|
© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
|
The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, apple dear.
Just The Going 01-June-2005 5:50 a.m.
Oy. Oy! Oy. I can't think of anything to write. It is times like this that I wish I was into those meme things. I'm going to make one up, shall I? Let's get screwy with a made-up meme. For some reason that sentence has rhythm, and now I feel like getting my groove on. I'm scaring myself.
Here's the meme.
Q: When were you last on a train (if you have indeed ever been on a train), and did you see a woman who very much resembled a pig, and if so, did you get her to tell you her name, and if she told you, what was it?
A: I have never been on a train.
Well, that was fun. Now I know why I don't do those bloody things. I think the trick is not to concoct the meme yourself. When you're me, that is.
Man, stress can really affect your memory. I found my secret stash of money the other day in the secret compartment of my wallet. It isn't as if it's been there for ages, but I had forgotten all about it. One hundred forty-five doll hairs. Score! Finding secret money is always good. Finding secret poo, however, is always the opposite, like when you stumble upon a nugget behind the couch near the piano, all dried and ready to be added to your favourite trail mix. (I cannot in good conscience recommend that.) I think I will just keep adding to it until I have enough money to buy that villa in Italy I've been eyeballing.
I just cleaned the fruit bowl. A few minutes ago I transported two spiders outside. Before that I picked up cat vomit and something I don't wish to discuss. Next I hope to end world hunger.
I slept through most of Memorial Day, but that's OK. Hey, that rhymed. A poem is born:
I slept through most of Memorial Day, but that's OK.
Sorry. Anyway, it's OK because I really needed the sleep. I have been feeling beyond craptastic, and that's never a party. The good news is that I seem to have honoured (I'm not sure it's an official sort of honour, but I'll check) at least one soldier (who may or may not have died during a war—I don't have that info) by making love to a beautiful blonde woman on the "battle field." Wait, I'll explain.
A few mornings past, I dreamed about a pretty little cottage with a white picket fence, and in the front yard of this cottage were soldiers and cannons and other various weapons. In the middle of this stood a tall, dark-haired soldier and a woman with curly blonde hair. I thought for whatever reason this must be the second world war, and couldn't figure out why the soldiers would be set up for battle in front of a cottage, or why the woman in the flower-print dress would be out there with them, just flitting about in the yard. After a closer look, the men's uniforms looked more like those of a war earlier than WWII, and the cannons were from ages ago, but that doesn't really make a difference here. What matters is the hot sex that ensued.
The lady decided it was high time to lie down in the yard amid the cannon explosions and general wartime hubbub. The dark-haired soldier, who I think was French, joined her. The other soldiers were oblivious, focused on fighting the enemy. He began to kiss her abdomen through her flowery dress. I got the feeling he loved this woman madly. Never one to dillydally, the woman said, "If we're going to do this, don't you think we should just do the whole thing? Right now?" Her wish was his command. And that's where I changed position from the observer to the participant: I became the soldier. Score! I was going to experience the feeling of having my very own weenie without requiring expensive surgery.
So, it's kind of awkward acquiring a penis, even in dreamland. As the soldier, I attempted to insert my new member, but worried I would hurt m'lady, and kept inquiring about her comfort during my attempt. It all worked out eventually, and there I was, doing my part and kissing her neck and whispering "I love you" because it was true. I felt so much adoration for her, and the intimacy shared in the midst of war was passionate and tender. The din of the guns and cannons and shouting was quieted by something more powerful. The contrast between love and war played like a song in my head, reaffirming what matters in life.
So, what I'm trying to say is... shtupp more; make love, not war.
Since it rhymed, I took the liberty... Sorry again. And there you have it, my pre-Memorial Day dream as a soldier in love. I'm about to break into that most fitting Rodgers and Hart tune. Well, for those who are squeamish about all things sentimental, I will just whistle something by Metallica.
You know how you'll be reading over your old diary, the handwritten one you kept in your early twenties, and you'll come to that entry that is ever so perfectly mort*, detailing a dinner at a relative's house where a certain member of your family was completely out of control that evening, swearing at a certain other member of your family repeatedly, then brandishing a fork in your face and calling you ugly names when you defended that other relative, while different family members tried to get you to keep your mouth shut? If you know that, then you're probably aware of the bummer that befalls you upon realizing you can't properly retell that rather scary, yet strangely amusing, little story without providing bits and morsels that would make certain members of your family uncomfortable should they happen to read your online journal.
I have been told to be quiet most of my life.
"Shhh! Will you shut up?!" An edgy hand moves to cover my mouth. "Don't say anything—please."
Why? Afraid I'll screw up the disaster already in progress?
I can still feel all those words trying to claw their way out. I have a difficult time expressing myself. I feel my throat tighten as I go to click the send button to launch an email. Sometimes I have to take a deep breath first. Should I have written that? Did I say the wrong thing? Will they think I'm weird? Talking face to face with people I don't know very well is another gem. Sometimes I get so nervous I think I can't understand a bloody word the other person is saying. People who know me say the nervousness doesn't show, which is surprising considering how strong it feels at times. And at other times I am calm and confident. Life is funny like that.
I had it in my head for years that nobody wanted to hear anything I had to say. To feel so insignificant, so small that you blend in with the wall upon an order or a desperate request—that is not the stuff of which dreams are made. Do that long enough and you'll start to believe that the voice inside you is just for show, just for ordering food in restaurants and asking for directions. Communication is so vital to healthy relationships and self-worth. When you stop directly saying what is on your mind, all hell can break loose: passive-aggressive behaviour, bitterness, resentment, anger, depression—you name it. A smorgasbord of least desirables.
I am still trying to figure out forgiveness. When I was younger I forgave anyone who offered a sincere-sounding apology, no matter their crime. I suspect I was mostly eager to have everything go back to being alright again. After all, isn't it friendlier to forgive? It really is so much prettier, like that scarf I loved and accidentally destroyed with Quik Tac (I don't want to talk about it). Everybody loves the amiability of rapid forgiveness, don't they? There's no mess to clean up, no filmy residue. No tedious talking it over. But I wonder whether I ever really forgave those people, or perhaps I did but never stopped beating myself up over whatever it was they said or did, or both. At times it's as if I have taken over where certain people's unkindness left off. Oh, really? You're not here anymore to keep me down? Let me get that for you!
I saw my hopes and dreams on the pages of that old diary. I had such plans for my life. Who doesn't? But sometimes life just doesn't go the way you want it to go. I can't stop moving, though, preferably forward. Always forward. I'm not good at giving up. But now instead of focusing on the outcome, I want to enjoy the ride. I've heard the scenery can be kickassingly good when you let expectations go. That doesn't mean I don't have goals—I have plenty. It just means they won't mean everything.
I am about to fall asleep on the keyboard, and what happens when you do that is you get indentations on your cheek from the keys. I call sleep indentations shark bites. I have really sensitive skin, and one time I had a shark bite on my shoulder last an entire day. I don't know why I'm including this valuable information in this latest entry, I think I just thought you should know, in case we all have a slumber party one night and you wake up in the morning and see my shark bites, wondering if I am really La Femme Nikita, who leaves in the middle of the night to go on dangerous secret agent assignments and comes back with weird skin marks. Man, I need a nap.
Quote From My World
"A razor blade just landed on my boob."
"You know what that means, don't you?"
"What?"
"You have cutting edge tits."
Well, I'm off to work on a song or two. Or fall asleep. Hopefully not at the piano, though. I hear those black keys are murder on the cheek. Thanks for reading.
Linda
*mortifying
|
|
