IAMWALKINGTHROUGHROMEWITHMYHEARTONASTRING

i don't know if it's just the frame of mind i've been in lately or what, but . . .

i was watching tv and an olive garden commercial came on . . . a couple sits at a table, dinner a deux. the waitress arrives and asks them if they're there on a special occasion, going so far as to list possible situations.

"are you here celebrating an anniversary? a birthday? a promotion?"

now, why don't people ever approach ME and ask me stupid fucking questions like that, huh?

are you joking?

AN ANNIVERSARY?!?!

now, i hate to sound like an elitist bitch, but olive garden is hardly where one goes to celebrate life's major milestones.

it's not like it's urasawa, cut, melisse, matsuhisa, or saddle peak lodge!

it's olive garden.

i go there to celebrate a good manicure, a recent car wash, or picking up my dry cleaning . . .

shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit (courtesy clay davis from "the wire").

IWISHTHATIHADJESSIE'SGIRL

i like scary movies. a lot.

and when i say “scary” films, i mean scary films, not horror movies.

i can’t stand horror flicks. tits, guts, more tits, more guts. no, thanks.

i’m talking about movies that tap into the supernatural, like “the exorcist”, “the omen”, “rosemary’s baby”, and more recently, "stigmata" and “the exorcism of emily rose” . . .

why? well, because it appeals to the catholic in me (the recovering catholic, that is) and, too, in my family we have a long tradition of scaring the buhjesus out of each other.

i was thinking about this last night as i tried to watch what turned out to be a very disappointing scary movie called “an american haunting”. it was laughable. as a matter of fact, i mostly laughed. the scene, for example, where the young heroine gets slapped in the face by a poltergeist is downright hilarious.

looking back, maybe best buy mistakenly put it under “horror” when, in fact, they meant to put it under “comedy” . . .

but i digress.

so much of who i am today is directly related to my childhood experiences. i think this is true for most people . . .

see, when i was a kid, nothing brought my three older brothers more profound, unadulterated bliss than seeing me cry hysterically at the end of one of their complex, meticulously planned, drawn-out scare schemes.

the worst plot, or rather, the best, however, was actually the impromptu work of the youngest of the three, my brother moe.

i was eight and moe was eighteen. moe, had unluckily plucked the short straw and been left to babysit me on a friday night in the middle of what was, at the time, the largest manhunt in california history.

the man for whom authorities were frantically searching was richard ramirez, also known as, “the night stalker”.

in 1985, richard ramirez, was (is. he’s still awaiting execution in san quentin) the worst serial killer america had seen since maybe “the son of sam”, david berkowitz. according to a bio of ramirez on wiki, ramirez killed as many as 15 people throughout california, victimizing as many as 25-30 in both california and other states in the southwest. he was caught on august 31, 1985, one day after the police released his photograph to local media, when he made the mistake of trying to steal a latino man’s car.

i mean, fucking hello? everyone knows you don’t fuck with a latino man’s car.

shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit (you people MUST watch "the wire". like, NOW!).

especially a latino man in the middle of working on his car during a weekend . . .

apparently, ramirez got knocked-dafuck-out when the latino man and his neighbor took a steel pipe to his head.

for weeks prior to his arrest, my family and i had been glued to the television, terrified by a map of where the night stalker had struck. i remember my father going around to every window and every door each night and methodically checking and rechecking each one to make certain everything was securely locked. my mother, a fervent catholic latina, would follow behind him, blessing the house with holy water, rosary in hand, chanting hail marys and our fathers, and making the sign of the cross in front of every opening. even my brothers took precautionary measures, namely, tucking loaded .45s under their pillows . . .

about a week before moe had been forced to watch me, ramirez had been spotted in burbank, just ten minutes away from our house.

that friday night, august 30th, one day before ramirez would be taken in to custody, moe spontaneously hatched his own sadistic plot.

it was close to bedtime and having showered, moe ordered me to put on pjs and brush my teeth while he went to the corner liquor store to buy himself a gatorade. as he walked out the door, moe claims to have muttered to me something about locking the door behind him.

