PIECES OF MARGO

Nice "Parking"

2012-03-11T15:23:00.000-04:00

I squandered over an hour of my life on this blog, and I wanted to share it with my readers in the hopes that your work productivity or precious free time will be similarly diminished (or enriched, depending on how you look at it).

It is a UK-based blog dedicated to, uhhh, bad parking. I don't know about you, gentle reader, but when I used to drive, bad, selfish parkers drove me batty. I was once engaged in a silly and completely unnecessary war with a neighbor, a passive-aggressive Asian exchange student, who felt entitled to park his enormous boat of a 1982 Grand Marquis next to my defenseless little tin can car (in doing so, his car also occluded the alleyway behind our apartments, I might add). Boxed me in every....single...time. I had to climb in through the passenger side on many, many occasions. My notes to him started out polite, but grew increasingly urgent, and he refused to engage with me in person when I knocked on his door.

Eventually, after much complaining to the landlord, my neighbor was forced to park his boat on the street. I was so obsessed with the parking battle by this point in time that I wanted to run out there and do the dirty chicken victory dance on the empty parking space. So, so petty, but neighbors can drive you nuts sometimes. (FYI, my neighbor flipped the landlord a symbolic middle finger by dumping his ratty old couch in his old, contested parking spot when he moved out. I also think he keyed my car, but I can't prove it.)

Anyway, this blog is dedicated to bad parking. Be warned, the commentary underneath the photos is full of profanity, so it might not be safe for work. The cursing is in British English, so I'm unfamiliar with most of it, which negates its offensiveness and somehow makes the content matter more hilarious to me. It's like listening to Gordon Ramsay swear at people in the parking lot. Or the "car park."

A Jems calls this one “Cyclist Hater cunt”

This is another example of some cunt saying “now, I’m sure the council meant to put a space here. Tell you what, I’ll just park up and they’ll get the message”. Fuck anyone else who wants to use this space for its intended purpose i.e. walking, cycling, pushing prams/wheelchairs, driving mobility scooters. Yeah, their need is far inferior to yours, you cunt.

Thoughts on My Drinking, and Why I Had to Stop

2012-03-08T01:23:00.000-05:00

I relapsed on half a bottle of Cook's champagne that someone else left in the fridge.

How very dignified, Miss Margo. I mean, really. If I had to mess it up again, the least I could have done was drink something top-shelf. Cook's champagne is basically the "classy" alternative to Thunderbird or Arbor Mist. In addition, it had gone flat, which contributed to its charm.

Drinking the champagne ("champagne!" ha! ha!) was both stupid and pointless. It was stupid because alcohol kills alcoholics. It was pointless because I did not even get drunk. A part of me is tempted to run to the store, buy a bottle of whatever, and at least finish the job.

However, I have enough of my wits about me (Cook's--your champagne is ineffective!) to realize that getting blasted would be moronic. Spectacularly ill-advised.

Behold, gentle reader, the truly bizarre thinking of the addict: "Since I already had three glasses of Cook's, I might as well get blackout drunk by myself in my apartment with my neon tetras."

vs.

"Thank God you did not get inebriated and disgrace or endanger yourself or anyone else. Wouldn't it be more fun to read the new issue of Harper's that just came in the mail? Or paint your toenails, or stand in traffic, or ANYTHING other than get drunk? By the way, you know this shit is going to destroy your life if you keep doing it, right? You can still pull out of this with your health, intellect, and reputation intact. You can still have a future."

Why would I even want to get drunk if I know what it feels like and its attendant consequences?   Really. This is an honest question. It's not as if it feels fun anymore. They call it "happy hour" for a reason: you feel good for about an hour. Getting drunk on a regular basis becomes very boring, and very redundant, very quickly. I wish that was the worst I could say about alcohol. I quit because it was making me feel badly, and then it started to get scary. I've heard stories in A.A. meetings that would turn your hair white. Horror stories. Comparatively, I started drinking late in my life, and drank alcoholically for only a few years (I am not trying to minimize my behavior). I was mostly a quiet, at-home drinker (I think women tend to be), and for most of that time, I was functional. I was never raped (to my recollection, ha ha), robbed, beaten up, thrown in prison, or thrown out of a bar. None of my friends were hard drinkers. I didn't drink at school, at work, or when I was writing professionally (I confess: I did drink wine sometimes while grading freshman essays at night. You would drink if you had to grade them too, gentle reader. I assure you. One immortal line, which I shall never forget, was: "The  Odyssey is like the movie Pirates of the Carribean (sic), only without Johnny Depp." Yes yes, pass me the wine, please.)

The gist of that imperfect paragraph is that, compared to many drinkers, I got off light. Very light. Nor did I have any family to harm, thank God, thank God. But I'll tell you something else: it was still so terrible that by the time I knew that I had to give it up, I was so miserable that I wanted to die. That is not an exaggeration. It was truly wretched. Astonishingly, it never occurred to me that soaking my brain in whiskey most nights out of the week might be a contributing factor in my unhappiness. I thought to myself, "I'll stop when things get better! I'll stop when things get better!" But see, I had it backwards--circumstances did not (indeed, could not) get better until I stopped.

