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Grabby Versnatchen was a curious girl
With long golden hair
That hung down in curls
And the prettiest bright eyes
You ever could find
But these were nothing compared
To her bright, curious mind
One day in the woods
While walking from school
She found a strange fruit
Atop a toadstool
“Why, this fruit is new!
The strangest I’ve seen -
It has little red hairs
And flowers of green.
It looks quite delicious,
What harm could it bring
To try a new fruit
Like this odd little thing?”
But her mother had warned her
Many a time
“Don’t try new fruits -
Beware what you find!
For some fruits are good
And some fruits are bad,
You’d better just stick
To the fruits that you’ve had.”
This didn’t make sense
To Grabby’s curious mind
“Why should I leave
This new fruit behind?
What harm could it do
To have just a taste?
To not try new things
Could be such a waste.”
So Grabby ignored
Her mother’s advice
And tried the new fruit
And then tried it twice
It was really unlike
Any fruit that she’d had
“How could Mother say
That new fruits are bad?”
The next day she decided
To walk through the woods
And find just as many
New fruits as she could
She found fruits colored orange
And yellow and green
And violet and purple
And aquamarine
She picked through the bushes
And plucked from the trees
Taking as many
fruits as she pleased
“This one is pink!
I’ll drink it, I think.
And this one is blue
It’ll go fine in a stew.”
Each fruit was new
And different and fun
And she vowed to try every
Fruit under the sun
She put them in soups
In salads and teas
Some she cooked up
And some she did freeze
Grabby Versnatchen
Tried all the fruits that she could
She tried far more fruits
Than any one person should
The blue ones were good
But they made her arms grow too short
And long tufts of hair
Sprouted out of a wart
The reds were so rich
And tasty and sweet
She didn’t even notice
They put hair on her feet
The pinks made her happy
(That never did fail)
But who could have guessed
They’d give her a tail?
And when she had found
Every fruit she could find
Boredom crept in
And dulled her bright mind
Her friends had grown up
And moved far away
While Grabby grew old
And shabby and gray
You see, discovering new fruits
Consumed all of her days
Especially when prepared
In so many ways
With each fruit there came
An unexpected result
That caught up with her
As an adult:
Her lungs started wheezing
She had quite a cough
Her eyes had filmed over
And her fingers fell off
Her nose grew thick
And hairy and wide
And in bushy nostrils
Birds did reside
Her teeth they dropped out
One at a time
And I shudder to tell you
About her bright mind
Grabby went crazy
I guess was the case
But you would go too
If your mirror had THAT face!
One thing’s for sure,
She was a curious sort
With eyes that did glow
And a snout that did snort
Grabby Versnatchen
Ignored one simple truth:
Do what you want
But beware of strange fruits.
5/13/08
5/5/08
Lungs Like Lima Beans
In an ongoing effort to lose weight, I went hiking yesterday in the Boulder Flatirons -- a series of large jagged rocks that just out from the the foothills of the Rockies in Boulder, named supposedly by Colorado's pioneer women who noticed a strong resemblance between the rocks' shapes and the irons they used to press their clothes. (Gosh, I miss those pioneer women.)
This week's painful realization: aerobic and anaerobic fitness are two wholly separate issues. Apparently, I have lungs the size of lima beans. I had to make more stops along the way than I cared to, but I eventually made it all the way up the trail. It was disconcerting to see groups of septagenarians (or greater) come stepping down the trail every ten minutes. The last old fella I saw paused alongside the trail to let me ascend beyond him. He spoke in a kindly, gentle voice saying, "You're almost there, sonny," then, smiled and added, "Not that it's worth it."
To tell another hiker that they're almost there can in fact be a thoughtful thinkg to say, especially when they look like they'd just been passed through the bowels of a rhinocerous. We all have that reserve fuel takn that can only be tapped with Hope. A promising statement, some words of encouragement is just the singular mortal act that it takes to persevere when one cannot see an end in sight. For that crusty ol' dude to add, "not that it's worth it," took a lot away from me -- more than my last short breaths, but my spirit as well. I grabbed his ankle and yanked it out from under him, laughing as he tumbled bloodily down through the trees.
Well, not really. But the gratification of thinking about it fueled me for the rest of the way up.
