I’m loathe to admit it, but the heat in my office occasionally gives rise to a generously proportioned zit on my ass. It’s usually nestled between the cheeks, hidden from view unless one goes looking. More often than not, I give my boyfriend a heads up. I’d rather warn him than contend with his expression of shock should he happen to stumble upon it.
Last week in the shower I noticed a large blue mark on my ass. It wasn’t biologically based, an errant vein or unnoticed bruise. Its hue was closer to neon spandex or a form of chemical waste. It was also water resistant.
Whatever its origin, it had no place on my ass.
“What could this be?” I asked my boyfriend.
“Huh? What could what be?”
The mark was in a difficult spot to view. Risking spinal cord injury, I leaned over, twisted to the right, and yanked at my flesh. Twist, pull. Twist, pull. ”Right there,” I said. “Can you see it?”
“Wow,” my boyfriend said. “That’s one hell of a zit.”
“Great,” I sighed. “That’s just great.”
I stood up, took a deep breath. “Everyone gets an ass zit every now and then,” I told myself. “Even Nicole Kidman.”
Soothed by the image of Nicole Kidman with an ass boil, I repositioned myself under a stronger lamp. ”Here,” I said, pointing to the offending area. “”Look. It’s right here.”
“Oh yeah,” my boyfriend said. “Now I see it.”
“What the hell is it?”
“Huh,” he said, scratching his head. ”I don’t know.” Then, ”Have you worn anything bright lately? Anything that might have bled?”
Naturally, I’d examined every blue to periwinkle object in my apartment as if on CSI.
No shade compared to my ass tattoo.
“No,” I said. ”Not even close.”
Clearly, the answer wasn’t going to present itself just then. Jake and I shrugged, turned on the TV and went to bed.
This morning I flopped down on the couch with my coffee. I looked once, then again. There it was on the cushion: the residue of a blue M&M. I suddenly recalled falling asleep there while eating candy two nights prior.
Apparently, a blue M&M has made its way to my ass.
Apparently, I’d rolled around on it.
I do not relish the confession that I molested an M&M in my sleep. Any more than I do shaving one leg and forgetting the other, plugging an extension cord into itself or wondering where the hell I parked. And yet. . .
I manage to make them all happen.The Facebook Debacle |
I’m turning the key in the ignition, ready to leave for work. My new smartphone alerts me to a message. I pick it up and look.
“The piece is good,” my uncle has posted on my Facebook page. “But. . .”
Oh, no. My stomach lurches; I break out in a sweat. I close my eyes, then look back at the screen.
“But your stuff is funnier.”
This, in response to a link I shared. A piece written by my brilliant buddy, Annie Boreson, of “Annie Off Leash.”
If it wasn’t for the sweat, I might be able to pretend this isn’t happening. But it’s there, trickling down my neck, between my boobs, and pooling in my belly button. Each drop brings me one step closer to the reality I desperately want to deny.
I don’t agree with my uncle’s comment, but that’s not important right now.
What’s important is that Annie never, ever see it.
I look at my computer in the back seat. There’s no way I can boot up. Panicked, I hit “reply” on my phone, thinking I’m sending a message to my uncle. “Erase! Eras!” I type. Then, hands shaking, ”That/t’s my frends linkk!”
It immediately appears on my wall.
I’ve now exposed, illustrated and underscored the depth and breadth of my technological ineptitude. Worse, the message reads as if I posted the link simply because Annie’s my friend.
I wonder if suicide is legal in New Jersey.
My phone chimes again. ”I don’t know how to erase it,” my uncle has posted. “And it was a good story! I didn’t say it was un-funny. I just said your stuff is funnier.”
Do you know what this is? This is two adults from an earlier generation trying to navigate Facebook with their new smartphones. And it’s being played out publicly, on the World Wide Web.
I try telling myself that this kind of thing happens to everybody. That ten years from now, I won’t even remember it. And – being in competition with another friend over who does more stupid things – that I’m now squarely in the lead.
None of it helps.
Gripping the wheel, I pull out.
I feel a “whoosh,” and know exactly what it is.
My belly button just overflowed.My New Phone | The Mystery Of The Blue Ass →
I upgraded to a smart phone last week.
Now I have a phone that’s 2,800 times smarter than I am.
You know what disturbs me about this? The fact that I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me that my phone could register each calorie my cat ingests, critique my etiquette or give me trigonometry lessons in German. Instead, it brings me a vague sense of comfort. I know nothing of apps, but I do know they’re there, lying in wait to assist in my infinite hours of need. Lose a sock? I bet my phone could find it. Get a flat tire? It would summon a magic carpet. Running late for work? It could flip my time zone and all would be well.
Initially, I feared that I’d never comprehend my phone’s features. Now I’m equally concerned that I will.
At the moment I’m trying to figure out how to upload/download/whatever the fuck – the perfect ringtone.
Yes, I’ve once again been sucked into the whirling vortex of available ringtones. It’s a sickness, this need to dance or pretend I’m in a James Bond movie every time my phone rings. But it’s in me, this sickness, with no cure in sight. True, I haven’t sought one, BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT. The point is, with the perfect ringtone, even a call from the I.R.S. could make me happy.
Downloading a personalized ringtone on my iPhone, however, is proving difficult. The process smacks of a Dean Koontz novel, involving measures like importing, converting, formatting, transmuting, transmogrifying, and inverting various versions of reality.
If I manage to succeed, I’ll have the ringtone of my dreams. But at what price?
This isn’t really about technology, I’m realizing. It’s a matter of identity, testing all that I know and hold dear about myself. Unchecked, I fear I might start employing shortcuts, embracing widgets and utilizing advanced settings. I could become familiar, even comfortable, with functions I enjoy considering beyond my ken. Next thing you know, I could be taking online courses on Twitter and agreeing that Kindles should be allowed to exist.
So. Self-image versus the ideal ringtone.
Which do you guess will prevail?The Parking Chronicles VI | The Facebook Debacle →