Forgiving Kevin Batey

Yunno, Kevin Batey, you were the source of major vexation back in the day.  You deprived me of dessert, caused me to do the walk of shame to Sister Irene’s office and ruined my white patent leather shoes.  In addition, you grossed me out and made me forever wary of germs.    

Let’s go through each transgression one by one, shall we?

Dessert Deprivation:  You used to get in trouble a lot.  And each time, you and Anthony Galindo did your time in the first grade cloakroom at St James Catholic School.  Cloakroom is such an antiquated little word.  It was antiquated even then.  That place hadn’t seen a cloak in years by the time I made it to the hallowed halls of St James.  Nope!  I do remember that I had a cool, bitchin’ red swing coat from Sears.

Kevin Batey, you created mayhem and mischief precisely because punishment provided unfettered access to our lunch boxes- specifically the Hostess Cupcakes lovingly packed in my Twiggy lunchbox by my momsky.  Do not deny it!  I saw that shit eating grin on your face each time you slunk back to your desk, newly released from cloakroom prison, not to mention the small bit of chocolate cupcake goo under your fingernails. 

Afternoon in Sister Irene’s Office:  I trace my penchant for bad boy love riiiight back to you, mister!  One day a small note appeared on my desk after recess.  Carefully unfolded and read during phonics with Mrs. Jones, the note informed me that you loved me.  You asked me to reply with denial or confirmation of reciprocal feeling on my part.

Flattered and fascinated by attention from the resident bad boy, I really did not stop to examine feelings.  Hell, yeah, I checked yes and promptly felt hot, warm breath on the back of my neck.  No, no, no, this was not due to a sudden, physical culmination of our newly found love!  Mrs. Jones noticed my inattention during her passionate introduction of schwa, came up behind me and read our first grade expression of torrid, forbidden love.

Not only did she find the note, she read it to the WHOLE class!  Now EVERYONE knew I was a 6-year-old hussy in love with a cupcake thief!  The repercussions were enormous.  Yanked out of my seat by the scruff of my neck and promptly shuffled off to Sister Irene’s office, later shunned from playing with the jump roping good girls, I was reduced to hanging out with fellow resident bad girl Regina Denham (Her parents were divorced and not Catholic).  She did tell me my first dirty joke.   She had an amazing arsenal of dirty jokes. (Actually, that part was cool in hindsight).

Ruined Shoes/Germaphobe:  There I was!  Dressed in bride like splendor in a dress placed on lay-a-way MONTHS before the actual event of my First Holy Communion.  Lacy, white, frothy beautiful with a veil, delicate white socks like little rich girls wore in beauty pageants and white patent leather shoes that were supposed to double as Easter shoes later in the month..  Honestly, I do not even remember anything about the actual ceremony.  For me, it was ALL about the dress.   

Full of heavenly hosts and a sip of wine, we were supposed to reflect on our second sacrament in a reverent manner.  To be honest, I was sort of thinking that the cardboardy hosts needed punching up with a little more sugar or something. You chose this sacred moment to ralph up that day’s school cafeteria offering of spaghetti.  Did I mention that I HATED spaghetti as a child due to the close association it held in my mind to worms?

Yeah, thanks for that.  I can still hear your retching and the site of upchucked noodle worms splashing onto the back of my beautiful holy girl shoes.  EEEEUUUUW!  I think I started crying.  I remember you definitely started crying.  For all I know, your sudden expulsion resulted from too many filched cupcakes or an afternoon spent binge drinking the Scotch from the liquor cabinet at your house. 

Whatever!  You left me bitter, barefoot and barren.  (Ok, that last one is not true.  I strictly wrote it for dramatic effect, but it COULD have gone down that way)

Years later, I asked errant altar boy/ local musician/ wise sage Steve Poltz for his wisdom and advice on whether I should forgive you during his stint as guest columnist on The Nervous Breakdown.  Here is what he advised, and I trust his opinion completely.

Dear SJJP,

Kevin Batey got sick to his stomach during my first communion and ralphed on my white patent leather holy girl shoes…I will be seeing him next month. Should I forgive him?

•  

2011-04-11 14:21:54

Dear Susie,
You need to pay Kevin (mastur) Batey back. I suggest eating a bowl of granola with strawberries and sour milk and then spinning around in a circle a hundred times and then hugging him while simultaneously vomiting on his stupid shoes.
Only then will you be able to be his “friend”.
Cheerio,
Steve

Sooooo, Kevin Batey that works for me.  We can put the completely sordid, sorry, patent leather ruination, bad boy lovin’, cupcake free past behind us with a bowl of Kashi cereal and some twirling.    I feel better already!

These Mules Are Going Nowhere.....

 Today is about nothing and everything.  Sitting in my office crunching numbers when a man leading a 3 pack of mules wanders by my window to the world of Mission Valley.  Huh?  Huh!  He looked happy.  I wanted to run out and join him.  Not even ask him anything.  Just walk a little block or two with him and the mules and feel free and happy just to be here and there.

He was too fast!  Plus,  how would I explain walking down the street with a stranger leading mules dressed as I am today in a bright red sweater dress and high heeled ruby red Dorothy shoes?  Somehow, I think, I wouldn't have to explain to anyone who truly knows me.  Anyone else doesn't matter.  And right now, NOTHING matters.  And that feels somehow scary and wrong, but also somehow sort of okay.  It is what it is.  Just go with it and let it be.  Accept what comes to you- even if it feels weird or different......  Like 3 mules and a man walking past you.

There WAS a little sign on the arse of one of the mules. (I LOVE the word arse).  It said 3MULES.COM.  Oh, great, I thought to myself.  Everyone has a gimmick.  He's probably schilling shoes, or vitamin water for livestock or an End of The Worldy dude.

 NOPE!  Just a nice little message about trying to live in the moment, be aware and take it one day at a time.  So simple.... 

