There was an incident at our house the other night. I was getting ready for a show, and Wim was around the corner having a drink with his friend who we were later going to drop somewhere in Antwerp on the way to my gig. There were two reasons why he went around the corner to hang out with his friend: the first being that I am rather hard to be around before a show (“temperamental artist” is a kind way to describe it, heavy on the ”mental”); and the second (and perhaps most important) reason being that our house was an embarrassing mess.
So when it was time to leave for my show, Wim returned with his friend and said she was waiting outside our house and that she had to pee because she is pregnant. And that she needed to pee in our toilet because she didn’t go at the bar because she didn’t need to then. There was a split second when I felt that my legs would give way. Shoving things into closets wasn’t even an option because there simply wasn’t time. She would have frozen to death (and pee’d) in front of our house before we had anything in a semi-decent order. There was no escaping it: She had to come in. To say that I freaked out would be a spectacular understatement. There was no choice. She had to walk through our cluttered entryway, climb our cat hair-laden stairs, walk through our laundry-strewn den, and use our underpants-everywhere bathroom. I was absolutely mortified. So the whole ride to Antwerp, I was seething with anger. I didn’t know whom I was more angry with; Wim for allowing someone into our House of Shame, or the Pregnant Friend for not availing herself of the facilities at the bar. It became a HUGE issue in my head and I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
Later, I had it pointed out to me that “normal” people don’t have a problem with letting their friends in the house to use the bathroom, and it shook me into awareness. I suddenly felt enormous guilt for thinking that the pregnant friend had been taking evil liberties at my expense. It wasn’t a plot or anything. She just had to pee. And I’m just very odd.
Our house is always a mess, and it’s always a huge ordeal if we have anyone over. It must be planned and arranged in advance so we can wake up early and clean everything, and still it always seems as if up to the very last minute we are moving big piles of paper on various shelves and shoving things into cupboards.
We have this fantasy image of ourselves and the people that we will one day be if only we can get the house to that ever elusive Ground Zero of cleanliness – a state wherein it will require only the most rudimentary touch-up maintenance now and then to retain a pristine and perpetually sophisticated look.
It has so far never happened because Wim and I are both decidedly not Neat People. And because I’m the one who is home all the time, the onus is on me to find a way to sort the situation out. And I try. I do. But what happens is that I have these spurts of inspired floor mopping and then I sort of sit around admiring it and wonder (honestly) how it all winds up dirty again in a few days.
“How can the floor be so dirty when I cleaned it last week??!!” I marvel, completely airbrushing over the 10 cats running around my feet.
Yes, we have 10 cats, and I began to suspect that they might be a contributing factor in why things don’t stay clean.
Cats have this completely undeserved reputation for being ultra-clean animals because they bury their poop, are constantly cleaning themselves, and generally keep a low profile. But on closer inspection you find that after burying their poop, they jump out of the catbox trailing grains of kitty litter between their toes; their “cleaning” consists of covering themselves with their own spit; and even when they are sleeping, they are shedding hair at an alarming rate. And while they do mostly sleep, when they are awake they are running, running, running everywhere; knocking things off shelves and vomiting up hairballs. The end result is what it would be like if we let everyone I dated in my 20s hang out in our house for an hour each day. Only with slightly fewer hairballs.
When I’m out and about I see these housewifey women with their front doors open, dumping floor-mopping water outside. And the thing is I see them doing the same thing, every day. Sometimes I try to peer into their houses thinking, “damn, they must have a lot of cats!”, but I’ve never been able to see any. And yet these people clean every single day. Then it dawned on me: That’s how people keep their houses clean. They do it every day.
Weird, huh?
My brain synapses started firing like crazy as I made all the connections. Normal people don’t leave their clothes on the bathroom floor, or wait until they’ve used every last dish (or dish-like container) before they think about cleaning the kitchen; Normal people clean everything as they go. That’s why it all seems so effortless. And that’s why their friends can just walk in and use their bathrooms and there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.
I couldn’t wait to tell Wim what I’d figured out. We both stood there like two scientists discovering something horribly obvious in a microscope, like that we’d left the lens cap on, or we’d left the price tag on the Petri dish - and we determined that this must, indeed, be what normal people do. So I decided that starting Monday (today) I would become one of those people who vacuumed and mopped and did the dishes and picked up dirty clothes and did the laundry every day. This morning I did it, and it was remarkably painless and I’m sitting here writing this right now in a clean room. It feels strange and yet somehow right. And I’m going to do it every morning. That’s what normal people do, and I desperately want to be normal. It seems like a rather odd discovery to be making at my age; even at the age that I like to say that I am, but, well, better late than never.
So now the perfect denouement will be if The Pregnant Friend randomly knocks on our door and asks to use our bathroom again. I shall politely and enthusiastically welcome her in, proudly ushering her to our glistening bathroom. Karmicly, I need for this to happen. If it doesn’t happen organically, I shall be tempted to ambush her, make her drink 5 cups of coffee then insist she uses our bathroom because, dammit, I need the closure.
Last summer, I went through a very fat phase. It would have been bad enough if I had just left it there, but I also decided to dye my hair auburny-red (which does not work on me!), wear my glasses, and stop wearing makeup altogether. (Why? Why?) As a result of this ill-advised social experiment, I have discovered a few things: First; that my hairdresser is right and I should never be trusted with my own hair; secondly; that the man I married does, indeed, love me for my personality; and finally that I have some sort of weird Karma that says that when I'm at my worst, everyone will want to take my picture.
OK. Here's the thing: I've been doing comedy for 20 years. Yup, that's right. And in that time I've certainly had my ups and downs, but for the most part I made the effort to look as fabulous as possible. And you know who took my picture during those times? Nobody, that's who. I even used to spend hours putting on false eyelashes and teasing my hair into a bouffant, but apart from a few appreciative comments from Drag Queens in the audience, my efforts were largely unnoticed, and certainly un-photographed.
So last summer when I looked the worst that I have possibly for several lifetimes, what happens? EVERYONE wants to photograph me. Why? Why? Why?
I was blissfully unaware of all the big fat ugly images being posted of me on the internet, because I am not one of those people who googles myself. So this one day I was having coffee with my friend Anya when she says, "I saw a really funny interview of you on YouTube".
"Oh," I replied, "Was it an interview done in Luxembourg?" Because I remember that interview for some Luxembourgian station, and I looked particularly adorable that night, if I say so myself. Blonde hair, lots of makeup, a well coordinated outfit, the works.
"No," Anya said innocently, "It was at the Gentse Feesten last summer."
"What? What? WHAT???!!!" I'm sure I spit coffee everywhere. And it all came back to me, probably like people's lives flash right before they die; every gory detail of this interview I did during the Gentse Feesten came flooding back to me. I had actually let these people interview me with no thought whatsoever even to brushing my hair. I had sat there, fat, drunk, and un-adorned, comforting myself with the knowledge that since I'm not actually famous, no one would want to see this thing anyway. I don't know what I was thinking - maybe I thought they were just, I don't know, trying out their camera (and recording equipment) or that maybe they would show it somewhere without attaching my NAME to it so that people could google it and see my fat no-eyebrow face making jokes in Flemish. More to the point, I most likely didn't think at all. These evil, evil people caught me when I was at my most vulnerable, after a show where I had been given far too much free beer. Aaaaaaarrgh!
I ran out of the coffee shop for better phone reception and I called my manager (who also happens to be my husband), crying hysterically and pleading, "Do something! Do something!".
Poor Anya followed me outside, her eyes filling with tears half whispering "What did I do??" She knew she had sparked an incident of near global proportions and she felt responsible, the poor girl. Then, in a really bad attempt to comfort me, she said, "It's been on YouTube for a few months."
I don't think I even said anything. I think I just screamed and started running through the streets of Gent towards home. When I got home, I googled myself, and the damage was worse than I thought. The evil culprits had already removed the video (Perhaps because they'd been threatened with bodily harm. Not my problem.), but upon googling I found that there had also been evil people photographing me. There was one photograph, taken of me on a night when I looked exquisitely bad, mid-bad facial expression and all hunched over. I looked like Quasimoto in a mu-mu. Seriously. And then there were more photos on the site of my favorite comedy club in Antwerp where I looked like Mama Cass having an allergy attack. I sat down and wrote emails to EVERYONE concerned telling them to take all photos of me OFF the internet. I was typing so quickly my fingers were almost bleeding and I was hyperventilating like crazy. It was awful. Finally everyone took the pictures down, but it was a week of hell for me, believe me. Suffice it to say that I'm VERY glad I'm not a celebrity. Really. I don't think there's enough valium in the world.
So last night I had another gig at that club in Antwerp. I spent hours on my newly re-blondified hair. I put TONS of makeup on. My mascara was so thick it almost make a clicking sound when I blinked.........NO ONE took my picture. See what I mean about my Karma? NO ONE! Fookah (I know I'm spelling his name wrong, but that's how you pronounce it), the guy who runs the place said he wants to put my photo on the wall, but, well, no-one brought a camera, and um, well.......TRANSLATION: It's a conspiracy and the universe won't allow me to be photographed unless I am physically compromised in some way. Do I sound paranoid?.......Perhaps I am. Oh, for crying out loud.
