Out of Context But Still Makes Perfectly Good Sense

Where has May gone? I’ve been very busy having odd conversations. Here are snippets from while in Chicago two weekends ago:

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Me: Okay, well I look forward to getting rid of the body with you on Sunday.

Sister: Me too. I’ll bring some tools just in case.

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Me: Well, lunch was fun. We have to go now.

Crazy Weird Chick I Used to Work With That Found Me on Facebook: I could hang out with you guys…

Best Friend: No. *shakes head side to side*

Crazy Weird Chick: *looks at me and raises eyebrows*

Me: We gotta go.

Crazy Weird Chick: What? Do you have a date?

Me: No. I told you I’m dating a gal from Philly.

Crazy Weird Chick: Then can I hang out with you guys?

Me and Best Friend (at same time): No.

Crazy Weird Chick: *hug goodbye* Are you really going to just leave me here on the street corner?

Me: Actually, it’s a T-intersection. Bye.

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Me: Didn’t you say you need gas?

Best Friend: Yes, the light is on. I’m almost out.

Me: Why didn’t you stop at one of those last three gas stations we have passed in the last mile?

Best Friend: I don’t like convenience store gas.

Me: Do you think you will stumble upon a gas station now that you are driving through the Willow Springs Forest Preserve?

Best Friend: I’m not putting shitty gas in my car.

Me: *marvels at the supreme fuel attention Best Friend gives his 1995 Saturn or whatever the fuck it is* I sure wish I had a Gatorade for when we run out of gas in the fucking countryside. I’m willing to buy one from a convenience store or a Shell station. It doesn’t matter which.

Best Friend: Where are all the Mobiles or Shells? Fuck! *said as we emerged from the forest preserve and passed a 7-11 gas station*

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Best Friend’s Girlfriend: What are you going to do with the box after you dump your godmother?

Me: I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s plastic or flammable or what. I don’t know how big it is either. I can’t just throw it in a garbage can at the 7-11 that your idiot boyfriend won’t buy gas at. I mean, unless there is a bag in the box. Then I just have to get rid of the bag. But I’m not throwing Mar Mar in the trash.

Best Friend: You don’t know if the ashes are in the box or in a bag?

Me: No. My sister was afraid to look.

Best Friend’s Girlfriend: Can you bury it?

Me: If it’s small. My other idea is to take the box back to the Ambassador West and Pump Room. Mar Mar loved that place and we had a few martinis there. I can repackage the box and then check it with the bellhop. Then I’ll just leave it there in perpetuity.

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Me: Stand back. Wait, which way is the wind blowing? *Best Friend and Sister take three large paces backwards*

Sister: You sprinkle most of her.

Me: You have to sprinkle some too. Get off her mother’s grave.

Sister: *steps back another couple paces* Okay, pour her out. Don’t get any on her mom. She didn’t like her at all. She said only her dad.

Me: Oh my goodness she is dusty. I don’t want to breathe her. *spreading her up and down her father’s grave while I try to turn my head 180 degrees* Here, just a little left.

Best Friend: *watching with morbid curiosity*

Sister: Oh wow, she just keeps pouring and pouring. *spreading wildly like Mar Mar is mulch*

Me: Her dad wasn’t seventeen feet tall. I think you can sprinkle closer to his headstone.

Best Friend: Uh, you are stepping on her.

Me and Sister: Ewwwwwwwwwww! *we both jump back and shuffle feet on grass*

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Me: Good thing she was in this plastic bag. I can crumple it up and bury it.

Best Friend: Oh yeah, dig a hole by the headstone.

Me: You dig a fucking hole by the headstone!

Sister: *goes to find a stick*

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Me: That was kind of fun.

Sister: I know. She provided us great entertainment for the past two months. Now what are we going to do?

Best Friend: *shakes head*

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Squeeze

I was on the el train heading from the airport to downtown Chicago. I was sitting in one of a pair of seats that were facing the aisle. To the left was a barrier wall to the exit door. To the right was the back of two chairs facing the normal way toward the front of the train. I had my suitcase and a shoulder bag. I’m not a small person. I’m about 6’-3”, 210 pounds of pure steel. It’s a special softer kind of steel, some may say flabby in the middle even kind of like aluminum foil, but whatever. I have fairly broad shoulders. I have long legs. The point is, I take up a lot of space.

The train was getting crowded so I positioned my bags in front of me and tried not to sit with my legs spread eagle and my hand down my pants, like usual. A nice older lady sat down next to me. All was well on the orange line to the Loop. But then the lady got off the train. Only a couple men were standing and there were one or two other open seats next to other people in my car. I had my head down, checking email and texting on my phone. I was probably writing something really witty with my thumbs in French. That is how good I am. Even though I don’t know French. But I have always wanted to see the Leaning Eiffel Tower of Pisa after eating tacos. Just an FY effing I for ya.

So anyway, I’m sitting there minding my own business, working hard to not take up extra space in the seat next to me in case anybody wanted to sit down. Now imagine this. Imagine if you will, that you were some sort of food item. You are being prepared for a long shelf life by being vacuum sealed. You are sitting there in your normal state and all the sudden a machine makes a whooshing noise and instantly you are squeezed together and wrapped up in a permanent air tight plastic package.

