I have so much to be thankful for: sandals, warm weather and a million colors of nail polish. If it weren’t for these three things, my sisters and I wouldn’t be living here in Los Angeles, successful business women in a storefront on Westwood Boulevard.
I really don’t mind squatting on a little swivel stool, hunched over feet, sometimes big and ugly, with nails so thick I wish I had a Skil Saw to cut them. Lots of times I have to wash the grime from the bottoms of feet so I like to soak them first in disinfectant before I scrub them. The worst are those cracked heels with the dry skin. Oh, hell, why should I complain? Most of the ladies are nice, except the ones who mess up the nail polish when they put their flip flops back on, and I have to redo the damaged paint. I actually like the smell of the nail polish. It used to make me dizzy, but now I look forward to it early in the morning. The acetone remover is the best. I have to work hard and use lots of the remover to take off the old chipped color, and I really trip out on the new nail polish, sometimes painting three coats instead of two. Some ladies really get carried away and want to have designs and fake jewels attached to their toenails. Where do they get these ideas? Red white and blue for July, green and red for December, yellow and blue for April. Beats me.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Feet - Chris Callaghan
These feet scurry about
From room to room
Standing still for a moment
While my brain tries
To remember why I’m here.
Oh yes – that skirt
That pad of paper
Don’t forget this other
Very important thing.
Check the list.
What was it, again?
The kitchen sink?
Why not take that too?
All the things that will
Keep me safe
In a foreign land.
From room to room
Standing still for a moment
While my brain tries
To remember why I’m here.
Oh yes – that skirt
That pad of paper
Don’t forget this other
Very important thing.
Check the list.
What was it, again?
The kitchen sink?
Why not take that too?
All the things that will
Keep me safe
In a foreign land.
Feet - Jennifer Balko
Generally, I don’t like feet. Sure, they’re practical. Imagine how you would get around without them. But, for the most part, they’re just downright ugly, with their crinkly toes all squished together. And, mine are just to damn sensitive. Going barefoot is for me the equivalent of stepping on broken glass. I’m prone to blisters, and without any noticeable arch, I’m bound to aches and pains if stay in flip-flops too long.
Despite my extraordinary dislike of this particular body part, I did appreciate them much more after a trip to Papua New Guinea. There, shoes are pretty much a luxury item, especially in the small villages lining the Sepik, down by the coast, or up in the highlands. People in these parts use their feet as tools, very much the same way monkeys use them to climb. Unlike my delicate Western stubs with polished toenails, men and women’s feet in PNG are spread-out mini-marvels. It’s difficult to say whether they are more evolved or less evolved – the argument could go either way, really. The utility of their feet is incredible efficient. And, personally, I curse whoever decided heels were a revolutionary step in womankind’s evolution.
The toes of many PNG folks are stretched so wide it’s hard to believe that they are part of the same synchronized unit; they look like completely separate extensions of the leg. This comes in handy, of course, when you have to cross a raging river on a slippery log with barely any rope or side-rail support. We watched in awe the locals cross this bridge without one second of hesitation or slipperiness. Their claw-like toes dug in the wet wood and the rest of their feet just worked like machines. I nearly soaked myself, practical, expensive hiking boots and all, as I teeter-tottered along the makeshift bridge. Maybe, if I actually start wearing my yoga rubber toe separators, my feet would be useful for these random adventures, and I’ll grow to like them more. Then again, how many slippery logs do I need to cross everyday in Barcelona?
Despite my extraordinary dislike of this particular body part, I did appreciate them much more after a trip to Papua New Guinea. There, shoes are pretty much a luxury item, especially in the small villages lining the Sepik, down by the coast, or up in the highlands. People in these parts use their feet as tools, very much the same way monkeys use them to climb. Unlike my delicate Western stubs with polished toenails, men and women’s feet in PNG are spread-out mini-marvels. It’s difficult to say whether they are more evolved or less evolved – the argument could go either way, really. The utility of their feet is incredible efficient. And, personally, I curse whoever decided heels were a revolutionary step in womankind’s evolution.
The toes of many PNG folks are stretched so wide it’s hard to believe that they are part of the same synchronized unit; they look like completely separate extensions of the leg. This comes in handy, of course, when you have to cross a raging river on a slippery log with barely any rope or side-rail support. We watched in awe the locals cross this bridge without one second of hesitation or slipperiness. Their claw-like toes dug in the wet wood and the rest of their feet just worked like machines. I nearly soaked myself, practical, expensive hiking boots and all, as I teeter-tottered along the makeshift bridge. Maybe, if I actually start wearing my yoga rubber toe separators, my feet would be useful for these random adventures, and I’ll grow to like them more. Then again, how many slippery logs do I need to cross everyday in Barcelona?
