Why have you forsaken me Walgreens?

So my mother called me over the weekend to tell me that Walgreens had been advertising gardem gnomes. However, after visiting four Walgreens retail stores, not one of them was carrying the coveted lawn adornments. And so she gave up. My own mother gave up on the only thing that can ever make me truly happy.

I am not a demanding person. Really, I'm not. But it's already seven hours into my birthday, and I've not received a garden gnome. Damn all of you who purport to be my friends. Damn you all to the Hell I don't believe in.

Transcending sex.

My ex-boyfriend is a psychologist. I met him five days before my twenty-third birthday; he was nearly thirty-eight. The perpetual teacher, he enjoyed showering me with maxims and pearls of wisdom. The insatiable student, I earnestly listened to and believed whatever it is he told me. Our first date was on January 12, 2002. We went to the local lesbian coffee shop, where he taught me about certain cognitive illusions. We proceeded from there to the bar across the street where I was carded and he was not. We then retired to his apartment for white russians. While standing in the kitchen of his Somerville apartment, he told me two things -- two gems -- that I always remembered.

(1) In a relationship, maintaing open lines of communication is imperative. He used the following analogy: "Say there's a piece of shit lying on the living room floor," he said. "You can walk over it. and ignore it. But even if you step over it every day, you can't get around the fact that there's a huge turd on your living room floor."

(2) "Sex is important," he stated. "If the sex is good and everyone is happy, then the sex part makes up about ten percent of the relationship. But if there are problems with sex, or if one party is unsatisfied, then the sex aspect makes up nintey percent of the relationship." The fact that we then proceeded to have god-awful sex that night should have tipped me off regarding the future of our relationship.

When I told Mike about the ex-boyfriend's words of wisdom, what was his reply? "So your relationship with him was pretty much like a big piece of shit that took up ninety percent of your living room."

And you know what? Mike was right. I spent three years with a psychologist (a psychologist!) who was incapable of communicating and wouldn't put out. And by "wouldn't put out," I mean that we spent seven months without sex. Not only did we not have sex in seven months, but we had no physical contact at all. Not even a hug. At the conclusion of those seven months, we had sex once before the no-touching-at-all status quo continued for another four months. The ridiculous part in all of this? I never cheated on him. I felt miserable -- like the one person who was supposed to find me attractive didn't. I gained an insane amount of weight. I felt disgustingly ugly. But I stayed with this man because I figured that I could transcend a sexual relationship. I actually told myself that I was better, that I was above needing sex.

Since that relationship, I've never apologized for the fact that good -- even great -- sex is an essential component in any romantic relationship I would allow myself to be in. So many people I know fall in love and get married, have the life we're all supposed to want -- wife, kids, mortgage -- and stop having sex. I don't get it. I don't understand it. The moment my partner becomes sexually disinterested in me is the moment I leave the partnership.

Don't get me wrong. Sex isn't everything in a relationship. But it is important. And so I unapologetically maintain that I am finished. I will never again make the mistake of attempting to transcend sex.

Back to the future.

I was a very forward-thinking young person. So much so that when I was eight years old, I decided that far too many adults do not remember what it is like to be a child. Not ever wanting to be one of those adults, I wrote myself a letter to be opened when I became an adult. I realized that when I grew up, I'd want to know what Eight Year Old Becca had been thinking. Using my best handwriting, I penned the letter, folded it, and sealed it up into an envelope. I pondered how old I would be when I "grew up." After reaching a decision, I wrote on the outside of the envelope, "Do not open until you are 27."

Sadly, although I was a forward-thinking yong person, I was not a particularly patient child. I opened the letter less than a week after I'd written it.

There are three days left of my twenty-seventh year. I wish like hell I still had that letter.

Little burning villages.

I was still in love with him on October 1, 2005, when he took me into the middle of nowhere. Whatever relationship we'd had for all those months was deteriorating more and more with each passing day. We both knew it, but for once, stopped talking about it. He drove, and I sat in the passenger seat, miserable and silent, wondering how long I would have to stay before he'd be ready to take me home.