When I got to the summit, I was determined that the veiw before me was going to be worth it, no matter what. I'm not sure if it was, but I pretended like it was, gasping and oohing and ahhing to the point where the other hikers came to stand by me to see what I was looking at. After looking about themselves, they eventually asked me if I was in need of an albuterol inhaler, or perhaps just general medical attention.
The scenery wasn't too bad, though. There was a beautiful view of a natural formation called the Royal Arch -- a big rock doughnut that gazes over southern Boulder like a hollow eye. Passing through, one can look back northward at the Flatirons, and feel as though they could pass through this odd, stony picture frame into a great heavenly rock garden. The Third Flatiron, foremost in the painting, was being conquered by climbers with ropes. Most were wearing helmets, which I assumed weren't stuffed with silver hair as mine would be. Some poor chap fell over 100 feet this weekend off that Flatiron. Perhaps he was rapelling down and passed another climber, pausing long enough to say, "Just another few feet, man, but take your time -- the view's kinda crappy up there," right before saying, "Hey man, watch that knife -- you almost cut my-----iiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."
The trail back was oddly longer than the one up, and had a curious number of uphill portions. I found this particularly strange, since it was the same trail. On one steep ascent, I happened to catch up witht the mean old geezer that tried to crush my spirit near the Arch. He never heard me coming -- surprising, since I was wheezing like one of Bob's favorite dog squeeze toys by that point. The trail mercifully widened enought to two-man's width, or the width of one wasting old guy and one sweaty fat guy. I drew upon everything I had, even tapping into all the bottled childhood rage I could muster, reeled that old fart in and dusted past him, loosing what rocks I could above him with an insincere, "Sorry ole timer." I kept going for another ten yards around the next bend, then ducked behind a large rock for a satisfying vomit.
At least I showed him.
I hope he slipped in my Powerbar puke puddle.
I sure miss my billy goat days when I could bound up such trails with ease -- a Marlboro in one hoof and a flask of whiskey in the other. Yesterday, at the pinnacle, I did particularly miss the companionship of my old vices, and suffered a small bout of alveoli envy. Formerly, it was always a ritual for me to summit, take a shot off my flask and enjoy a smoke at the top of the world. Instead, now, I stood at the top, hands on my knees, my arced posture trying to smother the fire in my lungs, bloodshot eyes watching my sweat droplets coat the ground and some very confused ants. "Hey, Frank, I thought it wasn't supposed to rain today."
"Cripes, Jack, what's that smell?"
When the mezzotint of oxygen deprivation left my vision, I paused and thought, "Now what?"
Now you go back down. Wasn't that fun, Sysiphus?
This week's painful realization: aerobic and anaerobic fitness are two wholly separate issues. Apparently, I have lungs the size of lima beans. I had to make more stops along the way than I cared to, but I eventually made it all the way up the trail. It was disconcerting to see groups of septagenarians (or greater) come stepping down the trail every ten minutes. The last old fella I saw paused alongside the trail to let me ascend beyond him. He spoke in a kindly, gentle voice saying, "You're almost there, sonny," then, smiled and added, "Not that it's worth it."
To tell another hiker that they're almost there can in fact be a thoughtful thinkg to say, especially when they look like they'd just been passed through the bowels of a rhinocerous. We all have that reserve fuel takn that can only be tapped with Hope. A promising statement, some words of encouragement is just the singular mortal act that it takes to persevere when one cannot see an end in sight. For that crusty ol' dude to add, "not that it's worth it," took a lot away from me -- more than my last short breaths, but my spirit as well. I grabbed his ankle and yanked it out from under him, laughing as he tumbled bloodily down through the trees.
Well, not really. But the gratification of thinking about it fueled me for the rest of the way up.
When I got to the summit, I was determined that the veiw before me was going to be worth it, no matter what. I'm not sure if it was, but I pretended like it was, gasping and oohing and ahhing to the point where the other hikers came to stand by me to see what I was looking at. After looking about themselves, they eventually asked me if I was in need of an albuterol inhaler, or perhaps just general medical attention.
