tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20995328044065068462024-03-05T01:46:20.949-06:00The Playground In My HeadI was recently told that my uncle (hi, Jimmy!) described me as having a playground in my head. Here's a little bit of what goes on in there.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-13517291696516192132016-01-06T21:38:00.002-06:002016-01-06T21:44:28.178-06:00How I Made An Ass of Myself, Pt III<br />
Years ago, I wrote about how I <a href="http://maretsplayground.blogspot.com/2011/06/my-new-phone-or-how-i-made-ass-of.html">made an ass of myself</a> while buying a new phone, and then later <a href="http://maretsplayground.blogspot.com/2012/06/how-i-made-ass-of-myself-part-ii.html">while buying a new laptop.</a> Making an ass of myself when speaking to others in a retail environment is not a new experience for me. Having just returned to the U.S. after several years away, I found myself in a similar situation. And I knew I was back. I knew <i>I </i>was back. <br />
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Albert was my student for two years. He presented himself in 7th grade like a grown, scowling, near-mute version of the Cosby character with the same name, and only slightly slimmer. In the two years I was his teacher, I never saw Albert smile. And I'm not sure that I ever heard anything but a disgruntled grunt from him. To Albert's credit, I think he was not exactly an angry kid- I think he was just given a particular demeanor which I projected into his future as having difficulty helping him get a girlfriend, obtain a job, or otherwise interact with other human beings in a functioning society. <br />
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"Holy shit. Albert got a job," was my first thought when I saw him, these many years later, behind the register of the Walgreen's in which I was making a quick preemptive stop to pick up some tampons and pantyliners. "Holy shit, Albert's going to have to scan my tampons and pantyliners," was my second thought, and suddenly panic set in. I hid behind an early Valentine's display of large stuffed bears and made a distress call to my teacher friend. "I can't do it!" I whisper-yelled. "I...there are tampons...and....ALBERT!....ALBERT!" You can imagine my friend's alarm. And confusion.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not actually Albert. Thank you, random photo stock guy.</td></tr>
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There are several uncomfortable situations in which one hopes to never find oneself: walking in on your parents having sex, your parent walking in on you having sex, and having to have Albert check you out at Walgreens when you're buying tampons and pantyliners. These things are all in the same trauma-category. Do not doubt me, dear reader, until you go back in time and teach Albert for two years, and then find yourself in the position for him to make conversation with you while handling things which are directly related to your vagina.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What I had to bring to the counter.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What I imagined Albert would imagine and why I had to hide.</td></tr>
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"You've gotta get out of there," my friend advised. Her counsel is wise, and I was starting to attract attention, what with my stage whisper and tampon-clutching and bear-hiding and peering nervously towards the checkout counter. But then, like an 11-days-after-Christmas Christmas miracle, Albert walked away from the cash register and disappeared through a door behind the photo developing equipment, only to be replaced by a thinner, whiter, chattier, scraggly-beard-ier version of himself. This is to say Albert seemed to have gone on break and his manager took over the duties of man-handling the customers' purchases, including my now crumpled box of tampons and pantyliners. Thank you, baby Jesus! <br />
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I mumbled something incoherent into the phone, hung up without warning, and ran to the checkout with such speed that I left a WWI trenches scene reenacted by plush bears in my wake; bodies everywhere. Some still moving. I am sorry, bears. Momma's got to strike while the non-Albert tampon buying iron is hot.<br />
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Out of breath, I tossed my purchases upon the counter. Albert's replacement, Larry, we'll call him, because his name tag said "Larry," greeted me. "Did you find everything alright, ma'am?" It wasn't exactly a warm greeting. I'd put it closer to indifferent, but eye-contact was made and an attempt at a smile. I pictured Albert setting his grumpy gaze on customers while scanning their purchases. I picture Albert making an irritable exhale followed by an incoherent mumble, and I wondered if he'd ever be up for employee of the month. You know. Like if everybody HAD to have a turn at it. Oh, Albert.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not actually Larry. Thank you, Google Images.</td></tr>
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"Hi, Larry," I said. And that's where I should have stopped. Because that's where most people do, save the occasional back-and-forth chat about the weather. But I have an affliction. And if you've spent any amount of time with me, especially in public, around other people, you will have come to this same conclusion already. <br />
<br />
"I used to be Albert's teacher. In middle school." This garnered no response from Larry, which was no deterrent for my already babbling mouth-talking machine. "Yeah. I taught Albert," I continued. "Tell him I said hi, will you? Ms. Maret. He'll know me. I'm Ms. Maret. His teacher. I mean, not now. But I used to be." Larry scanned my box of tampons and placed them in a plastic bag. <br />
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"Yeah. Tell him hi. Except don't tell him that I was buying tampons." Larry looked up at me briefly, and smiled uncomfortably. "I mean," I shrugged theatrically and started doing this weird kind of nervous dance, "it's not like they're for ME or anything." I leaned back and did this floppy back and forth arm shake like Dan Akroyd and Steve Martin characterizing two wild and crazy Czech brothers.<br />
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"Hey...hey...they're not for me. I'm just...they're for a friend." I stopped the shoulder shaking and arm flopping, but the words continued spilling out. "The tampons. Not for me. So, you don't have to tell Albert...you know...because I don't..." and then I made a triangle with my hands and placed them around and about where my lady-parts are. "Because teachers don't...you know...we're like Barbie dolls down there. Teachers. We don't have. You know. So no need to draw Albert's attention there." <br />
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"It's ok," Larry said. He scanned my box of pantyliners, nervously.<br />
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"Or those. Nope. Also not mine. For a friend. The same friend even! No pantyliners for me, sir! So. You know."<br />
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Larry placed them in the same plastic bag as the box of tampons. I'm sure Larry was really wanting to go home at this point. He appeared to go to his happy place in his head. A place where a lady was not wildly gesticulating about feminine products in front of his cash register counter. "I used to be Albert's teacher," I said again, as if I could put back on track this derailed social encounter. <br />
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Larry had two items to go: a pack of gum and some shampoo. I always have some decoy purchases to take the focus off of the things I'm buying to keep the cashier from thinking about the fact that I'm buying something to keep me from BLEEDING THROUGH MY PANTS FROM MY VAGINA BECAUSE SERIOUSLY GROSS HOW CAN WE EVEN LOOK EACH OTHER IN THE EYE AT THE CHECKOUT LANE! and Albert. Man, was I glad Albert wasn't behind the register. Man, was Larry hoping he was.<br />
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And here I'd like to give Larry an award for speediest cashier of the year. Of all-time, perhaps. Because I've never seen someone scan, bag, grab money, and distribute change in record-time the way Larry did. "So, you know," I said, "just tell Albert I said-"<br />
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"Did you find everything alright, sir?" Larry said to the guy behind me in line. I detected a "please save me" desperation to his greeting, and I know an exit cue when I see one. I backed towards the door and bowed two or three times, an unfortunate left-over from 3.5 years living in South Korea. I'm sure this did nothing to bolster Larry's level of comfort in that very moment, but there it was.<br />
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In the parking lot now, I had that elation of having evaded the life experience that involves Albert and my tampons. And then slowly, as it always does, the realization of my filter-less and socially awkward exchange became clear. I called my friend back. "Aimee," I said. "I have to tell you what just happened."<br />
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"Whaaaaaaaat...." she said. "Whaaaaat did you say?" She already knew the story. She was just being filled in on the particulars of <i>this </i>recent episode. I remind her that I just spent years living in a country where my verbal oversharing of thoughts and feelings and observations were largely not understood by the greater population. <br />
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But now I'm back. In English-speaking and English-comprehending United States of America. I. am. back. <br /><br />I am. <br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-67566513152240751702012-06-25T16:33:00.001-05:002016-01-06T19:42:57.839-06:00Arabian Nights, in a nutshellI just read the last page of "Arabian Nights." I mean to say I read all of the preceding pages, too- not just the last page. But, hear me now: that story is crazy-town. I mean totally nuts. I'll try to summarize it for you now, because I'm that kind of stand-up gal.<br />
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There are two brothers, both kings, who live in different kingdoms. The older one sends word to the younger one that he'd like to see him. "Bring all your stuff and travel on over this way, bro'!" he says. Essentially. Delighted, the younger brother packs his stuff and heads out with a group of people, leaving his wife at home.<br />
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Oops! He forgets something at home, so he turns around and goes back in his castle to get it. I can't remember what it was, but he felt he needed it. Lo! (The word "lo!" appears a lot and I like that.) Lo! The king finds his wife in bed with a man. A black man! Lo! Lo! And it wasn't really a bed. It was like a carpet on the floor or something. Seems like a king could have a real bed, but okay.<br />
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So the king is all super-pissed and super-shocked seeing his wife and what I imagine to be some kind of chiseled LeVar Burton- not because I'm really wanting to see LeVar Burton gettin' it on with some white lady, but because I could picture him in that role. Maybe it's growing up with Roots and much later Reading Rainbow. And Star Trek Next Generation<i>. </i>So, it is possible. Anyway, the king sees LeVar and his pasty lady going to town and with one swoop of his sword, he cuts them in four pieces. FOUR PIECES! That was some swishy-swirly swift cutting, there, king. Lo!<br />
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So, the king goes back outside and says nothing of what he saw or did. He just hops back on the horse, or whatever, and takes off for his brother's house. They get there in three days, because everything happens in threes. Brothers hug. Things seem cool. But the older brother notices his younger brother is all sickly like. Probably because he just sliced some people in fours, but he keeps that to himself. Younger brother just wants to kind of chill out in his room and that's what he does, declining an opportunity to go hunting with his older brother.<br />
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While the older king-brother is out hunting, the younger brother looks out his bedroom window and sees the older king-brother's wife walking outside with 20 of her attendant ladies. They go to a fountain and all start taking their clothes of and the younger king is like, Lo! But then he notices ten of them are actually dudes disguised as lady-attendants. Lo! Lo! The ten real ladies and the ten dudes disguised as ladies get it on. Lest you worry about the wife of the king, she also gets it on by yelling some kind of whooping call into the air and Lo! Another chiseled black man come scampering down from a tree and hops right on her. Everybody goes to town for a bit and then the process reverses itself. Chiseled black man runs up the tree, ten dudes re-disguise themselves as ladies, ten ladies get their clothes back on, and the queen does the same. All go back inside.<br />
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Well. You can imagine that the younger king was at a loss for words, having just witnessed this. It did put things into perspective, though. He suddenly didn't feel so badly about his own situation and decided to keep what he saw to himself.<br />
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Older king-brother returned from hunting and found his younger brother suddenly in good spirits. The color was returned to his face and at dinner, he ate a shit-ton of food. The older king was all, "What's up with you? How'd you get better all of a sudden?" And the younger one was all, "Oh, man...don't ask me that. Ask me anything but that." So the king asks again and they go back and forth in this way for awhile. It's crazy talk.<br />
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Finally the younger king says what he saw, and let me tell you, the older king goes nuts. He kills them all. Lo!<br />
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The two kings, deciding that all women are sneaky whores, take off for the forest with the plan of never returning. "We don't need no sneaky whores!" And certainly there aren't any in the forest. Or are there?...<br />
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They get to the forest and find there some big ol' monster thing that's like as big as the sky. It's huge. And ugly. And mean. It's called an "Ifrit" and it's supernatural and could kick your ass, big-time. So, this Ifrit has a coffin with it and the coffin's all nailed shut. When it opens it up, a beautiful lady comes out of it. Man, oh, man is she a knock-out. Turns out this Ifrit stole her on her wedding night before her husband could do his thing with her. The Ifrit wanted to be the only man to make the sweet, sweet love to the lady. Ever. Ever, ever, ever.<br />
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So the Ifrit takes the lady out, but he gets really sleepy and falls asleep on her lap. Not sure how, what with his giant sky-sized head and all, but okay.<br />
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The lady catches sight of the two kings and is all, "HEY! HEY YOU TWO! Come down here and have some fast-sex with me while this Ifrit is sleeping, or I'll wake him up and make him kill you!"<br />
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Say what? Do what? You want us to....what?<br />
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They weren't so into the idea. In fact, they were terrified, but she persisted. So, they scampered down the hill where they were perched and proceeded to argue about who was going to go first. "I'll only do it if you do it first!" one king says to the other. "No way, man. I'm not going first. You do it." This goes on for some time and the lady gets really pissy-like.<br />
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"Look! Commence with the love-making now or I'm waking him up! I swear to Allah!" So one king, I can't remember which one, quickly goes to town. Then the other one does. This all happens in like a sentence or two, so don't go looking for anything spicy.<br />
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The lady's all "Yeah, so he thinks I'm all pure and only do it with him. Lo! This is how I get back at him. Secretly!" Daaaang. <br />
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Well, this pretty much sealed the belief that all ladies are sneaky whores, and they can't get away from them no matter how hard they try. So, back to their castles they go! And, they have a pretty smart plan: One king will take a virgin bride, do his business that night, and then kill her the next morning, only to get a new virgin bride that day. See? No more lady-trouble!<br />
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But, lo! In due time all the virgins have been done-it to and killed, except two sisters. And their dad was all, "Oh, no! Uh-uh. No way. You girls are NOT going to go get made love to and killed the next morning. No you are not!" And he tells them some story about a dude who understands what animals say and it's a long story and it ends up with the husband beating the tar out of his lady in a closet. "See? That's what I'll do to you if you go to the king! Ah-hah!"<br />
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But, lo! These ladies were defiant and a little on the awesome side, if you ask me. And they had a plan. One would marry the king, and the other would show up at bed-time all like, "Hey, if you're going to kill my sister tomorrow morning, could I visit?" And the king would be all like, "Sure." And the sister would go, "So, my sister [her name's Sheherezade, by the way, which is one sweet name, if you ask me] is so good at telling stories. Could she tell one, please?" And the king would be all like, "Okay." And the sister started telling some crazy-ass story that went on and on but it was fun to listen to. But, lo! She didn't finish it by morning, so the king had no choice but to say, "Damn it. Okay. Here's what we'll do. I'll keep you alive until tomorrow so I can hear the rest of the story." The story-telling sister was like the pretty lady Paul Harvey of the Arab world.<br />
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This went on for 1,001 nights. Lo! I'm only on night three, but let me tell you, this is some good and crazy story-telling. One dude married his cousin and she couldn't have his baby, so he got some concubine lady to do it. The cousin-wife was all "Bitch!" and she turned the lady and the son into a cow and a calf. Then she sold them to the husband and had him butcher the cow. His own wife! Stone-cold crazy!<br />
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There are more Ifrits and deals being made and sneaky whore-ladies galore. I couldn't make this stuff up.<br />
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Okay, I could. But I didn't.<br />
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If you are looking for a 500+ page summer read 1) you have too much time on your hands, 2) you've come to the wrong place, because this is a blog and there are not 500 pages here, and 3) I'd recommend reading <i>The Thousand and One Nights</i>. I'm reading the 1850 translation by Sir Richard Burton. But not this one:<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-37477992859780253912012-06-19T11:26:00.000-05:002012-06-19T11:26:47.992-05:00Singing The Headlines<br />
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Ohhhhhh, I don't wanna cook no meth in my purse.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUsWGfel-Cn18asxOVIslO3iklPco26eWlyKdundCRTxeQgXMyd_vUAsl_AKgXNoLe5gDpHuIyNAzWNzAWrGIe0Ug2nD_o-Jg0oj-Q_HrV_r4eoLXtJy3HGIKfYz9UrE38VbD7OwzAxqg/s1600/120607092254_1055814.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUsWGfel-Cn18asxOVIslO3iklPco26eWlyKdundCRTxeQgXMyd_vUAsl_AKgXNoLe5gDpHuIyNAzWNzAWrGIe0Ug2nD_o-Jg0oj-Q_HrV_r4eoLXtJy3HGIKfYz9UrE38VbD7OwzAxqg/s200/120607092254_1055814.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I don't wanna cook no meth.<br />
But if I did, using a soda caaaaaaaaaan,<br />
I wouldn't do it at Wal-Mart.<br />
<a href="http://www.ksdk.com/news/local/story.aspx?storyid=323068">http://www.ksdk.com/news/local/story.aspx?storyid=323068</a><br />
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Ohhhhhh, I don't wanna get busted for cookin meth twice.<br />
I don't wanna get busted twice.<br />
If I can't cook at Wal-Mart, maybe I can try this gas staaaaaaaation!<br />
Oh, well. That didn't work out so well.<br />
<a href="http://www.ksdk.com/news/article/324597/3/Woman-found-cooking-meth-in-local-Walmart-arrested-again">http://www.ksdk.com/news/article/324597/3/Woman-found-cooking-meth-in-local-Walmart-arrested-again</a><br />
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Ohhhhh, I don't wanna get stuck to a toilet seat.<br />
I don't wanna get glued to a seat.<br />
But if I sat down on a super-glued seeeeeeat,<br />
I'd make sure it wasn't at Wal-Mart. (in Kentucky!)<br />
<a href="http://www.ksdk.com/news/world/article/324579/28/Woman-Super-Glued-to-Walmart-toilet-seat">http://www.ksdk.com/news/world/article/324579/28/Woman-Super-Glued-to-Walmart-toilet-seat</a><br />
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Ohhhhh, I don't wanna harass my neighbors all day.<br />
I don't wanna make them cry.<br />
But if I put nails in the street, came at them with a crowbar, called their autistic son a retard, gave them the finger, and dump bleach on their caaaaaaaars,<br />
Well, just let me do my thing.<br />
<a href="http://www.ksdk.com/news/world/article/324574/28/Nightmare-neighbor-with-15-arrests-says-let-me-do-my-thing">http://www.ksdk.com/news/world/article/324574/28/Nightmare-neighbor-with-15-arrests-says-let-me-do-my-thing</a><br />
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Ohhhhh, I don't wanna leave my hand-made business cards for prostitution on some windshields,<br />
I don't wanna prostitute myself at all.<br />
But if I did, and I worked for foxy lady's private escooooooorts, <br />
I wouldn't want to get busted at Home Depot.<br />
<b></b><a href="http://www.ksdk.com/news/world/article/324620/28/Prostitutes-busted-after-leaving-business-cards-at-Home-Depot-">http://www.ksdk.com/news/world/article/324620/28/Prostitutes-busted-after-leaving-business-cards-at-Home-Depot-</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0TlBQxwujNC9TiZKDOkWXoAeyVsXqYQc3v-6b72I_Nh33t0pcx3BQtKdHEVBQiLmqnOwklYUCdvsDyLcIUsw4CduGClepCY0RUY2iJeAiRFzKg240QE-82_LnOSUvfDryfDDMmnjejf8/s1600/120618025412_adidasx-inset-community.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0TlBQxwujNC9TiZKDOkWXoAeyVsXqYQc3v-6b72I_Nh33t0pcx3BQtKdHEVBQiLmqnOwklYUCdvsDyLcIUsw4CduGClepCY0RUY2iJeAiRFzKg240QE-82_LnOSUvfDryfDDMmnjejf8/s200/120618025412_adidasx-inset-community.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Ohhhh, I don't wanna invent shoes that look like slave shackles. <br />
I don't wanna sell shackle-shooooooes.<br />
But if I did-<br />
that's just stupid. Wtf?<br />
<a href="http://www.ksdk.com/news/watercooler/article/324584/71/Adidas-cancels-plans-for-shackle-shoes">http://www.ksdk.com/news/watercooler/article/324584/71/Adidas-cancels-plans-for-shackle-shoes</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-81935296702614132022012-06-07T12:03:00.000-05:002012-06-07T12:09:13.217-05:00Out for Revenge...Any Suggestions?A friend of mine recently posted the following on facebook:<br />
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<i>So, my staff TPed my office and I am out for revenge...any suggestions? </i></div>
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<span style="color: black;">As it turns out, I do have suggestions. I like to think of myself as a general problem-solver, for what it's worth, and I'm freely giving of my ideas. Some may call it a gift. Below I offer my friend five ways to let her toilet paper-wielding office mates know she'll have the last laugh around these parts.</span></div>
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<b>1. Show up drunk. Covered in blood. And smelling of garlic.</b></div>
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<span style="color: black;">This was my first suggestion, and as I already posted it on facebook as a response to your plea, you could very well be tossing back lunchtime martinis while rubbing a garlic clove on your face with one hand and the blood of neighborhood rabbits and squirrels on your shirt with the other hand. If that's the case, the rest of my suggestions will have to be stored away for another time, which is just fine. There is no expiration date on revenge. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">With this plan, your office buddies will take notice immediately, of not for the way you stagger to your desk than for the potent smell of garlic. And maybe the sight of questionable blood. <i>"Is that Mary? What's wrong with- what in God's name? What's on her- Oh, sweet Jesus!"</i> Someone will reach across and grip the arm of someone else. A third party will slowly, without taking their eyes off you, call for security. A fourth worker, that one guy, there's always <i>that one guy</i> in the office, will vomit into his trash receptacle. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Who's got the upper hand now, huh? Ha! TPers=0. Drunk, garlicky, bloodstained you=WIN!</span></div>
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<b>2. Put their hands in a bowl of warm water and wait for them to pee. If they don't, do it yourself.</b></div>
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<span style="color: black;">I remember this prank as a pre-teen. Sarah Klasskin's house, I think. It was a classic girls' sleepover, with everyone afraid of being the last to go to sleep, lest their hand be placed in a bowl of warm water, causing them to relax their little bladder into a state of pee-on-the-couch-ness. I don't think it ever really worked, but that's not to deter you from trying it at work. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Perhaps look in the office fridge for some
tupperware. Remove the sandwich or deviled eggs or whatnot and fill the
container with warm water. Walk it over to your office mate's desk.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">"Here," you can say, "I got you a little something to relax your hands, what with you typing on the computer all day and all that talk about carpal tunnel." Gently lift up their hand and place it the container of warm water. Stifle your giggles.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">"Wait for it......" you can say. "Wait for it....." Your office mate may sit there, hand it water, with a confused look on his or her face. Don't panic. If they don't pee right then and there on their office chair, go to plan B. Let go of your own bladder. Yes, it will feel funny at first, but this is what pranks are all about, right? The funny-factor? Here you can let your morning latte run down your legs to the office carpet with the unmistakable pitter-patter not heard since maybe kindergarten. "Ha!" you can yell. "Look what you made me do!" </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Office laughs will be all around. Again, you'll be on top. WIN!</span></div>
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<b>3. Quit. And then show up like a month or two later and say "JUST KIDDING!" to your boss and the person they hired to replace you.</b></div>
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<span style="color: black;">This will be hilarious. Oh, how they'll admire you for your timing. Put your things on the desk that was once (and still is) yours and sit right back down to do your job. Perhaps they will have deleted your work email account. Don't worry. That's just them trying to one-up your prank. Just start typing away as if you were on email. They won't know. Don't flinch.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">"Could someone go fetch me a cup of coffee? I sure have a lot of catching up to do!" This is what you can say to anyone listening. Which will be everyone. Because they'll be standing there in awe of your ability to pull a good prank. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">YOU WIN!</span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #cc0000;">4. Go to your bosses house and hide in various places, yelling "SURPRISE!" when he or his wife finds you</span>. </b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaFW2nzk-5ZTLo-w_vlWyfhyphenhyphenOtBrFJUVkzF_yRZEBvSAhAaZ2VHL6znVTp0sfaBk_3tDFBZqe_q-Z4GZAH6HALwATD00C1FxUXZLQjv57C-a22uLe42R1zwoDI8S7ye52FbOidk-33S3c/s1600/Surprise2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaFW2nzk-5ZTLo-w_vlWyfhyphenhyphenOtBrFJUVkzF_yRZEBvSAhAaZ2VHL6znVTp0sfaBk_3tDFBZqe_q-Z4GZAH6HALwATD00C1FxUXZLQjv57C-a22uLe42R1zwoDI8S7ye52FbOidk-33S3c/s320/Surprise2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Tuck yourself in their bed at night and when they wake up..."SURPRISE!" Duck down in the shower under a towel or two and in the morning when they pull the shower curtain back..."SURPRISE!" Squeeze yourself into the back seat of their car and when they get in with the morning paper and their briefcases..."SURPRISE!" Hide the baby somewhere safe, like a closet, and get into the baby's crib. Make cry noises over the monitor and when one of them comes in, sleepy-eyed, in the middle of the night and looks over at your full-grown face..."SURPRISE!" </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Now, this one's a little trickier, because in an attempt to match your skills at pranking, they may prank you back by calling the police on you. Don't be thrown off. Those probably aren't even real police officers. They're just friends in uniforms to try to out-prank you. Here's what you do: After the "SURPRISE!" you'll just need to beat a quick retreat and then make yourself scarce until the next day's surprise. You may want to consider calling in sick this particular week.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Man, oh man, will everyone end up getting a big laugh out of this one. WIN! </span></div>
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<b>5. Take your boss's computer and throw it out the window. </b></div>
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<span style="color: black;">That's not even the prank part. Yes, that will get you the initial gasp and "WHAT DID YOU DO?" part that's all part of pranking. But what you want to do next is say, "Just kidding! I'd never do that. I put your real computer in this box." And then hand him a computer box...wait for it...full of his family photo albums which you swiped while playing "SURPRISE" only you drew little mustaches on every single face in the albums! If you've ever seen anything about pranking, you'll know that drawing a mustache on a picture of someone really gets everyone roaring with laughter. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">That, my friend, is how you prank someone! YOU WIN AGAIN!</span></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-65836625641569343332012-06-02T20:26:00.001-05:002012-06-02T20:26:32.048-05:00How I Made an Ass of Myself, Part IIAbout a year ago, I wrote about how I made an ass of myself while buying a new cell phone. Perhaps that's what happens when I'm out of my technology comfort zone. I don't know. Put me in the middle of an Apple store or a Sprint store with the intent to purchase and I get kind of nervous and a little amped up. Before I know it, I'm making an ass of myself.<br />
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<a href="http://www.maretsplayground.blogspot.com/2011/06/my-new-phone-or-how-i-made-ass-of.html">Click here to see how I did this a year ago. </a><br />
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Yesterday I turned in my work computer to the administration building. Actually, it was a loaner, since (as I put it) my laptop "got thirsty and decided to have a little drink of coffee." Turns out coffee speeds people up but slows computers down. To a stop, actually.<br />
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<br />
<br />
So this loaner had my everything on it. Files, pictures, music, and access to the outside world- beyond actually going outside and greeting people face-to-face like they did in olden-timey days. My laptop was my lifeline to all things human. From its glowy screen I learned about people ingesting "bath salts" and chewing other people's faces off. I learned that Justin Bieber went off stage and ran into a big piece of glass, only to go back on stage again to perform more musical Bieberisms and suffer a concussion <i>after</i> the concert. I learned that a Star Trek dude's ashes went up in space and that one of my friends likes Ikea. Seven like Spotify. Three like Moby. I feel so <i>learned </i>with my laptop connecting me to the world.<i> Learn-ed. </i><br />
<br />
And here I found myself being let into a dark room full of computer carcasses and placing my laptop on top of a pile of others. It was after-hours and I was told to "just put it over here- someone will get to it on Monday." Get to it? Some of the laptops' slow-blinking hearts were still beating. <i>Run away, little ones!</i> I wanted to yell. <i>They're coming for you on Monday! Wiping you clean! You'll have no idea who you even were. </i>It occurred to my that I may be over-dramatizing this handing in of my laptop a bit. But it was <i>my</i> laptop. Wasn't it? <br />
<br />
No. Actually it belongs to the district and isn't even meant for my personal use. Lesson planning and emailing parents is one thing. Staying up till the wee hours of the morning refreshing my Facebook page in the hopes that someone, anyone, would post something as my eyes glaze over and my head keeps trying to nod itself to sleep is another.<br />
<br />
So, there it went. On the pile.<br />
<br />
Like someone who puts a dog down and rushes straight for the Humane Society for another, I made impressive time driving from the administrative building to a nearby Apple store.<br />
<br />
<b>ENTERING THE STORE:</b><br />
<br />
I don't know if you've ever been in an Apple store, but it's a little creepy. Everything seems to glow from underneath and it feels a little like everything and everyone in there could be controlled by HAL. If nerds mated with Starbucks Baristas, you'd get Apple store employees. A little hip. A little nerdy. Pudgy bearded W.O.W. guy, sassy pretty-faced gay guy, and multi-colored dreadlocks girl all mingle here as employees of the big Apple. Their casual blue polos say "Hey, I'm approachable. I could sell you a Mac or retrieve your golf balls for you." I'm kind of down with that.<br />
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When I walk in I see about 25 employees in there. No shit. Some are with customers, hovering over glowing tables and tapping away at keyboards. Others are stationed at an area to help set up new purchases. Then there are those standing in twos and threes, looking like awkward teens at a school dance waiting for someone to ask them to the floor. I feel an overwhelming sense of "Who do I choose?"<br />
<br />
I don't have to think for long, as bearded W.O.W. guy chooses me.<br />
<br />
"Can I help you?" His eyes look reddish and glassy. I wonder what Apple's drug testing policy is. As long as the guy can sell me a laptop, I really don't care.<br />
<br />
"Uhhhhh," I say, with shifty eyes and a nervous disposition for no reason at all. "I need a laptop. I don't have one right now. I mean, I had to give mine back to my school. Not that I was doing anything bad with it or anything. I mean, I know some people look at nasty stuff on their computers and then their company finds out and then they have to give it back. Yeah, that's not why I had to. I'm leaving. To teach. In Korea. I'm laptopless." It's a little strange that with everything that flew out of my mouth just then I'm most concerned that he'll think I said the word "topless" and picture me as such. <br />
<br />
"Oooookay." That's what the cell phone guy said a year ago. "Ooookay." Like, handle this customer with care. She's liable to go cuckoo right here in the store. "Did you know what you want?"<br />
<br />
I bring my hands up and start typing away. Like air drumming or air guitar. Only this was air typing. "Like this. Something I can go like this with."<br />
<br />
"You want a laptop?"<br />
<br />
"Yep."<br />
<br />
"Well...let's start over here."<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>BEING SHOWN DIFFERENT LAPTOPS:</b><br />
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<br />
"The MacBook Pro is our most popular. It can do everything that...Are you okay?"<br />
<br />
Until he said something, I didn't realize I had brought my fingers up to my mouth and was making a little motion almost like my lips were itchy and each finger was independently and quickly scratching them. It could also look like I'm trying to tame a very unruly harmonica. I do this when I'm nervous or stressed.<br />
<br />
"Oh. Me? Yeah. I'm just...did I tell you I'm without a laptop right now?"<br />
<br />
"Yes." He looks at me with a little bit of pity. I think it's pity. It could be fear. "We'll get you one here in a bit. You'll have one again real soon."<br />
<br />
"It's just...I haven't been without one for 8 years."<br />
<br />
"I know. We'll get one for you here in a bit. It's okay."<br />
<br />
"It's okay," I try to soothe myself. More lip scratching.<br />
<br />
"It's okay," he says. "Why don't you come over here and look at this one. It's super-light."<br />
<br />
Off we go to the MacBook Air table. Now I switch from anxiety to excitement.<br />
<br />
"Yes! I will take one of these!"<br />
<br />
"Oooookay.....do you want to know more about-"<br />
<br />
"This one!" I've positioned myself above one of them and am mock-typing away. Clickity-clickity-clickity. "I'm sending email!" (I'm not really.) Clickity-clickity. "Now I'm on Facebook!" (I'm not really.) Clickity-clickity. "Look! I'm checking the weather!" (Not really.)<br />
<br />
"Okay, there. Looks like you like the MacBook Air."<br />
<br />
"Yep. I'll take it."<br />
<br />
"Now, do you want an 11 inch or 13 inch screen?"<br />
<br />
Here you can insert the sound of a needle being dragged across a record, and the music suddenly stops playing.<br />
<br />
"Wait...what? Which one? Oh, there's two. I don't know. Which one do I want?"<br />
<br />
He shrugs his shoulders. <br />
<br />
"Does it really matter? This one's bigger, but...wait. Will I be bummed out if I get the smaller one? I mean, will I wish later that I got the bigger one? AH! This one has a tiny google bar! It's tiny! Oh, no! Will the tiny google bar bother me? It might. Wait...maybe it doesn't matter. Will it matter? Will it bum me out? Wait..." I go on like this for a bit, not really pausing enough for W.O.W. to say anything. He continues to shrug his shoulders with each question I ask. I settle on the larger screen.<br />
<br />
<b>GETTING THE PRICE:</b><br />
<br />"How much is this going to be. WAIT! Don't tell me! WAIT! I guess I have to know. Okay. Okay." I take a few deep breaths. "Tell me." I scrunch my face up like I'm about to get punched. I writhe around a bit. People are looking. I am clasping at my gut. I am sure, looking back on it, that it may have appeared I was going into labor or about to have a horrible accident right there in the middle of the store.<br />
<br />
He tells me the price.<br />
<br />
"Oh, sweet Jesus! Oh, fuck! REALLY? That's a lot! Oh, shit! Okay. Okay. It's okay. I just have to sell my car. Like THIS WEEKEND! Want to buy my car? For real. I'm selling my car."<br />
<br />
