Hear What They See

Thursday, July 29, 2004

now why didn't i think of that?

Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Book Idea
Chicken Soup for your Punk-Ass Soul

POSTED BY MICHAEL | 12:19 PM

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 1:21 PM

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

pardner

Indulgence is buying yourself a new accoutrement that you absolutely do not need. Like this hat. That I do not need. And probably will not have occassion to wear much since I don't go out (I don't think the grocery store counts, really, as "going out"). But I really, really, really wanted it anyway. One day I'll have a house where all my hats shall adorn the walls and I'll play dress-up to my little-girl heart's content. So there.

I used to work at a Texas BBQ joint in town. I was inherited right along with the peeling-back linoleum and ancient refrigeration when the new owners took over. Pre-BBQ joint, I was going to school part-time and managing a deli while I figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wore tennies and a ponytail and the radio was always turned to K-LITE Geriatric FM per the owner's insistence that "the customers just don't want to listen to all that jungle-bunny music.". The Texas Clan came to town and I learned the beauty of kick-ass cowboy boots, Stetsons, and how to sing along to Dwight Yoakim on the jukebox. Later down the road I also discovered that a carefully aimed wink beneath a hat brim could get you out of a speeding ticket. And soon thereafter I realized school was more fun than smelling like a mesquite-smoked brisket every day, so I took off for UHH.

I got out of the BBQ joint, but the BBQ joint apparently hasn't totally gotten out of me, as evidenced by my corny taste in cowboy hats.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 11:33 PM

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Fog City Rhapsody

I'm pooped today. Got to work at 9:00 instead of 7:45. JJ, my old co-worker and gay husband, called me yesterday in a spontaneous act of rebellion and said, "Come with me to San Francisco tonight after work. I have replace my boyfriend's turntable that I broke last night. We'll have dinner in the Castro, shop, be free!" I shocked myself by agreeing to go with him.

We left right after 5:00, neither of us had time to change out of our work clothes, and we sailed down the freeway to San Francisco. The commute traffic was in the opposite direction, so we made good time. We hit Guitar Center on Mission first to get the exact model of turn table that JJ broke. Music stores, especially music stores in metro areas, are always populated with these guys that have this hunted, gaunt look, like they're all starving. Not from lack of food (although sometimes they look like that too), but from a desire to burn the world down with their souls. So much angst. Even the jazzy-fingered older Filipino guy that was playing the keyboards with this retro-sounding riff had that same look. And he was dressed in a baseball cap, baggy jeans and a navy sateen windbreaker versus the black peg-legged jeans withn requisite silver pocket chain and nylon collared shirt all the employees were sporting.

[If you click on the picture above, you can see JJ in Guitar Center doing his Mike Tramp rocker impression of Fight For Your Life:

Oh, bring out your shield
Raise high your sword
Run, flea for your life
Look toward the sun
Fight to survive

We conceded that while JJ lacked the hair flair of Mike Tramp, he more than made up for it in artistic embellishment and spirit.]

Knowing I was going out with JJ, I refused to eat lunch at work, gave myself a horrible headache, and was ravenous by the time we made our way over to the Castro to Firewood Cafe, a delish little cafe on Diamond Street. Oh. My. YUM. HUGE salads, olives on all the tables in bright ramekins, great thin crust pizzas. We split the mushroom pizza with carmelized onions and each indulged in a salad with lowfat creamy garlic dressing. I couldn't finish my salad, which may have had a little something to do with the fact that the pepper grinder on our table was broken and I managed to dump a teaspoon of whole peppercorns in my salad bowl.

We ate and gabbed and walked and shopped and laughed and people watched and fed a dred-locked homeless guy a pepperoni pizza-by-the-slice (my doing since JJ thought I was insane). We split a chocolate cookie. JJ bought me a beautiful French soap at a swoony smelling boutique. We thought we wanted Ben & Jerry's until we took 4 bites, both wanted to explode, and chucked it.

Walk under the fog-clad street lamps. Buzz from an open 3rd floor window, look up and watch someone get their hair pruned into a mohawk . Woman smokes a cigarette under an awning, flirts with the page-boyed maiden across from her. Couples, hand in hand. Again and again we laugh. Mouth open, a smile burst on my face, I remember what it feels like to do something just because you can.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 1:12 PM

Sunday, July 25, 2004

H-O-T

It's hot. That's it. It's been hot all day and now it's night and it still feels hot.

Five hour writing session with Linny today. We talked about everything under the sun. We are twinned souls. It's official.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 8:36 PM

Saturday, July 24, 2004

Piazza del Duomo, 1993

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 3:40 PM

O Sole Mio

Mom wants to go to Italy in November. She asked me if I wanted to go. The question slipped by me in one of those surreal hazes that lets you ignore things to which you really ought to be paying more attention. I asked her about it again this morning. No, I wasn't imagining things. Supposedly Daddy has a frequent flyer ticket I can use, if he's up for donating to the Anea Charity. Two, maybe three weeks in Italy.

The possibility of it is a lump in my throat. Italia. Almost 10 years. I haven't stepped foot on those sreets in almost 10 years.

Netflix shipped Under the Tuscan Sun in a little twist of ironic belly-poking. So I watched it, not expecting much. And the movie wasn't much, but the opening Italian scene spanned the front of Il Duomo and I couldn't breathe. Every day I walked that piazza on my way to school. I'd sit sometimes in an expensive cafe geared particularly to tourists and foreign college students, paying the ridiculous prices so I could watch the people and the motorini and the buses. Listening to the barista flirt in Italian with the pretty girls.

