World, Hi
The holiday season has me thinking of holy, otherworldly things and it reminded me...
I used to have two guardian angels. They were very little.
One sat on my left shoulder and I thought of her as "Eurotrash Girl". You can call her the "Id Girl". She led quite a hedonistic lifestyle and her job was to encourage me to follow her example. She smoked French cigarettes, had a raspy voice, and spoke in a Romanian-ish accent that was probably as real as Pamela Lee Anderson's....everything. Eurotrash girl never missed an opportunity to have a good time. She wore an old black leather biker jacket over her short black dress, and accessorized with black tights and biker boots, big hoop earrings and bright red lipstick. Her "Midnight in Paris" dyed hair was shoulder length and razored to give it a spiky just got out of bed look, not that she slept much. She believed that a.) eyeliner is a staple and one never leaves home without it and b.) a man who doesn't have tattoos will eventually bore you to death. Eurotrash Girl sported her own tattoo, a tiny pair of white wings, just at the base of her neck. She was always calling me her little popover, her sweet cherry cordial, her petite croissant. This constant reference to food items led me to believe that Eurotrash Girl wanted to pop me in her mouth and swallow me whole but given that I never saw her eat, I suppose they were terms of endearment.
The other angel sat on my right shoulder and I called her "Armani Girl" due to her meticulous appearance. I never saw her in the same outfit twice and I never saw her without pearls, even on dress down Fridays. Armani Girl could be critical. Her job, it appeared, was to encourage me to see myself as others saw me and to act accordingly. She called me Darling, but not in a very endearing way. "But Darling", she might say, "do you really imagine those potato chips won't migrate directly to your ass and stay there like spackle for all eternity?" Armani Girl found eating to be a crass habit that one could overcome if only one would try. Her honey blonde hair fell in a smooth, graceful wave to her shoulders and her always perfectly applied makeup was subtle enough that it looked natural but took two hours to apply. Armani girl also held to a couple firm beliefs: a.)There is no virtue in aging gracefully and b.)any man with a tattoo will someday let you down and is to be avoided at all cost. Armani Girl did not have any permanent markings on her body. Even her earrings were clip ons. Every Thursday morning she would disappear for two hours and come back with a fresh mani-pedi.
As you might imagine, Eurotrash Girl and Armani Girl did not get along. In fact, were it not for my head sitting on my neck directly between them, they would have done each other harm. Instead, they occupied themselves issuing directives in each of my poor harrassed ears and making snide comments about one another just loud enough for all of us to hear. They often fought amongst themselves as though I were not there.
A typical conversation might go like this:
Eurotrash Girl to me: "Take me to ze club, Lollipop, I vish to zee all ze exciting young men in zhere tight, tight, jeans. I vant to dance, dance ze night away and drink ze vodka collins and maybe ve vill meet zat cute guitar player who look like ze Sting for a little rendevous, ay Porkchop? Vat do you zay?"
Me to Eurotrash Girl: "Vat, I mean, What club? I don't go to clubs. I don't know any guitar players who look like Sting. I don't even like Vodka."
Eurotrash Girl to Me: "Ridiculous little Lollipop....everyone love ze vodka...is ridiculous not to love ze vodka...Ve vill go to ze no name club...is very special..ze guitar player, he give me ze secret code. You know vat? Ze guitar player has a secret tattoo, you vill love him. Ve vill dance and drink ze vodka and stay out all ze night. Vill be Fun. Let us go."
Armani Girl to Me: "Darling, do not let that unkempt little trollop lead you astray. We discussed this just this morning when we made our list, and Darling, tonight we are ironing and then we are watching 'Mad About You',although tomorrow you must tell everyone you watched the presidential debate, so we had better also schedule in time to read the morning headlines, which means early to bed and no time for accompanying faded tarts God knows where in search of lecherous, sweaty musicians."
