pantoum's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- SKATEBOARDS AND GOOFINESS Just returned from the chorus's post-concert potluck. Rushed home from work in a massive lightning storm to make a big pan of escalloped potatoes—delicious, but I hope I have enough cream left for my decaf (sigh) in the morning! It was fun to cut up with my old buddies, especially with my pal Sharon, who used to sit by me in rehearsal. She always beats on me in an affectionate way, says we must have been brothers in another lifetime because we act like silly ten-year-olds together. Tonight I almost made her spit her Coke on her plate because we were planning a summer get-nekkid party with the wild gals from Louisiana and DeeDee asked what we should eat. Sharon said "Nothing fried" and I said "Ladyfingers, of course." Hee! It's interesting. I'm such an introvert in my regular life—too serious at work, really, always fighting deadlines and rushing to meetings, crunching those damn numbers and explaining file formats to people—which makes kicking back and acting like a total goof with old friends even more wonderful. DeeDee and Musicgrrl tried hard to get me to drop trou and show everyone my Brazilian, but I made the people who wanted to see it come to the bathroom with me. The hair is just starting to grow back in—definitely the down side of this sexy waxing thing—and I'm wondering if I can shave it or if that'll just give me ingrown hairs. I'll call Zulu and get some advice tomorrow—plus, her new story should have just come out in a journal, so congratulations are in order. If I can't shave, then that week-after-July-fourth follow-up appointment is just not going to work for me. I guess I should have taken one look at this mop of hair on my head and known I'd need to return sooner than other people though. • I made up stories about the man who killed himself all afternoon, tried to remember if my family talked in choking, hiccupping, state-of-shock sentences after my mother shot herself. I think my father did, a little, but he seemed mostly angry. And I remember crying, but silent tears that just rolled down my cheeks. And I remember Penelope giving me this incredulous why-are-you-crying-you-stupid-you look. I had such veneer of hardness over the real me back then that I probably felt that hiccupping sorrow inside, but didn't let a single little gasp of it out, just sucked it all up into my muscles and bones and clenched my fists and talked in my ordinary, shrug-my-shoulders, roll-my-eyes —whatever—sentences despite my state of numb shock. I mostly remember freeze-framed moments and not a continuing reel—bringing my skateboard down hard across my mean grandmother's foot when she was being so fucking mean to my six-year-old brother who brought our mother flowers every day because she was so sad. But Mama was already unreachable by then, just blank and gone. When I lived there, he used to always come up to the bed and tap me on my shoulder in the middle of the night and say he couldn't fall asleep and then I'd invite him in and fall asleep spooning his little body. He looked as if he would shatter into a million pieces that day as my grandmother stood there berating him, asking how he could let his mother do something like this. And I will never forget the desperate look he gave me. I always felt so protective of him, tried so hard to keep him away from the worst of it, but know that I barely made a difference at all. The only thing I could think of to do was to vent my rage for one moment and break her foot with my skateboard and force her to focus her rage elsewhere. But we were talking about the man who committed suicide, weren't we, and not my mean grandmother. I made up stories about that woman's husband all afternoon. He was gay and someone was threatening to tell his wife. He got promoted to the level of his incompetency and was about to get fired and couldn't deal with losing face. He was embezzling and got caught. He was depressed, but hid this fact from almost everyone and most especially his family. He was a closet alcoholic whose wife thought he was working all those hours he spent in the bar, and had hit bottom. He was hopelessly in love with a twenty-one-year-old who left him for a hunky medical student. Gawd I sure hope for his wife's sake that his life insurance policy doesn't have a suicide clause. I thought I'd look in the paper out of curiosity, then realized I couldn't tell from what she said if this happened yesterday, days ago, or what. LISTENING TO: Thea Gilmore's great cover of Van Morrison's Crazy Love, but should probably be listening to Ann Peebles' rendition of I Can't Stand The Rain, since there's so much of it out there that some roads have water standing all the way across them. I love the rain too much to care though. READING: On Our Backs' Are You A Slut? quiz. The answer is a little misleading, since it doesn't ask you to describe a timeframe, but I can report that I am apparently wet and willing: Down, girl! Actually, you're already there—down on, underneath, or on top of just about anything that moves. Buckle up and pass the lube: you're riding a wave of fun and fucking that isn't likely to break anytime soon—Of course I just sleep with my dragonfly pillow these days and wonder if anyone is going to want to love me again. SANG IN SHOWER: see Listening To BEST SPAM SUBJECT LINE: average girls Domingo 10:22 a.m. - 2005-06-08 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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