He does not want to buy my car. Nor do the people in the store within earshot. I know. I asked them. "Okay. Fine. Here. Take this." I hand over my credit card and then emit a series of hurt-animal whimpers. "Oh, man......ohhhhh, man......ohhhhhh, man...." I mumble as he swipes the card. Then I start hop-dancing. This, too, I do when a little nervous. It looks a little like a cheerleader trying to psyche herself into a cheer, but I never actually get to the cheering part.<br />
<br />
"There we go," W.O.W. says. "Now let me just go in the back and then take you over to [I was really hoping to get the hot technician guy, but I was led to a guy who was the human equivalent of Teddy Ruxpin] so he can get you all set up. <br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>TEDDY RUXPIN UNVEILS THE NEW LAPTOP:</b><br />
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<br />
W.O.W. brings out a thin, sleek box wrapped in clear plastic and sets it on the table in front of Teddy Ruxpin. Teddy rips a tiny bit of the plastic and asks me to remove the rest. "Are you okay?" he asks. I realize that I'm still whimpering.<br />
<br />
"Me? Oh. Yes. It's just that...I'm trying to pretend I didn't just spend a lot of money that I don't have. Let's pretend that's a loaf of bread."<br />
<br />
"But it's not a loaf of bread. It's a laptop."<br />
<br />
"Yeah. But let's just pretend it's a loaf of bread and that you're just going to slice it up for me."<br />
<br />
"You can't slice up a laptop."<br />
<br />
"Well, that's good. Because that's not a laptop. That's a loaf of bread."<br />
<br />
"Oooookay."<br />
<br />
I remove the plastic. "Open the box by lifting the top," he says. This is weird. Is he not allowed to touch it, or is this supposed to be some magical moment created by Apple? I open the box. Inside is my silver laptop, also covered in plastic, snuggled into some black foam. "Now remove the plastic by-"<br />
<br />
I am pawing at the plastic in a frantic way because I like the sound it makes and I can't quite seem how to get it out of there.<br />
<br />
"-No. Just lift this tab he-"<br />
<br />
Still frantically pawing. Squeeking sounds are being made. People look from several directions.<br />
<br />
"Right here! The tab right here! Pull this tab!" Ruxpin shout-whispers.<br />
<br />
"Oh. Okay. I got it." I remove the plastic.<br />
<br />
"Now, lift up the lid."<br />
<br />
"It's like we're doing a little surgery. If you ask me for a scalpel, I'm going to freak out a bit. Doctor."<br />
<br />
He might of smiled. I can't tell. I was pawing at the plastic that I took off of the laptop. Plastic that smelled like....<br />
<br />
And here I began to sniff everything in the box. The keyboard. The screen. The foam. The computer cord. "And this one smells like a new Barbie! And this one smells a little like some crayons. And this one smells like..." Maybe it was at this time that the other blue-shirted Apple hipster-nerds began to feel a bit of pity and/or concern for Teddy Ruxpin. Maybe it was before.<br />
<br />
Either way, we went on in this way transferring files and setting things up for about an hour. I might have danced a bit to some Ace of Base. I might have smelled some of the items on the accessory wall. I might have asked a few more people if they were interested in buying my car. <br />
<br />I don't know. I was excited! A new laptop! And my connection to the world was not severed! And I was nervous. I just dropped a butt-load of money that I'm not too entirely sure I have for something that ten years ago I was perfectly fine without.<br />
<br />
I mean, I don't <i>need </i>a laptop. I don't need it like I need food, air, or water. But here I am, on a Friday night, with the option of connecting with real live people for, say, a movie or dinner. And I prefer to be in my house, with my dog curled up next to me on the couch, and my fingers clicking away on the keyboard of my new MacBook Air, so I can communicate with you. The collective you. The "out there somewhere" you. And when I've had enough, instead of waiting for the evening to be over and to putting my key in the ignition and make the drive home, I will type the last word of the last sentence, followed by a period more than likely, and turn off my connection to the world.<br />
<br />
Click.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-62244533730080483562012-05-27T14:01:00.000-05:002012-05-27T14:05:12.653-05:00A Little Conversation with The Vapors<br />
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<br />
I've got your picture<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Oddly enough, someone did steal my middle school picture from a little collage of photos in my classroom. Is that the one you're talking about? Or, wait...if it's that really embarrassing one that somehow makes me look super-busty and was taken by a family that I nannied for, I'm going to be really mad. And embarrassed all over again.</i></span><br />
Of me and you<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Oh, whew. Wait a second...when did we meet? </i></span><br />
You wrote "I love you"<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Now you're just making stuff up. </i></span><br />
I love you too<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Aw...that's swee- wait! You don't even know me!</i></span><br />
I sit there staring and there's nothing else to do<span style="color: blue;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I never have nothing to do. Even in a room alone, I like to inspect my freckles. Perhaps give that a try?</i></span><br />
<br />
Oh it's in color<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Yeah, we've got color photography now, buddy. *gives look like "You're a dummy.*</i></span><br />
Your hair is brown<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Thanks. Thanks a lot. Now what secret of yours would you like me to expose?</i></span><br />
Your eyes are hazel<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I'd complain to your photo people about the developing job. My eyes are actually bluish-green.</i></span><br />
And soft as clouds<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Eyes aren't soft. They're actually like a water balloon SUPER full of water. Not like a grape, as I had originally thought. I learned that when Uncle Jimmy punctured his eye with a drill bit and water went all over his face.</i></span><br />
I often kiss you when there's no one else around<span style="color: blue;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Like, when I'm sleeping, you mean? Or like you kiss my picture? I get if it's the busty one, but if you're kissing my middle school picture, we have a couple of problems here. As a tween, I kissed my poster of Adam Ant with my lips coated in my roll-on "kissing stick" and it made the poster get all color-bleedy and wrinkled. So, perhaps if this photo of me means anything to you, you'll want to steer clear of that kind of making out.</i></span><br />
<br />
I've got your picture, <span style="color: blue;"><i>Yeah, I heard you the first time. </i></span><br />
I've got your picture <span style="color: blue;"><i>What, are you playing "keep away"?</i></span><br />
I'd like a million of you over myself<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Really think about what you're saying here. </i></span><br />
I asked the doctor to take your picture<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I'm sure that went over well. </i></span><br />
So I can look at you from inside as well<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Have you ever *seen* the inside of a lady? Don't get your hopes up. </i></span><br />
You've got me turning up and turning down and turning in and turning 'round<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I'm not doing jack, buddy. You're the one getting all revved up about my insides. </i></span><br />
<br />
I'm turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>How do you figure?</i></span><br />
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I mean to say, what gives you that impression?</i></span><br />
I'm turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">You know- any bit of evidence would be helpful here. </span></i><br />
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Yeah, and Matthew McConaughey thinks he's god's shirtless gift to the ladies, but thinking it doesn't necessarily make it so. </i></span><br />
<br />
I've got your picture<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Okay, so which picture is it that you've got again?</i></span> <br />
I've got your picture<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>You're a man of few details, I see.</i></span><br />
I'd like a million of them over myself<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>If it's a million pictures of my inside lady parts that you're wanting all over yourself, I'd like to pronounce this conversation over. </i></span><br />
I want the doctor to take your picture<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I'm going eye doctor, here. Just so that I can keep the little bit of vomit that's trying to make its way up my throat down. </i></span><br />
So I can look at you from inside as well<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I wouldn't mind seeing a picture of the inside of my eye. Get doubles, please.</i></span><br />
You've got me turning up and turning down and turning in and turning 'round<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Here you go again. Taking no responsibility for yourself. Haven't you heard that a person can't *make* you do something you don't want to do. Unless they have a gun. Which I don't. I mean, I did. The last guy I dated gave me one as a Christmas gift, which was kind of odd. But I gave it back when we called it quits. </i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
I'm turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>If you can watch this video with pure glee and delight, I might give you about 10% Japanese-turning points:</i></span><br />
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<br />
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">If you actually order that kit and make the meal, I'll bump you up to 50% Japanese.</span></i><br />
I'm turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>If you actually prepare AND eat the meal, you're on your way. I'm going to say 75% Japanese.</i></span><br />
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>You didn't. I knew it. You're David Fenton. From England. Get over it.</i></span><br />
<br />
No sex, no drugs, no wine, no women <br />
No fun, no sin, no you, no wonder it's dark<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I'd like to suggest a little thing called a "gratitude list." It goes a long way to get rid of this little victimy thing you've got going on here. </i></span><br />
Everyone around me is a total stranger<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I'm guessing if you're wearing a suit made of photos of lady inside parts, people aren't too keen on getting to know you. Just a thought. </i></span><br />
Everyone avoids me like a cyclone ranger<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>See my previous comment.</i></span><br />
Everyone<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Exactly.</i></span><br />
<br />
That's why I'm turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Because Japanese people will be less creeped out by this sort of thing? I'm a little offended.</i></span><br />
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so <br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><i>Oh, I see. Well, you might have a point.</i></span><br />
I'm turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><i>Yeah....um...starting to think they might not mind the lady pics so much.</i></span><br />
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
<br />
<br />
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><i>Okay. I'm really starting to get it now.</i></span><br />
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Yeah, um, I'm just going to grab this picture of myself right off your desk...</i></span><br />
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so <br />
(Think so think so think so)<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>And kind of head out the door here. Good luck with your Japanese-turning, or whatever.</i></span><br />
Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Good luck with that.</i></span> <br />
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-68407489927822387272012-05-26T18:40:00.000-05:002012-05-26T18:40:54.462-05:00The Backstreet Boys and I Have a Conversation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Everybody! <span style="color: blue;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Oh, I guess that includes me. </i></span><br />Rock your body!<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">Not sure what you mean exactly, but I'm gonna guess dancing. Which I enjoy. So, okay, I'm in. </span></i><br />
Everybody!<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Got my attention the first time, silly. </i></span><br />
Rock your body right!<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Quit being so critical. Everybody's got their own dance moves. </i></span><br />
Backstreet's back, alright! <span style="color: blue;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Yeah. Alright. Jesus. Did you need to scream at me? And where'd you go in the first place? </i></span><br />
<br />
Oh my God, we're back again <span style="color: blue;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>From....? The Piggly Wiggly?</i></span><br />
Brothers, sisters, everybody sing<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I like the family feel you got going on here. </i></span><br />
Gonna bring the flavor, show you how <span style="color: blue;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Just don't make it olive-flavored or anything with blue cheese, please.</i></span><br />
Gotta question for you better answer now<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Ooh! I'm good at this! Ready!</i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i> </i></span><br />
<br />
Am I original?<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Um. No. Not really. There were a lot of boy bands before you. </i></span><br />
Am I the only one?<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Kind of just said that. Weren't you listening?</i></span><br />
Am I sexual?<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">Definitely not. </span></i><br />
Am I everything you need? <span style="color: blue;"><i>Not at all. </i></span><br />
You better rock your body now <span style="color: blue;"><i>Oh, good. Back to dancing. I'm in. </i></span><br />
<br />
Everybody!<br />
<i style="color: blue;">Here I am!</i><br />
Rock your body!<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Still hope you mean dancing, because I'm bustin' out my best moves.</i></span><br />
Everybody!<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Still here...</i></span><br />
Rock your body right!<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>There you go with the criticism again. </i></span><br />
Backstreet's back, alright!<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Man, you come and go a lot for a group that announces you're back again. You're like the cuckoo clocks of boy bands. Here! Gone! Here! Gone!</i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
Now throw your hands up in the air<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Okay, fine. Like a line-dancing move or something?</i></span><br />
Wave them around like you just don't care <span style="color: blue;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Feeling a little silly, but okay. </i></span><br />
If you wanna party let me hear you yell<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEtAGn3TNlxgqx2RnysDxRH4vgzkZqNlL6H58ia1Lkxpx4FcqqkVchE5dHLVGs1FiOTr0Af3SkCcXVZva76RmxOyIhNYS6hMF5OyJxdU2q0emZM6k1si3z9IpzP_BrMN0iRdkpUfj8Qnc/s1600/bsb+backstreets+back.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEtAGn3TNlxgqx2RnysDxRH4vgzkZqNlL6H58ia1Lkxpx4FcqqkVchE5dHLVGs1FiOTr0Af3SkCcXVZva76RmxOyIhNYS6hMF5OyJxdU2q0emZM6k1si3z9IpzP_BrMN0iRdkpUfj8Qnc/s200/bsb+backstreets+back.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="color: blue;"><i>No, I'm totally fine on my couch right now, but thanks. </i></span><br />
Cuz we got it goin' on again <span style="color: blue;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Um, I missed the part when you had it goin' on the first time. </i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
Am I original?<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>This again? You are really insecure. </i></span><br />
Am I the only one?<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>You're not even one of the ones.</i></span><br />
Am I sexual?<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>No. No means no. </i></span><br />
Am I everything you need? <span style="color: blue;"><i>Nope.</i></span><br />
You better rock your body now <span style="color: blue;"><i>Or what? Are you threatening me, Backstreet?</i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
Everybody<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>You do realize I'm the only one here, don't you?</i></span><br />
Rock your body<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Fine. But only because I can't resist dancing. </i></span><br />
Everybody<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Wow. You have thick skulls. </i></span><br />
Rock your body right<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I'm doing the running man! How much more could you want from me?!</i></span><br />
Backstreet's back, alright!<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Fine. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i> </i></span><br />
So everybody, everywhere<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>That's a shit-load of people. You know that, don't you?</i></span><br />
Don't be afraid, don't have no fear<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Wait. I'm confused. Do you want me to "don't be afraid?" or to "don't have no fear?" </i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Because the second one's a double-negative, which means you want me to have some fear. </i></span><br />
I'm gonna tell the world, make you understand<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Wait! Fine! Okay! I did it! I stole a bra from Famous Barr in Clayton in the 80s, but it was only because I wanted to appear cool to my older sister's friends! </i></span><br />
As long as there'll be music, we'll be comin' back again<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Oh, wait...you weren't about to share that? *gulp* Oops.</i></span><br />
<br />
Everybody!<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>Oh. my. God. This again? </i></span><br />
Rock your body!<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I'm totally out of breath. </i></span><br />
Everybody! <span style="color: blue;"><i>What?</i></span><br />
Rock your body right!<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">Nothing's ever good enough for you, backstreet.</span></i><br />
Backstreet's back!<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>You didn't even go anywhere this time, numbnuts.</i></span><br />Everybody!<br />
<i style="color: blue;">WHAT?! JESUS! WHAT DO YOU WANT? </i><br />
Rock your body! <br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i>I quit. You're pissing me off. </i></span><br />Everybody!<br />
<i><span style="color: blue;">You're talking to yourself now, I'll have you know. </span></i><br />
Rock your body right!<br />
<i style="color: blue;">You'd make a horrible teacher. Or parent. Never have kids. </i><br />
Backstreet's back, alright!<br />
<i style="color: blue;">Go away. </i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-84914579108505471742012-05-25T20:09:00.001-05:002012-05-25T20:09:27.687-05:00I'm Not Gonna Lick On Your Contact LensI'm not gonna lick on your contact lens, your contact lens, your contact lens.<br />