And, as I mentioned above, things were starting to get scary, and that's saying a lot. (Miss Margo was imprinted wrong, and so things (and individuals) that other people find frightening do not necessarily disturb her. Instead, she is frightened of other things, such as spending the night in bed with a man and then eating breakfast with him. FREAKOUT!!!) A small constellation of frightening and utterly unnecessary alcohol-related experiences which occurred within a two-month period of time.   Some alcoholics experience a catastrophic, life-changing event which constitutes their "bottom;" I had a handful of smaller ones.

But it was enough. It was enough. It had become intolerable.

So, I dragged myself in to see the drug and alcohol counselor at the Campus health clinic. She had me complete an extensive survey about my drinking. It took an hour to finish. I was honest about everything.

I went back to see her and get the survey results a few days later. She looked up from her computer screen and calmly told me that I consumed more alcohol than, like, 94% of the college population.

Uh-oh.

So, how are we going to fix this...? I wasn't physically addicted (yet), so I didn't need detox or inpatient rehab. I could probably quit on my own volition without being strapped to a table in a fucking psych ward. Fortunately, we got to skip those parts.

What's next?

I'll tell you what, friends and neighbors. The options on the recovery menu for addicts in this country are very limited. One might say that it is indeed frix prixe. That is being generous.

Would you like Alcoholics Anonymous, or would you like Alcoholics Anonymous?

You. Have Got. To be shitting me.

Is this really the best you can do for us, modern psychiatry? AA? Thanks for nothing! They should force every M.D. to read The Big Book in their residency.

As you might infer from my tone, I am not a fan. I will refrain from further criticism, but I assure you, the catalog would make for some serious reading. I mean, they should play audio tapes of this book to torture the terrorists with at Gitmo.

If I said this at a meeting, at least a few people there would want to chop my head off and they would not be shy of telling me so (if you are in AA, you know exactly what I'm talking about). Think of those crazy Arab dudes who went homicidal over the cartoons of Mohammad in that Dutch magazine.

I fear their wrath and their spam and hateful hatemail, so I'll shut up now.

Fortunately, I live in New York City. There are AA meetings here for everyone. There is probably an AA meeting for tran-sexual turkeys somewhere.

I found a few meetings for people like myself. They help. My personal belief is that AA helps because it re-connects you to the human race. By the time you actually get there--you know, show up for the first time--you've pretty much dropped out of life. It's the individuals and their stories that have helped me, rather than 'The Program.'

I am so, so glad that I spent two hours writing this blog post instead of getting drunk. It is not the best blog post I have ever written, but I enjoyed writing it. Writing is definitely better for me than drinking. Must remember that.

Three glasses of Cook's is not the end of the world. Boy, did I ever dodge that bullet. Believe me, if I was sitting here drunk right now (and I would be, watching nature vids on YouTube or some random thing), I would be feeling as if it was the end of the world. As every police officer, bouncer, and prosecutor will tell you, booze does not exactly enhance the accuracy of one's, ahh, perspective.

Tell you what--every time I really want to drink, I am going to sit down here and type out a scene from my drunkalogue. Not to shame myself, but to keep the terror of what that was like fresh in my mind. That is accurate perspective.

P.S. I CANNOT WAIT until I've recovered enough that I don't have to maintain it all the damn time. This is hard work. It's also ANNOYING.

Obsessed with Men

2012-03-06T09:10:00.002-05:00

I think I might be losing my mind. Just in the interest of full disclosure.

I had about five hours' sleep last night until I woke up unnecessarily early could not fall back asleep. I tossed and turned; finally got up.

I had vivid, unpleasant dreams last night. This blog entry is not the first thing I've written today--when I have a very sharp dream, I write it down as soon as I awake, before it fades (usually, thankfully, the composition of dreams are brief--they tend to be compact; dense). The themes of the dream were not unfamiliar to me. I'd post it here, but you would find the content matter offensive, and you would be concerned for my sanity and peace of mind.

(and check this out--I have a LIT REVIEW that I have to submit later today; I'm writing it for pay. It is mostly composed, thank heaven, but it still needs about three hours more of fine-tuning. I do not submit inferior work, especially if I am being paid for my services. And I. Do NOT. Want to even LOOK at it.)

I. am. obsessed. by men right now.

I've always had a strong libido, and unless I was in a monogamous relationship (and yes, believe it or not, gentle reader, I can be monogamous and emotionally true when I commit to that--in the past, with men I loved, I was monogamous for years), I have indulged myself and been a swinging single. Well, oftentimes. Grad school ate my life for several years and I was NOT living in, ahh, a very fashionable neighborhood during that time. Luckily, when you are female, nobody discriminates against you for being broke and living in the ghetto (you are discriminated against for other reasons, which is why I always advise female friends to get it--sex and male attention--while the getting is good. You hit forty, forty-five, and the shoe is on the other foot in dazzling speed.).

Wait, where was I going with this...?

Oh, yes. As if I could forget! Ha, ha!

I want a man. I want a man. I want a man. Craving craving craving.

Furthermore, I cannot act on my impulses because I recognize that my desires are making me nuts, and therefore I am vulnerable. My judgement is unsound. It will be better soon, even in a week, I have no doubt, but in the meantime I have to wait this out. I will probably be a little more sane as soon as tomorrow, but right now, I want I want I want I want.

Sorry, gentle reader, but in the immediate future you should only expect posts about imaginary boyfriends and dad crushes and boy shoes and how fascinating it is to watch men shave and open jars and pick up heavy stuff.

