Guardians

World, Hi

The holiday season has me thinking of holy, otherworldly things and it reminded me…

I used to have two guardian angels. They were very little.

One sat on my left shoulder and I thought of her as “Eurotrash Girl”. You can call her the “Id Girl”. She led quite a hedonistic lifestyle and her job was to encourage me to follow her example. She smoked French cigarettes, had a raspy voice, and spoke in a Romanian-ish accent that was probably as real as Pamela Lee Anderson’s….everything. Eurotrash girl never missed an opportunity to have a good time. She wore an old black leather biker jacket over her short black dress, and accessorized with black tights and biker boots, big hoop earrings and bright red lipstick. Her “Midnight in Paris” dyed hair was shoulder length and razored to give it a spiky just got out of bed look, not that she slept much. She believed that a.) eyeliner is a staple and one never leaves home without it and b.) a man who doesn’t have tattoos will eventually bore you to death. Eurotrash Girl sported her own tattoo, a tiny pair of white wings, just at the base of her neck. She was always calling me her little popover, her sweet cherry cordial, her petite croissant. This constant reference to food items led me to believe that Eurotrash Girl wanted to pop me in her mouth and swallow me whole but given that I never saw her eat, I suppose they were terms of endearment.

The other angel sat on my right shoulder and I called her “Armani Girl” due to her meticulous appearance. I never saw her in the same outfit twice and I never saw her without pearls, even on dress down Fridays. Armani Girl could be critical. Her job, it appeared, was to encourage me to see myself as others saw me and to act accordingly. She called me Darling, but not in a very endearing way. “But Darling”, she might say, “do you really imagine those potato chips won’t migrate directly to your ass and stay there like spackle for all eternity?” Armani Girl found eating to be a crass habit that one could overcome if only one would try. Her honey blonde hair fell in a smooth, graceful wave to her shoulders and her always perfectly applied makeup was subtle enough that it looked natural but took two hours to apply. Armani girl also held to a couple firm beliefs: a.)There is no virtue in aging gracefully and b.)any man with a tattoo will someday let you down and is to be avoided at all cost. Armani Girl did not have any permanent markings on her body. Even her earrings were clip ons. Every Thursday morning she would disappear for two hours and come back with a fresh mani-pedi.

As you might imagine, Eurotrash Girl and Armani Girl did not get along. In fact, were it not for my head sitting on my neck directly between them, they would have done each other harm. Instead, they occupied themselves issuing directives in each of my poor harrassed ears and making snide comments about one another just loud enough for all of us to hear. They often fought amongst themselves as though I were not there.

A typical conversation might go like this:

Eurotrash Girl to me: “Take me to ze club, Lollipop, I vish to zee all ze exciting young men in zhere tight, tight, jeans. I vant to dance, dance ze night away and drink ze vodka collins and maybe ve vill meet zat cute guitar player who look like ze Sting for a little rendevous, ay Porkchop? Vat do you zay?”

Me to Eurotrash Girl: “Vat, I mean, What club? I don’t go to clubs. I don’t know any guitar players who look like Sting. I don’t even like Vodka.”

Eurotrash Girl to Me: “Ridiculous little Lollipop….everyone love ze vodka…is ridiculous not to love ze vodka…Ve vill go to ze no name club…is very special..ze guitar player, he give me ze secret code. You know vat? Ze guitar player has a secret tattoo, you vill love him. Ve vill dance and drink ze vodka and stay out all ze night. Vill be Fun. Let us go.”

Armani Girl to Me: “Darling, do not let that unkempt little trollop lead you astray. We discussed this just this morning when we made our list, and Darling, tonight we are ironing and then we are watching ‘Mad About You’,although tomorrow you must tell everyone you watched the presidential debate, so we had better also schedule in time to read the morning headlines, which means early to bed and no time for accompanying faded tarts God knows where in search of lecherous, sweaty musicians.”