The rest of the evening was fun, nonetheless. I drank lots of free beer missed my last train then rode through the streets of Antwerp drunkenly perched on the back of my friend (and fellow comedienne) Öznur's bicycle, and stayed the night in her guest room. This morning the weather was brisk and spookily overcast, just the way I like it, and my makeup still looked fabulous. Still does. God forbid anyone should take a picture of it.
I got a comment from someone on the Extreme Makeover Home Edition forum!
The comment I got is in blue and my response is in green
SweetFaith98 Jan 17, 20:26gmt+01:00
See all postsFirst of all..... that's why this forum is here. By all means, complain. We're here to encourage and support you, that's the importance of sharing your story.
My prayers and thoughts are with you!
Jovanka Jan 17, 22:59gmt+01:00
thankx just a quicvk notye bnecause Im typing this wxith my elbosw
OK - I've had insomnia for almost a week now. It's a chronic thing with me. Loooooong story. But one thing I do when I'm literally up all night is that I cruise the internet like crazy in search of entertainment. And, my friends, I found it:
All of you in the US have probably had Extreme makeover Home Edition for a while now, but it's a relatively new thing here. It only took me a few episodes to figure out that their theme was Those With The Biggest Sob Story Get The Goodies. So I sought out their website, and I found the forum where people post to try to get on the show, and I was laughing so hard I had tears streaming down my face. It's a festival of postings by people trying to outdo each other with their hardships, and criticizing others for not being pathetic enough. Pure comedy gold! So anyway, I've registered as a member on the site and made my own posting, which I have copied below. Here is the link to the site if you would like to follow along and see what responses I get, or if you just want to read some of the other postings:
Here is what I posted (spelling mistakes completely intentional) I just followed the template set forth by other postings and I ran with it:
"I don't wanna complane because lots of people got lots of bad problems. But if you could see the room I'm sitting in you would cry. My hole house is a mess because my hole family suffers from a condition where they are just uncoordinated. The doctors don't have a name for it. We've been a few times and told them everything and they just shrug there shoulders and now we can't even go anymore because my husband got his head stuck in a drawer at work and got laid off. So no more benefits.
My oldest son is 16 and he just learned how to drive and my husband was teaching him out in front of the house, which was hard for him because his head still hurts from where they had to cut him out of the drawer and they slipped and took 2 inches of his scalp off. So my son is trying to park the car and he drove it right into the front porch. It got caught on a microwave oven we got out there and he couldn't back up so my oldest daughter, who's 17 and a big girl, went out to help by pulling from the other side and he ran her over. Now she's got 2 broken ribs and she had to have her hair extensions taken out. Turns out when she fell backwards she fell on Homer, our dog, and he's OK but he bit her butt pretty hard and now she can't sit down for two weeks which is hard, because like I said, she's a big girl. Usually she takes a bath but now she has to stand in the shower and she can't close the door all the way so water got on the floor too much and now we got a mold problem in the bathroom. I was trying to clean up the mold but it's real slippery and I fell forwards and broke fingers on both my hands so my 12 years old daughter is typing this for me. The day that my son drove into the front of the house my daughter thought it was funny and she couldn't stop laughing and she laughed so hard till she peed on the couch. So now the couch smells bad on top of everything else but what am I gonna do, until my husband goes back to work we can't pay for anything. I only work as a massage therapist and I'm having to use my elbows only. Some of my customers have left because of this. But I know there are people worse off than me. God Bless."
This has never happened to me before: I was lazing about on the couch on a Saturday afternoon (actually that part has happened to me quite a bit), halfway watching a film, when I saw an actor who was so amazing that I woke up. The film was the 1946 version of Great Expectations. The actor was Francis L. Sullivan.
Now I need to paint the picture properly: I really had been half asleep. The other actors in the 1946 Great Expectations are pretty mediocre, to say the least. The guy who plays "Pip" is a whiney-looking midget, the actress who plays "Estella" is much bigger than him and looks as if she could beat him arm wrestling, and don't even get me started on Miss Havisham. But then a scene comes up with Mr. Jaggers, the lawyer handling Pip's benefits, and WOW. Francis L. Sullivan played the role, a role which could have been the biggest yawn in what was already a veritable Armada of yawns, but instead he was amazingly alive and he brought the role (and indeed whatever scene he was in) a certain coolness. I actually stopped the scene at the end, rewound it, and played it again a few times (I love digital cable). And then I was so possessed that I actually waited for the credits just so I could see who this guy was. Yes, it was so important to me that I actually sat through the entire 1946 version of Great Expectations, just to see the scenes Francis was in, and to get his name at the end. I hope that wherever Francis is, he appreciates this fact. In case you're curious, all ends well for Pip at the end of the story, although it's a pretty boring ride getting there. This is a film sorely in need of a sex scene or a well-timed car chase. But I digress.
So anyway, I immediately got up and found out everything I could about him. Well, OK, I didn't exactly "get up", because my computer was right there. But I sat up. And here are some of the things I found out:
Francis L. Sullivan was born 6 January, 1903 in London, England. From childhood he had a great interest in the works of Shakespeare, he made his Old Vic debut at the age of 18 in a production of Richard III, he worked successfully in theater in London, and then eventually was "discovered" by Hollywood, and the rest is history - or rather not. Because although he worked a lot and was very successful and certainly had the admiration of his peers, it's not as if his name has gone down in history. In fact, if not for the fact that he performed with some bona fide Hollywood legends, he might be altogether forgotten (or in today's parlance: Un-Googleable). This is an interesting thing about Hollywood: Not all great actors are famous. And not all famous actors are great. Not by a long shot.
This is how good Francis is: He was actually able to steal focus from one of the most beautiful women in screen history, Vivien Leigh. Here's a scene of him in Caesar and Cleopatra (1945), in which he plays Pothinus. He's the big chubby one.
Such presence! And there's no mistaking who he is when he walks into the scene!
Here he is as Mr. Brumble in 1948's Oliver Twist:
Look how expressive he is! You can't even see his whole face, but for crying out loud, look at him!
Now here's a theory that I have: I think that people who are really great actors must also be very intelligent. I mean how can you convey intelligence on the screen if you haven't got it for real, right? A lesser actor might convey intelligence by putting glasses on, but he's only fooling himself. Well go and look at some of Francis's work. The man simply oozes intelligence. I would love to go back in time and have lunch with him!
Here's a story that I adore: Apparently, while portraying an airplane passenger in a live television drama, Francis forgot his lines, ad-libbed "Excuse me, this is my stop," stepped off the "plane," and disappeared from the proceedings. I LOVE HIM!!!
Here he is looking all intense. I don't know which film this is from:
Pretty scary, huh?
By now you might have gathered that I have a bit of a crush on him. I do. Wim knows it, too. But since Francis has been dead for over 50 years, he's OK with it. So, you know, everything's out in the open. Ain't nothing for me to feel guilty over. I've gone a whole lifetime without ever being the sort of person to get a crush on an actor, and now finally I do and he's, well, so inaccessible. *sigh*
I'll leave you with what I consider one of the nicest photos of Francis, and the one which I imagine was closest to what he must have looked like "off set". So when I imagine hanging out with Francis and giggling like a schoolgirl while I tell him he's my favorite actor of all times, this is what he looks like:
More Francis Stuff!!
The trailer to the 1946 version of Great Expectations:
Here he is in Oliver Twist (1948) - from about the 7:48 mark on the video:
And here from about the 4:08 mark on the video:
BTW It turns out the guy who plays Fagan in this film is the same guy who played Pip in Great Expectations who I described as a "whiney looking midget", and it turns put it was Sir Alec Guinness (whoops!), and I must say he's amazing as Fagan. Maybe I just don't like the character Pip altogether. Either way, Francis L. Sullivan is consistently fabulous in everything he does as far as I can tell. Editors note: April 2009 I have just been informed by a reader that Sir Alec Guiness did not, in fact, play Pip; but instead that he played Pip's friend, Pocket (who was considerably handsomer and more engaging on screen than Pip so it explains a lot, really). I must have read the credits too quickly or something. . . . . .
Let me preface everything I’m about to say by stating that I’m fully aware this is all in very bad taste. You're not telling me anything I don't already know. And yet, I can’t be stopped.
OK. Maybe I’m kind of a bit of a conspiracy theorist. Maybe I smoked too much pot in my youth. Perhaps smoking a lot of pot in your youth makes you prone to conspiracy theories. Or Vice Versa.
Yesterday, Benazir Bhutto was assassinated in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. The world is mourning this charismatic leader. When pretty people die the world tends to mourn long and hard.
