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Archive for the ‘Movies’ Category

Frosty pause.

I’m Bill Paxton and/or Helen Hunt unrealistically tied to plumbing by leather drive belts in that farm pump house.  The tornado is fabricated!

Other than nearly losing my semi-firm grip on reality here in Austin, things are sensational.

I acquired a job almost immediately which actually surprised the hell out of me.  I must’ve said “Oh, it can’t be that difficult to find a job!” one hundred times while sweating a machine gun magazine full of bullets in every direction while family and friends looked on in secret horror.  

I won’t say much about it other than I did find barefaced joy in naming a file “dog poop letter template” the other day.  I work right on the UT campus with a sunlight and squirrel friendly office overlooking several walks of shame per morning.  I’m only on the second story, so the clip clop of their burnished lady shoes stabbing the concrete mercilessly with every step stops me right in my tracks.  I really can’t help but study them a bit.

Last weekend I was proposed to by a heavyhearted, Bukowski type fella who literally peed in his pants a couple stools down from me.  I’m not used to being in a bar come witching hour and it’s damn near frightening.  From my perspective, women are not unlike the gasoline in Mad Max 2.

It’s been truly spectacular to reconnect with an old friend that doubles as my current roommate.  She gave me the room with the view of the Capitol Building, and that’s just one of those inane things I find myself repeating when someone asks how I like it here. 

“It’s great!  I can see the Capitol Building from my bed.  Seriously, I can lie all the way down and its nipple is still peeping at me.”

As it turns out, not many people are as dazzled by that fact.  It reminds me of the time I moved to an apartment I’d never seen before in Chicago all because it was right next door to a prosthetic leg factory.

I was finally able to bring my cat home, too, and will admit that I pulled a Britney riding a few hours with him in my lap.

I’m okay.

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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?

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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!”

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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?

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We meat again.

The most wonderful circle of friends a gal could ask for went behind my back to gather money for someone else to get behind my back and rub on it for a large sum of money. 

Some people call it a massage.  I call it admitting to the spa staff and you all that I’m really nothing more than a piece of food.  Albeit a very relaxed and mouthy morsel.

I waited for a few minutes at the end of a dark hallway watching people come in and out of doors.  Some like me were there to be marinated and tenderized while others were going to be plucked, sucked, waxed, and stoned. 

I didn’t take the seaweed wrap option because you really can’t be too sure they won’t feed you to a giant with a craving for human sushi afterward. 

Joe, my massage therapist, looked like an updated version of a He-Man action figure.  For the record, he blew my mind and melted my insides with the mystical power of Grayskull. 

I have to admit though, I spent the first few minutes wishing someone would slip me a downer.  They should really rethink the musical combination of waves crashing against the shore accompanied by a crying piano.  I couldn’t stop thinking about shipwrecked beauties like the RMS Titanic or the movie, The Piano.

My stars, all this time I had no idea what I was missing.  I felt downright sloppy drunk when he was through.  Thankfully I was all alone in that room when my oily, Gumby foot hit the stepping stool.  People falling is funny enough with clothes on, can you imagine? 

Don’t imagine.

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of  Zelda Rubinstein, “THIS HOUSE IS CLEAN!”

The lymph node results came back and those suckers were cancer free, ever last stinking one of them. 

I’ve had this song in my head ever since:

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“I’ll take care of the squealing, wretched, pinhead puppets of Gotham!”

I was followed from the gym all the way through the parking garage and up to my car last Friday.  It was raining, so I had my hood up, and my umbrella in a grip so tight I lost feeling in my pinky. 

(Here’s a shocker:  I can be a bit too big for my britches at times.  I tend to believe I’m a lot tougher than I am because I spent many years of my childhood faking my older sister out so she would stop giving me dutch ovens in our Alvin & the Chipmunks tent.  And Erika, if you’re out there, I sincerely hope you’re not doing this to your children as an alternative to a time out.)

I was in complete denial until I approached my car door and he stopped, stood there, and watched me.  He had his hood up and I’m crazy enough to say he was the Grim Reaper.  I carry a stun gun in my purse, but my idiot instinct was to hit him with my umbrella.  I’ve seen Batman Returns too many times.  

He said, “Hi!”  then pretended to look around and up toward the ceiling.  I barked “HI!” back, but in a most threatening, gatekeeper-y voice similar to that of demigod, Zuul

It was that, the “I Love Brains” sticker on my car, or the person who just happened to stroll past the two of us in a Greeting/Staring Match at the perfect moment that sent him walking lickety-split on out of the parking garage.

Knock it off, universe.

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