pie hole

I can't keep my big trap shut. 

I am compelled to share my odd perspective of the world along with autobiographical elements that, oft times, paint me as a fool and an idiot.  At my worse, I am repetitive and get stuck in the habit providing too many details. Minutiae that seems important to me, the teller, but not so much to my audience. Most of whom are too polite to tell me to SHUT IT when I drone on and on.

Recently, a reporter randomly contacted me, looking for a "light-hearted" tie-in to the Karl Rove story regarding work emails that come back to haunt you.  [If the link doesn't work go here and type "LIfe is fleeting, but emails never die" into the search box, then scroll down to hit the article.] A story that they would run in their...uhm...Lifestyle section or something.  I responded and he called and interviewed me.  I'm semi-anonymous...only the folks who read this blog and know me will...uh...know it's me.  He offered to call me "Jane...Not Her Real Name", but I suppose there was something in me that wanted at least partial credit for coming clean. 

I tried my best to G-rate my tale since I knew it was for the paper.  [Do yourself a proper and read the story before continuing.]  The email that got his attention enough to contact me, the one "that involved [my] sex life" went like this:

It was about a night where I couldn't sleep, but needed to.  I tried many ways to fall asleep, adjusted pillows, put on soft classical music, attempting to read "The Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All" (the first few chapters of the book move so slowly, I usually fall right to sleep.)  Nothing worked.

In a last ditch effort, I sought out a special device that shall not be named, sufficed to say that once used, I usually conk out and sleep like a log.

But, the batteries were dead.  I got out of bed and searched by desk.  No luck.  Kitchen drawer where all things hide?  No deal. There were no fresh batteries anywhere.  At this point, I was wide awake and determined to sleep.  So, I took the batteries out of the wall clock.

Unfortunately, while there was enough juice to run the tick-tock, there wasn't enough to charge the device that shall not be named.

I started to ransack my house.  I pulled batteries from here and there - none seemed to have enough to power TDTSNBN.  Finally, I removed a couple batteries from the TV remote.  There was just enough juice to supply
TDTSNBN to about a 50% capacity.  Enough to do the trick.

I find it Hi. Larious. that we still live in a world so puritanical and quaker-ish, he felt that the "contents" of my email were too blue for the Tribune.  Never did I use any word that might offend, but even the mere allusion to the fact that humans actually masturbate, was waaaay too racy to print. 

Hmm.  Maybe it is.  I don't know anymore.  Like I said, awkward and embarrassing really don't faze me.

I'd like to believe that the majority of the time, when words spill outta me, it's charming to folks. (Maybe that's why I'm bothered.  He's refusing to let me darkly charm complete strangers with my ever so adorable reference to TDTSNBN.  Hell, I could have gone the predictible route and called it a "back massager" like so many smug articles about women and sexuality are wont to do.) Life has provided me with more odd tales of misfortune than I could ever count on my fingers and toes.  So many in fact, I have no need to fictionalize or dress up a story.  I don't attempt to make myself out to be smarter or wiser or cooler.  I learned long ago that concealing my dark humor was a wasted and futile exercise. 

I do possess an internal filter.  It's just thinner and more worn than most.

In that vein, I have grown a tough hide. Not much will embarrass, offend or put me off my feed. If I seek out the awkward and dark in life, it's because it's embedded in my own DNA. I like to think of myself almost as Houdini-esque.  He had this habit of enticing people to punch him in the gut to show he could take it.  I have a habit of exposing my flaws and foibles to show folks that I'm aware and embracing of what most folks would bury in the deep recesses of their grey matter.  For example, here's an email I sent out to my neighbors this week.

Funny story. Early on Saturday morning, right before my alarm went off, the power went out at our hotel for about 5 minutes and then popped back on. Immediately after, the water shut off. I was on the 22nd floor.  The lower floors had water for about 15-20 minutes, but it was that rusty brown "been sitting in the pipes too long" water and then it cut out entirely in the building.  About 45 minutes after calling the front desk, they came up with a solution: Three half liter bottles of (cold) spring water delivered to my door.

(Hmmm.  Not so funny...until you widen the scope and realise that the following day, after I flew home Sunday and as I was napping off the AM flight, the boilers in our building were shut off and we had no hot water until 5pm Monday night.) 

So, this AM was the second "whore's bath" I've been subjected to in the last 48 hours. I guess the universe must enjoy my stank. 

Not the funniest of stories, but what I keep going back over and over is that moment.  The moment I gloss over in the telling, but sticks in the mud of my head. The moment I opened my door to the tiniest hotel maid I have ever seen.  How she stood there, wordless, but with a sense of bewilderment, cradling three bottles of water in her arm.  How we stood there a beat.  How she smiled slightly as I took the water, thanked her and watched her walk off down the hall.

Guess you had to be there.