The Rantings of Shirley Valentine

The Last Word

2009-09-27T22:00:00.005-05:00

Hi Sis,

I am having surgery at F******* Hospital this morning. They are searing off part of my cervix in what’s called a “LEEP” process. I apparently have the makings for cervical cancer if left untreated…meaning a series of previously abnormal or precancerous cells on successive paps. So we are doing this today.

Why did I not tell anyone about the surgery? Because I didn’t want you wankers to get me any more nervous about it than I already am; because I didn’t want you to worry; because it shouldn’t be a big deal.

In the event, however, that the hospital finds out I’m actually an organ donor who plans never to pay my hospital bill and kills me to harvest the goods that lie within, then know you have been a great big sister (a big sister who's been great that is, not the other way around...not a great big sister like "Godzilla" sister or anything) – always looked up to you (metaphorically speaking of course on that one too, because let's face it, girl, you tiny). Thanks for that. And you have incredible kids. And a nice enough husband – he is funny, but you do too much for him and the family that you could likely spend on yourself (Believe me, they’ll manage if you don’t do it all and take one hour for yourself!)…don’t tell him that though because I probably won’t get into heaven if God knows (oops, he already does…forgot about that omnipotent thing again)….that I insulted your husband. But he does have a hot friend, so it all evens out. Which reminds me! You’ll need to tell P**** that I won’t be making those parties we talked about going to, in the event he does decide to go with me, being that I’ll be dead and all.

Ok, I’m making you executor of my deadbeat estate. It’s small, but it’s brand spankin new. OK…Now try not to blubber throughout the whole funeral…buck up man! Act all tough and stoic…cause really, you’re the only one who will have had a heads up - so wail away now and get it over with..do me proud. I want the (“that K**** is so organized and has got it sooo together..such a good sister she is” comments)…Oh! That reminds me…Mom and Dad are in Ireland until Oct 10….just let them know when they get back that I might be dead b/c I want them to have a good time…besides, maybe as a ghost I can conjure up Uncle Mike and Aunt Moiré and pay them a visit when we’re there. Now if you can’t handle the details, A*** M**** (aka Damien) of ***** *** ***** in NYC will be a great help – believe it or not, he knows me the best. Totally smooth operator and wildly intelligent.

Oh, a goal here: get on all my email/FB linked in accounts (ignore the porn), phone contacts, etc.; and notify everyone that I’m dead….I’m looking for a big send off. I’ll be ok being buried in MD, extra reception in NY if we must. If the kids want to keep me in an urn and drag me along with them everywhere they go like the dead family pet perched on the fireplace mantel, that’s cool too. My preference is to just be in the ground but make it easiest on them. Whatever they want.

Tell J** that I loved him dearly and that he should have listened to his father...(he'll know what that means, asshat!).....that my last message to him is that God doesn’t want him to lead the life he is leading; that he is serving no one other than himself and there is no higher purpose in what he is doing. That I want him to watch over my kids too and stay in their lives. Oh, and God also said that lascivious loser P**** IS a total skank and that if she or her husband show up at my funeral He will send camel fleas to infest J***’s pubic hair til the day he dies. YES GOD SAID THAT! What? If the Bible is the interpreted version of God’s Word; I CAN INTERPRET WHAT GOD SAYS TOO.

Anyway…Ok next, you and the rest of the entire family are instructed to stay in my children’s lives…don’t let **** take off to some foreign land with them if you can prevent it. Tell the kids all about me – lots of stories, and that I love them; to get the straight A’s in school or bust; reach for the sky with career choice; not to do drugs..drinking in moderation is ok….and you handle the sex before marriage talk….I think you’ll be better at it than I would anyway and to always remember the 2 sets of 3’s: No lying, no cheating, no stealing..AND No whining, no complaining, and No making excuses. (John Wooden) they should also read his book.

You’re going to have to go thru all my shit and decide what my girls would like to have, what E***** would want say, 20 years from now, and what you, F*, E*, and Mom and Dad, B******, Helmet, and S**** and J***** could use or would even want.

Take your time with going through everything, no rush…the house is completely paid for so no worries there…..Just Kidding! Don’t sell the house for less than $240K if it’s 2009; $250K if it’s still on the market in 2010. I’ve done some upgrades. Just sayin. Use A**** B**** as your realtor and tell him as a courtesy and out of respect for me, that he’s not to take a commission; that “I’ll be watching”.

Have L***** help you with what you’re going to wear and planning this all out with you and A***. Make it as upbeat as you can…I know I have a big nose, but try and find only the most flattering pics. Slide show is good. Bright colors…80’s music, the works….and don’t chintz on the wine…Jesus! Don’t chintz on the wine! In fact! T***** M*********, M*** R*** (I wish her vaginal dryness girl?), G***, K****, B**** S***, A**** K*****, K**** R*******, C***** B******* and my man Mr. D** will be stellar in pulling this altogether in MD….they are my best girl (and one guy) peeps. Wicked smart and gorgeous and super, no dare I say, UBER smart ladies (and dude).

Love ya. And yes, if you are stuck for words at the pulpit, you can read this at my funeral. I may have written notes to the kids by now. Look for them in their rooms.

Thanks Sis. Love ya big.

Bab

P.S. And tell Mom that I need her to stick close to the kids now. I didn’t tell her about the upcoming surgery because I wanted her to enjoy her vacation with Dad. Love to you, Mom, Dad, S**** (best brother in the world), J***** (best sister-in-law) Helmet, and all the babies.

When does it stop?

2009-09-17T22:49:00.002-05:00

Today was a tough day. And this seems to be standard issue, post-divorce Mama drama...I realize this. But there are days when I'm without my babies and my heart is heavy and incredibly still...but mostly lonely. In these moments of stillness, I really struggle. Life feels empty and unfulfilled and I find myself chasing my tail figuring out what to do next with myself because I am unmotivated to really do anything.

When my girlfriends are available, I'm happy to join in and spend some great time with these truly funny, super intelligent ladies. I'm always up for a GNO (girls night out). But after having my soul ripped out of me recently by a man I truly adored and loved, I now will not date although admittedly, I do miss having a man. More specifically, I miss having that man. And try as I may, try as I might, I struggle daily with trying to move on. But this endeavor has been disastrous to state it mildly.

Between missing my children and missing this man, some days are so completely crushing that it's hard sometimes to breathe. Looking at me, you wouldn't sense or glean any of this from my demeanor. But if you knew me well enough, you'd certainly catch it. And when someone who knows me really, really well looks into my eyes and says "OMG! You are just so broken...like taped together pieces of your former self"...clearly I don't take it as a compliment. I instantly become angry that I allowed this man to steal my peace, happiness and my ability to trust and to love another. So tonight when I bumped right into the woman he has "moved on" with, I couldn't get over it. I kicked myself all the way back to my car, furious with myself for being unable to just snap out of this rut...to simply drive myself into the arms of another like he has done so easily. What holds me back? Why am I unable to let him go? I know no one would fault me for it! Obviously, when guys do this, their friends find it commendable. Yet somehow, my very own little pity party continues and I'm just so tired of this stagnation in my heart and this contrived dating purgatory. When does it end? When will the pain stop and when do I start to heal from it all? God only knows.

