Juliette Miranda

My sense of humor has recently come into question by my guy.

This wouldn’t bother me so much if he hadn’t spent an entire Sunday afternoon attempting to school me in the merits of the Three Stooges, likely the most un-funny entity on the planet, right after the Blue Collar Comedy tour and that movie Nothing But Trouble.

I suppose I shouldn’t be writing this; I’m told there is a possibility of my guy being excommunicated – or whatever it is the Society of Guy Secrets does to a man who reveals too much.

It’s just that I wanted to understand the workings of one of the few remaining bastions of entertainment that has an audience almost exclusively comprised of men. Since, oh, I don’t know – birth – I’ve been shaking my head over it. Yet even after a bottle of booze, several DVDs, and an hour-plus discussion, I still couldn’t understand the Three Stooges, and deep down I suspect I’m better off for it.

“You have to watch for the reaction shots,” said my guy pointing out Larry or Curly, I forget which. “It’s the subtleties, not the slapstick that’s funny.”

Really? Because I fail to see the subtlety in yanking a toupee off someone, dropping it in Moe or Shemp’s (I forget who is who) lap, and the ensuing riot when someone yells “tarantula!”

Not funny.

My guy turned to me with a sorry, you-were-THIS-close-to-being-perfect look when I failed to produce the expected side-splitting chuckles. It was as if he doubted my ability to appreciate comedy.

I’m perfectly capable of identifying good comedy. For example: watching my guy pull a flaming wooden plank from the gas grill and wave it around wildly before throwing it on a pile of wood chips and attempting to douse the flames with my more-Jack-than-Coke mixture? That’s funny.

Not so funny? My guy’s snorts of laughter upon discovering I’d Krazy Glued myself to the kitchen.

This was entirely his fault, of course. For starters, he was the one who let me think it was okay to use Krazy Glue on a weekday morning after a mere four hours of sleep.

Sure, he offered to fix the sculpture I’d managed to stumble into and knock down a flight of stairs as I saw him out the door to work. But I’m a big girl, I can superglue by myself.

It was 7:12 a.m. when I pulled the Krazy Glue from its little safety container. I positioned the tube between my thumb and index finger and attempted to squeeze a few drops onto the hunk of wood I held in my left hand.

By 7:18 I was still squeezing the tube, waiting for something, anything to come out. There was glue in the container, that much I knew, because I’d just peeled a portion of the label off to check the contents underneath.

Had it been later in the day, or had I ingested more caffeine that morning, I might have paid more attention to the hardened glue clumps on the one side of the tube that I had to scrape through to get past the label.

I smelled the glue before I saw it. It was a noxious, octane sort of smell that wafted from my fingers to my nose in a vile stream.

“It must be working,” I thought, squeezing the tube tighter. What exactly I thought was working is beyond me, particularly when the mechanics of a tube of glue are reasonably simple.

But I kept squeezing like a moron, letting my thoughts drift to other things, like shiny objects and bouncy balls and rainbows.

At 7:21, I realized my fingers were stuck to the Krazy Glue tube.

Glue oozed from a hole in the side of the tube, drizzling in fine web from my finger tips to a little pool on the counter top. Vague disbelief slowly washed over me as I attempted to pry my fingers loose. Any normal person would probably head to the nearest source of warm, soapy water in this instance, but I, being ultra clever and astute, had a better idea:

Paper towels.

I reached across the counter and pulled a few sheets from the roll. Never mind the glue still on my fingers, which were still glued to the tube. And funny thing, the glue that had spilled onto the counter really didn’t wipe up so well. In fact, it kind of congealed into a fuzzy, hardened mass that I was forced to rip from finger tips, that were, mind you, still glued to the Krazy Glue tube.

At 7:26 a.m., I panicked.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” I danced around the kitchen in a blind frenzy, waving my hands around and trying desperately to figure out what to do next. My spa robe, which never really stays closed to begin with, fell open, and would have slid further from my shoulders, had chunks of my hair not been glued to it.

That was what did it, of course. Not the threat of going through life with a tube of glue cemented to my fingers, and certainly not the wad of paper towels that would need to be chiseled from the counter top. No, what finally cleared my head like a slap to the face was the thought of losing any of my precious hair to the Great Glue Slick.

