Dear Facebook

Dear Facebook,
I appreciate your interest, via the ads on the sidebar of my facebook page, in my love life, my safety, my personal hygiene, my fashion, my career, my recreational activities, and my relationships with imaginary family members, such as my non-existent "cherished daughter." It is clear that you care deeply for me. Might I take this time to ask some specific questions about the ads that frequent my page? I'm sure you'll indulge me.

Ad #1:

"HawgLaw: If you ride then know the law. This page is to help keep riders informed of legal issues related to riding."

I was a fan of the Dukes of Hazzard, and while I applaud you for hiring Bo or Luke to do your copy-writing, I must inform you that I do not ride a "hog" or "hawg" as you so charmingly put it. I ride a scooter. Now, if your site was called "KnockAnOleDudeOverWithYourCarTheDayAfterYouFindOutYouHaveNoCarInsurance" well, then- I really could have used you. But, that's not the case.


 Ad #2:
"365 things to do in St Louis before you die."
 There are a lot of things I'd like to do before I die. I'm not sure what you're getting at with this photo, though. Seeing a titlted building is cool, I guess, but I've already seen the Tower of Pisa, and it was kind of a letdown, really. So your leaning condo unit is...well...not that appealing. Sorry.

 

"365 things to do in St Louis before you die."
You run the same ad with multiple photos, trying to hook me into doing things before I die, or perhaps you're trying to get me to kill myself. I can't tell. But, either way, I'll take this over the leaning condo. I believe you're suggesting that I wrap a little old dog up in someone's gray tube sock so tightly that the dog's tongue kind of falls out and he almost chokes on it. I'm kind of an animal lover, and I'm not sure why I'd want to do this before I die. Although I did put tape balls on the bottom of a cat's feet and watch it walk around all funny. But that wasn't on my "bucket list." I just did it. The cat was there. So was the tape. I do think if a dirty old tube sock was near my dog, I still wouldn't care to nearly choke it to death. I'll pass on this, too.

"365 things to do in St Louis before you die."
Okay. Here's you're going for a kinder and more loving approach. Perhaps I'd like to hold some kind of baby deer in the palm of my hand before dying? That's pretty tempting. Unless this photo was taken right before someone put a dirty old tube sock around it until its tongue flew out of its mouth.  



Ad #3:

"100 things to do in St Louis"

It's clear that you think I spend a lot of time sitting around wishing for things to do. It's true. I'm divorced. And live alone. And single. And live next door to my parents. And this may make me look incapable of entertaining myself. Not true. I do have a life, facebook. And I can think of a lot of things to do in St Louis rather than eat a giant taco. Although, damn, that does look good. Okay. I'll do it.


Ad #4:
"100 Things To Do In St Louis This Spring. Don't Miss Out!"
Oh, shit! Your "Don't Miss Out!" communicates a sense of urgency to putting these little red galoshes on this baby pig! I appreciate your exclamation mark! I'm not sure where this pig is! But when I find it, I WILL put some tiny red galoshes on it, damn it! I won't miss out! Promise!



Ad #5:

"Got sun damage or brown spots? Remove them with FotoFacial or Matrix RF treatments." 
Why you gotta be so cold, facebook? You know I have sun spots on my face. The one above my lip I call "The Clark Gable" and the ones on my cheeks I call my "mutton chops." If this lady got the treatment, why is she hiding half of her face? Probably because the treatment jacked her skin all up, that's why. I don't trust you, facebook. And as far as the Matrix RF treatments go,  I can't remember if I'm supposed to take the red pill or the blue pill.




Ad #6:
"Become certified to teach through the flexible, affordable, and state-approved ABCTE program. Nearly 3,000 people have already done it!"
First of all, I'm already a teacher. So you can stop trying to get me to be one. I mean, what the fuck, facebook? Don't you even pay attention to anything I do/say? It's like you want to be all up in my business, but then you pull some shit like this-like you don't even know me. That's not the way to build intimacy, in case no one's ever told you that before. Plus, what is this "ADCDEFG program"? You made that up. Those are just letters of the alphabet, silly. And the "teacher" in the photo looks like a creepy child-molester. If 3,000 people have already done it, they need to be arrested. 

Ad #7:

"Give single dads a chance. Browse faithful and devoted single dads in your area seeking a second chance at love."

Speaking of needing to be arrested...hello.  Dude. You're glassy-eyed. And wearing some bling-bling in your ears. And you have that scraggly pube-ish chin grooming going on there. What exactly are you faithful and devoted to? Not your ex-wife when you two were married, I'm thinking. Second chance this, jerk. Your attempt at sympathy is not working over here. (p.s. If your wife died, I'm kind of super-sorry about everything I just said. But I'm still not interested. Thank you. Good day!)


Ad #8:

"The IRS tank proven oil recapture ability will improve your ROP while minimizing your environmental impact"

Um...say what?





Ad #9:

"Rufus believes all LGBT couples should be able to marry. Co-sign his letter: It's time to say, "I do" Mr. President."

