Yeah...uh...." (while I dig in my bag for my old-school flip phone) "Well...you'll see what I need help with here in a sec" (Phone dude stands still, eyebrows raised. I locate the phone and pull it out, flipping it open.) "BAM! Check out this old-school business. I'm only missing the big ol' bag that holds the battery and plugs into the car. Right? Right? Remember those? No, you're too young. Check out my texting skills." (I go into a pantomime of pressing buttons over and over while making a face that, I think, says, "Damn! This is taking a looooong time to text my message.") All unnecessary things, I see now- in the light of day.
"Well. Yes. I can certainly help you with that."
We go to the counter and he takes some basic information, including asking for my driver's license.
"Yeah. That was my soccer mom phase. See? In the photo? Don't I look all, 'Hey, neighborhood kids! Get in my minivan and I'll take you to practice!' Yeah. I do. And I was like, 20 pounds heavier. Right? Isn't my face puffy? You know it is. Don't lie."
Phone guy probably thinks to himself, Um. I'm not lying. I'm not even talking. I'm just trying to enter your information into the computer.
"For security reasons, what is the street that you grew up on?"
"SHAF-tes-burrrry. Shaftesbury. Sounds like England, I know. But it's in U. City. Uuuuuu City. I love U. City."
At this point, I'm aware that my chatter is on hyper-drive, and I really have no idea why. I don't do speed. I wasn't, like, ridiculously excited about a new phone or nervous about talking to a stranger. I did just have a big cup of coffee, which is like speed. So, I guess I do do speed. (I said "do-do.") Anyway, sometimes I talk too much. Quickly. And not anything of particular substance. I've been told this.
"Okay. Come over here and take a look at a few of these phones."
"Alrighty then."
We walk about 15 feet to the display phones. I manage to say nothing, nor do I adopt some kind of wacky gait. I do no dance moves. I appear almost mature and normal.
"This one is the one I have. It has wireless capabilities and...um. Over here. Don't touch that."
I've begun poking at nearby screens with my pointer finger because they're there. I can't tell you the restraint it takes me not to press all buttons on an elevator. It's only because my desire to have strangers (say, on an elevator) like me is greater than my compulsion to touch all elevator buttons that I don't do it. Anymore.
"Sorry. It's just- okay. Sorry. What were you saying?"
"This one has 4 Gs."
"I'm already G enough! I don't need no 4 extra Gs, homie!" (Yeah. This was definitely funnier in the split second it lived only in my head and not out loud. And it certainly didn't need to be said with my mock gangsta hand motions.)
"Oh. Ha. Right. No. This gives you instant connection for your internet." He snaps his fingers. I wonder if they taught him to do that in cell phone selling class. I used to wink my right eye and make a clicking noise at my customers when I was in retail. I have no idea where I picked that up, but it was about as creepy as you're picturing it to be.
"Okay. I'll take it!"
"Wait. Do you have any questions about-"
"Can I do facebook on that thing?" (Oh, man. I'm an idiot.) "And locate Starbucks? Because I really only want to get on facebook and find Starbucks. And maybe text some people." (Wow. How to make yourself come off as the biggest moron. And I somehow know this, but I can't keep my mouth shut. My inside thoughts become my outside words in a split second. *snap*)
"Yes. It can. I'll go in the back and get one for you. Hang on a sec."
I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure he cocked his head to the side and squinted his eyes in that parental, "I'm going to leave you alone for a minute but don't you touch anything, missy" kind of way. I touched things. Just to spite him.
Out came my new phone in a box, and as he sat behind his computer and did more computer-y set up things, I proceeded to take the phone out of the packaging and begin poking around. I'm holding it like it has cooties and turning it over and over in my hands.
"Where's the talky part?" I ask.
"The what?"
"You know. The HELLO! HELLLLLOOOOOO! IT'S MEEEEE! part." (I'm yelling into the bottom of the phone.) "There is no talky part. With holes. Little holes. You know, like 'HELLLLLO!"
"No. It's fine. Put it up to your-"
"HEEEEEELLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I'm yelling and flipping the phone around. My phone guy's manager has come out from behind the little divider and is looking at me.
"Hi," I say to him. "Where's the talky part? Remember on the old phones, the rotary ones, I mean, how you could unscrew the talky part? Yeah...The cell I'm getting rid of had the holes. You know. The holes that I'd talk into. The talky part."
"Ma'am," the manager explains. "Just hold the phone up to your ear."
I oblige.
"And talk."
"HELLLLOOOOOO! Like that? Where's the talky part? Seriously. Like, where does my voice go into the phone."
They both sigh and I decide that I'll save it for someone else. Lucky someone else.
In 45 minutes or so, my phone purchase is complete. I have a little guilt over abandoning my old phone, just like I did when I traded my last car in and then drove away all teary. I hate to think I'm hurting anyone's feelings. Anything, I mean. Anything's feelings. Because we all know how sensitive cell phones are.
So, now I'm at home. I've figured out how to download "apps" (the word irritates me) and can now locate a Starbucks no matter where I am. I've refused to download "Angry Birds" for the same reason that I refused to see Forrest Gump when it came out: everyone said how much they liked it and that somehow fundamentally pissed me off. (I did end up seeing Forrest Gump, by the way, and I liked it. But I'm not giving in to "Angry Birds.")
I skipped over the parts in the manual that might actually help me understand my phone better, but I did read all of the caution parts because I find them entertaining. I now know not to pour liquid on my phone. Or go into a grain bin with it, where I might explode. Or give it to a kid who might chew on it and choke on the chewed off parts. It didn't tell me not to take the battery out and put my tongue on it, but I'm going to pretend that's in there, too. Because I kind of want to. And I think it might not be good for both the battery and my tongue.
I also know to "take lots of breaks to stretch and relax" while texting to avoid injuries. This caution was my favorite. I'm taking a break from texting right now to write this blog. And it is, indeed, very relaxing. Perhaps I'll text someone about it when I'm done.
