Sunday, October 31, 2010

I complain on Sundays...

A gaggle of gripes to satiate your craving for the bitter within me... Don't act like you're not excited...



I'm a renter.

I've been a renter for 13 years.

The mere mention of owning a house causes my asthma to flare... and I don't have asthma.

The permanence of it all, the commitment, the responsibility, the weight... it's suffocating. Home ownership is like an open flame to my fragile wings.



That said, renting is shit.

For so many reasons.

The noise, the inability to make noise, the smell of someone else in my home, the landlords that fail at everything, the monthly stack of cash that may as well be set ablaze, the overwhelming realization that when your father tells you that "you're an adult" and "you don't have a pot to piss in", he's right.



But the single worst thing about being a renter... the coup de grace... is the sex.

Certainly not the sex I'm having... or not having as it were. Rather the All Night Hump-Fest that congregates in the room directly above my once quiet, cozy, innocently sterile bed on a nightly basis. Or thrice nightly basis.

Listen, I am not a hater... I am a renter. And with that comes a responsibility.

I fully comprehend the reality of the situation. We are, in essence, strangers sharing a home. And while we have our own compartments, we are but co-inhabitants of the same dwelling.

I know that this is not all mine. I know that I do not make the rules. I know that these folks pay a substantial amount of money to keep this roof over their heads, just like me. And I understand that the act of love making is a natural and beautiful thing. In fact, I applaud the gentleman for lasting as long as he does... I am not a hater.

I am, however, a gal that needs some sleep. And the fuck factory upstairs is chronically preventing that from happening.



So to you, Upstairs Banes o' My Existence, I offer a few wee suggestions that might prevent me from setting you both on fire...

  1. Spring for some WD-40
  2. Get kinky with a Ball-Gag-For-Her
  3. Go buy a NEW fuckin' BED (pun-intended)      
  4. Hump on the kitchen counter/in the shower/at a reasonable hour
  5. Move
  6. Live on the ground floor
  7. Break up
  8. Eat shit
  9. Die
  10. Substitute my bottle of sleeping pills with a bottle of ruffies... or horse tranquilizers... or cyanide...

Any or all will suffice.


And also, God speed to you both and your healthy sexual appetite. May you never live to see the day that I find anti-gravity boots and pay it forward...

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

'Tis a thin line between "Not Enough" and "Please, shut the hell up"...

I've had a few conversations in the past few days with a few friends and a few co-workers about the evocative and magical allure of The Over~Share...



I, myself, am no stranger to the seduction of logorrhea. Scant are the times that I can answer a simple question without an accompanying anecdote or personal tale that may or may not relate. I am a talker. I talk. The sound of my own voice often annoys me. Come to think of it, I'm not altogether positive how I've managed to keep any friends throughout the years. In fact, I can say with a favorable degree of certainty that I'm a story or two away from being the neighborhood elderly with 16 shelter cats and a disconnected phone through which I jibber-jab to no one all the live long day... I won't even get trick or treaters.

This is hardly the point.

The point is that there HAS to be a line SOMEWHERE... Some societal agreement upon what we are and are not allowed to share with one another. Mostly, I'm lookin' at you COMPLETE STRANGERS.



I'm happy to nod along, feigning interest in the kitschy narrative of a pal or co-worker. I'm typically thrilled to engage in a silly allegory or third party recounting. And I expect the same courtesy be done for me. But when you and I have zero foundation on which to build upon, I request the conversation be kept to greetings and pleasantries and need-to-know info.

The line crossers are many, the details vulgar. And all induce cringe-worthy levels of awkward. But there are two major offenders that I encounter almost daily.

1) The Filter-Free-Killjoy:


  • When the answer is "If my asshole husband hadn't left me for my whore of a nanny in my third trimester, there would be" to the innocently posed question "Is there someone we can contact in case of an emergency?"
or

  • When the question "Why do you need to see the doctor today?" is satisfied with "I'm pretty sure I got herpes from the bartender I slept with last week. Cuz... ummm... my friend did, so I'm guessing I probably did too."
or the ever-popular completely unsolicited info-share such as
  • "Time killed my old lady last week. I'm probably next."
  • "My boyfriend and I just broke up. I put all his stuff in the street and called the police and told them he was stalking me. So I can't afford my insurance co-pay because I have to go bail him out of jail after my appointment."
  • "I've been shitting water for 3 days and I have terrible gas. And you might want to wash your hands, 'cause I have scabies"

(Actually that last one was helpful information. No harm, no foul to you, good sir)



2) The Ma'am-Are-You-Hoping-To-Lure-Me-To-Your-Boudoir-Via-An-Inappropriately-Excessive-Spattering-Of-Compliments? (usually adopted by middle-aged female former meth addicts and/or the pungently present elderly)
  •  "You're eyes are hypnotizing... and I LOVE your eye make-up! Close your eyes. How do you do that? You Are Gorgeous. Look at you. I bet you hear that all the time. I love your hair too. It's so long... blah di blah di blah di blah... 


These are just a few examples of... ya know, just a lot of information I could have gone my whole life without hearing. I'm prepared to lobby for some sort of worldwide frontal lobe information sharing filter. I haven't quite worked out the logistics, but I'm thinking a surgically implanted "invisible fence" type device that distributes an electric shock throughout the body at the inception of the Over~Share impulse.

I think it would make the socially awkward and generally apathetic folk, such as myself, much more comfortable.