SuperGurl

It all started a week or so ago, and oddly enough, intersected exactly at the onset of the plague that has currently befallen me. I think it’s an allergy, but I have had a severe headache everyday now since Wednesday. Which makes sense, everything is in bloom down here and absolutely beautiful. I’m allergic to beauty.

So one night, after I’d exceeded the daily dosage of nearly every over-the-counter pain remedy I own, I found myself in my chair shutting down in front of the tube, when like a nightmare I heard the words ring out, “one in every five adults has genital herpes.” Um, the hell you say?

And I have no idea why this commercial hurt me so bad at the time, but it did (maybe the fever?). I stewed in my chair, as I was in no mood for wandering elsewhere. I was as thankful as I could be for my herpes free state. I should have filed it under useless information and incinerated it immediately but the whole thought process was dark and cruel and it stuck with me for days. Look, I couldn’t get laid if I hid gold up my cooch right now. Just ain’t going to happen. But knowing that every fifth person has freaking genital herpes? Sheesh, I don’t want to know that. Seriously. Imagine how uncomfortable any gathering will be from here on out? With ratios like that, I don’t want leave the house.

And it was during the same general confluence of personal tragedies that my workwife, the frothing middle-aged sorority queen, Red, approached me with shock and awe one day and said, “Whoa! What happened? You look so….feminine.” Thank goodness I was so dehydrated from all the daylong drugging or I might have cried. Instead, I shot her my glazen evil eye and asked, “Was that supposed to be a compliment?” knowing full well that it was.

I do have some standards left despite my newly engaged defeatist attitude. I refuse to defile my children here, even though during this five day rough patch they have served up a principal-teacher conference, an in-car puke, and a repulsive yet typically obnoxious outbreak in front of one of my clients. Yep. One of those “Oh, why can’t I be stricken dead now in this moment rather than persist in this shameful state” affairs. I nearly cooked my brain alive with all the blushing. Humiliation is hot like that. Kids are fun.

But persisting in a humiliated state is kind of becoming my schtick. After all, I put the severe in persevere. It hurts to go on. This world is cold comfort to a forlorn and forgotton superhero. You have some pain in your world, friend? Well, don’t hold it in. By all means, let me have it. I was made for this shit.

By my Sun Tzu, I mean my son True, oops…I mean the Architect. He got poor placement, nearly on the floor beneath dozens of beautiful children’s drawings, but he placed. Didn’t surprise me to see his was another pen and ink warrior drawing. Although surrounded by the other masterpieces there, it looked unique.

Yep. You read that correctly. YOU, dear reader. It’s YOUR lucky day! A free pair of panties, now heading your way. Now, these are only symbolic in nature, so don’t get yours in a twist. I needed a hook for my title when I came across this:

Hell, yeah! Free panty, people! Rise up! If ever a more genius marketing scheme was hatched, I’d like to see it. Talk about a cure all? Got an ugly appointment to face? Free panty! The doom and gloom of dating life got you down? Free freaking panty! I dare say, there’s not much in life that couldn’t be improved by the mere thought of free panty.

So naturally, as I’ve been stewing on the task of how to raise awareness about our fast approaching blogmeet, I thought it necessary to reach out and grab you. Not just reach out and grab you, but a way to reach out and grab you in exactly the right place.

How about coming to a killer extended drunken barbecue on a beautiful private bank of the Guadalupe River? How about floating the day away under steady sun showers to sing along songs? What about washing away your woes in the crystal blue waters of central Texas? You, my blog brethren, your blown star bastard child is crying for you. Do not deny us your milky teet. We need you, especially You, to come.

And yeah, I know it’s a commitment and all. (Brutal, the c word) It’s happening the weekend before the Fourth of July. I can think of no better place to let your freak flag fly in celebration of all that is independence, and freedom, and beauty. After all, aren’t those the common threads of our kindred tapestry? Are we more than an elastic band of silken tongues? Sharing the fruit of our loons?

