I'm considering going to Grad School, or at least lying about being a Grad Student so that landlords with the quiet apartments with washing machines will rent to me. I never thought of The Graduate Student as a pillar of respectability the way the Davis landlord does. When my thoughts turn to grad school, as it has been lately, it is out of a pit of desperation that these thoughts arise. I assume that actual grad students were similarly just one breakdown shy of sticking their heads in the oven but applied to a grad school instead-- unstable types-- not someone you want inhabiting your precious, cheap clapboard tinderbox Davis duplex. And yet, the hushed, reverential tone so obvious even in Craigslist ads with the "ideal for grad students and researchers" specification conjurs an image of a monkish figure, working in religious silence by the flickering light of an oil lamp. His face is beautiful and saintly, the ecstasy and the agony of his studies giving him strength of purpose and a strange glow from within like Charleton Heston in a biblical epic.
The rental offerings available to a couple comprised of one undergraduate and one unemployed whatever-I-am are predictably nonexistent. I keep thinking of that fable about the grasshopper who frittered away the summer with enjoyable frolicking while the ants spent every free moment storing food away for the winter. Then the ants get the satisfaction of saying " I told you so" as the grasshopper shivers in the cold of the winter, not a crumb to be found. Whatever. I hate that fable.
Tonight, in response to a craigslist ad for a pretty ideal sounding apartment, I unwittingly called a distant relation who I forgot rented properties in Davis. When she realized to whom she was speaking, she expressed some reluctance to show me the apartment for several reasons, the biggest one being my "heavily bearded" boyfriend might clog up the plumbing. As a concession, she suggested that he might wash his hair in some kind of laundry basin out back. I can't help but think that this conversation could have been avoided, if only I had a masters degree.
Three or four years ago I drew a hideous comic for my friend about an old, ugly prostitute named Trysha. It was very poorly drawn. Today I found some "notes" I'd made for future Trysha adventures and for the sake of the children I'm not going to draw them. Here they are:
Trysha meets a degenerate when she's coming out of Planned Parenthood, where the clinician turned her away as a lost cause. He pretends to be her daughter's ex boyfriend so he can get into her house and use the shower. He steals the VCR when Trysha falls asleep doing an improvised pole dance which she dubs "Night of the Iguana."
What follows is the an actual Trysha comic, which I share in the spirit of keeping the internet as the best forum to showcase bad choices.
My parents have been talking a lot recently about cleaning out various storage areas, ie the garage, my entire bedroom, etc. I can't help but notice an at times hopeful, at times accusatory glance cast my way when they broach this topic. Granted, I admit to storing a fair amount of childhood detritus in their home, but all of my things are heirlooms and very, very tasteful. Why must I come home and start this process for them by throwing out my (still quite precious) belongings? Some of the things they seem to be having a hard time removing are ridiculous. Why wasn't the old toilet taken away after the installation of the new one? It's got its own special spot in the garage like it's a piece of arcane camping equipment. While I guess I've seen worse things at thrift stores, the idea of donating these burdensome, tasteless or useless items seems almost cruel. A garage sale is out of the question (think of us sitting there on the lawn in fold out chairs, the erstwhile family toilet mere feet away with "as is" sticker looking every bit like a pimple on the flush handle). Can you imagine the flyers?
GARAGE SALE! THIS SATURDAY! YOU DON'T WANT TO MISS...
-CANARY YELLOW RIBBED GARBAGE CAN! (standard size)
-BAG O' RAGS, PRE-OILED!
-PLASTIC NIGHTSTAND WITH WOOD GRAIN FINISH! (wood grain paper peeling off in spots, drawers rotten or broken)
-CERAMIC HUMINGBIRDS CANDLE CADDY- curious expressions suggest interest in votive!
-AROMATIC 30YO TOILET!
-HOME DECOR: POSTERS IN COLORED PLASTIC FRAMES! we never cared for them much- from drugstores
-METAL PALM TREES OUTDOOR WALL HANGING!
-PADS OF PAPER FEATURING AREA REALTORS!
-GRAY SYNTHETIC FOOTSTOOL WITH BRASS FEET! stained/sticky
-"EASY TIP" UNSTEADY PLANT STAND!
-ANTIQUE VINTAGE HAIR FRYER!
I'm 80% sure I just fractured my pelvis due to some bicycle clumsiness. My first thought was "will this turn arthritic when I'm old?" my second thought was "have I damaged my internal organs?" and my third thought was, "what of those toys of yesteryear?" Since I foolishly chose not to COBRA my Kaiser coverage when I had the chance, I'm going to ignore those first two thoughts until the pain becomes excruciating. Meanwhile, waltz with me down memory lane to a time when the internet was just for looking up the tacky crap you had as a kid. Share in the spoils of my search!
Popples! Were they insects? I pretended to be into them to gain favor with my cousin, Dominick, who seemed to like them. I had Popples party favors for my 4th birthday, probably due to my competitive and jealous nature that was already rearing its ugly head at that tenderest of ages. "Now I have the most Poppleses!"
Dominick and I both had Nosy Bears because our family members got wise to my insane jealousy after the Popples affair. He had the one with the basketball court in its nose and I had the one with the hypnotic swirl. Dominick is a CPA living in the bay area and I'm unemployed and blogging in my underwear with some dislocated body parts with a box fan blowing . When will the endless comparing end and when will the healing begin? It starts with me, I know it starts with me. Ok, next toy!
Lucky Lemon Lion and Peppermint Kitty from the Yum Yum series. Got these for my fifth birthday, that summer when the house was infested with fleas. The lion was overpoweringly lemon scented. It was hard to play with these two friends together, as the artificial peppermint and lemon scents did not mix well. I should mention that my next-door neighbor, Bobby, got the Peppermint Kitty as well--seems I had ensnared another man in my jealous games-- a wicked spider woman am I!
The premise of this toy is ridiculous and many hysterical explanations can be found elsewhere on the internet. I had the Purr Tender that was disguised as a bunny and the smaller Purr Tenders that Burger King came out with as well. My mother got rid of the big Purr Tender along with some other treasures while I was minding my own business at school one abysmal day in 1992. I've spent every day since then slowly morphing into the perfect revenge: an unemployed, immature 26 year old woman-child with visible armpit hair. Moving on...
Sweetie Kitties--scented purple cats with Barbie hair! Hey, it's not any worse than My Little Ponies, unless the cloying aroma of fake lilac does, in fact, make it worse. There is surprisingly little info about these on the web-- might have to take this one into Deep territory. I had a whole collection of these...and so did Bobby. We had the exact same cats but I would say something like, "yourzis tail is not as brushably soft as minezis." Bobby grew up to be a real problem-- trouble in school, fist fights-- you name it. Was it always in his nature or was it the kiss of the spider woman? I will never know.
Little Miss Makeup. Did I have every toy on the market from 1988 to 1994? I'd like to think that toys were just way cheaper then and turn a blind eye to the possibility that I was spoiled.
Fashion Star Fillies. I didn't think much of this flamboyant blue horse at the time, probably because I got it as a gift and not because I begged for it after seeing it on tv or at another kid's house. I feel a sudden weird impulse to fill my apartment with them now, though. Or maybe wear one as a necklace to a party. Look at me look at me look at me!
Please note: the above listed are just the toys that I don't have anymore. There are roughly 50 remaining toys and stuffed animals waiting in the closet of my childhood bedroom from that garishly colored, artificially scented time. Is it any wonder that I developed psychological issues then that continue to pick up speed?
I leave you, intrepid readers, with a parting shot of Bobby and I at the Funderland amusement park in Sacramento. That little car was no doubt a hotbed of manipulations.