I don't know if this will happen. I can't quite comprehend it right now. The undecurrent of hope is electric and bizarre.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 3:35 PM

vuota

So far:
coffee with fatfree cream and chocolat syrup [math: fatfree cancels syrup]
nectarine
Time: 3:01pm PST

I am about to eat a banana. It has to do with the banana love post I found last night. Plus there's only one banana left in the fruit bowl. My little beautiful pretty pretty banana, you are all that I'd like ...

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 3:01 PM

Friday, July 23, 2004

Banana Love

Friday, July 23, 2004

my little banana

my little banana (i luv to eat banana)

My little beautiful pretty pretty banana, you are all that I'd like and I want to share you with all my friends, family and loved one. I just open all your skin then I take a small bite. Once I have a wonderful dream about you we were dancing in the sea and the fishes all swimming around us. Come with me so I can show you big boat that I built. Let's go for a ride. I promise it will fly to the sky where no one cries. Banana you will see the clouds beneath our feet to the space where twinkle stars saying hello and smile they're shinning bright happily. Will we see each other any more after ten years why don't you tell me you're falling ill and not happy please stay well and be tasty I don't want to see you be grumpy. Please stay strong and be healthy. We still have a lot to do like exploring the whole world. You're the only one can't be replaced. Hey you, listen, banana you're the best, man!

posted by [deleted] at 8:42 PM

Unfortunately, I think this was meant in absolute sincerity. Perhaps the writer was being poetic? Perhaps bananas inspire fantasy images of oceans and twinkly stars for her? Perhaps it was a camoflauged post to a secret lover whose banana she really likes (although wanting to share with everyone is a little too free, methinks)? I haven't a clue, but I can't help but sit here, scratching my head, asking, "WHY?"

Yes, I know, I'm in bitchy mode again, vitriolic and small of mind. Going onto other blogs I've never seen before to make myself feel superior and special. Because I'd never write a love-post to a banana.

I'll get over myself eventually. Maybe once the train wreck somewhere in a neighborhood nearby stops yelling at the car alarm to "shut the f*ck up." I thought the real estate in this town was too high class for such behavior. I mean, HONESTLY.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 9:04 PM

jazz i

It occurs to me there is something wrong with boys who want to hit on me.
There is something wrong with them, for sure.
There isn't a belief system within this flesh that can accept the notion that normal boys would look twice let alone once at this person.

::note:: we will not discuss the surges of self-doubt and loathing that zing through my veins right now, riptide like heroin; this is my addiction, don't let the slurred speech and convulsions scare you. In the morning we'll call it a new day.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 6:58 PM

Thursday, July 22, 2004

Boy Paper

So I stop today at Shell on Broadway to get gas. I've had the A/C in the 'ole company car cranked this week and my daily commute involves a route up and down hills, so my contribution to the End of the World has been a little heavier than usual.

So I stopped at Shell. I was looking quite dapper in a black silk mid-calf skirt and so-barely-pink-it's-almost-not cowl-necked tank. I skipped the linen jacket while in the car to avoid wrinkles. I was supposed to be going to a meeting with a Member of the State Assembly, but I'd been informed 5 minutes prior that the meeting was cancelled by said Assemblymember - something of a relief since my research on the insurance issues I was supposed to be championing to sway her opinion was spotty and not as water-tight as I would have liked. But that's a different story. Back to dapperness.

Standing at Shell pumping gas. Figure it doesn't matter because I don't have to look pretty & put together anymore. Tra-lee-la. Dude on a motorcycle by the air & water, waiting, looking cute and sweet and awfully young. Guy in white work truck with baseball cap looking like he thinks breasts are only for selling beer. Old guy in Buick pulling out from beside me, peering over steering wheel. Ho hum.

Out of the corner of my eye a guy who works at Shell goes from pump to pump. Pay no mind. Fa-la-la-la-la. Then he comes up beside me and stands there.

"Hi."

I look over at him. Smile brightly. "Hi!"

"Can I help you with anything?"

Quick glance up at the pump to make sure I'm in Self-Serve. The whole station is Self-Serve. "Um, no. But thanks! Appreciate it."

He stands there some more, smiling at me. "Just need some gas, you know," I tell him. I point at the pump. The numbers are crawling, I'd swear the gas at this pump is programmed to trickle.

He nods at me. "That's what we're here for." Points to the pump and cocks his head, smiles.

I smile back. He stands there. I stand there. I look closer. Maybe he's on a work program for Becoming Independent, that would explain why he's so friendly. No, that's not it. He looks like he's about 12 years old, which means he's really probably in his early 20's (I should probably interject to just say that I'm finding anyone under the age of 29 looks like they're 12 years old to me; I don't know what my problem is. I think I'm getting OLD).

I smile some more. "Yep," he says to me.

"Ya," I agree back. I scuff my shoe, pick invisible lint off my so-barely-pink-it's-almost-not cowl-necked tank. I look back at him. He's still smiling at me. "Been using the A/C a lot, you know. The heat and all." I wave my hand in the general direction of the air. Babble-mode kicks into high gear. "You know, because the A/C uses more gas. Of course, you know, if you speed you can use more gas too. But, ha ha, I wouldn't speed because it's a company car and I wouldn't want that on my record. Right? Nope. No siree. But they pay for the gas anyway because sometimes I'm on the road a lot because you have to travel in my job. That's the way it is. Boy, ya, this heat's been a real humdinger. Gotta crank that A/C." I'm figuring next I'll just give him my phone number, my birthdate, my social security number, my bra size, and my medical history.

"Yeah, it sure is hot," he tells me.

"Sure is," nod my head. "Boy, I must have really emptied the tank, sure needs a lot of gas today. Ha ha."

"Good for our business." He's grinning.

