I’m a 25 year old Utah woman with no husband, home, dog, child, or apron.
None of this ever feels negative until I’m thrust into the world of other women my age; women who’ve accomplished what I haven’t.; women who’ve risen to the call of Utah duty; women who have embraced their oh-so-natural and God given Domestic-ness.
I recently attended a bridal shower for one of my good friends. We hadn’t seen each other for years and she likely didn’t know I’d moved on past the one drunken summer we’d spent together but we loved each other nonetheless. She looked wonderful and it was an absolutely gorgeous shower full of gorgeous women and their gorgeous children. By gorgeous I mean perfect to the point of disgusting
I sat there in a circle of women as they talked of home décor, teething, and how to make giant decorative balls out of tissue paper. I might as well have been on mars. Occasionally they were friendly and asked me about my life and the things I did for fun and It probably would’ve been easier had they just left me to stare at the 9 different types of leafy greens in my salad because talking about the books I read wasn’t exactly thrilling conversation, sharing my latest escapade was far from appropriate, and I was fresh out of baking tips. So I took the safe route and talked of how busy I was with school and work…stimulating.
At one point we were allowed back into the kitchen for desert and I picked up the most immaculate cupcake I’d ever seen as well as a mini cupcake on a stick. The tiny little dessert on a pole was wrapped in cellophane and tied with a color coordinated bow. I suppose in some worlds it was a work of art. I sat back down, unwrapped my delicious treat, and spent 5 minutes trying to figure out how to get it off the stick and into my mouth without smearing it all over my face. Once accomplished, I leaned back and began enjoying my large human-sized cupcake. I was just finishing up the last crumb of better than sex chocolate when some girl squealed at how cute the miniature impaled baked goods were. She was literally cooing at her dessert and I looked around to see all the other women admiring this culinary handiwork. Even though everyone was holding an identical version, they still found it quite exhilarating to look at each other’s…as if one of them was bound to be different. The hosted took note of the encore request and began to describe how they were made. Mid story she looked over at me with genuine concern and asked me where mine had gone.
Confused I bluntly told her “I ate it.”
It had never occurred to me that these stupid cupcakes were meant for any fate other than being put in my mouth. Clearly I was out of place. She gave me a kind and almost pitiful look, gazing upon the chubby unmarried girl with mercy. I suppose I should’ve felt grateful but after another 15 minutes of listening to the hen’s talk of the irreplaceable value of the cookie scooper or family bloopers that involved silly husbands putting the “good” baking sheet in the dishwasher, I was ready to jam that stupid cupcake stick through my ear drum and into my dying brain.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
I am a child of God and you're a fuckface.
I wanted to punch him in the ladder day saint face. Here I sat, with a man I’d met over a year ago through an anonymous online forum after I’d posted an ad requesting that someone role play with me as my bishop. I’d always had a thing for authority figures and thought I’d try out the one that is creepily allowed to listen to all your dirty secrets. I never imagined that he was a practicing member or held any semblance legitimate faith. My bad.
By 13 years old I'd known that Jesus could not possibly love me. How could ANYONE love me when I couldn’t summon the willpower to keep my hand out of my own pants. I hadn’t even made it to high school and I was already a diehard masturbator destined to burn for all eternity. So I took my unworthy and self pleasuring soul down to my bishop’s office to unburden myself. There I sat, across from a white haired grandpa, sharing the secret of all secrets. I told him that it touched myself daily, that I had pornographic thoughts, and that the guilt was eating me alive. I had hoped that going through the motions would’ve eased the self loathing but all I thought was what I would’ve given to have his job
The only other time I saw him again was when I lost the privilege of toilet paper. At that time in my life I was not only carnal, I was also lazy. My mother on the other hand, was nuts. The final straw was the last time I’d chosen to not replace the toilet paper roll. I had used the last few sheets, leaned over to open a new roll and when finished, simply placed it on top of the old empty cardboard tube. I never fully understood what the big deal was especially since technically, the toilet paper was in the exact same spot. To mother it might as well have been the apocalypse. Because of my insidious act she proceeded to clear our entire house of all paper products. We no longer had access to toilet paper, paper towels, napkins, Kleenex or dryer sheets. Since we’d so clearly demonstrated a lack of respect for her home and her efforts to provide for us, it was her duty to remind us how much of a privilege toiletries truly were. So I did what any other paperless pre teen would do…I stole some from church.
