MythKeeper

Playing with Fire

2012-02-13T08:40:00.000-08:00

Mother always told me not to play with fire, which for someone raised in the 1940’s and 50’s that phase meant the following:

1. Wash the makeup off your face and put a slip on under your dress, or you’ll end up pregnant. What? How does that work?
2. Go to confession every Saturday and Mass every Sunday, and you’ll get into heaven. Really, I cannot skip one stinkin’ week, or I am damned to Hell? Could someone please point out that specific chapter and verse?
3. Don’t go cruising with rowdy boys (or any type of boy, for that matter), or you’ll end up pregnant. OK, fine, I’ll give her that one.
4. Don’t wash your hair while you have your period; it is bad for your health. Oh, I just don’t have the strength to argue that insane logic of a wife’s tale.

However, the following story isn’t really, what mother had in mind when she talked about playing with fire. Normally, a series of uneventful tasks linked by a life in the suburbs with a husband, 2.5 kids and a dog named Chris defined my life. I know, I know...you’re thinking Why a dog named Chris? After Chris Rock, of course. The .5kid gave him the name.

Rant:.5 is a neighbor kid who unofficially lives part-time at our house. How does an 8 year old know about the comedian? His parents. You see, these parents (and I use that term very loosely) see parenting as a low priority in their very self-absorbed lives. They don’t have time to teach or haven’t figured out how to teach the kid about diversity. Instead, they let him watch Chris Rock comedy specials to gain insight about the Black Experience. To this day, this idea baffles me. A typical weekend with these “Parents” would include hang-gliding off a cliff, tequila shots and poker games with the notion that poker is a great teaching tool for counting, determining shapes and reading (which one needs when being the beer caddy, I suppose). Maybe, it is the overwhelming attention to family traditions like Thanksgiving, where everyone determines their own dinner time by making their very own Turkey lunchmeat sandwich with the items left out on the counter. Nothing says love like “Make your own damn sandwich and while you’re there can you bring me a beer.” Perhaps, this would explain why he cohabitates with my family. Between checking on homework, family meals and marathon games of Monopoly and Rock Band, we seem to toss in a hug and a few words of encouragement.

Oh yes, playing with fire. Well, it all started when .5 kid ran into the kitchen and plowed his face straight into the side of the cupboard. This caused an antique tea cup to wobble and smash to the ground. .5's face was fine. His brain...hum…not so sure.

I quickly reached for the broom and dustpan before this event turned into a trip to the emergency room for one of the kids or dog. From the shards of porcelain, a matchbook from a night club called FireStorm in South Philly emerged. The worn, yellowed edges and missing matchsticks exposed its age. I picked it up and all of a sudden, I could swear I heard Jimi Hendrix singing “Fire” in the distance, and people cheering at his wailing guitar. This played nicely into my theory that motherhood makes you a part-time lunatic.

A day or two went by without any unusual activity. Then Tuesday around 4:30, it started. .5 ran into the house; Conner, my son, dragged a bit behind with a very sad face.

“Mrs. S. you are never going to believe what happened at the history fair today. It was so awesome.”
“Connor, what’s wrong?”
“His Abraham Lincoln assassination model caught on fire. It was sooooo cool,” .5 screeched as he dug in the cookie jar.
“What?”
With tears in Connor’s eyes, “Tony DeBella’s Pompeii reenactment exploded all over my model.”
“John Wilkes Booth never stood and chance,” .5 rooted through the pantry for some more food.

A freak mishap, of course. This is what I told my child to keep him clam and moving forward with life. This logic worked until dinner the next evening. The old crusty wooden shed sparked flames from the windows and door. “Mr. S. should there be fire coming from your shed?” .5 calmly stated as if he were asking for more peas. With this comment, everyone at the table leaped from their chairs and darted for the backyard, except for .5, who scooped up more mashed potatoes.

Several days later while cleaning up the kitchen, I came across those stinking FireStorm matches. Got that right! raced through my mind as I tossed them into the junk drawer. .5 strolled into the house for breakfast. “Lake, could you take the kitchen trash out for me?”

Rant:What the hell? If I have to be a part-time parent, .5 can do part-time chores. Furthermore, do you see what happens when you drink too many Jello Shooters? You start naming your kid after geological nomenclatures; forcing them to question your parental skills at a very young age and go looking for surrogate parents.

“Mrs. S., how can grass catch on fire?”
“Well, during a drought, the grass can get very dry, and…”
“No, I mean green grass.”
“I am not sure what you mean?”
“The grass in your front yard is on fire.”

You would think standing in the road surrounded by neighbors as the fire department extinguished my front yard was humiliating. Nope. Maybe even a stern line of questioning by the fire chef would have made me cringe. Nope. It wasn’t until .5 walked out from the crowd towards the only non-charred portion of my yard and stated the following:

“Look Mrs. S. This is really cool,” and pulled the FireStorm matches from his pocket along with a squirt bottle of full of liquor and proceeded to set the rest of my lawn on fire in front of God and everyone then I was mortified.

Waltzing Souls

2011-12-01T09:55:00.000-08:00

Worn pines floors below creek and bend
Music’s melodic beat enchants
Entwined souls gliding
Slow sensual dance of paramours
Strong hand guides with gentlest touch
Euphoria captures my heart
Love engulfs my life

A Twinkle

2011-10-14T09:36:00.000-07:00

The usual Saturday morning breakfast consisted of an English muffin toasted until crunchy covered with peanut butter and orange marmalade, fresh strawberries, and plain yogurt with a hint of honey. Nancy made sure the decaf black tea was strong with two sugars brimming in a porcelain tea cup painted with four leaf clovers. It was her sister, Grace's, favorite china pattern. After the tray was loaded, Nancy walked slowly into Grace's bedroom.
"Good morning, Precious."
"Nancy. You are the sweetest."
"Would you like to go to the park today to get that creaky body of yours out and about? "
"That would be wonderful. My old bones could use a bit of sunshine."

As Grace ate her breakfast, she and Nancy chatted about the day before them. Nancy smiled as she looked into Gracie's eyes; they twinkled with delight as they spoke. A twinkling eye can mean many things. The one that was twinkling at her right now was full of life, and the sole reason Nancy took care of her sister.

Nancy cleaned up from breakfast and poked her head in at Grace.
“Need more tea?”
"Excuse me, ma'am. Do you know when my mom is coming to get me? I am going to be late for cheer leading practice."
"Soon," as Nancy fluffed her sister's pillow, Nancy looked into Grace's eyes; the twinkle was gone. Only a blank confusing stare looked back.

Point of View

2011-08-25T09:58:00.000-07:00

Asiya (ah-SEE-yah) stood in front of the hospital looking into the street; she saw nothing but rain. It was nearing the end of the monsoon season. The sun would come out soon, but it would take another month for the land to dry. With this thought, she smiled, opened her umbrella and ran for the city bus. As the bus weaved through the watery streets, Asiya gazed out the window. The cityscape made no impression; her thoughts kept her pre-occupied. Every detail swam through her head. This project had taken years to get off the ground. The government and private funding were a nightmare to get going, let alone the plans and permits. That was all behind her now, in two months, the architect’s drawing was going to become a reality. The bus came to a stop; Asiya snapped back from her thoughts and started the brisk walk home. Upon entering the main hallway, her mother called to her from the kitchen where hot Darjeeling tea was waiting for her. The smell of hot samosas filled the house. These were her favorites. The spiced potato filling with onion, peas and coriander surround by fried pastry was the perfect ending to a long week of work at the hospital.

* * * *

The final bell had rung indicating the exam was over. Numair (noo-MAIR) put down his pencil and looked over his calculations as he walked to the professor’s desk. Numair stared out the window. The rains were not as heavy now; the signal that the rainy season was coming to an end. This was the only time he could ever remember being so happy for rain. He even prayed to Allah for more rain, but he knew his prayer was selfish and arrogant and would not be answered. Gathering up his backpack, Numair headed out of the class room. He meandered down to the first floor and just stood in the lobby; finally, he walked over to the bench near the side wall, pulled out a history book and just read for a while. He was not interested in going home just yet.

The walls of the Mathematics department were old stone and cold. The noise of people echoed though the lobby and up into the stairwell. This building was built in the 1900’s even though the Government College University had been in existence for almost 60 years. An hour had past and Numair was finding himself a bit hungry. He packed up and headed for the bus stop. While riding home, he couldn’t help but notice how pretty the city always looked after the rains. Oral ledged dates the city, Lahore, back 4000 years.
While looking out the bus window, the Badshai Mosque came into view. The light rain created a bit of a mist around the orange, 17th century brick structure with spiraling towers. It seemed to be floating in the clouds. Numair just started at its beauty. His father took him there to pray during Ramadan every year. The bus turned the corner, and the mosque disappeared from site. The bus finally came to a halt. Numair grabbed his backpack and jogged home in the light rain; his mind cleared from his worries. As he opened the front door, he could smell the Samosas. He quickly put his items away and walked briskly into the kitchen. His sister and mother were engrossed in a conversation. “You ate all the mango chutney?” he pouted and stormed out of the kitchen.

* * * * *
Four months passed since the rains. Numair sat on the porch of the medical clinic reading one of his history books; while his sister closed up for the evening, he just wondering why he was here and not in school. His dad had insisted he chaperone his sister on her trips. They were only 3 days at a time every few weeks; she would be fine without him. There was another doctor here and two nurses. No one tried to compromise Asiya’s honor or ransack the center. He just didn’t see the point. Numair looked at the sun setting in the distance against the orange color of the mountains and decided to get ready for evening prayer. Something moving slowly in the distance caught his eye. As it came into view, he realized it was a woman pulling a child of 7 or 8 on a stretcher, which tied to her waist. “Asiya,” he screamed franticly, “Asiya.” She came running to the porch. As she turned to look, she saw the woman collapse to the ground from exhaustion. “Help me,” Asiya said as she grabbed her brother’s arm. They both took off running towards the woman and child. They frantically untied the stretcher from the woman. The child had a badly broken leg and cried in pain. The doctor and her brother picked up the stretcher and carried the boy as quickly as possible into the medical center. After the boy was placed safely on the examination room table, they both ran back out to help the woman into the other examination room.

“Numair, take care of her. Get her some water,” barked his sister as she ran into the other room to see about the boy. Numair, fetched a cup of water for the woman and listened. The woman explained how she came to carry her son by herself. Her husband managed a rather large herd of buffalo, and with sightings of thieves in the area, he was not able to leave the livestock unattended. Moments later, Numair heard his name called from the other room. He ran to his sister. As he entered the examination room, Numair thought he was going to vomit. The bone from the child’s leg was sticking out of the skin. He was in such a rush before he hadn’t noticed it until this moment.

“Numair, I need to you hold him while I set his leg.”
“The other doctor and nurses should be back from town soon…”
“This child cannot wait anymore; come help me!”
“Stand at his head and scoop your arms under his arm pits and hold him firmly…Now.”
Numair did as he was told, and within seconds, the boy was screaming in pain as Asiya pulled on his leg and popped the bone back into place.
“Numair, I need you to get a pan of 2/3rd water and 1/3 alcohol and a clean cloth.” Again, he did as told and then just stood by the boy. The sister explained how to bath someone. “Just maintain eye contact with him. Tell him a story from one of those books of yours.” Numair fumbled with the damp cloth for a second and began talking in a sing-song voice like his mother used a hundred times before when he was sick; he asked the boy his name.
“Sameer,” replied the boy.

“Well Sameer, there once was a prince named Lava.” Numair recanted the tale of how his city, Lahore, was created all the while keeping eye contact and wiping down Sameer’s face and arms. Asiya knew the cleaning had no physical medical purpose for mending the boy’s leg; however, it calmed Sameer while she formed his cast, and it gave her brother something to do. After the story told, the leg casted, and the boy had eaten, Numair sat next to Sameer for awhile without words.
Quietly in a very small voice Sameer spoke, “Evening Prayers, I didn’t say them.”
“I didn’t say mine either; do you want to say them together, now?”
“But I cannot get to the floor.”
“To be humble before Allah, simply bend at the waist as far as you can. Now bow your head.”
After making sure the boy was situated, Numair quietly knelt on the floor; together they said their evening prayers.

A Strange Day in July

2011-07-18T15:31:00.000-07:00

A Strange Day in July

The car rolled into the gravel driveway; as soon as it stopped, Peter and Becky jumped from the car and started running. Their mother was yelling to them to change their cloths, but they didn’t listen. They just ran across the field and into the woods. Soon, they came to McMillan’s pond. Becky asked Peter to teach her how to skip stones across the pond’s cool blue water. “You do it like this…” said Peter as he showed Becky how he held the stone in his hand. ‘Watch how my arm throws it sideways and not overhand like a baseball.” Becky watched his arm movements closely. Peter threw the first stone, then the second. Just to show off, he throw with all his might, but the third stone came skipping back. Both children just stood and stared at the stone as it finally plopped into the water near Peter’s feet. Becky sat down on the large rock where she was standing.

Unbeknownst to the Brody kids, Ella hid in the cattails behind them snickering. She loved playing this game. The children never know what to do. All of the other kids just ran home, but not these kids. They just stared in amazement at the stone. Peter picked up another stone, turned and looked at his little sister. She smiled, and he threw it. They both watched it skip across the pond. Nothing. Then Peter threw the second stone; it skipped across the water. “Look at this,” whispered Ella to little Roxie sitting next to her. Roxie’s eyes grew bigger as she said “Look.” Ella pointed her finger at the skipping stone and then gave her finger a bit of a twitch. The stone reversed directions and skipped back towards the Brody kids. The two small girls nestled in the cattails just giggled quietly.