Eurotrash Girl to Me: "Vat a bore. Vy do you put up wiz zat old slut, little Baklava? Don't you vant to have fun? Don't you vant to dance ze macarena vith ze Sting man? Vat is "Mad About You"? Is stupid, stupid show for stupid vomen who not know vere to find ze hot men. Zat Paul, he has no tattoos...zere is no future for Helen vith him...leave ze bat at home to pluck her eyebrows just a vittle bit thinner and come vith me,my spicy Chicken Ving. Vill be fun."
Here's where I get left out of the conversation:
Armani Girl to Eurotrash Girl: "Darling, you wouldn't know fun if it kidnapped you and dumped you in front of Elizabeth Arden's Red Door. You have the moral rectitude of a rabbit, the drinking habit of Hemingway, the mental stability of Van Gogh, and an annoyingly perverse habit of projecting your trashy character onto me. Why don't you run along now and if you do not stop smoking in here I am calling the building superintendant to have you thrown out...."
Me trying to interrupt: "uh, I don't think we have a building....."
Eurotrash Girl to Armani Girl: "oh shuuuut uppppp, you are boring me vith all your talk. You are old, you have frozen face of ice statue, yes? You need vodka and ze sex and maybe you become not so frozen. You come vith us, vill be fun, but you must change zat awful clothing."
Me again: "superintendant, and besides I don't think he can see......"
Armani Girl to Eurotrash Girl: "Listen to me, Darling, and try to stay focused. If the apocalypse was upon us, if the world was doomed, and the only way I could save myself was to go to some seedy little bar without the forethought or consideration to even post a sign outside the door and participate in your debauched little game of charades, I would take all of my Xanax at once, drink a bottle of Chardonnay, and sing hallelujah"
Eurotrash Girl: "Stay zen, I do not care, old bat"
Me to No one: "I'm going to bed"
Aramni Girl to Eurotrash Girl: "I win, Darling"
Eurotrash Girl: "Ve vill see, old bat"
I'm tired of writing now, so let me end this, and maybe I'll come back and finish it later. The truth is, Armani Girl usually did win but I liked Eurotrash Girl better and she, also, had her moments of victory. Eventually, I was exhausted from their battles and one fine day I had an epiphany: These two were not guides, not angelic entities sent from on high to nurture and protect me. These two were the demons of extremism; the demi-monde and the demi-mom. Once I had processed what I was living with, what I had done to myself, I took a walk, had a nice long shower, a cigarette and a glass of Kendall Jackson. Then I kicked those two demis right to the curb and I've been a slightly unkempt, fairly laid back, moderately morally conscious human ever since.
Happy Holidays, World. Hope your angels are many and your demons few.
Take care,
Chicken
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Stupid Things I Have Done
Hey World, it is Twoferone Day. Who knew?
So...stupid things I have done...yes...there are many.
Disclaimer: This is not a complete listing. It is late and 2010 is upon us. Entries are posted in random order and should not be perceived as a timeline of Chicken's life.
1. The inspiration for this blog and a cautionary tale: Last weekend I finally got around to cleaning out my pocketbook, purse, bag, fifth circle of hell, whatever...anyway. In the bag I came across three of those little key chain spray things that you can buy nowadays. Two were breath freshener. One was antibacterial spray. Guess which one I have been spraying in my mouth for the last two weeks?
2. One of my first waitressing jobs was at a (then) ultracool restaurant/bar called "Raoul's Roadside Attraction" (yes, named after the book and yes, the only reason I weaseled myself in there). Anyway, one of the owners of said bar, P, was this guy who wore pirate shirts, black leggings, and wore his hair long and curly long before Johnny Depp made it cool. In fact, P was so out of style for his era that he was, obviously, beyond style and thus, like his bar, ultracool. P was an original. P made me nervous. One morning I am going through the opening check list and P is sitting at the bar most likely making a drug purchase (but of course I am thinking ultracool boss is making ultracool business deal) and I am making coffee. The way I always make it. And in that annoying mosquito buzzing in your ear fashion that you only notice after 10 seconds or so, I realize I am being watched. P says, "Chicken, are you pouring HOT water into the coffee maker?". "Yes, P, I am" says I. "Why?" says P. "Because", I say, very matter of factly, "it takes less time for the coffee to get hot this way".