I'll Tell You Something You Don't Know About Me..

2009-09-15T22:39:00.001-05:00

I tried an online "match" service when I divorced my husband. I endeavored to try it if for nothing else than to meet someone EXACTLY like me but in male humanoid form because, let's face it, if my marriage failed it was because we were nothing alike, right? And as I completed the "about you" page, I became stumped about how to really reply to a silly little section of the page which involved something along the lines of revealing a little known fact about yourself that you would like to share to the world. Really? Were they serious with such a loaded and complex inquiry? I'm usually a highly transparent communicator...I rarely hold back personal data and actually find it weird when people do....It always seems to me that the withholder of the information is somehow hiding something...so I'm immediately suspicious of them...How do they possess this rare trait? Self-discipline or just good genes because I am certain of one thing here and that is I inherited some TMI trait from someone.

So when I read the portion of the "about you" intro that asked me to reveal something about myself which only my best friend knows about me, writer's block struck hard and my "about me" momentum came to a screeching halt...Which best friend could this refer to? Past or Present?

Could it mean my BF from elementary school whom I assisted in criminal trespass and petty theft when we raided the local country club driving range and absconded with literally hundreds of golf balls before being detected by the adults and nearly arrested?

Or how about my high school BFF who's the only one who really knows how the series of little dents appeared on the side of my black Oldsmobile in 1987. [ I wedged it sideways ( momentarily of course) in the garage bay when I tried to ease it around another car. Or the time I ditched school at age 14 and drove my mother's VW all over God's creation only to be caught by my older brother on Main Street and hauled back home?

Or maybe this question refers to my college best friend who knows I taped our dead dorm room goldfish to a bottle rocket in the middle of northwest DC. We were attempting to provide it a well deserved "send off" for having survived 3 months of college. Instead it exploded into a million gross fleshy orange bits all over a federal building when said bottle rocket had a "failure to launch" issue.

In any case, none of these big reveals reflected positively on my squeaky clean image of "living Saint" so I elected to answer this question with a great deal of contemplativity and as much provocativeness as I could muster considering the delicate balance which had to be struck here..."dunno, ask my best friend."

Little Sisters

2009-09-09T17:23:00.001-05:00

Last weekend I had the pleasure of relaxing and laughing again with my very favorite little sister...ok, she's really just smaller than me...but most people are as I'm up there in height and she's actually my only sister, but I digress there too. We live about 5 hours apart and with almost as many states separating us, so catching up either requires someone dying and an accompanying funeral service; meeting at a centralized and "agreed upon" vacay spot; meeting somewhere in the middle; or meeting at her house in NY or mine in lovely MD. And no matter how much time seems to slip by between visits, I'm always struck by the fact that we are able to pick up where things left off and have a great time. This visit was not exception.

Cattle Call!

2009-09-03T20:23:00.012-05:00

Not sure if you've had the pleasure of traveling on (muah! luv ya baby!) Southwest airlines recently....but tonight was my lucky-ass night. As you may or may not know, Southwest has one of the greatest "seating" systems known to man....the "cattle call". Instead of the traditional seat assignment which most airlines opt for, Southwest groups passengers into catagories of A, B, or C, numbered 1 through 60. No assigned seating, just assigned "letters". Twenty-four hours in advance of the flight, passengers are permitted to check-in online to receive their A, B, or C boarding pass. There is always great anxiety here for the seasoned Southwest passenger at this point because the highly coveted, highly sought after "A" is all that is acceptable. The seasoned Southwest traveler feels an utter sense of disgust and horror if assigned any grouping other than an "A". And if you actually speak to one of these frequent fliers, you will get the distinct impression that anything less than an "A" boarding pass is tantamount to mingling with crack heads and prostitutes. It's that bad. Oh yes, it's that bad. When the flight is ready to board, the gate attendant lines up the A's first in numerical order, allows them to board, and once on...will apply the same methodology for the remaining B's and C's.

For those who have had the privilege of flying Southwest, this system actually rules! It rules because it somehow manages to bring out the very!, absolute!, WORST! in otherwise placid and respectable people....such that people who had clearly grown accustomed to the "seat assignment" but who now for the sake of economics and fiscal wisdom find themselves thrown unwittingly into the jaws of chaos and bedlum on their first foray into the land of Southwest, become virtual and immediate savages. God bless Southwest. This is the sort of hijinx that I totally dig when I'm looking for entertainment at the boarding gate.

And tonight was no exception....Because tonight I witnessed ninja-grandma! Ninja Grandma sat across from me at the gate as we awaited our flight. She was sooooo Coco Chanel...perfectly coiffed, elegantly poised, chatting refinely to passerbys destined to board the same flight. I noticed her immediately because she was simply so stunning, and classy looking and all that a woman should aspire to be at the age of 80. Her movements were deliberate and graceful and I just adored how she drew people in with her body language and pearly white smile.

And while I leaned back in the lounge chair observing all this and praying that I, too, live long enough to still be able to hold myself so gracefully, delighting all who encountered me, the gate attendant began to address the waiting area with instructions for boarding. Suddenly and without warning, Coco Chanel stiffened in anticipation...her eyes darted left then right and left again as if she were assessing an escape route. And then the attendant said it...he said those fateful words: "all those with a blue pre-boarding...."....it's at this point that the rest of his speech becomes a blur because suddenly and without warning, my "Coco" morphed from demure, straight into "apache" mode....Coco suddenly launched herself from her chair with her size 2 feet; springing forth with all the agility and dexterity of a trained NFL athlete and all the while accelerating at break neck speeds toward the "pre-boarding" group. And for a woman of 80, all of 5'0" and, AND! in 4 inch heels, it was an impressive scene fo sho.

By the time our heroine reached the gate, she had managed to knock over a small toddler, back into several adults when she paused long enough to check on said toddler to determine if the she had killed or just maimed the little guy, and verbally assualted a woman in a wheelchair (for having the audicity to get in her way in the first place).

I love traveling Southwest....it's like dinner....and a show.

Solitude

2009-09-01T22:02:00.007-05:00

This was me literally a few weeks ago. I had been invited by a dear friend of mine to enjoy a day out on his friend's boat...the photographer was my dear friend..I look delirious don't I? It had been a good day actually. Not too hot or humid or super sunny...simply perfect. By the night's end, we had all managed to stuff our faces with food and suck down large quantities of Tollchester mudslides and various other alcohol laden drinks just for sport. A successful day if you ask me. By the time we hit land, we geared up again for more "outing" stuff and headed straight on over to a local sushi joint for more food, booze and social interaction..

And so these days often go when my kiddies are with their father and I am forced to fill them up to the tippy tippy top with as much activity or work or socialization my body can handle or suffer the curse of solitude.

Over the course of the last 2 years, I have run as hard and as fast as I could from the likes of the solitude curse. I stayed busy and active and in, what seemed, perpetual motion....Which is ironic when I think about it because I literally yearned for "solitude" and naps during those formative years of the kids lives when I struggled just to get through to Saturday when "the weekend nanny" aka the father would pinch hit and do his dad thing.