She had an awful lot of other qualities, too, but one wonders if any of these qualities would have come to light if she hadn’t been so much of a babe as well. Perhaps we will never know. She seemed to have had a good head on her shoulders and her heart in the right place, and as history teaches us, those qualities in a leader are like begging for a bullet.
Anyway – here’s why the whole thing’s got me scared: This might spark a lot of other incidents that could lead to an even bigger conflict. I mean, I think that we can all agree that the area is, to put it politely, unstable, N’est pas? And you’ve already got shit happening in Iraq and Afghanistan and if something kicks off now in Pakistan it’s like all these hotspots geographically surrounding Iran and the pressure could – I don’t know – be like popping an enormous pimple and suddenly we’ve got WWIII.
Because it wasn’t that long ago that WWI, ”The Great War” got started off in a very similar fashion. Franz Ferdinand was minding his own business, doing whatever it is that the Archduke of Austria and Prince Imperial of Austria, Prince Royal of Hungary and Bohemia does; you know, going on photo ops, appearing at public functions, that sort of thing, when he was assassinated. Then everyone declared war on each other then millions of people from lots of different countries spent the next 4 years sitting in mud pits lopping bombs at each other.
OK. So here’s where it gets weird:
Franz Ferdinand was shot in the neck. Benazir Bhutto was shot in the neck
There was another attempt on Franz Ferdinand’s life a few months earlier. There was another attempt on Benazir Bhutto’s life a few months earlier.
Benazir Bhutto was pretty and wore makeup. Franz Ferdinand had himself sewn into his outfit so he would appear slimmer (True!)
Franz Ferdinand is an alliteration. Benazir Bhutto is also an alliteration.
OK. That’s all I’ve got. And, you know, I hope I’m wrong because I have absolutely nothing to wear that’s appropriate for a Global Conflict.
Also I can’t help but think how tragic it will be if 100 years from now some hapless teenager is at a Benazir Bhütto concert and someone turns to him and says, ”Dude, did you know that Benazir Bhutto was an actual person and that’s where they got their name? I think it was some guy who started the first Nuclear Holocaust or something.”
Usually I can't stand any of these conventions that society tells you that you must do like being nice to people at Christmas or having a romantic dinner on Valentines day. Sometimes I even wear white after Labour Day. I'm that crazy. But for some reason, the New Years Resolution thing I like. Even though this isn't the real New Year; which should be 21st March (my birthday) according to the old Pagan way of doing things and people in Iran (apparently). But for shits and grins, I'll go ahead and call January 1st the beginning of the New Year. It's the first day after the whole Christmas Season which tends to clog everything and grind life to a halt, and that I can respect. So anyway, just to make things official, I am proclaiming my Resolutions to The World...Or at least those members of The World who actually read my blog (Hello to both of you).
My New Years' Resolutions
1. I am going to get off my ass and do my writing in my favorite bar every day. I know this might sound like a strange thing to have to commit oneself to, but this particular bar is in a 700-year-old building and in view of a gothic castle and it inspires the hell out of me. The "getting off my ass" part involves walking to the bar which is about 30 minutes away. Once there I admit I will be back on my ass. And just because I'm sitting in a bar doesn't mean I have to drink alcohol, you know. They have coffee, too. (Or so I'm told).
2. I am going to stop letting the cats run our lives. We can go away for the weekend and leave a whole bunch of food and water out for them. They won't die as they would have us believe. We need to have the strength to enjoy being in a hotel room somewhere without lying there wondering what the cats are doing.
3. Glamour is back. I have let my hair be its' natural dishwater-blonde color for long enough. I'm going platinum again. I don't care what anyone thinks. I can still be a freaky hippy with fabulous hair. Also I will attempt to wear high heels more often. Doc Martens should only be worn on country hikes when one is my age.
4. I will run my first marathon by May. Or November. One of those. I haven't decided yet.
5. I am going to talk to that strange old woman who feeds the ducks down on the canal. I have a feeling she might be me in the future.
6. I will no longer even entertain online discussions with Americans who think Global Warming is a "hoax". It just enrages me and takes up precious time I could be spending on lots of other things. When they say these things, I shall just type "LOL" and walk away (figuratively).
7. I will conquer my fear of riding my bicycle on city streets.
8. I will stop talking really fast in exasperated English when I am frustrated speaking Dutch. I'm in danger of turning into Ricky Ricardo.
9. I will have my book finished by August. Honest.
10. I am going to throw more dinner parties so I can convert more people to vegetarianism. Also they usually bring more bottles of wine than we need which is good for later.
Something you should know about me is that I've been suffering from allergies for years. I'm one of those people who always has kleenex and who frequently sneezes. Some days are worse than others, and the whole thing was considerably worse when I lived in Los Angeles; Los Angeles is in a valley and very polluted, so it's kind of like being in a gas chamber full of fake people.
I had my allergies tested by an allergist once - it's a big painless and yet disturbingly unattractive test where they put all these different possible allergens on your back, write corresponding numbers next to them in purple ink, then wait for welts to appear. My back looked like a Sudoku puzzle with welts forming with the numbers that corresponded to cats and molds. As I was living in a damp studio apartment with 5 cats at the time, the doctor suggested that I move to a different apartment and get rid of the cats. Get rid of the cats? You don't just go around getting rid of cats! Cats are family members! And besides, why should they pay for what was clearly my shortcoming? As I explained to the doctor, I was the one with the problem, so I was the one who needed to work on the problem. And so for about 6 months, I had to go to his office and have injections once a week. It helped until I lost my health insurance and then, mysteriously, it stopped helping. (!!!)
But then I took matters into my own hands. I became convinced that it was all mind over matter and that I could cure myself if I just decided not to have the allergies anymore. Also, I heard a theory that if you get a kitten, you'll get used to what you're allergic to as the kitten grows up, and you'll be cured. So the next time I heard of a kitten who needed to be rescued, that's what I did. I cured my cat allergy by getting more cats. A little hair of the dog, if you will.
So anyway, the upshot was that I effectively cured myself of my cat allergy, much to the relief of what was now a small legion of cats and myself. But I still had the mold thing. It would act up like clockwork the day after a heavy rain, or at the homes of the sorts of people who wear black and always have their curtains drawn. And then I heard about The Neti Pot.
The Neti Pot is a little ceramic pot with a spout that looks suspiciously like one of those creamers on the tables in cheap coffee shops. It's an anceint Ayurvedic cleansing system. The name comes from the Sanskrit term, Jala Neti, which I'm assuming means "nose bucket" or something similar. What you're supposed to do with the neti pot is fill it with warm salt water, then pour it into one of your nostrils and it all runs up into your sinuses and then comes out your other nostril. My mother had sent me a neti pot along with a kilo of sea salt (because she thought I wouldn't be able to get sea salt in Belgium). Upon receiving the package, I promptly tucked it all away in a cupboard, dismissing it all as being just a little too Birkenstock for me. But as my mold allergies started getting unbearable, I thought I'd give it a try. So I poured some warm water in, poured some sea salt in, stuck the spout in my nose and went to it.
Now here's a very important tip: If you use a neti pot, make sure to mix the salt with the water until it dissolves. I learned this the hard way. I didn't think about the fact that there was this big clump of salt at the bottom of my neti pot. So effectively what I did was to pour warm water up my nose, followed by pure salt sludge. Three tablespoons of salt right up my sinuses.
Oh my God. Did it hurt? Um.....yeah. Kind of like what I would expect it to feel like if a bee had flown up my nose with some of his friends and started having a stinging contest. Holy shit. Why don't they write the thing about making sure the salt dissolves on the side of the neti pot? And who am I supposed to sue? A bunch of anceint Ayurvedic guys?
Look - I don't want to knock Ayurvedic stuff. I'm a big fan of it as a matter of fact - I just happen to have a problem with this one particular thing. And yes, while I'll admit that it wasn't painful once I'd mixed the salt water, I still found myself rather unwillig to be faced with the prospect of having to pour water up my nose every day for the rest of my life.
So I tried something else. And if you're an allergy sufferer and you happen to be reading this then listen up (or rather carry on reading), because what I'm about to say will change your life:
I gave up cheese.
Yup.
I had been addicted to cheese all my life, and now I haven't had it for a month and MY ALLERGIES ARE GONE. I actually caught myself breathing clearly from my nose for the first time a few weeks ago and it was such a revealation.
....And the best part is, now I don't ever have to pour salt up my nose.
So we were driving on the highway yesterday, and I see a truck from Italy and on the side it has big advertisements for "Drive Beer".
Hmmmm. Maybe not what one should promote on the side of a beer bottle?
I tried not to jump to conclusions. I thought: "Maybe it's a non-alcohol beer for people who want to drink beer and drive." ........Ummmm, nope. The reason it's called "Drive" beer is because it's promoted by this guy:
Italian race driver Giancarlo Fisichella. And it isn't alcohol free; it's got an alcohol content of 2.5 percent. And while that might be considered a mild driving-safe beverage in certain counties in The Republic of Ireland, it is nonetheless alcohol, and therefore something that we hope Giancarlo isn't sucking down before a race.
