Cleaning House

I’ve been dormant lately. So many things are happening in my space. Sometimes it seems like a betrayal to write about them here. There are many new things in my life that just don’t quite fit into this site. Sometimes reading posts from my 24-year-old self is like reading the mortifying passages of a childhood diary.

I wonder if I’ll say the same thing at 30 as I laugh about my musings over my first year of marriage, my constant twenty-something quest not to do whatever it is that I’m doing now. I wonder if I’ll laugh about poop and penis jokes. If I’ll become my mother. If I’ll still muse over crushes past and wild nights out. If I’ll continue to agonize over things that come out of my boss’ mouth. If I’ll still feel the need to tell the entire world when my husband loads the dishwasher incorrectly (oh yeah, I got married).

Rather than announcing my departure in dramatic fashion, only to come back from blogger retirement a few months later, I’ve decided to take this site in a new direction. Oh, and blogger made me murmur expletives while I was trying to make some changes here, so I’m moving to Wordpress. So there you have it. In the last few months, I got married, went to Turkey, elected a President, and moved to a new site. Please visit when you can. I have matching sheets and silverware now, and well, I’d love to host a guest.

www.homemadesin.wordpress.com

Going Stag

B and I have had a fairly eventful summer, full of exciting events to keep us busy, most of which involved more activity than a dental check up (sorry to leave you there for so long). As you can imagine, both of us have had a quite a schedule in the upcoming months before the wedding. I have had a lovely bridal shower; with two more coming up this week (bring on the French presses and casserole dishes). B has been fairly excluded from the wedding hoo-ha, as he is a guy. And guys don’t care.

I’m not really bothered by his lack of participation. We made an arrangement months ago that I would handle the details and call for him if I needed help. Things have been moving along swimmingly, so I haven’t bothered him and he hasn’t fussed about me being a dreaded bridezilla.

That is until last week. I have never in my life been more of an old ball and chain than last week. You see, B was headed down to my favorite city in the universe for the grand old stag night—or in his case, a weekend in New Orleans with four sex-depraved married men, two man-whores, one voice of reason, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Worried? Why should I be worried? These are the same men that I had to peel from the couch dressed in parkas on beer mountain. Why should I think anything could go wrong? In New Orleans of all places?

So I was a bit of a terror. Friday morning, as the alarm sounded and B packed his bags, my bottom lip began to tremble. The night before I tossed and turned imagining his rite of passage to be filled with gorgeous, blonde lap dancers with degrees from Tulane and rich families in the Quarter. Girls who would recite passages from Tennessee Williams’ plays as they slowly unbuttoned B’s shirt and led him to the lair. . .

As I waited for him to call Friday night, I plotted my secret hen night revenge. Oh, there will be drag queens! And boas! And condom-covered veils! You just wait B! If you even think of doing _____! I’ll be out the door!

And then the call came. And it was 9:45 pm on a Friday and the evening was already coming to a close. The men had just visited my favorite dive bar, where the lovely-scary-biker-chic-bartender had “forced” B to take a shot off of her belly button. She then wrote a note for him to take home to his future wife:

“Dearest Ashley, B has been such a gentleman. A pussy in fact. You will be a very happy woman if he’s this reserved all the time. -- Aunt Tiki.”

I suppose I won’t be going stag after all.

Sex, Religion and Tooth Decay

Yesterday I had the special task of staffing fruits for a promotion at a local grocery chain. I started to leave the store, feeling that my fruits were capable of the effortless task of standing on a street corner smiling and waving when suddenly, I caught a grape lighting a cigarette and making suggestive pelvic thrusts towards truckers to persuade them to honk.

So I decided to stay and do drive-by sneak attacks on my fruits to make sure I didn’t have any rotten ones in the bunch. I am so sorry to insult your intelligence like that.

After many hours in the hot sun and the hot car, idly watching costumed fruit girls waving and sweating, and many more hours on the road and checking emails, I had the very unfortunate task to end my day at the dentist office.

Never in my life will I repeat these words: I actually enjoyed myself.

As I was flipping through the pages of an expired People magazine, a white-haired woman with Liz Claiborne-like glasses hobbled out to meet me and take me back to THE CHAIR.

Many of you are reading this and thinking to yourself that I am being a bit melodramatic about going to the dentist, but when you are the offspring of a fanged-K-9-incisor father and a calcium-and-fluoride-deprived mother, your teeth tend to look a bit like Blackbeard’s—if he had had dental technology.