So, I'll return to school with a piece of new technology that my students both recognize and know how to operate. By the time I catch on, it will be outdated, no doubt. And that's okay with me.
I still have the running man.
My phone contract (seriously? contract? I've been committed to the 2 cell phones I've had in my life longer than most of the relationships I've been in)- was up this summer, so I took it by the local phone place for an upgrade.
The following shitty thesis goes out to the one or two students who read this blog:
In this paper, I will tell you about how I don't know much about today's phone technology. And also how I make an ass of myself. Often.
"Hello, what can I help you with today?" says the Sprint guy. Normal question. Deserves a normal response, like, "Oh, I'm ready to upgrade my phone." That's all that's needed, really. I'm apparently sometimes incapable of delivering all that's needed. I give unwanted garnish (like verbal parsley) or sometimes the wrong dish altogether.
"Yeah...uh...." (while I dig in my bag for my old-school flip phone) "Well...you'll see what I need help with here in a sec" (Phone dude stands still, eyebrows raised. I locate the phone and pull it out, flipping it open.) "BAM! Check out this old-school business. I'm only missing the big ol' bag that holds the battery and plugs into the car. Right? Right? Remember those? No, you're too young. Check out my texting skills." (I go into a pantomime of pressing buttons over and over while making a face that, I think, says, "Damn! This is taking a looooong time to text my message.") All unnecessary things, I see now- in the light of day.
"Well. Yes. I can certainly help you with that."
We go to the counter and he takes some basic information, including asking for my driver's license.
"Yeah. That was my soccer mom phase. See? In the photo? Don't I look all, 'Hey, neighborhood kids! Get in my minivan and I'll take you to practice!' Yeah. I do. And I was like, 20 pounds heavier. Right? Isn't my face puffy? You know it is. Don't lie."
Phone guy probably thinks to himself, Um. I'm not lying. I'm not even talking. I'm just trying to enter your information into the computer.
"For security reasons, what is the street that you grew up on?"
"SHAF-tes-burrrry. Shaftesbury. Sounds like England, I know. But it's in U. City. Uuuuuu City. I love U. City."
At this point, I'm aware that my chatter is on hyper-drive, and I really have no idea why. I don't do speed. I wasn't, like, ridiculously excited about a new phone or nervous about talking to a stranger. I did just have a big cup of coffee, which is like speed. So, I guess I do do speed. (I said "do-do.") Anyway, sometimes I talk too much. Quickly. And not anything of particular substance. I've been told this.
"Okay. Come over here and take a look at a few of these phones."
"Alrighty then."
We walk about 15 feet to the display phones. I manage to say nothing, nor do I adopt some kind of wacky gait. I do no dance moves. I appear almost mature and normal.
"This one is the one I have. It has wireless capabilities and...um. Over here. Don't touch that."
I've begun poking at nearby screens with my pointer finger because they're there. I can't tell you the restraint it takes me not to press all buttons on an elevator. It's only because my desire to have strangers (say, on an elevator) like me is greater than my compulsion to touch all elevator buttons that I don't do it. Anymore.
"Sorry. It's just- okay. Sorry. What were you saying?"
"This one has 4 Gs."
"I'm already G enough! I don't need no 4 extra Gs, homie!" (Yeah. This was definitely funnier in the split second it lived only in my head and not out loud. And it certainly didn't need to be said with my mock gangsta hand motions.)
"Oh. Ha. Right. No. This gives you instant connection for your internet." He snaps his fingers. I wonder if they taught him to do that in cell phone selling class. I used to wink my right eye and make a clicking noise at my customers when I was in retail. I have no idea where I picked that up, but it was about as creepy as you're picturing it to be.
"Okay. I'll take it!"
"Wait. Do you have any questions about-"
"Can I do facebook on that thing?" (Oh, man. I'm an idiot.) "And locate Starbucks? Because I really only want to get on facebook and find Starbucks. And maybe text some people." (Wow. How to make yourself come off as the biggest moron. And I somehow know this, but I can't keep my mouth shut. My inside thoughts become my outside words in a split second. *snap*)
"Yes. It can. I'll go in the back and get one for you. Hang on a sec."
I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure he cocked his head to the side and squinted his eyes in that parental, "I'm going to leave you alone for a minute but don't you touch anything, missy" kind of way. I touched things. Just to spite him.
Out came my new phone in a box, and as he sat behind his computer and did more computer-y set up things, I proceeded to take the phone out of the packaging and begin poking around. I'm holding it like it has cooties and turning it over and over in my hands.
"Where's the talky part?" I ask.
"The what?"
"You know. The HELLO! HELLLLLOOOOOO! IT'S MEEEEE! part." (I'm yelling into the bottom of the phone.) "There is no talky part. With holes. Little holes. You know, like 'HELLLLLO!"
"No. It's fine. Put it up to your-"
"HEEEEEELLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I'm yelling and flipping the phone around. My phone guy's manager has come out from behind the little divider and is looking at me.
"Hi," I say to him. "Where's the talky part? Remember on the old phones, the rotary ones, I mean, how you could unscrew the talky part? Yeah...The cell I'm getting rid of had the holes. You know. The holes that I'd talk into. The talky part."
"Ma'am," the manager explains. "Just hold the phone up to your ear."
I oblige.
"And talk."
"HELLLLOOOOOO! Like that? Where's the talky part? Seriously. Like, where does my voice go into the phone."
They both sigh and I decide that I'll save it for someone else. Lucky someone else.
In 45 minutes or so, my phone purchase is complete. I have a little guilt over abandoning my old phone, just like I did when I traded my last car in and then drove away all teary. I hate to think I'm hurting anyone's feelings. Anything, I mean. Anything's feelings. Because we all know how sensitive cell phones are.
