Many writers, even those who pride themselves on correct grammar, consistently mess up the proper use of “it's” vs. “its”. This can be traced back to an oft-misunderstood symbol, in this case, the humble apostrophe (that would be the long official name for the very short little symbol shown here: ').
The apostrophe, although it has two very distinct meanings, is commonly conceived to represent ownership. An apostrophe at the end of a word designates that the word it is attached to owns something.
Examples: “John's new bike”
“The child's birthday party”
and so on.
An apostrophe also has a 2nd meaning. It is used to mark the omission of a letter or letters in a word, when the word is actually being shortened to combine two words into one. More specifically, the 2nd word of this combo is nearly always the word “is” (with very few exceptions, such as “you're” and “I'd”, which we don't need to get into here). The apostrophe, then, is used to represent the letter “i” of the word “is” that has been dropped when the 2 words were melded into one. In order to show that it used to be there, the apostrophe is used as a marker of where it used to be, kind of like a headstone on a grave.
Examples: “That's my coffee”. (“That IS my coffee”)
“Where's my hat?” (Where IS my hat?”)
“What's your story?”(What IS your story?”)
In the case of “Its” vs. “It's”, the question becomes, which of the above definitions of the apostrophe is being used?
It's simple: when it comes to the word “it's”, it's always the 2nd definition of the apostrophe that's being applied.
In other words, “It's” ALWAYS means “It is”. The apostrophe in “it's” ALWAYS represents the “i” that is being dropped to convert 2 words into one.
Examples: “It's a dog” means “it IS a dog”.
“It's a hat” means “it IS a hat”.
The flip side of this coin is that “its” without an apostrophe only means one thing, and one thing only: it represents ownership of something about to be mentioned in the same sentence. This may seem a little counter-intuitive, since in the rest of the grammatical universe, the apostrophe rules on questions of ownership. But since, in the case of “its”, the apostrophe has already been hogged to show the omission of the letter “i”, “its” WITHOUT an apostrophe ALWAYS means “belonging to it”.
Examples: “Its colors were stunning”
“The book was a great read, and its author did a fantastic job”.
All of the above can boil down to one simple cardinal rule. If you can remember this one thing, then you will never mess be confused about the uses of “it's” vs. “its” again:
“It's” (with an apostrophe) ALWAYS stands for “IT IS”.
Therefore: “its” (without an apostrophe) ALWAYS stands for “belonging to it”.
If you are not sure whether to use “it's” or “its”, re-read the sentence in question to yourself and ask yourself if you want to say “IT IS” in it. If you do, use “it's”. If you don't, use “its”.
Happy its/it's-ing!
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
The Rules of Love: Break-Ups
THE RULES OF LOVE
Based on a series of clinical trials and field studies conducted by a University of Chicago Graduate of Cultural Anthropology (with Honors), from 1986 to 2009.
THE RULES
BREAK-UPS
1. (Deadhead boy): Honesty is not always the best policy, or, the Truth May Not Set you Free
2. (Amir): If he Beats you while telling you he loves you, chances are he’s lying
3. (Eddie Part I): “I just want you to do whatever makes you happy” is a license for cheating
4. (Eddie Part II): “There’s the door – use it.”
5. (Bill Westcott): Get a Clue, before it’s too late
6. (Misc.): When you get VD and your fallopian tube explodes, that’s God telling you it’s time to slow down
7. (Paul): True love doth not a happy marriage make (it’s all in the details)
8. (Paul, part II): “You mean your son’s a BASTARD?” (it’s all in the details)
9. (Tony): Either shit or get off the pot
10. (Kris): Marriage is never a solution to your relationship problems; or, Shitting on the Floor as a Litmus Test
11. (Bill S): If he smells bad and cheats and lies, chances are you weren’t meant for each other anyways; or, if he tells you you’re crazy, he’s up to something bad
12. (Best Friend): and we lived happily ever after...
I have one fallopian tube, 2 children from two different men, and I’ve been divorced twice (if you include the first marriage, which as I found out after its demise was never a legally binding one). I married my first husband a month after meeting him. I was engaged to my second husband within a week of first meeting him. I got pregnant with my second child on a first date with someone I’d just met the day before, while in the middle of one of the messiest divorces of the twenty-first century. I gave my life savings to a total stranger on the advices of a not-always-well-intentioned ex boyfriend.
The week before my 40th birthday, I moved out of my then-boyfriend’s house with my children, a dog and a cat, and rented a place that I had to borrow money from my kid brother for. I hadn’t been in the work force for a year and a half, and I was stepping into the middle of the worst recession on a century. To celebrate the occasion, I bought myself a brand-new Rolex – on credit. I was confident I’d make it all work out, although I didn’t have a clue how. Needless to say, my actual prospects were dim.
But, believe it or not, there’s something to be said for experience – as long as you can take some lessons learned from it. Experience is one thing I’ve had plenty of. I never saw much point in waiting for something to happen – in fact, I invented a bumper sticker that said “PATIENCE IS A WASTE OF TIME”. (I was too impatient to actually do anything with the idea, and so I am including it only as another idea that never came to fruition. Feel free to use my idea but if you make a million dollars off it, please know that I will come knocking on your door one cold winter’s eve, demanding half of the profits).
Based on a series of clinical trials and field studies conducted by a University of Chicago Graduate of Cultural Anthropology (with Honors), from 1986 to 2009.
THE RULES
BREAK-UPS
1. (Deadhead boy): Honesty is not always the best policy, or, the Truth May Not Set you Free
2. (Amir): If he Beats you while telling you he loves you, chances are he’s lying
3. (Eddie Part I): “I just want you to do whatever makes you happy” is a license for cheating
4. (Eddie Part II): “There’s the door – use it.”
5. (Bill Westcott): Get a Clue, before it’s too late
6. (Misc.): When you get VD and your fallopian tube explodes, that’s God telling you it’s time to slow down
7. (Paul): True love doth not a happy marriage make (it’s all in the details)
8. (Paul, part II): “You mean your son’s a BASTARD?” (it’s all in the details)
9. (Tony): Either shit or get off the pot
10. (Kris): Marriage is never a solution to your relationship problems; or, Shitting on the Floor as a Litmus Test
11. (Bill S): If he smells bad and cheats and lies, chances are you weren’t meant for each other anyways; or, if he tells you you’re crazy, he’s up to something bad
12. (Best Friend): and we lived happily ever after...
I have one fallopian tube, 2 children from two different men, and I’ve been divorced twice (if you include the first marriage, which as I found out after its demise was never a legally binding one). I married my first husband a month after meeting him. I was engaged to my second husband within a week of first meeting him. I got pregnant with my second child on a first date with someone I’d just met the day before, while in the middle of one of the messiest divorces of the twenty-first century. I gave my life savings to a total stranger on the advices of a not-always-well-intentioned ex boyfriend.
The week before my 40th birthday, I moved out of my then-boyfriend’s house with my children, a dog and a cat, and rented a place that I had to borrow money from my kid brother for. I hadn’t been in the work force for a year and a half, and I was stepping into the middle of the worst recession on a century. To celebrate the occasion, I bought myself a brand-new Rolex – on credit. I was confident I’d make it all work out, although I didn’t have a clue how. Needless to say, my actual prospects were dim.
But, believe it or not, there’s something to be said for experience – as long as you can take some lessons learned from it. Experience is one thing I’ve had plenty of. I never saw much point in waiting for something to happen – in fact, I invented a bumper sticker that said “PATIENCE IS A WASTE OF TIME”. (I was too impatient to actually do anything with the idea, and so I am including it only as another idea that never came to fruition. Feel free to use my idea but if you make a million dollars off it, please know that I will come knocking on your door one cold winter’s eve, demanding half of the profits).
My African travel companion
I used to live on the South Side of Chicago. I was surrounded by black people (yes, back then they were still called Black, so while I may be dating myself, I cannot be considered guilty of a racial slur here). I worked with black people. I lived with black people. I also partied with black people. That was my favorite part. Man, did they know how to party. For a while, I myself became black.
You could go to the baddest, scariest, most ghetto part of the hood, and amidst all the poverty and degradation you could still find a swank place with velvet seats, incredible music and three different floating bars which served any liquor your heart desired with a flourish and a smile. No matter how terribly the overall economy or neighborhood was suffering, these nightclubs raked in the dough and acted as an oasis of fun, ensconcing its patrons within a lovely veil where all was good and right with the world, between the magical hours of 2 and 5 am. If you could figure out a way to navigate the streets before and after such visitations, it was a virtual fairy-tale experience every single time.
Don’t get me wrong: I was literally the only white person in these joints, which were always packed wall to wall with human flesh. I got my share of dirty looks from the Project girls, who were invariably decked out in dated prom dresses with too many frills and in all the wrong colors, lining the walls like so many desperate advertisements of single women looking for a man to redeem their shitty lives. But I never was given a hard time beyond that, probably because by then I was pretty convinced I was black myself.
It was in one such nightclub that I met Joseph Agunbiade. He stood out in the crowd, not only due to his exquisite tailor-made suit and tie but also because he had a quiet dignity and self-respect that he had no need to overemphasize. He got attention for the mere fact that he didn’t try to draw attention to himself, a sign of a truly wealthy and self-confident man.
Joseph singled me out immediately. He knew what he wanted, and he wanted me. I enjoyed his company and I enjoyed his attentions. He was educated and well traveled, and his Nigerian accent lent a lovely lilt to even the most mundane of phrases. His goal was to be a millionaire by the time he was 30, and he was well on his way to doing just that.
