Attraction Action Reaction

I've found myself in a precarious situation of late. A strange sort of crossroads. A lame, "Sweet Valley High" like scenario, one that causes me to remind myself time and time again, "I'm an adult." Nor can I allow my sardonic nature to further muddle my decision making. I have a choice, or rather, I feel obligated to give an answer. I just genuinely don't know what to do.

Fresh off the rejection train, (ugh) someone has made his feelings for me known, though said feelings were of no surprise to me. I have woman's intuition, after all. And this man has carried a torch for me for well over a decade; it just took him as many years to muster up the guts to tell me so. (though again, no surprise) This fact alone makes me feel strangely obligated - he's liked me for so long...how could I possibly turn him down?

He's a nice guy, an intelligent guy. Patient and level headed. Emotionally and mentally stable. Makes decent coin. Is well aware of the fact that not only do I have children, but that I also have a special needs child. It doesn't bother him, and I truly believe that I could have a house full of special needs children and it wouldn't make a bit of difference: he likes me. A lot.

Is the feeling mutual? Yes and no. Rarely have I met someone who I feel instantly comfortable around, and Pete* was indeed the exception. I felt comfortable around him almost right away, and continue to feel as such. Talking to Pete* is like...I don't know. Talking to an exquisitely programmed android. He emotes, listens, and gives feedback, yet you never really feel like you're being judged - and not because he doesn't feel the need to - but because he can't. Does this make sense? How can I explain this better?

I once read about "operatic" relationships, the kind that involves a lot of yelling and screaming, but is resolved in a furor of passion. Despite my better judgment, this always sounded appealing to me. I like to argue. I like to screw. Best of both worlds. But Pete* is, without a shred of doubt, not the type to resolve disputes in such a manner. In fact, with Pete* I don't think disputes would even exist. Everything would be agreeable. Ours would be the house of amicability. A fortress of fairness, absolute. This sounds wonderful - in theory. But I think the reality would be insufferable. I just don't know...

I'm not physically attracted to him, and this is pretty shameful for me to admit. I feel like a hypocrite for uttering this, even in a blog, because I know what it's like to be rejected based on looks - yet I find myself doing the same. Potentially, at least. This is a huge point of contention between my mature, "adult" side, and my juvenile, animalistic side which makes decisions based on chemistry and attraction, rather than character and intent. With Paul* it was intellectual and physical. Not only did he have things to say, but I found myself coveting things like the angular symmetry of his face, and his almost delicate features. I had dreams about this man. I still do. But it wasn't reciprocated. There's nothing that can be done.

I'm horribly lonely and this fact makes me feel weak and stupid. And desperate. The holidays loomed, and now they're here. And I'm still alone. And I don't want to be...and I don't have to be. Because there's Pete. There's Pete or nothing.

"There's me, miss. I'm the best you've got. And you're in no position to be so picky and choosy." - From some movie I forget the title of.

Master of Disaster

Hello, blog. How do ya like being neglected, just like the others? Thought you were special, eh? Well you're a fool!

Nearly four months have passed since my last post, and I cannot honestly say that anything of great significance has occurred. I'm very nearly through with my first semester of school, and am close to getting my first ever straight A report card. (are they called report cards in college? eh? seems a bit juvenile) However, I can honestly say that it wasn't a big achievement, taking into consideration the "Dur, easy" factor of the courses I took. Computer stuff, mostly. Technical writing. 'S not exactly rocket science, yeah? Still, I suppose I cannot take everything away from my victory, no matter how insignificant. After all, I managed to earn a 4.0 average (I think) while functioning as a single parent, thus earning said grades whilst doing the "single mom" thing. Not bad, I guess. It's something.

Socially, things remain the same. I did manage to ease my ass out of my comfort zone long enough to entice a man to sit at my kitchen table and eat my sub-par cooking, but that's as far as it went, and I suspect that's as far as it will go. I'm not sure what ultimately worked as the repellent: my weight, (though, in my defense, I've lost a significant amount (60+ pounds) and continue to shed the excess poundage) my awkward prattling, the awful food, or all of the above. I suspect that it might be the latter.

