Tuesday, November 20, 2007

funeral procession for a fly

My son, who dives head first off the sofa, is afraid of house flies.
He squeals like a girl when they land on his crayons, and hides under the table, displaying what can only be described as primal fear.
I think he gets this from me. Im pretty squeamish. So when i saw this display of girlish behavior by my usually tough little guy yesterday, I knew I had to squash it.
So, i found a dead fly on the windowsill (which wouldnt have been RIP in my house had i been here these last 2 weeks) and showed it to him. After i chased him down when he ran screaming, I explained that it was a bug. We used it as a model and drew pictures of it. He asked me why this bug didnt fly and I told him it was a "broken bug". He wouldnt hold it, but he did notice that the fly had eyes and legs, and wings like an airplane.
I knew he had finally bonded with the broken fly when he mad me put it in the flat bed of his green tow truck and took the tiny little corpse for a ride around the house, sirens blaring and lights flashing. It reminded me of some makeshift funeral procession with a naked pallbearer (somewhere, he lost his diaper)
At last I put the fly in the palm of my hand, and urged him to touch it. Boys arent supposed to be afraid of bugs, right? but when he made a move to touch it, his clumsy toddler fingers sqaushed it to the palm of my hand and I SCREAMED. Bug juice is YUCK!! It was a knee-jerk reaction, the product of years of being a "girly-girl"
Well, needless to say, he ran from the room and totally regressed in his therapy.
A few steps forward, followed by a giant leap backward. I cant believe I gave him such a complex!! Anyone got any advice for how a bug-a-phobic is supposed to cure a fellow bug-a-phobic? its like the blind leading the blind over here. I cant have a son who is a wuss when it comes to creepy-crawlies

american sex protocol (a love story)

When women are paid to take their clothes off, its always chaos. If you have never worked in this environment, you wouldn't understand. Being a patron is one thing, but working there is something else entirely. I went to work at Treasures when I left home at the age of 17. I was enrolled in college, having recently passed my GED, but I sold all my textbooks and moved in to an apartment with my boyfriend. After going to Eckerds one night and watching my roommate attempt to rob the place for wax candles to make bogus crack (another story), I thought "I need a real job"

So, my friend Erica, got me this job waiting tables at Treasures. I emphatically said NO when the manager begged me to be a dancer. Besides the fact that I promised my boyfriend and my mother that I wouldnt do it, I just knew I would not feel comfortable. Every time I tell someone I waited tables at a strip club, no one believes me that I did not take my clothes off. I had only recently become promiscuous, so, this experience shaped my entire views on sex and relationships for years to come. I went shopping for my G-String and Fishnet pantyhose, and got myself a tray and I seriously thought I would just be selling drinks, and pocketing a little cash.

What I witnessed on those first few nights FLOORED me. I honestly thought men were sincere, valiant, and wanted to work for your affection. I was confused. These men were Dionysus in Fantasia, beautiful women everywhere, drinking up the wine, slapping the women on their bare naked asses. I was appalled to say the least. I didn't know that men were SO highly sexual in nature, and that women could be SO greedy. And that these two elements of their makeup would converge, and do a strange dance of give and take all in front of my eyes. It jaded me, but it was a great lesson to learn. It has been the most enlightening social sexual experiment I have ever had the privilege to witness.
Being a waitress is a lot more fruitful than being a dancer. There are the men who want to see women naked and go home to their wives, but there are also the men who want the thrill of the chase. These men are the best customers. Waitresses don't typically take their clothes off, so, we are highly attractive to men like this. The chase begins, only I have far more tricks up my sleeve than they do.

For example, he will beg me to drink with him. Just one drink he says, and finally I agree to it, saying, I will drink him under the table. I order doubles for him, and non-alcohol zeros for me. Then I steal his cash when he's on the floor.
Or, if it's a big party of men, I will pad his tab, with drinks he didn't order, and get more of a percentage at the end of the night or pocket the cash. Fuck him, he's on a company credit card anyways, let his accountant sort it out. And in 1996, there was a law that said that waitresses could take their tops off, for a flat rate of 100.00 or more. Yeehaw. I could do that. I had perfect tits back then.

There is a huge riff between dancers and waitresses. I don't know why? Maybe its because if I see you sucking some guy off in my section or in the VIP room, I want my cut, or I'm telling management. But most of the time it dosent come to that.

One night, I fell down the stairs that go to the VIP room. A whole flight of stairs. Carrying a tray of drinks. They wanted to take me to the hospital, but my instinct said no. My torn fishnets were a testament to my injuries, and as a result, I made a ton of sympathy cash that night. In fact, on any given night I never left with less than 500.00.