His uncle was the Nigerian Minister of Defense, and his father was a village chief with 15 wives and countless children. All of the wives got along because the first wife had the power of veto as well choice over which other wives her husband was allowed to add to his collection. Joseph told me about his father’s 80th birthday party. His entire village had been closed down for a week. Thousands attended. Dozens of cows, sheep and goats were slaughtered and consumed at what sounded like the world’s biggest free-for-all barbeque.
Intriguing? Absolutely.
Joseph bought me a gold necklace and promised me that if I married him, I would get my own boy. By “boy”, he meant someone who would do whatever I said and ensure that my every need and whim was immediately attended to. I told Joseph I didn’t want a boy. Call me paranoid, but I disliked the idea of having a boy hiding behind my throne and popping up out of nowhere like a jack-in-the-box whenever I snapped my fingers.
This was back in the day when I didn’t think about who would do my laundry, ironing, cleaning or shopping for the rest of my life if I didn’t have my own pet boy to make sure someone other than I would be stuck with these tasks.
And make no mistake: if I married Joseph, I’d get my own throne.
Joseph told me stories of growing up in Nigeria. According to him, Nigeria was the artistic capitol of all of Africa. Its music, drumming and other arts rivaled none other on the Dark Continent. He told me about smoking banana peels as a child. That may have been his wildest transgression. He fed me an incredible stew made of green and red peppers, onions, tomatoes and cow feet and stomach linings. It was so good I demanded (and got) the recipe (I still make it to this day and never have to share it with anyone when I tell them what’s in it). Together, we explored the streets of Chicago. I liked Joseph. Joseph liked me. He did not hide the fact that it was hi intention to marry me. I did not want to marry him. I was not in love with him and back then I thought people married for love, not money. Besides, I was living with Eddie at the time.
After I graduated college, I moved to Tucson, Arizona, where Eddie was attending grad school. I gave away nearly all my earthly possessions in an attempt to emulate what little I knew of Zen Buddhism and drove myself and two dogs across the country to live the simple life in the deserts of southwestern America. Joseph and I stayed in touch. He continued to profess his intentions for marrying me and whisking me away to Nigeria, where I would have my damn boy and throne. Joseph didn’t understand that I was trying out the whole “less is more” concept and that his promises weren’t exactly hitting their mark.
Joseph finally conceded defeat in his amorous attempts and tried a different tack. He suggested that he and I become “travel companions”. His proposal was this: he liked to travel, and so did I. He preferred to travel in the company of another. For this reason, he would like to buy me tickets and lodging to far-flung places all over the globe, where we would meet and explore the area together.
Now this hit the mark.
For our first trip, he invited me to Vegas, all expenses paid. I made Joseph promise me that he’d get me a separate room if I agreed to his proposal, which he did without hesitation. I pitched the idea to Eddie, and he told me to do whatever makes me happy. I immediately informed Victor that I was chafing at the bit for this opportunity. Joseph sent me my ticket, Eddie drove me to the airport and Joseph picked me up at the Vegas airport.
Joseph had made reservations at a particularly swank and brand-new hotel on the Vegas strip. I was already impressed by his taste and class just walking into the lobby. Joseph showed me up to my room. It was large, with a round, king-sized bed and mirrors on the ceiling. Joseph’s luggage was already in the room. It was at that moment that I realized he hadn’t honored his promise of separate rooms. But what was I to do at that point? I’d let a man purchase my ticket to a strange city, and now I was pretty much at his mercy.
Goddamnit. Now what? I hadn’t thought of this contingency. I was now officially stuck in the craziest town on earth with no cash or credit of my own, at the mercy of a Nigerian businessman.
Fucking brilliant. Welcome to Sin City.
This story did not end well, and that's all I will say about it for now.
You could go to the baddest, scariest, most ghetto part of the hood, and amidst all the poverty and degradation you could still find a swank place with velvet seats, incredible music and three different floating bars which served any liquor your heart desired with a flourish and a smile. No matter how terribly the overall economy or neighborhood was suffering, these nightclubs raked in the dough and acted as an oasis of fun, ensconcing its patrons within a lovely veil where all was good and right with the world, between the magical hours of 2 and 5 am. If you could figure out a way to navigate the streets before and after such visitations, it was a virtual fairy-tale experience every single time.
Don’t get me wrong: I was literally the only white person in these joints, which were always packed wall to wall with human flesh. I got my share of dirty looks from the Project girls, who were invariably decked out in dated prom dresses with too many frills and in all the wrong colors, lining the walls like so many desperate advertisements of single women looking for a man to redeem their shitty lives. But I never was given a hard time beyond that, probably because by then I was pretty convinced I was black myself.
It was in one such nightclub that I met Joseph Agunbiade. He stood out in the crowd, not only due to his exquisite tailor-made suit and tie but also because he had a quiet dignity and self-respect that he had no need to overemphasize. He got attention for the mere fact that he didn’t try to draw attention to himself, a sign of a truly wealthy and self-confident man.
Joseph singled me out immediately. He knew what he wanted, and he wanted me. I enjoyed his company and I enjoyed his attentions. He was educated and well traveled, and his Nigerian accent lent a lovely lilt to even the most mundane of phrases. His goal was to be a millionaire by the time he was 30, and he was well on his way to doing just that.
His uncle was the Nigerian Minister of Defense, and his father was a village chief with 15 wives and countless children. All of the wives got along because the first wife had the power of veto as well choice over which other wives her husband was allowed to add to his collection. Joseph told me about his father’s 80th birthday party. His entire village had been closed down for a week. Thousands attended. Dozens of cows, sheep and goats were slaughtered and consumed at what sounded like the world’s biggest free-for-all barbeque.
Intriguing? Absolutely.
Joseph bought me a gold necklace and promised me that if I married him, I would get my own boy. By “boy”, he meant someone who would do whatever I said and ensure that my every need and whim was immediately attended to. I told Joseph I didn’t want a boy. Call me paranoid, but I disliked the idea of having a boy hiding behind my throne and popping up out of nowhere like a jack-in-the-box whenever I snapped my fingers.
This was back in the day when I didn’t think about who would do my laundry, ironing, cleaning or shopping for the rest of my life if I didn’t have my own pet boy to make sure someone other than I would be stuck with these tasks.
And make no mistake: if I married Joseph, I’d get my own throne.
Joseph told me stories of growing up in Nigeria. According to him, Nigeria was the artistic capitol of all of Africa. Its music, drumming and other arts rivaled none other on the Dark Continent. He told me about smoking banana peels as a child. That may have been his wildest transgression. He fed me an incredible stew made of green and red peppers, onions, tomatoes and cow feet and stomach linings. It was so good I demanded (and got) the recipe (I still make it to this day and never have to share it with anyone when I tell them what’s in it). Together, we explored the streets of Chicago. I liked Joseph. Joseph liked me. He did not hide the fact that it was hi intention to marry me. I did not want to marry him. I was not in love with him and back then I thought people married for love, not money. Besides, I was living with Eddie at the time.
After I graduated college, I moved to Tucson, Arizona, where Eddie was attending grad school. I gave away nearly all my earthly possessions in an attempt to emulate what little I knew of Zen Buddhism and drove myself and two dogs across the country to live the simple life in the deserts of southwestern America. Joseph and I stayed in touch. He continued to profess his intentions for marrying me and whisking me away to Nigeria, where I would have my damn boy and throne. Joseph didn’t understand that I was trying out the whole “less is more” concept and that his promises weren’t exactly hitting their mark.
Joseph finally conceded defeat in his amorous attempts and tried a different tack. He suggested that he and I become “travel companions”. His proposal was this: he liked to travel, and so did I. He preferred to travel in the company of another. For this reason, he would like to buy me tickets and lodging to far-flung places all over the globe, where we would meet and explore the area together.
Now this hit the mark.
For our first trip, he invited me to Vegas, all expenses paid. I made Joseph promise me that he’d get me a separate room if I agreed to his proposal, which he did without hesitation. I pitched the idea to Eddie, and he told me to do whatever makes me happy. I immediately informed Victor that I was chafing at the bit for this opportunity. Joseph sent me my ticket, Eddie drove me to the airport and Joseph picked me up at the Vegas airport.
Joseph had made reservations at a particularly swank and brand-new hotel on the Vegas strip. I was already impressed by his taste and class just walking into the lobby. Joseph showed me up to my room. It was large, with a round, king-sized bed and mirrors on the ceiling. Joseph’s luggage was already in the room. It was at that moment that I realized he hadn’t honored his promise of separate rooms. But what was I to do at that point? I’d let a man purchase my ticket to a strange city, and now I was pretty much at his mercy.
Goddamnit. Now what? I hadn’t thought of this contingency. I was now officially stuck in the craziest town on earth with no cash or credit of my own, at the mercy of a Nigerian businessman.
Fucking brilliant. Welcome to Sin City.
This story did not end well, and that's all I will say about it for now.
A girl's checklist for a hot date night
A GIRL'S CHECKLIST FOR A HOT DATE NIGHT
________ Clean the house.
________ Do the laundry.
________ While doing the laundry, select your wardrobe for the evening. Decide on something cute, somewhat revealing but only in an "accidental" sort of way.
________ Realize you should have done whites, not colors, and now you need to handwash your favorite "lucky" panties.
________ Blowdry your favorite panties while listening to loud music, dancing to it while occasionally using the blowdryer as a microphone..
________ Realize you have just accidentally browned your lucky panties with the blowdryer. Duh -- you weren't gonna wear cottons, you idiot -- polyester is flammable, remember? Decide they are still your lucky panties because it could've been much worse and you might have burned your eyebrows off.
