Archive | March, 2012

Close to Home

29 Mar

My parents have three daughters – God love them – and out of the three of us, I was always the one that wanted to get the fuck out. I wanted to travel and never see my parents again, change my name and maybe pretend I came from somewhere else entirely.

And, uh, maybe not surprisingly – I am the one that has stuck closest to home. I’ve had the chance to travel, professionaly, and it was lovely. I have been places I could have never taken myself – museums after hours in Spain, the Roosevelt in New Orleans and (yes, of course) the Miss America pageant. I have been so lucky.

But. Buuuuuut. But. I’m still here in Grand Rapids, living in basically the same apartment I lived in when I was 19. I see my mother 2 or 3 times a week, my father about once a month. I work in the same industry my father has worked in his whole life.

To say that this is not how my life was supposed to work out is obvious, right? I didn’t see this. I wouldn’t have picked this. But I am breathlessly happy most of the time. I don’t want to be teaching English in Korea (a plan my ex and I had) or going to grad school in Chapel Hill. Right now, for whatever reason, I am supposed to be here. There is some kind of cosmic porch light, I think, and for me it has switched on.  I feel compelled to stay on the porch and see what the night brings.

A Text Exchange

26 Mar

R: I’m waiting on that guy who you tried to set on fire.

Moi: That could be one of a few people. Regardless, FINISH THE JOB.


25 Mar

One of my favorite bloggers is Mighty Girl. She’s adorable, named her son Hank, and manages to make me want to better my life without making me feel like shit about the Cheeto stains on my fingers.

This week she posted a tutorial on scarf tying (look, I know) and included a bit about prison tattoos. I left a comment which said, “Who DOESN’T want a prison tattoo?” because a) I am hilarious and b) no one actually WANTS a prison tattoo because no one wants to go to prison, duh.

This is where it gets extra hilarious, at least to me. There’s a blog called Get Off My Internets (I refuse to link those mouth breathers) where there is a forum where people go to exclusively complain about Mighty Girl. For realsies. And I was lucky enough to be mentioned in one of the latest complaints. It got me about 11 visitors, from what I can tell from my stats page.

“She says “Who DOESN’T want a prison tattoo?” Because to these women it’s a funny joke. It’s not a place people live and die, or part of a system where 1 in 32 people in the U.S. are enmeshed. It’s cute!”

Internet! It’s like YOU’RE INSIDE OF MY MIND. I definitely meant that prison is cute and that I have no concept of what it means to be imprisoned and I for sure had no idea that so many Americans were in prison.

Tell you what. Instead of reading blogs I hate and then going to another blog so I can complain about them, I’m going to log off the goddamn Internet and do something good in the actual world. Jesus. PEOPLE.

I Don’t Give A Fuck If It’s My Underwear

23 Mar

A few years ago (okay, fine like five) I found myself doing laundry after my ex-husband had been on tour with the Breeders for 2 weeks and I had spent a week at the Miss Montana pageant. I took our vastly different wardrobes down the street to the laundromat where I not only burnt my hand on a drum key I washed and dried (thanks, Pat) but someone stole one of my pageant shirts from the dryer. And then, as I’m folding our clothes and putting them in our tall white hamper, a man walks up to me, drops something in my hamper and walks away. And naturally I am all HEY HEY HEY. And he’s all WHAT GAH WHAT! And I point out that maybe he THOUGHT my clean clothes were, in fact, a garbage can, but he was wrong. Our convo goes something like this.

Me: “Dude, what the hell? What did you just put in my laundry?”

Him: “Oh shit, sorry! It’s just a pickle.”

Me: “…..”

Him: “It’s okay, we washed and dried it.”

Me: “I’m not even going to get into why you washed and dried a pickle. Take it out of my hamper.”

Him: “But…your underwear are in there.”

Me: “Pickle trumps undies, and those bitches are clean. Do it.”

He did, but he didn’t seem too happy about it. And it’s not like this has plagued me or anything, but what life choices end up with you washing and drying an entire dill pickle?


22 Mar

After seeing that one of my “Daily Matches” was a white man dressed in black face, I decided to take a little break from online dating and instead punch myself in the face every day for free.

We’ve Haven’t Been Back There Since Then

1 Mar

If I could never smell these things again, Lord, would my heart be glad. 

The lining of my mother’s church purse in Mississippi. 

The blue hair glue I used the spring I was in love with Justin Valmassoi, also clove cigarettes.

Lovely, the perfume I wore on my wedding day.