"FROLIC!!"

Actor.... Or Carnie?

THere is a rush like none other when you don’t know what is going to happen-- which happens often as a performer. When you enter a small room, and people behind a desk say, “Now, frolic.” You laugh because it seems so strange…  But then, you do. And you laugh to yourself all the while. My energy booms in my chest, and my heart palpitates. And feet begin to twirl and point. I can barely speak for all the stored breath that wants to escape.  Fueling the courage it takes to begin, surging, it plows you forwards. And I frolicked. I danced. Is there a right way to frolic? A frolic skill set? I showed my bloomers and I made fun of them ripping when I cart-wheeled. They laughed, and blushed, and disappeared from my mind for a moment.

It was me and silliness, “I am Heather Rush!” Like a toddler in a family talent show, “Look what I can do!” Lunging and quipping… flinging shoes off with reckless direction. I couldn’t tell if my provided “love interest” was smitten or shocked as I flitted, he watched closely and carefully… but I kissed him right when told to, and wiped the red lip print from his nose.  I didn’t know I would be kissing anyone. His name was Ashley. He said very little. All this, starting from a day where I filled my gas tank by the side of the road in full period attire, drove to Burbank and sat in a line of girls sipping cooler water, each of us in 40’s sun dresses, curled locks, and red lips, talking about the Oscars with a trapped young intern fellow behind the helm in front of us. “Goodbye!!” I said to them all, bidding farewell in a grand exit, using names with as much care and sincerity as possible. Gasping for breath like a sprinter.

And now I am eating a flattened salmon panini in a dim afternoon café, wearing old jeans, baggy T-Shirt, and an incongruous mid-century hairdo. In times like these I laugh to myself, wince, and laugh again, feeling the sparks of the rush, reminding myself I must do this again and again. I am looking for poetry around me, and I see this---

YES! I think I am.  

-Double-Ply Sensitivity-

Toilet Humour - The things you don't bring up (But then broadcast)



AT This moment, there are three rolls of toilet paper lining the perimeter of my house toilet. This is in addition to our storage space, where there are three different bulk bundles, all broken into in current use. Three roommates, three bundles. One might ask why this would ever be a complaint, more is better than none, right? Well, yes. But it raises an eyebrow. Upon looking closely, one would find that each bundle is distinctly different. My contribution to this stash is the cheapest, most economical, "get the job done" variety, the Scott Double-Roll. Hey, it's single-ply, it is rough, but it lasts forever! It leaves no trace! This practical move on my part has, however, become an unspoken hot-point for household controversy. 

You see, I live with two boys. Common phrases associated with this fact,  "Hey, less drama. Guys aren't as sensitive, so it'll be easy... Oh, and less bathroom territorialization, right?" Interesting. Somewhat true... but that doesn't mean there isn't detailed-- finesse- involved in their daily life. And perhaps my greatest point in opposition- the bathroom is quite possibly their kingdom, their sheltered womb-like domain. I am proving myself to be the toughest, most efficient, thick-skinned broad in town via this fact, oh, ok, the house at least!

                                     (Am I too tough??)

The other rolls represented in the paper line-up, standing freely upon porcelain, are two varieties of more extravagant TP. Mind you, the Scott roll I quickly lock and re-load to contnue my social experiment is completely full. (The catalyst for their resulting actions). One roommate reveals his own preferred selection: the tripple-ply, extra fluffy, quilted Cottonelle variety... The kind that only lasts three visits, the kind that leaves fuzzballs everywhere. Who wants fuzzballs?! It implies embarassing carelessness, and there is no way to avoid them with all that ply. I have even heard it requires five-ply initially, in the making of said fluff, down at the plant. The other roommate has recently added his preference to the other two fully available rolls: the quilted single-ply, that seems to have little animal and flower shapes cut into it. The only difference between that and mine are the little animals, and less quantity. Now... I ask, why? The little designs mentally smoothen the experience, I suppose. Provide more crevices for grip? Too much information? Three rolls on display- The Fluffy, The Artistic, The Warrior- at all times. It really is ridiculous, all that toilet paper everywhere, but the extra rolls won't be hidden. They always resurface at moments throughout the day. Such delicacy, the toilet experience. I thought of making cute nametags for each of them, but then my warrior TP really might instigate war, and I think perhaps this sleeping fuzzball should lie (Well, until their girlfriends find fuzzballs at inopportune moments, and inquire, revealing the world of practice I am now aware of.) I will leave it until then.

                                 

What does it all mean? The throne hour may be the most vulnerable for any man. There is great ritual involved requiring time, space, the use of perfect tools. Maybe this is the way women and men can close the gap, to understand each other, to reach the delicate under belly...

It seems to me that the way to a man's sensitivity, is through his bottom.

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