i, busy singing “like a virgin” into my toothbrush, didn’t hear him.

to be fair, this wasn’t the first time i’d left the door to our house unlocked. i did it all the time. and it wasn’t just the house i’d forget to key, but also the front gate . . . hell, all gates . . . cars, peanut butter jars, mayonnaise containers, you name it. generally speaking, i was and still am really bad about locking things up.

and moe had apparently had enough . . .

teeth sparkling and fresh, i went to my bedroom, pulled out my rainbow brite pjs and skipped back down the hallway to the bathroom. closing the door, i began putting on my nightgown.

i was in the middle of “touched for the very first time . . .” when i heard the front door slam open.

“moe?” i called.

no response.

it must be moe, i thought . . .

“like a virgin, feels so good inside . . .” i sang, now having picked up my hairbrush.

as i made what i believed to be my best virginal face into the mirror, i caught the flicker of the brass door knob turning. fortunately, however, this door i HAD locked.

“mooooooeeeeeee, is that you?” i said again.

nothing.

then, i heard footsteps shuffling outside the bathroom door. floor boards creaking, i saw a large shadow in the door’s frame.

i crouched down on the tile, cheek on the cool surface, and peered beneath the door. there, i made out, in the dimly lit corridor, a pair of large, male sneakers.

backing away from the door, i called once more, “moe? is that you? it’s not funny. tell me if it’s you! i’m going to tell papi that you’re scaring me . . .”

i scooted myself back against the wall opposite the door, terrified.

the knob began turning once more.

slowly, then harder, more vigorously, then, finally, outright violently . . .

one rapid, rabid turn after another.

BANG, BANG, BANG!

i became paralyzed, certain it was the night stalker coming to rape and murder me.

the door shook with such force that i was sure it would come clean off its hinges.

“stop it, stop it, stop it!” i tried screaming, my voiced drowned out by panic and fright.

the vicious shaking continued . . .

i stood up, determined not to become ramirez’s next victim, and opened the small bathroom window, pushing out the screen. climbing on the sink, i leveraged myself onto the window’s frame and tried to squeeze out the impossibly diminutive aperture.

fuck you, shakira! damn these latin hips!

i managed to push myself only halfway out the window, when i heard the door give way and felt two hands seize a leg. i kicked furiously with my free leg and tried to hold onto the outside of the house with my small, eight-year-old arms.

sobbing, i was unable to yell for help. i was being dragged in and there was nothing i could do.

my nails scrapped against the stucco . . .

then, i heard a familiar laugh. “it’s me, you moron!” the voice cried in between breathless chortles.

“it’s me, moe!”

i continued to kick, too scared to process what had just been said.

“IT’S ME, MOE!” the voice kept shouting.

“oh, you muthafucking, sick, twisted piece of shit,” i would have said had i had then the extensively profane vocabulary i possess now. instead, i melted into a puddle of tears.

i was beside myself.

moe was beside himself, too, falling down on the ground next to me in a fit of diabolical laughter.

(he told me, years later, that his abs hurt for about a week after the prank.)

i made the silent cry. you know what i’m talking about: when you’re crying so hard that you haven’t any breath and all you can do is open your mouth, voice mute, face in full wretched glower.

then i blacked out.

when i came to, moe apologized profusely, smirk now gone from his face. i’d like to think that he was genuinely sorry, but i think he was just hoping i wouldn’t tell our dad what he’d done. but there wasn’t any need to confess to my father because when he and my mom came home several hours later, and as was customary my dad came in to kiss me good night, i was still breathlessly sniffling and snorting in my sleep.

there was no hiding . . .

in addition to a serious beat down, i think moe was also grounded for something like a month.

thankfully, no real permanent damage was done to me (much).

what’s more, the following night, richard ramirez was off the streets.

now thirty, with larry, curly, and moe all in their forties, married, and moved away, i long for those days . . . sitting here, staring at my extensive collection of scary movies, i realize it’s not so much the scare i seek by watching these films, but rather a time when the only thing scarier than the night stalker or ghosts or the devil, himself, or my brothers pretending to be any one of those, was the thought of growing up and losing the closeness we shared living together as kids, as family, under one roof.