Becky screamed with amazement, “Do it again!” Peter picked up a stone and tossed it. Little Roxie clapped her hands and said, “Do it again!” and with that Ella twitched her finger at the stone. All of a sudden, a voice trying to shout but whisper at the same time said, “Cut that out! You’ll get into trouble.” It was Samuel, Ella and Roxie’s older brother. Ella looked at Samuel with an eye of defiance, and then she looked Roxie with a big smile and said, “Watch this.” Little Roxie parroted her older sister in a high pitched tone, “Watch.” Ella lifted both hands and began twitching all of her fingers.

Becky started laughing with delight as the stones around her and Peter started dancing in front of them some splashing against the water almost creating a tune. At this point, Peter looked at Becky and said,

“I think we should go home.”

“No, teach me. I want to make the stones dance,” yelled Becky with delight at seeing the stones frolic above the water.

“I’m not doin’ it.”

Becky paid no attention; she stood up and started to clap and dance with the stones.

Samuel grabbed Ella and Roxie’s hands and took them home.

Peter stood up and grabbed Becky’s hand. All of a sudden, the stones fell to the pond. There was a wrestling noise coming from the patch of cattails behind them. Peter and Becky turned towards the noise. They both looked at each other then back at the cattails. “Did you see?” Peter hesitated

“ Kids, they flew away. Where did they go? Peter, where did the kids go?”

The Pearl Diver

2011-06-06T15:25:00.000-07:00

The Pearl Diver

On the southeastern coast of Honshu, the ancient port city of Tomonoura has faced the Seto Inland Sea since the beginning of time. Its Japanese landlords along with various other Asians occupied the city streets. Sprinkled amongst the natives were a few European men. Murtagh O'Farrell was one of these men. As he walked the streets from his docked ship towards one of the small beach coves north of the city, the locals always stopped and turned his way gazing at his tall, lanky stature topped with a tussle of reddish orange hair.

It was a time of adventure and great culture for it was 1867, and the world seemed open and alive. This was why Murtagh, captain of the Draper, came to Japan to trade exotic treasures, search for adventure, and acquire riches. That would be the tale he would weave as you shared sake while in port. However, every sailor knows a man who pulls into the same port year after year does it for one reason. Love.

As the road neared the north cove, the captain could hear the steady crashing of the sea against the tiny shore. A small gaggle of girls ranging from 11 to 17 years old was playing in the ocean surf. Upon further inspection, one noticed the organization of the children by 2 of the oldest. With buckets in hand, the girls were given directions to various locations out in the cove. They all began wading into the water then swimming towards their destinations. You see these were not just any girls; they were from a long line of Ama, pearl divers. They drove the coves and nearby sea for shells and abalone in order to harvest the mother-of-pearl.

Sitting in solitude on a rocky jetty was a gangly girl of thirteen years with a pale complexion. From a distance, the girl heard a whistle. She immediately dropped her shells and headed for the man standing on the beach. As her feet hit the sand, “Papa,” she shouted while running. Within seconds, they embraced. “My Ashling, I have missed you. Let me gaze upon you.” Her brown eyes were enclosed with a less pronounced Asian fold over her almond shaped eyes. Her skin was more yellow tones than of her father’s pinkish white skin. As Murtagh, looked at his daughter he saw only love. When the other children in the town looked upon Ashling, they saw only an awkward looking girl with flaming curly red hair.

Their time together as a family was always brief due to the captain’s travels. He saw her only twice a year.

“How are your diving skills?”

“Excellent. They said I cannot be an Ama because I am only half Japanese.”

“Hum…Precious, time will call you an Ama, you will see. You will not just be pearl diver; you will be the Pearl.”

Three years past since Captain Murdagh’s last visit, Ashling used this time wisely. She studied all the books her father had left for her. While standing on the edge of the cove as the sea touched her toes, Ashling practiced breathing. It was something taught to her by her maternal grandmother, one of the oldest Amas on the island. The other girls would mock her and call her Sabure meaning sand, but they meant is as an irritating granule or pebble. Her diving skills had become legendary though out the port city. Merchants paid dearly for the mother of pearl and pearls she and her grandmother found deep in the waters outside of the cove.

The northeast winds were heavy for several days. This was good sailing for the captain; he pulled into port a week ahead of schedule. Murdagh tended to his business during the mid-morning and took lunch while in town. This left him the afternoon to wonder up to the north cove. The wind carried a bit of a chill, but it cooled the skin from the hot, humid summer day. As he approached the cove, he prepared himself for this customary arrival whistle; instead, he was greeted by a sound he hadn’t heard in years. The elders of the cove called it the “song of the sea”. At first, the sound resembled a chant, but as he came closer, the chant blossomed into melody.

The captain stood in awe as the two women, one petite and old with years the other tall and slender with the radiance of youth, standing at the edge of the cove with their toes kissed by the last touches of the Seto Inland Sea practiced their breathing. Quietly, he sat in the sand and watched the two women swim out beyond the cove and drive for pearls. Upon their return to the shore, Murdagh whistled. The young woman turned towards the sound. She pulled the cap from her head revealing a mane of long auburn hair. “Papa,” Ashling shouted as she ran across the beach. As she came within steps of her father, he gasped at the site of her. “Look at the pearl, Papa. Look.”

The captain glanced at the black pearl and then into his daughter’s face. “It’s beautiful.”

The Twilight Zone...

2011-04-17T08:23:00.000-07:00

Creating the first draft of the baby shower list was a simple task. The general rules of etiquette were used to invite close friends, family including 2ND cousins, and a friend or two from work. So when Lily’s mom, Nancy, asked why Mother Wheeler wasn’t on the list. Lily just moaned, “She is just going to ruin everything like she always does. “
“Mother Wheeler is your only living great-grandmother.”
“Mom, she knocked Sarah’s bridal shower cake off the table.”
“Oh honey, she just tripped on the dining room rug.”
“We call her Cruella DeVil. She always has that awful scowl on her face.”
“Honey,” Nancy tried not to laugh, “You have to invite her. It’s not an option.”
Lily grumbled under her breath and wrote Cruel la on the guest list. There was a tear in her eye as she picked up the brochure from the bakery and looked through the cake flavor list. “Can I get her a personal cake laced with arsenic?” Nancy ignored Lily has she started writing out the invitations.

It was a beautiful June day in Stone Harbor, NJ. From the beach house porch, Lily could hear the ocean waves pounding the surf. At seven months pregnant, Lily weighed about 128 pounds. Her long blonde hair seemed to glow as the summer sun hit it. The sun dress Lily wore was white with big bright orange and pink geometric flowers on it. The empire waist had an orange ribbon with pink polka dots. The dress would seem too childish on any other grown woman, but on Lily, it seemed fitting. Not that she was childish; let it be known that she could be a bit bratty at times. Being the youngest of 4 will do that to a girl. However, Lily had this air of naivety that just seemed so surprising at times for a woman of 32 giving birth to her second child. Lily smoothed out her dress and proceeded into the house heading for the living room, which was full of ladies and baby shower gifts. As the guest of honor glided across the room towards the open chair being reserved for her, Lily hesitated a second before she passed Mother Wheeler. Her great grandmother sat perched on the sofa dressed in her usual black attire with a walking cane held out before her as if it was a royal scepter. Lily gave a forced smile to the old grouchy woman just as if she were a small child trying to please someone she feared. Just then a piercing pain came to Lily’s ankle, and within seconds, she was falling to the floor belly first.

Lily awoke in a hospital room unlike she had ever seen. As she looked around, nothing looked familiar to her. She wasn’t even sure it was a hospital room. The nurses who came into the room were wearing white dresses and little winged hats on their heads. Trying to get attention, Lily opened her mouth to speak by nothing came out. She was in such pain tears came to her eyes. That was when Lily noticed something strange. As she looked out the window, Lily saw sprawling city blocks, but it looked like a movie set of New York City from the 1920’s. The pain had become so unbearable she just closed her eyes and prayed for it to go away.

When she awoke again, Lily realized that her arms were in full casts. A nurse came over to the bed and started wiping her face with a cold cloth. The coldness of the cloth felt good against her warm skin.
“Now, there Mrs. Wheeler, bet that feels better. Don’t you worry about a thing. Your husband will be here soon so we can discuss your condition with him,” the nurse said calmly has she wiped down Lily’s legs. Thoughts were racing through Lily’s head. “Mrs. Wheeler, What the &*#$ does that mean? Mrs. Wheeler? What?” The nurse was walking out of the room when Lily finally pushed all the pain aside and in a desperate voice pleaded to the nurse, “My baby, nurse, what about my baby?” The nurse just walked away. Lily looked at the bump on her belly. With her arms in casts, Lily tried desperately to touch her stomach. She needed to feel the baby but couldn’t feel her baby from inside her anymore.

An entire day past before a thin, dapper looking man in a dark suit walked into the room. A fedora hat was perched just so on his head. As for his attire, it was obviously custom-made and reminded her of the type of suits the old Jazz musicians used to wear during the roaring 20’s. The vest had 5 or 6 buttons. Lily giggled to herself and thought, “A vest and cuffed pants with wing tipped shoes? Who is he, F. Scott Fitzgerald?” His bright blue eyes were attractive at first, but if you gazed too long into them, you would notice that they were angry and soulless.
“Little Annie is dead; thanks to your deplorable mothering skills. How could you let a 3 year old go running out into the street?” shouted the angry man.
“Who are you?” whimpered Lily through tears. The man walked towards Lily’s bed, and bent over her. She could feel his hot, sour breath on her face. “I am your husband, you stupid woman. And now you are worthless to me with broken wrists.” More tears streamed down her face as she stumbled over her words.
“The baby, what about the baby?”
“It’s dead!” and with that the man disappeared as fast as he had appeared.

Lily cried herself to sleep. When she awoke, she called for the nurse, but no one came. Lilly looked around the room. The walls were old white tiles, dirty and cracked. There were no signs of a TV or any medical equipment. Just a white enameled metal bedpan sat on the table next to her bed. As she looked out the window at the cityscape, Lilly saw something odd upon the window sill. Stones. Three roundish, grey stones resting on the sill. All lined up next to each other like soldiers on guard.

There were no visitors, only nurses came into the room to take her temperature and to feed her food. No one spoke to her about her baby. Lily only knew that Mrs. Wheeler had fallen down and tried to brace her fall with her arms. Each time the nurses entered, they would call her Mrs. Wheeler. Lily insisted her name was Lily, but the nurses would just smile nicely and told her she was stressed. After several days, the pain started to subside, and Lily was awake more than she was asleep. Seven stones now sat on the window sill. It was right after she had finished her lunch when Mr. Wheeler, her supposed husband, walked into the room. “Get dressed, Mary, it’s time for you to go to your brother’s house.” At that moment, a nurse walked in with some clothing and started dressing Lily. The man walked out of the room as his wife dressed. “What about the baby?” Lily whispered to the nurse.
“I’m sorry. You are going to have to wait until your body passes the baby,” the nurse whispered back. Tears started streaming down Lily’s face. She started crying so hard she began hyperventilating.

When Lily woke up, her eyes were still closed, but she could hear people talking and what sounded like a baseball game playing in the background. Slowly, she opened her eyes to see her real husband, Ryan, sitting next to her, holding her hand, but watching the TV. An IV drip was in her arm along with several wires attaching her to various pieces of medical equipment, and its humming sound was comforting to Lily. Ryan turned his head towards her, “Hey babe, you gave us a big scare.”
“The Baby?” she whispered.
“He’s fine, same as you.”
She closed her eyes with relief.

After Lily’s discharge from the hospital, she went to stay with her mother. The guest bed room was full of flowers. It brought a smile Lily’s face. As she walked into the bedroom, there were three stones on the window sill.
“Mom, why are there are there stones on the window?”
“Oh, it’s some tradition your dad’s family has.”

The night was long and full of tossing and turning. The morning seemed to take forever to arrive. It was seven in the morning; and Lily was exhausted. Thinking a shower would make her sleepy, she got up and took a long hot one. She crawled back into bed and promptly fell asleep. She awoke to Mother Wheeler staring at her. “Good of you to join us.” Lily looked around the room and wondered who the “Us” was. The Great grandmother just started at her hands. Then without warning, she rose from her chair and started walking out of the room. “Annie wasn’t your fault,” Lily blurted out. The old woman stopped in her tracks. She didn’t move. Lily continued, “Do you remember the stones on the hospital window?” Mother Wheeler nodded her head up and down ever so slightly, but kept her back to Lily. “I know what they mean,” said Lily in a hushed tone.

While Mary Wheeler lay in the hospital with her still born child, her husband filled with remorse over the loss of the youngest children, filed for divorce from his wife and gave his two boys, John and Milton, to Mary’s older sister. Mr. Wheeler kept the thirteen year old daughter so she could take care of the house. John and Milton went to school during the day and then would return to their aunt’s house. At night, they would slip out of the house, and down to the hospital to visit their mother. Since children were not allowed in the hospital, the boys had to take extreme care to sneak their way into their mother’s hospital room. She was always sleeping, so after each visit, the boys would leave a stone on the window sill to let their mother know they had visited.

The old woman slowly turned towards Lily. There was a small tear running down her cheek. “I never knew,” Mother Wheeler said as she looked up and saw the small stones lined up along the window’s ledge. A small smile came across her face.

Belated Christmas Poem for 2010

2011-01-05T09:05:00.000-08:00

Christmas is coming. Bringing love and good cheer,
I just want to knock over those pre-light white reindeer.
Neighbor’s houses wrapped pretty and bright,
What have I eaten to make these pants so tight?

Party after party, Smile happy please;
Oh God, I just eat some really bad cheese.
Going over the list, what have I forgot;
This bustle twists my panties in a knot.

During the twelve days of Christmas, I panic and complain;
Then Christmas Eve comes and bad thoughts wane.
It fills me with joy seeing family and friends;
Peace and love; these thoughts I will send.

The girls...

2010-11-09T15:27:00.000-08:00

Joan Rivers used to politely ask “Can we talk?” as one of her tag lines during a stand-up comedy routine. I am not going to be polite…

“Girlfriend, sit the hell down; I need to tell you something.”

