And I've seen pooping!

Here’s a strange fact about New Yorkers you may not know, if’n you don’t live here: people here think it's acceptable to clip their nails on the subway. I wish I knew why. I wish I could give a passable excuse for the people from all walks of life I see clipping away, letting their nail bits fly with abandon all over the train, skittering across the train’s floor, probably landing in someone else’s sandals, that person screaming WHY GOD WHY while God can only shake his head and weep in horror.

It’s not like nail clipping is the worst thing I’ve seen on the subway; I’ve witnessed exhibitionism and self-mutilation and private acts of love and some intensely distasteful grooming routines, but those were all performed by people with serious mental problems. No excuses are needed for those people. Abandoned by the system, they have been given implicit leave by the City of New York to go ahead and frottage* themselves against a subway pole. Go ahead! We just won’t ever touch that pole again!

But the nail clipping, people. Nail clipping. I’ve seen makeup applied, creams slathered on, nail polish removed—I watched a woman curl her eyelashes on a bus—and while I would never condone such behavior, I at least sort of get why (okay, except the creams, especially the smelly creams). But nail clipping? Can’t it wait? Do you want to impress your fellow passengers with your grooming habits? Does the idea of standing over a trash can or a sink while clipping fill you with despair? Are you hoping to meet someone who loves the feel of freshly clipped nails raked across his/her back? Do you not get that the clip-clip-clip sound rings throughout the entire car, that it’s like a siren announcing that you get off on littering MTA property with your dead skin?

I’ve had enough. Next time I see someone clipping their nails, I’m going to ... well. I'm going to give them such a look.

---------------------

*Apparently this isn’t a verb. Until I made it one, just now.

For the men--because I care.

Tonight a friend of mine admitted, with some embarrassment, that he wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to be feeling for when checking for testicular cancer. Instead of sensitively validating his concerns, I said “I bet if you do a Google search for ‘feel your balls,’ you’ll find many informative and educational sites that can provide guidance,” and then I laughed for a good long while, HA HA HA HA, and he chuckled, heh heh, yes, and I kept laughing, BWAAH HAA HOOORK (I coughed a little there) and then I said, “Hey—chortle, chortle, snork—I’m sure there are sites where you can find people who will come to your home and help you feel your balls, ha HA!” and then I laughed some more, and then he walked away, and what do you know, I was STILL LAUGHING! Ho!

So of course my next step was to do a Google search for 'feel your balls.' Wouldn’t you? Strangely enough, the results I found (at least on the first page) weren’t as smut-tastic as I had hoped. But what, pray tell, is this? “Shaving your balls isn’t a sign of being gay. It’s a sign of being very, very brave.” Is that what it’s a sign of? And why can’t it be both? And what does this mean, “Being a Man in a Woman’s World”? And it’s a woman’s world? Why didn’t anyone tell me this before? I have so many questions.

I had all these other things to say, but now… it all seems so pointless.

Oh, look: I just found that if you use double quotes, like I should have done in the beginning (what am I, British?), in addition to some good old-fashioned porn, you get a helpful site on how to check for testicular cancer. And, strangely enough, it’s British.

Don’t ever say I never did anything for you.

It's time for a group hug RIGHT NOW.

Oh, how good you people are. I didn’t expect that a few comments would have such a palliative effect, but they were like a soothing balm, like a dollop of Icy Hot on my aching creaky soul. There’s something indescribably comforting about knowing that there are others out there also plugging away, with your folders full of crappy first drafts and your dishpan hands. As for me (because I know that’s why you’re here), I’ve managed to sit down at my computer and type actual words and I only almost-vomited a couple of times, so progress has been made.

As for posting my Other Works on Finslippy (as a few comments suggested), I’m of the opinion that the blog format isn’t equipped to hold anyone’s attention for any length of time, so I’m inclined to avoid posting anything longer or with any kind of narrative. However! If you want to see something I’ve written that has a Plot, and Characters, why, in a mere few weeks I will have a story out in Fence magazine, a distinguished literary journal that I tricked into publishing one of my stories. I told them it was good, and they TOTALLY BELIEVED ME. My story is called “The Panty Thief,” so you can only imagine what it’s about. (Here’s a hint: Panties!) When it arrives in bookstores, you’re sure as hell going to hear about it.

And now, because I love you all so much, I wanted to take this posting opportunity to Appreciate Others.

“Since when is Louie Anderson not dead?”* Fluid Pudding isn’t afraid to ask the important questions, and that is why I love her. You have to love someone who names their ovarian cyst (or cul-de-sac, or whatever the hell) Wolfgang and gives him lines like “Whoosh! And jab! Jab! Shock and awe! Shock and awe!” Don’t look at me like that! I said you have to!

------------------

*Dear Angela: if you would only add Permalinks to your entries, I could link directly to them.

I hate titles, do you know that?

I’m sorry I haven’t posted sooner, dear readers, but truly, you wouldn’t have wanted to hear from me. I have been nothing but whiny and listless these days. Last night, I spent hours reading back issues of People I borrowed from the building recycling bin (Is Britney Spears gaining weight? Sweet Mother of God, can it be?). I have a headache and my legs aren’t working right and also my skin feels funny. I’ve been better.

It’s nothing serious, mind you. I know serious, and this—this is a day in the park. A day when you can’t find a shady spot for your blanket and when you finally do the yellowjackets swarm all over your lemon bars, but still, the park isn’t all bad! Those guys over there playing softball are enjoying themselves, aren’t they? Stop crying!

The Republicans were around recently, as you might have heard, and that didn’t do much for my spirits. Watching the Zell Miller-bot head jabber maniacally tore a small hole in my joie de vivre. Also, I read this book review about the near-inevitability of nuclear terrorism, and I might have freaked out a wee bit--I decided to move us all to Iowa, actually. I was all set to go but my husband pointed out that maybe I shouldn’t make major life decisions based on book reviews. And summer is over, which normally I’d be all hoop-dee-doo (why can’t I use real words as adjectives?) about, but when you have a toddler, it's more or less vital to go outside at least twice a day and let said toddler run in crazy circles until he releases the devil spirits inhabiting his tiny frame. In the winter, it’s a little like “The Shining” around here, only with crayons instead of an axe, a little less blood pouring through the hallways, and…hmm…actually, in every other way it’s identical to “The Shining.”

But the real problem is that creatively I have found myself at a standstill. The kind of standstill where you think maybe you're a talentless hack who can't construct a coherent or entertaining narrative and oops, you wasted half your life trying. I have the first draft of a children’s book finished, two essays sort of begun, countless drafts of short stories that need work, and a novel for adults (note: not an adult novel, which is a different, sexier thing and would probably pay more) that I keep abandoning and then running back to, begging forgiveness. Lately, every time I sit down to work, I flit from piece to piece, glancing at and then fleeing in horror from each one because it turns out that I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY. There’s nothing in my brain but a low, steady hum, interrupted periodically by a tiny voice squeaking, “Alice! Hey, Alice! You suck!”

I realize that right now I’m not the best judge of my work, so I continue to struggle valiantly against the urge to delete every document and/or set my computer on fire. But I’m not entirely sure how to get back on track and stop hating every word I’ve ever written. Do I stop trying to write for a few days? Or a few years? Or do I grimly return to my routine—which currently means sitting at my computer, hands poised above keyboard, hyperventilating quietly and waiting for the hour to be up so I can rock back and forth in a corner somewhere?

What would you do, reader? Alternately, what would Jesus do? Answers to either of these questions would be most appreciated.