BEWARE OF VERY ROUGH FIRST DRAFTS. Don't expect anything too pretty or polished. I'm simply trying to squeeze out some rough ideas across the face of this blog. These musings may or may not find their way to the pages of my book. But as you will see, I'm taking certain liberties in voice and style that deviate from my published writings. I hope you enjoy, in spite of all of that.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
I’ve got a nasty case of The Pits I’ve known that I have this condition ever since I didn’t grow out of bedwetting at the age of six or seven, or twenty or thirty for that matter. The Pits are the uncanny knack for unseemly behavior. It’s the awkward ability to spoil situations with one’s pitfalls and flaws and moral flexibility. It’s about being “that guy” or “that girl.” And while these misfortunes manifest in untold numbers of ways, if you ever find yourself locked in the bathroom at a party, blow-drying your shirt because the Maxi-Pads you had fastened in your sweaty armpits aren’t working, well then, you’ve definitely got The Pits.
My particular strain has led to the aforementioned calamity, as well as a horde of others, like the loss of my virginity to a hooker named Honey. And it’s how I became the first kid ever impeached in the long history of New Jersey’s “American Legion Boys’ State” political camp. Not only are The Spoils embarrassing, they can be expensive. Like that spring of 2000 when my Day Trading decisions were guided by some “really trippy signs” from my Peyote journey, eventually leading to what my Subaru salesman called, “the lowest credit score I’ve ever seen.” Oh, and not only can The Pits be pricey, but they kill trees every time I need a box of Kleenex to get through Dove's sappy self-esteem commercial.
And so it’s a wonder that I’m still living with The Pits. In fact, when my girlfriend Naomi read some of my early stories she took my hand and asked, “How can you possibly live with yourself? I can’t believe you haven’t thrown yourself under a bus by now.” She’s got a point. I mean, when you find yourself secretly grooming in your friends’ bathrooms with their nail cutters and Q-Tips and other toiletries, you have to wonder if your life is really worth your carbon footprint.
Now once you get past the fact that I’m the kind of guy who walked onto his college football team one semester and was stoned and sewing hippie clothes in his dorm room the next semester, you may wonder why the hell I would ever admit to it. Well, after a lifetime of living in secret and shame and tiptoeing through the night with pee-stained sheets in hand, I simply had to come clean. Laughter is the only riches that come with The Pits and I suppose I write in hopes of finding an underground railroad or network of people who all feel shackled by shame and insecurity. I am seeking solidarity.
Not that I expect to find too many other chronic bedwetters with sweaty pits and a big nose that gets in the way of a yoga pose, but I know we all have those things we’d rather keep in a bombproof bunker beneath our beds. I know this because at one time or another, we’ve all been that person. Life is just too damned serrated to slip through unscathed by the The Pits.
posted by Scott Keneally @ 12:26 PM
Thursday, February 22, 2007
There was a time early in my relationship with Naomi when we picnicked in her vineyards and she said, “I just can’t find anything wrong with you.” It was of course that honeymoon phase, the first few hallucinatory weeks when everything is as light and effervescent and fun as a flute of champagne. And while I tried to savor her sweet sentiment, I couldn’t help but dread that impending day when reality set in and the happy thought bubbles stopped rising so rapidly to the surface.
Well, I’m here to report that this day is now upon us. And it’s especially noticeable when we are dining out. Naomi says that my indecisiveness and high level of specificity when ordering food annoys the servers and embarrasses her. And so sometimes when I hem and haw and stall with the menu, or ask for my bagel “lightly toasted,” or request the vodka sauce from one dish to be replace the marinara on mine, I can expect a “love tap” under the table and the ensuing black and blue and sore shins the following morning.
Now I’ll be the first to admit that taking my order can be a tedious and tiresome task. Not only because three tables could turn over in the time it takes me to order, but because there’s a strong possibility that once I finally do make up my mind, I will chase you down two minutes later at the computer and order something entirely different. But none of this bothers her as much as me poaching off of other people’s plates, though.
