This afternoon when I clicked over to my gmail spam folder to make sure
that no legitimate messages were trapped within, one message caught my
eye. Not for promising the ever-sought-after "mighty wang." I mean,
either I am not so picky about, um, wangs, or have never been
presented with a less-than-mighty specimen, because this issue ranks on
my List of Concerns somewhere near the personal minutia of The Hills
cast members and maybe, car stereo equipment. Which is to say oh, god,
don't care. But! The subject line of the email gave me a few giggles.
Sperms of Endearment? Oh, spammer, your sense of humor is showing! That amused me so much, I briefly considered replying, to thank Laurent for brightening my day.
Something else wang-related that amuses me: how much pride men take in their erections. You know, as if they did anything more than possess a properly-functioning circulatory system to achieve them. I mean, judging by the look of satisfaction a simple blood rush can produce, you'd think it had involved trigonometry -- or at the very least some complicated long division. Ah, yeeeeah, baby. Check it out. Remainder of four.
From: Laurent <Spammer@Spamalamadingdong.org>
To: Heather <thisfish@thegmail.com>
Subject: Sperms of Endearment
Sperms of Endearment? Oh, spammer, your sense of humor is showing! That amused me so much, I briefly considered replying, to thank Laurent for brightening my day.
Something else wang-related that amuses me: how much pride men take in their erections. You know, as if they did anything more than possess a properly-functioning circulatory system to achieve them. I mean, judging by the look of satisfaction a simple blood rush can produce, you'd think it had involved trigonometry -- or at the very least some complicated long division. Ah, yeeeeah, baby. Check it out. Remainder of four.
When I was twelve years old, my dad told me that if I wasn't careful, I was going to turn out like my mom. We were driving down Main Street in Spanish Fork, just past the public library, when Dad dropped the b-word. Total bitch, he said. At twelve, I'd probably heard the word a total of three times, and I was embarrassed by it. Clearly, he and my mom had fought about something (money, more than likely); he was blowing off steam. Once after they'd argued, he punched the deep freeze in the garage, leaving a shallow dent. This time he told me that I was going to have a string of unsuccessful marriages and nasty divorces, because I didn't know how to treat people. I don't really remember my dad spanking me as a kid. But I remember this.
I remember, too, coming home from a church activity that evening, frazzled and upset, and telling my mother that one of the girls on my kickball team called me a bitch. I went to bed while the sun was still up. And, while the sun was still up, I was dragged back out of bed and into the living room where an innocent thirteen year old girl was waiting to apologize for hurting my feelings. I confessed, bawled, and went back to my room.
Later, my mom came in, sat down next to me on the daybed and asked me why I'd lied. I told her I didn't know; let her assign it to general preteen angst. But I knew. All I'd wanted was for her to be sorry that someone had called me such an awful thing - without telling her it was my dad who'd said it. If I told her, they would fight again. Dad would punch something or hold onto the banister and yell until Mom left to drive around the neighborhood while it got dark. Later, when she came home, Dad would have written, "I'm sorry" in his slanting scrawl in dry erase marker on the garage freezer door. And I would have had another nightmare about thick, brown barrels tumbling from the sky - a dream I'd associate for the rest of my life with the barrel-shaped rootbeer candies - and woken up with my pillowcase soaked in sweat. I didn't want that. I didn't want to be the reason they yelled.
Mostly, though, I didn't snitch, because I didn't want him to be right.
I remember, too, coming home from a church activity that evening, frazzled and upset, and telling my mother that one of the girls on my kickball team called me a bitch. I went to bed while the sun was still up. And, while the sun was still up, I was dragged back out of bed and into the living room where an innocent thirteen year old girl was waiting to apologize for hurting my feelings. I confessed, bawled, and went back to my room.
Later, my mom came in, sat down next to me on the daybed and asked me why I'd lied. I told her I didn't know; let her assign it to general preteen angst. But I knew. All I'd wanted was for her to be sorry that someone had called me such an awful thing - without telling her it was my dad who'd said it. If I told her, they would fight again. Dad would punch something or hold onto the banister and yell until Mom left to drive around the neighborhood while it got dark. Later, when she came home, Dad would have written, "I'm sorry" in his slanting scrawl in dry erase marker on the garage freezer door. And I would have had another nightmare about thick, brown barrels tumbling from the sky - a dream I'd associate for the rest of my life with the barrel-shaped rootbeer candies - and woken up with my pillowcase soaked in sweat. I didn't want that. I didn't want to be the reason they yelled.