The scenery wasn't too bad, though. There was a beautiful view of a natural formation called the Royal Arch -- a big rock doughnut that gazes over southern Boulder like a hollow eye. Passing through, one can look back northward at the Flatirons, and feel as though they could pass through this odd, stony picture frame into a great heavenly rock garden. The Third Flatiron, foremost in the painting, was being conquered by climbers with ropes. Most were wearing helmets, which I assumed weren't stuffed with silver hair as mine would be. Some poor chap fell over 100 feet this weekend off that Flatiron. Perhaps he was rapelling down and passed another climber, pausing long enough to say, "Just another few feet, man, but take your time -- the view's kinda crappy up there," right before saying, "Hey man, watch that knife -- you almost cut my-----iiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."
The trail back was oddly longer than the one up, and had a curious number of uphill portions. I found this particularly strange, since it was the same trail. On one steep ascent, I happened to catch up witht the mean old geezer that tried to crush my spirit near the Arch. He never heard me coming -- surprising, since I was wheezing like one of Bob's favorite dog squeeze toys by that point. The trail mercifully widened enought to two-man's width, or the width of one wasting old guy and one sweaty fat guy. I drew upon everything I had, even tapping into all the bottled childhood rage I could muster, reeled that old fart in and dusted past him, loosing what rocks I could above him with an insincere, "Sorry ole timer." I kept going for another ten yards around the next bend, then ducked behind a large rock for a satisfying vomit.
At least I showed him.
I hope he slipped in my Powerbar puke puddle.
I sure miss my billy goat days when I could bound up such trails with ease -- a Marlboro in one hoof and a flask of whiskey in the other. Yesterday, at the pinnacle, I did particularly miss the companionship of my old vices, and suffered a small bout of alveoli envy. Formerly, it was always a ritual for me to summit, take a shot off my flask and enjoy a smoke at the top of the world. Instead, now, I stood at the top, hands on my knees, my arced posture trying to smother the fire in my lungs, bloodshot eyes watching my sweat droplets coat the ground and some very confused ants. "Hey, Frank, I thought it wasn't supposed to rain today."
"Cripes, Jack, what's that smell?"
When the mezzotint of oxygen deprivation left my vision, I paused and thought, "Now what?"
Now you go back down. Wasn't that fun, Sysiphus?
5/3/08
Hello, I'm Stupid. I'll Be Your Waiter This Evening.
Hacienda Colorado is apparently an equal opportunity employer, but favors the young and retarded. In an inexplicable bout of planning ahead, I called to make dinner reservations for tomorrow night.
"Hacienda Colorado, this is Jeff with a 'G'."
Why do I need to know this? "I'd like to make a reservation, please."
"Uh, yeah? For when?"
"For--"
"Not for tonight!" Geoff interrupted, aghast at my audacity.
"What?"
"You're not trying to make a reservation for tonight are you?"
"No."
"Oh. Well, for when?"
Don't kill him. He's not worth it. No one would miss him, but don't kill him... "For tomorrow night," I replied, calmly.
"Oo-kaaaaay," he said slowly, voicing his growing irritation with my ignorance of the reservation process, "What time?"
"Six."
Geoff sighed and persevered, "For - how - many - people?"
Well, maybe kill him just a little. "Two."
"Yeah -- we don't take reservations."
What the fuck was the point of all that, then?! "Then does it matter when I wanted to come in?"
"Yeah -- we'll probably be busy around 6. That's dinner." Really? What a coincidence. "Call us about an hour ahead and we'll put you on the list," he sloughed. "Then you'll probably have to wait about 20 minutes or more when you get here, but you get to do most of your waiting from home," he touted as though he'd just imparted some brilliant new strategy in restaurant management.
"So you don't take reservations, but you'll put me on the list if I call in around 5 to eat at 6, and then I get to come in and wait at least 20 minutes anyway?"
"Uhh, yeah."
"Say G-eoff, why can't you just put me on the list now?"
"Uhhhhh..." I could hear his brain cells' popping, effervescent demise while he pondered this, "Uhh... 'cause you have to call tomorrow, an hour ahead?"
"Why?"
"...'Cause we have to put you on the list."
"An hour ahead, right," I assured him.
"Right."
"Thanks. Say, G-eoff, are you working tomorrow night?"
"Uhh... yeah."