3. My favorite cousin's name is CCool. When we were growing up, I spent nearly every weekend at her house. Why? Because her parents were kind enough to practice the then favored child rearing strategy of benign neglect. So CCool and I are on the sun porch of family home, which happens to be 20 feet or so above the ground. Maybe I exaggerate. I don't know. I was 8 for God's sake. It was high, though, and built over the driveway. The concrete driveway. CCool and I are sitting there in the middle of summer vacation and we are BORED!!! CCool has the very bright idea of playing parachute. We lug some couch cushions down to the driveway because, hey, we are not dumb. Concrete landing pads may be fine for people with actual parachutes, but that would not be us. Then we go back up to the sun porch and hoist ourselves onto the railing. Man, it was high. CCool says, "okay, go ahead". I say, "Why do I have to go first?". CCool says "because it is more fun to go first and you are company. But don't worry, I will be right behind you, stick a needle in my eye and hope to die". Well. That's serious stuff. And off I go. I am lying slightly to the left of the couch cushions nursing my broken ankle when CCool says, "okay, here I come...."
And I say, "Don't do it CCool"
4.) I did not make CCool stick a needle in her eye.
5.) After jumping around all night on one foot pretending I was playing a game of seeing if I could hop around all night on one foot, I was eventually found out. And when asked by formerly benign neglectful parents but now fairly pissed off CCool Aunt and Uncle, "Who the hell's bright idea was this?" I said..."mine. my idea".
6.) I used to play trumpet. It was one of the ways I defined myself in my youth, being a little too nerdy to know that being a girl trumpet player was not really where it's at in eighth grade. Around about November or so, the cool radio station that my older brother listened to after school every day held a talent contest. Based on the Gong Show, Contestants would call in and if they were the 10th or 8th or whatever caller, they would have the opportunity to display their talent on air and the listening public would have a chance to vote on whether or not this person would be eligible to compete in the grand final LIVE talent show, hosted by radio talents 'whoever' and 'whatshisname', or gonged back into anonymity. Inspired by the comedic renderings of three goofballs in my class who gave it a try and made the grade, I decided to have a go.
7.) I called and called and called, trumpet in hand, and finally got my chance. And I also got through to the finals and did not get the gong. Which has, frankly, always been somewhat of a mystery to me. Was no one listening to radio that day?
8.) I considered this a great victory and I went. To the finals. And having been a late bloomer and still more admiring (secretly) of the Tom T. Hall and Charlie Pride 8-track tapes my father listened to rather than Casey Kasem's top 40, I played 'I Walk the Line' on trumpet for three hundred 13-22 year olds. LIVE. In my Sunday School dress.
9.) My oldest child was always precocious and, maybe because I was young and immature when I had her, always seemed to me wise beyond her years. S was a great little companion. Great conversationalist, brilliant at memory games, very athletic, and never one to do worrisome things like get into cabinets, go outside alone, put things in her mouth...I say this in defense of what comes next. Normally, S was a very good traveler but when we were transferred to Connecticut (right around the time she turned a year old) and driving home often on the weekends, she eventually got tired of the four hour trip and had no problem sharing her dissatisfaction with her parents. Here we are, on 89 during rush hour on a Friday night, and S has been screaming her head off for pretty much the past hour. We stop at McDonald's. We get French Fries. S likes them. All is good for 10 minutes. Then it starts again. Nerves are fraying. S's father, who is driving, says, "Can't you DO something????" And because I am not the type of mother who would EVER endanger her child by taking her out of her car seat in a moving vehicle in order to comfort her, I give S a container of pennies to play with. Because...read above...rembember? She NEVER does that. Except now S is mega-pissed. All is quiet in the back seat. Husband sighs. Chicken Sighs. S.....is awfully quiet...I look back to see how the penny playing is going. And there is S sitting in her car seat, glaring at me, with both cheeks stuffed full of pennies.