Yeah, and I believe Rufus and I should get married. But he's gay. And that whole "It's time to say, 'I do' Mr. President" makes me feel a little uneasy. In that Rufus-Obama bad love scene kind of way. And I don't want to go there, but you made me do it, facebook. And for that, I resent you. 







Ad #10:

"Own Elvis history- The TCB ring that epitomized the bold style of Elvis Presley is brilliantly replicated in this stylish women's ring. Shop now!"

Now, that is some brilliant replication. And it is a stylish women's ring, in the same way a woman might be called "handsome." What ring-maker was takin' care of business when they set those letters?  It clearly says CTB, not TCB.



I look forward to many, many more hours of complete and total time-wasting on your site, facebook. Without it and the addition of the "like" button, I would undoubtedly have little to no self-esteem. So, I thank you.

In the future, though, I would appreciate a little more thought when placing ads on my page. I'm sure you don't take this request lightly.

Sincerely,
Your #1 fan
theplaygroundinmyhead

Might As Well Face It, I'm Addicted To...

White Cheddar Cheese Popcorn-

...which I'm currently eating.  For breakfast. At 9 something in the morning on a snow day.  I'm not picky about the brand, although I prefer the kind that comes in the red bag. That one is my crack. My bust-the-bag-open-while-still-driving-who-gives-a-shit-if-fake-cheese-powder-gets-all-over-my-steering-wheel-I-must-have-this-now kind of crack.

Waiting in line to pay for this particular brand of popcorn, I get itchy. I can't understand why the line is moving so slowly. I've got cheddar cheese popcorn to eat, people! What's wrong with you! I consider tearing a tiny hole in the top of the bag and eating a little- just a little- to get me through the line. I paw at the bag and it crinkles. Loudly. I look around and feel suddenly exposed. Figured out. I don't want someone to sense my need so I exert every bit of will-power and control I have. It's just enough to get me through the line and out the door. Sometimes I don't even make it to my car before I'm getting my cheesy chomp on. Fuck it.

Currently, I'm finishing off a bag of Pelican Bay white cheddar cheese popcorn. There are so many adjectives on the bag, I can't tell exactly in what order I'm supposed to be reading them: premium, hot air popped, white cheddar cheese, all natural, no preservatives. What's missing is "addictive," "crack-ish," but perhaps there's some sort of FDA thing that keeps those kind of words from being printed on there.

On the package there's an image of a maniacal, drug-addicted pelican flying over some water with a jacked-up buoy in the background. That's how I see it, anyway. The pelican is jonesing for some white cheddar cheese popcorn. He's all itchy for the powder, just like I get in line at Walgreens. He has that same crazy look in his eye that I get. I know. I've seen it while passing the tiny mirrors on the spin-around sunglasses display as I make my way to the checkout holding my bag of popcorn.

Once I picked up a bag on the way home from work. My gentleman caller would be coming over to watch a little Adventures of Brisco County, Jr. (Great series on tv from 1993-1994, by the way.) Anyway, I somehow make it home without opening the bag. I walk into the kitchen and put the popcorn in the cabinet. The one with the 4 jars of peanut butter (seriously- what the hell?), the opened box of spaghetti that I'm afraid is too old to eat, but I can't seem to throw away, the bag of pine nuts that I used last summer in some pasta (probably the opened box) and now I don't want, but also won't throw away, and the 2 bottles of vegetable oil.  I shut the cabinet door and walk away.

About 4 steps away. That's about how long it took for my monkey-mind to convince me that I could, indeed, have just a little taste of the cheddar cheese popcorn flavoring and then roll the bag up and put it back until gentleman caller came over. I mean, it's not like a tiny handful or two would make a difference, right?

I turn around and reach out for the cabinet door. My heart begins thumping just a bit faster. My taste buds start tapping their little veins and high-fiving each other. Spit forms under my tongue. Open the door. Reach for the red bag. Hear the crinkle. Pull apart strong adhesive. Hear the pssssshhhht of the air escaping the bag. Reach in. Grab popcorn. Sweep hand to mouth. Make clicking sounds to invite dog to eat the 2 or 3 pieces that fell to the floor. Toss popcorn in chew-hole. Feel sides of tongue get all tangy-like. Remember to save some for gentleman caller. Roll top of bag down and put back in the cabinet. Walk away.

About 4 steps away. That's how long it takes me to chew and swallow the popcorn I'd just put in my mouth. And about how long it takes me to have the brilliant thought that just one more bite would be fine. In fact, it would be good. In super-fact, I'd somehow be doing someone a favor. I can't figure out who or how, but it's enough to motivate me to turn around and go back to the cabinet, grab the bag, unroll it, reach in once or twice, roll it back up, stick it back in, and walk away.

This time, I rinse the cheesy residue off of my fingers. Now, how could I go back and get more, I think. I've just cleaned my fingers. That would be silly.

That's about how long it takes for me to realize that another handful of popcorn would be just dandy. Who cares about the finger-cleaning? I mean, it's not like the water or paper towels cost anything. Okay. The paper towels do, but I'll just use the same one. It will be damp, even, and maybe I can bypass the water-rinsing stage and go right for the wiping of the fingers on the damp towel. Yes. Yes, this will do.