Since Breast Cancer Awareness month was October, let’s talk about your girls. Now, I am just going to come out and say it. I know I am a human being of the female persuasion, but I like boobs. Maybe it is because I have small ones and different size boobs seem to fascinate me. There are fat women with big or small breasts, and there are skinny women with big or small breasts. The intriguing part is how women treat their own mammary glands (because that what they are; mammary glands whose initial purpose is to feed babies).

Some ladies celebrate their hooters by putting those puppies right out there for all to see. Some ladies cover them up for various reasons. And some ladies just ignore the fact that they have boobies, and let them have free range around the front of their bodies. The rest of this blog is to the latter set of women.

Are your ta-tas are tickling your belly in any manner? Hoist up those puppies because it is GROSS!

The first modern bra was invented at the turn of the 20th century. There was no Victoria’s Secret store in the 1900’s so bras pretty much sucked, and to be truthful, they still suck. However, this is no excuse for letting your girls run about wildly as you go about your day. If you are under the age of 25 and have had no children, then great, wear your tightest t-shirt, and let those babies show all their perkiness to the world. Celebrate them, show them off. I will be happy to attend a party in the honor of your snappy, happy knockers. However, once you are over 25 or have had children, GET YOURSELF A DECENT BRA!

Now when I say ‘decent’, I don’t mean expensive. You can buy some excellent bras in Wal-mart. This is where the bitching starts…

· The elastic pinches my torso: Then either you have gained weight (go buy a bigger bra) or you bought a bra that was too small (go buy a bigger bra).

· The cups are too big/too small/ too itchy/ too see-through/ too hard/ too soft/ too pointy: This could go on for days, and when you talk bras with women, it does. Why did you buy it in the first place? You need to try on bras before you buy them.

· The straps dig into my shoulders: Loosen them; they are adjustable. If they keep digging into your shoulders, go buy a new bra.

· The straps always fall down: Tighten them; they are adjustable. If they keep falling down, go buy a new bra.

· Underwire bras hurt: Let me say this, and I want to make sure I am absolutely clear with my next point. STOP WHINING and SUCK IT UP! Because if I don't want to see your boobies dangling on your belly looking like tube socks, and I can pretty sure guess that your boyfriend, girlfriend, or spouse doesn't want to see them there either.

Here is the thing. The framework for any bra is fabric and elastic; guess what, they wear out with washing and general use. Bras are good for about a year if you have 3 or 4 of them; two years if you have 8 or 9 of them. Yupe! one year, so those of you who are wearing an 8 year old bra. Knock it off!

How do you buy a bra, you say? Well first, there are two sizes. The number (34, 36, 38) refers to the inches around your rib cage. The letter size (A, B, C) is the actual cup size of the boobs. These sizes are mutually exclusive. During your life time, you will gain and lose weight, so your boobs and chest will grow and shrink and usually not together. So, go celebrate your girls and buy yourself a bright pink bra with good support. The people looking at your breasts will thank you.

Snapped

2010-08-06T12:46:00.000-07:00

Every person has a breaking point. For some people, it may take years for them to hit it or it could be just a matter of moments. The moment can be an earth shattering event or just the smallest comment that just pierces you like a knife. However, what do you do at that moment when the mental snap occurs in your head?

Heather stopped dead in her tracks and just stared at her husband for a moment. “What,” was all she could think of saying to him? Tom repeated his comment and turned back to watch the football game as if nothing had happened. In Tom’s mind, nothing had happened; he just stated an observation and moved on with his life. Heather’s life, however, came to a complete halt. She walked into the kitchen and started the kettle for some hot Darjeeling tea. She always loved this tea; it was so smooth and calming to her. Maybe it would give her some clarity. She closed her eyes just as she started to replay the moment; the tea kettle started to whistle. As she walked up the back stars dunking the tea bag up and down in the hot water, Heather kept thinking. “What in the hell just happened? What did I do wrong? Why do I keep fucking up like this? What in the hell is wrong with me?” She passed her kids in the bonus room and lightly kissed them on the top of their heads. They gave her the “Whatever” grunt and a “Mom, I am trying to talk to Sophie” comment.

The old sleeper sofa in the sewing/office/guest bedroom was her destination. Heather kicked off her shoes and wrapped a blanket around her as she drank her tea. Her mind was blank as she faced the Monet print; she didn’t see it before her. When she was finished with her tea, she quietly curled herself into the couch and blanket so it almost looked like she wasn’t there. With her eyes closed, she drifted back. It was like watching a video. She was on the couch in the living room reading a Nora Roberts novel. The sex scene was a good one. The leading man slowly, gently caressed the leading lady’s body. The kisses were soft and lingering just a hint of tongue here and there. It was the kind of smoldering kiss that they do in the Hollywood movies. Heather looked up with a girlish grin at her husband and thought “Why not.” She closed the book, and walked over to Tom. She bent over him and kissed him as the characters had just done in the novel. After about 5 seconds, she pulled away slightly and looked into her husband’s eyes as she smiled. Staring back at her were these angry eyes that seemed to pierce through her. “Who in the hell are you kissing?” barked Tom. “What?” replied Heather.

She opened her eyes and looked around the sewing room. There was a Monet print of an open meadow where the flowers seemed to sway in the wind. She glanced at them and desperately wanted to be there or anywhere in the world but not here. That is when Heather snapped.

She stopped reading the romance novels and started reading murder mysteries. Each book was darker than the last. The murders were more gruesome and cruel. With each story, Heather replaced the victim’s character with Tom. She would relish in the way the murder would plan, stalk, and kill his victims. As she finished reading the kill scene in this latest novel, Heather with a malicious smile glanced over to Tom and thought “Why not.”

What plagues me?

2010-06-25T06:26:00.000-07:00

As people grow up, create their lives, start a family, they bring bits and pieces of their life with them as gentile reminders of where they come from or how far they have gone. My mom’s objects were very simple, sea shells from the beach, which was 20 miles from our house and a few family heirlooms that seemed to anchor the house with their presences. There was Great Uncle John’s piano that moved from our house to my brother’s house and now resides with my niece, and a dining room set from my Great Grandmother on my Dad’s side of the family, which now is at my house, and books. My mom loved books. Some were old; some were new. No matter how busy mom’s life was as a single mother, she always read to us. Some people have to have a swing set in the yard, ice cream in the freezer, candy stashed in the bottom of a drawer (It’s the secret candy that everyone knows about ; everyone eats, but for some reason, everyone sneaks into the drawer as if it was a hidden treasure).
These are the things that we choose as comforts to give us peace and a sense of belonging. Then there are the things that for some reason just seem to plague us no matter where we go in life. We can move out of state, move up or down in the social latter, be unemployed or a millionaire. But for some reason, you always end up with a house with a rose bush and you hate roses, a boy dog that loves to jump the fence and chase down girl dogs in heat, the relative that seems to eat at your house more than their house, or you always seem to break mirrors (hand or wall mirror doesn’t matter you will break one very 2 to 3 years). For me, I would gladly take one of the above inconveniences.
What do I get?
Poop. Yep. You read that correctly. My life has been plagued with crap. For a woman who is naturally constipated, I certainly have a lot of fecal matter issues to contend with for one person.
It all started when I was young. You see, my mother believed that administering a lukewarm enema would cure most common ailments from the common cold to food poisoning to mental illness. “You’ll feel much better after all that stuff clogging you up is gone.” From an early age, I learned to monitor my bowel movements for signs. After writing that statement, I am completely surprise that the study of BMs did not require chicken bones and a brewed concoction of chamomile and eye of newt with a pinch of licorice root although it would account for my fascination with the forensic sciences and the occult world.
In Kindergarten, I found out that being afraid to go the bathroom in the middle of class has various side effects. One of which is a really bad nickname that can stick with you for several years and is only relieved when one changes schools. The second being that labeling of human waste as dirt when discovered on the floor near your shoes fools no one, not even other 5 year olds.
From this point on, my life seemed to take a turn for the better with only a few incidents of an old dying dog with weak bowels or a niece or nephew to change their diaper during a babysitting gig. Even after having kids, the monitoring of my family’s bowel activities was something I did quietly in the background of living life in the suburbs.
Then one day I did something that was totally out of character, and it must have thrown the Fecal Gods into a tizzy. I decided I would travel France to visit my brother and sister-in-law and to take a book art class. I am not sure how this offended the Gods of Shit, but it did. I had just finished up a day of book making when a screaming email came to my attention. Back home, the family dog had just crapped all over the house. My then husband had to take off the rest of the afternoon from work to clean it up. The next day, a similar email arrived from home only this time, the dog had wrecked havoc upon the master bedroom. This lead to a total melt down in judgment, and my x-husband decided to wash one of the Dupioni silk curtains in the washer and then run it through the dryer. From a small reading nook located in a turret of a 16th century chateau, a horrifying scream was heard for miles. After the news that bathroom cleaner, which contained bleach, was used to clean the celery colored bed skirt from the Pottery Barn, I simply passed out from the shock of it all.
My relationship with bodily waste was improving and then a warning sign came from nowhere. After walking the dog one evening, I notice dog poop on my shoe. Now typically, this happens from time to time when walking a dog along the same path in the woods. However, I knew something was askew when the poop was on top of my shoe and nowhere else. I promptly called Dateman to inquire if he was breaking up with me. He said no. A few weeks passed, and I completely forgot about the pending doom that was before me. Then it came from nowhere in the middle of the day. College Dude (my son) called my cell phone frantically. The call went something like this…
“Mom, the dog just crapped all over the house, but mostly in the kitchen.”
“OK, where is the dog now?”
“Outside. We opened up all the windows because it stinks in the house. We thought we were going to throw up. I think she is sick because it looks really red.”
“OK, take the dog to the vet;’ I’ll meet you there. Make sure you take a stool sample for the vet to test.”
For a stool sample, a large size Tupperware container filled to capacity with poop was transported to the vet’s office. The Vet tech commented on the “ample amount” of the stool sample the boys (College Dude and neighbor side-kick) had gathered and praised them highly for their efforts.
$200.00 later…we all were back home. The boys ran across the street to the neighbor’s house so they didn’t have to finish cleaning up. I walked into a kitchen with dried diarrhea covering floor and a serving spoon lying in the middle of it. To collect my composure, I closed my eyes and thought of the beach for 10 seconds then turned on the radio, grabbed some paper towels and a garbage bag and sang as I cleaned. After the Hazmat team certified that the house was now fit for human occupancy, the dog and College Dude both came back into the house.
Quietly, I monitor the fecal cycle of everyone in the house and wait for the next bowel explosion to occur.

Prologue to Dagda’s Cauldron

2010-03-26T15:30:00.000-07:00

Below is a prologue to a story I am writing. Let me know what you think. Good or Bad. Thanks

The cold winter wind stung her skin as she stepped through the circle. The sun was bright and caused her eyes to squint until she became accustomed to the light. It had been several months since Wicklow had been in man’s world. She was excited and full of mischief. She wanted to play with the humans; they always made her laugh. Typically, pixies didn’t come out during the winter months for a bit of tomfollery. But, Wicklow was always breaking the rules and getting into trouble; besides, she had a new game to show the children. She couldn’t wait until the spring ritual.

The house came into view; Wicklow stopped in her tracks. The human house she always visited was still and cold; something was terribly wrong. The front door was strangely open; leaves and animals had found their way into the home. Wicklow went inside and over to the window shutter to close it from banging in the wind. Where were the children? She flew up the stairs and into children’s room; the closet was empty. Where were the toys? One lone wooden soldier lay under the bed: alone and forgotten. The pixie slowly picked up the toy; a tear ran down her cheek. She felt just like the toy. As she made her way back to the living room, she noticed something on the fireplace mantel. There were two letters placed under what looked like a deck of cards.

She opened up the top letter. Tears came to her eyes. The children had gone away. Suddenly, a thought came to her. Flying from room to room, Wicklow franticly searched the house. It was nowhere to be found. The children had taken the stone. She began to smile. She knew would see them again someday.

When Wicklow returned to her home, she went straight to her room to put away her new treasures. There was a slight hesitation just before the cupboard door was shut. She picked up the second letter and began to read…

For those who wish to follow in my footsteps,

There is a story you must know. There was a time when Ireland was young and the land was full of promise. Invaders would try their hand at conquering this land, but the people were strong and full of fight. It has been said that one day a mist like no other descended upon the land. This mist was as thick as the rolling seas and with it came ships carrying our ancestors from Nemend. The Irish people called them, Tuatha de Danaan, since they were the children of the goddess Danu.

They were a mystical people who brought four magical treasures with them: The Sword of Light from the city Findias; the Spear of Lugh from the city Gorias; Dagda’s Cauldron from the city Murias; and the Stone of Fal from Fáilias. These treasures served their masters well. Then the Milesians, a warring band of invaders, seized the land. The Tuatha de Danaan vanished. Legend has it they found shelter within the hills, lakes and rocks of the land and took their treasures and mystical knowledge with them. These are our Forefathers; this is our history.

As a Shanachie, I roam the Irish countryside captivating farmers, merchants and their families with tales of old Irish battles and legends. But these are the hardest times I have seen. The Irish people have always dealt with invaders but the famine. It is a nightmare like I have never seen. The last hamlet was empty of people. As I walked over the last hill towards Donheadaly in the county Tyronne, a plain gray stone house came into view. The shutters were bright blue. It was a welcoming sign after months of wondering the countryside. I could not wait to share my new treasure with this family.

In my pocket was a deck of cards found during my travels. The images on the cards showed the home worlds of the ancients along with places and things seen during their travels. The images would help enhance the stories as I weaved tales of old before the children.

As I entered the Fallon house, the hearth was cold; an open window was welcoming the autumn chill into the house. A note was resting on the mantel in the living room. I picked it up to read. I had to brace myself against the fireplace as I read the words. It was a note from one of their young sons, Mickey. The family had gone to America to flee the famine. My heart was heavy; my soul now broken. My protégé, gone.