10. Between the years of 17 and 21, I traveled around a lot in New England and lived in a few different places. One of them was North Conway, NH. I lived there for about a year, made a lot of friends, and when I moved again, I often went back to visit. When I moved to North Conway, I had been living in Portland, ME. When I left No. Conway, I moved home to central Maine. So I knew how to get to North Conway from Portland. When I moved home, I still thought I knew how to get to North Conway. You take Route 4 to 95, drive towards Portland, get off in Gorham and take 116 to North Conway. It was a long drive, like four hours, but no sweat, it was worth it because I loved my friends. Until they dug out a map after listening to me whine about the long drive and showed me how, effectively, I was driving from point A to point B to point C when I could have just skipped point B and made it in 1.5 hours. To say that I am geographically challenged would be an understatement. Someday I will write a post about places I wanted to go and couldn't find.
Okay that's enough fun for y'all at my expense. Sleep tight and remember, it's not the destination but the journey that counts.
Take care,
Chicken
So...stupid things I have done...yes...there are many.
Disclaimer: This is not a complete listing. It is late and 2010 is upon us. Entries are posted in random order and should not be perceived as a timeline of Chicken's life.
1. The inspiration for this blog and a cautionary tale: Last weekend I finally got around to cleaning out my pocketbook, purse, bag, fifth circle of hell, whatever...anyway. In the bag I came across three of those little key chain spray things that you can buy nowadays. Two were breath freshener. One was antibacterial spray. Guess which one I have been spraying in my mouth for the last two weeks?
2. One of my first waitressing jobs was at a (then) ultracool restaurant/bar called "Raoul's Roadside Attraction" (yes, named after the book and yes, the only reason I weaseled myself in there). Anyway, one of the owners of said bar, P, was this guy who wore pirate shirts, black leggings, and wore his hair long and curly long before Johnny Depp made it cool. In fact, P was so out of style for his era that he was, obviously, beyond style and thus, like his bar, ultracool. P was an original. P made me nervous. One morning I am going through the opening check list and P is sitting at the bar most likely making a drug purchase (but of course I am thinking ultracool boss is making ultracool business deal) and I am making coffee. The way I always make it. And in that annoying mosquito buzzing in your ear fashion that you only notice after 10 seconds or so, I realize I am being watched. P says, "Chicken, are you pouring HOT water into the coffee maker?". "Yes, P, I am" says I. "Why?" says P. "Because", I say, very matter of factly, "it takes less time for the coffee to get hot this way".
3. My favorite cousin's name is CCool. When we were growing up, I spent nearly every weekend at her house. Why? Because her parents were kind enough to practice the then favored child rearing strategy of benign neglect. So CCool and I are on the sun porch of family home, which happens to be 20 feet or so above the ground. Maybe I exaggerate. I don't know. I was 8 for God's sake. It was high, though, and built over the driveway. The concrete driveway. CCool and I are sitting there in the middle of summer vacation and we are BORED!!! CCool has the very bright idea of playing parachute. We lug some couch cushions down to the driveway because, hey, we are not dumb. Concrete landing pads may be fine for people with actual parachutes, but that would not be us. Then we go back up to the sun porch and hoist ourselves onto the railing. Man, it was high. CCool says, "okay, go ahead". I say, "Why do I have to go first?". CCool says "because it is more fun to go first and you are company. But don't worry, I will be right behind you, stick a needle in my eye and hope to die". Well. That's serious stuff. And off I go. I am lying slightly to the left of the couch cushions nursing my broken ankle when CCool says, "okay, here I come...."
And I say, "Don't do it CCool"
4.) I did not make CCool stick a needle in her eye.