Today, I can say with tremendous authority that I have had my fill of solitude. The kids spend one week with me and the next week with their father, and I am not kidding when I say I'm entirely sick of some of this tomb-like silence in the house. It's so still and soulless here without them that I am prone to jump in fright when the a.c. suddenly turns on and starts blowing air through the vents. I used to love the times when my weeks or days were "free"...free to do whatever I wanted. The keys to that race car were always ready to start that engine. And many times I was eager to.. but this is not the case today.. I believe I have either hit a wall or turned the proverbial corner because I have no interest right now in much anything except sticking close to my girl power posse and healing my heart and my soul and looking forward to Monday's when I get to have all my babies back with me. So I've scheduled out several GNO-type (girls nite out) activities to keep these days of solitude and self-imposed (man dating) seclusion somewhat interesting and soul healing worthy.

I'll have to update you with more tomorrow. It's late and I'm tired enough to actually attempt sleep.

Three Words

2009-08-31T12:43:00.004-05:00

...Before answering the previous rantings' query, I must enter a Capt's log of sorts. I had been on the phone with my Dad earlier discussing the details of this upcoming month when he quite suddenly interjected with a "I'm so proud of you...just so proud". We had not been discussing the merits of some difficult and litigious case I had been working on (because let's face it, I'm not in the courtroom these days), or how I had handled anything in particular. Instead, he was referring to the fact that I literally went through a fairly tough ordeal recently and somehow managed to land a great job, buy a home, and simply start over and "reorganize" my life. I gulped hard and thanked him..trying not to signal that I was all vaclempt and in a "talk amongst yaselves" kind of moment...But the sad fact is, I hadn't heard anyone say that to me since my ex and I split and coming from him, man of reluctant compliments...it meant a tremendous amount.

After I hung up the phone, I walked to the ladies room and allowed myself to cry. And for once, it felt good to be crying for a good reason.

What now?

2009-08-28T11:31:00.010-05:00

It has been almost two years since I last wrote you, internet. Lots has changed since then, some for the better, some not so great, but mostly better.

My blog-o-licious endeavers came to a screeching halt right around the Spring of '07 when I donned my proverbial flak jacket and went to battle against the forces of evil known commonly as "my divorce". And while there are reams and reams of material on that, suffice to say I am still standing, kids are doing well (finally) and I'm adjusting rather awkwardly to singlehood.

Where to start? How about cliff notes? Well, 2007 was frought with stress, tension, panic and victory. It was mostly painful stuff, the likes of which merit burial in the deep deep pockets of the atmosphere. Yet during the year of our Lord, 2008, I paced out my first steps as a single Mom and born-again gilded professional girl, while also managing to find tremendous peace, love, and confidence in this new chapter of my life. While I did lose contact with several close friends who were literally swallowed whole by the consequences of the demise of my own couplehood...I did manage to foster new friendships since then that have proven to be equally as fulfilling, wonderful and just as passionate...not bad at all for my first forray into the unknown.

So, where are we now in 2009 you ask? How about we jump right in the middle since we can always back track and "fill in the gaps" as we go along? My kids are the best place to start, since they have always consumed my every waking thought, and sometimes my incoherent ones as well.

My oldest child (G) will be hitting the double digits for the first time this year. She is very much my "mini me", which, if you actually know me is possibly a very disturbing thought as she's going to be a pistol ball in a few years time if I'm not careful. My middle one (C) is still struggles the most with the fallout of her father and me. She happens to be the most sensititve out of all 3 kids, so I'm not really surprised there. She sometimes weeps for long periods of time at night about the divorce (even after a years time) and it's all I can do to keep it together while I hold her and rock her and lie to her that everything will turn out alright "just wait and see". My youngest (E) is my only boy and he is just starting Kindergarten this year. Full. Time. ......(holding breath,...holding..........and release.) So far so good with him (touch wood). He's developing into a real character...one that I know will obligate me at some point to report to his principal's office to address his "class clown" issues.

All 3 demonstrate remarkable resiliency and poise and I love and admire how they've managed to keep smiling and keep succeeding despite being handed two of the stupidest set of parents this world has ever had the pleasure of knowing. And I say this because ultimately with this split, my ex and I have mapped out a life for them now that doesn't even remotely resemble what our parents struggled to provide for us...We failed at our marriage but they pay the ultimate price....a life now filled with scheduled times, disjunctive parenting, and certain unpredictability.....And while the wars we raged with each other have significantly subsided, the kids live this legacy now while their father and I look around at what's left to salvage so we can simply stand back up and move on and be human again...Where and what do they move on to but this manufactured portrayal of "what was and what would have been"? We were stupid for even having attempted a life together (their Dad and me)...so young and passionate and unprepared...and then to bring these beautiful little souls into this world knowing we were in a straight Kamikaze spiral from the onset was pure stupidity and selfishness...ah, what we discover now, if only we knew ourselves then, right?...Yet after all the trials and tribulations, they continue to shine!, shine!, shine! despite it all and how sad for them that they are now forced to live this way. On the other hand, would living under the conditions that brought everything to a head have been better? Perhaps not.

So that just leaves me....how could I possibly get you up to speed on all that has transpired since we last chatted? How about through brief and cliff note-like reflection? Okay!

Divorcing in your late 30's as a woman I can only best describe as like being handed the keys to a very fast sports car and being told, "here ya go...all yours little lady...and oh! it's your choice whether you want to take it on the autobahn or leave it parked in your garage."

In retrospect, during these last two years I vascillated between feeling angry yet calm; relieved yet worried; confident yet insecure. It's a daunting place to be.... left standing with this set of keys in my hand and nothing but "open road" ahead of me...almost like it was more of a test of my character, intelligence and fortitude rather than a reward for having made it through all that crap.

So now here I am: single for the first time in 18 years; with 3 children to take care of and protect; and eager to take control back of my life with all the swagger of a female "John Wayne" (which may just be a "Maureen O'Hara" if you think about it. I digress.) Do I go the autobahn, the garage, or something in between? Well, internet? What would you have chosen?

The Ice Queen Cometh

2006-11-07T13:12:00.000-05:00

Taking a break from resume writing and submission, I feel compelled to vent. Looking for work after sliding off the radar for the last seven years blows chunks big time. Never one to see the benefit of being a Jane of All Trades, I narrowly tailored my contractual stuff during my "hiatus" to the exclusion of all that is mainstream. And all this specializing has made this process of hunt and peck job search quite painful. What? Oh yes, I mean it has indeed blown chunks.

And hey, there's just nothing that resonates with the awkwardness of this process more so then the chills, and fever, and feeling like crap. Because as everyone knows, feeling like an Ice Queen both physically and mentally translates so completely to perspective employers. I not only shiver all day like my home is in the sub-arctic region of the world, but my temperament and conversational tone mirrors this in kind. That's what happens when the Ice Queen cometh. Pure bitch. Compounding this is the fact that I did not run yesterday because I was on a 24 hour lock down from being so sick. Tonight, however, I will force myself to take one for the Gipper - he owes me money anyway.

The stress of all this must finally be taking its toll because I am noticing that my hair is suddenly breaking off and coming out in my hand by the fistfuls. Or maybe I just need a haircut. Not that I am in any danger of going bald, after three pregnancies and hormonal rages beyond compare, I have more hair now then a sheep dog. But it certainly gives me pause when I cook for the kids. I worry that I'll accidentally dump pot-fulls of hair around the kitchen when I cook. So I've taken to wrapping my head up like a swami for fear that without the protective barrier my kids will need to develop a panache for hairball removal remedies. Hey, it's how my brain works. Okay, vent over. Go home. Be gone with you.

