Stories that tell themselves (too much, too often)

Here we go, blog. Here we go again.

See, I'm finding this daunting. "This" refers to posting on my blog. An "aha!" moment for us all. Conversing with an old comrade the other day, I recalled a moment from this past year when a student suggested I speak about Coming Out Day--how funny was that? Comrade jabbed, "Yeah I remember that story. I read it over and over again on your blog since you won't write new entries." I'm crying. Really. So here it is--an entry!--indulge.

I'm finding this daunting mostly because I've come across one too many bloggers who take their blogging all too seriously. Now, what does THIS mean? Simply: I'm tired of digesting the garbled voice of stifled nobodies who seek somebody-status through densely, never-deftly-conveyed blog posts. About the restaurants they've visited. Or the bums on the sidewalk. But never any commentary, no reflection whatsoever, not even a "good morning Baltimore"-esque meta-critique about their own stoic self-righteousness.

See? These bloggers I speak of irritate me to the very core--to the deepest, darkest place within!

As I write this, I recognize that I may write for an audience of one: myself. I'm okay with this. I'm not going to sit around, spouting Shakespeare--or surely less poetic prose-- with an overly elitist air. I dare not position myself as the wisest typist of the broadest band. No, no. That is foolish and I refuse to participate in any tom-snob-foolery of any kind.

You want some stories? Here. Have one or two or many or tell me your own. Please laugh and remember that you and me and everyone we know are flawed. Except for Miranda July, of course. She's one hot ticket.

1. Overfilling my gas tank. I'll teach a thing or two to you Joisey bOYs and goyls (read: garGOYLs). You sit in your SUVs with your mani-pedis and puffed hair, blasting non-white radio, as some foreigner pumps your gas. You stink of smug. I admit, I was once like you--possessed by a sense of fossil fuel entitlement. Then I moved to Montana and learned to pump for myself, for survival.

As I ventured back toward the Garden (of weed/toxmatoes) State, I made many stops at roadside gas stations. One particular night, near the end of a long-and-winding I-90 death stretch, my companion and I pulled into CENEX. This gas station is located in Mitchell, South Dakota. Some of you (or myself?) may remember that Mitchell is the site of the illustrious Corn Palace. Oooh, aaah. We may have visited the Corn Palace, but it was nearing midnight--and the Corn Palace is the stupidest "attraction" I've ever succumbed to.

My companion and I wearily exited the car. The flourescent lights beamed down on us, the lone customers, punishing our eyes with faux-bright. As Bird cleaned my windows--opaque with dead flies and remains of small mammals--I pumped the gas. Yes, I'll take Ultimate/91, I told myself as I inserted my credit card. I then helped my fine-feathered friend clean my windows. "Nicole," she screamed, "get over here and see this!!" I walked to the pump-side of the car with bleak expectations--is there really a small mammal on my car somewhere? Are there free passes to the Corn Palace littered on the floor? I never thought I'd find what I found that night: gas pouring out of my gas tank and all over the car, the cement, my hands, everywhere.

Take a moment to truly understand this scenario. It's midnight in Mitchell, South Dakota (aka NOWHERE, USA); we're near the Corn Palace; CENEX is one of the few gas stations open on this road and there's still only 2 cars (including my own) at the station. Now there's gas spilling out of the tank. Has this ever happened to you? Didn't think so.

Instead of freaking out and lighting a match or performing an equally intelligent action, I banged on the gas pump (a little trick I learned from back east) and marched into the CENEX convenient store under the spell of soul-sucking fluorescence.

"Um, excuse me? The gas pump out there--number 4? Yeah, you see the grey VW. Okay, that's my car. So, I asked the pump to stop at full and it kept going and now there's gas all over the floor." It was complicated, so sympathize with the wordiness.
"Oh, oh. Oh, okay! So, is there a lot of gas?" the strangely calm clerk replied.
"Is there a lot of gas? Well, there's enough? Um, I'm just gonna leave now, okay?"
"Sure."
...
Right. I didn't hear much about the CENEX. Maybe it blew up--at the hands of the store clerk's match. The world will never know.

Hundreds of miles later, at a different gas station--was it bp?--I cleaned the now-dried gas off my car paint with a little bit of jojoba shampoo and a bottle of water. Bird took a picture of this action. A mere milestone on our trek home.

2. Dinosaur buddies.

Bird and I went to the Field Museum in Chicago. Chicago is in Illinois, which is not pronounced Illi-noise. I still think Oregon is pronounced O-re-gone even though I've been there. The state of New Jersey and I agree that the pronunciation of Oregon is indeed O-re-gone, but we've come to a consensus that Illi-noise is all wrong. Which is true.

The Field Museum houses Sue. Who's Sue? What's the big deal abou Sue? Well, Sue is a dinosaur. A T-Rex? That's still alive. It's amazing.

Very exciting. What was really exciting was Sue's gift shop. Bird and I had a good time wholly embracing Sue's peers and her predecessors. How did we do this?

We tried on dinosaur masks and fashioned tails on our bums or around our heads. We pretended we were dinoosaurs--witih cameras. Duh.

We're learn-ed now.

3. Last one, I swear. It's about a monkey. You like monkeys. Keep reading.
Did you know that South Bend, Indiana has an awesome zoo? Correct--the University of Notre Dame isn't the only OR best! attraction.

The zoo is. Clearly.

This is why: They've got nice animals, yeah, but they have one special primate. An ape, a chimpanzee named Jodi.

That's her. She's cute, no?
What's so special about Jodi you ask? Well, take a look.

You'd think that says it all--it must!--but it doesn't.

Not only is Jodi diabetic, she's the South Bend sex-pot. I had a little chat with the zoo keeper who we'll call Jane G. The wise, ape-knowing Jane G. told me that the spry 19-year-old Jodi is also on the Pill. Which pill? The BIRTH CONTROL PILL. Jane G. informed me that chimps like Jodi live until they're about 55 years old.

This means Jodi's about 25 or so--she's looking for someone to love; to share a lair with; to mate with and mold their children grow into Ivy League material. Wait, that's sounding familiar, maybe not Jodi's situation though. Apparently, Jodi can't keep the other agile apes away from her and she wants to wait for kids until she's set on her career and able to inject her insulin herself. Well, what it comes down to is this: I'm a newly 23-year-old female who is not on the Pill and is not looking to settle down; and is probably not on the Pill because I don't have suitors banging down my door. Yet I feel this ape (note: I use "ape" lovingly) seems to have more prospects on the horizon--evidently--than I can even dream of.

Such is life. You can live behind bars and have it all, or stray and wait--forge your path, forget the Pill.