There is a click and the pump stops and I can't get it out of my car fast enough. I look at the screen on the pump. WOULD YOU LIKE A RECEIPT? No no no! I of course hit YES. Dammitalltohell. I smile at him, wait for the receipt to print, tap my fingers against the plastic, c'mon, 'cmon. Snatch it and turn on my heel. I wave behind me, "Have a nice day!" I call out.

"You too." He ducks his head, watching me scramble into my car. I almost lose a shoe but grip my toes and my foot makes it in the car. Shoe clunks to floor.

I don't get it. When I was 20 I would have died to have the kind of attention I've been getting from these 20-something year old boys. No. Not a chance. They all wait til I'm 34 and sprouting grey hairs and feeling like Aunt Maude. I'm like that yellow tacky fly paper that hangs in coils from the ceilings of an old mom & pop grocer. I just don't get it.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 7:22 PM

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

Boobs have been on the mind of late. My boobs, your boobs, other peoples' boobs.

Dave's a boob guy. I've always liked boobs, but being married to a boob guy totally changes your perception of the boob. Suddenly, things take on new meaning in terms of how those things relate to the boob. Once you put on those boob-tinted glasses, there's no turning back.

I'm in my own kind of boob mode. I'm fascinated. I'm obsessed. When women walk by, I immediately check out their boobs. I feel like a hormonal dude. Except I don't get turned on by boobs. I just have to look. It's embarrassing.

Dave's emailed me a few times since he's been in Mexico about wanting to have kids. There are practical reasons why this worries me right now, even though I've always assumed kids would be in my future. But lately I'm worried about what having a kid does to the body. Not because I think I have anything sacred that needs protecting. But I can't help wondering how someone with such a crappy view of herself already is going to go about the business of pregnancy and childbirth in her mid-late 30's and come out at the other end reveling in her saggy, post-breastfeeding boobs, her stretchmarks, and her flabby postpartum belly.

Women have babies all the time. I'm not supposed to be scared of this. And everything I've just written sounds like some kind of selfish. But it remains, nonetheless, that it plagues me. And to top it off, I can't seem to turn off the boobdar.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 7:09 PM

Favorite One-Liner

"People need to realize breasts are for more than selling beer."

Ohmagawd. I'm amidst a giggling fit and need to go collect myself before my contact lenses swim out of my eyes.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 5:08 PM

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

some days

It never ceases to amaze me how much this animal can make me smile. How can they do that?

----------------

Dave's got another 2 1/2 weeks in Mexico. The stages of pining are distinct. Spans of time and physical space that coincide on a coordinate of sexual desire. Specific and unassuaged. What a pain in my proverbial and literal ass. For crying out loud.

I wrote in an email:

I felt distracted all weekend, I don't know what it was. Just restless and twitchy. Kept going in circles, like I couldn't stay focused on anything I was doing.

His reply:

lack of sex
tal vez
esta cierto

I wanted to smack him. How dare he hit so close to the mark?

Enough sex talk ::yawn::

----------------

Hunger pangs.
Sly dismissal.
tra-la-la-dee-da

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 7:13 PM

Monday, July 19, 2004

Your Money or a Lawsuit

So I get a call today from DP (Data Processing). They got a phone call from a dude who claims he found a PDA registered to the company I work for. Did I not mention that I lost my PDA? Yes, I did. To make matters worse, it wasn't really my PDA, exactly, it was my mother's PDA, but it's really company property, but I used it, so I suppose by virtue of association I liked to pretend it was mine. Layers of confusion. Nonetheless, company property that I lost.

I lost it about a week and a half ago. I was taking a walk around the business park pond where I work, and realized I didn't have it with me any longer, though I'd walked out the door with it. It occurred to me when I realized it's absence that perhaps I had blithely tossed it into the mailbox on the sidewalk along with the mail I'd had in my hand (at this point in my career life, something that stupid is absolutely possible). I retraced my steps, no luck. Stuck a note in the mailbox claiming I would bake a chocolate Kaluha cake for the person who found it or buy a steak or meat of choice instead if they were of the Atkins persuasion.

So this dude calls. Says he found it. Reads the barcode off and claims he wants a REWARD.

A reward.
For real.
He was serious.
Said he needed the money.

Gimme a break!

It's an IBM Workpad C500. The thing sell for less than $70! But the company is possibly considering giving this guy a reward because there is a slight chance that the PDA has client info on it; I'm not sure what kind of client info, it's not like I have contact with clients, but there is always a possiblity, I guess. I can't say for sure.

But here's the thing I found interesting. They didn't care if it had home phones, email addresses, and mailing addresses of people who work for the company or my personal acquaintances. They only cared if it had client info. The reason I find this interesting is because every single one of the company employees whose info was on that PDA is a client of the company, including yours truly. Hmm.

I'm realizing the legislative implications of this state's privacy laws as I write this, and it is such a sword of double-edged insanity, I could spit nails. By law large companies have to protect client info. Client info could possibly be stored on a PDA. This could be avoided if a PDA was password protected, but mine wasn't, I hardly ever used it. I had it with me by pure fluke that day.

These laws are meant to protect us & our information, though people often don't read the fine print of those laws for which they vote (if they vote). Technology makes the transfer of our information vast and slippery. Tack on human foible and you've got yourself a fine kettle of fish.

I'm hoping the company doesn't give him a reward. But they just might be obliged to, by law. I'd rather bake him a cake. Or if he needs money, I'd rather find out why, see if maybe there's something more long-term he can do than ask for a reward for a $70 PDA. Sucks, doesn't it? Whatever happened to Good Samaritanism, dammit?

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 6:35 PM

Sunday, July 18, 2004

Dictionary of Old Habits

I went to dinner last night at Piatti with a group of people. My friend A_ came by the house yesterday with her sister who was visiting from Florida. They said, "Come!" I replied, "Well, all right, then!"