________ Go to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of wine to get over the trauma of the burnt panties.
________ Re-select your wardrobe for the evening based on a new set of panties.
________ Pour yourself another glass of wine to help you decide on your new wardrobe.
________ Decide on something racy, sophisicated and splashy.
________ Realize you are starting to run short of time and you haven't even showered or done your nails yet.
________ Prepare for your shower. Hang up the silk shirt in the bathroom so the moisture will straighten it out, as you no longer have time to iron it.
________ While showering, loofah your entire body, paying extra attention to your hindquarters. Scrub furiously in an attempt to increase circulation to a degree where any and all cellulite will completely rub out on the spot.
________ Shave like there's no tomorrow. Re-shape your pubic area into a perfect arrowhead.
________ Apply body oil or something fragrant and emollient to your entire body before you step out of the shower, a New Woman in body and soul.
________ Wrap yourself into your brand-new luxurious Cornflower Blue towel.
________ Curse like fuck when you realize you look like the Cookie Monster because the new towel has left blue fur all over your freshly oiled body..
________ Get back in the shower, rinse the shit off while cursing profusely..
________ Realize you have no fucking towel.
________ Tear through the house to the linen closet, get an "Old Faithful" towel, and dry off while remembering to curse profusely in an effective Turrets-Syndrome simulation.
________ Put on your outfit. Model in front of the mirror and practice assuming the body pose which is most suited to flatter your choice of clothing. Repeat to yourself "One must suffer to be beautiful", even if it's hard to say multiple times with your tummy sucked into your spine.
________ Pour one more glass of wine and consume it upside-down while simultaneously blowdrying your hair from the roots down, smoking a cigarette and rocking out to a poor choice of music.
_______ Apply hair spray, in measured amounts (don't want the hair to appear sticky when Man runs fingers through it) -- just enough to give it a spot of lift and fresh kick.
________ Use curling iron painstakingly to create a "natural", "windblown" effect, meanwhile smoking a cigarette to ease the anxiety of running ruinously late.
________ Decide you do not want to come across as a chainsmoking aging whore and apply more hairspray to mask the cigarette odor.
________ Go into an absolute panic when you realize you have sealed in the cigarette odor with the hairspray.
________ Decide that if He is Somebody, he will appreciate you for who you really are. To confirm this decision with yourself, light up another cigarette and touch up your hair with the blowdryer, meanwhile being very careful to not "pull a Michael Jackson" by igniting your hair with the combustible combo.
________ Apply make-up. To steady your nervous hand, pour another glass of wine. Crank up the radio. "Get into the Groove". Slip up with the liquid eyeliner and go into another Turrets Episode.
________ In spite of what you told yourself earlier, you are not going to risk smelling like his grandmother if and when he sticks his tongue down your throat. Gargle 1-1/2 times the recommended amount of Scope for 45 seconds while dancing seductively to '80's music. As an afterthought, swallow the lot in a desperate hope that somehow the Scope will filter into your lungs and elimate the source of the odor.
________ Dance one more time in front of the mirror while bearing your breasts in an attempt to get an objective impression of what he will see later tonight. Revise your pose to accommodate nudity. Put your hands on your thighs, shake your tits and hips and go into an agony of self-doubt. Hope that the idea of ill-lit rooms turns him on immeasurably. Realize you are absolutley drunk and can't walk so well in your favorite hooker boots. Opt for a size-down in heel length.
________ Brush your teeth.
________ Re-apply lipstick, which came off during the toothbrushing incident.
________ Acknowledge to yourself that you look like Bette Davis in her more demented moments due to a severe mis-application of lipliner.
________ Re-apply lipstick and lipliner.
________ Settle down on the couch and pretend you are calmly reading a magazine.
________ Go empty your bladder. Rejoice that you have probably just lost another pound.
________ Don't wipe; dab. Remain conscientious of the possibility that you will be getting oral sex tonight and you don't want him to catch his teeth on a piece of "TP".
________ Return to the couch.
________ Have one last Turrets Episode when you realize he's already 24 minutes late and hasn't even called.
________ When he arrives, greet him graciously, radiating obvious pleasure in his appearance. Make a feeble attempt at clever, witty and bright small-talk. Allow him to escort you to his vehicle. Have a mental Turrets Episode when you realize that in spite of your earlier downsizing, he is still shorter than you in your heels.
________ Realize you never did your nails and blame this for the disaster you see forthcoming.
YOU GO GIRL!!!
6/26/02
________ Clean the house.
________ Do the laundry.
________ While doing the laundry, select your wardrobe for the evening. Decide on something cute, somewhat revealing but only in an "accidental" sort of way.
________ Realize you should have done whites, not colors, and now you need to handwash your favorite "lucky" panties.
________ Blowdry your favorite panties while listening to loud music, dancing to it while occasionally using the blowdryer as a microphone..