So, now I'm at home. I've figured out how to download "apps" (the word irritates me) and can now locate a Starbucks no matter where I am. I've refused to download "Angry Birds" for the same reason that I refused to see Forrest Gump when it came out: everyone said how much they liked it and that somehow fundamentally pissed me off. (I did end up seeing Forrest Gump, by the way, and I liked it. But I'm not giving in to "Angry Birds.")
I skipped over the parts in the manual that might actually help me understand my phone better, but I did read all of the caution parts because I find them entertaining. I now know not to pour liquid on my phone. Or go into a grain bin with it, where I might explode. Or give it to a kid who might chew on it and choke on the chewed off parts. It didn't tell me not to take the battery out and put my tongue on it, but I'm going to pretend that's in there, too. Because I kind of want to. And I think it might not be good for both the battery and my tongue.
I also know to "take lots of breaks to stretch and relax" while texting to avoid injuries. This caution was my favorite. I'm taking a break from texting right now to write this blog. And it is, indeed, very relaxing. Perhaps I'll text someone about it when I'm done.
So, I'll return to school with a piece of new technology that my students both recognize and know how to operate. By the time I catch on, it will be outdated, no doubt. And that's okay with me.
I still have the running man.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Monkey-Mind and Some Patio Observations
I'm trying to be okay with the fact that the elderly woman sitting across from me, snacking on apples, cheese slices, and bits of turkey, sticks her tongue out nearly to her chin each time her fingers guide her food's way to her chomp-hole.
She's not doing anything wrong, really. Just having a little afternoon snack along with her frothy coffee drink on an outdoor patio on a beautiful day. And I could choose to look away. But I'm mesmerized.
She did it again. It's like her tongue makes a little chin-bib in case anything were to miss her gaping mouth. Once the bit of apple or cheese makes its way in, her tongue retracts and does what it's supposed to do. Flipping around chewed up mash, I guess. Pushing stuff to the back of the throat. Crimeny. I've seemed to have lost my appetite for the rest of the day.
I'm trying to be happy for this lady. I mean, here she is, making healthy food choices and enjoying some leisure time alone. She's even pouring over a newspaper. A concerned citizen. A member of our world's society. When's the last time I read a newspaper? I mean really read it, like she's doing. Not just skimming through the obits looking for good names for future fictional characters. Great. Now I'm irritated not only by her unsightly eating habits, but also how her newspaper reading is making me feel bad about myself. Knock it off, lady.
She's balled up her trash and put it in her purse. Her napkin has been shoved, I kid you not, into what one may call her "private parts." I mean she's clothed, mind you, but you get the idea. Vigorous stirring of her frothy coffee drink has commenced. So much so that her little shoulders are shaking as if she were the recipient of a forceful, hand-chopping back rub. Pause for an audible sip. Stir again. Pause and sip. Stir. Sip. Stir. Sip. Stir. Sip.
She's doing that on purpose.
My hyper-focus on this woman, someone's sweet, sweet Granny, no doubt, is put to rest while I do some damage control for the accidental "come-hither" vibe I may have just given the man who has joined the patio. I've been writing, comfortably, and as a result, I've flung my legs over the side of a chair, leaned back and have otherwise established a Renoir-like pose. Cheddar-eating Granny didn't seem to mind. But I was suddenly aware that felt like a comfortable writing post just moments before Mr. G.Q. sunglasses/five o'clock shadow guy came out here suddenly feels...centerfold-ish.
I shift myself back into a determined, feet on the ground, back straight, position and study both the leaves of the rose bush on my right as well as the freckles on the back of my arm. "Not interested in the least, buddy." That's the vibe I put out now. "Not even a courtesy smile from me, mister. Try the frantic coffee stirrin' Granny to your left." I don't say these things, mind you. I think them in my little head.
All snacks have been consumed, her tongue has returned to its restful position, the remainder of the trash has been shoved into her now empty plastic cup. And Granny continues to read her paper. I'm telling you right now- I have not the attention span to even make it through the headlines in her paper. Granny's more focused, and as a result, smarter than me. I'm mad at you, Granny.
I refuse to look over at G.Q. guy, but can make out that he's got a laptop open- a manly black one- and may be typing away. He may be writing a business report. He may be looking at porn. I have no idea. I don't care. I'm not looking.
He just got his foot-tap going when Neil Young started begging to his Old Man to take a look at his life over the speakers attached to the outer brick wall behind me. G.Q. guy could be emailing his own old man. He could have daddy issues. He could be tearing up right now. I want to look but I won't.
Maybe he's a teacher. Maybe he's on summer break. Maybe he is faking like he's just looking around to give his brain pause, but is quietly observing those around him. The wonderfully kind old woman to his left, now writing a shopping list on the back of a receipt. Nothing about this irritates him. He smiles, reminded of his own grandmother, who he loved dearly.
He sees the red-headed lady intent on whatever she's typing on her own laptop. He doesn't note that her unnaturally-colored hair contradicts the dark brown and silver roots beneath her lime-green headband. He's not bothered by the fact that each time she takes a swig of her coffee, she tosses her head back like she's swallowing a pill. Her bobbing right leg doesn't distract him. He doesn't feel the need to describe the obvious pimple on the bridge of her nose or wonder why someone with gray hairs (although covering them- poorly) still breaks out like a teenager. He's just watching.
Not judging.
Jerk.
She's not doing anything wrong, really. Just having a little afternoon snack along with her frothy coffee drink on an outdoor patio on a beautiful day. And I could choose to look away. But I'm mesmerized.
She did it again. It's like her tongue makes a little chin-bib in case anything were to miss her gaping mouth. Once the bit of apple or cheese makes its way in, her tongue retracts and does what it's supposed to do. Flipping around chewed up mash, I guess. Pushing stuff to the back of the throat. Crimeny. I've seemed to have lost my appetite for the rest of the day.
