Fantastic, not fanciful, love.

Tonight we watched “Paper Heart”, directed by Nicholas Jasenovec. Basic Plot: the ever smiling, dimpled chipmunk cheeked, Charlyne Yi, who had fallen out of the idea of love, falls head first into lack-luster love. She creates her own documentary interviewing: chemists, doctors, newly engaged, newly divorced, and married couples about their ideas of love. Through her journey, her lumming love is suppressed by her denial of its possibility. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend this movie. I have no future plans on purchasing, renting, or downloading it to my ipod. In fact, we only rented the movie on account of its rental value, a dollar. Yet, behind the kinder-care crafted puppets of string, hanger wire, cotton balls, and construction paper, that scrunched my brow rather than my cheeks, I saw the unattractive, undocumented, and unembellished metaphysical power of fantastic, not fanciful, love! A true love story is embarrassing, quirky, and to someone else watching, incredibly dull.

 The power portrayed in the movie was not in the script, the actors, the film editing, or the director’s vision; the power was in the passive passion. A true love story doesn’t have a perfectly cued string quartet to usher in for the big moment, or a backlighting halo effect, or a fan whirling through each tendril, or a tickless meadow to frolic in. Lime Disease is always lurking in the fields and even with our personalized slow jams, we cue ourselves to the music rather than to the moment. The simple reality is the kiss, that zings from your lips to your toes, has the same electricity whether it made contact in a Venetian gondola or in a grocer’s frozen food section.

Honestly, the cold cuts, drop in temperature, reflective plastic wrapping, indirect florescent lighting and the 80’s love power ballads could tenderize my heart better than the butcher’s special. Heart-sacking moments of debilitating dilated pupils, sweaty palm paralyzing handshakes, nervous laughs with hints of pre-pubescent squeals, and a tooth chipping first kiss collectively, measure by measure, compose the most spectacular arrangement of two uncoordinated instruments. The Ode of Love, with whole hearted effort, can be transposed to any key or any instrument in tune.

Conversations can kill.

Conversation:

“Babe, there's a baby crab in the sink.”

“Hellwo, can me take your order now?”

“Stop it! There is a Real crab in the sink!”

“Me tink you got dee wrong number.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, I'm listening. You got crabs.”

“Yes. I started washing the dishes and I thought it was a spider.”

“That means I got em too.”

“What? Ok, Forget it.”

“No, what sink?”

“I was doing the dishes so….”

“Well, pick it up.”

“And do what?”

“I dunno. Get rid of it.”

“I don’t want to kill it.”

“Ok so put it in a jar.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want it to pinch me.”

“So pick it up by the back legs.”

“Oh wait, it stopped moving.”

“Dead?”

“I think… yeah, its dead.”

"Alright then, I love you but, I got to go."

"Yeah, bye."

"Ok...love you....LOVE YOU."

"Yup."

"Talk to you later. I love you. Bye."

Funeral services will be held at 6:00 p.m. at the porcelain well.
To think our conversation killed a crabling.
Watching the critter curl up in it's stainless steel tomb,
I decided it would be nice if his memory was immortalized.
Here's to you crabling, may you enjoy sleeping with the fishes.

In Sickness

For 3 weeks we were inseparable…coughing, wheezing, we cuddled ourselves in the saphire comforter and sipped stale ginger ale. The upheaval of tissues scrunched and thrown about the room created our own private winter wonderland. A single candle flickered a faint glow, while, the distant echo of water ricocheted off the weather beaten roof. I wondered if some Jane Eyreian scene was in the making.

As we would merge for a lover's kiss, my hummingbird heartbeat was interrupted with a bellowing disturbance. Instead of soft lips, viral winds barricaded such affection.

Tomorrow our fever, cold sweats, hammering headache, stomach churning, chest restricting symptoms would return as fast as our running noses ran. To dull the pain we set up our medicinal shot glasses with Nyquil and Coca-Cola chasers.

Our syncopated groans, sniffles, and grunts from both sides of the bed soothed our suffering with every uncontroled empathetic reply. Why is it our bodies can so thoroughly eject our viral enemies, but we cannot so easily cough up our own feelings? In sickness, much more than in health, do we show our commitment to each other.

Me and the Tele

I never was too fond of television, until, I became a housewife in a one room basement apartment. Alone, without a child or puppy to console me in this cellar, I wait. Bricked into the tomb of loneliness, I am the chained Fortunato seeking out a casque of misfortune. Yesterday, I casually bumped into an old acquaintance, Montresor, my flat screen.

