Meditations on Camping

Camping. It’s an experience that most people either love or hate, with very few in between.

While primitive (read: no facilities) style camping setups boast fairly certain isolation and a guaranteed reprieve from society, vacationing at a campground – especially on Labor Day Weekend – is, well...A little bit different.

                                     ********************

My mom and I, along with our dog, a Beagle / Setter mix named Lucy, pulled up to the rickety campground office to check in at around one in the afternoon.

The excitement immediately began to pool in my stomach. “It’s exactly how I remember it!” I exclaimed, gleefully.

Indeed, the combination general store / check-in rendezvous had not changed much in the more than 15 years since we had last been there. The red screen door still creaked with the entrance and departure of each camper. The canoes (along with a kayak – a new arrival) were still propped up against the woodshed, its open front revealing neat stacks of split firewood piled to the roof. The lawn was still festooned with the wooden cutout of a fat lady bending over, her bloomers and striped socks showing. Yes, everything was comfortably in position.

As the car tires rolled slowly over the gravel path that wove down to our campsite, all the good memories made during my childhood summers came flooding back:

Walking to the in-ground pool, past singlewide trailers decked out with plastic pinwheels, Coleman portable lanterns and a myriad of colorful whirligigs. Smelling the scent of many campfires, curling together into a giant hazy dragon, while we bobbed around in the creek beneath the moonlight.

There was a lot to love about this place, and I could recall every rose-colored detail.

However, it all came to a screeching halt (along with the Toyota Corolla) as a perturbed-looking individual in black wraparound sunglasses flagged us down on the road.

“Jesus...Here we go,” my mom said through clenched teeth, rolling down her window as the shades-clad man approached.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said with an air of authority and a garbled-sounding Southern accent. I warily eyed his NWO t-shirt with cutoff sleeves, as well as his khaki cargo shorts.

He continued. “You aware the speed limit here is 5 miles per hour?”

My mom nodded impatiently. “I thought I was going 5 miles per hour.”

“It was at least 8 to 10,” he retorted, removing a pack of Marlboro Reds from his shirt’s chest pocket.

My mother tapped her nails against the steering wheel, irritated, and said nothing.

“Well, just slow it down...Lotsa kids here, you know” he drawled, smacking the cigarette box against his open palm. Mom rolled up the window, rolling her eyes.

The car began to creep back down the road. “I’m putting on the cruise control,” she said, slamming the lever down on the side of her steering wheel. I glanced at the odometer, which read 5 miles per hour.

After a couple of minutes, I spotted my aunt’s red Chevy Colorado parked next to a picnic table. I rolled the window down and yelled to her, waving. She waved back, but became distracted by a sound across the field from where we were, turning in its direction. I whipped my own head around to see what the commotion was.

On the other side of the road, two chubby men and a saggy woman lay side by side in lounge chairs, staring us down. They all wore cowboy hats and were holding what appeared to be Budweiser cans. They were gesticulating wildly, palms facing the ground, moving in an up and down motion.

I looked at my mom quizzically and she rolled the car window down again.

“SLOW DOWN!” they bellowed in unison.

          *************************************

As we pulled alongside my aunt’s truck and I opened the door, my heart sank. Our site was surrounded on all sides – not just by other campers, but by the competing music from their respective boom boxes, too.

The natural noises of cicadas, songbirds and a burbling creek I had looked forward to were all but smothered by a crude medley of Kid Rock’s “Bawitdaba” and “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”. I felt the blood rush to my face as I stifled a loud grumble of anger.

My cousin knelt on the ground, snapping twigs for kindling. She stood up, greeting me a hug and smile. I removed the tent from its bag and got to work shoving the support poles through the nylon fabric.

Ok, let’s not start things off on the wrong foot, I mentally reasoned with myself.

Halfway done raising the tent and feeling accomplished, I started to chat with my family about work and life. The first few notes of “Free Bird” wafted over from the campsite next to us, and I relaxed.

The purveyors of “Free Bird” whooped in celebration of Southern Rock. It was a group of about 10 men in their early 20s along with two or three girls of the same age.

“And this biiiiiiird you cannot CHAAAANGE!” they howled, pointing their slanted beer bottles at the sky.

“Nice!” my aunt laughed. “Yeah, I could get down with some Skynyrd right now,” I chuckled good-naturedly. “And anything is better than Kid Rock and Kenny Chesney!”

But the radio went silent. Then, after a few seconds, the same song started – from the beginning. Our inebriated neighbors cheered again with zeal, as if they hadn’t heard the tune in years. My cousin and I looked at each other in alarm...Alarm that was well warranted.

Our Labor Day Nature Extravaganza was kicked off by no fewer than 10 renderings of “Free Bird”. However, it seemed that the bird in question might have had Alzheimer’s, as only the first minute or so of the ditty was “free” to play until it was mercilessly snatched back into its cage, only to start anew.

                        *************************************

When I awoke the next morning my cousin’s sleeping bag was already empty, but I could hear the faint stirrings of someone outside cracking twigs and stoking the fire.

A shadow approached the tent and unzipped it. She stumbled in, breathless.

“Good morning,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe how amazing the bathroom was when I woke up,” she said, excitedly. I rubbed my eyes and looked at her quizzically.

“There’s an enormous Puerto Rican family camping right next to the ladies’ room and most of them were in there when I washed up this morning,” she explained.

“I think they’re all from the Bronx. One lady who was wearing Pink Panther PJ pants and sounded just like Rosie Perez. She was brushing her teeth, telling me how it was her first time camping.

She was like, ‘So at 2 AM yesterday, I was goin’ to fill up my water bottle at that spout thingie down the road, and I’m like, kinda creeped out, cause it’s real dark ‘n shit, everyone’s asleep, an’ this crazy fuckin’ white guy comes barreling down the hill on his bike, right past me.

I’m like thinkin’ to myself, Oh shit, this guy’s gonna rape me right here, middle of the night, no one even gonna know. So I get freaked out, right? and I’m screamin’, “Yo, don’ take my koochie!”

He keeps peddling, he don’t slow down. He don’t even look at me.

Then I’m like...I don’t know, kinda insulted and shit, right?  I mean I looked good as hell last night. So I yell after him and I’m like, ‘What...You ain’t interested?!’”

                                       ***********************

I emerged from the tent into a pleasantly brisk, sunny morning. There was a moment of peace, and then I heard grunting and groaning from the adjoining site (the “Free Birds”).

The lid of a plastic cooler opened and I heard someone fishing around the ice inside. A can tab cracked open. “It’s Miller Time!” declared one of the 20-something men. His voice sounded like a cross between an infomercial host and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Walking down to the public bathroom, I surveyed the Saturday morning scene. It was 9AM, and no fewer than 12 dogs are barking / braying in unison. It seemed that every camper decided to bring at least one canine companion along for the trip.