  3 MULES     To answer the most asked questions:  Who are we?  Where are we from? And where are we going?  We are mules. We are from the outside. We live outside all day , every day. Where are we going? Nowhere, we're here- the outside, the web of life- the beautiful earth, a place like no other.    We have come to this place-a place of golden sparkling light, a place for anybody and everybody.  Give your faith, hope and  energy to this place at which time you connect to it and receive the magic and endless possibility of infinity.   As you walk in this place with these mules you spread the awareness that this beautiful earth like no other can only be protected by the way we live one day at a time.

Pat's Last Vote

Pat was a pistol!  She rallied the troops at the senior community where she lived to sign petitions so that alcohol flowed at the monthly functions.  She loved QVC and ordered so many shoes her closet was overflowing.  She cursed like a sailor, had a sexy, smoky voice and loved the song “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.”

Father Frances comes every Sunday to say mass at this community.  Pat, in her words, “went all Thorn Birds,” and developed quite the crush on the retired priest.  She took the jacket he left behind one winter day, reasoning that he would have to come to her apartment to get it and that was her chance to get him alone.    She cackled with glee about her plan and kidded about finally having her own Rachel Warde/Richard Chamberlain afternoon of passion.

He never did get his jacket, and she never got her fantasy afternoon.  She grew ill from pancreatic cancer and fought a valiant fight to the end.    Even on her deathbed, Pat had something to say.  A few days before she lapsed into a coma, weak and feeble from her illness, Pat discussed her voting choices for the coming election.  She stressed the importance of her votes. She told her family that she received a mail ballot but “Couldn’t remember where she put that f*&&^%$ thing.”

We all came to say goodbye.  Father Frances came and even though Pat was in a deep coma, her eyebrow raised and she managed a smile when he came to her bed.  We all laughed hard at that! 

Her children found the ballot.  Even though Pat died a week before the election, they broke the law, filled in her choices and dropped it off.   And she voted!  Her voice counted!   

 I feel that you have to sell your soul to the devil to win an office.  I am jaded about the whole thing.  I missed a few elections.  To be honest, I didn’t even start voting until well into my twenties.  I appreciate it because of Pat.  I swear I hear her cigarette voice every time I vote.    Thanks, Pat.   

If happy little Bluebirds fly…………

Half Pint, Heroes and Pit Bulls

Yesterday a stray pit bull attacked Laura Ingalls Wilder and her sisters.  At least it seemed that way.  Tired and anxious to greet my dog after a prolonged absence,  we instead pulled up to see 5 young children dressed in very old fashioned clothing racing towards us in a sheer panic.  Whoa!  They were screaming, crying and yelling for help.  Four little girls in plain cotton dresses and one lad dressed in overalls straight from the set of Little House On The Prairie somehow missed Central Casting and ended up running the mean streets of San Diego.  None of that rolling down hills of tall grass and helping Pa finish chores for these prairie kids!

We heard dogs fighting and realized a stray pit bull was attacking their mutt of a dog.  I did what I ALWAYS do in emergencies - I froze. I stopped breathing, frozen in panic and fear.  Thank God others are not emergency challenged and quickly utilized baseball bats, a knife and their own size and deep voices to combat the relentless attacker.  That pit bull was determined to take his prey down, and it took a few minutes to dissuade him.  I won 't pretend that the baseball bat was not utilized by the heroes in their efforts to save the little dog.  Thankfully, a few swats to the rear end FINALLY made the pitty back off.

During this time, I gathered the extras from the Little House set and somehow flipped on the absent maternal switch hiding in my bones to comfort and soothe them.  They were so little!  And they were charming in their braids and long dresses.   The littlest one, with her long blond hair and little round face melted my heart with every dramatic, hiccuppy little sob.

Soon "Ma Ingalls" came running frantically to her children, eyeing this disheveled heathen, dressed in a short skirt and loooooong jacket (A little Cake reference).  She stopped short when she saw me, looking askance at the expanse of leg peeking out from under the skirt.  I think I recall the advisory warning  label required by law sewn into the fabric when I bought this skirt.  It said: "Modesty NOT guaranteed when comforting small, frantic children is required." But I ripped the label off at the first wash, broke the law and ignored all care instructions, thinking of how silly it was that I would ever have to worry about such a scenario.

Ma Ingalls took one more more glance at my gams, cleared her voice and began to soothe her babes. My little Laura Ingalls went running into her arms as fast as she could but did not COMPLETELY let go of my skirt- which served admirably as a snot rag for panicked children.  Of course my skirt hiked up even further, and Ma Ingalls again cleared her throat while glancing at my wardrobe malfunction in the making.  She drew herself up, looked me straight in the eye and smiled.  "This was NOT the day I planned!  I wanted the children to get some fresh air and enjoy the rest of the day."

I smiled back, all the while pulling down on my errant skirt, trying desperately to make it prairie worthy by sheer force.  I was tongue tied.  She glanced down again, smiled again and took my hand.  "Thank you for staying with the children."

I squeezed her hand and stopped worrying about the skirt.  What mattered most was the moment - not her religious beliefs, not my attire, not any difference or similarity.  You can make fun of my Kumbaya moment all you want!  What mattered was the people who came together to save the dog,  protect the children and be good neighbors.  There wasn't a mean Mrs. Olsen in the bunch.  (Okay, bullshit!  We DO have a Mrs. Olsen on the block.  She's the crabby lady who gave me the scary cake last Christmas with a plastic baby in it.  She is DEFINITELY a Mrs. Olsen, but Mondays are bingo day down at the town hall, so we were spared what surely would have been an occasion for one of her rants).

I stopped by today to check on the little dog and his family.  He is on the mend and the Prairie Kids were busy working on their lessons (home schooled, of course!).  Little Laura was too shy to even say hello, but she did smile at me.  And Ma Ingalls did as well.  Short skirt be damned!