________ Realize you have just accidentally browned your lucky panties with the blowdryer. Duh -- you weren't gonna wear cottons, you idiot -- polyester is flammable, remember? Decide they are still your lucky panties because it could've been much worse and you might have burned your eyebrows off.
________ Go to the kitchen and pour yourself a glass of wine to get over the trauma of the burnt panties.
________ Re-select your wardrobe for the evening based on a new set of panties.
________ Pour yourself another glass of wine to help you decide on your new wardrobe.
________ Decide on something racy, sophisicated and splashy.
________ Realize you are starting to run short of time and you haven't even showered or done your nails yet.
________ Prepare for your shower. Hang up the silk shirt in the bathroom so the moisture will straighten it out, as you no longer have time to iron it.
________ While showering, loofah your entire body, paying extra attention to your hindquarters. Scrub furiously in an attempt to increase circulation to a degree where any and all cellulite will completely rub out on the spot.
________ Shave like there's no tomorrow. Re-shape your pubic area into a perfect arrowhead.
________ Apply body oil or something fragrant and emollient to your entire body before you step out of the shower, a New Woman in body and soul.
________ Wrap yourself into your brand-new luxurious Cornflower Blue towel.
________ Curse like fuck when you realize you look like the Cookie Monster because the new towel has left blue fur all over your freshly oiled body..
________ Get back in the shower, rinse the shit off while cursing profusely..
________ Realize you have no fucking towel.
________ Tear through the house to the linen closet, get an "Old Faithful" towel, and dry off while remembering to curse profusely in an effective Turrets-Syndrome simulation.
________ Put on your outfit. Model in front of the mirror and practice assuming the body pose which is most suited to flatter your choice of clothing. Repeat to yourself "One must suffer to be beautiful", even if it's hard to say multiple times with your tummy sucked into your spine.
________ Pour one more glass of wine and consume it upside-down while simultaneously blowdrying your hair from the roots down, smoking a cigarette and rocking out to a poor choice of music.
_______ Apply hair spray, in measured amounts (don't want the hair to appear sticky when Man runs fingers through it) -- just enough to give it a spot of lift and fresh kick.
________ Use curling iron painstakingly to create a "natural", "windblown" effect, meanwhile smoking a cigarette to ease the anxiety of running ruinously late.
________ Decide you do not want to come across as a chainsmoking aging whore and apply more hairspray to mask the cigarette odor.
________ Go into an absolute panic when you realize you have sealed in the cigarette odor with the hairspray.
________ Decide that if He is Somebody, he will appreciate you for who you really are. To confirm this decision with yourself, light up another cigarette and touch up your hair with the blowdryer, meanwhile being very careful to not "pull a Michael Jackson" by igniting your hair with the combustible combo.
________ Apply make-up. To steady your nervous hand, pour another glass of wine. Crank up the radio. "Get into the Groove". Slip up with the liquid eyeliner and go into another Turrets Episode.
________ In spite of what you told yourself earlier, you are not going to risk smelling like his grandmother if and when he sticks his tongue down your throat. Gargle 1-1/2 times the recommended amount of Scope for 45 seconds while dancing seductively to '80's music. As an afterthought, swallow the lot in a desperate hope that somehow the Scope will filter into your lungs and elimate the source of the odor.
________ Dance one more time in front of the mirror while bearing your breasts in an attempt to get an objective impression of what he will see later tonight. Revise your pose to accommodate nudity. Put your hands on your thighs, shake your tits and hips and go into an agony of self-doubt. Hope that the idea of ill-lit rooms turns him on immeasurably. Realize you are absolutley drunk and can't walk so well in your favorite hooker boots. Opt for a size-down in heel length.
________ Brush your teeth.
________ Re-apply lipstick, which came off during the toothbrushing incident.
________ Acknowledge to yourself that you look like Bette Davis in her more demented moments due to a severe mis-application of lipliner.
________ Re-apply lipstick and lipliner.
________ Settle down on the couch and pretend you are calmly reading a magazine.
________ Go empty your bladder. Rejoice that you have probably just lost another pound.
________ Don't wipe; dab. Remain conscientious of the possibility that you will be getting oral sex tonight and you don't want him to catch his teeth on a piece of "TP".
________ Return to the couch.
________ Have one last Turrets Episode when you realize he's already 24 minutes late and hasn't even called.
________ When he arrives, greet him graciously, radiating obvious pleasure in his appearance. Make a feeble attempt at clever, witty and bright small-talk. Allow him to escort you to his vehicle. Have a mental Turrets Episode when you realize that in spite of your earlier downsizing, he is still shorter than you in your heels.
________ Realize you never did your nails and blame this for the disaster you see forthcoming.
YOU GO GIRL!!!
6/26/02
No poem tonight
No poem tonight,
My skin is tight
Too much sunlight --
I'll say goodnight.
From what I see,
Tomorrow will be
Completely free
To write about me.
I'll hole myself up
With a java cup
And I'll write nonstup
Till the moon comes up.