Safety, then and now.

2006-10-24T21:42:00.000-05:00

Lessons on safety and personal protection have evolved quite substantially since 1970. Today, school age children are visited by local law enforcement every year to be disciplined in the new gospel of "stranger danger" and personal safety. In "my day" (ha ha) if law enforcement appeared any where near our school it was largely due to the fact that one of the nuns tripped the convent alarm accidentally and the officer was simply there to "check things out". Today, officers and security guards are evident in just about every school. And this is a sad testament indeed to the society our children are facing. A society that causes parents to fear the world in which they live and to scrutinize every detail of the child's day to be certain they are truly being safeguarded while under the care of an educator. My parents never thought twice about where we were, who lived in our neighborhood, or what sort of people were lurking about in the hedgerow. They had a different faith in mankind and in the humanity of people in general. One which never included the requisite obligation that they stand vigilant over us even as we played in our own backyard - for they never feared that anyone was capable of yanking us from our homes, our neighborhood or our safe environments. Or even if they did, they certainly never showed it or drilled it into our head to never stray too far from them, as most parents are apt to do now.

My mother told me a story once where in the early sixties mothers would park their prams (big giant sleeper carriages) OUTSIDE the entrance of Woolworth's (a local five and dime) - and get this - AND LEAVE THEIR INFANT CHILD THERE while they meandered around and shopped for a bit. The store was two stories and had no means to accommodate getting the prams to the upper floor. If any baby started fussing or crying in their absence, a woman passing by would instinctively rock the pram quite gently and coo at the baby until he quieted back down. Imagine a scene like this today with baby joggers and strollers and carriages parked along the glass entrance way to Macy's or Bloomie's. If the baby was even there when she returned, the mother who did this today would return to find a social worker with a look of scorn on her face holding her child and an armed police officer reading her her Miranda Rights for the offense of child endangerment and neglect. And my mother's story, her experience really, occurred only forty-three years ago. Hard to believe.

Even my mother's admonishments to me in my youth regarding "safety" were vastly different from that which I impart upon my own children -vastly, hugely, great crevasse-type differences. Shall we?

The Ice Cream Man
My Mom Then: "Be sure to wait until the ice cream man completely stops before stepping off the curb."

Me Now: "Mommy doesn't buy ice cream from that ice cream man. See those tattoos all down his arm and that tear drop tattoo right by his eye? Well that means he's killed someone, he's been to jail, and he's trying to sell you crack. Don't go near these ice cream men, they are drug dealers. I don't care if they have the bestest ice cream ever. I don't care if they have the Sponge Bob Square Pants one. Aren't you listening? He's bad I tell you. They're all bad. What do you mean, what's crack? Didn't they talk to you about this in school yet? Gawd, what am I paying that school for?"

Halloween
My Mom Then: "Here's a pillow case for your treats. Stick together and try to be back before it gets really dark." (Because back in the 70's you know, there were two darks: dark and really dark. It mattered that we were allowed out until "really dark". That was big stuff.)

Me Now: "Okay kids, let's stick together now. We are only going to these 10 houses because we know these people really well. What do you mean why? Because if we go to a house we don't know, they may be evil and stick razors in your candy. Oh! Which reminds me, no one eat any candy until Mommy has inspected it all. What's inspected? Oh, it means, checked it out....No I'm not going to eat your candy!.....What? No, Mommy just needs to make sure your candy wrappers are all on your candy. What's that? Why is Mommy holding a can of mace and a baseball bat? Oh, that's because Mommy is going as a TAA Baggage Security person this year and these are the items that you are no longer allowed to carry on an airplane. So Mommy is pretending she's just confiscated these items to give her costume the full effect. What? Yes, Mommy also said it was to beat that Rottweiler with in case it tried to attack us. But that was before when I wanted to be a dog catcher for Halloween."

Giving Directions To a Passerby or Helping a Neighbor Driving Through the Neighborhood Looking For Their Lost Pet
My Mom Then: "Honey, why don't you just hop in the car and show this nice gentleman where he can find Fido."

Me Now: "Okay kids, we are going to go over the (air quotes) safety drill. If some pervert, I mean person stops their car and tries to say they lost their pet, they have nice candy, or your Mommy has been in a terrible accident and she wants you to get in the car so that they can take you to the hospital to see her, what do you do?......What do you mean you help them find their pet? What? No! You don't go near the car to ask them what kind of candy! What!!! OMG! No! You don't get in the car to see Mommy in the hospital...No, baby, I'm not hurt. No, stop crying. Mommy doesn't have to go to a hospital. We're pretending here, stay with me. First! Don't EVER trust them. Why would they need a little kid to help them find their pet? All animals today have microchips under their fur and all pet owners have GPS systems in their cars to track them down - it's required of all pet owners. Remember, they are lying to you. So run! Run away from the car. No, not at this second, I mean if it happens. Anyway, run and scream for Mommy to help you and don't stop until you're with me. Second, if they are trying to give you candy - run! They are really mean dentists and they give out the most sugary candy ever so that your teeth will rot right out of your head and you'll be forced to go to a dentist who takes pleasure out of yanking little kids teeth out. Third. What? No, not all dentists are bad, just the ones who drive up in their car and try to give you candy. Not to worry. All the Moms know which dentists are the good guys and only take the kids there. Okay, third. If someone other than a family member tries to tell you that I have sent them because I've been hurt really bad and I am in the hospital, RUN! (Okay, again, not right now.) Mommy would only send a family member and even then they would have to know the passwords. Okay? So don't believe that person either unless they know our super secret password that only we know. Right? Oh! Almost forgot. And if they say that I've told them the password and they "just forgot it" and want you to give them a hint - just run because they either know it or they don't. Okay? Good. Class dismissed. Oh, hey! Hold up there little one. You almost forgot your anklet tracking device. Okay, you're welcome. Love you too."

Vastly different stuff.

A gentler, kinder recess?

2006-10-19T21:40:00.000-05:00

Here's the headline: "Mass. Elementary school bans tag" - yes, that's right, tag. No need to blink to moisten your eyeballs. I assure you, you read that line correctly. From now on, those crazy, wacky, tortfeasing little bastards who have nothing better to do at recess than, oh, I dunno, PLAY!, have been commanded to stand down their rebel rousing, non-stop, maniacal games of tag. Why? Because some A......excuse me, because it was determined after careful scrutiny and hours and hours of mind numbing board meetings that those crazy cut-ups of ours, those pesky kids are at it again causing all sorts of liability problems for their school district - they're playing tag. Yes, tag. You remember that game...It's the one where the kids get to run their little legs off after being cooped up in a classroom for four hours, chase their target, and once "tagged" scream "TAG! YOU'RE IT! at decibels that would rival a small locomotive. You don't believe me? Here's the link: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20061018/ap_on_fe_st/playground_tag_ban.