As a woman who was born and raised in a culture that teaches women to blame themselves for everything, I'm rather quick to assume the apparent lack of interest was all because of little ole me, and all the things I did wrong. I have, on occasion, entertained the idea that maybe, just maybe, this bloke is the one with the issues. And I can't help but to be a little annoyed at his blindness to all the things we have in common, even those that are less than stellar. Difficult, aloof people have an awful time with relationships - this is fact. And I suppose if you're a bed-hopper it helps to ease the loneliness. I, however, am not, for reasons both practical and personal. Men don't frequent my bed, sadly, but rather an impressive collection of objects that are to be kept in drawers and hidden under clothes makes their rotation on a constant basis. And though it helps me to unburden, I can't help but to chuckle at the stereotypical lifestyle I've found myself in. I have not landed man. I tried, and I failed. So, it's back to the sock drawer for me. Well, hey.

To say that I'm disappointed would be an understatement, but the fact remains that there's nothing that can be done. Also, sometimes, you're just not going to be someone's cup of tea...no matter how much stuff you have in common with them. A lot can be said for animal magnetism. Chemistry. It's primal. Biological. And few of us have risen above it. So it appears as though common interests aren't enough. Well, duh.

I have made goals that go unsaid, devised plans that I am determined to see flower. There's plenty of fish in the sea, yeah?

Back to the boat I go.

Oh, boy.

Dear ----,

Will you please just make the first move? Because I don't have the guts.

Hop to it.

Sincerely,

Sam

College and other things

So tomorrow is my first day of school. College, rather.

Now, I've been to college, before. I went for years to obtain a fairly useless degree (art), worked my rather considerable butt off, only to stop so my ex-husband could take a promotion. The situation was as follows:
The ex worked for the government and was offered a promotion - as well as a significant pay raise. The issue was that the bigger salary pushed us into a different tax bracket, thus disqualifying me from getting free, gov'ment monies to continue my frivolous studies. The rock to my hard place was that despite the extra income, we couldn't afford for me to take classes (as well as pay for books) out of pocket. So a decision was made - it seemed, at the time, more beneficial to the family for me to stop my schooling so Scott could advance. Not so smart, in hindsight. Of course, at the time I had no idea that divorce was looming just over the horizon. (even though I should have: we'll chalk that one up to naivety)

Tomorrow, I return. This time, I'm going to school to obtain the needed skills to be an office drone. Exciting, I know! This was decided after many factors were taken into consideration:
-Location: Small town/the sticks. Not exactly a bustling mecca for the arts. I need a piece of paper that can prove I'm able to do something that someone around here actually has a use for.
-Contact with the public: As little as possible, please.
-On my feet: I want my ass in a chair, in a building with an air conditioner.
-Komputors: I'm good with 'em. I will gladly sit in front of one for eight hours a day for pay.
-Monie$: I don't want to be rich, but I want to earn a livable wage.

Good enough reasons, I think.

No, it's not my dream job. (I was originally going to school for art restoration, aka my Dream Job) But, the fact remains that I'm not in a "dream job" situation. What I need to think about is practicality, time, money, and location. And given the alternatives, (factory work or Burger King) office droning doesn't seem too unappealing. I think I'm cut out for it.


Earn ur livens.

I can admit that I'm a bit nervous about returning, but it's a positively charged anticipation. I've always liked school - I dig structure and routine. I like having tasks. I truly feel, for the first time in many a moon, that my life is moving forward..even if it's moving towards some modern medical park in Fremont or Sandusky. The fact remains that I'm no longer an upper middle-class hausfrau: I'm one of those horrible, single mothers that people are afraid of. My life is unarguably different than it was two years ago. And it took a year just for the change to really sink in. But my time of languish and reflection is over - I've had a year, and it's time to be, as the great philosopher Kelly Clarkson once said, Miss.Independent. (barfy)

Class of 2000

So my ten-year high school reunion is tomorrow. I suppose this begs the question: Do I plan on attending said high school reunion?