Relentless

2012-03-04T11:26:00.000-05:00

The Surgeon is pursuing me relentlessly.

I knew that he would react this way when I left him. This isn't my first rodeo.

Memo to self: he does not want you because he loves you.

I know, myself, that urgent, violent need to POSSESS an individual. (Unlike the Surgeon, I can control this urge, and I'm aware of it, and I can TURN IT OFF when the time for it is done--when it is no longer appropriate to feel or engage in these behaviors). That--the desire for possession and its attendant security-- is what he is currently feeling, in addition to the feeling of being insulted. And out of control. Hates to feel out of control; for a personality like him, there is nothing worse. We are just alike.

But the intensity of his scrutiny--it's like standing in the sunshine; it's what I've craved all my life. To be seen, to be recognized (by the object of my desire--this is different than wanting to be liked or popular). This is what makes me such an excellent masochist. And I am, without question, a superlative masochist. I am not afraid of pain, and I can eroticize being the subject of hatred.

The best way I know to channel, handle this, is to be controlled by someone who will not damage me.

Where do I find such a man...?

If it can't be done, then how can I give this up?

Oh God, I'll take this down for certain. Too intimate. But I cannot afford my analyst these days.

Frustration Anger Hatred

2012-03-03T21:48:00.001-05:00

Okay, it's Saturday night and I'm sitting home alone like some loser. I'm a young woman; if I'm not having sex right now, I have no one to blame but myself. Fine. I accept this. It's just me and my birds, watching last night's episode of Real Time with Bill Maher. James Carville is still kinda Hawt, and he used to be one of the best hired killers in Washington before he became just another partisan hack. He's lazy and sold out, but in the 1990s, he was absolutely lethal, and you never completely lose that sort of talent. While he does not qualify for Imaginary Boyfriend status, Carville could still beat me with a coat hanger whenever he wanted to. Call me, Mr. Carville. I'll provide the coat hanger. All you have to do is show up.

Just me and Parrot! Yup!

Fine, out with it, out with it: I am pissed. Pissed I'm lonely right now, pissed that I still want to lose weight, pissed that my leg looks like it was beaten by a rank amateur (not too far from the truth), and I am EXTREMELY PISSED about the B.S. experience I endured today at my secret job.

How can I discuss this experience on my blog without risking fucking myself over....?

I cannot. Oh well!

Man rolls into the Superstudio high as a kite (this is not unusual, or necessarily alarming). On a bender and out of his mind. He wants to see Miss Margo. Okay, he's not threatening, he knows what he wants, he's not trying to violate any of my boundaries. Miss Margo is not here to judge you about your drug use, so long as you mind your manners. You are apparently an established wackadoodle. So, okay. Let's rock.

I tell management: I'm going in. They KNOW this man is nuts. They gave him vodka to calm him down. Think about that. "Here, have three vodka-cranberries to mellow out!"

I was left in that room for thirty goddamned minutes OVERTIME (unpaid) before I could get out of there. He didn't try to hurt me, he did not violate me. If he had, I would have run for it or tasered him or called the K9. I knew the time was running over, but I couldn't prove it, because there are no clocks there, and I cannot wear a watch. I was waiting, waiting waiting--knock knock, please!

If this was a normal job, I would be suing, or at minimum filing a formal complaint with HR.

It was dead--no other business--and management was SNOOZING on me for no reason, and I had to handle this batshit high individual who was bouncing off the walls. Forget the fact that I wasn't remunerated for my time--I should not have been neglected or unattended by the management. I have NEVER had a person this bad at the Superstudio. Never. Give me Jackass John any day--ANY DAY! John is nuts but sweet as cake. Give me Jame Gumb. I mean it.

I could not say to the management: "WHY DIDN'T YOU LOOK OUT FOR ME WHEN YOU KNEW THAT I WAS WITH THIS FRUITLOOP?! WHY DON'T YOU GO SPEND TIME WITH HIM?! WHAT AM I PAYING YOU FOR?! THANKS FOR NOTHING!"

They manage my bookings. If our relationship becomes tense or hostile, I won't make a dime.

Never again, never again.

That's the sad thing about learning boundaries in this life: unfortunately, you rarely recognize and enforce your own until after they have been violated. Like Depp's character said in that film The Libertine: "Every lesson worth learning in this life in invariably learned at your own expense." (That's the quote as I remember it; it may be inaccurate.)

10:40 PM P.S. On a happier note, I went to verify that quote from The Libertine. Unfortunately, the film is not free online at YouTube. Oh, the injustice (I am being sarcastic). Anyway, if you haven't seen this film, you ought to see it. This is not a costume-romance period piece. Nothing corny or breezy here. It is serious, serious as a heart attack, and the writing and acting simply cannot be improved upon. The people making this film were trying to make a point. Several points. This is a serious actors' film; the type of project an actor would commit themselves to just for the character and dialogue they could play.

Okay this is a misleading POS from Youtube; it is only a trailer, please only watch the only 1:06 minutes. Sorry. I couldn't find anything better. The Libertine wasn't a blockbuster, you know.