Mostly, though, I didn't snitch, because I didn't want him to be right.
If we work together, stop reading right now. Or, more importantly, if under any circumstances we have seen each other naked (or, you know, might in the future), stop reading right now. I beg you. But for you non-coworker/non-nookie folks, I present the following, because I love you.
As originally told to Sarah Brown, who has kindly agreed to still be friends with me:
An afterthought to my outfit this morning, I put on a pair of Spanx. See, I was already fully dressed, but I figured a little extra nip in the waist would do my little black dress up in the manner it deserved. So, I grabbed a pair, wiggled into them (these babies go from mid-thigh to underboob and getting into them is really a workout), and headed to the office. Then, just a few minutes ago, nature called. On autopilot, I went to the ladies' room, sat down on the toilet, and did my thing.
Now, for those of you who aren't aware, Spanx are gusseted. As in, they come with built-in split-crotch panties. Only, you know, in a black spandex girdle form, so as to undo any sexiness associated with a split crotch. Going commando (hot) in a girdle (not hot). You see what I mean - it's barely breaking even.
Anyway, so there I was, doing my thing... only, it sounded wrong. Muffled. It took me a moment to realize this was BECAUSE I WAS WEARING UNDERWEAR - a detail I had completely overlooked. In a whirlwind of adrenaline and mortification, I stripped in the bathroom stall, took off the soaked undies (god, I wanted death), wiggled back into the Spanx (an awkward, unsightly dance not unlike mating rituals I've seen on the Discovery Channel), rinsed and wrapped said undies in paper towels, washed my hands six times, and skedaddled out of there as fast as I could.
Then I immediately emailed Sarah and Ari, who graciously put the whole thing into perspective.
"If you were in kindergarten, you'd have a cubby with an extra pair. I think adults underestimate the clean panty need."
Let's just say, lesson learned. The hard way.
As originally told to Sarah Brown, who has kindly agreed to still be friends with me:
An afterthought to my outfit this morning, I put on a pair of Spanx. See, I was already fully dressed, but I figured a little extra nip in the waist would do my little black dress up in the manner it deserved. So, I grabbed a pair, wiggled into them (these babies go from mid-thigh to underboob and getting into them is really a workout), and headed to the office. Then, just a few minutes ago, nature called. On autopilot, I went to the ladies' room, sat down on the toilet, and did my thing.
Now, for those of you who aren't aware, Spanx are gusseted. As in, they come with built-in split-crotch panties. Only, you know, in a black spandex girdle form, so as to undo any sexiness associated with a split crotch. Going commando (hot) in a girdle (not hot). You see what I mean - it's barely breaking even.
Anyway, so there I was, doing my thing... only, it sounded wrong. Muffled. It took me a moment to realize this was BECAUSE I WAS WEARING UNDERWEAR - a detail I had completely overlooked. In a whirlwind of adrenaline and mortification, I stripped in the bathroom stall, took off the soaked undies (god, I wanted death), wiggled back into the Spanx (an awkward, unsightly dance not unlike mating rituals I've seen on the Discovery Channel), rinsed and wrapped said undies in paper towels, washed my hands six times, and skedaddled out of there as fast as I could.
Then I immediately emailed Sarah and Ari, who graciously put the whole thing into perspective.
"If you were in kindergarten, you'd have a cubby with an extra pair. I think adults underestimate the clean panty need."
Let's just say, lesson learned. The hard way.
When I was a kid, I would talk to anybody. About anything. Endlessly. You're all shocked, right?
I have a vivid recollection of sitting on a bench at Curly Slide Park (if you want to be accurate, it's called Canyon View Park, which in my opinion grossly understates the park's glorious attractions) going on and on to a complete stranger about Ramona Quimby. She was eight, I was eight - this was very important and deeply meaningful. She, meaning Ramona. The woman was probably in her 30s or 40s and god bless her, patient as the day is long. I talked to her so long that my mom was compelled to apologize for my chattiness (I remember this being the first time I ever heard the phrase "talk your ear off"; I was a very literal kid and it bothered me. A lot).
