Sunday, December 17, 2006

i changed my status

Yes, that's right. I did it. I had to. There was little other way to let the world know that I was starting a new page, turning a new leaf. After all, in today's semi-voyeuristic social networking cult that I like to call "life," how else would the waiting public know that "oh-girl" broke up with "what's-his-dick?" That "Rudeboi999" is now practicing a form of religion known only as "Other," that "Hotstuff00" is confused about his/her/its gender again? Or more commonly that "you-know-who" is really a closet alcoholic so she really just needs to click Yes and get it over with because everyone already knows she's in rehab again? It's obvious, we all know that the truth lies in the Status.

Therefore, as is necessary when announcing any major life change or reconstructive gender operation to your closest 1,875 friends, I, Shanita "McNita" John, have changed my Status. I have change Myspace Education Status from "In College" to "College Graduate." Yes, I have changed Graduated In from "N/A" to "2006." And then finally, I have changed my STD Status to Chlamydia, just to keep people guessing.

I kid.

But for the first two status changes I am genuine. Even though it hasn't sunk in yet, I have indeed graduated from the Minneapolis College of Art & Design. The ceremony was on December 15 in the Year of Our Lord 2006. By the way, is it still the Year of Our Lord? I don't have a problem with this, I just could have sworn it was the Year of Our Lord last year and at least in 1997 too. Just checking.

So what does this mean for the future? Well, for the immediate future, it means that I'm going to continue to sit here in my pajamas and Santa hat eating mushy Cocoa Puffs dribbling Soy milk onto my shirt wondering if we had another time change no one told me about because I just woke up and it's after 1:00PM. (I digress, do we ever move time forward more than an hour? Say by 3 or 4 hours? No? Ok.)

But for the "future-future," it means that I will cherish my accomplishments, fondly recall my experiences, embrace my new horizons, and heed the words of Bill Rude my rockin rockabilly commencement speaker (throws up horns) and "Don't Stop Believin'."

It means I will climb every mountain, ford every stream, follow every—wait. I have to go Spongebob just came on.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

to the owner of the toned and tanned midsection

Two days ago I shamed my gender and myself and now I am determined to set the wrong right. While running errands in St. Louis Park I accidentally stared down a perfectly tanned shirtless young man walking down the sidewalk. Normally, I try to control these sorts of things, but this time, I was overcome. I stared and I knew he saw me but I could not turn my head. THEN, to make matters worse, about ten minutes later while dropping off some criminally overdue books at the St. Louis Park public library I ran into the SAME extremely tanned mid section a little later in his journey and again, this time with jaw dropped, I stared! Dammit!

Now, I have taken it upon myself as my solemn duty to apologize to this young man. Since I do not know his name, and remembering his face would be like trying to identify a gnat in a sandstorm, I have turned to Myspace as the appropriate vehicle to share my regret. So here goes my apology to the Owner of the painfully toned and perfectly tanned middle section:

Dear Tanned Mid Section,

Two days ago while you were talking down Minnetonka blvd, minding your own business carrying a gallon bottle of water, your white cotton shirt draped over your broad shoulders, I brazenly sexually harassed you with my prolonged disbelieving stares. For this I am very sorry. If this is working correctly, you should be receiving the subliminal message I am sending you, learned from the book, How to Send Subliminal Messages in Text. Meet me by the tennis courts. Ill bring the satchel of raw Chamomile, you bring the pitcher of scalding water and the Geoffrey Chaucer.

Furthermore, I would like to state that I am a totally opposed to the objectification of men in general and believe that it is your right to be able to walk down a suburban boulevard in whatever state of undress you please without the piercing eyes of ill mannered strangers.

Secondly, while I too think it was strange (and by strange I mean destiny) that we ran into each other again so quickly, I must state firmly that I was NOT following you. Though in the brief moments when our paths first crossed I did consider swerving off the road and crashing into a nearby light pole in hopes that you would come to my rescue, to follow you would have been absolutely reckless and irresponsible and I want you to be confident that at no point did I consider it.

Lastly, as a punishment for treating your firm bronzed torso as a packaged piece of dark meat based to perfection, I have placed myself on a strict diet of nuts and berries until I have curbed my carnal cravings.

Please forgive me. It is my earnest hope that your day wasnt ruined by thoughts of stalking and unwanted sexual advances.

With deepest humiliation,

The girl driving the green Dodge Intrepid with the missing hubcaps on the right side.

Saturday, June 10, 2006

something mushy about friendship

I'm in the mood to write. Why? Cause I'm thinking too much to talk.

You know, even if they aren't called Friends , good sitcoms are about friends. We watch them. Follow the story lines and then in our minds play out our lives according to these thirty-minute recreations of what we're supposedly, yet obviously not, living ourselves. Maybe its the anonymous downtown apartment with its light speckled skyline bright enough to be New York, but just ambiguous enough to pass for that other city you went to once and liked better.

But wherever, it's all about the that cast of characters. You've had them hand picked from high school. You imagine the story of your freshman flubs becoming recurring themes throughout the seasons of maturity. But then, they all move away. Take two: College. You're on your own now, doing more sitcom worthy things. Sure its not the same kind of drama as high school, but this is good too. People have STDs here! So you mope about the cast revision for a little bit and promise yourself that there will be plenty of high school cameos.

Years go by and finally the hour is ripe: you've graduated! Here comes the condo and the social life unimpeded by class work! Even the cast you once thought as second string are headliners! Hell! You're even sitcom age! And then just when you least expect it, your best friend, your supporting actress moves away, jobs cause fragmentation: The show is cancelled.