Cake Short Skirt / Long Jacket Lyrics

 Songwriters: MCCREA, JOHN

  "I want a girl who
Gets up early
I want a girl who
Stays up late
I want a girl with
Uninterupted prosperity
Who used a machete
To cut through red tape....."

 

Bigfoot, Weenie Roast Prongs & Seven and Seven

An oldie, but goodie.  Honobia, 2010.

This year the trip to the annual Bigfoot Festival in Honobia, Okla. was up in the air almost right to the last minute.   Due to some extenuating circumstances, it was doubtful that the old gang would all be able to make it, but at the last minute, the stars aligned and the trip was on!  We gathered again at Chip's house, took off in the mini van and after a mere 30 minutes on the road, our sides hurt from laughing.  Who wouldn’t laugh with Chip, Greg King and Jack in the car?  The annual stop at the Oinky Doink Pig Joint in Henryetta, Oklahoma was excellent as usual. I managed not to accidentally feel up any local farmers this time, and we left the Oinky Doink in relative peace.

That beeatch named Garmin thinks she is so smart!  She kept telling us to drive south when we should have been driving east, but you just can't argue with her because she thinks she's all that and a bag of computer chips.  At one point she recalculated and we ended up taking Mr. Toad's Wild Ride down some steep country road and a river crossing -courtesy of moi! Mimi contributed major production value with the "Theme from Deliverance" blaring from her I phone speakers.  That was actually one of the craziest moments and worth every sore rib I had from the ride and the company.  Garmin and her owner were not as amused as we were, but it was classic all the same.

WE decided to stop at The El Nino Supper Club BEFORE going to our holiday abode at A to Z Guest ranch.  If you haven't read my prior notes about trips #1 and #2, El Nino Supper Club is neither a supper club nor a bar.  It's really just Anita's living room in a trailer from the 60's.  Located in the deep, dark woods down an old dirt road, the only hint that it is a commercial establishment is the sign painted on a big rock that says “BAR” with an arrow pointing east.  That's it!

In order to fully enjoy a trip to the Bigfoot festival in Honobia, Oklahoma, one must be willing and able to do certain things.  A healthy suspension of all prior beliefs is always helpful - coupled with the ability to go with the flow (in this case maybe flowing backwards?)

Having said this, our trip to El Nino was no less entertaining, frightening or charming then the last visit we made.  To see is to believe, and the 2 members of our party who had not visited Anita's fine establishment were a little taken aback at the ambience.  We greeted Anita and got down to ordering our drinks.  Since we were familiar with Anita's secret for keeping costs down and profits high (can you say Margarita Mix from Sam's with no alcohol in it), we wisely ordered beer from a can.  Greg ordered just plain soda and since he's so darn cute, Anita treated him to a Scotch Buy Root beer from her own personal stash.  Ahh, that Greg.  The ladies love him- especially 83 yr old Anita.  I think she was just hoping he'd buy her another round like he did last year.  Greg being Greg, he offered and she accepted.  Anita belted down a nice vintage rose and charged him $8.  He is such a peach!

And speaking of peach, there were 3 genuine Choctaw Indians in da' house de Anita.  They were drinking shots out of plastic salsa cups like you buy from Sam's.  One of them had a special affinity for peach brandy shooters.  They were speaking Choctaw, trying to convince us they were speaking Italian and were keen to discuss the philosophical, cultural and historical impact of the Dawes Commission with Chip.  But Chip was in no mood to cooperate and insisted on spouting out useless bar trivia to his captive audience.

One of the less sophisticated members of our party called upon Anita to make him a Seven and Seven.  "A 7 and who?’ Anita queried.  Sadly, Anita's liquor purveyor (Still #7 in nearby Hocahtown, Okla.) had not delivered the Seagram’s that week, so all Anita had was Canadian Mist.  She had no Seven Up, but she said, "That don't matter.  I can make some!" And with that, the enterprising Anita dug out a glass from some distant cabinet, took some sweet and sour mix, doused it with soda water, poured in the Canadian Mist and mixed it with a spoon that probably also served as the mixing spoon for the various animal meals served to the local dogs and cats.  That spoon has probably not seen water and soap since The Land Run of ’89.

We were laughing so hard we could barely breathe.   Remember my statement 'bout a successful trip to Honobia?  Prior belief systems regarding the availability of premium liquors and their accompanying mixers in a trailer living room bar should have been suspended about the time we encountered the words 'BAR" and an arrow written on a boulder on the side of the road. Although our friend was highly disappointed in the drink selection, I do believe that was one of the most amusing moments of the trip. I think I saw Mimi snort beer through her nose but don't tell anyone.  Go with the flow, peeps!!!!!!

Anita also shared that her cabin was available for rental that weekend, but after sharing with us that she “Almost had all the dog hair out," we declined.   When Mimi asked what the special dish of the day was and Anita informed us that it was white chili, we really decided that the white chili in this dish consisted of the last party who rented the cabin.

On to A to Z Guest Ranch and our huge cabin in the woods.  Located in the middle of nowhere, the cabin included a huge sleeping loft, 2 nice master bedrooms, 2 bathrooms and a huge living room.  Butch, the caretaker, greeted us with friendly charm and made us feel very welcome.  We met the camp dog-named Buckaroo and some of the resident horses.  Butch also gave us a 3 pronged weenie roaster for any campfire cookouts we may have had planned.  Chip was quick to notice that Butch had part of his fingers missing on a couple of his hands, which will be play a part in this story a little later.