Come to Texas. June 27th to 29th. San Antonio is the closest major airport. Blown eye shuttle service available from there. Accommodations have already been arranged for you. For more info and cost, drop me an email at supergurl (at) supergurl.net or speak your beef in the comments. I could give a rip, I’m getting a free panty!

And if all that doesn’t do it for you, I personally will provide yours truly with a fabulous gift of free panty just for coming. I love you that much. So speak up ya’ll. Who’s in?

This episode is brazenly brought to you by the letters F & U.

Those who know me on the outside, know I’m not a lover of technology. Wait. I take that back. I’m slow to embrace new technology, I should say. I’m comfy cozy in my cocoon of ignorance, do not disturb! Yes. A technological shut-in. Truth hurts, but all this increased freedom through communication keeps tying me down.

I was the last hold out I knew to get a cell phone. Now, I should clarify for full disclosure: I do appreciate what functionality has been added via the cell phone. Namely all the safety features, I am a single parent. Still, should I need my phone for a true emergency, chances are I won’t have it. Or the battery will be dead. Or I can’t get a signal. That’s just the way that works.

And it’s odd, because my secondary schooling was all in communication. Maybe that’s why I resist. All the ease and the instantaneous brevity of the beast, it’s killing the art. At least it is for me. I suppose that’s why I bribed my way into the family of blown-eyes. A beautifully expressive pack of communicators, with a long lineage of enjoying the telling of a story, the expression of an idea.

Sigh. I know it gets redundant, but I truly love what all of you add to my life. Thanks for stopping by once in a while and posting much more regularly than I.

Back to the topic at hand, butchering the artform with brevity. I’ve recently had three relationships destroyed by text messaging. Dictionary.com defines con as an abuse of confidence or a trick. Which I find super ironic, because in case after case, some context surely would have improved the communication.

Examples? Surely. First there was a romantic interest. A super cute cop. However, due to our conflict in schedules (both of us have kids) he took to texting me as his main avenue of communication. They were all bad. They were all too brief and too familiar. Later gaters and sleepy tights littered through all of them. But the last one, the death knell, “No expectations, just good conversation.” What? No expectations? Sounds dull to me. Was I supposed to get excited about dating a beer advertisement?

The second was a married friend. He sent me hyper sexual threats through sms. He doesn’t have the balls to actually put a move on me in real life. But by text, he communicates almost purely in provocative cliches. He likes to tell me I’m hot and he wants to rock my world, it’s awful. It’s always uncomfortable to be around him, but I have to say, way more threatening feeling via text message. Maybe it’s seeing the jackassery in print. I’m not sure.

And the third has really got me a little dejected this weekend, my pocket pal boyfriend. He’s reduced me to text messaging. We used to talk, we used to yammer on the phone for hours. No more. Now I’m lucky if I get a text a week. I don’t get it. I’ve never been dumped by siphoned off communication before. It would feel better to get an honest “get lost” as opposed to reducing me to a “how ya doing?” every week or so. Does he think I don’t notice the change? I don’t know how to deal with it. The urgency of nothingness? I end up in text conversations, trying to take the higher road, when in fact, it doesn’t feel any better to fake like I don’t know what’s happening. Especially, in real time.

In the interest of furthering my work portraying myself as a non-psychotic, I could really use a little communal advice and support at this time. You are all so wise. Could you explain the necessity for traumatizing any human being in this way? It’s excruciating. If you have the time to type on a hand held device an entire conversation, then you have the time to call or email.

And I ran out of ideas along with sense years ago. Obviously, what I’ve been doing is not working. What would you do? Please, all ye who speak the abbreviated nonspeak of SMS, to the comments with you. I need ideas. How can we together stop this tidal wave of abusive conversation? Can you give me some ideas of some standard responses I could use the next time one of these manfolk idiots accost me in this way? Something sensible. Please help. Surely I’m not the only one suffering. Your direction is appreciated. Thanks in advance.