Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘America’ Category

That was the only phrase the “man” in the red shirt could utter in English that crucial, balmy Venice evening (er, morning) back in the summer of ’02. I still don’t know if those words rang true or if he was just a behind the times Fine Young Cannibals fan. For whatever reason I decided to leave my virginity with that… Angel.

I wanted the journal entry I wrote the next morning while riding the train to Venice to accompany this photo — but I just read through it once more and it’s still that brand of dry heave inducing, coming-of-age mortification. I’m talking the feeling took me back to that moment in 3rd grade when I spilled chili directly into my crotch on my birthday and couldn’t get ahold of my parents for a change of clothes embarrassment.

His name is Luca and that’s all I know.  Admittedly, as tragic as that t-shirt is… I’d totally scoop it up for a crisp Lincoln if the Salvation Army ever gave me the chance. An insignificant extension of me would wear it while taking someone else’s virginity, but I think that’s the wrong kind of paying it forward.

I’m glad he carried condoms in his tiny, baby blue backpack and that he wore reflective sneakers.  Dual levels of safety first.

I think this quote from a friend sums it all up quite nicely:  “blake:  you lost your virginity to a gay dude?”

Because I’m pretty sure I did.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

I’m way overdue for a brain dump.

Meat Halo left Austin for school in the Big Apple a couple of weeks ago.  I didn’t want to mess my big girl pants in the midst of our big league, Hollywood goodbye that morning, so I opted for an organic vanilla milk for my breakfast beverage instead of a coffee.  My dad and I share many traits, some of which I wish I could politely return like my penchant for the band,  Rush, laughing really hard at my own jokes, and stress related bowel issues.

There’s a laughable trend lately where my goodbyes take place at none other than the “TGI Fridays of Southern Italian Food”, Buca Di Beppo.  I had my leaving Charlotte dinner there, too.  It’s large party friendly is mainly why, but also because it’s the only Italian restaurant in town(s) where you can order an oversize mixing bowl full of tiramisu.

I sat next to Meat Halo’s mother at one end of the table, opposite of his siblings on the other, and scooped favorites onto my plate from what seemed like an endless parade of bowls.  That many bowls made me slightly tense.  Let the record show that I’m diagnosing myself right here and now with a mild case of Irritable Bowl Syndrome.

At some point I was awakened from my food coma by a heated argument regarding one of those pesky amendments.  Luckily, Meat Halo’s mom had a pocket constitution, SURPRISE, not in her pocket.  That’s not important, and neither are the amendments (in the context of this tale)!  As she slowly leaned to the side to retrieve said item from her bag we were not only met with evidence to support and possibly settle the argument, but also with a copy of the not so widely regarded… pocket constitootin’.

*insert “FWERP” followed by silence*

It was the kind of flatus that one of my favorite non-fiction works, Farts: A Spotter’s Guide, refers to as “The Long Goodbye”.  The button for this one in particular on the battery-powered fart machine attached to my copy is no longer operational because I’ve pushed it one too many times.  I mean because of the batteries blah and how they don’t blah blah hold a charge like they used to blah.

My Vulcan mind melding techniques must be super rusty lately because Meat Halo didn’t receive the one I sent him in which I compressed a very long explanation of why it would be less awkward to ignore the fart than it would be to address the fart and run away from it.  Before I knew it he’d grabbed the purse from the back of my chair, threw it over his own shoulder, and shot out his hand into mine.  It was just on the cusp of Terminator’s “Come with me if you want to live!”

Wait, what?!  Are we dining on a land mine?  Is this an authentic, Sicilian, flammable gingham tablecloth?

I’m pretty much the world’s worst actress, and my improvisational solo piece titled:  I Didn’t Hear a Goddamn Thing and All I Smell Is Penne Arrabbiata turned out to be a bona fide flop.

I followed him into the hallway where he continued to wear my purse and I muffled laughter and attempted to focus on the situation at hand instead of my fellow restaurant patrons just behind him gathered round a table where Pope Benedict XVI’s head spun around in the center of a lazy susan packed with spaghetti and meatballs.

We hugged it out, returned to the table quietly and calmly, never to speak of it again (until I asked permission to tell a small chunk of the internet).

Read Full Post »

Famileaving.

