tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21812043928740501402015-06-13T00:25:47.827-07:00rubypearlSunny Haralson is currently serving ten years in the State Pen for accidentally stabbing a truck driver in the face with a ball point pen. She is making all of these stories up.
Also she wrote a book go buy it right now- http://www.amazon.com/Beauty-Tips-Bereaved-Sunny-Haralson-ebook/dp/B00DSTV0LSSunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.comBlogger108125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-6456784826149144532013-09-02T09:44:00.000-07:002013-11-13T13:08:02.205-08:00Thank YouYesterday someone I didn't know sent me a message telling me that my book saved her, and she would continue to hang on.<br />So-I'm all good. I can relax now.<br />I can't really describe how much work it takes to write a 400 page book in a year while you're sick and living in a FEMA trailer with no heat- except to say that in my mind I kept imagining it like a marathon (if the marathon was in the desert and you had a broken leg and no Gatorade and a pack of wild hyenas was chasing you) and the little voice that kept whispering-<br />"<em>Keep going</em>"<br />belonged to an imaginary person I hadn't met yet,<br />waiting for me to finish<br />so they could read it and know that they are not alone.<br />"If only one person gets it exactly when they need to hear it," I kept thinking. "Then all this was worth it."<br />So Thank you Dana-wherever you are :)<br /><br />Keep going.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DSTV0LS/ref=tsm_1_fb_lk" target="_blank">Beauty Tips for the Bereaved, A Survival Guide</a><br /><br /><br /><div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpFirst" style="margin: 1em -0.2in 1em 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-line-height-alt: 1.0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">I am thirty-two years old. I enjoy eating human fingernails. <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">I have done this since childhood. Most people probably outgrew this habit, or they bite their nails out of anxiety and then discard them, but I like to actually eat nails and skin. A fingernail will come off as a little sliver with a sharp end, which I put into my mouth and poke through the gap in my front teeth. It feels good because it’s sharp. I bend it and twist it and slowly crush the nail’s material in my mouth. This can take hours, until it’s finally broken and bitten into tiny pieces and swallowed.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">I was chewing on the skin around my thumbnail when my husband, Greg, smacked <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my hand away. <o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /><div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em -0.2in 1em 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-line-height-alt: 1.0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">“ Pay attention,” he hissed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">“Your father needs a liver transplant.” I liked this doctor. He was Indian, which made him seem more compassionate than the previous ones we’d seen. The accent reminded me of Mother Theresa, although I read somewhere that she was actually kind of a jerk.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">It was our fifth emergency room visit in three weeks. My father had driven down to Austin for the birth of my child. Although his original plan was to stay for a month, he had been lingering in Austin for over a year, taking various temporary sublets and trying to spend time with me before his liver failed. His face was gaunt. I could see his skeleton grinning out from underneath his skin.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">They told us he had end-stage liver failure from the Hepatitis C, which causes cirrhosis, the disease that takes out a lot of alcoholics. He had about ten percent of his liver function left. At this point, most people would be waiting on a transplant list, but since my dad didn’t have any health insurance, he just kept bouncing in and out of the ER. The doctor continued.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">“Unless he has a transplant soon, things look very grim. He will continue to bleed, and we will continue to fix him up with a band-aid until finally the band-aids don’t work anymore.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doctor held out both his palms in a gesture of helplessness. I felt myself tumble out of his open hands like a doll.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">When I am nervous, I will chew all of my nails until they bleed and think, “That was stupid,” but eventually I always do it again. On that day they were stubs. I had tried to hide my anxiety by putting on a clean shirt and brushing my hair. The doctor directed his statements to my husband as I paced back and forth and chewed, chewed, chewed. My father was dying, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do but bite my own hands.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /><div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpLast" style="margin: 1em -0.2in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-line-height-alt: 1.0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: 142.5pt; text-indent: -109.55pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 30pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 104%; mso-text-raise: -14.0pt; position: relative; top: 14pt;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">S<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></i></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">Beauty Tip<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-font-width: 95%;">The first thing men notice about a woman is her hands. Peeling nail polish, ragged cuticles, and bloody nail beds that have been bitten to the quick can send the wrong message about your style. They tell the world, “I have serious psychological problems that require me to gnaw on my own body for comfort.”<o:p></o:p></span></i><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">After weeks of researching transplants and liver disease, I had a dream. I opened a hotel room door and discovered Greg taking out our daughter’s liver with an X-Acto knife. I pushed him out of the way and sewed her up with fluorescent orange embroidery thread the way I saw my Granny repair my doll Pearline years before. Later in the dream, I was searching his pockets and her little liver shook out. It had dried hard and translucent like the crescent of a fingernail so I popped it in my mouth.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /><div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpLast" style="margin: 1em -0.2in 1em 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-line-height-alt: 1.0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-width: 95%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">*****</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">In my youth, I commanded an army of nervous men. They stutter through the halls of my memory, each one loved and discarded. They suffer. Their hands shake. They write sonnets in their heads as we talk, they finger piano notes on the table as we eat, working out complicated rhythms or the schematics of inventions and mathematical equations during dessert. Everything that touches them, evidence of beauty or cruelty, cuts them open to the quick. I cradled them all, shored them up, always walking away from them again when they needed me the most.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 18pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-width: 95%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">I took the ease of these endeavors for granted. Men fell in love so easily. It was up to me to choose. It never occurred to me that my luck in romance would someday reverse itself. I met the father of my child at a Mexican restaurant. I was sitting in the sun reading a book about string theory at an outdoor table when he approached me.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">“I read that book,” he said, shading his glasses with the back of his hand. “It’s pretty good.”<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">“I’m just carrying it around to look smart,” I joked to my suitor, purposely leaving the book open, as though I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep reading or continue talking to him. “It’s hot, man,” he said. “I’m sweating like a rapist.” I laughed, and fell in love. Just like that.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">I had been making enough money with my dress business to avoid getting another job, but just barely. There were fashion shows and young women would approach me afterwards and ask to be my intern. I began to realize that from the outside I looked a lot more together than I actually was. If anything, being self-employed made it easier to drift. I continued to meander from one relationship to the next, in and out of friendships, across the country and back by myself several times, always running away when anything looked permanent or got too hard. The only constant during the early years of my business was the unremitting drone of my sewing machine over the sound of my father’s voice from the phone tucked under my chin.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">Greg had a low-level job answering the phone at an insurance company, a guitar, and a shitty apartment in a complex populated with crack-heads and Jehovah’s Witnesses. When we met, he’d been home just two months after spending four years teaching English in Spain. “I only came back to find a wife,” he joked on our second date. “I’ll go to Spain with you,” I told him, and I meant it. “We’ll be really poor,” he warned. “Teachers don’t make a lot of money.” <o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">“I don’t care.” I said. “I can sew dresses anywhere. Besides, I just want to be happy.”<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">“I just want to make you happy, petal,” he said, taking my hand. “I just want us to be free.”<o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /><div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em -0.2in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-line-height-alt: 1.0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 16pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">*******<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">“No one understands string theory,” my Dad told me one night. I was embroidering a Chinese dragon onto a vintage slip while we talked on the phone. <o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">“Whatever. He’s really smart and funny and I never get tired of listening to him talk. We’re going to move to Spain in a few months.”<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"</span>Wonderful!” Dad chuckled. “You haven’t had an adventure in a while! Now, let me explain some things about physics that will blow your mind. Then on your next date you can explain it to him.”<o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /><div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em -0.2in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-line-height-alt: 1.0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">STRING THEORY</span></b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a theory in physics:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>all elementary particles are manifestations of the vibrations of one-dimensional strings<o:p></o:p></i></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">This is how I understand string theory. (It’s probably not accurate.)<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">You know how Einstein created the equation E=<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mc</i>2 that kind of explained how everything worked? And all the scientists were like “Wow! Now it all makes sense. Let’s go look into atoms and see what they’re made of.” <o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">So they did, and what they discovered was that atoms were made of even smaller things called particles, which were made up of even tinier things called quarks which are probably made of tinier things, and so on into infinity. These particles drive all the nerds up at MIT crazy because they don’t follow any of the laws that govern larger things.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">For one thing, as they spin around in an orbit, sometimes they disappear. No one knows where they go. It really irritated Einstein, who spent the latter part of his life trying to come up with a universal theory that explained why all of these errant particles behaved so strangely. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now they think that all of those particles are actually vibrating on “strings,” which could also be called “dimensions.” Some people think there are eleven dimensions or twenty-three, or an infinite number of places those little particles disappear to without even leaving a note.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">People who try to understand string theory say things like “Time is a sphere,” and, “Everything is happening all at once” at cocktail parties, and everyone nods, although none of us really know what that means. We struggle to understand concepts like infinity with our tiny brains, like a caveman turning over a transistor radio in his hand and scratching his head in wonder. I am fascinated with the idea that billions of tiny things inside me are disappearing somewhere and coming back. I think about how they always say that on an atomic level we are ninety percent empty space. I begin to feel like a hologram, blinking in and out of the world so fast it can’t be seen. But then again, since everything else I see is made of atoms, so is the rest of the world. <o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /><div class="MsoBodyTextCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em -0.2in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-line-height-alt: 1.0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">“What am I?” I wonder.