On my fourth or fifth trip to the cabinet, I begin to realize that the supply is dwindling at a rapid pace. I'm not sure that I have the willpower to leave the bag alone until gentleman caller gets here. I briefly consider putting the back outside. In the trunk of my car, maybe. Or perhaps I can take it to my deter me. All of this I'm thinking as I'm standing in the middle of the kitchen, hand deep inside the bag of popcorn and mouth moving like a cow chewing its cud in fast-forward.

Finally, I give in. I eat the whole fucking bag. I'd like to say I make it to the "ohhhh....owww....my stomach hurts....this is awful....I swear I'm never doing this again!" phase. But, the truth is, the last bite is as good as the first.

On this particular night, gentleman caller would arrive. He'd come in, hug me, greet my dog, and head towards the television. "Can I get you a coke?" I'd ask. "I'm sorry I can't offer anything to snack on. Seems I'm fresh out."

Tumbling Tumble-Weaves and Other Tales

Our Lady of Perpetual Help was once a thriving Catholic school nestled in the middle of a stable and busy north St. Louis neighborhood. Children flooded in and out of its doors in neatly pressed uniforms and squeaky clean faces, ready to obey the orders of the no-nonsense nuns in charge. Now, its windows are busted out; a few of them boarded up with plywood, many of which have been spray painted with words and phrases which would make the nuns blush. A mattress leans against a shattered window on the second floor. Someone had been living in there.  Books and student papers from the 1960s flutter about, and empty liquor bottles and trash gather in communal piles. Synthetic and ratty tumbling tumble-weaves dance across the cracked asphalt parking lot. The stone cross high above the entrance is crooked, like God himself gave it an angry swat.

In four days, I was to be teaching children in this building. My first teaching job, after signing on to be part of an up-and-coming charter school, promising superior education to children who have, until now, been offered sub-standard schooling. I had no teaching experience whatsoever, and was told I'd be teaching 8th grade. Then 5th. Then 2nd. Then I was taken out to dinner by one of the directors, a creepy older military man with a scar running the length of his cheek, and offered a position as a principal. No, I explained, I would not be taking that. Doesn't he think it would be good for me to get some teaching experience first? Okay, he countered, perhaps I'd just like to go bowling with him sometimes and we could also enjoy some karaoke together. No, I explained. I would not be doing that, either. Perhaps he might think about asking his wife to do those things with him, I offered.

The late-opening, the indecision about what I'd be teaching, the weird karaoke offer- all of these things pointed to a level of dysfunction, the surface of which was just barely beginning to get scratched. Three years of teaching there leave me with the following highlights. No embellishing is necessary when it comes to telling these stories:

1) "Um, did you just sprinkle some Comet on that pile of vomit and use a broom to whoosh it around it a circle? And then leave it there?"
I had a student who, due to what I believe was an extreme case of fetal-alcohol syndrome, sat in class with her mouth gaping wide open and a string of drool wobbling from her bottom lip. About three times each day, she would lean to the side, vomit, then lean back- as though nothing had ever happened. What was met with "EWWWW!"s from the other students at the beginning of the year was ignored by several months in. Yes, I called the nurse. Yes, I told the principal. Yes, I called home. "That's just what she does," I was told. "It's okay." Really? Didn't seem okay to me.

What also seemed not okay was how the mess was dealt with. I learned that calling for help from the custodian yielded less than desirable results when I witnessed him come it, sprinkle Comet powder over the vomit, then take the bristles from a regular broom and kind of mush it all around a bit. Big, circular sweeping motions, like he was stirring some kind of delicious soup in a large cauldron. Then he left. That was it. No follow up cleaning was necessary, I guess. I should be happy with a Comet-sprinkled pile of vomit. Kids love that kind of thing in their classroom. I took on later cleanings myself.

Which leads me to...

2) "Damn right we're not putting any soap or toilet paper in the bathrooms. If we do, the kids just go and use it all up!"
That was the response to my question about why we'd been out of toilet paper and soap in the student bathrooms for weeks now. I could kind of overlook that fact that all of the doors had been removed because "kids will just do nasty stuff in there" if doors are up. I mean to say, the students had developed a system of standing shoulder to shoulder to create makeshift doors for themselves, gaining some kind of privacy. But no amount of bodily creativity could create soap. Or toilet paper. Our custodians had become enraged about having to replenish both items and were going to teach these damn private part-wiping and hand-washing kids a lesson! We went the entire year with no soap and no toilet paper. Instead, I'd line kids up outside of the bathroom and give them a wad of toilet paper on their way in. On the way out, their hands were squirted with hand sanitizer. Problem solved.

Although, even if we did have soap, it's hard to wash without water.

3) "He told you to do WHAT?!"
Sometimes our electricity was shut off. Often, our phones were disconnected. It seems we didn't have a great track record with paying our bills, or at least the money for the bills didn't always make it where it was supposed to. On one occasion, our water was shut off. No running water at all. Now, in the district where I currently teach, I arrived at school one morning to be sent home for the day due to no running water. A pipe had cracked. School was canceled until it was fixed. Because that's the normal thing to do.