No.

Or should I say, Hell No.

My opinion of these gatherings are, I suppose, somewhat predictable, given my nature. But there's also a healthy dollop of common sense thrown in there, too: If high school was a generally intolerable experience for me, why in the hell would I want to go to the reunion? My desire to see the classmates of yore who annoyed me profoundly, is nil, and although I can admit that I'm a functioning hermit with trifling social skills, I also know enough about basic human nature to discern that the Scroogeian "change of character" is rare. Simply put, if you were an ass a decade ago, you're probably an ass, now. Only now you've married another ass, and have procreated assy little children. Back then I didn't have a choice - in order to graduate, I had to subject myself to 8-hours of dumb jocks, vapid ninnies, nauseating relationship drama, spacey potheads, and juggalos. However, this is no longer the case. There is no requirement for me to be there, although I'm fully aware that I'm betraying some kind of American institution by opting to be a no-show. But, I've never exactly been what you'd call traditional. So why start now?

To be fair, my BSHS experience wasn't bad. But I was (and still am, to a lesser extent) too much of a mini-misanthrope to love the forest for the trees, in a manner of speaking. I was a sigher. An eye roller. Quiet and perpetually annoyed. And I suppose the irony lays in the rather naked fact that I too was a high school stereotype, though at the time I believed myself to be a One Of A Kind. Regardless, my attitude made me unapproachable, and thus somewhat friendless. (well, "friendless" on a teenager's level - I had small circle of malcontents) And because I stepped aside and missed the wave 'o teeny bopper bliss, entirely, I was able to look at my peers through sanctimonious eyes. And what I saw made me snicker..probably a little more than was necessary. With my age and experience as a mother, I've reached a small level of self-actualization: I'm far from perfect, and I know I've judged these people too harshly for too long. Still, it doesn't nullify the fact that I don't care to see them. Any of them, really.

I'm not really sure what makes me the way that I am. Not quite sure why I've never been able to enjoy the company of my peers, at least without all kinds of conditions. In my brief time in this world, I've found the only people I can seem to tolerate are people like me, and people like me stay concealed in corners like picklocks, or burrowed in their homes like funnel spiders. People like me tend to not like people like me. The term "vicious cycle" can be aptly applied.

Found Blog

Truth be known, I have several blogs, scattered about the bowels of the internet like bastard children. I'll start one with great enthusiasm, tell myself I'll blog a little everyday, post three or four things only to abandon it, where it sits, totally dejected and equally forgotten. I've been doing this for the greater part of a decade.

Thing is, they're not totally forgotten. Not really. And every once and while, I'll visit these blogs and explore the contents like ancient tombs, cringing every once and awhile at my thoughts, feelings and observations of yesteryear. I am and probably always will be a self-important piece of work. Because if my hodge-podge of blogs have anything in common, it's the theme of "there's nothing as important in the whole wide world as what I'm typing right now." One of my many vanities, I guess.

Anyway, here's a few examples. A "Whitman's Sampler" of blogs past, from most recent (2008) to one at the beginning of the new millennium. (2001) Unjoy!

from my blog entitled Alice (I forget why) dated 1/14/2008

Dove chocolate

I really had a hankering for something sweet but was distressed when I found no sweet vittles in my kitchen cabinets. (True, there's a cake mix, but that requires eggs, oil and moderate manual dexterity, none of which I posses) I was about to surrender myself to a healthy, shiny, tasteless apple when I suddenly remembered half a bag of Dove chocolate in my purse, which boasts: "silky smooth milk chocolate promises". Well it's sugar, anyway.

