** Kurt, you are forewarned. This entry deals with hippie hygiene. Mine.**
Tonight Brian was flipped upside down on the rocking seat while we chatted.
"Hey did you shave your armpits?!" he suddenly asked.
I laughed at his acute sense of observation; razor action is a rare enough happening, although I had vowed to return to the habit. Pheromones were overpowering my righteous indignance at the frivolity & belittling aesthetics of the so-called beauty industry. As I am not trying to attract a mate, I have no need for hormone-laced fuzz & dusted off my unopened blades to re-introduce my underarm skin to the autumn air.
"Shaving is just obvious when you have a conversation upside down," he explained. (However as this was our first upside down conversation, logic dictates he's observed my underarms while right side up.) "And I was thinking it is funny how women don't shave their armpits and that breaks the norm, and I do shave mine which breaks another norm."
Lisa, Arianna and I oohed and aahhed as he pulled up his work shirt sleeve to show his trimmed crop; the scene was undeniably co-op.
What Brian did not detect was that, going all out today, I also wore the Tom's lavender deodorant he gave me right after moving into the house. That's what new friends are for: organic deodorants.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
the reports of his death have been greatly exaggerated
Rumor has it that the Cone is alive & trotting triumphantly around HP following a train-hopping trek through the Rockies.
Whether he actually crossed the Rockies or ended up in a Jewel factory yard in Eastern Illinois (again) remains to be verified.
Whether he actually crossed the Rockies or ended up in a Jewel factory yard in Eastern Illinois (again) remains to be verified.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
mrs. nelson's column
Sunday night Ori, Annetay, Lauren, Corr and I are watching a Coen brothers film when the basement phone rings. thinking it might be megan announcing her safe arrival to her new co-op 900 miles away, I went to grab the cordless.
an accented voice greeted me. "is nelson christopher available?"
em...
no one exactly knows chris nelson. no resident in the last 4 years, nor the co-opers we've met from 6, 7, 9 or 10 years ago, have ever met christopher --- although everyone agrees the name sounds "familiar."
most notably christopher nelson is the name under whom our phone is registered. the bills come in his name, and haymarket (as haymarket) pays them. there is no check forgery, but there is also no idea where - or even who - christopher is, when exactly he lived here and whether he knows there are two phone accounts in his name. considering he has student loans for which he's never provided a forwarding address, the theory is that we are the best thing on his credit record.
and knowing how long he's been headlining our bills, no one is exactly hopping up and down to switch the account to their name.
so when someone calls for him, the proper response is not "there is no christopher at this residence" but a simple blurry truth "chris is not home now. may i take a message?"
sunday night, i settled on an answer to subtly, smugly, let this man know anyone who couldn't tell first name from last had telegraphed himself as a salesman, and a mediocre one at that.
"chris," i said, "isn't home."
"is this mrs nelson?"
"nope."
"may i speak with mrs nelson?"
"there is no mrs nelson."
"may i speak to a member of the family?"
"there is no family. what is this in regard to? may i take a message?"
"is this mrs nelson?"
he didn't catch on rapidly.
"no. this is a housemate of christopher nelson."
"well. today i have a wonderful offer for ADS, dish satellite."
"in that case, we have comcast and we're satisfied. we barely ever watch tv."
"so you ARE mrs nelson!!" he declared triumphantly.
"false," i rolled my eyes. "there's no mrs nelson."
"I don't believe you mrs nelson."
if he couldn't sell me dish tv he'll try to sell me an alter ego? cheeky! "what? NO! there isn't one."
"i don't think you're very nice, i don't believe you. you're trying to play with me, mrs nelson, by saying there is no mrs nelson."
"i am a housemate."
"suddenly i mention satellite and you know that you are satisfied with comcast, sounds like mrs nelson to m-"
breathing had paused on the couches in the movie area.
corrigan's voice floated over, "uhh, do you want us to pause the movie?"
"No," i said over my shoulder. then into the phone, "NO, detective! i am a housemate, a mate of the house, do you get it, a room mate, we share a house. there is no mrs nelson. we don't want satellite. NO THANK YOU, and no need to call back. Goodbye."
an accented voice greeted me. "is nelson christopher available?"
em...
no one exactly knows chris nelson. no resident in the last 4 years, nor the co-opers we've met from 6, 7, 9 or 10 years ago, have ever met christopher --- although everyone agrees the name sounds "familiar."
most notably christopher nelson is the name under whom our phone is registered. the bills come in his name, and haymarket (as haymarket) pays them. there is no check forgery, but there is also no idea where - or even who - christopher is, when exactly he lived here and whether he knows there are two phone accounts in his name. considering he has student loans for which he's never provided a forwarding address, the theory is that we are the best thing on his credit record.
and knowing how long he's been headlining our bills, no one is exactly hopping up and down to switch the account to their name.
so when someone calls for him, the proper response is not "there is no christopher at this residence" but a simple blurry truth "chris is not home now. may i take a message?"
sunday night, i settled on an answer to subtly, smugly, let this man know anyone who couldn't tell first name from last had telegraphed himself as a salesman, and a mediocre one at that.
"chris," i said, "isn't home."
"is this mrs nelson?"
"nope."
"may i speak with mrs nelson?"
"there is no mrs nelson."
"may i speak to a member of the family?"
"there is no family. what is this in regard to? may i take a message?"
"is this mrs nelson?"
he didn't catch on rapidly.
"no. this is a housemate of christopher nelson."
"well. today i have a wonderful offer for ADS, dish satellite."
"in that case, we have comcast and we're satisfied. we barely ever watch tv."
"so you ARE mrs nelson!!" he declared triumphantly.
"false," i rolled my eyes. "there's no mrs nelson."
"I don't believe you mrs nelson."
if he couldn't sell me dish tv he'll try to sell me an alter ego? cheeky! "what? NO! there isn't one."
"i don't think you're very nice, i don't believe you. you're trying to play with me, mrs nelson, by saying there is no mrs nelson."
"i am a housemate."
"suddenly i mention satellite and you know that you are satisfied with comcast, sounds like mrs nelson to m-"
breathing had paused on the couches in the movie area.
corrigan's voice floated over, "uhh, do you want us to pause the movie?"
"No," i said over my shoulder. then into the phone, "NO, detective! i am a housemate, a mate of the house, do you get it, a room mate, we share a house. there is no mrs nelson. we don't want satellite. NO THANK YOU, and no need to call back. Goodbye."
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
twilight picnic
Veggie skewers, burgers, tomato-mozza-basil pasta, and union songs to the strummings of guitar and mandolin. Twenty-odd joyous co-opers and a twinkling fire. Sweet September holiday: no labor in sight.
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