I was offered tons of secretary jobs, but I am way too smart for that shit. But you gotta let them watch you gingerly slide their business card into your cleavage, and tell them that you will call and fax your resume on Monday morning, anything for the green.Whos bullshittin who??

There are Ivy League Strippers, who work their asses off, while their sugar daddies watch from the corner booth, making sure things don't get outta hand. There are Bored Housewives, who sit in the dressing room talking about their kids schools and swapping recipes, working when they feel like it. Crack Whores are the worst. They will steal your tips, and fight over men. Lolitas, well, they are too young to have any passion about what they are doing, their conscience gets in the way of making REAL money. They wander around aimlessly, waiting for someone to approach them, and break the ice. They just arent comfortable with their sexuality yet. Behind the curtain, the great and powerful Oz is merely the resident gay hairdresser, who advises the women, listens to their heartaches, and who most definitely longs to be a woman, and will clean up after them and cover for them just for the opportunity observe their customs and habits.

There were nights though, when I would stand in the corner of the room, and just watch. Watch my roommate take some young couple into the DJ booth, and wonder to myself if the girlfriend would freak out when they got home, pack up her stuff and move out. Ponder the oddity of the married Indian couple, eating dinner together, two feet from the stage; does he bring her here to make her more insecure? Fuck, she already has to cover her face. Or is there some secret here that I can't see? I would watch the dance between two strangers unfold at a nearby cocktail table. I would see them mouth the same tired terms of endearment to each other, "honey", "baby" and "money" until an agreement was met, and the ritual began. And its always the same moves, the same back and forth of the hips and the inevitable sliding the tits down his chest to his lap. And it would be a bad trip with bad lighting looking through an awkward lens, it would be the equivalent to looking at a National Geographic show, and seem so silly, and primitive to me, like animals, fulfilling their needs and I would wonder "aren't we better, more evolved creatures than this??"

We aren't. And I am ok with that. I learned from this experience, that you can't have love without sex, but keep your love out of your sexual stuff. It's a weird standard, but it works. I think that if all my customers had women in their lives who understood this principal, they wouldnt have to go blow their kids college savings at these places anyways. Maybe the men the frequent these places feel more comfortable expressing themselves sexually because the women that work there understand that concept, and we do, otherwise we couldnt work there. but for us its just a job. Or maybe its just more comfortable showing your cock to a stranger? hell i dont know. If the price is right, I will LOOK at anything.

I feel guilty about the stealing, but its the law of the land. The men are stealing a part of the women that they can never get back. I wont get all righteous and say that the women are losing their souls, but they lose a measure of self respect. And the more that you are on the inside of this world, the more you take its customs with you out into the street, and the same rules definately dont apply. But those frat boys and desperate husbands always get their moneys worth, or at least they think they do. And the women get their money, so its basically a victimless crime?

I left that job after 8 months. You can only witness so much, when your young, until you need a hiatus. But if I ever need quick cash again, I know where to sign up.

dizaster in retrospect (of herself)