Hmmm, I’m not sure that even works for me. How ‘bout imagine taking a nice stroll in the jungles of the Amazon like we are all prone to do on a lazy Sunday. You are wandering around peacefully when suddenly out of nowhere a massive python drops out of a tree in perfect coil formation and slides right over your head and down to your shoes, squeezing you like one of those funny little plastic squeaky toys with the eyes that bulge way out.

Yeah, that is better, but not quite right yet. It’s sort of a vacuum sealed python squeezing feeling combined with getting stuck in a vice. But not a vice that slowly turns on the workbench. More like the trash compacting room full of garbage like in Star Wars but done instantaneously instead of slowly enough to stall a certain crushing death until some droid can save you. No, in my case, you can only save yourself.

I was sitting there in my seat working on my phone with neither my legs spread nor my hand down my pants when suddenly a vacuum sealing python squeezing garbage vice grip of doom plopped out of the sky (or the middle of the train aisle) in the spot next to me. I was pushed in like an accordion. I think I heard cartilage tearing in my shoulders. I was slammed against the metal barrier wall on my left by Jabba the Hut on my right. My legs Suzanne Sommersed my suitcase and were wedged there unable to move. The wind got knocked out of me and I became a human Flat Stanley.

I looked at the very large smelly man next to me as he stared blankly ahead. I managed to wheeze out a, “Seriously?” He definitely heard me, but he kept staring blankly ahead without acknowledging my one word that held so so much meaning. As I struggled to inhale air, I said, “Okay, I’ll get up then.” Blank stare.

I pushed out what little breath I had in order to help me wiggle my way out of my seat. As I stood up and moved my bags so I could stand in the aisle, I noticed every single person around me was silent and watching with a look of shock and bemusement. My near death experience was like a traffic accident involving clowns and midgets. It was tragic, but yet they couldn’t look away nor could they suppress their thank god it wasn’t me smiles.

The large large man spilled into my seat and continued staring straight ahead. The next stop was my transfer to the brown line to get to Lincoln Park. The large large man didn’t even say goodbye. I found a solo chair on the next train.

Skittles and Pop Tarts

I don’t even know you. Most of you anyway. And yet I think about you. More than I’m comfortable admitting. For example, when I write about poop and vomit (which I do often), I know that Moi is going to cringe. Just as I know if I write about donuts, she will get excited. I don’t know Moi. But we do tend to read each other’s blog and make comments. So I feel like we have some sort of familiarity, even if it is just learned from reading about each other’s life.

There are a lot of great writers out there. I can’t keep up with all the blogs I want to read regularly. So I hop around. I try to update my blogroll and read as I see new ones pop up to the top of the list. Some of these people don’t read me or if they do, they don’t leave comments. So I may know a lot about them, without them knowing much about me at all. I’m fine with that.

But I think it’s weird, for example, that like this morning when I crushed a lost Skittle on the dirty floor mat of my car that I thought of this guy Kurt. I read most of his blogs – I’d estimate I read 66% to 75% of them. He is damn funny and pretty darn whack. He might be stranger than me. You know, now that I think about it, as much as I read the guy, I really don’t know much about him. That is how whack his stuff is. He is all over the place. I admitted in his last post that sometimes I don’t want to read his blog because the title was so funny I don’t think he can do better. I end up reading it all anyway, but man, some people rock out those titles.

Anyway, one thing I have learned about Kurt is that he likes his Skittles. So now when I have Skittles occasionally, I don’t necessarily think about Kurt. But when I accidentally crushed one on my filthy car mat, for some reason Kurt’s blog popped into my head.

I suspect the connection was made in part because I was also eating a pop tart. I think he recently referred to a pop tart as his woman’s special place. Not her buzzhole, geez! The other hole around there. I eat pop tarts about twice a year when the kids haven’t scarfed them all down. I was hungry this morning, so I grabbed a two-pack for the road. Between the Skittle crushed in filth and the pop tart, I found myself thinking of some dude’s blog that I don’t even know. Isn’t that weird?

So then I was talking to a really hot chick obsessed with her shaved dog and pink sheets about if a pop tart could only refer to a woman’s pussy or if it could also refer to a man’s cock. Like, “is that a pop tart in your pants or are you just happy to see me?” She said I should think of it more as an action between a man and a woman rather than a noun. As in, “pop my tart.”

I liked that answer. Thanks for providing the stimulating conversation, Kurt.

It Is Just A Break

It is time. We have to take a break. It will be difficult, but not as painful as our time together often was. The break will do us both good. We know we will get back together, but now we need time apart. Time for wounds to heal. Time to experience new things.

I already miss you. Tonight was our regular night as long we didn’t have conflicts. I looked forward to you all day. Sometimes my heart would beat faster just thinking about you. We were so good together. We had our nice warm up time before we got really sweaty with all that heavy breathing. We’d go at it like wild animals, rest a little bit and then go at it again.

When I was with you, I’d think of nothing else. I was focused on nothing other than us. You were my meditation, my excitement; my love. You brought out the best in me. You would challenge me. You would cause me to try new things. You were so playful. Yes, I loved our time together.

It would always get so fucking hot. Sweaty bodies crashing into each other. Sometimes you drew blood. You knew I liked the physicality of it. Oh yes, you could be naughty. You teased me, hovering near me, just asking for it. I’d give it to you. I’d put it in the hole, balls bouncing around, swishing sounds of joy.

Yes, I will miss playing basketball on Monday nights.