BETTERISONEDAY

when i first decided to teach, i knew i wanted to teach high school (ages 14-18). with my personality, there wasn't any way that i could work with elementary (ages 5-11) or junior high (ages 12-13) kids.

i tried, though, to work with the little rugrats, but i just couldn't take it. perhaps i'm just not "motherly" enough, gooey enough, patient enough . . .

one tyke would walk in with a particularly dour face after forcibly being corralled back into the classroom after recess or lunch and so, trying to be the good teacher, i'd ask what was wrong.

shoulder shrug.

no, really, kid, what's the matter? are you, ok?

floor stare, another shoulder shrug, followed by "nuthin'" or "i dunno".

sweet jesu!

high school students, on the other hand, i hardly EVER have to prod for information. usually, they'll voluntarily spill their guts about every little detail about their lives. for the most part, it's great. sometimes i get too much information. and i always warn them not to tell me things that they don't want to get back to child protective services (i'm a mandatory reporter).

the great thing, barring the cases where i've had to report child abuse, is that my students and i have this ongoing communication. we talk about almost everything . . . not only academics (i LOVE discussing and explicating literature!), but also life, as a whole.

well, yesterday, one of my students, a senior, (we'll call him john) came into my class looking as though the universe itself was resting on his shoulders . . .

i was still eating my lunch . . . "hey! what's up, john? what's shakin'? whaddya know?"

peeking in the door, "umm, you mind if i sit in here and do some reading? it's really loud outside."

chewing on a tomato on rye sandwich, easy mayo, "sure, no problem. whatcha' reading?"

serious face, "'crime and punishment'."

swallowing said tomato on rye, "oh, some light reading."

still serious, looking down at book, "yeah, that's it, ms. b."

going in for another bite, "ouch! no laugh, john? no pity smirk, even?"

john, not even slightly amused. silence . . .

now, likewise serious, "you ok?"

hesitation, "yeah, i'm ok." long pause, "well, i just have a lot on my mind."

curious, "about what? dostoevsky?"

quietly, shyly, soberly, "well, i'm just thinking about life."

trying to break the obvious tension, "'just', eh, john? yeah, well, babe, dostoevsky will do that to ya."

unsmiling, "no, not him. not the book. i mean LIFE. like religion, god, spirituality."

nervous, a bit panicked, but not letting on, "oh. wow."

daunted look, "yeah, i know."

poker face. calmly, humorously, "wow. uh, ok. let me finish my peach and recharge my synapses, then we'll see what we can do."

not very convinced, "ok, ms. b."

bell rings. fifth period about to begin, news staff rips through the door, walking in like a herd of pamplona bulls.

"oh my god! ms. b., did you read that article on the saudi woman who might be executed for witchcraft? it's total insanity over there!"

"yes, i did read about her. why don't all of you put up everything that you want to talk about on the board and start hashing out the next issue. i'm going to get some water for a second."

i wink at john, nod towards the door. he gets up, follows me.

outside my classroom, "so, talk to me. what's up?"

"did my girlfriend last year ever talk to you about our problem?"

"she and i talked about a lot of things, john. anything in particular?"

"well, yeah."

"what?"

"you know i'm an atheist, right?"

"i figured you had some questions . . ."

"it's just that jane (not her real name) is christian."

"uh huh . . ."

"and i feel confused about religion. i don't think there is a god. if jane and i get married and have kids, what will we teach them?

"you'll teach them what's right."

"yes, but what is correct and what is the best way?"

"what is correct is the best way. and actually, if we're being perfectly honest, there is no 'best way', i don't think."

confused, "what do you mean?"

unsure. a little perplexed myself, "if what is correct, john, is treating yourself, everyone around you, and the environment well . . . being honest, courageous, patient, merciful, forgiving . . . if all of that is correct, then it is also, very probably, the best way. one of them, at any rate. i don't think that they are mutually exclusive."

