Spidercamp

As royalty it was our job

As royalty it was our job to watch the battle from the cliff. Everyone else strode elegantly along, knowing just what to say, while I tripped over my lines and my long ridiculous robe.

We had to walk past so many poor people on the way there. They glared at us and I wanted to explain that I didn't really belong to the royal class, it was a mistake. But I knew I didn't belong to the poor either. I didn't know what to do except try to keep up with the dutchess. I couldn't fucking stand the dutchess.

When the others reached the right spot on the cliff, the one chosen for correct resplendence of silhouettes against the sunset, I was still catching up. So I wasn't one of the bodies tossed aside by the lion who came bounding over the rocks.

There was screaming and fainting, not just among the ladies. I was so sick of this crap and I could see that the lion was old, clawless, mangy. He hadn't really hurt anybody and I couldn't blame him for knocking the dutchess down.

I said, You guys go on. Film it without me. They didn't know what I was talking about, but they did go away, and I walked the poor old lion back to town. The commoners scattered and left me alone, which was all had ever wanted from them. We sat in the middle of the enormous hotel lobby, a great cold stone floor that stretched out around us for miles, alone, just me and the lion. His head was warm under my hand, and he purred and purred.

Eurotard

(Sometimes I just love the world. Sue me, it's a factual.)

Eurotard is an Atlanta-based company which manufactures specialty dance and fitness garments for athletes and dancers. "Ballet, Jazz, Ballroom, Liturgical, Swing, Modern and Square Dancing; Gymnastics, Skating, Cheerleading, or Entertaining; Whatever your passion, Dress for Success, Style and Comfort with Eurotard." (...liturgical?)

The origin of this company's name is not explicitly explained on its website. I assume the concept is simply "European" + "leotard," but I don't care because I am a terrible person as well as a child and it's a hilarious word.

Eurotard's line of clothing includes leotards, tights, aerobic wear, "cover-ups," gymnastics uniforms, cheerleading outfits, and ballet shoes. They offer sizes for adults as well as children.

Not only does Eurotard provide apparel for everyday dancers and gymnasts, but also for professional sports teams, including the Atlanta Hawks, the Atlanta Falcons, the Sugar Bowl, and the Atlanta Para-Olympics. (I am not kidding or making fun in the least - this appears on the site's "About" page. It seems more than a little crass to clothe the disabled in tights that say TARDS on the label, but maybe I'm overreacting.)

The website suffers from several irritations, not the least of which is the constant flashing assortment of prancy ladies. Also their catalog is broke. Also, maybe I can't count in European, but I think there's something seriously wrong with their size charts: the height and weight parameters are wack; people who need an XL should not be shorter than those who need L.

https://www.eurotard.com/index2.htm

The woman in line in front of me at the liquor store

The woman in line in front of me at the liquor store had no business to be wearing that halter top, but she was, which always appalls and impresses me. She didn't give a damn about love handles. She had two tattoos on her back: "Coretta" on her right shoulder blade and a leafy vine snaking downward from the base of her neck. It was kind of a cool vine, simple, with an interestingly irregular path, asymmetrical. Because it was taking a while and because I like to gawk at strangers, I looked at this tattoo for a long time, and suddenly I could see that it was camouflage for a long zigzaggy scar.

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I don't understand how some Truman Capote stories can be so wonderful and some are so brain-gougingly dull. (like Douglas Coupland, who I adore but who should seriously stick to tables and sculpture until he loves words again) Last night I was trying to make myself sleepy so I read one of the awful ones, which didn't work, so I read "A Christmas Memory," which I remembered liking in high school. I remembered thinking I would probably like it more when I was older, which was true because this time it just blew me away. The ending got me - not so much what happened as the way he told it. Gentle, precise words that bear a kind message are as good a reason to get teary as anything else.

---

It's raining sacks of hammers.

Two little black girls playing

Two little black girls playing in the parking lot, calling each other "spic," "faggot," and "bootleg."