Eurotrash Girl to Me: “Vat a bore. Vy do you put up wiz zat old slut, little Baklava? Don’t you vant to have fun? Don’t you vant to dance ze macarena vith ze Sting man? Vat is “Mad About You”? Is stupid, stupid show for stupid vomen who not know vere to find ze hot men. Zat Paul, he has no tattoos…zere is no future for Helen vith him…leave ze bat at home to pluck her eyebrows just a vittle bit thinner and come vith me,my spicy Chicken Ving. Vill be fun.”

Here’s where I get left out of the conversation:

Armani Girl to Eurotrash Girl: “Darling, you wouldn’t know fun if it kidnapped you and dumped you in front of Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door. You have the moral rectitude of a rabbit, the drinking habit of Hemingway, the mental stability of Van Gogh, and an annoyingly perverse habit of projecting your trashy character onto me. Why don’t you run along now and if you do not stop smoking in here I am calling the building superintendant to have you thrown out….”

Me trying to interrupt: “uh, I don’t think we have a building…..”

Eurotrash Girl to Armani Girl: “oh shuuuut uppppp, you are boring me vith all your talk. You are old, you have frozen face of ice statue, yes? You need vodka and ze sex and maybe you become not so frozen. You come vith us, vill be fun, but you must change zat awful clothing.”

Me again: “superintendant, and besides I don’t think he can see……”

Armani Girl to Eurotrash Girl: “Listen to me, Darling, and try to stay focused. If the apocalypse was upon us, if the world was doomed, and the only way I could save myself was to go to some seedy little bar without the forethought or consideration to even post a sign outside the door and participate in your debauched little game of charades, I would take all of my Xanax at once, drink a bottle of Chardonnay, and sing hallelujah”

Eurotrash Girl: “Stay zen, I do not care, old bat”

Me to No one: “I’m going to bed”

Aramni Girl to Eurotrash Girl: “I win, Darling”

Eurotrash Girl: “Ve vill see, old bat”

I’m tired of writing now, so let me end this, and maybe I’ll come back and finish it later. The truth is, Armani Girl usually did win but I liked Eurotrash Girl better and she, also, had her moments of victory. Eventually, I was exhausted from their battles and one fine day I had an epiphany: These two were not guides, not angelic entities sent from on high to nurture and protect me. These two were the demons of extremism; the demi-monde and the demi-mom. Once I had processed what I was living with, what I had done to myself, I took a walk, had a nice long shower, a cigarette and a glass of Kendall Jackson. Then I kicked those two demis right to the curb and I’ve been a slightly unkempt, fairly laid back, moderately morally conscious human ever since.

Happy Holidays, World. Hope your angels are many and your demons few.

Take care,

Chicken

Advertisements

  8 comments for “Guardians

  1. Anonymous
    December 24, 2009 at 5:17 am

    You know Sue the voices “go quiet” with enough Kendall Jackson…at least that's been my experience. Of course, there is that state of altered reality where you have just enough Kendal Jackson to think Eurotrash Girl sounds like the most brilliant gal you've ever had the opportunity to meet; and “windsufing” on top of some guy's Ford F150 sounds like keen fun. (And by “windsurfing” I mean laying across the roof with your arms streched wide like and airplane, while speeds of upwards of 75 miles per hour are reached.) Personally, I think Eurotrash girl had a deathwish…and if it wasn't for Armani Girl I never would have graduated college…bless her repressed little heart.

    CB

    Like

  2. December 26, 2009 at 12:23 am

    Did you ever watch that show “Six Feet Under” about the funeral home where every episode began with a death scene? Yeah, your windsurfing description reminds me of that. Tell me you didn't. Tell me you did and I will be totally delighted…not only that you survived but that…you DID. A whole side of CB I never would have guessed at. As for your insight, I can only say, Amen Sister. Ain't that the truth. Have a happy Christmas, CB.