But as for now
I'm a sunburnt sow
With no clue how
To make this rhyme.
My skin is tight
Too much sunlight --
I'll say goodnight.
From what I see,
Tomorrow will be
Completely free
To write about me.
I'll hole myself up
With a java cup
And I'll write nonstup
Till the moon comes up.
But as for now
I'm a sunburnt sow
With no clue how
To make this rhyme.
Bedroom Ceiling
BEDROOM CEILING
I finally painted the ceiling today
The bedroom ceiling, that we had looked upon so many times
While we thought our respective thoughts
That were never good enough to express:
Sadnesses, like I love you why can't you look at me;
Hurtful ones, like you bastard why don't you see me --
While lying in our bed together, two reluctant roommates
Who happened to have a life they were supposed to make
Screaming thoughts up into the ceiling
Never spoken, never heard --
A ceilingful of angernesses.
And the ceiling, though it started a dirty white,
Became grey over the years
With the smog of our unspoken resentments
And every night I'd look at the ceiling more angry than the last
That you still hadn't painted it -- another promise yet unkept
Another symbol of your unwillingness to co-create
a home we were both members of, a marriage we had both agreed to make.
I finally got you to tape the ceiling
You used packaging tape and sealed it all off
From the walls -- now all we needed
Was for you to paint that ceiling white.
You were taller than me. It would have been easy.
I had painted all the walls already -- now it was your turn,
And you just quit. Left me with the dice in my hands.
You never took your turn, did you?
When it came, you wouldn't play.
We had no game you could enjoy
and when you rolled the dice, it was with great reluctance.
So today I painted the ceiling, my dear.
A thoroughly unprofessional job, might I add --
Our son dumped the white paint all over the carpet,
I desperately scooped handfuls of it back into the bucket
Like a drowning man scooping water out of his life raft
(Oh yes, we had it out).
But the best part of the job was this:
When I pulled the tape off the edges,
It came off nearly in one long piece --
The relief was amazing. Felt so visceral,
like pulling a bandage
Off a scar you think will never heal,
But it comes off cleanly, sticking to nothing --
And underneath it is nothing but clean, fresh skin.
6/25/02
I finally painted the ceiling today
The bedroom ceiling, that we had looked upon so many times
While we thought our respective thoughts
That were never good enough to express:
Sadnesses, like I love you why can't you look at me;
Hurtful ones, like you bastard why don't you see me --
While lying in our bed together, two reluctant roommates
Who happened to have a life they were supposed to make
Screaming thoughts up into the ceiling
Never spoken, never heard --
A ceilingful of angernesses.
And the ceiling, though it started a dirty white,
Became grey over the years
With the smog of our unspoken resentments
And every night I'd look at the ceiling more angry than the last
That you still hadn't painted it -- another promise yet unkept
Another symbol of your unwillingness to co-create
a home we were both members of, a marriage we had both agreed to make.
I finally got you to tape the ceiling
You used packaging tape and sealed it all off
From the walls -- now all we needed
Was for you to paint that ceiling white.
You were taller than me. It would have been easy.
I had painted all the walls already -- now it was your turn,
And you just quit. Left me with the dice in my hands.
You never took your turn, did you?
When it came, you wouldn't play.
We had no game you could enjoy
and when you rolled the dice, it was with great reluctance.
So today I painted the ceiling, my dear.
A thoroughly unprofessional job, might I add --
Our son dumped the white paint all over the carpet,
I desperately scooped handfuls of it back into the bucket
Like a drowning man scooping water out of his life raft
(Oh yes, we had it out).
But the best part of the job was this:
When I pulled the tape off the edges,
It came off nearly in one long piece --
The relief was amazing. Felt so visceral,
like pulling a bandage
Off a scar you think will never heal,
But it comes off cleanly, sticking to nothing --
And underneath it is nothing but clean, fresh skin.
6/25/02
Desert Mountain Hiking Adventure
So Sonja and I met in Palm Springs last night to have a good time on the town last night and then to do a day hike in the desert today.
Last night went without incident, or at least we got home safe. Then today we drive out into the desert, which by the way no one in their right minds does, it being about 110 degrees F there on an average summer day. Sonja and I being vain and all, we dress skimpily so as not to create unnecessary tan lines.
We pull off to the side of this winding mountain road and leap off into the desert for our adventure. Before we've hiked very far, we realize we could actually do the rest of the hike topless, as we are the only people near and wide. So we strip down to the bare essentials, specifically shoes and panties. The rest we put next to the tree.
We then proceed to hike up this mountain. Our tan plan is working quite well, the only bummer is the cuts and holes we have all over our bodies from the trained attack-cacti all over the place. Those are bound to create an uneven tan after all the scabs peel, but oh well, one must suffer to be beautiful.