---

The dentist isn't scary. I always forget this, and there's no unconvincing me beforehand, every time. Then I go see Dr. Paul and he doesn't scold me and isn't horrified by my swamp teeth and makes jokes that are actually kind of funny, for a dentist. I faked my way into a dentists' convention once and can bear nauseated witness to the immense discrepancy between the level of funny in a dentist, and the amount of funny he is convinced he possesses. The week after that, I faked my way into an optometrists' convention and found that they are the same, if not even worse. I swear to you that I overheard multiple jokes whose punchlines depended on the phrase "gas permeable lens." I wish I could say that these were some sort of tangential, esoteric fart jokes; sadly, they weren't.

So I love Dr. Paul and I love his hygienist, I could not be more pleased with the standard of care I receive from them, and if anyone in the Atlanta area needs a dentist recommendation, I've got the guy.

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To tell the truth I am never happier than when I am a kangaroo.

Ingrid, who plays the piano,

Ingrid, who plays the piano, calls to tell me I feel like a French horn. "Let's go out sometimes and eat something really good and really bad. I'll eat all the frosting and you can eat all the cake."

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I guess I'll get over it, but it's still weird to read a book whose topic has nothing to do with September 11th, which isn't political or dramatic in the least, and which isn't set in New York, and run across a reference to what happened. So many books were being written that day. So many people were having their lives. This is a version of "where were you when...?" - which is a gentle way of saying, yes, it happened to me, too.

Nobody told me Fahrenheit 9/11 would be a weeper, though I guess I should have anticipated it. I wasn't the only one; I heard the very quiet noises of the man behind me. And gasps, all around, and more tears, because it was unbearable. And applause. I cannot recommend this movie highly enough.

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Tonight a woman said, seriously, "So, do you guys have blogs?" and everybody said yes. I had to admit that I have two and am working on a third. Then we sat around and knitted for two hours. WHO'S THE DORKEST NOW?

Sometimes I look around

Sometimes I look around a restaurant or theater and figure out how many of the women I see are, statistically, having their periods. It's so weird to say I spent the day bleeding. It's so weird that I've made a habit of it.

I don't talk about it a lot, because it's equal parts amazing and gross, and I understand that the balance is very much swung towards "gross" for most people. Fair enough. My inefficient and icky system doesn't need a lot of airtime.

I'm not one of these fools who revels in the cycle. I don't have a special womanly fondness for the moon, nor do I capitalize it. I do not write goddamn POETRY.

What I do love is how I'll wake up tomorrow. Nothing will hurt. I'll feel and look noticeably less like a whale. I will be relaxed, normal, better than new, like someone handed me the next month and told me I can do whatever I want with it, anything in the world.

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Every once in a long while, someone flirts with me at the grocery store (or whatever public place) and it doesn't piss me off or make me feel uncomfortable. When done correctly, it's a compliment I'm flattered to receive.

The difference is hard to quantify. Absolute creeps are easy to spot. The next class down is tougher to describe, but it has to do with the lack of a respectful approach. More times than not, when these men say whatever half-assed thing they've come up with to win my affections (my favorite will always be "'Sup?"), I have the distinct feeling that their veneer of friendliness might flip into anger and violence at any second. I'd say, "Thanks, but I have a boyfriend," and they would snap, Bitch. I can't prove this, because generally I just walk away from any stranger who seems way too happy to stand next to me in the cookie aisle. Lately that's turning into a more vocal reaction, because I'm tired of not verbalizing You are making me uncomfortable, and honestly how dare you, you fucking unteachable putz.

Any man who wants to approach a woman, whether with flirtatious motives or otherwise, should keep in mind that she's likely to have already been approached by four million creeps. She could be the sweetest, friendliest lady in the land, but chances are she's got some automatic defenses set up against strange men approaching her out of the blue. He doesn't have to pay for the sins of every fuckwit who ever leered and asked her bra size while standing in line at the bank, but he should keep this in mind, and try to make sure his behavior is substantially better than that.

(This is not so true in bars or tea gardens or wherever you kids are going to drool on the hotties these days - I'm talking about public, neutral, non-meat-markety venues such as coffeeshops, stores, and libraries.)