We attended the annual Bigfoot Campfire Storytelling event, but it was boring, so we packed up the van and headed to The Boondocks-a local bar and restaurant.  Sunny the dog was the hostess and led us to a table.  I went to the restroom to wash my hands.  Since I was not “doing business, “ I left the door to the single seater restroom open.  In walks a girl.  She says, “Hey,” and plops down on the toilet to unload.  As I hastily dry my hands, she says, “Oh, can you shut the door on the way out?”

After settling in for the night, one of the Bigfoot Queens entertained the others up in the sorority girl loft with a joke about the difference between Titlelist golf balls and a woman’s “love button.”   Chip decided the sorority loft was so much more fun than the couch, so he joined us.  We spent the rest of the night asking him about guy stuff.  Like I always wondered if guys look at each other’s junk at the urinal.  Chip’s answer?  “Only if you want the crap beat out of you.”  Not willing to let it go, we asked if it was the same if the dude next to you was your friend.  “Same thing applies, “ Chip advised.

We awoke early the next day to “run” the 5K.   A certain member of the party decided to “go local” and do the 5K in flip-flops.  Loser!  Mimi, Greg and Kelly put forward their absolute best in the 5K while certain other slackers gave up the ghost and rested their weary bones at the defunct Clancy’s bar while waiting for the others.

We were entertaining Jack with tales of hoe downs past at Clancy’s, when the dusty glass door opened and out walked the proprietress- Kirby Ladd.  Now Kirby is married to Tommy Ladd-one of the finest and most talented citizens of Honobia, Oklahoma.  Although Tommy and Kirby have moved on to the city, they had come home to host another Bigfoot Hoe Down, so we were really blessed that we were at the right spot to hear the news.  See!  Doing a 5K in flip flops turned out to be the right move for Miss Bigfoot 1980!   Fashionistas live more interesting lives and give and give of themselves in order to secure social opportunities to improve the lives of others. (wink, wink).  It was actually my plan all along.

Since I had to work so hard in securing the entertainment for the evening, I was hot and sweaty, but Jack and Chip urged me on to the finish line-where we waited for Mimi, Greg and Kelly to FINALLY cross the line.  Don’t know what took them so long!  They were sweaty as well, but I’m not sure why since all they did was run a 5K all the way.

We then made a quick run of the festival environs and scoped out which corndog booth offered the best value for our hard earned money (READ which corndog was the longest?), which booth held the most interesting merchandise (confederate flag bikini) and which local had the best live animals for sale (Hands down favorite was the two for one huntin’ dogs).

 We had to advise Kelly, Miss 1979, that she needed to see ALL the wares offered before goin’ and spendin’ her money on the first bikini she saw.  Mimi also proved hard to convince that the bikini top made out of beer cans and crocheted yarn would be there at the end of the day, and we would go back and purchase it then.  Greg feared he would have to lug around our impulse buys all day thereby precluding the opportunity to sing in the Bigfoot Karaoke Contest.  By the way, if you have not heard his rendition of “Feelings,” well, you simply must ask him to sing a bar or two next time he comes your way.

Bigfoot Queens must also vote in the annual Bigfoot Art Show held at the festival.  This duty is VERY, VERY important and a highlight of our day.  They also make it really, really easy for us since the same person painted all the entries.  Not sure if that is a comment on our intellectual capacity or just one of those small town local “fixes.”  Anyway, congratulations for Myrtle Suggs for the hauntingly realistic portrait of Bigfoot giving Miss 1984 a hickey.    It was stunningly magnificent!

Mimi, Kelly and Greg were anxious to get back to the cabin for a massage.  I hadn’t heard it, but earlier in the day, the owner of the A to Z had mentioned that massage services were available upon request.  Those 3 quickly reserved a spot and were happily dreaming of relaxing bliss when I mused:  “Wonder how they can keep a massage therapist on call waaaay out here?”   Chip replied.  “I am sure it’s just Butch, the nubs on his hands and use of that 3 prong weenie roaster.”   Strangely, those 3 cancelled their date with serenity.  I did see them later using self -massage techniques by rubbing their backs up and down against the cedar trees.

After Chip and I played ball with “Buckaroo the dog who won’t bring the ball back” and the others finished up their various afternoon relaxation techniques, we piled in the car and drove 35 miles to Hochatown for an actual real restaurant experience and all the Seven and Seven’s you could drink.  The food was magnificent, and we were especially fond of the moniker for local lake that supports the area:  Beavers Bend, population 500.  Saaaaluute!

On the way back, Miss 1980, who was the designated driver, could not figure out how to turn the lights on to the van.  After 5 minute coaching from Jack and hilarious advice from Greg- who has no need for a vehicle and is madly fit from riding his bike everywhere- we finally left the parking lot.  Out to the winding, twisting, roads of Honobia.  About 5 minutes into the drive, Miss 1980 told the story of the last time she drove a van and observed in her high pitched little voice:  “Driving a high profile vehicle in the wind was surprisingly hard and I almost went off the road.”  She also took that time to mention, “ I usually drive by myself and having others in the car is weird for me.”   It got quiet after that.  Not sure if that was praying going on or if everyone just decided to give up and hunker down for the inevitable.

Later, we went on to Clancy’s, partied with the locals, drove back to our cabin in the woods and decided to have s’mores under the stars.  Chip demonstrated his fire-starting prowess by lighting the match in the strong mountain wind 6 feet from the wood.  We can’t really blame him since his camp counselor days were spent making out with the 16 year old campers instead of learning fire -building skills.   Somehow, the fire was started, marshmallows were roasted, Hershey bars melted and dessert was enjoyed.

It is said that the way your roast your marshmallow reflects your attitude in life.  We had hot and flaming, slow and slightly brown, major meltdown into the fire and everything in between.  No matter how you do it, the result is the same:  Sweet, undeniably good and memorable.  Same thing applies to our time in Honobia…………

Ya'll come on back now, ya hear?

Pantyhose, Chic Filet, Body Scrub and Other Random Thoughts

My thoughts on pantyhose (and other random things, which result from a restless spirit wide awake at 3 a.m.):

Who wears them?  I am thinking possibly the stuffy crowd looking to flash mob Starbucks because they employ gay people.   90 Year old women living in Alaska where nothing grows; even yeasty little microbes which require an embarrassing trip to the doctor, or for the hardy do it yourself crowd, a furtive, nonchalant stroll down that "special aisle" dedicated to women at the CVS.

Come to think of it, why is it that strange men seem to populate this aisle on a regular basis?   WHY ARE YOU THERE?  LEAVE!  Let me buy whatever it is that I don't want to broadcast to the world that I have in a semi secret state of anonymity.  There is NOTHING  on this aisle you need.  You are not pregnant, ovulating, menstruating, yeasty or menopausal.   It's bad enough when the dope at the check out can't scan to save his life and asks for a price check on the loudspeaker.

And have you BEEN down the pantyhose aisle lately?   What used to take up a whole row is now reduced to a sad, single little display of plastic eggs begging to be harvested.   And they are seriously UGLY!  And expensive!  So you want me to plunk down $5.95 for a pair of hose in "Natural."   Seriously?   I don't recall ever seeing skin on any woman that is so shiny it could be seen  by astronauts looking down on Mama Earth from the space station.

Why is that strange men populate coffee shops?  Seriously!  "NO, I HAVE NEVER SEEN A FLYING SAUCER.  Thanks for inquiring.  I do sort of wish one would appear right now and beam me up.  Save me, Captain James T. Kirk! (The young maverick from the 60's, please!  The current version schilling cheap hotel rooms for Priceline need NOT apply.)

And old guys who can be my grandpa.  Ya'll are SO cute when you flirt.    I don't mind.  It makes me smile.  To the old dude in Encinitas who said he felt lucky he missed the light and schmoozed me with, "Honey, you have the most beautiful green eyes I have EVER seen. "  Well, that was just sweet.  Never mind that they are blue; it was still cute.  No, I won't go to dinner with you, but I appreciate that you still work your skilz, playa'.

And adorable fireman?  Yes, I did blow it the other day.  I am a dork.  My  25 year old cousin (twice removed ) who works at the coffee shop called me on it!  He shook his head at his 3rd cousin as he witnessed the following exchange:

AF: " It's REALLY hot."
Dorky Susie:  "Yes, it IS.  Well, see ya later."

You notice I wrote Chic Filet?  I did it on purpose!  Cuz this is MY blog!  That's how I roll.  Seriously, though....  Being fashion forward is taking a beating lately.  It's a chic filet of another kind.   Open toed shoes?  I AM A FAN! 

Open toed shoes are fashion forward, show off the $30 pedi we just had to endure while trying to ascertain whether the chick doing our toesies is talking about us in another language and are sooooo fun to wear.  That's all I gotta say about that. 

I HATE Chick Filet.  No, not the restaurant serving up crusty chicken sandwiches with a side of hate spew,  although you will never see me dine there.  I hate Chick Filet where mean females gang up on the innocent like rabid little chimpanzees in a Jane Goodall documentary.  Not all of us practice this cannabilistic display, so it distresses me when I witness it in all its rabid glory.

 May you a sprout gnarly, twisted hair from your left nipple 5 minutes before a date!  And STOP being mean!  Life can suck hard enough without your little contribution.  And stop picking on people who are different or less than perfect or frail and weak!   Be nice!  Resist peer pressure to act like vapid morons!  Go hang out and eat chicken with the pantyhose wearin'  haters and revel in how beautiful it is to be "normal.". Have a great, yeasty old time!

 I bought into to it for juuuuust about a second until I pulled back and remembered a little thing called loyalty and respect. And I remembered who I am.  Daddy Clovis always told me to remember the people who got me to the dance and make sure I stick with them like glue.  So I did.  I have to honor people and history and time.  And love.  Because love is important.   Love comes in a million different ways.  Honoring your past with someone is love in its purest, most beautiful form.  You Remind Me Who I AM!!!!!!

If acupuncture is really just the placebo effect, does it still work?  I mean, if you know that, does that negate its effectiveness?    What if the needles are dirty?  What if the needle sticker dude is just a washed up heroine addict pretending to be an accuprofessional?  These things keep me up at night!

Finally,  thanks for sticking with this rant all the way to the end.  I apologize.  Let me leave you with something useful.  Best body scrub ever:!!!! -  Kosher salt, olive oil, peppermint, vanilla and a dash of cinnamon. Your beautiful skin will be soft and feel great -  except if you have a papercut.

Ode to Bernadette

I am bad when I am supposed to be good (and good when it is time to be bad).   The key to life is to live it balls to the wall without regret.  Ummmm, yeah...  About that regret.....There are always things we are not proud of.  I am going to admit my part in one of those times...

On Sunday, I came across a vendor at the Hillcrest Farmers Market selling old typewriter keys made into jewelery.   She had an old Smith Corona on the table and my mind immediately jumped to the thought of Miss Bernadette Cunyon.  And the regret sank in.  Is it just me?  When I feel remorseful, I get this funny feeling in the back of my teeth and a weird taste in my mouth.  (Guilt Spit, a course of remorse,  a shot of rue stew, a lament mint.)

Miss Cunyon taught typing to EVERY recalcitrant, smart ass, full of piss and vinegar 15 year old entering the hallowed halls of Mount Saint Mary Academy in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.   Perched high upon a hill, the oldest high school in Oklahoma also served as a convent for The Sisters of Mercy.  Although not a nun, Miss Cunyon lived at the convent. 

Miss Cunyon was old.   She was pretty deaf.  She always looked just so with a bouffant 'do and an eternal  little smidge of pink lipstick.  She had a croaky, smokey little voice and hardly ever smiled.  She seemed kind of joyless.  I wonder how it is that she ended up living in the convent.  Did she ever have a lover?  Was she content and happy and fulfilled?