At this, school, however, we didn't operate on the normal cycle.

I lined students up, as I usually did, and distributed their toilet paper wads. As the first few students exited the bathroom, I held out the hand sanitizer. "Aw, we don't need none of that," one student said. "Mr. Jones helped us wash our hands. He's in the bathroom."



"Naw," the students explained, holding up hands glistening with wetness. "He tol' us to wash our hands in the terlet."

"He what?!"

"He tol' us to wash our hands in the terlet."

I swung open the bathroom door, and yelled inside- "Mr. Jones! Are you having kids wash their hands in the toilet?"

"Not in the toilet, girl! In the toilet tank!" Then he laughed, like I was some kind of nut for thinking he'd have kids wash their hands in the toilet bowl. Because washing one's hands in the toilet tank is so much more appropriate. I bought more hand sanitizer.

I could go on and on. About the custodian who was put in charge of disciplining students, and would have them stand for hours at a time in the boiler room in the basement with their arms extended toward the ceiling.

About the mom who stormed into my classroom during my first year and threatened to "kick [my] muthufuckin' ass, bitch!"

About the shooting outside, which caused us to have to "get down! get down!" Or the Assistant Principal's decision to bring in a very realistic fake gun to pull out of the waistband of his pants, causing students to scream and fall under their desks. "It's okay," he explained, "I'm just teaching you a lesson. If you find a gun at home, pick it up like this." (He bounces it in his hands.) If it's heavy, it's real, and you shouldn't play with hit. If it's light, it's a toy, and you can do this." (Points the gun and proceeds to click, click, click the trigger.)

About the time I had to explain to "Auntie Reenie" that, no, she could not just barge into my classroom with a belt and "whoop up on" her niece at any time she wished. (Incidentally, that year's principal offered his office up as a place to do the whoopin' since I was uncomfortable with it happening in my classroom.)

About the time our computers went missing over winter break, we collected the insurance money, and then they were found in a building next door. On the third floor. Hiding.

About the time I asked my principal for a pair of scissors to trim the excess paper from a bulletin board, and he replied, "Don't worry about it, baby doll, I got it"- then proceeded to use his hideously long pinky fingernail as a cutting device, slowly edging it along the border of the board, making a disturbing ripping sound. It did work, though.

About the school counselor who instructed students to "go inside if your face starts burning." This, she explained would be a chemical attack (after 9/11), since St. Louis was a target because of the arch.

One day I'll write more. Volumes, perhaps. Enough that we can all read it and never again will we, as teachers, be tempted to complain about the copy machine not working. Or not liking the food that the PTO has brought in to feed us for teacher appreciation day. Or not being able to get into the computer lab- the one with dozens of brand new mac computers- because someone else is signed up for it.

I lose perspective. Sure. But it only takes a moment for me to remember that all I have are luxury problems today.

Don't Open It!

I like opening presents. I rip into them with vigor, as if I've been kept in a basement somewhere with no food and you've just handed me a tater tot neatly wrapped in holiday print. I mean to say I shred that paper up. My grandma (when she was alive and her skin wasn't so thin with old age that it would itself rip apart when it came in contact with anything with an edge, like wrapping paper) used to unwrap gifts with such painful meticulosity that it was near torture to witness. Living through the Great Depression had made a big impact on her, and she was, no doubt, thinking of ways in which to reuse the wrapping paper as she was unwrapping it: cut and fold for a new coaster set, iron and tape onto pillow for festive pillowcase, tape together with last year's saved tape pieces to make curtains, etc.

She'd turn a pair of scissors on its side and slide them under each piece of tape.
"Come on, Grandma! Open it! Open it!"
The scissors would move at a snail's pace along the edge of the gift; the tape being removed with surgical precision.

Not my actual grandma.

"Open it, Grandma! Come on!"
Down one side of the box.
"Come on, Grandma! Open it! Open the present!"
Having freed one side, she would rotate the gift to gain better access to the next side.
"Open it, Grandma! Open it!"
Slowly, slowly, the scissors would slide under the paper, catching the tape. 
"Oh, for crying out loud, Grandma! Open it!"
She'd turn the gift over, exposing its underbelly, inspecting it for tape.
"Mom! Dad! Tell her to open it! Open the gift, Grandma!"

And this would go on for hours, it seemed. When the paper was finally removed, in one piece, mind you, Grandma would take great pains to fold it into a neat square. This would take about as long as the unwrapping.

I don't play like that. Like I said, if there aren't pieces of wrapping paper flying through the air in an almost dangerous fashion, well, then- I'm not really unwrapping presents.

The upcoming unwrap-athon, while less a production now that (a) I'm divorced and (b) my family decided not to exchange gifts, has still brought to mind the glee that is ripping paper from a package and greedily grabbing at what's inside. (So wish I didn't just have a flash of the SNL "in a box" skit right then. It makes my words seem so...cheap. And...wrong. Onward...) Anyway, I had a thought tonight like this. "What would you," meaning me, mind you, "not want to unwrap on Christmas morning?" I'd like to entertain this thought for a bit.

1) A human head.

Not an actual human head in a box gift.

First, it would be quite the surprise, to say the least. I'm not sure I'm up for that kind of surprise on Christmas morning. Plus, whose head would it be? And would it be all gooey and bloody at the bottom of the box? If so, I'm guessing it would have to be wrapped in foil or a baggy or something, and that would just look cheap. No one likes a cheap-looking gift. Then, how to I get it out? Do I grab it by the hair and pull or turn the box over for the unwanted thump?

2) A bag of poo.
Any poo would be gross. Human poo being the worse, really. Bird poo would be okay, I guess, as far as poo in a box goes, but I still wouldn't want it. I wouldn't know what to do with it, and I fear what my gift-giver might be trying to tell me. What would one be trying to say with a gift box of poo? It can't be good. No. No, I don't want to unwrap a box of poo at all.

Not my actual Cabbage Patch doll.

3) Somebody else's old cabbage patch doll.
Because it would just make me all mad that I threw mine away years ago. The face of someone else's cabbage patch doll would be all, "Hey! Remember me?! No, not really, because I belonged to such and such a girl in such and such a town and you threw yours out, you big dummy." Not that I'd know what to do with my old cabbage patch doll if I had it. I guess I'd put it in a box in the basement, but it would be in MY box in MY basement and I'd always know where it was if I ever wanted to look at it. Which I wouldn't, really. But that's not the point.

4) A jar of olives. Or even a pretty box with a single olive in it.
Two olives in a box would be obscene. Because we all know olives are the devil's testicles.

5) A big ol' stinky block of blue cheese.
If you want to see me throw up on Christmas morning, because you're some kind of Christmas morning people hater, well, then- gift me some of that nasty-ass blue cheese. Seriously. If olives are the devil's testicles, then blue cheese is the yeast infection of his girlfriend. (Did I just type that? Seems like I did. Wow. Even I'm grossed out a bit by that.)

6) A slip of paper with Matthew McConaughey's phone number on it.

An actual douchebag.

Why? Because I'd be tempted to call it. And then I'd get all worked up and angry because I have an irrational hatred towards Matthew McConaughey and his love of his self-proclaimed "man smell" and then I'd say something all jerky and then I'd have to call him and make amends and I'd have his number so I'd have to do it and just thinking about it makes me so mad that I've written this big old run-on sentence and that makes me mad, too- and it's Matthew McConaughey's fault.

7)  A dirty diaper.
Because one time, when my niece was a baby, I brought her into the changing station at West County Mall. I folded down that hollow plastic table-thing that you're supposed to place a baby on and trust that it won't detach from the wall, which it looks like it could at any minute, and put my niece on there. She had what was referred to in our family as a "poo-nami." I mean, there was an explosion of poo. I did that awkward holding of both of her feet in one hand and struggling with the other to both keep her exploratory hands out of her poo area and fumble around the diaper bag for wet wipes. I found the container of wipes and...it was empty. Fuck. I can't leave the pooey baby on the unstable plastic thing to reach for toilet paper. I was stuck. Then, I noticed what I thought was a complimentary dispenser of wet wipes on the wall. How ingenious!, I thought. A little slot in the wall with what looked like a tiny portion of a wipe sticking out. I dug my hand into the slot and immersed my fingers deep into some other baby's pooey diaper. It was not a wipe dispenser. It was a dirty diaper thrower away-er place.

As far as lists go, 10 seems like a better number than 8. And I could, no doubt, keep listing. But it's in the eleven o'clock hour and I have presents to wrap. Happy holidays, everyone.

Writer's Block Produces Random Thoughts...Again

Let me save you some time. If I were you, I'd go ahead and log off. Come back when I really have something to say. If I ever really have something to say, that is.

See. I'm in the last few days of a teacher's semester. So I have...what...nothing to give in the personal writing department. No ideas. No drive. No energy to make my fingers attack the keyboard like they usually do. I'm surprised that I'm showering and feeding myself on a regular basis, actually. The fact that I'm not accidentally showing up to teach wearing last night's food-stained nightgown and having forgotten to wash the toothpaste from my brow-zit is a modern miracle. I'm running on fumes and my writing ideas have all but vanished.

In fact, I've logged on here a few times in the last week, stared at a blank screen with its blinking cursor, and thought, "Aw, to hell with it. I've got nothing."

I'm a little afraid I'll actually forget how to tap into that part of my head that usually is dictating so quickly what it wants me to write that I can scarcely type fast enough. I'm afraid winter break will get here, I'll be faced with oodles of time to write, and I'll crank out some bullshit that will have my 21 blog followers running for the virtual hills. Un-following me. Hiding from me, actually. Please, Lord Jesus, don't let The Playground In My Head find me and force me to read some hideous crap. Please, oh, please...