Anyway, not much has changed in twenty something years. I'm a talker. A texter, and emailer, an IMer (not much of a phoner, but that has more to do with total and complete inability to focus while on the line. What was that you were saying? I'm sorry, I got caught up de-linting my sofa cushions) and a blogger. I'll tell most anyone my business as long as it serves some sort of entertainment or therapeutic purpose. Though, more and more often, I go with the sanitized version. See, I'm slowly learning what some folks are naturally programmed with: discretion.
It's been a hard lesson learned. And publicly, too. Remember when I said too much in the New York Times? Someone at a big fancy paper asked me to write a story and I was thrilled. The backlash was instant and intense. I was young and so terribly naive and I took the criticism very hard. My inbox flooded with shame-on-you emails. The comment box filled up with much the same. Someone even went so far as to create a blog, pink and filled with my reworded and re-punctuated (so!! many! exclamation points!!) entries to make me look even more naive and foolish. Why? Because over-sharing was just about the most pathetic thing the mock-blog's creator could fathom. I cried myself to sleep for a week. Incidentally, this person seems to have spent the last couple years unlearning the lesson that her adventures in html taught me; evidence of it recently graced the cover of the New York Times Magazine.
Life, it is funny. Mean, sometimes, but funny.
The above is all a very lengthy preamble to say, I promised you a story. But the more I've thought about it, the more I've realized that for the sake of discretion, I just can't deliver on that promise. Except to say: I now know the most fun you can have in a swimming pool has absolutely nothing to do with chicken fights.
Rowrr.
I have a vivid recollection of sitting on a bench at Curly Slide Park (if you want to be accurate, it's called Canyon View Park, which in my opinion grossly understates the park's glorious attractions) going on and on to a complete stranger about Ramona Quimby. She was eight, I was eight - this was very important and deeply meaningful. She, meaning Ramona. The woman was probably in her 30s or 40s and god bless her, patient as the day is long. I talked to her so long that my mom was compelled to apologize for my chattiness (I remember this being the first time I ever heard the phrase "talk your ear off"; I was a very literal kid and it bothered me. A lot).
Anyway, not much has changed in twenty something years. I'm a talker. A texter, and emailer, an IMer (not much of a phoner, but that has more to do with total and complete inability to focus while on the line. What was that you were saying? I'm sorry, I got caught up de-linting my sofa cushions) and a blogger. I'll tell most anyone my business as long as it serves some sort of entertainment or therapeutic purpose. Though, more and more often, I go with the sanitized version. See, I'm slowly learning what some folks are naturally programmed with: discretion.
It's been a hard lesson learned. And publicly, too. Remember when I said too much in the New York Times? Someone at a big fancy paper asked me to write a story and I was thrilled. The backlash was instant and intense. I was young and so terribly naive and I took the criticism very hard. My inbox flooded with shame-on-you emails. The comment box filled up with much the same. Someone even went so far as to create a blog, pink and filled with my reworded and re-punctuated (so!! many! exclamation points!!) entries to make me look even more naive and foolish. Why? Because over-sharing was just about the most pathetic thing the mock-blog's creator could fathom. I cried myself to sleep for a week. Incidentally, this person seems to have spent the last couple years unlearning the lesson that her adventures in html taught me; evidence of it recently graced the cover of the New York Times Magazine.
Life, it is funny. Mean, sometimes, but funny.
The above is all a very lengthy preamble to say, I promised you a story. But the more I've thought about it, the more I've realized that for the sake of discretion, I just can't deliver on that promise. Except to say: I now know the most fun you can have in a swimming pool has absolutely nothing to do with chicken fights.
Rowrr.
This morning, I'm operating on about thirty-five minutes of sleep. That comes with a good story. But right now, I'm waiting for the coffee to replace the water in my blood stream, so in the meantime...
I don't know if it's the exhaustion-induced delirium, but I think I kind of love this a lot.
I don't know if it's the exhaustion-induced delirium, but I think I kind of love this a lot.
