Where Raging Hormones and Rampant Confusion Converge April 12, 2006Posted by ravennagirl in Rampant Raging.
I am a member of StumbleUpon and on the very kind recommendation of Maisur (thanks!) I went to an incredible art website and now I feel like a failure! Not because of the website, (it’s coolness times, like, twelve) but I because the very existence of same is further proof that while I’m stuffing my face with Cheetos and smoking way too many menthols, women like Isabella Plante and Lori Koefoed are creating something lasting and living their dreams. So, it’s 2:28 a.m. here in Virginia Beach, my husband’s in bed with our pug, Daisy Elizabeth (who is the cutest, can ya dig it, the cutest, pug on the planet) and all I can think about is How do I reach my audience? How can I make a living doing what I really love to do, which is write and collage and act and sing and teach and all that creative junk? Where’s my courage? Where’s my conviction? For that matter, where is my wrinkle cream? And that magazine I was gonna..oh, never mind.
I feel constantly compromised and irritated by the fact that I must “work” to make a living. By “work” I mean the desk job thingie. The
number-crunching, brain-bunching lunacy called nine-to-five with a
donut cart and Bob from Accounting. I’m not lazy by any stretch of the
imagination [that is, if you tried to stretch your imagination and you didn't have spandex in there...not a pretty sight. Spandex is a gift from the Goddess of "Oh, my. That extra bagel does make a difference. Now I'll never eat breakfast again."]. But I am most definitely agitated. And teetering perilously on the edge of mid-life. So where’s my fairy godmother, dang it? In a fitting with Oscar de la Renta? At Macy’s? At the nail salon getting her tips filled? Stuck in her lightening-fast BMW on the causeway between Cinderella Island and Sleeping Beauty Forest? Because she’s not here. And I’ve been waiting a mighty long time. It’s time to pull out that can of Whoop-Ass I”ve been keeping in the nightstand.
So, dear friends, be forewarned: you may be witnesses to my ranting, panting or otherwise chanting about misgivings and missed periods and missed opportunities. But you can just click through all that, and move on to the next blogger. Because, honest to Jehosephat, that’s the beauty of the internet, don’t you agree? I’m sure that by the time you come back by way, I’ll be yapping on about the beauty and joy and wonder of this craziness I call my life. Yes. I mean it. Coming soon, to this very site, installments of “RavennaGirl, MidlifeMuse: where raging hormones and rampant confusion converge.©” Of course I have no clue what I’ll say. But I’ll think of something to kvetch about — that’s flat!
Popcorn = Sex April 8, 2006Posted by ravennagirl in I Need A Cigarette!.
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Say, folks, does anybody want a bag of popcorn?
It's Saturday nite. Do you know where your popcorn is? Because I've been noticing something lately. I eat popcorn when I can't partake in the other pleasures of the flesh. I mean, I don't just eat it. I devour it. I jam my entire hand down inside the bag and grab a fistful and bring it out and cram it all in my mouth at once. Or at least, I try to. Whatever spills over the dog will eat. And then I lick my fingers and knuckles and the top of my hand because those parts are covered in genuine movie theater blast-o-butter and damn, that stuff is good! Then I repeat, repeat, repeat until the bag is empty and I'm satiated and staring glassy-eyed at the tv screen. Then I have a cigarette.
Maybe you're not a whole-hand mouth-stuffer like me. Maybe you eat your popcorn slowly, one piece at a time. If so, I would highly recommend trying the whole-hand method. There's a certain sensual quality to the experience that just can't be replicated by the piece-by-piece method.
Let's visualize the parallel between popcorn and sex. There's that first little kernel of thought (pun intended) in the top left portion of your brain. You're craving a little something but you don't know just what it is. You think of something else for a little while. Then the craving sneaks back in. Something…salty. Something crunchy. But how bad do you really want it? Do you want it bad enough to get up and get it? Yeah, you want it pretty bad. So you go to the cabinet and where the hell is it? You knew you had some but what did (a certain clean freak family member’s name ) do with it? Oh, good. There it is, beside the Cap'n Crunch. Ripping off the plastic, unfolding the bag THIS SIDE UP and punching the button on the microwave. Tapping fingers, pacing and there's the smell that's the smell you need and listen it's so loud and hurry up how long does 2.5 minutes take anyway? Beep beep it's done and careful careful careful open it up and whoosh — out rushes the steam and oh my god how long will this stuff stay hot? Better hurry and get in there, better hurry. So your hand dives down into the bag and it's so hot in there. Snatching that first handful and stuffing it in your mouth. Licking fingers. Again. Again. Again. Then you're getting full and you're getting sleepy and you hope nobody saw how ravenous you looked during that whole business — way too revealing to be sharing with just anyone. Then you wipe your hands and guzzle down that drink, The popcorn bag lies alone on the kitchen counter, a deflated balloon, a wilted reminder of your lust.
I’ll take mine with real butter, if you please.
The Sanctity of Succinctness April 8, 2006Posted by ravennagirl in Someone Sell Me A Clue!.
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Here’s proof that short and sweet is where it’s at when it comes to online communications:
I know a woman who is a voiceover artist. She’s the single mother of 2 girls who are still in school. She likes to skateboard, is teaching herself to play the banjo and paints the coolest stuff on old Altoids tins. She lives in an apartment with wood floors and high ceilings in the artsiest, trendiest neighborhood in the Seven Cities. I met her when we were both acting in a film in the fall of 2004 (a film which is still in post-production and may never be in the can…) and anyway, we had such fun together, mocking the other actors behind their backs, sparring with adjectives, trading makeup tips….even though she’s almost a decade younger than me. I lost touch with her after that day, because, well…I’m kind of a lousy acquaintance and am overcome with shyness when think about getting back in touch with new people….will they remember me? just how much of a complete dork was I the first time I met her/him and how embarrassed will I be to have said odious bungling rehashed this time? That sort of thing. And that’s without alcohol mixed in. Shake vodka with it and my friends, you’ve got yerself a real lulu. And it’s always worse with someone with whom I’ve connected with on that feel-like-I’ve known-you-forever-even-though-we-only-just-met level. A one-night stand of the soul, if you will. And I know what I look like in the morning. But I digress.
I reconnected with this witty and humble woman on another social networking site in November 2005. Turned out she’s a prolific blogger who gives daily updates on her dreams (no really, she talks about the dreams she has when she sleeps..so cool) and her struggles with wanting more, more, more. So honest and so real and so uncensored. I got up the nerve to send her a message, and she remembered me and was thrilled. Imagine that! And we kept on communicating until I got into a wicked bad perimenopausal funk. I wasn’t even talking to myself. But this is a testament to the good manners of people: I posted a new picture because for God’s sake the old one was so, well, old; and don’t you know she left me the sweetest comment? So I had to reply to her immediately upon reading said comment. The following is an excerpt of my reply.
I really appreciate the sweet comment you left me. I haven’t been myself lately and have been very rarely on *****, so imagine my disgruntled self just so besotted with amazement and surprise and getting all teary-eyed and other goofy emotional bleeps that seem to occur at the most inopportune of times. It truly floors me how kind people can be, especially when they haven’t heard a peep out of me in a coon’s age. What exactly IS a coon’s age? 12? (weeks?) Whatever. At any rate, I’ve read all your blogs and gotten myself up to date on all the latest and dare I say, greatest, events in your life. Congratulations on working in LA…sort of. At least you didn’t have to choke down that atmosphere! And at least you get paid to do what you love. How lucky is that? That’s such a blessing. I’m toiling away at nothing important as I sit in my cubicle, waiting for the next company email announcing some new prohibition, like losing vacation time for wearing pink and brown together…But there is hope…that expectation…that catch in my throat which lets me know that this is not the end for me, in cubicle and ugly-carpet land. That feeling, coupled with the fact that as I age, I do less and less of what I’m supposed to do, and more and more of what I WANT to do. Quite frankly, I should have started 10 years ago. Now, don’t you go thinking I’m sticking my shiny nose into your affairs and getting all bossy and giving you unsolicited advice. I’m just letting you know that for us creative types, the longing for peace comingled with the craving for excitement just never, ever seems to go away. It’s our fuel, if you will. It’s not regular and and it’s not premium, either. It’s this irritating hybrid of dissatisfaction and contentment, at a level just above where you see the warning light, which motivates us to get up and drink that first cup of coffee. Everyone I know who is even the slightest bit organically creative has this push-me/pull-you thing going on. It’s the weirdest. But anyway, I have rambled for way longer than I intended and I’m not on any sort of street drug whatsoever. So if you’ve been kind enough to read this much of my missive, thank you…again.
Such wordiness! I could just have said thank you and left it that. I must truly just love to hear myself write. And she was obviously online, because she sent me a message back right away. I opened it up, and guess what it said?
And that was all I needed to know I’d been forgiven.
Succumbing to Blade Count Inferiority Complex March 29, 2006Posted by ravennagirl in Morons Who Should Be Fed Razors.
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I cannot freaking believe it. The stores (and you know who you are, so don't try to deny it) are selling razors with 5 (count 'em) F-I-V-E blades. I was so damn proud of my Venus with her 4 sexy sharp blades sliding up and down and in and out and…well, you know. And I haven't had any complaints down at the Y. Things have been going so…smoothly. I go commando 24/7, so the closer, the better. And I was, dare I say, happy — yes, I'll say it, happy as a clam. But Remington and Schick and the whole sinkful of their smarmy, stubble-busting buddies just couldn't leave well enough alone, now, could they? Oh, noooooo. Had to make a new razor. Had to give it five blades with lubrication. Had to think of another way to complicate people's lives and make them jet out to the Walgreen's to beg the clerk to open the case so they could get the latest, greatest and most fabulous invention since Barbasol in the can. And isn't that just the way everyone likes to start his or her morning? "Hmmm….let's see. I can't get a really good shave with this pathetic 4-blade. If I go to work with a 4-blade shave, the boss will surely notice. And I really need this job, what with all the money I spend on teeth whitening and liposuction. Oh, and the Pilates and the Banana Republic linen-blend blazer in that new shade, what's it called again?…oh, yes. 'Greige'. I wonder if that will go with my Burberry scarf? I should have taken that with me when I went to Nordstrom's….at any rate, if he feels any scratchiness down there….I better get to Walgreen's, and quick!"
So, thanks, 5-blade inventor-man. Thanks for the reality check. I was almost feeling sexy there for a couple short months. But now? Now I feel like I did when I finally got permission to shave my legs. 1972. I sliced my right ankle open with one of those twisty-uppy old-fashioned heavy-ass razors, the kind you had to drop the blade down inside and then twist it closed. Super-klutz meets puberty. So enchanting. I still have the scar.
But that was my mother's razor. She shaved with it. She had a handsome husband. So I mastered the single-blade and then the twin blade and then the Mach 3 and then the Quattro and then I found Venus and it was bliss. And in the years that passed I got laid. A lot. But we must have been wearing body gloves, because there's no possible way I could have been smooth enough. What was I thinking? Who was I, anyway, to believe I could come close to being close enough? It must just have been dumb luck that got me all those dates and my first two husbands (who were my dates before they became my husbands, mind you). It surely wasn't my fuzz-free extremities.
How did anybody, since the birth of this follicular folly we call our society, find someone to mate with? After all, Twinne Blayde has only been here since the latter part of the 20th century. And her brother and sister, Tripp and Quadra, since the 90's. (Late life births, due to menopausal hormone confusion and the unreliable rhythm method used at Gillette and Co.) Prior to the invention of these marvels of the medicine cabinet, the mating ritual must have been primitive indeed. I shudder to imagine how ghastly it must have felt to be bedded by some stubbly poser. Did the birth rate decline? Did women die as virgins, untouched because they just couldn't get smooth? Did people give other people the sandpaper-comparison test prior to slipping on their condoms? I suspect the 50's weren't so fabulous after all. How did my parents stand each other, being all prickly like that? It's amazing I was even conceived.
I surmise that this five-blade fiasco is a limp attempt to keep the human race aloft in the food chain, lest we stop reproducing more hairy homo sapiens to keep the stockholders happy. That's mighty presumptuous of the product development teams of these Fortune 500 giants. They make a bunch of prototypes of The Fantastic Five-Blade Miracle Shaver, then send them over to the fad-inducing marketing department, whose last cruel act is to deploy a squadron of store-entryway stealth bombers we all try to avoid. Yes, I know that detergent sample is free, but I don't want my clothes to smell like Fresh Breeze. Because I'm from New Jersey and I'm not sure I'd know a fresh breeze if I smelled one. No, I don't care to take home that twee vial of Mr. Hottentot's latest fragrance, madam. It makes me want to hurl. I think mandarin oranges belong in fruit cocktail. Nope, I don't want to try that bite of sausage. It looks like a dog treat. It does too. No, really, sir. You eat it. You can have the beef-jerky breath this afternoon. I have clients and I'm out of Altoids.
I think four blades is enough for any one human to use every day to scrape away any offending hair. If four blades don't cut it, I'm pulling out the Nair and slathering it over whatever skin I might have left. And failing that? Natural is always an option. At least my dog won't mind.