Fortunately, it is easier to remove Krazy Glue from hair than it is from skin. Unfortunately, it took half a bottle of nail polish remover and a quick dip in isopropyl to finally unstick the tube of glue from my fingers. I can only pray that no one lights a match near me.

My guy meanwhile, was treated to a breathless and irritated phone call as I drove in to work, still reeking and flaking bits of glue from my hair.

“I’m SO not okay!” I wailed into the phone. My guy composed himself long enough to extract quick damage control:

No, I hadn’t eaten any glue.

No, I didn’t inhale any, either.

Yes, the cat was fine. (I think. I honestly couldn’t remember whether she’d been in the kitchen during my glue-soaked fit or not and said a silent prayer that she wasn’t currently stuck ass-down on the tile floor.)

And then, at 8:01 a.m., the laughter started. Small sorts came first, followed by hysterical peals as my guy pictured me half-naked, hair matted, and stuck to the kitchen counter top.

“I can just SEE your face!” he sputtered, tears likely streaming down his face as he struggled to control his giggles.

“Oh, yeah?” I asked. “It’s just all in the reaction shot for you, isn’t it? Those fucking Three Stooges can SUCK IT!”

That just made my guy laugh even harder, and I knew I was officially doomed to a lifetime of ridicule.

So. Not. Funny.

Just a quick note all …

We’re working closely with Barnes & Noble to make the book tour kick off at their flagship store in Schaumburg a huge rock n’ roll event! I’ll have details soon about how you can get your very on ALL ACCESS backstage pass to this can’t miss event. We are going to ROCK this place!

Until then, save the date!

Friday, November 6, 2009
6:00 – 8:00 p.m.
Barnes & Noble Schaumburg
Woodfield Plaza Shopping Plaza
590 East Golf Road

It’s safe to say, I think, that I have calmed down somewhat in the past hour. Although considering a recent debate with my guy about the versatility of our potato peeler, it might be a good idea to keep me away from sharp or otherwise bladed objects. You just never know. (Really though, could anyone take a chick serious when she blurts out “Don’t make me peel you, dude!” while brandishing a rather flimsy and dull peeler?)

Anger rarely makes an appearance on my mood spectrum, at least in a form that doesn’t require my guy to play twenty questions to determine that I am, in fact, annoyed, when the immobility of emotion in my face would otherwise suggest an over-Botoxed pageant contestant.

This is why he was likely shocked to receive a lengthy text from me today that was laced with a staggering amount of “fuckos” and “suck its”. My bile definitely wasn’t directed at my guy, though he, being an extremely tolerant man, was nice enough to let me rant like a deranged beaver until my chomping eventually sputtered to a halt.

He’s even graciously offered to make a few phone calls as my “representation” to resolve my issue, which is a relief, one, because I’m too aggravated to make much sense to anyone and two, his skills in problem solving are so acute he’ll likely have the offending company renamed in my honor by the end of the week. Reason #9,278,875,102 Why I Love My Guy.

Anger definitely does not suit me. When it rears, I do my best to shove it aside, but it sits on my face like a wet cat, wretched and stinking and unpredictable at best. And despite the potential issue resolution in my future, I still froth and revel in my misanthropy, letting the otherwise mundane and ridiculous take new and angry life in my head.

I admit, considering my current mood, I should have known better than to use the bathroom in my current location. It’s a horrid place, roughly the size of two upright coffins, and meant to accommodate the needs of approximately 30 women.

There’s barely enough room for my misogyny, but I make the appropriate adjustments. I’m considerate like that. The same consideration is hardly paid by anyone else, a shocking testament to the general cleanliness of the bathroom users in that particular vicinity.

But really, what should I care? It’s a bathroom only, not a lounge or a fainting room. It’s not even a place to do much else than can be done behind a closed stall door, though plenty seem to find it suitable for lunch container rinsing (I once witnessed a woman attempt to crush a half-eaten burrito down the drain), tooth brushing, zit popping, and the occasional session with a curling iron.

While it is mildly annoying to squeeze between makeup bags and salad bowls to use the one sink for hand washing, I do it quietly because I realize that where there is a mirror, sink, and door, there will also be women considering it some sort of private sanctuary impervious to the laws of common courtesy.