The only successful flirts keep their physical distance, look at my eyes or at least not only my chest (you'd be surprised how many slobbering boobmen just don't even consider looking at anything else), and approach me in an open, casual manner which leaves me the option of saying No, thank you. Like: I don't want you to have sex with me in the parking lot, I just think you're cute. When this happens, and it is rare, it makes my day.

All of this is deliciously moot because I am firmly spoken for. It's still nice to have a stranger approach me in a way that lets me know he thinks I'm both attractive and worth taking the time to be courteous. It's a gift I wish more men would learn the art of giving.

Dude. Today at the library

Dude. Today at the library the Bookmaster saw me and smiled, which would have been enough. Then, as someone else was scanning my books, he totally sneaked a peek at the titles and gave me the little approving nod. I was in heaven.

Then at the grocery store two creepy guys tried to talk to me (separately). I'm no stranger to flirtation, nor innocent of it myself, but I have a very good sense of what's acceptable and what's far over the line. Hint to would-be romantics: it's NOT COOL to leeringly approach a woman out of the blue, get right up in her face and slur some crude shit with your hobo breath. Today, one guy's idea of a sexy line was, I swear to god, "Butter, huh? What's THAT for?" Classy.

I'm getting pretty good at handling this sort of crap with a obnoxious shout of "THANK YOU! GOODBYE!" My fantasy is that the next time this tactic is not quite sufficient to turn away the weirdo, and he continues the lewd nonsense, I will go instantly psycho on his idiot ass and start screaming, in the freezer aisle or wherever, about how he's going to pay for all the crudeness of all the men who ever made me feel uncomfortable or endangered in what should be a safe public place. Part of that would be intentional scene-causing melodrama but part of it is how I actually feel. The next dude who pushes me that extra step is going to get such a fucking earful and I'm already not sorry.

Anyway, as I was leaving, I wasn't crabby, which is good, because that's how I used to get about this. But I was thinking about it, and thinking how weird it is that this garbage never happens when Logan's around, so I always have to tell him about it afterward, and maybe it sounds like I'm exaggerating these morons. And it finally dawned on me, of course it never happens when Logan's with me. He's my Creepy-Off.

I have ants in the house and I'm as crawly as a junkie.

3:30 in the morning, asleep

3:30 in the morning, asleep for five hours, then wide awake. I thought it was because of a noise in the room but really I knew it was because that dream was too sad. I can't tell who that guy was but something awful was going to happen to him. Or to me because of him. (I know where all this comes from. It's old.) He was really pretty terrific although I could not see his face. He used two made-up words in conversation, words that made me laugh and which I instantly understood; they were perfect. I'm going to steal them, although, you know, it's my own brain. But they were his. Do you ever wake up with a song in your head, and is it ever so sad you wonder what's wrong with you, and when it will stop?

Why Space Ghost is Better

Why Space Ghost is Better Than Janet Jackson

I. DUH

II. The guy who does Space Ghost's voice is named George and I've known he was pretty cool ever since a woman at a party refused to give him her number purely because he was balding, and she said so to his face, and he thought that was so funny that he still tells people about it, using her full name. He told this to my friend Brannon, who has become George's personal shopper at the bookstore where Brannon's worked since forever. George loves modern art and calls Brannon every time he needs a book ordered. They chat and it always makes Brannon happy. "He's just the nicest guy!"

A couple of days ago Brannon was on the phone with Space Ghost when Janet Jackson walked up and started asking questions. Brannon said it was a terrible moment of celebrity cognitive dissonance, to have Janet Jackson's whispering face combined with the booming Space Ghost voice in his ear.

Janet proved to be a bitch in several ways, the best of which was when some little kids hesitantly asked her, "Are you... Janet?" and she said NO and walked away.

George later called the store's corporate line and left a message about how helpful Brannon is, how friendly and gracious, and what a joy it is to shop for books when assisted by such a genuinely pleasant person. He said all this in the Space Ghost voice, which isn't too far from his regular speaking voice, but still it was over the top and ridiculous on purpose. He also said that the public restroom in the bookstore was a "gulag," and that he'd "rather lick a handrail at the CDC than pee in that bathroom."

THE END