I peered into the pavilion adjoining the swimming pool (where I actually learned to swim more than two decades ago). The myriad of familiar arcade games were still blinking bright colors, beeping their electronic greetings: Ms. Packman, F-1 Racer, and my personal favorite: Buck Hunter.

The sound of wet slaps, belabored grunts and sneakers scuffling on the ground drew my attention. Several rotund individuals were hanging out at the tetherball pole, clad in Slipknot / Insane Clown Posse t-shirts, hard at work: they were covered in sweat, hair askew and plastered to their foreheads.

                                  ****************************

My family members and I agreed that the uncharacteristically fantastic weather warrants a hike. We plodded up a short hill, ending up on top of a cliff that afforded majestic views.

To our left was a small, interesting grove of scrub pines and three different varieties of neon green moss. On our right, there was a drop off of at least 50 feet, which plunged into sparkling, azure water. Directly across the expanse of the creek is another crag. This was embedded with a mammoth deposit of exposed white Quartz, gleaming like snow in the sunlight.

As we descended into a lush, fecund ravine, the creek narrowed considerably and meandered into the woods in a pleasant fashion. It was flanked with flat, symmetrical slabs of stone that were accented here and there with tiny waterfalls. Centuries of running water had cut deep lines through the stone. Together with the faint bands in the bedrock, it looked as if fossilized layer cake had been perfectly laser-cut.

Our surreal jaunt through the forest culminated first in an open field full of wild, flax-colored wheat, followed by an illicit swim in a crisp, spring-fed pool beneath a giant waterfall. Shortly thereafter, we heard a Doom Gong thunderclap – obviously the harbinger of an Armageddon-worthy storm.

Since we hiked two-three miles to the spring-fed pool, mom and I decided to take the main road back with Lucy, hoping to hitchhike with some kindly rednecks. Of course,  we had no such luck.

The clouds roiled, clotting thickly behind us like The Belly Ache of the Century. The air grew stiff and electric; creaky hardwood trees bent over in windy agony. The hair on the back of our necks stood up and danger seemed imminent. My mom began running toward the campground and Lucy followed, her ears flapping wildly behind her.

I, on the other hand, felt no need to rush. The impending storm made me feel maniacal and alive. As the wind picked up and rain began pelting me in a sideways fashion, I slowed my roll, simply to enjoy the smell of water sizzling on the hot country pavement. Lightning tore from the clouds to the ground in yellow strands, close enough to give me goose bumps.

By the time I made it past the check-in office and down the long hill to our campsite, I was soaked through my overall shorts and tank top. My mom had beat me there, and was frantically throwing water susceptible foodstuffs in the car, though it appeared to me that most of our supplies were already past the point of no return.

At that moment I would have preferred tea, but as the fire had long sizzled out, I sat down at the picnic table and filled a plastic Solo cup with red wine. Well, at least it’s warming, I thought to myself.

My cousin and aunt showed up soon after I cozied up to the Merlot. They too were dripping wet, and set about changing into dry clothes.

Once they sat down to enjoy some refreshment of their own, a white, lowered Hyundai Elantra with three missing hubcaps rolled past our campsite. The sounds of the Dixie Chicks emanated from within their vehicle, and four white guys with backwards baseball caps rode inside.

The front passenger stuck his head out the open window, throwing out his pinky and forefinger in a “devil horns” fashion.

“Rain or shine, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” he shouted as they passed us.

                                       ************************

It was a holiday weekend goddamn it, and no torrential downpours were going to stop the celebration the campground had planned for that evening. And what a celebration it was.

I only learned of the happening upon nightfall when I needed to relieve my bladder, which at that point was filled to capacity with wine from hours of sitting around, talking and drinking in the rain.

The central pavilion (home of Buck Hunter and picnic tables) was filled to max. capacity with campers. The scent of cigarettes and cheap beer wafted from the structure. Folks of every age, color and creed sang and hollered, boogying the night away to pop classics like “Cotton Eyed Joe” and “Who Let the Dogs Out”. Children chased each other around the nearby swings and monkey bars in the dark, yelling at least as loud as their dancing parents.

I watched in awe for a few minutes before hurrying away, reasoning that the intriguing scene probably wasn’t worth peeing my pants over.

                        ************************************

The following morning, it was finally time to pack it up and go home. My cousin and I deconstructed the tent in mere minutes. Then came the Herculean task of fitting the tent into its bag.

This job always seems so much easier than it inevitably is. It’s the biggest pain in the ass part of camping and conveniently, it comes last in the process. First, I tried cramming the tent in as is, with the poles already in the bag – big mistake. This never fits.

Next, I took the tent back out, jumped on it to release any trapped air inside, refolded it and crammed it back inside the bag. The cramming part takes about half an hour, but eventually it does fit.

I took time during the ridiculously long cramming process to reflect on camping as a whole, and why the hell we decide to do it. After all, it takes so much preparation just to drive somewhere, sit around a fire and drink, and seldom are we ever actually alone in nature, as we intend to be.

But the amazing thing about camping is that it takes a certain kind of lunatic to do it – especially at a public campground, with other lunatics. And I mean, to really do it, without cheating: no sleeping in cabins or watching television in an RV – just bringing a tent, and some food / water and related supplies.

I think the fact that we amuse ourselves, solely with a fire, red wine and smores for three days straight, is a feat of wonder in this technologically engorged age. The fact that we can all get soaked to the bone with rain (which happens more often than not), feel physically uncomfortable, not sleep a wink – and find humor and camaraderie in that with one another, as well as strangers – there’s a glimmer of resilience and toughness in that and it kind of allows for bragging rights at the end of the weekend.  

The fact of the matter is, we always remember the ridiculous, fantastic and annoying things that occur during the semi-annual Labor Day Camping Trip. And those very things are what will draw us back to this magical, yet god-forsaken place, again and again, twenty years from now.

A Nude Approach to Charitable Giving.

 Luke 12:33 - "Sell that ye have, and give alms; provide yourselves bags which wax not old, a treasure in the heavens that faileth not, where no thief approacheth, neither moth corrupteth." -Official King James Bible.