We get near the top of the mountain and our bodies are WORKED. We are huffing and panting and dirty and thirsty, and our water has run out. We are miles away from anything. We are wild, native women in touch with ourselves and nature, surrounded by yucca and rocks. We survey the valley from whence we hiked, which from this more remote viewpoint we notice is DOTTED with trees. Oh, shit. Where the hell are our clothes?
We make it back down most of the mountain and realize we have NO IDEA where our clothes are parked. The car is on the other side of the highway, so if we don't find our clothes we will literally have to bound naked through the valley next to the highway (and fully visible form the highway) and then across the highway, dodging traffic and hopefully not causing an accident.
We opt for Plan B. Sonja is going to "follow her gut". She decides she has
supreme knowingness about these things. She takes a random trek across rocky
terrain and next thing we know, we are LOST. Now we don't even know where our car is, let alone our clothes. So we decide to find where our car is first, and then backtrack from there to the general vicinity of our clothes. As we skivvy round yet another cliff, she from one side and I from the other, I see a man's head surface from the other side of the hill. Oh great. We are not alone. It's two males, for all we know Mexican illegals who just got across the border (never mind that Mexico is a few hundred miles away, we don't even know where our car is, and it's totally feasible to us that Mexico could be within walking distance) -- and they're probably crazed by the heat and they'll see us and rape us and kill us. Fuck.
Go to Plan C, which is called Hide From the Crazed Mexican Outlaws. They keep encroaching on us,and we keep hiding from them, until finally we're up on a rocky
mountainside and they're on the other side of it. Finally we're safe from them but we are still in a bit of a compromised position, as our asses are literally hanging over the highway at this point. Additionally, although we are finally well-hidden from them, we are so close to the male hikers that we can hear them speak -- German.
Those Germans are everywhere.
So they actually finish their hike and leave the area, and then Sonja and I separate to find our goddamned clothes. To make a long story short, I finally did find the tree with our clothes, and it was nowhere near Sonja's gut. But we did make it back across the highway with no private parts showing, although my head almost exploded from all the heat it absorbed during out mountain adventure.
It is good to be home.
Last night went without incident, or at least we got home safe. Then today we drive out into the desert, which by the way no one in their right minds does, it being about 110 degrees F there on an average summer day. Sonja and I being vain and all, we dress skimpily so as not to create unnecessary tan lines.
We pull off to the side of this winding mountain road and leap off into the desert for our adventure. Before we've hiked very far, we realize we could actually do the rest of the hike topless, as we are the only people near and wide. So we strip down to the bare essentials, specifically shoes and panties. The rest we put next to the tree.
We then proceed to hike up this mountain. Our tan plan is working quite well, the only bummer is the cuts and holes we have all over our bodies from the trained attack-cacti all over the place. Those are bound to create an uneven tan after all the scabs peel, but oh well, one must suffer to be beautiful.
We get near the top of the mountain and our bodies are WORKED. We are huffing and panting and dirty and thirsty, and our water has run out. We are miles away from anything. We are wild, native women in touch with ourselves and nature, surrounded by yucca and rocks. We survey the valley from whence we hiked, which from this more remote viewpoint we notice is DOTTED with trees. Oh, shit. Where the hell are our clothes?
We make it back down most of the mountain and realize we have NO IDEA where our clothes are parked. The car is on the other side of the highway, so if we don't find our clothes we will literally have to bound naked through the valley next to the highway (and fully visible form the highway) and then across the highway, dodging traffic and hopefully not causing an accident.
We opt for Plan B. Sonja is going to "follow her gut". She decides she has
supreme knowingness about these things. She takes a random trek across rocky
terrain and next thing we know, we are LOST. Now we don't even know where our car is, let alone our clothes. So we decide to find where our car is first, and then backtrack from there to the general vicinity of our clothes. As we skivvy round yet another cliff, she from one side and I from the other, I see a man's head surface from the other side of the hill. Oh great. We are not alone. It's two males, for all we know Mexican illegals who just got across the border (never mind that Mexico is a few hundred miles away, we don't even know where our car is, and it's totally feasible to us that Mexico could be within walking distance) -- and they're probably crazed by the heat and they'll see us and rape us and kill us. Fuck.
Go to Plan C, which is called Hide From the Crazed Mexican Outlaws. They keep encroaching on us,and we keep hiding from them, until finally we're up on a rocky
mountainside and they're on the other side of it. Finally we're safe from them but we are still in a bit of a compromised position, as our asses are literally hanging over the highway at this point. Additionally, although we are finally well-hidden from them, we are so close to the male hikers that we can hear them speak -- German.
Those Germans are everywhere.
So they actually finish their hike and leave the area, and then Sonja and I separate to find our goddamned clothes. To make a long story short, I finally did find the tree with our clothes, and it was nowhere near Sonja's gut. But we did make it back across the highway with no private parts showing, although my head almost exploded from all the heat it absorbed during out mountain adventure.
It is good to be home.
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