Dog Days - Jeff Thomas
Suffocating. Like the humid heat of August. The crushing weight of an open expanse of time. Energy dissipates and you’re left lying on the couch. Ideas float through your head like little exciting offers of salvation. Fantasies of direction and purpose, smiles of divine and self-satisfied actualization. You bring them to your body and watch them freeze in your breast. The tips of your fingers tingle but don’t move. A depressive front washes over you and this moment looks just like eternity. Feebly you flick the next logical switch: If someone would just tell you what to do, pick you up and carry you, you would indeed be saved. And in that instant, you find rage, violently destroying around you the horrifying structure of someone else. Feet kicking franticly at supporting frames, fingers clawing bloodily at oppressive thatch, lungs gasping for a fresh breath of independence. A few moments of rasping desperation, followed by the creeping quiet of inertia. The heat, overpowering, drenches you in sweat. But somehow, slowly, you manage to get up and water the plants.
Dog Days - Melody Cryns
This morning, as I stumbled out the door, I almost tripped over the dogs lying leisurely directly in front of the door – all three of them. My dog Sydney, the littlest in the “pile,” along with Kamala, the mid-sized dog with the dark red hair, and Floyd-the-Dog, whom I’ve known since he was a puppy and he’s nine years old now.
Where had the years gone? It seems like just yesterday Jeremy had picked Floyd out of a litter of eight fat puppies – the people who owned the Chow mom didn’t even realize she was pregnant with puppies until she lay down on the dirt in front of their house and the teenage girl who lived at the house yelled, “I think my dog is dying!” Her dog wasn’t dying, she was popping out puppies. She had no idea what to do with the puppy when it came out and she began attempting to bury it, but the small Daschund saved the day by running over and pulling the puppy over to the porch – the puppy was almost as big as she was. The Mom Chow had eight puppies that day of all different colors, golden brown to deep black. They lived directly in front of the tiny house my exboyfriend Gary lived at, so that’s how I even knew these people, but if you asked me their names I couldn’t remember. I only remember the animals. They also had a cat named Princess who loved my exboyfriend Gary and they let him keep Princess whom he renamed Shishu. Who would have known that a couple of years later, Gary would take off and leave for Colorado and we’d end up with Shishu and one of those puppies – the one Jeremy picked out – whom he immediately named Floyd.
That was back in 2000, nine years ago, when I’d just visit that weird, dusty town called Porterville, tucked in the Sierra Nevada mountains someplace between Fresno and Bakersfield, yet further east. I would never have even known that the town of Porterville existed if it wasn’t for Gary, whom I met on the Internet – not through one of those dating sites, but through a site where people talked about music. He was like a classic rock music guru and had been a drummer for rock bands for over 30 years, traveling all over the U.S. and Canada. Now he was just a washed-up guy living in Porterville, where he’d grown up. I didn’t know at first that he had beat a bad heroin addiction, which was good but it had played havoc on his health.
I loved Gary for some strange reason I couldn’t even figure out. He was so good to my daughter Megan, who loved him and laughed at all of his silly jokes. He didn’t have any money and lived off of Social Security disability, but he loved the music and wrote beautiful poetry.
As I almost tripped over Floyd-the-Dog this morning walking out the door, I remembered…
Where had the years gone? It seems like just yesterday Jeremy had picked Floyd out of a litter of eight fat puppies – the people who owned the Chow mom didn’t even realize she was pregnant with puppies until she lay down on the dirt in front of their house and the teenage girl who lived at the house yelled, “I think my dog is dying!” Her dog wasn’t dying, she was popping out puppies. She had no idea what to do with the puppy when it came out and she began attempting to bury it, but the small Daschund saved the day by running over and pulling the puppy over to the porch – the puppy was almost as big as she was. The Mom Chow had eight puppies that day of all different colors, golden brown to deep black. They lived directly in front of the tiny house my exboyfriend Gary lived at, so that’s how I even knew these people, but if you asked me their names I couldn’t remember. I only remember the animals. They also had a cat named Princess who loved my exboyfriend Gary and they let him keep Princess whom he renamed Shishu. Who would have known that a couple of years later, Gary would take off and leave for Colorado and we’d end up with Shishu and one of those puppies – the one Jeremy picked out – whom he immediately named Floyd.
That was back in 2000, nine years ago, when I’d just visit that weird, dusty town called Porterville, tucked in the Sierra Nevada mountains someplace between Fresno and Bakersfield, yet further east. I would never have even known that the town of Porterville existed if it wasn’t for Gary, whom I met on the Internet – not through one of those dating sites, but through a site where people talked about music. He was like a classic rock music guru and had been a drummer for rock bands for over 30 years, traveling all over the U.S. and Canada. Now he was just a washed-up guy living in Porterville, where he’d grown up. I didn’t know at first that he had beat a bad heroin addiction, which was good but it had played havoc on his health.
I loved Gary for some strange reason I couldn’t even figure out. He was so good to my daughter Megan, who loved him and laughed at all of his silly jokes. He didn’t have any money and lived off of Social Security disability, but he loved the music and wrote beautiful poetry.
As I almost tripped over Floyd-the-Dog this morning walking out the door, I remembered…
Sunday, August 2, 2009
In the Middle of Things - Jeff Thomas
Peter felt the usual impulse to flee. Wrapping paper and gifts coated the cavernous living room. Around him, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, sister. People so familiar they were like extensions of his body. They filled the room and chattered. Joking, always joking. With a slight, almost physical, edge that compelled you to fight back. Being with these people was like sitting in a slightly too warm room wearing a sweater you couldn’t take off because maybe you weren’t wearing anything underneath. Outside snow, purple in the late afternoon setting sun, reached almost to the window sill. Peter thought of opening the window, just for a moment of fresh air, but knew it really wouldn’t make that much of a difference. He stood up, skated across the shag carpet in stocking feet, building up a charge. Slipping out of the room he touched a doorknob to give himself a shock. Slightly refreshed, he began to climb the hallways stairs. He moved quickly through the empty second floor to the uncarpeted attic floor stairs. His socks slipping a little on the shiny surface, he jogged up the flight, the yelping voices below grower dimmer. He reached the attic floor hall, and after a burst of running, slid the length of it, almost colliding with the bedroom door. He entered, closed the door, and, the bed creaking noisily, threw himself on the ancient cool satin bedspread. Complete silence. He grabbed his book and began to read.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Dark Red - Bonnie Smetts
I put on the darkest reddest lipstick I have. I tip tap my lips together to smooth it out, take another swoosh with the powder brush, and push back my hair. I can’t get used to the ocean always living right beside me, I can see it in the corner of the mirror. I forget it’s there and I kind of jump when I walk out of the kitchen and see it again. Right there in front of me, like I got a big blue ocean scene as a painting hanging in my living room. Except it’s moving, like a movie right there in front of me, following me around.
I like the blouse I’m wearing tonight, blue and white stripes, crisp is what they called it on the label. I read that every girl should have a crisp white blouse but I couldn’t settle for white when there was this ocean blue and white one hanging next to the white one.
I’m nervous as a cat, the idea of this date. I’m nervous as a cat just trying to feel at home with that ocean following me from room to room, and the idea that I got a new job in two days. I’m so nervous that I guess that’s why I just said yes to this man. If I’m gonna be nervous I may as well give myself something really big to be nervous about. Going out with somebody I don’t know a thing about.
I’m seeing somebody I don’t quite know starring at me in the mirror. And all I see is me standing there all alone in my white bathroom with the white towels I got to match all the white everywhere around me. I’m starring so long that I jump, like I almost fall over, when that man knocks on my door.
“Hi, come in,” I say. He’s shiny and tan and he’s wearing tan pants and a pale yellow shirt, looking like what a man would wear if he lived at the ocean. His aftershave touches me like a whisper.
“Rawling, baby, you look hot,” he says. “Whoa, I didn’t mean to shock you with that!”
I must have moved just the tiniest bit when he said that, I’m sure I moved a little bit to the side. “Come in,” I said. It would have been too awkward to not.
“Nice place, almost like mine, but you got a new one. I’d heard that they’d fixed up all the apartments in this wing. Maybe I should get the manager to move me over here,” he says. By now he’s moving around the apartment like a breeze blowing through, not the least bit nervous looking everywhere in my house.
I like the blouse I’m wearing tonight, blue and white stripes, crisp is what they called it on the label. I read that every girl should have a crisp white blouse but I couldn’t settle for white when there was this ocean blue and white one hanging next to the white one.
I’m nervous as a cat, the idea of this date. I’m nervous as a cat just trying to feel at home with that ocean following me from room to room, and the idea that I got a new job in two days. I’m so nervous that I guess that’s why I just said yes to this man. If I’m gonna be nervous I may as well give myself something really big to be nervous about. Going out with somebody I don’t know a thing about.
I’m seeing somebody I don’t quite know starring at me in the mirror. And all I see is me standing there all alone in my white bathroom with the white towels I got to match all the white everywhere around me. I’m starring so long that I jump, like I almost fall over, when that man knocks on my door.
“Hi, come in,” I say. He’s shiny and tan and he’s wearing tan pants and a pale yellow shirt, looking like what a man would wear if he lived at the ocean. His aftershave touches me like a whisper.
“Rawling, baby, you look hot,” he says. “Whoa, I didn’t mean to shock you with that!”
I must have moved just the tiniest bit when he said that, I’m sure I moved a little bit to the side. “Come in,” I said. It would have been too awkward to not.
“Nice place, almost like mine, but you got a new one. I’d heard that they’d fixed up all the apartments in this wing. Maybe I should get the manager to move me over here,” he says. By now he’s moving around the apartment like a breeze blowing through, not the least bit nervous looking everywhere in my house.
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