Some Blog

Someone send some weed*

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

My uterus is trying to kick its way out. My meds are in jail at the pharmacy. Bruce has the car.

Can a bad touch come from the inside?

*In the majority of cases Marijuana (Cannabis Sativa) has proven to relax or suppress the pain and remove a proportionaly [sis] large amount of stress. Althought [sic] doctors consider this to be an unorthodox method given all the treatments available to this condition and the fact that it may not produce any long term effects, this may still be an effective way to combat Endometriosis. Research for this method is little to none since the drug is banned in most countries and even inside those countries that support a small legal prescribed amount, the amount does not prove sufficient to effectively deal with the disease.

Fluffed and Folded

Thursday, February 22, 2007

A year.

Normally this is the time where I start throwing my cake out in the rain.

There is an incessant high pitched ringing in my ear. Bruce thinks this is amusing.

He also finds my constant orders amusing. He says no an awful lot.

A year.

The brik-a-brak is still identifiably one of ours but has started to mix nicely.

Our books share a case mixed by type and subject, although I suspect no one questions who brought the Torah and who brought The Soviet-Afghan War. It’s nice that there are places where we almost overlap. There are more places where we overlap: Ikea in the morning, breakfast foods at dinner time, dark wood, clean glass, wikipedia for research.

That’s not to say that we don’t have our moments of sincere fuckitude. We certainly have plenty of that. We fight about lighting. Bruce is thisclose to blind and would like to import the sun into every room. I am in favor of low lighting with my perfect vision and would use the ambient glow from the television to read (which is how I do all my late night typing). I know it seems petty, but I think I might have a brain tumor and all that bright light really messes with my eyes. Okay, so maybe there’s no tumor, but whatever.

I recognize that I don’t know how I got here and how this is still a here. It’s not easy or logical, trust me, we’ve heard from plenty of people about the lack of logic of us, but on we march.

Bruce gave me a card. A first birthday card with Elmo. I think that sums us up perfectly.

I Don’t Want To Brag But

Friday, February 16, 2007

Valentine’s Day worked out for me. I received a dozen roses first thing in the morning, which was nice, but unnecessary. Bruce and I had dinner at a Vietnamese place down the street, so there was no cooking for me, even better. AND I got the DVD version of Trivial Pursuit, Pop Culture, which is fucking awesome.

For Bruce’s White Elephant Swap at Christmas he won a used Trivial Pursuit game. Well, sort of used. The little pie pieces were still attached to the hoop. But the board was missing.

According to Bruce you could see the elation in my eyes die when I realized the cruel twist of fate.

So flowers are nice, and not needing to cook dinner is always appreciated, but Trivial Pursuit, that’s love.

Washed and Waxed

Thursday, February 15, 2007

In my earliest days in my newest home town I found my way to a local nail salon. As is the want of these establishments, they also offered the waxing of a variety of body parts. I decided that I was at the juncture in my hair growth cycle that required a fresh eyebrow wax, just to maintain the wonderfulness that is my well manicured and professionally arched brows. The woman, a term I use loosely because she’s really a monster that visits me in my nightmares, heard something different.

Along with a layer of skin (meaning that I had scabby welts that needed ointment for two days), half of my eyebrows were ripped from my forehead. I looked very surprised. No really. For like a month I looked as if I was in a permanent state of suspicion. I suppose when I entrust my eyebrows to an Asian woman who has drawn on her own brows, well above the supraorbital bone on her skull where the natural brow would sit had it not been entirely removed, I really only have myself to blame.

I won’t lie. I cried. The pain of the waxing was less upsetting than idea that I would have to be seen in public with these mangled arches (for the sake of reality, I suppose I should mention that Bruce saw very little wrong and had the audacity to state that he thought my brows were fine and the same as before the criminal hair napping took place).

The past three months entailed a procedure that included brow stencils and dark brown powder. Whilst I no longer looked surprised, I did look Mediterranean. I have purchased a professional eyebrow kit ($40 at Sephora and more than worth it, people buy this kit).

There has been an excellent re-growth process and my brows, those gentle non-invasive creatures that had never so much as offended a depilatory process and staunchly defended their right to frame my face in a manner that flattered and balanced my visage, my loved and perfect brows HAVE RETURNED!

Yesterday I noticed that I needed to clean up the eyebrows, to maintain…well you’ve heard this story already. I decided that someone else would not be touching my brows and I waxed them myself.

What the fuck? OUCH. No really, that was not good. There is a reason why people are well paid to abuse my body with hot wax. I cannot inflict that kind of pain on myself regularly.

At least I still have my epidermis. And I don’t look surprised.

The User That Didn’t

Friday, February 09, 2007

In Good Will Hunting there is a scene, where the boys are messing around and being boys from Southie. And I remembered, just for a second, Johnny from H Street. In Southie (South Boston, not to be confused with the South End of Boston) the letter streets were rough. When my Grams was coming up, the letter streets were hard core Irish. Then the neighborhood had an influx of black families. There were times when you didn’t go into Southie. For any reason. Well, except for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. On all other days those streets were war torn.