"jane thinks that organized religion is the best thing for kids. that they need structure so that someday, when we're not around, they may be guided by those principles, that church, or temple, or whatever. that though being all those things you say is correct, it is not the best way because it is a) unpopular to have no belief in a god and b) there is a great benefit to be had from having the fellowship of a church."

"that may be. i don't know."

"what do you think?"

"i think it's more unpopular to be cruel and be a part of an organized religion than to be good and not be a part of a religious institution."

smile . . .

"well, if you're asking me my opinion, then i think that everything i just said about caring for yourself and others and the world, honesty, courage, etc., that those things comprise a structure and a fellowship too. i was raised catholic. i'm not catholic anymore, though . . . my dad is dead and my mom is a world away. when i need moral guidance i look back at my mother's and my father's examples, which aren't necessarily about organized religion. i ask myself, were they honest? were they kind? were they generous? were they patient? were they forgiving? yes. ok, well, then there's my example. were they that way as a result of being christian? perhaps. you are those things without having had any religious influence from your parents. that's something to think about. i also get such guidance from reading . . . from christian texts, but also jewish, also buddhist, also scientific . . . you don't necessarily have to have organized religion in order to read about, understand, or even practice the teachings that stem from them. what's more, good fellowship doesn't solely flow from churches, synagogues, and temples. i find that good fellowship with good people can be had almost anywhere. you can surround yourself with good people, if you yourself are good and discerning."

breath, continuing, "furthermore, john, let's say you do give your children organized religion, there is no telling what they will do."

crying . . .

"john, darling, first, stop worrying. you can continue to meditate on this, but worrying is useless. as the dalai lama teaches, if there is a problem and it has a solution, then do not worry for it will be solved. if there is a problem and it has no solution, then do not worry, for there is nothing to do. secondly, if it were me, i would talk with jane and find out why she believes what she believes. is it just conformity or does she perceive some real, greater benefit from organized religion."

"what if she says that she just has faith in jesus and that that's why she wants our kids to be christian."

"faith can be beautiful, john! faith can be a gift. if she says that, john, then that may very well be a great and wonderful thing. listen, it's not like she's placing faith in some sort of religion or cult that believes in hurting others or that is contrary to your own beliefs in honesty, caring, generosity, and all that. she's not asking to raise your kids in some satanic cult, right?"

"yeah."

"ok, well, then if you both believe in everything we've talked about--caring about people and all the rest--then why should you begrudge her her desire to be a part of christianity? there is nothing to be lost from having faith in that and potentially, much, much, much to be gained. later on, when your kids get older, you can sit down and discuss your views together. that would be ok, no?"

pause.

"though, a warning, john . . . it won't be easy for the two of you. you will have to stay on top of communicating and compromising. will she resent you not going to church? will you resent her going to it? what will you say when the children inevitably ask why you don't attend services with them? there are many potential problems. you will have to consider them, work through them together, make compromises . . . the rose-colored glasses will definitely have to come off."

we both sigh.

"ms. b., do you think i'm going to go to hell?"

"gosh, no! i don't, john, i really don't. if there's such a thing, babe, you won't ever be in it."

more deep sighs.

"i don't know if any of this that i am telling you is right or not, john, they're all just my personal beliefs. and maybe they'll change, maybe they won't, but right now, i think that if i treat myself and others right, love them, care for them, am honest, am kind, am generous, and so on . . . then i don't think that any self-respecting god, if there is one, would shun me from paradise on this alone. and if so, it's no god i want to believe in anyway. but that's me. you have to think about this, talk with jane, and ultimately decide for yourself. go talk with her church's elders, go talk with other people, other religious leaders, your parents, other teachers . . . ask more questions, many more, read more, much more . . ."

bell rings . . .

PUTONMYBLUESUEDESHOESANDIBOARDEDTHEPLANE

my nephew recently had his bar mitzvah (mazel tov!) and he had an adorable video montage . . . since i can't post a copy, here are some of the pictures from it, as well as a couple that i temporarily stole from my brother's archives so that i could put on here.

good times . . .


(1994: north hollywood, ca. no, that's not a peanut, that's my nephew and that's me.)