The cold exterior illuminated at my arrival. Flickered iridescent blues on the whitewashed walls. For the lack of natural light, I welcomed the florescent bulbs to light my room and superficially light up my life. Flashes of blue and green and a delightful ring to signal its awakening, I leapt to my couch to begin the HDTV light show. With rapid fire clicking I felt a muscle spasm in my thumb rebelling against all other motor functions. I saw the sinews vibrantly pulsate mimicking an inflating and deflating throat sack of a Mantella during mating season. Uncomfortable with the muscle rebellion, I switched to my other disposable thumb. My heart raced to the speed of the remote as I surfed the channels for a laugh, a smile, a tear, and a TV infomercial to hate.

I was sorry to hear that the oxy-clean bearded bloak had passed but, was even more distraught to HEAR his replacement. The boisterous incessant demands of “Look here!,” “See the difference?,” “WOW! THIS IS AN INCREDIBLE OFFER!” “BUY ME OR DIE!” yapped from an unknown female voiceover with incredible lung capacity and vocal rasping registry. I had some astute suspicions that she might be in fact my worst aerobic instructor. Steroids blended with protein shakes, and her daily dose of methamphetamine probably tossed her stepping routine to the streets. With jazzercise on the rise, she had to look for some white powder to exploit. Her high energy vocal spasms are set to the keyboard percussion sounds, the rapid zoom in and zoom out, neon lights, and flashing phone numbers to spread within thirty seconds an epileptic epidemic. In what census did the Ad markets find that yelling at their consumers would entice them to buy? I cannot take such verbal abuses. The more they yell, the more I shield my eyes with my target inspired accent pillow as I slide further into my kid-size love seat sofa. And please bionic lady, why would I put Clorox bleach on black jeans? I know it’s a demonstration, but black jeans? Really? (If you own a pair donate them for further research.)

Still, at least oxy-clean doesn’t have a list of potential ER symptoms such as anti-depressants with risk of suicidal depression (but, one can take comfort in knowing one’s death can stop the bill.)
Or grow eyelashes and get a new shade of lid color with one application.

Bleaching teeth for the appearance of healthy smile with the added bonus of stripping enamel for more reasons to paint on that “healthy” smile call 1-800-dentures.
What's more, why do they have to speed through a 500 word essay on malpractice of their product in 3 seconds? All I get out of the monotonous glottal grunts are, “risk of stroke,” “loss of eyesight,” “sudden bleeding may occur,” and other hyphenated medical conditions I’ve never heard before. It’s like reading the ingredients of your child’s cereal box.

Consequently, with every relationship we make sacrifices such as my TV’s lack of listening skills and its ADD programming. However, I have learned to cope with the constant interruption as anyone can see that it has a schedule it must abide by. I focus on the positive which is its ability to continually provide me with multiple personalities that help me to appreciate life without botched boob jobs, toddlers with more makeup than a drag show, seasonal orgies at Dawson’s creek, rich junkies who invest in their criminal record, women whose worth is a chance to be on television and worst of all…crotch dresses. No matter how big your penthouse suite is, how many vacation homes dot the Pacific, or if you are a printed socialite; no title, no amount of plasticity or “cash-money” can buy class. Unemployed, unenthused, and unmotivated I collapsed in front of it hoping. Hoping my “so called friend” would incline me to do something....

TURN IT OFF and be thankful for a husband you dishes out kisses instead of money. TURN IT OFF and be thankful for a home that is small enough to clean in 2 hours and big enough to make memories that last forever. TURN IT OFF and be happy that I have an imperfect body that doesn’t need additions or reductions to make it functional. TURN IT OFF and enjoy my fair skin and patchwork of polka dot freckles that entices my husband to trace. TURN IT OFF and be grateful for scar tissue that reminds me of what not to do. TURN IT OFF and embrace emerging lines whose curves, swirls and swivels brush a walking canvas of happiness. Finally, TURN IT OFF and be thankful for a television to remind you how good you have it.

Playground is no place for grownups.

As we go through this constant tug of war on the playground of marriage we often find one or both or us falling into the woodchips with rope burns, splinters, and skinned knees. 