I was tired. Tired from waking up at 7 a.m. for practice. Tired of the ups and downs in the relationship. Tired of putting so much energy into something with someone who would never ever feel the same way about me as I felt about him. Tired of feeling. At all. And now what was I doing? Driving to a remote location to spend an evening at a bonfire with a bunch of people who I hardly knew and who didn't like me anyway. So many people. So. Many. People.

Even now, when I try to remember what I was feeling that night, it's just a melange of fleeting thoughts, unsettling feelings, and strange sensations. But I do remember one thing. I had lost him in more ways than one. He was off talking to someone else -- wherever he was didn't matter to me; I had lost track. I had lost track of time as well. It may have been midnight or 4 a.m. I was cold and sitting next to the fire, holding the hand of a near-stranger. I had been talking for hours and hours, and wasn't stopping any time in the foreseeable future. I gazed into the orange flames. Deep within the fire a log was slowly burning. As pieces of the wood burned, I saw within the wood what looked like several tiny villages of houses, flames licking their roofs and walls, smoke pouring from the tiny windows of the tiny houses that made up the tiny villages.

I pointed out the village to the near-stranger who sat next to me. He said something back to me, but I have no recollection of what it was. What I do recall was an urge to wrap my arms around him and tell him that everything would be all right and that he would be happy again some day. My intuition was telling me that the person beside me was as deeply unhappy and lost feeling as I was. Instead, I simply told him that I had no soul and no spirit. He didn't respond and I went back to watching the fire.

I feel that way again, though. Not unhappy, but like my spirit is gone. I've stopped caring and simply can't be bothered with such tawdry things as love. I work and I come home and I socialize with friends. But there's a strange empty feeling once more. No one ever realizes it, no one intuits it. I've become ambivalent towards people in general and don't think about the odd, disquieting emptiness. But on those rare occasions that I do, I simply close my eyes and see smoke swirling about the little burning villages.

Deconstructing Showgirls.

Artist and the Making of Meaning. Only a ridiculously liberal arts school would have such a class offering. But there I was, taking the class, faced with the onerous task of coming up with a "piece of art" to analyze in lieu of a final exam. A piece of art. The professor gave us wide range: music, film, painting, sculpture, dance. Any piece of art would suffice.

What did I choose to analyze?

The movie Showgirls.

I've included an excerpt from the twenty page paper for your edification.

Nomi's relationship with Cristal takes on erotic undretones and shows how neither one of them has a true identity, especially as women. Cristal maintains that the two of them are the same person:

"It tastes like dog food," Nomi tells Cristal, speaking of brown rice and vegetables.

"I used to eat dog food," is Cristal's response. Long time ago..."

"Really? I used to eat dog food, too."

"Doggy Chow."

"I loved Doggy Chow."

At first blush, this conversation seems like a complete non sequitor. Then the meaning seems to jump right out of the television set: both them were poor, lost girls. Both of them came from the same place, along with all the other faceless, nameless women in n the world. All of those women, sitting together, eating Doggy Chow.

Violated!

I try not to write about work for two primary reasons. The first reason is the more obvious of the two: I can't divulge privileged information. That's why when I do mention anything work-related, it's only in a very general sense. The second reason is that I just don't want to be that girl who always talks or writes about work. It's boring. However, I would like to discuss something.

Violation of probation (VOP) hearings.

When an individual is placed on probation, he signs conditions of probation. Generally, that person is required to report to the probation department every so often and pay a probation fee. In some cases, individuals may be required to participate in anger management, drug treatment, or be subject to random urine screenings. If someone fails to meet any of these conditions, or if he picks up a new charge while on probation, he is violated.

Being violated is pretty much what is sounds like. It's like having a proverbial two-feet-wide splintery broom handle shoved up the client's rectum. I have a VOP hearing tomorrow. Which means I have to go to court in the morning and tell my client to bend over.

Update: This was my first VOP. And oddly enough, the outcome was extremely favorable.

My career as a songwriter.

It was 1996 and I was in a band. We called ourselves Sharp Freeze, after the freezer manufactured by Sharpe at the ice cream store where we all worked. Though I was a classically trained upright bassist, I was a shitty bass guitar player. But nontheless, there I was with my Fender Jazz Special, the bassist and backup vocalist for the band. Eliese was on guitar. Self taught, she was halfway decent. Sadlly, her song writing skills weren't as good as her halfway decent guitar playing acumen. Molly was on drums. However, Molly had neither a drum set, nor any training or lessons in percussion. What Molly did have was a pair of old drumsticks and an upside-down plastic trashcan. She couldn't find the beat with both hands and a flashlight. The ability to keep a straight beat in 4/4? Forget it.

I lived in the attic of my parents' house, a veritable suite all to myself. It was two rooms and a small bathroom with no shower. We were sitting nearly on the stairway, and halfway into the bathroom. Why? I have no idea. With all the room, I had, this position made little sense. Eliese and I could actually read music and were taking Advanced Placement Music Theory together. We started noodling around and actually came up with something that sounded not atrociously horrible. Classic progression. Nothing difficult. Then Eliese added some asinine words having to do with a freshman (freshman!!) she had a crush on.

Yes! We had written a song!

We played "our song" for about an hour. Until something hit me. "Slow it down," I said. And we did. Less than half time. And then it dawned on me.

We'd written the love theme to the movie Top Gun.

Journalists and sex offenders.

A friend recently forwarded me the following "news" story:

http://ctnewsjunkie.com/index.php/2007/01/05/reporter_arrested_for_political_activism

If you don't feel like reading the whole thing, the gist of it is that a freelance journalist was arrested during the governor's parade when he took a photograph. This particular journalist was on a list of "political activists" who were considered a threat to security. He was arrested for Breach of Peace and Interfering with and Officer.

Or at least, that's what the story says. It quotes from the police report, and seems to sensationalize the issue, making it appear completely Orwellian and reprehensible. I, however, can't help but wonder what exactlt this guy did to piss off the cops. I'm skeptical that he was only innocently taking pictures. I'm left to believe that he said or did something he shouldn't have done, and then ignored the instructions of the police officers on the scene thereafter.

The comments posted underneath the story rant and rave about the indignity of it all. Some people call for a Legal Defense Fund for the middle-class-white-guy-journalist in question. Others quote the First Amendment.

I was incredibly annoyed by the groupthink mentality of a bunch of armchair liberals who get self-righteously indignant when one of their own gets into trouble. These same people, of course, rarely care when a indigent guilty criminal gets his rights trampled. Reading all the posts from these folks irritated me to no end. But then I actually became almost as enraged as the narcissistic crunchy liberals when I read the following:

One person simply stated, "Why aren't our government officials and law enforcement officers as efficient in ferreting out violent criminals, sex offenders and hypocrites as they are with 'political activists'?"

Are we to believe that the rights of liberal journalists are superior to the rights of violent criminals or sex offenders? A green party campgainer's First Amendment rights are more important than a criminal defendant's Fourth Amendment rights? Sometimes I feel as if the middle class liberals forget the bigger picture when they rally around a cause. When their rights get violated, they get enraged. But then they point out that political activists deserve better treatment than sex offenders... and they end up speaking against the fundamental foundations of justice -- the very things they are fighting for.

Get me a gnome.

For years, I told people that when I got married, I want a ceramic garden gnome as a wedding gift. I gave this up. Why? Because I don't think I'll be married anywhere in the foreseeable future. Thus, I started telling people that I want a garden gnome for my birthday. Five years have gone by and I still have yet to receive a gnome. You'd think that I'd have an army of gnomes by now. But I have none. Because my friends are douchebags that won't get me gnomes.

My birthday is coming up on January 17.

I'd like a gnome, please.

It may be too much to expect, but it's not too much to ask.

I'll keep this short, since most of you have heard it all before.

Everyone who refuses to capitalize the noun "I" and who writes "u" instead of "you" and other such nonsense can sod off. Every time I see such horrid grammar, it sends chills down my spine and I seriously want to seriously injure the person who has inflicted such an atrocity upon me.

It is really too much to ask that people exercise the basics they learned in grade school? I understand that not everyone knows that "unique" does not come in degrees. I've accepted that. But I really don't think it's asking or expecting too much to insist that people know the difference between to (expressing motion), too (also) and two (the number). What about your (possessive) and you're (you are)? AAAAAACK. Such misuse and abuse sends me into fits of spavins and heaves.

People who violate the laws of basic grammar in this way deserve to be caned. Or have their hands cut off. With no hands, they will no longer be able to inflict such pain upon me via their keyboards.