I'm trying to be happy for this lady. I mean, here she is, making healthy food choices and enjoying some leisure time alone. She's even pouring over a newspaper. A concerned citizen. A member of our world's society. When's the last time I read a newspaper? I mean really read it, like she's doing. Not just skimming through the obits looking for good names for future fictional characters. Great. Now I'm irritated not only by her unsightly eating habits, but also how her newspaper reading is making me feel bad about myself. Knock it off, lady.
She's balled up her trash and put it in her purse. Her napkin has been shoved, I kid you not, into what one may call her "private parts." I mean she's clothed, mind you, but you get the idea. Vigorous stirring of her frothy coffee drink has commenced. So much so that her little shoulders are shaking as if she were the recipient of a forceful, hand-chopping back rub. Pause for an audible sip. Stir again. Pause and sip. Stir. Sip. Stir. Sip. Stir. Sip.
She's doing that on purpose.
My hyper-focus on this woman, someone's sweet, sweet Granny, no doubt, is put to rest while I do some damage control for the accidental "come-hither" vibe I may have just given the man who has joined the patio. I've been writing, comfortably, and as a result, I've flung my legs over the side of a chair, leaned back and have otherwise established a Renoir-like pose. Cheddar-eating Granny didn't seem to mind. But I was suddenly aware that felt like a comfortable writing post just moments before Mr. G.Q. sunglasses/five o'clock shadow guy came out here suddenly feels...centerfold-ish.
I shift myself back into a determined, feet on the ground, back straight, position and study both the leaves of the rose bush on my right as well as the freckles on the back of my arm. "Not interested in the least, buddy." That's the vibe I put out now. "Not even a courtesy smile from me, mister. Try the frantic coffee stirrin' Granny to your left." I don't say these things, mind you. I think them in my little head.
All snacks have been consumed, her tongue has returned to its restful position, the remainder of the trash has been shoved into her now empty plastic cup. And Granny continues to read her paper. I'm telling you right now- I have not the attention span to even make it through the headlines in her paper. Granny's more focused, and as a result, smarter than me. I'm mad at you, Granny.
I refuse to look over at G.Q. guy, but can make out that he's got a laptop open- a manly black one- and may be typing away. He may be writing a business report. He may be looking at porn. I have no idea. I don't care. I'm not looking.
He just got his foot-tap going when Neil Young started begging to his Old Man to take a look at his life over the speakers attached to the outer brick wall behind me. G.Q. guy could be emailing his own old man. He could have daddy issues. He could be tearing up right now. I want to look but I won't.
Maybe he's a teacher. Maybe he's on summer break. Maybe he is faking like he's just looking around to give his brain pause, but is quietly observing those around him. The wonderfully kind old woman to his left, now writing a shopping list on the back of a receipt. Nothing about this irritates him. He smiles, reminded of his own grandmother, who he loved dearly.
He sees the red-headed lady intent on whatever she's typing on her own laptop. He doesn't note that her unnaturally-colored hair contradicts the dark brown and silver roots beneath her lime-green headband. He's not bothered by the fact that each time she takes a swig of her coffee, she tosses her head back like she's swallowing a pill. Her bobbing right leg doesn't distract him. He doesn't feel the need to describe the obvious pimple on the bridge of her nose or wonder why someone with gray hairs (although covering them- poorly) still breaks out like a teenager. He's just watching.
Not judging.
Jerk.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Choo-Choo! (Hear that? It's the motherhood train passing me by.)
Sometimes I hear the whistles a-blowin'. The motherhood-train whistles. It sounds like velcro diaper strips being pulled apart and the clicking of a wind-up toy that plays tinny music and the pat of chubby baby hands crawling across a tiled floor.
And I smell it before I can see it. It smells like Desitin ointment and baby powder and no-tear shampoo. It smells like spoiled milk and spit up and pungent poo.
Then I see it. The first car is full of young women. Twenty-somethings. A few in their early thirties, but not much older. New mothers-to-be. First marriages and "We weren't even trying yet! We thought it would take longer!" Some still hold onto their positive pregnancy test in joyous disbelief.
The next car has women who are visibly pregnant. Swollen bellies are being cradled by expectant hands. Sometimes I can feel his little elbow. Wait. Here. Feel that? Oh! He just moved. This little girl is doing flips in there. What does your nursery look like? Wait- do you have to go to the bathroom, like, every five minutes? Me, too! Cameron. That's a great name. We're naming ours Grace. After my grandmother.
I recognize women in the next car. This is the car they don't tell you about when you're 12 and picturing your future-self married with children. In this car are the women who have only recently become pregnant after years and years of trying. Miscarriages. Failed IUIs. Failed IVFs. Hope followed by devastation followed by hope followed by devastation- month after month. Now they are pregnant. No one wants to celebrate too soon.
I know some women in the next car, too. A mom who desperately wanted to become pregnant but was told she'd never be able to due to a medical condition. A teacher mom who decided to adopt one of her students when that student was a struggling teenager. A mom who experienced the death of a baby and had a chance of giving birth to a baby with the same life-threatening condition. A mom who, despite years of fertility treatments, was unable to become pregnant. A single mom who, at 40, decided not to wait for a partner to seek out motherhood. The women in this car are moms, thanks to adoption.
On and on the train cars pass with a rhythmic thump-thump, thump-thump. It's moving slowly enough for me to continue to see in.
Births. Smiling husbands. Teary new grandparents. Wrinkly toes. Baggy onesies. Blue bubbly snot-suckers. Goopy eyes. Newborns.
Breastfeeding. Rocking. Newborn head-sniffing. Bottle-feeding. Shots. Sleepless nights. Diaper changes. Tiny baths. Tiny scoots. Tiny steps. Tiny words. First birthday parties. Kindergarten. School photos. Cuts and scrapes. Christmas mornings. First Periods. Teen poutiness. Fights. Crushes. Broken hearts. You can't make me episodes. Pull away. Move out. Come back. Remember early years. Grow up. Get married. Have kids.
