Favorite Painting Companionship Ideal Involving, Of Course, Big Hair

I had a hangover yesterday and so went to the library as an alternative to laying on my air mattress moaning. I returned Fingerprints of the Gods and got dizzy looking at books from the oversize stock department. Notables included illustrations of birds, initiation rituals of various cultures photographed and spoken of condescendingly, and a David Hockney retrospective. I don't know anything about art. The things we had on my walls growing up were usually in a Comfort Inn continental breakfast room color palette, behind brass frames, and from Thrifty's. I know I like David Hockney because he does paintings of pools so evocative of summer that I can almost smell the chlorine and hear the electricity buzzing, and because of Mr. and Mrs. Clark and Percy. I first encountered the picture in thumbnail form in Harper's Bazaar, a magazine I've kept a subscription to since age 14, when we had to sell magazines for a fundraiser and I sold Harper's Bazaar to myself.

Could I possibly want anything more than the life depicted in Mr. and Mrs. Clark and Percy? To dip my bare toes into the extra deep pile shag, a cat balancing on my crotch, awash in light, thinking nothing other than, "She designs the textiles and I design the tea dresses"--enviable hair textures in an enviable apartment in an exciting decade-- this is living! I love their creative collaborations and their love for each other! I love this painting! I'm freaking out! Will someone be the Celia Birtwell to my Ossie Clark someday, or vice versa? Will we wear luxuriant green clothes and spend any time that isn't spent standing bathed in perfect light and love coming up with brilliant premise after brilliant premise, turning them into magnificent reality after magnificent reality? Until then, I am Percy, a weird, stiff-looking white cat with my back facing the audience, inserting myself into the lives of the fun creative couples I know, allowing my happiness at being included to mingle sometimes with jealousy.



I already regret that cat metaphor, don't you?
Can I just have a bunch of Celia Birtwell/Ossie Clark dresses in which to languish and be my loner self? See figure A, below:

Times I Was Sweaty Last Week

Tuesday, April 21
At the end of yoga, we were called to make a circle around Jessica, one of the instructors, and touch her so as to send positive vibes or some such loving energy her way; it was her birthday. If you couldn't touch Jessica, you'd touch somebody else. Eager, as always, to participate in something that would make me lose credibility with my peers and further entrench me in a community comprised of primarily white women with too much free time, I enthusiastically placed my sweaty little paw smack dab on an even sweatier woman's shoulder and thought "I wish you a year filled with personal growth!" as hard as I could so that I would fairly radiate it. The person who touched me barely pinched part of my soaking wet tank top. I don't know how she expected to transmit birthday messages to Jessica that way. She did succeed in transmitting the following message to me: You are gross and I hate having to touch you.

Thursday, April 23
I remembered James Rabbit, a favorite band of mine from Santa Cruz comprised totally of prolifically talented friends, was playing at a bowling alley in the seamier side of already seamy West Sac. I burst in during one of my favorite numbers, Coast To Coast Heart to Heart, grabbed Tyler (Mr. James Rabbit himself) by the back of the neck and pulled him in close as we both sang into the mic, "Oh you know that I will go anywhere you are!" By the end of the show, I was covered in sweat from so many hugs-- Tyler, Mike, Dylan, Max-- and invigorated with reunion energy. It was the perfect counterbalance to that yoga incident.

I'm living the single life, but I'm not lacking in love, or sweat.

Reasons To Be Cheerful April 2k9 and Brazillian Singers With Big Curly Hair Roundup

1. The 5 S's: suntans, sweat, swimming, saltwaters, and sangria all on their way soon with temperatures like this:

2. Yesterday I came home and found these on my bed. If there was any question before over whether or not I love my housemates, consider that question answered in the affirmative.

3. Don't let sporadic posting fool ya, Vanessa Olsen lives and she spent the day with me yesterday catching up in glorious California fashion.