This is the "cutesy" thing about Dove "promises" chocolate: each individually wrapped candy has an inspirational message on the inside of the wrapper. Messages, it seems, that were written by the same people who write for "Guidepost". Here are a few gems:
"Believe in and act on your dreams"
"Count your blessings and not your worries"
"Enjoy your DOVE and let your mind unwind"
"The more you praise and celebrate your life, the more in life there is to celebrate"
"Close out the world for just a moment"
"Send flowers to YOURSELF"
"Smile at a stranger"
"Flirt"
And my favorite:
"Listen to your heartbeat and dance"

Yeah, it doesn't take a genius to deduce that these are meant for women. One's estrogen level goes up significantly after consuming a "silky smooth Dove promise" and reading it's glurgly, butterfly kisses-like message.

There's also something slightly presumptuous about Dove "promises". At first I wasn't able to pinpoint how, exactly, but the more I stuffed my gullet with chocolate, and the more messages I was fraught with it became clear: the people who make this shite are targeting frumpy, lonely women. Damnit, Dove!

First, there's this:
"Make "someday" today "
Then this:
"Take YOURSELF on a date"
And this:
"Tell yourself you look beautiful not just today, but everyday"
And finally:
"Watch reruns, they replay your memories"


Get a life, you loser.

So then I start musing about the many bags of this chocolate I've bought over the years, and how each time I would unwrap one and read the message I would think to myself: "Ugh, spare me." Yet I continue to buy and consume Dove chocolate promises! I mean, who eats this stuff? Is it high-power, big shoulder pad wearing, Diane Keaton pre-baby in "Baby Boom" New York City business women? No. Is it cell phone yapping, hair flipping, Diet Coke sipping, spray tanned California spawn of the socially elite? Like, duh. No. Perhaps it's the soy cube eating, riding the bike to work, I only buy my groceries at "Whole Foods" hippy dippies? No. Huh. Well, maybe it's overweight women who shop at "Fashion Bug Plus", want to be just like Carrie Bradshaw on "Sex and the City" and often refer to themselves as "Claymates"? Yes. These are the people who eat Dove chocolate. This is the demographic that the Great and Powerful Oz over at the Mars corporation decided would plop three bucks down on a bag of candy that would aide them in coating their sadness in silky smooth milk chocolate. Well thank you, Mars co. Both my sweet tooth as well as my ass are in your debt.

from ModernFix, dated 3/27/04


My Feet

I can't seem to keep the heels of my feet from being dry and cracked. I know it's winter and all, but still.
Taking advice from my mother-in-law in regards to cracked feet is strange. She's much more serious about it than one might think, like getting rid of crust is big business, or an urgency. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate advice. But what we're dealing with here is dead skin, not cervical cancer.
There's steps. First, I must obtain a pumace stone. Then, soothing balm. The feet are to be..pumaced, I guess..once a day. Balmed, twice. This seems like an awful amount of work and I'm almost totally sure it would go unappreciated. Kind of like spending all day baking a cake that's gone in ten minutes. Why bother? I'm not married to a foot man, I'm married to an ass man. And I deliver. But I suppose down south it's part of the wifely duty to maintain baby soft feet for the man of the house. Nuts to that, I say, as Scott does almost nothing to maintain himself for me. Many a time have I been scratched by the increasingly yellowed talons he calls "toenails". He has an ever increasing amount of nose hair. Is it required for him to pumace and balm, though? Probably not. But look at me, turning it into a feminist thing. I guess what it boils down to is just personal hygiene.
Still, Scott could stand to trim the toenails and nose hair.


from ThievinMagpuh, dated 6/30/2001

ARTHUR


My daughter loves the show Arthur, some cartoon that comes on PBS. It's not bad for a kids show, but what's weird about it is the fact that all the characters are animals who own pets....who are also animals. Wouldn't that be like slavery? Didn't the creators of the show consider the weirdness factor of this even for a moment?

Francine the monkey owns a cat who's name I can't remember. Also, Francine has a friend who also happens to be a cat. Goes by the name of Sue Ellen. I find it odd that Sue Ellen THE CAT doesn't seem bothered by the fact that Francine happens to OWN a CAT as a PET. Apply these terms to human beings. If you were to say, go over to a friend or relatives home and there you spotted a supple young man drinking from a water dish and being referred to as "Fido", you might find this socailly and morally unacceptable. (unless you're into that sort of thing) It's an arrestable offense, after all. So why can the animal-like characters in Arthur get away with it? It must be a social norm.

