Sometimes you feel like a nut.

Up until two nights ago, I feverishly hid the cover of Twilight and New Moon as I was reading each. On the train, the plane, the beaches of St Thomas, and on lunch breaks. When I closed the book, it immediately went under my arm to cover all traces of black and red flaunted on the front cover. I finally admitted to myself that I had an obsession for the series, but that didn’t mean I wanted the rest of the mature world in on my secret.

That is, until…

I went out with a man who was so smart that he was actually boring. I never thought the intelligence of a man would turn me off but alas it has. He was a law enforcer who mentioned (twice in an hour and a half) the 1000 books at his apartment – all of which were probably philosophy and law related. I shy away from people who are heavily into politics because I am not. When interviewed on the street by a television reporter for MTV about the democratic presidential debates (on the night before) I was speechless. I had been so busy working and commuting I didn’t get to watch it. I wanted to, the thought was there- but so was my bed and my pillow and, well, I voted for the down comforter. I’m not proud of it, but I did have to pay for it in the end. He kept the questions coming and after helpless blank stare after blank stare he threw me a bone. He wanted to know how I thought Obama would win over Hillary’s supporters as many voters were on the verge of crossing party lines. A quick learner, he didn’t wait for silence, he immediately brought it down to my level by retorting to using names maybe I was more familiar with. (face reddens) He answered his own question by suggesting that maybe Obama follow John Mayer’s lead by sending Hillary, Jenn Aniston, a muffin basket. (John and Jenn were on the rocks again during that time.) The analogy barely helped, I was too camera shy/shocked to even chuckle. I still pray every night that session didn’t aired. I don’t know what I was thinking- there was a camera, a tall beautiful black man holding a microphone and beckoning me over to his space. So I went. Big mistake.

So the other night, after learning more about my… god I can’t say it. I won’t say the four letter d-word! ... company for the evening… I did everything in my power, and with a new found pleasure, to make him think I was theeeee stupidest woman ever. I didn’t like him that much that I was willing to throw away all my feminist notions and feign the portrayal of a female that in no way resembles myself. 

I took him to K-mart as we waited for my train to rescue me home. I figured he’d hate the evil corporation that it stood for, but he said nothing and followed me around like a lost puppy. We hate that. Don’t follow us. The camping gear got boring so I moved over to the toys. “Let’s go steal toys from the little kids and make them cry.” No hint of amusement flickered across his face. The toy shelves were in disarray, everything on the floor. But the one display that was perfectly intack was the stuffed bears that sing those terribly annoying Christmas carols. I remembered him saying he didn’t like loudness, or loud people. PERRRFECT! I went over looking for which paw to press to bring him to life. Lower right paw, “press here.” My obedience was rewarded as the sweetest most screechiest sound came to my ears. And to my delight, he danced too! Even better, but still not enough. The other 5 bears and the one lizard wanted to join in on the chorus. One by one I pressed their paws to bring in the first and second sopranos, the alto, tenor and finally the bass. All last-minute-shopper-eyes were on us as I conducted the stuffed animal choir in 6/8. I swayed with them as they danced. My company just stared, again expressionless.

“You hated that didn’t you?” I asked hopefully, an evil smile lighting up face as we walked away. There were no standing ovations or pleas for an encore. He said something smart, using too many words when he could've just said "No." and meant the same thing. Damn it! He didn’t hate me enough. And even though I only allotted 1.5 hours of time together (keeping it short on purpose) there was still more time until my train. 

Last resort. 

There was a Borders just above the train station. I was intent on showing him how opposite we were and how there was no point in him even trying to contact me again. This is not to say that I wasn't going to continue to have so fun with this, I mean I was there- I may as well have. To continue the plan for sabotage, we went through the store and I pointed out all of the books I had recently read. I hoped he would frown upon them as they were not nearly as intellectual as his palette for literature called for. “Eat Pray Love – read that! Looooooved it.” I said. He picked up a copy of Skinny Bitch and scrunched his nose. “Have you read this one?” he asked. “Nah, I don’t need to read that. I already am a skinny bitch.” Emphasis on the ba-itch. No reaction. Did he not hear me??

This wasn’t as easy as I had hoped.

My (last) last resort. “OK, so I’m kinda embarrassed to admit this- but I’m really into the Twilight series.” No reaction. “The vampire series.” Not even disgust. “…About a teenage girl who falls madly in love with a teenage vampire.” Can I get at least a smirk to let me know I’m successfully sabotaging the night? “It’s 500 pages but the type is thiiiiiiis big!” I spread my thumb and pointer finger as far apart as my bones would stretch. Still nothing. We passed the science fiction, the thriller and mystery sections. It was nowhere to be found. “Maybe we should go look in the children’s section. It was there last time… hhmmm.” I thought this would kill him, as a man who refused to speak in the vernacular. Come on, I was reading the cheesiest books out there and he used words like “shall” on FaceBook chat.  Colloquial language was beneath him? First clue Jacquii. The first time I had met him he was interesting. So, we gave it a try. Shudder. It happens.  I like nutty guys, ones that go against the grain- but he didn’t quite fit my mold of nutty- as it doesn’t exclude personality or fondness for pop culture but does forbid creepiness and extreme intelligence. Seems there’s always a fine line between the two.

He had never even heard of it. Note to self: only hang with people who are aware of the latest blockbuster movie, and book series that’s taking the world over by storm. This way, at least you can dumb down if need be. In hindsight, since that didn't work I could’ve just told him about the muffin basket story. Perhaps that would’ve kept him from saying inappropriate things about what he wanted to happen the next time (next time?!?) he saw me. Maybe I was doing it all wrong. Maybe he wanted a dumb girl. I should’ve ended it all by saying I was a democrat.

Sometimes you don’t.

Who would dare compare The Fountainhead to Twilight. This girl right here.

It’s hard to go from Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead to the latest cult addiction, Twilight. The transition should’ve been a little easier than it was. I have read, The Secret Life of Bees, Wuthering Heights, Eat Pray Love and The Alchemist in between. But still. Rand’s literature is not something you can just get out of your mind- no matter how many Classics and New York Times best sellers you read.

Since The Fountainhead, all that crosses my eyes comes under a new standard- and most have since failed. The reading taste of the masses sort of frightens me. The number of copies sold for a book does not always reflect the quality of the literature, I must remember this.

Still, I decided to give the newest “it” book a try. Starting it I was, admittedly, of course a little leery. The cover didn’t bother me, (oh shush, you judge books by the covers too) a girl’s pale hands holding a juicy blood red apple. What did bother me was the size 13 type and the enormous spacing in between the lines. I felt accomplished after having completed all 694 pages of the Fountainhead – not including the afterward and the author’s notes both of which I proudly read, totaling up to 701 pages- all of which was set in tight, small type. So this 500 page book with large pages, made me feel juvenile, like I had found the vampire version of the Sweet Valley High Twins. (I had no idea before opening this book that it was intended for a younger audience. Everyone my age and older was reading it too.  But as if my reservations needed furthered mocking, I pulled the sequel New Moon, off the shelf of the CHILDREN’S SECTION in the airport bookstore. Ouch)

But just go with it girl. Stop looking for things to bother us. Type size really shouldn’t affect a reader so much. Just admit it’s cause we don’t like liking what everybody else likes. I completely skipped over the Harry Potter craze, Lord of The Rings and the Star War trilogy remake. I only just recently watched The Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy – so late that I was able to see all three within a month of each other. I'm subjective when it comes to doing the popular thing. I don’t watch Gossip Girl and I’ve never seen an episode of The Simple Life or Dancing With the Stars. I don’t know why. But I figured, this time – I had better take a go at it.

So I did and I actually liked this book. It’s a page turner, and not just for all the 15 year olds out there reading it. Maybe the whole point of writing this is because I need to feel validated. That I’m allowed to like both Rand’s masterpiece that took me over a month to read… and a teeny bopper book that I completed in two days.

All my skinny ladies. All my skinny ladies.

Can I just say something really quickly?
Of course you can, it’s your blog. You can say anything you’d like dear.
Ok. Thanks.

I’ve held my peace about this for a while. Figured, everyone’s gotta get their chance to shine. But it’s time I’ve opened my mouth about this. In defense of all my fellow, naturally slender women.

Kate Winslet, a beauty, has an amazing face and an amazing body. She knows this and takes pride in her figure. And she should. But so often I’ve heard her say, along with other curvaceous va-va-va-voom women, that “they are real women” who aren’t going to starve themselves to look like the waifs in the magazines. I applaud her confidence, really I do.