They seem to be promoting it as a fun, hip, chic beer for people who live in the fast lane; a fast lane where, apparently, a lot of good-looking Italian people are driving drunk.
Because, you know, when we've had a bit to drink, we're all a lot more susceptible to suggestion. So when you're asking yourself, "What should I do now?", what better place to look than the place where you've sought so many other answers: your beer bottle. And there's the answer, loud and clear:
LONDON (AFP) British tourists have left the residents of one charming Austrian village effing and blinging by constantly stealing the signs for their oddly named village. While British visitors are finding it hilarious, the residents of Fucking are failing to see the funny side.
Only one kind of criminal ever stalks the sleepy 32-house village near Salzburg on the German border - cheeky British tourists armed with a sense of humour and a screwdriver.
But the local authorities are hitting back and with the signs now set in concrete, police chief Kommandant Schindtberger is on the lookout.
"We will not stand for the Fucking signs being removed" the officer said.
"It may be very amusing to you British, but Fucking is just Fucking to us. What is this big Fucking joke? It is just peurile."
Local tourist guide Andreas Rehmueller said it was only the British who had a fixation with Fucking.
"The Germans all want to see the Mozart house in Salzberg" he explained.
"Every American seems only to care about The Sound of Music (the 1965 film shot around Salzerg)
The occasional Japanese wants to see Hitler's birthplace in Braunau.
"But for the British, it's all about Fucking."
Guesthouse manager Augustina Lindbauer described the village's breathtaking lakes, forests and vistas.
"Yet still there is this obsession with Fucking" she said.
"Just this morning I had to tell an English lady who stopped by that there were no Fucking postcards"
Should we be more disturbed by all the English stealing the "Fucking" signs, or all the Japanese who can't wait to visit Hitler's birthplace?
Long story short, we ended up with two degus. I say "long story short" because it's always something - we see a wounded critter, someone tells us about a wounded critter, etc. But if this were a film, the action would start here, where I say it does. I'll give you a few lines of exposition for the past if you think it will help, but after that, you're on your own: We found a wounded degu at the petshop, rescued him before he could be "destroyed", went back to the shop to get his brother (because degus are very social and should never be alone), then brought them home, and put them in a lovely cage.
Within hours, they had eaten their way out of the cage.
So we got another cage.
Overnight, they'd eaten their way out of that.
So we got another cage, thinking this one was foolproof, but the "fools" turned out to be us, and once again they tunnelled out.
Here's a tip to you if you should ever get a couple of degus: Don't keep them in plastic bottomed cages. You might innocently think, like us, there's nowhere on this one they can get leverage for that first bite, but you will be wrong, my friend.
I found out they had escaped the latest cage when my cat Angelo was going crazy in the hallway. I soon saw that he was chasing Pepito and I interviened. I rescued Pepito, gave him a lecture, then locked him in the bathroom. Then I found Chico cowering on a bookshelf between a Noam Chomsky book and a thesaurus (good place to be), so I grabbed him. He was actually shaking in my hand. And, as you can see by the photo, Degu's are cute little fuckers. I was overwhelmed with the need to comfort him. I went to pet his little head as I said, there there little guy, it's OK, when KAPOW!
He bit the fuck out of me. Right between the thumb and forefinger in that muscle that they tell you to massage when you've got a migraine. And not just in the muscle, but right through the muscle. The guy had been sharpening his teeth on several cages and my hand was like nothing to him. Chico made his point, and I discovered exactly how loud a person can scream the word "Fuck". The pain was so intense that it was almost intellectually interesting. I found myself outside my own body with a labcoat and a clipboard saying, that really is significant.
I cleaned the wound, bandaged it, then proceeded to comfort myself with alcohol. I got so drunk that I fell asleep which was exactly the effect I wanted.
Then here's what happened: A few days later, which happens to be yesterday, everything started hurting. Not just the wound,but also my hand and then my whole arm. And here's what I learned folks: Apparently getting bit by a critter can infect everything. Even if that critter is really cute. And furthermore, apparently when you are bitten by a critter, you're supposed to go right to the doctor, especially when that bite causes enough bloodloss to thoroughly trash two towells, and apparently when you work with animals, as I have done for years, you're supposed to know all this stuff and you're supposed to be current on your tetanus vaccinations. I have been apprised of this fact on numerous occasions in numerous animal sanctuaries in numerous languages, but have always brushed off their medical advice with yeah, yeah, I had a tetanus vaccination; and yeppers, I did. In 1985. that's what happens as you get older. All the years sort of meld into one, and next thing you know, you're in Belgian hospital having needles jabbed into you.
Here's what else happens as you get older: You start talking constantly about your physical ailments, even blogging about them. Sorry.
And here's the thing: Chico isn't even apologetic. Little fucker.
In the years since I have left the US, I have found myself rather obsessively looking over my shoulder as if watching the Titanic from the vantage point of a nice dry life boat.
"Row, people! Row" I say, lest we should get caught in its' wake. I can still hear them playing Nearer My God to Thee on deck, but it's getting awfully gurgly.
So I watch CNN International fairly regularily because, ya know, it's good to keep connected and also it's good for lazy old me to watch a news broadcast that isn't in Dutch. I don't have to concentrate so much. I can enjoy my morning coffee. And mostly, CNN International is pretty informative. They have nice British and Australian people telling me the weather in centigrade and they have reports about different stuff going on in the world, sometimes puncuated by cool rock and roll licks if it's Anderson Cooper. And they have......Larry King.
Larry King seems like a pretty intelligent guy - that's what threw me at first. I thought ah, this is nice; an American interview show hosted by a kindly old grandfather of a man. He kind of looks like one of those old guys who insists on wearing a suit and tips his hat to you as you pass him on the street. He's got one of those no-nonsense faces and old guy slightly gruff been-there-done-that voice. In short: I trusted him.
A while back I started to notice a creeping proliferation of tabloidy topics on his show; but I'd sort of dismiss them and think well maybe there's a lot I don't understand in American news. Maybe the fact that Scott Peterson murdered his pregnant wife while maintaining an uncanny resemblance to Ben Affleck is important. Who am I to judge? Larry would still cover other stuff like when people would shoot Amish kids or when Hugh Hefners girlfriends had their own TV show. I was OK with that.
Then I started noticing that Anna Nicole Smith was getting an awful lot of airtime. Who was the father of her baby? What happened to her son? It was relentless. And I started wondering how can anyone think Anna Nicole is this important? Her live-in-lover/lawyer Howard K. Stern became a a constant fixture on the other side of Larry's desk with all the articulation of a surfer with a head injury and I learned that gee, maybe it isn't that hard to pass the Bar. Then Nicole figured she wasn't getting enough publicity so in a daring career move she died and now Howard K. Stern has his own little cot in Larry's studio. Dear God. I was thinking where will the madness end and then along came Britney.....
.........to deflect attention. Thank God, I thought, anything so I don't have to look at footage of that sedated tranny anymore. Now don't get me wrong - I'm not trying to speak ill of the dead or anything, but I think we (and this includes Anna) could all agree that her's was a life that had sort of run the gammit of it's potential. Does it make me mean to say that? Am I supposed to imagine that she was going to suddenly sober up, be given some sort of Flowers for Algernon transformation and find a cure for cancer? Or am I just a realist who recognizes that there's a limit to the entertainment value of a mentally challenged silicone enhanced celebrity? In that wisdom and awareness that we all achieve when we leave this mortal coil, I imagine even Anna Nicole is looking back thinking, "Well that was silly." Perhaps she'll try to compensate in her next life by coming back as a Nuclear Physisist. One can only hope.
So America turns it's entertainment starved eyes to Britney and her newly shaved head. I thought this was a good thing, until Larry had a team of psychologists and pundits and even a guy who gave Britney a tatoo on his show to talk about this National Tragedy. Here's an excerpt from the transcripts of that show:
DR. ROBI LUDWIG, PSY.D. PSYCHOTHERAPY: I think she was making a statement that she doesn't want to be aligned with this Britney image anymore. It did not work for her and she had a little bit of a tantrum. And I think she was saying I'm not doing well. And I don't think it's -- it's reading too much into it. I think we really need to take -- when celebrities act out seriously before something dangerous happens.
You get it people? She was trying to tell us something. Us. You and me. The public. She can't say stuff to us in a normal way like in an email, there's just too many of us. So she has to do it in a cryptic way like by shaving off her golden locks of pretty pretty hair. She knows that we'll know what's up. And God love her, we do. Something dangerous is happening. A girl shaved her hair. Please call for help. Someone.
So now this Kevin Federline person that she used to be married to has got a lawyer to try to get custody of their kids because clearly anyone who would shave her head is not a fit mother. I mean who knows what she'll do next? Stop wearing makeup? Stop hanging out with Paris Hilton? This could get seriously out of control! Get those kids out of there and into the stability of a household headed by a male gold-digger!
