An Ode to Hotel Nookie

The following poem was inspired by an infamous hotel stay I had several months ago.

Ahem...

Monkey Lovin
aka my Visit to Charleston

Is the manager aware
that above me is a pair
of most rabid monkey lovers
makin' whoopie without care?

Seems Room 308 is hosting
quite a freaky jungle toasting
celebrating all the earthly pleasures
that two monkey mates could share.

Are they needing Robitussin?
What could cause that nasty fussin'?
All those whoops and barks of rapture
make me wonder at the cause.

And so when the loving's ended
and my ears are most offended
should I run upstairs and offer them
a round of awed applause?

Friends, there is no earthly reason
why two monkies well in-season
should have chosen to conduct coitus
in the Wingate's halls.

The compulsion was too mighty
to ignore, and so quite rightly
I picked up the phone to call the clerk
to kvetch of cardboard walls.

But as monkey lovin' ended
I became much less offended
for the sounds now emanating were
quite different from the first.

Monkey One remarked with candor
that she'd gotten quite a gander
at a side her monkey lover
had not shared with her before.

His frightening ululations
gave his lover palpitations
She was sure she'd never known a man
so vigorous and strong.

But his manly demonstrations
brought on violent perspiration
and the odor was enough to make
the girl chimp move along.

So dear monkies, if you're thinking
of enjoying public linking
give a moment's thought about the folks
you force to listen in...

When you choose to knock da boots
know your neighbors give a hoot.
They are made unwilling partners
when your hotel walls are thin!

Runs With Scissors

My latest pathetic admission is that I am about as dangerous as a pair of saggy pantyhose. I'll admit that I live in a questionable neighborhood, and that act in itself might register as risky on the Fear Factor Richter scale. But beyond the random acts of idiocy that occur around me, my life is punctuated by the rising cost of a gallon of milk and the price of pansies at Wal-mart.

I've always been a vanilla kind of gal... Lots of safe decisions, not a ton of regrets (Noteworthy exception: Why the hell didn't I go see U2 in concert 20 YEARS AGO? Why, dammit... WHY????) In general, I've been a fan of the dangerous but a practitioner of the mainstream.

I don't have any tattoos (yet). I have promised myself that on the day when I can choose 1) a design / message & 2) a location (to which the tat would be inked) where I would not be embarrassed to have either my grandchildren or a nursing home attendant find said marking, I'll haul ass to the nearest ink-man and do the deed. As for piercings, I started with the traditional one-per-ear at age six-- partly because many of my little peers had the same, and partly in an attempt to make people stop calling me "little boy" (mom kept my hair short & I was a total tomboy). My only rebellion in that department was to try the second piercing on the right side look when I was a freshman (weren't the 80's GREAT for trend-setting?) The fact that I didn't sterilize the earring or lobe prior to the act (as well as numbing the area with a handful of snow) probably had little bearing on the resulting infection & closure of the hole. When I next attempted double-indemnity, I pierced BOTH lobes-- again at home sans alcohol (either in- or externally).

I've never mooned / flashed anyone. I have been on the receiving end of several moons and public... **ahem**... floggings... But I've never taken the bull by the stones and released the hounds in public. What am I waiting for? This is where we cue the internal dialogue voice that sounds oddly like Brenda Vaccaro doing an ad for hormone replacements: "Honey.. if you have ta ask WHY you've waited, then there musta not been too many good moments."

In honor of my life not-lived-dangerously, I'm adding an honorary spirit name to my resume:

Runs With Scissors

Even if I never embrace the ink, pierce a part, or throw caution to the wind (along with my boulder holder), I'll be able to signify to the world that I too have a dangerous side.

Shiva's Garden

"I'm not clumsy... I'm fulfilling my destiny!"

I've realized that my role in life is that of Shiva, the destroyer. For example, whenever my mother calls to have me "help her with a project" in her yard it inevitably involves killing, moving, tearing out, pruning, or up-rooting of some kind. The actual planting and nurturing we leave to her. I am the family's Dark Angel of groundskeeping.

As a child my family always compared me to a bull in a china shop. I can still hear my dad shouting, "Make your moves smooth, Ex-lax!" It wasn't that I lacked grace or agility, only the control or discipline to premeditate. It was agony to slow down, develop a plan of action, then execute. In retrospect, I can see why I was drawn to the Little House on the Prairie books, largely because I related to young Laura Ingall's impatience... how her father called her "flutterbuget" in a chiding, yet loving tone. In first grade I chose St. Therese of Lisieux, the Little Flower, as my patron Saint because I was floored by how human she seemed. She wasn't portrayed as some remote figure, hovering above reproach, but as a flesh and blood woman. One who fought and teased with her sisters, was obstinate toward her parents, and was in all ways a very real creature-- subject to human frailty.

Who knew that my talent as an vehicle of destruction would be an advantage? Sometimes I feel like I should work in the demolition industry. I never feel more empowered than when I am chopping, shredding, dismantling or in some way disassembling things. Many people find satisfaction in "completing" a project; I feel my greatest success from removing obstacles for someone else to come through and beautify. I don't see beauty in the act of destruction, but in the potential that the ashes represent. Of course, metaphor queen that I am, that made me think of maggots (wouldn't you love to be a passenger on my train of thought?). I don't feel that I am as powerful as the Grim Reaper-- I'm not the one waving a Stygian arm over the planet, stirring tornados in trailer parks and sprinkling bubonic plague in Bombay slums. I'm more like the mealworms that come along and clear away the dross, so that change can occur.