But a reeeeal woman, really Kate? I take personal offense to that comment as it suggests that since I’m naturally thin, I’m not a real woman. I don’t starve myself. I don’t try to be thin. I eat- a lot actually. It’s just me. I’m happy body-acceptance for women is being promoted. It is so long over due. And God, I never want any teenage girl thinking she is too fat. But for that matter, I don’t want any teenage girl thinking she is too skinny either.

Why are body types trends? Consider my brief and sporadic timeline of women’s body shapes. The statues of the renaissance women depicted voluptuous bodies. The 60s donned Twiggy-esque proportions as the new-it body. The 80s marked the supermodel era of Cindy Crawford and the like curvy beauties. Then Kate Moss and company took over only to be replaced by Beyonce and her fellow bootylicious ladies. Why can’t we all be beautiful at the same time? How can an ass size be a trend or measurements be appropriate for an era?

The bottom line is, we’re all different. No one should starve themselves to match the magazine girl. But for that matter no one should eat themselves to oblivion to get more curvy or inject their breasts and asses with silicon.

All of our bodies are beautiful, no matter what shape, size or proportions, all of the time.

Mmm-Mmm Yuck

I swore I would never do it again. I made vows to God, Buddah, Mohammed and on the head of my firstborn child. But there I was last night, forcing canned soup down my throat. Must’ve been left over from the Y2K scare some 9 years ago. Please don’t fault me, it was the last thing in my food pantry.

I pull open the can and I remember all over again why I can’t stand canned soup. The aroma hits harder and harder as more of it plops out of the can. This is no easy pour- I’m jumping up and down to free the remainder of preserved beans trapped in the aluminum.

It’s really a shame that I am complaining about food intended for the convenience of the masses and that helped to bring comfort to soldiers. Soldiers, who fought to preserve my freedom. Regardless, this preserved food brings about an unfortunate circumstance as olfaction is no longer a gift but a curse. As all sorts of disgusting sounds (hearing, also made a curse) emerge from the escaping lentil bean mass, I forget the benefits the sense of smell allows- walking down a flower studded avenue in Hawaii, baby powder, new car scent, the smell of a new book. Because I have two nostrils and a pot of cold lumpy soup underneath them, all I can remember is the foulness that is opportune when you are blessed to have a functioning sense of smell - the street meats of various cities, the donkey shit gracing the trails of the Grand Canyon in August, road kill. And last but not least, canned lentil soup.

I’ve noticed that all canned soup has the same smell, it doesn’t matter the flavor. And the taste? All cans might as well read ‘Sodium’ in a beautiful script typeface where the flavor should be. My 5-star cuisine happened to be lentil, but it could’ve very well been chicken soup or clam chowder. I think they all taste the same anyways.

I dunno, the thought of canned beans bothers me enough- but canned meat? Canned seafood? Oh boy. But I guess we all do desperate things when we are hungry.

Not a very good start to my week.

And.

It’s freezing out. I wish I could wish that I had a cup of steaming hot soup, hot enough to melt a little frozen snowboy into the lad he rightly deserves to be. But I can’t. I have it right in front of me and I’d almost rather be a snowperson right now so my tastebuds would be frozen and all food would taste like nothing. A carrot is probably lacking too when it comes to sense of smell. Another plus.

I could list the pros of life as a snowperson forever, or, I could get off my ass and go food shopping.

Love & War

At the age of 25, I juuust now realized the brilliance of the Itchy & Scratchy show. (They fight. They fight. They fight fight fight fight fight.) There’s so much more beyond the extreme violence between the dueling cat and mouse than the entertaining-seeking eye can see.

I was about to jump into the shower, I had a terribly itchy day. Maybe it was the wool coat. Maybe the change in the weather. I hoped a hot shower would yet again prove a cure-all. Not yet fully undressed I paused to scratch my arm and started singing some nonsensical original song. I’m often amazed at my ability to conjure up such profound words on the spot, there was never a truer improv lyricist. “Itch. Scratch. Itch. Scratch. Itch. Scratch.” Kinda in the same timing and melody one would say “Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.”

This song brings me to remember the enemy pair and mid scratch the magnitude of Bart, Lisa and Maggie’s evening entertainment dawned on me.

