@loripalminteriTweets by @loripalminteri
Not much about me is that girly. In fact, growing up among a group of best friends who were mostly guys, I was not only treated as one of the boys but when someone pointed out I was pretty or to have better manners around a lady, my friends (and brother) would scoff, “Lori?!! Lori is not a girl.”
But they weren’t entirely wrong. I dressed in t-shirts, long shorts, pony tail, no make up, bitten nails. I hated romantic comedies and loved action movies. I cursed like a comedian before I was a comedian, I drank boys under the table despite being half their size, I hated high heels and would rather surf and have my hair a sand filled frizz over being glamourous any day. In relationships, I’ve proven to have the more ‘stereotypical’ male attributes— it takes forever for me to not be distant, I only liked cuddling with select few, every person I’ve dated complained that I talk too little, bug me what I’m thinking about, and after climaxing I don’t want to talk I just want to lay there and then sleep.
It never bothered me that I wasn’t “typical” anything. Despite the loneliness that can come with being a recluse and an outsider, it afforded me a great awareness of self, others and the prized ability to think independently.
However, this doesn’t mean I’m not without feminine features. Have you seen my boobs? (Kidding.) Some men find it completely inexplicable why some women are obsessed with pillows. But I fail to see why anyone doesn’t appreciate a pile of pillows. So soft and heavenly. I have nine pillows on my bed. And another one my reading chair. Having a lot of pillows is helpful in the sense that I have only a studio apartment so I lack a couch. The pillows are helpful to propping yourself up, but in truth, I like having an array of pillows with different firmness, thickness, size and softness that I can rotate depending on my mood, or even, how tweaked my injured neck is at times. Additionally, I like sleeping with pillows all around me. In some way, I suppose, it makes me feel held— an infant in a swaddle.
When I first moved to my apartment, over seven years ago now, I professed that if I saw a single cockroach, I would up and leave, leaving all my possessions behind like the Lutz’s leaving the Amityville Horror House, and move back into my parents, never to set foot back in my apartment again. My friends, rightfully so, told me that was absolutely insane. Even more so, I was terrified of bed bugs when I moved to Queens. Naturally, I got a bed bug protector for my beloved mattress, but on the road, hotel room, after hotel room, I would examine the bed, make sure there was no evidence of those little pests. I told my friend if I got bed bugs I would set my whole apartment on fire, and I would leave with my lap top and surfboards and leave without any clothes because their eggs can be on any fabric. Surely, my landlord would be horrified I set her house in fire, BUT IT’S THE ONLY WAY (it’s not the only way).
Fortunately, I’ve never had bed bugs, nor have I ever seen seen a cockroach so I’ve yet to be admitted to a mental hospital for arson. Phew!
Mosquitos find their way in from time to time and hunt me in the night which is infuriating. The occasional spider shows up (though sometimes if they are very small I let them live in hopes they will capture mosquitos). But what I hate, and I usually see a handful a year, is those alien looking motherfucking house centipedes. House centipedes are harmless, but anyone who’s encountered one knows they look like something from a nightmare. Those long, hair like legs, wormy body and the fact that they can scurry really fucking fast… I shudder at the thought.
One night, I’m laying in bed, surrounded by pillows, when out of the corner of my eye I see something scurry across my wall. I freeze. What the fuck was that? It’s times like these I wished I did have a boyfriend to take care of such things (ah, a feminine trait!). I turn on the light near my bed. To my relief, it’s not a cockroach so I don’t have to evacuate, but it is one of those house centipedes. It knows I see it. It’s still now, waiting for me to make my move. I have to act swiftly and soon. I’ve turned my back on them in the past only for them to vanish from my sight when I take my eyes off it. But I’ve no tissues near my bed. I have notepads, so I could tear a sheet off and try to kill it with that, but it could escape that. This was a big fucker too. I didn’t want it creeping behind my book stacks. So I took a pillow. The smallest one, and my least favorite. I smooshed it dead with the pillow. There’s no way it would be able to escape the surface area of the pillow. I wiped my wall clean and then took the pillow to the garbage outside to throw it out.
And perhaps that’s why they call it a throw pillow.