On Days Like This
How could I be anywhere else, to miss out on the clarity of the day, and the forget-me-not blue of the bay. Sitting in Sausalito at happy hour looking out across the jagged horizon towards my home, just about to shimmer at the onset of dusk, and the windows to the east spontaneously errupting in flameless fire at the sun's descent.
How could I be anywhere else, but here now, and maybe forever. These rare evenings dripping in beauty, they can't sustain a life, they are a false patina, and just a sunset afterall. I am feeling lonely in advance and I haven't even left yet. The aesthete and the dilletante in me are having a hard time, their collective stub nose is bent out of joint, they have issues with Oregon and are leery of hicks, mostly they cower at the grostequeries of suburbia and fear that might be part of our lot up there in Portland. So I turned to them and said if I turn forty in my wee bottom floor shitbox of an apartment, I swear to you I will cut off your pert nose to spite my motherfucking face. And they sniffled into lace hankies and muttered to one another about museums and artisanal tequilas at $22 a shot....
Mostly I am exhausted by the all of this emotional thrusting, these vying angels and demons whittling at my last nerve, christ have I not been pummeled enough? Metaphysically and metaphorically and bodily, I have been in some grade of pain ever since Dr. Remodel rearranged my middle, and though the bruises have mostly faded my skin is slowly reviving, tingles and twinges and pulls and numbness, and yes it's fucking great but I am about to embark on another couple of months of bruises and stitches and an alien body as I head into phase two of the remodel.
I was at dinner on Monday with the usual suspects and we were talking about phase II, I was feeling particularly hormonal and got a little weepy lamenting the fact that no one was going to enjoy, that I was not get to enjoy one last romp with my tits, I consoled myself with wishes that my tennis serve will improve exponentially, and then I went home and wild dreams featuring Matt Damon, huh, wha?, OK, well whatever works.
That's the thing about better living through plastic surgery is you have to be forward thinking. Also, you become the defacto expert at the dinner table on all things inappropriate when the main courses are served, in fact you are served up at the table, opened up to mild opprobrium tinged with circuitous envy, suddenly everyone wants to weigh in on the state of your nipples and one of your dining companions does something so lewd with his tongue that you are tempted to go hide behind and then get under the italian waiter...... commo se dice - eh - you wanna fondl-eh my eh boobies-eh???
Right. See this is what happens to the chronically undersexed, and I won't even mention the Larkspur firemen at Peet's today. Except HaChaCha.
I have been intentionally forthright about my remodel, I'd rather not have to be coy and dissemble the truth about why I look different, says she though a mouthful of duck confit.
As for Portland, the signs still augur, this morning I opened up the New York Times and I swear to God there was another feature on Portland, this time on the proliferation of precious tea shops, it's the fifth or sixth feature in four months, the aesthete was pleased, the dilletante was all, ugh, tea, but, but kombucha is a magic dietary aid, and the snark was quelled. I am going to have to learn to appreciate beer, and Crocs, may the good lord have mercy on my Louboutin loving soul.
I gave my two month notice at the office with the caveat that they not kick me to the curb before hand, so now it's all really real. Before it was all playing house on line and sussing out the mouth feel of leaving on friends, now my livelihood is at stake and they have set about looking for a replacement. I am of mixed minds on this, I felt suddenly covetous of my job and alternately incensed that they did not beg me to stay -- in truth one of my colleagues and friend knew what my plan has been for a long while, but I made it official and the incontrovertable wheels of change commenced their solemn grinding, meanwhile in my head I am screaming, wait! wait! I'm not totally serious! kidding! beg me to stay, please beg me to stay?! that and pay me more money!! Which is pretty much where I am at, just a hare's breadth ahead of the incontrovertable, grinding wheels of change, gouging the earth in their wake, I fear I'll just have to keep up this exhausting pace until I find the right house of my own to hang my sweat tinged hat in, any other rabbit hole would be an unholy diversion, furry tea party orgies with soporifics and duels with two dimensional huffy queens, wait that was yesterday, or maybe this saturday - bastille day, oui, and as for soporifics, I still have a ton of vicodin....
