Isabella Wunder

I am happy to report that all of yesterdays goals were more than met and, as is often the case, in the process of these conquests i learned some very important lessons.

The HLP and i took off from Benicia after completing her illegal transactions circa 1pm. After a short dicussion on whether or not to get high before or after shopping we opted for the obvious and got stoned en route to Marshall's and Target where the HLP bought gifts for other people.

I approached all of our endeavors with an open mind but as we entered the Marshall's my cortisone production levels began to rise. At the risk of sounding like the elitest, yet poverty-stricken, bitch that i am, i must say that it was the presence of the other people which bothered me most.
They were walking through that sea of cheap garments thrown haphazardly in all directions pawing at the merchandise like so many slabs of rotting meat whilst their souls emitted high-pitched noises not unlike the whirring of ill-functioning vacuums.
Of course, that could've been the weed.

However, the agony of Marshalls & Target was nothing compared to the pain that awaited me in Walnut Creek.

Our first stop was Nordstroms. A stop which was only made after "a fucking ordeal and a half" looking for a parking spot near Broadway Plaza, large parts of which were closed off for some ceremony they called "Christmas Parade". ? ?

I discovered many differences between myself and the HLP yesterday, all of which have only made me love her more, of course, but to deny them would be to commit an act of violence upon our love which will span the course of our unnatural lives and contain plenty of acts of violence in and of itself.

We subscribe to different philosophies of driving. I prefer to obey the laws and regulations of the road and drive in a manner some might describe as cautious or deffering, my justification being that all the social rebellion in the world will not increase the chances of my compact Saturn when pitted against the ubiquitous SUV's of Walnut Creek. The HLP however opts for a slightly more agressive driving style. After she nearly killed us and the four nuns with their under-privileged cancer-stricken somalian orphans driving in the station wagon beside behind us, my face, usually an imperturbable countenance of calm and wisdom, registered the slightest wince. This prompted the HLP to utter the following:

"People who don't let me get over are ASS-HOLIOS. Major ass-holes. They have no right to be on the road and i hope they get in an accident after they deal with me."

You see why I love her.

Nordstroms attracts a particular breed, especially in the middle of a week-day in Walnut Creek. I don't believe i saw more than two men in the entire store, so i was nearly immediately displeased. The HLP rolled around in fabrics, sweaters, coats and trousers like a swine in truffles. I cannot afford truffles. This was not my tribe, it was clear to me within ten minutes. Luckily, the Nordstromonians are much less perspicacious than yours truly and showed no signs of noticing my infiltration, even whilst i dined at their rooftop cafe. It was here that the HLP began buying gifts for herself.

Our next stop was Tiffany's. I slumped over into a chair while the HLP had Helen, the sale specialist, show her $28,000 rings. Good times.

It was somewhere in the Baby Pottery Barn that the homocidal urges first began to emerge in me. There were children everywhere. The HLP instructed me to follow her lead by ignoring all of them. Fortunately, it appeared that they had all been properly sedated before their parents took them out. This is what i like about upper-middle class stuffy suburbs, a proper estimation of pharmaceuticals. I collapsed onto a white canopy bed in the corner for what seemed like decades. Shortly after celebrating my 73rd birthday there i found the strength to rise, if only to wrap my fingers through the thick and luxurious hair of the HLP one last time, dragging her out of the store by her scalp.

She was at the cash register. Mercy. I walked up to her and announced my recent epiphany," I am a hunter not a gather."
"That is really, really funny!," said the saleswoman.

"And yet you're not laughing at all," noticed I. "Come on, lets go kill some coffee and cigarettes." And we did. And then we got our nails done and i practiced my Vietnamese and got high off the fumes. Then we repeated everything we'd done already at different stores and in different restaurants.

Yeah. Well, you see how devoted i am to this three jobs thing.

Things i have already done today:

• had an orgasm


• sat in the shower for 20 minutes


• called in sick to work


• gorged myself on leftover sushi & cinnamon bread from my perfect neighbor


• called up the HLP and convinced her to call in sick to work, too


• arrived safely at the HLP's house

Things left for the HLP and i to do today:

• unload the kid


• finalize illegal sales


• shop


• get high


• get our nails done

Das Leben ist schoen.

Life sometimes seems to spontaneously shift gears and all of a sudden, you're unstuck.

My strategy when playing board games such as cranium or pictionary as always been abundant, frenetic action. The worst thing one can do is to sit mutely staring at the unintelligible stick drawing manifesting itself underneath the hapless fingers of one's team mate. You have to GUESS, damnit! Guess, Guess, Guess.