Shit!  I think back to the torture the poor woman endured and feel bad that I added to it.  Bernadette held court in the oldest room in the building.  It had linoleum floors,  an old steam radiator heat system and held about 40 students at a time.  It was long and narrow and had a raised platform where her desk sat, the strategy being that she could see everything and quell any possible teen uprising.

Each morning after prayer, the boys would roll pennies across the floor into the radiator.  We would all laugh when we heard the familiar little tinny rumble of those pennies rolling and the ultimate clank they would make as they crashed into the hissing radiator.  Miss Cunyon would look up, screw up her aged, wrinkly, lipstick encrusted puss into a frown and ask why we were laughing.

Since she was deaf, we would answer her- only we would not vocalize.  We would only mouth the words.  She would then turn up her hearing aid and approach.  We would continue to mouth the words until she got close.  Then we would shout really loud and blast her poor little ears to smithereens....  I KNOW...  How horrible we were.  Oh man, I HATE that I took part in that.  I only did it once -to be cool.  Truth be told, I did it once and felt so awful....  It didn't sit well with me then and it feels even worse now.   What a little monster!  My mom always taught me to champion the underdog and I usually did.  But the chance to be cool overrode my heart.

 I am sorry, Miss Bernadette Cunyon.   You've haunted me all week.  It's like you came back to DEMAND your due.  Okay, I wrote it.  I wrote about you and for you.  Actually, I TYPED it.  I typed, using techniques learned long ago by a fifteen year old wise ass.    And may every student you taught to type pause at one point or another and remember you fondly.    Here it is...
 

Oh Bernadette Cunyon,

your name rhymed with bunion.

You held the keys

to shift characters with ease.

With your bouf hair so purty

you made order of Qwerty.

You were deaf to click clack

and all teenage attack.

Lived your life with the nuns.

Did you ever have fun?

Did you have a secret lover

hidden under holy cover?

What would you say to us now?

We place our heads down and bow

to a keyboard god so small.

And we watch words and world glow

across a tiny glass window.

Class began with reflection

ending high on correction

made of fluid and time tests

to increase our perfection..

(Can I mention the classmate with the eternal erection?)

Oh, Bernadette,

Would you now fret?

We’re fast and furious with our opposable thumbs

texting anything, nothing, numbers and sums

Thank you, Cunyon

for teaching the young ones

about letters, position and carriage return

Sleep eternal, dear Bernie,

sweet rest you have earned.

Earthquake Glasses

In this Photoshop world of perfectionism in images, I found myself recently admiring a friend who had a really, really honest, unretouched, wild -ass hair, “I’ve just rolled out of bed,” photo tagged on Facebook.  My friend expressed surprise when I stated that it was my favorite photo.  I explained that the photo captured my friend’s true personality:  A charming blend of brutal truthfulness, slight cynicism and ornery stubborn, desperately trying to hide the chewy marshmallow center.

"I like it because you look as if you are challenging ANYONE to have a problem with your look.  It’s as if you are saying, 'Yeah?  So I just got out of bed.  Fucking deal with it!  This is ME!'"

In addition, it got me to thinking about my earthquake glasses and how my inner dork is revealed in the ugliest pair of glasses ever created.  It made me think of the reasons I own the earthquake glasses in the first place and the evolution of how a pair of glasses meant for shaky times came to represent my deepest fears and true self.  And how I haven’t worn them for awhile…..

READ the FREAKING California Earthquake Preparedness Pamphlet, people!  It gets you ready for THE BIG ONE.  Yunno, the BIG O!  No, no, no, not  THAT Big O ( yes, I am DEFINITELY a fan, but that’s another blog).   I’m talking about the huge ass mutha’ of all earthquakes - the one that’s gonna split California in half and send us packing into the cold, cold Pacific. 

To wit:  Section1234.56A states that one should pack an extra pair of glasses in the old earthquake kit.  God forbid that your personal stash of contact lens cleaner ends up in the totally demolished bathroom  while your sorry ass sits in the pup tent outside hoarding water, matches and Beanie Weenies - blind as a bat because you FINALLY had to rip the dry, crusty contacts from your eyes after 3 days.  Why not just pack contact lens solution in the preparedness kit?  The pamphlet helpfully pointed out that these products expire and hard plastic glasses do not.

Made sense to me!  And since control, worry and fear were my favorite companions, I made a beeline to Costco, found the CHEAPEST pair of ugly ass glasses on the wall, gave them my prescription and waited for the friendly Costco peeps to call me when they were ready.

The day arrived, and I cheerfully arrived at the Costco.  I patiently went through the whole sitting with the technician routine, even though I didn’t care a fig about proper fit, blah, blah, blah.  The technician hemmed and hawed, readjusted, fidgeted and then FINALLY pulled back and looked at me, clearly distressed.

“Ummm, have you looked at some of the other frames we have?  I have to be honest.  This look is not a good one.”  

I then explained the purpose of the glasses and she breathed a BIG sigh of relief and gave me a sheepish grin.

“Oh, I feel so much better!  I just COULDN’T let you walk around wearing these.”

We both laughed, and I happily (And carefully) drove home to complete my official CALIFORNIA EARTHQUAKE PREPAREDNESS KIT. 

Only the glasses did not stay there.  Weekends would roll around, and putting on contacts to schlep to Vons seemed so silly when I could just slip on the dorky earthquake specs. .  And pretty soon, I started wearing them the whole weekend. Seriously, I wore those ugly, freaky glasses out in public!  What?  Yes, really! 

One week, I even brought them home on vacation to Oklahoma.  I wore them in front of my lifelong friends!  They all laughed at my dork glasses - especially when I told them how it came to be that I was wearing the world’s UGLIEST glasses.  Yet, because they were my friends, they actually grew to love me in my scaredy cat dork glasses.  They actually complained when I stopped wearing them!