How could I be anywhere else, to miss out on the clarity of the day, and the forget-me-not blue of the bay. Sitting in Sausalito at happy hour looking out across the jagged horizon towards my home, just about to shimmer at the onset of dusk, and the windows to the east spontaneously errupting in flameless fire at the sun's descent.
How could I be anywhere else, but here now, and maybe forever. These rare evenings dripping in beauty, they can't sustain a life, they are a false patina, and just a sunset afterall. I am feeling lonely in advance and I haven't even left yet. The aesthete and the dilletante in me are having a hard time, their collective stub nose is bent out of joint, they have issues with Oregon and are leery of hicks, mostly they cower at the grostequeries of suburbia and fear that might be part of our lot up there in Portland. So I turned to them and said if I turn forty in my wee bottom floor shitbox of an apartment, I swear to you I will cut off your pert nose to spite my motherfucking face. And they sniffled into lace hankies and muttered to one another about museums and artisanal tequilas at $22 a shot....
Mostly I am exhausted by the all of this emotional thrusting, these vying angels and demons whittling at my last nerve, christ have I not been pummeled enough? Metaphysically and metaphorically and bodily, I have been in some grade of pain ever since Dr. Remodel rearranged my middle, and though the bruises have mostly faded my skin is slowly reviving, tingles and twinges and pulls and numbness, and yes it's fucking great but I am about to embark on another couple of months of bruises and stitches and an alien body as I head into phase two of the remodel.
I was at dinner on Monday with the usual suspects and we were talking about phase II, I was feeling particularly hormonal and got a little weepy lamenting the fact that no one was going to enjoy, that I was not get to enjoy one last romp with my tits, I consoled myself with wishes that my tennis serve will improve exponentially, and then I went home and wild dreams featuring Matt Damon, huh, wha?, OK, well whatever works.
That's the thing about better living through plastic surgery is you have to be forward thinking. Also, you become the defacto expert at the dinner table on all things inappropriate when the main courses are served, in fact you are served up at the table, opened up to mild opprobrium tinged with circuitous envy, suddenly everyone wants to weigh in on the state of your nipples and one of your dining companions does something so lewd with his tongue that you are tempted to go hide behind and then get under the italian waiter...... commo se dice - eh - you wanna fondl-eh my eh boobies-eh???
Right. See this is what happens to the chronically undersexed, and I won't even mention the Larkspur firemen at Peet's today. Except HaChaCha.
I have been intentionally forthright about my remodel, I'd rather not have to be coy and dissemble the truth about why I look different, says she though a mouthful of duck confit.
As for Portland, the signs still augur, this morning I opened up the New York Times and I swear to God there was another feature on Portland, this time on the proliferation of precious tea shops, it's the fifth or sixth feature in four months, the aesthete was pleased, the dilletante was all, ugh, tea, but, but kombucha is a magic dietary aid, and the snark was quelled. I am going to have to learn to appreciate beer, and Crocs, may the good lord have mercy on my Louboutin loving soul.
I gave my two month notice at the office with the caveat that they not kick me to the curb before hand, so now it's all really real. Before it was all playing house on line and sussing out the mouth feel of leaving on friends, now my livelihood is at stake and they have set about looking for a replacement. I am of mixed minds on this, I felt suddenly covetous of my job and alternately incensed that they did not beg me to stay -- in truth one of my colleagues and friend knew what my plan has been for a long while, but I made it official and the incontrovertable wheels of change commenced their solemn grinding, meanwhile in my head I am screaming, wait! wait! I'm not totally serious! kidding! beg me to stay, please beg me to stay?! that and pay me more money!! Which is pretty much where I am at, just a hare's breadth ahead of the incontrovertable, grinding wheels of change, gouging the earth in their wake, I fear I'll just have to keep up this exhausting pace until I find the right house of my own to hang my sweat tinged hat in, any other rabbit hole would be an unholy diversion, furry tea party orgies with soporifics and duels with two dimensional huffy queens, wait that was yesterday, or maybe this saturday - bastille day, oui, and as for soporifics, I still have a ton of vicodin....
posted by emma at
10:20 PM
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