"Good. Good-bye."
Please Leave a Message
When the phone rings unexpectedly after 10 p.m., I automatically assume that either someone died or is about to die -- lying in a ditch somewhere, moaning softly and praying that his good friend Brian will be able to find and return his body to his loved ones in a timely fashion.
The whole "in a ditch" was my grandfather's doing. He worried about everything. If someone was late to supper, it meant they had some horrific accident and were left, "lying in a ditch". I'm not sure why lying in a ditch is much worse than, say, lying in the bushes, or lying on the sidewalk or in a bathtub. I guess I always imagined that they might be face down in that ditch, gurgling in a stream of murky water, but that's probably because I grew up in the northeast where all ditches worth their depth eventually filled with water.
Jane's response is, "Who the hell would be calling at this hour?" This is a valid response, and we explore the possibilities of who's likely drunk, stranded, kidnapped, being stalked, etc., until the phone stops ringing.
So, when the phone rings well into the night I grow very concerned about my friends and family. Not concerned enough to pick up the call, mind you.
To whomever called last night at midnight, I'm sorry. I generally provide salvation weekdays before 10 p.m. and by 11 p.m. on Fridays and Saturdays. Please make a note of it.
How to Make a Tweeterfod
Brearbits slope toward groft valleys
plunked amongst the peeper plots,
filling with the shimmery drippings
of a moon that glomes on felten hills.
With sliven tongues and fuzzy fellies
starry winks tickle the popperpinks
as the Snicklebots and Brearbits click on
in swelling softlure, until the keepers of the Clackwick
can take the kerang no more
and open the gates to the Bomigods
in and “ooh” and “ah” and a rush of wet.
The Bomigods grow thinner ‘til
from the slide of one felten hill
a solingle Clackwick slips into the groftiest spot
‘neath a twisting thranch, in the thickest peeper plot.
Just beyond the wetten huffaluff
it sets and grovulates
until ready to thring itself at the Great Thooden Door
(of Bulmuffuh)
and then a Clackwick it is no more
but rather a tiny Tweeterfod
thrung forth from Clackwick pod.
So you see, it is neither the Brearbits nor the fuzzy fellies
(that have been known to twitter from Snicklebot jelly),
nor is it the starry winks or popperpinks
(although they give us pause to think),
but maybe the mystic kerang and glome
on felten hills where Bomigods roam,
and settle into velvet sod
to infiltrate the Clackwick’s pod,
progenerating a Tweeterfod
from a rush of wet,
before a nod.
plunked amongst the peeper plots,
filling with the shimmery drippings
of a moon that glomes on felten hills.
With sliven tongues and fuzzy fellies
starry winks tickle the popperpinks
as the Snicklebots and Brearbits click on
in swelling softlure, until the keepers of the Clackwick
can take the kerang no more
and open the gates to the Bomigods
in and “ooh” and “ah” and a rush of wet.
The Bomigods grow thinner ‘til
from the slide of one felten hill
a solingle Clackwick slips into the groftiest spot
‘neath a twisting thranch, in the thickest peeper plot.
Just beyond the wetten huffaluff
it sets and grovulates
until ready to thring itself at the Great Thooden Door
(of Bulmuffuh)
and then a Clackwick it is no more
but rather a tiny Tweeterfod
thrung forth from Clackwick pod.
So you see, it is neither the Brearbits nor the fuzzy fellies
(that have been known to twitter from Snicklebot jelly),
nor is it the starry winks or popperpinks
(although they give us pause to think),
but maybe the mystic kerang and glome
on felten hills where Bomigods roam,
and settle into velvet sod
to infiltrate the Clackwick’s pod,
progenerating a Tweeterfod
from a rush of wet,
before a nod.
Ode to El Borrico
Jane and I went for Mexican food last night. I never tire of it, but it never seems to live up to my loving, time-honored favorite:
.
Mmmm.... #1: El Borrico, w/shredded chicken. House
Marguarita -- no salt.
BIG glass o' water. Yes, yes: the hour of my
digestive undoing draws
near. Yet, I embrace this culinary dissolution.
What spectacle! Take me
down to depths of cheesy debauchery and bury me
Marguarita -- no salt.
