more gross stuff

Can't really tell what this is a picture of? It's a python eating an alligator. I was completely horrified and disgusted by this story. To read it, click on the link: http://msnbc.msn.com/id/9600151/

There was only one thing that disgusted me MORE today. While I was talking to a woman with a glass eye this morning, some type of gooey substance started oozing out from underneath it. Seriously, I almost vomited. I had to walk away from her.

For My Beautiful Friend(s)

Below are the lyrics to one of my favorite songs: So Unsexy by the great Alanis Morrisette. I'm posting them today for a friend of mine who I think needs them. Actually, I think that every woman needs them from time to time.

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Oh these little rejections how they add up quickly
One small sideways look and I feel so ungood
Somewhere along the way I think
I gave you the power to make Me feel the way I thought only my father could

Oh these little rejections how they seem so real to me
One forgotten birthday I'm all but cooked
How these little abandonments seem to sting so easily
I'm 13 again am I 13 for good?

(Chorus: )
I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful
So unloved for someone so fine
I can feel so boring for someone so interesting
So ignorant for someone of sound mind

Oh these little protections how they fail to serve me
One forgotten phone call and I'm deflated
Oh these little defenses how they fail to comfort me
Your hand pulling away and I'm devastated

When will you stop leaving baby?
When will I stop deserting baby?
When will I start staying with myself?

Oh these little projections how they keep springing from me
I jump my ship as I take it personally
Oh these little rejections how they disappear quickly
The moment I decide not to abandon me

ch..ch..ch..changes...

New look, but same great taste! Yes, so you can see I've made some changes on my blog page. Slow day at work today, kids.
Because I've made changes, I had to install a new site meter...which means we've started over at "1". This makes me sad because as of this morning, I think the hit count was over 1,600. Oh, well.

At the top of the page is the infamous Bridget. My pride and joy. Ain't she cute? If you want to see her adorable kitty face up close, you'll have to click. Just above is...me. In case you've always wondered what I look like...there I am...waving at you in reluctant glee. Your imaginations probably served you better. Just for the record, though...I'm REALLY unphotogenic. I promise I look better in person.

Don't Be a Creepy Guy--Part 5

I've received several recent requests for the next installment of the "Creepy Guy" series. I suppose it has been a while since I've done one. (..."done" an entry on creepy guys...not "done" a creepy guy. let me clarify.) The delay is not due to a shortage of encounters. There is, and always will be, plenty of creeps to go around. I just haven't thought to craft any recent encounters into a story. However, as I was watching the local news this morning, I was reminded of an encounter that I failed to report.

Several months ago I was forced to make a t.v. appearance to promote an event that I had planned for my now-former job. This event, by the way, caused me more stress than any other single element has caused me in my entire life. I truly felt that I was going to drop dead from a heart attack before it was all over with. Truly. Alas, I did not drop dead; in case you were wondering. Anyway, I did NOT want to do a t.v. interview, but it was either me or my boss. And, well, in cases such as those, it was always me. It was either that, or lose my job. Oh. Wait. Never mind.

I arrived at the studio early on this particular Saturday morning and attempted to fake my enthusiam for what was ahead. I HATE being filmed...especially on live television. As I walked in I wondered which anchor would be conducting my interview. Our city is not known for its outstanding news personalities. (Similarly, we're also not known for our high quality locally-made commercials.) I soon learned that one of the younger, more attractive; if there were such a category, anchors would be interviewing me. I had not met this one before, and I was immediately struck by his arrogance. It was not only blatant, but also completely unfounded. I couldn't help but wonder if he had done his own makeup that morning, or if there was a staff person specifically charged with the task. His foundation looked awful. Way too orangey for his complexion. His blush was too bright. Had he been wearing fake boobs and high heels, he would have been an ideal queen.

I'm a smart ass most of the time. When it comes to professional situations, however, I'm perfectly able to restrain myself. But there's something about arrogant men that brings it out in me. It doesn't even have to be obvious pomp. I'm like a bloodhound in this respect. If there's something subtle or non-direct that even hints at the scent of peremptoriness, I sniff it out with alarming proficiency. Because I smelled such an odor on this guy, I let several tarty comments slip out during our pre-show discussion. He laughed at something I said, and perhaps my sarcasm excited him, because his tone drastically changed at that point. He softened his eyes and gazed intently at me.

"Are you wearing vanilla?" he asked.

"Yes. I am, actually." I was, indeed.

"Oh my God. That smells so good. You smell delicious, really." (yes. delicious was what he said.)

I played it off. "Yeah. Haha. I always get comments when I wear this stuff." And, I do, by the way.