The rationale: liability issues. The ban prohibits kids from playing tag, touch football and any other unsupervised chase game during recess for fear they'll get hurt and hold the school liable. And I quote the quote: "Recess is "a time when accidents can happen," said Willett Elementary School Principal Gaylene Heppe, who approved the ban." M'kay, GAYLENE, and yet no apparent CONTACT sport ban during recess? Swell. Really logical stuff. A ban simply on the probability that it might happen. You know, someday a large meteor may fall from the sky and crush my car with me in it. And yet despite this potential for grave bodily harm, I continue to, um, how shall we say?, LIVE LIFE, oh yeah, LIVE LIFE! Remember that GAYLENE? Actually living life and letting a kid be a kid? No? Didn't think so.

I truly fear for the children of today - what next? How about we duct tape the kids to the desks, perhaps then they'll never get hurt. No fear of that. Oh! Maybe we can train the little buggers to simply meditate their way through recess. Would that make you happy GAYLENE? Oh, but then there would always be the fear that kids may sue the school for all those vocal cord injuries when the kids are forced to sit grasshopper style and hum themselves into a zen state. Sure there are a myriad of other activities kids can do instead of this apparent "ninja tag" they are so fond of. But are we losing sight of the forest but for the trees? Why stop with just the chase games? Why not prohibit movement altogether because as we all know, movement of limbs and appendages only increases the probability of injury and we wouldn't want the school to shoulder THAT burden. Holy smokes - that's just a huge responsibility! Sort of like the cross that every other school district has managed to bear despite their radical notions of historical precedent and flawless disregard for the liability apparently associated with a timeless, inane game like, um, lemme see, oh yes, TAG!

Are these people serious? Kids need to exert themselves. They need to burn off energy, because really folks, the times they do not are very difficult times for anyone responsible for their care. They are miserable little beings if they cannot get that energy out. But more importantly, great strides were just made in our school systems nutritionally. Schools have finally agreed to remove the sugary drinks and snacks; remove the high fat content hot lunches; impart better nutritional ideals in our youth and to what end? Just in time to have some educational "administrator" ban a solidly healthy and fantastic way for kids to get their bodies moving and active? Juvenile diabetes is on a ferocious rise in American children, largely in part to their diet choices and LACK OF ACTIVITY. Am I making sense here? Gain momentum in one arena only to have the other component attacked with arbitrary and may I add, irrational logic. And really, a ban like this prompts more questions then it actually answers like what the hell kind of tag game were these kids playing to warrant a school board session that actually took this request seriously? How many tag game casualties were there GAYLENE? A school administrator like this needs to have her credentials checked and checked again and then again. Last time I looked our state educational institutions possessed at least a qualified immunity against civil complaints thereby making it really, really, really difficult for someone to prevail against the "State" entity. Perhaps this is not the case in Mass., but certainly this school could have literally put their thinking caps on had there been an actual legitimacy to this issue of "deadly tag". Shame on you GAYLENE and anyone else who supported this endeavor. Shame, shame, shame.

Body Piercing

2006-10-19T13:03:00.000-05:00

I am consistently surprised when I encounter human beings who desire to mutilate their body with various body art or piercings. I am particularly transfixed by those members of society who have the strength of soul and apparent suspension of all intelligent thought who are inclined to poke holes through things like a tongue, a nose, lips, a navel - because frankly I can't figure out not only what motivates someone to mutilate themselves in this manner, let alone how they can muster the courage to go through with something this bizarre.

Body art has existed from the time that Grog was able to figure out that "clay make pretty, pretty on face". Clearly the interest in enhancing, attracting, coloring and camouflaging our visible parts goes back a long, long way. Today, however, I'm sure that piercing is less a demonstration of "body art" but more of a type of self-mutilation. To subject your muscles, flesh and delicate tissue to permanent holes and horrific infections, if done incorrectly, is a notion I will never, ever, understand. To me body piercing is tantamount to self hatred as it seems to say I have no value or respect for the harm this may do in the name of fashion or trend setting. It's a complete disregard for your body and truth be told it completely grosses me out.

I know numerous people and have multiple friends who partake in this ritual of poking holes in themselves and hanging stuff from those holes like a display rack in a department store. And to these friends I say, YUCK! Some of these people are single and everytime I see them I can't suppress the voice in my head which screams: who in the hell could possibly be attracted to that crap hanging from your nose. And of course, I think "nose" and then my mind wanders to an image of that person during allergy season sneezing away and I'm struck by the image of them having to (egads!) take the damn door knocker out of the offending body part when they are forced to live like the rest of the world and blow their nose the old fashion way. And of course, I then imagine that if they were willing to go through cartilage to accomplish that look, God knows what the rest of them looks like underneath all that fabric and toughness. Which brings me back to the original thought: "who the hell goes for someone like that?" Which is promptly answered when the significant other shows up displaying car fresheners from their ears and an entire Craftsman tool kit from no less than twenty different holes specifically targeted to be thee most painful looking places evah.

I once talked at length to a gal whose tongue was pierced no less than twice. And after falling into the rhythm of her speech, or, after taking 10 minutes trying to figure out the exact new cadence of her tongue piercing language, I was able to glean from her the rationale for having two metal balls nailed into and through the most important muscle of communication. In short: there was no plausible explanation she could profess that made any sense whatsoever, with the exception of one: (and if you are under the age of 18 you need to stop reading here): "her boyfriend believed it was instrumental in enhancing the amorous side of their relationship". To which I naively responded: "but the piercing is in your MOUTH!" To which she stared blankly in her best valley girl way as if to say "der". To which I nearly said "I don't get it" that is, until I read her "der" expression for what it was really attempting to say and promptly screamed "OH MY GOD! YOU ARE THE BIGGEST IDIOT I HAVE EVER ENCOUNTERED IN MY LIFE! YOU DID THAT TO YOURSELF FOR A GUY? NO! NO! EVEN WORSE, FOR THAT?"

Suffice to say, speech impediment aside, I understood her next communication (which pretty much consisted of a single hand gesture) so clearly and precisely that I no longer worried about her inability to pronounce normal phrases like: "Hello, my name is..". Her American sign language skills were working just fine.

Freezes Fry-st and his budding flock.

2006-10-02T21:38:00.000-05:00

My son holding my Celtic cross in his hand: "Mommy, dats freezes fry-st!"

Me: "Yes, you're right Babe, that is Jesus Christ."

My son: (with great enthusiasm and animation) "Mommy, Mommy! Freezes Fry-st lives in da blah, blah zoo. (literal translation there) Yeah! And he gots da "ele-pants", da zebros, da tie-ga's, da frazee (crazy) pish (fish). Yeah, he lives in da zoo and drives dat boat!"

Me: "That's RIGHT Baby! Who's my widdle religious zealot? Who's my widdle widdle budding bundle of Catholic joy?"

My son: "I am! I am!"

Little hands CAN DO big things.

2006-09-15T12:11:00.000-05:00

My son loves to pretend he is driving and will often scoot (more like dive) behind the driver's side of the van the second he is released from his car seat. He will play with the dials, push every button up there, and talk on his pretend phone while manipulating the steering wheel as only kids can do to show that he is DRIVING. I fully expect him to be proficient at this endeavor by the time he is five, because after all the time he spends in the car with me something is bound to sink into that little mind of his by way of osmosis.