I wonder why such revelations come with age. I hadn’t watched the Simpsons in years. Why was this coming to me now? It was only about two years ago that I finally understood the significance of Popeye’s name. Think of how his cartoon face is permanently scrunched up to one side in a constant state of winking. His left eye closed, the right always open and out and a little further. His right eye is popping out. Popeye has a (Wait for it. Waaaaaait for it!!) a pop-eye! I praised myself for the revelation. I’m a genius. I wonder if other people have figured this out and if they would ever dare deem their aptitude above average for such an obvious, obvious notion.

(But how did he get like that anyways? Does he even have an eye in that left eye socket?)

Then I think about the time I watched BIG starring Tom Hanks for the first time as a young adult. I was unsupervised by my very christian mother who, when we were kids, made a habit of grabbing the remote to fast forward or change the channel when she deemed the next scene inappropriate- usually a sex scene, or oh my god- imagine this… k-i-s-s-i-n-g. Our eyes weren’t suited for most of the content of TV, and this was only the early 1990s, nothing close to even the daytime television of today. If she had her way, all television shows would still show MARRIED couples sleeping in separate beds. So you can imagine my initial shock when I realized that this lucky youth got to sex it up with an older woman. Not a 20-something-year-old woman but more like an early 30-something-year-old woman. And this kid was tottering somewhere between 12-13 years old. What a lucky little shit! But as an 18 year old myself, I was still flabberghasted that such an event could take place. That a boy could suddenly become a man through the wish of a bodyless fortuneteller at a fair didn’t phase me. That was practical. But the prospect of the boy inside the body of a man about to kick it with Susan (played by Elizabeth Perkins) I couldn’t handle. Imagine Elizabeth reading the script: and then you are to make love to a 12 year old. But we can’t blame her character Susan, this poor woman destined to romp around and fall in love with a mere boy. Most men are 12.5 year olds in aging bodies. How could she know that he REALLY was an actual boy, not a man who acts like a boy.

That sista started the cougar movement. Forget Demi and Ashton.

The part comes up where Mom always fast forwarded. Wait! Wait! What? You mean to tell me that they get it on? I exalt in the dorm belonging to my friend Ian. We’re sitting on his bed, the lower bunk. Unphased, he and Jen say almost in unison- uh, yeah. Wait! Who let’s stuff like that get on television? It takes a minute for it to settle in. I’m still shocked. One day he’s singing “shimmey shimmey cocoa puff” the next he’s putting the moves on a hottie almost 3 times his age. And this wasn’t the Nellie version, I might understand that transition- they could both light it up and take a puff and it wouldn’t be a big deal. Or, as big a deal at least.

So there I am, singing, “Itch. Scratch. Itch. Scratch.” (Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock) And in a matter of 5 minutes a million diverted thoughts enter my brain. Why am I singing Itch Scratch and not Itch Itch? Cause sometimes I say I’m itching my nose. It’s because you’re not really itching our nose. You’re scratching our nose, silly. Says my brain. You can’t itch an itch as much as you can’t scratch a scratch… well you could but it would hurt.

What is an itch anyways? (besides the dictionary definition of an uncomfortable sensation that causes a desire to scratch. Wow, uh… thanks for the head’s up?)

After I finish conversing with myself the real juices start flowing.

The act of scratching cannot exist without the presence of an itch. A scratch is useless without an itch. So essentially a scratch needs an itch. An itch can exist without a scratch but quite uncomfortably. Think of never being able to itch- I mean, scratch an itch. It’s worse than Chinese torture. I’m getting all itchy just thinking about it. Matt Groening knew this. He created Itchy and Scratchy to be somewhat co-dependant on another. They both needed each other even though they fought another so hard. What would Itchy do all day without someone to whack? And Scratchy? Who would he chase besides his own tail? They love to hurt another. They need to. One presents a need and the other provides the fulfillment. Still, it’s an insidious bond.

I think I maybe have a certain relationship like this. But I wonder whether I am the itch or I am the scratch. Do I not exist without this other person? Oh heavens no. And the same is true for the other party. We both enjoy another but it seems we are both itches. So I guess you can, then, itch an itch… Right? But an itch does want to be scratched. So am I wasting my time? I as an itch cannot and will not provide other said itch satisfaction.

We all need to learn from Itchy and Scratchy- as in, what not to do. Strive for relationships that don’t include fighting & purposely hurting another. And dependency, is never really a good thing either.

http://www.thesimpsons.com/bios/bios_townspeople_itchyandscratchy.htm