Things like changing the roll of toilet paper in the dispenser become far less important than removing an errant hair from one’s chin. And that’s fine, really, except when I’m in the stall next to your preening, and you are oblivious to my requests for help.

In the defense of whomever was in the stall before me, a roll of toilet paper had been placed in the dispenser. This in itself was something of a shocker; most often the single roll dispenser is left empty, and the roll of toilet paper is perched precariously on the back of the toilet to collect whatever splashes out during a flush.

My practice has been to carry my own tissue in with me; but my mood today left me forgetful, and I was forced to test the Bathroom Fates. I thought I lucked out upon seeing the roll in place, and eagerly pulled my single ply, stiff-enough-to-write-this-blog-on “tissue” from the roll.

Perhaps I pulled with too much force, or perhaps the nitwit who put the roll in place ahead of me didn’t actually put the holder in its slots, but instead rested the roll on the base of the dispenser. In either case, the result was my pulling the entire roll of toilet paper out of the dispenser, dropping it to the floor, and watching it roll right under and out of the stall to the sink area.

“Um, a little help here?” I meekly called out. I figured the woman at the sink would surely have heard the sound of the metal dispenser tube hitting the tile floor, or at least felt the roll of paper hitting her foot.

It’s possible, of course, that there was a def and blind mute with an artificial leg outside my stall, in which case, I do apologize for all the things rotten things I am thinking right now. Obviously, she’d have no way of knowing about my incident, and I actually would have put her at risk with my carelessness. Lord knows no one wants to trip over an errant roll of toilet paper.

But if that is not the case, and if this particular woman in question actually stepped OVER the roll of paper to exit the bathroom and deliberately leave me stranded and dripping, then you deserve every one of the fire ants that I wish would infest your closet.

Were my mood better, and had I not earlier been forced to deal with an unrelated company whose levels of incompetency make a box of hair look smart, then perhaps I’d be able to laugh the incident off.

As it is though, today is not the day to get in my way, and I remain volatile, angry, and oddly amazed things that can be purchased online. Just how many fire ants are in a pound, anyway?

Surreal as it may still be, I’ve officially got a book tour!

First stop: Barnes & Noble in Schaumburg, Illinois.
Friday, November 6
6:00 p.m. – 8:00 p.m.
Woodfield Plaza Shopping Center
590 East Golf Road
Schaumburg, IL 60173

So, I’ll be speaking, reading excepts from the book, and signing purchased copies. And not on the street corner, but in the store. Go figure. I’m excited beyond belief, and hope y’all will join me for the first of many stops on my rock n’ roll book tour.

“It’s all happening…”

It seems I’ve elevated in status. Although I’m nowhere near the “famous author who forgets her friends” level people have been teasing me about, I’ve actually surpassed the expected “chick who wrote that book” moniker.

And I couldn’t be more excited about it, because I’ve just received word that I’ll be taping an interview with WBEZ (91.5 FM, Chicago Public Radio) in October to promote my book!

Better yet, Chicago-area readers will have their choice of Barnes & Noble bookstores to come visit me, because I’m working on a reading/signing tour now!

More details soon, folks. Be sure to check out www.morningneurosis.com for book info, etc. Thanks for reading!

Juliette

 “Aside from the dead hookers in the trunk and a hatred for Canada, nothing’s up. Why do you ask?”

My guy furrowed his brow and gave me a sideways glance. Sometimes, he’s not quite sure when to take me seriously. And seeing as how half of that statement was actually true, I can’t say that I blame him.

Not that he hasn’t dished out a few head scratchers of his own, of course. He’s just more blatant about it. The other day in fact, while waiting in line at the bookstore, my guy gave me an amorous kiss and announced loudly, “You’re the best sister ever!”

We’ve grown accustomed to the odd looks and hasty retreats that seem to result from our public interactions; our sense of humor is something of an acquired taste.

Which is why we were shocked to see one of our neighbors approaching us with a smile not too long ago. Historically, the only thing we’ve exchanged with our neighbors has been ill will and nasty letters.