38. I'm 38. I'm not 28. I'll not be dating for a year (or more). Let's do the math. Okay: 39. Fine. Not too old, you say. Right. If I were to include "trying to have a baby" on the list of first-date options, which I'm not. (Sorry, fellas.) So- let's add some get-to-know-you time. A year or two. And that's with the assumption the first person I'll meet will be someone I'll want to have kids with. So, let's throw in some "What the hell was I thinking?" time for disaster dates. 41? 42? 43?
I'm not an idiot. Perhaps it's in the cards for me to get pregnant and become a mom, but it's not likely. I don't want to raise a child by myself. And I'm not sure I can imagine getting married again. Maybe. We'll see. But really, when I think of all of that ridiculous "alone time" I need and my desire to travel and- well- my inherently self-centered nature (i.e. "Mommy's too tired to fix dinner. Dig around in the cabinet and see what you can find"), perhaps it's better this way.
Perhaps I'm meant to parent in the 8:30-3:12 time slot, as a teacher. Perhaps I'm meant to be an aunt. A godmother. "That wacky lady that we see on Wednesdays."
And part of me is okay with that. Really. As it sits in, I think I can do this "Holy shit- life is not at all like I thought it was going to be- let's see where it takes me" thing.
But, hot damn, if there isn't a women's club out there that no matter how much I'd like to belong to it, I just don't. It's like the ultimate "cool table" in the lunch room. And yes, you can invite me to sit with you for awhile, but I won't get any of your inside jokes. And I will smile when you announce your pregnancy. Your second. Your third. Your fourth, even. And I may go to your baby shower. And I'll let your baby's little outfits and toys and blankies pass through my hands, even the one I bought for you, and I'll talk about how adorable they are. And I'll visit you in the hospital. And I'll take pictures. And part of me will be legitimately happy for you. And part of me will feel like I just swallowed a golf ball. And I'll swallow that part down. And if I'm lucky, I won't tear up and make an ass of myself. (This is your day, after all.)
And I'll hear the train steadily going down the tracks. The one I'm not on.
And I smell it before I can see it. It smells like Desitin ointment and baby powder and no-tear shampoo. It smells like spoiled milk and spit up and pungent poo.
Then I see it. The first car is full of young women. Twenty-somethings. A few in their early thirties, but not much older. New mothers-to-be. First marriages and "We weren't even trying yet! We thought it would take longer!" Some still hold onto their positive pregnancy test in joyous disbelief.
The next car has women who are visibly pregnant. Swollen bellies are being cradled by expectant hands. Sometimes I can feel his little elbow. Wait. Here. Feel that? Oh! He just moved. This little girl is doing flips in there. What does your nursery look like? Wait- do you have to go to the bathroom, like, every five minutes? Me, too! Cameron. That's a great name. We're naming ours Grace. After my grandmother.
I recognize women in the next car. This is the car they don't tell you about when you're 12 and picturing your future-self married with children. In this car are the women who have only recently become pregnant after years and years of trying. Miscarriages. Failed IUIs. Failed IVFs. Hope followed by devastation followed by hope followed by devastation- month after month. Now they are pregnant. No one wants to celebrate too soon.
I know some women in the next car, too. A mom who desperately wanted to become pregnant but was told she'd never be able to due to a medical condition. A teacher mom who decided to adopt one of her students when that student was a struggling teenager. A mom who experienced the death of a baby and had a chance of giving birth to a baby with the same life-threatening condition. A mom who, despite years of fertility treatments, was unable to become pregnant. A single mom who, at 40, decided not to wait for a partner to seek out motherhood. The women in this car are moms, thanks to adoption.
On and on the train cars pass with a rhythmic thump-thump, thump-thump. It's moving slowly enough for me to continue to see in.
Births. Smiling husbands. Teary new grandparents. Wrinkly toes. Baggy onesies. Blue bubbly snot-suckers. Goopy eyes. Newborns.
Breastfeeding. Rocking. Newborn head-sniffing. Bottle-feeding. Shots. Sleepless nights. Diaper changes. Tiny baths. Tiny scoots. Tiny steps. Tiny words. First birthday parties. Kindergarten. School photos. Cuts and scrapes. Christmas mornings. First Periods. Teen poutiness. Fights. Crushes. Broken hearts. You can't make me episodes. Pull away. Move out. Come back. Remember early years. Grow up. Get married. Have kids.
38. I'm 38. I'm not 28. I'll not be dating for a year (or more). Let's do the math. Okay: 39. Fine. Not too old, you say. Right. If I were to include "trying to have a baby" on the list of first-date options, which I'm not. (Sorry, fellas.) So- let's add some get-to-know-you time. A year or two. And that's with the assumption the first person I'll meet will be someone I'll want to have kids with. So, let's throw in some "What the hell was I thinking?" time for disaster dates. 41? 42? 43?
I'm not an idiot. Perhaps it's in the cards for me to get pregnant and become a mom, but it's not likely. I don't want to raise a child by myself. And I'm not sure I can imagine getting married again. Maybe. We'll see. But really, when I think of all of that ridiculous "alone time" I need and my desire to travel and- well- my inherently self-centered nature (i.e. "Mommy's too tired to fix dinner. Dig around in the cabinet and see what you can find"), perhaps it's better this way.
Perhaps I'm meant to parent in the 8:30-3:12 time slot, as a teacher. Perhaps I'm meant to be an aunt. A godmother. "That wacky lady that we see on Wednesdays."
And part of me is okay with that. Really. As it sits in, I think I can do this "Holy shit- life is not at all like I thought it was going to be- let's see where it takes me" thing.