I ate nothing but lowfat popcorn and water all day so I could indulge. Dinner was good. It probably tasted even better because I'd intentionally not eaten much of anything all day. By the time 6:30 rolled around, I was hungry. Yet at the same time I was liking the feel of a stomach not stretched, yet, with food. All pangs and emptiness. It's a weird sense of control that I might equate with eating disorders if I actually knew anything about eating disorders (the skinny kind, not the fat kind; I know all about the fat kind, I am the fat kind). I ate, counting Weight Watcher's points in my head, realizing I could have dessert, leaving spoonfuls of crème brulee in the dish as if to say, "You aren't the boss of me. Be gone, I don't need you."

I'm not officially doing Weight Watchers, but old habits die hard; I "count points." If you don't know what that means, be spared. The weight is comes off in slow peels, each hunger pang a rewarding denial of fat and sadness and expectation. Who knows how long this will last, but I hang desperately to that unfilled feeling of fulfillment. Watch the black lines on the scale; will myself to wait a full week before I weigh myself. Each step up, the clicking mechanism, numbers and lines slip and waver behind the bubble of glass. They stop, settling on a number smaller than the week before. It is obsessive. And it provides meaning in the spaces. Meaning - ever my quest. Where did these definitions of self get laid down in the dictionary of me?

We went back to A_'s house after dinner. Me, A_, her sister and a friend who works with A_'s husband. He left, all pouts and glowering brow. Husband and sister had bickered for 3 days. A_ in the middle - a marriage of incompatibility. We all, perhaps, hang on that edge in some form or another. Four women sitting around the table, laughing, circling in until we talked about sex and our bodies and sex and relationships and then our bodies again. They spoke of bulimia, and the ease with which a person can make themselves vomit. I can't relate to this; me who has always stifled the rising bile, I hate it. These terrible and furious ways by which we are defined and define ourselves, it is so addictive. I was remembering the feel of emptiness in my belly, the victory - vomit or starve; is there really a difference? The words sound similar, but the mouths that tell the tale are from opposite sides of the flesh spectrum.

The friend from work started talking about her boob job. She claims she wanted it but admits the husband also encouraged it. As well as the liposuction. This girl is beautiful. In her late-20's, a mother of 2, 5'10", smooth porcelain skin, an upturned upper lip that makes the imagination wander. He is obsessed with her weight. Drillmaster of her intake. She talked. About still being in love with him after 5 years of marriage - in love with his looks and his body. But she admitted to being hurt by his insistence. Of his persistent diligence about her weight. She is doing Weight Watchers. She lost 4 lbs. last week and A_ asked her is she lost so much in one week because she had thrown-up. She didn't want to talk about it.

Riddles. Weighing 119. Loving it. He loved her more then. She can make herself vomit just by thinking about it. Just think. All that slim skin. Eating ruins it all. But she was pregnant and that was the end of that.

I told her I would join Weight Watchers with her. Said I would meet her there this Thursday night. I said I would call her on Wednesday and confirm. I said I'd been wanting to join for some time but I hate doing these things alone. I said all these things and they are all true. But more true is how my heart bled as I listened to this beautiful girl tell the story in untold words of breast-feeding her 6-week old, skating into the rink of her old habit, and her loathing. That same-said friend. We entertain him at every turn. We do it alone. Sinking into those dark waves, we never ask for help, do we even know how? I am helpless, I am, I cannot help myself. I reach out a hand. I recognize a mirror when I see it. I gaze and touch the surface. There is always the possibility of salvation.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 3:44 PM

Saturday, July 17, 2004

apple-juiced panic

There are always memorable moments at parties, no? Oh yes, indeed, there are. Like how I leaned my fingers, but for a moment, on a punchbowl as I stood talking to a young guy whose name I don't know. Like how this punch bowl began to tip. Like how I couldn't stop it because my digital camera was in hand and the reflex for protection of digicam overcame the fear of apple splatter upon myself. So, 5 gallons of apple, non-alcoholic punch waved upon the front of my skirt and thighs, leaving me in a fine pickle. Young guy stood there and watched, and I must hand it to him that he didn't laugh because if it had been me watching him, I would probably have at least cracked a giggle-bound grin. It wasn't even worth being mortified...I could feel the sticky wash of juice coating ever inch of skin from belly-button to toes. So, what else could I do but grab the pitcher of ice water on the table and dump it down my front as well? 'Tis true. I did. And young dude watched with an eyebrow raised, incredulous. But I'll be damned if I didn't stop the stickiness right in its tracks!

Well into the night, drinks free-flowing and my sober self, dripping diluted apple punch, stands in a sweet puddle, bare painted toes squelching in new sandals. A voice at my side, another young dude whose name I do know. His brain is swollen with liquor, he talks to me, that fearless lilt that overtakes the vocal cords of people who don't believe they have anything to lose by venturing forth. He's sitting down, looking up. And it enters my mind that the view from there is all cleavage and curves and curls. Red light moment, though I'm still trying to be polite. He wants me to smoke his cigarette, to drink from his beer, these offerings to my lips, barely veiled attempts for a surrogate kiss. Shaking my head, no, I don't smoke, I don't like beer.

Why can't I just walk away?
Is this supposed to happen to you when you're married?
I am 10 years older than this guy!
Why is he looking at me like a wolf eyeballs a lamb?