    Like

  3. Anonymous
    January 4, 2010 at 7:46 pm

    Wandering through the astral ranges of blogsphere, I stumbled across this fascinating entry and had one of those “WHOA” moments. It reminded me of that line from Cheech & Chong's “Santa and His Old Lady” routine, when Chong yells out “I seen the dude”. I read about Eurotrash girl and Armani girl and it hit me like a Joe Frazier left hook to the spleen, I know those girls. In a past life, many moons ago, when I think I was a deer, a beguiling young doe I knew had the exact same friends. An unexpected injection of double O buckshot to my head from an unfortunately accurate 12 ga. shotgun ended any thoughts of hearing any more Eurotrash/Armani girl fights. However, maybe, just maybe if I spark up this big old Avo (Papa Hemingway raught me to smoke them) and pour me a fine glass of '88 Tignanaello, I'll be able to reach into the drug-addled memory banks and remeber who that doe was. Now, lemme see…..

    Like

  4. Anonymous
    January 7, 2010 at 2:58 am

    Chicken,

    “Windsurfing” describes virtually every summer weekend in the 80's that was celebrated with a “Days” in it..as in “Riverboat Days”, “Hay Days”, “Czech Days”, Hobo Days”, “Dakota Days”…

    CB

    Like

  5. January 9, 2010 at 3:49 am

    This comment has been removed by the author.

    Like

  6. January 9, 2010 at 3:53 am

    CB-MonDAY, TuesDAY, WednesDAY….I get the picture. I can see it, the car, the cut-offs, the bottle of Riunite hidden in the trunk, the big hair not moving an INCH in the wind…good times. In my hometown we were more sedate. It was all about the gravel pit parties and the bonfire. I could have been hanging out with the wrong people, though:-)

    Like

  7. January 10, 2010 at 2:24 am

    Oh Chicken! This was delightful! I myself have always been too egotistical to listen to Id and SuperEgo, so I never heard a debate between Euro Trash Girl and Armani Girl myself, but I did follow their advice concurrently: The 80's: all pure Euro Trash Girl, including smoking Gauloise cigarettes (cancer's own calling card), black-dyed “tails” (that snip of hair at the back that was the euro-trash's “mullet”), watching foreign films (WITHOUT subtitles!)and eyeliner that would make a raccoon proud! Then, came the real world (1990's) of earning a paycheck and all of a sudden Ms. Barbara Bush is my fashion idol! All of this probably explains why I have one ear pierced and one not! lol I finally ditched both and went into rogue cowgirl personality with a bit of Dianne (from Cheers) prissiness mixed in and, hey, that's what seems to work!

    Glad you shared and all the best to you in the New Year!

    Like

  8. January 16, 2010 at 6:25 am

    Awe, Bea Girl. You said Dianne from Cheers and it struck that chord…Exactly, that's who she has always reminded me of. You had a mullet? Wow. I only had a bad perm once. Happy New Year to you, Cow Girl. Hope all is going well!

    Like

Your turn...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

One chicken. So many roads.

Style Splash

STYLE HAS NO AGE LIMIT

Bella Rum

Life on the Pasture

I'm Sick and So Are You

What illness taught me about how truly warped we all are

http://myinnerchick.com/

One chicken. So many roads.

The Way I Sew It

One chicken. So many roads.

B.I. Redux

One chicken. So many roads.

Cup on the Bus

One chicken. So many roads.

idioglossia: the blog

Share yourself: problems, joys, secrets, ideas. We're listening.

Examining the Odd

literature, visual art, music and film

Think Stew

One chicken. So many roads.

Procrastinating Donkey

One chicken. So many roads.

Trainride Of The Enigmas

One chicken. So many roads.

Genial Misanthrope

One chicken. So many roads.

injaynesworld

One chicken. So many roads.

The AC is On

One chicken. So many roads.

La Tejana

One chicken. So many roads.

Pearl, Why You Little...

One chicken. So many roads.

%d bloggers like this: