What if there was a ridiculously good looking guy and wise acre named the Great Zamboni from Estonia that knew everything google does not? That's me. Ask me anything you'd really like to know- firstname.lastname@example.org
This question came anonymously and seems quite irrrelevant.
The asker puzzles me- why are you asking this of Zamboni?
Though it is interesting I suppose.”Pretty” is so important to us. They say “look below the surface” don’t they- but how are we supposed to do that? The surface is what we see! Just think that the first thing anyone thinks of you in the first 10th of a second they look at you is whether or not you’re pleasing to the eye. There’s an olde Estonian saying, “marry a pretty girl today, see your fat belly fade away.” And the Estonian women are fond of saying “don’t marry a handsome man, he’ll turn out to be an arrogant prick” The second maxin doesn’t have such a poetical ring, but you get the point.
Zamboni never had pretty without heartbreak. The pretty themselves are unlucky, as their pretty becomes who they are. As soon as you become what people see you as, you lose the self.
So, asker of this question- my answer is Brittney, who because of this has had more problems than Paris- see?
“Can I see em? Can I open your drawer and see em?” I asked through the door.
This was tonight. They were bundled in a grey mothy ball in the corner, under some new skinny jeans and a bra. I unfurled them and held them up to the light. They were barely the white onesie with pink and blue bears they’d once been. They are now an almost green raggedy rag that smelled of mildew dust and worse.
I needed to see them and remember. Maybe briefly she’d actually worn them with legs, perhaps at age five, but when she outgrew them, she merely wore the arms and let the legs trail behind like tails. She grew – six, seven, nine years old…. even as the “jammie” arms crept past her elbows and up to hug her shoulders and she worried away the sleeves with a habitual little lip nuzzling, she continued to wear them. She wore them into pre-teen- hood so far we contemplated stealing them, burning them, just so as not to embarass her on sleepovers. May as well have tried to burn Anne Franks diary. The Jammies were her. Grandma tried to convince her to sew them into a quilt. No. If she couldn’t find her jammies, there were screams and cries… her jammies were her blanket, teddy bear, they were everything.
Why did we fret so hard about getting her to give them up? What were we rushing her for?
Then one night she didn’t wear them. One night without explanation they went into the drawer. Eight years, every night- then mothballs. Sleeping in sweats and Hollister like everyone else.
I washed them in a sink tonite with clorox, trying to get something back, trying to get her back.
This question comes anonymously and now I Zamboni will answer it despite having disappeared from this blog for several days due to trial and hardships and yet like the old Latvian goatherder once told me, somewhat brusqeuly as I complained about milking a goat with an unusually odorous ass- “that’s life don’t be a whiny bitch.”
The best thing a wife can do for her husband are these seven tenets handed down to me by a monk we used to call “Sex Panther” back in Tibet. I am not sure why as he was quiet and celibate, but there you go. He had been married before becoming a monk, and would often share this wisdom with visiting men and women couples from the outside world.
1. Don’t condescend. Yes he is simpler and less clever than you, but do you have to let him know that? Why not keep it your lil secret?
2. Out of the blue say, “get out of the house and see your friends, I want to be alone!”
3. Wear some makeup and care about how you look, even at home. Just cuz it’s sunday morning and you are flop around to the cafe, he isn’t blind. This doesn’t mean you wear garter belt just to bend over and pick up the butter knife- but then again, why not?
4. Be demanding and up front- and when you are wronged, scream and yell! Then laugh! Anything is better than hide feelings under that weird look. Stop that look!
5. He went to that concert of Chilean reed pipes with you you know, would it kill you to eat a buffalo wing and watch Monday Night Football?
6. Make lots sexy times, sometimes even when you don’t want to- what, you think he never do for you?
7. Sometimes just smile at him cuz you love- this might be most of all.
Often, after meditation, the sex panther and I would be sharing some Chinese Rhubarb cleansing tea over a fire. One night I conjured the courage to ask him what happened to his mairrage. “She was a ballbuster” he said while walking over the remaining coals of the fire, “and I slept with a nineteen year old.”
This question comes from an anonymous question donor and is frankly pretty silly- I guess this is a guy for whom no real problems exist -congrats!- so lucky for you but the question is goofy..
Regardless, it is a point of Honor for me to answer– and if I don’t the devil may come for my soul..
Snow is in fact not white at all. If you look quite closely at one tiny flake, it is quite like a crystal and very clear. But when these crystals pile on top of each other they appear as white due to light refractolology and karma.
It reminds me of a story by grandmother told, of how she lost her last tooth. She was drinking plum brandy in a bar and was challenged to a drinking contest by the mayor of our town, Shmolenkaplatz. The mayor said, “if you can answer this riddle, I will drink this whole bottle to your health and probably die. Here it is, what is the hardest thing to see, the most diffuicult place to discover, and the most uncharted isle?”
My grandmother pondered this greatly, and then said most astutely, “the NOSE!” The mayor was nonplussed and dumbfounded, drank the brandy and, thankfully, did not expire.
My point is this- what does that story have to do with her last tooth?
Ask not for whom the snow melts, my friends, it melts foryou.