Archive for April, 2012

Jo says: I’d like to see a paragraph on why David Hasselhoff is still big in Germany?

April 30, 2012

This is mind blowing. Like, the best possible question.

Why? Because I cannot offer an answer. All I can see in my mind is this David Hasselhoff documentary (judge not lest ye be judged!) where he got off the plane in Germany and it was like he was God himself. Random people invited him to their wedding – or something – and he was mobbed.

And does anyone remember that car song??

Oh, I am screwing up big time. Okay, a paragraph. Here we go:

No. I can’t do it. But I just looked him up on wikipedia and GO LOOK AT THE PICTURE OF HIM. He LOOKS like my idea of a europop trashy German star. Check out the sunglasses that are functioning as a choker! The low cut neckline! And did you know he had German ancestry? I guess his surname should be a clue, but I didn’t realise.

And this question – I must admit, my mind keeps skipping merrily in the uncomfortable direction of Nazis and the ‘innocent’ German people and other horrible things. I have German friends (God, I hate when people say, ‘One of my best friends is black/gay/etc!’) and I don’t think I am innately prejudiced against them for their homeland’s past prejudice. I may have to rethink how I think about Germans.

Jo, my friend, you have rocked my world view.

But, my god, isn’t David Hasselhoff so slimy and sort of gross? He reminds me of my dad in some ways. Can you imagine being David’s child? Hoo boy. No, I can’t either.

David Hasselhoff still enjoys a modicum of popularity in Germany because, unknown to the general public, he runs an underground undergarment making factory. These undergarments are extraordinarily sought after in Germany and surrounding countries, because they are ideally suited for pop music clubbing. They light up in a glow stick fashion, and also give off pheromones. It has been suggested that Hasselhoff always wears these underpants, and that the pheromones are specially geared towards attracting those of German heritage. When questioned on the phenomenon, David always gives a knowing smile but offers no comment.

There. There is your paragraph of libel.

This post brought to you by my compelling desire to write, and complete inability to do so. Generous people have given me funny, thoughful, and factual suggestions for posts. Click here to see them, or add your own. I’ll work through them all in time.

Showdown continues.

April 30, 2012

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Mamma Mia!

Annie!

No Annie! Mamma Mia!

Annie first! Then Mamma Mia!

(At this point I’d be surprised if one or both of them did not participate in musical theatre in the future.)

I say NO to meth! *big ass pause*

April 29, 2012

What’s your favourite line in this commercial?? I love ‘prison is full of people who’ve never rollerskated,’ though the excellent extra pause after the meth line made me pee myself a little.

Because I watch this rollerskating commercial today, I go to college tomorrow. Uh…wait. That’s not right. What I really mean to say is: I WANT TO BE ADDICTED TO ROLLERSKATING.

Hope.

April 29, 2012

My whole trip down memory lane had me clicking around my old blog, reading random entries. And I found one where my pal David asked me ten questions. One blew me away. Look:


6) If you had to choose between a life without legs and a life without children, which would it be?

I’m answering these out of order, and this one keeps catching my eye. It seems an impossible choice, and I can’t believe that I find myself leaning towards having legs.

In truth, I can’t imagine myself without legs OR without children. Except that I do know what it’s like to not have children, and I don’t know what it’s like to not have legs. I really believe disability isn’t a huge problem; this is primarily because of my first degree.

I’m not saying it isn’t limiting in some way, if you choose to see it as that, but in other ways it allows people to experience similar things in different ways.

I wonder what the limitations of this question are. For instance, can I foster children or teenagers? Or is that merely getting out on a technicality?

Essentially, I believe it’s possible to have a fulfilling life either way.

But…I guess I would choose having children over having legs. Except I WOULD totally get some bionic ones.

Children offer family, continuity, laughter, love. Legs offer a lot, but I would hope I would be adaptable and resilient enough to face life without them.

I hope, though, I will have both.

Shit. ‘Children offer family, continuity, laughter, love. Legs offer a lot, but I would hope I would be adaptable and resilient enough to face life without them.’ Have I? Have I exibited the grace and hope these words imply?

After all, while it sometimes feels I actually made the choice of having children over being able to walk normally, it wasn’t really a choice. I didn’t know it was a choice I was making before it happened. Who thinks they are going to end up with a permanent disability because they chose to get pregnant? It never entered my mind, which is why this past entry seems spooky and prophetic and….well, hopeful.

It reminds me that even if I HAD had the choice – mobility or my children – I’d choose my children. Every time.

Thank you for that, David from 2004. One again you have brightened my life. I love you.

A story about rain.

April 28, 2012

Brie says: I would like a story about rain, please.

Once upon a time there was a young girl. She was about 14 years old.

This girl loved reading in the bath; on the particular evening we are talking about, she was in the bath, rindow cracked to ventilate the room. It was your typical dark and stormy night – lashing wind and rain. That’s why it was so odd that she heard a voice out on the deck, which was a story below the window of her bathroom.

She knew, in the way that children sometimes know things that are impossible to know, that it was her father on the phone with another woman. He was hiding outside so no one could hear him speaking. She rose from the tub, water dripping down her beautiful body she didn’t know how to appreciate, and walked into her mother’s room. She grabbed the phone, lifting it in that oh-so-careful way she had perfected when she wanted to listen in without anyone knowing an extension had been picked up.

Her wet footprints followed her back to the bathroom, where she carefully locked the door behind her and crouched, shivering, facing the wall. If you were to ask her fifteen or so years later if she remembered the exact words she overheard over the next forty minutes, she’d say, ‘Well, some of them, but I mostly remember the wall I was looking at.’ It was old, 70s style funky wallpaper, brown stripes in various patterns and thicknesses. Water beaded and dried across her goosepimpled and naked flesh, and she looked steadily through that wall.

The young girl heard her father speak intimately to another woman. It was a shock, a surprise, a betrayal – although it wasn’t the first time her father had cheated. But it was the first time she actually caught him. And the last.

Because the rain hitting the window, the water on her body, the tears on her cheeks – oh, the shattering pain. And the deeper, colder, calculating self that wanted to punish him. That self made the girl rise and walk across the hall to her younger sister’s bedroom. Her sister had a tape recorder with a microphone attached, and this girl wanted to tape her father – to give him no chance to deny, to hide. She wanted to make him pay.

Her sister yelled ‘Get out of my room!’ despite the girl placing a finger over her lips and trying to explain. The girl heard her father say, louder than life, ‘Shit. My kid heard everything.’

She angrily, and quickly, told her sister what had happened, before running across the hall, slamming the bathroom door, and locking herself in. Her father’s footsteps pounded against the stairs, up to her door, where she sealed up a part of her. She became silent, and in fact wouldn’t speak a word to her father for the next two years. He kept his voice light and jolly, trying to skillfully kid and pretend nothing had happened. He told her one bullshit story.

Her younger sister was upset, too little to understand what was going on. The girl’s father pulled her sister downstairs, told her a different bullshit story, then sent that poor seven year old kid upstairs to fight his battles for him.

‘Dad says it’s a friend from the bar, she’s dying of cancer, he’s just being a nice friend to her,’ her sister’s voice pleaded. The girl remained silent.

Hours later, her sister went to bed. Her father stopped trying to cajole her. She crept out of the bathroom, long dry, but still naked, and got dressed. She was downstairs waiting for her mother to get home – she worked night shifts at a hospital. She didn’t know where her father was. The girl knew she was going to tell her mother, but in the end her sister did. She ran down the stairs, said, ‘She said she heard dad cheating on you!’

And that was the end of her parent’s marriage.

Not the ongoing violence that had first happened when she was still in her mother’s womb. Not the alcoholism, the PTSD, the colourful and deadly combination of mental illnesses. Not the past cheating. Not the attempted suicide in front of the young girl and her little sister. None of that.

Just one phone call, and one angry young girl.

This post brought to you by my compelling desire to write, and complete inability to do so. Generous people have given me funny, thoughful, and factual suggestions for posts. Click here to see them, or add your own. I’ll work through them all in time.

Flashback: shitting myself in a Burger King bathroom.

April 28, 2012

not for those prone to gagging.
2004-01-03 – 9:22 p.m.

I’m totally not proud, in any way, of what happened today in the Burger King bathroom. Why I need to write about it, therefore, defies all logic.

Here’s the dealio: I have not been able to have a satisfying poop in ages.

Burger King is my laxative. Immediately after finishing lunch, I ran to the bathroom. I chose the stall (one of two) which I knew had a functioning lock. There were a few drops of pee on the seat, and I had no time to think.

I decided to have my emergency bowel clean-out while squatting. It went alright; I could even watch and see how things were progressing.

At one point, however, a spectacular burst of air shot a large quantity of slightly soft poop everywhere, including the toilet seat.

I realized that perhaps I should be sitting down, but I didn’t want to sit on fecal matter, so I pulled my jeans and underwear up to my knees and pulled my sweatshirt down, making sure not to get poop on it. I ran sideways, ass to the front of the stalls, to the next stall.

The seat was HORRIFIC. It looked like someone had:

1) Unwound an entire roll of toilet paper around and around the seat

2) Promptly peed all over all the unrolled paper, hence making it a yellow soup

3) Taken a fork and scratched at it, creating a monstrous papier mache piss sculpture.

(I don’t know who I am to judge since I pooped all over a seat, but then that’s what I do: judge.)

I swore, ran back to the other bathroom, and decided I had to keep squeezing the poop in while I cleaned the pee off the seat.

You have to understand that the pee on the seat which made me squat in the first place was only about 3 drops, yet while having my poop-coming-out-as-fast-as-diarhea-thon, I managed to also urinate all over the seat.

I took some toilet paper and starting swiping at the pee; the paper was some sort of mutant paper which did not absorb pee. It only spread it around. I threw the damp paper into the toilet and got a BIG handful of paper. While smearing the pee around, mixing my urine with the three drops that had originally been there, I started heaving.

I promptly vomited a tidy ball of onion rings and veggie burger into the toilet. I somehow didn’t vomit on the seat, which I eventually cleaned off. I lined it with toilet paper (yes, an effective barrier method to prevent disease transmision, I’m sure), sat down, and prepared to enter the 7th circle of Heaven.

Nothing came out. Nothing. Eventually I felt something worming out, and it was coming really slow, so I did that thing where you close your eyes and suck it back into your body.

I think as I was desperately wiping my ass again and again, I lost my sanity, as I started shaking and laughing. I couldn’t stop laughing.

Could. Not. Stop.

When the whole fiasco was done, I ran my hands for two seconds under cold water (again, a very healthy way to wash toilet germs from your hands, particularly after you’ve touched someone else’s piss), opened the door to the eating area, and started choking on laughter.

I walked very quickly to TMD, sat down, and started whispering…saying, ‘If you love me, TMD, swear to me you WILL NOT go into that bathroom.’

I started to whisper the story to her, but then a nice looking professional woman started heading towards the bathroom. TMD gave me The Look, and we rushed into our winter clothing and ran out of Burger King before the nice looking lady could come over to our table and demand to know what in the HELL I had done in the bathroom to leave it looking like it did.

I finished telling TMD the poop/vomit story while at the bus stop.

Then, on an unrelated note, I danced exhuberantly to ‘Jump…jump..for my love’ (80s song I can’t remember the real name to) while in the grocery store.

TMD was more embarassed of me dancing with bags of carrots and broccoli than knowing I lost control of my bowels, along with all other bodily functions, in a public bathroom.

I love that gal.

Jess says: I have one question & one question only. Do you, Existere, remember the Burger King poo experience like it was just yesterday? Um, I certainly do. To a point. I DEFINATELY remember your reaction to reading it in my blog!!

This post brought to you by my compelling desire to write, and complete inability to do so. Generous people have given me funny, thoughful, and factual suggestions for posts. Click here to see them, or add your own. I’ll work through them all in time.

The Draw Something Saga continues.

April 27, 2012

Oh my fucking god. You guys are not going to believe this.

My friend’s ex stupid boyfriend (well, he was identifying as a girl at the time, so apply your own label) JUST DREW A CATERPILLAR WITH ANTENNAE FOR THE WORD ‘TENTACLE’ AGAIN.

I know.

Tell me a story……1998 edition.

April 26, 2012

This post brought to you by my compelling desire to write, and complete inability to do so. Generous people have given me funny, thoughful, and factual suggestions for posts. Click here to see them, or add your own. I’ll work through them all in time.

Winnie says: I’d love to hear stories about when you and TMD were first together.

I love this topic and will come back to it in future, but first my brain says: which story? Can I type after a day of two sick kids and a glass of wine, with TMD reading a helicopter book to Snort in the background?

I met TMD at the summer camp we both worked at. It was about twenty minutes from my home, and across the ocean from hers. I worked there for many years, in many roles, and every year we had a sizeable amount of staff from abroad. I don’t remember many of them. But I can say, hand over heart, I remember the instant I met TMD.

I had been at camp for a few weeks with the other managerial staff. These early weeks were to get things organized, to train managers, and to watch shitty scary movies and eat candy. The international staff frequently flew in near the end of our month of preparation, a few days before the local staff, because they needed to sleep and get used to the time difference.

So in they came – a group of red eyed, yawning, and terrified young women from around the globe.

The moment that sticks in my mind is this: We were all sleeping together in one big room. The international staff dragged mattresses into a corner and promptly passed out. But TMD? She had the biggest, brightest smile and she was Happy To Be There. She wanted to join in, to hear our stories, to laugh with us. I was really impressed with her. I can actually visualise her exact expression, which is odd because anyone who really knows me knows I can’t recall events that were apparently key in my own life.

That evening at dinner is the first conversation I remember having. We were having make-your-own-tacos and she was like, ‘Uh, what are tacos?’ At that point I thought perhaps she had flown in from the fucking moon rather than Country B, but as I happen to be a modest expert on taco construction, I regalled her with my knowledge.

We became very good friends, best friends eventually. In the way of camp friendships, you become lobsters with those people you work with – you are laughing, whining, playing, living, and working with a tight knit group of people for months at a time. The odd side effect is that often you never speak between camping seasons – but if you happen to see them years later? The easy love and affection is still there.

TMD broke that mold by sending me an email one day. She had the address of my blog-at-the-time, and I had been writing about coming out as bisexual. I had a lot of Very Serious Queer Pondering to do, and that’s mainly where I did it. She wrote and said she thought I was brave. I later found out that she went back to the first entry, written a couple of years before, and read every word I wrote. I think a little of my queer bravery leaked out onto her, and in fact I helped bully her into coming out of the closet a few years later.

But that’s another story.

I don’t really care if you are famous or not.

April 26, 2012

Is there a word for being so cool you don’t realise you are cool at all?

Like, this:

It’s our wedding. We’ve invited a small group of people from a rather wide circle of aquaintance. Most people don’t know each other.

One of my friends from work comes up to me and looks all twitchy. She’s sort of lightly hopping from side to side, and her face looks both radiant and green.

‘Is that ______ from the _________?!?!?’ She then proceeds to freak out and ask if she can ask for an autograph. I’m like, ‘What the fuck are you talking about? That’s just _______, the partner of my friend L. He’s a casual friend.’

Well, folks, apparently this dude was/is in a major band. Like, so fucking big I’m probably the only person on the planet who wouldn’t recognise his face.

She’s all, ‘Why is HE at your wedding? How do you know him? I read that his favourite book is blahblahblah. Have you been in his house? How serious is he about his girlfriend? I saw his group on tour TWICE last year!!!!’

I’m thinking, ‘What? What the hell? He’s famous? Shit, dawg. Have I even heard any of his songs? Does my utter lack of knowledge on this subject make me cool or uncool?’

The reason this shit has risen to the forefront of my mind is that I’m friends with his partner on facebook – and tonight I’ve glanced past the recent picture on her profile like sixteen times. Until suddenly I really looked. WTF was on her baby’s ears?

So I see my beaming friend holding her smiling baby, who happens to be wearing those giant sound blocking headphones they sell for kids. She’s standing backstage, and I can see her husband fucking rocking out in front of like 20,000 people in the background.

See? I didn’t even NOTICE this shit. And her picture has like a hundred comments. I’m personally leaning towards thinking all of this makes me casually cool. Like I fucking hang out with famous people all the time without knowing or caring they are famous. Except it has only happened this once. Well, okay, three other times too.

THREE OTHER TIMES.

I think I’m cool.

In other news, though this is posted Thursday morning, I am writing this about twenty minutes after this post where I begged your ass to comment. If you did not comment, now is your chance. And remember, you don’t want to alienate me. I probably have dinner plans in the next few weeks with your favourite celebrity.

Moving on up.

April 26, 2012

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After weeks of debate and deliberation, I placed two orders this morning – for new little balance bikes! Let’s see if they keep their helmets on constantly in anticipation.


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