I'm waiting for the storms to come.
That sounds like an opening to something profound. All I mean is that the post oak in the backyard reaches for the window. We're normally on good terms. I hope the green clad giant remembers that as the winds shove its heavy top ever closer toward the house. I was gentle as I retied the clothes line. Okay, yes, I did drive a nail into the trunk to hold up the line, but it was a slender nail. Oiled. It shouldn't have hurt too much.
Other parts of the country are being battered by these storms. Be safe, people. If you've experienced this bad friend rite of spring, I hope you're okay. If it's coming your way, grab up your stuffed animals and other loved ones and take cover if it comes to that. Check on your elderly neighbors, too. Make sure they're somewhere safe. Can you imagine being alone and terrified in this weather?
The storms are a metaphor for what's happening in the media. A hot wind of self-serving lunacy blew into New Hampshire this morning right after the cool breeze of proof blew in from Lake Michigan. Haven't we tired of looking like assholes yet? I suppose distractions have their place, but it's like when you're trying to get your child to go to bed and first it's the drink of water and then the story and then the other story and then a different pair of pajamas because these ones bug me and now the potty and something itching and what's that noise and I can't find Blue Bear and Bearby and will you check under the bed for monsters and don't forget the closet?
At some point, you aim the gun right at their head and say enough. It's time for sleep or mommy will kill you.
I've been thinking about the concept of crazy. It gets tiresome when everyone in the house aims to mollify the craziest person in the house just to keep the peace. The only thing more tiresome in that regard is when you're no longer considered the craziest person in the house.
Listen, we're friends, right? Please don't ever leave me alone with the Pepperidge Farm cookies again, okay? I'd like to say that I'm inhaling carbs because I'm depressed about the death of Lynn Hauldren, but that would be lie. It's PMS. I'm carbo loading for that marathon where my uterus sloughs off its dead cells. I miss my IUD. Talk about the cookie craving antidote! You're welcome.
I want to talk about Stephen Elliott again because I have such a writer crush on him. But I'm afraid he's going to think I'm a kook if he googles his name and sees how often I mention him. I finished The Adderall Diaries and now I want to get Happy Baby and read it. Meanwhile, because I missed reading him, I listened to a podcast featuring the author. First - it's funny how much he sounds like my brother-in-law Peen. But then, Stephen grew up blocks from the Goldens so that shouldn't surprise me, should it? Second - while I joke about fetishes here, I don't divulge in detail the things I might like that may or may not make you cringe. I'll spare you, but as I listened to Stephen talk about being out as a kink, it made me wonder how many people carry out their safe little, vanilla lives while trolling kink.com in their spare, private moments?
And why is this important? Well, I thought about it this morning as I sputtered out my coffee laughing at the political circus that sprang to life behind microphones. It's easy to make facile, dismissive comments about how stupid Americans are when we're shown evidence of how so many of us clinging to the middle and lower rungs of the socio-economic ladder vote against our interests economically. There's this underlying narrative - if we just want it enough. If we just believe hard enough. If we just do everything the rich and famous do and say to do, we can become like them. It's like me holding that box of Milanos and remembering that I read somewhere that Romola Garai loves Milanos and thinking that I'm going to be young, thin and sweetly beautiful just like her if I have one more magical cookie.
Maybe I should lay off the cookies.
Anyway, let's just say that suppression is one of the reasons that so many Americans vote like they're about to become gabillionaires and/or ascend into Heaven because they cast their ballots for Republicans. They don't understand that Republicans are masters of projection. Want to know what Republicans are up to? Listen to whatever they accuse Democrats of and you'll have your answer. During the Health Care Insurance Reform debate, they accused President Obama of killing Medicare. And now, what say you, Paul Ryan?
So kinky. Or rather soooo kinky.
But think about it - people are leading their lives, going to work, feeding their kids, pushing the cart through WalMart, squirming for a comfortable spot in the stands at the Little League baseball game. They have dinner with friends, go to the gym, go to the movies, pay their bills, load the dishwasher and play Angry Birds while waiting on line to get a copy of their long form birth certificates. They go home and check their fantasy league baseball stats, watch some TV, brush their teeth, kiss their kids goodnight and then close the door to have sex, pretty regular vanilla sex, with their spouse or significant other whom they love or not so much, depending on the day. No, that's not right. They love them. Of course, they love them. It's whether they like them at that moment that is the question. Love is easy. Like is hard.
Meanwhile, what really turns them on is kept tucked away with that time they stole the Baby Ruth from the IGA and a hundred other secrets small and large. Bondage? Humiliation? Latex? Pony play? The diaper play we mock that Vitter hypocrite in Louisiana about when we're with our friends, but the idea actually makes us hard. Maybe they look at a little fetish porn. Dream a little dream.
And then they suppress it because, well, life goes on and we're busy and have things to do and don't you know there's a war or rather wars on? And besides, the shame necessary to the kink might be negated if I wore my kink like a badge, right? It's because it's secret and shameful and embarrassing that it's kinky and makes me want to touch myself.
Are you still here or have I lost you?
But what if all this mental suppression of needs and wants is partly why Americans make war instead of love and cast votes for people who are contemptuous of them in private and lie to their faces and who appeal to the worst in human nature and who promote hate and fear as public policy? Is suppression rendering us distracted and vulnerable?
Have you ever suppressed a fart? You're sitting in a meeting and oh, man! You're really sorry you had that cole slaw with your pulled pork for lunch. You should know better. You squeeze. You try not to shift because you don't want it to sneak out. You make your buns like steel. Tense, tenser, tensest. A dime, the thinnest of coins, couldn't pass through your crack, but that's no guarantee that a little noisy gas won't. Deep breaths. Slow, deep breaths. Look out the window, concentrate.
Bill, the man leading the meeting is saying your name. What? You missed that. He rolls his eyes like he does and repeats himself. Your budget is being cut. Your program is being phased out. What? But you did Bill that big favor that helped him get the promotion and this is how he thanks you? You can't respond because you can't risk moving without humiliating yourself.
That's suppression. It's not fun.
That's suppression. It's not fun.
You're wondering what I've been doing while I haven't been writing? I swear, I have not been surfing kink dot com. Pinky swear. The pine trees behind the house are swaying together like they're around a campfire singing songs.
Something itches. Can you get me a glass of water? Read me a story and please use the funny voices. You know how I like the funny voices.....
The only thing I'm more obsessed with than Pepperidge Farm cookies and kinky sex is Donald Trump's hair. I'm asking everyone - why doesn't someone tell him that it's time to dispense with that ridiculous combover. I think the guy is an asshole of epic proportions, but I'm embarrassed on his behalf when I set eyes on that pathetic, thinning flop hair. It's starting to look a little mangy for chrissakes. It screams deep-seated insecurities almost as loudly as the pompous blowhardery coming directly from his tiny, smooch-lipped mouth.
When I'm not fantasizing about how to take away Mr. Elliott's pain from having lost his mother so young, I'm devising ways to communicate telepathically with Donald about that hair. Please, Donald, snip, snip, snip. A shiny, bald plate would do your credibility wonders as long as you stop hollering about your spectacular magnificence. Have you ever noticed how the smartest guy in the room doesn't have to tell you he's smart?
The wind dies down. The wind picks up. The sky's getting darker. I love you, you know I love you. Now be a good friend and bend me over your knee. I want you to spank me hard with your rolled up long-form birth certificate.