C-YA Sooz!!

Can't get the song out of my head.

Mmmm, the sweet purr of a muffler driving off into the distant night.

Who cares about the lyrics, just get to the chorus and repeat!
(Hopefully, I'll be able to parallel park again!)

Do not go gentle into that good night, Susan. Just go!

Getthefuckoutbitch!

One of my favorite prayers

When I was in seminary, I realized that some of the music that I most connected with was markedly theological. Or, at least it resonated with my personal theology and gave witness to truths that were central, critical, and rarely proclaimed in a way that spoke to me, for me, through me.

Nina Simone is one of those folks. Surprisingly, Sade is too; Lover's Rock is like a prayer set to music. Erykah Badu, India Arie, me'shell ndegéocello, and of course the Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughn, Ella Fitzgerald, Dinah Washington, some Otis Redding, Stevie Wonder, Al Green, Curtis Mayfield. I like the artists who can articulate the experience of surviving pain and seeming devastation, but not gloss over the experience of being in the moment of pain. But, do it with honesty, not sappiness or platitudes, or all consuming despair.

I like an artist who can communicate what sounds like it feels when I'm in pain; knowing all the while that I'm working through it, and frustrations will pass.

So, somewhere along those lines, I've been fucking around online, because I still haven't added the citations to my paper. But, I came across this Nina Simone Clip. Mmmmm.

Sometimes, she soothes my weary soul.

Okay, How Did That Get Connected??

So, I've got this new live in housekeeper. Didn't ask for her, don't want her, not paying her, would MUCH rather that she just got the fuck out- but there she shits; wallowing on the sofa.

Complicated.

She irks the fuck out of me. She's really needy. She wants to talk to me all the time. She's hyper-sensitive, and she brings chaos to a space that I looked to for serenity and sanctuary. It's like a puppy, because I'm met at the door every time I come home with jubilance. And, she has "accidents" because it feels like she is pissing on my shoes when that excitement is immediately followed by some mindless babble about something that she saw on TV, or how much she misses her old house, or one of her "cleaning victories" like finding rust on the bathroom shelving, so she disassembled it and threw it away, and then made space for my towels on the bookshelf in my room!!

"Uhm thanks," (unintentional, but dead-on impersonation of Eeyore.)

I wonder if this is why so many straight men go to the bar after work before coming home to their wives who've been cooped up in the house all day long.

"Can I just go take off my shoes? I'm not really listening to you anyway. I'm just waiting for you to pause and breathe so that I can say, 'alright' and head up the stairs. So, can you at least let me get in the door?"

Well, I have all of this pent up hostility toward her; mostly because she's that combination of really fucking annoying and really fucking sensitive that turns really fucking explosive when you try to engage it with any approximation of a rebuff. Well, that and when I say something to her I don't want to be so pissed that I'm unleashing years of frustration that has shit to do with why you took it upon yourself to clean my bathroom and throw away my toothbrush and move the toothpaste to the bottom drawer. Who the fuck puts toothpaste in the bottom drawer though? Honestly! Stop fucking touching my stuff! I HATE YOU FOR SLAVERY!!!!

So, looking for a space to engage her where I can tell her what's up without attacking her has been really hard. I tried today over something I thought was reasonable; please stop parking in the driveway. I don't like to park on the street, (and if necessary)- I pay to live here and you don't.

Twenty minutes and two conversations later with comments like, "Do you want me to just park in the yard? Cuz, I'll park in the yard!" or "Okay, then I'll gladly block you in, but don't think I'll get up in the morning to move my car when you go to work, cuz it won't be pretty." I realize that I have driven way past my destination, and I'm all the way on the other side of town. So, here's where it gets strange (stranger?) stranger than a 50 year old crazy ass white woman posted up on your couch, trying to be your friend and hiding your toothpaste? yes, stranger than that):

So, on the opposite side of town, I try to pull in to a spot on the street to parallel park, and I can't. I can't! I just can't do it. I'm backed all up on the sidewalk. I'm trying to straighten out my car, and I realize than I'm damn near perpendicular to the flow of traffic. I have no sense of the size of my car, or its relationship to the space, or where it really is in relation to the other cars or the sidewalk. I pull out and try again. No haps. I have occluded all memories of parallel parking skills.

And, not to brag- but to brag. I'm an awesome parallel parker.