For some reason, whatever is on your plate is always more appealing than what’s on mine - even when we’ve ordered the same goddamned thing. I’m a food vulture. I’m that annoying friend whose fork harpoons your home fries before you’ve even finished buttering your toast, and the guy who gawks at your last bite of food. “You seem pretty full, huh?” I might suggest. And for this reason, nobody likes to sit near me at the dinner table.
Being that guy around family and friends is one thing, but for some bizarre reason I have no qualms about poaching from complete strangers. At wine tasting dinners or weddings, for instance, I’ve been known to nudge the random man to my left and say, “So, um, what’s going on with those mashed potatoes? Not your favorite, huh?” Even worse, I’ve been caught eating food off of other tables. To be fair, when the woman sitting next to us at the sports bar grabbed her belongings, dropped her napkin on her plate and left, both Naomi and I thought she was leaving.
“She didn’t even make a dent in those nachos,” I said, my eyes drooling.
“Don’t even think about it,” Naomi scowled.
“What? I don’t see any reason to dump those in a landfill when I can dump ‘em in our toilet later tonight,” I joked.
She wasn’t amused.
“Seriously,” I said, “They’re still piping hot.”
“We can order our own,” she said.
“Yeah, but only want a few, don’t worry.”
“Do you want me to walk out of here right now?”
“No, stay put, I’ll tell you how they are.”
And so I reached over to her table and started snacking. How was I supposed to know she was only going to the bathroom? And it’s things like the little altercation that unfolded when the woman returned to find my fingers in her food that make Naomi nervous about bringing me out. “You have no boundaries,” she said on the ride home. In fact, she’s said it so often it’s become a sort of soundtrack to the relationship.
If only she knew just how few boundaries I actually had, she wouldn’t have let me through the door. How should I put this? Have you ever opened your medicine cabinet and had the bizarre sensation that something was a little off? Maybe the floss was on the wrong shelf or your nail clipper was facing the opposite direction. Or perhaps the bristles on your toothbrush were unexpectedly wet. You might have closed the mirror and thought you were losing it because, really, who would use another person’s toothbrush? But just as you were about to walk out, something would catch your eye and you’d lean in close to your mirror and shriek at the sight of white spittle on the glass that vaguely resembles toothpaste, or worse, plaque! Suddenly nauseous, you might have hovered over the toilet in case you got sick and only felt sicker when you saw someone’s crusty toenail trimmings circling the bowl. What the fuck?!? And then it would whip you like a wet towel. Somebody was freelance grooming with your toiletries.
And that someone was probably me. Until I started dating Naomi I didn’t have regular access to fancy nail tools. My teeth trimmed just fine and I was still flexible enough to bite most of my toenails. But then again, if I came across a clipper in your cabinet, I’d sometimes peel off my socks and tame my toes over your toilet bowl. (Sorry if I forgot to flush). And I certainly didn’t waste money on Q-Tips. I’d wait until I had trouble hearing the highs and lows on your stereo, and then I’d sneak off into your bathroom and fill your waste bucket with caramel-coated sticks. Hygiene was something I said to my landlord, Gene, not something I practiced with any regularity.
Fortunately however, there’s something about not wanting to get dumped by your dream girl that greases your chain and makes you grow up at a faster clip. And now that I’m living with a woman who has things like floss and nail cutters and expectations for the type of guy she shares her bed with, you no longer have to worry about Windexing my white stuff off your mirror. Now I do that stuff within the boundaries of my own bathroom.
And while Naomi needles me about the food poaching, my honest-to-God guess is that she secretly relishes in my immaturity. I’m her little fixer upper, her pet project. And that day when I got caught nacho handed, I could swear I saw her crack a smile that said you’re dangerous and unpredictable and sexy. A smile that said since I can’t take you out in public, not ever, we should just stay in bed and ravage each other like animals, like chimps, like beasts. But I’m not sure she’d be so keen on kissing me again if she ever knew that sometimes, like if I’m at your house and my tongue feels fuzzy, I will still secretly use your toothbrush. It’s okay that the honeymoon has ended and she’s found some things wrong with me. But she certainly doesn’t need to know everything.
posted by Scott Keneally @ 6:28 PM