My time has come for me to return from where I came; back into the mist. I leave this desk of cards as a reminder of our past and a guide to future.

Shanachie of Danu,

Henry Blackwell

Wicklow slowly folded the letter and then sat on her bed. She stared at the weathered paper being held in her hands. She knew she had to tell the others. The Shanachie of Danu has returned to the land of the ancients. All they could do now was wait… wait for a sign.

Reducing Stress

2010-01-29T06:22:00.000-08:00

Good Housekeeping always has those articles about health and good living. Here is one I found entitled “Good Advice for Staying Centered, Coping and Living Fully.” It lists 6 simple ways to help reduce stress in anyone’s life. Let’s see if it will work for me.

At the beginning of the article, it says the first thing you need to do is define what the stress looks like in your life. For me, stress is 5’9” about 175 lbs with blond hair (what’s left of it), blue eyes with that ‘You turned out to be such a disappointment’ look in them. Once you have defined your stress, one needs to determine the best course of action for clearing the stress from one’s life. For me, this was accomplished in divorce court. However, this doesn’t work for crazy kid schedules, hectic jobs or shortage of cash for credit card debt that suddenly appeared out of nowhere. So what do the experts say?

1. Smooch Spontaneously: “A study of 2,000 couples showed that those who kissed only during lovemaking are eight times more likely to report suffering from stress and depression than those who frequently kiss on the spur of the moment.” Sweet! I like this study; however, Dateman lives 40 minutes from my house leaving the spontaneity out of any smooching plans that I might have. I tried kissing Mark Harmon during his NCIS reruns, but he never seems to kiss me back. Therefore, my only alternative is a 95 lb. Rhodesian ridgeback dog with toilet breath, and she is only too happy to slap her dog drool upon my face, which truly concerns me.

Calling Robert’s Rules of Order: Can we have a sidebar conversation? “This is not a meeting, and this certainly doesn’t qualify as a quorum because it is just you and me. Which technically, it is just you because I am just that nagging voice in your head,” said brain in his typical condescending voice.
“You just put my hand down! Control Freak”
Sidebar conversation:
Dateman doesn’t want to be called Dateman anymore because he has moved up the relationship latter and became boyfriend. To me, Dateman sounds more like a Marvel cartoon hero wearing tights and a cape while he is about to save the love of his life, Sweet Polly Purebred, from mortal danger because the bad guy, Dick Dastardly, has tied her to the train tracks, and the train is speeding towards her. However in my mind (which has been described as a mix can of nuts), the term boyfriend sounds more like the guy from 10th grade who may or may not meet you at the school dance. It all depends if he can get a ride from his older brother and passed his algebra II chapter test. Do you see my dilemma?

Therefore, here are some of the names I have come up with to elevate Dateman to a new alias. Send me a comment, and let me know if you think Dateman should get a new alias?

- Friend (which is how my aunt refers to him “How is Your Friend?” as she whispers the last two words as if he was a double agent of some kind, and the CIA and KGB are listening in on our phone conversation.)
- Marlboro man (given his propensity to chronicle the mid-western life style and to wear Wrangler jeans with boots)
- Magnum (since he kind of looks like Tom Selleck minus the Hawaiian shirt and those embarrassing short shorts)
- The Blade (defined as a dashing, swaggering, or jaunty young man. I love the word “jaunty” it reminds me of Gene Kelly and Cary Grant or Rock Hudson in those Doris Day movies. They were a dreamy movie couple. Weren’t they?)
- The Gaffer (meaning old man, and the term just cracks me up)

“Hey, can we get back to kissing?” demands brain
Most definitely, I would like to be kissing Dateman right now. Especially, if it is anything like the kissing scene from “Spiderman” where our hero is hanging upside down, Mary Jane peels back just enough of the Spidey mask to reveal his lips, and then they kiss and kiss and kiss. All of this is done while they are in an alleyway, and it is raining. “Good God, your libido is about to explode. Think of your Grandmother making you a cup of tea.”
“Lemon and sugar, Hey, I am so going to kick your butt!”

2. Put the kettle on: The University College of London (of course) noted that people who drank black tea 4 times a day for 6 weeks had lower levels of Cortisol after a stressful task. Cortisol? Isn’t that a pain medicine? “That cortisone, Einstein,” says brain, “I hear Paris Hilton has a brain vacancy maybe I can apply for that job?”
Now, don’t get me wrong I love a good cup of black tea especially Earl Grey or some Irish breakfast tea, but the only side effects I ever seem to get are yellow teeth and having to urinate 20 minutes after each cup. Maybe it is the act of getting up and walking away from the stress to relieve oneself from liquid waste; thus causing a reduction in stress levels. “Maybe it is the 4 oz. of whiskey you dump into each cup that gives you the ‘I just don’t give a shit’ attitude towards your life,” remarks brain.
“Tattletale!”
“So when you are in a drunken heap on the floor? Don’t you find that a bit stressful to explain?”
“No, I just say I am looking for a contact.”
“What about the snoring?”
“I can find my contact better if it is reverberating from the noise.”
“Oh Lord, I am trapped the head of a loony.”

3. Eat healthy: Having a balanced diet will maintain your daily intake of much needed vitamins and minerals. In turn, your body will respond in kind with much more energy and vitality. I was raised on this advice from my mother who stated “Only bad mothers serve their children frozen foods, and I love you. Here eat an apple”. She was the master of manipulation. If she tossed in a hug and kiss, she had you eating a pork chop, which has been fried for 10 minutes on each side until it resembles rawhide. Anyway. This is fine as long as you are under the age of 30, and before your body starts doing all kinds of really weird stuff with the food you eat. Lactose intolerant, allergic to this or that, acidy foods causing mouth ulcers, etc. The food group I am the most pissed at is the fiber group. Eat fiber so you won’t get colon cancer. Eat fiber so you’ll have healthy regular bowel movements, and you won’t be bloated or grumpy. Eat fiber to get rid of toe nail fungus or whatever. See here is the thing. Scientifically, fiber is the rough stuff that scrubs your colon so no nastiness remains and causes harm to one’s intestinal track thus polluting your body with unnecessary byproducts from the digestion process. Great. It’s a sucky job, but it needs to be done, right? I don’t know why corn chips don’t qualify as fiber. Have you ever accidentally swallowed large broken corn chip pieces? Those bastards are like little razor blades shredding the sides of your esophagus as they travel down to your stomach.

“Get to the point,” cries brain.
This fiber thing has one tremendous side effect, which is gas. I am not just talking about gas as a cute little toot that squeaks out of your butt every once in a while. I am talking about the smell of a decaying animal that seeps from one’s rectum at the most inappropriate moments in one’s life. Like while standing in line at one of those fashion boutiques, you know the one where you make 4 times more than the sales clerk, but for some reason, she is condescending and treats you like crap. Or when you are having a performance review with your boss, and there are only two of you in the room. That one really sucks. How about when you are out dancing with the girls, all of a sudden you realize you are the only one on the dance floor, and everyone is looking at you and whispering. This is the moment I visualize when my therapist asks “Have you ever wanted to die?”
As a side note: I did just finish a bag of Bar-b-q Fritos, and I only had a minor incident with one stabbing my tongue. Now I have to run 83 miles just to burn off the 300 calories and 29% grams of fat. Holy freaking cow!
“Hey, ADD girl, fiber remember?” screams brain.
“Yum, Fritos. Oh, fiber, yeah I’m done with that topic,” says me

4. Take the Cuddle Cure: Researchers at the UNC – Chapel Hill recently found that if Dateman was naked while wearing the Batman utility belt…”System overload, let’s get to work,” commands brain. Dategirl slowly closes her eyes as she lays her head on the desk. “Oh come on, she is drooling. This is sloppy work, people. Visual! I need a visual. Oh my, definitely keep the utility belt!”

The Sexual Education of Molly Brown:Part 1

2009-12-16T09:39:00.000-08:00

It was just a simple freaking question. I am not really sure why my mother had to go a screw it up. Now to be fair, I am sure mother had good intentions. However, it had the same results as dropping the atom bomb on your backyard and then saying “I thought it would reduce the grass cutting chore.”

Molly did what any child would do. When she had a question, she went and asked her mother. “How do babies come out?” It is a typical question from a 6 year old. The reply went something like this.

“Why do you ask,” demanded Mother.
“Lisa’s mom is going to have her baby soon, and I don’t know how the baby is going to come out of her belly?”

There was a pause…

“Go and get me one of your baby dolls and a turtleneck sweater.”

So Molly ran to her bedroom to gather the objects. Much to mother’s surprise, Molly returned. She handed the objects to her mother. Mother took the baby doll, shoved it into the bottom of the shirt towards the neck so the head was peeking out.
“Now, this part of the shirt is the woman’s vagina (What the hell is that? thought Molly). When the baby is ready, it simply comes down the birth canal (Molly pictured the boat ride at the shore.) through the vagina (Is that a city?) and is born,” said Mother. At that very moment, Mother took her other hand and went up into the neck of the shirt and pulled the baby doll out of the shirt and handed it to Molly.

“Any more questions?” asked Mother. This is the moment when I would like to travel back in time and say to my mother, “Have you lost your frigging mind?” You just couldn’t have said, “Mommies go to the hospital to have babies.” No, I have to get the 2nd year medical school dissertation from a woman who was an education major in college. Great! Let’s check in with little Molly to see what kind of radio-active, psychological fall-out has just occurred.

A look of desperate horror came over Molly’s face as she walked back to her bedroom and sat on the floor. She looked from the doll to the shirt and back again to the doll. The Epiphany: Oh my God, Lisa’s mom puts on a turtleneck shirt and then she reaches into her tummy and pulls the baby out through the neck. “Why do I have this baby shirt?” Molly screamed from her bedroom.

At that very moment, the psychological damage had been done. It would be the last sex question she would ever ask. And so began the sexual education of Molly Brown.

In tenth grade, Molly had the misfortune of having Miss Verbeck, a lesbian and part time chicken farmer, as her sex ed health teacher (Yes, there is some weird crap in my head, but that I didn’t make up). Since it was an all girls’ class, a great deal of time was spent studying the female genitalia and reproductive cycle. The information she imparted about the labia and the clitoris verged on pornographic. The only thing that was missing was the postman, plumber, or vacuum cleaner sales man showing up in the classroom with his special delivery (wink…wink). Let me put this in context for you, it was 1979, and parents really didn’t give a crap back then. But enough of me blaming the lack of parental interest in education for my problems, let us see how the semester unravels, shall we?

Since the class had spent 2 weeks on the female reproductive system, the time had come for the male talk. “Oh joy of joys,” thought Molly. It was just like the anticipation on Christmas Eve when you knew deep down in your soul you were getting your very first bike. Molly quickly sat in her seat and took out her notebook and pencil. She was ecstatic. This is it. The age of enlightenment was before her. With a pencil firmly at the ready, Molly waited for the slide. The lights dimmed, and the slide appeared on the white screen.

There it was in all its glory; the holy grail of Sex Ed. The cross section of a penis appeared before her like a glowing angel of Mercy. Molly quickly glanced over to Sarah, the girl sitting next to her, with great wonder and smiled. Miss Verbeck started talking.

“This is the male genital region (She makes it sound like a part of Switzerland). As you can see, there is a penis (giggling started), and a scrotum (A totem? What? Wait.) which contains the testicles which produces sperm. The sperm is transported via the urethra (Transported? As in bus or truck?) to impregnate the female egg. Any questions?”

Molly thought for a moment. Now she knew that urine traveled down the urethra causing boys to pee. While looking at the diagram, Molly determined that urine used gravity and muscle control. This made sense because the bladder was above the penis. However, the testicles were below the penis. How in the world would the sperm be forced out of the testicles? Molly looked at the diagram one more time.

“Next, we will discuss venereal diseases.” And just like that, the slide was gone. 53 seconds. What? Are you kidding me? That’s it. 53 seconds? (That’s the amount of time it takes for George Bush to sound like an idiot. Oh wait, that’s 5 seconds. Never mind…) we get more information from the bathroom walls. Sarah whispered to Molly as she began to raise her hand, “So, how does the sperm get to the egg?”

“Girls! Pay attention,” screamed Miss Verbeck as she slammed her wooden pointer on the desk. The girls jumped in fear and sank in their seats. And at that moment, Molly’s formal education in sex was complete.

So the good news out of this complete and utter mess called an education is that Molly was able to learn a vagina was a female body part and neither the neck section of a turtleneck sweater nor a city in Romania.

As for how sperm is extracted from the testicles and impregnates the female egg? Here is my diatribe: When you are working as a covert operative for the US trying to infiltrate the Nazi’s during World War II, it is good to leave out the important bits of information so your side can, oh I don’t know, win the war and stop genocide! This is when I find it completely acceptable to use knowledge as a weapon. To get to the point, as if I ever really have a point, is that Sir Francis Bacon (whose mother was Anne Cooke Bacon, which just cracks me up) had a point that knowledge is power.

So we leave Molly in a puffy cloud of ignorant bliss to learn the rest of her sexual education from deciphering the scribbles on the bathroom stalls and from those cunning snipers of sexual warfare, teenage boys.

