Moose in the Kitchen

If you’ve been blogging for awhile and your organizational system resembles mine, you know the horrifying detritus that collects in the drafts folder. Mustering the courage to dive into the wormhole means wading through bits and pieces of your life, previously forgotten or deemed unsuitable for public consumption. Do you hit the delete key with a decisive flourish? Do you try to scrub them off and make them presentable? Or do you compromise?

YES, MY FRIENDS. YOU COMPROMISE. Without further ado, I present Culled From the Drafts, 2006-2009:

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“Love doesn’t come with buts!” He looked at me and I remembered I was talking to a gay man. Yes, love does indeed come with butts.

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Dance class etiquette:

1. Don’t kick anyone in the head.

2. If you do kick someone in the head, don’t halt in your tracks to apologize. BAD THINGS HAPPEN. Like collisions and masses of skinny flailing limbs. Dancers have sharp elbows. You don’t want one shoved inadvertently into your stomach. Wait until everyone has stopped moving and then say sorry I stuck my toe into your ear.

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Today is saved from being profoundly awful only because no rabid monkeys leapt from the bushes to rip off my arms and beat me with the stumps.

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I’m looking at a picture of a woman wearing angel wings, a pair of sneakers, and a satin diaper.

These moments most often arise in a museum of modern art somewhere when I gaze at a lime green bathtub sitting in the middle of the room, and wonder, “Am I missing the point? Or does the point just not exist?”

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My mother has a habit of calling me up expressly to say, “That didn’t really happen.”

My response is always, “Well, it sort of happened.”

Subtext: “No, the squirrel didn’t actually fly at me and claw my nose off my face to dine on slowly over the frigid California winter, but it wanted to. I could see the malicious intent in its beady little eyes. AND THAT TOTALLY COUNTS.”

She never believes me. You shouldn’t either.

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“What are they doing next door?”

“Playing darts…. Actually, they’re throwing steak knives at a chunk of styrofoam.”

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“Hey, little spider!

Bad news.”

[Squish]

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You haven’t lived until you’ve heard the dirty little secrets of all your coworkers sung onstage by a Barbra Streisand impersonator before an audience of hundreds. File under: Perks of that nonprofit theater job.

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I’m sensitive. Like Richter scale sensitive. Always have been. You might think, “Oh! Sensitive is good. It makes people compassionate and more attuned to the needs of others.” Not really. I’m fairly sure it just makes me a pain in the ass.

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They said on Scrubs that people with diabetes are always thirsty. I’m always thirsty. I just ate a mini-Hershey’s bar. OH MY GOD, THERE GOES MY LEFT FOOT.

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Sometimes, I have to remind myself that my life is pretty damn good.

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