So, with that said, it's time to tap right into the monkey mind. A quick list of unedited words and phrases. I'll reach up in that space and catch whatever flies by- and this pretty much does nothing but keep the machine well-oiled.  So, once again...there's nothing to see here, folks. Nothing to see. Excuse me while I *humpf* climb up through my ear *humpf* and -whew! it's dark in here!- just a bit further back- past this floating image of a tater tot and- will you look at that? it's my dead classroom pet, Big Anthony. what is he doing here? back and back and I'm ready to step into the cash box. let them fly. I'll grab what I can.

-i thought i was getting a text message. i felt my coat pocket vibrate. it was actually my stomach. i wonder if my stomach is trying to text me. if it uses any little emoticons and tells me it's hungry, i'm kicking its ass. if my stomach has an ass. which it probably does.

-there's a saint that's known for her stinky holes. at least, that's what i was told by a christian brother during one of my many summer stays in philadelphia. only he had a thick hispanic accent, so it was more like "hair steeeeenky halls." i guess this lady was dying, and had some stinky holes. and they plugged the holes with flowers. and the flowers turned into diamonds the next day. now, that's what i'm talking about.

-for as long as i live, i will never understand my dog's obsession with licking her own butt hole. it's seriously, seriously gross. you never see humans doing anything that nasty. we pretty much leave our holes alone. in public, at least. except for our nostrils, but even nose-picking comes with a little bit of social shame when caught. and i've never, ever seen a human compulsively lick his or her butt hole. then again, i've never been to the back rooms of those seedy dance places, so who's to say what goes on in there. if butt hole licking is what's happening, well, then- (1) that's super nasty and (2) i'm glad it's happening behind closed doors.

-please, oh lord, don't let a parent of a current or past student or any member of my family over the age of 41 read the comment above. and if they do, don't ever let them reference it in a conversation with me. ever.

-sometimes "i'm sorry" is too shallow a phrase for what needs to be said, so silence is put in its place. and the silence is weighted down to let you know it's there and different from normal silence. and both parties stand and hold onto each other like rhesus monkeys and in the nothingness that is made of words not being spoken, "i'm sorry" lingers.

-i still remember the cologne of my first real crush. this goes back to 6th grade. he doused himself in polo, liberally applied from that emerald bottle with the gold nozzle. being 12, he had no idea what the phrase "a little goes a long way" meant, so each item of clothing was saturated in the musky scent. sprayed, i'm sure, were his wrists, behind his ears, his tiny bare chest, his bony little legs, and his feet. my first slow dance with him resulted in the faint smell of polo cologne all over my vintage chiffon dress. once home, i balled that dress up and shoved it into my face, breathing in all things crush.

-right now there are 5 candles lit in the room in which i'm typing. it is late. my cd has stopped playing. my dog is in her crate. i just had to speak words that i didn't want to, but know i needed to, and- well, there are natural consequences to everything, aren't there? perhaps i took it a bit too far. perhaps i should have stopped at track 5 and not let track 6 begin to play. sorry about that, i had said. sorry about that. i was just...i was...stumbling over my own actions. look behind you for the safety mattress, i tell myself. i tell us both. the ones stunt doubles use. fall into that, if you can. it will hurt a lot less.

-once i lit a candle and placed it in the center of our dining table. i was perhaps 7 or 8 years old. god, i said, if you are there, make that candle flame flicker. the candle flame flickered. okay god, i said, if that was really you, do it again. it did it again. then i realized candle flames naturally flickered, and there was no way for me to tell if god was doing it, or if the candle flame was just doing what flames do. and that rightfully pissed me off.

-if i did have a monkey, i'd be the kind of lady that dressed it and took it everywhere. and, naturally, i would lose some current friends, because monkey dressing and taking around is a bit odd. but, i'd also gain some friends. because, who wouldn't want to see a monkey all dressed up in outfits? i'd eat with it and we'd probably sleep together, but not in any weird porno way. that's sick and i'm disappointed in you for thinking that, to be sure. it would be in that i'm just laying here cuddling with my monkey who is wearing adorable footie pajamas way. which you may argue is no less sick then the weird porno way, but i would argue that it is indeed good, wholesome fun. i'm aware that one day my monkey would become an adolescent and claw my face off and then who would be laughing then? not me. i'd have no face with which to laugh. and not the monkey. it would get shot, i'd imagine. that, they'd say, is the bad part of the story. the end part. but, boy, wasn't it fun while it lasted?

-if i close my eyes and listen to the air blowing through the various vents in my house, i can nearly convince myself that my house is in flight. i mean to say, it sounds much like airplane noise without the *ding!* return to your seat sounds. or the people shuffling through their in-flight magazines or yacking on about their destination. and this is why i put my headphones in as soon as i have a seat on an airplane. i know people are interesting. most of them, anyway. but i'm here to tell you, i want nothing to do with them while we're all sardined in a gargantuan metal suppository barreling its way through the air. i just want to listen to music and read until i get drowsy, then sleep until the peanuts arrive. i like the honey roasted. i stick my tongue in the foil bag when the peanuts are gone and get all the sweet and salty dusty bits.

-damn, if i don't hate doing the responsible thing sometimes. i mean, damn. and ouch. more ouch than damn, i guess. no, they're pretty much equal.