BIG glass o' water. Yes, yes: the hour of my
digestive undoing draws
near. Yet, I embrace this culinary dissolution.
What spectacle! Take me
down to depths of cheesy debauchery and bury me
'neath a shredded iceberg
knoll. Scald my wicked flesh with salsa and top me
with a solitary lima
bean. O gassy rapture! This destiny I can no
longer deny.
To the celestial, and my colon's idol, the most
beautified Borrico---
Doubt thou mine ass shoots fire,
Doubt my tortured bowels to move;
Doubt that I'm over-tired,
But never doubt my love.
O dear Borrico, I am ill in my adjustable chair. I
find no comfort in
pancakes, no solace in Kettle Krisps.
There is no glee in pastrami -- never to compare to
my love for thee.
O perfection with picante, my unholy love for you.
Thine evermore, you Spanish goddess-whore,
tender sloppy burrito,
so long as my loving jaw doth move…
knoll. Scald my wicked flesh with salsa and top me
with a solitary lima
bean. O gassy rapture! This destiny I can no
longer deny.
To the celestial, and my colon's idol, the most
beautified Borrico---
Doubt thou mine ass shoots fire,
Doubt my tortured bowels to move;
Doubt that I'm over-tired,
But never doubt my love.
O dear Borrico, I am ill in my adjustable chair. I
find no comfort in
pancakes, no solace in Kettle Krisps.
There is no glee in pastrami -- never to compare to
my love for thee.
O perfection with picante, my unholy love for you.
Thine evermore, you Spanish goddess-whore,
tender sloppy burrito,
so long as my loving jaw doth move…
.
Note: to be found only at Benny's Cantina, 7th & Grant, Denver, CO. http://www.bennysrestaurant.com/
Purple Lips
It was February, 2002. I should've taken heed when Aneita invited me to a drag show for our first date, but the second date was worse. I invited her over to my place for dinner. She showed up an hour late. Bad.
But she brought a bottle of wine and a video. Good. I immediately served dinner and she proceeded to eat nothing. Bad. In the 40 minutes it took me to drink a half of a glass of the wine, she killed the bottle. Very bad.
We adjourned to the den to watch the video she'd brought (her favorite, her "this is the best movie ever made and I can't beieve you haven't seen it" video), Harold and Maude. She proceeded to talk the entire way through the movie -- setting up each scene before it happened and causing me to miss most of the dialogue. The credits rolled and she asked what I thought of the movie because, again, it's her favorite and she's seen it 11 times. I told her that it looked like I missed a pretty good movie. I took this opportunity to suggest putting on some music, but she grabbed my arm and said, "No, don't. We need to talk."
"We do?" It was our second date. What could we possibly NEED to talk about? For the following hour and 45 minutes she regaled me with a moderately dysfunctional life story, interrupting any dialogue that I tried to create. The last hour of her vinous monologue involved me staring at a chair across the room. I gave up on nodding, muttering affirmatively, or actually making any noises at all. I tried to give up on breathing. For something to do I held my breath for as long as I could, and counted Mississippi’s. It seemed to me that my underformed adolescent lungs had greater capacity. My brother and I would dive the twelve feet to the bottom of my grandfather’s pool, hold on to the drain to keep from floating up, and then jet to the surface just before blacking out. I’m pretty sure I could hold my breath for a minute and a half back then. Now, I was only making it to 39 seconds. My thoughts traveled to my ex, Jane, and I wondered if she had experienced any of this sort of tragedy prior to moving in with the man she would marry.
Aneita only stopped talking once to go to the bathroom. I stretched out on the couch and slung my arm over my face – the universal sign for Holy Shit I’m Tired and You Need to Go. The silence was wonderful. I would have loved to hear some Fabulous Thunderbirds, or some Faces, but my legs were melting into the couch, and sprinting to the stereo to preempt another hour of Aneita’s saga seemed a little too taxing. Maybe she’d take the hint? Maybe the haze of wine was lifting from her eyes by now and she’d be able to see how tired I am and then she’d—
“Iiiieeee!!!”
Scream?
Aneita burst through the bathroom door and stood over me, one hand on her hip, the other pointing at her face. "While I was in the bathroom my lips turned purple," she said, sort of accusatorily.