5.) After jumping around all night on one foot pretending I was playing a game of seeing if I could hop around all night on one foot, I was eventually found out. And when asked by formerly benign neglectful parents but now fairly pissed off CCool Aunt and Uncle, "Who the hell's bright idea was this?" I said..."mine. my idea".
6.) I used to play trumpet. It was one of the ways I defined myself in my youth, being a little too nerdy to know that being a girl trumpet player was not really where it's at in eighth grade. Around about November or so, the cool radio station that my older brother listened to after school every day held a talent contest. Based on the Gong Show, Contestants would call in and if they were the 10th or 8th or whatever caller, they would have the opportunity to display their talent on air and the listening public would have a chance to vote on whether or not this person would be eligible to compete in the grand final LIVE talent show, hosted by radio talents 'whoever' and 'whatshisname', or gonged back into anonymity. Inspired by the comedic renderings of three goofballs in my class who gave it a try and made the grade, I decided to have a go.
7.) I called and called and called, trumpet in hand, and finally got my chance. And I also got through to the finals and did not get the gong. Which has, frankly, always been somewhat of a mystery to me. Was no one listening to radio that day?
8.) I considered this a great victory and I went. To the finals. And having been a late bloomer and still more admiring (secretly) of the Tom T. Hall and Charlie Pride 8-track tapes my father listened to rather than Casey Kasem's top 40, I played 'I Walk the Line' on trumpet for three hundred 13-22 year olds. LIVE. In my Sunday School dress.
9.) My oldest child was always precocious and, maybe because I was young and immature when I had her, always seemed to me wise beyond her years. S was a great little companion. Great conversationalist, brilliant at memory games, very athletic, and never one to do worrisome things like get into cabinets, go outside alone, put things in her mouth...I say this in defense of what comes next. Normally, S was a very good traveler but when we were transferred to Connecticut (right around the time she turned a year old) and driving home often on the weekends, she eventually got tired of the four hour trip and had no problem sharing her dissatisfaction with her parents. Here we are, on 89 during rush hour on a Friday night, and S has been screaming her head off for pretty much the past hour. We stop at McDonald's. We get French Fries. S likes them. All is good for 10 minutes. Then it starts again. Nerves are fraying. S's father, who is driving, says, "Can't you DO something????" And because I am not the type of mother who would EVER endanger her child by taking her out of her car seat in a moving vehicle in order to comfort her, I give S a container of pennies to play with. Because...read above...rembember? She NEVER does that. Except now S is mega-pissed. All is quiet in the back seat. Husband sighs. Chicken Sighs. S.....is awfully quiet...I look back to see how the penny playing is going. And there is S sitting in her car seat, glaring at me, with both cheeks stuffed full of pennies.
10. Between the years of 17 and 21, I traveled around a lot in New England and lived in a few different places. One of them was North Conway, NH. I lived there for about a year, made a lot of friends, and when I moved again, I often went back to visit. When I moved to North Conway, I had been living in Portland, ME. When I left No. Conway, I moved home to central Maine. So I knew how to get to North Conway from Portland. When I moved home, I still thought I knew how to get to North Conway. You take Route 4 to 95, drive towards Portland, get off in Gorham and take 116 to North Conway. It was a long drive, like four hours, but no sweat, it was worth it because I loved my friends. Until they dug out a map after listening to me whine about the long drive and showed me how, effectively, I was driving from point A to point B to point C when I could have just skipped point B and made it in 1.5 hours. To say that I am geographically challenged would be an understatement. Someday I will write a post about places I wanted to go and couldn't find.
Okay that's enough fun for y'all at my expense. Sleep tight and remember, it's not the destination but the journey that counts.
Take care,
Chicken
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The Gospel According to GG
World. Hi.