(1996: van nuys, ca. varsity cheerleading shot. when my student's saw this photo, the consensus was that i was a "chola" in high school . . . ha!)


(1996: kapa'a, kaua'i, hi. on vacation after my high school graduation. i look like a boy with short hair . . . and my nephew, well, he doesn't look very happy either.)


(circa 1997: puntarenas, punta leona, costa rica. my brother, moe, there in the back (that's his noggin) and my nephew, body boarding at the beach in front of my mom's house on costa rica's central pacific ocean. and if that look on my nephew's face doesn't scream "utter bliss!", then i don't know what does! this is my favorite picture ever.)


(circa 1997: arenal (volcano), costa rica. nephew at hotel tabacon's thermal pools. isn't he delicious? look at those curls! and that face!)


(not sure when this was. not too far back. in laughlin, nevada, with my girlfriends . . .)


(not sure about the date on this one, either, but a bit, is my guess.)

WATERLOOSUNSETSFINE

"For Laura"

All the black spaces
falling lines
and frailties,
as real in your eyes
as the veins inside.

You know them, you hold them,
they are safe in your hands
because you, too,
do not hold glass to the light
to see its imperfections.

You know in your eyes,
in the spaces between pictures,
most gardens are tended
by disappointed men.

Leaves show their colours
in their frailty, in veins
and in life so often
long and listless,
grey and best forgotten.

You and I, in your eyes,
we will leave no mark
on the glass,
we will not wonder
from where the song came.

EAJ

IONCEUSEDTOCHASEAFFECTIONWITHDRAWN,BUTNOWIJUSTSITBACKANDYAWN

i'm at lmu right now. and yeah, it's about as exciting as it sounds. class (a course on special education law) starts at 7pm. so, am killing a bit of time.

now, i hate to be a total whinger, buuuuuuuuuuuuuut i am so tired. i really don't want to be here. however, at $3K a pop, i figure that i should probably show up, even if i am not actually "here".

i was at work saturday (allllllll day), sunday(allllllll day), AND monday (allllllll day, even though it was a holiday). it's been a long string of work days with no play in between and i don't fare well without at least a little play time.

(yes, welcome to the pity party. let me take your coat. there are hors d'œuvres on the table . . . help yourself.)

i had to move classrooms (pictures coming forthwith) this weekend . . . and then there was the chernobyl-style meltdown i had last night when i lost the ENTIRE file for this month's newspaper. yeah.

i need a drink. several, in fact. stiff. very stiff.

anyhow, i've got two posts now that i'm itching to put up, but haven't had the time. one's on my newly favorite documentary (it's with the dalai lama) and the second is on my outing (if you can call it that) to see "smuckers on ice" at the honda center (no, that's not a joke) with my shiny, new friend, whom we're going to call "snow white". why "snow white", you ask? because it's my blog and i'll nickname people whatever i want. that's why!

where's that drink . . .

WHOA,BLACKBETTY!BAM-A-LAM

i love people.

last week i was assigned to be a mentor for a student teacher from a local college and one of the very first questions she asked me was, "why do you love teaching?" actually, the very first question was, "DO YOU like teaching?"

frankly, i wasn't sure how to answer.

i mean, my gut answer, the immediate reply that came to mind, and also the truest, which i gave to her, was, "i LOVE teaching!"

but what did that MEAN? why? WHY do i love teaching?

to be clear, i DO love teaching. i just never really delineated the reasons (for myself or for others) with any real precision . . .

the rumor is that anyone who teaches does so because they can't do anything else with their life or simply wants a flexible schedule. well, where i am concerned, allow me to dispel both of those suppositions. perhaps they are true of some teachers, just not THIS one.

for the record, mama didn't raise no fool. i graduated from ucla with a BA in english literature. i had a 3.867 GPA in the major and would have had latin honors (summa cum laude), except that, due to some bureaucratic ineptitude on ucla's part, my application was rejected.

what is more, anyone who actually believes that teachers work a 40 hour week for 9 months and that's it is the real fool. i easily put in something closer to 70 hours or more every week and teach summer school. this is in addition to graduate education classes and certification . . .