After years of envisioning this time of your life the stage is set, but the actors are on strike. Now, like it did at the beginning of high school and college, though you're ready to settle down, shit is new and unfamiliar. Now you're the new person at work and there are no school functions to force socialization and all of a sudden you face that fact that THERE IS NO SITCOM LIFE. Because if there were, you'd get to choose the people you share it with.

Yep. Joey and Chandler didn't go to college together. They have cubicles next to each other and met at work. Ross and Rachel are really just friends through other people. Phoebe just moved to the state and wants to go home. And no one knows that Monica used to be fat in high school, not even Ross, because brothers and sisters don't stick around each other that long.

And now you know why there are sitcoms in the first place. Because once your life long pals have been gone long enough, you'll need a distant reminder of what it could have been like.

~ For My Twin Who Moved Away

(*And the sitcoms I accidently cancelled everytime I moved away.)

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

it's not you, it's me

Many of you have on multiple occasions, inquired about the seemingly lengthy time gaps between my blogs. I write. Disappear for a period of about thirty days. And then return with some proudly accomplished feat of unparalleled ignorance, and then I disappear again. Reasons for this are unclear, I realize. And I am not insensitive to your needs to embrace the self depreciating acts of one less aware.

But, could it possibly be that other than these occasional onsets of curbside proposals and sexual propositions made by cross-dressing hermaphrodites at the local supermarket (wait, I didn't tell you about that? Never the you mind then) that my life may just actually be (despite being the Divine Cartoon Network) normal?

I too am flabbergasted. However:

See, if I wrote on a more regular basis, when compelled by the everyday beauties and follies of life, then blogging for my sake would become presently more incomprehensible; and reading, for your own would be intolerable and border on the down right inhumane. Instead of "Humans are disgusting," a recent not so in depth look at bus terminal mating procedures, titles would become mundane and more like this: "The copy machine is resilient" and "Peeing: the understated pleasure."

Alas, not that these are anything other than the senseless, unedited ramblings of an addled mind. I simply, however, wish that above all else that your ventures into addled mind readings, be pleasant.

So, to put it more clearly, and to humorously echo a particularly familiar line indicative of a relationship soon to be weighed down by the burden of one or both of the party's excrement: it's not you ... it's me.

Until later. Cheers.

Thursday, February 9, 2006

humans are disgusting

Last night was cold, this morning was cold. I was dodging ice patches and hair balls on my way to catch the 8:20 bus downtown while wondering out loud why it wasn't spring yet. You might think it strange to mutter loudly into ones scarf while in public, but I find it helpful. It clears the mind, and keeps the crazies at bay.

Anyway, I am inside the bus shelter now, hiding from the cold air. Normally, I stand outside the shelter chastising traffic with my presence, but I'm just now getting over the sniffles so I decide to take a chance on the public transportation hut, this decision quickly reminds me why I often avoid these friendly looking cesspools.

So I huddle behind the plexiglass and wait. Brr. Cold. Then for some reason, I look down at my feet. I'm standing on something like a candy wrapper. It's bright green and shiny, and because I like shiny things I look a little closer to examine what "flavor" it is. It reads:

Assorted Colors

I snicker. Am I ten years old? No, but it's still funny. I imagine it must have fallen out of someone's pocket or bag. Though its just an empty wrapper I picture someone's twinge of concern to find out they dropped it. I mean, it's random yes, to find a condom wrapper at a bus stop, but not unheard of, right? Okay, jokes over. I'm about to move my attention back outside to the street traffic but something else stops me. "Is that...nuh-uh..." To my horror, my eyes move about three feet over and there it is. Red. Twisted. Elongated. Used. Its contents in a stiff wad frozen to the concrete.

Sweet Jesus.

It didn't fall out from a bag, I now realize. It was used. There. In that bus stop. Where I was standing? Probably not. I cringe anyway and tell myself something rational,

My bus comes. I leave. I disinfect. Humans are disgusting.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

he popped the question

Yesterday was my 21st birthday. It was also the day that every girl dreams of from the time she first sees a wedding happen. Before she dreams of the dress, or the flowers, or the violinists playing a french lullaby, she dreams of this moment. When he looks her in the eyes, and she knows. She just knows. She can already feel the heat in her face and the tears pushing past the corners of her eyes. She knows, because he's holding her hand so tight, and his palms are moist. Because he won't break her gaze. It's going to happen. He's going to ask her to marry him. My God. He's going to propose.

For me, because I'm shanita (and because God thinks it's funny) it was slightly different. I was standing in the freezing cold in south minneapolis, in a metro transit stop that smelt of urine and ciggies. And the groom? Oh, we hadn't previously met but he was a handsome chap. About 5' 6'', mexican, mustache el grande. He began the conversation with these words. "Hey senorita? Ch'ou gotta daller?" Immediately, I searched my pockets. I am one of those people who gives money (call it ignorant). This day however, I only had a bus pass, and sadly, I explained this to my new friend. Understandingly, he nodded and muttered about my generousity, and how the Lord should bless me, but then, he got another idea. A brighter one. "Hey, ch'ou wanna marry me?"

---stunned silence---

What? The question came again. "Ch'ou wanna marry me? you know? Marry me?" I had no words. Blink Blink. My fiance, smiling from mustache curl to mustache curl starts to walk away backwards, down the icy street. "Ch'ou so beautiful!" He yells getting further and further away. "We get married!...... [unclear, possibly spanish] .....babies!"

And just like that, gone. The bus came. I got on. Rode home. Sigh. Yesterday was my 21st birthday. It was also the day I got proposed to for the first time. I didn't even get to answer...