One of the sexiest movie scenes EVER. In the scene, Depp's character is re-seducing his (intelligent and rightly disgusted and fed-up) wife in a carriage. This movie is fascinating for many reasons. Depp is a cynical alcoholic, but he is not insensitive, and he acknowledges the people who have emotionally contributed to his life (like his wife. Note, though, his cold hatred towards his mother--important). He is not a sociopath. Could be a terrible person, though, as active addicts typically are.

Power. Power, here. She was worth a ton of cash, he took her, he was imprisoned for doing so (it goes without saying that women had to be from super-important families before accosting them merited legal action in those days), and she insisted that he be released to marry her. POWER. Electric. On both sides. Why else would she put up with this philandering junkie asshole? And what would be he without her money--not that he was poor to begin with. He's got a noble title and creative talent, but practically, BFD, right? It's output which is crucial, not potential. She had to put up with his awful husbandry because culture demanded it, but she could have checked out of the relationship emotionally. Found a lover to be close with (maybe she did). Someone to give her children, if she wanted them.

But she is there, there, there with him, till the very last. Her "Dear Abductor." She cared about him, and he hit the jackpot with her in every meaning, and he knew it, even though he neglected her terribly. There is a scene in the film in which Depp's character is dying of syphilis and alcoholism and he's pointlessly infuriated the King (his boss) again, and his long-suffering wife shouts at him: "I am ever your last resort!"

I understand. Sweetling, I know you are a fictive character in a film, but I have to wonder: what sort of person was your father?

Most Erotic Poetry EVER

2012-03-03T10:40:00.000-05:00

From a preview of a Walt Whitman piece I'm working on....

I believe in you my soul...and the other I am must not abuse itself to you,
and you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass...loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music, or rhyme I want...not custom or lecture,
not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how we lay in June, such a transparent summer morning;
You settled your head athwart my hips and gently turned over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my barestript heart,
And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.

The barestript heart, the barestript heart, and loosing the stop from the throat.
I've read it a million times, and still the emotions it provokes within me are so powerful that I cannot stand it. Why does it feel like pain?

I'll chicken out and take this down.

Back from Power-Junkie Fake Conservative Cowtown

2012-03-02T19:16:00.000-05:00

Well, that was interesting!

For obvious reasons, I cannot talk in any detail about my professional or academic life on this blog. Suffice it to say that I went out of town to introduce the research presentation of a scholar who hired me to edit his manuscripts and manage his datasets because he is too ossified and stubborn to be bothered to learn the computer software. His field of study is only vaguely related to my own. Whatever--I needed the money, and I need to fill up the white space on my C.V. in whatever way I can.

After the presentation, I rushed to a hotel and emerged like Clark Kent changing into Superman. Well, not exactly. Perhaps that is not the most accurate metaphor. I just passed through the veil; fell back into my secret life.

Dressed for Dinner

I had a blind date scheduled with an interesting fellow--he of the douchebaggy Corvette (he's an academic too--what he was doing with that car, I'll never know--most of us tend to be Prius, Honda, and Ford Fiesta types).

Some people say you shouldn't date right after a breakup. Personally, I think that is silly. You shouldn't date if you don't feel like it. But it can be good for your self-esteem and sense of perspective to get out of the house and hang out with someone new who you can have fun with. Just don't lie about anything. Keep it ethical.

Was this a date? I don't know what this was. Hmmm.

I had a good time--many new things--interesting and sharp fellow, being in a strange city, hotel room (I love hotels. Love love love hotels). It was so...exciting? No. It was an escape. That is what it was. It was an escape from my life.

LOOK AT THIS AWESOME SHOWER!!! It rains from the ceiling plate. I spent 2 hours in there. Such accommodations are not destined for the likes of Miss Margo, so I enjoy them while I can.

The man was not the most competent Top I've ever seen. Hate to say it. I know it's easy for me to say this, because I have a lot of experience, and unfortunately, most people who are interested in sadomasochism just don't get the opportunity to develop their skills. Especially the men. They just don't. It's tough. I really sympathize with the plight of BDSM daters. Hell, I'm one of them, I know how it is.

I also know that many people lie in their online profiles and personals ads. I've done it--I'll admit it. When I was drinking, I said that I was a "social drinker," which is hilarious now that I think about it, because I was exactly the opposite. I've lied about my neighborhood (afraid of stalkers). I guess that men are supposed to lie about how tall they are, but I've never cared about that. Guys complain that women lie about their body type.

But do...not...misrepresent your skill set to me. I'll know if you do pretty quickly.

A few of these injuries are not where they should be. That is my professional opinion.

note defensive injury on arm; wraparound on sides and hip

That lumpiness is not cellulite, but swelling. On the side of the thigh...? Whaaa?

The Corvette: When You Want to Brag, Who Needs Legroom?

2012-03-02T05:59:00.001-05:00

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I can finally die happily now: I have ridden in a Corvette.

Readers of Pieces of Margo will know that I don't give a damn about cars and, if anything, actually consider them to be obnoxious. A scourge of the earth, if you really want to know. The internal combustion engine was not one of mankind's best ideas.

However, since I have just ridden around inside of a preposterous douchebaggy luxury sports car for the very first time, I decided to report on it.