"I Don't Know About You, Maret"

Picture this.

I'm on a date. Seems good. We're at a restaurant, sharing Greek tapas. I'm dressed appropriately. Not whored up, because in my late 30s, I know better. Not matronly, because as a single lady, I know better. I've got that "can still pass for something desirable but not embarrassing herself" kind of attire.

My date is smiley. I'm smiley. We're enjoying each other's company.

Then, I go and say something like, "Today, in class, I had a few extra minutes with the kids, so I started acting out scenes from the book we're reading- The Giver- but I acted it out as a cat. You know, 'Meow, meow, freezing and sledding down a hill, meow! Christmas lights! Meow dying?' And then they started acting out cat scenes, too."

My date shakes his head. "I don't know about you, Maret."

Oh, man. I've heard this before. Many times. In fact, if you and I have ever dated, you've probably said it to me. But perhaps it was, "I don't know about you, Bridget Hengen." Or, "What am I going to do with you, Bridget Bauer?" No matter what you called me, I know what it meant. I know what it means.

I exposed you to the playground in my head.

Not everyone is comfortable playing in there. Some prefer to stay in their car, with the window cracked so they can hear what I'm saying. Sunglasses on and hat pulled down over their brows so as to not be recognized by more respectable acquaintances, but still wanting to observe my playground antics. Some hop out of their cars, but lean against the chain link fence, unwilling to play but wanting a closer look. Some have stood on the swing and really picked up some momentum as I hung from the monkey bars by my legs, reciting Wham lyrics at the top of my lungs.

I'm always in the playground. I climb the slide, barefooted for a better grip, and etch funny names into the roof of the metal dome: Grumpus Mc Crabbyputty. Pat McCooter. Albert Puhols. This is where I record the things that make me laugh.

Slide down the slide with squeaking skin on metal and run across the blacktop to the large oak tree and you can see where I etch all of the things I think about. "What if we still used our belly buttons to eat?" "What if, for a greeting, we got real close and touched our eyelashes, batting them quickly together, instead of shaking hands?" "Weird. Guys show their nipples in the summer and it's culturally okay. No milk is meant to come out of them. They're just...pinkish disks right there on their chests. Man nipples. Weird." The tree is wide. Like, a block-wide. And my questions and thoughts are scratched into its smooth surface. I like to walk around it and run my fingers over the indented letters. It feels good.

Lay yourself flat on the ground and roll. Eventually you'll come to a hill. Tuck your arms in and close your eyes while continuing to roll faster and faster. Let yourself get dizzy and if you feel like laughing, do so. This is my hill of giggles and you can run up it and roll yourself back down as many times as you like. Only a few of you have rolled down it with me. Some of you have watched me, and smiled. Appreciated how happy I can be. Some of you have decided, at the moment of watching me gather grass on my clothes, that I just wasn't the girl for you. That's okay. There's no need to watch someone have so much fun if you'd rather be doing something else. No hard feelings.

It's true that I get up and go to work everyday. I pay bills and put gas in my car. I participate in staff meetings and know how to behave like a mature adult. I'm in bed by 10 each night, including weekends. I've given talks to large groups of adults and they see me as one of their own. This is all true. But, at the same time, my playground is active. I'm there, too.

And if you spend enough time with me, I'll invite you in. Or at least give you a glimpse of what I'm doing there. Some of you will want to play, but will be too afraid that something bad will happen to your briefcase if you set it down long enough to play. Some of you might have forgotten how to play. Some of you might have never learned, and think it's too late now. For some of you, you'll have so much fun that I'll have to urge you to go home when the sun starts to set and the cicadas begin screaming. You'll not want to miss dinner, and I'll have to remind you of this.

Either way, this is where I'll come to play long into my 70s, my 80s, my 90s, if I'm lucky. Olly olly oxen free! Ready or not, here I come! It's here that I can lie on my back and look up at the night sky, letting the warm summer air blow strands of hair across my cheeks and tickle my skin. It's here that I can run until my lungs burn and fall to the ground laughing. It's here where all things life and living are loved and where I thank God for giving me a brain that dances with possibilities and wonder.

"What am I going to do with you, Maret?" You're going to enter the playground and play. Or watch from the fence post. Or sit in the safety of your car, taking a peek from your car window. Or put your car into drive, undo the emergency break, and drive away. Perhaps you'll take a look at me in your rear view mirror. Perhaps you won't.

It's up to you.

I Think You Might Be Stalking Me

You might be stalking me right now.

Hey, it's a free world, right? And if stalking me keeps you from, say, lingering way too long at the counter to chat it up with the Starbucks barista who shifts her eyes nervously back and forth hoping someone will come save her, well, then- I feel I'm providing a civic duty.

If you're stalking me because we, I don't know, dated in the 80s or 90s, well, I get that. We probably had a great time going to the mall together to get matching perms or going to see a Pink Floyd laser light show. Maybe we made mixed tapes for each other. That's fine.
If stalking me on the internet keeps you from thinking about those good times 10, 15, even 20 years ago and somehow thinking that if we could just meet up again, it would be like it was when Duran Duran was on the radio. And not the oldies station- well, then it's a good thing. Because we'd meet up again, sure. And it would be weird. And the reason we broke up then would be the same reason we'd brake up now. Except we now look older and more pathetic.

