she's writing a novel

a lot of her writing tends to be tongue-in-cheek. this is because she grew up in an evangelical tradition which was more concerned about where else she might be putting her tongue.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

…all women are whores.

Russian Lover: That blonde was hot.
Me: Yeah, but even I could afford that one.
RL: Oh yeah? How much do you think she’s worth?
Me: A nickel.
RL: Really? Because did you see the size of the rock on her finger?
Me: Doesn’t mean a thing.
RL: How so?
Me. Diamond rings can be bought on a payment plan.
RL: True.
Me: So, for that matter, can big houses and fast cars. Women worth something are never impressed by those things.
RL: Oh?
Me: Yes. Because savvy women never trust men with just lots of expensive things. Smart women never trust anything that can be financed. Smart women only trust cash.

Friday, May 12, 2006

Passive-Aggressive Early Morning Post

Or, a story about the mosquitoes Jesus sends at night to punish me for my premarital cohabitation.

I am highly allergic to mosquito bites. And by highly allergic I don't mean that every time I am bit by a mosquito it runs the risk of turning out like My Girl. But, while most people wind up with an itchy red bump, I end up with an itchy white welt the size of a golf-ball surrounded by an itchy-redness patch the size of a softball.

So, when it is damp and slighly warm there will likely be a rogue mosquito that finds its way into our apartment. And that mosquito, without fail, finds me. Not the Russian lover. Oh, no. He never gets bit. Only me. And while sometimes I will have standard-issue bites on the knee or the thigh or the arm, mostly they prefer to bite me on the face. More than once.

On the face. Multiple times.

Which is uncomortable enough. Now imagine the bite on the eyelid, the eye slowly swelling shut, and itching all the while. How is a girl supposed to go out looking like that? Aesthetic considerations aside, eyebrows raise. And wearing sunglasses makes the eyebrows raise still further. No, my boyfriend doesn't beat me. He just uses me as a human blood sacrifice to the invertibrate kingdom.

This morning I woke up around 6:00am with one bite on my eyelid, two on my forehead, one on my thigh. I woke up to the ominous whining in my ear, a sound that makes me snap upright in terror. I spun around, and eventually found the offending insect midflight. I clapped my hands closed on him, and it looked like I got him. But unable to find the actual carcass, there was no way I was going back to laying in bed like a buffet.

The Russian lover, who woke up the moment I sat up in the reflexive motion of a military-trained male who senses too much in his sleep and that sense is always that someone has crept in to kill the woman lying next to him, witnessed my bug-killing attempt and asked, "Did it bite you on the face?"

I nodded sadly, waiting for a hug or a touch as I regressed into the mood of a wounded child. It bit me on the eye, it bit me right here. Kiss it, make it better.

The Russian lover nodded at my nod, lay back down, and rolled over.

Irritable, itching, and wide awake, I decided to make use of myself. The adrenaline from waking up to the mosquito had given me a burst of energy, and I thought it would be a good idea to wash the dishes. A few minutes later, the Russian lover came lumbering into the kitchen, eyes barely squinched open and hair askew,

"What the hell are you doing? It's 6:00am in the morning! And the banging? Why do you have to do with the banging?"

Indeed, why do I have to do with the banging? Why did you have to do with the banging and shouting at 2:00am, tossing the bed around (and me in it, who had gone to sleep with a stomach ache) all while ranting like a crazy person at the cats? The cats who, I might add retrospectively, were more than likely sneaking around behind the bed trying to kill the bloodsucking bastard that got to me this morning.

And no, I am not coming back to bed now to cuddle you. I'm done taking the bullets in the bedroom.

But, should you wish to comfort me now or even apologize, I'll remind you that gold is the langage everyone understands. I also happen to be fluent in silver, diamonds, and all semi-precious stones.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

An Open Letter to Some of the People on the Second Floor of My Office Building


You may or may not know me; I’m the girl who shows up around 9:30 in the morning, looking rumpled and wilted and clutching a coffee cup from La Colombe. Or maybe you’ve seen me coming back at lunch dragging my gym bag behind me and gazing wistfully at your French fries. Probably you have no idea who the hell I am, and that’s fine. But I know who you are.

You are the people on the second floor who ignore the fact that our building has a public staircase. Rather than open a door and walk up a single flight of stairs, you will press the “up” button and wait a full minute for the elevator. Then you will wait until after a half-dozen of us have pushed buttons “10” or “15” or “12” to push your own paltry “2.” And you, stair-avoiding employee of the second-floor, will have the audacity to be at least 80 lbs overweight.

And then, at the end of a long day when I am happily plummeting toward the lobby and to freedom in an elevator full of companions from double-digit floors, my glee and relief is stalled. You will have brought our swift descent to an unnatural halt, forcing us to hover, trapped, just above our destination. Do you perceive our frustration as our collective will to keep falling is thwarted and we are thus cruelly suspended? Do you hear our silent and sometimes muttered “C’mon, get on with it then” as we wait for you to shuffle on board and squeeze yourself into our already cramped escape pod?

You do realize that falling down the stairs from the second floor would be faster than taking the elevator? And it would require no more effort on your part, since avoiding effort seems to be your Modus operandi.

So, second-floor-stationed patron of the elevator, I would like to take this opportunity to suggest that you discover the aforementioned staircase and begin to use it on a daily basis. You will be delighted to learn that not only does climbing stairs and engaging in even mild forms of physical activity have a positive health effect, but it will also lead to improved relations with the upper-floor tenants of this building.

However, should you choose to persist in your current pattern of behavior, please do not expect than any rules of elevator etiquette will be applied to you. No one is going to hold the door for you. No one is going to ask you, finger poised above the button panel, “Which floor?” No one is going to try to hold back the gas resulting from last night’s Tex-Mex fiesta. And no one is going to try and free your trapped foot from between the elevator doors.

But we might do you and everyone else a favor, and push you down the stairs.


Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Excerpt from an IM Conversation with My Pious Brother

Pious Brother: ...but don't think that i think you're some kind of heathen
Pious Brother: cuz I don't
Me: It's OK. I think I'm some kind of heathen.
Pious Brother: Well...
Me: I just don't know which kind yet.

Monday, May 01, 2006


On Market and 16th there is a twenty-something hipster guy, who sits on the sidewalk and holds a small cardboard sign that says "Homeless. Hoping for a little generosity."

There is a twenty-something hipster girl holding an identical sign who sits on the sidewalk around Broad and Walnut.

Everytime I pass either of them, I want to lean over and say "You are an Eastern University student, and this is research for your sociology thesis. You can't fool me! This is the worst impersonation of a homeless person I've ever seen!"

But I don't.