Occasionally, however, he manages to "stick" little things with his little hands into things that have little crevices. Things like pennies will go unnoticed until something starts shorting out, like the cd player in the vehicle. I guess I fancy myself a throw back to the Fonz/Happy Days era because my reaction to preserving anything this critical in the car from malfunctioning is to pound on it like a red-headed step child until it begins working again. So far this methodology has worked for me and the boy remains safe. For now.

This morning as I trekked into the vast coutryside of New Jersey in search of a world famous spa, something else went wrong with the vehicle. I had noticed that morning a certain metallic sound sloshing about underneath what seemed to be the steering wheel itself. But it wasn't until some jackass failed to follow intersection etiquette and I was forced to use "the horn", that I became acutely aware (again) that my son had short circuited something highly critical - my "get the frig outta my way" calling card. The horn.

Anticipating that the individual waiting in front of me at the light had missed her calling as a sloth, I attempted to tap ever so lightly on the horn to "wake her the hell up" - you know, a toot toot type of "Hello, asshole. Welcome to the intersection. LIGHT IS GREEN." Well, the sound started out as a courtesy "toot, toot" until it developed into what I can best describe as a speech impediment where it (the horn) lost it's sound, stuttered a few more "beep beeps" until it crescendo'd into an all out air raid siren.

Not only did the woman hit the accelerator and break through the intersection (finally) at lightening fast speeds, but as I rolled away too, the noise from my horn thundered on and multiple cars began darting off the road ahead of me, I guess, to avoid dealing with this lunatic menace on the road. And while this is indeed a strange benefit to "hornitis," I was mortally, mortally mortified.

And what was I to do when people suspected me to be a crazed suburban mother on the verge? I did what any safe, defensive driving individual would do.....At speeds of 55 mph, I would throw up both hands in plain view, cup my hands over my mouth, and then throw up my hands again when passing other motorist subjected this deafening sound from my VW . And doesn't that just say: "Oh my sugar. I am helpless indeed. Don't hate me as I careen past you 15 miles per over the speed limit while sounding like a B-52. Why darlin', I'm just as clueless as you are as to why this a horn is a beepin'."

After first pressing gently with a pinkie, then the ring finger, then the index finger to entice the horn to quit blowing, I did what any rational, intelligent, quick thinking gal would do....I took my fist and pummeled the thing repeatedly until it died. And when the services were over, and I paid my last respects, I pulled into the spa parking lot (on time mind you) and walked in as if sunshine were pouring out of every ounce of me. Because nothing says demure like beating the crap out of your car.

Cat, it's what's for dinner.

2006-09-10T12:27:00.000-05:00

I am soliciting information on how to drum out the furriest member of the family without the kids actually knowing. I'm thinking something not too cruel or inhumane for the animal, just a fast, painless death because if I walk into my living room again and step in a hocking good time, I'm going postal.

When I adopted this animal over 15 years ago, I had every intention of loving it until God borrowed him back. Apparently, God understood the unilateral benefit of not having an animal like this around the great Pearly Gates. I firmly believe this particular animal would drive even the most ardent bunny hugger to morph into a sadistic, animal hating maniac. Like me.

After having kids, owning a pet is much the expression "tits on a bull" - what exactly is the point once the two legged beasts enter your life? The animal is fed and is kept indoors and presumably enjoys his time here as he seems to always be so "relaxed" in the abode. He only sleeps about 20 hours a day. But in the time he is actually awake and making his presence known, he adeptly regurgitates a half a body of fur that somehow managed to creep down his esophagus while he was passionately sleeping off the other four waking hours of his little day. Hey, it's rough being a cat. I understand this. Who else in the world couldn't tolerate free lodging and food, a clean crapper and endless crevices and cracks to curl up in to get that needed shut eye.

To say that I have fallen out of love with this cat is truly an understatement. I hardly notice him anymore. And if he didn't try to topple me by swishing through my feet while walking with a child in my hand, I probably would forget he was even in the house and never feed him.

But today. Oh, ho ho. Today, I have had my fill of this little bastard and he must go. Immediately. Nothing illegal or morally reprehensible as I need a good report card for Judgment Day. So, I invite and welcome your suggestions and addresses for that matter, because this little feller is in dire need of a change of scenery and another home might just be the ticket - otherwise, to the sausage factory he goes. Oh! And no need to worry about the age of little kitty and a premature demise, should you choose to adopt him. He is most assuredly on the do not die program and is destined to out live all of us.

Da Iddy Biddy Pyder

2006-09-08T13:51:00.000-05:00

With my first child I was the Martha Stewart of mothers. I proved to myself and anyone attempting to scrutinize my parenting that I could teach my kid anything. I had all the time in the world to do it and my first child bore the chevrons of achievement for all that effort. Today, as I review my parenting skills for the fiftieth time - because once is just never enough - I am faced with the reality that my youngest has no idea what a lullaby or nursery rhyme even sounds like. And this is truly my doing because by the time he came around, I was getting BUSIER (having 2 others before him) and life, naturally, had picked up speed as well. And when I am frazzled, I listen to tunes to settle myself. Unfortunately my musical repertoire consists of mainly 80's stuff, pop, swing jazz (not too bad for him) - you get the picture. And this is essentially what he is exposed to on a daily basis because if I have to listen to another Barney/Raffi/Wiggles tune, I'm gonna hurl myself off the next bridge I see.

When my family celebrated my Dad's 70th recently, all the (grand)kids got together to sing him a song. As the Itsy Bitsy Spider came into key, or as my son now calls it, "da iddy biddy pyder", he began looking around the room with this fixed exasperated expression that could only mean "WTF?" He didn't know it. And when he stomped his foot and screamed at the other kids to "QUIET!" - he meant it, because damnit who were they to change up the program with these bastard kiddie songs. He wanted Lovehammers. He wanted to sing "Trees". And when everyone continued in their best rendition of Iddy Biddy Pyder without him, he launched himself across the room and began rolling and screaming on the floor until there was complete silence in the room - as he had originally demanded. I like that he's tenacious.

And when he was satisfied that everyone understood the rules, he put his fingers in his ears and belted out: "I. Don't want to go through this life. Without you. By my side. I, I, I, I, I got it all worked out. In my head. It's how it's got to be. It'll be you. and me. Up in a tree."........and while the rest of the room smiled uncomfortably about his choice of serenade, I found it immeasurably sweet - because this is the mother I have become and screw nursery rhymes - they just don't sound as good as the Lovehammers songs do when the tiny little guy belts them out. And last time I checked, mothers weren't getting the accolades anyway for all their hard work - it's time we get some entertainment value out of these times with our kids.

2006-09-06T08:16:00.000-05:00

Super Troopers - Meow

Are these things on?

2006-08-20T21:43:00.000-05:00

Overheard in the mall:

Guy: Yeah, I dated two different chics with fake ones.

Girl: What was that like?

Guy: (Motioning with hands as if he's adjusting dials). I dunno, yo. It's like feeling up a training bag at da gym. All stiff. (Starts shadow boxing) I mean, I used to box n all an dere's jus sumpin' weird about it. Made me just wanna hit em' all the time. Badada badada badada! Yo, it was sick. Yeah, I jus like dem boobies all naturals-n-shit. None of dat fake shit.