Yeah-h-h-h-h... that's me. Agent of change... Larvae personified...

Unclench, girl... UNCLENCH!!

Suffice to say I sounded a bit testy yesterday. Mademoiselle Mel took exception to my bumper sticker comment (I knew I could count on her to get her hackles up-- we've discussed her bumper sticker before & that fact that we voted the same way ;-). But you'll find as this blog grows that some days I'll be in a Dave Barry mode and you'll be glad to kick back & read my loony ramblings. Then... there are days like YESTERDAY. If you'll tolerate my occasional pontificating, I'll try to reward you with some giggles now and then, o.k.? O.k.

How about I tell you how I earned the nickname Hot Biscuit?

Fifteen years ago I was living in Westchester County, NY working as a nanny for two small kiddos (I'll share those stories later). After months of working 12-hour days Mon-Fri, I soon fell in the habit of doing weekend getaways to Washington DC (a quick 3-hour trip via Amtrak) to visit friends. The only sour note to these trips was my growing awareness that my friends (Barb & Kevin) were trying to pair me up with another mutual friend of ours. Kids, this man is just about the LAST man I would ever be interested in knowing that way, and I tried repeatedly to indicate that I was NOT interested in "getting to know him better" and that they should cease and desist.

After a number of visits B & K announced that we just had to go to a local restaurant that served unlimited fresh baked biscuits & salad with their meals. Being a huge fan of fresh biscuits, I agreed and we set out for the restaurant, creepy friend in tow.

• First mistake: trying to dine there (a popular eatery) on a Friday evening.
• Second problem: opting to wait when the hostess told us we'd have a 45-60 minute wait.
  
• Third crisis: it was nearly 25 minutes after being seated before they took drink orders.
• Fourth gripe: took another 20 just to get said drinks
• Fifth complaint: after waiting nearly 2 hours, the waiter told us they'd burned the last batch of biscuits & it would be another 20 before we got any.

You do the math. Two hour wait + empty belly + two beers + creepy suitor = BAD FRIGGIN' MOOD. By the time the smarmy waiter finally brought us biscuits, we were ready to fall on them like manna from heaven. Creepy dude was brandishing his knife, ready to slap butter, and when I attempted to reach for the long-awaited biscuits he pretended to slash at my hand. My final mistake was throwing down MY like-wielded knife, staring him in the eye and trumpeting, "What are ya gonna do with that thing... SPREAD ME TO DEATH???"

My horrified expression, Creepy's scarlet face, the passing waiter's startled snort and B & K's smothered embarrassment was just too much, and I was branded "Hot Biscuit" on the spot.

Sign Me Up

** thank Sharon for inspiring this rant

Does anyone else have a problem with signs and symbols?

You can argue that it's an animal instinct to want to lift a leg and visibly mark that which is ours. It's also a human impulse and a Constitutional right to profess our personal belief system through publicly viewed symbolism: crucifix, bumper stickers, tattoos, graffiti, etc. But what drives mankind to express ownership and faith through tangible tactile means? Why can't we be satisfied with self-knowledge? What goads us into public declarations of belief and intent?

Now, I'm not arguing against Freedom of Expression. Anyone who has spent time with me knows that I walk to a different drummer (all the while masquerading under a conformist veneer), and I would be at the front of the pack defending this priviledge. But whatever happened to taking time to learn about others? We've resorted to hanging WWJD & LIVESTRONG bracelets on our wrists, crosses around our necks, and Vote Bush on our bumpers in a sort of visual shorthand. Has time sped up to such an excessive rate that we feel we have to thrust our beliefs and agendas under everyone's nose as we fly past? In the event that we don't impact enough people in person, we have to make certain everyone knows how we feel via signs. How arrogant are we to think that we can encapsulate and express our worth via a man-made object? How naive are we to believe that a we can develop an accurate picture of someone else's value through their totem?

What is meaningful to one man is pointless to another if he / she doesn't assign the same value to an action or symbol. One of the best quotes I've stumbled across on the subject is this:

Sitting in a church no more makes you a Christian than sitting in a garage makes you an automobile.

Public Demonstrations: This thread stems from the sentiment Sharon expressed about the supposed "value" of kindergarten graduations. Most five year-olds could not be less interested in participating in a graduation ceremony. Yet we force them to parade across stages, stand in front of a room filled with strangers, and belt out songs about trees & bluebirds. Who is made happy by this pastime? The child who can't stop picking his nose or clutching at his winkie long enough to finish singing, "Grey squirrel, grey squirrel... Shake your bushy tail!"? Or the families, with the preteens sulking because they'd rather be at home on their computers & parents wishing they could be doing ANYthing other than sitting in uncomfortable chairs while their pint-sized progeny square dance? Exactly WHO is being served by these events? Other than being a bragging point for the teachers and school administrators, I cannot fathom who it was that decided this was a worthwhile way to spend an evening...

The long and short of this spew of consciousness is that symbols have an arbitrary value. I struggle daily with a co-worker who cannot differentiate between the concepts of personal perception vs universal truths. Her reality must be EVERYONE's reality; if you express a contrary belief, you are wrong. It is also a trait of humans to draw conclusions from the facts presented, but rampant egocentrism is not helpful in adult settings.