Mowing the Lawn

2009-09-30T10:12:00.000-07:00

Monty Python’s Flying Circus Presents…

Neighbor: And now for something completely different: a man with three buttocks…
Mum, Dad: [from upstairs] We've done that!
Neighbor: Oh, all right. All right! A man with nine legs.
Off-Camera Voice: He ran away.
Neighbor: Oh… bloody hell! Er… a woman with a lawn mower…

The lawn mowing chore has to be the most annoying house maintenance job man has ever invented. Yes, even over cleaning gutters or kitchen floors. The latter being the worst task for me. I still think all kitchens should have stainless steel floors with drains in the middle of them, and a mandatory kitchen appliance would be an under the counter pressure washer. But I digress.
I have on rare occasion mowed a lawn. Growing up with a bunch of older brothers there was no reason for me to mow the lawn. Even if first string sibling was on the injured list, the second or third string lawn boy was waiting on the side line ready to prove that they had the right stuff. It was more like if you didn’t mow the lawn the way mother wanted it mowed, she would show you she had the right stuff which was either at the end of a ping pong paddle or her left shoe. And if you are wondering, no I didn’t grow up in the generation of “aren’t children precious, and please don’t stifle their individuality, children are people too” era of child rearing. The parents in my generation were under the firm believe that children were meant to be seen and not hear, and if mom didn’t see her kids all Saturday and Sunday because they were playing in the woods with some ax murdering psychopath, well that would have been just fine at least we were learning a skill.
“Oh boy, can we stay on topic?” moaned Brain.
So, I now have to mow the lawn. What’s the big deal? Well, dear readers sit back and relax as you observe from your front porch.
Issue Number 1: My front lawn is on a hill.
Issue Number 2: The middle of my front lawn is one of those lovely natural areas where the squirrels are happy to run and frolic about joyfully amongst trees and lots of shrubbery.
And now for something completely different…
Pet Shop Owner: Oh yes, the, ah, the Norwegian Blue... What's, ah... W-what's wrong with it? Mr. Praline: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. It's dead, that's what's wrong with it. Owner: No, no, 'e's ah... he's resting. Mr. Praline: Look, matey, I know a dead squirrel when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now. Owner: No no, h-he's not dead, he's, he's restin'! Mr. Praline: Restin'? Owner: Y-yeah, restin.' Remarkable squirrel, the Norwegian Blue, isn't it, eh? Beautiful fur! Mr. Praline: The fur don't enter into it. It's stone dead! Owner: Nononono, no, no! 'E's resting! Mr. Praline: All right then, if he's resting, I'll wake him up!
(shouting at the cage)
'Ello, Rocky! Mister Rocky Squirrel! I've got a lovely fresh pail of nuts for you if you wake up, Mr. Rocky Squirrel...
(owner hits the cage)
Owner: There, he moved! Mr. Praline: No, he didn't, that was you pushing the cage! Owner: I never!! Mr. Praline: Yes, you did! Owner: I never, never....
(He pulls the squirrel out of the cage and...)
Brain screams…”Put down the squirrel and no one gets hurt. Let the girl finish her insipid lawn mowing story.”

Issue Number 3. I have violets, clover, moss, vole holes, and 517 blades of rye grass which are clumped together in a pattern that resemble the country of Denmark.
Issue Number 4: I am the proud recipient of the water main pipe thingy (yes, 4 years of college and that is the only term I have for it) which sits 6 to 7 inches (that’s the imperial standard 6 inches not the men’s locker room six inches) out of the ground about a foot from the curb dead center in my yard. It is a lovely feature; I think I might place two rocks next to it and see how long it takes for someone to knock on my door.
Issue Number 5: My lawn mower is electric. Now before all you organic granola, tree hugging democrats get all orgasmic on me, please re-read the above 4 issues. Waiting…waiting… image coming…Yes, I know your rose colored glasses just shattered with a cold hearted slap from reality. Here’s a tissue, dab your eyes, and wipe the snot from your nose.
And finally…
Issue Number 6: The only electrical outlet is located on the back wall of my carport.

Each individual piece is rather delightful item to itself, but once combined; mowing my yard is like going to Disneyland with a broken leg and being tethered to a pole. It just not the pleasant experience I have seen on “Leave to Beaver” when Wally tried mowing lawn for the first time. So, what sadistic lawn mowing bastard decided an electric lawn trimming device was the best option for our lawn care services? Oh yes, it was Xhusband. Ug…
So the wild green plant life needs trimming. What is one to do? Well, I must drag the mower from the shed in the back yard through the dog poop and collapsing swing set, down the rock invested side yard littered with old kid yard toys (pretty much if I cannot see it, you shouldn’t be able to either) into the front yard. String three exterior extension cords together. Now this would appear to be a simple task. However, one has to twist the male and female plugs in a specific pattern to make sure they don’t pull apart. If you look in your sexual reference manual, page 53, the Pretzel position is how the cords end up looking. Refer the following verbal description:
Curling her right leg around your right side and straddling her left leg. Use your left hand...
“Stop,” yells Brain, “vomit impulse is coming in from the stomach…”
Where to start? Hum… left side near drive way. OK, seems as good as any. It is a thin strip of land; it would be a small accomplishment, and one that will build self-esteem with the new mowing skills I am about to acquire. Mowing down the property line, maybe. Make note to self to know precisely where the property line is. Nearing flower bed. Must make turn. But to where? Go straight back up from whiniest I came or just make a right hand turn? In my state of quandary, I just start mowing the lawn like one would vacuum a carpet. At this point a nagging feeling crept from my brain. “You look like an idiot; this isn’t a carpet. Remember what the Hubs told you?” I thought for a moment. It seems to me that some where during my 20 year marriage Xhusband made mention of mowing the lawn in a particular pattern. Yes, I am sure he mentioned it several times. Why didn’t I retain that information? Quite simple really, I saw no need for both of us to be experts in the same areas. So, I was happy to smile politely as he jabbered on about which mowing pattern was healthier for the grass. You might think it rude, but Xhusband did the same for me when I babbled on about the differences between using cleanser vs. soap scum removal liquids for the tub. So I searched my brain for any information at all on lawn patterns.
“What do you think I am a Google search engine?” Brain said to me rather rudely.
“Pretty much,” I replied back to myself.
In a mumbling voice, “Google search my ass…”
“What?”
“There are two entries. One stating that mowing needs to be done in some sort of grid pattern. The other entry states something about blade height. Here is the audio,” Brain stated
“Wow, you can do audio?” I replied as my X-husband’s voice started to replay in my head.
“During the summer months, the blade is to be approximately blah, blah, blah. Notice neighbor X has applied this rule and blah, blah, blah, blah. However, Neighbor Y did not abide by this rule and their lawn has died and has brown spots. Now here is the interesting thing about brown spots, [blank for 2 minutes]. “

“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air? Nixon playing with scissors again?”
“Nope from the looks of the data feed, you slipped into a short coma. Now if you had simply chosen to ignore him, which is where the blahs appear, I can run a dialog simulation routine against it. I would use the topic and various blah, blah. Hey, you cannot ignore a conversion from your own brain. This is [blank]” Brain said furiously to no one.
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air?” I repeated
“I need to talk with my union representative, I need to reassigned. I hear Sarah Palin needs a brain…”
Little did I know that the lawn maintenance knowledge has been handed down from father to since 1919. From the dawn of time, men hung out in backyard sheds and made whiskey. It was not that men really liked making whiskey; they just needed a reason to get away from their wives. So once Prohibition was in place, the men all got together and decided that they needed another outdoor activity to keep them out of the house and away from chores and children. Thus, lawns were invented.
At this point, I head towards the green menagerie of vegetation near the curb I like to call a lawn. After surveying my options, I decide to run the lawn mower parallel to the curb. Seemed like a good plan until the mower stopped working. Crap. The plug must have come undone. I run up the hill to the carport and check the plug…looks good. I run down the hill and checked each attachment of the extension cord…everything’s fine. I get back to the mower and stare at it. “It’s a lawn mower; it cannot speak,” mocks brain.
“Good, that means the paranoid/ delusional meds I’m taking are working.”
“Not really, but check the plug that goes into the lawn mower.”
“Oh, look at that.”
The above action was repeated about 3 or 4 times. Each time a different plug in spot had come undone. Add in various cord trappings by bushes, trees, a water pipe, and a dog, and you have woman running around frantically in her yard wrestling with an extension cord. It has been about 30 minutes, and I am still not finished. Did I mention the size of my lawn? It is about 110 feet wide by 6 feet deep. So it should take anyone with a gas mower, what, 5 minutes? In the middle of my antics, my 80 year old neighbor who has a lawn which resembles a carpet came over to say hello. And it went something like this.
“Hello dear. It is lovely to see you as always.” He is such flirt.
“Hi, Howard.”
“I see you are mowing your lawn. Such a fine woman shouldn’t be mowing her own yard. Maybe we can find you a nice man to help you.” And with that, he literally looked up and down the street. Just then Eric Idle jumped out of the bushes wearing a garter belt, bra and panties and mows my lawn with a toy lawn mower that blows bubbles.

Guardian Angels and Bathroom Gods

2009-08-26T11:35:00.000-07:00

There are moments in my life when I can feel that some seraph is watching over me. For instance, there was a time in college when I went to bed in a state of drunkenness. If my dad is reading this, it was the only time I got drunk in college, I swear! OK, I cannot pinky swear on it. Alright, maybe that time in the boys dorm. Do you work for the CIA or what? Never during a school night. Stop looking at me that way! OK, never on a Wednesday night because that’s when I always seemed to have a night class. Can we get back to me slumbering after over indulging on the libations? At some point in the middle of the night, I started to vomit. This is usually a good way to purge the toxic concoction brewing in my stomach, but I was lying on my back and started choking. This is where my angelic guidance councilor decided that it was best for me to puke on my roommate in the bunk bed below instead of dying and gave me enough sense to turn my head. This is good because, I know my brothers, and they would have had “Died like Mama Cass” written on my tombstone. Now my angel thinks his big favor for me is done and spends his time in playing poker; so he can be an extra in the next Ocean’s 11 movie.

Many people have a vision of what their guardian angel looks like. Maybe their angel is Clarence, the warm and gentle soul from “It’s a Wonderful Life” or the beautiful cherub looking Roma Downey in “Touched by an Angel”. Nope. Mine happens to look like Dwayne Schneider from “Once Day at a Time”. Life would be fabulous if it was Tom Selleck in a tool belt, but no, I get a greasy haired weasel in a denim vest and white t-shirt. Go figure.

Flash forward ten years…

My company was getting ready to broadcast the CEO’s end of the year speech. So, what they do is set up TVs in designated areas and broadcast out to us minions. This is a great “Big Brother” idea except that you have to get there early to get a seat. So, I did just that. Well, it is morning, and I had just finished my usual glass of milk and cup of hot tea with my breakfast. I knew I wouldn’t last an hour, so I quickly ran down a hall to where I thought I had seen a drinking fountain. Which for any one that works in an office building knows where there is a drinking fountain up against the wall there are toilets within a 15 feet radius.

I dash madly into the bathroom and darted into the nearest stall. Sweet Jesus, relief from a full bladder is like the sweet sirens from heaven have descended upon you and are singing quietly in your ear. You are calm, quiet and smiling as your once distended bladder regains its original shape and size and the pain slowly dissipates. It was during this calm bliss that I noticed something. A pair of black dress shoes walked past my stall. Not just any black dress shoes mind you, a pair of black wing tips in about size women’s 11. Now in the 1990’s, I was a big fan of wearing Doc Martins with dresses. If it was good enough for Demi Moore and Meg Ryan with their prissy tomboy look, it was good enough for me. I admired the shoes for a full 2 seconds, and then something occurred to me. These shoes didn’t come with skinny clean shaven legs; they came with dress socks and professionally tailored dress slacks in a dark navy with a very light pin strip. OK, that is taking the tomboy look a little too far for me, but to each their own. If you want to be a woman and dress like Donald Trump; who am I to question your fashion sense. Just be warned, you will have your face blurred out in the Glamour magazines “Fashion Does and Don’ts” section. Fascinated with this new fashion trend, I literally watched the wing tips not walk into the stall next to me but stroll up to the far wall, and then the unspeakable happened the owner of these fine dress shoes began urinating.

At that moment, panic began to slowly seep into my body. I was ready to live my life out from within the bathroom stall and re-enact Howard Hughes last years at the Desert Inn in Las Vegas. As the wing tips finished their business and walked back across the floor towards me, I followed the foot steps with my eyes. The dress shoes paused for a moment as the owner pulled open the main bathroom door. I was a stall door away from being busted when I noticed something. I looked down at my shoes and was for the first time horrified by what I saw. These were fabulous red patent leather loafers with these cute tassels on them which I wore with a khaki skirt and a red blouse. I glanced back and forth between my adorable red flats and the large black dress shoes which stood before me. Slowly, I lifted my feet off the ground and began to re-enact the bathroom scene from “Witness” with that boy with those ginormous ears. The wing tips quietly proceeded out of the bathroom. In the middle of this act of desperation, I realized that I was doing a crouching tiger stance by placing my feet up to the toilet seat and hugging my legs. I was so horrified by my predicament, I couldn’t even finish going to the bathroom.

This is one of those moments in your life when you pray to God. And being a really bad Catholic, I gave God about 5 seconds. Nothing! Quietly, I whispered “Schneider?” Noda! Panic set in, and I started praying to any god or goddess that would listen. Zeus, Hades (I’m not picky when I am in a bind.), or any other god who had stepped foot on Mount Olympus. Zero from the incestuous deity crowd. So, I quickly jumped from Christianity, through Paganism, right to Druidism. I started praying to the bathroom stall god (It’s one of those lesser known gods.), so I decided to move up the food chain, as it where, to the bathroom door god. Then like a republican in a closet at the Watergate hotel, I quietly listened to hear if any more men’s shoes had entered. None. Any hallway noises to indicate movement towards the bathroom door? Silence. While still remaining crouched on the toilet, I slowly opened the stall door. Then like a gazelle, I sprung off of the toilet, out of the stall and opened the door to the hallway. I quickly looked both ways down the corridor, no one in sight, and sprinted down the hall like I was a Frenchman during the Nazi invasion. When I got to the end of the hallway, I turned to see if anyone had seen me. Schneider was shooting dice up against the wall with Roma Downey. He gave me the thumbs up.

Email to Xhusband's Girlfriend

2009-07-09T11:08:00.000-07:00

This is a recent email I sent Xhusband to give to his girlfriend for when she goes visiting with X to his mother’s house. Of course, names have been changed to protect the innocent, and I embellished to make it more interesting. But I really did send a similar email…background info…It’s my Xmother-in-law’s birthday, and we are going down to throw her a birthday party.

Yes, I know your question. If you are the Xdaughter-in-law, why in the hell are you going to the “Monster-in-law’s” birthday party? Well, you see it goes something like this. My child wants nothing to do with their father or grandmother. But out of family obligation and general nagging on my part, the child will go visit with the grandmother once in a while and only if I go along. Why? Because I protect the child from the grandmother’s verbal flatulence.

Email starts now…

Tell Wendy, the Xhusband’s girlfriend, if she comes; I'll teach her survival skills on dealing with your mother, Margaret.

Things never to do...

1. Load the dishwasher. No one ever does it properly, even her own children that she trained to load the dishwasher, so don’t even bother.

2. Take the opposite side in politics. Not unless you really like to debate issues or just want to hear her explain how stupid you are (politely, of course).

3. Throw away food even if it has green mold on it.
a. Expiration dates are for the weak minded. No one is going to tell Margaret when her food has gone bad.
b. You are throwing money away when you throw food away. What the hell are you thinking!

4. Cook food using her pots and pans. Always bring a pre-made dish that can be thrown in the oven or just go out to dinner. No mess in the kitchen makes for a happy Margaret.

5. Never bring anything with coconut or even eat it in front of her. Her late husband and her son love it, but too bad. Get it at someone else's house.

6. If you bake or cook, don't make it fancy. She doesn't appreciate it, and you have just wasted money and given her an excuse to complain. Just remember, Swanson makes it so you don’t have to!

7. When buying gifts, just stick to gift certificates. She will be happy which in turn makes you happy. Unless of course you plan on buying her something that is very expensive. This also comes with a hook. It has to be what she deems is expensive. For example, the crystal Waterford clock Xhusband bought her for her birthday a few years back. It sits on the mantel to be shown off to friends. Buying her expensive soap, hand creams, chocolates, coffee is not a good idea; she places no importance on fine milled lavender soap imported from France. In her mind, Dove is a good soap, so why would you want to spend over a dollar for a bar of soap just to get clean.

Here are some basic rules for Wendy to follow...

Rule 1. Bring stuff to do. If she knits, reads, scrapbooks, sharpens knives or makes shrunken heads, tell her to bring a travel bag of her hobby. She may not need it, but just in case, she can pull it out and use it to not listen to Margaret, but still be polite and be in the same room.

Rule 2. Drink lots of water, so Wendy will have to get up and go to the bathroom frequently. If she doesn’t have to go to the bathroom, just use it as an excuse to take a break. While I am in the bathroom, I usually sing a happy song in my head, (That annoying song “Walkin’ on Sunshine” usually does the trick.) and I just generally remind myself that I am a good person, and Monster is the nutter. If this doesn’t work, I bang my head on the marble countertop until there is internal bleeding.

Rule 3. Practice meditation while Margaret is mindlessly talking about a recent story she read in her local paper. Pick a happy place in one’s mind and just go there. All the while nodding one’s head and saying things like "I agree, oh really, that's interesting". This is where I walk on the beach, go to Paris, design a garden, or stand in that pit in the basement of the “Silence of the Lambs” movie. It drones out Mother-in-law’s voice, and all Wendy will hear is 'blah, blah, blah..."

Rule 4-10. "On the Job Training" is needed depending on what is happening at the moment. (eating dinner, shopping, helping her around the house, driving, etc) Just have the general understanding that you are a mindless idiot. If you adopt this attitude, things will run smoothly and no one will get hurt.

The Last Resort Rule. Claim to have a headache and go take a nap. While in the guest room, Wendy will have to put the alarm clock from 1958 (I’m not kidding.) in the dresser drawer to help block out the constant buzzing noise from the clock. I usually line the drawer with the 5 year old magazines to make it more sound proof. As for the grandfather clock which chimes every fifteen minutes, it usually drives me insane. But if you are using the Last Resort Rule, you have already been driven to insanity by the mother-in-law, and at this point, the constant ringing of the chimes is a welcome relief where the pain of it all reminds you that you are still alive. This thought may or may not be a comfort. It depends on how many hours you have left in the mother-in-law’s house.

Regards,
Xwife

2 Hour Meeting

2009-06-08T08:45:00.000-07:00

A 2 hour meeting is starting in about 10 minutes. I treat this meeting as I would an 8 hour road trip. I plan out what snacks and drinks I will need for this assembly of the grey matter. But 2 hours is a really long time for someone who is mildly ADHD. So, I must determine refreshments, activities, and maybe work in a bio-break if needed. All of this is necessary to get me though the meeting without my head slamming on the table from being driven into a coma induced by technical jargon and just general boredom.

Now that I have secured all the necessities, here are several things that I do to keep myself occupied during the snore fest so I don’t go running about the room causing trouble like a 4 year kid at an adult wine and cheese party.

Mental games:
- Determine the number of calories in a peanut butter cookie if I only ate the crunchy outside and not the soft inside.
- Calculate the last time I had sex without staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out when the dog needs her next flea pill. OK. That’s no fun…Make it into an algebra equation where X=last time had I sex in a phone booth. Factor in a location like downtown London; they have cooler phone booths. Then divide by environmental factors such as during a rain storm while not drinking hard liquor. “Oh, that only happens in those trashy romance novels that you read,” says Brain. “It’s a 2 hour meeting, and it’s my fantasy. Get out of my head.” I shout. “Sorry, I am your head. If I leave, you will start to resemble that wilting head of lettuce that has been hanging out in the vegetable crisper for two weeks.”
Time check: 1 hour and 55 minutes to go.
- Can I calculate in miles per hour how fast hair grows? My brain is rolling around my skull laughing hysterically. “Jerk.” I think to myself.
- When was the last time I flossed my teeth? “Oh geez, you should go back to the hair growth question.” Brain manages to say between burst of laughter.

Random Thoughts:
- Tom really needs a hair cut; he looks like Bozo the clown gone mad.
- How does the ink in a pen not spill out?
- This Chamomile tea is good.
Time check: 1 hour 45 minutes to go.
- Can I fire my Brain for bad management? “I heard that!” says Brain in a very pissy tone.
- Does Jarrod really get invited to every meeting? Or does he just wonder from meeting to meeting?
- Will I get to see Dateman soon? “Hey, stop smiling so much. The meeting people will think you’re not paying attention,” orders Brain. “No way, this is a much better thought then the architectural redesign of a database. Hummm.” “Oh for God sakes, snap out of it.” “You’re a prude,” I protest loudly to Brain.
- The meeting leader says the phrase ‘slice and dice the data’ and I think, “Oh, a salad would be good for dinner.” Brain sneers “Once again, you have miss the point of the conversation.”
- Is it hot in here? Oh no, here comes a falling sleep head bobble.
- Time for a Kegle exercise. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
- How come Lori can never complete a sentence, but at the end of each incomplete thought she says, “You know what I mean?” Brain screams at Lori, “No, I don’t know what you mean. You didn’t finish the sentence! You bubble-headed twit, but I do like her blouse. That is a great shade of periwinkle.”
- Can I subtly scratch my nose so people won’t think I am picking my nose?
Time check: 1 hour 35 minutes to go.

- “Humm, Dateman…Crap! Did you just dope slap the inside of my head?” “Pay attention this is important,” demands Brain. “Meeting Leader is going to repeat himself at least three times, besides I like my topic better.” “You cannot think about such things at work,” says Brain in disgust. “Oh yes I can, and when did you become a Puritan anyway?” I state firmly to myself.
- What will my next Facebook entry be?
- Jack is eating a Snickers bar. Yum, maybe I’ll have spaghetti for dinner. “What? How did you get from candy to Italian food?” “Well, nougat reminds me of.” “Please don’t,” pleads Brain, “I was there the first time and that entire process makes me nauseous. I think the right brain synapses are playing practical jokes again.”
- Just who buys Cynthia’s clothing? She must raid the closets of the old folk’s home and then have her 3 year old kid dress her. What the hell is on that sweater? Are those sea shells with different happy faces on them? And what is up with her hair? She looks like a cocker spaniel who licked an electrical outlet.
- BBQ Fritos would taste really good right now.
Time check: 1 hour 15 minutes to go. “Looking good…”
- Maybe my migraines are really being caused by a brain tumor? Make note to self to ask doctor. “That’s a stupid note to self. I’m not logging it,” says Brain. “Stop giving me migraines,” I yell back at Brain. “You see, I cannot work under these conditions. You are so snippy to me during these meetings.”“Am I PMS’ing?” “You cannot image the pressure I am under to run an entire body. You never say thank you or appreciate anything I do.” “It’s an emergency. I need chocolate!”
- I wonder if I can make it to the French Bakery during lunch?
- When is the new Harry Potter movie coming out? “I told you mid-July. You cannot remember anything,” says Brain snappishly. “Well, if you would stop the random thoughts,” I bark. “Oh, it’s entirely my fault, now is it? When are you going to be the grown-up.” “Bio-break.” I whisper to the person next to me and quickly walk out of the room before I have a break down on myself.

Information I took away from the meeting:
The meeting leader is demonstrating how he architected his project. And from his point of view, it is really good. Apparently, I should do the same thing. Because rumor has it my project is floundering and is about to crash and burn. So of course, he is so fabulous and has come to rescue me from myself. “You see what I am saying to you,” he says to me. I love this statement…that is when brain shouts…”Yes, I am not a freaking idiot.” But out of my mouth falls the words…”Oh absolutely, what a good idea.” Brain says…”You are such an ass kisser.” “No I am not, I just want him to shut up and stop repeating himself.”

Time check: 1 hour to go. “You can do it.”

General Meeting Etiquette:
- If you bring food, it has to be non-crunchy food.
- How to look like you are taking notes, but you are really writing your next blog entry.
- Always get a seat with quick convenient access to the door, so you can take a bio-break without walking in front of the projector.
- Don’t read a text message and then laugh out loud. Big Bossman will give you one of those “Do you want a pink slip?” looks.

Time check: 45 more minutes….”Pay attention. I can do this, right?” I chant to myself.

“OfficeGirl, you see what I am saying to you,” asks Meeting Leader. “Yes, I like new approach. The improvement to the process will stream line the output to be much more efficient for the end users.” I state as if I had a clue. I hear screaming in my head; it is Brain. Must get more chocolate to calm her down.

Dress Shopping

2009-05-14T05:33:00.000-07:00

Dress shopping has pretty much driven me into a deep state of depression. Medication may be needed by the time a dress is purchased. I am hoping for massive quantities of Thorazine where I can sit and drool while staring at the paint on the walls after this shopping event is complete. The dress is for an important date. Dateman is going to take me out for my birthday; there will be dinner and dancing. And yes, that is ballroom dancing, like the Foxtrot or the Waltz. [Small pause while my family and close friends collect themselves from falling on the ground with laughter at the thought of me doing a proper dance.] The story goes like this. I took ballet and tap dancing lessons as a child for one year. My mother and grandmother agreed I needed to gain some pose in my step. You see when I walked through a doorway; I would enviably run into the doorframe. Being graceful is not within my DNA pattern. I was a tall, thin, gangly girl growing up who was given about as much grace as Chevy Chase during a SNL skit. Therefore, I took to ballet like Vikings took to table manners. When it came time for the next year’s registration, the dance instructor kindly told my mother my talents were not in dance, and maybe I should take up an instrument where I would do less damage. You see, it is not good to do a pirouette and wipe out two or three other dancers in the process.

Mr. Date is fully aware of Dategirl’s lack of dancing skills from a previous date and has agreed to take her dancing for her birthday anyway. At this point, we might start to question Dateman’s judgment. Either, he is the sweetest man alive or a reincarnation of the Marquis De Sade. A firm rule has been decreed. Mr. Date leads without exception unless of course we find ourselves in a drunken stooper at a Stone Temple Pilot concert where we are standing two feet away from a mosh pit, and then he is quite happy to let me lead. I suppose it is a good rule. However, I do like to break it from time to time. Especially, when we are on a dance floor near tables or walls, I find it very hard to believe that he is not going to ram me into the waiter’s drink station to try and cripple me. This is usually where I come to a complete stop or try to quickly run in another direction. Thus, causing the following actions:
Leg tangling
Knee to the groin
Accidental head butting
All of which he frowns upon while dancing. The most amazing part of him teaching me to dance is that he doesn’t mind when I step on his feet. Probably, it is less painful then a trip to the hospital from a concussion caused by one of my Circus O’lay panic attacks. Maybe, I should be taking Paxil to ease my anxiety over dancing. Sidebar: Dateman has stated that I never need to worry about fulfilling “The girl with a stripper pole” fantasy for him. We discussed it, and I told him I would be happy to do it. However, I would have to wear a helmet and shin guards. Let’s visualize shall we? Humm… It doesn’t matter how sexy the bra and panties are when you are wearing a Hello Kitty bicycle helmet and an inflatable donut strapped on as a butt guard. The man has a good point.

So let us get back to what to wear? Let’s go shopping; Macy’s is always having a sale.

“Come On Down! Dategirl, you're the next contestant on The Price Is Right! What garment options are behind door number one? Johnny?”
The Hippy dresses: electric blue, orange and green splotches of color all on same dress. Bob, there is no cut to the dress, and it is as limp as a gay man’s handshake at a Rambo convention. Oh and just for fun, there is a 10 inch bright yellow daisy right were the crotch might be. It is perfect for the desperate over 40 divorcee.
The ‘Leave it to Beaver’ mom dress: this dress is sleeveless with a scoop neck and a form fitting bodice with a cute matching mini cardigan. Then at the waist, the dress flares out to a 95 degree angle from the torso making Dategirl look like a cross between June Cleaver and an ax murdering a ballet dancer.

“Those sound nice, Johnny. What else do we have for our reluctant cougar?”

The Prostitutes for God dress: these dresses are more confused then a transvestite at a paraphernalia sale at an adult book store. This dress could be worn by a nun where the length of the dress comes down to about a ¼ inch from the peri-menopausal swollen ankles only to show off a nice cluster of varicose veins. Cross that with a street walker where the top of the dress barely has enough material to cover one deflated, sagging boob let alone two of them. And forget about the arms, Bob, those flabby pieces of flesh are just out flapping in the wind for all to see.
The Multiple Personality dress: The tag on this dress states it can be worn as a dress or a skirt. Humm… Let’s see. It is brown broomstick skirt with a string attached at the top front. This is the ‘Please stay up as a dress’ device. So it can be warn as a really long skirt or a really short dress where both options make our ‘hopelessly 40” look like she is wearing a brown paper bag with rubber bands attached at the top to secure the garment.

Time is ticking and girl you need a dress. What are you going to do?

In a crazed frenzy, I began looking in every department in the store. In the suit section, I was hoping to maybe wear a sexy blouse with an A-framed skirt going for the sultry sophisticated look. All I found were lots of spinster Fema-natzi suits that seemed to scream, “This vagina is closed.” So in an act of desperation, I wondered around the lingerie department hoping to find a really pretty dress slip to wear because it covered more of me than the dresses I saw earlier. Apparently, this Macy’s has the corner market on Granny Panties to go with the Barbara Bush suit collection. I’ll keep that in mind if I decide to become Amish!

As luck would have it, Macy’s has a boutique line of really expensive clothing hidden in a back corner. The dresses were perfect: sexy not trampy and smart not frumpy. The actual retail price is...$128.00 F*$%&$! Crushed, I put the dress back on the rack. I started to walk out of the department store defeated. I had been in every department store in the mall and every side store except the Deb shop. It should be illegal for anyone over the age of 19 to make purchases in that store. Anyway…When out of the corner of my eye, I saw a very small rack that had a Sale sign above it. Yes I know. I have shopped enough at Talbots and J.Jills to know that the clothing on sale rack is still more than I can afford. Oh, look a t-shirt is on sale for $34.99. Could some body just shoot me? So, I flipped through the clothing in a mindless daze. And there it was. An Empire waist, scoop neck, cute short sleeve dress that when I held it up, it came to my knee. Perfect. It was in a big eggplant and black paisley print. My colors, yes! I go and try it on. I have to have this dress. Suddenly, Bob Barker comes out of nowhere and says “The actually retail price is…$38.99 sold to our first contestant in the rose print granny panties, a desperate housewife from North Carolina. Johnny, can you tell her what she has won?”
“Well, Bob, the empire waist lengthens her legs giving her a lean appearance. As an added bonus, the empire waist combined with the neckline makes her boobs look larger and perkier than they have looked BBF (Before Beast Feeding).” Dategirl screams uncontrollably while jumping up and down in the dressing room when looking down at her shoes, a pair of Clark mules; who are so tired, they can only manage a squeaky murmur for help. Dategirl sits on the floor, stares at her shoes/dog chew toy and quietly pops a Paxil. “All right shoe shopping, here I come with my two different sized feet!”

What about Sex and Dating?

2009-04-17T06:22:00.000-07:00

After dating for a while, that whole sex thing seems to end up as the prancing circus elephant in the room. Since I am Catholic, the Pope advises me against premarital sex. Sidebar: How does a man who has never had sex and wears a dress designed by Liberace have the right to tell me when I can have sex? This would be why I am a “wayward” Catholic. I can understand the whole “thou shall not kill” commandment. It would be bad form to beat Xhusband about the head with a baseball bat until he collapses to the ground, then slice him open, disembowel him, throw his entrails on the ground and dance around them naked while under a full moon. Not that it has ever crossed my mind. I am just saying I can see were the Supreme Being would frown upon such a heinous act of butchery and paganism. Unless, X was a rat-bastard of course, and then Her Holiness would completely understand and maybe even suggest the proper outfit for such an activity. Girl, Stay focused! Where were we? Sex, church and sins. Oh yes, why is committing premarital sex given the same punishment under God as committing murder according to the Catholic school nuns anyway?

This is one of those areas where I am thinking if the founders of the church had access to an excel spreadsheet; things might have ended up differently. The sins could have been categorized, prioritized, and sorted. For arguments sake, let us break the premarital sex sin into two categories: First being ‘Pre first marriage and you should be a virgin’ sex sin. Second being ‘Post separation/divorce I haven’t had good sex for 3 years, and you seem like you have a pulse and are disease free’ sex sin.

“Dude, what in the hell are you thinking? I know you haven’t had sex for 3 years 5 months and 8 days, but you cannot change Catholic Dogma,” says a husky female voice.
“Who are you?”
“God”
“No shit! Really?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What flavor are the green Lifesavers supposed to be? I know the package says lime, but it just tastes like green to me.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Oh, sorry.”
“According to Catholic Dogma, there is no divorce, so you would be committing adultery for the rest of your life. So my dating wonder, in the eyes of the Church, you will become Hester Prynne. Would you like that Scarlet letter tattooed on your chest now or just embroidered on your clothing?”
“Wow, any loops holes?”
“You could get your marriage annulled and bastardized your son or wait until X dies so you become a widow.”
“So if I participate in lustful desires of the flesh, I am to burn in hell with all the other damned souls collected since the dawn of time?”
“Pretty much, it’s eternal damnation!”
“I was married for 20 years to Xhusband. Can I get credit for time served?”
“Hum… how about 10 years of free sex sin credit, and the next time you make cheeseburgers, you toss one on the floor?”
“What?”

Everything is dark then suddenly the room comes into focus. The dog is barking at something outside. I am lying on the couch and must have fallen asleep. Well, if I plan on being an adulteress, I should have some standards at least. So, here are various things I have thought up before jumping blindly into bed with a new partner.

Would I be offended by any “kinky sex” asked of me by my new sex partner?
How would I go about finding evidence of odd sexual preferences?
Would I be able to state “things” which will absolutely not be tolerated?
What about my not so 20 year-old body being on display like a new pair of Jimmy Choo’s in a Macy’s window display?

Let us start with number 3 since it is easy, I hope. Emphatically, there will be no live animals including acting like an animal (CSI episode 167), golden showers, S&M, animal costumes (CSI episode 93), no dead people includes acting like your dead or foot sex. These are the deal breakers. There is fun sex, and there is ‘Damn, you are one sick MF and here is the address of Dorthea Dix mental hospital’ sex. I don’t care if I have to leave in the middle of the act completely naked with only a pillow case for a cover up. I am so out of there. Clearly, there are sexual acts far more disturbing then the items listed in the previous statement, but then I don’t know about them. I am happy to live my life in blissful ignorance. That is until CSI or Southpark does an episode on the topic, and it bores an unwelcome image into my brain. This causes me to look at my co-workers and neighbors with suspicion to determine if they go to conventions where they dress up in animal costumes and have sex orgies while wearing said costumes. I have my eye on Bob in accounting; he looks like the type to dress up as Randy the 6 foot raccoon chasing a purple squirrel with silver glitter for eye shadow. But I digress.

The pre-sex talk is necessary for full disclosure and to level set any expectations so there are no surprises which may cause coitus interruptus for either partner. You see here is the nightmare that plagues my dreams if likes and dislikes are not discussed previous to the act of intercourse (Mother would be so proud of my use of proper language). I am quietly making love to my partner. Exchanging soft kisses when he whispers, “Can I tie you up?” In my mind, I think he would use that nice silk scarf I was wearing earlier. What the heck? Where is the harm in that? This could be fun. Holy bondage, Batman! Sexdude, shackles me with handcuffs in less then 2.4 seconds to the bed post, zips a black leather mask over his head, tells me the safety word is “Wisconsin” all while holding a leather cattail, reaching for his pet hamster named Sniffles, and introducing me to his taxidermied cousin Jimmy who is pulled out from under the bed. STOP! ‘Stay the hell away from me you crazy ass bastard’ is the safety word I scream as I bolt up in bed from a dead sleep only to have my dog stare at me with that “Dude, take it easy,” look on her face.

So here are some pre-sex dating strategies to avoid the above sexual paranoid dream. You will need to search his bedroom or apartment/home for clues. It may take several tries to do a complete and through search, but don’t be dismayed. Your safety and well being are your number one priorities.

Future partner needs to be distracted during search:
1. Have partner take shower just before sex. It’s been a stressful day for him, and he needs to relax.
2. The trash is smelly and making you sick. Have him take it out.
3. Clog his toilet with tampons.
4. Set his balcony or desk on fire.
5. Dial 911, mumble into the phone and hang up only leaving your date’s address audible.
Where one can find valuable information:
1. Search his wallet for membership cards to paradise clubs, receipts from adult book stores, a slip of paper that says “Call 867-5309 when naughty”, or a condom which has metal spikes on it.
2. In the bedroom, search for porn magazines (the kind they don’t sell at the gas station), various sex toys, strange outfits including women’s undergarments and shoes, or camera equipment hidden on a shelf or inside an air vent.
3. In the living room, search the video library for porn and not just a sexual spoof on “Driving Miss Daisy”.
4. In the spare bedroom/basement/garage, determine if this room could be used as a sex dungeon where you might be kidnapped and kept for years on end with no contact with the outside world. Humm. Sidebar: let us ponder this for moment shall we? One would one have to wear the same outfit as Princess Leia when she was Jabba the Hutt’s sex slave. One wouldn’t have to bath a 90 lb dog who is afraid of water, figure out how to do calculations in Excel while your boss is screaming about budget cuts, or make dinner from a can of tuna and left over bean dip. One could just eat, sleep and have sex all while being chained to the wall. On a purely survivalist level, it does have some merit. HEY, Princess Leia! Stay on target. Quite right, we must press on; it would be in the best interest of the reader.
Question number 2 is a huge self image issue. Here are some of the things that might run through the mind of anyone in Dategirl’s situation. First and foremost are the boobs. They seem to be the first to go. It really doesn’t matter how old you are, once you breast feed, your breasts seem to sag 6 more inches. So if you have had 3 or 4 kids, those puppies are talking smack with your belly button. Somewhere along the line, your breasts get mad and start ignoring each other. On a normal day, this doesn’t seem important, but when you actually have to get naked in front of someone new when the lights are on, you really don’t want your boobs pointing in different directions especially if one tries to get away by jumping over your shoulder. Not the sexy Victoria’s Secret pose you want to impress the new guy.
What about those wayward hairs that start growing in strange places: the upper lip, the crazy one which comes screeching out of your cheek every once in while, the area between your belly button and bikini line (when you still where able to wear one) is filled with wild hairs like women racing to a shoe sale at Macy’s.

And who could forget those scars and moles that seemed to have collected on your body over the years. Liposcopic surgery is great for a speedy recovery; however after two or three of them, your body starts to look like a connect-the-dots puzzle. I have dreams of such things. A Sharpie is being used to connect all the scars and moles on my torso. After several moments, an image comes into focus. My partner screams “It’s a rabbit,” and dashes into his closet. He is digging through stuff in search of something tremendously important. He runs back to bed with a furry dog mask on his head. I wake up startled only to find my 90 lb. dog staring me in the face. Who states “Dude, I know it is 3AM. But, you left the toilet seat up again, and now, I really have to pee. By the way, your brown jersey tank dress would be perfect for a good disembowelment. Its wash and wear.”

First Kiss

2009-04-03T09:15:00.000-07:00

So, I have survived several phone calls, text messages, a few emails, and a couple of dates. But somewhere along the line that first kiss experience crops up and smacks you in the forehead. Usually, the “Walking faster than the date and jumping into the car before he gets there to only crack the driver’s side window” plan was working nicely for me. But at some point, the Saturn moons aligned with Mercury rising, and I got caught up in a conversation and ended up leaning up against my car talking with Mr. Date.

My dear reader, this is where it became problematic, because I clearly remember being a good 4, 5 maybe 6 feet away from Dateman. OK, maybe it was only a foot or he has ginormous rubber stretching arms, but somehow I was pulled towards him. Where was my can of mace? I have a red belt in Tae Kwon-Do. “Break his arm. Kick him in the privates,” said my brain. Nothing…I was being sucked into the Vortex.

The whole kiss thing started off rather enjoyable, nice soft lips, not too spitty, no tonsil checking, no smashing of teeth, no burping, and I didn’t feel like he was eating my face. Perfect! Then at some point my brain kicked into a major panic attack. “What are you doing? Don’t just stand there like a zombie, do something,” said brain. So my body responded in kind, and I put my hand up to the back of his head. “Nice move, Hot Lips” says brain. “But you have your car keys in your hand. I think you just stabbed him in the back of the head.” At this point, I completely panicked. “Shut down all systems before she becomes a homicidal manic,” shouts brain. So being ever so obedient, my body did a complete system shut down.

This is where the word awkward is appropriate; apparently Mr. Date didn’t get the shut down notice. So for 4 or 5 seconds which seemed like 10 hours, I stood there like a coma patient during the Gay Pride parade in San Francisco. Well, thank God, the kiss ended, and I was over that major disaster. Yeah, good luck with that thought. If I thought the first kiss was awkward, well, the after the first kiss dialog is enough to make Ghengis Kong wet his pants with nervousness.

I smiled nicely, and he said something which for the life of me I cannot remember because I think I went momentarily deaf. At some point, he said he would call me the next day. “Now is your chance,” said brain. “Say one of those smart, but sexy phrases we practiced earlier just incase this would happen.” Tick, tick, tick…”SAY SOMETHING,” brain screamed at me. Which I felt was very rude considering the complete system shut down command he had just given; now he wants me to speak. So in a small squeaky voice, I mutter the words “Thank you.”

“Get the hell out of there,” brain commands. I concurred and jumped into my car, and got the hell out of Dodge.
“Thank you? What the hell was that?”
“You said to say something, so I did.”
“We had practiced saying something sexy or sensuously funny. You could have said ‘That was nice’ or just did some kind of sexy ummm noise. But no, you respond as if you were returning books back to the library.”
“Well, at least he knows I am polite. I am such a loser,” I thought to myself as I banged my head against the steering wheel.