I suppose the cinderblock that lines the walls between residences in our townhome community has helped endear us to the neighborhood, at least in that it deadens the sound of our more raucous activities. And from a distance, we likely look like a completely ordinary couple: my guy always opens the car door for me, we collect the garbage cans from the curb promptly, and spend most nights grilling on our front driveway.

Up close we’re a bit more colorful; all it takes is one sniff of the murky green liquid in our glasses to figure that out. But the peppy little ball of curiosity making her way up our driveway that night seemed to have bigger interests than what was in our drinks.

“That sure smells good!” she called by way of greeting.

“My husband and I – we live two houses down – have a grill, but nothing we cook smells half as good as what you two do! And look at you, you’re both out here every night, right?”

The energy under her words intruded on the gentle buzz I was nursing. I’d been afraid our grill would act as a beacon to the neighbors, and this one looked like she wanted to set up camp on our driveway.

“What are you guys cooking? We should all really get together for a barbeque, don’t you think? When did you guys move in?”

My guy, infinitely more social than I am, answered her barrage of questions politely while I crept down from my perch. Presumption, even in the best spirit, has always triggered an internal alarm in me.

She burbled some more as I came forward, and extended her hand.

“I’m Sally,” she said. “It’s great to meet you! Isn’t this amazing weather? I’m so happy it’s finally warm. Do you guys play games at all? My husband just got one of those beanbag toss games. We’ll be bringing it out this weekend.”

I smiled and did my best to mind my manners despite a desperate urge to shoo her away like an annoying child. She was the first of any of our neighbors to attempt the getting-to-know-you game, and I didn’t want to burst her shiny bubble. I hated to become “those” neighbors so quickly, the ones whose house you eye when driving past, who you stare down as they take out the garbage, and whose path you avoid when going to the mailboxes.

Besides, I had a distant hope that maybe, assuming she could shut her mouth for several minutes, we could actually forge some sort of casual friendship.  She obviously wasn’t close girlfriend material, and knowing that her husband was the type to go out and buy beanbag games despite their lack of children made his character suspect, but at the least they could be pleasant enough to have a few drinks with on a lazy weekend afternoon.

It was the kind of Rockwell-like scenario I rather like, but tend to keep in the dark, along with my secret love of wind chimes and mandolines, but that every so often creeps out when I’m PMSing or feeling otherwise nostalgic.

There were plenty of days like that during summer when I was growing up, where an impromptu barbeque would bring all my wacky neighbors to the surface and I could sneak sips from their beers and suck the yolks out of devilled eggs.

In those days, my family was only one of several seriously deranged units on the block. My father’s penchant for blowing things up – hornet nests, buckets of grass clippings, squirrels – paled only in comparison to the diet drug-addicted woman across the street who once pounded on our front door and insisted that Satan was in her bedroom closet.

I can still remember her frantic calls to my mother from the front stoop.

“Hurry! Hurry! Pam, you have to come over and help me!! He’s in there!”

My mother kept the screen door firmly latched and tried to sort things out.

“Did you see him, Linda?” she asked.

“Oh yes! He’s awful and red and he’s after me!”

“And what did you do? Is anyone else home?”

“I screamed and ran out. I’m the only one home. Please, come help me!”

Why she figured my mom could exorcise Satan from her home is anyone’s guess, but it was the kind of challenge my mother was up for. She is, of course, the same woman who enjoyed sending me to parochial school with books about voodoo tucked into my bag, and would feign innocence when the school called home concerned about my moral well being. An exorcism was right up her alley.

So she grabbed a broom, told me to stay put, and marched across the street. I’m still not sure what the broom was for, maybe “sweeping” out the demon – or maybe it occurred to her that someone, Satan or otherwise, really was hanging around in the Fredericks’ bedroom and she wanted to have a makeshift weapon.

It seemed work. My mother entered the house, broom waving, and yelling, “Satan be gone!” and “I cast thee out!” She wasn’t an ordained minister by any stretch, but if Satan had been there at all, he made a hasty retreat back to hell, and Mrs. Frederick returned to some semblance of normal. The next day in summer art class, I made my mother a Certificate of Exorcism (side note: it’s best to not ask park district employees how to spell words like “exorcism”).