Today I got the following email and well...it speaks for itself:
To: Chicken
From: GG
Subject: Overheard from Chicken's last confession:
Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. It has been 13 days since my last blog update. My cadre of followers (small, but intensely loyal within the confines of their hummingbird-like attention spans) needs to hear from me, yet I am silent as the grave. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Somewhere in New England, and all the way down the street to where my Portuguese neighbors have one of those Our Lady on a Half-Shell lawn ornaments, and I pray to the blindingly aquamarine Virgin to inspire me, I got nothin'. Bupkis. So I'm asking you, Father, to intervene for me and ask the Baby Jesus(Perhaps as a birthday wish when he's blowing out his candles next week? Just a thought.) to bring me inspiration, that I might blog again. I DO believe in miracles. (And I DO I DO I DO believe in spooks, too, as it happens. The Cowardly Lion and I are TIGHT like that.)
Thank you for your time,
Chicken.
Ahhh. Poetry to my ears. And of course I responded.
To: GG
From: Chicken
Re: I am Saved
You know what I am going to do with this, right? Oh, Yes I am, GG. It is too funny for the world not to read. And lo this long day I have been inspired by thy funniness and now must preach the gospel of GG. I am called upon by Santa, the Faeries, Nora Ephron, and perhaps even the Baby Jesus (who I am thinking has one enormous sense of humor but who also, come to think of it, may be a tad mentally conflicted, and who could blame him..."here Baby Jesus, have some Frankencense and Myrrh, listen to my drums, you are King"...wait for it.... "you SUCK Baby Jesus, now carry this cross and hold still while we nail you to it. This is going to hurt a bit") to spread thy teachings amongst the humorless masses to further my own narcissistic need for attention through laughter because I am a Lucky Lucky Chicken to have been saved by the cheeky humor of GG. And I will implore my readers, "Come Closer, my Friends. Do not be afraid, for thou art in the house of GG. The water is warm and fine and might be wine cause chickens, as we all know, are not generally fond of water. Be annointed. Go in Laughter. Amen."
WARNING TO ALL READERS: There will be fall out.
Take cover.
Chicken, over and out (And hiding.)
Today I got the following email and well...it speaks for itself:
To: Chicken
From: GG
Subject: Overheard from Chicken's last confession:
Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. It has been 13 days since my last blog update. My cadre of followers (small, but intensely loyal within the confines of their hummingbird-like attention spans) needs to hear from me, yet I am silent as the grave. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Somewhere in New England, and all the way down the street to where my Portuguese neighbors have one of those Our Lady on a Half-Shell lawn ornaments, and I pray to the blindingly aquamarine Virgin to inspire me, I got nothin'. Bupkis. So I'm asking you, Father, to intervene for me and ask the Baby Jesus(Perhaps as a birthday wish when he's blowing out his candles next week? Just a thought.) to bring me inspiration, that I might blog again. I DO believe in miracles. (And I DO I DO I DO believe in spooks, too, as it happens. The Cowardly Lion and I are TIGHT like that.)
Thank you for your time,
Chicken.
Ahhh. Poetry to my ears. And of course I responded.
To: GG
From: Chicken
Re: I am Saved
You know what I am going to do with this, right? Oh, Yes I am, GG. It is too funny for the world not to read. And lo this long day I have been inspired by thy funniness and now must preach the gospel of GG. I am called upon by Santa, the Faeries, Nora Ephron, and perhaps even the Baby Jesus (who I am thinking has one enormous sense of humor but who also, come to think of it, may be a tad mentally conflicted, and who could blame him..."here Baby Jesus, have some Frankencense and Myrrh, listen to my drums, you are King"...wait for it.... "you SUCK Baby Jesus, now carry this cross and hold still while we nail you to it. This is going to hurt a bit") to spread thy teachings amongst the humorless masses to further my own narcissistic need for attention through laughter because I am a Lucky Lucky Chicken to have been saved by the cheeky humor of GG. And I will implore my readers, "Come Closer, my Friends. Do not be afraid, for thou art in the house of GG. The water is warm and fine and might be wine cause chickens, as we all know, are not generally fond of water. Be annointed. Go in Laughter. Amen."
WARNING TO ALL READERS: There will be fall out.
Take cover.
Chicken, over and out (And hiding.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)