So like any other female, I grabbed my cell phone and called a girlfriend. After the phone call ended, I was driving down the highway when a thought bolted through my brain. It is the kind of thought which makes the entire world seem like it has stopped while you ponder the adverse effects of the thought…Is this a good time to bring up I was on a 4 lane highway going 65 miles per hour? No. OK, forget I mentioned it. Continue with life altering thought…

“You were sucking on a Cherry flavored Halls before this whole kiss thing started. Where Is Your Halls?” brain demanded. I looked in the rear view mirror and checked my mouth. Nothing!
“Did you swallow it before you got into the car?” asked brain.
“I don’t know,” I responded
“Did you chew it up while you were walking towards the car?”
“I DON’T KNOW.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Try to remember.”
“OMG, did I give him my Halls in the middle of the kiss?”
“What! How could you do that?”
“You ordered a system shut down remember. I could have given him my social security number, my first born child, and the location of my secret chocolate stash.”
“Well Dategirl, you are in quite a pickle. If you swapped spitted him your Halls, he’s not going to call you. What are you going to do?”
“I am going to buy 12 cats, the entire catalog of Harlequin romance novels, a 10 year supply of Godiva chocolates, and cry for the rest of my life.”
“You’re allergic to cats.”
“Crap! Can I become a nun if I have a 17 year old child? My life is ruined,” I thought as I drove home in complete silence even brain was quiet.

Epilogue:

Mr. Date did call me the next day, and before the posting of this blog entry, he has stated for the record that I did not swap slit him my Halls.

First Date

2009-03-20T05:41:00.000-07:00

The entire ‘dating after 40’ thing is very stressful. The dating rules seemed to have changed over the past 25 years since I was last in the dating pool; I am completely confused and perplexed by what is now acceptable. Case in point: according to one of the books I read (It was not an entire book on dating, just a chapter in “How to divorce your husband and not come out looking like a nut case” kind of book.), it is perfectly acceptable to ask your date if they have any STDs. Don’t get me wrong, this is very good information to know, but I am not quite sure how one is to work the topic into a conversation. Maybe during the main course of a meal when there always seems to be a natural lull in the conversation, one is to slip the question past the date. “These carrots are delicious. Could you pass the salt, and do you have any nasty critters on your Johnson?”

I am not sure but I think my grandmother along with Emily Post would absolutely spin in their graves. My mother, who was a stickler for grammar, would have made some sort of comment like, “Use proper English, dear; it is called a penis. Please sit up straight, and what is wrong with your hair? Pull it back; I cannot see your face?”

Let’s take a step backwards and determine what one should wear to a date considering one didn’t have time to go shopping for any type of date clothing. So, we take a look at the cloths in Dategirl’s closet. Hummm…
- A stack of work in the yard/ paint pants and sweatshirts
- Several hangers of non descript mom pants which are generally worn to the grocery store, Home Depot and the vet’s office
- Work cloths. Oh, you mean the 27 shades of black or grey baggy in the butt pants that you own
- Oh, we cannot forget the mound of sweat pants used on those “bloating” days

Great! By the looks of this wardrobe, the only way Dategirl is ever going to get to first base is by sitting in a shopping cart being pulled by the baseball team’s mascot goat named Dixie.

Finally, I opted for the knee length black skirt, a tight white long sleeve t-shirt (accidentally bought the wrong size) and black knee high boots with big chunky heels which scream ‘I really would like to be sexy, but I have a casserole in the oven, kids to pick up by six, and a dog who has decided he likes to jump the fence to visit other dogs in the neighborhood.’ To top off the outfit, I throw on a leather jacket and a 34 foot long scarf and wrap it around myself until I am completely unrecognizable and look like the little brother in “The Christmas Story.”

Once you get over the “what to wear” hurdle, you have to meet the person and decide within .8 seconds if they look like a serial killer, and you need to turn and run. I decided to stay. What the heck, you only live once unless of course you are Sybil, and you get to lead 16 different lives at once. Not a bad option, but I don’t see how I can fit MPS in between carpool and cleaning up dog throw up.

We get seated at a table. Side note: if the date goes badly, I picked a restaurant with a back/side entrance. So Dategirl is ready for the first date. Maybe…
The waitress asks “Can I get you something to drink?” Yes. I think I am about to have a nervous breakdown before this date is over so could you just start bringing me whatever liquor you have? Alphabetical order would be easier to manage; I’ll start with Amaretto on the rocks. So now, food and drinks have been ordered. The small talk of “Did you find the restaurant OK?” “The weather sure is weathery today.” “What was your name again?” is finally over, and you are forced to stare at your date and come up with some cleaver conversation starter. Let’s see. Did I check CNN or Headline News today for easy topic starters? Nope. Hum. Dead air. Nice going. Mr. Date steps up to the plate and speaks. Oh, thank God for small favors.

Now during many first dates, the conversation resembles more of an interview process ranging in topics of medical, financial, mental, religious, political, and general life style. I have watched enough CSI, Criminal Minds and Bones episodes to identify prison tattoos, date rape drugs, various murder techniques, the above the mentioned serial killer or just plan rapists. It is also good to know that my many years of therapy have not gone to waste and have given me an astute awareness of several personally defects. So, I carefully listen to the answers Mr. Date gives to determine if he has the following behaviors: Control Freak, Wife Beater, All Round Loser, Passive-Aggressiveness, Pretentious Intellectual, Paranoid Delusional, Player, Mama’s Boy, Workaholic, or Spoiled Brat.

So, how is Dategirl’s evening progressing? You would think you could leave her alone for 5 minutes to answer a few personal questions. Such as “What type of music do you listen to?” This should be an easy question to answer. Well, let us just see how Dategirl answers this seemingly simple question shall we?

“What type of music do you like?” politely asks Mr. Date while sipping his cocktail.
“Well, that depends on what type of mood I am in or what I a doing,” replies Dategirl.
“OK?” Mr. Date responds with a somewhat puzzled look on his face.
“For Angry Chick music, I like Hole, Pink, Fiona Apple,” our heroine stops as she see the horrified look on her date’s face. She isn’t quite sure if it is the category or just the fact he has never heard of the artists, so she continues with her answer.
“For contemporary rock, I like Foo Fighters, Nickelback, blah, blah, blah….Pop rock: blah, blah, blah…Alternative Rock: ColdPlay, Modest Mouse, blah, blah…Punk: Elvis Costello, blah, blah…Folk rock: blah, blah, blah...”
More blank stares as he takes a large swallow from his drink. At this point, Crazy woman has totally lost control of the conversation and is just rambling. She notices the ‘WTF are you talking about’ look on her date’s face and quickly tries to do a Hail Mary play.
“I grew up listening to rock artists such as David Bowie, Jimi Hendrix, Queen, and Van Halen,” Disaster Dategirl states as she finally takes a breath of air.
“Led Zeppelin?” Datedude finally chimes in with a response.
“Yes, and of course, one cannot live without listening to the Beatles, Motown, a bit of Big Band, some Ragtime, and Frank Sinatra” she says as she wraps up her 20 minute dissertation.
“What music don’t you like?” he seems to hesitate as he asks.
“Blue Grass, Opera, and most County music,” she states emphatically within 2.5 seconds and responds politely with, “What type of music do you like?”
“Country,” he replies with a quiet smile. Crap. Date over, I am so screwed. Dategirl puts her foot in her mouth. Waitress, I think I am up to the T’s; I would like tequila after that complete verbal debacle.

“Oh, like the Dixie Chicks or Lyle Lovett?” she states with a ‘Please don’t think I am a complete pompous ass’ smile.
“No. I like blah, blah, Toby Keith, blah, blah, blah…Southern Rock: Eagles, blah, blah, blah…” He hesitated as he watched her face become a contorted pile of flesh.

Dategirl could hear herself listening to the group names and saying to herself, “Oh, please don’t say his name. If you say his name, it will mean the date is over, and there is never any hope for a second date which would be a shame because Dateman is tall and good looking. I mean, let’s be real about it. The country artist in question hasn’t had a hit since what the ‘90s? He was pretty much the Britney Spears of Country music. OK, kudos go out to his lead guitarist, that dude could make a guitar wail. But come on, what was up with the jet pilot head gear for a microphone? And those two toned geometric shirts? They would make the guys from ‘Queer Eye’ spin like a glitter ball at a disco…Don’t say it….

“And of course, I like Garth Brooks,” says Mr. Date with a bright smile.

Date over. Check please! ...and a Zima in a to-go cup.

Alignment Assignment

2009-03-10T07:12:00.000-07:00

For an art class, I had to contemplate the word ‘Alignment’ as it would be used in art. I thought for quite a while and nothing came to mind. So I asked myself, “What is alignment?” Lining up in a straight line or pattern (Stonehenge) or having a common point of view or grouping (political parties). But what is alignment in art, poetry or writing? Nothing came to my pitifully vacant mind. I know drinking kills brain cells over time. I used to say while “tying one on” I was selectively pruning my grey matter, but during this assignment I now know which cells were killed off during that killer party at 2nd floor of Switlik dorm in the spring of ’86.

So, I will ramble a bit (the opposite of alignment), and we’ll see where this goes.

In contemplating alignment, the first thing I thought of was my hair. This would be where you tighten your seatbelt and press the “I believe” button. If I took one strand of my hair and created repeating points from beginning to end then I could align those points to various stars strewn across the universe. Take those individual points and multiple them by the thousands of hairs on my head or what seems like thousands according to the look of my bathroom floor. The results would show why my hair does crazy summer-salts, frizzes, and goes perfectly straight in one section (a black hole) all in the same day. You see, here is my theory. My head is in constant movement from talking, dodging bullets, and what not, along with the earth rotating around the sun, while the sun moves around the galaxy. I am not too sure what the Milky Way galaxy does within the universe (side bar: what kind of name is Milky Way for a galaxy anyway), but I am pretty sure it involves some type of rotational activity. And looking at the frizz of my hair and the 9 or 10 stray curls, it is fair to say the spinning has quite a substantial force.

Oh thank Hera, the queen of the heavens, the concept of art and alignment has finally been channeled to my hair through the great cosmos. OK fine, I goggled.

“The fundamental element of graphic arts is to determine the alignment of the picture or text upon the page in coordination with the other pictures or text blocks on the page. There is edge alignment and center alignment.” – stolen from some really smart art dude’s research paper posted on the web

So, I take this definition of alignment and look at my story/art journals. Is there alignment? Ah no, my journals pretty much look like chickens were set loose upon the pages with scraps of paper and a glue stick.

Clear Visibility

2009-02-24T05:15:00.000-08:00

Pam knew for a long time her clairvoyance was a trait bestowed on her from her maternal grandmother. However, she wasn’t so sure it was a gift. It was a sunny spring morning, and she had been working hard in the garden. It was the first chance she had to clean up from the winter storm season. The sun was starting to break over the top of house; Pam knew it was near lunch time so she went inside to grab a bit to eat. Afterwards, she grabbed a blanket and took a nap on the patio glider.

Pam bolted straight up; she was out of breath and looking around her yard. A red car. She saw a red car running into another car. Someone was hurt. Who was hurt? She couldn't see. The bright red car, why was it going to fast? The vision faded away. Pam started to see her garden again, the irises had buds, and the little pink shamrock flowers were gently waving with the breeze. A tear rolled down her check as she whispered, “I hate this.” Pam wrapped the blanket tightly around her. She watched the tree limbs dance with one and other. She closed her eyes; she turned her face towards the sun and basked quietly in the afternoon’s warmth.

The visions made her feel impure and used. They had a life of their own which she couldn't control. It also came with the grim responsibility of convincing people they were in harms way, and that made her feel crazy and disconnected from the world. But for one moment with the sun warming her face and with the crisp noise of the wind in the background, Pam never felt more alive and connect to the world around her.

Pam’s body jerked; her feet hit the patio running as she yelled “Not Chris, please don’t let it be Chris.”

Thoughts on Dating after 20 Years of Marriage

2009-02-08T13:02:00.000-08:00

I don't think some of my dating plans are going to work out for me. Doing the bar scene is not an option. Problem #1: the bar scene doesn’t get going until 10:30 or 11:00 which is way past my bedtime. Problem #2: Girls must dress to impress which means their private parts are hanging out while guys wear long pants, sleeved shirts and maybe a jacket if they are really trying hard. Absolutely not fare and down right chilly during the winter months. Problem #3: The Pickup game. Oh, just shoot me. I would rather be back at a 7th grade dance standing on the girls side of a crate papered cafeteria staring at my shoes praying for a fast dance song to come over the AP system. Don’t get me wrong, I have fond memories from 7th grade (staring at John Marrow from across the classroom. Sorry, I’m back…). I am just guessing being drawn and quartered would be less painful.

The next plan was to become a lesbian. My girlfriend’s husband said he really liked women and would highly recommend them. So I considered my options. We would have the same parts, so that would be check in the Pro column (nothing new to learn). I know several lesbians, and they are all quite nice normal interesting people. Check in the Pro column. Many seem have hips the size of small canoes. Check in the Con column. Many seem to dress and cut their hair like men, so what would be the point. I might as well date a man. Don’t get me wrong, if Hiedi Klum or Sandra Bullock were to announce they were single and lesbians, Dude, I am there.

The trophy wife plan seems to have some problems associated with it right from the start. Most rich single men are usually enjoying their golden retirement years. While this may not have been a problem for Anna Nicole Smith, dating someone who could have been in the same Boy Scout troop as my dad seems a bit warped and creepy. While there are plenty of 20 something trust fund babies out there, they just don't seem to be hanging out at the garden store or taking book art classes. Besides if I thought dating someone my dad's age was weird, dating someone my son's age is just down right repulsive and skanky (now there is a word I have not used since the 10th grade). So that leaves me with the rich 40 year olds who just happen to be single, I think I might have better luck being labeled a virgin.