Needless to say, this whole fiasco has seriously stolen focus from the antics in the courtroom of those trying to decide where to bury 140 pounds of silicone formerly known as Anna Nicole. The judge (who coincidentally had earlier pitched an idea to a television network to become the next Judge Judy) had to resort to tears, yes folks, tears, just to get the attention that this important case deserves.
Good move, your honor.
So now the collective mind boggles as to what Britney will have to do in retalliation. She might choose to hack off a limb or be caught in public reading a book. Whatever happens, it won't be pretty.
Watch this space. (Not literally. Go out and live your life.)
The only thing we can really count on is that uncle Larry will be there to tell us all about it. God Bless America.
So this week this lady astronaut thought she might like to kill this other lady astronaut who was doing stuff with her astronaut boyfriend. And then, in what will surely become legend, (and all anyone in her prison wing talks about), she put on a pair of adult diapers, drove 900 miles, and attempted to do damage to the other lady.
When I heard this news item I thought, Finally, someone who's not afraid to use adult diapers for recreational use. Years ago, when I was living in Los Angeles but doing shows in San Fraancisco whenever I could because, well, Los Angeles is an awfully nice place to leave, I used to drive 5-6 hours each way along the I-5. Sure it's a long drive, but I didn't mind it. The only thing that really bothered me about the drive was the fact that I am one of those people who has to pee all the time. So I was constantly having to pull over and use the facilities somewhere. Wouldn't it be great, I'd muse while clutching my Mountain Dew Big Gulp, if adult diapers didn't carry wit them such a stigma and I could, you know, just "go" while you drove? Whenever I would bring this idea up in conversation, my friends would usually react with "That is just sick" and I'd say yeah, heh heh, it's, you know, just a joke I'm working on, tee hee hee. And the subject would be dropped.
But dammit. It just makes so much practical sense. I really considered doing it. I didn't do it, but I sure gave it a lot of thought. My only worries were A) where would you dispose of the diaper? This is a valid consideration if you are going to be staying on a friend's couch in San Francisco; and B) What if I'm in an accident and they see me in a damned adult diaper? I mean the last thing I would want is to be mistaken for one of those diaper freaks.
"Those diaper freaks". Ah. Let me explain: It's an image that is unfortunately permanently emblazoned on my mind. Years ago, in San Francisco as a matter of fact, I was at a party at a guy's house, and this guy worked at a video place where people have their videos duplicated or something to that effect. Anyway, he had come into possession of this series of tapes made by a group called "the Diaper Pail People", who are basically people who get off on pretending to be babies, wearing adult diapers and changing each other. Yup. Go ahead. Google it if you don't believe me. Put in the words "diaper" "adult" and "baby" and see what you get.....Anyway, there I was at the party and they put on one of these tapes for shock entertainment. It was sort of an instructional video showing an "ordinary" couple who were enjoying a weekend of infantilism. The tape had an air of "Hey, we're normal folks who just happen to have converted our garage into an adult sized baby room." Everyone else at the party had the fortitude to laugh at it. I just stood there in horror. (OK, maybe I was a little stoned). And the thing is, this is a HUGE thing. There are hundreds of thousands of people out there; so many that there are businesses that cater to these people, providing them with adult sized baby clothes and changing tables. If this isn't a sign of the apocalypse, it bloody well should be. What baffles me is: How do these people meet? I mean how does a person go about bringing something like this up in conversation? Like you're just getting to know this really great guy, having a romantic candle-lit dinner, he gazes lovingly into your eyes and says, "How 'bout I shit myself and you clean it up like you're my mommy?"...And the thing is that this line has apparently worked on many people, hence the heavy web presence.
Well these Diaper Pail People must be all over this latest astronaut news item. Probably they're patting each other on the back (while burping each other?) and giving each other that knowing look that says, "See? We're everywhere."
And here's the scary thing: As happens sometimes, the Cosmic Unconsciousness being what it is, this diaper-wearing for long journeys thing is catch on. Why just look at this item from www.chinaview.cn: The headline is Sales of adult diapers soar over holiday journeys. This was just January 24th. What the hell is going on?
So, while the lady astronaut may not have successfully thwarted her love rival, she has unwittingly become the vanguard of a whole movement. Freaks and lazy drivers the world over will be holding her up as their leader.
I'm sure none of this even occured to her as she was being arrested. To have made such an effort, driven so long, and gone to such lengths only to be caught must have been overwhelming. She must have been shitting herself.
A young woman, thought to be 27-year-old "Rochom P'ngieng", was found living in a Cambodian jungle. She has, apparently, been living alone in the jungle for 19 years since she was 8 years old and went missing whilst herding buffalo. She seems to speak no discernable language and she keeps taking her clothes off and making signs that she would like to return to the jungle.
In an attempt to acclimate her to the modern world, her family has been showing her Karaoke videos. Yup. Can you imagine? For the better part of her life, she's been existing at survival level, relying on her most primitive skills and senses, her only interaction with jungle creatures, possibly. Then one day when she's crouching picking up bits of rice off the ground, some farmer grabs her, puts a tacky dress on her and next thing you know she's being shown Karaoke Videos. We've all had awkward chance reunions with people we haven't seen in a while - perhaps we shuffle our feet a bit and search for the right thing to say; but when, in the name of God, has the right answer ever been to show the person what you look like when you're drunk and overestimating yourself?
"Hey you guys! Rochom's been living like a monkey for two decades so she's never seen Uncle Tony singing Paradise by the Dashboard Lights!" Hell, I'd be ripping my clothes off and heading back to the jungle too.
What exactly are these people planning? Are they even going to teach her how to read books, or only to read the lyrics off a screen at their local bar?
"Come on, Rochan! Sing it! Hot child in the city...yeah...running wild and looking pretty...ooh...hot child in the city...."
The aptly named Jennifer Lea Strange died after drinking over a gallon (That's nearly 4 liters to most folks) of water in a contest called "Hold your Wee for a Wii" for radio station KDND 107.9 in California. And let's put things into perspective here: The grand prize was a Nintendo Wii (whatever that is) and they are worth over 300 dollars, apparently. So miss Strange drank like a freshly dumped college co-ed, and later she died.
And here's the really shitty thing: She didn't even win. Lucy Davidson was the person who won. What's going to be going through Lucy's mind the first time she sits down to play Nintendo?
If I seem callous and unkind it's because I just find the whole thing so ridiculously stupid. First, these loud overly-perky radio station promotional stunts, then the people who are so wowed by the prospect of their "15 minutes" that they are willing to publicly debase themselves, and finally Nintendo itself. Why is everyone frothing at the mouth about a computer game? Is life really that boring? Apparently so. And beyond that - how does one physically take in so much water? Where does it all go? Surely your stomach would hurt from holding it all, and you might get the clue that what you're doing isn't too healthy? I mean what are you thinking at that point? "Damn, this might be rupturing my intestines, but I can't wait to play with my new Nintendo!".
During the water drinking contest a nurse called in to say that this was dangerous and that people could die from it. The DJs joked, "That's OK, we've had them all sign releases."...Here's a good rule of thumb: Never (repeat) NEVER sign a release that involves damage to your body when you are about to potentially damage your body:
I was once asked to sign a release when I showed up at a Temp job at the Chevron building in San Francisco, years ago. The release basically said that if anything should happen to me like the building collapsing that they wouldn't be in any way liable for medical costs (or bereavement compensation - where applicable). Now bear in mind that this was about 2 or 3 days after the Earthquake of '89. We were still experiencing aftershocks; everyone's nerves were frazzled and we were expecting everything to come tumbling down any second. I refused to sign the release. So they spent the next HOUR arguing with me that it was "routine" and that "everyone else did it". I didn't budge. Finally they fired me, I didn't get paid, and my temp agency stopped calling me for assignments. OK - perhaps the "moral" of the story would have been communicated a bit more effectively if I told you that at that moment the ceiling had collapsed, I had sustained multiple spinal injuries and sued Chevron for 90 million dollars. That's not what happened. But I still say I had a valid point. Things could have gone wrong, and in that parallel universe where they did I am sitting in a white marble villa in the Italian Alps sipping champagne whilst having my feet massaged by two male models. But I digress.
As if it weren't horrible enough that a young woman is now dead, there is the added tragedy of it being a particularly embarrassing death. She's sure to make this year's Darwin Awards, and for the rest of their lives her loved ones are going to have to repeat the story of her dying by drinking too much water for a Nintendo game - which she never won.
And lets not underestimate the paranoia of the American public, either. How many kids are going to have to endure the next year or so hearing their mothers freak out every time they drink a glass of water too quickly? There's nothing America loves more than a new medical threat, and this one is just as good as all the Trans Fats, red M&Ms, Excedrin PMs and tampons of yesteryear. Will complimentry water stop ariving at your table in restaurants for fear of the lawsuit that may ensue? I wouldn't doubt it. Unless you've signed the release form.