The leather seating was too hard, and as you can see, there was no room for my legs. It's true that I have long legs, but come on--what if I was a six-foot dude? How do people sit in this thing on a regular basis? The car looked very flashy, however, and got a lot of attention from other drivers and passersby, which, I am sure, was the whole point. Indeed, like Miss Margo herself, it was the perfect vehicle for a certain gentleman's midlife crisis.

note bruise on right knee, and yes that is the SEAT underneath my thigh

note DIFFERENT bruise on inside of right knee. Classy! Trying to carry legs elegantly in six inches of legroom.

My wakeup call's at 7 AM and I cannot sleep. The minibar is threatening me. I should have asked the hotel staff to remove it. I heard (too late) that they will do that for you if them to. Note to fellow people in recovery (or at least new ones, like myself): get that booze out of the room; you'll feel better. (I have a recovering friend whose boyfriend keeps a full bar in their apartment. I don't know how she handles it.)

Screw you, minibar! Thanks for nothing!

It's okay, I will be fine. What would I get out of sucking down that $60 bottle of Johnnie Walker except a raging hangover for the train back to NYC and a depressing relapse into a lethal life-destroying dignity-stealing addiction?

Well, that was a nice reality check.

Maybe now I can get an hour's sleep....?

Skipping Town

2012-02-29T05:54:00.001-05:00

Headed to a fake city which is basically a big conservative cowtown populated by ambitious egomaniacal power-junkie brown-nosing assholes from every corner of our great nation, almost all of whom have (at minimum) MAs or JDs. Pop quiz: to which city do I refer? (I am kidding with you, gentle reader. I know that you know).

Ha! Ha! Sounds like the perfect place for me to find a new boyfriend! (I jest! I jest! Well, sort of....).

Back in 48 hours.

New York Cockroaches are Truly Immortal

2012-02-28T20:12:00.001-05:00

I am revolted by most insects, especially cockroaches. (Incidentally, I realize that my fear of them is truly silly). I have blogged about my encounters with Manhattan insects (should you feel compelled to explore these experiences for yourself) here and here.

The other night I got up around 3 AM to use the restroom. I hate flipping on the light in the middle of the night, because that is when I am most likely to see a roach, fleeing, usually out of the corner of my eye--those hideous beasts are fast. Don't get the wrong idea, please, my apartment is not a roach-festival--I lay down a million traps and keep a pretty clean place--but I cannot spray insecticides because of my pet birds and fish. So every now and then I come across a roach. Why am I justifying this to you, gentle reader? If you are from the tri-state area, you know that they are a fact of life here.

So, I'm sitting in the restroom, bleary-eyed, mostly asleep, and what do I see in the bathtub but a disgusting cockroach? At least he was very small and relatively inoffensive. At 3 AM, I was in no mood to physically engage him (as if I ever am), so I grabbed the bleach from underneath the sink, set the nozzle to 'stream,' and soaked him. Soaked him. If I soaked you with bleach in that manner, gentle reader, you would die. I am certain of it.

The roach rolled over onto its back and appeared to be perishing.

I washed my hands and went to back to bed, thinking that I would wash his body down the drain in the morning.

Well, guess what (I know that you know where this is going).

I rolled out of bed later that morning and went to take a shower.

There was no dead roach in the bathtub. Or the bathroom. I searched and searched.

Somehow, improbably, he survived. Not only did he live, he managed to run away home.

How? How?

Happy Anniversary to Pieces of Margo!!! Thank you all!

2012-02-27T23:23:00.000-05:00

Image taken from: http://parrotpressnews.blogspot.com/2010/06/berts-blueberry-carrot-cake.html

I began this blog one year ago today. Happy Anniversary to Pieces of Margo!

Blogging has become a very satisfying hobby for me. It has afforded me the opportunity to correspond with fascinating individuals and has encouraged my personal growth, sobriety, and willingness to trust in others. I would like to express my gratitude to everyone who has read this blog; I find it very flattering.

I was terrified to write honestly about my life because I presumed any readers would find me weird or perverted or even objectionable (I'm also paranoid about my anonymity, of course). To my complete astonishment, almost all of the letters and feedback I've received have been positive or supportive in tone (note 2/28: I am, in fact, both weird and perverted. I am okay with that, though that last is...well, problematical, as every perv trying to date knows). I realize that the readers of this blog do not compromise a random cross-sample of the general population (I know almost nothing about my readers, but I know that my traffic isn't coming in through The New York Times online or Huffington Post, if you know what I mean), but I've still been pleasantly surprised by the positive feedback people have sent me. (Every now and then I do get hatemail--they NEVER post their sentiments in the comments section, always in email--but I've worked in journalism before, so I anticipated that. Most of the haters sound cracked, which makes their insults easy to brush off.)

I am rambling, as I am wont to do. I simply wish to express my gratitude for your interest in my blog. For whatever it's worth, this blog (AND YOU!) have helped me to change into a better person. A year ago, when I published my first post, Miss Margo was like this:

Image found at: http://deafpagancrossroads.com/2009/06/21/oceans-anniversary-party/

Except that I had no crown. And I did not drink EVERY night. I mean, I had papers to write. Oh, hell, forget it--it was bad enough; why minimize it?

Finally, for your enjoyment, gentle reader: I FOUND A VIDEO ON YOUTUBE OF A PARROT SINGING MOZART! (he only starts singing halfway trough the video; please be patient)

Sadder Girl

2012-02-25T11:49:00.001-05:00

Oh God, the Surgeon called me last night for the zillionth time and like a moron, I took the call. Why, why, why? Two. Hours. He did about 80%-90% of the talking, or shouting, or bargaining, or whatever it was. Actually, I know what it was, because I wasn't drinking, so my memory is unmercifully clear. Wait, why did I like drinking so much...? Oh, yeah...