2006-08-19T12:39:00.000-05:00

funny polar bears

My father sent this to me via email. Who knew he was such a cybergeek?

What's not to love?

2006-08-18T20:04:00.000-05:00

Prior to breaking my wrist in the most ignoble way possible this summer, I had been studying for the Maryland Bar. I figured, since I've actually managed to live in one state longer then two years...it's time to get crack-a-lackin' on that employment stuff I've been hearing so much about. I joke. And really, you wouldn't understand it unless I added this: I am licensed in two other states already but cannot receive a waiver into this state because I never practiced in my jurisdictions long enough to receive reciprocity from any other jurisdiction. (Minimum five years.) Hence the reason for studying and sitting for these blasted things over and over and over again EACH time I am forced to move. I digress. In EVERY application for ANY bar exam, there is always a section requiring someone who has known you for a minimum number of years to vouch for your character, so long as they are lunatic enough to do so. Soooo, the requisite forms from the office of the bar examiners went out to those people whom I listed as my "references", swoosh, and lo and behold, they all received them.

As my friends begin receiving these requests to fill out these lengthy and obnoxious bar forms, they are simultaneously firing off emails to me to let me know that they've been tapped for duty by the "man". Unfortunately for them, Maryland still requires my friends to fill these forms out despite my having already deferred my application. (Poor them). Today I received this email from one of my references which stated in pertinent part the following:

References are:

$25 per question
$50 per adjective
$75 per three syllable adjective
$100 per signature (could probably be sold for more).

I thought it was super funny, until I read his next email..the one he claimed contained the "meat and potatoes" of his character assessment of me and which supposedly was sent on directly:

It is my pleasure to enthusiastically recommend ******* * ******** to the Bar of Maryland. I have known her for about five years as a neighbor and friend. To the best of my knowledge ******* has never been convicted of being an ax murderer or child molester (but, as you are well aware, sometimes these people are just never caught!). Her...children show no visible signs of hot irons or foot indentations (although long sleeves and pants can hide such marks). I have never seen her streaking down Main Street (although she is a pretty fast runner). I have never seen her playing with lighter fluid or matches (although the neighborhood arson problem did disappear just when she moved away). And finally, she appeared to get along very well with her fourth husband before he mysteriously disappeared. If I can be of any further assistance, please let me know.

I love my friends.

Snakes in the head.

2006-07-31T20:23:00.000-05:00

I am having one of those snakes in the head days where I just want to trounce on the next ignoramus who blazes past me as I struggle to hold a door open with my foot while ushering three little ones into a building all the while juggling tons of useless crap in my hands (strike that), hand - the other one is still out of commission. Oh! And the thing that chaps my ass the most? It's usually some slovenly jerk who has to turn sideways just to get past me and my little guys....! (Think Capt. Kirk here.) Must. control. head. from. spinning. off. it's. axis. Must. not. pretend. to. have. tourettes. and. blurt. out. what. I. really. want. to. say.

And of course, I have about zero impulse control when it comes to jackasses, so now I don't hesitate. I let the snakes in my head take over and I start hissing "say thank you! say thank you!" to the back of said ignoramus. Most of the time they are so caught up in their own importance that they're oblivious even to my overt verbal assault. At which point my kids turn to me, as if on cue, and say, "Mommy! That fat guy didn't say thank you!" And I just beam from ear to ear because not only are they starting to recognize good manners, they are becoming my little posse. Yes, that's right, even my two year old has my back!

And when the verbal missiles actually reach the target and said ignoramus actually acknowledges the fact that we all lost seven toes between us because of his "ill mannered" ways, I just grin sheepishly, shrug my shoulders and point to the youngest and say "tourettes". And that seems to settle things up between us.

I just love it when wealthy zealots tell people to go to hell.

2006-07-29T06:22:00.000-05:00

Enter this guy: David H. Murdock. He is the owner of Dole Food Company and many, many other privately held, highly profitable businesses.

He's 83, he's brilliantly wealthy and extra, extra healthy and he's on a mission to get us all to eat our veggies, or something like that. He's so obsessed with getting Americans healthy that he'll capitalize on just about any moment to address the issue. Case in point. According to the July 28th issue of the Wall Street Journal, in a recent, highly contentious contract negotiation, Mr. Murdock admonished the 67 year old, 245 pound business man sitting across from him for being so "fat". He advised the gentleman that "he should expect to die within 18 months" and not expect to perform the contract to completion because of his unhealthy ways. But then he went even further, as if that wasn't enough, and offered the man an incentive. Murdock agreed to add $100K to the contract value if the man would agree to drop a mere 60 pounds over the next year (which was whittled down to 30 lbs by the end of the discussion). And so it was agreed to and, get this, IT WAS ACTUALLY DRAFTED AND WRITTEN INTO THE CONTRACT TERMS!

Dang it! Now why couldn't I be in on contract negotiations like this? I love when wealthy zealots do stuff like this. And it is sooooo classic that people are willing to turn tricks to accommodate these guys for the almighty dollar. Well, I'm being a little disingenuous here. For $100K, there's very little I wouldn't do. Of course, that has caveats as well, but we'll leave it at that. Moving along. We're walking, we're walking....

Mr. Murdock's sort of obsession with the health and well being of his fellow man, woman, .....any other politically correct genderbender identification that you wish me to mention....., is the type of zealousness I'd hope people would embrace instead of these other hysterics with whom we live side by side. You know the ones I'm talking about. The ones who are hell bent on destroying America/Americans by any means possible with their hatred and their misplaced notions of religious directives - "kill the infidel". These people? The ones who proclaim a philosophy that clearly interrupts my notion of a peaceful and free existence on the same planet? Yes, well those people are flat out lunatics. Mr. Murdock, on the other hand, slightly off, but lovable nonetheless because he's like a big, overbearing, and need I say, very wealthy father who just wants the kids to grow up "strong like bull."

The world needs more people like Mr. Murdock. The ones who are so ridiculously wealthy and so close to life's finish line they can actually see the tape and could give a rat's ass about being politically correct. Because when these people have their epiphanies, sometimes they really make sense. Who wouldn't want to eat better, live longer and enjoy being your ideal weight such that one is able to see one's shoes when looking down at one's feet. It's common sense, people. And Americans, look around you. We are getting huge. Which is why I believe the other fanatical loonies who fly planes into skyscrapers to send their "religious messages" make this decision from a vantage point that has little bearing on any substantial life experience of theirs. They are typically too young (18-44) to have lived long enough to decide for the rest of us what's wrong with the world. And perhaps, that is yet another reason why Mr. Murdock's advice is so sound - he's actually had these tangible life experiences after 83 years of living to know that what he proclaims has a modicum of truth to it.

Pilates, yoga, whatevah.

2006-07-26T12:13:00.000-05:00

Recently I came across this FASCINATING article online about one Marine's plunge into the pool of physical perfection and excellence through the use of that ageless discipline we all refer to as YOGA. Normally, I could care less about what everyone else is doing these days to stay in shape - it's difficult enough keeping up with my own quest to achieve "body perfect" through limited expansion of energy. So far, I have not found this ever elusive holy grail of the fitness world. So I trudge over to the gym like everyone else, cursing every blessed step I take until I am forced to actually move muscles that resist the instruction to comply.

