My Sari Ass
I would love for this blog to be a platform for amazing ideological discourse on politics and human nature and a venue in which to rant about my hatred and despair over this vile administration and how we are traipsing the world spreading important values like corporate greed, global homogenization, and exploitation of the less fortunate while making our own constitution take it up the ass every day lubricated with a patented formula of fear.
But that doesn't seem to be the plan for tonight.
No, good reader, tonight I am bitching about stupid meaningless drivel, because it's 2:30am and I've been ironing a Sari for over 2 hours in the sauna (despite the window half open in a city where it snowed a mere 2 days ago) I inhabit in the wee hours of the morn. And I don't iron. Ever. (much to the chagrin of my mother, who now gets gloating privileges about having forced me to take a midget ironing board with me when I moved) While I have no doubt that I will be thrilled at having given myself scoliosis all evening when I look like an Indian Princess at my friend's wedding, rather than a drunken bag lady who's been dumpster diving in Jackson Heights, this somehow does not heal the burns. The damn thing still isn't exactly wrinkle free or anything, but after 2 hours I think non-tragic can translate into gorgeous Indian Princess.
Not only did I painstakingly iron 8 yards of very fragile fabric, but I had the additional pleasure of doing it to the lovely soundtrack of my neighbors having sex. Very loudly. It was kind of scary how loud and violent it sounded really. At first I thought perhaps they were throwing heavy furniture all over their apartment, but as the subvocals increased I decided that no one screams like that while tossing heavy armoires, not even if they land on your foot (which has happened to me before...don't ask, really). No my friend, this was the unmistakable battle hymn of the sneaky poke. It was so very, uh expressive, that I almost went over and knocked on their door to make sure there were no cows being slaughtered or anything- its one of the hazards when throwing armoires you know. Instead I moved all the precariously balanced fragibles, as the floor was feverently vibrating from the man-made earthquake next door, and went back to work vindicated in the knowledge that despite many prior accusations to the contrary, I am indeed not the loudest fucker in bed.
Now my procrastination has paid off and I only have a half hour to pack and shower before leaving for the airport at the indecent hour of 3:30am.
Who gets married on New Year's Day? It's a great new begining hallmark card and all, but a cruel joke on the out-of-towners.
But that doesn't seem to be the plan for tonight.
No, good reader, tonight I am bitching about stupid meaningless drivel, because it's 2:30am and I've been ironing a Sari for over 2 hours in the sauna (despite the window half open in a city where it snowed a mere 2 days ago) I inhabit in the wee hours of the morn. And I don't iron. Ever. (much to the chagrin of my mother, who now gets gloating privileges about having forced me to take a midget ironing board with me when I moved) While I have no doubt that I will be thrilled at having given myself scoliosis all evening when I look like an Indian Princess at my friend's wedding, rather than a drunken bag lady who's been dumpster diving in Jackson Heights, this somehow does not heal the burns. The damn thing still isn't exactly wrinkle free or anything, but after 2 hours I think non-tragic can translate into gorgeous Indian Princess.
Not only did I painstakingly iron 8 yards of very fragile fabric, but I had the additional pleasure of doing it to the lovely soundtrack of my neighbors having sex. Very loudly. It was kind of scary how loud and violent it sounded really. At first I thought perhaps they were throwing heavy furniture all over their apartment, but as the subvocals increased I decided that no one screams like that while tossing heavy armoires, not even if they land on your foot (which has happened to me before...don't ask, really). No my friend, this was the unmistakable battle hymn of the sneaky poke. It was so very, uh expressive, that I almost went over and knocked on their door to make sure there were no cows being slaughtered or anything- its one of the hazards when throwing armoires you know. Instead I moved all the precariously balanced fragibles, as the floor was feverently vibrating from the man-made earthquake next door, and went back to work vindicated in the knowledge that despite many prior accusations to the contrary, I am indeed not the loudest fucker in bed.
Now my procrastination has paid off and I only have a half hour to pack and shower before leaving for the airport at the indecent hour of 3:30am.
Who gets married on New Year's Day? It's a great new begining hallmark card and all, but a cruel joke on the out-of-towners.
posted by Le Synge Bleu at 2:14 AM
2 Comments:
Hee Hee. The sneaky poke.
How do you know it was the sneaky poke and not just your garden variety sex?
I love that sari. It's pretty gorgeous.
At least you have somewhere to go for New Year's. We did not plan ahead and now we have nothing to do.
I am contemplating getting myself completely shitfaced (let me just taunt S right here by saying nanny nanny boo boo you can't drink....and yet it is a hollow kind of taunting) and passing out on the bathroom floor. A fitting end to a shitty god damned year.
Fuck 2004.
And now I'm off to Chico's to buy more clothes that I hopefully will not be able to wear in 3 months.
Have fun at your wedding. My mom would say it's their funeral...but what does she know.
I think you must be reading Henry Miller, only sort of in reverse. And I mean that as a compliment! Your posts make me smile, and I'm so glad you're writing a blogue (spelling in your honor). Hope you saw the post I wrote about your new journal. And I added that link I promised to the home page. You make Elizabethe Wurtzel look like the poseur she is...I sure hope you don't know her, or--small world--are friends with her or something...
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