"You can't fit in there."

-zip- -zip- -zip-

"Wow! With room to spare..."

I've prided myself on my parallel parking skillz. And, as I sit down I realize... my parallel parking skills have been atrophying since she moved in. What started as having to back out once and start over again last week, then became some really frustrating repeated curb bumping and wheel scraping two nights ago, has eroded into, "How the fuck did I get perpendicular?"

I don't even have the benefit of sex to regret in this scenario. (The thought of that just made me throw up in my mouth a little bit.) I'm completely blameless here, yet here I sit.

There's no witty ending to this. Sooze, you gotta get a job and get the fuck out- toot sweet.

Marshmallow?

(Uhm...best shot I could find?)

Really? Marshmallow? Not Marshmellow?

Marshmallow is the right way to spell that word, really?

I've always thought it was marshmellow. Marshmallow sounds kinda dumb, like you have a speech impediment and a Lichtensteinian accent, and you're 18months old and just learning to say longer words comfortably.

"May I have some marshmallows in my hot chocolate mom?"

"Only if you say 'marshmallow' again. You're so cute!!!!"

"Marshmallow."

"Awwwww.... Okay- now say umbrella."

Marshmellow sounds like whipped sugary goodness. Marshmallow sounds like a moon pie filling; kinda sketchy like the what are those hard pellets that occasionally were in Twinkies back in the 70's? Marshmallow, huh?

I wonder what else I've been wrong about with certainty for decades?

I'm still going to say "marshmellow" though, because "marshmallow" sounds dumb. And, "that's dumb" is the definitive end to any argument.

Oh- you disagree with me? Well, what you just said sounds dumb. (End of discussion.)

Good thing I wasn't on any debate teams when I was in school. I would have crushed them!

Marshmallow Angels

I just bought a new comforter, and I LOVE IT!!!!!

I love it with Oprah emphatic charisma, I LuuuVEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!

It must be all in my mind, but it feels like it makes my bed SO much more comfortable. I got one of those Beauty Rest Pillowtop mattresses that remind me of the "Calgon, take me away" commercials.

[We had Calgon in the house when I was a kid, and maybe I was too enthused by the commercials so I used too much, but I wasn't really a fan. It always just felt like taking a bath with sand scratching your ass and perfume burning your nose.]

Anyway, one of my best friends is moving tomorrow, and he's been staying at my place before he leaves. Well, last night he climbed into my bed and said, "Wow! This is really comfortable. It's like sitting on a cloud being fed marshmallows by angels."

What higher compliment can you give to someone as you climb into bed with them?

Nice tits?

Thanks Wanda Sykes!

I'm a big old fan of Wanda Sykes, even though from time to time she slips into cheesy sitcom style humor. She's inconsistent I guess, but when she hits her stride? Hilarious. Like her show, the sitcom about 6 years ago- very manufactured canned laughter unfunny. (Might be why it only lasted one season.) But, the episode that opens up with her being tired of waiting on Black leaders to get reparations and taking it upon herself to get her own, hilarious!

She knocks on someone's front door, and a white lady answers looking a little puzzled.

Wanda: "Yes, I'm here for my reparations. It looks like you owe me, [Looks down at piece of paper] $13.25."

So, I'm driving downtown earlier, and traffic is kinda tight. And, as I sit there watching ants crawl along the ground, some white guy in a business suit walks out of one of the buildings. For whatever reason, there's no traffic moving in the opposite direction, so as he steps off the curb to cross the street he can just casually stroll, which he does.

After he's crossed a couple of lanes, it's clear that he's walking towards my car. He doesn't want anything from me, just passing by my car to get to the other side of the street. And that's when it hits me.

I look out the window waiting for eye-contact. [Wait for it... Wait for it.] And, as soon as he looks at me from a couple of feet away, I cringe a little bit, and with slow deliberation -click- I lock my car doors!

I could barely wait for him to cross the street before I busted out laughing.

Thanks, Wanda!

My Phobia

Phobia: n. an uncontrollable, irrational, and persistent fear.




I'm sure that I have plenty of phobias, but only one that I can tell is irrational, but yet it persists.

This is a little embarrassing, but I'm deathly afraid of statues. Cold sweat, stop breathing afraid.