And then, before I knew it was coming, he smelled my neck. His nose actually touched my neck. Nose to neck. Neck to nose. And he let the nose linger there for several seconds before he pulled away. "Man, you smell good. What is that? Where'd you get it? Is it lotion or perfume? I've gotta get my wife some of that." And then he pulled the classic breast glance. Locked eye contact with me, let his eyes travel slowly downward, and then brought them back up to post-eye contact. We all know the move. Men and women alike. We know the move.

Before I could decide whether or not to respond, our turn was up and we were quickly shooed to our places under the heavy lighting. We were stationed on a fake kitchen set, at a high table with bar stools. I'm pretty sure I had a ceramic rooster behind my head somewhere. The cameras came on. During our interview, while his face was turned towards me and not at the camera, he did the glance several more times. When we went to commercial, he "helped me" undo my mic with a more gentle touch than was necessary. And as I was getting out of my seat, I happened to swing my head in his direction and caught him staring intently at my ass.

All I cared about at that point was that I had made it through the interview without making a complete fool of myself. And, honestly, I could care less who stares at my ass. But it still makes for a good story.

Disclaimer: As I continue to post blogs, don't discount what I said yesterday about it being wasted energy. I meant every word. I just have to keep myself busy and writing in the meantime.

I've been thinking. Why do I continue to spend my time writing blogs? If I really enjoy writing this much, then why am I not focusing on writing something more tangible and, possibly, more lucrative? If I took all the time and energy and thought I've placed into my blogsite and devoted it elsewhere, I could have had a book written by now. Who knows if it would be good enough for publishing, but at least it would be an attempt for something real. I need to be reminded of the concept of delayed satisfaction. This is fucking ridiculous. (pardon my language, but its that kind of day)

A Different Kind of Orphanage

One of the peculiar details of my experience in being me is how particular themes seem to coat my thought patterns. This happens routinely and without fail. Does this happen to everyone, or is it just me? Sometimes I assume these themes are supernaturally planted by God in order to draw my attention to something that I wouldn't have considered otherwise. Sometimes I assume that it's just another product of my obsessive personality; my subconscious producing ideas that are either purposed to distract me or further fuel my preoccupation with some particular emotion or idea (just as dreams are often illuminating illustrations of what's REALLY going on in our heads).

The most recent subject on which I've been fixated is orphancy. Have you ever thought about why orphancy is such a common theme throughout history in various (if not all) religions and literature? In the bible alone I can find 7 stories that mention orphans by name, and that doesn't include the many times that the concept is referred to outside of those stories. Think about literary orphans that have been iconic and stable in the ever-changing world of popular culture: Annie, Oliver Twist, Pippi Longstocking, A Little Princess AND The Little Prince, Pollyanna (my blog's namesake), Tom Sawyer, Harry Potter, Anne Shirley (from Anne of Green Gables), Frodo Baggins, and Cinderella. Luke Skywalker grew up without parents, and so did Princess Leia. Spider-Man, Batman, and Superman were ALL orphans. Did you know that even James Bond was orphaned at a young age?

Is it that human beings are so enchanted by orphancy? I think it's just the opposite: I think we're terrified by it, and we always have been. This is one definition of the word orphan:

An orphan is a person (or animal), who has lost one or both parents, often through death. One legal definition used in the USA is someone bereft through "death or disappearance of, abandonment or desertion by, or separation or loss from, of both parents". Common usage limits the term to children, (or the young of animals) who have lost both parents. On this basis half-orphans are those with one surviving parent.

The words "abandonment", "desertion", and "separation" are so cold and scary; but they very accurately pinpoint how most of us relate to orphancy. Due to spiritual engineering, there is something inside of us that makes us NOT want to be alone. Our souls as well as our physical bodies need connection and support, and in the extremes of our imaginations, being an orphan means being without those things. Because, to most of us, the pain of this is so unfathomable, we tend to heroize those who know the pain personally. It's an inspirational concept...overcoming all that accompanies aloneness and reaching happiness when all odds are against you. All of the orphaned figures that we've looked upon with favor act as a reassurance that we, too, can triumph over the empty plates we've all been served. Yes, even WE can save an entire household or community or even Middle Earth in it's entirety despite our shortcomings. (Interesting to note that most of the literary orphans I mentioned did exactly that...they were saviors or martyrs or redeemers or superheroes...and none of them started out the confidence or knowledge to be so.)

I guess I started pondering all of this subconsciously about a month or so ago when I was feeling particularly lonely. The loneliness was present for a while, and, momentarily, it knocked the breath out of me. All of the sudden, every time I heard or saw anything having to do with orphans or adoption, my stomach would flip. I took it personally without even realizing it. I think all the while I was being nudged to analyze exactly what I'm writing about today. I needed to find encouragement in an unexpected form.

