Monthly Archives: January 2011

Game Cheats for Lovers

Commiserating with an old friend today, I remarked that the most valuable token of wisdom I’ve received of late, from some brief marriage counseling last fall, was the revelation that our subconscious minds choose the mates we marry. And that same subconscious will purposefully choose a person who will poke at ALL of your sublevel sore spots. Every last one. In order to heal them. We choose partners who will pick at the concealed yet open wounds, forcing us to recognize and remedy them, rather than the easier route of leaving them to linger (and fester) in the dark recesses of the mind.

Aint’ love GRAND?!

For example, my counselor noted that though my first husband – on the surface – seems so very different from my second, he said, “They may seem night and day, but you still married the same man. The first one was chocolate flavor and this one is just strawberry flavor.” And he was right: nail, meet head. Because, despite the seeming disparity between my first spouse and my second, they both possess that special somethin-somethin’ that happens to hit on all my inner-turmoil triggers. That, and they’re both Virgos – which doesn’t mean anything (which totally means something).

But the part that excited me about this information is that we do this to ourselves so we can heal. There’s a POINT to the madness. And the point is to fix what is broken inside ourselves, not suffer and exacerbate that suffering. The silver lining is that you can mend what requires mending and move forward into a happy, healthy, truly loving relationship.

And, the real kicker is, if you don’t make it work with chocolate flavor, or figure out your bullshit with strawberry flavor, you’re doomed to repeat the heartbreaks with somebody named vanilla.

(And nobody wants that)

It makes great sense to me, since I believe we’re here on the planet to evolve and grow inwardly. It’s why I believe in kooky things like reincarnation: ain’t no way you’re gonna get it all right (or be able to soak it all in) the first time around. No. Way.

Anyhow, I’d mentioned to my friend that I wasn’t attempting to preach or dispense sage advice. It was more that this bit on the wiley ways of the subconscious (which feels true as blue) was like passing someone a helpful game cheat. Someone stuck on a particularly grueling level of the game called LOVE. Press Up, Double B, Right, Left, Left and then Start……and you can finally level up!


Elmo Can Never Unsee That

From behind the closed door of the master bathroom I hear a large grown man throwing up in our bathtub. It sounds like buckets of water are being dumped into it, violently, interrupted only by groans. I knock on the door and he moans, “Go away…oh God….please go away.” I, too, hate it when people attempt to tend to me while I’m vomiting and I understand. I take a peak at my husband, to make sure he’s not in any 911-ish danger (and I see him: ass planted on the toilet, torso leaning over the bathtub, hating life and everything that’s ever been called, or even looked like, food) and I leave him be.

Ten minutes go by, the bathroom door opens and my husband appears clutching our daughter’s three inch tall Elmo bathtub toy. He hoists mini-Elmo in the air, and in a small, high voice he says, “Elmo can never unsee that. Elmo wants to die now.”

Lies, Lies, Lies, (Hell) Yeah!

My New Year’s resolution is to lie more!

(click me….I’m here to be a soundtrack for reading)

Just before bed last night, Scott and I were discussing our friends’ internet posts – specifically regarding their respective New Year’s resolutions – and I said, “Everyone’s all, ‘It’s the new me! I’m going to be more myself, more true.’ I think that’s a terrible idea. I’m going to be LESS me in 2011. I don’t think being myself is working out very well.” And, as is his reaction to most of my jokes, he chuckled and then called me retarded.

But I’m sort of serious. Because, I’m a pretty genuine person – yet being genuinely “myself” doesn’t always go my way. Honesty is seemingly not always the best policy. The problem being this: people prefer to be lied to. They will tell you otherwise, of course. They will say “Oh, I hate bullshitter’s – give it to me straight.” But if you give it to them straight, enough times, they’ll either resent it, or even just get bored with it. No one wants to hear the truth. It’s why the “Yes Men” of the world are forever secure in their jobs. It’s why some people surround themselves solely with ass-kissers, and it’s why ass-kissers so often get ahead in life. Assholes and the ass-kissers who love them: life’s “Couple Most Likely to Succeed”.