Gone With The Wind really is a great film. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I realize that this is old news, but it happens to be on TV right now as I'm writing this. I quite literally have seen it probably about 100 times. Maybe more. Not multiples of hundreds like I've seen It's a Wonderful Life; but enough times to make me kind of a freak, anyway.
If you're like me, (and God help you if you are), you like the movie all the way through until Bonny Blue dies and then (I'm sure you'll agree), it all slides rapidly downhill. Oh, don't get me wrong; it's well made and it's a classic and all that, but it just at that point gets rather hard to watch because Scarlett acts like such a moron. I mean there's Rhett who is f-f-f-fine and totally in love with her and yet she's still all hung up on Ashley who is nothing short of insipid. And of course it all ends badly. Sorry if this ruins it for you, but you've had 80 years to see the film so don't come crying to me for ruining the surprise.
After seeing GWTW you sort of feel sick for a few days with this big lump of regret on behalf of Scarlett and how she's made a complete ballsup of her life. Ah, but there is hope...
In the 1980's someone had the good sense to write a sequel to GWTW. It's called "Scarlett" and I don't care if it is practically a Harlequin Romance, it's a damned satisfying read. She gets back together with Rhett and things work out much better. Sorry if I've ruined it for you, but it has been out for 25 years now. get with the program, my friend. And I honestly wish that more authors would write more happy endings to formerly negative-ending classics. Perhaps this is my calling? I'll give it some thought. First on the To Do list: West Side Story. I never liked Tony dying in the end... (Again - sorry for ruining things if you've been twidling your thumbs for 45 years)...In my sequal I think I shall have a multicultral team of paramedics rush in and save the day. Tony and Maria will get married and everyone will have a great time at their wedding; all social wounds miraculously healed. And to those of you who will shout in protest, "But it's based on Shakespeare! The classic story of Romeo and Juliet!!", I say what the hell I'm rewriting that one too. Juliet wakes up right before Romeo drinks the poison and they all have a good laugh. The End.
OK. One more cat story then I promise to post really exciting stuff - complete with car chase scenes and gratuitous nudity, if you like. But right now, just this one little cat story…….
So....About 5 months ago, I started noticing this grey kitten living in the bushes at a construction site around the corner from where I live. When I first saw him, he was probably about 4 months old and so thin that his cheeks were sunken in. I was so worried about him, but he wouldn't let me get anywhere near him; so I'd leave food for him and send him good energy hoping on some level he'd figure I was looking out for his best interests.
Then I had a very vivid dream where some of the feral cats I'd seen around the neighborhood were in front of my house and gathered around the grey kitten who was sitting on one of the wooden chairs out front. It was one of those dreams that effected me in such a way that when I woke up, I was sort of "stained" by the dream all day long. Certainly not a dream up for Jungian interpretation - This one wasn't about me. The dream haunted me so much that in an If You Build It They Will Come kind of way, I started putting dry cat food in a dish under the table out front. Just in case.
Sure enough, two nights later at about 1:00 AM, my cats were causing a bit of a commotion at the front window. I went to see what they were looking at, and there eating the food, was one of the feral cats from my dream, and the little grey kitten.
The next morning, I looked out the window and there was the grey kitten looking up at me. I went outside and he wouldn't come near me, but I left him a dish of canned food right next to the dish of dry. After he'd had his breakfast he disappeared, but he was back at the same time the next morning. I could see he was putting on a bit of weight, and I was relieved to see that. This went on for about a week, until one day I saw him playing with our cats in the afternoon. They were all hanging out together, completely comfortable in each other's presence. It was hot outside and I had the front window open and my cats were running in and out. I was busy working when suddenly I looked down and saw that the grey kitten was in the living room with the other cats. I stealthily ran over to the window and shut it as fast as I could so he couldn't get out. He saw me doing it, went into a panic and jumped at the window a few times trying to escape, then he ran under the couch and cowered there in the dark. I had this strange moment where I felt guilty that I was locking him in against his will, but then I thought better of it. If I had him inside, at least I'd know he was safe and well fed. I had to make the call that I knew what was good for this kitten better than he did. That night I happened to look out the window again and I saw the feral cats that had brought him. They were looking up at the window, but they walked away when I opened the front door. It was as if they were just checking to see that their kitten was alright. I don't think they've been back since then, but I keep the dish under the table out front filled with dry cat food every day just in case. Someone's been eating it, so it's important that it's there, I think.
Now inside, the kitten was eating a lot, had figured out the whole sandbox system perfectly, and was getting along with the other cats, but was still living under the couch. This went on for about two weeks. Finally, I got him to venture out by rolling one of the cat toy balls across the floor. He heard the sound (all our cat toys make sounds to accommodate Martha, our blind cat) and then forgot all his fear to come out and investigate it. He had never seen a toy before (I guess there isn't really much call for toys when cats are fighting for survival on the streets), and devoted all his time to it.
Every day we'd try to get closer to him, and little by little he started to calm down and trust us. We gave him a name; Bram – and right away he knew that that was him. He's a very smart little guy. Bram would watch as the other cats sat next to us and on us, and he got braver and braver until one day he jumped up into my lap, and that was it: I fell immediately and hopelessly in love with him, and he became an affection junky and now we've got this mutual codependent thing going on.
Right now as I write this, he's sleeping in our laundry basket, which is like saying, "you are my family" in cat language. As for me, I can't stop kissing him every chance I get. So now we are a household with 6 cats, 2 rabbits, 3 gerbils, 2 dwarf hamsters and also 2 humans.
Some people, including some so-called "experts" on cats, will tell you that you cannot tame a feral cat over the age of 2 months. All I can say is that they are wrong, wrong wrong. All cats – infact all creatures – respond to love. The proof is sitting in my laundry basket.
So the other day, we went to the pet supply shop to get kibble for the Lesbian Rabbits. On the way there I was struck with one of my Critter Vibes. I get this every now and then - it's like this radar that tells me there's a critter who needs me. Usually it's a cat, and I either fall in love with them or bring them to the local (non-kill) cat charity boat. So on this day I thought it was rather strange I should get The Radar when we were on our way to score bunny chow.
We got into the store and I went to look at the resident rabbits, mice, guinea pigs and canaries and all looked well. They all looked happy enough. And then I saw Ramon. He was in a cage all by himself; the most despondent looking gerbil I have ever seen in my life. I don't know if you've ever seen a look of ennui on the face of a rodent, but it is a truly heartbreaking thing. He looked like he was having an existential crisis the depth of which I couldn't even fathom. I couldn't take it. I went and found a store assistant, handed over 7 euros, and then scooped Ramon into a box (because the store assistant was afraid of him). On the way home, I swear I could hear Ramon sighing in there.
But as soon as I put Ramon in his new home,(an Italian luxury cage complete with play wheel and plastic cabaña that used to be home to a shrew called Druifke), his mood lifted. He was so happy he didn't know what to do with himself. The rest of the family (2 rabbits and 5 cats) gathered around to stare at him. Our big fluffy cat, Papa Steve adopted him, and slept all night next to his cage.
And yes, I'm aware I've begun my descent into madness. Come back and see me about 30 years from now; I'll be the crazy old lady with a crow on my shoulder and a family of mice living in my bouffant.
The verdict is in: After separating Daisy and Winnie to stop them shagging constantly (we put them in adjoining cells where they could look at each other and think about what they'd done), we took them to the vet today and after what the rabbits and I agreed was a rather invasive examination, he determined that they are both girls. Lesbians. Horny Lesbian rabbits. And, I'm no biologist, but as far as I know, Lesbians can't reproduce. **whew**. So all is well in our livingroom again. But we're keeping our Turkey Baster locked up in case the rabbits get any ideas.....Hey wait a second. We're vegetarians. We haven't got a Turkey Baster. Thank God. I really didn't feel like getting up.
OK. That's it. No more of my stories will be posted here. If you liked reading them, you're going to have to wait for the book. And yes, there really is going to be a book. I've got a title all picked out and everything. And I've already got stuff to put in the book. And I'm writing even more stuff. I know what time it is!!
So on to the normal blogging. Topical stuff - stuff that isn't all about Jovanka, for crying out loud!......(This is going to be difficult)...
So here's what's going on this week (in a nutshell):
*I've had the flu *Pope Benedict said a bunch of anti-Muslim stuff and won't take it back *In my Dutch class we are learning imperfect verbs *I haven't eaten bread in over 6 weeks *Bush maade a speech where he basically linked 9/11 to Iraq. Again. *My rabbits, Daisy and Winnie are finally getting along, but there might be trouble on the horizon *I had lunch yesterday at the church around the corner which is 1000 years old. *There's a crisis in Darfur
OK. Most of it was stuff about me, rather than about the World At Large, but give me a break. This is my first day. I shall pick one from the bevvy of topics above that I think might be of interest to any reader and elaborate on it:
*My rabbits, Daisy and Winnie are finally getting along, but there might be trouble on the horizon.