Adventures In Insomnia

Or lack, thereof.

Insomnia crept into my nightly rituals a little over a month ago, and has decided to stick around. I'm not sure why I can't sleep, only that I can't sleep, and like about a thousand other things in my life, I feel guilty that I'm not spending my insomniac hours on something purposeful.

I've often read that sleeplessness is a sign of genius, but I'm not willing to go that far - my acumen is limited to certain subjects, only. Rather, I think the sleepless nights are caused by stunted, squashed-down anxieties and general loneliness. Because it's only in those pre-down hours that I seem the most acutely aware of the fact that I am, in fact, quiet alone.

Since my kids have been in Virginia for nearly a week, I'm experiencing for the first time in a decade total freedom...but, I just can't seem to get myself to take advantage of it. Because the daily rituals are so ingrained into my life, I can't break away from them so easily. When I'm up at 3am, the thought of just leaving the house is both appealing and exotic - but I never do it. I'm not sure why. I just don't.

I have been devouring cheap books, and listening to music like a teenager: knees propped up, back against the headboard of my bed. It's a youthful posture I'm sure looks ridiculous on me. And that alone seems like a terrible indulgence. Family members have been encouraging me to paint, again..but I haven't painted in years. I wouldn't even know what to do, as the desire in me had been flaccid for as long as I can remember. Quietly, and with little fanfare, I've pretty much buried my artistic side, which died a bitter, atrophied old woman. I always expected way too much of her. If she can't be the best, I'd rather her not be at all. It's just the way it is.

Of course, that doesn't mean her pulpy, zombified corpse doesn't crop up every once and awhile. The artistic flair materializes in other ways: pillows and throws, black wooden pictures frames lined on the wall in perfect symmetry, a mirror with a copper patina, blown glass vases full of sunflowers. So it seems I like to decorate, something that bored and disgusted my ex-husband with it's bourgeois-y domesticity. He wanted a bohemian, I suppose. Not a Pier 1 Martha Stewart. When I finally got my coveted "pull-out freezer" style refrigerator, he sighed with what I guess was disappointment as I polished that sucker every evening with stainless steel varnish. "You're such an appliance wife" he said.


WANT


Thing was, I couldn't really argue. Because I haven't risen above material wants. I like stuff. I like comforts. I guess that makes me a dullard. That's life. And the irony is, when we divorced, he kept the fucking refrigerator.

"Literate and Disgusting"

This is my new favorite description for intelligentsia, uttered by a man who I find both interesting and intimidating. His assertion was kind of stereotypical, i.e smart people are ugly ("disgusting") and beautiful people are stupid. I wanted to ask him what qualifies as disgusting, but didn't for two reasons:
1. It seems petty and juvenile to even ask
2. I'm fairly certain is idea of disgusting is most mens idea of disgusting: Fat.
Fatness is a curse, a bane. It's one of the worst things that can happen to you if you're a woman, because simply being fat will disqualify every single one of your positive, desirable traits. My intuition, which is infallible, tells me that I have more in common with this guy then I did even Scott, who I was married to for a decade. But it's also telling me to not even bother. It's a shame, but I have little choice but to adsorb this particular disappointment and move on.

I've always been a creature who changes only after particularly bloody battles. I have bad habits who not only die hard, but come back to me during my insomniac hours, rattling their chains. Never in my life have I smoked a cigarette, or drank a beer in it's entirety, or have been drunk (not even once!), or have smoked weed or snorted cocaine. If I were to die tomorrow, my organs would be showroom new, ripe for the pickin' for whatever lucky son-of-a-bitch gets my pristine kidneys, or ruddy liver. That's what happens when you live clean. You internal organs are beasts of beauty.

But I have my vices, too.

I have a particular love for food. Good food, bad food, instant food, damn near anything. I can remember savoring things at a young age: the rarely had pop, the semi-sweet chocolate squares my sister would sneak from the kitchen at night, a burger topped with bubbling cheese. Stuff like that. I liked it too much, my passions for it driving me out of my room while the house was asleep, or when I was older, simply purchasing my own ice cream and tucking it behind the meats in the freezer. Because not only did I not want to share, I didn't want anyone else to know I was eating it. Yeah. That's a bad sign. My proverbial fifth of vodka hidden in the toilet basin.

As a literate person, I can admit that I have a lack of self-control that's had a less than stellar side effect. No one made me overeat. It was an outlet I chose of my own volition, but all the while I'm smart enough to know that it's bad. I can change, as I'm in the process now of total reformation, both mentally and physically. But it's really fucking hard. Because sometimes, those dead habits rattle their chains so loudly, I can scarcely think of anything else.

Frumpachino

My mother has the best of intentions, but nevertheless, she's one of those people who routinely award back-handed compliments and hint-hint-remarks, all while suffering from a serious case of "foot in mouth" disease. Not to suggest that I'm unaccustomed to this, as half the women in my family seem afflicted with this particular vexation. And there's certainly a difference between, say, my mom, who says something off-color or slightly insulting but without meaning to and feeling genuinely sorry, and her mom, a woman who derived a particular brand of pleasure from harshing your mellow. It's become a running gag in our family, and we've even taken to calling such faux pas "Donnaisms". (after my later grandmother, Donna, the aforementioned buzz-killer)

My fall classes start on August 24th, an occasion which my mom finds the perfect opportunity for subtle self-promotion.
"Oh, it'll be wonderful!" she coos. "You go to class, get out of the house, do your hair and make-up, because you never know who you might meet! So you want to look good!"
I furrow my brows slightly as this. So I want to look good, eh? As opposed to not looking good? Despite the fact that I mostly understand what she's getting at, and that her comment's intent is benign in nature, her words plant the seeds for my old friends self-consciousness and paranoia to take root and flourish once again, only this time in the body of a nearly 30-year-old woman, the results of which are pathetic and unfortunate. Because a certain amount of "Omigod you like I'm uglyeeeeee!" is expected in teenage girls, but not adult women. As a mother of two, I'm expected to rise above such trivialities and preserve despite feeling like a Brunhilda, and for the most part I'm able to. But now that I'm single, the balloon has risen. Because I'm no longer in a cocoon of domesticity, but rather a free agent in a rather beauty driven society. I suppose in order to "land a man", I need to change. But it won't be easy. Because I'm a total frump.

World English Dictionary:

frumpy or frumpish (ˈfrʌmpɪ, ˈfrʌmpɪʃ)
— adj
	(of a woman, clothes, etc) dowdy, drab, or unattractive

When I was kid, the phrase most often heard before leaving the house was: "Samantha Jean! You look like a ragamuffin!" Even then, fashion eluded me. I never saw the point, because the way I saw it, whatever I wore was going to invariably be covered with dirt or covered with paint. So what's the point of dressing up? Why all the fuss? And as for my hair, well..it was only hair. Yeah, it was on my head but what was I suppose to do with it? The solution was for my mom to put it in french braids, but I was entirely neutral. Braids, ponytail, long 'n loose. Didn't make a damn bit of difference to me.

Nor could I be arsed with the simple act of color coordination. Let's see, here..I have a neon orange shirt and a pair of white stretch pants with black polka dots. Well, it's clean. I'll wear it. Oh, it's supposed to be colder, today? Well I have in my closet a Bill Cosby sweater and a pair of jeans with a patch on the knee. What? It's clean right? Yes, it seemed that cleanliness was the only prerequisite I had when it came to clothes. I was like this for years.


I'm going to take a moment to toot my own horn. I'm an attractive woman. My parents were attractive people, and I was lucky enough to inherit from each of them their most desirable, physical characteristics. Large eyes and arched 'brows from my father, along with with pianist hands which are used exclusively for typing on keyboards. (because, much like fashion, learning to read music eluded me) From my mother, I was given a peachy complexion and strong teeth. I have always had potential. However, freeing myself from the frump has been a challenge. And I tried, damn it. The closest I've ever been to dipping my toes into the bounding main of fashion is when I went through my "jeans and ironic tee-shirts" phase in high school. And even then, the frump lay just below the surface. Waiting.

There came a time when I merely rectified myself to the fact that being dowdy was an inherent part of me, like gray eyes or brown hair. Yes, it can be altered, just like the color of one's eyes or the color of one's hair, but the fact will always remain that you're a brunette by virtue of nature. And when it came down to it, was it really all that big of a deal? I mean, who cares?


The menfolk, that's who. And boy, am I screwed.

I am no Eliza Doolittle. Nor am I longing for a professor Higgins to turn me into a prize. However, I can acknowledge that there's some work to be done, the likes of which I'm not at all opposed to. I could stand to wear a little lipstick, I guess. Wouldn't mind getting some lowlights in my hair. And just because I'm not stylish doesn't mean I don't admire style in and of itself: I could dress better, too.

Alex: What kind of ice cream are you getting, Grandma?
Mom/Grandma: I'm not getting any. I'm on a diet.
Me: Pfff! You're not on a diet!
Mom/Grandma: ........
Me: Oh. You are?

The Donnaisms don't fall from from the D.

Surly Temple.

I've often wondered how I'd look without eyebrows.

Not that I'd actually ever shave them off. No, that would be too much of a dramatic change, as I'm a creature of habit and routine. If I feel out of whack if a holiday happens to fall on a Monday, and there's no mail, I'm sure making bare my rather prominent 'brows would send me into a cataclysmic panic. Still, I wonder.

It's a ditsy, vapid thing to mull over. I could spend my time thinking about the world, or travels, or self-betterment. Instead, my thoughts are almost totally cosmetic in nature. How would I look with white-blonde hair? What would it be like to function with just three fingers, total? I wonder if I've ever known anyone who secretly has a tail? Is it possible for a person to have a third, fully functioning eyeball? Stuff like that.

Lori & Dori vs. Surly Temple

Yet another guilty pleasure of mine is Lori and Dori Schappell, the conjoined twins. The first time I saw them was 15-some-odd years ago on The Maury Povich Show, and I was totally immersed in the odd specital that was their lives. Mostly, what I thought about was functionality: For example, Dori, the smaller "parasitic" twin, needs to be wheeled around on a little swivel chair. She dangles from her sister, Lori, like a boneless toddler. She sings, though. Reba Mcentire songs, mostly. She even at one point dyed her hair red and changed her name to "Reba", a sweet homage to her country siren, yes. But also slighty creepy and weird. Oh, another thing - the girl can't sing. At all.

This is where my loving mom side meets Surly Temple, my "this is utter bullshit" alter-ego. One the one hand, I can support nuturting the dreams of someone who is differently abled. However, I cannot and will not say that Dori Reba can sing. She's a terrible singer. Just awful. Yet she was given a recording contract, and produced a music video. In my opinion, there's a special brand of cruelty to this, as this woman was not signed to a contract because of her talents, but merely for her draw as a side-show oddity. I'd like to think that the Schappell twins are hip to this, but I have a feeling they're not - and to me, that makes the explotation all the greater.

Of note: Dori changed her name to "George", the why's of which are a complete mystery to me. Maybe she's a George Jones fan.

The Who Cares? Bears

Even as a kid, I was a fan of parody, and I had it in my mind that I could turn my Who Cares? Bears concept in a real thing. I was never a fan of the real Care Bears, and had the high opinion that "Grumpy Bear" was the only one with any real character - the rest seemed too sugary sweet, too nauseatingly optimistic to ever function outside their cupcakeish, utopian society.


STFU

I had plans for my vision, but they never came into fruition, because I recieved Mario Paints for Christmas that same year. Thus, the time I would've spent on my master plan instead went to creating dirty animation, and composing music that was comprised of farty sound effects. And I was damn good at both, too.