So here is this little Second Lt. (see images below) expounding upon the benefits of YODA to the journalist and I had to chuckle about the truthfulness of this expose'. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/13890826/ Yoga, YODA, pilates, whatevah, they're pretty much all the same as far as I'm concerned because they are truly the silent killers of any of the forms of exercise available to man. And I mean this with all sincerity. When I tell you it is difficult to do, just take my word for it and move yourself along. Nothing to see here.

About a year and a half ago, I purchased the "complete set" of this lovely product:

Why? You ask? Because working out around that time was difficult when I was literally the 24 hour cafe ole' for my bebe - meaning, life outside the four corners of the home was as difficult to attain at times as say, getting Barbara Streisand on that Goodship Lollipop she promised to sail off on when dubya came into office.

So my dvd's arrive and I embark upon my quest for body beautiful through what I anticipate should amount to some rolling around on the floor in some leotards and leg warmers and not much more than that. I am so smug about finding the perfect solution to my anti-exercise campaign, that I invite the family in to witness this remarkable feat. Me, performing what I believe will be some leg lifts, some "bottom" lifts, some arm swirly things to the flashdance soundtrack in the backdrop. What my family actually witnessed was nothing of the sort.

Suffice to say, Pilates is a discipline that I imagine the coaches for the Ukraine/Chinese Olympic gymnasts team conjured up as some really sick form of torture. I am watching the screen, I see all the other body beautiful's performing each exercise effortlessly. I am encouraged to try and do. And I hear Ms. Windsor coaxing me to use my "core center" to achieve these bizarre moves. I tell said core center to obey and listen to the lady. It does not. And I reference the screen again to see why I am not able to fold myself up mid-air and balance myself on my butt while wrapping my arms around two straighten legs in the air which, incidentally, are supposed to be pressed against my nose.

All the body beautifuls on screen have perfect form and I do not hear the rhythmic "thudding" sound emanating from the tv after each model falls over from performing this feat. Oh, that would be inherently blasphemous in the Temple Pilates! And then, like a whisper, Ms. Pilates instructs the camera to pan out to the "beginner" "intermediate" and "advanced" models in the group to give "everyone" watching the opportunity to see how you should actually look if you fall into any of these levels. Apparently, I fall into none of the above because I do not see the model on screen who is falling over constantly and cursing hysterically. That wench, I curse thee. So from my contorted and highly uncomfortable (thud) pose, I strain to see that "beginner" model whose about to be featured and whom I can blow kisses to as my way of saying "oh, thank you, thank you, you kind sista soul of mine."

Did it happen? Did I get to see what Pilates should look like from "beginner" model Bambi? Um, nooooooo. Why? Because like me, she must have attempted the death defying stunt of back bend slash one arm raise with simultaneous leg lift and accidentally fell off the stage. That or she simply didn't exist and Ms. Windsor was screwing with my head. I know these "I'm am just so natural and toned and wholesome with my Yoga/Pilates routine" women. Their condescension about how they can contort is unmasked and soooo unsubtle. They relish in exposing the unflattering and highly uncoordinated movements of people like me and beginner Bambi. And this, is just so unnecessary. Besides, it really messes with my quest for body beautiful through virtual inactivity.

I may revisit these dvd's again someday. I may not. It's just my little way of thumbing my nose at the fitness establishment. "There, take that!" I say in my silent protest of all that is cruel and tortuous when attempting to retrain a body that has no interest in pressing the body perfect autopilot button. For now, I will press on until the next fitness marketing genius convinces me that they are really my friend and will help me in my endless quest for this legendary grail.

Never judge a book by it's cover.

2006-07-24T22:27:00.000-05:00

I traveled to Monterey/San Francisco this spring for a glorious girls week in NoCal. I had expected a friend of mine from SoCal to meet us for the visit, but at the last minute, trial preparation precluded her from coming at all. Since I had hoped I would have had an extra day in SF with my dear friend, my return was staggered from the 2 ladies I traveled with on the outbound. (Who cares, right?). Here's the point.

In that final day in SF, essentially free to come and go as I pleased, I had booked for myself this beautiful, hour long massage. At the time I was warned by reception that a male therapist would be “servicing” me (ha ha, that sounds incriminating, doesn't it?) and would I agree to that arrangement. Sure, I'd agree to a cat "servicing" me so long as the feline was a good massage therapist.

I'm at the appointment. I'm really mellowing out hard with the new age music, etc. I'm in my fluffy terry cloth robe and I am ready to get "serviced". Okay! Of course I'm playing around here - making jokes with all kinds of innuendo…really it wasn't one of those "happy finish" kind of places.

I meet my therapist. My "gaydar" meter is up and activated (because all women do this the instant they meet a strange man) and the reading declares that I am in good hands (on all fronts...back, side, you name it). Totally gay! Full tilt of the arrow on the meter - WAY to the right. Woohoo! No cares in the world about my male attendant because, this guy is on my team. Houston, we have a go.

And he was superior. He was magical. Just divine with his hands. I have never had a better massage in my entire life. He's so good, I nod off at one point. As we talk and chat about his life, my life, our lives, etc., I find out he sings opera, his voice is in the tenor region, he is unmarried, has lived in SF a long, long time, yadda yadda yadda. GAY! And I can't help but think throughout the massage (as his hands continue to knead and heal areas I didn't think could even relax) I actually thought: "thank God this guy is gay, because I would be really uncomfortable now if he wasn't". And then, that thought passed and minutes later, we were almost through.

But then, he said the strangest thing as he was working out the, ahem, side of the gluteus maximus area?..Which btw, was completely faboo! (Those hills in SF were killer for working out that pound of flesh). He said: "yeah, I think my landlord is really into me because she always wants me to help her around the building. And I think she is so gorgeous and I really am into her too, but she and I would never work out...we aren't of the same religion."

What the?

Pin drop.

Um, hold on for a moment. I believe I am having an equipment malfunction here. Check gaydar AGAIN. See the meter arrow pressed all the way to the right as before. Hit gaydar several times against meaty part of hand. Arrow still banking hard right on meter. Flip gaydar over, check batteries. Holy sweet mother...NO BATTERIES! I am totally hosed.

It is at this precise moment I hear the voice of my fourth grade teacher, Sr. Mary Anne, professing that age old proverb: "you can nevah, evah (because she was from NY), evah judge a book by its cover." As God as my witness, I never will again.

Conversations overheard between four hearing impaired friends at Dad's 70th.

2006-07-23T12:19:00.000-05:00

Friend 1 to Friend 2: "Uh, hey! Umm, how was that cochlear implant procedure? What exactly was involved?"

Friend 2 to Friend 1: "Well, they put a magnet under my skull to keep the equipment attached to my head (peels back the head piece device sticking to side of scalp) and they also implanted a device behind my ear. Before the procedure, my hearing was at 10%. After, my hearing is a solid 60%."

Friend 1 to Friend 2: "Wow, that's great! It sure looks complicated though. Did it hurt?"

Friend 2 to Friend 1: "Not that I remember. Some pain, but it was really worth it."

Interjecting Friend 3: "That maybe so, but now, unfortunately, we have to hang him up on the refrigerator at night for him to sleep."