At least I had the maturity and clarity of mind to stand up for myself and interrupt his tirade whenever he told me that I was "wrong." Sorry buddy, you do not get to dictate to me whether my dissatisfaction in the relationship is "wrong." He also kept defending himself from things I never accused him of or that had even occurred to me (rather telling). "I know I'm right! I know I'm right!" he kept saying. Right about what? That you were the perfect boyfriend? What are you talking about? I never said you were "wrong" about anything. Why are you talking crazily? (note: I was just thinking this. I didn't say anything). Then he said that he bought me flowers on Monday (what?). Then he said that I had hurt his feelings (you should have heard the metaphors he was using, gentle reader; they were more graphic than "hurt his feelings.") and that it was my obligation to "make it better." Then he said that he could not trust me anymore. Then he said that I had to go on a trip with him next month to (Tropical Vacation Paradise).

Then he said he loved me and got off the phone.

This is a highly intelligent, highly accomplished man I am describing, gentle reader. I've read some of his work. Hell, I've edited it. The little hamster upstairs is running in its wheel quite well. He lacks intellectual curiosity and I know for a fact that I'm better-read than he is, but I think he could probably beat me on IQ score. Probably. I would also, incidentally, recommend his professional talents to anyone. If President Obama needed surgery, I would say: get thee to the Surgeon. If my Mom needed surgery, I'd send her to him.

Unbelievable. Can I pick em, or can I pick em?

For what it's worth, he didn't act like this most of the time we were together. Swear to God. It's just the breakup making him crazy.

No mentally sound man who reads this will ever want anything to do with me.

I will probably remove this post, but I won't do it because I want to deny what happened or how it portrays me. I'll do it because I told myself that I would keep the breakup private. I don't want to be trashy and complaining. So why am I writing this now...?

Who else can I tell...? I am a lonesome girl. It's my fault that I am. Most folks find me likable. At my last job, I expressed my concern to a colleague that I was worried someone else strongly disliked me. My colleague looked at me, surprised, and said: "I have never heard anyone say anything bad about you, Margo."

Speaking of fault, there is something the Surgeon told me about myself that is absolutely accurate, zutreffend : I do not, clearly and unequivocally, express what I need and expect from people in my personal relationships.

My students get syllabi and bullet-point instructions and pages of editorializing on their essays; the masochists I control are dictated to and observed so closely that I sometimes become anxious (and thrilled) with the intensity of my focus. I thrive under clear instruction from professors, employers, and Tops. And it goes without saying that I know what I need in bed. Structure, baby, I like structure. Thank you, Mom (I am not being sarcastic).

But boyfriends...? Even close friends...?

I seldom ask for a goddamned thing. I assess them on what they offer or deny me of their own volition, of course, but I just don't ask them for things. Emotional support. A sounding board for my complaints. Favors. Time. Accessibility. Attention. Etc etc.

The last healthy, loving guy I dated who was really into me once called me (TWICE CALLED ME!) on the phone on his way to Trader Joe's to ask me if there was anything I'd like him to purchase for me, since I'd be staying over at his place ("Do you want a particular cereal or fruit or anything?") . I was astonished, as if he'd asked me if I wanted him to bring me back a rock from planet Mars. We'd only been dating for three weeks, too. He was Jeff, the Machinist. You can look him up on the label menu of this blog if you want to read further examples of my moonbat craziness.

I left Jeff. The good guy before Jeff was Steven, the vet. I did not feel as connected with Steven as I was with Jeff, and Steven was freshly divorced and still in a lot of pain, but he was absolutely a decent fellow and there were many things I admired about his character. I was there with him through a cancer scare and the death of a relative. He dumped me because, basically, he wasn't there with me for anything. He couldn't give me a reason, really, for why he ended our relationship. He said that I was funny and beautiful and smart (One time he told me--laying with his head on my lap, and we were talking about his divorce--and he looked at me and said, "You are such a kind person, Margo." I will never forget that compliment). But the energy only ran one way--I gave, and I did not take. I guess he didn't feel like I was fully there. I confused him. Maybe my lack of need made him feel personally unneeded.

Everyone wants to feel needed, but for men, I think, this is crucial. Men crave to feel needed by women. I understand this, and so I have tricks for it: I ask the man to open the stubborn jar, or lift the heavy thing, or something like that. At the gym, I ask a stranger, "Excuse me, would you please remove this 40 lb. weight plate from this press for me?" Even if I could do it (with difficulty) myself, I ask them to do it. They are so strong that they can do it all so easily--pop that jar lid right off! It's like watching a special effect! I am fascinated by their strength, compared to my own. Even small dudes, guys my size (well, almost, I'm tall but pretty lean) are stronger than I am. Which is fine (except for the fact that it means I am weak little prey for whomsoever comes along, And it's not 'fine,' it's a fact of life). I think it's Hawt.

Where was I going with this? I was distracted by the mental images of men effortlessly opening jars and moving furniture.

