Shit and more shit, delightfully

(March 01, 2006)

Weird. Lisa McC's message board has an ongoing thread that I read today from start to finish. Well I shouldn't say finish, it'll probably hang around for awhile.

The timing of that thread is jaw-dropping. It's basically a lot of other stories exactly like my last entry about the trials and tribulations of dealing with shit. Not "shit" shit. Feces. Turds. Poop. Miles and miles of excrement. One guy even DESCRIBED THE SAME DREAM EXACTLY.

You know, I would contribute to that thread, but I finally accept the fact that that whole crew just doesn't seem to get me. For like 10 years now.

It's a weird thing -- of all the people I've met since moving to Boston, that crew contains the most people with exactly my taste in...well, in mostly everything. Clothes. TV. Movies. Toys from the 70s. I had those too.

Music. From Hall & Oates to Nick Cave, Neil Hannon to Negativeland, I'm down. It's all good. In fact most of them are IN bands and I have all their records and genuinely think they rock.

Even language. It's a perfect potty-mouth fest of fabulous fucking epic proportion.

Men in Make-up. Dude, totally. All that stuff. So how can they not get me? They ARE me.

I believe that I had the identical, exact high school experience as Lisa McC. Right down to the fucking theatre stuff.

Hm. You know what else I just thought of, which is blowing my mind? The dear, close friends I have, now that I think about it, DON'T have much in common with me. It's like Bizzaro-World. While there are people ignoring me who may as well have grown up right next door to me and followed the same twisted pathways into adulthood, I instead spend huge expanses of time explaining myself to my best friends who love me! Like a few weeks ago at dinner with Luke when we did another 40 minutes on football and lack thereof. When the weather breaks I'll be wailing again about his dogged insistence on flip-flops and his crappy Top 40 radio station.

I wouldn't trade Luke for a million buckle-booted Duran Duran guys. But still.

Once at a Betty Goo show (seriously, among the best pop bands to come out of Boston, ever) a bunch of them were hanging around. Hub and I were a short distance apart. It was summer, the show was at The Art Space, which is by the shore. I was wearing this denim shorts thing I used to have, it was kind of a coverall. Like Osh Kosh B'Gosh but for adults. I loved that thing, it was so cute on me. I used to pair it with striped socks and chunky jewelry and felt like Belinda Carlisle or Susannah Hoffs in it. Hub and I were talking to each other since no one else will talk to us, which always made us SO happy we came out to support the band.

When suddenly I heard a voice. It was an extra-loud comment that rose above the murmering banter of conversations, and it was in that bitchy high-school girl snotty tone that I had heard soooooo many times in, um, high school. The tone reserved especially for humiliation. For picking out a victim at random and ganging up on her, because apparently it's terrific fun to make someone feel like crying in public. Not a tone I thought I'd hear in adulthood.

This is what I heard:

"Oh my GOD. Will someone tell her this isn't a hoe-down?"

Followed by gales of merry laughter.

I know exactly which one it was, too.

Where IS that denim thing, I really should start wearing it again.

I dunno.

I really do not know.

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Addendum, next morning: I just tweaked this entry a little. Last night I had a line in there about "I can't pinpoint exactly when I stopped giving a shit" or something, but after it was in black and white on the screen, it didn't ring true to me. It still kinda pisses me off.