The drops from my hem puddle a ring around my feet from which I cannot escape. I'm pulled between his legs before I muster a move and there is a hand creeping up my knee and thigh and I do believe it has just attempted siege up the slope of my rear to get into my panties. Flashquick, it's all so fast. Reactions are sap in winter, though this time mortification does set in accompanied by a longing right in my middle for my husband, so strong, my knees go weak. I pull away, focused on that bellyache yearning for Dave, and race up the garden stairs, all apple juice swirl and Cinderella panic.

I managed to keep my slippers upon my toes, however, and that, in my state of drench, was quite a feat.

(If I'd known about it, I would have taken Matt's advice and given the man in question the number for the Rejection Hotline...)

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 2:33 PM

Friday, July 16, 2004

Tales of a Re-Tooled Tail

So I'm a tad behind the times. It must be because I don't have a dog. But I was just introduced to Neuticles this week in a conversation that was supposed to pertain to work, but got off on the subject of Neuticles instead.

Some people have their pets neutered by the vet. Sometimes removal of the testicles is necessary because of disease. No panic: the US company CTI manufactures, sells and implants so-called "Neuticals": artificial testicles for pets. They are implanted into the scrotum of the animal, in a way that nor the animal, nor the owner notices the difference.

Of course there are different sizes of Neuticals, from Petite, Xsmall, Small, Medium to Large. There can also be a difference in shape, because animals have different kinds of balls. The materials used are silicone or polypropylene. You can also have a quote for custom size balls, in case your pet has an extraproportional ball size. The company also sells bull- and stallion testicles, although we fail to notice why somebody would have the idea to help an oxen to new balls.

Inventor Gregg A. Miller from Buckner says that already 50,000 animals walk around with his Neuticles.

That little tidbit above failed to mention that Neuticles also come in 2 (count 'em, two, folks!) firmness selections, and can be purchased singly or as a set. Not only that but Neuticles replicate the testicle in actual size, shape and weight and feel.

Now if you're a huge Neuticles fan, you can go all out and get yourself some Neuticles merchandise. I mean, what more could a Grill Chef want whilst turning those hot dogs over the coals than a BBQ apron proudly stating across one's mid-section, NEUTICLES "It's Like Nothing Ever Changed." My special favorite bit of merchandising genius, however, is the Neuticles necklace. No woman's jewelry box should be without this addition - it truly gives a whole new meaning to the term "Dog Tags," not to mention one's ability to show Fido a memento of just how close to your heart his family jewels really are.

Caring pet owners said:

"I've put off neutering "Crooked Joe" for months and when I found out about Neuticles and spoke to them it made me feel better about neutering. Joe not only looks the same now- but dosen't know he's missing anything."
Jeff Lane
Oak Park, Ill

"He's a guy and I wanted him to remain looking like one."
Lane Hinderman
Metairie, Louisiana

"Neuticles were the absolute least I could do."
Glenda Nelson
Spring, TX

How's that for some impressive stuff, huh?

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 7:34 PM

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

All in the Family

I took 2 vacation days to go to San Diego to supposedly relax and go to a big birthday bash and ended up working my ass off. Per my usual. It got my mind off of work, so I guess that's a plus.

We flew in Friday to SD (SIDEBAR: I must say, I hate airports now. This thing with taking off shoes is maddening. What if someone decided to hide a bomb in a tampon? What then? Will women need to go through security checks for tampon removal? What about men? They have orafices too. The extremes to which we've allowed ourselves to go is frightening and there is no real end in sight. Protection? From what? I'm not sure anymore. I take my shoes off and I imagine all the other people that have taken their shoes off and walked before me. And it occurs to me how many of those people may have fungal yuck and that my feet may pick up their fungal yuck. Even through socks. Eiuw. The new terrorism: security line athletes foot. Beauty. END SIDEBAR). The weather was perfect that afternoon. My parents decided to rent a Jaguar since mom was writing the trip off as a business expense.

The Jaguar had a GPS doolie-bobber which Daddy immediately wanted to use. But mom was sitting in the front seat. Mom is hopeless when it comes to anything remotely resembling technology. Mom stares at doolie-bobber and decides it's an alien. So we leave the airport without the use of GPS doolie-bobber. And drove. And drove. And drove some more. I finally got up there and showed them how to program it (after, of course, we got lost trying to find the AWFUL hotel they booked...OK, whiney mode setting in, I can hear it in my voice). The best part was my mother arguing with the damned thing the entire time we were down there. I'd program it for the Post Office and we'd start to follow the route and the very relaxing tenor of the GPS lady voice. And mom would disagree with it. "That can't be right. It's wrong. Turn left here. There's no way that thing's right." I finally made my dad just follow it and we got to the destination just fine, with no mishaps.

This is the fate of every family trip I've ever taken with my parents and my sister. She's always the quiet go-with-the-flow one who waits until someone figures out what we're doing; she only gets snippy when she's tired. Mom always has about 20 different ideas about what we should be doing. Daddy always throws his hands up in the air, saying "It doesn't matter what I say, you're going to disagree so you figure it out." Anea says, "Oh, for heaven's sake let's just do blankety-blank and GO." Decision made and we do whatever blankety blank is.

There were over 400 people at the party. How in the world do 400 people go to one party? My sunburn from afore-mentioned working off of ass is just starting to peel on my back. But you know what? Olga & Lorenzo are the wondefulest, givingest, specialist friends of the family I know and I would do it again for them. In an eyeblink.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 5:57 PM

Thursday, July 08, 2004

outta here

Leaving tomorrow morning from SFO to go to San Diego to go to a big birthday bash for these two brothers' parents. I've known Quino & James since before I was born. Our eggs knew each other when our moms went to college together and got in all kinds of trouble in Tijuana, all beehive hairdos and making out with slick-haired boys. Smoking cigarettes, wearing uncomfortable shoes and looking too chic for their own good.