Really though, can you blame me? It had been days that I’d been blotting myself with hand towels and waiting to shit until I got to school. I had gone to the church house for some weekly activity, seen that glorious, industrial sized roll of cleanliness…and ran. I actually took three of them and STILL thank the lord for making it home without anyone having seen me. I tip toed inside and hid them under my bed. Eventually I gave a roll to my sister and we carefully made pit stops in our rooms before heading to the bathroom.
Unfortunately another common punishment at the time would come about when we’d forget to do our dishes. Ma would proceed to hide those dishes under our beds in hopes that our rooms would start to stink. And so it happened after dinner one night that my sister and I worked to build a hut in our yard, BEFORE we’d done our dishes. I was collecting weeds for the roof and suddenly my mother came bolting out of the house with three almost full rolls of commercial toilet paper.
“FUCK!” I thought.
I could see the veins pulsating in her neck from 20 feet away. She seethed over to me but didn’t say a word. Silence was definitely much worse than watching those veins vibrate on her forehead while she screamed. I was terrified. I could picture being forced to wear the toilet paper to school or her deciding to accompany me to the bathroom from here on out. It never dawned on me that she might know where it had come from and to this day I don’t know how she figure it out in an instant but within moments we were walking up the stairs to church. I will never forget sitting in front of that white haired old man once more, he who knew where my hands had been, and being forced to confess my thievery. Luckily I saw his face twist in humor as my mother talked having worked to teach us a lesson. Part of me hope he now knew why I touched myself. As if crazy parents might warrant the need for a hedonistic escape.
Needless to say my experiences with this new bishop were much different. My first interview commenced under the fluorescent glow of dock lights as I parked my car behind a deserted loading ramp. He had been very upfront about his ability to discern whether or not I was lying and it took roughly 7 minutes of small talk before I’d lifted my skirt in repentance. I suppose his knowledge of Bishop-esque terminology should’ve tipped me off, but almost 14 months later I still sat speechless when he began to talk of his faith. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve always stood as a defender of everyone’s right to believe whatever they choose, but having been Mormon myself I KNOW that casual sex in a vacant parking lot is not part of the word of wisdom. Sexually utilizing the idea of repentance or the confessing of sins probably doesn't look any better but I still can't fathom someone legitimately finding truth in “the church” and still seeing nothing wrong with bending me over the hood of my SUV.
By 13 years old I'd known that Jesus could not possibly love me. How could ANYONE love me when I couldn’t summon the willpower to keep my hand out of my own pants. I hadn’t even made it to high school and I was already a diehard masturbator destined to burn for all eternity. So I took my unworthy and self pleasuring soul down to my bishop’s office to unburden myself. There I sat, across from a white haired grandpa, sharing the secret of all secrets. I told him that it touched myself daily, that I had pornographic thoughts, and that the guilt was eating me alive. I had hoped that going through the motions would’ve eased the self loathing but all I thought was what I would’ve given to have his job
The only other time I saw him again was when I lost the privilege of toilet paper. At that time in my life I was not only carnal, I was also lazy. My mother on the other hand, was nuts. The final straw was the last time I’d chosen to not replace the toilet paper roll. I had used the last few sheets, leaned over to open a new roll and when finished, simply placed it on top of the old empty cardboard tube. I never fully understood what the big deal was especially since technically, the toilet paper was in the exact same spot. To mother it might as well have been the apocalypse. Because of my insidious act she proceeded to clear our entire house of all paper products. We no longer had access to toilet paper, paper towels, napkins, Kleenex or dryer sheets. Since we’d so clearly demonstrated a lack of respect for her home and her efforts to provide for us, it was her duty to remind us how much of a privilege toiletries truly were. So I did what any other paperless pre teen would do…I stole some from church.