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">Because I am not a scientist, I interpret string theory through literature, telling myself stories about the “me” that made the left turn instead of the right, the “me” that went to Spain with Greg, or missed meeting him entirely. There are likely many dimensions in which I am already dead. There are stories that can’t be told. Perhaps there are 1,144,935 dimensions in which I am married to Greg, and within those we have one child, two, four, or none. Maybe in a few he is cheating on me, although I doubt it. Greg was faithful.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">There might be one or two dimensions where he is a circus clown, or where I am obsessed with collecting Beanie Babies, because an infinite number of possibilities means exactly that. <o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">In one reality, Greg and I bond quickly. The open wounds we carry from childhood resonate with each other. We try to cut and paste our incomplete, lonely lives into something that approximates a whole person. He sits on the couch, talking on the phone. My head is in his lap, my ear pressed into his skin absorbing the musical rhythm of his voice underneath the beat of his heart as he casually spits one of his back teeth into his hand. “Meth,” he whispers in response to my raised eyebrows, as he covers the mouthpiece of his cell phone. <o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">“I’m glad you stopped doing that,” I might be saying in that universe. “You make me a better person,” he is replying.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">In 749,998 universes, I cheat on him at a wedding two weeks after we meet. In some of those realities, I decide to be honest with him. In most of those, he freaks out and stabs himself in the arm to express his pain. His heartbreak is absolute and resonates throughout all of his manifestations. All of the Gregs-that-stayed-in-Spain, who never even met me feel a passing cloud of unexplained despair for a moment. They stop in the plaza, they choke on their tapas in dark, smoky bars, and place their hands over their hearts for a minute without knowing why. All of the Gregs-who-I-betray are devastated.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">In many of these worlds, I come back to him and we decide to build a life together. There are days in the sun, eating popsicles like children in the grass. We are always holding hands, it drives everyone around us crazy and they roll their eyes. He sings to me and I cook for him and we read the same books.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">There are layers of complexity to evaluating the happiness of a love affair. It isn’t a number on a scale that can be calculated. It’s more like an entity that breathes in and out on its own, something that eludes definition. No one really understands string theory yet, even all the nerds up at MIT. For me, I wonder just how real my experience is as I try to decide which story to tell myself about what happens in my life.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">Of one thing I am certain; there is no universe that exists anywhere containing a version of the man I married who ever really forgave me for that early trespass. Even in the brightest days of our happiest possible worlds, the seeds of my transgression are irrevocably planted and begin to grow.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I</span>n the universe I currently (for the most part) reside in, we never made it to Spain. Instead we were given the adventure of having a child. Greg stood beside me as my doctor made the incision in my swollen belly and pulled her from my side. After wrapping her in a blanket, she handed our baby to my husband, who stared into her open eyes with wonder. Then he placed her on my shoulder. I felt a jolt of recognition as I recognized my cheekbones on her tiny face.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span></i><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">I know you</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">, something sang inside of me.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">Later, after I was transferred to a private room, Greg brought her to me again. As I held her in my arms, I couldn’t stop staring at her. It was like magic. I said a mental hello to her tiny organs, so independent now, tirelessly keeping her alive and healthy outside of my body from now on. I imagined her heart, the size of an apricot, beating in the rhythm of my voice as I spoke to her. <o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">“Hello little thing.” She opened her eyes, unable to focus on anything but me. I picked her up and gently put my nipple into her mouth, feeling the milk burn as her gums clamped and siphoned nourishment out of me. “How does she know how to do that?” I wondered.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">In my mind, I saw her lungs, fluttering open and closed like butterfly wings, filtering the oxygen her body needed to survive. I saw her intestine coiled like an earthworm, drawing vitamins from the milk she was learning to drink from my body. I imagined the complex beauty of her tiny reproductive organs—uterus like a teacup, her ovaries already containing the seeds of the next generation, like a universe of stars compacted into a pinhead. I saw her blood speeding through millions of veins, somehow knowing exactly where to go. Her brain seeking patterns, already making connections at the speed of light, storing memories of me that would make her feel loved and whole throughout her life, although she won’t quite know why. <o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">“This is what it’s about now,” Greg said with tears in his eyes.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">I named her after my Granny—Ruby Pearl. That’s my baby girl, I thought.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span></i><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;">I will never leave you.</span></i><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span></i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q6iZhhbwchY/UiTAKa-SkFI/AAAAAAAAAzI/ifXO17VYsgw/s1600/untitled4.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q6iZhhbwchY/UiTAKa-SkFI/AAAAAAAAAzI/ifXO17VYsgw/s320/untitled4.png" width="320" /></a></div><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"></span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-width: 95%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-48028977819224708162013-01-08T09:30:00.003-08:002013-04-06T20:14:47.915-07:00The Mating Habits of the Southwestern Middle Aged North American Divorced Male<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Due to drastic changes in habitat, diet, tribal customs and migratory habits; the mating rituals of the Western Middle-aged, Upper-Middle Class Divorced Male have changed dramatically in recent decades. <br /><br />Quick to adapt to abrupt shifts in their environment, the American male has been challenged by a sudden, confusing epidemic of role reversal among its sexually mature breeding population. When the female mysteriously decided to begin making trips out into the world to bring home grubs of her own, she also began to expect him to spend an equal amount of time in the nest taking care of their young<br /><br /> "Since when did this become my job?" he thinks, as he listens to the incessant, high pitched chirping day and night day and night, knowing his father would have been down at the pub watching the game after a long day of digging for worms. <br /><br />Instead of waiting meekly at home for the male to return, the female demands to be an equal partner, pecking him with merciless violence until he agrees to stay in the nest every Friday night so she can go to her Book Club. She is fearless now, she can fly off at any moment and still survive. It terrifies him.<br /><br />Still, behind its tough, emotionless exterior-the American male is one of the most sensitive, loyal, and idealistic of Mother Natures creatures. He cheerfully adapts to whatever circumstances his environment throws at him. When he is laid off from from the anthill due to cutbacks in larvae production, he swallows his pride and stays home with the young while the female goes out to happy hour with her boss. <br />The male accepts his new, diminished role; allowing the female to direct how the nest is built, his manner of dress, his schedule, and the correct way to fold all of the tiny, useless matching purple towels in the guest bathroom. In exchange-he receives sporadic sexual access and experiences a deeper bond with his offspring, since he is now required to spend more time and resources ensuring their survival than before. Therefore, when the female comes home, announces she is leaving him for her boss, kicks him out of the nest and limits his access to the kids-he is just that more bitter when he has to bring half of the worms he scavenged to the nest every two weeks and give them to his former mate.<br /><br />"Oh hey Roger" he says awkwardly. "Is Joanna here?" and waits at the door as his wifes old boss turns around to look for her in the back of the nest. She hops out wrapped in a little towel and cocks her head at him, feathers still wet from her bath.<br /><br />"For God's sake Joanna" he chirps in a low tone of voice "The kids are right over there watching that chrysalis open. Put some clothes on."<br /><br /><br />And she raises all of her feathers and screeches and flaps her wings in his face so he takes off, <i>You get to deal with that now,</i> he mentally tells Roger<i>. Good Luck, buddy!</i><br /><br /><br /><br />And when he finally gets back to his tiny, barely furnished nest on the edge of the forest-the only place he can afford to live now-he thinks "I am never making that mistake again. From now on I'm a free bird."<br /><br /><br />Which is why we are now seeing an explosion in population numbers of Permanently Single Upper Middle Class, Middle Aged North American Males- which has led to an equally large number of Cynical, Lonely Middle-Aged North American Females. The balance has been disrupted, the old rules don't apply anymore and the creatures have become confused-unsure of what they want and afraid-sending pictures of their genitals to the opposite sex via text message.<br /><br /><br />Presented with an ever increasing number of options for mates online, both male and female become highly critical and easily dissatisfied. They pair bond within weeks and lose interest in each other just as quickly. Their selection of available partners is suddenly not constrained by proximity. There is no scarcity of females to compete over. Without even leaving their nests they can carry on three different virtual courtship rituals at once via text while the chicks watch The Butterfly Channel in the other room. <br /><br /><br /> Courtship feeding, a universal behavior observed in populations in every habitat since the divorced male was discovered by Joanna Kramer in 1979, have also been disrupted by the change in habitat. Instead of currying favor with his potential mate by presenting her with offerings of food, sweets or long pieces of glittering string to feather her nest-he will sit passively when she reaches into her purse at the end of the meal-a universal gesture the female developed to communicate that she is capable of obtaining her own delicious meal of insects and grubs. Instead of pushing her credit card away and insisting that she accept his gesture -"Here, let me take care of this. I am capable of providing you with extra nourishment during the winter- if you will allow me to fertilize your egg later after a few glasses wine."-he allows her to split the bill- which confuses her.<br /><br /><br />"What is this all about?" she wonders "These motherfuckers used to swoop in from all over the forest and fight over which one got to hand me a cutworm. What happened?"<br /><br />The male, reluctant to invest any resources into a female again, is emboldened by the sudden realization that-even though they are still capable of producing offspring-the North American female enjoys less power than her younger counterparts after she has already hatched a few chicks from a previous mate. It requires just a fraction of the effort he was required to spend before to get invited back to her nest.<br /><br />He doesn't even have to go out to the telephone wire every night and risk being rejected. He doesn't have to work at receiving his prize at all, in fact. <br /><br />Although it's not readily apparent to the untrained observer, the male is also suffering from the sudden disruption of the rules. Mating without challenge, initiating contact without risk and receiving sexual access without exerting any effort further atrophies his already diminished masculinity. What we obtain through risk and struggle is valued ten times over that which is handed to us casually.<br /><br />Because there is no scarcity of mates, they all begin to seem alike. They are easy to meet and easier to discard in search for the next one- a process that becomes more similar to commerce than romance as both males and females sip tiny glasses of wine while they check their phones surreptitiously at dinner, always looking for a better deal.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-31232833185383876072012-11-19T17:35:00.001-08:002012-11-19T19:53:21.259-08:00White Woman seeks Stock Car Driver for a Ride out of the Apocalypse <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> 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Name="Bibliography"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><br />I can hear a Bob Wills song as we pull into the wide gravel parking lot.<br /><br />"Get it off of me!" I try to pull it off me but its claws are stuck like burrs in my dress "It's doing that creepy kneading/nursing thing. It makes me uncomfortable."<br /><br />"Here Mabel" she croons, and deposits it into the backseat.