I haven't been looking forward to this trip, just because I'm too stressed with this retarded job, I guess. I heard from Dave today and he told me to enjoy my time away from work. Ya, OK. Will do. I haven't seen Quino and James since a gig they had in Hilo, Hawai'i in 2000. Everyone there smelled like patchouli oil and B.O. and wore lots of natural fiber clothing. I felt like a moron in my very square looking skirt and Hilo Hattie halter top. Jaysus. Anyway, I'm not a huge reggae fan, but with the family friends, one must always support the cause. Jah-love.

I had a secret crush on Quino when I was a kid. He always seemed a million feet tall, the dark, handsome, broody type. I was 13 and he was 17 and I might as well have been a toy poodle for as much attention as he paid to me. ~pat~ ~pat~ But you get older and you forget about how those crushes felt, especially those first ones, the ones that you have because you've known someone your entire life and you know them when the first rush of hormones hit the blood stream and you don't know what to do with yourself and you still know them after all of that, when it's all in the past. Now it's always just good to see the whole fam. They're the kind of people you always know are there, no matter WHAT. Mom and Olga had cancer around the same time, they've been through some shit. They're still here.

I didn't want to go on this trip. But in the eloquence of Steve Miller, time keeps on slippin' into the future, so I'd better get around to taking advantage, while I can, of spending a little of it with people I care about.

Yeah. Jah-love.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 9:47 PM

Wednesday, July 07, 2004

no word

I haven't heard from Dave since Sunday. The way that timing toys with one's emotions is really quite ironic and would be something over which to ponder and get philosophical. But I'd rather feel sorry for myself and send my husband short & choppy emails with peevish retorts. Because I wasn't supposed to miss him this much. And of course it's all his fault.

It's the need for reassurance. On all counts. Personal. Professional. Spiritual. Emotional. They're all hitting.

Different people "in the know" keep calling me at work, feeling me out, trying to figure out what I want to do, if I plan on staying. My question, "Well, are you telling me I'll still have a job? And when will the management change and when is someone going to do something to help my agents? I don't have the resources." I have a new addition to my list of possible new careers. I've decided I could also be a nanny. I am actually more serious about that consideration than most of the things I've been hatching lately. But I don't know if there's such a thing as married nannies. Anyway, so much for bright ideas. My light bulb wattage is on flicker at the moment.

What will be, will be. 'Tis how it is.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 9:59 PM

Well I'll Be Derned...

So I got another "college degree in 2 weeks" email. So far they both say the same thing in the body, but the footer is new. Crazy as ever. I love this!

buy chrysler. homologous pork hetty jura. concertina mattson inter, crowfoot allele cushman boat artichoke. dragsarsaparilla fillet rusk. decimal spew mendacious, bodybuild mandrel showcase vienna nc achromatic doleful cop chutney liverpudlian, hollandaise confident, tetrahedra. brand barb coalition dwell eidetic blimp holdover wolve armstrong. useful mug couscous embraceable libidinous anarch, diagnostic gentry brownian. gladiolus. figaro code seagram assyriology disneyland tokyo dogging amid beriberi abovementioned brief blockage coagulable icosahedron sesame infirm. bushel impend, effort walkover chamois einsteinium

Word choice for definition:
mandrel: n.
1. A spindle or an axle used to secure or support material being machined or milled.
2. A metal rod or bar around which material, such as metal or glass, may be shaped.
3. A shaft on which a working tool is mounted, as in a dental drill.

And assyriology? My guess was the study of angry butts (possibly hemorrhoidal...I know, not a very nice visual). Alas, nothing so off-kilter as that. It is, rather, the study of ancient Assyria. Like, duh.

What is the point of subjecting you to these, my flights of lingual fancy retrieved from email? Well, why else but to force everyone to use a dictionary! This is the conspiracy of these emails, you know. They talk about a diploma, then add these nutty word streams at the end. People will then subconsciously associate it with the need to buy a dictionary. That's it! These emails are a ploy from Webster's to get people to read the dictionary. Need I mention The Dictionary is one of my favorite books to read? 'Tis true.

Hmm, anyone up for calling the phone number on the email? 1-302-689-4384. My curiousity is killing me. But I'm a big chicken liver.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 9:40 PM

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

duplicate serpentine mundane *fugal

I got this email at my yahoo account (basically the account I use anytime I sign up for or have to give out my email address on-line). I usually delete the emails before I ever look at them if they make it past the SPAM filter, but I just clicked PREVIOUS and there it was:

A Genuine College Degree in 2 weeks !
Have you ever thought that the only thing stopping you from a great job and better pay was a few letters behind your name? Well now you can get them!

BA BSc MA MSc MBA PhD

Within 2 weeks , No Study Required, Completley verifiable!

These are real, genuine degrees that include Bachelors, Masters and Doctorate degrees.
Student records and transcripts are also available.

Order yours today. Just call the number below. You'll thank me later.

1-302-689-4384

Not that the email itself wasn't obviously a big scam. I mean, my assumption is they give you fake "documentation" so you can "prove" you have degree. Big deal, I file it right beside the penis & breast enlargement emails. But the random, whacky part was what was written at the bottom of the message:

chromic curbside. phi cock berlioz sibilant. clip zaire tat, indeterminable telephony metal pollution beer. picayunesolemnity verlag drive. arterial vestry blanket, municipal shark descend mig plate definitive dram deed cite college, banish ostentatious, cufflink. divisive dhabi over migrant debility choppy carven britannica critter. tapestry ludlow astronomer eightfold first marietta, simulcast bikini coffeecup. contiguous. shylock conserve phobic coffer insubstantial exhilarate bilinear integrand psychotherapeutic ebony stank realisable babylonian blizzard richardson backplane. martial sidelight, duplicate serpentine mundane fugal

Wha-? Who comes up with this stuff? What's it for? Why's it there? I've decided the sole purpose is to impart crazy electronic poetry.

metal pollution beer.
picayne solemnity!
Verlag Drive?
arterial vestry blanket,
municipal shark-
DESCEND!
Mig plate?
Definitive.
Dram.
Deed.
Cite college,
Banish ostentatious cufflink

Anyway, feel free to email Antonia@yahoo.com if you're in need of a degree. Or if you just want some electronic poesy delivered to you.