Life has been on a peculiar pause here in Dallas while I recover from a depleted savings account and in one week I’ll finally be in Austin.  I’ve spent all of my time with family who’ve helped ease that stubborn cork out of my fermenting bottle of emotions.  Whether they’re all aware of that, who knows, but there’s something about my mom and dad’s respective kitchens that impregnate me with a litter of tear babies.  I’ve (conveniently) lost count of exactly how many I’ve given birth to over the past few months.

One of those evenings we were all gathered around the island at my dad’s, elbows resting while discussing what we’d like to order from the take-out menu and apparently the “I’m going to die alone!?” I was craving wasn’t in season.

I forgot what it feels like to unleash that mammoth of sorrow in front of family members as opposed to strangers in public (because that’s where it inevitably seeps out).  They hug the absolute shit out of you and order you a hefty, soothing styrofoam box full of piping hot monosodium glutamate.  Not once has anyone here made me feel like a total dolt for letting it all hang out.

My dad placed a box of complimentary tissue in the middle of the living room the night we all watched My Sister’s Keeper because I may or may not have residual cancer scare whimpers buried way down deep behind my toenail beds.

My Mormon family didn’t even flinch the night I almost said “fuck” during a heated game of Catch Phrase.  I swiftly changed it to “fuh-art” , but I have a feeling they’d have let it slide because my grandpa (a Priesthood Holder) moments later said “damn” and we all laughed so hard we cried.

My little brother even gave me the permission to share a snippet of our conversation the other night in which he admitted to making love to his giant teddy bear when we were kids.

My older sister called me to apologize for always putting me in the middle of her ongoing battle with our biological mother.  I will call her later this week to atone for not fully appreciating the many nights she let me curl up on her bedroom floor after a nightmare where she and Joe Elliott would sing me back to slumber.

My ex-step mother welcomed me into her home and onto the unlimited family yoga account.  Her boob popped out the other day while she demonstrated a sun salutation and I’ve almost executed bakasana/crow pose properly because she makes me feel less afraid to land on my face.

My current step-mother truly completes my dad and has never once made me feel like an asshole for being a stereotypically terrible teenager.  We’re talking wasted high school football players smashing her sculptures after one too many glasses of Jim Beam and Kool-Aid terrible teenager.  Selling your Badmotorfinger c.d. for ecstasy terrible teenager.

In one week I’ll actually know what it feels like to be homesick because this time I’m not running away.  I’ve chosen to build a new life for myself a few hours away because honestly, any more than that and I’d be making Claire Danes Chin Crinkle Cry Face in every job interview.

Wish me luck, will ya?

Read Full Post »

I’ll be 27 next week.

Today I am a nine year old.

Read Full Post »

There’s a question I ask myself a heap of times a day.  Mostly I ask it in the morning when I’m hosing myself off in the emergency eyewash station we call a shower in our four hundred square foot efficiency.  I guess you could say it’s intimate.  

The apartment sits on top of a photo printing and processing lab where most of my immediate family has worked the majority of their lives.  I’ll be working there until I get to Austin in a couple months, too.  

Sidenote:  I worked there for a day once in the dark room with my now current step mother but only because I was on suicide watch after ingesting all of the Sinutab and Nuprin I could find in our medicine cabinet.  I think my pre-adult whoreanus girlfriends had rubbed Oreos in our window screens the day before and I simply had no choice but to relieve my sinus pressure TO DEATH.  Fifteen was a turbulent year!

The low point of my week is having to cut through the boardroom on the way out of the apartment in order to get to the office.  I tip toe and dress as tawny as possible in order to blend in with the walls, but they turn around every time.  Occasionally I’ll get a side-splitting, “HEY APRIL, I HOPE YOU DON’T GET CAUGHT IN TRAFFIC!”  Then I’m beaten with the uncontrollable urge to raise my middle finger.  I have to hide it behind a composition notebook like a middle school boner.

My birth control is no longer in pill form because I have to look at a ton of newborn baby photos closely resembling a bald, asphyxiated Archie Bunker.  

Don’t get me wrong, there are upsides.  It’s been incredible to live so close to my family for a change.  