4. Zac Efron movie in theaters now! Many shots of his wonderful armpit hair, which deserves a post unto itself.

5. I spend a lot of time wishing I was a Brazilian singer with big curly hair. With help from my hairdresser/spiritual guru, I'm always halfway there.

"Come Love With Me and Be My Life," and Other Popularity Increasers

There is a book at my favorite thrift store called Come Love With Me and Be My Life. It is a book of saccharine poetry written in the 70s probably under heavy influence of an I'm OK, You're OK feel-good style guide to dealing with heartbreak. I am indifferent to the contents of this book, but love the title; Come Love With Me and Be My Life sounds like something I would say to someone at a party as an icebreaker. I said "Why don't you love me?" to someone at a recent party instead of "How are you," with some success. Bad conversation starters have been a specialty of mine since high school, when my patented "How do you feel about lobster?" and "Do you have any addictions to over the counter medicines?" not only got a few lunchtime chuckles, but started many friendships (on the wrong foot) as well. I'm impatient for a meaty conversation, and saying something inappropriately personal or just plain weird is the quickest way to bypass the smalltalk and allow you to gauge the levels of receptivity this person has for you. If they'll tolerate, "Why don't you love me," then you can really get away with a lot. Here, a quick and dirty guide to making friends Rach Scott style:

1. Tell an anecdote about a situation in which you were guileless, out of touch, or unattractive. For instance, "I don't have the right kind of yoga pants-- you know, the expensive kind that wick away moisture-- and so sweat pools in my groin and at the creases underneath each butt cheek and is visible to passing cars as I'm walking home down a major thoroughfare. It looks like I've peed, or worse." Ideally, your audience is now thinking, "How gauche," and is captivated.

2. Allowing no natural transitions to occur, abruptly shift from talking about yourself to an intense interrogation of your captive. If you don't know intimate details of their previous relationship, or you don't think you can fill out a health history/medical release form for this person, then you have failed.

3. Congratulations-- he/she hasn't run away yet! You can now assume that you share a cosmic affinity with him/her, and begin making startling confessions. Now is a good time to mention unrelatable obsessions, childhood humiliations that still haunt you, and any shrines you may have made to the Potential Friend.

4. Emphasize your availability and willingness to drink coffee at all hours of the day. Look forward to cementing your new friendship while feigning a taste for americanos.

Special Segment for Latchkey Kids

"Hey Rach," you might say, "I'm a kid, I found your blog when I was looking through my dad's sites. My parents don't supervise me." Don't worry, kid. My across the street neighbor was a school principal, and whenever her school decided to get rid of a bunch of outdated and racially insensitive reading materials, they always got "donated" to yours truly. Here are two books written in the mid 20th century with cats as the main characters, picked up from the donation pile. You love that anthropomorphic stuff, don'tcha kids? If you have the sort of parents that take you to the library a ton, or who spend a lot of time sifting through garbage, have them pick these up for you.

Space Cat by Ruthven Todd
Cat in space, pretty straight forward. Not sure how they stretched this out to novel length. I did a book report on this in 3rd grade. The posterboard that accompanied the report, with drawings of the space cat doing cat things in space, is behind the couch in my parents' house. I somehow incorporated glitter. Very gratuitous. No sense of propriety at age 8.

Hotel Cat by Esther Averill
Tom the Cat, mouser extraordinaire and old soul, endears himself to a kindly yet refined older gentlewoman living in a hotel. Since, conveniently enough, she can speak cat language, they spend many hours wistfully musing over various sentimental ideas. This book introduced me to the concept of people living in hotels, the disease rheumatoid arthritis, and the dance "the sailor's hornpipe." The entire book is romantic in the way that Nat King Cole is romantic, but with cats. One of the cats wears a scarf! Get hip to it, children!

