the last two days at work have kicked my butt. busy hours full of non-stop activity and frenetic energy. Wednesday night is usually a fun night at work because of the crew i’m with, yet this Wednesday was tense and exhausting. there was something looming in the air and i felt myself anticipating a fight in the lobby, a fire in the building, or at the very least a momentary lapse of server time on Facebook, which would make the customers and clients uber pissy. my friend and i both felt like long tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs with fat people on them in the middle of a thunder storm. sketchy…
today was much the same; go, go, go. see denelle. denelle works hard. see denelle work hard. see denelle roll her eyes at the annoying customer in the lobby. go away, customer. see denelle whisper go away behind the customer’s back. bad denelle. you shouldn’t do that. see denelle flip the bird at whoever tells her she shouldn’t do that. now see denelle head home, excited about her favorite after school snack. can you say MARGARITA?
the accidental happiness part of today was after picking up my sis from work, and when we stopped to get gas. see, by then i’d used up all the rational juices in my brain and was working strictly off of the nine-year-old juices i have in storage. in other words; i got real little. too much people, too little sleep – suddenly i couldn’t drive anymore and was talking like a drunk elementary school child. Bodhi took the wheel. whew.
and while she was putting the pump hose into the car, i went in to pay for the gas. now, you know how gas stations usually are. unless you live in a hippy city where you all use bikes and group public transportation like trolleys. or Amigos. but most gas stations smell like this: gas. burnt hotdogs that are on some heat rotator. gross slices of greasy crap that is supposed to be pizza. old nacho cheese. bad coffee. whino. cigarette. if you’re lucky Kevin Smith. but not this station. as soon as you walk into this station, you take a deep whiff and smile. why? ‘cause they have giant monstrously sized incense sticks at their counter, 3/1.00! ‘butterfly garden’. ‘nag champa’. ‘vanilla’. loads of yummy flavors that infuse the whole building with a headshop vibe while you fill your car with expensive oils from dead, extinct animals at an outrageous economy killing price. awesome!
but getting to pick out three yummy flavors made me skip and dance (i was still about nine at this point you know) and i felt like i’d just picked flowers (this because they were so long and tall, and cause i was still about nine) and my little inside was so happy…well, when was the last time spending one dollar made you dance around and sing? yeah. so there’s my a.happy moment.
i wonder what the clerks were thinking?
I love that men are apparently attracted to me, despite my atrocious eyebrows.
It just goes to show that fashion experts and the makeup industry don’t always count on the sheer force of phermones and the male libido. They’d like us to believe that we have to have the perfect skin, the perfect nose, the slenderest figure and the most fashionable wardrobe. And you should smell intoxicating and also have minty fresh breath. Oh, and also perfect eyebrows, that should go from the inner corner of your eye to the other outer corner, and be perfectly shaped, and arch just so.
Screw you. Mine won’t do that.
Look, I’ve tried; I’ve tweezed, and plucked, and individually yanked out eyebrow hairs for years. Well, the yanking part is usually when I’ve gotten nervous about something, and I’m on the phone and distracted and suddenly feel a “stray” eyebrow hair, so I manically start sending my brows to the nudist colony. But hey, I’m OCD – it comes with the territory sometimes.
I’ve had a perpetual struggle with my eyebrows. At age seventeen, I clocked myself a good one and forever altered the existence of the perfect brow. I had a fabulous loft back then, and climbed a little ladder morning and night to reach my Princess and the Pea type bed. LOVED IT! However, one morning – far too early for a teenager – my alarm went off and startled me awake. I didn’t usually get up THIS early, so my body wasn’t accustomed to the shocking beeps of the annoying alarm I kept on a ledge under my loft. I also didn’t usually leave my closet door open at night (monsters, you know), but I did that night, and when I went to turn off my alarm – WHAM! – right into the top edge of the closet door. That smack woke me up for sure. It also gave me a Rocky Balboa split eye with the blood to match, PLUS a shiner that actually would have matched my cheerleading outfit really well, since our colors were purple and gold. But this was basketball season and we were wearing the dreaded white uniforms (WHITE? on a pasty white chick in the middle of winter? who comes up with these ideas??)
Anyway, since then my right eyebrow has been an arch nemesis. ha ha. The small scar I have in the eyebrow might not be noticeable if it weren’t for the fact that the hairs around the scar all seem to have lost direction. They’ve been drunk for years, all going the wrong way and giving my brow a sort of Einsteinian hairdo. Taming them is impossible, and making them look presentable takes effort, will and sometimes imagination.
And yet, despite my wonky, devil-may-care eyebrows, men still seem to find me attractive and sexy. I suppose the double D’s might help, and the big blue eyes and pouty lips. But I’m just pointing out here, eyebrows are not the answer. Those skinny snakes from the 20’s and 30’s that were penciled in razor thin. The full wild eighties brows, sans tweezers. Straight eyebrows, curved, arched, bent, waxed, trimmed or colored. It doesn’t matter. I’d like to postulate that there are very few women who could entice a man with her eyebrows alone. Mata Hari, maybe. And probably Sophia Loren. Though Loren could certainly lure a man with simply the exotic smell of her belly button lint, if that’s what she chose to use. Vixen, that one. But there is more to sex appeal than the perfect brow. And while I don’t know what the magic answer is to feeling beautiful daily and getting the man you want, I do know that it involves more than a tiny pair of pliers.
The World Cup started this week, which is always enjoyable. My sister (I’ll call her Bodie on here, one of my nicknames for her) and I always love to watch sports. We love to get involved in the game, and cheer our voices gone, and jump up and down if we get so excited, or curse like sailors when our people suck and mess up the whole thing. We aren’t terribly picky about what we watch, though we certainly have favorites.
Over the years we’ve watched more football than anything, my favorite sport and one of her favorites. But we enjoy watching all sorts of games: the XGames is a definite favorite, beach volleyball, soccer, tennis. I almost had a meltdown when I discovered rugby – my other favorite sport – because not only are the outfits adorable, the men are supersized, with big meaty thighs, burly physiques, and round juicy bottoms. These men are warriors out on the field, sporting bloody facial expressions within minutes of play. Rugby is a sport a horny girl can get into. But I also enjoy curling. And watching billiards. And water polo, the Olympics, motocross, and martial arts competitions.
I don’t know for sure what it is about sports that we both love so much. When we got Dish Network, the guy installing it told us we had too much testosterone. He was telling us about all the cool channels we would be getting, now that we had the Dish, and I said, “Yeah, but we get Football Network, right?” The channel was brand new at the time, and he didn’t seem to understand why we weren’t as excited about the Home Shopping Network.
I think my sister and I have always been this way. At eight or nine, I watched football at home by myself, or on Sundays with my uncle, who taught me the game. I knew early on to hate the Cowboys for the sheer principle of it (my uncle’s conviction, and we DID live in Los Angeles), to honor the Steelers and cheer the Rams, and on my own I selected the Chicago Bears and the Saints as early favorites, whom I am still loyal to today. Although I’ve also added the Seahawks, Ravens and several other teams to my roster of favorites. I also watched roller derby as a kid, and had a yellow legal pad full of the names of my team’s players, and their arch rivals. I sat in front of the television set every Saturday morning and berated the opposing team, calling them doodie pants and weenie heads.
And while I started off with a healthy interest in sports, my appreciation may have increased when I finally started dating some athletes. There is something about athletes….
I’ve dated artists and musicians, architects and money moguls, mechanics, fire fighters, gamblers and sommeliers. And I don’t think I’ve dated any professional athletes, at least they weren’t at the time I dated them, but I have gone out with basketball players, football players, tennis players, baseball players, swimmers, and I had a great chance to date a foreign exchange water polo player, from France, I think, and I completely blew that one. Oh well. That wouldn’t have lasted long anyway, because I was virginal at the time, or thought I was, so was maintaining a strict “No Go” philosophy on all things sex.
Still, with all my appreciation of the sport and the sporter, I’m always surprised that when I do find someone to date, I am often the one that is more interested in competition. Maybe I didn’t realize early enough that I was into athletes, and spent all that time dithering away on the architects and poets and dramatic thinky types. Maybe when I have dated athletically minded men, I haven’t been in a place where I’m paying much attention to anything, and didn’t notice them cheering on a good tennis match, or placing bets on a football game. (oh, wait a minute, that sounds familiar)
I do remember lots of nights spent with my fabulous sister, on the couch screaming, cheering, and getting drunk. I do remember fun nights out at the pub with my sis, wearing colored wigs, gaudy ‘mardi gras’ necklaces, face tattoos and getting drunk. Attending games with my sis, where we stand in the bleachers, asses in pain because those seats are so uncomfortable, cursing at the coach, or the team, or the lousy season ahead, and getting drunk.
So World Cup is another bonding time with my sis. One of these days I hope to find a man I can love for my very own, who also happens to like sports. I’m hoping he will go to some roller derby games with me, and stop at a park and watch random games of softball and soccer, even if we don’t know anyone on the teams. This is something I enjoyed doing when I lived on my own, and had nothing better to do on a random day. I’m hoping I’ll find a guy who will play volleyball with me, or maybe try to get me to take up golf, which I can’t really imagine liking, unless my job is just driving the cute cart and getting us more beers. And I will probably always be watching sports with my sis…but I’m also hoping I’ll find a guy that can finally see the light. A unique man that will finally appreciate all the things that I love, like pizza and beer and sex and sports. A man that won’t constantly nag me to clean the house or take out the cat litter. A man that can sit down and play video games with me once in a while, or sit on the porch and smoke my hookah with me. A man who will finally see the truth that no other man has ever grasped; I am the perfect woman.