These days, the Irish and blacks have learned to live peaceably and the L Street Tavern is a great place to watch the Red Sox win the World Series. The edging letter streets are bleeding with yuppies and recent college graduates as the lure of space and cheap rent help them overcome their fear of the bad part of town. Coffee shops and conveniences are popping up along Broadway. Some of the projects were torn down and high price condos were put up. Waterfront property is always worth the risk.

There still remains a segment of the old school Irish. Johnny was one of them. He was black Irish with an accent and attitude. He was my bit of rough. But he was all the things wrong that are still wrong about the wrong side of the track. He had a habit. He had his war stories which entailed the usual: gangs, drugs, sex. He swore he was clean, not that it mattered to me as I certainly was not, but he was adamant, and insisted on telling me, that he was clean. About a week into the relationship Johnny was asking about when I went out and partied. The questions were couched in the words and terms of a user.

Several weeks into the relationship he was asking more specifics, you know the names and numbers, cost. Little things like that, but he was most certainly not a user. Obviously he wanted to stay relevant and needed to know market price for an 8 ball. We were only together for a few more weeks during which he bought from my brother, even though Johnny totally didn’t use.

I can’t really remember what we did when we were together. I can remember how it ended. The weekend I had my wisdom teeth out he called. I could barely speak and he wanted to have a long conversation. When I pointed out that I had a mouth full of cotton and was messed up he got mad at me for being too busy. I told him that I was too tired to deal with his issues. Johnny took that as a break-up speech, which I suppose it was. I never heard from him again, but the way I see it, he was just an addict waiting for a relapse.

Lessons I’ve Learned From My Mom

Monday, February 05, 2007

As a teen I was the home-base for alterna-hair and knew the best way to get my Hispano-black hair to take just about any color on the face of the earth. A natural born love affair with bleach began when I was 13. A simple caramel streak evolved into a face-framing swatch of platinum inviso-hair (you know where the bleach has turned the hair into see through blue, which is what happens when black hair is bleached down to it’s base. All pigment is removed and only the shaft of the hair remains).

The bleach was my gateway dye. There was purple, koolaid red, blue, endless shades of brown/mahogany, jet black (the biggest mistake), orange (aka what happens when Jet Black is bleached out), almost my natural brown (over the orange), and then the evolution to a blonde. I started with a variety of highlights in caramel and honey. I ended with BLONDE hair.

What I’ve learned about all of this is that I am a lazy person and would prefer to not have to touch up the roots on my Crystal Gayle-growing hair. The black roots with blonde hair took quite a toll on me…and my wallet. The one thing I learned from the Great Blonding of 2001-2002 is to never try to make your perfectly and expensively dyed hair a DIY job. I finally grew tired and poor and cut all that shit off. I went short and back to brown, with the vow to never dye again.

Throughout my entire decade of hair abuse, my mother would shake her head and cluck her tongue. She loved my long dark hair. She loved my color, and now, on the other side of life, I do see why. The color is nice. The natural highlights are nice. The texture is nice. I spent time and money messing up my hair, and part of the reason was just to piss off my mom. My mom, who never applied a faux finish to her hair, even when the gray starting coming in, not even a dark rinse that would wash out when she was re-married, who would beg and plead for me to just leave my hair alone, who on occasion asks me if I am still dying my hair because she’s forgotten what my real color is, was right.

Now that I’ve reached the ripe old age of 28 I’ve started to find gray hairs. Three gray hairs to be exact, all growing in the same spot off my temple. Even in my grayitude I am so fucking trendy: I am going gray in a streak. More importantly, I am beginning to understand my mother’s approach. We may have different reasons, but the results will be the same, I’m not going to dye my grays away.

I am nothing if not lazy.

Mr. Clean, Mr. Clean

Thursday, February 01, 2007

In the past few days I have not exerted myself any more than normal. I know, such a loaded statement. The point is, my apartment is practically pristine. There are a few boxes in the corner and the office (aka Bruce-ville) is a wreck with boxes to be unpacked (STILL), but the living-room, both bathrooms, the bedroom, the kitchen and the dining area are all exactly as they should be: everything is at right angles and smelling fresh.

I think that I spent a total of 2 hours over three days cleaning. You know, normal put back what you took out type of things and a few loads of laundry. But the respective cleanliness is confusing to me. I have done nothing more than I normally do during a week and the apartment is a million times more orderly.

As I finished the third load of laundry and noticed the preponderance of “Bruce clothes” I came to the realization that Bruce is holding me back. You know how there is that Sesame Street game: one of these things is not like the other, well, that’s what I’ve been playing all week without Bruce. Except I’ve been playing Which one of these elements has not been around and thusly has not been causing a big mess (perhaps my games are slightly more detailed).

I think that what it comes down to is that Bruce insists on wearing clean clothes to work each day and likes to eat food that has been cooked.

I’m putting Bruce on notice: you get two pairs of pants a week, learn to double up; stop eating things that need to be cooked, you get one hot meal a week after that it’s cereal for dinner; no one needs a fresh shirt every day, turn that shit inside out; I’ll allow fresh socks and undergarments because I am nothing if not totally benevolent in my dictatorship.

Also: stop messing up the apartment.