Oh, yes. I am in breakup anguish and I took the day off from work because I cannot conceive of searching for redundancies in anyone's shitty SPSS dataset or being the avatar of their random whackadoodle (no blame! no blame!) needs at the Superstudio. I am going to see my analyst, whose fee I cannot realistically afford right now, because I need to be told where my thinking is dangerous and wrong.

And I need to know my needs, and why I am so reluctant to share them (but I already know why--logic dictates--I refrain because I assume, without even asking, that my needs will be unfulfilled and rejected. This assumption is what requires examination).

I need to keep away from the Surgeon.

P.S. I know that men need more than to feel needed for opening jars and lifting heavy things. I was being facetious, mostly. I know you are complex homo sapiens with emotional needs. Please don't be mad at me; I intended no insult.

P.P.S. Sorry for this self-absorbed drama-rama. Fuck me, if I had something better to say, I would.

P.P.P.S I've recently re-read many of my previous posts; if I was hired as an editor I would revise the shit out of most of them. Most of them need to be tightened up. I would also remove practically all of the profanity. For whatever it's worth, I seldom curse in professional environments--public speaking, or when talking with an employer. I am a polite person. The blog posts you read here are raw first drafts.

Sadomasochists: "Why So Serious?"

2012-02-24T10:01:00.000-05:00

I landed a modeling gig. A clothing designer of vaguely fetishy gothy type clothing needs images to sell her clothing to retailers. Think Hot Topic. It's fine, nothing too scandalous that would compromise my reputation if they were brought to the attention of my employer in the future. Nothing that I wouldn't show my mother, in other words.

Anyway, I have to ask: why oh why do SM people always have to wear black, and why do we always have to dance to Nine Inch Nails and Depeche Mode at our parties? Why? Why? I like The Cure as much as the next person, but must it be standard at every fetish event? And if the male dominants must wear black Levi's and t-shirts, can they please refrain from wearing white tube socks with them? And toolbelts? And mansandals? And what's with all the facial hair? Are we at a Grateful Dead concert? Do BDSM (god I hate that clumsy moniker) parties always have to resemble a Star Trek convention where everyone is wearing assless chaps? Why? Why, God, why?

Defunct blogger Bitchy Jones once wrote something along the lines of: "This is the cruelty zoo that is my sexuality." So, so true. Bitchy, I salute you.

P.S. I love corsetry. I admit it. At least most of it is COLORFUL. Jeez.

Sad Girl

2012-02-23T19:56:00.001-05:00

I feel like the saddest, most lonely girl in the world right now.

Breaking up is hard to do, as the cliche goes, and I knew that it wouldn't be easy when I decided to finally do it. It is still painful. We were never monogamous, but he was definitely the most important man in my life for several years, and I cared about him tremendously. I used to love him a little, back in the beginning of our relationship, but bitter experience made me pull back from that. He's not safe.

I don't want to write about the breakup details on this blog because it's undignified to do so (constant readers may notice I pulled two posts already--I'm sorry about that; I'm not trying to deny or revise anything, I just don't think it's fair to talk about him much).

The Surgeon finally got me on the phone this morning. Basically, he was unkind. He called me inhuman (among other things) because I was trying to remain calm and, uh, professional, if that makes sense. Then he blamed me for being late for work because he was ranting and raving on the phone outside of Central Park. Then, later this afternoon, he called back and invited me to go to (Tropical Vacation Paradise) with him this weekend.

He's like a man with a bunch of keys on a keyring in front of a locked door, trying one key, and then another, and then another, to find one that works.

I cried in the shower and I cried in the bathroom at the library now I am sitting with Parrot on my desk crying. I fucking hate to cry and I almost never do it.

I just want it to be over, but I know it's not.

Ash Wednesday

2012-02-22T20:29:00.000-05:00

Why is it that even though I am a casual and unapologetic atheist and I despise practically everything about the institution of Roman Catholicism, I still feel guilt--as if I were a traitor--when I see the faithful bearing ashes on their foreheads...?

Already into Lent. Fasting is easy, but what shall I sacrifice?

Yahweh is capricious and cruel, and the nuns told me that His cruelty is refining, but I never believed that bullshit for a second. Even when I was ten years old, I didn't believe it. It has to be one of the most transparent lies ever concocted.

I'll attend Mass on Palm Sunday. It's the only service I go to voluntarily.

Quoth the Masochist: "How Did You Get that Bruise?"

2012-02-22T08:22:00.000-05:00

People sometimes inquire as to how I get the bruises on my skin. I do not find the questions rude or intrusive because woman-beating (I refuse to call it by its euphemism, 'domestic violence') is a serious problem in society, and so I think it is a good thing when people want to know how a woman was injured.

The number and severity of my bruises depends, of course, on how frequently I have had the good fortune to be played with (for the last few weeks, it has been ZERO, and I am going insane, thank you very much). Most of the fun-time marks are hidden by my clothing anyway. I also get bruised because I am clumsy and constantly knocking into things at the gym or in my apartment. I seriously think that my coffee table may well be the death of me one of these days (imagine the obituary: "DEATH BY COFFEE TABLE." How dignified). I'm also fair-skinned (my ancestors did not exactly hail from the sunshine capitals of Europe), so that doesn't help, either.

Don't get the wrong idea, gentle reader, it's not as if I look like a car-crash victim as I run about town (most of time, at least). I don't look beat up. I just have, usually, a random ding here or there. Usually one on my legs (that coffee table. I'm telling you.).