I've always said that I want to adopt at least one child...someday. In fact, I told some coworkers last week that if I'm still single with no children in 5 or 6 years, I may consider adopting on my own. I've always loved the idea of bringing home a baby from some far off place to give him/her a life that he/she wouldn't have elsewhere. Of course, the romantic ideal is adopting a child from a foreign country, but we all know that there are plenty of children on our home turf that need loving, capable parents. I've developed a very powerful affinity of racial diversity within families. And by "families" I don't necessarily mean in the traditional sense. This affinity was always there...but it's grown stronger. It's beautiful to me; beauty in its truest and simplest form...almost like a tiny (tiny) glimpse of Heaven. The beauty being that there is (seemingly) no end to our cultural and racial uniqueness. I want that kind of family, I think (given that I have the funds to care for them all). I want to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner and look into the faces of God's creative genius.

Even though most of us have at least one parent, we've all been abandoned by something or someone. We've all been lonely. We've all felt the ache of separation. And if you haven't, then I'm sure you've laid awake and feared it. So maybe orphancy isn't so unfamiliar. And maybe that's why we're all here...to adopt each other from time to time.


and, by the way, I don't feel lonely anymore...

Kick off Your Sunday Shoes

It's amazing how far I've come and how much my life has changed in the past year. This entry is one that I originally published a year ago tomorrow. It's one of my favorite things I've written. I happened to re-read it this morning, and it spoke to me as if it hadn't come from my own inner thoughts. (you should all really read through some of my archived entries from time to time. they're much heartier than recent ones.)


While stuck in the dizzying awfulness of searching for a full time job, I've been helping out a friend of my mother's who owns a daycare. She calls me off and on when she needs me, and my response is always eager. (it's funny how poverty makes you eager.) I worked at daycares throughout college, but now that I'm degreed and experienced, the environment is much more humbling. Social theory ain't real applicable when you're changing poopy diapers.

I was with four 1-year olds yesterday...watching as they scooted around the room in pursuit of various things to chew on...when Footloose came on the radio (I refuse to spend 8 hours at a time listening to Barney and BJ sing about sharing). Simultaneously, all four babies broke into freedance. Bottoms bounced, heads bobbed from side to side, arms waved in nonrythmic patterns, and it all made me smile bigger than I had done in quite some time. I couldn't help but imagine them all wearing 80's prom attire. Puffy sleeves. Powder blue tuxes. Mullets and Farrah Fawcett waves. I began to wonder what they'll look like in 17 years; who they'll become. Very briefly, I felt a faint hint of jealousy just then. The wonderful truth is that their futures are still blank canvases. They don't know worry or regret. They're still perfect. I wanted to join them in spirit; to dance inhibitiously with them and get drunk in the joy of innocence. I tried to concentrate on myself as an infant; a child; an adolescent; to connect with my former selves and borrow their ignorance. It didn't work, of course. None of us can go back to those places.

I remember a dream that I had 3 years ago. It's one of those dreams that will always stick with me. When the scene opened, I was walking into the courtyard of my preschool. It still looked the same. Or, at least, it looked the way I remember it in my head. I knew immediately that I was going to see myself as a 4-year old, and a wave of anxiety rushed over me. I wanted to leave, but I couldn't. Something was keeping me there. Across a playground, a group of children were playing duck-duck-goose. I saw her. Her hair was strawberry blonde then. The strands were softer and blew more easily in the breeze than they do now. Her face was round and happy....no sign of lines around the eyes that I now look into every day. Her limbs, not yet long and lanky, showed evidence of residual babyfat. She was more beautiful than any photograph has ever made her.

I stared at her intently while she played, as was suddenly overcome with emotion. Afraid she would hear me crying, I ran up a stairway and hid on an outside landing. I felt ashamed. I just knew that I had let her down and that she would never forgive me for it. What a dissapointment I must be to her....I was nothing of what she COULD have become. Choking on my tears, I wished had I had never come to see her. However, I couldn't escape her. She had followed me up the stairs and had been waiting patiently for me to compose myself. She put her right hand on mine, and I noticed the same freckle there that I have now. Looking into her eyes, I apologized silently. No words were exchanged, but I knew all at once that she forgave me. She loved me as I was. She was proud of me. And before she ran back to her game, she hugged me.

That dream was the best self-therapy I've ever experienced. Every time I think of it, it repairs a little piece of my soul. I guess that longing to be younger is inevitable, but childhood (or any other phase of our respective "youth") wouldn't offer any solution; even if we could access it. Regardless of our age, we always have a canvas that is awaiting completion of a masterpiece. Youth is all about perspective, anyway. We may lose our freshness and crave the days of not knowing, but the later we pick up a brush to complete a certain phase of life, the more experienced we are with the brush techniques. The inability to go back is a blessing, not a hinderance. Experiencing life more than once would be overwhelming, I think. It's hard enough to do it once. Feel free to celebrate like a toddler. Your younger self accepts you even if you dance like a whitey.

i'm a pretty pretty princess

You know what I just LOVE? Walking under blooming Crepe Myrtle trees and getting showered by the little tiny pink petals and what I like to call "tree juice". (It's like a little baby rain shower just for you in that moment.) It makes me feel like I'm in a poem or a Jane Austen film.