I'm not gonna lick on your contact lens, no matter how dusty it gets.<br />
<br />
It's not my fault you don't have a tongue, have a tongue, have a tongue.<br />
It's not my fault you don't have a tongue, how 'bout you take that up with your dog.<br />
<br />
And who feeds a dog bacon from their mouth, from their mouth, from their mouth?<br />
And who feeds a dog bacon from their mouth, while expecting to keep their tongue?<br />
<br />
I guess you've never heard of a doggy dish, a doggy dish, a doggy dish.<br />
I guess you've never heard of a doggy dish, or else you're some kind of creep.<br />
<br />
Now gettin back to your contact lens, your contact lens, your contact lens-<br />
Now gettin back to your contact lens, why don't you rinse it in the sink?<br />
<br />
Oh. That's kind of hard to do without any hands, any hands, any hands.<br />
That's kind of hard to do without any hands. I'm sorry I didn't see before.<br />
<br />
But that's what you get for reachin' down the drain, down the drain, down the drain.<br />
That's what you get for reachin' down the drain, when you've got the disposal on.<br />
<br />
And by the way, and I hate to bring it up, bring it up, bring it up<br />
I really, really hate to just bring it up, but take a look at your crotch.<br />
<br />
Perhaps you need to buy some velcro pants, velcro pants, velcro pants.<br />
Perhaps you need to invest in some velcro pants, cause your barn door's lettin' in some air.<br />
<br />
You're acting like you can't hear me none, hear me none, hear me none.<br />
You're ignoring me like you can't hear me none. DOES IT HELP YOU IF I SHOUT?!!!<br />
<br />
Oh. I didn't notice you don't have ears, don't have ears, don't have ears.<br />
I see now you've got two little nubbin'-like things, where your ears once were.<br />
<br />
Well, it's not my fault that you took the dare, took the dare, took the dare.<br />
I'm not the kind of person who makes a dare for someone to melt their ears.<br />
<br />
Anyone knows ears aren't made of wax, made of wax, made of wax.<br />
Just cause there's wax in 'em doesn't mean they'll melt. Man, you're some kind of dummy.<br />
<br />
I'd love to stay here and chat all day, chat all day, chat all day.<br />
I'd love to chat it up with you all of the day, but look, here comes my bus.<br />
<br />
Good luck with your lens and your hands and ears, hands and ears, hands and ears.<br />
I really hope your lens gets clean and you get some ears. Some ears that really work.<br />
<br />
But here's a little hint for you free of charge, free of charge, free of charge.<br />
Take this hint for free, I swear, you don't owe jack: Think before you act. <br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-40096532063728554102012-04-16T19:37:00.002-05:002012-04-17T06:44:27.588-05:00(Half)Marathon Musings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXRWL9pjDPZpbTZ0QUTfwcd18fIEtaOZNm_1nL8NbsFA-vP7X0zCaZSnQl61_l002Kd8olHWpbqfLI-kUIOT5mDPNAa0Ptpx_PmwcfBfJWWvobgyG50_jkPxlhP1nxae3Ikm95f1XMuw/s1600/308996_2418177408851_1083854775_32214521_288913948_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEXRWL9pjDPZpbTZ0QUTfwcd18fIEtaOZNm_1nL8NbsFA-vP7X0zCaZSnQl61_l002Kd8olHWpbqfLI-kUIOT5mDPNAa0Ptpx_PmwcfBfJWWvobgyG50_jkPxlhP1nxae3Ikm95f1XMuw/s400/308996_2418177408851_1083854775_32214521_288913948_n.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><b><span style="color: purple;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">I'm not really a runner like you think of when you think of real runners. I'm an accidental runner. I picked it up in my late 20s when I thought I wanted to be a cop. Cops run. I ran. I ran for about a mile and thought I would die. 10+ years later I'm no cop, but I do like to run. </span></span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: purple;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">I'm not sure if all runners have neurotic pre-race thinking, or if it's just me. Either way, here's a bit of what went on in my head the night before and day of my most recent race. It starts with "the shirt"- the sporty shirt given to runners when we pick up our race materials. </span> </span></b><br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: purple;">THE NIGHT BEFORE: </span></b><br />
<br />
I should wash the shirt. I'll wear the shirt. And it should be clean. It should smell like Tide, not new shirt. Are other people going to be wearing the shirt? Maybe I shouldn't wear the shirt. What if a whole bunch of us are wearing the shirt and then someone shows up to cheer for me but can't tell me apart from the other thousands of people wearing the shirt? (Will thousands be wearing the shirt?) Maybe it's not cool to wear the shirt. Yeah. Last race I saw other people not wearing the shirt. They looked like better runners. Faster. They had cooler shirts. Like I-Don't-Care-About-The-Free-Shirt lookin' tanks and stuff. Their own shirt. I should wear my own shirt. A tank top, I guess. What if it's too cold for a tank top? A pull-over? I can tie it around my waist if I get hot. I won't want to run with a big ol' pullover around my waist. What am I thinking? The shirt seems warmer than a tank top. What if the shirt's too hot? Shit. I need to wash the shirt. I wonder if other people are washing their shirts. I can't wear the shirt. Should I wear the shirt? <br />
<br />
Ok. No shirt. I'll wear this tank top. Now, what about shorts? Too cold for shorts? Maybe I'll wear these. They come down to my knees. I'll be too hot, won't I? Probably. Ok. Shorts. Shit. What if I have an accident? Shorts will hide nothing. Nothing. What about these shorts with a skirt thing over it? I saw some nuns wearing something like this in the ocean once. Will I look like a running nun? Do nuns run? Do they have accidents while running? I don't want to be a running, pooping nun. How is it that I'm too old to wear a mini-skirt, but I'll run in this? Which is essentially like a mini-skirt with shorts under it. Screw it. I'll wear them.<br />
<br />
Did I eat enough carbs? I had a shitload of pasta yesterday. Did I poop? I didn't poop. Oh no. What if I poop on the run? People do that, don't they? They go, like, right there? While running? Oh please, God. Don't let me be one of those people. Should I take an immodium before I leave? I'll get all bloated. Are other people thinking about this right now? No. Probably not. They're probably pooping. Why aren't I pooping? I'm never going to poop. Except while I'm running. I really, really don't want to do that. Maybe I need to eat more.<br />
<br />
I should make a playlist on my i-Pod. Yes. A playlist just for this run. Eh....I listen to that song too much. Eh....I don't really like that band anymore. Eh.....this one's too slow. That's a good one. Should it be later in the playlist? Or first? Later? First? Maybe I don't even want to listen to it. Delete it. Wait...no...put it back on. How many songs do I have now? Two. Shit. I need almost 2-hours worth. Okay. Haunted When the Minutes Drag. Good first song. Then, right into some Radiohead. Yes. No. Slower. Andrew Bird into Radiohead. Wait. Maybe some old-school rap. No. Al Green? Shit. Wait. Hanson. Fuck. Why do I always sneak MmmBop into every playlist? It's just going to make me mad when I hear it. Okay. Just put some songs on there. Go. Do it. Hurry. You need to get up in like 6 hours. <br />
<div style="color: #cc0000;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="color: #cc0000;"><b>THE MORNING OF:</b></div><br />
What the hell time is it? 4:30? This is stupid! Getting up early is stupid. Running is stupid. Getting picked up at 5:30 is stupid. Wait...maybe I have time to poop. I don't need to poop. Sweet Lord! Please make the poop happen before getting picked up! Wait! Oh no. What if I have to go on the way down there? Do I ask my ride to pull over? Has anyone ever asked him to pull over so they could go poop before? Probably not. How embarrassing. Oh, man. This is going to suck. Wait. Maybe I won't have to go! But if I don't, I'll probably have to go while I'm running. Do people wear diapers while running? Probably. I don't have any diapers. I'm not going to wear diapers. I'm loosing it. Get up. Take a shower. Now. Eat a banana. Eat some cereal.<br />
<br />
Gum.<br />
Check.<br />
Gu.<br />
Check.<br />
Water bottle.<br />
Check.<br />
Bodyglide.<br />
Check.<br />
i-Pod.<br />
Check.<br />
Money for parking.<br />
Check.<br />
Chapstick.<br />
Check.<br />
Spibelt.<br />
Check.<br />
Phone.<br />
Check.<br />
Key.<br />
Check.<br />
Bib.<br />
Check.<br />
Safety pins.<br />
Check.<br />
<br />
Okay. Let's go.<br />
<br />
<div style="color: blue;"><b>AT THE RACE/LINING UP:</b></div><br />
I need some of those compression socks. What are they for, anyway? That dude is wearing some. He looks fast. That chick has some on her arms. What the hell? Do I need those? Maybe I need those. My arms are going to rot off without those. Dang it. Poor arms.<br />
<br />
Oh. Okay. We're kind of squishing in here. I see how it is. No problem. So sorry. That was your butt. Totally an accident. Believe me. Don't flatter yourself. How many people are wearing the shirt? I just made eyes with that dude. We both nodded. I think we were complimenting each other for not wearing the shirt.<br />
<br />
My nose is nearly touching the neck hair sticking out of the back of the shirt in front of me. That's nasty. Where are the bathrooms? Do I have time to go? Do I have to go? I don't. Okay. Wait....do I? I might. No....wait. Dang it. I don't have time. Everybody's bouncing around like they're on speed. Or is it cocaine? I can't remember. But this isn't right. It's like we're all barefoot on hot coals. Bouncy-bouncy-bouncy-arm-shaky. What's that arm shaky thing about, anyway? Should I shake my arms? I need some of those compression things. What the hell are they for? I need some.<br />
<br />
Oh...More squished. Here we go. The announcer is getting all psyched up and there's a lot of cheering going on. Okay. I get it. Let's get going here.<br />
<br />
BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! And we're off!<br />
<br />
Shuffle.<br />
Shuffle.<br />
Shuffle.<br />
<br />
Oh, for chrissake. We're like old people shuffling onto an elevator, here.<br />
<br />
Shuffle.<br />
Shuffle.<br />
Step.<br />
Step.<br />
Bigger step.<br />
Bigger step.<br />
Hop.<br />
Step-hop.<br />
Step-hop.<br />
<br />
Here we go!<br />
<br />
Hop-hop.<br />
Hop-hop.<br />
Trot.<br />
Trot.<br />
Trot.<br />
<br />
and....we're jogging.<br />
Jogging.<br />
Jogging.<br />
Running.<br />
<br />
This feels good.<br />
Music...start.<br />
<br />
Oh yeah. Here we go. Nice beat.<br />
Dart around this guy. And this guy. And this lady. (Holy shit. Is she really wearing a tutu?) And this lady. And this guy. Oh. Gum. I need gum.<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #674ea7;"><b>DURING THE RUN:</b></div><div style="color: #674ea7;"><br />
</div>Mile 1:<br />
This is totally awesome. I forgot how great it is to run with a big crowd. Magical. We're alive. Like a big moving being.<br />
Mile 3:<br />
If this were a 5K, I'd be done about now. Keep going! Feels great. Follow that lady. She seems to have a good pace.<br />
Mile 5:<br />
Um. Wait a second. These hills are stupid steep. Okay. No problem. I can do it. Wait! I haven't even thought about pooping! I think this might be a poop free run! Thank you, Lord. Did someone just scream my name? Multiple someones? Wait. Is that? Sheri? And Erin? Holy shit. That's Stacee! Louise? Wave at them! Do it! Lift your arms, woman!<br />
Mile 7:<br />
It's been over an hour. I can do a lot in an hour. Really. Watch most of a movie. Take a nap. Drive to Illinois and back. And what have I been doing? Running. Just running. This is ridiculous.<br />
Mile 9:<br />
Oh, for crying out loud! We're all still running. What in God's name? We're idiots, that's what. "Run like a Kenyan!" that sign just said. You run like a Kenyan. You. And tie a rope to my waist and pull my butt to the finish line, will you? Who just yelled my name? Hey! It's Linda! That's awesome. Whoa. That just put some major pep in my step. Leap, lady. Big strides. You're gazellin' now. <br />
Mile 11:<br />
Okay. I'm ready for this to be over. I ate that nasty-ass Gu awhile back, shorted out my i-Pod when I dumped water all over it at the last water station, lost my pacer, and I'm pretty sure my sports bra is working like a nail file across my underboobs right now.<br />
Mile 12:<br />
Just....keep...going. Really. Don't be a sissy. The whole-marathoners aren't even 1/2 done yet. What do you have to complain about? Is that lady really passing out little Dixie cups of beer? I just licked my face. It's salty. Like a salt lick. A yummy salt lick. It's totally okay for me to lick my face for the last mile, isn't it? I'm going to. <br />
Mile 13:<br />
Totally....silly....that.....the....last....mile....is...all....uphill....Marathoning...<br />
Kenyans....are....already....at....the...finish line....<br />
bastards....I....bet....their.....faces....are....yummy....salty.....though.....<br />
Seriously......does someone.....keep moving.....the finish line....back?......100 more steps.....50.......you...<br />
can...do...this....<br />
<br />
and across the finish line....I.....go.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-7854224720412120662012-04-03T21:45:00.001-05:002012-04-03T21:56:25.490-05:00Letters to My First Students<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQgTWssrl6JZzWlkIBD-N8zd2AWSKm_nhEWy6Rztpvcl_4Hzu6j_qGvs4feWXqjR90ioifPQOg_A6KS7i5wQKzGJbu_I0x0CU7LdYpcmf3bLa3M2-xiO0cpI__KKv09BTxP15-xLbtjA/s1600/4c7d54b9f27b8.image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQgTWssrl6JZzWlkIBD-N8zd2AWSKm_nhEWy6Rztpvcl_4Hzu6j_qGvs4feWXqjR90ioifPQOg_A6KS7i5wQKzGJbu_I0x0CU7LdYpcmf3bLa3M2-xiO0cpI__KKv09BTxP15-xLbtjA/s200/4c7d54b9f27b8.image.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>A charter school in North St. Louis City- since closed.<br />
2001-2001 school year.<br />
Kindergarten.<br />
<br />
Dear Tremon,<br />
Remember when you crawled under my desk and began eating crayons at a furious pace and then bit and scratched me while yelling "F***ing faggot!" over and over again? That was silly. I still have a crescent moon-shaped scar on my left hand from your fingernails or teeth.<br />
<br />
Dear Tre'Sean,<br />
You taught me that "pink is for pimps." I'm not sure what that really means, exactly, but you made it pretty clear during a lesson on about colors. You also accidentally spilled the beans about your daddy being a drug dealer. No wonder you were so angry all of the time.<br />
<br />
Dear Sheron,<br />
Remember when I got a police officer to come talk to the class, and upon his removal of his hat and jacket you yelled, "TAKE OF YOUR PANTS!" Yeah. Please don't ask police officers to take of their pants, honey. <br />
<br />
Dear Nelson,<br />
I hope you're still dropping to the ground in the middle of class, kicking your legs up in the air, and making dinosaur noises. I'm not sure what that was all about, but I kind of enjoyed it.<br />
<br />
Dear twins Raymoni and Jaymoni-<br />
I hope you now know what the word "irony" means, and I also hope that you finally learned how to rhyme. <br />
<br />
Dear Latray,<br />
One time I drove you home and you found my wedding album in the back seat of my car. I had been divorced for about a year. Looking through it, you paused and said, "I know what it feels like to be unsure." When I asked what you meant you said, "Well, you look unsure in this picture. And I know what that feels like. To be unsure." I was unsure in that picture. It struck me as the most profound thing I'd ever heard a kid say. Are you still that intuitive?<br />
<br />
Dear Shawn,<br />
I like how you used to get really mad at me and suddenly, almost uncontrollably and against your will, give me the finger. I hope you're not doing that in high school, though. It probably wouldn't be as cute.<br />
<br />
Dear Labrianna,<br />
First of all, you had the voice of an 80-year-old smoker, and this was a little alarming. That and the fact that you cussed like a sailor. What 5 year-old says, "PUT ME THE F*** DOWN, YOU MOTHER F***ER!" when someone tries to hoist them up to reach the drinking fountain? You. That's who. I hope you have that temper under control, sweetie.<br />
<br />
Dear Steven,<br />
You said to me "I know what that says...it says "No ad..mi..ttance. Staff o...nly." And you were right. And being the only kid I had who could read at all, it nearly made me tear up right there in the lunch room. Please tell me you're class president somewhere.<br />
<br />
Dear Asia,<br />
I tried to get you help. Someone knew. I did. <br />
<br />
Dear Corey,<br />
It was me who was responsible for you getting hotlined. Mothers aren't supposed to leave bruises and pinch marks all over their child's body. I hope my classroom felt like a safe place for you. <br />
<br />
Dear Jade,<br />
You were really upset that people were talking about me. You ran to tell me during recess with big, fat tears in your eyes. It turns out that "people" were calling me white, and this devastated you. Guess what...<br />
<br />
Dear MiQueal Pillow-Smiley,<br />
You have the most fantastic name of any student I have ever taught or will ever teach in the future.<br />
<br />
Dear Keith,<br />
You showed up in my classroom with no adult or older sibling to introduce you. We could hardly understand the mumbles that came from your mouth, and for the first few months, I called you "Nyah-Nyah," because that's what I heard you saying. Turns out your name was Keith, but your family called you "Man-Man." You were saying "Man-Man." I wonder if you go by Keith now.<br />
<br />
Dear Everyone Listed Above and All Other Students Not Listed,<br />
I took your dirty clothes home and washed them. I purchased tiny little blue pants and skirts and tiny little white shirts. Tiny belts. Tiny socks. Tiny shoes. Tiny underwear. Snacks for snack time. Pillows for nap time. I hit the "play" button on the cd player and let Norah Jones sing you to sleep while I went around and tucked each one of you in. "Have a good sleep. Have a good sleep." I repeated this over and over and touched each of your heads. I wanted you to know that peaceful sleep was possible and that you were loved. Some of you would continue to stare at me until your lids got too heavy to remain open. Each slow blink= yes, I'm still here. Yes, I'm still here. Yes, I'm still here.<br />
<br />
Yes, I'm still here.<br />
<br />
Yes, I'm still here.<br />
<br />
Yes, I'm still here.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-92150437164445194632012-04-02T21:35:00.000-05:002012-04-02T21:35:59.269-05:0010 Things Hair Can't Really Do<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HZN_GWfhoCXXRgBkjyVVYFI0YnzfGaGOpwja6MWspQD-mxi8_C0T9qHX7GrZWTACH4BznKpOr-83McDoHM6t5TQbj1SEjjDNfdvTRDytY1N0QgPqu6UmRprhKCc5bxZ0O4dGlYXMrl4/s1600/Hair+Strands_Small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HZN_GWfhoCXXRgBkjyVVYFI0YnzfGaGOpwja6MWspQD-mxi8_C0T9qHX7GrZWTACH4BznKpOr-83McDoHM6t5TQbj1SEjjDNfdvTRDytY1N0QgPqu6UmRprhKCc5bxZ0O4dGlYXMrl4/s200/Hair+Strands_Small.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>1) Stir Soup.<br />
If you dipped then end of your ponytail in some soup and tried to give it a stir, I don't think you'd be pleased with the results. I guess if you had a whole lot of hair and some shellac, you could make some kind of stirring device. Unless shellac melts in hot soup. Then you're just back to swirly hair. Which really, no one wants in their soup. So, I'd say no. Hair would not make a good soup-stirrer.<br />
<br />
2) Get you out of a traffic ticket.<br />