as i think about it, i teach for many, many, many reasons. too numerous to name them all, but there are some worth mentioning/explaining:

i love learning.

i think that part of the reason i teach is that i have so much that i want to share . . . the reality is, though, that i learn more, i am sure, from my kids, than they learn from me. word.

my students never cease to amaze me with how much they already know. they are wondrous, those gangly, awkward teenagers.

i love reading.

it's true. i'm a self-professed book whore. what better profession for me than one in which i GET PAID to read? woo hoo! fact is, i should probably pay them!

wait.

let's not get carried away . . .

where was i? oh, yes, reading. i love it. i always have. this is, maybe, something innate, though it's more likely that it was cultivated in me by my wonderful mother, who may have lacked money for nice clothes or a proper car, but never for books. we were poor, to be sure, growing up, but no one would have ever guessed it from looking at our library.

i love writing.

omg, is there anything better? and not that i'm deluded or anything . . . i know i'm not a good writer, not by any stretch of the imagination, but i love it anyway. it's the whole creative process that turns me on. i have a portfolio (i use the term loosely) of poetry and other writings, as well as art . . .

(it's dawning on me that i talk about reading and writing in somewhat sexual terms . . . hmmm. remind me to discuss that later in it's own little post.)

i have "peter pan syndrome". if you can't tell that i'm just a giant kid, then you can't read very well and should probably . . . actually, definitely . . . have your eyes checked.

hurry. go now!

i don't take anything too seriously. least of all me.

and yeah, ok, fine, the schedule IS nice.

but the bottom line? people. i love people.

i am a people person. this is a career that affords me the privilege . . . the honor . . . of being a part of so many people's lives. wow. what a tremendous gift and responsibiity. i am both humbled and awed by the trust that parents put in their children's teachers, in me . . .

i love that i get to work with these remarkable creatures, human beings . . . and that sometimes i get to help, get to show them something new, get to learn something for the first time WITH them, get to listen, get to inspire, get to laugh, get to discuss, get to cry, get to create, get to challenge . . .

there are days, i won't lie, that i think i don't get paid enough, that i get upset that others don't value the work that i and others like me do . . . but they are few and far between . . . easily swept away by a kid who, as he runs out of my class, says, "that story was cool, ms. b. i learned a lot about . . ."

people. yeah. i love them.

SOMEPEOPLECALLMETHEGANGSTEROFLOVE

straight off the bruin presses:

"2/7/08, Collison Leads Second Half Resurgence, Bruins Top Cougars: Darren Collison scored all of his 18 points in the decisive second half and freshman Kevin Love added 16 points and nine rebounds to lead No. 5 UCLA to a rugged 67-59 victory over reeling No. 17 Washington State on Thursday night."

apparently, i'm wrong.

apparently, there IS a god.

a basketball god . . . but still . . .

gotta give up the eight-clap:

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

u

c

lllllllllllllllllllllllll

aaaaaaay

u

c

l

a

fight, fight, fight!

WEMADEAPROMISEWESWOREWE'DALWAYSREMEMBER. . .NORETREAT,NOSURRENDER

webmd is a joke.

i used their "symptom checker" and this is what it said:

(NOT making this up)

a) i might have the flu
b) i might have a sinus infection
c) i might have leukemia

so, basically, what i am hearing is, "well, ms. b., it might be nothing, OR it might be DEATH!"

excellent resource.

fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

i'm so frustrated. going on something like 3 weeks of head/chest cold. i have about 3 days of antibiotics left and don't feel even remotely better . . .

sheesh!