I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I was pretty sure it had to be the funniest thing I'd heard in years. "Think it might have something to do with the bottle of merlot you drank?"
"No. It's not the wine. That's never happened before. They turned purple in the bathroom. Just now."
"Aneita, they were purple when you went in there. It's from the merlot. They've been purple half the night."
She folded her arms and shook her blonde head defiantly, "No. Nuh-uh. Your bathroom turned my lips purple,” she frowned, and then pondered, “How weird."
"And your teeth? They turned purple in the bathroom just now?"
Aneita jaunted back to the mirror. "Oh my God! My teeth are purple too! This is so weird. What's causing this? What’s happening?"
I shrugged, "I don't know. I'll call a plumber in the morning." I flung myself dramatically across the couch, being sure to bury my face once more in the crook of my arm. Surely she would—
Remove my socks?
I peered out from under my arm. Aneita had slipped her bony butt between my feet and the end of the couch, and pulled off my right sock. I began to search for the words to address this, because “what the hell you loony bitch” seemed a bit harsh, but she immediately began massaging my bare foot, and shortly all willpower slipped away. Well, maybe just for a minute, but then she’s gotta go.
I began to relax. It felt good. I hadn’t had my feet rubbed in years, and the effect was so soothing, so comforting, so—
“IIIIEEOOWWW!!!”
This time it was me who screamed. I whipped my arm off my face just in time to catch her pulling my toes from her mouth. She began rubbing them vigorously, raised her eyebrows and shrugged, “What?”
“You bit my toes, that’s what!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Brian,” she smiled and continued rubbing.
“I saw my toes coming out of your mouth, a split second after I felt your teeth clamp down on them. THAT’s what I’m talking about.”
She shrugged again like I was daft, but kept rubbing. It felt good – the rubbing, that is. The pain in my little bones subsided, and I decided to let her make it up to me through a really good foot massage. I’d been single and unsuccessful in the dating world for so long, who knew how long it might be before a woman would perform any body work on me, much less a foot rub that’s… hmm… kind of sensual, really. Sensual, and sort of—
“IIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
I have no qualms in telling you that the scream that came out of my mouth was not the bellow of a man in pain, perhaps wounded in combat or while chopping down large trees, but rather the startled shriek of a six year old girl who's just seen a spider in her bed. I sat bolt upright, in a “V”, my nose only about a foot and a half away from Aneita's powerful jaws. This time she didn’t have time to remove my foot from her mouth, but smiled apologetically, baring the teeth that were still sunk into my petrified little piggies. I jerked my foot from her jaw and examined it. There would definitely be a bone bruise. I searched for the words to approach this with her and abruptly demanded, “What the fuck are you doing?”
She shrugged.
“That fucking hurt!”
“I’m just playing.”
“Yeah, well you play rough. That fucking hurt.”
“Didn’t if feel good at all?”
“Yes, until the part where you tried to EAT MY FOOT.” I sat up and yanked on my sock and shoes. She sprung on me, catching me off balance from the side, and momentarily pinning me to the couch. I maintained the look of a man in peril. She thrust her tongue into my mouth, and I had half the mind to give it a good chomp. Instead I bench pressed her off of me and, aware of the fury of a woman scorned, delicately said, “Look, Aneita, it’s late.” It was nearing one o’clock in the morning on a work night. I wanted her out of there two hours prior. Even if I had decided I’d like to sleep with her, I would have still wanted her out by midnight.
Since being single, I'd learned the joys of freestyle sleeping. Sometimes I would lay spread eagle across the bed, just to see if I can hang off all four corners at once, but most times I preferred to sleep at a diagonal, splitting the bed in two like a sliced grilled cheese sandwich. In fact, a grilled cheese sandwich sounded like a good idea. Sleeping sounded like a good idea. Everything sounded like a good idea with the exception of Aneita staying one moment longer.
I stood up, “It’s really late, and I have to be at work very early. And I have a proposal due. It’s for two million dollars. And it could cost me my job. I’m sure you understand.” I didn’t care if she understood. I grabbed her coat and hat and presented them to her. She looked confused. Perhaps later she’d look mad. I didn’t care. In moments I wouldn’t have to see it anyway.