I've heard it said that busty ladies can arch their backs and get all bustier and perhaps the officer who pulled them over won't write a ticket. I can arch my back all I want. Nothing sexy or busty happens at all. I just look like I'm trying to suppress a belch, which officers don't find sexy. I can imagine shaking my head back and forth to show my shiny hair or even grabbing the officers hand and making him pet the top of my head- neither of which I think will end with him not writing me a ticket. Officer =1. Hair = 0.<br />
<br />
3) Stop a train.<br />
If pennies on a track won't stop a train (experiment circa 1987), I'm pretty sure a wad of hair won't. I guess you could take a bunch of hair and try to make some sort of train-stopping net to go across the track, but I'm pretty sure the train would just bust right on through it. Aqua-Net, maybe. That could do it. But that's cheating, I think. You have to just use hair.<br />
<br />
4) Provide a good substitute for contact lenses.<br />
Take a piece of hair and swirl it around until you have a nice circular shape. Now, pop that in your eye. Open your eye if you can. Look around. Is your vision clearer? I didn't think so. You can't see very well through hair and it doesn't feel so good under the lids, either. I will not put hair in my eyes when I run out of contacts.<br />
<br />
5) Relieve a sore throat.<br />
This would involve gargling. Gargling with hair. I don't have cats, but I'm not unfamiliar with their hair-gargling, and perhaps that is to soothe their little throats. But I'm really thinking it through, and I can't see gargling with hair (1) working and (2) making me feel any better. Even if your hair were minty or echinacea-y or whatnot. It's still hair.<br />
<br />
6) Pay your cab fare.<br />
Get in a cab. Give desired location. Watch rain dance down window as you're driven through the streets. Smell stale cigarettes. Arrive at location. Pull out a clump of hair and hand it to the driver. Open the door to exit. Pull a smaller clump out and hand it to the driver and say, "I forgot the tip. Here. Keep it." Run.<br />
<br />
7) This one's not appropriate for print. But, trust me. I just pictured about 5 things hair couldn't do and if I mentioned them, I could never see another one of you in public again. Give it some thought. Picture something. Ew! Right? See? Hair does not work. Repeat thought process 4 more times for 4 different results. Blech. There's another thought. I must move on.<br />
<br />
8) Defend you in court.<br />
After the first lawyer gets up and makes you feel like a total ass, the judge is all, "It's your turn, hair." And then the hair just sits there on the table or on the floor or wherever it is. Even if you hold it up so everyone can hear what it has to say, it's just hair and no one will take it seriously. Or be able to hear it. Because hair doesn't talk or defend people in court. So it's about now that you realize all of the money you've shelled out is going to get you nothing but time in jail. Hair would be a useless defender.<br />
<br />
9) Grade papers.<br />
I put a piece of hair on a big stack of essays the other day and then left for a long run. I was really clear about what that hair had to do while I was gone and I put a pen within reach. When I came back, the hair was still in the same place and not a single essay had been graded. The pen didn't look like it had moved at all and hair was laughing at me. That last part isn't exactly true, but all the other parts are.<br />
<br />
10) Go get help in the case of an emergency.<br />
God forbid I ever fall down and really need some assistance. It's becoming increasingly clear to me that hair is narcissistic and downright rude and has no intention of helping anybody out when they need it. I don't know about your hair, but if it's anything like mine, I'm fairly certain that lying in a pile of my own fluids, hair would relax into itself and be totally content to laze about while I work myself into a panic. Thanks for nothing, hair.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-60925993441880640342012-03-19T12:41:00.000-05:002012-03-19T12:41:30.461-05:00No Reason To Get UpsetNow, there's no reason to get upset.<br />
I only took this razor to your eyebrows while you were sleeping<br />
because I read about it in a magazine.<br />
It's supposed to make you feel smarter<br />
you know, with no eyebrows.<br />
Don't you feel smarter right now?<br />
<br />
What magazine? I don't know.<br />
I read so many these days.<br />
But I remember it was on the left side of the page.<br />
Right under an add for some kind of Carnival Cruise<br />
under $500.<br />
<br />
I know! I didn't believe it either!<br />
I even thought about booking a trip for us.<br />
<br />
Oh, you mean about your eyebrows.<br />
Oh.<br />
Well, believe it. <br />
What's done is done. <br />
And I think it's a look you can really pull off.<br />
<br />
Look, if it makes you feel any better, I saved them.<br />
Your brows, of course!<br />
I mean, they're not intact or anything.<br />
But if you feel that attached to them,<br />
I'm sure I can reattach them somehow.<br />
<br />
Oh, I don't know exactly.<br />
But I'll figure out a- stop that. Stop crying.<br />
They're just eyebrows.<br />
Look, I'll shave mine off right now.<br />
I've always wanted to be smarter.<br />
<br />
What, those? Those little red dots?<br />
I don't know. I'm not a doctor or dermatologist or anything<br />
but it appears to be a little skin irritation.<br />
<br />
Here. Let me get some aloe.<br />
I'll just dab a little bit right here---<br />
<br />
Now you're just being uncooperative.<br />
How am I supposed to put the aloe on your skin<br />
if you won't let me touch you?<br />
Has anyone ever told you that you're a bit of an overreactor?<br />
No?<br />
Well, let me be the first.<br />
<br />
Now, there's no use in showing off with those big words<br />
just because I removed your eyebrows and now you're all smart.<br />
You think you're smarter than me, don't you?<br />
<br />
Oh. "Audacity." I take it back.<br />
I know what that means.<br />
I thought you said something French.<br />
<br />
Wait. Why are you packing a suitcase?<br />
Is it because I didn't want to eat out last week?<br />
Really. I just felt like staying home.<br />
That happens to everyone.<br />
<br />
What do you mean, I don't get it?<br />
I get it all.<br />
You got your panties all in a bunch<br />
because I wouldn't eat out last week<br />
and now you're packing your bags.<br />
<br />
Your eyebrows? Jesus! This again?<br />
I thought we moved past that.<br />
See, this is what I mean about you being a bad cook.<br />
And a sore loser.<br />
And a thief. Those slippers are mine and I'd appreciate<br />
if you put them back.<br />
<br />
So what? I buy shoes two-sizes too small all of the time.<br />
Just because they're "technically" your size<br />
doesn't mean you were the one that actually bought them.<br />
<br />
Me? Me? Oh, that's great.<br />
I think we know who the crazy one really is here.<br />
Yeah, well, that makes two of us.<br />
I don't believe this either.<br />
<br />
You try to do something nice for someone,<br />
try something you saw in a magazine<br />
just because you're adventurous<br />
and nice,<br />
and it just goes all shit-wrong on you.<br />
<br />
Oh, I won't.<br />
You don't have to worry about me ever calling you.<br />
Why would I want to talk to someone who<br />
doesn't even appreciate when someone<br />
does something nice for them.<br />
<br />
Wait! Come back here!<br />
I missed a spot!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-61373819723781460822012-03-16T17:01:00.000-05:002012-03-16T17:01:20.473-05:00Pull Me Uptake a needle to my belly button<br />
push it all the way through<br />
from my lower back it will appear<br />
pull up!<br />
and out!<br />
<br />
If you remembered to tie a knot<br />
a knot a tidy little knot<br />
then you are now ready<br />
with a little coordination<br />
and a bit of strength<br />
to dangle me over just about any surface<br />
<br />
start small<br />
over that puddle, perhaps<br />
I will teeter and totter a few inches above the ground<br />
but I will try to help you out<br />
by straightening my legs<br />
and my arms<br />
and holding them solid<br />
so nothing touches the steamy asphalt<br />
<br />
above the puddle<br />
I will look down and see<br />
my distorted features<br />
my rippling nose<br />
my wobbling eyes<br />
and I will blow a stream of air<br />
onto the surface<br />
of the reflective me<br />
<br />
when you tire of that<br />
try something more challenging<br />
something higher, perhaps<br />
climb with me up the steps<br />
of a playground slide<br />
dangle me here<br />
above the heated metal surface<br />
warn me not to touch it<br />
and I will not touch it<br />
<br />
or take me to an overpass<br />
above a busy highway<br />
test the string<br />
give it a tug<br />
I would not want it to break<br />
(nor would you)<br />
<br />
when safety is assured<br />
pick me up by my waist<br />
and toss me high in the air<br />
over the protective fencing<br />
grab hold of the string<br />
(both hands are preferred)<br />
and watch me soar<br />
until I jerk to a stop<br />
<br />
here again I will make my legs<br />
long and stiff<br />
<br />
and my arms I will hold out<br />
far and wide<br />
<br />
the engine noises <br />
will rumble in my chest<br />
I will close my eyes<br />
it will sound like the ocean<br />
<br />
I will wonder if<br />
you're ever going to pull me up<br />
againUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-91760246225041320592012-03-05T18:13:00.002-06:002012-03-05T20:23:41.647-06:00Creation Story<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-size: large;">On the day that God made the heavens and the earth, the land was all jacked up. The earth was cracked and dry and nothing could grow up in that mug. </span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Then, some misty business came all up from the ground and God was all, “Whoah, did I do that?” He did. It was cool. It was like the fog machines that God would help people invent years later only it made a lot more fog. Misty fog. God couldn’t see shit. And He was cool with that for a while.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">When the misty-fog cleared, God reached down on the ground and pulled up a dirt clod. With no one to throw it at, He shaped it into a little dude. He used a little stick to form details like rockin’ ab muscles and God was pleased with himself, having never had any formal art training. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God ate a breaf-mint and then blew some breaf into Little Dude, and Little Dude came to life. It was epic.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God needed a place for Little Dude to live, because having lived alone since the beginning of time, God really didn’t want someone all messin’ with his shit at home and leaving the toilet seat up and creating piles of crap around that weren’t His. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">So God made a sweet, sweet living place called the Garden of Eden. And He thought that was a pretty good name. He presented it to Little Dude and Little Dude just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Eh” and this irritated God to no end. Little Dude was already an entitled asshole and God wondered if he had made a mistake by making him. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God said to Little Dude, “Look. I’m giving you all kinds of cool shit. Here’s a Playstation 3.” God pointed to a Playstation 3 under a fruit tree. “And here’s an i-Pod so you can listen to music. I’ve already downloaded some Lynard Skynard on there for you.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">And since Little Dude was born singing “Sweet Home Alabama,” before he even knew what Alabama-pride was, he was excited about God’s gifts.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“But,” God commanded Little Dude, “you are to never, NEVER, listen to track 4. Do you understand me?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Little Dude did not understand God. And he did not yet know how to form a question, so he sat there slack-jawed, with a little drool coming out the of the corner of his mouth. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“Track 4,” explained God, “is a podcast from Rush Limbaugh. It came with the i-Pod purchase, and despite all my attempts, I cannot erase that track. You’ll just have to skip around it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“Ruuuuuuuushhhhhh,” Little Dude mumbled. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“Not to be confused with the entire “Moving Pictures” album, which I downloaded on there for you.” God then did his best air guitar and made some Tom Sawyer guitar solo sounds and Little Dude was impressed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“There’s Rush,” God clarified, making frantic drumming sounds, “and then there’s <i>Rush</i>.” Now God was pantomiming a jolly, if not completely dumb, Santa type. “Ho! Ho! Ho! Women are whores! Ho! Ho! Ho!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Little Dude did not quite understand this last part. He did not catch the mystery. Nor catch the drift. But he secretly wanted to listen to track 4 and find out what these “women” and “whores” are that God was speaking about.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“Rush Limbaugh,” God shouted, “is a NO-NO!” And then God proceeded to smack Little Dude on the nose with the i-Pod before handing it over.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God left Little Dude alone to listen to music and play video games in the Garden of Eden.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">By nightfall, Little Dude’s eyes were glazed over and he fell into a deep sleep, the sounds of “Call of Duty” still in his little head and the Playstation controller still cradled in his arms. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God looked down upon Little Dude. “The world is….the world is,” God thought. But then that thought was over. And the next one came: “Love and life are deep,” God decided. But Little Dude only knew of life; not love. And this was sad, thought God.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, well,” thought God. “I can probably make something out of this.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God took a flower and put it on top of the rib. He attached some wax lips onto the front of the rib and made a little dress out of leaves. He sat back and look at what He had made.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">It was hideous. Little Dude would never want to mate with this rib, no matter what it was wearing. So, God ate another breaf-mint and blew his breaf on it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">The rib transformed into a smokin’ hot lay-day. When Little Dude woke up, he was really happy and they got busy. But not totally busy. Just kind of busy. It was epic. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Smokin’ hot lay-day was very curious. The next night, when Little Dude wanted to get busy (but still not all the way busy), Smokin’ Hot pretended to be asleep. When Little Dude gave up and went to play video games, and then fell asleep in front of “Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2,” Smokin’ Hot got up and reached for Little Dude’s i-Pod.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">She had to know what was on track 4.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">She listened. And she listened some more.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">She tried to listen in silence. She really did. But her blood boiled and her rage became unbearable.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">This is when she lost it. She screamed and swore, although her language was not quite developed yet, so it came out more like "Mwaaaahhhhhoooorrrr!" with lots of spitting and hair pulling.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Little Dude awoke and knew not what to make of this. Smokin' Hot seemed to be in touch with some reality beyond the gilded cage.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">God heard all of the commotion and came down to the Garden. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!" he yelled. Little Dude immediately pointed at Smokin' Hot, absolving himself of all responsibility.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Smokin' Hot, having no other human to point to, pointed to the first thing she saw moving- a snake. "He made me do it," she said. But, again, it came out more like "Nerrrrwallllluhhhguh."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Snake was all, "Aw, HELL NAW, woman!" and slithered away.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Didn't I tell you to STAY AWAY from track 4? Didn't I? You listened to Rush, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU?!"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Little Dude replied, "I have no heart to lie. I can't pretend a stranger is a long awaited friend."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"That doesn't even make sense," said God.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"And the energy you trade, he gets right on through the friction of the-"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Knock it off," said God. "And YOU!" He was addressing Smokin' Hot now. "YOU LISTENED TO TRACK 4!"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">And this is when Smokin' Hot muttered her first words: "No birth control for me. Birth control is for whores." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, no!" God put his head in his hands. "I never thought this could-"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Whore slut women whores-"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"THAT'S IT! EVERYONE'S IN TROUBLE!" God's voice was booming and made all of the leaves fall from the trees. "Little Dude! You allowed this women to be ruined. You will run around your whole life and play video games and live in your mom's basement where you will return to dust."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Smokin' Hot giggled. "AND YOU!" yelled God. Smokin' Hot jumped and peed herself just a little bit. "YOU will have gnarly-ass menstrual cramps every month." Smokin' Hot grabbed her belly and squinted.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Snake didn't get punished because he didn't really do anything. And he's a snake. Which pretty much already sucks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">But <i>that snake</i>- the one that was hiding under the tree with the unusual zipper running the length of it's body- that one was in for some of God's whoop-ass. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"YOU!" God yelled, and he picked up the snake and with mighty force, ripped apart the zipper and pulled out the doughy, cowering man hidden inside. "You think I didn't see you in my garden? I'm GOD! You're just a radio talk show host!" </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Rush peed himself a lot.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"You," God angry-whispered right into Rush's ear. Close enough that little God-spittle was mixing in with Rush's nervous forehead sweat. "You were cast by the devil in this unlikely role, and even so...you are ill-equipped to act." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"He's got insufficient tact!" yelled Little Dude. God turned and nodded, but he was not smiling. Not even a bit.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">With one mighty swing, God threw Rush into the universe, where he exploded into an impressive display of pyrotechnics. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Wheeeeeeee!" shouted Smokin' Hot.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Fuck yeahhhhh!" yelled Little Dude as he got out his lighter and held it overhead.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">"Get out of here, you two," mumbled God.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">And they went. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><br />