Of course, you don't have the foggiest but the more guesses you make the better your odds are. Worrying about incorrect answers only slows you down, does nothing to aid you in your quest for that next wedge or card or brain or haircut.

It occurs to me that life may be something like pictionary or cranium. Thus, i now have three jobs. In addition to my weekly internment here at the office, there is, of course, the glass gallery. The natural home of a clutz like me. But lastly, my friends, and no doubt, in homage to my origami-tongue, i have been awarded the opportunity to do some contract translation.

GADZOOKS!

It is conceivable that i will make it through December without my bank account lounging in its comfortable position of overdraft. Lazy effing bank account.

However, even more revolutionary is the idea that the next time someone snidely asks me ,"And what did you do with that?", i may have an answer. We'll see how it goes.

Oh, my friends, the gods must be crazy.

I'm singing that song at the top of my lungs. Very badly.

My heterosexual life partner is making fun of me. Bitch. I don't know how long her life is gonna' be. Little skank, Zoe, is also making fun of me. Effing ten month old thinks she can tell me how to sing. Pompous toddlers.

So Thanksgiving turned out awesome after i wrote that whiney little post. On Thanksgiving. Another trick of fate designed to make me look like an ungrateful bitch. Fucking fate. Always tryin' to make me look bad. Don't buy that reality crap. I'm awesome.

First day of the new side-job today. It was alright. Its a little rough suffering through explanations of how to use a calculator. I need a tatoo that says brilliant on my forehead so people will use the correct deferential tone when speaking to me and not suck up my precious time on this planet with unnecessary explanations, stories, or utterances otherwise unworthy of me. I may also need a sharp stick in the eye.

My heterosexual life partner just shoved "baby yo" in my mouth. I've been corrected. "Yobaby." Kinky. Banana.

Like a virgin, when you hearbeats next to mine, whoa whoa whoa

This should be an audio post. You should hear Merissa and I me (grammatical error, AHhhh!). You would never need to hear again.

I'm not doing this again next year. This is the last time. The last time, damnit.

Lucky for me, i found a silent corner downstairs with a computer. Ah, sweet respite from the interrogations.

"So when are you going to grad school?"

"What are you doing?"

"Do you have a boyfriend? Why don't you have a boyfriend?"

"Ever consider doing something practical, like a masters in public administration or law school?"

"J is in a doctorate program for Psychology."

"This is R's boyfriend."

And the presence of my teetotaling mother underscores it all. I've got to find some vicodin. Or hard liquor. I will get through this. I will prevail. And i will win that bloody game of Balderdash after dinner.

Let me just wipe away this pesky facial precipitation before i go back upstairs. Damp in here, you know.

Last night i heard a radio commercial for durex condoms advertising "Satisfaction Guaranteed or your Money back."

Now thats a pretty safe marketing angle isn't it?

The idea of someone returning to their local convenience, grocery or drug store to get their money back for a box of condoms as "satisfaction" was not reached just made me howl and brought to mind a whole catalog of possible scenes.

Scene 1 (male customer)

CUSTOMER: Um, I have this receipt here for durex condoms. I'd like a refund please.
CLERK: What was wrong with them?
CUSTOMER: Well, i wasn't satisfied by my experience with them.
CLERK: Were they defective?
CUSTOMER: Well, no, but i wasn't satisfied. It says satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.
CLERK: What do you mean you weren't satisfied.
CUSTOMER: Thats sort of personal, isn't it? Can i just have my money back.
CLERK: Sir, i'm sorry but you'll have to be more specific. I mean, clearly the condoms cannot be responsible for personal issues of defect, such as erectile dysfunction--

[CUSTOMER vanishes]

Scene 2 (female customer)

CUSTOMER: Hello, Hi. I'd like to get my money back for this box of condoms bought here at 9:45pm last night.
CLERK: Were they defective.
CUSTOMER: Um, not that i know of but the commercials advertise "satisfaction guaranteed or your money back," and i certainly wasn't satisfied.
CLERK: Do you have the product with you?
CUSTOMER: [brandishes paper bag and opened condom box] right here.
CLERK: [takes condom box, gingerly accepts paper bag and peaks inside, quickly dropping it on counter] Maam, this qualifies as a hazardous material and i'll have to ask you to remove it from the store.
CUSTOMER: Thats fine. I'll take it with me but can i get my money back now?
CLERK: Well, i must say, it certainly looked as if satisfaction had been reached.
CUSTOMER: Well, I wasn't satisfied and i bought them so can i have my money back?
CLERK: Have you ever tried Kegel exercises, dear?

