My Big Bald Greek Vacation (part two)

It didn’t rain every single moment of our three day camping trip to Maine...but it came pretty damn close.

Look, I knew that we were going to encounter challenges even before we left Maine to head on over to River’s Run (www.riverruncanoe.com) in Fryeberg, Maine. In the first place, my friend Pauline had been dumped by her boyfriend, Bobo, about a week before. Bobo was a former football jock who stood as big as a mountain and had the personality of a rock (and a member as hard as one, too, apparently). It had been an abrupt and stormy break-up after about five weeks of blissfully sunny weather (including repeated declarations of love and “you’re the one for me” on his part after just two weeks of dating). Now, he was out of the picture, and had even changed his cell phone number to avoid talking to her, and she was beside herself, particularly when her old boyfriend Bob (who had been on F.B. status for about three years before this, and then unceremoniously dumped once she found Bob), declined to take Bob’s place. Too bad. I had always adored Bob, and since he was 20 years Pauline’s senior, I was looking forward to a bit of inter-generational mirroring. Anyway, I knew that Pauline was going to be a fairly gloomy camper.

CHAPTER TWO: Fun and games with Amber Rose, Dreams of Lava, the Crying Game, and other Water Sports.
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I started to pack up in the living room. Josie came out of the bedroom a few minutes after that. We both were unsure what to say, and decided that the best course of action was silence; was not to talk about it.

“Good night,” I said to her, trying desperately to sound light.

“Good night,” she replied. I willed myself to move forward and return to the apartment.

(no subject)

nocompromises's bits are best described as his "prehensile Hyperion".

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Privates Eye

Portrait of a Fat Lady

I wrote this, like, years ago. I still kind of like it, because it reminds me of a certain someone, although poetry's not my forte, and it is a bit clunky. TJM

Mustachioed Martha, we used to call her, and she would have made a terrific freak show all by herself
The fat lady and the bearded bombshell all rolled into one
With oodles of quadruple chins and arms that jiggle-wiggled as she moved
With a hormonal imbalance (as she so delicately phrased it) that inspired hairs to grow like crabgrass
On her fat cheeks, her fat tummy, her fat, whiskered, dimpled chin.

Martha had the body of a bowling pin
Flat-iron chest sewn on to thunderous thighs in a ridiculously disproportionate manner
A Frankenstein lacking the tell-tale seams
Oh how it gave us a laugh to watch Martha, delicately placing her monstrous bulk,
Squeezing her lardass into a narrow seat, plugging herself in like a cork in a champagne bottle
Instead of popping, the chair rumbled with displeasure

She spoke in a soprano whine, in defiant denial of her hormonal imbalance
Making up sweet pet names for the fellows she liked
Guys who would cringe in embarrassment as her high pitched
"Donnikins!" fingers-on-chalkboard'd through the room, rendering one and all into
Fits of sour bubbling laughter
Tommykins, Dickyclause, Harrydoodle
Any stray she could rope, a devout dog-catcher rounding up any cur that met the eye

Martha put on quite a good show
For she was certainly one of God's creatures meant to amuse
An obese furry freak of nature in people's clothing
Like a hummingbird, flittering about from group to cluster
Always trying to stick her fat nose into other people's no-good business
The Mustachioed Wonder would be a bother if she weren't half so amusing

Yet sometimes, one would catch a gleam from Martha, a rare unexpected shine
A serious gaze passed on her face, offering a view to the inner bearded marvel
How did it feel, to be inside, looking out
Trapped forever as a ridiculous disfigurement
Trapped forever as an ape-like, balloon-like, mousy-like freak of bemused nature

Sometimes when Martha spoke,
Her voice would lower and a content, childishly happy, trusting, peaceful tone would take over
Breaking through the glad-I'm-not-her pity and casting her into a different role
"I know what I am," it seemed to say, in whatever way it chose it
"I know what I am, and that's okay, for at least I'm not the pearl casting judgment upon the
Swine."

In my own self-centered way, I did love Mustachioed Martha, the freak show unto herself

An Open Letter to Spider-Man

Dear Spider-Man,

You know, I just saw your second movie, and it was good and all that, but something kind of occurred to me after watching you whine endlessly about not being able to tell Mary Jane that you loved her, because your enemies might find out who you are and go after her, so I just thought I'd share it with you.

You see, there's a reason that you have a mask. It's not supposed to be there so you can take it off every five minutes, and reveal who you are to everyone and their mother. If you do that all the time, then there is a chance that people will figure out who you are.

Oh, I know, call me crazy. But you see, Manhattan's actually a pretty small place, when you get right down to it, and there is a slight possibility that you might bump into someone who knows you, while you're fighting evil on the subway, or on a bus. So next time your spider senses start tingling, just take my advice: "Your mask. Use it." I really think you'll sleep better at nights!

(no subject)

I'm at Josie's right now. The kids have left with her to go to a birthday party, and I'll be hopping in the shower soon, and then tackling bills that I've ignored for about a week. Even though typing's a pain on this computer, because the keyboard hates me and I consistently have to go back and figure out which letters haven't properly registered, I'm typing anyway.

So here's today's topic: Love. Even though I'm not a Republican (God knows everyone knows that one), I can appreciate solid love when I see it, and on that note, there's a wonderful article in this month's Vanity Fair on Ronald and Nancy Reagan. Some of the quotes are really good, and I just feel this huge need to record them...definitely food for thought.

"From the start, our marriage was like an adolescent's dream of what a marriage should be," Reagan wrote. "It was rich and full from the beggining, and it has gotten more so with each passing day. Nancy moved into my heart and replaced an emptiness that I had ben trying to ignore for so long."

A year and a half passed since Reagan and Jane Wyman were divorced, and although he put on a cheerful face, bachelorhood did not agree with him. "I just can't get it right," Reagan told Doris Lily. "I'm no good alone."

Wrote Nancy Reagan, "Why do people fall in love? It's almost impossible to say. If you're not a teenager, you've gone on lot of dates and met a lot of people. When the real thing comes along, you know it. At least, I did...I saw it very clearly that very first night: He was everything I wanted."

"As far as we all knew at the time, she as the first woman in his life since mother," wrote Nancy Davis. "You could tell the two of them were crazy about each other. They weren't lovey-dovey or anything like that, at least not in front of us kids, but they had a natural, easy way of being with each other that suggested they belonged together."

Civilization has ended (or is it just beginning?)

hmmm...for some reason, I think my boyfriend just set up a Live Journal account...just curious...