</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-81324858047086551692012-02-19T21:20:00.001-06:002012-02-19T21:22:37.794-06:00Body Storiesa tiny red dot on my belly button<br />
as if I accidentally dropped<br />
my red grading pen<br />
on the very spot<br />
<br />
a mole, like the top of a new pencil eraser<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23RHZ1nqJm6GGyyCl_0x8dROJUSD8qtNvrSTllL0gZ2hO_eMJcMpU6eAAwnnrOTQViF0S69L-s11SUu6X2wChBDqyLzfKFC6tFj5OnCxmWmy3NMKt9TMzsJo2Y9TE-P65uKJwj7z2f2Y/s1600/BigDipper.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23RHZ1nqJm6GGyyCl_0x8dROJUSD8qtNvrSTllL0gZ2hO_eMJcMpU6eAAwnnrOTQViF0S69L-s11SUu6X2wChBDqyLzfKFC6tFj5OnCxmWmy3NMKt9TMzsJo2Y9TE-P65uKJwj7z2f2Y/s200/BigDipper.gif" width="200" /></a>on my right shoulder<br />
a birthmark, I am told <br />
<br />
freckles on my right thigh that when connected <br />
(and I've done it often)<br />
make the Big Dipper<br />
<br />
a white raised scar like the edge of a thumbnail<br />
on the inside of my right thigh<br />
cat tooth or cat claw- a feline catastrophe<br />
in the parking lot of the Humane Society<br />
on a hot summer day in 1976<br />
<br />
skin rubbed raw on my right hip <br />
by asphalt<br />
between being flung from a bike<br />
and being stopped by a tree <br />
it grew back like a piece of porcelain<br />
a smooth alabaster oval<br />
its companion is located on my right elbow<br />
<br />
scar tissue on the right side of my scalp<br />
(from the same fall)<br />
feels like a golf pencil surgically implanted<br />
beneath my hair<br />
<br />
a divot on my forehead just below the hairline<br />
looks as though someone might have<br />
put a cigarette out there<br />
I assure you<br />
it was only the dresser drawer<br />
slightly pulled out<br />
catching my fall on my way down<br />
<br />
a faint arc across my left knuckles<br />
from Tremon<br />
the kindergarten student who<br />
I caught eating crayons under the table<br />
and who decided<br />
it would be better to scratch and kick and bite<br />
his teacher than to stop eating the crayons<br />
<br />
below that and to the right<br />
near the base of my thumb<br />
mark the places where my hand met a wire fence<br />
while walking my dog- now long gone<br />
she saw a squirrel and took off<br />
the leash wrapped tightly around my wrist<br />
an unexpected game of crack the whip<br />
<br />
a freckle on the second toe<br />
of my right foot<br />
a toe that's slightly longer<br />
than its neighbor to the left<br />
and its neighbor to the right<br />
a sign of beauty, my mother used to say <br />
and I believed her<br />
at age 5<br />
<br />
and then there are the places<br />
that are smooth<br />
unmarked<br />
showing no evidence of a story<br />
a change<br />
a defining moment<br />
an incident to remember<br />
<br />
like the place<br />
where a baby growsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-61762852658101522932012-02-12T20:30:00.000-06:002012-02-12T20:30:22.873-06:00A Couple In Love At Starbucks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOWcjgWqw2J8Oqy1a3NvMvhTcfBEZ3niq4P191Rks6XR6-3Enz8oQaXnSUm0mQ_UguXk2wBRGBr9_Yo8pt8TIciE_BhA9h8h7e0iD5R7eJ33D2R-r1EeWjb4Nhn4stWNiYKbFkd1Z1wo/s1600/cutcaster-photo-100100591-silhouette-couple-talk-love-in-heart-speech-bubbles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOWcjgWqw2J8Oqy1a3NvMvhTcfBEZ3niq4P191Rks6XR6-3Enz8oQaXnSUm0mQ_UguXk2wBRGBr9_Yo8pt8TIciE_BhA9h8h7e0iD5R7eJ33D2R-r1EeWjb4Nhn4stWNiYKbFkd1Z1wo/s200/cutcaster-photo-100100591-silhouette-couple-talk-love-in-heart-speech-bubbles.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>They're sitting three feet from me.<br />
No more. No less.<br />
He on the edge of the brown leather (is it faux?) chair<br />
and she on the edge of the matching ottoman<br />
pulled so they are knee-to-knee. Facing each other.<br />
<br />
She holds his left hand in both of hers.<br />
She pets it as if it were covered in mink fur.<br />
The thumb of her right hand moves back and forth<br />
back and forth<br />
across the surface of his fingers.<br />
She is reading his hand-braille.<br />
<br />
His right hand holds a paper travel coffee cup.<br />
He bobs it up and down and swirls it around in little circles-<br />
little punctuation marks to his stories.<br />
His stories make her laugh.<br />
When something he says strikes her as particularly amusing,<br />
she throws her head forward<br />
almost into his lap.<br />
I'm sure he wishes she would.<br />
<br />
I cannot make out what they are saying<br />
what he is saying<br />
what she is laughing at.<br />
I only know what I see:<br />
A man and a woman<br />
facing each other, knee-to-knee,<br />
long moments of silence make both of them giggle.<br />
Their eyes never leaving the gaze of the other.<br />
<br />
Valentine's Day is in two days.<br />
I wonder if he'll tell her "It's not like I'm in love with you or anything"<br />
on their way to dinner at a fancy restaurant. <br />
I wonder if he'll sit in the other room, silently angry about who knows what,<br />
while she sits alone at the kitchen table<br />
looking at the cupcakes and roses she bought herself earlier that day.<br />
I wonder if he'll pull a greeting card out of his pocket<br />
and mumble "Here. I got this for you" and toss it in her lap as he's driving<br />
and she's sitting next to him.<br />
I wonder if she'll open it and see that he didn't write anything in it.<br />
Not even his name.<br />
I wonder if she wonders what she's doing with him.<br />
<br />
But his hands felt so soft. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-82858139957102373592012-02-07T18:42:00.000-06:002012-02-07T18:42:05.302-06:00That BoneYou've been lickin' that bone for weeks now.<br />
No, months.<br />
Wait a second, make that a year.<br />
<br />
How your teeth aren't cracked<br />
or worn down to little nubbins<br />
is beyond me.<br />
<br />
What could you see in that bone?<br />
<br />
It must taste like...<br />
bone.<br />
Every time you sit down to chomp on it.<br />
Not chocolate bone.<br />
Not sausage bone.<br />
Not pizza bone or crepe bone or tabouli bone.<br />
<br />
Just bone.<br />
<br />
And I don't see the<br />
fun in that.<br />
<br />
I shoved peanut butter<br />
in there once.<br />
And that made you happy.<br />
Happy enough.<br />
But what you really wanted<br />
was to aggressively lick away<br />
the non-bone center<br />
so you could get back to<br />
lovin' the bone.<br />
In its purest form.<br />
<br />
I lifted it to my nose once.<br />
Maybe I'm missing something.<br />
Maybe it smells like heaven<br />
or the top of a baby's head.<br />
Maybe that's why you<br />
can't get enough of it.<br />
<br />
But it smelled like bone.<br />
<br />
You run through the house<br />
<i>Where is my bone?!</i><br />
Looking for it<br />
<i>Where'd that dang bone go?!</i><br />
<i> </i>I try to distract you<br />
<i>Is it under this couch?</i><br />
with something squeaky perhaps<br />
<i>Yeah, I hear that, but have you seen my bone?</i><br />
But you're not interested<br />
<i> Oh, Booooone! Yooooo-hooo!</i><i></i><br />
And I start to feel a little guilty<br />
<i>Is it on the bed? It smells like it's been here. </i><br />
It's sitting on top of the refrigerator<br />
<i>Oh, shit. I'm really starting to panic here.</i><br />
I reach up for it<br />
<i> Where is it?! Oh, God! Where is my BONE?!</i><br />
And let it clop to the floor<br />
<i> Oh my God! My bone! Oh! Thank you! Thank you!</i><br />
<br />
Away you run<br />
to the furthest corner of the house<br />
Your cave spot<br />
Admiring your kill<br />
And the impeccable job you did<br />
in removing its pelt.<br />
<br />
Do you remember nothing?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-32200359916913475932012-01-28T20:10:00.002-06:002012-01-28T22:49:44.987-06:00A Werewolf in Bikram (in 26 Postures)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP3ComKDnLJvlwkm9qOFX43R0apggQj4_f5INk3oEo1_QJJcd56YfiaNHdb1VB26jTuVJ4cBRE1J4VKGAITaaHMfzvM3G0ylhmgiTCCO_eWmGa3qe0W10sMdv7ntfmYV_LsYPvKWtFPWo/s1600/werewolf-training4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP3ComKDnLJvlwkm9qOFX43R0apggQj4_f5INk3oEo1_QJJcd56YfiaNHdb1VB26jTuVJ4cBRE1J4VKGAITaaHMfzvM3G0ylhmgiTCCO_eWmGa3qe0W10sMdv7ntfmYV_LsYPvKWtFPWo/s200/werewolf-training4.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<br />
1<br />
It's time to croon to the invisible moon<br />
Throw my head back and howl<br />
A-WOOOOOOOO!<br />
2<br />
Twitching again <br />
I'm stretching bones to skin<br />
See the crescent come out and<br />
A-WOOOOOOO!<br />
3.<br />
Claws grab at my heels<br />
breath makes its appeal<br />
but turns into a growl and<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
4.<br />
Sit back for the chair<br />
That I'm told is not there<br />
Haunches start to contract and<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
5.<br />
An eagle goes by<br />
I hear it screech in the sky<br />
I take my paw and I swat it<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
6.<br />
Leg solid and stiff<br />
I reach my foot and I grip<br />
Wolves aren't meant to bend, uh-<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
7.<br />
Hand off to the side<br />
And it's with wolf-erly pride<br />
I strike a perfect pose and<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
8.<br />
To the back of the mat<br />
(Does my wolf gut look fat?)<br />
I wait for the clap and<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
9.<br />
Stretch legs out wide<br />
Arms off to the side<br />
Bend down, head to mat, and<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
10.<br />
Now it's triangle pose<br />
I snarl and twitch at my nose<br />
Think of anything else and<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
11.<br />
Turn and twist on my heels<br />
Rolling sweat on me feels<br />
Like I'm pissing myself<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
12.<br />
Turn and stand like a tree<br />
<i>Are you looking at me?</i><br />
<i>I will fuck with your chi!</i><br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
13.<br />
I'll hang out <i>namaskar</i><br />
while you all prove just how far<br />
you can go on your toes<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
14.<br />
Now we make like we're dead<br />
Wiry fur mats my head<br />
I'll get a drink on the way, ah-<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
15.<br />
Pull my knees to my side<br />
I think if anyone died<br />
I'd eat their carcass for lunch<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
16.<br />
We peel right up with our backs<br />
my hackles starting to hack <br />
I lick my chops and I snap<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
17. <br />
We get our legs nice and straight<br />
And lift them up and we wait<br />
for yoga hostess to say<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
18.<br />
On our bellies we fly<br />
I hear one whimper and cry<br />
More hurt will come when I eat you<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
19.<br />
I grab down by my heel<br />
and I make like a wheel<br />
a wheel that's going nowhere<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
20. <br />
Now to the top of the mat<br />
We guzzle water and pant<br />
And flop down on sweaty backs<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
21.<br />
Now bending forward, arms out<br />
My wolf ears twitching about<br />
I hear the sounds of backs stretching<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
22.<br />
Now for the deepest back bend<br />
Upside-down, there's my friend<br />
<i>He's freaking staring again!</i><br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
23.<br />
When we're paw-deep in rabbit<br />
His heart will thump and I'll grab it<br />
And toss it into my mouth<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
24.<br />
But before I can<br />
I must abandon my plan<br />
As we're called to stretch out<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
25.<br />
Twisting now like wet ropes<br />
Wringing out all my hopes<br />
That I will kill during class<br />
A-WOOOOO!<br />
26.<br />
Final breathing and- snap!<br />
With every time-keeping clap<br />
I morph back into myself<br />
Ahhhhhh. Oooooooh.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-60793753993992512752011-12-31T21:23:00.002-06:002012-01-01T08:25:50.141-06:00My 2012 Wishes for You, Blog-Followers31 of you follow my blog. A thankless job, blog-following is, really. As we approach the new year, let me take this time to thank each of you individually, and express my well-wishes for the year to come. <br />
<br />
<div style="color: #990000;"><b>waterdog, </b></div>I wish you'd get a raise. Really. Unless you make a butt-load of money, in which case I wish you'd give some of it to Argel. If the raise comes to you, I wish for it to be in large, unmarked bills. I wish for you to flee the country and have an adventure. Send a postcard to Argel, at least. <br />
<div style="color: #741b47;"><b>jennifer,</b></div>I wish for you to unexpectedly have the most delicious meal of your life in the year 2012. Like, you weren't even looking forward to eating the meal. Maybe everything will taste like sawdust for a week or so prior. Then....WOW! Did you taste that? HOLY COW! Like magic. Magical-tasting food. Flavors like you've never imagined. And at that moment, you know what it's like to be Cher. <br />
<div style="color: #351c75;"><b>Amy Hauser,</b></div>I wish every part of your body, down to the little cells doing their cell thing, to join together and make for you the most healthy container for your beautiful soul. <br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><b>kniz,</b></div>My 2012 wish for you is to go on the trip with waterdog and Argel. In a very remote village, I wish for you to be welcomed as the villagers' long-lost leader. I wish for you to enjoy this reign as long as feels comfortable, or until there are no other village women to marry. Then come home.<br />
<div style="color: #351c75;"><b>ryan o'malley,</b></div>I wish for you to not experience once single leg-ache in the year 2012. <br />
<div style="color: #4c1130;"><b>ian miller,</b></div>I wish for you to have a year in which everything is funny. Everything. But you've learned to stifle your laughter so as to not get any dirty looks.<br />
<div style="color: #783f04;"><b>aaron.proctor,</b></div>My wish for you is to wake up each morning in 2012 feeling the kind of refreshed you see on cereal commercials. Spinning around the kitchen refreshed. I also wish for you to eat cereal. And be in a cereal commercial. <br />
<div style="color: #134f5c;"><b>tereasa,</b></div>In 2012, I wish that one guy would stop bugging you. And that that other guy would start. <br />
<div style="color: #990000;"><b>reality,</b></div>My wish for you is to reconnect with your childhood dream of what you wanted to be. Remember that? Yeah...do that. Just for, like, a day. <br />
<div style="color: magenta;"><b>milena,</b></div>My 2012 wish for you is to open your closet and look way back behind everything. Go look. Right now. There it is! Ah....I wasn't supposed to tell you about it. It's a secret shield, and it makes bad stuff bounce off of it and only good stuff get in. And it's invisible. So no one will make fun of you or try to steal it. <br />
<div style="color: blue;"><b>dillon,</b></div>I wish for you to have "lay in the grass and feel the warm sun on your face and forget why exactly you've ever been worried about anything ever in your life because in this moment everything is perfect" moments. Several times throughout the year. <br />
<div style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Linda DL,</b></div>I wish for the funny spirits of your old pets to visit you in your dreams.<br />
<div style="color: orange;"><b>victoriagriffen367,</b></div>I wish for you to let it roll. All the mean things mean people say. Blippity-blop-bloop. There it goes. Letting it roll. If that doesn't work, get the secret shield from milena. <br />
<div style="color: #351c75;"><b>jennisess,</b></div>My 2012 wish for you is to experience a funky hairdo of epic proportions. It's just hair. It will grow back. Rock it, jennisess! Make heads turn! <br />
<div style="color: #073763;"><b>argel,</b></div>You will be tired, no doubt, from your trip with kniz and waterdog. I wish for you a radiant glow from that last 5-hour energy drink you had in 2011 to last all of 2012. <br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><b>josie wales,</b></div>I wish for you to expand your business idea by hiring the elderly couple that lived on the street when you were a kid. I wish economic prosperity as a result. <br />
<div style="color: #8e7cc3;"><b>emily,</b></div>I wish for you to be visited by magical faeries in your sleep. There won't be any evidence, really, but you'll feel slightly faery-ish when you wake up. And that's a good thing for 2012. <br />
<div style="color: #b45f06;"><b>griff,</b></div>Do you know emily? Because there's about to be a shit-load of faeries at her house at night. I wish for you to get an old nikon and have a year of faery documenting. I wish for you to become famous and publish a faery magazine with Josie Wales and her elderly neighbors. <br />
<div style="color: magenta;"><b>bka925,</b></div>I wish for you to uncover your mad dancing skills. How free you will feel when your feet take sudden flight in the frozen foods section at the grocery store! Twirl, bka925, twirl! <br />
<div style="color: red;"><b>siddharth dude,</b></div>May 2012 bring you the joy that losing things and finding them again gives. Or losing things and never getting them back, but finding something even better in its place. The joy of loss is what I hope for you. <br />
<div style="color: purple;"><b>CathyStl,</b></div>When is the last time you went up in the arch, CathyStl? Is it not time? Indeed. I hope for you that 2012 is a year of arch-going-upping and zoo-train-riding and steinberg-rink-skating and crown-candy-malt-drinking and all things Stl. <br />
<div style="color: #e69138;"><b>Emmzzee,</b></div>That last guy was a jerk. I hope that in all of 2012, you never return to his lame attempts at connecting with another human being. You're better than that. Begone! <br />
<div style="color: orange;"><b>Rochet Huffman,</b></div>I hope for you that in the year 2012, your cast comes off and you can finally climb...Rachel's mom. <br />
<div style="color: #4c1130;"><b>Christine,</b></div>In 2012, may you never stoop to the poor and immature humor modeled above. It hurt me to write it, even, but I did it for you. Here's to a year of fine-tuning your humor and taking it on the road. Perhaps you can go with Argel and his troupe of travelers. <br />
<div style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Queen Dean,</b></div>I wish for you a year of momentum. Projects completed. Beds made. 1/2 marathons run. You won't be able to stop. You'll be on fire! Not real fire. Man, that would suck. I'd feel really guilty if that happened. I mean to say, you'll be unstoppable in 2012!<br />
<div style="color: blue;"><b>Styrr Cobalt Indigo,</b></div>That thing you've been wanting to stop doing? In 2012, I wish for you to stop. Easily! Bam! No more chewing your toenails! Bam! No smoking butts out of the library entrance ash tray. Bam! No more letting air out of the tires of your parents. 2012 will bring great restraint for you! <br />
<div style="color: #674ea7;"><b>Katie,</b></div>I wish for your husband to clean every poopy diaper in the year 2012. I mean, every poopy diaper belonging to your baby. Because if it were <i>every</i> poopy diaper, man...he'd never come home. <br />
<div style="color: #741b47;"><b>Colleen K,</b></div>I wish you'd get a puppy in 2012. That's all. <br />
<div style="color: #cc0000;"><b>jrhster,</b></div>I wish for you a lifetime movie type of reconnection with a childhood friend in 2012. And not because he/she needs a kidney or anything. Just because, dang, it's nice to talk with someone who has the same childhood memories as you. <br />