Hmm. I just can't see anyone attempting to get their money back on a box of condoms as "satisfaction" was not had, but i think this could be fun times for my next boring Friday night. I may combine it with my long fermenting fantasy about going to Costco and buying only the largest jug of vodka available, a large supply of condoms, and a carton of cigarettes. Leider, haette ich kein Nutz fuer den meisten davon.

I've been taking a drama class at a local community college for some time now in an effort to build an acting resume for auditioning in local plays. What possessed me to sign up for the "Beginning Drama" class i may never discern. I must've been hung-over. Thats brain damage for you. But nothing i've done with my years of binge-drinking and recreational drug-use could begin to compare with whatever it was that hurt the people in this class.

This is not a joke nor is it a product of my sexy pretentious angst. There are one or two exceptions in the class and they notice it, too. These people are behindert! In example, the "teacher" announces that we are going to play a game called "what are you doing". She brings up Lance as her demonstrating partner and this is what ensues:

TEACH: Ok, so Lance, your line is, "what are you doing?"
LANCE: OK.
[long pause]
TEACH: So, go ahead. "What are you doing . .?"
LANCE: Um, i'm standing here . . .
TEACH: No, No, you ask me . .
LANCE: Ask you what?
TEACH: ASk me what i'm doing. Its your line. See, you deliver it and i answer.
LANCE: What are you doing?
TEACH: Then i'm going to give you an action and you start doing it. I'm running.
LANCE:
[long pause]
TEACH: So you start running and then i ask you what you are doing and you give me a different action.
LANCE: [runs away]
TEACH: What are you doing?
LANCE: I'm running.
TEACH: NO, you give me a different action . . .

and so forth. It took nearly a half-hour to explain this game. Then people got confused. One girl, instructed to "tag" another actor out of the game could not manage the task and stood looking blankly at the teacher until i physically guided her hand to the other actor's arm.

Needless to say, regardless of how nice these people may or may not be, the experience is excruciating. Nearly every week. Especially now that we are subjected to the two-person group "scene rehearsals" along with the teacher's critique and all of the following shenanigans.

How do i handle it?

By regressing 14 years. Duh.

My two cohorts and i played hangman for a while before passing my sharpie back and forth pretending it was, alternately, a joint, a pipe, a bong, a needle, a knife, and a penis to which a condom was being applied. Georgia & Kat named the penis enactment as the best but i was partial to the pipe, especially as the passing only added reality to the game.

But the highlight was when we started drawing pictures. Hmm. So juvenile. So hilarious. So pornographic. Then we flashed them at people during their scenes whilst muffling our laughter.

I told you. You had to be there.

I. Weekend
A. Friday Night
was ok, sat around while platonic friends V & B recorded songs. Was propositioned in lame way. Declined.

B. Satur-Day
got new job at blown-glass gallery, got dissed by friend V and uninvited from some cd release party. felt shitty.

C. Satur-Night
went w/ my heterosexual life partner, her mom and her baby to rockin' lutheran party in Palo Alto. Everyone got tipsy. My hlp and i go to local bar when we return at midnight, meet up the hlp's baby-daddy. Bad pool. Lame bush-supporting karaoke-er tries to start fight w/ hlp's baby-daddy. Disaster averted. HLP and i get stoned and act silly.

D. Sunday
Amelie. NPR-->nap. Grocery store, gas, video store, frittata & salad. Monsieur Ibrahim, bed.

As my work-ethic knows no bounds, i have applied for a second job and will be undergoing an informal interview tomorrow. I plan to tie a cherry-stem in a knot with my tongue, and everyone knows what that means. It means that i can sell blown-glass like nobody's bidness, my sharp little aluminum lids. Now since, undoubtedly, they will hire me on the spot, this will mean the dissappearance of my weekend but it may save Christmas. Additionally, as Laura often expressed an interest in the types of art i will be selling, the job might bring me closer to unlocking her mystery.

Seriously. I was removing light-beige threads even this morning whilst sitting in the shower.

It all started about this time yesterday. I remember it clearly; the naivete, the ass free of Saturn upholstery, the soul-curdling ennui of an afternoon in this office which i was combatting by jigglating with my template. It was in the midst of this less than bucolic scene that a bleating call intruded upon my html retardations. Griffenjam informed me of his plans to attend a show at Blake's on Telegraph.

Of course, involved as i was in staring uselessly at my template and constantly clicking "preview", i had to tell him i'd call him back, which i did, eventually do. And people say i'm narcissistic . . . Cracksmokers. Anway, back to my story . .