A couple of months back, I was driving down route 300 near Newburgh, NY when I saw a sign that looked identical to this:

 

"Hmm...Lap (4) Life," I thought to myself. Immediately, images of high school gym class flickered into my brain.

~~~~~~~

The large, grass-filled rectangle behind Middleburgh High School was encircled by a dirt path, which, whether or not it was emblazoned with chalk lines for a meet that particular evening, was referred to as "The Track."

I ran many a hot, clumsy, and excruciatingly slow mile on that humiliating piece of acreage, once even managing to dive head-first over a 10-foot long bench in front of the entire 11th grade boys' gym class. Needless to say, I wasn't exactly the "Athletic Type".

The wonderful thing about that particular location is that it really had a great 360-degree viewing radius of all the adjacent on-goings, ensuring that every last one of the attractive, older guys saw my horrific display. 

Also, the sewage treatment plant was located little more than a stone's throw away, and on a warm day a scent reminiscent of sweaty goat balls covered in shit often permeated the country air.

                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Ugh, Jesus...Fucking Lap (4) Life," I reiterated to myself, out loud this time.  

"Sounds strenuous and sickening."

I went home to find out just what, exactly, Lap 4 Life was all about. My suspicions that it had something to do with cancer were confirmed, as I read about Desmoid Tumors and how omnipresent they (unfortunately) have become. Lap 4 Life aimed to raise money for continued research on this variety of tumor, as well as for organ transplantation when deemed necessary.

Although this is a noble aim, I had to wonder to myself whether getting people to beg sponsorship to run four miles in the blazing sun or freezing cold (depending on which of the two lovely Northeastern seasons we're experiencing at that time it might be) was really the way to best beat these aggressive tumors and ideally, fund a cure.

"There has to be a way to raise money for this fantastic cause that is both fun for the participants that provides a hyper-effective, undeniable incentive for the sponsors," I reasoned with myself. 

Something amazing, that will practically sell itself, raising more funding for tumor research than ever before.

And that is when it dawned on me:

Well, duh - why hadn't anyone thought of it sooner? LAPDANCE 4 LIFE!

....

Think about it.

It's kind of hard to argue that naked girls (or guys -- we don't have to discriminate) writhing upon/around a willing participant won't raise a crap-load of money. After all, you've got all the factors that economists and business bigwigs tout as the perfect formula for profit:

1) Demand. 

Boobs, Butts + Vajay-jays= A whole hell of a lot of demand. And, much like the sensation of being hungry, becoming horny happens over and over -- there is no point at which it's satiated with finality, goes out of style or fails appeal to a certain demographic. This is a universal, addictive urge that renews itself within a couple of hours.

2) Supply. 

Now, this is a little bit trickier than demand, but the circumstances are special here: you aren't just walking up to that hot redhead in your office carpool group and asking her to show you her tits. You're asking her to "dance" for an amazing, charitable cause that could, in effect, save lives! 

Furthermore, it's pretty insensitive to smack someone in the face who's soliciting your services for a solidly benevolent organization. 

she'll probably agree out of guilt at least, and if you sense wavering in terms of commitment, remind her that volunteering for a charity will certainly make her resume look impressive to future employers. 

 Heck, she may even offer to recruit some attractive family members, friends or roommates for the cause!

However, your success in this recruitment endeavor is really all about how you present the situation once in a lifetime opportunity.

3) Playing on Public Pathos Like Yo-Yo Ma Attacking a Beethoven Sonata

Although the word "Pathos" may seem rather archaic and well, Greek, trust me -- you definitely know what it means.

Example:

Remember those unbearable SPCA commercials depicting various abused, sad and unloved animals with Sarah Maclaughlin crooning softly in the background? Well, I don't know about you, but I can't watch even 10 full seconds of those agonizing fucking things. 

Reason being that by the time the first starving, crippled kitten appears on the screen, I'm ready to run around, pull my hair out and sob, "something has to be done" and "what keeps us from just fucking killing ourselves EVERY DAY?!"

While your reaction may not be *quite* as severe, I bet most of you (save for the inbred sociopaths) probably feel at least a little pang in the heart while viewing these ads.

Well, the pang -- that emotional reaction, my friends -- is referred to in the marketing world as pathos.

And you can invoke this magical feeling easily in terms of Lapdance 4 Life, making it not only acceptable, but also seen in a downright positive light.

Look, just about all of us know someone who has been stricken with cancer in one form or another. And who amongst us would not love for this ubiquitous killer to be eradicated, once and for all?!

No one, that's who.

OK, so there are going to be some hot (and not so hot, let's be gracious to anyone who wants to donate their body and time, here) chicks dancing around naked for money. And there are going to be A LOT of dudes watching, some of which will inevitably try to engage physically.

But come on, man! It's for CHARITY. 

When you see that pair of banana-shaped boobs bouncing around to the beat of "Wild Thing" by Tone Loc in the middle school gymnasium, just picture scientists in lab coats holding up a glass slide containing the recently discovered microorganism that eats cancerous cells!

When you hear the belabored slide of dimpled, moist thighs descending (upside down) from the community playground's fire pole, envision of a mountain of coins falling from the sky, transforming into a pile of replacement kidneys, prostates, breasts and colons for (previously) terminal cancer patients!

If you think about this way, it's easy to see how Lapdance 4 Life would be a fool-proof entree in the buffet of charitable fundraising options.

In conclusion, if you'd like to hire my services as an event planner for your nonprofit foundation, I can be reached at: jeezumcrowvintage@yahoo.com.

*Please Note*: Lap4Life is actually an awesome organization and I applaud what they do. If you want to (seriously) know more about this association, donate or participate in a race, you can check out their website here:

http://www.lap4life.org/

Moves Like Jagger

A few months I was standing in line at the post office, waiting my turn at the counter. A catchy little pop tune came on and I found myself involuntarily tapping my foot to the beat.
Perhaps you've heard it before. These are some of the lyrics:

"I Don't Need To Try To Control You.
Look Into My Eyes and I'll Own You--
With The Moves Like Jagger
I've Got The Moves Like Jagger
I've Got The Mooooooooves Like Jagger..."

Here's the song (if you think it's necessary):

"Yeah", I thought to myself, "moves like Jagger...That's kinda clever."

But then, I started considering exactly what this song was indicating. I paged back into my mental files, coming up with some really upsetting connections and a montage of horrific images.

"Wait a minute", I hissed under my breath, "Do they mean MICK Jagger? He's a fucking horrible dancer!"

***********************

Perhaps you're not so sure what I mean. You may be wondering how someone so rich, famous and well-laid could possibly be bad at busting some moves.

Well, let's assess for ourselves and see what we come up with.

Exhibit A:

 OK, so right off the bat in the first ten seconds, there is some troubling stuff going on here. Mick is doing a series of movements that remind me of a confused elderly man who has mistakenly enrolled in a workout class.

Then he kind of segues into this sequence where he's maybe crossing the street in a busy metropolis, forgetting which direction he wants to go to get to that killer bagel shop on 42nd street.

 Other notable features: a pretty weak David Lee Roth-style kick and compulsive off-beat clapping.

Sprinkle a little salsa-flavored chicken dancing into the mix and you've got yourself some dinner....if you still have the appetite to eat.

Exhibit B:

You don't even have to start the video to see that Mick has made some consistently puzzling fashion choices. Methinks his style icons are probably Richard Simmons, Wonder Woman and a coked out Jimmy Buffet.

In conclusion, is it just me, or could it be possible that Jagger may secretly be an angry black or Hispanic lady in reverse drag? There is a whole hell of a lot of finger pointing, side to side head bobbing movements, and dropping his (bony English) booty like it's hot.

I'm not sure about you guys, but I think I'll stick with my own moves, thankyouverymuch. And, if I meet a potential love interest that exhibits any of the aforementioned dance proclivities, I'll politely excuse myself from the scenario as quickly as possible.

Top 5 Things to Look For (and Steer Clear of) When Considering Relocation Spots

If I was to sum up the feeling of being in my 20s (and it seems an apt time to do so, since I'll be 29 in mere months) I think it would have to be characterized as "vaguely to severely dissatisfied restlessness". As a result of this omnipresent emotion, I find myself moving or considering doing so almost....Daily.

I'm sure I'm not alone in this sort of daydreaming. Many people fantasize about a better place, where the purple drank flows like wine, and women flock like the "salmon of Capistrano".

There are many news outlets that list the "best places for young adults" and "up and coming towns for hip professionals". I'm willing to bet that you guys can already name some of these metropolises. They all have certain things in common: lots of stuff to do, universities, and subsequently, a large population of humans aged 18-35.

Although some of these places seem like they would be nice to visit or to maybe even be homeless for a short while, I think most of them are about as realistic a possibility for actual living as the Land of Oz (for a poor freelance dirt bag such as myself.)

So, let's get our heads out of our poverty-ridden asses and get real, people. Here are my Top 5 Things to Seek (and Avoid) When Considering Relocation Spots.

1) A Few Reliable Corner Stores.

Just about every town has a bodega or two here and there. But I'm not talking about a no-name, sketch central hole in the wall. I'm talking about some reliable shit, like Cumberland Farms, Stewarts and/or 7Eleven type establishments.

Before you get all "fuck the man", hear me out: there is some comfort to be had in the knowledge that you can get 3 for $1 sour raspberry gummy strips at Cumby's, no matter where you are in this great country. Ditto that for Big Gulps or similar. It doesn't matter which chain gas station you choose, just scout out a few and familiarize yourself with their best wares.

Case in point: You're not going to get charged an extra $5 for a turkey sandwich because the douche bag behind the counter doesn't like the color of your skin or the tell tale hook in your nose (true story, unfortunately). 

Pricing and products are consistent at these spots.

2) Steer Clear of The Panera/Starbucks/Target Trifecta.

Some of you are probably shaking your heads right now, thinking "how on earth could I live without these mainstays?!"

Well, don't get me wrong - I love a good thai chicken salad or java chip as much as the next gal, but the towns that have these establishments in common also typically boast something else: rent prices that will disembowel your wallet swiftly and mercilessly.

You can still live within driving distance of a Target or a Panera, but I wouldn't recommend being inside of 5 miles, as you will probably find that the rent to distance ratio is staggering.

And, if the town you love also has one or more frozen yogurt or "healthy" smoothie establishments? Unless you've got a trust fund to fall back on, run away as fast as your generic brand footwear will carry you.

Worst of all - if you're giving serious thought to moving to a town of over 4,000 that has nary a McD's, Wendy's or Ihop--this means that the residents are so rich that they're actually keeping these mega corporations at bay, beyond the outskirts of their village limits. I'm going to bet that, in such cases, you won't even find a studio apartment for under $850 per month. Major suckfest.

3) At Least One Pawn Shop.

 Some people consider pawn shops harbingers of a "bad neighborhood". I however, beg to differ. Personally, when I'm broke (which is most of the time) one of my favorite things to do is look through my shit to figure out what I can sell. Having a pawn shop nearby can be the difference between eating canned pineapple for dinner tonight or a respectable chicken parm.

When you've got more than one pawn broker in town, you can even shop around to see who'll give you the best price for that (gently used) Chris Kirkpatrick Backstreet Boys blow-up doll.

4) Smartly Dressed Older Folks Walking Down the Road with Plastic Bags.

OK, this is where it pays to get specific: I'm not talking about putrefying people, laden with shopping carts. I'm talking mature ladies, 50+ years old, wearing knee length skirts, or pressed polyester pants, and sensible, clean shoes.

When you see this sort of person walking, it's usually a good sign because: a) she (or he) has the good sense to comb his/her hair, and put on clothes that they haven't yet crapped in. This probably implies that the individual is not a crack/meth head, and thus is not quite desperate enough to rob you of the last few dollars you've got.

b) At the same time, Sally or Rick may have had some aggravated issues with alcohol (thus the hoofing it, instead of driving). This means that you can enjoy that little giddy superior feeling if you still have your license, not to mention, you can head down to the local bar with them later on to hear some top notch tales of debauchery.

5) Bail Bond Advertising.

Some towns have billboards for things like fine dining and local law firms. Others have advertisements for Bail Bonds and (the aforementioned) pawn shops. I don't know about you, but I'd rather pay for necessities like gas, groceries and housing in a town that advertises bail bonds than surf and turf restaurants, because they're going to be way fucking cheaper.

After all, if there are a lot of people who require the assistance of bondsmen to be released from court custody, we're probably in the same broke-ass boat.

However, you have to be careful here, because if the majority of crime is related to methamphetamines or opioids, chances are you're going to get jacked at gunpoint coming back from that 1AM Baconator run.

Creative Bail Bond Advertising via Bench in Downtown Nashville, Tennessee.

Nature is a (Goth) Whore.

 Some people might think that gardening is an old lady hobby or more eloquently stated, "for pussies."

Well, I'm going to have to go ahead and say that's wrong...Dead wrong.

I've done a lot of toiling around in the dirt, and let me tell you, there is nothing pussyish or old ladylike about having soil smeared all over your arms, face, legs and hands, or stabbing into the ground repeatedly with an ice pick-like tool, trying to sever through the roots of a stubborn dandelion.

There's something decidedly serial killer-ish about ripping a flower out of the ground in one spot, only to transplant it elsewhere. Or driving around in a red truck with large, peculiarly shaped lumps of organic rubbish hidden beneath a black tarp.

Reminds me a bit of  murderers disfiguring/transporting bodies and then keeping them in their freezer or the shed out back as a little momento of their handiwork.

Also, when it's 96 degrees out, you're pushing a wheel barrow full of mulch uphill and your clothing is drenched in sweat and filth, it's not a far cry from (what I'd imagine) being in a mosh pit is like.

