A few things I’ve been meaning to put down before they get rudely shoved aside in my mind by intrusive thoughts of the butterscotch milkshake I’m craving or dress fitting appointments or JDE invoicing or whatever else might randomly slip in:
Random Compliments That I’ve Received Lately and To Which I Have Not Known How To Respond:
- “You look like a young Bette Midler” (holy crap — what???)
- “You have the nicest skin! I’m looking at it so closely and I can’t see any pores at all!” (while I certainly appreciate the sentiment, get.away.from.my.face — we’re at a business dinner, psycho)
- “You’ve got great boobs.” (from a chick, no less)
- “You’ve got great taste in food.” (okay, well…yes, I do — thank you)
A Movie Scene Which I’m Sure Has Never Been Filmed But Which I Would Very Much Enjoy Seeing Nonetheless:
A sex scene in which the two lovers are locked together 9-1/2 Weeks-style in some very random location (like the inside of an old phone booth or a drained swimming pool next to an abandoned hotel), completely throwing all decency to the wind and saying nothing to each other as a Hardingfele plays mournfully over the scene. I know, I know: you’re laughing now at the Hardingfele, aren’t you? You’re either laughing at the word “Hardingfele” even though you have no idea what it is, or you’re laughing because you actually know what one is and you’re either associating it with The Lord of the Rings soundtrack (no! stop it!) or you’re imagining a jolly Norwegian tune being played on it while two people get down in a phone booth.
But go and listen to “Folkdance from the Hills” by Edvard Grieg (you can listen to a small snippet of it on Amazon, but it’s not the good part and it really doesn’t do it justice). Now picture that playing over the sex. It’s totally hot, isn’t it? Smoking hot. And here you were, making fun of a Hardingfele like a 13-year-old.
The Temp Who’s Sharing My Office With Me Is Very Interested in Homeopathic Medicine
Very interested. He talks about it all the time, which I have a hard time reconciling with the music that he listens to all day long (paging Megadeth to office 1350, Megadeth to 1350, please). I mean, as I write this, he’s mumbling something to me about Valerian root. Thank God he can’t see my computer screen. So today, I’m getting a little flustered while I’m on the phone with an employee and I flub my words. Big deal; whatever. But when I finish the call, there’s the temp waiting with baited breath to tell me:
“You messed up your words just now.” Yeah, thanks for noticing.
“You know that the reason people do that — the reason their minds are all foggy — is that they have a stomach fungus.” What?
“Yeah, a stomach fungus — it’s called candida.” You mean yeast? Like a yeast infection? In someone’s stomach? O…..kay.
“Yeah, gross, huh? You should totally eat some cream of tartar; it’ll clear that right up.” Thanks for the heads up, buddy. I’ll get right on that one.
A Poem Which I Had Forgotten That I Really Enjoy and Found Again In the Back Of a Notebook Today:
If I should go away,
Beloved, do not say
‘He has forgotten me’.
For you abide,
A singing rib within my dreaming side;
You always stay.
And in the mad tormented valley
Where blood and hunger rally
And Death the wild beast is uncaught, untamed,
Our soul withstands the terror
And has its quiet honour
Among the glittering stars your voices named.
–Postcript for Gweno, by Alun Lewis
Hey, Bette Midler’s Looking Pretty Good For an Older Broad!: