Hey,
I've been a little busy lately as you may have surmised, but i
figured that I'd take a moment to let you know what I'm up to. I've been
going to Hypno-birthing classes for the past couple of
weeks and have seen more misshapen, contorted vaginas in these
classes then I had ever hoped to see in my life. I guess that is
all part of the life process and all but why do I have to pay to
see videos of large women grunting as though they have been on a cheese-only diet for the past 9 months only to culminate in an event that makes even the most confident of males feel inadequate.
To boot, the instructor is this voluptuous blonde, who, at one point in the class was rubbing her own erect nipples while trying to explain to us idiot guys how to massage our womens' erogenous zones. A little late on that lesson darlin'. We've all gone down that road already. I think that she was just taking perverse pleasure in torturing a group of guys who are sitting next to their pregnant women by doing a lot of deep hip bending, cleavage shots, and nipple rubbing. Like dealing with the misfortune that having a partner in the third trimester plays on our sex lives isn't enough...
That is not really the problem though. The issues that I have been having arise from the fact that my gastro-intestinal tract seems to either enjoy or hate
(I haven't quite figured it out yet) this class. Everything goes
really well until they make us do these little exercises which
involve deep relaxation. That is when things start to go awry. Everything
is silent and the lights are low. The instructor is talking in a
soothing voice, coaching us into a deeper state of relaxation, when
all of a sudden my stomach starts letting out noises that I can
only liken to a large animal going through the immense pain of a
long, drawn-out death. Then my bowels start to churn like a washing
machine, with the instructor soldiering on with verses like "when I
count to three you are going to be twice as relaxed as before".
Twice as relaxed as before!?!? Are you deaf lady ? I'm gritting my
teeth and the guy next to me is giving me nervous sideways glances
knowing full well that I am about to pollute his happy-place, and you want me to relax more? SO, i'm laying on the ground trying to be as inconspicuous as possible as images of this instructor rubbing her own nipples with the burrito I had for lunch keep flashing into my head, and I try to hold back 5 cubic feet of compressed air. Needless to say I'm far from relaxed.
This has happened to me all of the times that I have gone to this class. I start having weird images of the instructor and my lunch, then I get the worst gas I have ever had in my life. I don't really know what to do with myself anymore, this is one of the toughest predicaments that I have encountered thus far with the pregnancy and I still have 5 more weeks of classes. I may not ever know the pain of childbirth but I think that I am coming close.
So how's things with you?
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Work
Letters To Friends: 2003 Chapter 1. Work
I came across some old things in my computer and thought "What the hell"
I've been spending a little too much time introspectively lately. Fortunately I have been able to get some of my thoughts on paper for others to understand some of what I deal with on a daily basis.
I was in a store the other day buying duct-work for a range-hood that we were installing at one of my jobs. There I am, having a great day, waiting calmly for my order to be filled (I'm getting paid so they could have taken all day for all that I care) and there is this guy standing next to me waiting for his order as well. He is sort of standing there looking at me as though deciding to impart the meaning of life on my my poor unworthy soul. Then he speaks.
First of all let me describe the situation in a little greater detail. We are standing in this dingy warehouse in South-Boston where there are mountains of metal surrounding us. There isn't a person in sight or any reference at all that could have prompted this train of thought. He is a native Bostonian, barely an "R" to be found in his alphabet (I heard him place his "ordah"). I turn to him and give him the head nod ( the universal greeting of blue-collar workers), which apparently means that is his cue to spew forth his thought-provoking inquiries on the more refined, deeply philosophical points of our existence.
"Dude", he begins. " How come dey don make hookahs legal in bostun".
I was blown away. Here I am minding my own business, prepared only to perhaps exchange platitudes with some schlep that is stuck in the same place as me with a similar job as me.
"Um", was the only utterance of mine before he could continue his amazing thought, although the look of bewilderment on my face must have relaxed him into thinking we were of a similar mind-set.
" Yeah, I know, den deyd be REALLY expensive". He continued, "Shit, if it wah legul I'D be out dere bangin' all sorts a chicks and gettin friggin paid fah it".
"Yeah... right", I said, hoping that Alan Funt would step out from behind a pile of gleaming tin and tell me with a big toothy grin that I was on "Candid Camera". No such luck. This was the real deal.
He then began to regale me with his war stories about what a " great fuckin lay" he was, or so he had been told by the greater Boston metropolis, and how he'd be " a fuckin millionaih if only dose stoopid pricks in dah state house wood make it legul".