But, hot damn, if there isn't a women's club out there that no matter how much I'd like to belong to it, I just don't. It's like the ultimate "cool table" in the lunch room. And yes, you can invite me to sit with you for awhile, but I won't get any of your inside jokes. And I will smile when you announce your pregnancy. Your second. Your third. Your fourth, even. And I may go to your baby shower. And I'll let your baby's little outfits and toys and blankies pass through my hands, even the one I bought for you, and I'll talk about how adorable they are. And I'll visit you in the hospital. And I'll take pictures. And part of me will be legitimately happy for you. And part of me will feel like I just swallowed a golf ball. And I'll swallow that part down. And if I'm lucky, I won't tear up and make an ass of myself. (This is your day, after all.)
And I'll hear the train steadily going down the tracks. The one I'm not on.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Don't Drink That! And Other Advice For Those In High School
1) Unless you're checking the circuit breaker for your parents or getting your bike out of the garage, stay out of basements and garages.
Nothing good is going to happen in a basement or a garage. Because you are too young to have your own apartment in which to do stupid things, you will be tempted to do stupid things in someone's garage or basement. It is, you think, your transitionary apartment. A place untouched by adult vibes and watchful eyes. You will want to plug in a blacklight and furnish this place with someone's old scratchy outdated sofa and you will think you've arrived.You've arrived, alright. You've arrived at a place where you're about to do stupid things. In this sacred space you will try smoking a cigarette for the first time, or continue your now pack-a-day-at-15-years-old habit. Stupid. You will be lured into someone else's garage or basement, and you will exit looking as if you've attached a vacuum cleaner hose to your neck. No one attaches a vacuum cleaner hose to their neck. We know how you got that. And it was stupid.
You will, in this stupid-doing place, think it's a good idea to make a beer bong and slouch under it, chugging away as your friends cheer you on. You will have photos taken of you. You will post them on facebook. We can see this, too. And believe you, me. We're thinking, "Well, that's stupid." You will get high in this place and think you're really onto something. You are. You're really onto seeing which one of your friends in their 20s or 30s are still sitting in their garages getting high. Which is probably most of them, although you don't consider it now. Write their names down. Wait a decade. You'll see.
2) Almost-in-high-school-gentlemen: Just because you can grow facial hair doesn't mean you should.
In the same category would be those of you who, much to your delight, woke up one day with a mild sprouting of haphazard hairs curling their way from under your otherwise smooth chin or cheeks. This, I'm sorry to tell you, is not really a beard- no matter how much you admire it in the mirror or fiddle with it in class. Get rid of it.
3) About-to-be-in-high-school-Ladies: When you wear ho clothes, you may feel sexy, and you may be getting attention from a certain population of boys, but- let me tell you, and listen up- you look like a moron.
I've seen it. I've seen it on facebook. I've seen it in person during 8th grade graduation. I've seen you wearing heels so high your ankles wobble each time you step. I've seen you squeeze yourself into skirts that barely cover your under-butt and tops that announce to the world, "Look! I was a flat-chested kid just a couple of years ago but now I have tatas!" We know you have tatas.
I don't blame you, really. You've been given a recipe for how you should dress from the time you started watching television and listening to music, really. You were told "sex=power" and you figured that to be true the first time you got attention from a heightened hemline or lowered bustline. But, let me clarify something. You're trying to attract teenage boys, right? And teenage boys are riddled with hormones that would posses them to hump a tree if they thought no one were looking. They can't help it. Everything is humpable and everything is saturated with sexual energy. You don't have to work that hard. Really. It's okay to be pretty. Attractive. Beautiful. Without the stereotypical look of someone begging to be noticed for their outsides only. Cover the tatas, ladies. Tone down the pumps. Put that out there and you may be surprised by the quality of who you attract.
4) Smoking is stupid. Don't do it.
Plus, it's like- what?- $4 or $5 a pack now? Well, that's ridiculous. They were $1.25 in the vending machine when I was your age, so- there.
5) Hey, what do you think about just holding off on the whole drinking bit until you're older?
 | ||
| cool? not really. douchebags? yes. |
Just wait and see if that still sounds like a good idea at 21. Your brain is dumb right now. Remember that. Oh, now- don't go getting offended. It's just a fact. Your dumb brain will tell you all types of things are a good idea, and years later, you'll look back and wonder what in the hell you were thinking. Trust me. This will happen. So, why not just wait a bit. You're not going anywhere. You have plenty of time in the future to make yourself look like an ass in public if you so desire.
6) We, who have done dumb things in our teenage years, know who you are and exactly what you're up to.
Yeah. Sit with that for awhile.
We blend ourselves into what you see as the ignorant and out of touch adult community. That's part of how we do things. To trick you. But, I'm telling you, we know what you're up to. (p.s.- If this statement just made you lower your blinds and check your door to make sure it's locked, you're smoking too much pot, and we knew that, too.)
7) There's nothing wrong with being a nerd or being friends with a nerd.
8) If you're being a bitch, stop it. If you're being an asshole, knock it off.
Enough said.
9) Your parents are only temporarily the enemy because you're probably in violation of one of the 8 things listed above.
1) Stop doing those things and you'll see that you actually might like your parents a little. Otherwise, 2) wait until you're older, 3) go to therapy, 4) blame everything you don't like about your life on your mom and dad, 5) work through it, and then 6) arrive at step 1, where you could have easily been years earlier and for a lot less money.
10) Peer pressure is stupid. Be who you are and no one else.If you get that funny feeling that you shouldn't be doing something- don't do it. If someone tells you that something you do is "retarded" or "gay" because this is the only way they can come up with to try to extinguish a part of you that may be genuine- ignore them. Be the person who gets up early on the weekend for a run, if you like running. Be the person who goes to see a Disney film because you happen to still like them. Be the person who feels comfortable in your own clothes. In your own skin. Be the person who says, "Fine- you go ahead and snort that if that's what you feel like doing, but I'm not going to." Be the person who says, "Fine- you don't want to date me anymore because I won't (insert any number of sexual things here)? You've done me a favor. You've made it really clear that you're not the person for me." Be that person. Decades from now you'll look back and know that person was there, and wonder where she (or he) was. Why wasn't she speaking up? The only reason is because you didn't let her. That's it. Nothing else.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Piercings, Tattoos, and Getting Older
 | |
| Not me. By a long-shot. |
Since then, my pierced navel has been seen by only a handful of people, including one man who got paid to look at it. Well, not it specifically. He's my lady-parts doctor. But, technically, if his eyes made a non-creepy full sweep, he would have seen it. (And I say non-creepy because I'm pretty sure he's gay. "Well, well, well!" he sings with his hands on his hips. "Let's have a looooook-see!") Other than that, few get a good long look at it.