<div style="color: blue;"><b>Epiphany of Tiffany,</b></div>Seeing as you've already had an epiphany, I feel silly wishing anything for you in 2012. But, I will wish that you forget an epiphany you already had and then suddenly remember it while pumping gas sometime in April. Man, that will be fun. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #990000;">Happy New Year to All in the Playground! </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #990000;"></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-39150053826952847162011-12-27T15:56:00.003-06:002011-12-27T16:16:37.716-06:00A Lifetime of ConfessionsThis is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have licked <br />
the faces<br />
on all the handmade ornaments<br />
hanging from the tree<br />
<br />
and which<br />
you were probably<br />
planning on hanging on the tree<br />
next year<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
they were delicious<br />
so salty <br />
and so forbidden<br />
<br />
*** <br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have eaten<br />
the powdered coconut<br />
that was in<br />
the refrigerator<br />
<br />
and which<br />
you were probably<br />
saving<br />
for some recipe<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
I didn't think I'd eat the whole bag<br />
I'll never eat<br />
coconut again<br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have dipped<br />
your toothbrush<br />
into<br />
the toilet<br />
<br />
and with which<br />
you were probably<br />
planning on <br />
brushing your teeth<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
you had said something that made me mad<br />
so quick<br />
and so unhygienic <br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have peed on<br />
your gym towel<br />
that you had hanging<br />
by your gym locker<br />
<br />
and which<br />
you were probably<br />
planning on using<br />
when you got out of the shower<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
I was dared to do it<br />
I tried to keep<br />
one side dry<br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have stolen<br />
a strapless bra<br />
that was several sizes<br />
too big for my flat chest<br />
<br />
and which<br />
you were probably<br />
hoping to sell<br />
to an actual customer<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
I needed some street cred<br />
something to tell <br />
my sister's friends<br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have borrowed <br />
the white oxford<br />
that was in<br />
your closet<br />
<br />
and which<br />
you were probably<br />
planning on wearing<br />
to work tomorrow<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
I had to have it to wear with my black leggings<br />
so much longer<br />
than my own shirts <br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have been buying cigarettes and candy bars<br />
with the money<br />
that you've been giving me<br />
for school lunches<br />
<br />
and I've helped myself to a few extra bills that<br />
you were probably<br />
saving to buy things <br />
other than a package of Marlboro's for your teenage daughter<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
I had to have them<br />
slipped past a habit <br />
and into a real addiction<br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have stolen<br />
some almond cookies<br />
that were in the jar behind<br />
the register<br />
<br />
and which<br />
you were probably<br />
guessing your employees<br />
wouldn't do<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
they were fresh out of the oven<br />
so crunchy <br />
and so warm<br />
<br />
****** <br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have coerced you<br />
into asking me something<br />
that you weren't ready<br />
to ask<br />
<br />
and which<br />
you were probably<br />
saving<br />
for some other woman years later<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
we had just graduated <br />
college<br />
and everybody, it seemed, was doing it<br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have said<br />
things to you<br />
that I'd never say<br />
the anyone again<br />
<br />
and which<br />
you were probably<br />
wondering<br />
why you were the target<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
I needed out<br />
so sure of it <br />
and I didn't know how<br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have shown up<br />
at your doorstep<br />
at night<br />
and delivered a guitar<br />
<br />
which<br />
you were probably<br />
not guessing I'd<br />
ever do<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
I might have been in a bad place<br />
a wee bit manipulative<br />
and maybe a little psychotic<br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have perhaps had a little too much of<br />
the alcohol<br />
that was sitting<br />
on the restaurant table<br />
<br />
and which<br />
you were asking the waiter<br />
not to give me<br />
at all<br />
<br />
Forgive me for a second<br />
I need to go lay down on the bathroom floor<br />
so cold<br />
on my cheek<br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have threatened<br />
to "kick you in the balls"<br />
if you were ever mean<br />
to any of my employees<br />
<br />
which<br />
probably took you for quite a surprise<br />
as you are my boss's boss's<br />
boss<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
I've been on a little drinking binge<br />
so bold<br />
and a little without good judgment <br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have locked myself in<br />
the garage<br />
with the<br />
car running<br />
<br />
which<br />
you were probably<br />
thinking<br />
wouldn't ever happen again<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
I can't figure out how to keep<br />
doing this<br />
and I can't figure out how not to<br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have gotten into<br />
a relationship<br />
before I was <br />
actually ready<br />
<br />
and which<br />
you were probably<br />
hoping would last<br />
for a long time<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
I wasn't listening to my gut<br />
so inconsiderate<br />
and so dishonest<br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<div style="color: #cc0000;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;">I have searched</div><div style="color: black;">your internet history</div><div style="color: black;">which led me</div><div style="color: black;">to sordid sites</div><div style="color: black;"><br />
and which</div><div style="color: black;">you probably </div><div style="color: black;">didn't even know</div><div style="color: black;">I could do</div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;">Forgive me</div><div style="color: black;">I was suspicious</div><div style="color: black;">so tempted</div><span style="color: black;">and so sure</span><br />
<br />
*** <br />
This is Just to Say <br />
<br />
I have pretended<br />
to like<br />
that shitty music<br />
you were playing<br />
<br />
and which<br />
you were probably<br />
thinking was <br />
rocking my world<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
I thought you'd think<br />
my not liking your music<br />
was a sign that we shouldn't be dating<br />
which it probably was<br />
<br />
***<br />
This is Just to Say<br />
<br />
I have embraced<br />
the life<br />
that's unfolding <br />
before me<br />
<br />
and which<br />
you were probably<br />
waiting<br />
for me to do<br />
<br />
Forgive me<br />
I had no idea your plans were so much better than mine<br />
so sweet<br />
and so kindUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-54681626489368794202011-12-25T22:43:00.000-06:002011-12-25T22:43:53.587-06:00I Have a Great Capacity for Like<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1W8nEabojGM3xm1THy4NQRGmsnX5LHhUNj5IaoGyiiJAAKhlt2yssL7YOq-sSMpW-J5zLOD0Ydq1JR0J8xHIxEKzJVK1UvBI-hT9fYgwOf_Fw6mgOkPJJAS-6PwZm4B9ailuRsOx4Xc/s1600/pumice-stone-thumb17130577.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy1W8nEabojGM3xm1THy4NQRGmsnX5LHhUNj5IaoGyiiJAAKhlt2yssL7YOq-sSMpW-J5zLOD0Ydq1JR0J8xHIxEKzJVK1UvBI-hT9fYgwOf_Fw6mgOkPJJAS-6PwZm4B9ailuRsOx4Xc/s200/pumice-stone-thumb17130577.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>a) I like the way it feels when you smoosh two pumice stones together and they kind of disintegrate into each other with a crunchy sound.<br />
<br />
b) I like eating granola and taking one little piece between my front teeth and and biting it in half.<br />
<br />
c) I like breaking up dried mud with a stick in the summertime, preferably under a swing.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjctNiczVnF5qI3Bs0ui_RocrJFG1yRdvX4bWV0KUzOzt5KfPJFjfX8dFejRBvUyofHPXV1Jn_OZqw_w4W4281Hh-bt17j9e5DaWwU_z080hjW91l0kIZ-1rqC_OvG-cXG379-Eau2qrFg/s1600/8832453-happy-little-nine-year-old-part-asian-girl-swinging-upside-down.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjctNiczVnF5qI3Bs0ui_RocrJFG1yRdvX4bWV0KUzOzt5KfPJFjfX8dFejRBvUyofHPXV1Jn_OZqw_w4W4281Hh-bt17j9e5DaWwU_z080hjW91l0kIZ-1rqC_OvG-cXG379-Eau2qrFg/s200/8832453-happy-little-nine-year-old-part-asian-girl-swinging-upside-down.jpg" width="147" /></a></div>d) Speaking of swings, I like the way it looks when I throw my head back and watch the sky come close. go far. come close. go far. come close. go far.<br />
<br />
e) I like how some babies have multiple folds of skin under their mouth. Chins, I guess. Baby chins. Anyway, I like to go <i>flub-flub-flub-flub </i>on their chin parts with my pointer finger.<br />
<br />
f) I like the way it feels when I'm utterly exhausted and sink into my bed for a good sleep.<br />
g) I like a cold pillow on my face.<br />
h) I like to nap with my shoes on.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRM7iv99LmdH4e8-DWVfhi44ocGru_pudmFoiNzdTwfdkSEOLrFciGJokSt-YTRIN0PsNhdhFZn0USD5x4D20Nf_mf4qAkzczHf-qEY83hXxLPwePjUBBHMNPCe9BdtCBYkJ1zZmk-Yfg/s1600/cotton_swab_q-tip_ear_drum_injury.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRM7iv99LmdH4e8-DWVfhi44ocGru_pudmFoiNzdTwfdkSEOLrFciGJokSt-YTRIN0PsNhdhFZn0USD5x4D20Nf_mf4qAkzczHf-qEY83hXxLPwePjUBBHMNPCe9BdtCBYkJ1zZmk-Yfg/s200/cotton_swab_q-tip_ear_drum_injury.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>i) I like the way a Q-tip feels twisting around in my itchy-spot-ear and <br />
j) the way it makes the world sound muffled<br />
<br />
k) Sometimes I like to talk to God by rapping my prayers.<br />
l) I like to think God thinks that's funny.<br />
<br />
m) I don't particularly like Suzanna Vega, but I like that my brain player just starting playing "My Name is Luca" right now.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>n) I like to stretch my wenis and watch it slowly go back to its original shape.<br />
o) I like to say "wenis."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Agct0HBX5oN4winpCYuMGEcQ1UltYdX1yF0aWC7SvZBmSNUko3QOX80qjf-PiWLL6T1sWtP_UgpKq-5RmDDf5Utyo0H7-dR80MpTCgp3sVaNcLZFduvL2W-yGM2AlxBKS5_5LA0U2Ls/s1600/dog%252527s%252Btail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Agct0HBX5oN4winpCYuMGEcQ1UltYdX1yF0aWC7SvZBmSNUko3QOX80qjf-PiWLL6T1sWtP_UgpKq-5RmDDf5Utyo0H7-dR80MpTCgp3sVaNcLZFduvL2W-yGM2AlxBKS5_5LA0U2Ls/s200/dog%252527s%252Btail.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>p) I like to look at a dog's tail wagging and pretend that it's a faceless little worm-like animal with a mind of its own attached to the butt of the dog I'm looking at.<br />
<br />
q) I like the sting of a tattoo needle.<br />
<br />
r) I like remembering how my grandma used to take my temperature by simply placing her lips on my forehead.<br />
<br />
s) I like the fact that ears are bendable.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdl9Spo7jU4pz55VOgoPQTp8GvCz5Fl1d_sRR0d2MGUgLks8GZe_9dYWRs3h0YHnqn4TWqlfFFcDVa5ti6wkVosZ9y0sQ1cZXSVQke4cnpf1utN9RNdej8LFgiOzWq7UvIZfZEPyCrYFU/s1600/IMG_2237-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdl9Spo7jU4pz55VOgoPQTp8GvCz5Fl1d_sRR0d2MGUgLks8GZe_9dYWRs3h0YHnqn4TWqlfFFcDVa5ti6wkVosZ9y0sQ1cZXSVQke4cnpf1utN9RNdej8LFgiOzWq7UvIZfZEPyCrYFU/s200/IMG_2237-2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>t) I'm not at all a fan of "bow pose," but I like how when the pose is over and we're told to lay flat on the mat with our heads turned to one side, I can hear my heart thump-thump-thumping loudly in my ear and this always makes me feel alive and happy and a little like giggling. <br />
<br />
u) I like to giggle at inappropriate times and at inappropriate places.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjusshB7yO6NDB4_NhQyuDf_z_e_gAKqqgSf0C3_tA5Z9kex2aLzFMnAhXPg8YKPZnsQQ2e95XCXr506dtmFzHqN1_B0iyFE1ER-8IyGUlcGFiw8vqPFg_7Ui6yQ3C6wuSFdPFs4sFExnk/s1600/pancake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjusshB7yO6NDB4_NhQyuDf_z_e_gAKqqgSf0C3_tA5Z9kex2aLzFMnAhXPg8YKPZnsQQ2e95XCXr506dtmFzHqN1_B0iyFE1ER-8IyGUlcGFiw8vqPFg_7Ui6yQ3C6wuSFdPFs4sFExnk/s200/pancake.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
v) I like the way copies come out of the copy machine all warm-like and<br />
w) I like to hold warm copies up to my face.<br />
<br />
x) I also like to hold a fresh serving of a non-buttered pancake up to my face before eating it. <br />
<br />
y) I like the sense of accomplishment I feel when I spray Pledge on things. This is mostly because it smells like I spent a lot of time cleaning. But really I just sprayed some Pledge. <br />
<br />
z) I like how God is tricky and funny. And how He's all "Oh, really? You think you want that? Okay...I'll let you want that for a while, but that's not really who you are." And then minutes/days/weeks/months/years pass and the ache for what I wanted has detached itself from my gut and gone to seek someone else who has the wantings. And by degrees, I turn and face what is and I'm like, "Holy shit. This is awesome."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-77769328156539961582011-12-22T12:54:00.000-06:002011-12-22T12:54:59.257-06:00I Wasn't Looking For YouI wasn't looking for your help<br />
your shoulder to lean on<br />
god forbid, your company<br />
<br />
I wasn't looking for your<br />
Vodka<br />
your dark apartment<br />
your stink of cigarettes<br />
<br />
I wasn't looking for<br />
your dancing hands<br />
to hold my spinning head<br />
<br />
your writhing fingers<br />
to tangle in my hair<br />
<br />
your twisting tongue<br />
to cut-off my shallow breath<br />
<br />
your suffocating weight<br />
to pin me down<br />
<br />
I wasn't looking for you<br />
<br />
And yes, I cried<br />
I think I did<br />
I felt tears make their way from my<br />
eyes to my ears<br />
filling them up<br />
muffling your sounds<br />
<br />
You had me underwater<br />
<br />
Shhhh....you said<br />
like you were soothing a baby<br />
Shhh...you said<br />
like what you were doing was kind<br />
<br />
I wasn't looking for you<br />
<br />
I awoke to an empty apartment<br />
the stink of you<br />
on my skin<br />
in my hair<br />
under my fingernails<br />
<br />
I looked around your room<br />
for things to steal<br />
I wanted something to be taken from you<br />
the way you took something from me<br />
<br />
I shoved my pockets full of your tips<br />
wads of bills stashed in dresser drawers<br />
change scattered across your floor<br />
I took it from you<br />
<br />
I took it from you<br />
<br />
Years later, I saw you in a restaurant window<br />
from behind<br />
I knew you from your scar<br />
the place on your head where your hair won't grow<br />
I saw you<br />
and I felt sick<br />
<br />
I wasn't looking for you<br />
<br />
And now<br />
you send me a "friend request"<br />
on facebook?<br />
<br />
You<br />
must<br />
be<br />
fucking<br />
kidding<br />
me.<br />
<br />
So we could, what-<br />
Chat about the good old days?<br />
What-<br />
See what we've each been up to<br />
over the past 20 years?<br />
<br />
You've<br />
got<br />
to be<br />
fucking<br />
kidding<br />
me. <br />
<br />
Man...<br />
I thought you were<br />
pretty sick before.<br />
I had<br />
no<br />
idea.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-73838169299274860782011-12-07T18:17:00.000-06:002011-12-07T18:17:41.829-06:00My Brain-Talk"These are not cockroaches," I say to myself as I'm moving a semi-crunchy chewed ball of oats around in my mouth. My tongue clears the front of my gums like a windshield wiper and adds the collection to the oat ball being worked on over in the left side of my mouth. Crunch. "That's not a bug. It's oats."<br />
<br />
"Seriously? Cockroaches? Come on. I'm trying to eat here." I chastise my brain, because it's the one that pops thoughts like this into my awareness. I can't tell it not to do something, or it just does it more. More cockroaches. Louder cockroaches. I try ignoring it like a bratty child.<br />
<br />
"Your hair's rolling up like a curtain. Fwop-fwop-fwop-fwop!" Now, that's kind of funny. And I can eat to that. I imagine my curtain hair spooling up to the top of my head. "Neck sweater." Yes, brain. I agree. A neck sweater would be nice. "Made of lard." Um. Well, that doesn't seem very practical. But, have it your way. "And make soap from it." Now, you got that from Fight Club, which you were just talking about today. "Meatball sobbing. Man boobs." More Fight Club. I'm not impressed. "Helena Bonham Carter." Now you're just naming actor-"Johnny Depp." And he wasn't even in Fight Club.<br />
<br />
At any given moment, I can hear my brain-talk. "Crab it, maestro!" Most of it makes little sense to me, "Shine it, boys! Mail it right to your momma!" And some of it makes me laugh.<br />
<br />
<br />
When I was in art school, I was among other brain-talk people. People's brain-talk thoughts were splattered across canvasses and molded into clay and slowly becoming clear while bathing in chemicals and getting tickled by tongs. Brain-talk was encouraged, if not understood, even if the dialects were different.<br />
<br />
"Fifi put sixteen eggs in the green drain. Oh, you green drain!"<br />
<br />
Then, I graduated. I borrowed a suit from my mom because, as I understood it, retail managers didn't wear art school clothes. I bought a pair of pantyhose from Walgreen's and set out to be the best damn seller of wicker and wax that I could possibly be.<br />
<br />
And my brain-talk followed me, as noted by the time I told a customer (while helping her with some mini salt and pepper shakers), "I'm just a sucker for anything miniature!" I'm not. I'm not even sure what that means. But I said it. "Miniature cow plows in the candy corn pasture, Grandma!" is what I did not say. But I was thinking it. Or something like it. Brain-talk never reveals itself with a single thought.<br />
<br />
Hark. Listen closely. Lend me your ear. Do you have a moment?<br />
<br />
I stuffed cotton in my brain. In all of the empty spaces in which the thoughts which aren't already attached to something float. Here's where I stuffed the cotton. I shook my head to the left. I shook it to the right.<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
I could not hear the brain-talk.<br />
<br />
And this is how I worked for several years, tying papasans to the roofs of cars and wrapping scented candles in tissue. I could not hear the brain-talk while saying, "You're a wonderful person, but you're really not working out here. Good luck to you," or "We have a lot of very qualified applicants. I'll be in touch." Luck be a lady. Workin' hard for the money. Tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh touch me. Creature of the night!<br />
<br />
Then I left. I left to teach. Kindergarten: gold tooth I wanna be a rapper my daddy sells crack p is for pimps if you wanna know if a gun is real pick it up and do this bang! bang! bang! uhn! she just doodied I got to use it the teacher pooped in the closet? really please. someone help these kids. honey how did you get those marks on your arm your mom what? pinched you? oh my god they are all over your body let's go see the nurse no sweetie I'm taking your bag of sugar because it's not a healthy snack it's okay they aren't saying anything mean about me stop crying it's okay honey, I AM white it's okay.<br />