Automated Phone Service

At my work, I spend a lot of time speaking to automated telephone services (robots), trying to see if a patient is eligible for their dental coverage. These robots offer a menu of possible options that I do not diverge from under any circumstances, but they often misunderstand me anyway. I'm used to being misunderstood, but unlike the myriad human responses to misunderstanding, a robot will always respond with, "I didn't catch that. I think you said 'associate,' is that correct?" I'd like to extend this simplicity to my life by means of a similar phone service that offers practical advice within the comfortable, meaningless parameters of career jargon.

"Thank You for using the Lifepaths(TM) Automated Service. Para espanol, oprima nueve. Please listen carefully, as our options have changed. For romance status or the Shyness Systems Management Department, say 'Communication Troubleshoot,' or press one. For what kind of food to eat and when, say 'Nutritive Integration Programs,' or press two. For information on what kind of job is best for you, say 'Career Placement,' or press 3. For the keys to total wellbeing and peace of mind, say 'Oprah,' or press 4..."

I'll immediately press some frantic combination of all the numbers and say, breathlessly,"I pepper conversations with unwelcome, uninformed references to astrology. I don't know what to cook for dinner, I eat like a bachelor-- cigars, frozen. I don't know how to find time to both exercise and fulfill spiritual needs and so I signed up for yoga but it's wildly unaffordable. I'm probably going to get fired from my job, I live in a state of constant limerence, losing several hours every day thinking about ways to describe my crush's hair-- I never get past 'beautiful'..."

"I didn't catch that. I think you said 'associate.' I'll connect you with an agent."

Then the agent would be some kind of guru that has an ethereal body that can't fully materialize in our galaxy and the head of an Egyptian god.

Song of the Post- "Omnispend Sway" by Sudden Sway

PBS Obscuro Pt. 2: Katie and Orbie

The summer after 4th Grade, I got pneumonia, so instead of spending all my time at the public swimming pool, I spent all my time on the living room sofa in front of the tv in a hand-me-down Oakland Raiders t-shirt and underwear washing down saltines with 7up (7up=panacea, from the Rachel's Mom School of Medicine), coughing, and probably developing a mild coedine addiction. In other words, becoming who you now know me to be. We didn't have a remote control for the tv, so I would typically watch one channel all day long. If that channel was PBS, I could "look forward to" Katie and Orbie around 1pm. This was a show with an incredibly long, irritating, and infectious theme song sung by a real child, describing the means by which a lonely, sensitive pink space alien named Orbie lands in a toddler's backyard only to be immediately embraced and adopted by the toddler's family, thus beginning a series of adventures in grand Harry and the Henderson's style. The series was narrated by Leslie Neilson and the characters never spoke. Orbie's skin always made me kind of sick to look at, like if you touched it, it would be papery but kind of too warm and maybe oily. This was usually a good time to just give in to the sickness and sleep while the soothing, grandfatherly voice of Leslie Neilson reverberated around the living room.

Where did I even get hand me downs? I don't have any siblings!

PBS Obscuro, Pt. 1: Imagination Station

When facing a social situation in which you have nothing in common with the other participants but age, TV Shows You Watched Growing Up is usually a safe conversation starter. People are likely to respond favorably to statements such as, "Rocko's Modern Life was the best show ever!", and "Who remembers the lyrics to the Tiny Toons theme song?" will get everyone talking. Don't say,"Who else has a childhood notebook filled with drawings of aliens giving thumbs-ups as they burst out of the circular windows of a cylindrical space station? Who else learned to draw 3-D with Mark Kistler? He had a mustache and wore the same kind of safety-orange jumpsuit my dad used to wear to work when he was a striper (prior to his subsequent meteoric climb up the corporate ladder), so he had a certain familiarity for me."
You will be met with blank stares. Everyone's focus will return to the girl who is shouting, "I drank SO much tequilerrr!" Meanwhile, the one person who remembers the show will focus his attention on you. He'll probably be wearing contacts to make his eyes look more like a reptile's and his facial hair will make you feel strangely ill at ease.
(the images are from Mark's site)