Anyway, this essay has a point, so let me get to it (as I always told my freshman students, repeatedly, in caps, on their syllabus: "YOUR PAPER SHOULD HAVE A POINT."). A student, a friend, a random dude chatting me up on the train--they ask: "How'd you get that mark on your leg? Ouch!" Okay, fine, understandable.

What boggles my mind, though, is when a masochist, a real player, comes into the studio and wants me to land on him like a ton of bricks, and then asks me, in all sincerity: "How did you get that bruise on your thigh?"

This happens all the time. All.The.Time. It's a real head-scratcher.

Bank of America is a Corrupt, Unethical, and Revolting Corporation

2012-02-21T08:03:00.000-05:00

TyRANTosaurus Margo!

I rolled out of bed this morning and consulted my online account at Bank of America.

Check this out, friends and neighbors: my defunct credit card, which expired a year ago and which I have not used for any purchases in a year, and which carries no balance whatsoever (I do not owe a penny!) has been charged an "annual service fee" of $59.99.

How can this even be legal? I know that some jackass out there who is reading this is going to say, "You should have read through the 12 pages of fine print in the contract and formally cancelled your card (despite the fact that you could not use it and did not renew it) if you didn't expect to get ripped off!" But you know what? I shouldn't have to jump through hoops of fire in order to expect not to be stolen from. Just because I don't lock my bike up with 2 kryptonite locks and a sentry bodyguard does not make it my fault that someone steals my bike.

Screw you, Bank of America. I wish to Christ I could find the individuals who decided to implement these obscene exploitative IMMORAL policies and put them in the stocks, in public, like they used to do in medieval times. Optionally, burning at the stake would be a just alternative punishment for these scum.

Now I am going to have to go in to my local branch and FIGHT with them, and the sad thing is that the person I will be fighting with will have NO personal responsibility for charging me with this fee. He (or she) will just be another corporate slave, trying to bring home the bacon and get through the day, like we all are. I cannot be uncivil or cruel. It's not his fault that the Bank is doing this to me.

I cannot get my hands on the people responsible. I cannot even write to them, or find out who they are.

Banks are truly disgusting, evil institutions and I hate them with all my heart.

Fuck you, Bank of America. I am not going to pay your fee unless you sue me and I am going to COMPLAIN until you drop this fee, and I know it will take hours and hour and hours of my time before you relent to do this. I resent you tremendously and you ought to be abolished.

Miss Margo's Honorable Breakup Protocol: The Surgeon Edition

2012-02-13T21:43:00.000-05:00

(note: I posted about this earlier in the day, but I took it down for the time being because I'm worried he might find it, and if he finds it, he finds this whole blog, and, well, I don't want that.)

Or, I should say, I initiated breakup proceedings with the Surgeon. I have no illusions--this is going to be a process. Hopefully it will only take a week or two. I know how his mind works. He has to convince himself, somehow, that he is the one who left me. Fine, whatever. If I could encourage this fantasy without actually having to engage with him any further, I would be happy to do so. Whatever it takes. I am a lesbian! I'm moving to Boise, Idaho! I faked being a masochist all along!

I am being facetious, mostly. This is Miss Margo's Honorable Breakup Protocol: Just say "I want out, effective immediately. That is all." Do not blame him for anything, even if he deserves it. Do not fight or defend your decision. Receive all insults and blame with stoicism (but do not acknowledge or validate them, unless they are, indeed, accurate and truly egregious--then just say "You are right. I am truly sorry."). Express appreciation for the good deeds and contributions he has made in your life, but don't get sentimental or maudlin. Abandon whatever possessions you have left in his apartment unless they have profound monetary or sentimental value to you. Return, via insured mail, any expensive jewelry he has given to you that is less than six months old, or any of his family heirlooms. If he wants the sweater or DVD he left at your place, return it promptly and without comment, but always via post, never in person (you know he's only bugging you about that copy of Black Hawk Down so that he can talk to you.) Unless he gave you HIV or slept with your sister or something equally heinous, do not speak ill of him to anyone might even remotely know him. Do not disclose his sexual peccadilloes or insecurities. Do not try to poach his friends.

And now, for your entertainment, Gentle Reader, I will break my own rule: years ago, I dated a poet (yeah yeah, laugh it up, buddy. Better than a disturbed surgeon, I'll tell you that). The poet was an all-around good egg. He was probably the best boyfriend I ever had. Anyway, he took poetry very seriously, as poets are wont to do (I dig poetry myself, though I don't write it). He would buy lovely cards for me and write sonnets in them, and give me poems attached to birthday gifts.

This is The Awful Truth: I thought his poetry was dreadful. Horrible. Cringe-inducing. A full-on assault on my sense of aesthetics.

Nevertheless, wild horses could not have dragged this disloyalty from me. I raved over it all, and kept every card. I still have most of them. I mean, it's really sweet, isn't it? When's the last time a fellow composed a sonnet just for you? That's truly romantic!

Am I a hypocrite for telling you this? I think it's safe because he will never, ever know. There is no way he could find this blog. He lives on the other side of the universe.

I am joking around because I am scared and anxious. The Surgeon is going to be really really....not good.

I will be a healthier, happier person when he's finally gone, though.

Wish me luck. I feel kinda sick to my stomach.