Really though, can you blame me? It had been days that I’d been blotting myself with hand towels and waiting to shit until I got to school. I had gone to the church house for some weekly activity, seen that glorious, industrial sized roll of cleanliness…and ran. I actually took three of them and STILL thank the lord for making it home without anyone having seen me. I tip toed inside and hid them under my bed. Eventually I gave a roll to my sister and we carefully made pit stops in our rooms before heading to the bathroom.
Unfortunately another common punishment at the time would come about when we’d forget to do our dishes. Ma would proceed to hide those dishes under our beds in hopes that our rooms would start to stink. And so it happened after dinner one night that my sister and I worked to build a hut in our yard, BEFORE we’d done our dishes. I was collecting weeds for the roof and suddenly my mother came bolting out of the house with three almost full rolls of commercial toilet paper.
“FUCK!” I thought.
I could see the veins pulsating in her neck from 20 feet away. She seethed over to me but didn’t say a word. Silence was definitely much worse than watching those veins vibrate on her forehead while she screamed. I was terrified. I could picture being forced to wear the toilet paper to school or her deciding to accompany me to the bathroom from here on out. It never dawned on me that she might know where it had come from and to this day I don’t know how she figure it out in an instant but within moments we were walking up the stairs to church. I will never forget sitting in front of that white haired old man once more, he who knew where my hands had been, and being forced to confess my thievery. Luckily I saw his face twist in humor as my mother talked having worked to teach us a lesson. Part of me hope he now knew why I touched myself. As if crazy parents might warrant the need for a hedonistic escape.
Needless to say my experiences with this new bishop were much different. My first interview commenced under the fluorescent glow of dock lights as I parked my car behind a deserted loading ramp. He had been very upfront about his ability to discern whether or not I was lying and it took roughly 7 minutes of small talk before I’d lifted my skirt in repentance. I suppose his knowledge of Bishop-esque terminology should’ve tipped me off, but almost 14 months later I still sat speechless when he began to talk of his faith. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve always stood as a defender of everyone’s right to believe whatever they choose, but having been Mormon myself I KNOW that casual sex in a vacant parking lot is not part of the word of wisdom. Sexually utilizing the idea of repentance or the confessing of sins probably doesn't look any better but I still can't fathom someone legitimately finding truth in “the church” and still seeing nothing wrong with bending me over the hood of my SUV.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Beinvenidos
When I was 9 years old I wrote a poem about the Pony Express. I'd seen a brick tower with a small brass plaque that talked about the dust and turmoil and the adventure of running mail across the country via horseback. It wasn't a great poem and it was slightly over dramatic, but it was mine. I enjoy the fact that it was one of the few times I've ever been able to rhyme unabashedly because at 9 years old even creating a line like "Away in a far desert land" made me feel invincible. I was taking my experience, however mundane, and turning it into an adventure. Translating the emotion and the intrigue that I felt into something tangible and transferable.
As an adult I deal with a wider of array of things "tangible and transferable", things like debt, blame, and sexually transmitted diseases. Through it all I've still held onto a copy of my "Pony Express" and my oddly intrinsic desire to air my dirty laundry to the world. I have a closet full of journals and legal pads that will take me just as many years to sort through. I have boxes full of words, quotes, and waiters numbers written on napkins, dollar bills, and even a gonorrhea pamphlet. I have roughly 16 email accounts full of written longings and dreams as well as solicitations for raunchy photos and dangerously casual sex. I've developed business plans and community programs. I've spent 25 awkward years trying to figure out what the fuck I'm doing and I've written about it all.