YEAH,YOUSHOOKME.YEAH,YOUSHOOKMEALLNIGHTLONG

so, i've been asked, "why obama?"

here's the short version:

i was initially for clinton, though truth be told, there really isn't much of a difference between clinton and obama in terms of policy. yeah, i know, shocker! at first, however, clinton seemed to have a little more interest in fighting poverty and economic equality (two things, which i firmly believe are nearly always at the heart of almost every conflict) than obama. i thought she seemed more genuine, at least in that respect.

and yes, i get that clinton . . . and obama, and every other candidate . . . they're all part of the same dog and pony show . . .

but in the last several months, i think obama has really struck a chord in the american people. as people have been saying, he has ignited a lust to dream, awakened in us a desire to believe. or if you prefer, he's given us that old JFK feeling. (so i hear, since JFK was before my time!)

we're past the sex and race issues, i think. all that talk that if obama wins it'll be because he's black and that if clinton wins it'll be because she's a woman is total bollocks. the fact that the race is between them is actually the best evidence that all such jibber-jabber is moot.

and there are differences, however slight . . .

as for the theory that a black president won't survive, that's just the kkk's wet dream and wholly unworthy of firing our synapses. so, let's just fuggedaboudit.

for me, obamamania is alive and well. the man's got that je ne sais quoi, that bit of magic that makes me think he'll be a much more formidable opponent for mccain, than clinton. he just might, people, have the ability that clinton lacks, to create an unstoppable wave.

SHE'SOHIGHABOVEME,SHE'SSOLOVELY

goat's milk=good cheese.

goat's milk=bad body lotion.

now, listen, I KNOW that i'm not in any sort of position to be judging others, but . . . i just got back from the voting station and there was this lady in line whose personal scent very nearly made me vomit.

seriously.

i could tell that it wasn't BO, though, that it was something else. it had to be something that she'd put on. so, i asked. I HAD TO.

"umm, m'am, may i ask, what is that you're wearing?"

and then she said, "goat's milk body lotion."

and then i waited for her to toss her head back and laugh and say "just kidding".

and i waited.

and i waited . . .

she WASN'T kidding.

"oh, it's lovely," i lied.

"thank you. i know it sounds a little unorthodox, but it makes my skin super silky," she offered, perhaps sensing my insincerity and disgust.

i didn't reply, but rather nodded and made what i am sure was an unpleasant, unforgiving face that said, "i've heard that elephant feces does the same thing, but you don't see ME running to sephora to pick some up, lady."

"unorthodox"? goat's milk body lotion? are you for real?

s&m, my friends, is unorthodox.

goat's milk body lotion is just plain gross.

and yeah, i know . . . i'm mean and i'm going to hell.

but hey, at least i don't smell like expired dairy.

INTHEVALLEYOFTHETHUNDERINGHEARTS

it's super tuesday.

when i told my kids that in second period today, one of them (you know exactly WHICH one, too, because you were probably the same kid when you were in high school) said, "super because i'm here, right, ms. banana?"

yeah, kid, right.

still not 100% yet, but nevertheless i'm off to vote in the primary!

can you figure out for whom i'm voting?

LITTLEPINKHOUSESFORYOUANDME

apparently i am somewhere between gandhi, the dalai lama, and nelson mandela . . .

funny, if you realized that i grew up in a household that worshipped ronald reagan and gave one of its sons to the military.

maybe my brothers weren't kidding . . . maybe i WAS adopted.

if you want to find out where YOU stand politically, check out: http://www.politicalcompass.org

IJUSTWONDERWHATYOUDOTHEREINBACKOFYOURPINKCADILLAC

whoever said "it never rains in southern california" was a disgusting liar.

but that's ok.

i love rain.

i love water.

i love inclement weather.

it appeals to my inner melancholy.

feeling slightly better this morning, though i fear my brain won't be back for several more days (yeah, yeah, no comments from the peanut gallery, thank you, who right now are questioning whether my brain was ever really "here" to begin with). i have something i desperately want to write about, but it'll have to wait just a bit longer . . .

JUSTDOYOURBESTANDDON'T. . .DON'TWORRY

i am an incubus of viral plague at the moment, which is why i haven't really been posting. (ha! like this matters to anyone!)

i'd been fighting off the flu for two weeks, when finally i started feeling better for a few days last week . . . and then, BAM! i got slammed with a sinus infection.

i saw my doctor yesterday. (good god, he's hot. and i looked like crap. nice. talk about adding insult to injury!)

i'm on meds now. if my posts sound weirder than usual, blame it on the drugs.

to self: coco, coco, coco . . . (see previous post.)