Every single tooth in my head is filled or capped or squeezed into place with a permanent 14-year-old retainer. I have lived my life in constant fear of the smell of artificial banana and bubble gum and the thought of putting anything resembling latex in my mouth makes me convulse for reasons that have nothing to do with my early twenties.

Anyway, back to the chair.

Ulla was the hygienist’s name. She was a 71-year-old Swede with yellow-gray hair, a slight mustache and she scraped plaque with careless abandon, not seeming to notice those sensitive spots that made me come out of my chair at least twice. From the moment I sat down, Ulla had made a few key observations about me as well.

She could tell by my left hand that I was engaged. She immediately questioned my sexual orientation because I had forgotten to check the male or female box on my paperwork, but thought it was completely fine if I were a transvestite, as she had a transvestite patient once. He/She was wearing those orange-colored pantyhose that only looked worse under the yellow overhead light, if I know what she means.

She asked where I was getting married and immediately noted that I was on birth control according to my medical records. “How can you be Catholic and on birth control?” she demanded. “Weh, I su-ohs I ot un ov ose ah-lics,” I responded. “Oh, so you’re a thinking Catholic?” she replied. “I admire thinking Catholics. But I could never be Catholic. You know, back in the day, Catholic wives had to have sex any time their husband wanted it. Try telling a modern woman that. She’d have your hide.”

“All of my friends are Catholics. My husband is a Catholic. I was always on birth control for contraceptive reasons and my friends always had irregular cycles—so they said. Good God! How do you get that tartar shit all the way up here?”

“Ah-uh ow,” I drooled.

“Anyway, like I was saying, I just couldn’t be Catholic because I couldn’t have anyone telling me what to do with my life and my body. Good for you for sticking by your husband though. Although, you obviously need to learn how to say no sometimes.”

“Uh huh,” I completely agreed.

“When I was 40, I finally said no for the first time. When asked to do something awful, I would say, ‘I prefer not to’. For 31 years, I’ve been saying that. And I’ve never felt better.”

“Was someone in your family an alcoholic?”

“Uh huh. My and ather,” I said, divulging too much information to a stranger.

“Did your mother feed you sweets?”

“Eah. All eh ime,” come to think of it.

“That’s common. Children of alcoholics often have a sweet tooth. That’s probably where your mother got hers from. All right, open. And close. And we’re done!”

“I’m off to my next patient. You have two cavities and a crown that needs replaced. That’s gonna cost you. Beautiful smile though!”

Dental work—not refreshing. Honesty, very much so.

Hail to the Conquering Hero

As it turns out, B hates it when I blog about him, so I’ve refrained for quite some time. In the following conversation between brushes of teeth, he gave me permission:

B: You can blog about me today if you want.

A: Oh yeah? How come?

B: Cause I hit a home run last night. And I’m awesome.

A: Great. I’ll blog about how I can’t blog about you unless you do something heroic.

B: On second thought, no. It’ll just make me seem small.

An Ap-peel-ing Alternative

Last night on my usual route home from work, I spotted Christy’s car at one of our local haunts and decided to pull in for a drink. It had been an exceptionally long day and I had an overwhelming sensation to forget things, as the morning started a bit like this:



Yes, that’s right. Dressed like a fucking double-chinned limp banana.

Because I had to dress as a banana yesterday, Christy assumed that I had an interesting topic to write about. So when we encountered a wayward stranger in these parts last night, I promised I would discuss the fruit get-up, while allowing her the glory of writing about the man we met at the bar last night. But meeting this stranger was the most exciting thing that has happened to me in a while, and I couldn’t get his passage out of my thoughts.

I might have mentioned in previous posts that I’ve been catching up on DVD’s of Northern Exposure via Netflix. Although I can relate to the small town traditions of gossip, cabin fever and slim-pickins video stores, what I love about Northern Exposure is often the lone visitor who comes upon Cicely and is forever changed by the experiences he encounters. Whether it’s the Aurora Borealis or a big foot legend, there is always philosophical connection bringing the townspeople together in spiritual or moral conscious at the end of each episode. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the goings on in Cicely after what we experienced last night.

No sooner than we had settled into our second cocktail, Christy and I overheard a young man in the middle of the bar discussing his travel plans for the summer. The guy appeared to be familiar with his companions and everyone wanted to buy him a beer. We were immediately intrigued and soon learned that he had traveled from Seattle on a motorbike named Billie, with plans to follow his manifest destiny to the comforts of his grandfather’s home, where he will inevitably reconnect with his soul, his family and nature before heading back to his job in software.