I looked on the web to see if there was a name for my phobia since there are catalogues of phobias that include Latin names for things as obscure as being afraid of left-handed people. Well, if you do a search yourself, you will see that the name for my phobia is "Statue Phobia", or the real transcendentalists label it "Fear of Statues." C'mon! I want something Latin too!

I was surprised to learn that it's a fairly common phobia, and for only $147 I can get some CD's and a workbook sent in the mail that will cure me of it.

One site had Staurophobia listed, but when I cross-referenced I discovered that it's a fear of crucifixes. Uhm, don't have that problem, right Buddy Jesus?


So, statues:
It happened when I was a really little kid, posted up on the couch with my Orville Redenbacher "Natural Flavor" bag of popcorn watching Clash of the Titans.

As you can see from the trailer, its cutting edge state of the art special effects are fluid and realistic enough to stay with most people for 30 years or more. But, way back in 1st or 2nd grade, back when I used to love Greek mythology, back when I could spend the whole day drawing pictures and not feel like I had "wasted" my time, back when I had to be home before the street lights came on, I think I had some blurring along the periphery of the boundaries of what is fantasy and what is reality. (I think most of us still do, actually. I think as adults we believe that less than we want is possible in life, and as kids we think anything could be possible. At any rate,) A compelling movie has always fully captivated my little brains.



So, there: Sofa, popcorn, and a 2-foot version of me, totally engrossed.

I haven't seen the movie since, but to the best of my recollection, there is a scene where someone is talking to a statue who suddenly opens its eyes. Now, in that moment, there's the loud and unnerving sound effect of an orchestra, or something, hitting a minor chord; which is intended to startle and unnerve you, just to punctuate the startle reflex and milk you for all of the terror your imagination and your physiology can be combined to produce.


(As an aside: I wonder if it was actually Medusa getting her head cut off and then opening her eyes? I thought it would be cool to put up a picture of Medusa to open this post, but when I looked for images of Medusa I was so uncomfortable looking at them that I couldn't even click on a thumbnail to see if I liked the image. And, it left me unnerved enough that I wanted something up there that couldn't possibly have any negative associations. Strawberries! Wait- strawberries dipped in chocolate and then painted to look like tuxedos. Oh that's so cute!"


When I watched the trailer just now I saw that Medusa is a cgi that looks kinda like a statue, and has staccatic movements, kinda like the statues that move in the movie, and the monsters, and anything else the special effects department has rigged up.)


So, if you're still reading, my phobia actually is not of statues, there are statues all over town that I think are kinda cool. It's easier to use statues as a shorthand, but my phobia is actually far more specific. I am afraid of Greco-Roman styled, slightly larger than life sized, statues of a woman opening its eyes, and then killing me. Now, I know that there's no name for that one!


There's something in the moment of suddenly realizing that you haven't been alone, and moreover, you've been vulnerable without realizing it in the presence of someone who wishes you harm.

It's odd, but writing it out like that makes me realize that it overlaps a lot with where racism makes white people look terrifying to me. ...huh!

In any case, it's the eyes. It's in the eyes.

So, I went to a lecture a few weeks ago and I had to use the bathroom. Walking down the long corridor I noticed that there were some busts on mantles near the entrance to the bathroom. I didn't feel all that intrigued as I went in, but on the way out I decided to go take a look at them.

I came out of the bathroom, and there in front of me was a bust of someone's head carved in white stone, but someone had colored in the eyes red. RED! Well, could have been black, or brown, but my shocked little ass saw red.

"Nnyyaaa!" is what I said reflexively. Shoulders tightened up, every muscle in my body seized, and shivering, I closed my eyes and turned around to walk down the corridor back to the lecture.

And that's when I realized... I hadn't been alone in the corridor. Standing by himself, about 4 feet away from me was some man who was looking down at his Blackberry.

"Shit! Okay, just act natural. Don't make eye-contact, and walk down the hall as though nothing has happened. Maybe he'll think I have Tourettes."


"Maybe he thinks I have Tourettes!?!" Christ Jesus Alive! I comforted myself with the hope that someone thought I had Tourettes, not "Maybe he didn't hear me," or "Maybe he thought I was playing around," or "maybe I just looked really scared to him, and he was completely non-judgemental." Nope, let's swing for the fences with Tourettes.

You know, even I realize that the shit that goes through my head is both amusing and absurd sometimes. It's so kooky inside my brain sometimes that all I can do is watch and laugh.