That memory surged through my head as our neighbor babbled about cookouts and potato salad, and had it not been for the terrific smile it put on my face, maybe Sally wouldn’t have been so encouraged to ask for my phone number.

I could see my guy’s eyes widen when she pulled out her cell phone to add my number to her contacts; he knows very well that I guard my phone number more closely than I do my bank account. But there was something wistful in me that night, something hopeful and oddly traditional, and against every better misanthropic instinct in my body, I heard myself offering Sally my number and saying I looked forward to hearing from her.

Nothing good can ever come from romanticizing a fake exorcism. Sally called three times the next day, and with each passing voice mail, urged me to call her back as soon as possible.

When I finally mustered the energy to answer her fourth call, I discovered her real impetus.

“So, I wanted to run something past you,” she said. “My husband and I have an amazing home business, and I wanted to offer you and your guy the opportunity to earn some extra money working from home like we do. You can be your own boss!”

Sally was understandably disappointed when I told her that my guy and I would sooner harvest our own organs than participate in any direct sales business.

I hung up the phone and shook my head. For all the sarcasm, tasteless jokes, and general debauchery that my guy and I subject the neighborhood to, we have never, ever stooped to faking a friendship to forge a pyramid scheme deal.

And if that makes us “those” neighbors, so be it.

Four decadent meals, two smuggled Mojitos in Central Park, one anti-kissing curmudgeon at the Plaza, and countless other amazing New York moments later, and I find myself walking around with a brilliant smile that seems to be nauseating everyone but me.  And I couldn’t be happier about it.

Actual blog to come by the end of the month. Until then, enjoy some pics of my recent tour of New York with my guy. (Click the thumbnails for bigger images.)

Last night I typed the two greatest words ever to wrap up 50 chapters of my life. “The end” has never been so satisfying.

They certainly didn’t come without price: the past six days have been spent in near seclusion. My meals have consisted of swigs of Jack, handfuls of tortilla chips, and Orbit spearmint gum. (I switched to Orbit when I ran out of pen caps to mangle. Damn oral fixation. I would have made one hell of a smoker.) Aside from a Thursday night outing at my local rock club that I’m unofficially dubbing the, “Four chapters left, several shots to go” celebration, I’ve barely left my writing perch.

The result is a book that has been five years in the making: “Morning Neurosis is the true story of a girl trying to reconcile her rock n’ roll roots with reality.” Or at least, that’s what I’ll tell the publishers I plan to shop the book to.

My apologies to those whom the words ring too true. But this is my story, and, as I’ve said many times: be careful around writers, nothing is ever entirely off the record.

Enjoy, and look for the sequel, Afternoon Psychosis, coming soon!

J

PS – new blog coming soon, I promise! Until then, enjoy the picture. And yes, those are my boobs.

Few things are hotter than bowling shoes and knee socks.

(Perhaps this is Reason #34.)

I chase my bitterness with wine tonight. One goes down easier than the other, and I imagine the clouds in the horizon are mountains. It’s going to take more than wine to get me to tell the truth, though it rises in the back of my throat like the lyrics of my favorite song.

My lips press together. The softness can hardly hold back my relentless craving for the familiar. It’s a bittersweet contradiction that the thing I’ve said I don’t want is the only thing I can think of. Though nothing ever comes of such morbid romanticism, I can’t help but pick at it, click on it, try to force my way through stories I’ve already read.

The colors and the flavors and the sounds are now no more than a hand held up, a gesture of encompassing acknowledgment that does little to sway my conflict. If anyone understands this, it would be you.

More seems to happen when I’m not consciously looking. My mornings start when I find it; my days end when it vanishes. The minutes in between are what keep me awake.

Were my resolution less a tangible force, I’d be more inclined to dim the lights and ease into acceptance. Or maybe I’d actually speak the words I really mean, I can’t quite be sure. Pride, ego, fear, and consideration make a strong filter for the division between mind and heart and provide a convenient cover story.

Still I stand behind it all. There’s safety in pain, a lustful satisfaction that masquerades as comfort. I’m certain you know what I mean.

Something always breaks in the end. If it’s me, and with my scratched surface and itching arms it may very well be, I will tell the truth.

Salvation or my ultimate ruin is only a few words away.