Jake was a fast friend and immediate drinking companion. When he introduced himself he asked us what we did for a living, claiming that we “looked like we were probably admins,” which left me severely depressed. But I perked up listening to tales of his grand adventures across America. From Big Sur to a drive-in movie in Scottsdale to a delicious hamburger in Tucumcari, Jake’s travels made us long for the open road. After too many cocktails and pipe dreams revealed, Christy and I determined that we had met a kindred spirit: A man and a motorcycle, taking control of his life and reminding us of all the what if’s and could’ve beens in our own.

Then again, I’ll bet Jake has never donned a banana costume.

Frozen Rubber

I really got a kick out of this article today on MSN. Apparently, a group of 125 scientists are receiving a year’s supply of condoms at their base in Antarctica, free of charge, so no one will have to go through the humiliation of buying them at the station’s convenience store.

That sounds like it could get a bit incestuous. I’m not sure what the male to female ratio is at the McMurdo base, but let’s assume it’s 50/50.

Don’t you think they’re overestimating the sexual prowess of scientists? Suppose there are 62.5 couples on the base. Are they really having sex 250 nights a year? 4.8 nights a week? I mean, I guess there is room for error—broken condoms and what not. But these people are scientists; they should be able to make a better educated guess regarding their estimated prophylactic supply and demand. If every scientist on that base is getting laid 4.8 nights a week, I think we’re all in the wrong profession.

Check

As is evident by my recent posts, I’ve been contemplating a few things lately. I’ve been thinking about my own happiness and unhappiness and when I forgot to do all the things I said I was going to do before I was thirty or married or dead.

On my way home for lunch today, I was listening to David Sedaris and Terry Gross on NPR. Sedaris was describing his journey to quit smoking, as featured in his new book. In the interview, Gross asked him how he could watch his own mother dying of a smoking-related illness and never think to quit smoking. He said simply, “You never think it will happen to you.”

And here’s where I lose my filter.

After a driveway moment, I reluctantly got out of the car and let the dog out of his crate, making him wait patiently while I fumbled with the radio inside to hear the rest of the interview. Mack was very excited to have me home and continuously jumped on my sunburned back while I tried to find the right station. I gave up and took him by the collar to go to the back yard, when I noticed the neighbor’s gigantor American Bulldogs were out, which stopped me.

I do not have a prejudice against power breed dogs. I own a pit bull mix and he is the most neurotic, clingy, loving and naughty being I’ve ever encountered. My neighbor is a cop and his wife is a young mother. They’re the nicest, most responsible people on the planet, but we have had issues with their unruly dogs. Three years ago, the eldest ripped out the lung of B’s mischievous cat. $1700 later, the cat was fixed, but to this day, he hisses and spits at the sound of a dog barking.

While I was letting Mack out in the front yard to use the facilities, I looked up in horror as I saw the repeat offender charging towards me and my dog as he busted out of the shut chain-linked gate. My first instinct was to run after them and shovel up my dog who was now in the jaws of the American Bulldog. My neighbor reacted quickly and shoved me out of the way to get between the dogs. Mack took off running toward the front door to get away and I took off after him, losing my shoes, while two bulldogs chased me.

Considering this happened about 50 minutes ago, I should probably be editing the plot a bit, but I’m so shaken that I had to get it on paper. When my neighbor knocked on my door shortly after the incident, he had blood dripping from his hands and forehead. My dog and I got away with very few injuries. I can’t move my bloodied left elbow, but I suspect my injury is not much more than hitting my funny bone a bit too hard. His dogs were somehow spotted in blood, his I imagine. Mine was covered in slobber.

It took about ten minutes for me to stop breathing heavy and to stop shaking. And then I sobbed for twenty minutes straight. I sobbed because I was so damn scared, I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t eat a thing for lunch, but I gave the dog two pieces of roast beef for his trouble.

On the drive back to the office, I felt a familiar sensation. B proposed to me on my lunch break several months ago. On my lunch break, I had had a life-altering thing happen and driving back to the office felt weird. Like I should be driving off a cliff or down a winding beach road or something. Things felt different. I was different. I had just had a life-altering experience. It was exhilarating. Oddly, I felt the same way just now. I was so damn scared—for my puppy, for me, for my neighbor. It was practically enlivening. You never think it will happen to you.

I’m so glad I painted that patio set aqua this weekend. I was almost mauled by a dog and I haven’t even made jam.