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Archive for the ‘Poop’ Category

Christ alive — I’m not sure I recall how to write for my very own private audience any more. And it took about nine tries to remember my own password. A similar thing happens when I’ve missed a few pizza and taco nights worth of visits to the gym and the only way I can remember my locker combination is to imagine a woman shaped like the three digit code 34-8-38 (i.e. an apple core). I feel comfortable sharing that because you’ll never guess which one in the dressing room belongs to me. I’ll give you a clue though, I always try for the one that someone graffitied in perfect 7th grade detention handwriting “I H8 U!”

I’ve taken up a weekly residence over at Badass Digest where I mostly write about the resurgence of rad music videos – a true amalgamation of my favorite things. For full disclosure’s sake I’ll tell you that I gave said column the title “Holy Hunter of Music Videos” because I really thought it was funny how at first glance it appears to read: “Holly Hunter of Music Videos”. It may come as a shock that I wasn’t on all of the pot when this was decided. Then the comments came, “I always mistake the title for ‘Holly Hunter of Music Videos!'” I want to reply and explain but then realize I’d be essentially explaining that yes, I have a full-blown case of idiot. Instead I freeze up and google image search a pair of unlikely animal friends to clear my head. Wait, I uh…

Anyway, a perk of the gig is to occasionally have the opportunity to sit down with a well-known type, engage ourselves in conversation and share with the masses. This generally inspires zero performance anxiety on my end until someone mentions the words ‘video’ or ‘camera’. And I feel like I just exchanged my irrational fear of my grandparents’ swimming pool cleaning robot for a ONE EYED RECORDING DEVICE!

I’m determined to get over these silly jitters by discussing them, thus the wench boob grabbing header and word dump below it shall be seen again. This is as close as I’ll ever come to stripping on the internet.

The root of my fear begins with an introduction to this clip for some (a pleasant revisit for others) – Luther Hegg’s speech from The Ghost and Mr. Chicken. While other folks stuck to a predictably safe round of applause my paternal grandfather, Cleo used to shout “AAAAAATTA BOOOOOOOOOY, LUTHER!” to me from the audience after (sometimes during) every school play , choir performance, etc. It was one of those moments I secretly lived for and claimed to loathe in certain circles mostly made up of girls my age wearing the real Keds. Cleo also implemented the Swartz Family visit to Fuddruckers post Mormon Baptism that quickly became tradition. In any case, I don’t think I need more examples of  just how cool I thought he was at the time. And forgive me because I was far too young to know that wasn’t home of the world’s greatest hamburger. I’m getting off topic.

There was one performance in particular when I guess the confident-on-stage me fell right the hell apart. My parents had recently divorced and we’d stopped attending The Church of Cheese and Crackers of Rattle Day Snakes. The devout Mormons in our family didn’t approve and no longer came to my performances. I think only one of my parents had made it to the Fifth Grade Graduation Showcase. I had a small solo in a shitty number our lazy music teacher had written about exercising. Seriously, my shining moment was belting forth the line “EXERCISING, EXERCISING, HOW I LOVE MY EXERCISING!” at the top of my ten-year old lungs to a gymnasium full of video camera wielding parents with horrified looks upon their faces. And no Grampa Cleo in sight which meant no “Atta boy, Luther” and the resulting “Graaaaampa, I’m a GIIIIIIIIIRL!”

A few years later my new mom signed me up for a class at the Plano Children’s Theater called Sizzling Shakespeare. This is also where you have to ask yourself if a thirteen year old girl should sizzle. My parents narrowly escaped that tragedy because I sure as hell didn’t. My charisma reserves were tapped. On our first day of class during an introductory activity when asked to take the shape of a household appliance I had the nerve to become a human blender. They all watched as I spun around in circles until I became too dizzy and toppled over knocking a nearby chair on its side. Yes, I was unintentionally signing myself up to play the role of Nick Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I didn’t execute the part perfectly before an audience because of the whole newfangled stage fright plus missing Grampa thing.

What I’m getting at is – how in the world have I held onto these feelings for so long and how can I get rid of them?

I’ve had piping hot radioactive fluid injected into my face since then, so shouldn’t I be unfazed by a task so seemingly puny?

Crap, I think I’m having a bona fide “I’M NOT JOSIE GROSSIE ANYMORE!” moment.

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I have no other explanation for this period of months since Meat Halo (where I left off) where I’ve run around like a mad woman in a demented dash to scare up a “mate”.  I haven’t written in so long that I kind of forgot who I talked to here in my word cave.  Lately, I feel like I’m coming off a bender until I realize strangers around me are also behaving more rabid.  On two separate occasions I’ve even witnessed random acts of public vomiting.

The first was outside our apartment a couple weeks ago while my roommate and I waited meekly for our ride to Nerd Nite[sic].  One of our dear neighbors, a lady if you can refer to her as such, spewed a perfect cherub fountain stream of puke while opening her car door.  Surprisingly, her passenger wasn’t alarmed in the slightest.  Together they climbed inside the vehicle shutting opposite doors in unison and drove away.

The second was on my birthday run around Lady Bird Lake last Saturday.

Sometimes I like to jog just behind someone who looks like they know what they’re doing.  I judge this based solely on their matching exercise attire and chiseled physique.  While I know this makes me sound like a shallow alien, for all you know that could be accurate.  This specimen in particular looked like a milk chocolate covered Bodyworlds Exhibit.  I could see literally every muscle on her frame and I was intrigued (read: hungry)!  We must have just hit the two-mile mark over the wooden bridge when she made quite a hasty departure to the right and blew chunks through her hand, in between her outstretched fingers, and directly into the forest.  I know it’s hard not to read this next part in a Forrest Gump voice, but I just kept on running.  Before you say I should have stopped, I’ll let you know she later lapped me and then some.  She’s fine, okay.  She does it all the time!

