1) My grandmother (my dad’s mom) is one of those deeply racist people whose racism is so casual and built-in that it’s pretty much impossible to eradicate. She is of a generation that we just need to wait out, if you know what I mean. I think I’ve mentioned before how it took her a decade or three to stop referring to my mother as “your mother, the Jew.” I love my grandma, to the extent that she loves me. And I know that with this love comes a legacy of racism I will never entirely overcome. I think about it a lot, and try really hard to be aware of it. Cut to last week, and me mowing the lawn in intense heat and struggling with what I’ve now figured out is Lyme Disease (see #3). Completely unbidden, I remembered what my grandmother used to say about being out in that kind of heat:
“I’m sweatin’ like a n—– on the auction block!”
So when this thought came to me today, I tried to break it down. Was I remembering her saying that, or was I actually thinking it myself? I know that being tortured by thoughts like these is major conservative fodder for making fun of softie liberals, but the realization that I couldn’t decide what was happening in my own brain tortured me pretty much all day. There’s some pomo shit for you right there, right? What say you, Barthes? Lacan? Mons. Foucault? Do we ever think anything ourselves, or do we merely aggregate? What are thoughts, and how can the transitory nature of language ever truly convey them?
Anyway! In a racial/sexual politics of meat kind of twist, I very clearly remember that my grandmother’s other go-to “it’s hot” phrase was “I’m sweatin’ like a stuck pig!” Of course.
Do pigs even sweat?
2) On an unrelated note, while I was sweating my guts out and hoping to leach out whatever infection has taken over my body, my sweetheart was somewhere in California simultaneously needing a haircut and visiting the world’s largest tree, which looks, if you ask me, suspiciously small.
Look at that hippie!
Per this discussion, it seems appropriate for me to call him my “boyfriend” in the context of mentioning his cuteness, doesn’t it?
Per nothing in particular, last week Brittany got me drunk at the Planned Parenthood Mid-Hudson Valley 75th Anniversary Gala (it was a great night! I wore the heels she likes! Feet still hurt!). I went home and woozily Facebooked, and I can’t really explain what I said on a girlfriend’s page to provoke this response, but it made me laugh so hard the next day I cried:
Oy Lagusta. I am making sure that I get you drunk next time I am up New Paltz way. Goodness. Can’t say that I ever remember examining Jacob’s waist, but I’ll take your word for it that it is perfection itself.
And I love the lost in translation “noodle is keeping running into me.” Hope this morning isn’t bashing you over the head too terribly…
In my defense, Noodle is my little fluffy white cat, and she can bump into one in a most persistent (and, if drunk, painful) way.
3) In other why-am-I-sharing-this-with-the-internet news, apparently I have Lyme Disease, it’s awesome. If you love being exhausted all the time, that is. Are you friends with any conspiracy theorists? Take my advice and don’t ever talk to them about Lyme Disease. I didn’t know it was a magnet for conspiracy theories until this week, and listening to all the grandiose ideas about it people have foisted on me recently has made me slightly insane. I’m kicking it via the allopathic route mixed with the naturopathic: antibiotics + probiotics. I’m opening up the antibiotics and mixing them with soy yogurt, because the pills are too giant to swallow. Add kimchi, sauerkraut, kombucha, mix, repeat. Gurgle gurgle gurgle.
I actually think the whole thing is just a payback for telling the internet I never get tired. I’ve slept more in the past week than I have in years.
In other karmic news, immediately after I basically said people with bluetoofs should get cancer, I was pretty much forced to buy a Bluetooth. In my defense, I swear to you, universe, I will never wear it out in public. I can’t even wear it in front of Veronica at the kitchen. It’s that dorky. And also, I appear to have lost it. It’s too small!
4) Despite these obstacles, I have transitioned the Marie/Amy into something those sweet lovely Watson Twins might wear in a Jenny Lewis video—half up nice and high, half down. (PS: The Watsons have a blog! Go read it! Go hear their shivery-amazing voices live!)
It’s very hard to convey hair height in a self-taken photo, have you ever noticed that?
(Man oh man, how many links to my own blog can I put in one post? Hello navel! Why yes, I do like to gaze at you! I was restraining myself not to bring up the pill-swallowing debacle again!)