A couple days ago my husband and I went to a function together to support a friend. Although the dress was casual, I chose a black knee length high waisted skirt, a floral sheer blouse embroidered with a pattern which mirrors that vintage colonial wallpaper of south china sea cranes and lotus flowers, and an adjustable faux black leather belt. I hot rolled my hair until it simmered and found the most natural light to start working on my dinvinci skills. After painting my face on I shimmied my suntan nylons up which involoved some leverage from my canopy bed. Finally, I tossled my hair for a quick dip to zip my knee high black boots. Stood in the light to ask my husband if my makeup was even and then he says, "yeah. But, I dont know why you are so worried about it. Most people are going to wear jeans." Then I retaliated with, "well fine I'll change," so I started to slowly unzip my skirt. "What? No, no, no, you spent all that time besides we are late anyways." Not even a glance. Ok...so I pretty much put on my tightest skirt to show off my best asset and I got "you're going to feel out of place" and "dont change though because we are going to be late." What can a woman do to get a guy excited? Answer...well at least my answer was a guy whose gender preference was in question resulting in a jealous quarrel.

Yup, that's the story. We went to the function and I worked the runway from the dinning room table  to the powder room hoping for a skeeze to check me out in front of my husband. (Now that I look back I wonder how many thought I had a bladder control issue.) At the end of the night, I thought I had  hooked a freshwater 18 year old but, apparently my husband  told me my far sight might be going. As we are driving away he proceeded to tell me the boy I had hoped was getting him jealous was in fact having a man crush with the guy sitting next to me...ugh my husband. The 15 minute ride home was a broken record, "no he was looking at me" with occassional elevations in tone. Finally, he hits me with "Babe I got incredible Gaydar" and after the whole burlesque burn out I believed him. Knowing all to well working in retail business and modeling, I guess he had more experience. What is that anyway? Like is their a magnetic field that draws and repels comparing to sexual preference. I must be standing next to polarized metal.  Well, our jealousies of one pubeescent still waiting for a chest hair, complimented with a lazy eye ignited the fuse by sufficing our egos. What's worse my husband later told me that he was just enjoying running against my campaign of self indulgence. He just wanted to rile me up! What is up with men and chalkboards. He just keeps sharpening his talons on that green piece of slate! I will let him win this one but, just to make it clear the kid was so looking at me. The next morning I felt that tingling sensation that reminded me how much it bothered me. Somehow that white filament "mine" lacked that polished white varnish I'd hope for.

From Ms. to Mrs.

The journey from Ms. to Mrs. is more than what the lowercase letter implies. Feminists mark it as the end of one’s own identity as we become the “Mr.’s” property; yet, I believe it is as much of a loss of “self” from both parties. Why do we covet our "his and her" towels, "his and her" sinks, and "his and her" dressers? We bite the bitter-sweet fruit and loose the enamel that protects our nerve. That one pink or blue toothbrush with vibrating plastic fibers chumming against our self decay seems to help us sleep at night knowing we wont end up laying down in a reclining chair rambling spontaneous sputters of sound and spit begging for shots of morphine.

Once the enamel is gone we are as brittle as the leaves falling. Though we may look graceful as we descend from our heightened green glory; our bounteous shades of red, orange, and yellow cause a dazzling spectacle of color and dance. This interpretive dance has fallen short of being properly interpreted, we are dying. Bacteria spreading through our veins, we fall to the gutters washed up and run over. But, there is a quick fix to this cavity of self wanting. It can be filled for a time with that off-white filament “mine.” However, the tingling sensation of what was once there still remains and with the hot and cold beverages we drink morning noon and night we are reminded. Such a reminder is left on my middle finger. No not the gesture we all are tempted to make on the highway but the growing callus on my right hand’s middle finger. Kitty-corner to the bed of my nail lies the growth which is continually rubbed by the idea to insert my maiden name on every signature. After 200 thank-you notes, I illegally forgot my legal name on every other one. Am I defiant or am I unaware?

To be fair to the other sex we must address the enamel lost in the canine teeth of men as we beckon them to take a bite. First, even though their identity never changes, they must identify themselves on a different tax form. Second, their paycheck dwindles by the additional fee for dual insurance coverage. Third, some may feel emasculated with a wedding band even with the additional “comfort fit” it never seems to fit right, but they know removing the band is banned.  The joint account and joint responsibility make some wish they rolled one. Their supped up standard, dual exhaust pipes, hydraulic engine, black market tinted two-seater is traded in for an automatic 4 wheel drive, 8 seater with stain resistant eco-friendly interior, multi cup holder, two sliding doors, and DVD player with complimentary laughing track by Elmo. Frustrated by imprisoning himself through child-lock doors, he whines and cries for mommy to release him from it. But the true reality which leaves men sulking in their sheets, what’s theirs is yours and what’s yours is yours in almost every judicial ruling.