<br />
There was no space in my head for the brain-talk. The cotton was pulled out and the day's events were packed in so tightly that many days I couldn't retrieve the thoughts that said, "Eat." Or "Breathe." Or "Everything is alright."<br />
<br />
Three years and goodbye, Latray. Goodbye Sheron. Goodbye and yes I'm leaving you like everyone else has it's just that I can't breathe and my heart is so heavy I drag it around like an albatross and your crack-smokin', prostitutin' parents I can forgive but not those who are supposed to be providing a safe place for you and lending their office out so that you can get whooped with a belt by your auntie while I'm teaching across the hall and SNAP! and SNAP! and SNAP! and SNAP! and Ms Bow-wuh, why you be cryin'?<br />
<br />
And I left you because it was inevitable.<br />
<br />
And the brain-talk is quiet now so I can sit with that last sentence and see it for what it is. And the brain-talk wants to make sure I see it.<br />
<br />
And this is when I realize my brain-talk serves to perhaps busy myself when the thought of what is or what has been is more painful than a dozen jellyfish attached to my ceiling, falling to the floor with a thwap! as they dry up. Thwap!<br />
<br />
And I see them.<br />
<br />
Thwap! And one hits my head. I flip it over and notice a tiny face inside where its belly would be. (Do jelly fish have bellies?) and I see it wink at me.<br />
<br />
Oh, jellyfish. You little flirt.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-19519781043481470202011-12-04T08:59:00.001-06:002011-12-04T09:12:42.461-06:00Seemed Like A Good Idea to Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiexIziMlC2nYPy_x4dI-dImfmCBNU7Gqks-mrjIyl7oTfPurf1KPPpluY02cp04YOHxVYpCFodpSW2Ri90PQVHNhZoYtxMi9hdgqPLGInDHAXtI0Ckk6FJqFWjKUgwmxzrvM9Zr9SbGPU/s1600/Reflection1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiexIziMlC2nYPy_x4dI-dImfmCBNU7Gqks-mrjIyl7oTfPurf1KPPpluY02cp04YOHxVYpCFodpSW2Ri90PQVHNhZoYtxMi9hdgqPLGInDHAXtI0Ckk6FJqFWjKUgwmxzrvM9Zr9SbGPU/s200/Reflection1.gif" width="200" /></a></div>My 8th grade students are writing children's books to demonstrate the concepts about light/color that they learned in science class. We were doing a little bit of plot brainstorming the other day, and it became clear that without some intervention, I was setting myself up to read 40 similar (and painful) children's books:<br />
<br />
<i>Fluffy, the bunny, wants to know how rainbows are made but he doesn't know, so he sets out to find someone to tell him.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Johnny and Daisy want to know why we see color, but they don't know, so they ask the teacher and she takes them on an adventure to find out. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Bob, the student, didn't know how prisms worked so he asked someone who did and he found out.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-EI7hhLLTFEIjoEn5ULGAZxcw_kvexemZ8XpsyWbP_agNeD1JDikf70Hqyd_ijsw121kM4wY_qeShDpVMc6fa8YTGkIol0I_FM5yk95HNkp2o-FfFbDdA0Ai-9ObbhOPtNUV9xUYb6jY/s1600/stressed-out-women.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-EI7hhLLTFEIjoEn5ULGAZxcw_kvexemZ8XpsyWbP_agNeD1JDikf70Hqyd_ijsw121kM4wY_qeShDpVMc6fa8YTGkIol0I_FM5yk95HNkp2o-FfFbDdA0Ai-9ObbhOPtNUV9xUYb6jY/s200/stressed-out-women.jpg" width="154" /></a>I imagined sitting in Starbucks, the stack of completed children's books piled on the table, and while grading the 28th one, standing up on my chair and yelling "I'M MAD AS HELL AND I'M NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE!" I imagined tearing the book apart with my teeth<i> </i>and throwing bits of it up into the air, where it takes a gravitational turn down onto the heads of those waiting for their lattes. I imagined using my foot to kick the rest of the books from the table's surface and letting out a terrifying "HEEEEE-YOP!" while doing so. I imagined my hair, sticking to the sides of my face with sweat- the sweat formed from grading so many bad pieces of writing, and I imagined my red grading pen being crushed in my uber-powerful teacher hand, the ink dripping down my forearm.<br />
<br />
I imagined the shock on the faces of both baristas and coffeenistas and I imagined making it all come clear for them by yelling, "THESE BOOKS! THEY'RE ALL THE SAME!" I imagined shocked faces turning to faces of concern and empathy as the baristas and coffeenistas understand how terrible it must be to grade the same horrible plot over and over and over. And over.<br />
<br />
I snapped out of it and suggested we brainstorm a little more, pointing out that each proposed story was basically like the one before it. And the first one wasn't even that good. Boy doesn't get concept so boy finds someone to explain it.<br />
<br />
Students were nodding their heads in agreement, but seemed unsure of how to come up with anything else. "Tell your brain the concept and then see what it does with it," I explain. "Don't work so hard at it. Just toss it up there and see what happens." <br />
<br />
Students started looking upwards, as if trying to see into their brains. The brains appeared to be momentarily inactive. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRFWGClp2LhSMLCpL1kv4hc24qwD_M1iNTBMI90zdyIu-GaTpcW61ilanED1UyZ0ogxeWmZvXJlJ9zx1h890CqPxlZQxD-qSd9yduNeO_rd5H0DrvUrYQ7yYNQyE0A-yzclz7rw0FEAjU/s1600/pleasantville4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRFWGClp2LhSMLCpL1kv4hc24qwD_M1iNTBMI90zdyIu-GaTpcW61ilanED1UyZ0ogxeWmZvXJlJ9zx1h890CqPxlZQxD-qSd9yduNeO_rd5H0DrvUrYQ7yYNQyE0A-yzclz7rw0FEAjU/s200/pleasantville4.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>"Ooh! Ooh! I've got it!" I shouted. "Feel free to steal this one. Okay. So two teenagers are on a date at a drive-in. And the movie is black and white, but has a color component. You know, like "Pleasantville" or "The Wizard of Oz."<br />
<br />
"We saw that last year!" a kid yelled.<br />
<br />
"Right. Wait for it...So, they're watching the movie and the guy goes' 'Kind of cool how it went from being in black and white to color.' And the girl goes, 'What do you mean?' And he says, "You know, color! When it turned from black and white to all of those colors.' And the girl is all confused and doesn't know what he's talking about."<br />
<br />
"Okay," one student said. "I'll use that!"<br />
<br />
"No, wait. It gets better!" I explained. "So they get in a big fight about it and the guy ends up getting out of the car and slamming the door and leaving her. And when he does, he says something to the effect of 'I didn't want to go on a date with you anyway! You're a real dog!'"<br />
<br />
"Ooooh!" (This was said collectively. In the "you just called to the office" kind of "oooooh!")<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVw-mxaEX0M59vgZ20McYIDVDy43drecVFi_GRQSpTX5r5s-3qsKmDBG_0amfE7fPuLibK68yHJ3CdUEKC4PPVSJPUPXycsxLID_EnnsR5IsV-M3lxAUl-i-pK1RW2v97escoTiHdLhI0/s1600/Dog-In-Clothes-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVw-mxaEX0M59vgZ20McYIDVDy43drecVFi_GRQSpTX5r5s-3qsKmDBG_0amfE7fPuLibK68yHJ3CdUEKC4PPVSJPUPXycsxLID_EnnsR5IsV-M3lxAUl-i-pK1RW2v97escoTiHdLhI0/s200/Dog-In-Clothes-4.jpg" width="154" /></a></div>"No. Here's the good part," I continued. "After the guy is gone the girl reaches up and, like, pulls her face off. She just reaches under her chin and peels away her face and under it, she's a DOG! An actual DOG! Which makes sense! Because dogs only see in black and white!"<br />
<br />
(Silence in the room.)<br />
<br />
"See?"<br />
<br />
(Stunned faces.)<br />
<br />
"Anyone want to use that story idea? It's a good one, right?"<br />
<br />
(More silence.)<br />
<br />
Then finally:<br />
"Um. Ms. Maret? That's kind of....um...<i>where</i> do you come <i>up</i> with these ideas? That's...."<br />
"Disturbing!" a kid shouted out.<br />
"Just...weird," another kid muttered.<br />
"Really, Maret? Really? She peels her face off? Seriously."<br />
"Yeah, Maret. That's...wow."<br />
<br />
"Too much?" I ask. "Okay. Oh! I have another one! How about this: There's this weird substitute teacher guy who is obsessed with plants. Like, plants are his only friends. He's named them all and talks to them all each morning and even dresses some of them."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOAd9tJ21mYTfE0i0oXDd-Xjam-W3WkHLGuuq931R4qtJuwgd_-h8CaWpLAFSN63EqeRzbjLm7AQLNAcvbvcyKojs8CCC8CkMyWuzktfEHX2u9ayC2v-5GDXtlHSW5a-uYj4iejiiVVw/s1600/potted-plant_300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOAd9tJ21mYTfE0i0oXDd-Xjam-W3WkHLGuuq931R4qtJuwgd_-h8CaWpLAFSN63EqeRzbjLm7AQLNAcvbvcyKojs8CCC8CkMyWuzktfEHX2u9ayC2v-5GDXtlHSW5a-uYj4iejiiVVw/s200/potted-plant_300.jpg" width="167" /></a><br />
"Dresses them?"<br />
<br />
"Wait for it...So, he gets called in to teach a science class and he's so nervous about it that he brings one of this plants with him. A little potted one. Named Lucy."<br />
<br />
"Okaaaay," they mumble, skeptically.<br />
<br />
"So, he gets to class and sees in the sub plans that he's supposed to teach about light and energy and stuff- you know, you guys studied that. But he doesn't know anything about it and the kids are filing into the classroom and he's really starting to freak out."<br />
<br />
"We had a sub like that once!" a kid exclaims.<br />
<br />
"Okay. That's neither here nor there. But, anyway, the kids are all seated now because the bell rang, and with a very nervous and shaky voice he says to the class, "Today....you will be learning....about..." and he hears a tiny voice shout out 'photosynthesis!' It's the plant! Lucy! It talks but only he can hear it! And because she gets her energy from the sun she's able to explain it so the guy is able to teach the lesson."<br />
<br />
"Um," a kid says. <br />
<br />
"Right? The PLANT talks!" I say, enthusiastically.<br />
<br />
"Well, it's better than the girl who peels her face off, but it's still kind of...weird."<br />
<br />
"Seriously, Maret. I mean....seriously."<br />
<br />
Huh. Seemed like good ideas to me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2099532804406506846.post-33901236154271371622011-11-24T14:49:00.000-06:002011-11-24T14:49:48.900-06:00A Trip to the Grocery Store<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwL00IZCe3ZtcjMNBjPa6_NSfanBItRMzIhen-Dte7qmKRZmsgwus1RpjjgepKyREqED6ttJMbbzfDjoRmWl2phgmx2RhVekU-ORxqYOLlvR1P3ENI-NBVR02Jvin7UVbUJufTE5FmPw/s1600/304086_2400306402087_1083854775_32207183_1532492443_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwL00IZCe3ZtcjMNBjPa6_NSfanBItRMzIhen-Dte7qmKRZmsgwus1RpjjgepKyREqED6ttJMbbzfDjoRmWl2phgmx2RhVekU-ORxqYOLlvR1P3ENI-NBVR02Jvin7UVbUJufTE5FmPw/s320/304086_2400306402087_1083854775_32207183_1532492443_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The other night I was in the grocery store and I spotted a large yellow banner hanging over the fish department. In capital black letters were the words "SALMON SALE." <i><span style="color: #e06666;">"SALMON SALE?!"</span></i> I thought, having no real interest in salmon but being caught up in the boldness of the sign and the urgency implied by the capital letters.<br />
<br />
Turns out I didn't just think it. I must have said it out loud. And not with my "inside voice." Those nearby pivoted to face me as if I had just yelled, "Hey you! Over here!" A slight feeling of embarrassment caused me to shrug my shoulders and point to the sign. "Salmon," I half-whispered. "It's for sale." Awkward silence. "Right over there."<br />
<br />
As I slinked my way along the row of wrapped meaty parts, it occurred to me that the non-stop chatter I hear in my head while at the grocery store may actually be coming out. You know. Into the ears of other shoppers. About 50 years too soon, I have become the crazy lady who talks to herself from the store entrance to the checkout lane. How could I not have realized this before?<br />
<br />
I decided to not let my thoughts know I was onto them, but rather just listen to them the next time I went shopping at my local grocery store. I'd just kind of go about my shopping business and hear what, if anything, comes out. Maybe the salmon sign produced a surge of excitement that my normal thoughts don't do. Maybe most of the thoughts stay in. Maybe I'm a thought whisperer.<br />
<br />
I've observed other teachers and students and know how to record just the facts. I'd probably be a pretty good police officer. Just during the "just the facts, ma'am" parts of their police officeriness. The other parts I'd suck pretty bad at, but I can take down some facts. Below are the facts as I observed them:<br />
<br />
Wheels cart towards the produce section. Stops in front of bananas. <br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"Okay.....nanners. I need some nanners. Hi, little nanner bunch. Want to go home with me? Of course you do."</i></div>Puts bunch of bananas into cart. <br />
<br />
Wheels over one aisle to the croutons. <br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"Croutons. Croutons. Croutons. I see you whole grain croutons!" </i></div><div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div>Wheels back towards the wall of produce. <br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"Yellow peeeeeper. Peeeeper. You a squooshy peeeeeeper. No, no, no. Here's one. Oh, aren't you a pretty little peeper? I cut you up, you little peeeeeper. I cut you up and put you in a- oh, look! Beets. I like it, the beets. Why you all tied together, beets? I will eat one of you and set two free."</i></div><div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div>Seems to forget about yellow peppers altogether and plops a bundle of beets into the cart. Rolls cart over to the apples.<br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"Foooooo-geeee. I'm gonna eat you up, fuji apples." </i></div>Picks up an apple and squeezes it.<br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"Girl! You all mushy and shit! You nasty! You know you are. Don't act like you ain't."</i></div>Puts apple down. Picks up another.<br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"That's better. I'll take you! And you! And you!"</i></div><div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div>Puts three apples in a plastic bag, ties it up, and places in the cart. Wheels cart past the salad bar, through the liquor aisle. Thinks about the time she drank some Malibu Rum with a friend in high school and afterwards thought it might be a good idea to remove the friend's father's antique sword from the wall and run around the house with it. Remembers getting busted. Feels like her choice of not drinking is a good one. Heads past the magazines, and takes a right at the soup aisle. <br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"Soup. Soup-PAH. Soupy-soup-soup. Where are you zesty chicken? CHEEEEE-kin. Cheeky-cheeky-cheekin. Cheeeeekin soup-PAH. Oh, you funny soup. I see you behind your buddy. Move over buddy, I'm comin' for the cheeckin." </i></div><div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div>Does a u-turn in the aisle. Nearly runs into another shopper. Stands on the back of her cart for the final roll<br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"Wheeeeeeee!"</i></div><div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div>and makes it to the cereal aisle. <br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"Gruh-NOLA! I'm gonna get me some gruh-NOLA! Granola in the brown package. Coooome to me! Ah! I see you! You can't hide from me! Get on over here, you little sucker."</i></div><div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoOLwvnKzUuiBue0gpeRL_RE0fQtjhRiipJTjTrnG7_GWwCbNw6lmEjcR-sb3sax0_GBYepTm5k84bZTScQDBwPt5qZmbX1If9Gq4Osltc9OXufP3dXp7TU9CNj_gzW1Fl2yO8F2kJuRk/s1600/grocery-cart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoOLwvnKzUuiBue0gpeRL_RE0fQtjhRiipJTjTrnG7_GWwCbNw6lmEjcR-sb3sax0_GBYepTm5k84bZTScQDBwPt5qZmbX1If9Gq4Osltc9OXufP3dXp7TU9CNj_gzW1Fl2yO8F2kJuRk/s200/grocery-cart.jpg" width="200" /></a></div> Puts granola in the cart. Wheels down the aisle and turns left towards the dairy section.<br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"Small package of eggies. A lil' bitty package. Naw, naw, naw. Don't need that big ol' package of eggs. Who eats those many eggs, anyway? Where aaaaare you, little eggs? No little eggs? Okay. No eggs for me!"</i></div><div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div>Smiles at a woman who was inspecting a carton of eggs. Heads over to the yogurt.<br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"I like it the vah-NEELA. Two-a-those, please. One! Two! Okay...next. Let's see. Dog treats. Dog treats. Dog treats. Par-DONE!"</i></div><div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div>Says, "pardon" to a woman in the yogurt aisle. Zips right over to the pet aisle.<br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"Someone's in the kitchen with dooooog treats. Someone's in the kitchen I knoooooooow. Someone's in the kitchen with- what the hell are these? Lil' bacon bits? Uhn. Those look nasty. Narsty. Narsty bits. No narsty bits for my dog!"</i></div><div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div>Picks up a box of dog treats and plops it into the cart. Continues down the aisle. Passes light bulbs and display of pink breast cancer awareness merchandise. <br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"Light bulbs? No, don't need 'em. Buh-REST cancer pinky stuff. I see y'alls display of Buh-REST cancer stuff. No need. No needy. Sorry, cancer peeps. No needy the bag or the water bottle. Oh! Look at those fuzzy pink socks, though. I like to wear 'em, wear 'em. I like to wear 'em, wear 'em. I like to wear 'em, wear 'em. I like to....WEAR 'EM! But I don't need them. No need."</i></div><div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div> Turns left and left again to the snack aisle. <br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"Get me some almonds. Comin' for you, almonds. There you are! And-uh-one. I gots ya, almonds. I gots your almond backs. Your little almond backs."</i></div><div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div>Makes a u-turn and left again in the frozen foods aisle.<br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><i>"Okay....veggies for the stir fry. Gon' stir it up. Steer it up! Little darlin', steer it up! Schteer. Shhhhteer. Shtir-fry. I said shtir fry. I like me the water chestnuts, oh yes, I do. I'm gonna crunch you up, little crunchy watery disks of goodness. Come to me!"</i></div><div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div>Catches the glance of a fellow shopper who appears to be staring at her in an odd way.<br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div><span style="color: #e06666;">"Got some veggies,"</span> she announces to the shopper. <span style="color: #e06666;">"For some stir fry." </span><br />
The shopper nods her head slowly and back her cart up a few inches.<br />
<span style="color: #e06666;">"Stir fry and veggies,"</span> she continues. <span style="color: #e06666;">"Veg-uh-tuh-buhls." </span><br />
<br />
Another u-turn and she's headed towards the check-out, past the magazines and candy.<br />
<i style="color: #e06666;">"Okay. To the check out. Hello, Demi Moore! I see you. I see you, gum. Don't need it. Don't need your gum. Don't need your fuzzy socks. Gummy socks. Socksy gum. Gummy-"</i><br />
<br />
She's interrupted by the cashier who says, "Hello, ma'am, and how are you today?"<br />
<div style="color: #e06666;"><br />
</div><span style="color: #e06666;">"Pretty good,"</span> she replies, piling her items on the conveyer belt. She refrains from saying "<i><span style="color: #e06666;">Pri-TEE, pri-TEE, pri-TEE, pri-TEE, pri-TEE good</span></i>," ala Curb Your Enthusiasm, because, let's face it. That would be weird and she wouldn't want the cashier to look at her in a funny way. That would be embarrassing.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0