<br /><br />"Why is the cat in the car again?" I have just now thought to ask.<br /><br />"Long story" she says. I've found it's best not to ask too many questions so I just nod and we go inside. The band is good but no one is dancing. We get our drinks and sit down.<br /><br />"Can I ask you a question?" Coco pops a cherry into her mouth and points a tiny hot pink sword at me. I nod to the beat of the music. My sunglasses are still on. So what?<br /> "When did you stop dancing?"<br />I frown. "I don't know. What the fuck happened to me man?" <br />"Go ask one of those cowboys over there" she nudges me.<br /><br />I want to-<br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They will say no and you will feel stupid, no one wants to dance with you</i><br /><br />"Fuck this. I used to be the who jumped out and danced by myself until everyone else joined in" I grab a cowboy, he does not say No.<br /> I am twirled around until I am spinning, breathless, laughing, beautiful by the time the song ends. Then I ask another, and another-borrowing the old men from their wives and sweet talking the young ones into giving it a try.<br />As the bar closes we walk past two guys with dreadlocks sitting in plastic lawn chairs by the fence. One of them nods towards us in greeting and passes a joint to his buddy.<br /><br />As we put on our seatbelts I hear him through the open window -<br />"Look. She got a cat in the car."<br />"No, man" his friend says "It is not possible."<br />"Yah tis! Look!" he stands a little pointing.<br />"White women" he slaps his knee "They <i>crazy</i>, man!"<br /><br />-----------------------------------------------------<br /><br />I just found out that this Nascar race for rich people called Formula One is being held just outside of Austin this week. Apparently people have been talking about this since the track was built for it, which was a while ago, but since I don't watch TV and I only dimly pay attention to your Facebook posts I didn't know about it until 100,000 people with vaguely European accents and sporty leather jackets arrived in town.<br /><br />Question- "Why is it taking me an hour to travel three blocks down Lamar street?<br />Answer- "A whole bunch of people from Monaco need to pick up one of the many products carried by Whole Foods Market that contain acai berries for their hangovers." <br />Oh.<br />Okay.<br /><br />Coco called to warn me on Wednesday. I was sick in bed, passing in and out of a feverish delirium.<br />"You better get over here" she warned. "I've stocked up on food and water. They say the city is going to run out."<br />"I'm sick." I told her "I can't move."<br />"I have cable"<br />That was all she had to say.<br />I don't watch TV anymore because I have other stuff I like to do but when I am sick it becomes addictive, like sucking on a crack rock made out of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire.<br /><br />The next day during the Terminator marathon she kept looking at her phone.<br />"Everyone is posting on Facebook that it's like a war zone out there!" she says.<br /><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am going to OWN these people when the Apocalypse comes,</i> I think.<br /><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"<b>OMG traffic sucks, yall! It's a war zone!</b>" posts Tiffany Rasberry in her status update bar as she "checks in" at 6th and Lamar.<br /><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I will be like a God to you</i>, <i>Tiffany.</i> I realize suddenly. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When it is a real war zone out there I will show you how to make a Molotov cocktail and lead all 57 of our mutual Facebook friends out of a ruined city like La Femme Nikita. In return your family will pay tribute to me as your leader for several generations to come. </i><br /><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal">The only thing I know about Nascar is that they wear a lot of vests that zip up the front and all of my relatives, who are also fond of vests, seem to really enjoy it. The only thing I know about Formula One is that a fleet of dilettantes<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>follow it around like the white people with dreadlocks do with that band Phish and someone said the engines are made like fighter jets with shark fins. Which makes me imagine them as the Jetsons, zipping around<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the globe in their personal aviation devices to watch cars drive around a track fast enough to break the sound barrier, and I decide that I would go to that party if I was invited. </div><div class="MsoNormal">-----------------------------------------------------------------</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have been writing since 9 this morning. It's two thirty in the morning<i> </i>now. I am finishing my book.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I'm 37 years old. I am a single mother who lives in a trailer. I don't know where the rent is going to come from, but I am finishing my book.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I may, or may not, have gone crazy; either way I am finishing my book.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because I know something.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">At midnight I go down Congress to the Continental Club and get a tequila shot. A swing band is playing so I make all the cowboys dance with me for an hour before I go back home to write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A young man with a cheerful smile and jaunty newsboy cap named Dash tells me as we dance that he is one of those guys that run out to the car and change out the tires real quick during the Formula One races.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"That's your whole job?" I ask "And you fly around the world all year doing it?"</div><div class="MsoNormal"> He nods.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i> How do these people get all these cool jobs?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Later he stands outside with me for a smoke.</div><div class="MsoNormal">"Tell me some crazy story about going around the world with a circus like that" I command.</div><div class="MsoNormal">"Nah, I got a crazy story for you" he says, grinning at me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">( <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Leprachaun </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always think, then feel bad. Is that racism? Can I say the thing about 'Me Lucky Charms?' Or is that ethnocentric? I don't know)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"Tell me Lucky!" I cheer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"When I was twenty two I got into an accident doing wheelies on me motorbike and broke me back. The doctors said I wouldn't walk again and look a' me now!" He twirls a little, like an adorable chimneysweep.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"Wow" I say, and we catch each others eyes. "You knew from the minute they told you that they were wrong? You knew you would recover."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"I never doubted it for a second" he says in recognition. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"Now you're country dancing with a pretty girl in Austin, Texas" I tell him, and he laughs.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"I just knew it. I knew I would walk again." he repeats. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"Yes" I smile as I leave him to go home and write "I know what you mean."</div>Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-67853114111520259532012-11-07T18:13:00.000-08:002013-06-14T12:45:22.158-07:00Chocolate and Cuckoo ClocksDear World- This blog post is now part of my new book so I took it down because I don't want to be a jerk and ruin it for you-<br /><em>you're welcome</em><br /> a preview of this awesomeness that includes a bunch of illustrations I drew all by myself<br /> is available to download for 99 cents on Amazon by clicking here- <br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Beauty-Tips-Bereaved-ebook/dp/B00DDLS65E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1371155414&sr=8-1&keywords=beauty+tips+for+the+bereaved" target="_blank">Beauty Tips for the Bereaved</a><br /><br />Or you can go "like" our facebook page and read the preview for free by clicking here-<br /><a href="https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl">https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl</a><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G8ejQ0BInoM/UbtxxbqUPrI/AAAAAAAAAw0/89o-Ck6P45U/s1600/1017183_317395021725707_787204628_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-G8ejQ0BInoM/UbtxxbqUPrI/AAAAAAAAAw0/89o-Ck6P45U/s320/1017183_317395021725707_787204628_n.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br />Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-70342979690990279362012-10-23T20:53:00.001-07:002013-06-17T21:50:25.023-07:00I wonder who does the laundry at Castle Greyskull?Dear World- This blog post is now part of my new book so I took it down because I don't want to be a jerk and ruin it for you-<br /> <em>you're welcome</em><br /> a preview of this awesomeness that includes a bunch of illustrations I drew all by myself<br /> is available to download for 99 cents on Amazon by clicking here- <o:p></o:p><br /> <u1:p></u1:p> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Beauty-Tips-Bereaved-ebook/dp/B00DDLS65E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1371155414&sr=8-1&keywords=beauty+tips+for+the+bereaved" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Beauty Tips for the Bereaved</span></a><br /> Or you can go "like" our facebook page and read the preview for free by clicking here-<o:p></o:p><br /> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl"><span style="color: blue;">https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl</span></a><o:p></o:p><br /> <div align="center" class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bKVSw_VaxL4/Ub_msi_TJgI/AAAAAAAAAxs/XTsNY6pojG0/s1600/1017183_317395021725707_787204628_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bKVSw_VaxL4/Ub_msi_TJgI/AAAAAAAAAxs/XTsNY6pojG0/s320/1017183_317395021725707_787204628_n.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p> </div>This book is not a memoir.<br /> It's a Survival Guide.<br /> If you woke up this morning wondering if you can make it through the day<br /> this book will be the little paper cup of water popping up unexpectedly by the side of the road.<br /> If you are thinking to yourself-"My life is so much more fucked than anyone else I know."<br /> this book will show you how to dig through the wreckage and find something priceless.<br /> If you are doing just fine, thank you, but need something to read on that long flight next week-<br /> I will make you laugh<br /> (even if you don't want to)<br /> and make you cry<br /> (sometimes that feels good too)<br /> but I promise to give you something beautiful.<br /> (Not to give anything away but it has a happy ending. It's currently unfolding right now.)<br /> Because here is the thing no one tells you-<br /> when you lose everything,<br /> when you think you have nothing left to offer that anyone will value-<br /> you can give the world your truth.<br /> Dear World,<br /> Here is my love letter to you.<br /> Here is my story.<br /> <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></div>Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com63tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-31780476458770871062012-10-22T13:45:00.000-07:002013-06-17T21:51:27.368-07:00It's Your MovieDear World- This blog post is now part of my new book so I took it down because I don't want to be a jerk and ruin it for you-<br /> <em>you're welcome</em><br /> a preview of this awesomeness that includes a bunch of illustrations I drew all by myself<br /> is available to download for 99 cents on Amazon by clicking here- <o:p></o:p><br /> <u1:p></u1:p> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Beauty-Tips-Bereaved-ebook/dp/B00DDLS65E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1371155414&sr=8-1&keywords=beauty+tips+for+the+bereaved" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Beauty Tips for the Bereaved</span></a><br /> Or you can go "like" our facebook page and read the preview for free by clicking here-<o:p></o:p><br /> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl"><span style="color: blue;">https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl</span></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bKVSw_VaxL4/Ub_msi_TJgI/AAAAAAAAAxs/XTsNY6pojG0/s1600/1017183_317395021725707_787204628_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bKVSw_VaxL4/Ub_msi_TJgI/AAAAAAAAAxs/XTsNY6pojG0/s320/1017183_317395021725707_787204628_n.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><br /> <div align="center" class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></div> This book is not a memoir.<br /> It's a Survival Guide.<br /> If you woke up this morning wondering if you can make it through the day<br /> this book will be the little paper cup of water popping up unexpectedly by the side of the road.<br /> If you are thinking to yourself-"My life is so much more fucked than anyone else I know."<br /> this book will show you how to dig through the wreckage and find something priceless.<br /> If you are doing just fine, thank you, but need something to read on that long flight next week-<br /> I will make you laugh<br /> (even if you don't want to)<br /> and make you cry<br /> (sometimes that feels good too)<br /> but I promise to give you something beautiful.<br /> (Not to give anything away but it has a happy ending. It's currently unfolding right now.)<br /> Because here is the thing no one tells you-<br /> when you lose everything,<br /> when you think you have nothing left to offer that anyone will value-<br /> you can give the world your truth.<br /> Dear World,<br /> Here is my love letter to you.