Two months before Katrina hit New Orleans, forcing people to migrate from their homes, I left the Gulf Coast. As I look back, my story is like a strange metaphor for this famous tragedy about to befall millions of people. Only my hurricane was an emotional storm. My flood was the pieces of my broken life, swirling around me suffocating and drowning my will to survive. For my son I fought and cheated death.
I have a sacred bond with the South, particularly with New Orleans. The Vieux Carre and the St. Louis Cathedral. My favorite hotel, the Maison Dupuy, Beignets, and all that jazz, its where my roots are. On my way to NC, I detoured through New Orleans, amazed at how much the city had changed since i had been there with my father. Much like myself, floods changed everything, for both of us.
But, I get ahead of my tale.
In May, I left my home of 5 years, and moved to the Meth Compound in River Oaks. I thought I could live there forever. You wouldnt believe this place. Our landlord was hoarder, a meth addict. We paid our rent in the meth we cooked or scored, so he wouldnt have to leave his web of lies. All my neighbors shared our affliction. It was a small community of insanity kindred spirits. There was a bottomless pit of knick knacks, everywhere you turned, you were tripping over doll collections, metal lunchboxes, lamps, wooden boxes with little uknown pills inside, shoes, comic books, dining room chairs, not to mention the huge plastic bull set atop apartment A in the front. Its an addicts wet dream. Days of digging through the same carboard boxes and closets hoping to find some small speck of interest, and coming up empty handed.
Ha, I just realized its a metaphorical excercise. Digging in deep into your soul and coming up empty handed. Repeatedly. Then theres that saying about the definition of insanity if repeating the same behavior, expecting different results.
If you know anything about River Oaks, it is the most affluent neighborhood in Houston, prime location, and all the rich playboys and tramps were mine to view from my rooftop, for an ounce a month.
And when, in June, I magically encountered the best dope of my life, it all turned to random chaos. I wont tell you the horrors I witnessed as the result too much lithium in the cook, only those who have been there know that the whole of the world goes topsy turvy and every man for himself. Its Junkie XXXL. Someone from this world did give me a wonderful enlightening psychology book about Heterosexuality, but I digress. Thats another story.
I was working at Jackson and Company, the most sought after catering company in the city, run by the "Woman Haters Man Club". I should have sued them, Mr. Jackson found out I was hired to work in Human Resources, and cuz im a woman he fired me. Oh the things I witnessed from the balcony on my smoke breaks. Again, I digress.
That night, at the StopNGo, our car was surrounded by narcotics agents. I was forced to the ground, and hauled off screaming to jail. In holding, I could hear the agents talking about their suspicions of our dealings in apartment B. Terror set in, thinking of the fact that Candice and Collin were sitting in my apartment spinning records, prepping Phosphorus and Iodine. I knew the jig was up.
So, I did what I always do when I am entering into County Jail. I declare that I am pregnant. Its a smart move, it keeps you out of general population in a separate tank while you can sort things out. Only this time, I was never transferred out of that tank. I thought this strange, but since I was let go the next morning, free to walk home with no bail or charges pending, I shut my mouth and ran.
Upon returning home, they hadnt raided my place. I still dont know what the hell happend. It was like a bad dream, only everyone had the same dream. Is that possible?? Had they kicked in Apartment D, the vacant apartment by mistake? Or were they just trying to shake us up? I wasnt makin mass quantities anyway. I dont know, dont care now.
A few weeks later, smokin the dope made me throw up. A pregnancy test confirmed what you already know. The rains came and flooded that complex, and washed away all of my effects, warped every vinyl record, destroyed every love letter i ever saved, the colors on all my photos bled together. Ffilthy water, filtered by the walls that were infested with mold, all over my clothes and in my bed. everything i ever coveted stole or cherished as a monument to my confusion was washed away, just like my evil facade. I had to rebuild, I could no longer hide.
My landlord sold the complex in July, and they tore it down; new housing for those rich people who used to walk by my window.
I revisit this tale 2 months before the 2nd anniversary of its conception. I need to know how I came to leave such horror behind, but still am not happy? Can a person go from shit, and never live it down? I used to be th/ankful for my memories, they are what make you who you are, but now I just want to forget, to stop longing and lusting after freedom. To accept my fate. To be a true fatalist.
Even when I am found, I am still lost inside.

Welcome to the Jungle

I was checking out some apartments online, and I came across this "review" on apartmentratings.com. I didnt write this review, but i post it here to share it. I nearly fell out of my chair:

welcome to the jungle

From: -Anonymous-Date posted: 1/10/2006Years at this apartment: 2004-2006

ive been living here several years and this community honestly gives me nightmares. im scared for my life. im held captive here right now and i cant wait for someone to rescue me. why did i renew my lease you ask? i told the staff years ago that i didnt want to renew but they forced me to at gun point! my 3 main problems:-the maintainence man killed my dog with his chainsaw while he was pruning the hedges because "i didnt pay the $800 pet fee". i said, "sir i respectfully disagree. i paid that pet fee in full. please refund me my money." he then proceeded to chase me with the chainsaw back into my apartment. luckily i had a plummers helper hidden behind my couch cushion so i was able to fight him off.-the $400 a month water bill. i filed a complaint with the manager in the main office, even after his attempt to convince me that this was a normal occurance. unfortunately when i followed up the complaint the manager claimed to have lost my report, and at the time had no paper or pens for me to file another. to this date he remains out of paper or writing instruments.-the repeated stealing of my lawn gnomes. im finding myself purchasing a new lawn gnome every 2-3 days because of their constant disappearence. i reported this to the main office, but their answer did not reassure me. they claimed that in the magical world of hunt club, lawn gnomes come to life every night and kill the stray cats roaming the neighborhood. initially i felt this to be a horrifying proclaimation, but soon changed my mind after noticing a consistant decrease in the population of stray cats. i guess you could say that i went from a sense of horrified-anger to proud father. -the coke machine by the pool was removed after my first year. where else am i suppose to get my $1 can of coke.let me just say that theres not a day that goes by without me fearing for my life, and if i could do it all over again i would have taken my money to either harris houston or chateau villa (house place) on the side of highway 49. hunt club is a beast of a complex. so with being said, i give hunt club a rating of 5 stars because of its quaint atmosphere, and charming southern view.