Now, I'm no great judge in aesthetics when it comes to men, but this guy looked like he had fallen out of the "ugly tree" and hit every branch on the way down. He was not, what you'd call, a pretty man. I was having a hard time believing that he could get laid in a whorehouse with a fist-full of fifties on amateur night. Yet nonetheless, there he stood, hips in motion, imparting his "Trade Secrets" to me. Now I ask you, what exactly is it about me that would prompt a seemingly normal person to talk to me while gazing off into some other world and gyrating up against the reception desk that we were standing at? I almost felt that he needed to be left alone for a couple of minutes to finish up. The really weird thing was that just as he was really getting into it, (he was spanking the desk by this point) the guy filling the orders came around the corner with his order and he completely snapped out of his little world, received his order, gave me the contractor nod and left without saying a word.
I felt so cheap... so used. I felt as though he had just raped my cheery, sunny afternoon right there in front of me over the reception desk in this dingy,dark warehouse as I stood there frozen in shock. I was slack-jawed and speechless by now.
The guy filling the orders had apparently been listening to this little rant and watching us from around the corner for a couple minutes. He could barely contain his laughter until the guy left, and when he did, told me all about my facial expressions during this whole interaction. He nearly fell on the ground recounting what I looked like, and then laughed even harder when he realized that I hadn't gotten over the shock of the situation and still had the same look of bewilderment on my face. I don't remember much of the rest of that afternoon...
I'm not exactly sure why I am telling you this now, other than to have you try to understand the brand of people I deal with in my life every day.
I came across some old things in my computer and thought "What the hell"
I've been spending a little too much time introspectively lately. Fortunately I have been able to get some of my thoughts on paper for others to understand some of what I deal with on a daily basis.
I was in a store the other day buying duct-work for a range-hood that we were installing at one of my jobs. There I am, having a great day, waiting calmly for my order to be filled (I'm getting paid so they could have taken all day for all that I care) and there is this guy standing next to me waiting for his order as well. He is sort of standing there looking at me as though deciding to impart the meaning of life on my my poor unworthy soul. Then he speaks.
First of all let me describe the situation in a little greater detail. We are standing in this dingy warehouse in South-Boston where there are mountains of metal surrounding us. There isn't a person in sight or any reference at all that could have prompted this train of thought. He is a native Bostonian, barely an "R" to be found in his alphabet (I heard him place his "ordah"). I turn to him and give him the head nod ( the universal greeting of blue-collar workers), which apparently means that is his cue to spew forth his thought-provoking inquiries on the more refined, deeply philosophical points of our existence.
"Dude", he begins. " How come dey don make hookahs legal in bostun".
I was blown away. Here I am minding my own business, prepared only to perhaps exchange platitudes with some schlep that is stuck in the same place as me with a similar job as me.
"Um", was the only utterance of mine before he could continue his amazing thought, although the look of bewilderment on my face must have relaxed him into thinking we were of a similar mind-set.
" Yeah, I know, den deyd be REALLY expensive". He continued, "Shit, if it wah legul I'D be out dere bangin' all sorts a chicks and gettin friggin paid fah it".
"Yeah... right", I said, hoping that Alan Funt would step out from behind a pile of gleaming tin and tell me with a big toothy grin that I was on "Candid Camera". No such luck. This was the real deal.
He then began to regale me with his war stories about what a " great fuckin lay" he was, or so he had been told by the greater Boston metropolis, and how he'd be " a fuckin millionaih if only dose stoopid pricks in dah state house wood make it legul".
Now, I'm no great judge in aesthetics when it comes to men, but this guy looked like he had fallen out of the "ugly tree" and hit every branch on the way down. He was not, what you'd call, a pretty man. I was having a hard time believing that he could get laid in a whorehouse with a fist-full of fifties on amateur night. Yet nonetheless, there he stood, hips in motion, imparting his "Trade Secrets" to me. Now I ask you, what exactly is it about me that would prompt a seemingly normal person to talk to me while gazing off into some other world and gyrating up against the reception desk that we were standing at? I almost felt that he needed to be left alone for a couple of minutes to finish up. The really weird thing was that just as he was really getting into it, (he was spanking the desk by this point) the guy filling the orders came around the corner with his order and he completely snapped out of his little world, received his order, gave me the contractor nod and left without saying a word.
I felt so cheap... so used. I felt as though he had just raped my cheery, sunny afternoon right there in front of me over the reception desk in this dingy,dark warehouse as I stood there frozen in shock. I was slack-jawed and speechless by now.
The guy filling the orders had apparently been listening to this little rant and watching us from around the corner for a couple minutes. He could barely contain his laughter until the guy left, and when he did, told me all about my facial expressions during this whole interaction. He nearly fell on the ground recounting what I looked like, and then laughed even harder when he realized that I hadn't gotten over the shock of the situation and still had the same look of bewilderment on my face. I don't remember much of the rest of that afternoon...
I'm not exactly sure why I am telling you this now, other than to have you try to understand the brand of people I deal with in my life every day.
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