As I was saying about that series of relationships, they didn’t end with Meat Halo.  There have been a couple more worth sharing, but each sort of deserve their own time in the sun… like a dying grape becoming a newborn raisin.

Here are some things Meat Halo may or may not be privy to:

The evening before he departed on the train, his brother, mother, and I stood together shooting the poop in the parking lot outside my home.  The conversation ended with a round of hugs and when his mother got to me she whispered into my ear, “You should have dated my other son!” Only it was more of a gravelly voice at regular volume than something spoken softly with very little vocal cord vibration to prevent being overheard.  I don’t know why, but I expected something more discrete from someone who had just farted on me in public a few days before.  Neither brother gave me a visually disturbed clue that they noticed what was told , so I never said anything except to a few friends and now the entire Internet…nternet…ternet…net.

Yeah, it’s hard to type in echoes.

I’ve had some wine, so I just in poor taste typed and deleted the next sentence, “I’m a bit of a pussy lover…” remembering quickly that my dad reads this and for that reason I have a difficult time writing what I could never say out loud with him in the same room.  What I meant to say is that, “I love cats…” I have a cat named Mr. Bill.  Proof!

Meat Halo wasn’t able to bring his cat, a fluffy white snow demon named Gibby, with him to NYC initially, so I agreed to foster her until his brother (the one their mother thought I should have dated) was able to deliver her a couple months later.  This was all fine and dandy until we split up a couple weeks later.  Then the cat’s sixth Hellraiser sense kicked in, and she began puking (more puking!) and crapping (!) from one end of the apartment to the other.  I could not deal and neither could Mr. Bill, so I arranged to have Brother retrieve her.

Sounds easy enough, right?  Step one:  Pick up cat.  Step two:  Remove cat from premises.

So Brother arrived to do just that.  That evening, I opened my front door wide enough to see that their sister was in tow, too.  Awesome.  And before I thought there couldn’t possibly be a more awkward number of his family members crammed into my home I nearly close the door on their mother.  Gibby was agitated at the mere sight of them and KNOWINGLY bolted to the tippy-top of our Ikea bookcase.  The Swedish designed the thing to house flimsy, boiled down paperbacks, not to also serve as a protective beast fortress.  It teetered to-and-fro and gave life to the potted, fake plant on top.  Plant scooted closer and closer to the edge as their mother stood below telling the cat how simply rude she was being.  Good point.  Talk her down.  I also thought she was being rude, but I guess I’m just not that confrontational.

Naturally, this never worked.

Eventually, his brother and sister swatted her down and she ran directly into my bedroom and onto my  bed.  They tried covering her with my blankets while I stared on in horror, frozen in the doorway.  She then whizzed a steady stream of kitty tinkle all over the damn place and howled into the night like a hairy, possessed lawn sprinkler.

It was then that I heard his mother say, “Brother, take off your belt!”  “Mom, WHAT?!”  “TAKE OFF YOUR BELT!”  And then he actually began to take off his belt to I don’t know, wrangle it?!  I finally came to my senses and told everyone to get the FUDGE out of my apartment and that we could try a new tactic another time.  “EVERYONE KEEP YOUR BELTS AND YOUR PANTS ON, PLEASE!  I NEED TO GO TO SLEEP!”

I hope that was the first and last time I have to tell someone to literally keep their pants on.

I kept Gibby safe and sound for the next few days until just Brother came back.  I’m not kidding, he walked through my door this time with a GIANT NET and a GIANT CAGE I can only assume was meant for Sasquatch quarantine.  Harpoon nowhere to be found, hrmph.  Thankfully, by that time my roommate and I had already cornered her politely behind the toilet and tackled her (gently) into the cat carrier with the help of our magical, humane woman powers.

Up Next:  How I almost moved to Baltimore to live with a guy who wanted to marry me in the Peabody Library while I dressed as a banana and he wore a gorilla suit.

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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).

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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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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.

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Disassemble.

Until recently I’d never experienced a bona fide break-up. 

I guess I’m more accustomed to those reckless. hasty, three month whirlwind relationships that end with him sending you a text message that reads:  “I hope dogs chew your boobs off!”  

Unfortunately, that’s a factual example. 

It seems that not only do both creatures part physically, but their possessions must separate as well. 

It all started with the pictures breaking up with the refrigerator.  They vacated the premises and crawled into a box in the bedroom deep beneath those artificial severed legs I’ll be taking with me (everywhere).

Then it was our electric toothbrushes.  Put your mundane detail hat on because I’m about to tell you that in order to blow dry my hair every morning I have to unplug them, and then I’d plug both back into the outlet to keep them from losing their charge.  There’s nothing worse than an electric toothbrush slowly/poorly humming your teeth clean. 

I need them rattling like a f-ing jack hammer as if to say, “GET CLEAN, OR GET OUT!!!”    

Well, they broke up, too.  I came home the other day and his was plugged in and mine wasn’t.  I thought about moving mine to the other side of the sink to give his some space, but that would also be dangerously close to the place where we do our number two’s.

At the end of the week our phones are going to break up.  This is the most awkward one because we’ll both be in the store together with some poor, pomaded twenty something behind the counter while strangers bargain for more anytime minutes beside us.

“Ms. Swartz, have you decided on a plan?”

“Yes, I think I want a job as a maid in an ice hotel somewhere.”

Sleep?  No, but thank you. 

Earlier today I told someone “the gas is always greener!”  And that would have made sense had we been discussing airsoft gun propellant.

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