I'd do a windmill or two during this cathartic, soul-ripping task, but I don't want to hack myself in the back of the head with the three-pronged killing trowel or accidentally saw off my own leg with the electric hedge trimmer.

To wrap up my case, I'd like to present you with what I believe to be.....

The Top Seven Most Metal Plant Varieties:

1. Bloody Butcher (varieties of both tomato and corn).

2. Snapdragon

3. Love Lies Bleeding

4. Ghost Flower

5. Queen of the Night Tulips

6. Baby's Tears (a ferny/mossy ground cover).

(Jesus Christ, a gargoyle?! Could this be any more fitting?)

7. Bleeding Hearts.

Feel free to comment and add any additional bad ass flora that I've neglected to mention.

Time Travel as a Means of Financial Avoidance

Sometimes when I start feeling crappy about how little money I have, I like to do a little bit of time traveling.

Although it would be really cool if I could literally go back in time (to a period when I could undo the purchase of an ill-advised pair of shoes, or not have "repairs" done to my car which fixed nothing), I can't actually do that.

So, what I do instead is to think about my bank account balance in terms of history.  As in, equate the number of dollars I have with a certain time period and think about what life would be like during those years.

For Instance:

$1610 (After I get paid).

"Oh cool, we're just about in the Enlightenment right now....Chillin' with Sir Isaac, listening to some serious baroque shit. Life is definitely improving up in this piece."

~but then~

$1335 (After I pay for food, gas, phone, insurance and the Internet/electricity bills)

"OK, so we're in the Middle Ages...Not the best place to be, but I think we can sneak out of here without the Bubonic Plague doing us in. It's almost over."

~Aaaand finally~


$500 (after I pay for rent and a random horrible thing that always seems to crop up...)

"Well, there's no doubt about it, this time period sucks...The world is pretty barbaric, and if I wasn't raped and/or killed I probably would have died of old age about a year ago. But hey....pretty soon there will be lots of Vikings!"

*************************

Although this bizarre practice doesn't increase the amount of money I have at all, it does give me a way to exercise my knowledge of social studies. In turn, this allows me to secretly maintain a false sense of superiority over others who can actually afford to buy steak and subscribe to premium HBO channels.

Forbidden Love

I've been having some untoward feelings lately. Feelings of a lustful, forbidden nature.

Sometimes I lie awake at night thinking about our future together, even though we have only known each other a short while. There are times when I even lose sleep considering the possibility that you could be what I've been looking for my whole life. Perhaps you will make me come alive in a way that I simply never have, on my own.

I'm getting bolder by the day. Now I whisper your name to myself all the time - a little secret that only I know. I mutter it in line at the post office. While driving down the Thruway. In the bathroom:

"Smoked Gouda."

I've loved a lot of other cheeses, but there is just something about you that I'm drawn to - maybe the fact that you're smoked makes you seem rebellious, like kind of a bad ass.

I don't know. 

But I imagine some very unladylike scenarios, starring the two of us. You sandwiched between two pieces of buttery, golden bread, melted...Maybe with some apples, or even caramelized onions in there.

Or an omelet, with spinach, pepper and you, drenched in a deluge of Hollandaise sauce.

 Oh, the things I would do to you!

But I'm getting carried away, here; let me cut to the chase: Smoked Gouda, I really think that we could make this work...Just the two of us, you know? In a romantic capacity.

I promise I won't make fun of you when you start to sprout mold after a couple of weeks, and I won't lock you in the basement this time if I find cigarettes, or autographed Katy Perry pics in your backpack.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that there's just no one else that tastes quite as good as you do.

So....Will you be mine?

xo,
Jess.

Six Commandments of Domestic Dirt Baggery

If you're anything like me, the prospect of moving into your own apartment without another person who can split the costs may have you crapping yourself with fear.

After all, this is an expensive proposition: there's heating oil or gas, electricity, food and of course, soap.

Well, I'm here to tell you that there's no need to spend money on most of this bullcrap. Sometimes, you've really got to pick and choose, and there are ways you can get your basic needs (and more) met without paying up the bum for all of these "necessary" implements.

Here are my Six Commandments for Maintaining the Illusion of Responsibility Without Actually Earning/Spending Much Money.

1) Ye Shall Not Shower at Your House.

I learned the hard way that you need heating oil or propane to make your water a hospitable temperature. This really isn't something you want to fuck with. Therefore, use other people's facilities to clean yourself!

How, you might wonder? Well, there's always the first (boring) option: you can just ask. However, I find that this option gets old after one, maybe two uses. So you need to start getting creative with it: Start having random "accidents" whenever you are at the homes of friends and family.

Example: When a friend passes the bubbler your way, accidentally slosh some bong water onto your shirt and/or pants. Be like, "Oh MAN! I got stank-ass bong water all over me, and I have to go play bingo with my grandma later. Can I hop in your shower for a quick sec?"

The thing about accidents is that they happen all the time. You can think of a number of inventive scenarios in which you just have to bathe at someone else's abode twice or even thrice weekly.

Your friends will probably be talking behind your back about how clumsy you've become, but all the while you will definitely be smiling to yourself while lathering up with their expensive brand name body washes, and shaving your nads with their Mach 5 razors.

2) Ye Shan't Work From/ Loaf at Home

Look, I'm not saying you have to get a job. And I like loafing around just as much as the next guy. But think about it: just about any activity (save for sleeping) requires that you use electricity, heat and/or other resources that you must pay for. You can't play Call of Duty all day at your house without using electricity. You can't sit around in your underwear and watch porn unless you have electricity, Internet access, and possibly even heat.

I'm not saying you SHOULDN'T do these things. In fact, it is your constitutional right to play Call of Duty, watch porn, and/or eat Easy Mac while shopping online for chicken-themed kitchen decor.

I'm just saying you shouldn't do this stuff at your house. You can do some or a combination of all of these things in other places.

You can probably play Call of Duty at Walmart for a good long while. You can most definitely watch porn on your computer at Starbucks. If you feel exposed doing this (or don't want to pay for a cup of coffee...I don't blame you) you can always sit in the McDonald's parking lot and watch in the privacy of your own car, or behind a discreet shrub.

If you have gainful employment that is located outside of your living space - and you'd actually like to keep that position - you've pretty much got all of these bases covered, because you can typically do many of these things and even get paid at the same time.

3) Go Forth and Be Slutty.

Alright, this may be going a little bit too far for some people, but hear me out: I'm not promoting that you change into (or continue being) a dime store hooker for the physical pleasure it brings.

The point of this isn't fun, it's a FREE PLACE TO CRASH.

Even the biggest pieces of shit usually feel obligated to let a chick or dude sleep in their bed for a while after they've bumped uglies. Don't count on kisses or cuddling, but you will get something far better: a warm bed - at least for the night.