You can probably hear it, though. Especially if I'm nervous or bored. I have a habit of taking the fingernail of my left pointer finger and flicking the belly ring back and forth from outside of my shirt. It makes a satisfying clicking noise, like I'm sending some kind of Morse code message. It's the grown-up version of having a favorite corner of a blanky to rub when tired. This alone was worth getting the piercing so many years ago.
Even the Dead Kennedy-listening, leather jacket-wearing, beer for breakfast-drinking, two pack a day-smoking, combat boot-wearing, bong-making, old lady-scaring, high school dropouts that I found myself socializing with didn't have piercings. It just wasn't something people really did. Tattoos, though, were another thing.
Funny thing is I find myself, for the first time in my life, wanting to commemorate this moment with a tattoo. This moment of unknowing. This moment of I-thought-I-knew-how-things-would-be-in-my-life and-they're-not-like-that. At all." This I-thought-I'd-be-married-at-38-and-instead-I'm twice-divorced moment. This I-thought-I'd-have-kids-and-it's-possible-that's-not-in-the-cards-for-me moment. This maybe-my-life-is-unfolding-in-a-beautiful-way-that-I-could-not-have-ever-imagined moment. This open-to-the-possibilities moment. This moment of not looking "out there" to fill what's "in here."
Contrary to my nature, I haven't run out and branded myself after pounding some Starbucks and slipping a $20 to a local tattoo artist wannabe. I'm sitting with it for a bit. But, I feel it coming.
And, true- I could be 50, 60, 70 years old and look down at that marking on my body and think, "What in God's name was I thinking?" Or I could look at it and think, "You're a funny, kid...kid. You wondered how life would turn out. And look at how it did. Pretty amazing, huh?"
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Dear Facebook
Dear Facebook,
I appreciate your interest, via the ads on the sidebar of my facebook page, in my love life, my safety, my personal hygiene, my fashion, my career, my recreational activities, and my relationships with imaginary family members, such as my non-existent "cherished daughter." It is clear that you care deeply for me. Might I take this time to ask some specific questions about the ads that frequent my page? I'm sure you'll indulge me.
Ad #1:
Ad #2:
"365 things to do in St Louis before you die."
There are a lot of things I'd like to do before I die. I'm not sure what you're getting at with this photo, though. Seeing a titlted building is cool, I guess, but I've already seen the Tower of Pisa, and it was kind of a letdown, really. So your leaning condo unit is...well...not that appealing. Sorry.
"365 things to do in St Louis before you die."
You run the same ad with multiple photos, trying to hook me into doing things before I die, or perhaps you're trying to get me to kill myself. I can't tell. But, either way, I'll take this over the leaning condo. I believe you're suggesting that I wrap a little old dog up in someone's gray tube sock so tightly that the dog's tongue kind of falls out and he almost chokes on it. I'm kind of an animal lover, and I'm not sure why I'd want to do this before I die. Although I did put tape balls on the bottom of a cat's feet and watch it walk around all funny. But that wasn't on my "bucket list." I just did it. The cat was there. So was the tape. I do think if a dirty old tube sock was near my dog, I still wouldn't care to nearly choke it to death. I'll pass on this, too.
"365 things to do in St Louis before you die."
Okay. Here's you're going for a kinder and more loving approach. Perhaps I'd like to hold some kind of baby deer in the palm of my hand before dying? That's pretty tempting. Unless this photo was taken right before someone put a dirty old tube sock around it until its tongue flew out of its mouth.
Ad #3:
Ad #4:
"100 Things To Do In St Louis This Spring. Don't Miss Out!"
Oh, shit! Your "Don't Miss Out!" communicates a sense of urgency to putting these little red galoshes on this baby pig! I appreciate your exclamation mark! I'm not sure where this pig is! But when I find it, I WILL put some tiny red galoshes on it, damn it! I won't miss out! Promise!
Ad #5:
"Got sun damage or brown spots? Remove them with FotoFacial or Matrix RF treatments."
Why you gotta be so cold, facebook? You know I have sun spots on my face. The one above my lip I call "The Clark Gable" and the ones on my cheeks I call my "mutton chops." If this lady got the treatment, why is she hiding half of her face? Probably because the treatment jacked her skin all up, that's why. I don't trust you, facebook. And as far as the Matrix RF treatments go, I can't remember if I'm supposed to take the red pill or the blue pill.
Ad #6:
"Become certified to teach through the flexible, affordable, and state-approved ABCTE program. Nearly 3,000 people have already done it!"
First of all, I'm already a teacher. So you can stop trying to get me to be one. I mean, what the fuck, facebook? Don't you even pay attention to anything I do/say? It's like you want to be all up in my business, but then you pull some shit like this-like you don't even know me. That's not the way to build intimacy, in case no one's ever told you that before. Plus, what is this "ADCDEFG program"? You made that up. Those are just letters of the alphabet, silly. And the "teacher" in the photo looks like a creepy child-molester. If 3,000 people have already done it, they need to be arrested.
Ad #7:
Ad #8:
Ad #9:
Ad #10:
I look forward to many, many more hours of complete and total time-wasting on your site, facebook. Without it and the addition of the "like" button, I would undoubtedly have little to no self-esteem. So, I thank you.
In the future, though, I would appreciate a little more thought when placing ads on my page. I'm sure you don't take this request lightly.