If you're stalking me and don't even know me, well, there's nothing really here for you. Seriously. Half the stuff I post is pure dribbly junk that only one co-worker lady (hi, Deb) seems to enjoy, and I don't even have any racy pictures of myself on here. In fact, I don't really have any racy pics anywhere. Except that one of me in a bikini that was taken when I was a nanny and accompanied a family to Florida. I was sitting in the sand with the youngest, a baby, really, and turned to look at the camera. It's unfortunate that the way in which I was sitting and the augmentation that happened because of the turning made for an unexpected Sports Illustrated shot that ended up in this family's vacation photo album. Awkward. I mean to say really, really awkward. Still.

Anyway, there's nothing to look at here. And if there were, I must say, I'm more on the side of thirty-something plain than 20-something Kardashian. Google image search might be a better arena for you. But, if you feel at home here, I can't stop you. Go ahead and stalk.

I've recently installed a web-tracking thing that allows me to see the visits on this blog. Don't worry- I can't actually see who reads this blog, but I can see the browser (i.e. charter.com or sbcglobal.net) and sometimes the city (i.e. Montville, New Jersey or Sterling Heights, Michigan.) For those of you with dial up or those using your i-phones and whatnot, I can't see much. No city. Nothing. You could be anyone, anywhere. But there's one of you in a sunny state- and I don't know who you are- that reads my blog. A lot. You're bordering on stalking, buddy. Wish I was more interesting for you on here. Must be kind of boring. Sorry.

If you're stalking me on facebook, well- I have no room to talk there. If I'm friends with you on facebook, I've probably stalked you, too. So, no hard feelings.

You know what I mean. It's the, "Oh, I think I'll look at some of her pictures" and then some time later, you're way deep into albums I posted over a year ago. If you broke into my house and started rifling through my photo albums, waking me up in the night to say, "Hey! I like this one!" I'd be thoroughly creeped out. Not seeing you do it, I'm kind of okay with it. Kind of.

I mean, in my early days of facebook, I got my stalk on. Big time. I've seen all of your trip pictures. And wedding pictures. And work pictures. And holiday pictures. If I was on a roll, I may have even clicked over to your friends' pictures. People I don't even know. Smiling on a boat and eating lobster. Holding their newborn baby. Giving a thumbs up at Disney World. I didn't care who they were. I was in a picture-viewing maze that led me so far from my home page it's a wonder I ever made it back.

I don't have time for that shit anymore.

Perhaps we're not friends on facebook, but you looked me up, anyway. Is that her? I can't tell? Man, I don't remember her looking like that at all. I've done that. I can't blame you.  It's when you think of a person you kissed in 8th grade and decide to go ahead and type their name in the search bar. Yikes! The years of beer drinking really got to him. Whoah.  Perhaps I'm the girl you kissed in 8th grade. Perhaps you took me to prom. Maybe we dated when one or both of us really shouldn't have been dating. Maybe we had screaming fights or you cheated on me or told me that you got bruises on your shoulders from a stripper that leaped off stage and landed on you. (Yeah. I remember that. Still one of the more bizarre breakup stories I have.) Maybe you loved my mom and dad or couldn't stand my dog or wished I'd stop smoking or wished I'd start drinking. Funny that I'm a part of your past or that you were part of mine. All of you. The you-s of my past. The you-s that may or may not be stalking me.

If you are stalking me on facebook, I think you've picked the right gal, there. I've often thought that I would stalk myself on facebookfacebook, you might want to consider it. I don't think you'll be disappointed.

With that said, keep your stalking to the internet world. Following me around and giving me a good, creepy watching would be a huge letdown, I'm afraid. Right now, I'm sitting on my couch, Rufus Wainright ("I Don't Know What It Is") is playing from the tiny speakers in my laptop, my dog is sleeping next to me, and I'm wearing a non-sexy bright green flannel jammy set with blue and pink starbursts on them. My hair is in a ponytail, my makeup is washed off, and there's some zit cream on a whopper of a pimple on my chin.

When I'm done with this blog, I'll probably go down and fold my laundry. Then get on facebook for a bit. Then maybe check out a show on Hulu or read a book. It's 8:45 on a Friday evening, and this is how I roll. Nothing to see here. Eventually I'll get my journal and write up a little gratitude list. I'll take the dog out one last time and go to bed. If my gentleman caller calls, or if I feel like calling him, we'll chat it up for a bit. Weird jokes and sarcastic jabs in between topics like what happened to famous Nazis and how was work today. Nothing much to overhear, really.

I guess I do have some time tonight. Maybe I'll go search for what's-his-name. That boy I had a crush on in 7th grade science class. Or that girl who said she was born without a tailbone and who wore a paperclip in her mouth, swearing it was a retainer. Yes. Yes, I have some stalking to do...