The notorious unkindness of truth: it usually, drastically departs from the lies we tell ourselves, and in turn tell others. The affectations people project in an effort to be interesting, mysterious and complicated – or to appear well-adjusted, accomplished and happy – those lies take crazy amounts of energy to maintain, are the most exhausting, and (personally) the bullshit factor therein is nauseating.

Not to say that I don’t lie. Or that I don’t have secrets. Or that I suffer from diarrhea of the truth. I won’t voluntarily tell you if I think your shirt is ugly. But if you ASK me if I think it’s ugly I’ll probably mention that it’s maybe, kinda, sorta, a little bit horrible. And I’m still learning when to hold my tongue. Over the years I’ve come to recognize when someone is “not tryin’ to hear that, see.” Sometimes we need our layers of bullshit. Sometimes it works the way padded walls do. Without it we might really hurt ourselves.

Be all that as it may (or may not?), in 2011 I think I’m going to increase my own individual level of BS. I’m just going to state random things like, “Me? Oh, I’m a fledgling astronaut”, and see where it gets me. Onto a space shuttle? Who can say? How many people will suck that up as truth, and – better still – find it fascinating. I mean, in a sense it is true – in the sense that I am inexperienced at being an astronaut, but could have entertained the idea of pursuing it as a career, and thus…’s real-ish.

Who’s to say WHAT is true. The world is my, possibly, disingenuous oyster.
It’s really a wonder lawyers aren’t more beloved.

Here’s Preparation H in Your Eye!

I got Preparation H in my eye in a few months ago. I thought I should write that down somewhere. Somewhere ridiculously public. Thought that was kind of noteworthy. Ridiculously, publicly noteworthy….how I got Preparation H in my left eye.

Right in the corner of it, where your eye meets the bridge of your nose. And it didn’t start to tingle until much too late. Like, fiteen minutes later -while I was already driving and couldn’t *flush the eyeball* with anything beside a carafe of coffee. And crying was out. How do you cry about something so blatantly hysterical?

More hilarity would ensue when I later read the warning printed on the PH tube: “For external or intrarectal use only.” Intrarectal. Nice. I didn’t know that word existed. Headline: Half Blind Woman Disocvers New Vocab Word. It sounded like a word I typically make up and pass off in casual conversation as real.

HOW/WHY did I get PH in my eyeball? Because I’d applied it to my puffy under-eyes. Why did I apply it to my puffy under-eyes? Because, somewhere in the late 90s I saw Living in Oblivion. In it an actress (Catherine Keener) playing an actress applies Preparation H to her morning eye bags before filming, explaining (I think) something about how it reduces swollen tissue. At the time I saw this movie I was about 19, maybe 20 years old. Though I’ve always sported various shades of purple under my eyes, puffy bags were a rarity. A byproduct only of long nights partying and little to no sleep. And though I can’t even recall whether or not I even liked Living in Oblivion, I always remembered that one odd little scene.

Lo, all these years later, I have puffy under-eyes. Most mornings my peepers look as though they’re storing nuts for the winter. Giant purple nuts. You think I exaggerate but, trust me, it was Preparation H time. And, to my groggy joy, it sort of worked. Less puff. Less puff enough to use the ointment semi-regularly. Never giving thought to the possible consequences of it seeping into my sockets and making contact with the soft tissue of my precious eyeballs.

In the end, it tingled and slightly stung for about a half an hour. The corner of my left eye protesting my idiocy by turning pink. But no lasting damage, I can still see. I can still see, for instance, how bloated my goddamned under-eyes are every morning. And I’ve since laid off the PH – relying instead on more sleep and less drinking. With maybe an eventual cosmetic surgeon on speed dial? Who knows.

In other, even weirder news: Preparation H goes disco!