 I DID stop wearing them.   Because they represented control and fear.  I started to realize that those two things needed to go away in my life; that shedding those negative qualities, like the glasses, was an important step in being a better person….And I stopped worrying about things I could not control.  Well, mostly!  I fight hard to make that part stay under wraps..  I don’t EVEN pretend that I have an earthquake kit.  Stupid, I know, but for me, necessary to just roll with it and hopefully dig out to the other side.

  Hey!  I’m gonna’ get my dork glasses back out.  And I’m going to rock that dork look HARD!  Deep down inside, I STILL have a tiny bit of the controlling,  fearful dork, but I can pick and choose when and where I let my little freak flag fly - just like the glasses!

Here’s to my friend, for teaching me that confidence in who you are is what matters most.  ….No Photoshop, no retouching, just honesty and reality.   It is then that you are truly beautiful…

Happy Go Lucky 'Tards

I don’t really take stock in all the horoscope mumbo gumbo jumbo, but sometimes I wonder….  Horoscope readings for Gemini say that we are like butterflies that flit from flower to flower, person to person, place and thing..  We are easily distracted chameleons who can adapt to any situation.    We wear Happy Go Lucky Leotards. 

When you do a back flip on the balance beam of life, you are flying blind until the last second.  You struggle to find purchase on the precious 4 inches of beam you’re given.  And it IS precious!  Sometimes you stick the landing and sometimes you land sort of wonky with your ‘TARD halfway up your ass exposing your sensitive cheeks.  And that is the secret!   As happy and plucky and adaptive as Gemini appear to be, we are sensitive to the nth degree.  It surprises people when it happens and mortifies us to no end because we don’t like to show that side, and we’re pissed because the judges are not going to give us a perfect 10!

So you fall off.  You consider naked gymnastics, but that would just be creepy and belongs down in that weird part of Tijuana.  You get back up, wiggle your arse’ a little, tug those HGL’s back into place and carry on.  Maybe you paste on some anti sensitivity sugar water/ salve/gluey ointment to make sure that part of you stays snug ,secure and hidden from the world..  The only other option is wearing a sensitive ass hat.  And that would just make you a Pisces.  *Cracking up laughing!  I ‘keed,  I ‘keed….

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOU FREAKY, DEAKY GEMINI GYMNASTS!  (And mad love to all you fish out there!)

Say Ow.

Sorry, you guys….  I usually like to keep things on the light side and write fun stuff.  But yesterday I had an encounter with someone who brought out the worst in me, and I just have to write about it.  This is my blog. That’s how I roll…  Eject now if you don’t want to ride today.

I love to sin on Sunday and eat a flaky, crusty, oh, so bad for me cranberry scone at Twiggs along with a big ol’ non fat latte.  It makes my soul glad.  Heck, Twiggs makes my soul glad.  It is so funky cool with mish mash furniture, art, books and unusual people.  Most of them are pretty mellow and perfect Sunday Sinners.

So yesterday, they were pretty busy – even for Twiggs.  And I waited patiently for my cup of heaven.  I had my scone already, but I wanted to savor it with steaming hot latte.

I see the Barista slide the cup with my name on the counter and announce, “Non Fat Latte.”  I sleepily sauntered up to get it when some woman started to reach for it at the same time.  As I am pretty laid back, I figured I would let her have it and wait for the next drink.  She grabbed it,  realized it was not the no soy joy, I am a piece of crappy humanity, with no sanity, cup of angry at the world java she SURELY orders up for her psyche every day.

She stamped her little foot like a 3 year old being denied a toy.  Or maybe she stamped her Birkenstock like a 59 year old who has been denied joy and bitchily exclaimed, “WHERE is MY drink?  I was BEFORE her.”

She haughtily glared at me as if I had magically dictated the order in which the barista chose to make the drinks.  The Barista hurriedly explained that the 10,000 ingredient drink she ordered was a little more complicated to make and tried to soothe her.  He swiftly slung the drink up on the counter as fast as he could.

She was having none of it.  Even after getting her drink, she was huffing and puffing.  And she followed me over to the table with all the coffee accessories like cream and sugar and cinnamon.  Everyone was staring.  I was embarrassed for her.  That she would act that way at all was amazing to me.  I couldn’t help that the little bit of sassy that resides deep in me came out.  I pointedly held up a packet as she stood breathing down my neck, conjuring up the Okie accent I have lost and quietly drawled, 

“Did you need something in a sweetener?  Sugar, Equal, attitude adjustment?”

She blinked, stepped back away from me and mentally collected herself.  She said nothing, and I turned back to take my own advice and dump extra sweetener in my latte to remind MYSELF that I am generally peaceful, loving and kind.  But yunno, I went there and am not proud of it.  But sometimes people need to be called on their shit.

And then it made me remember when I was a Barista.  It is a freaking tough job.  Grouchy, impatient people not understanding that a good espresso drink takes time.  It is an art.  There were a few of the regular customers who made me want to hurl the hot espresso down their skivvies and watch them squirm.  They were abusive, unkind and miserable.

And then there was Junior.  He came once a week.  For physical therapy.  And he was sweet, unfailingly polite, kind and patient.  People would climb all over him when he appeared.  He played football.  But I liked him because he always smiled, never complained about the wait and always said “Thank you so much” as I handed him his mocha. There was not a “big time, look at me” bone in his body. He had grace and style.  You could feel the genuine goodness he had in his soul.  You could feel it.   When he smiled, his eyes smiled. 