Initially I dreamed of writing my own personal opus and sharing with the world all the deep and insightful Epiphanies I've had in my short life. I wanted to spread joy and inspiration to the everyone who picked up my book. I figured I'd censor my experiences and language and find a way to turn having crazy monkey sex on the hood of my car with a total stranger into a touching and lesson filled experience. I would fill the pages of a book with grandiose and unconventional accomplishments. I'd shout to the world of my power, my hopes, my altruistic endeavors and know that I was inspiring millions around the world to rise from their lazy boys and dive head first into life. I knew I would accomplish great things. I knew that I would touch the lives of millions around me in a way that would change them and the way they viewed the world themselves. I knew I was different.
What I didn't know at 9 years old was that "different" would translate into my charmingly neurotic, foul mouthed, occasionally tactless self. It's led to quite the dichotomy. Here I am, still as altruistic and idealistic as ever but with a new touch of sarcasm and a fairly sordid sexual past. I haven't accomplished anything earth shattering or world renowned. I've spent years working as a waitress, driving a shuttle bus, opening and then running away from legitimate entrepreneurship opportunities. I've done little more than master the art of observation and the ability to suck the lesson out every man, mistake, and accomplishment I come in contact with.
Yet I still have the burning desire to write and share my life with those around me, I still dream of inspiring people to rise up and live with passion. I know that even if I haven't managed to becoming a sickeningly optimistic life coach that many of you will still find a glimmer of hope in the horrific and embarrassing mistakes I've made. I'm a person, just like you. I get angry, I get sad, I throw shit when I'm frustrated, and I still look at small brick towers in the middle of no where and think of my stupid poem.
In all honesty, it makes sense that a tall, solid, phallus shaped structure would have initiated a fire within me; I'm simply grateful it was a literary fire.
A sarcastic, insightful, and potentially offensive literary fire.
As an adult I deal with a wider of array of things "tangible and transferable", things like debt, blame, and sexually transmitted diseases. Through it all I've still held onto a copy of my "Pony Express" and my oddly intrinsic desire to air my dirty laundry to the world. I have a closet full of journals and legal pads that will take me just as many years to sort through. I have boxes full of words, quotes, and waiters numbers written on napkins, dollar bills, and even a gonorrhea pamphlet. I have roughly 16 email accounts full of written longings and dreams as well as solicitations for raunchy photos and dangerously casual sex. I've developed business plans and community programs. I've spent 25 awkward years trying to figure out what the fuck I'm doing and I've written about it all.
Initially I dreamed of writing my own personal opus and sharing with the world all the deep and insightful Epiphanies I've had in my short life. I wanted to spread joy and inspiration to the everyone who picked up my book. I figured I'd censor my experiences and language and find a way to turn having crazy monkey sex on the hood of my car with a total stranger into a touching and lesson filled experience. I would fill the pages of a book with grandiose and unconventional accomplishments. I'd shout to the world of my power, my hopes, my altruistic endeavors and know that I was inspiring millions around the world to rise from their lazy boys and dive head first into life. I knew I would accomplish great things. I knew that I would touch the lives of millions around me in a way that would change them and the way they viewed the world themselves. I knew I was different.
What I didn't know at 9 years old was that "different" would translate into my charmingly neurotic, foul mouthed, occasionally tactless self. It's led to quite the dichotomy. Here I am, still as altruistic and idealistic as ever but with a new touch of sarcasm and a fairly sordid sexual past. I haven't accomplished anything earth shattering or world renowned. I've spent years working as a waitress, driving a shuttle bus, opening and then running away from legitimate entrepreneurship opportunities. I've done little more than master the art of observation and the ability to suck the lesson out every man, mistake, and accomplishment I come in contact with.
Yet I still have the burning desire to write and share my life with those around me, I still dream of inspiring people to rise up and live with passion. I know that even if I haven't managed to becoming a sickeningly optimistic life coach that many of you will still find a glimmer of hope in the horrific and embarrassing mistakes I've made. I'm a person, just like you. I get angry, I get sad, I throw shit when I'm frustrated, and I still look at small brick towers in the middle of no where and think of my stupid poem.
In all honesty, it makes sense that a tall, solid, phallus shaped structure would have initiated a fire within me; I'm simply grateful it was a literary fire.
A sarcastic, insightful, and potentially offensive literary fire.
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