*And just in case you don't know what fugal is (because I didn't): A pathological amnesiac condition during which one is apparently conscious of one's actions but has no recollection of them after returning to a normal state. Kinda like how you got your degree in 2 weeks, no study required...

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 8:11 PM

Monday, July 05, 2004

hack frenzy

...all weekend. That's all I did. Hack up my blog templates. My shoulders are in my ears after 3 days of this. Yesterday as the fireworks kaboomed overhead and everyone was downtown watching the annual display, I sat here til the wee hours of the night downloading fonts and playing with Photoshop. Why does it take so long? It really does. But if it weren't for the super-smart folks at Mandarin Designs, I would be ripping more of my hair out than I already have. They so rock my Kasbah.

-------------------------

I had no urge to do anything yesterday. There were people at the house all day, I cooked all morning while everyone else went to the parade simply because it gave me an excuse to not go to the parade. I didn't want to be around people, I didn't want to have to put on my social face and be witty. It is so strange who I become without Dave. I just wrote him an email about this last night, how discomfiting it is to realize how much I really do need him, how his presence in my world really does consist of more than exasperating me with his befuddled sense of practicality. You do not realize how much you rely on another person to settle your sense of self. It is as though he is the half that makes my half feel like more of a whole in a world where I have traveled for over 30 years, wondering where I belonged. It might surprise some people to know that I am just figuring this out now.

I knew David's trip to Mexico for these 6 weeks would result in the occasional epiphany here and there for him. It's a given when you travel, especially when you don't just pass in and out of a place. When you actually settle in and define some of its space around you. You drink coffee at the same cafe, you wave to the same taxi driver who rescued you when you were lost, you smell the same grey wetness rising from the stones each afternoon when deluge passes and the sun comes out again. These are the things that make their impressions. You can not help but feel their heft, the weight of their memory. These were the things I expected and wanted for him.

It never occurred to me that I, too, would go through some of the same motions. This is an void that is left blank. I thought I would fill his 6-week absence with all the things I never have time to do, that I always think I would do if only I had more time to myself. And some of that has happened. For instance my hack-fest this weekend; I never would have stayed up til 3 in the morning doing it if Dave had been home. But it isn't quite how I thought it would be. I expected to miss him. But I did not expect to find how much, in 2 years of marriage, I have come to be defined by him.

It is a surprise. It is also something consonant with relief.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 6:16 PM

Sunday, July 04, 2004

And with that...

Happy Independence Day

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 12:30 AM

Saturday, July 03, 2004

A Pot & A Kettle

OK, this is one of the most blatant cases of a pot calling a kettle black I've seen in awhile. This gal here wrote on her blog (which I shall keep nameless so as to protect the, erm, innocent):

This was meant as a rather mean joke; about a Stephen Hawking worshipping, camel toad, 40something dork with absolutely no pussy in his near future, other than his own camel toe showing.

Anyhoo, I actually thought this was kewl, (hmm, what does that say....?) umm, anyway, there's this ELwire, which I thought was fake until I saw it was actually working, so without further ado, the camel-toad 40something loser...

And here is the wire he used, you can use it to dress up any costume (just avoid lining it in the camel-toe) by the way, he had reverse camel toe if you look closely (and what's up with that Batman symbol ass he's got?) oh well, enjoy (on whatever level you wish to...)

http://www.elwire.com/

Well, I thought what she wrote was mean, even with the disclaimer. Really, the disclaimer just sounds like she might be trying to hide the fact that she's afraid she herself might be, how did she say it? A camel-toad loser. Hmm. Plus she used the word kewl. Like, gag me.

I was so absolutely incredulous over this whole costume thing and how seriously these 2 people seemed to be taking it, that I started doing a little research (ok, I know it's apparent that I'm somewhat bored and miss Dave right now by the mere fact I have just spent the better part of an hour looking up all this crap, not to mention I did a QUIZILLA thingy. Gadszooks - but let's not go into that right now). So I find out that dressing up in costumes of characters from anime, video games, manga (i have no clue what that is), comic books, and movies is called cosplay. Now, I'd heard of Star Trek conventions, but apparently these conventions span all sorts of genres. I had nary an idea such as this existed...

I found one little kitten who's quite adorable, quite a little looker, and quite dedicated to her cosplay. And if I had a body like hers, I'd probably do exactly the same thing. But I don't have gams like that (let alone the rest!), so instead I'll just write about what I witnessed. Check this cheeky chica!

Apparently there are gals all over the place who like doing this stuff. I guess it's got a soft porn aspect to it as well because when you try to click on some of the pictures, you have to have member access. I suppose this is what is referred to as "modeling?" Which it is. Technically. So if my writing is tinged with envy, just ignore me. Like I ever in my life had the figure these young ladies have. ~sniff & boo hoo~

Amazing stuff! See what you can pick up on the web?

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 9:29 PM

Thinking cap! Thinking cap! Wherefore art though, thinking cap?