This is a major score, because it means that you don't have to have your heat or a/c cranked up in your apartment if you're not sleeping there! That's a solid 4-12 hours (depending on how you play your cards) of utility savings.

Plus, the great thing about this is that you can do it again EVERY NIGHT. Even if the chick you slept with last night pulled a knife, or the guy you boinked kept trying to show you his hairball collection while you were nodding off in his lap, you can just find another bed to sleep with tonight.

4) Refrain From Buying That Which is Naturally Abundant.

Now, this is mainly addressing the need for nourishment. Of both the physical and mental varieties. You definitely know by now that you can peruse Dunkin Donuts dumpsters, trash cans outside pizza parlors, and straight up sidewalks for food. You also know that you can get books, movies and music at libraries, right? Well, more often than not, you can also get that last crucial element you need for maximum comfort right outside in the Great Outdoors.

Let's Try Out a Few Equations to Familiarize Ourselves With the Concept:

Trashcan pizza scraps + lofty library novel+ 1970s side of the road Lay-Z Boy = Many afternoons of cost-effective bliss.

Also:

Expired health food store fruit leather + your mom's Dell laptop + library Ren & Stimpy DVD + metal TV dinner tray found in woods =
A solid week of al fresco nirvana.

Just make sure you are near an unlocked vehicle so you can plug your computer into the adapter for uninterrupted "Powdered Toast Man".

5) In Times of Need, Use-ith Only Crock Pot & Coffee Maker.

I don't really think you should buy these things. Perhaps, instead, ask for them for Christmas, Hanukkah, or Festivus. However, you should really have them on hand - at your own apartment - in case of emergencies.

An emergency is when it's precipitating outside and no one will come pick you up. Or, when you know for a fact that your car won't start because it's just a matter of time until the dampness seeps into your spark plugs and renders your vehicle into an asphalt-beached whale.

An emergency also might entail someone coming to visit. You know, that relative or "friend" that decides to "pop in" unannounced to see your new place. Let me first acknowledge that this is bullshit. Next, let's prepare you to use your Crock pot and coffee maker to service all of this intruder's needs.

OK, so basically you can make anything in a crock pot: meat, vegetables, dessert, breakfast, etc. You will have to suck it up and use a bit of electricity for this, but you're still good to go in terms of heating oil/gas. You can eat a meal made in this puppy for days, too, because it makes huge batches of grub. It's a god send.

Now, you may be a little bit more puzzled when it comes to the coffee maker.

"I don't drink coffee," you might say. (And I might ask: what is wrong with you?!)
Or, "I really prefer my cup of Joe squeezed from a french press." Well, you're a fucking snob. But also, the french press doesn't do the same magical things as a coffee maker does. After all, you have to boil water to get the damn thing to function, otherwise it's worthless.

A coffee maker will make coffee, but it will also boil water for tea and other stuff. Which brings me to the final commandment...

6) Your Quesadilla Runneth Over: Eat Mexican All Day, Every Day.

Alright, so that other amazing thing that a coffee maker does besides create delicious java and boil water for a myriad of needs? It makes QUESA-FUCKING-DILLAS.

Let me just sing the praises of Mexican cuisine for a bit, here: It's amazing.

Usually, tacos/burritos/quesadillas/enchiladas whathaveyou are a nutritionally complete meal when you include veggies (if you actually care about that), they're delicious, and most importantly - they're cheap as shit to make.

So basically, I learned from experience that when your stove doesn't work, when you have no microwave and no toaster oven, the coffee maker serves as a cooking surface.

Simply remove the glass carafe from the device, and then turn the appliance on. Next, you're going to want to grab a soft taco shell and shred some cheese up on that mofo, ese.

Just leave the taco on the coffee burner for like five to ten minutes and I promise you: the cheese will melt.

BAM! Instant hot plate.

Finally, add whatever else you want to put in there: chicken (cooked in crock pot beforehand, or from KFC bucket, whatever), beans, veggies, sour patch kids, tincture of bat toenail, etc.

A couple of minutes on that bad boy and you've got yourself some serious gourmet shit.

And demanded Moses of his Disciples,  

What Say You?!

**************

Singer/Songwriters & Their Respective Neuroses

There are a lot of great songs that we hear every day on the radio, our iPods or even in the grocery store.

However, even though we hum along and fumble through the lyrics, we don't always, well...think about exactly what these musicians are trying to say.

In fact, I hardly ever fucking know what song lyrics are trying to express - although I do have my suspicious. And my suspicions confirm that most, if not all songwriters, are absolutely looney tunes. (Which of course, doesn't mean we love them any less).

Here are a few songs I personally love, along with a rather judgmental assessment of what the lyrics of each are attempting to express...As well as a (kind of) clinical sum-up of what they're ultimately telling me about the singer/songwriter's personality.

Name: Iggy Pop

Diagnosis: Deranged, Perverted Stalker.

Evidence:

lyrics to "Search and Destroy":

"Look out honey, 'cause I'm using technology..."

This motherfucker is so into you, he's discreetly using his iPad (and, of course, the Interwebz) to discover your address, home phone number, the names of all living relatives, and their respective ages.

Once Iggy has your address, he will Google map your house and drive, walk or bicycle past it daily.

 "Baby penetrate my mind...
And I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searchin' - searchin' to destroy."

Chances are, this twisted character pleasures himself to your Facebook default pic and eventually breaks into your home to steal all of your dirty undies.

Name: Smokey Robinson.

Diagnosis: Anxious Attachment Style (AKA: Overly Needy Cry Baby)

Evidence:

lyrics to "I Second That Emotion":

"Oh, but if you feel like loving me / if you got the notion -
I second that emotion. 
Said, if you feel like giving me a lifetime of devotion,
I second that emotion..."

Whoaaa there, Smokes! There's a huge difference between "feeling like loving you" and "a lifetime of devotion". A BIG fucking difference, dude. I think you're taking things a bit too fast here. Let's slow it down a bit.


"Maybe you want to give me kisses sweet,
But only for one night with no repeat.
Maybe you'd go away and never call -
And a taste of honey's worse than none at all..." 

Seriously, Smokey?! Can't we just enjoy a movie for once in our fucking lives? Do we have to have this conversation about FEELINGS every single time we see each other?

Yeah, well, I guess if you think that "a taste of honey's worse than none at all," I'm going to think long and hard before giving you a taste of honey in the first place, if you get my drift...

Backup Evidence: lyrics to "Tears of a Clown" (self explanatory). You need to learn how to keep your shit together in public, man.

 Name: Gordon Lightfoot

Diagnosis: Avoidant Attachment Style/Pathological Narcissist 
(AKA: Category 5, Grade A Dickhead)


Evidence:

lyrics to "For Loving Me/Did She Mention My Name?":

"So don't you shed a tear for me,
'cause I ain't the love you thought I'd be...
I've got a hundred more like you
(So don't be blue)
I'll have a thousand 'fore I'm through."

OK, so let me get this straight. You're dumping me, and trying to comfort me...With the fact that there are shit tons of other chicks identical to me, and you're going to bang them all?

WOW, thanks! I feel like a million fucking bucks now - Good as new.

But wait--

"Now there you go you're cryin' again,
Now there you go you're cryin' again.
But then someday when your poor heart, is on the mend--
I just might pass this way again..."
That's what you get for lovin' me."

Holy shit. This is cold blooded.

He's disdainful of the fact that I'm (understandably) blubbering like a lovelorn war widow after the breakup. To make matters worse, the second scrap of "comfort" offered up is basically saying: once I start to feel strong again, when getting out of bed becomes less of a challenge each morning, he'll probably just come back around and fuck my shit up all over again.

OH, and it's not even over with him after that, either--

Most people only know this song as "For Lovin' Me". However, there's another version that gives us even more insight into the mind of this sadistic fuck. It's called "For Lovin' Me/Did She Mention My Name?"

After that whole dreadful first bit, the song segues into a pleasant folk lilt and he throws this little monkey wrench at us:

"Did she mention my name, just in passing
And when the talk ran high
Did the look in her eye seem far away?
Won't you say hello from someone, they'll be no need to explain -
And by the way, did she mention my name?"

Wow. Just, wow.

So now, this insufferable Cockasaurus Rex is hundreds of miles away, I'm finally getting back to a semblance of my former self, and I have this conversation with a neighbor:

"Oh, hiiii! Dude, you'll never guess who I bumped into the other day...Yeah, it was Gordon Lightfoot! He wanted me to tell you that he said 'hi'.

...

"Well actually, he said to tell you that he's screwed like 43 girls since you guys broke up, and all of them were much hotter than you...he like -- well, he just said, 'tell her someone she used to know says hi, and banged a chick that looked like you last week, only more attractive.'"

...

"Uhhhm....Well, I don't know why I didn't keep that to myself. I guess I just, like, thought I should let you know or something. Uh cool, yeah I'll see ya later, too. Yep, bye."

AWESOME.

More Bullshit Commercials

I laughed, covered my mouth in embarrassment (for the girl starring in this rubbish),  gasped in disbelief, and then laughed again.

Infomercials: Forever Fucked Up

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 I don't really feel like I even have to say anything to make this funnier than it already is. Or more pitiful, for that matter.

However, I'm going to make some comments anyhow:

A) "Forever Lazy" will definitely ensure that you never, ever get laid again.

B) Why is this better (or different) than the feety pajamas we wore as kids? Oh, wait--I know. It's different because we were five then, and forty year old adults SHOULD NOT WEAR ONE-PIECE SLEEPWEAR.

C) "While Dad does what he does best!" Jesus...I feel so fucking bad for that fictitious father. He fell asleep (after a couple of brewskis while watching the game) and now drunken dozing is what he "does best"?
Naturally, they aren't showing him slaving away at a thankless job for 10 hours a day, mowing the lawn, taking out the trash, or making sensibly healthy lunch decisions like half a sandwich and soup at Panera instead of the meat lover's sicilian-style heart attack from Little Caesar's. He tries, goddamn it! And this infomercial tries to take that all away from him with an ill-informed little jab suggesting he's lazy. Fucking bullshit.

D) "With a drawstring hoodie to keep the chilly weather away"...Wow. PLEASE don't give people the idea that these are acceptable to wear out of the house. Frankly, they shouldn't even be worn WITHIN the house.

E) "forever lazy has zippered hatches in the front and in the back..." Oh, ewwwwww. Being unwilling to pull your fucking pants down to take a shit or piss is the ultimate in filthy humanry. That's seriously as low as it gets.

The Mobile Shoe Chronicles

Summer's just taken its final bow and already I find myself nostalgic for some of its finer points: a ripe, juicy raspberry from the rail trail, the rush of bubbles and zesty refreshment that follows jumping (not diving) into a lake or pool, a worn New Balance sneaker lying on its side along the sunny highway...

Wait a minute......What?!

Yeah. I don't know if this is something that just an overly observant crackpot like me would notice, or perhaps everyone is aware of this phenomenon and it's just one of the many things we don't discuss.

You know what I'm talking about, I think.
Shoes on the side of the road.
Where the fuck do they come from?!

I can't even really imagine the scenario wherein footwear (and it's always just a solitary shoe, never a pair) would be destined to spend its last days directly adjacent to a roadway.

Well, I guess I can imagine one or two scenarios, actually...

Possibility #1: Abandonment Amid Insurmountable Anguish

The dashboard lights in Chad's Chrysler start to flash red in unison, and the vehicle sputters to a stop.

"Aggggh!! Fucking Troy!" he bellows, slamming his steroid-infused fists on the steering wheel.

It's the second time this week Chad has broken down on 787. He cranks the wheel all the way to the right and swings his legs out of the vehicle, slamming the door behind him. Today, he's stuck on the exit 8 off-ramp coming into Green Island.

"Gotta push," he mutters.

 Chad gets behind the gray rust bucket and heaves his body weight against it. The wheels begin to turn. The vehicle moves and then slowly sinks, half astride the shoulder and halfway on the filthy, gravel-strewn grass.

He grabs his Monster energy drink from the cup holder and locks the doors.

Chad doesn't have AAA. In fact, he doesn't even have the money to get his cell phone turned back on, let alone enough cash to hire a tow truck if he could make a call.

He attempts to take a swing from the beverage can, but drops it mid-gulp, dripping radioactive liquid all over his stubbly face and mouth.

"GRAAAAAH!!!" Chad screams, spiraling into a sudden 'roid rage. He kicks his foot into the air, launching a size 9 New Balance sneaker into traffic. Then, he starts running against traffic along the highway, partially shoeless and panting.

He bursts into a nearby Gold's Gym, where he ends up punching a guy on a treadmill and throwing 45 pound weights at people as if they were weightless Gushers fruit snacks.

The abandoned New Balance sneaker sits on the side of the highway, shaking its head.

Possibility #2: Air-headed Reckless Abandon

It's a beautiful September afternoon. Taylor and Jimmy are on their way to 'Toga so they can eat overpriced hamburgers at Circus Cafe and then "get shitfaced" one more time before the summer ends.

Taylor is admiring her blue-painted toenails, positioned prominently on the dashboard. Damn, my pedicure looks effing awesome, she thinks to herself with a smug smile.

"Dude!!! Can you believe how, like...AMAZING it is out today?" she asks Jimmy rhetorically.

He turns to her and grins, wrap-around shades obscuring his terrifyingly pale, serial killer eyes.

"I know, babe, it's fuckin' unreal!" he says, leaning back in the driver's seat like a gansta.

Taylor hums along with a Ke$ha song playing on the radio. She just popped a Xanax and she's feeling good; frankly, dealing with Jimmy is SO much easier when she's on meds.

She tosses her head from side to side and and begins fist pumping. "This is my JAM," she cries.

She then transitions into a fist pumping/full body convulsive combo (maybe it's a spasm due to the medication, it's not really clear) which subsequently causes her to thrust her foot out the window. "Weee, hahahah!" she chortles.

The 70 mph highway speed creates a sheering wind, lifting Taylor's Havianas flip flop right off her foot. It sails happily into the breeze, glad to be rid of her.

 The sandal lands on the side of the Northway, where it currently lives today with an overweight husband, 2.3 children and a King Charles Spaniel.








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Thinking the Unthinkable...Doing the Unnatural.