Sincerely,
Your #1 fan
theplaygroundinmyhead
I appreciate your interest, via the ads on the sidebar of my facebook page, in my love life, my safety, my personal hygiene, my fashion, my career, my recreational activities, and my relationships with imaginary family members, such as my non-existent "cherished daughter." It is clear that you care deeply for me. Might I take this time to ask some specific questions about the ads that frequent my page? I'm sure you'll indulge me.
Ad #1:
"HawgLaw: If you ride then know the law. This page is to help keep riders informed of legal issues related to riding."
I was a fan of the Dukes of Hazzard, and while I applaud you for hiring Bo or Luke to do your copy-writing, I must inform you that I do not ride a "hog" or "hawg" as you so charmingly put it. I ride a scooter. Now, if your site was called "KnockAnOleDudeOverWithYourCarTheDayAfterYouFindOutYouHaveNoCarInsurance" well, then- I really could have used you. But, that's not the case. Ad #2:
"365 things to do in St Louis before you die."There are a lot of things I'd like to do before I die. I'm not sure what you're getting at with this photo, though. Seeing a titlted building is cool, I guess, but I've already seen the Tower of Pisa, and it was kind of a letdown, really. So your leaning condo unit is...well...not that appealing. Sorry.
"365 things to do in St Louis before you die."
You run the same ad with multiple photos, trying to hook me into doing things before I die, or perhaps you're trying to get me to kill myself. I can't tell. But, either way, I'll take this over the leaning condo. I believe you're suggesting that I wrap a little old dog up in someone's gray tube sock so tightly that the dog's tongue kind of falls out and he almost chokes on it. I'm kind of an animal lover, and I'm not sure why I'd want to do this before I die. Although I did put tape balls on the bottom of a cat's feet and watch it walk around all funny. But that wasn't on my "bucket list." I just did it. The cat was there. So was the tape. I do think if a dirty old tube sock was near my dog, I still wouldn't care to nearly choke it to death. I'll pass on this, too.
"365 things to do in St Louis before you die."Okay. Here's you're going for a kinder and more loving approach. Perhaps I'd like to hold some kind of baby deer in the palm of my hand before dying? That's pretty tempting. Unless this photo was taken right before someone put a dirty old tube sock around it until its tongue flew out of its mouth.
Ad #3:
"100 things to do in St Louis"
It's clear that you think I spend a lot of time sitting around wishing for things to do. It's true. I'm divorced. And live alone. And single. And live next door to my parents. And this may make me look incapable of entertaining myself. Not true. I do have a life, facebook. And I can think of a lot of things to do in St Louis rather than eat a giant taco. Although, damn, that does look good. Okay. I'll do it. Ad #4:
"100 Things To Do In St Louis This Spring. Don't Miss Out!"Oh, shit! Your "Don't Miss Out!" communicates a sense of urgency to putting these little red galoshes on this baby pig! I appreciate your exclamation mark! I'm not sure where this pig is! But when I find it, I WILL put some tiny red galoshes on it, damn it! I won't miss out! Promise!
Ad #5:
Why you gotta be so cold, facebook? You know I have sun spots on my face. The one above my lip I call "The Clark Gable" and the ones on my cheeks I call my "mutton chops." If this lady got the treatment, why is she hiding half of her face? Probably because the treatment jacked her skin all up, that's why. I don't trust you, facebook. And as far as the Matrix RF treatments go, I can't remember if I'm supposed to take the red pill or the blue pill.
Ad #6:
"Become certified to teach through the flexible, affordable, and state-approved ABCTE program. Nearly 3,000 people have already done it!"First of all, I'm already a teacher. So you can stop trying to get me to be one. I mean, what the fuck, facebook? Don't you even pay attention to anything I do/say? It's like you want to be all up in my business, but then you pull some shit like this-like you don't even know me. That's not the way to build intimacy, in case no one's ever told you that before. Plus, what is this "ADCDEFG program"? You made that up. Those are just letters of the alphabet, silly. And the "teacher" in the photo looks like a creepy child-molester. If 3,000 people have already done it, they need to be arrested.
Ad #7:
"Give single dads a chance. Browse faithful and devoted single dads in your area seeking a second chance at love."
Speaking of needing to be arrested...hello. Dude. You're glassy-eyed. And wearing some bling-bling in your ears. And you have that scraggly pube-ish chin grooming going on there. What exactly are you faithful and devoted to? Not your ex-wife when you two were married, I'm thinking. Second chance this, jerk. Your attempt at sympathy is not working over here. (p.s. If your wife died, I'm kind of super-sorry about everything I just said. But I'm still not interested. Thank you. Good day!)Ad #8:
"The IRS tank proven oil recapture ability will improve your ROP while minimizing your environmental impact"
Um...say what? Ad #9:
"Rufus believes all LGBT couples should be able to marry. Co-sign his letter: It's time to say, "I do" Mr. President."
Yeah, and I believe Rufus and I should get married. But he's gay. And that whole "It's time to say, 'I do' Mr. President" makes me feel a little uneasy. In that Rufus-Obama bad love scene kind of way. And I don't want to go there, but you made me do it, facebook. And for that, I resent you. Ad #10:
"Own Elvis history- The TCB ring that epitomized the bold style of Elvis Presley is brilliantly replicated in this stylish women's ring. Shop now!"
Now, that is some brilliant replication. And it is a stylish women's ring, in the same way a woman might be called "handsome." What ring-maker was takin' care of business when they set those letters? It clearly says CTB, not TCB. I look forward to many, many more hours of complete and total time-wasting on your site, facebook. Without it and the addition of the "like" button, I would undoubtedly have little to no self-esteem. So, I thank you.
In the future, though, I would appreciate a little more thought when placing ads on my page. I'm sure you don't take this request lightly.
Sincerely,
Your #1 fan
theplaygroundinmyhead
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