Bathtime Occurrences on This, Our Hypothesized Last Day on Earth

Two things occurred to me while I was in the shower this morning. Things often occur to me in the shower. In fact, that's really the only reason I ever take showers; so that things will occur to me. Otherwise I wander the streets completely incoherent and void of all thought. Last time that happened I was picked up for prostitution.

The first thing that occurred to me this morning was that I seem to have temporarily lost my desire to make fun of people I don't know. (okay. not true. the FIRST thing that occurred to me this morning was actually that I had an unusual amount of eye crust upon waking.) I've had no trouble at all lately making fun of people I know...to their faces. It's my dysfunctional way of showing affection; or maybe my passive aggressive way of revealing underlying hatred. Either way, I've had no trouble doing it. But when it comes to the normal vituperation of strangers (or even people that I know but just don't care for) that I strive for, I've become soft. For instance: I've attempted to write several blog entries in the past week serving no purpose at all but to gibe, but my conscious has prevented me from publishing them, or even finish them, for that matter. I've pasted one example below. It was birthed from a bitter dislike...and I just couldn't bring myself to complete it.


"There's this woman I know who talks incessantly about her daughter. I've never met the girl, but apparently she is the most charming, brilliant, hilarious, life-impacting human being of all time. It would be impossible for me to calculate the number of glorifying stories I've heard her tell about her beloved flesh and blood.

Crystal (not really her name...but I picture her the way I picture a "Crystal"...fat, unsettlingly unattractive like her mother, promiscuous, and of sour personality) is the epitome of what's good (good, not great. because the two are very different concepts) about today's youth. Believe it or not, EVERY single one of her peers from birth till now have been jealous of her to the point of sabotaging her physically, emotionally, or relationally. Every story told about Crystal paints her as an unappreciated savior. She's a modern day martyr. And all of this despite her earlier days of drug and alcohol addiction, frequent incarceration, flunking out of school, and whoring around (the latter two she's never overcome). "


I got that far and stopped to remind myself that this woman is someone who carries no significance in my life; and therefore, why would I bother to think enough of her to continue writing about her? If I considered her a friend who might actually get a laugh out of my ranting, then maybe it would be worth my time. My efforts suddenly felt snide and pointless. My balloon of contempt was deflated. Part of this condition is the fact that I'm working with really wonderful people now. I, as most people, have always enjoyed complaining about my employers/coworkers. Seems like I can't do that anymore. My new workplace has thrown me in with a bunch of freaks that so far seem like wonderfully gracious souls. What will I do now?? I can't afford to lose my edge. I'm too young to lose my edge.

The second thing that occurred to me this morning really has nothing at all to do with the first. Some of my most beloved and most lovable friends are coming here to spend my birthday with me this weekend. I'm absolutely joyous in this fact, by the way. I've been stressing out a tad bit, however, as I attempt to plan something of a celebratory nature for the big day. Many people know that I've been less than thrilled with my social life since moving back to Louisiana. I know lots of people here. Lots of great people. But the percentage of these great people that I have been enchanted with to the point that I actually like to spend time with them is a bit on the smallish side. I've invited a few of them already to participate in the grandeur of my birthday, but I'm struggling to make much progress. It has OCCURRED to me that I don't have a clue how to begin to plan something that will accommodate/appeal to all of my friends here.

I've bragged before about how all of my friends are "so very different"...like it says something good about ME...and this social detail has popped up once again. However, I currently find it more troublesome than charming. I can't imagine putting all of these people in a room together (or around a table, or at a bar, i.e.) with the outcome that they'd all enjoy each others' company. I picture a party at which Anna Nicole Smith is serving up the queso, Jim J. Bullock is pouring the booze (and throwing quite a few back, I'm sure), Ann Graham Lott is playing DJ, and George Stepanopolous is in charge of the kareoke machine. I think such a gathering would be categorized somewhere in rank between a cock fight and a car wreck. Sounds like a rockin time, huh? Would be for me, in fact, but my constant concern for the emotional comfort of others would have me unbearably anxious throughout the entire event. Perhaps I just don't have enough faith in people. Why do I always assume that others will always be more uncomfortable than myself in social situations? Is it more adult of me to be concerned or to expect everyone else to behave as adults and fend for themselves? tough one. As long as I don't force them all to play Truth or Dare, they should be fine, I guess. My project for tonight is create a way to combine Trivial Pursuit, Strip Poker, and Bible Monopoly.