Until yesterday, I deluded myself into believing that heatheronarock.com hits from Italy, India, Brazil, the UK and Australia were due to the site’s globally-appreciated, funky-fresh humour and fast-growing popularity. Then I discovered the search terms/phrases which led interweb crawlers to, inadvertently, click on this blog. There were several. Some I can’t repeat due to their high raunch factor. Amongst the tame-just-funny to moderately raunchy, here were some of my faves:
ultra thin yoga mat
black girl boobs pierced
pube changes for teenagers
they f*^# on a soft red satin sheet
letters shaved in their pubes
chase swamp people
sexy love letters
boobs at mudder runs
[That last one is both perplexing and awesome. I invite you, musical friends (mom, you’re still taking piano lessons, right?), to consider using it as your next album title.]
I feel bad for the poor fourteen-year-old dude who just wanted to confirm the normality of his chaotic pubes.
I initially wanted to speak to each search phrase so that the searches were not in vain. But for obvious reasons (hi dad!), delving too deeply into most of these topics would quickly change the tone of this blog. Maybe get me arrested.
So instead I’ll discuss something a little tamer but equally sexy and risque:
My dwindling memory and short attention span.
[Holla if ya feel me.]
It all started four weeks ago when I came home to have my usual 2 pm nap. I was out cold the second my head hit the pillow. About thirty minutes into my coma, I was awakened by pounding on the condo door. I must emphasize pounding because when I nap, let me tell you, it takes just-short-of jumping on my face to wake me.
Anyway, I went out and the guy tells me I left my keys in the door.
Gosh golly, jeez. Thank ya, mister, I said.
[Note: exact wording may be altered to enhance reading experience and better illustrate my preferred recollection of the event, as having occurred in an episode of Little Rascals.]
I grabbed the keys out of the lock and was drooling on my pillow again within thirty seconds.
I woke up about an hour later and was in a panic because I was late for my evening shift at the clinic. I was frantically digging through the fridge for something to take for supper. I moved the hummus. And there, in the back of the fridge, behind the hummus, were my fucking keys.
Yes, the same keys that I’d left in the door.
So what this meant was: I’d taken the keys out of the door and somewhere between closing the door and being unconscious less than a minute later, I opened the fridge, moved items out of the way to get to the back of the fridge, and carefully laid the keys there.
Unbelievable. Especially since I’m usually not even responsible enough to put food back that promptly.
[That’s actually untrue. Fadder drilled into our heads from an early age the importance of putting “the perishables” away immediately after dinner. Sit around as long as you like, sure. Dirty dishes? Ain’t no thang. But for the love of all that is sacred, put those perishables away. I never questioned it. But I am lovingly teased every time I suggest that the barbecue sauce might dramatically “perish”, as opposed to simply “go bad” if left out too long.]
Then, two nights ago, I was borderline feverish and feeling like I’d been beaten with an anvil. I insisted “I need to write” but my hunky-man-love (that’s my personally acceptable word for “boyfriend”. “Boyfriend” is what Selena Gomez calls Justin Bieber.)
[I prove that I’m a grown-up by using mature labels like “hunky-man-love”… And knowing that Selena Gomez is dating the Biebs. *Hangs head*]
Anyway (see what I mean with the attention span thing?)… So yes. The hunky-man-love says, “Are you sure? You don’t look so well. Maybe you should lie down and rest, I’ll get you some ice-cream” (something like that). He opens the freezer. And there are my sunglasses.
[I didn’t end up writing that night.]
And then I worry about my lack of memory. I have a fucking Biochemistry degree and, so help me God, all I remember about biology and chemistry are, 1) the video I made for grade 11 Bio class entitled The Rare Ditch Project; and, 2) the fact that sulphur smells like farts. Respectively.
[As I know it would be eating me alive if I were a reader: *ahem* The Rare Ditch Project was the cinematographic end-product of a Biology assignment. I was partnered with my friend, Heather. Each student pair was assigned a “biome” to research and present. We could use any medium we wanted to educate the class about our biome. Ours was “fresh water”. For our film, we (the characters) were surrounded by fresh water bodies and wandering through the woods (late at night, of course) in search of the legendary “rare ditch”. At one point we’re running through the dark woods, spooked by a creepy little voice (altered to super high pitch, compliments of my old-school dictaphone), squeaking, “I am an amoeeeeeeeba…” and continuing to describe its home, the fresh water biome. And, yes, the film both opened and closed with my repeating a single low note on the piano. Heather-squared for the win.]
I thought maybe it was normal that my “memories” contain unspecific flashes of events or scenes at best; that I know the words to a song but couldn’t tell you how I know it or who sings it…
[While clearing away the perishables after dinner tonight, I randomly sang, “it’s all good, baby BAY-bay”. My hunky-man-love grinned at me proudly and replied, “It was all a dream, I used to read Word Up magazine.” I think I said, “…pardon me?”.]
…Or that you could name a movie and I’ll say, “never heard of it”. Then watch it and realize I’ve seen it a million times. My friend Dee, who’s my age, not only remembers every movie and every character and every actor ever, she’s borderline psychic about this shit. We were once discussing a novel-turned-movie…
[The novel may or may not have been called Twilight.]
…and who we’d pictured playing the protagonist’s father. I swear to you, all I said was, “…I can picture the actor, but I have no idea what his name is… He’s got a mustache”. I didn’t even have it all out. I may have said, “He’s got a mus-”.
“SAM ELLIOT”, she blurts out.
“Who the fuck is Sam Elliot?”.
Sure enough, she Googles him, pulls up an image, and there he is; the nameless dude I had simply thought about. Sam Elliot. The Charlie Swan of my daydreams.
[Dee’s mind is freaky like that. Yesterday she casually name-dropped LeVar Burton when we were fake-casting another novel. “LeVar Burton”, she says! Don’t get me wrong, he is an artist truly worthy of being remembered. But I can’t remember the names of some of my cousins. My abused brain is bordering saturation. I’m tired. And so, with no disrespect, all he can ever be to me is The Reading Rainbow guy.]
For so long (thirteen years of grade school, seven years of university) all I did was force feed my quivering brain more and more and more. And the wrinkly ol’ guy really hung in there, got me through. But I think it got to a point where it just threw it’s veiny, cartoon arms in the air and said, “You know what? Fuck you, man. You’ve gotta reeeeeally want it if you expect me to hold on to shit from now on.”
While my initial theories of brain-tumor and early-onset dementia aren’t disproved, I’m thinking that I just have extremely selective attention. I’m very lucky that I have a patient hunky-man-love who feigns interest when, say, he hears about my early-childhood “throat surgery” (and I demo the voice) for the seventeenth time, because I forgot having told it…
[“Maaaaam. Daaaaaad. Jofo.” (Mom. Dad. Jennifer.) à la Linda Blair, circa The Exorcist.]
…And a dear friend who reads and conveys my thoughts when I cannot.
But I’m not declaring total brain death just yet. I’m gonna stick with the “selective attention” theory for now. And start doing Sudoko.