“But, I need the—“
“Here’s your video.” I had it in my hand. “It was interesting. You’re… interesting.” She was still buttoning her coat and I had the storm door wide open, letting in a purging gush of icy night air. She stepped onto the porch, still confused, and looked at me for some reassurance. I smiled, “Well, goodnight,” and swung the door shut.
She forced her hand around the door for a moment and stammered, “Will, uh… will—“
“I’ll call you,” I nodded. She released the door and I waited the obligatory thirty seconds for her to get off the porch so I could shut the light out and block the memories.
Yeah, I’ll call you: I’ll call you Crazy Toe-Biting Bitch when I mention this to my friends.
But I was wrong. She was henceforth remembered as Purple Lips.
But she brought a bottle of wine and a video. Good. I immediately served dinner and she proceeded to eat nothing. Bad. In the 40 minutes it took me to drink a half of a glass of the wine, she killed the bottle. Very bad.
We adjourned to the den to watch the video she'd brought (her favorite, her "this is the best movie ever made and I can't beieve you haven't seen it" video), Harold and Maude. She proceeded to talk the entire way through the movie -- setting up each scene before it happened and causing me to miss most of the dialogue. The credits rolled and she asked what I thought of the movie because, again, it's her favorite and she's seen it 11 times. I told her that it looked like I missed a pretty good movie. I took this opportunity to suggest putting on some music, but she grabbed my arm and said, "No, don't. We need to talk."
"We do?" It was our second date. What could we possibly NEED to talk about? For the following hour and 45 minutes she regaled me with a moderately dysfunctional life story, interrupting any dialogue that I tried to create. The last hour of her vinous monologue involved me staring at a chair across the room. I gave up on nodding, muttering affirmatively, or actually making any noises at all. I tried to give up on breathing. For something to do I held my breath for as long as I could, and counted Mississippi’s. It seemed to me that my underformed adolescent lungs had greater capacity. My brother and I would dive the twelve feet to the bottom of my grandfather’s pool, hold on to the drain to keep from floating up, and then jet to the surface just before blacking out. I’m pretty sure I could hold my breath for a minute and a half back then. Now, I was only making it to 39 seconds. My thoughts traveled to my ex, Jane, and I wondered if she had experienced any of this sort of tragedy prior to moving in with the man she would marry.
Aneita only stopped talking once to go to the bathroom. I stretched out on the couch and slung my arm over my face – the universal sign for Holy Shit I’m Tired and You Need to Go. The silence was wonderful. I would have loved to hear some Fabulous Thunderbirds, or some Faces, but my legs were melting into the couch, and sprinting to the stereo to preempt another hour of Aneita’s saga seemed a little too taxing. Maybe she’d take the hint? Maybe the haze of wine was lifting from her eyes by now and she’d be able to see how tired I am and then she’d—
“Iiiieeee!!!”
Scream?
Aneita burst through the bathroom door and stood over me, one hand on her hip, the other pointing at her face. "While I was in the bathroom my lips turned purple," she said, sort of accusatorily.
I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I was pretty sure it had to be the funniest thing I'd heard in years. "Think it might have something to do with the bottle of merlot you drank?"
"No. It's not the wine. That's never happened before. They turned purple in the bathroom. Just now."
"Aneita, they were purple when you went in there. It's from the merlot. They've been purple half the night."
She folded her arms and shook her blonde head defiantly, "No. Nuh-uh. Your bathroom turned my lips purple,” she frowned, and then pondered, “How weird."
"And your teeth? They turned purple in the bathroom just now?"
Aneita jaunted back to the mirror. "Oh my God! My teeth are purple too! This is so weird. What's causing this? What’s happening?"
I shrugged, "I don't know. I'll call a plumber in the morning." I flung myself dramatically across the couch, being sure to bury my face once more in the crook of my arm. Surely she would—
Remove my socks?
I peered out from under my arm. Aneita had slipped her bony butt between my feet and the end of the couch, and pulled off my right sock. I began to search for the words to address this, because “what the hell you loony bitch” seemed a bit harsh, but she immediately began massaging my bare foot, and shortly all willpower slipped away. Well, maybe just for a minute, but then she’s gotta go.