So the band mentioned, Warsaw Poland Bros, was described as Celtic-reggae-punk-ska madmen. You can see how such a description would pique one's interest. I couldn't imagine how they could successfully blend all of those styles but i figured it might be a more interesting sound than a lot of the screaming, monotonous, repetitive, cacophonous crap that is local punk.

So i called up the Hun and announced to her my intentions, remembering only half-way through that were she to accept she was going to have to drag a member, possibly two, from her cast of characters, which i previously suspected was a front for an illegal couture smuggling ring. Not that i'm saying i was wrong. .

Griffenjam couldn't take the first dewd, Mason Lindahl, citing his whiney emo-tendencies as reason enough for objection and abandonment. Additionally, one might've called Mr. Lindahl's performance less than engaging based upon the blank-faced, swirling hypnotic stares of his accompanying musicians. Ok, but secretly, i thought he was alright so i sat in the basement bar alone listening while GJ begged for change on the sidewalk outside. Lindahl had a great voice, seemed passionate enough and kind of reminded me of Demian Rice.

The third band, a group called Connected from Santa Cruz played cover songs but they were proficient at the use of their instruments and the bassist made sex-faces and bobbed his head in this super-haught way which convinced the Hun and I that he would be a good lay. Alas. I heard he wasn't much of a snogger.

Yeah, so we were objectifying this bassist and talking about how we wanted to shag him and so forth and then the set ended and i went out to have a smoke and when i came back . . lo and behold . . .the skank was actually talking to him. The nerve! The scandal! The moxy!I was so proud but it didn't turn out ideally . . . seems he and the Hun wanted different things, or maybe didn't know what they wanted at all. Whatev. C'est La Vie! In the end, i got a funny voicemail out of it and doesn't that just make it all worthwhile? I thought you'd feel that way.

So, finally, the main event. No, no, we're not to my ass, yet, but we'll get there, we always do. Warsaw Poland Bros took the stage. They were so good that after a few moments and some brief fantasies about spilled drinks i wasn't even hatin' on the douchebags standing in front of our table . By the middle of the set i was elbowing my way in front of them so i could step on their toes while dancing. Ah. Come-uppance.

They were all that was promised, celtic, punk, ska, reggae and maybe a little hip-hop, two horns, an irish jig, all kinds of fun. Go see them if you have the chance. The singer looks like he'd be way fun in bed and one of the horn players is tall, dark & handsome. Of course, one thing we learned out of this experience is the mens always looks sexier on the stages.

Oh yeah. So then i had to wait off my four beers until the wee hours with one of the Hun's cult members. Natch, he tried to proselytize me claiming that only a mind and body such as my own could provide the necessary leadership and influx of vitality to bring the cult to its rightful position as a world power but i remained skeptical. Then we smooched. I dug. It was the nicest smooch since mornings after being angry with S and laying around sucking face all day . . . ah, yeah, but we need to get to my voracious ass don't we?

So i decided to be a big prude and drive home. The fog on I80 was thicker than Frida Kahlo's eyebrows. I almost pulled off in the crack of Pinole to sleep by the side of the freeway but i convinced myself that if i just held on to the steering wheel a little tighter, ignored the high-density clenching of my butt-cheeks which was starting to attract all the shit piled up in my car with the force of a black hole, and got behind a semi- things would be cool. And i guess they were. If you call having to extricate your seat from your ass at 3am cool.

By now some of you are wondering, those of you with the same vacant social calendar as myself, "what is this mexican-blanket theme she's on about?". Yes you were.
You were, too.
You were wondering.

You were all like, "whoa, maybe its just me, but i think she's puttin' a different picture of mexican blankets up there everyday. What is it all supposed to mean? Is this some kind of comment on NAFTA? Is it some kind of inside joke? Are we talking about shellfish?"

So i have to tell you.

No. We're not talking about shellfish. We never were. You spaced out while playing with that little jelly-filled stress toy and totally missed the whole conversation.

We're talking about mexican blankets. Duh.

Ok. I have to go secretly drink a beer with the soma in my purse given to me by the drug-dealer kid, not the kid who called me a cunt last night but the sort of fat one who is always really nice to me but kind of creepy. I know you loved this post.

Gripping the bottom of my swivel chair with one hand to force the key strokes out of the other hand, i was hoping for something substantial, a log of ample proportions and you'd think . . with the . . mmgh . . .effort, one might produce something but instead . . all you get . . . is this rabbit terd.

i'm on my way to God don't know. my brains the burger and my hearts the coal.

Isaac Brock? Isaac Brock will you email me? i'm lonely.