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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
I'm not fond of parades.
Even If 07-August-2007
I went to the mall the other day. This provided some authentic grumpiness that could have won awards for such a thing. I get overwhelmed out in the world. My nervous system prefers the cool sand and solace found beneath the big stone turtle at the park, where it is forever 1973. But I can get grantly* overwhelmed just about anywhere, depending on a variety of factors or depending on nothing at all. In fact, I do a good job of becoming overwhelmed here on the farm where it is mostly calm and peaceful, where I know everybody, where we're all damn fond of each other, and where we really, really like wigs. Yeah, certain lighting, sounds, smells, etc., drill holes into my skull and can make me markedly irritable. Like Cujo. I'm the lovable neighborhood rabid dog of your dreams. Don't deny it, dollycups.
While inside that massive, ear-splitting shopping mall, I spied two round fellows seated on a bench together, sipping sodas or whatnot through straws, watching breasts. They cared not for the faces sharing the bodies of the breasts, just the breasts. Boobs may as well have been floating by on their own, perhaps waving slowly as if on parade. Their eyes sought out a matching set of mounds and locked into the gaze, heads pivoting with robot precision, mouths clinging to straws, bodies tilting forward one or two inches on the bench. Transfixed. After the spell was broken (which translates to "after the boobs were out of sight"), they would turn to one another, nodding their approval, sometimes adding a sentence or two of what I can only imagine was pure poetry.
People love breasts. And what's not to love? They are completely non-threatening, an absolute joy to have at any gathering. Months ago I found a large pinecone in a parking lot and nearly squealed from the delight of it all. I hadn't encountered a pinecone in several years and I'm telling you, it may as well have been the meaning of life setting there on the pavement. I took it home, placed it on the bookshelf in the living room so I could lovingly ogle it. A little piece of it broke off a while back in a dusting accident—a little piece resembling a set of sassy breasts.
You can see those beauties up there on the right next to the mother ship. Being the responsible farmer I am, I knew I had to put this little piece of pinecone boobage to good use. Waste not, I always say. So it is now with colossal pleasure that I share with you three great figures in history, all of whom were previously boobless, but thanks to modern technology (a bosom-shaped pinecone dropping and Museum Putty) they are newly stacked and better than ever. Please click on their names to see each remarkable transformation.
And my favourite...
I can only hope this has changed your life for the better.
There is a wonderful bird who resides each night in the tree outside my bedroom window. He showed up one evening when the weather started cooking. I don't know where he runs off to during the day, but every evening he returns somewhere near the nine o-clock hour to begin his nocturnal singing. This bird has the most impressive and extensive repertoire of tunes—I've counted 15 different chirps, all precisely expressed with elegant fluidity. He presents these chirps in what seems to be sample form, where he sings each one an average of three times before seamlessly moving into the next. Every night up there on a branch, he repeatedly performs a medley of 15 or more of his greatest hits for whomever cares to listen. He sounds as though he is celebrating something. His life, maybe. I love that bird so much it hurts my chest. He doesn't have a CD to sell or an upturned hat for collecting coins and folded dollars and bus tokens. He's sharing his jubilant chain of ditties for free.
I think a good part of the trouble with being human is the future which is constantly looming, and which seems to require us to become more than we believe we are presently. I know for a fact this is the trouble with my own experience as a person. I have never once been enough for myself. There is perpetually some greater version of me lurking there in the unknown, which is universally called the future and which rarely seems to show up in the same shape, colour, size, you-name-it, as I had hoped. In my mind, I must become something. And I am beseeched to believe that upon becoming this something, I will actually be satisfied and happy, never again to feel any deficiency within myself. If I could once and for all convince myself that this idea is a total load of bullshit, I might experience the contentment I believe exists in a world I haven't yet entered. But I keep slipping back into the madness of thinking that everything comes later.
What if happiness were a choice? There are people who have simply decided to be content, regardless of the external circumstances of their lives. Their happiness is not contingent on things going their way, and you won't find them digging through time's rubble in search of lost outcomes. I require too much to bring about my happiness. I could decide right this minute to be content, but could the lack of struggle within myself ever bring satisfaction? I seem to be addicted to the dilemma of never being enough and to the struggle to become whatever it is I think I should be. I envy that bird; to just be who I am all the time and have that be enough.
I have fallen madly in love with the bug kingdom. At the moment there are countless baby grasshoppers in my backyard. Tiny bright green bodies jumping in every direction. The other day I happened upon a small spider whose body was a translucent blue-green, like ocean glass. I discovered that those huge black carpenter bees have beautiful, delicate, iridescent wings that contradict their otherwise seemingly menacing appearance. While admiring a grasshopper the other day, I encountered a walking Phyllis Diller wig in the garden. It was bizarre to see something unusual like this moving on its own. I couldn't believe it wasn't a piece of lint.
I also couldn't believe Phyllis wasn't attached to it. Who knows what else I'll find out there. Little treasures everywhere.
Quote From My World
"Mom? Everybody has a butt."
−my four-year-old nephew, after contemplating the hugeness of some lady's backside
Two things I have learned since high school: 1. Assholes are the biggest wimps on the planet and are easily disarmed. 2. Most beliefs are best held lightly.
Thanks for reading.
Linda
*a fabulous drag queen's made-up word
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