Daisy and Winnie each came from a bird rescue place seperately, and have been living in seperate cages next door to each other. Whenever I would open the cages up for fraternization, they would fight, until recently they seemed to suddenly fall for each other and have decided to move in together. Now here's the thing: Daisy, the big one was (I thought) a girl, and Winnie, the baby one was (I thought) a boy, and certainly not "of age"....But they've been spending quite a lot of time the past few days shagging with Daisy on top, so I'm not quite sure what to think of the world anymore. We have to take them in to get checked on tomorrow. Daisy, although seemingly quite feminine, seems to have a penis, so I'm having my suspicions. Possibly they are both boys. Sometimes Rabbits are gay and I hope that's all that's going on here, otherwise we will need to surgicly intervene, and soon.
Here's all I'm going to say about the Pope......Well, he's come into his Popehood following a Pope who was arguably the most popular Pope in modern times, if not ever who was absolutely the best looking Pope in the last half a century; and here's this poor German Schmuck who not only used to be a Hitler Youth, but also has decided to take the name Benedict for crying out loud. Plus, I'm sorry, he's really not very attractive. So I think he's got a lot of anger that needs expressing. But Dude, (And I'm speaking directly to Pope Benedict, here): Give it a break. Stop saying stupid shit just because you want to carve out your own niche. It's not working for you, and you are just making yourself look bitter and downright silly.
That's all for today. I should get better at this and I certainly will try to keep it topical. Goodnight people. x
Let me preface everything by saying that I have always hated clowns. I am not alone in this feeling. There are many others and our numbers are legion. As with many people, I had a negative childhood experience with a clown: One of them came to our school – somehow he was allowed to wander on to the premises; people were very careless in those days – and he put on a show for the kids. He had a big painted on shit-eating grin but I could instantly see through all the greasepaint to the fiend beneath. I knew what he really was. And somehow, he knew I knew. He was doing that oh-so-lame trick where you pretend to pull a coin from behind someone’s ear and he did it to everyone – everyone but me. Then he glared at me as if to say “Keep your perceptions to yourself, if you know what’s good for you.” It was a defining moment in my life. I saw the scam that these evil beasts were pulling and yet I was helpless to do anything about it. My peers remained blithely unaware. I wanted to stand up on the bleachers and yell, “Stop laughing at him, you’re only encouraging him!...You’re only laughing because you think you’re supposed to laugh! You’re being swindled!” But I didn’t. And I have to live with the knowledge that those kids grew up thinking everything was OK.
Later in life, I became a stand up comedienne to avenge myself. On occasions when I would run into a clown (which happens a lot more often than you might think), I would look them right in the eye and say, “I do real humor.” then I’d stare them down until they looked away in shame. Bottom line: If you need oversized shoes, red nose and to paint your face like an asshole; you ain’t funny. Hang it up and go do something useful with your life. I mean it.
There is proof of their evil emerging constantly. John Wayne Gacy, one of the world’s most notorious serial killers was also a serial clown. Think about this: People actualy hired John Wayne Gacy for their children’s parties. Someone actually took a look at that on their doorstep and said, “Hello sir, come on in. There’s ice cream and cookies and punch or beer if you’d like something stronger.”
One time, at a low and depressed nadir of my life, I made out with a guy who had just graduated from clown college on the hood of a car; such was my self-loathing. I don’t feel good about saying it, but it’s one of those thngs that must be talked about in order to be purged. Some people abuse themselves with drugs and alcohol to express their dispair, I just let a professional clown stick his tongue down my throat. Would that I had had enough self-esteem for a drink habit. The next day he winked at me as he was juggling and it was all I could do not to vomit on his oversized shoes. How could I have? How could I? Ah, but sadly they don’t have 12-step groups for girls who abuse themselves with clowns. More’s the pity.
Oh I could go on about clowns and how and why I think they should be stopped, but I’ll leave that to the politicians and religious leaders. I just needed to mention clowns so you would understand the true depth of my abhorance for them and therefore be able to share in my astonishment of having now met Good Clowns.
Yeah, you heard me: Good Clowns. I know it sounds like an oxymoron. But that’s what I saw at Cirque Du Soleil. Yeah, you heard me: Cirque Du Soleil. I honestly never thought I'd go and see it. I’ve been watching bizarre ads for Cirque du Soleil for 20 years now – you know; people with freaky masks and weird makeup giving enigmatic looks and enticing you to come see them with all the seductive powers of something that is completely not seductive. (Sorry – I couldn’t think of anything). I always hated them because I thought they were just a bunch of limber French people trying to prove how weird they were. Point taken, Gaston, but why should I fork out 100 bucks to see that?
So the only way I was ever going to see Cirque Du Soleil was if my guy got free tickets at work. Happily, that is exactly what happened.
The show was at this big tenty place in Brussels. The minute I walked into the outer lobby bit of the tent, I could tell that these were freaks on a mission. There was all sorts of Freaky French (OK, "French-Canadian", but French is French!) Circus-themed merchandise on sale, among which I spotted a dazzling array of handbags, and then I was done for.
Anyone who knows me knows that I have struggled with a rather serious handbag addiction for several years now. It all started as late-night sessions on eBay to anesthetize a broken heart, but long after the healing was complete, the addiction still remained. That’s not the sort of thing there are 12-step programs for either. This is just one of those addictions you must learn to live with. Is there a cure? I don’t know. I live in hope. But meanwhile I must experience constant Jonesing when walking by expensive boutique windows. I avoid shopping areas for this very raeson. You would know this if you could see my wardrobe right now. So anyway, there I was in the Freak Merchandise tent, and these bags were just damn gorgeous. And so unique. Multi-colored backpacks, oddly-shaped Medieval looking thingies, and even a big beautiful pink, yellow and blue bag with tightrope wire as the straps. When I spotted that one, I was sort of embarrassed looking at it – as if everyone could see the lust on my face. I became overcome with the all-too-familiar need to possess it. All the well-worn symptoms were there; the quickening of the breath, the slightly sweaty palms, and the automatic primitive instinct to make doe eyes at Wim. Unfortunately for me, the bag cost 265 Euros (which is about 300 dollars), and nobody’s eyes are that “doe-y”.
Just as a sidenote about my addiction; I have actually had daydreams (daydreams!!!) of how great my life would be if I had one of the two Cirque bags I fell in love with. “It would change my life!”, I muse, wistfuly. OK, but enough about handbags. (sigh). Now on to the show.
When we first sat down in our seats, I was overcome with my usual flush of hatred at seeing a bunch of clowns prancing casually about up on the stage – acting like they didn’t know they were in a show or why the audience was gathering. All I could think was: “I can see right through you, you asshole freak clowns.”...And believe me, these clowns were more annoying than most at first glance. They had this sort of Mad Tea Party look to them: Kind of a Lewis Carol meets Alice B. Toklas thing that gets right under my skin.
Then I started to panic a little because we were seated right in the middle of the row and I’m the sort of person who has to pee alot. I was afraid that if I had to get up at some point during the show and make an obstruction of myself getting out, that these were just the sort of confrontational clown fucks who would dance over and call attention to me. I sat there seething in my chair worrying about the possibilities and wishing that it were socially acceptable to pee on theater seats. I focused some of my hatred at a woman I had seen in the lobby consuming a giant drink. I knew that even though she had downed at least 12 liters, she probably wouldn’t even need a toilet until she got home that night, whereas I go running to the facilities if it gets a little humid outside. Such is life with the bladdar of a sparrow. Perhaps, all things being equal, there is a sparrow somewhere who’s friends are freaked out by her ample bladdar capacity. “Damn! You never have to go!” They say, admiring her enormous abdomen.
So anyway, the show started much how I thought it would. The Freaky Clowns were dancing about trying to draw us all into the (nonexistant) story, while one freaky clown started singing this dischordant Freak Music. The only reason I wasn’t grimacing was that I always think people on stage are looking right at me, and, like I said, I don’t want no problems with no freaky clowns. I smiled politely in an “I’m on to you, but I’m also tolerating you” kind of way. Then the oddest thing happened: All at once, the show got good.
Real good. Synchronized acrobats were Power Flipping all over the place, doing stuff that didn’t even appear humanly possible. The Freaky Clowns sank into the shadows and now appeared to be there only to support the acrobats. You hear that? The clowns knew their place! Even the Freaky Singing Clown wasn’t too annoying, because she didn’t try to steal focus, you know? She faded into the background while all the acrobats did their thing. And I must say, I was totally impressed. I’ve never seen anything like these acrobats. I mean, you know sometimes when you’re watching those ridiculously infantile acrobats doing floor excersizes at the Olympics? They leap a little bit and throw hoops in the air and do so fancy shit with their arms and you lean back in the couch, take another sip of your beer and think, “I could do that”? Well these acrobats were nothing like that. These acrobats were amazing. I was watching them thinking, “Not only could I not do that, my ass actualy hurt just watching that!” I mean really? How can a human being flip repeatedly in the air to land with such precision on a thin beam 10 feet away? And I’ve got a question for you: Why aren’t these guys in the Olympics? I mean they can do stuff that those anorexic Russian teenagers couldn’t even dream of doing! I’m beginning to think of The Olympics as being the consolation for those who didn’t make the 2nd cut in casting for Cirque Du Soleil.