<br /> Here is my story.<br /> <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></div>Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-4321176272483710462011-10-26T17:51:00.002-07:002013-06-16T14:10:47.933-07:00There is no Groupon for the Apocalypse <br />Dear World- This blog post is now part of my new book so I took it down because I don't want to be a jerk and ruin it for you-<br /> <br /><em>you're welcome</em><br /> <br />a preview of this awesomeness that includes a bunch of illustrations I drew all by myself<br /> <br />is available to download for 99 cents on Amazon by clicking here- <o:p></o:p><br /> <br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Beauty-Tips-Bereaved-ebook/dp/B00DDLS65E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1371155414&sr=8-1&keywords=beauty+tips+for+the+bereaved" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Beauty Tips for the Bereaved</span></a><br /> <br />Or you can go "like" our facebook page and read the preview for free by clicking here-<br /> <span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl"><span style="color: blue;">https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl</span></a></span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G2nVxECX8gU/Ub4nUarmz8I/AAAAAAAAAxc/J8AWFYk6dzg/s1600/1017183_317395021725707_787204628_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G2nVxECX8gU/Ub4nUarmz8I/AAAAAAAAAxc/J8AWFYk6dzg/s320/1017183_317395021725707_787204628_n.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This book is not a memoir.<br /> <br />It's a Survival Guide.<br /> <br />If you woke up this morning wondering if you can make it through the day<br /> <br />this book will be the little paper cup of water popping up unexpectedly by the side of the road.<br /> <br />If you are thinking to yourself-"My life is so much more fucked than anyone else I know."<br /> <br />this book will show you how to dig through the wreckage and find something priceless.<br /> <br />If you are doing just fine, thank you, but need something to read on that long flight next week-<br /> <br />I will make you laugh<br /> <br />(even if you don't want to)<br /> <br />and make you cry<br /> <br />(sometimes that feels good too)<br /> <br />but I promise to give you something beautiful.<br /> <br />(Not to give anything away but it has a happy ending. It's currently unfolding right now.)<br /> <br />Because here is the thing no one tells you-<br /> <br />when you lose everything,<br /> <br />when you think you have nothing left to offer that anyone will value-<br /> <br />you can give the world your truth.<br /> <br />Dear World,<br /> <br />Here is my love letter to you.<br /> <br />Here is my story.<br /> Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-10758824100208728082011-05-29T20:18:00.003-07:002013-06-17T21:54:55.714-07:00The Terror Which Is Thyroid StormDear World- This blog post is now part of my new book so I took it down because I don't want to be a jerk and ruin it for you-<br /> <em>you're welcome</em><br /> a preview of this awesomeness that includes a bunch of illustrations I drew all by myself<br /> is available to download for 99 cents on Amazon by clicking here- <o:p></o:p><br /> <u1:p></u1:p> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Beauty-Tips-Bereaved-ebook/dp/B00DDLS65E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1371155414&sr=8-1&keywords=beauty+tips+for+the+bereaved" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Beauty Tips for the Bereaved</span></a><br /> Or you can go "like" our facebook page and read the preview for free by clicking here-<o:p></o:p><br /> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl"><span style="color: blue;">https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl</span></a><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bKVSw_VaxL4/Ub_msi_TJgI/AAAAAAAAAxs/XTsNY6pojG0/s1600/1017183_317395021725707_787204628_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bKVSw_VaxL4/Ub_msi_TJgI/AAAAAAAAAxs/XTsNY6pojG0/s320/1017183_317395021725707_787204628_n.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><br /> <div align="center" class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></div>This book is not a memoir.<br /> It's a Survival Guide.<br /> If you woke up this morning wondering if you can make it through the day<br /> this book will be the little paper cup of water popping up unexpectedly by the side of the road.<br /> If you are thinking to yourself-"My life is so much more fucked than anyone else I know."<br /> this book will show you how to dig through the wreckage and find something priceless.<br /> If you are doing just fine, thank you, but need something to read on that long flight next week-<br /> I will make you laugh<br /> (even if you don't want to)<br /> and make you cry<br /> (sometimes that feels good too)<br /> but I promise to give you something beautiful.<br /> (Not to give anything away but it has a happy ending. It's currently unfolding right now.)<br /> Because here is the thing no one tells you-<br /> when you lose everything,<br /> when you think you have nothing left to offer that anyone will value-<br /> you can give the world your truth.<br /> Dear World,<br /> Here is my love letter to you.<br /> Here is my story.<br /> <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></div>Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-59175479303349271722011-05-29T16:39:00.002-07:002013-06-17T21:56:59.197-07:00Your mother could turn stones into doves and levitateI suddenly feel really weird this afternoon. Like weak and and my chest hurts, hot then cold-just WEIRD- but the worst symptom is that my back-where the kidneys are-hurts like crazy.<br /><br />So-besides drinking about forty gallons of water I looked it up on Web.MD.<br />I should put one of those controls parents use to disable sexy websites to block my computer from accessing Web.MD.Because it is telling me that-<br /><br />I am either having a <span style="font-weight: bold;">mild heart attack</span>-<br />Dizziness<br />trouble breathing<br />shooting pain in the arm(that only started about 30 seconds after I read it though)<br />and a weak heart pumps <span style="font-style: italic;">less blood to the kidneys</span><br /><br />or I have -<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Kidney Failure</span><br />Just like I told those bitches last week at Family Dinner and then they laughed at me.<br />Now one of you jerks is going to be a blood type match and have to donate me a kidney.<br />I will trade it for a dress.<br />And you can't say No. because I will post it on Facebook if you do and then everyone will know you did that.<br /><br />I have all the symptoms of that-<br />kidney pain<br />hot and cold<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Feeling confused</span>, anxious and restless, or sleepy. ( This might explain EVERYTHING)<br /><br /><br />I just want to tell everyone what my advanced directives are. And what my ideal funeral will be like.<br />It's hard for a grieving family to make these kinds of choices. <br />You're welcome.<br /><br />If I'm only dying in the ICU or critically ill then Daisy is going to go into my Facebook and post a list of items that people should send to me so I can feel better and make a dramatic comeback.<br />No, don't send flowers. Everyone does that. Flowers will not help me come out of that coma like a pickled appendix in a jar will. <br />Stop being so selfish and lazy.<br /><br />I'M <span style="font-style: italic;">DYING.</span> Step it up.<br /><br />Send me-<br />1. Taxidermied big game animals<br />2. Human teeth(I don't care how you get them. just do it- I'M DYING)<br />3.Preserved medical stuff in jars like eyes and intestines<br />4.Fake love letters. Long ones about how you'll never get over me. With poetry. From women or men. I'm not picky.<br /><br />Every ex-boyfriend I have ever had since high school has to come into the room, get down on one knee and propose. They will be easy to find. Just check the local bars or the AA meetings.<br />Then they have to stay in the room, assembled in a circle around my bed so I can finally figure out who is the most attractive one-because it's hard to remember accurately and compare/contrast until they are all together. The winner will be chosen to change the channel on the Tv while we watch "Law and Order". The losers will be sent home, weeping, with a subscription to Match.com.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">If I do end up dying suddenly-</span><br /><br />Make sure my Mom doesn't throw away all of my cool stuff. She is already trying to do that. Every time she comes over I find something I like in the trash.<br />"How did this get thrown away Mom?" I will say.<br />She shrugs.<br />"I don't know. It must have fallen. But look how pretty that plant looks where that ugly thing used to be.<br />Make her keep it all for Ruby. She will say she doesn't have room in the garage. That is bullshit. <br />EVERYTHING gets saved. Even the piles of unopened mail and melted snickers bars under the bed.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">At my funeral I want-</span><br /><br />fire eaters<br /><br />a marching band that only plays "Boom Boom Pow" over and over again.<br /><br />a Celine Dion cake from Wal-Mart<br />a dozen ferrets dressed up like ballerinas should be allowed to run free in the church underneath the pews.<br /><br />Please hire either Ice Cube or Luachris-whoever is cheaper of course-to officiate the eulogy entirely in Gangsta Rap. <br /><br />Jeffs new girlfriend can have my Grandmother's sapphire ring if she will throw herself on my coffin weeping and screaming "NO! She was too young to go!" she gets the matching bracelet if she faints or has to be dragged away and medicated.<br /><br />Sugar Weasel the clown will read from "The Prophet" by Kahlil Gabron.<br /><br />My dad can pass out like gift bags full of Vicodin, commemorative coffee cups with my face on them and mini Dr. Peppers.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">My body should either be</span><br />1.cremated, the ashes put in a Folger's coffee can and buried somewhere in my ex husbands backyard without telling him where.<br />2. Preserved like a mummy and sold to a traveling circus sideshow.<br />3. Immolated on an Indian funeral pyre next to the Ganges. Everyone has to fly there at their own expense so they can all gather around me and sing the "I'm on a Boat" song. Don't let any of my creepy Match.com stalkers jump on the fire like an Indian bride because then we would be stuck together in heaven and it would be an eternity sitting in the clouds with a harp and a phone made out of cloud like in cartoons sighing and thinking- "God Damn it will you STOP calling me?"<br /><br />I'm just kidding. We all know I'm going to Hell.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Last Wishes For Ruby When She Grows Up and Says "Tell me about my mother"</span><br /><br />Burn all of my journals from high school. They make me look like an asshole.<br /><br />Everyone I know should write her a letter about me. She can open it when she's eighteen. Be creative-here are some examples.<br /><br />1. Your mother single handedly saved all of the people aboard a Carnival Cruise ship that got lost and ended up too close to Sudan by using a combination of karate and charm to out wit the sea pirates that had hijacked the ship right before everyone was about to be pushed off the boat into shark infested waters.<br /><br />2. Prince Harry proposed to your mother first but she turned him down because he wasn't funny enough. Plus he kissed weird-that thing where they put their entire mouth around yours like they are eating your face and dart their tongue in and out like a lizard on a hot day and then you pull away and say "Prince Harry. I have a ring of saliva on the second half of my face." So that was a NO. Get on match.com Prince Harry. I know you love to travel.<br /><br />3. Your mother won the Guinness Book of Records award for both speed -texting and sending/receiving the most texts of any person in North America over thirteen for two years in a row. After that she became a Champion Speed Eater-specializing in wet hot dogs. Although very popular with the crowds she never surpassed the record of that Japanese kid so she retired at age thirty to have you.<br /><br />Or whatever. I'm not trying to micromanage you.Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-10420923159637568242011-05-27T18:48:00.000-07:002013-06-17T21:57:43.476-07:00Fuck you HEB <br />Dear World- This blog post is now part of my new book so I took it down because I don't want to be a jerk and ruin it for you-<br /> <br /><em>you're welcome</em><br /> <br />a preview of this awesomeness that includes a bunch of illustrations I drew all by myself<br /> <br />is available to download for 99 cents on Amazon by clicking here- <o:p></o:p><br /> <u1:p></u1:p> <br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Beauty-Tips-Bereaved-ebook/dp/B00DDLS65E/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1371155414&sr=8-1&keywords=beauty+tips+for+the+bereaved" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Beauty Tips for the Bereaved</span></a><br /> <br />Or you can go "like" our facebook page and read the preview for free by clicking here-<o:p></o:p><br /> <br /><a href="https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl"><span style="color: blue;">https://www.facebook.com/BeautyTipsfortheBereaved?ref=hl</span></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bKVSw_VaxL4/Ub_msi_TJgI/AAAAAAAAAxs/XTsNY6pojG0/s1600/1017183_317395021725707_787204628_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bKVSw_VaxL4/Ub_msi_TJgI/AAAAAAAAAxs/XTsNY6pojG0/s320/1017183_317395021725707_787204628_n.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><br /> <br /><div align="center" class="separator" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></div><br />This book is not a memoir.<br /> <br />It's a Survival Guide.<br /> <br />If you woke up this morning wondering if you can make it through the day<br /> <br />this book will be the little paper cup of water popping up unexpectedly by the side of the road.<br /> <br />If you are thinking to yourself-"My life is so much more fucked than anyone else I know."<br /> <br />this book will show you how to dig through the wreckage and find something priceless.<br /> <br />If you are doing just fine, thank you, but need something to read on that long flight next week-<br /> <br />I will make you laugh<br /> <br />(even if you don't want to)<br /> <br />and make you cry<br /> <br />(sometimes that feels good too)<br /> <br />but I promise to give you something beautiful.<br /> <br />(Not to give anything away but it has a happy ending. It's currently unfolding right now.)<br /> <br />Because here is the thing no one tells you-<br /> <br />when you lose everything,<br /> <br />when you think you have nothing left to offer that anyone will value-<br /> <br />you can give the world your truth.<br /> <br />Dear World,<br /> <br />Here is my love letter to you.<br /> <br />Here is my story.<br /> <br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></div>Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-17406992708153367672011-05-06T19:35:00.002-07:002012-10-21T16:07:56.489-07:00Ode to a LemonThe other day I watched Harold and Maude again. I try to see this movie every couple of years to remind me to be free. Like the way one should trip on mushrooms every year to be reminded of how it is to see the world full of childlike magic. The trees dance and the stars form patterns as they sing. Everything is beautiful.<br />Then you wake up the next day and go home to traffic and a sinkful of dishes.<br />But the ghost of that feeling lingers with me for weeks. This movie has the same effect. If you haven't seen it, will make you happy. Everyone. I will generalize-no matter who you are. When it's over you are changed imperceptibly. You see the world through Maude's eyes-even for a fleeting day or two.<br /><br />By the way-if you haven't seen it skip this blog-go see it and then come back and read it.<br />You probably won't do that. It's your funeral-because I am about to completely spoil it for you.<br /><br />It's about a boy who is deeply depressed. He goes to funerals for entertainment, his life completely devoid of joy.The movie was made in the 70's-before prozac. My God what did people do back then? Hang yourself I guess.<br /><br />He meets and 80 year old woman named Maude. She is bright and beautiful. She approaches every experience without fear-full of wonder and curiosity.<br /><br />They fall in love. Despite the age difference it's one of the most touching love stories I have ever seen. He begins to see the world through her eyes.<br />Unattached to anything-even her own life-she is free. When Harold gives her a ring she throws it in the lake.<br />"There!" she laughs."Now I shall always know where it is!"<br /><br />Which reminds me of something Bertrand Russell said-<br />"It is preoccupation with possessions, more than anything else, that prevents us from living freely and nobly"<br /><br />Here today, gone tomorrow. <br />Go ahead and live. That's all you've really got.<br /><br />At the end, when he is holding her hand in an ambulance as she dies, she is still joyful and unafraid.<br />"But I love you!" he weeps.<br /><br />"Oh Harold," she smiles and grips his hand."That's wonderful! Now go and love some more."<br /><br />And that's it really, isn't it? Love, love, love as fiercely as you can-and then let it go.<br /><br />The combination of watching that movie again and a little red wine made me send long texts to one of my match.com dates about the nature of universal love-breaking out of paradigms and living fearlessly. <br />(I read in a ladies magazine once you should never, ever send a man sappy poetry. Oops.)<br />But I like men who like poetry-so maybe that weeds out dull, sports obsessed cavemen. <br />"I don't know anything about poetry." one of them told me."It's gay."<br />Much of them time it is actually. Nothing is worse than bad poetry, or women who wear too much purple and call themselves poets.<br /><br />But-some of it is sublime. <br />Pablo Neruda-the most famous Chilean poet-wrote beautiful poems. Many of them in response to the brutal dictatorship of Pinochet-people "disapearing", torture, rape--he celebrated the beauty of the ordinary. Stop to notice these small moments. They are perfect.<br />Art and love ultimately conquering the brutality and horrors that the world can bring.<br />What else is art for, anyway?<br /><br />Ode To The Lemon by Pablo Neruda<br />From blossoms<br />released<br />by the moonlight,<br />from an<br />aroma of exasperated<br />love,<br />steeped in fragrance,<br />yellowness<br />drifted from the lemon tree,<br />and from its plantarium<br />lemons descended to the earth.<br /><br />Tender yield!<br />The coasts,<br />the markets glowed<br />with light, with<br />unrefined gold;<br />we opened<br />two halves<br />of a miracle,<br />congealed acid<br />trickled<br />from the hemispheres<br />of a star,<br />the most intense liqueur<br />of nature,<br />unique, vivid,<br />concentrated,<br />born of the cool, fresh<br />lemon,<br />of its fragrant house,<br />its acid, secret symmetry.<br /><br />Knives<br />sliced a small<br />cathedral<br />in the lemon,<br />the concealed apse, opened,<br />revealed acid stained glass,<br />drops<br />oozed topaz,<br />altars,<br />cool architecture.<br /><br />So, when you hold<br />the hemisphere<br />of a cut lemon<br />above your plate,<br />you spill<br />a universe of gold,<br />a<br />yellow goblet<br />of miracles,<br />a fragrant nipple<br />of the earth's breast,<br />a ray of light that was made fruit,<br />the minute fire of a planet.Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-26081086596477004912010-04-01T11:40:00.000-07:002012-06-20T23:20:24.445-07:00For real?http://crave.cnet.co.uk/gadgets/0,39029552,49305387,00.htm<br /><br />They found an "oddly dressed" man outside of the Large Hadron collider in Geneva claiming to be from the future.He said he came back to stop the Collider from destroying the world.<br />"Police said Mr Cole, who was wearing a bow tie and rather too much tweed for his age, would not reveal his country of origin. "Countries do not exist where I am from. The discovery of the Higgs boson led to limitless power, the elimination of poverty and Kit-Kats for everyone. It is a communist chocolate hellhole and I'm here to stop it ever happening." <br />Then, the article said, the guy disapeared from his jail cell.Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-46598616782438020222010-03-30T08:56:00.000-07:002012-05-08T04:49:19.077-07:00Give my jacket back bitch<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_whcxLRc7wFE/S7IfWOZx2tI/AAAAAAAAAbM/XKYADt4ZamI/s1600/15295_376468197285_502867285_3843647_1148397_n.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_whcxLRc7wFE/S7IfWOZx2tI/AAAAAAAAAbM/XKYADt4ZamI/s320/15295_376468197285_502867285_3843647_1148397_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454456565382896338" /></a><br /><br />I can't post the photos of what came next, the police might consider that to be "evidence", but I will say this-if your arms are weak from too much time spent holding up your crackpipe and your legs are shaky from a recent gangbang don't wear three inch heels to catfight with me. She went down like tranquilized wildebeast in an age-innapropriate outfit. The jacket is mine once again.Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-57876171349870246802010-03-29T16:33:00.000-07:002012-06-20T23:20:24.446-07:00Gorilla MunchOkay-I am retarded and put the wrong link to my new craft blog on the last post. Too many Flintstones vitamins WILL get you high, apparently.The new blog has the story of when a transvestite jizzed in my store that one time and tips for etsy like "Don't be a bitch"<br />It is-www.craftybitchesunite.blogspot.com. Apparently I wrote craftybitchesunite.com, which is already a very similarly themed website by really organized people. My little thing will stay up until they threaten to sue me, which could be any day now, so check it out while you can.<br /><br /><br />Ruby stayed home from school today after she projectile vomited in the car. Now, instead of cigarette smoke,fake fir tree and that piece of cheese that I keep looking at and for some reason can't bring myself to pick up and throw away-the car smells like regurgitated apple sauce. That may not sound as bad as it is,really. I would remind you Apple scented vomit is still vomit.<br />She threw up so much this morning I began to wonder if she had some kind of early toddler bulimia. <br />"I guess I should stop comparing her figure to those Bratz dolls," I thought. Look, it's not my fault that she can't take a joke. If I told you that your butt looked too big in your pull ups you'd know that I was joking. All jokes aside, if she does have a problem I want to nip it in the bud now. We put her on Atkins last year and it really worked. Plus it was so cute the way she begged for "Carb-ies" at night.<br />I start to go crazy like a trapped animal when she stays home from school. Right around the nine hundred and thirty third time she says "Mommy" ten times in a row while grabbing my dress I begin to feel like I would do ANYTHING to get out of the house.<br />I would do-<br />a walrus<br />a job interview<br />an elaborate cleaning job<br />public service for the republican party<br />volunteer work with teenagers<br />a jig<br />anything anything to make it stop. <br />Then Jeff came home and took her for a walk, which I could have done at any time today but the park makes me die a little inside. I will not go to the park. I will give her all the cookies she wants and lollipops for breakfast, as long as she throws it up later.<br />I just realised that I spent the day marketing on Plus size fashion websites for this big dress giveaway(scroll down) so maybe the bulimia jokes aren't really coming at the appropriate time. I could take it down, but I am COUNTING ON EVERYONE'S AWESOME SENSE OF HUMOR.<br />Ruby is home now, finally able to eat some cereal-the box of said cereal has a gorilla winking at you-it is called "Gorilla Munch". I can't help thinking dirty thoughts about Gorilla Munch. Is it just me?<br />Marketers for hippie cereal companies, consider these European cereal names--<br />Ostrich Crunch<br />Peanut Butter Wankies<br />I dropped the bottom out of that Girl<br />That last one is real. Look it up.Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-89742406860802908642010-03-27T13:10:00.002-07:002013-06-22T11:51:04.993-07:00Incubus Attack at the MallI read an article in Psychology Today magazine that described the sleep disorders "Sexomnia" and "Incubus Attack." Sexomnia is when you try to do it in your sleep and an Incubus Attack is when you hallucinate that a demon is sitting on your chest and preventing you from moving. For real-look it up. One guy realized he had sexomnia when he woke up with his hand under his niece's shirt one night and got taken off to jail. I can only imagine how many men would use the sexomnia excuse if this diagnosis was more widely known.<br />"Really, honey-I was sleeping when I put it up there. I have no idea how that happened."<br />Incubus Attack is just awesome on so many levels-number one being the word "Incubus' itself. In high school our nickname for this one really pale girl was "The Succubus" because her white skin contrasted in such a creepy way to her almost white-blue eyes that she looked like she could just open her mouth and suck out your soul. A succubus is a female incubus, so maybe at night she was sitting on people's chests and preventing them from breathing, like that old wives tale about cats sucking the breath out of babies to get at the milk smell in their mouths.(That is a myth, the number of cat related baby deaths in this country gets lower every year)<br /><br />Despite being hung-over my husband Jeff and I decided that it would be a good idea to take our toddler to the mall today to buy her an Easter dress. We don't do much for Easter in my house since I made that pact with the devil a few years ago but my mother is taking her to a picnic and buying a real, new Easter dress that didn't come from a thrift store seemed like such a "real" Mom thing to do. I could have made her dress, but I am lazy, so we went to Macy's because Jeff has a credit card there and we had a coupon for 20% off.<br />I hate the mall. I immediately get this haunting, post apocalyptic feeling and imagine what it will look like after the super virus exterminates most humans, leaving a tiny population to dwell within the local mall, building fires out of sweaters from Abercrombie and Fitch, using coat hangers for weapons and battling it out in the food court-mad max style. The remake of Dawn of the Dead that came out a few years ago had all the people and zombies drawn to the mall, which only makes it worse for me. Since I saw Dawn of the dead I am really zombie-sensitive in the mall, tense, on the lookout for the modern speedy zombie that might run out of that pack of teenagers and rip out my throat.<br /><br />So, hung-over, paranoid and tired, Jeff and I locate the little girls section of this disturbingly empty department store. While Ruby is picking out her dress I decide to find her some little white tights to wear under it. Tights=Easter, right? Right.<br /><br />As I approach the counter the man that Macy's deemed an appropriate employee to staff the little girls underwear department turns to me and I stop in my tracks.<br />Grey faced, hunched over, a hundred and fifty years old, yellow teeth, he smiles the biggest, sweetest, creepiest grin he can make his skull form.<br />"may I help you?" he whispers at me.<br />Holy shit, I thought. It happened. There's zombies at the mall.<br />I back up a little, noting the location of my child and the nearest exits, and ask him where the tights are.<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">whaaaa</span>-?" he lisps.<br />"TIGHTS, YOU KNOW-" how do you explain the word tights? <br />"TIGHTS!" I repeat.<br />Just then Ruby walks over. I decide it is safe, he is moving so slow and shaky that he clearly doesn't have the "rage" or any of the new zombie viruses. He is more Night of the Living Dead- scary but it would take him an hour just to dig himself out of his own grave, then a couple more to cross the street. Ruby can take him, I think, if it comes to that.<br />"Mommy, why that man talk so quiet?" she asks loudly.<br />"I don't know, why don't you ask him." Curious myself, it would be rude of me-an adult- to ask him why he was whispering. But my child could do it-that was almost cute.<br />"Why you talk that way, Man?" she looks up at him. Jeff comes on the scene with a couple of pink dresses in either hand-his eyebrows raised, giving me the "What the fuck is that?" look.<br />The zombie leans closer to Ruby and whispers<br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">I almost got my head chopped off</span>" he fake slices his neck with his finger, sliding it across his throat a couple of times real quick"-<span style="font-style: italic;"> my vocal chords were severed and I lost my voice-</span>-"<br />I am in shock-but Jeff- the quick reacting parent who can always be counted on to whisk her out of traffic while I dreamily try to process the scene-grabs her by the shoulders, interrupting Macys Zombie.<br /><br />"Whoa, now-okay! That's enough of that!" he says, pushing her in the direction of the toy display.<br />I just stand there some more, staring at the scar on his neck. Finally I ask him how he almost got decapitated.<br /><br />"<span style="font-style: italic;">Car accident</span>," he says."<span style="font-style: italic;">I spent 18 months in the hospital."</span><br /><br />In the hospital MORGUE? Before you decided to get back up, sew your head back on and get a job selling tiny dresses to plump, delicious live baby girls?-I think, and we get the fuck out of the mall.<br /><br />What marketing genius in charge of scheduling put that guy in the kids section? I can see some idiot middle manager in a dimly lit back room, smoking and filling out this week's schedule.<br />"Hmmmm, where should I put Richard? Maybe-electronics? hardware? No, I'll put the dead guy in the children's section. That makes sense." Expecting what? That he is going to be good for sales? That parents want the excitement of a Thriller video while their daughter is trying on white, patent leather shoes?<br />If I wake up with that guy Incubus -Attacking me instead of my usual midnight Sexomnia I am going to sue Macy's for emotional trauma. Maybe then I can finally get written up in Psychology Today.Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-76118249866752734542010-03-27T08:39:00.000-07:002012-06-20T23:20:24.446-07:00Sugar Weasel<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_whcxLRc7wFE/S64l13cMx_I/AAAAAAAAAaU/TyBJ06TrUqU/s1600/m_f0bba1b2562242ae8ac26c019c4c2c31.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 170px; height: 197px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_whcxLRc7wFE/S64l13cMx_I/AAAAAAAAAaU/TyBJ06TrUqU/s320/m_f0bba1b2562242ae8ac26c019c4c2c31.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453337806137772018" /></a><br />Last night we enjoyed the Holy Grail of babysitting-the Overnight. Ruby stayed at my mother's house, we stayed out until three with our friends John and Donna, drinking wine at a bar called the Gingerman. Jmart, the most cheerful guy I know, sat at the end of our table playing scrabble on his phone and missing his wife, who was home with a bad allergy attack.Jeff and I act like wild animals when we have "The Overnight" drinking too much, staying out too late, completely forgetting that we are parents at all.<br />Jeff mentioned that he ran into a man named Sugar Weasel at a bar last week. Donna perked up.<br />"Sugar Weasel? I have his card!" she dug around in her purse until she found it and passed it around. <br />Sugar Weasel is a "clown escort" from Austin whose card features him lounging fully nude, in full makeup, with his flaccid penis on full display.His site (www.sugarweasel.com also http://sugarweasel.blogspot.com/) makes it clear that he is not a prostitute, per say, but "anything else that may or may not occur is a matter of personal choice between consenting adults of legal age."<br />Jmart looked closely at Sugar Weasel's card.<br />"UGH! You guys! He has clown makeup on his ball sack!"<br />"No way," I said."Give me that."<br />I looked, he did have white clown makeup on his junk. Classy touch.<br />"I get the business model," said John,"I get the male escort thing-but he loses me when it comes to the clown stuff."<br />"Clowns are creepy, man." said Jmart.<br />"He was creepy," said jeff."And kind of a dick." <br />We all looked down at the card. That sounds about right, I thought.<br />But I am now fascinated with this clown escort and I want to order him for someones birthday party. Better yet-order him to show up and strip at someones <em>bachelor </em>party. Or baby shower. Funeral? I don't care-I just have to do it.<br />"Baby!" I yelled to Jeff."Get Sugar Weasel to come dance for my birthday!" <br />"Sure, sweetie," he nodded. Then I heard him telling Jim that he could "just say yes to whatever she says and tommorow she will forget she wants it, like a toddler.Last week it was North Korea, this week its Sugar Weasel."<br />"I AM GOING TO TAKE SUGAR WEASEL TO NORTH KOREA!" I yelled. At this point, Donna was so drunk her eyes were closing and she fell off the bench. I caught her, at the last minute, because no one likes to see a grown woman pass out in a bar.<br /><br />(Actually, I would have liked to see this very much, but I am trying to repair our relationship-which has been somewhat strained since I snuck into her house and stole my jacket back, finding it in her closet and hiding it under my dress<br />"I lost your jacket!" she said.<br />"Bitch. Find it." I told her.<br />Then she saw me wearing it, and almost slapped me. It is jacket worth fighting over, maybe even dying for.I brought it last night, in case it got cold, I looked over and suddenly she was wearing it again. We almost came to blows-that awkward I'm joking but not really tension when you are trying to be cool but really it's dead serious. I had to pull it off her body, but it wasn't that hard. She was wasted.)<br /><br />We all stumbled home to doze the light, fitful sleep of the very drunk, visions of sugar weasels dancing in our heads.Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-45160064494441833792010-03-26T05:46:00.000-07:002012-06-20T23:20:24.446-07:00Bringing home the baconYesterday I was feeling kind of bad for making fun of the self promotion I have to do for my job. What I realised is that I take my occupation for granted sometimes. Doing things like marketing on facebook and twitter, or going to awkward trunk shows, is like presenting your resume to people-I just have to do it all the time because I am always trying to "get the job". <br />But the job I get to do is so fulfilling and creative, I get to stay home and sew things for people all day. Sometimes I forget that I'm lucky to have it-that I could be wearing a hairnet somewhere. I don't say I'd be in a cubicle-because when I was working for other people I never had that kind of job. I worked at grocery stores and coffee shops and daycares-minimum wage jobs-before I started my own business. I dropped out of high school to become a technical welder, but after four years of training I was still a terrible welder. I studied Fine Art-which will not take you very far up the corporate ladder, in case you're wondering. No one ever mentioned getting a job when I was in school-it was as if we lived in a magical fairyland of critique and artists statements. Making money someday was almost a taboo subject. Pure academic art theory had no space for real world concerns. So when I got out of school I was again faced with a choice between checker and bagger.<br />Looking back, had I not been the world's worst employee I don't think I would have had the tenacity to hang on to making my little business work. By the time I started making dresses I'd been hired and either fired or quit 32 jobs. <br />I worked for a bakery where the employees were so bitter that they licked the croissants each morning before the doors opened. We all stole from that place, they never gave us raises. Dishes, silverware, chairs and tables, bags of coffee and croissants(unlicked) were stashed and taken home by everyone there. <br />I worked at a clothing store with Jenna Bush, who despite her piggish father is the nicest most unassuming person you could ever meet. We worked together for 3 months before I knew who she was because she never talked about it. She was just "Jenna".<br />Since I worked in the store's tiny childrens section I got to fit 200 dollar jumpers onto the chimpanzees that women brought in. It was a fad among rich women in Austin to have a chimpanzee as a pet that year.<br />I worked for an artist who sandblasted glass vases in a studio out in the Hill Country. Devout Christians, he and his wife met while he was in prison. She wrote him letters and when he got out they started etching glass together. They prayed before every etching, but i still dropped and broke a lot of glass.<br />I drove a miniature train full of children through Zilker park. I watched other people's children at three daycares. I quit the last one after I heard the director lean into the ear of a screaming two year old and tell her that if she didn't stop crying "The clown is going to come and chew your ears off." I'd always wondered why so many of the children at that place were terrified of the clown mobile that hung above the changing table.<br />Several grocery stores, countless coffee shops, I was a hostess at a few restaurants, a faux finisher, mural painter, flyer distribution specialist, art gallery clerk, graphic designer for a hip hop night club in New York, art supply clerk, the worst waitress in the world(I am so sorry for upending that full glass of iced tea into your purse, Mamm. Yes, I will go to Hell now, thank you")and a nanny. <br />So i think that it was only the sure knowledge that there were no other options for me that kept me from getting a "real" job in the beginning when things were hard starting my own business. It's what keeps me from doing it now-as i have a hard time self-promoting, or when things get slow, or I get bored and lonely at home by myself. I like to joke about taking naps and being lazy, and a good deal of that does go on, but most of the time you work all day, all night sometimes, without knowing if you will end up getting paid or not.You make a hundred dresses for a big festival-you could sell them all and end up with fifteen grand or sell nothing and lose money. you just never know-but you have to keep working anyway-and just hope for the best.<br />I have this fantasy that I could be a normal person with a "real" job. Mostly, it involves what clothes I would wear, since I have no idea what people with real jobs do all day. It seems really appealing to get dressed every day in a little, stylish All McBeal suit and heels, and go to the "office" and type stuff into the computer. Beyond that-it goes blank-because I really don't understand what people do all day. I imagine I would drive a jaunty little car( in my dream it would be perfectly clean, not filled with papers and starbucks cups like mine is right now) I would go to Happy hour with my coworkers and bitch about the boss. I would enjoy my "benefits" and my "retirement", which would not be kept in a cookie jar under the bed but in a "fund" that someone was matching every month.<br />It stays a fantasy because, after 32 jobs, I know better. Eventually Ally McBeal would call her boss a douchebag, or sleep late too many times or accidentally set fire to the couch in the employee lounge-something would bring about my downfall. I have a hard time containing myself.<br />Which brings me back to the best part about my current job(besides the naps)I get to be myself. I was reading about a woman who got fired because of what she wrote about her boss online and it dawned on me how lucky i am to be able to write about anything without repercussions from anyone.<br />It occurred to me that i should stop whining about having to advertise what i do, because I'm lucky to have it. So today I am appreciating my life-glad I am not currently failing at job #33, and thankful that the most annoying part of my day is self promoting on stupid twitter.<br />Send me your worst(best) job stories and I will post them on the blog. Entertain me.Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-54462515474517859142010-03-22T11:34:00.000-07:002012-06-20T23:20:24.450-07:00Making Journalism HistoryI reported on a ground breaking interview right here-<br />http://thesmatter.wordpress.com/2010/03/22/ruby-explains-the-health-care-bill/<br />very funny site.Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-79737875548751427972010-03-19T17:34:00.001-07:002012-06-20T23:20:24.450-07:00The StallionListen. When your car alarm goes off-no one is going to investigate the possible theft of your car. We are only thinking-"Who is that asshole? Turn it off!" and hating you. Maybe car alarms are relevant in other, bigger cities but no one is going to break into your eight year old Honda at noon on South Congress. There are hundreds of people walking up and down the street. Did it not occur to you, when you walked away for hours to enjoy some music twenty blocks from your vehicle, that someone might accidentally jostle your car and set off your stupid alarm? Do you hear it-miles away, jamming to your "live" music down by the lake? No? Well, I do. <br /><br />Jeff and I took Ruby down to South Congress to hear some music today. The streets were full of people. It was sunny, about eighty degrees with a cool wind blowing.It was lovely. I really enjoyed it for about twenty minutes. <br />We ran into Johnny Berlin, this guy we watched a documentary about a few weeks ago. He really is sort of crazy in this charmingly unpredictable way. He told us all about renaming himself Johnny Neadertal for an upcoming movie.He talked really, really fast.<br />"It's Neander TAL not thal, isn't that weird? I always thought it was thal-what's that?"He pointed at some dirt on our stroller then quickly swerved back on topic. Entertaining in person as well as on screen, this guy. Very sweet.<br />"The Butterscotch Stallion liked him," said Jeff, who has started referring to himself in the third person whenever he wears this one, unfortunate, caramel colored leather jacket from the seventies. You can tell that this jacket used to be cool, the cut is nice, but it's an odd color, so worn and stained that it looks like he dug it up from a gravesite, possibly stolen from the body of a man who died from disco overdose, poisoned by too much aftershave, or attacked by a feral wildcat. the shoulder is tattered and the entire back is decorated by a spreading stain of something that looks like vomit.<br />"The Butterscotch Stallion looks good tonight!" I told him. I encourage this jacket. What is the opposite term for "Pussy Magnet"? Because unless the ladies of South Congress have a sudden yearning for an aimless drifter-that jacket ensures that loose women will not flirt with my man. It's not that he looks homeless, per se, it's just that for a second or two-you ask yourself that question-something is wrong with that man-what is it? Two seconds is enough to make any home wrecking whore continue to scan the bar to find another man. I love that jacket.<br />Because I had my butterscotch serenity, and because standing in a parking lot for more than thirty seconds listening to music makes me feel an overwhelming urge to go home and lay down, we left Jeff to enjoy the chaos of people and music that is South by Southwest.He ran into some friends who pulled him into a bar he didn't like.The bartender there hates him, but it's likely that it's not Jeff's fault. The guy wears a pin that says "I'm a dick."<br />As we walked away I could hear him protesting,"The Butterscotch Stallion is going to get kicked out of here in a minute...."<br />Here is the link to one of the contributions I'm making this week to the Style column in the Chronicle-<br />http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/Issue/column?oid=oid:982654<br />http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/Issue/column?oid=oid:981375<br />http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/Issue/column?oid=oid:982888<br />http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/Issue/column?oid=oid%3A983102Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-30495202059569687252010-03-15T07:54:00.000-07:002012-06-20T23:20:24.451-07:00There are no douchebags in MarfaI went to a party for the Marfa Film festival last night. My music producer friend invited me-her name is Roggie Bear, which always makes me think of an animated character, Teddy Ruxpin or Yogi Bear. She is somewhat cuddly, somehow managing to be adorable and glamorous at the same time.<br />Marfa is a tiny town about 7 hours from Austin. All of our artists seem to be emigrating there. I've never been, and I have no intention of going, for two reasons.<br />1. I am tired of hearing people talk about Marfa.<br />2. You have to drive seven hours to get there-and then you have to camp.<br />I have been told that there are no hotels there. <br />"But what is out there that is so appealing you would drive seven hours into the desert to get there?" I asked someone.<br />"It's really pretty. The people are really cool."<br />The inside of my house is also pretty and I don't have to sleep on the ground.<br />But I did find myself almost swayed to go to this film festival. Everyone I met last night was so cool and down to earth, so enthusiastic about what they were doing, so excited about the movies and Marfa-so genuine and cool that I had nothing to write about.<br />"There is no one here to mock," I thought, sadly, looking around me. "Everyone here is cool."<br />It was disapointing.I had to leave.Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-1736982617605391352010-03-13T21:57:00.001-08:002012-05-08T04:49:19.078-07:00Suck by SouthwestAs we walked from the car to the restaurant tonight I was trying to be extra observant.<br />"Try to see Sixth street as if you didn't grow up here," I thought."See downtown through the eyes of a visitor." Because you do get kind of jaded, living here.<br />"Ugh, sixth street--Hell no!" We have said, again and again. No matter what is going on downtown it's never enticing enough to convince us to actually go there.<br />"Sixth street" is actually an area about 10 blocks square, encompassing fourth street and Congress-we call the whole thing Sixth the way Southerners call any soda "Coke".<br />"I'll have a Coke" you say to your waitress.<br />"What kind?" she asks.<br />"Dr. Pepper." you say.<br />Wednesday through Sunday, this area of town is packed, the sidewalks so full of kids who just turned twenty one, hippies selling hand blown glass pipes, girls dressed up like whores, bachelorette parties and motorcycle gangs that it is hard to walk more than ten blocks without wanting to slap someone. The fraternities and sororities are empty and every AA meeting is full of sad, empty chairs because everyone is partying on Sixth street. The entire world is a vacant, whistling void, bereft of douchebags as they jostle and mingle and shout "Bee-atch!" to one another over your head as you try to walk down Sixth street.<br />So, yeah, I'm kind of over it. But, because I am trying to write about South by Southwest-which means I have to actually <em>go </em>to South by Southwest, I was trying to see my town with new eyes.<br />"I will try to have the quintessential Austin experience tonight." I thought. Would it be 'weird'? It would be.<br />God must have heard me, because as we started walking my nose began to burn. Strange, I thought. was it exhaust fumes, from the many cars who had slowed to a crawl, desperate to find a parking space or an affordable whore?<br />No. After a few more minutes of walking my throat began to feel like I'd swallowed a swarm of bees and then I was gripped by a hurricane of sneezes, seven, eight nine in a row.<br />Fucking Allergies.<br />Here you go, said God. Here is your "Austin" experience.<br />For those of you who don't live in Austin, allergies are what the God of the Religious Right that dominates the rest of Texas has afflicted on us to get even for the fact that we are so much smarter than his chosen people.<br />"Mock my loyal flock, will you?" says God."Run around using 'logic' and 'birth control'will you? Your sins will be revealed through your runny noses!"<br />And they are. This is no joke. Imagine going out for a nice dinner and suddenly, right before dessert-with no warning- it feels like you have severe bronchitis. Dinner, fine. Dessert, pneumonia. Highest allergen concentration of any major city in the entire world.<br />"AGHHH!" I yelled at Jeff after my tenth back to back sneeze in a row, snot flowing down my lip as I searched for a tissue."Find me some Allegra!"<br />I asked the hostess, who asked the bartender, who asked the kitchen staff. Nothing.<br />meanwhile, I just kept sneezing and blowing my nose. People were starting to stare.<br />"Claritin? It doesn't even have to be the 'D'!" Nope.<br />I ordered some awful drink. It had red bull in it, so I thought it might help. <br />"Your drink tastes like cough medicine," said Jeff, grimacing.<br />"I wish it was a cocktail of whatever it is that they make you show ID for now-that stuff they make meth out of-" <br />"You might need to go home," he said, eyeing me. <br />"Do. I have to go dotice some stuff for Stephen Moser." I coughed.<br />What is the look on the spectrum as far away from lust that a man can go to? I was a few seconds away from just rolling the napkin up into balls and sticking it into my nostrils when we decided to leave.<br />As we were leaving I grabbed the hostesses arm.<br />"Singulaire?" I pleaded."Vicodin?"<br />She shook her head sadly and watched us go.<br />We walked past some drug dealers.<br />"You know, man, if you want that shit I just put some lip gloss on and get it for you."<br />"Excuse me," I said, ignoring Jeff as he pulled my arm in the other direction."Do you have any benadryl?"<br />They just laughed. They probably did have some, I just didn't know the right I'm-not-a-cop codeword.<br />We passed some lesbians all arrayed in matching T shirts stretching too tightly across their large backsides. Jeans with huge flares,white socks with tennis shoes and denim overalls, one of them had the signature flannel shirt tied around the waist-<br /><br />A Side message to my lovely lady lesbians-<br />I love you guys. You are funny and great to have around during a crisis. You don't get all whiny and passive aggressive like straight girls do, there is no hidden subtext. I always know where I stand with a Girl.<br />But can you step it up on the fashion just a little? TRY not to be a cliche of yourself. Look at Ellen-she's not dancing with the president in a pink floral onesie, you never see Ellen's cleavage, she's not overly feminine but she still looks good. Ellen would never wear denim overalls -Step it up a notch, Sisterhood.<br /><br /><br />Sadly, the lesbians had no allergy medicine. I was surprised, because they were carrying giant backpacks, but that must have been where the mule skinning equipment was kept, because another No for me.<br />At the club there were a lot of people standing in front of the stage, nodding their heads and watching some other people jump around on stage. It was cold.It was loud. I kept sneezing.<br />We found some of Jeff's friends. They had all been out the night before to the Flaming Lips show.<br />"That was the most rockin show, man!" they kept saying that, and high fiving each other. Apparently the band had passed out those little red laser lights people use in power point presentations and one guy, Andy, still had his.<br />Andy is one of Jeff's more entertaining friends, better even than the guy who attacks stopsigns yelling racial slurs. It's not Aandy's full Hobo beard, or even his classic Unabomber taste in clothes that make me love him. It's the wild eyed crazytalk that jumps out at inappropriate moments, like last week when he got up on a table and tried to strip at a friends birthday yelling something about how we should go find some dude's ferret and drown it for fun.<br />Andy thought it was really funny to point the laser at people's butts, right at the bottom.<br />"Butthole," he giggled, as he aimed it at everyone who passed.<br />I nodded. Like a toddler, the game never got old. About ten minutes in he turned to me, wildy proclaiming<br />"You gotta check out this website, man! You can get glasses for eight bucks a pair!"<br />"I'm too vain-I never wear mine." I told him, watching the little red dot dance over the ass crack of a very large man."Do you get assaulted often?"<br />"It's funny you should ask that," he mused."It's been happening a lot lately."<br />"Hmmm."<br />"Seriously, eight dollars."<br />I turned to jeff and shouted."I have to go. NOW."<br />Safely home, two benadryl,some theraflu and an ambien later-the geyser of snot in my nose has died down to a trickle and my sneezing has stopped. I may never know what I was allergic to downtown. It could have been the hippies-patchouli is a trigger. Perhaps it was the Massengill wafting over the fumes of the street from so many ladies freshening up their hoo hoos for an upcoming, drunken one night stand. Ah youth-those were the days.Maybe it was psychosomatic, and I am allergic to music and joy and revelry-in which case you really should feel sorry for me.<br />Whatever the mystery allergen was, one thing I do know. Austin is busy keeping itself weird out there. It needs no help from me.In fact, i think that Austin would rather I stay home so it can be weird in private, without my interference. And I will. I won't bother weird austin again.<br />Unless it has some Allegra-the kind with the D.Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-33248301697872987752010-03-13T17:43:00.000-08:002012-05-08T04:49:19.078-07:00Man on the StreetWho is posting lady porn on my comments? I am just glad it's a lady-or I'd be worried that Jeff was right the other night and now I have a stalker.<br />"Yep." he said, breathless from his walk around the neighborhood."You can definitely see through the windows."<br />"So what?" I asked.<br />"So what?? I'll bet you a hundred dollars every twelve year old boy within a ten block radius is stationed right about...there every night." He pointed out the window.<br />"Good.They need it-Texas has that 'abstinence only' thing in the schools right? Let's use a condom next time, it'll be a public service."<br />(Peeping Toms and rapists-that is a joke. Our windows now remain shuttered all the time now)<br />I went ahead and posted the lady porn blog-who is it? The writing is good and I feel generous today-we are going out to see a music show for South by Southwest. I don't know anything about the band we are seeing-other than they are very popular with the young folks. I don't really like going to see live music, which is unfortunate given where I live.<br />But yesterday my old friend and mentor Stephen Moser told me I could write part of his column in the Austin Chronicle-a "man on the street" thing for South by Southwest. His column is a very big deal here-everyone I know reads it. His writing is hilarious, the kind of snarky, fabulous gay friend that every straight woman longs for.<br />I'm kind of thrilled and slightly intimidated, but I know I can muster up enough "bitchy" to contribute to his column.<br />So out we go-down into the throngs of intruders that have filled up my city for the week, talking in their weird accents and looking snotty at me when I try to pull an illegal left turn. Hey! I live here.Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-39387786373265296862010-03-12T14:44:00.000-08:002012-06-20T23:20:24.452-07:00The best way to convince your husband to let you go to North Korea is to pretend to be hankering for another baby. It was working, until I began to try it on other things.
<br />"I really want to have another baby," I told him.
<br />"No you don't--come on you were a horrible, evil pregnant woman. I thought for sure that something terrible was in there-like a Kraken or that zombie baby from dawn of the Dead."
<br />"I was wonderful! In all the pictures I look so happy!"
<br />He shook his head.
<br />"You don't remember. You were demonic." He began to get nervous, as I held our friends babies and smiled up at him.
<br />"Just smell his little head! Isn't he wonderful? let's do it again!"
<br />He backed away, then, slowly out of the room to go drown his sorrows in a Ping Pong game.
<br />"But maybe I could be happy if I just bought these shoes from Anthropologie."
<br />Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-36558338138564113972010-03-12T11:01:00.001-08:002012-06-20T23:20:24.453-07:00Mouse Trap<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_whcxLRc7wFE/S5uuWf3cY5I/AAAAAAAAAMQ/2_rq4hSb6Z4/s1600-h/cauliflowerear.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 206px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_whcxLRc7wFE/S5uuWf3cY5I/AAAAAAAAAMQ/2_rq4hSb6Z4/s320/cauliflowerear.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448139875769148306" /></a><br />Jeff reminded me last night about a condition that wrestlers get called "cauliflower ear" It sounds pretty but it's horrifying. If you crush the cartilage in your ear, for example rolling over it while you are pinned under your opponent, it will fill up with fluid like an empanada.If you can't figure out a way to drain it, or you aren't quick enough fixing it, the fluid will harden and your ear will shrivel and twist into something that looks a lot like a cauliflower.Remember the ears of the developmentally challenged giant brother of the bad guys in "Goonies"?(This is what my brain hangs onto-not the location of my car keys or my PIN numbers, but that guys ears)<br />I used to take jiu jitsu, to prepare for the Apocalypse, and since I was the only girl I got nominated to drain one of my classmate's ears. I was handed a syringe, which I had to poke into the balloon of fluid and then suction out. Except that ear skin is really thick and hard so I had to stab the needle in as hard as i could. I missed a few times, but Cauliflower Ear Guy used to be a cop, so he just grunted. Then I drained the ear, and what came out was clear, tinged with pink. Rather pretty, really.<br />There's no point to that story.<br />I would totally do that again, for a small fee, so contact me if you get cauliflower ear.<br />Last night I was in the bath with Ruby and she asked me about the mouse in my hoo-hoo.<br />"Where is it?" she cocked her head to the side and stared at my crotch.<br />"There is no mouse in my hoohoo Ruby." I told her. She thinks that because once she glimpsed me getting dressed, tampon string hanging out.<br />"What's in mommy's hoo hoo?" she asked Jeff, who happened to be passing by.<br />"A little mouse lives up there, that's his tail."<br />"Oh," she said, then I thought she forgot about it.<br />Not so.<br />This morning when she ran into the front door of her school she yelled,"Mommy has a mouse-"<br />"Hey now!" I interrupted. "Nope." and exited the building as quickly as possible.<br />God knows what the daycare workers think of me.<br />"Does she ever even brush her hair?" I imagine them saying."Last week I swear to God she sent her in a nightgown."<br />"I think that was <em>her</em> nightgown. it said 'Victoria's Secret' on the label." <br />"She told me that she had chocolate cake for breakfast every day last week."<br />I imagine them shaking their heads as they brush Ruby's hair for me every day. Her hair always does look good after school, and really, for 725 a month there should be some perks, like cute hairdos administered by the school.<br />"I wonder if she really does have a mouse in her hoo hoo." I imagine they said this morning.<br />"I wouldn't be surprised."Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2181204392874050140.post-10229576959268216532010-02-28T17:40:00.000-08:002012-06-20T23:20:24.454-07:00Caller ID<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_whcxLRc7wFE/S4vlVdGwheI/AAAAAAAAAMI/EyPXsOe0AoY/s1600-h/kimjongil_alt.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_whcxLRc7wFE/S4vlVdGwheI/AAAAAAAAAMI/EyPXsOe0AoY/s320/kimjongil_alt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443696731360364002" /></a><br />Some things that are true for everyone-<br /><br />You have to help people move and pick them up at the airport<br />No one gets perms anymore and I don't know why<br />No one likes to be drunk in front of their mother, no matter how old you are.<br /><br />Tonight I braved the inevitable migraine I get when i drink alcohol and had a few margaritas. You can only be "joyless" for so long before you need a break.<br />I don't think I am a likable drunk. I met a man at the bar, a friend of a friend,a macho little guy, and within five minutes he turned from me.<br />"I don't like you. i don't like this whole 'bitter' thing you have going on."<br />"SO- YOU"RE GAY?" I said loudly.<br />"No," he said tense and frustrated."I'm a <em>gentleman</em>."<br />I snorted."You mean you're a GAYtleman."<br />"Apologize and I might forgive you."<br />I didn't, and ended up just walking away after he refused further conversation. Gay men are so <em>sensitive</em>.<br />My friend Donna told me about getting her period at a meeting.<br />"It was going really well, I was selling them on something big, I could feel the blood soaking through my jeans but I just kept going," she said."Then I felt it run down my leg and saw it pool in my shoe. I realised-maybe it's time to go change my tampon."<br />Yes. Maybe.<br />The only other person I know who gets so absorbed in what she is doing that she ignores her bodily needs is Ruby, who will pee on the floor so she won't have to miss even a minute of Dora. I pointed this out to Donna.<br />"Yeah," she shrugged."I'm sure that one of the guys I was presenting to saw it and thought-weird-but I was on a roll, dude. What can I say?"<br />"Listen, don't wear my jacket when you are on your period, okay?"<br />"Let it go already. You will never see the jacket again."<br />My buzz only made the desire to stab her with a nearby steak knife even stronger. <br />"I'd forgotten what a belligerent drunk you are," said Jeff.<br />"Go to Hell," I told him and went off to find his friends. I needed their help to convince him that I should be allowed to go visit North Korea. <br />I need his permission to go because we operate our household in an old fashioned 1950s style-he makes the money, I clean. He pays the bills, I pay for daycare and groceries. I write checks off his account into mine secretly-he pretends not to notice. I live the life of a child, carefree.'How much is your gas bill?" you might ask. 20 dollars? 200? I have no idea. <br />"Tell him that Kim Jong Il golfs 38 under par every time." I told his friend Steve.<br />"You could promise him six months of hall passes." suggested Steve.<br />"Yes, wonderful. Keep the ideas coming. I love your synergy."<br />Hall passes are what the boys call it when they get to go out late without wife or child. <br />Soon, men were crowded around jeff telling him why his wife should go to North Korea.<br />"Did you know that Kim Jong Il invented the microwave?" asked one guy.<br />"Hey Jeff, Sunny wants me to tell you that when Jim Jong Il was born a rainbow split in two and a new star lit up in the sky."<br />"Shut up, already!" he finally yelled. But it's wearing him down, I can tell.<br /><br /><br />I've decided to stop being a weirdo and pretend to be a professional about my book.Today i am going to wear high heels because that always makes me act like more of a grown up.<br />It's working.<br />You really can talk yourself into anything. I realised last night that waiting for an agent is very much like waiting for a boy to call you. I haven't experienced that kind of anxiety since i was single, and I wasn't very good at it then either.<br />I remember the moment I first became aware of something called "Caller ID". It was after I'd called this guy I liked about thirty times, hanging up each time his mother answered. He was in a band called "Breedlove", which I could never take seriously because it was also the name of my goofy,"natural" chiropractor. He was always at band practice, something young boys take really seriously in Austin-the Live Music Capital of the World. One of the requirements of living here if you are under 30 and have a penis is to play guitar and talk about playing guitar until those around you pass from feeling dead inside to actually sleeping with your eyes open. If you get bored enough, it is possible.<br />Finally, he called me.<br />"Well, hey, how nice to hear from you." As though I hadn't been sitting on the bed staring at the phone, willing it to ring.<br /><em>You can't control the phone with your mind</em>, I'd told myself. Then it rang.<br />"Hey," said the boy,"Have you been calling my house and hanging up on my mom?"<br />"No, of course not," I scoffed."Why would you think that?"<br />"We have this thing called Caller ID. It records who calls."<br />"Oh. Well, I'm very busy. I have to go now." And that was the end of our romance. Had it not been for Caller ID, the entire course of my life could have been different. Instead of being married to Jeff I could be Mrs. Breedlove, still watching him "jam" in his mother's den on Friday nights during our "dates".<br />I had to come up more creative ways to stalk after that. <br />A puzzling phenomenon I discovered later on, as I grew older and began to date with a little more dignity, was how you could long for a man to call you for months and he wouldn't. Then the minute you became interested in someone else, sometimes literally <em>that day</em> he would call. Thousands of miles away, proximity didn't matter, the minute you stopped caring, they KNEW. <br />This happened again and again to me and my friends.<br />"How do they know?" we would ask each other.<br />You couldn't fake it either. You had to genuinely stop wanting them for it to work. You had to reach a completely neutral, maybe even a little repulsed, state of emotion towards them.<br />Ring! went the phone, like clockwork. But by then you didn't care anymore.<br />So, I'm going to put all of my energy into stalking Kim Jung Il. According to official news reports, when he was born a monster rose from the sea. He began to talk when he was eight weeks old and write poetry about the motherland when he was two. He invented the microwave and the radial tire. He even invented Caller ID.Sunny Haralsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12933342450458537765noreply@blogger.com2