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i dream of kfc

If a rooster is not present in a flock of hens, a hen will often take the role, stop laying, and begin to crow.

A book within a book: in John Irving's A Widow for One Year, the main character's father writes a children's book called A Sound Like Someone Trying Not to Make a Sound. It's how the main character, a little girl at the time, describes a spooky sound she heard one day. Although the shivery effect is not lost on me, it's how I would now describe the agony of trying to hide crying.

I've always been ashamed to cry, and try to avoid it at all costs. Once when I was four, my mom lectured me and my brothers. We stood on the linoleum floor in the kitchen. My mom had a cruel strategy that never failed to make me want to burst into tears. First, she would scold me. This was tolerable, because I was old enough to know that I had done something wrong and deserved punishment for it. And then -and this was the kicker- she would berate my brothers, along the lines of "how could you do this to your sister?" and I felt so sorry for myself, listening to how I had been wronged, that it was ultimately my self-pity that did me in. I would hastily erect a mental dam behind my eyes to stop the tears from coming: I thought about what it would like to be a pirate, or speculated on what a table would taste like, if I were to take a bite out of the leg closest to me, my mouth full of splinters and dryness; I desperately seized any crazy thought to distract me from the imminent sense of weakness with which I associated crying.

I was nine when I was caught crying after trying to hide it. I was sent to my room after being punished, and I cried prepubescent tears of "it's not fair" and "no one loves me" and "I hate everyone." I had to leave my room at one point, and my mom asked, "Have you been crying?" I denied it, but she said matter-of-factly, "The inside corners of your eyes have tears in them and your bottom eyelids are moist." And they were. Even now, I make sure to carefully wipe them after crying.

Somtimes I cry in front of Jones. Other times I cry when he's not there, or when he's sleeping, or when he's not sleeping, but just pretending (and I know). I've cried to the thoughts of "I don't want you to leave tomorrow," as well as, "How could you do this to me?" I cry like someone trying not to cry, which is both emotionally and physically painful. The sobs get trapped, and the back of your throat catches and cups them, leaving you feeling as if an 8 ball was shoved into your mouth. And your stomach uses all its muscles to strain against those shudders that only come after heavy weeping and are like a flight of stairs exiting your body.

by lc on 10/31/2005 09:33:00 PM

Ever since I was a little girl, when someone in my family made me feel angry and resentful, I would make a mental note: they're not invited to my wedding. This, to me, seemed to be the ultimate punishment, and one that I was fully entitled to exact, being my day. My day of joy and redemption. I vindictively imagined their outrage when all the other family members first received news, and the perpetrator would think that maybe his invitation got lost in the mail, or there had been a mistake. Nope, no mistake; if you're a jerk to me, I will not forget it and you will get your comeuppance when you least expect it. Not only was I cutting him off from merriment, but I was effectively saying, you are not family to me. Sometimes, if I were feeling particularly hateful and far-looking, I would bar the family member from seeing their grandchildren/nephew and niece.

Looking back now, and with the shadow of marriage looming ahead, I see not only the enormity of such revenge, but the limits of my power at that age. I had to wait twenty years to dole out apt retribution, and even more curiously, it was all tied up with my youthful fantasies: big white dresses and wishing harm upon those that treated me badly. Then I blame not just naïvete, but patriarchy, for permitting women only narrow and narrow-minded means of recompense.

by lc on 7/17/2005 10:39:00 PM

It was lunchtime, and she was hungry. They had gone down to the deli across the street, where she ordered what she had been thinking about for the past four hours. And, just as she was about to bite into her sandwich, he nonchalantly told her, "I'm gay, you know."

She wishes he hadn't said that right then. Now she would have to pay him more attention than her sandwich. "Oh, really?" was what she asked.

"Are you surprised?"

"Um, yeah, a little." She feigns a little surprise for his sake. It's not that she wasn't surprised, but that, frankly, not much rattled the complacent apathy she had once affected and now inhabited. She feels like she needs to compensate now for her indifference to what should have been received with more... more what- relief? (Finally! Everyone knew you were in the closet.) enthusiasm? (That's great, I really applaud your courage.) dismay? (What a loss to the ladies.) Or was that sarcasm? "It's just that I always thought you enjoyed pussy too much to be gay." She said things like that all the time, and she realized now that it was not to shock the listener, as she had thought, but to shock herself.

"Yeah, well." Again with the nonchalance. Who was he kidding?

by lc on 6/30/2005 11:42:00 PM

The first real, likeable quality that I found in Jones was his storytelling. It was his story about his friends playing a driving game involving racing through the descending tollbooth arm that got me, punctuated with his characteristic finger-jabbing flourishes following his tabletop finger-tapping. More than the distracting gestures, which I would later mimic for our friends, Jones's genuine delight in sharing his stories was irresistible. There was something so wonderful, to use one of his favorite adjectives, about how he was clearly and obliviously reliving the past while relating the tale.

Later, I complained about his tendency to become too engaged in the story and subsequently neglect the audience, as his anecdotes expanded from high school escapades to protein formation, leaving me either to feign interest or to try to express my boredom without seeming rude. As soon as I snapped at Jones and told him that he needed to gauge my interest level before embarking on a chemical soliloquy, he looked and was very hurt. I still feel bad about that day. It needed to be said, but it could have been said more kindly.

And yet storytelling is still the very bread and butter of our relationship. Every day we tell each other what happened, transforming mediocrities and observations into stories that legitimize what happened in each other's absence. On our first Valentine's Day, he presented me with a written story about him/me/us that I read slowly and loved. Because, as I fully realized on Saturday, now we have stories about us. When we go out with friends, we are asked questions like how we met, or we'll contribute (Jones usually slightly sheepishly) our own unsolicited stories to the conversation frequently beginning with, "Oh, that reminds me of the time we-" or "Tell them about the time we ___. Tell them!" (That would be me saying that). I understand the sheepishness that comes with brazenly telling an "us" story, with its pitfalls of inside jokes that only a couple would get, or the undesirable effect of envy or annoyance it may provoke in others, but the desire to tell an us story, perhaps the desire to broadcast "us," is too great.

Jones once said he could easily write a book about me. I asked him how he could be so confident, and he said it was because he knows me that well to be able to write about me and read my thoughts and predict my actions. This is what makes him my boyfriend, friend, co-conspirator, and storyteller.

by lc on 6/20/2005 08:31:00 PM

I missed it: Tiffany reported a Paul Banks sighting on Sunday. I demanded to know everything about him that one could learn only after seeing him in person. No, he is not short, but around six feet tall. He has lost the unfortunate weight he gained that I unfortunately noted when Interpol was on tour. His face is not that moley, and up close, he is even cuter. Paul was with Carlos D., who famously carries the stigma and symptoms of STDs, and he was wearing an orange shirt with a number on the front and the name "Cheryl" on the back, harnessed in by a pair of suspenders.

Just that day, I had been wondering why I have not run into him yet. But shit, what would I do if I saw him? I would actually like to ask him some questions.
1. "Why do you sing certain words funny? In 'PDA' it sounds like 'grim right' instead of 'dream right,' which is what I think you mean, right?"
2. "So, what happened to all those great gasps and short breaths you take on Turn on the Bright Lights that were absent on Antics? I love how it made your singing sound urgent, and yet your voice is so phlegmatic. Not phlegmy, phlegmatic."
3. "Aren't you tired of being hip? No, seriously."
4. "What's with your lyrics? Are you trying to make them ambiguously suck, or do you think lyrics are overrated and people should pay more attention to just vox and the instruments? Because lines like, 'her stories are boring and stuff' really don't cut it, although you do succeed with, 'you make me lose my buttons.' I like that, how it illustrates the unspooling of control and hint of insanity. 'You should be in my space' is decent as well, and I will admit Antics does a better job than Bright Lights. But no more of this 'play with the braids that you came here with tonight' crap."
I would have been there, with Tiffany, gawking at Paul, if I weren't in Princeton with my boyfriend. At the time of the sighting, I was either asleep or drowsily watching Annie Hall while sharing a Ritter Sport. It was really nice.

by lc on 6/16/2005 11:19:00 PM

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, thoughtfully borrowed from the public library in anticipation of a post-op day spent in agony, was disappointingly boring. Charlie Kaufman, huh? Kate Winslet was good. Jim Carrey gave another Truman Show-esque performance of comic despair. The movie did remind me of The Truman Show in other aspects (a sham world of sham relationships), along with Vanilla Sky (benign/malign medical institute), and Lois Lowry's The Giver (memories). At least the film took place on Long Island; I appreciated the scene where Jim Carrey's character realizes that the eastbound train is actually leaving on the westbound platform (or, maybe he was just mistaken). I've made both errors, and it is a real battle of hope, anger and speed of man against machine. I am no film critic, just a kid trying to enjoy her pictures.

by lc on 6/08/2005 08:44:00 PM

I got my wisdom teeth out today. It turns out that three out of the four were impacted, but one was coming in perfectly. I got all out anyway. My teeth looked beautiful in the ex-ray, looking like corn on the cob, as my mom would say. Right now, however, my mouth is a different story. The gums in the back are ruptured and patched, and blood is collecting in the crevices of my molars. After I stepped out of the office, I spit out a mouthful of dark blood. Luckily the pain eclipses my hunger. No cravings quite yet, except for a greasy fast-food hamburger. Hmm...

by lc on 6/07/2005 09:43:00 PM