OK, so there I am, totally impressed, saying “Wow” repeatedly, while the Belgians around me say “wauw” (the effect is the same, you just think of a different spelling while you’re doing it); then along comes this chisled little blonde Star Acrobat guy doing amazing things on top of an ever-higher series of poles. At one point, when he’s on the highest pole, (that’s a vertical pole, by the way, not a horizontal one), I can see the pole wobble more than it should and I can see that brief flicker across his face; that expression of distress only perceptable to other performers that in his case says, “Those fucking clowns didn’t secure the pole! Fucking clowns!”....And I’m right there with him, I mean he’s still performing everything perfectly, but damn it, I’m thinking it now. Repeating it over and over again like a mantra, “Fucking clowns! Fucking clowns!”. I can no longer enjoy anything I’m watching because I’m with the guy now, psychicly. His demise is my demise. “Please don’t fuck up, little chisled Adonis! Please be OK...”....I imagine the scene later backstage should he fall - as his equally beautiful boyfriend holds him back from attempting to sucker punch one of the clowns: “No, Yves! Think of your wrists!”.....But a miracle happens and everything is alright. Thank God and Fuck the Clowns, a tragedy has been averted, with only only Yves and myself the relieved witnesses. I wipe my brow, and once I’ve calmed down, I realize I have to pee. But thankfully at that moment, a Good Clown (for they are now back in my Good Graces) does a little performance that signals the Intermission. I move may way through the herd of People Not Peeing, and find the Ladies Room.
During the intermission, I stare at the bags once more. I soon become aware that the cute little backpack would be awfully easy to steal. I mean it: There is nobody looking. And I hate myself for thinking this way, but damn it, I am thinking this way. I’m standing there looking at this beautiful (I mean really damned beautiful!) backpack and I’m having an existential crisis. I mean “stealing is wrong”, OK I get that. But is it only wrong if I believe it’s wrong? Because right now, I don’t believe it’s wrong! Right now, if I’m honest with myself, I’m only NOT casually walking across the room with it because I know that Wim will figure it out. I won’t be able to cover it up by casually pulling it out of the closet a few weeks from now and saying “This old thing? I’ve had it for ages!”....And he’ll know that I’ve stolen it and he’ll think Less Of Me. I will no longer be that sweet gal who makes him gourmet vegetarian food and laughs at his jokes; instead I will be The Bitch That Broke His Heart When He Found Out She Was A Kleptomaniac. A dirty, horrible criminal. And then he will start to question my character in other ways and I will at some point be driven to a trailer park and told to get out of the car and stay. Why?? Why is stealing wrong if you really want something. And I know he knows what I’m thinking because I see it in his eyes but then the intermission is over, I replace the packpack and he can’t prove a Goddamned thing.
After the intermission, the show got even weirder, but by now I didn’t mind the weirdness one bit. And besides, I was happy to have something to distract my mind from the backpack. (I mean would anyone know now if I had it on my lap? Stop! Stop! Stop!). Two tiny Chinese girls walked onto the stage and proceeded to fold themselves into pretzels. They were doing things that were impossible. The human body is simply not meant to bend that way. This act pushed the very edges of weirdness as far as I was concerned. There was a certain hushed silence, and I’m sure I was not alone in realizing that this act was one ping-pong ball away from being pornographic. Is this not PC to say this? I’m sorry. I’m just being honest. Overall, I didn’t like what people in the audience were thinking and I just wanted it all to end.
The final act of the evening was a trapeze performance which was so amazing I couldn’t watch it at times. I kept thinking one of them was going to have sweaty hands or just miss catching the other guy and I’m going to die under the corpse of an angry acrobat who’s last thought will be that he was convinced he got set up. After they take his body away, I of course will be found underneath, having pissed myself in the final moment. So anyway I swallowed my anxiety by just looking down and thinking about those handbags again.
When the curtain call came, I stood up and clapped louder than anyone. I even cheered for the clowns. The entire cast was brought out for a second, third, and fourth curtain call and I felt entirely responsible, such was my enthusiasm. Again, I got that thing where I think people on stage are looking at me, only it was even more intense now, because it felt like they were all staring at me. Each and every one of them. And I began to think, maybe, just maybe they’ll see that I’m the very best audience member, and then maybe tehy’ll all gather around backstage and say “Did you see that lady in the 4th row? She’s the reason I went into acrobatics”, then they will gather together and come running to find me in the lobby saying, “We wanted to tell you we think you’re great and to thank you, we want you to have anything you want from the gift shop.”
“Anything?” I reply breathlessly, “Even this cool handbag?”
“After an applause like the one you gave us?” They say admiringly, “You can have as many handbags as you want.”
It’s just a fantasy, and I’m aware of that but damn it, I’m sure that they are looking at me, and damn it it’s not totally impossiple like monkeys flying out of my ass. I applaud like crazy and I can feel them loving me and it gives me hope. I briefly think about questioning my sanity, but it just seems such a waste of time.
When we make our way out to the lobby, Wim wants to go, but I lag around visiting the ladies room again and looking over my shoulder a lot. Nothing happens.
Yeah well, it would have been crazy to expect it. Fucking clowns.
So the other day, I was on my way back from the Vogelasiel….The "Vogelasiel" is a local bird sanctuary where I've been helping feed baby birds since spring began. Usually, I take the bus there and back, but as I hadn't been to the gym that morning, I thought a little excersize wouldn't hurt me and I decided to walk home.
When I'm at the Vogelasiel, I spend my time running in and out of various cages, feeding various birds. Invariably I get pooped on. It's just one of the hazards of the job. Baby birds poop right after you feed them, and they tend to turn around and poop right on you. It's their way of saying "thank you"….Also, in nature when they are in nests, they poop back in their mother's face and she takes the poop in her beak and chucks it out of the nest. This is obviously what they expect me to do. Now I might be a crazy Critter Lady, but I'm not quite that crazy yet, so instead I just wear my hooded sweatshirt, try to dodge the bullets where I can, but mostly just let it fall where it may. Poop away, my friends, you can't touch me. The day in question was such a day. There were a lot of birds, I fed them all, and they, in turn shat on me more than George W. shits on the poor. In otherwords, I was covered, ladies and gentlemen. No problem, though, I was wearing the hooded jacket. When I was done, I simply pulled the jacket off, folded it, put it in my backpack and was on my way.
So here's something you should know incase you ever visit this part of the world (the BeNeLux countries; Belgium, Nederlands or Luxumbourg) in the summer: The weather can change in an instant. I mean without warning. The first time I experienced this, I was minding my own business, walking down a street in Amsterdam when all-of-a-sudden the skies opened up and just drenched me. No opening act of a few sprinkles, either. It was just right into the Main Attraction. Local Dutch people knew about all this and casually popped open their chic umbrellas, but I was caught completely unaware. I was forced to quickly seek refuge in a nearby bar.
So anyway, there I was, walking back from the Vogelasiel on what I thought was a perfectly pleasant day, when suddenly BOOM, it was raining. "Ah, fuck!" I gurgled through the onslaught, as I quickly rummaged through my backpack, retrieved the hooded sweatshirt and pulled it on. Unbeknownst to me, as I pulled it on, some bird poop smeared on to my cheek, but when it's raining like that how are you gonna know?
Now – if you're familiar with cotton knitwear, you'll know that it isn't exactly a rain repellant. When it gets wet, it tends to just get waterlogged and sad looking, and this is what happened here. The rain didn't have the courtesy to wash away any of the bird poop either; instead it just soaked into the sweatshirt and added glistening highlights to the poop. So there I was, walking along with my soaking wet backpack, soaking wet poop-covered clothes, my soaking hair clinging to the side of my pooped-upon face, and that's when it happened:
"Excusier, mevrouw"
Huh? I looked up to see a lovely young man standing in from of me, looked like a young college student. I wiped away snot as I studied his face.
"This is for you" He said in Dutch, holding out a 50 Euro-cent coin.
I thought he must have seen me drop the coin and was returning it to me. "Bedankt" I said, I accepting the coin with a hand that protruded through a poop covered sleeve.
How nice these Belgian young people are, I thought. Much nicer than college kids anywhere else I can think of. Kind of touching, really. I mean he could have just pocketed the coin himself, but instead he went to the extra effort to make sure he gave it back to me. Really great. It gives me faith in Mankind.
"God bless you and good luck." he said. And with a beatific smile, he walked away.
And that's when it dawned on me: He thought I was a Bag Lady.
"What the fuck!" I screamed into the rain. I stood still for a few moments. I'm a Bag Lady. I'm a Goddemned Bag Lady.
I'm a soaking wet Bag Lady covered in bird shit and all he gave me was 50 lousy cents? Cheap bastard.