 There are some things in life that seem plain unnatural to me. A large part of me reacts whenever I try to/consider doing these things, in a way that is most likely primal and self-protective. Simply put—something in me just doesn’t want to do it.

One of these things is diving.

I understand that people think diving is fun, and I would never begrudge someone else the pleasure of diving into water over and over and over again, but I just don’t get it, personally.

My cousin Sarah stood at the edge of the pool, her one-piece bathing suit dripping from previous Olympic-worthy attempts. “It’s not that hard,” she assured me. “Just arc your back and put your arms over your head in front of you. Then jump in head first, straight down.”

Ummm...go in head first? Straight down? I looked at her, and then the water, with uncertainty. Clouds rolling over the pool started to turn the water an uncertain shade of dark that failed to illuminate the depths.

Although I did eventually dive, I can’t say I loved doing it. Jumping into water headfirst is just...well, wrong. And when it’s diving into a lake, river or other watering hole that doesn’t have the reassuring “10 feet” painted along the side? Forget about it. Visions of paralysis and bloody head injuries dance around my brain.

Another thing that seems highly unnatural—When I first tried to do it, I never thought I could manage.

I was 11 years old, sitting in the optometrist’s room with the mirror, sink, and bright overhead lights. “Here you go,” my bespectacled doctor says cheerfully, handing me two small plastic ovals with numbers on them.

He peels them open for me. “See that little round jelly-looking thing there?” I nod my head. “That’s the contact lens. Now, I want you to balance that on your fingertip with the curved part touching your finger, like this. Good. Now, pull your eyelid down and place the lens on your eye. Then blink.”

...

Place the fucking lens on my EYEBALL? Are you insane? I look at him with obvious discomfort and trepidation. Aren’t we taught our whole lives to never put things in our eyes? 

“Be careful or you’ll poke an eye out?”

“Stop rough-housing or someone might lose an eye”?! 

This just felt so wrong. However, I got the hang of it, after at least an hour of agony and fighting with my reflexes to blink, pull my finger away at the last minute, and to not cry.

While I still hate diving, and the idea of putting a contact lens in my eye still seems unnatural, I can do these things now. One task that still eludes me from time to time has to do with a ubiquitous enemy: the Horse Pill.

The Horse Pill comes in many different forms—some seemingly innocent. I read an article in a magazine that touts vitamin and mineral supplements for everything from healthy, shiny hair to immunity boosts and more energy. Well, why the hell not? I ask myself.

I smuggle home the brown plastic bottle of pills and pry it open, a glass of water dutifully in hand. Then, I shake the bottle upside down into my hand and out comes...a fucking blue whale of a pill.

Taken aback and slightly fearful, I check the label. Yes, yes—it’s the Flax Seed oil that Dr. Oz guy recommended. But how could this be? Is there some sort of a height and weight adjusted pill size? Surely this version of the pill has to be for Shaquille O’Neil, because no one else has a throat the size of a fucking fully extended accordion to accommodate this nuclear submarine.

I place the pill on my tongue and slide it to the back of my throat. Then I fill my mouth with as much water as it can reasonably handle without spillover. I say a little prayer.

It may be telling to know that when I was about three years old, I choked on a Flintstones chewable vitamin. I hated the flavor of those godforsaken pills...”grape” flavor my ass. That shit did not taste like grape; more like a combination of dry dog food and Dimetapp cough syrup. So, I did what any respectable child would do when supervised and unable to spit something into a napkin.

I tried to swallow it whole.

Mayday, Mayday, abort mission...

I began to choke and fight for air as if I were pinned underwater by a wave.

I grabbed my mom’s voluminous 80’s sweater, her face contorting into a look of alarm. She throws me in front of her and makes a ball with her hands, pulling them sharply inward against my upper stomach.

After a few of these maneuvers, a purple object catapults from my gaping maw. Mom heaves a sigh of relief, and I gulp in as much sweet, fresh air as I can handle.

That’s the last time I take a fucking vitamin, I think to myself. (But without the “fucking” because I was three.)

******

Fast forward again to today.

Tipping my head back and scrunching my eyes shut, I fear the moment when I must hurl myself upon a sharp counter top corner, trying in vain to clear my throat of the Flax Seed pill with no one home to perform the Heimlich.

The horse meds go down without incident. “Thank you, Jeebus,” I quietly mutter.

Then, I look down at the kitchen table. Four more brown plastic bottles sit in a neat row, all varying in size, quietly taunting me like playground bullies. “Vitamin C” shrieks one. “B-6 and B-12 complex”, sneers another. I reach into each bottle, spilling out exactly one pill from each. My eyes widen with horror and disbelief.

All Horse Pills.

Every last one of them.

The Nuances of Interior Decoration

A couple of weeks ago, my pal Chantelle and I were trolling around Target. I just moved into a new apartment, and as such, was searching for some appropriate items to make my place inviting and home-y. A new bathroom rug was an important purchase on my list. It's not that I didn't have a bath mat already; it's just that it was a sickly, bloated-looking purplish pink hue, and it happened to look grotesque in the new bathing area.

My bathroom is now yellow, with white trim. This may be one of the many unfortunate side effects of possessing a vagina, but there is a large part of me that needs decor to "go with" its surroundings. A ghastly lavender-pink shower rug was certainly not going to do the trick in a yellow bathroom, LET ALONE with a cream and sage striped shower curtain. (Yep, I said fucking "cream and sage." Could I have said green and white? Yep, but I'm FANCY like that.) So, I did the thing that any self-respecting human with female reproductive organs would do: I sought an alternative.

Now, you are probably thinking: Cut to the chase, here...Did you get a white bath mat, or a yellow one? Or: I don't give a shit which color bath mat you chose! Well, then cease reading right now, because the plot thickens from here.

I didn't choose a yellow mat--I mean, what are the odds of picking up just the right shade of yellow without so much as a paint swatch? That's stuff and nonsense! Also, I know I could have gone with white, but have you SEEN how dirty white gets? My landlord comes in to fix the toilet with shit kickers on, simply riddled with cow feces. I'm not about to get a white bathroom rug so he can doodie all over it.

So in the end, I chose brown. I find it looks fantastic with most shades of yellow. it's basically a neutral, and nearly impossible to stain.

Stalking the aisles of Target, the elusive brown rug finally caught my eye. I saw the rich shag sticking out from the bottom shelf. Ahhh, here we go, I thought in delight. I grabbed it out; Chantelle nodded her approval. The rug was the perfect hue--a deep, chocolaty, earth color. I glanced at the tag, expecting it to say something like "Drizzled Cocoa" or "Rich Earthen Brown". Imagine my surprise when I see what it actually says:

WALRUS FUCKING BROWN?

"Sink your weary soles into the luxurious comfort of ...Walrus Brown."

"Nothing completes an elegant bathroom quite like the sensuousness of...Walrus Brown."

Yeah.

I know nothing makes me want to unwind and transcend the day's hardships more than the instantaneous nirvana that is Walrus Brown. I can enjoy a languid bath, an invigorating shower, or engage in some heated tusk wars.

...

Okay, okay...That shit ended up costing $9.99, and it looks pretty fly against my buttercup yellow walls. Not to mention the cream and sage shower cu--...Well; you get the idea.