Michael Moore's new movie is certainly creating some furor, huh? I haven't seen it yet, though I intend to. Moore's politcal views are not exactly in alignment with my own, which I don't really find to be a problem. More than politking, my interest lies in the way his movie has got folks to talking. Wow. People talking? Holy cow, what a concept. Mel Gibson's movie, The Passion of the Christ did the same thing. The movies themselves had audiences that were probably as diametrically opposed as you can get. But both movies managed to get people in a furor. Yay for furordom (not to be confused with führerdom, which is disquietingly close, isn't it?).

I read an article in the newspaper this morning, the last part of which I found intriguing. It was written by Leonard Pitts Jr., a columnist for the Miami Herald. Pitt's background is varied, mostly in musical commentary, a wunderkind who entered university at the age of 15. I've only read a few blurbs about him here and there on-line, not delving deeply, but he doesn't appear to have rocked too many boats in his day. His column caught my eye because it's tagline was about Moore's flick. Reading, the part that snagged my attention was this:

    Some people will call that "Bush bashing," of course. They will cluck piously about the need to respect the president. These would be the same people who accused the previous president of drug dealing and murder.
    It strikes me that their anger toward him probably felt hard, clean and righteous, too. The realization is sobering. It's the thing that finally stops me in my tracks...
    Nowadays, that kind of anger seems to be working its way from right to left. Witness the recent spate of harshly anti-conservative books, radio programs and now, Michael Moore's movie. Maybe we shouldn't be surprised. After all, there's something seductive about anger, something attractive in its minimalist simplicity. No thought, no reasoning, just a strident declaration. "I'm right, and you're evil."
    The political left once prided itself on being better than that, on reading between the lines, comprehending nuance and illuminating areas of gray.
    And now? Well, in the words of the old song, there's something happening here. What it is ain't exactly clear.
    I find myself wondering if we will not all become self-righteous and extreme now, pulling away from a center that no longer holds. And if so, who will be left to seek common ground for the common good?
    Fahrenheit made me angry. It scares me how easily that happened. And how good it feels.
(Here's the full piece on-line)

Another article about Fairenheit 9/11 by Christopher Hitchens was thought-provoking, caustic and bound to piss off a few people (I would guess that's what Hitchens likes doing best, most notably, perhaps, after his Mother Teresa "attack"). But this description of Hitchens describes him best:

Indeed, despite his scorn for organized religion and hatred of Mother Teresa, there may be no leftist that conservatives like to like more than Christopher Hitchens. His scorn for lowest common denominator thinking, whether from the left or the right, is as entertaining as it is jarring. A transplanted Briton, he is the scourge of the monarchy. A strident proponent of war on the "theocratic terrorism," he has been a champion of oppressed peoples across the globe. An unabashed liberal, he was outraged by the vulgarity of the Clinton administration and gave up his column at The Nation over that magazine’s opposition to war in Iraq.

It is only, certainly, in thinking that you can draw conclusions, reason for yourself, turn off the blabbing box in your den and talk to one another. Agree or disagree, this is relevant only in that it forces you to think through your process, question your motive, research your position. Do not rely on one source. Remember history. Learn the language of your opposition. Find the common grounds and the combat zones and the DMZs. But whatever you do, make sure you do a little thinkin'.

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 1:28 PM

Friday, July 02, 2004

This survey is anonymous

It stated that in bold, 18 pt font, right on the front. Like they wanted to make sure you knew that going into your Employee Opinion Survey. I, meanwhile, was knee-deep in snorts and "Ya! Right, like I'm so shure"s. Because right after the anonymity spiel was written "As soon as this survey is submitted, your user ID will be deleted." Which means it's not really anonymous. But whatever.

I filled in my little dots and then went back and changed some of them. Then I came to the comments section and my skybound sense of idealism and high-moral-groundism took over. I filled out two pages on a word doc in 12 pt font which I spell-checked, re-read, tweaked, and spell-checked again before I neatly cut and pasted it into the comment box. I wasn't sure if it would all fit, but it did. I have no clue who will read it. I quoted 4 different sources, mostly passages having to do with "change" and "transition." Which is what our company's been all about, nation-wide and not just in California, for a good while. Morale is low, long-time employees are losing jobs, offices are closing, the future is uncertain. And let's face it, the change is necessary, I can recognize that fairly easily. What is more difficult to comprehend is why the supposed "leadership" is bothering to ask these questions when it seems clear that no one really knows what to do about any of the problems. Ostriches abound, in the Regional Office (where I fortunately do not work) you pass people in hallways whose shoulders still bear the dusting of sand that falls from their hair like grainy dandruff. Anyway, so I went off in my comments section. We'll see how really anonymous it is afterall. Most people won't bother to go to the lengths I did. Shrug. Pfft & Piffle. The afterglow was good while it lasted.

I was politely turned down for the job I interviewed for last week. Not a surprise. Nor a disappointment, really. Now it's hang loose time, figure out the path I need to follow. I was talking to a cohort, a gal I really think is lightning fast on her toes and smartly witty, like a lemondrop - sweet and sassy. We were talking about class reunions for some reason and I told her I'd created the wine labels for our 10 year class reunion, a riddle of sorts, the answers of which were all the number 10. She said, shaking her head, "With all the creativity you have, I mean, creativity like that, you'd think a person would be rolling in the dough. How the hell can we market you?" Shrug Shrug Shrug. Dunno. I'm the creativity monger not the business woman. Rarely do the two go well hand-in-hand. I seem to reflect this most dismally.

Lately my ideas for a new career (or lack thereof) have included :

missionary to Malaysia
submitting my cooking flair in various & sundry recipe contests
waitress by day, slam poet by night
bankruptcy & unemployment
eBay seller
thief
karaoke circuit singer and win big
win a Stegner Fellowship and write for 2 years

So far my prospects are looking up, no?

| Mrs. Botton was at it again @ 9:48 PM