I began to relax. It felt good. I hadn’t had my feet rubbed in years, and the effect was so soothing, so comforting, so—
“IIIIEEOOWWW!!!”
This time it was me who screamed. I whipped my arm off my face just in time to catch her pulling my toes from her mouth. She began rubbing them vigorously, raised her eyebrows and shrugged, “What?”
“You bit my toes, that’s what!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Brian,” she smiled and continued rubbing.
“I saw my toes coming out of your mouth, a split second after I felt your teeth clamp down on them. THAT’s what I’m talking about.”
She shrugged again like I was daft, but kept rubbing. It felt good – the rubbing, that is. The pain in my little bones subsided, and I decided to let her make it up to me through a really good foot massage. I’d been single and unsuccessful in the dating world for so long, who knew how long it might be before a woman would perform any body work on me, much less a foot rub that’s… hmm… kind of sensual, really. Sensual, and sort of—
“IIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
I have no qualms in telling you that the scream that came out of my mouth was not the bellow of a man in pain, perhaps wounded in combat or while chopping down large trees, but rather the startled shriek of a six year old girl who's just seen a spider in her bed. I sat bolt upright, in a “V”, my nose only about a foot and a half away from Aneita's powerful jaws. This time she didn’t have time to remove my foot from her mouth, but smiled apologetically, baring the teeth that were still sunk into my petrified little piggies. I jerked my foot from her jaw and examined it. There would definitely be a bone bruise. I searched for the words to approach this with her and abruptly demanded, “What the fuck are you doing?”
She shrugged.
“That fucking hurt!”
“I’m just playing.”
“Yeah, well you play rough. That fucking hurt.”
“Didn’t if feel good at all?”
“Yes, until the part where you tried to EAT MY FOOT.” I sat up and yanked on my sock and shoes. She sprung on me, catching me off balance from the side, and momentarily pinning me to the couch. I maintained the look of a man in peril. She thrust her tongue into my mouth, and I had half the mind to give it a good chomp. Instead I bench pressed her off of me and, aware of the fury of a woman scorned, delicately said, “Look, Aneita, it’s late.” It was nearing one o’clock in the morning on a work night. I wanted her out of there two hours prior. Even if I had decided I’d like to sleep with her, I would have still wanted her out by midnight.
Since being single, I'd learned the joys of freestyle sleeping. Sometimes I would lay spread eagle across the bed, just to see if I can hang off all four corners at once, but most times I preferred to sleep at a diagonal, splitting the bed in two like a sliced grilled cheese sandwich. In fact, a grilled cheese sandwich sounded like a good idea. Sleeping sounded like a good idea. Everything sounded like a good idea with the exception of Aneita staying one moment longer.
I stood up, “It’s really late, and I have to be at work very early. And I have a proposal due. It’s for two million dollars. And it could cost me my job. I’m sure you understand.” I didn’t care if she understood. I grabbed her coat and hat and presented them to her. She looked confused. Perhaps later she’d look mad. I didn’t care. In moments I wouldn’t have to see it anyway.
“But, I need the—“
“Here’s your video.” I had it in my hand. “It was interesting. You’re… interesting.” She was still buttoning her coat and I had the storm door wide open, letting in a purging gush of icy night air. She stepped onto the porch, still confused, and looked at me for some reassurance. I smiled, “Well, goodnight,” and swung the door shut.
She forced her hand around the door for a moment and stammered, “Will, uh… will—“
“I’ll call you,” I nodded. She released the door and I waited the obligatory thirty seconds for her to get off the porch so I could shut the light out and block the memories.
Yeah, I’ll call you: I’ll call you Crazy Toe-Biting Bitch when I mention this to my friends.
But I was wrong. She was henceforth remembered as Purple Lips.
5/2/08
The 2004/2008 OATA TOYA Winners
Two of the dumbest things I've ever heard out of any woman's mouth:
"Your truck gave me a sore throat."
"Your bathroom turned my lips purple."
Elaine and Aneita, I salute you and proudly present you (respectively) with the 2004 and 2008 Oral/Anal Transposition Award for Excellence in Talking Out Your Ass.
Of course there are stories behind these comments, but I invite any readers to try to comprehend a fathomable explanation for each. It can barely be done.
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