And Junior, we wish you would’ve said, “Ow.”  Whatever you were going through, we wish you could have sought help and healing.   And that goes for us all:  Football player, bitchy woman at Twiggs, everyone and anyone.  Say “Ow!” when you are hurting. It is hard to say and do, but so important!  Let someone help you sort stuff out.  It is what you need to do to be whole.  Be brave and say it!  Even saying it out loud helps.  Give in and then get on with life!

And bitchy woman at Twiggs?  Thank you.  Thank you for reminding me that humanity is important.  And being sweet and kind is not weakness, but the best way to live life.  And take some sweetener and say “Ow.”  I promise you will feel better!

Free Spirit

We've got spirit, yes we do! We've got spirit! How 'bout you? Yesterday was all about FREE spirit. Free in every way! Free as in no money, nada, zip. Free as in give in to the action verb and let it go. Free as in happy, grateful and lighthearted.

Sometimes our spirit takes a pounding. And when it does, no bandage, icepack or crutch is gonna help. It gets underneath your skin, clear to the bone and sits circulating in your heart- pumping little hurt clots to your veins. It's a Soul Scratch.

So yesterday found my scritchy, scratchy spirit wandering along Adams Avenue listening to dozens of local musicians playing all manner of venues for FREE! Yes, free! Adams Avenue Unplugged. Hundreds of top notch musicians spread out along a 2 mile stretch of the beautiful Normal Heights/ North Park area of San Diego. And once again, I was thankful and happy for the blessing of music this wonderful place has given to me and many others.

FINALLY got to see Jeff Berkely! I've been meaning to catch one of his shows forever. And Dimille's was a beautiful place to hear him AND have a Fat Tire on tap. Ahhhhhh! Wandered over to hear a couple of buskers playing. They were full of talent and hope and love. They made me smile.....

On down to catch a little of Happy Ron's set and then BOOM, the Universe happened. Right place, right time! Hanging out with my adopted Italian fam here in San Diego has been a gift that has always given such joy.  They are fun, crazy and full of life.  Their love flows to me in many ways.

 I was sitting listening to Happy Ron when I ran into a friend of the Fam. He was hanging out and asked where I was headed next. I told him I WANTED to catch Tom Brousseau, John C. Reilly and Gregory Page at LeStat's, but the line to get into the tiny little venue was wrapped around the block. No way would I ever get in to hear them.

He smiled and said, "Ummm. no problem. You can come through the back artist’s entrance with me and hang out."

Yowza! Wahoooo! And so I found myself with a first class ticket on the Page, Brousseau, Reilly plane. My friend had just one seat reserved in the front, so I stood in a tiny little space at the doorway to the stage. It was perfect! I definitely had the best seat in the house for sure! Why? As Reilly and Brousseau sang their quiet, soulful set, I stood next to THE Gregory Page and listened while he quietly sang along. Beautiful, sweet and lovely.  He stopped at one point, and I shyly asked him to keep singing.

 "I'm getting an extra concert." 

 He smiled and obliged.

 Suhweet! That's all I can say. I've got spirit! She's free! And she sometimes leads me to beautiful, unexpected places, people and things.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=owyuoJDFAKY

 http://www.gregorypage.com/

Frogs to Memories Ratio

First words off my lips as I bounded off the school bus every summer: "Wheeeere's Uncle Dan?"

And there he'd be. That tall, lanky man with the curly ,close cropped hair standing just beyond the flag circle with a cup of coffee just grinning from ear to ear - Waiting for about a million gazillion hugs from the Hazelton girls and about a million other little campers. First words out of his mouth; "Do ya'll remember the first time I put you up on a horse? All THREE of you fell off at the same time!" And then he would laugh that smooth, coffee, ciigie laugh and get so tickled he would choke. It would always seem like it happened just the day before when he told that story. He would laugh every time just as hard as the day it happened. His blue eyes would sparkle and shine, and I knew I was home.

Home for the summer. Camp Dakani. From age 4-18. Home meant days spent soaking up the sunshine, swinging on those freaking awesome swings strung from trees hanging over Harrison Creek, and always, always hanging on to EVERY moment possible with Uncle Dan. That poor man. He found no rest with us around. We'd go up to the house and bug his wife Hazel as to his whereabouts if we didn't see him.

And every Tuesday night, no matter WHAT, we were gonna go frog hunting. Dan would pull into Dakani at midnight, I am sure in retrospect dog tired from his swing shift at OG&E, and meet about 10 little girls ready for a canoe sojourn down Harrison Creek to catch some big bullfrogs. Not to eat! No, no, these frogs were destined for the weekly frog race at Dakani. After the race, they'd be set back free to bask along the banks of the creek, most assuredly awaiting their next race the following week.

And there we'd be: The Fike sisters, the Hazelton girls, the Boggs, Joella and Tammy and Teresa. We'd put in along the low water crossing and begin our hunt. Dan would paddle up the creek in a canoe filled to the brim with giggling, squirming, screaming little girls and did so with the patience of Jobe.

"Now shine the flashlight along the banks. You gotta blind 'em." He'd always say it in a quiet little whisper.

And bingo! There would be two white orbs glowing back at us about a foot or two off the bank. Dan would paddle so quietly up and angle the canoe just so. You could hear a pin drop. Then Cheri Hazelton, the champion frog catcher out of all of us, would grab the frog from behind, being careful not to break the beam of the flashlight, and haul that big bullfrog into the canoe. That's when the pandemonium would erupt. Girls screaming as Cheri brought the squirming frog back to where I held the toad sack. The canoe would be rocking back and forth, girls would be scrambling to get away from the frog and through it all, Dan held the canoe steady while laughing hysterically at all of us.

Steady..... And sure and right and salt of the earth and loved beyond all imagination. That was our Uncle Dan.

Ratio of frogs caught to mosquito bites 1:16. Ratio of frogs caught to Uncle Dan's laughing fits- 1:25. Ratio of frogs caught to happiest memories of HUNDREDS of kids. 1: Infinity