We were even able to visit my aunt at a nursing home in Minneola, Texas where she’s recovering from a stroke like a god damned soldier.  We all played a game of Farkle (yeah, my dad and I couldn’t leave that one alone for long) that day so she could practice using her frankenhand and I saw my very Mormon grandparents drink two cans of miscreant, caffeinated soda.  

My hands were visibly vibrating as I scooted them across the table.  I wasn’t sure what would happen when the Diet Coke hit their lips.  Surely nothing short of what we all know happens when you feed a mogwai after midnight.  I imagined my grandpa’s white hair swooping up from both sides into the center to form a mohawk like the bad Gremlin leader, Stripe.  

I’m just super thankful that my grandmother was too jacked up on the pop to hear one of the residents approach me in the hallway with the following pick up line,

“Why don’t you follow me to my room?!  I’ll show you where I beat myself up!”

Read Full Post »

I’ve been avoiding this topic for quite some time.  For the most part, I didn’t want to be dooced before I put in my notice.  I also didn’t want to tell anyone about the morning I wept in my boss’ office while giving said notice. 

Hello, awkward.  Please, grab yourself some real estate in my life (lots of it).  The only thing worse than crying at work is crying while eating.  Bonus points are awarded if you’re crying while eating a dessert

I kept waiting and waiting for the right moment, one where I was feeling less decrepit.  It was just one more thing I had to part with.  Blergh.    

I can’t say I’ll miss the white noise generators because I’m convinced that if I removed the grates I’d expose alien nests brimming with cocooned corpses, but I will miss some of the actual humans in the building.  Especially my old buddy, J, on our Janitorial staff. 

I crave his brief, yet conclusive film reviews on our daily walks toward his bus stop and my stupid gym.

Re:  Jumper (2008)     

“HE JUST JUMPS EVERYWHERE!”

He was on the money.  That’s all he did!  I watched it and he just jumped everywhere.

It should also come as no surprise that a week after I get my braces off I’ll be moving back in with one of my moms for a while.  You’re a woman!  No, you’re not.  But you’re very close!  I’ll be living in her closet, working, and saving to move again to my final destination, Austin, Texas.

I joked with someone recently that I’m relocating because I landed a sweet Assistant Manager position at the Taco Cabana.  I’m pretty sure they took me seriously.  What I really want to do in Austin sounds just as ridiculous to some of my family members. 

Special effects make-up!  *crickets*

I guess some of them expect me to drone out now that I’m almost 27, unwed, and not planning on enrolling in any more college courses that don’t involve coloring. 

I’m girded and ready to field their questions.  There will be many since no one ever left Texas.

Now I’m no clairvoyant, but I believe these will be the first three:

1.  Are you a lesbian?

2.  Why aren’t you pregnant?

3.  Do you want fries with that?

Read Full Post »

Browntown girl.

I adore the couple I’m house sitting for as well as their positively dreamy Boxer, Daisy, and the homemade gumbo they left for me (labeled GUMBO YUMBO!) in the fridge. 

However, I’m afraid their mattress is a real sleep swindler.  It felt like there were file cabinets under the sheets.  I hope it’s actually just boxes upon boxes of collectible Boglins in their original packaging. 

I’m entirely stubborn about these things though which is why I’m to blame for the corpse face I’m gracing Uptown Charlotte with this morning.  I could have relocated to the guest bedroom, or even the couch.  Instead, it became an endurance challenge that I lost every hour when I woke up. 

“I can do thiiiiiiiiiiissssssss.”  Daisy would look up at me with these colossal, snuff colored “give up, you idiot” eyes.  In my half asleep stupor our exchange was much more elaborate. 

She would ask me if I’d ever read Goldilocks and the Three Bears and before I could answer she’d explain how the story couldn’t have ended with:

 “She lay down in the first bed and it was too hard, but she slept there anyway until her butt fell asleep.  She thought the rest of her body would follow suit, but that never happened.  Then the three bears came home and caught her with her bare ass in the cold porridge where a feeble attempt to bring it back to life was underway.  The bears called the cops and had her arrested for indecent exposure therefore banishing her from the forest for all eternity.  The end.”  

As it turns out this place is just the same with one eye open.  People are still shitting on the sidewalk outside our office building.  Let’s face it, one needn’t two eyes to identify that aromatic endowment.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »