Too Verbose

Random Monday Thoughts

2012-01-30T14:31:00.000-08:00

I am going to a concert tonight. A Jonathan Coulton and They Might Be Giants concert. You may now be jealous.

I've been excited about this for months, almost as excited as I am about going back to New York for spring break. The most exciting part about both events? I won't be going alone. Jamila and I will be going together. It's nice that she wants her mommy around for these kinds of things.

I hate homework. I don't think that will ever change.

Unless you are in a very math heavy field such as astro-physics or one of the other "hard" sciences, you will never need to use algebra in the real world. All of the posters in your math class are lying to you.

It is amazing how two people of approximate weight wearing similar shoes can vary the amount of noise they make whilst walking up stairs or a ramp.

I think every school should have a library staffed with a librarian and children should learn why to use Wikipedia as a beginning source, not the only source for research papers.

If you fry your french fries in peanut oil, you should display a notice about doing so in a very visable and noticeable place, like the front window of your eatery. I'm not allergic to peanuts or peanut oil, I just hate the taste. Yes, I can taste the difference. Yes, I know that most people can't. No, I'm not just imagining it.

Anyone who uses a fake/imitation cheese or cheese product instead of real cheese in their food should not be allowed to use the word cheese to describe the food. They should have to use the word Yuck. If a pizza place uses imitation mozzerella or mozzerella cheese food, they should list their pizza as Yuck pizza, or pizza with Yuck and sausage.

ON HOLD

2012-01-17T14:30:00.000-08:00

This blog is being ignored currently due to an overwhelming amount of schoolwork. My other blog is actually for class and will be updated more frequently. You are more than welcome to read my other blog and I will try to update this one when I get the chance.

New Poem

2011-09-28T15:14:00.000-07:00

This is not something I wrote for class. This is just something I wrote for me. It is as yet untitled.

Untitled

I could set it in one of those
cafés that are really overpriced
coffee shops selling the Art
hanging on their walls
done by some great Artist
who just happens to be besties
with the manager

I could set it in one of those
Cities that everyone knows
until they live there Cities
of strangers Cities of light
Cities of wonder Cities somehow
different from the other Cities
just like them

I could set it somewhere
personal like my studio
with the fuchsia not pink
K superglued to the wall
because the mounting tape
would not work on the brick
next to broadsheet of Orlen
from the memorial gently framed
above the convertible couch
she used until she moved out
leaving me with my thoughts
and poetry to set.

Post Created Sep 16, 2011 10:34:20 AM

2011-09-16T10:34:00.001-07:00

I wrote a poem for class Wednesday. A poem I won't post here because if it was a movie it would be rated NC 17. It was extremely adult in subject manner. I had no qualms turning it in and providing copies for my classmates since we are adults. At least, I thought we were.

After class, a classmate whom I've talked to a few other times and am on friendly terms with were discussing our poems. While we were talking about them, she told me how the guy who sits next to her responded to mine. He read the first line and demanded to know who I was. Just the first line. The line that has two profanities. The line that describes a sexual assault without implicitly stating it is such.

He would not read further. He judged my poem, and worse he judged me, by one line. One line that I intentionally made coarse and vulgar. I am not sure what he expects in a 400 level poetry class, but if he is that easily offended, perhaps he should switch to writing children's fiction.

Soul Separation

2011-08-26T00:35:00.001-07:00

I was leaving my body behind
I was being drawn out
Not yet I thought
I started
A dream I must convince myself

I reached for you
Received no comfort
My small concern less important
Than the rain and the television

Post Created Aug 25, 2011 2:17:24 PM

2011-08-25T14:17:00.001-07:00

All you want

2011-08-20T04:41:00.000-07:00

All you want
Is my blood
To burn away
Your guilt

All I want
Is not to
Feel the anger
You left as
A consolation prize

Reruns

2011-08-20T02:33:00.001-07:00

It's 2 am and I am watching a rerun of Roseanne. If I am awake at 2 am, I always watch Roseanne, even if it is one from the last season when they completely jumped the shark. I watch because of my mom.

She loved Roseanne. She identified with her. She also saw me as a real life equivalent of the character Darlene (which actually was my mom's name). I think she may have been right about that and a lot of other things. I miss my mom and I wish life had reruns you could play when you miss someone who has passed, but it doesn't. So I watch reruns of Roseanne.

A quick note to Facebook users

2011-07-18T11:35:00.000-07:00

Dear Users of Facebook;

Facebook is not planning on becoming a paid site. There is no special education week . Most of those shocking videos are scams or viruses . Copy and paste statuses are rarely interesting or pertinent. Furthermore, writing happy birthday to your child as your Facebook status when your child is not even on Facebook just tells me you want attention. All those quizzes you do that tell you that if you were a wine, you'd be a MD40/40 and if you lived in the Harry Potter universe, you'd be a troll are not only extremely annoying, but are also an easy way for hackers to get enough personal information on you to steal your identity . Liking a lot of pages does not make you interesting. Posting a quote every so often is okay, but if you have nothing original to say ever, maybe you should log off and try this new 3D experience called "having a life."

Short Poem

2011-07-14T13:07:00.000-07:00

This is a short poem I left on someone's Facebook wall.

Sleep and head into Nod
See the words fly
Away from the poet,
The musician, the writer
Chasing them like
...The ice cream trucks
Of Youth

Catch your words
Hold them tight
As you dream back to reality

Bad Parenting Advice

2011-07-03T20:51:00.000-07:00

Parenting Tips

Lying is good. Always. Lie as often as possible to your children, they need to learn to detect lies as early as possible in order to deal with the real world.

Children are stupid. They will believe anything you tell them and have no cognative abilities.

Only build up hope in your children if you can crush it later. Tell little Snauflayke that she is the best singer in the world (even though she's tone deaf). Enter her into a talent competition and laugh when she doesn't make the second round.

Spoil your children, they deserve every cent spent on them and they should grow up feeling entitled. How else will they get a reality show?

Children who kick and bite others are a joy to be around. Encourage your children to explore their world with their teeth.

Do your children's homework for them and ignore the teachers who say they need to learn grammar and math. They can always learn those things in college.

Your children will never do anything wrong despite your complete lack of moral fiber. Everything is obviously someone else's fault. Georgie wouldn't have hit the Jenny if she had not called him a name and the teacher had been paying better attention.

Television is an excellent, and cheap, babysitter. Use it early and often.

Learning social skills is overrated. We're all going to have android friends in a few years anyway.

The best way to stop a tantrum is candy, lots of candy. Also soda and cake.

A little nip of Jack Daniels, some tylenol, or cough syrup is an excellent way to get a child to sleep so you can have some quiet t-shirt time.*

The teachers at your child's school are nothing more than way overpaid babysitters; treat them as such.

Kids can survive for years on Milky Ways and Mountain Dew.

Teach your child that every event is clothing optional.

*YSaC reference of an adult nature.

Blarg.

2011-06-28T15:20:00.000-07:00

Blarg blarg blarg shiznu blarg.

I won't bleed for you.

2011-06-18T17:01:00.000-07:00

I cannot donate blood for medical reasons. I know many others who also, for various reasons, cannot or chose not to donate blood. Their reasons, and mine, are no one’s business. When blood drives are run on campus or at work, they and occasionally I are hounded by well meaning, but ignorant people. If you ask someone to donate blood and they politely decline, the correct response is to accept it, not to ask why not and try to challenge their objections.

When I was still at Pima, I watched a volunteer harass a classmate. She was walking towards me to start a study group and he got in front of her, telling (not asking, mind you, but telling) her to sign up to give blood. She politely said, “I’m sorry, I can’t.” He told her that was ridiculous. She responded, “It’s for medical reasons.” By this time, I was not happy and I walked towards them. He asked, “What medical reason?” She started to answer, but I interrupted, “It’s none of your business. Shame on you for harassing her.” I was given a death glare and asked if I had donated yet. I looked him straight in the eye and said, “No, and I am not going to donate and my reasons are none of your business.”

Now, I am in favor of blood drives. They do a lot of good and they save lives. If you can donate medically and it is not against your religion or views, then I encourage you to donate as often as you can. However, do not pressure anyone to donate or harass people because they do not or cannot do the same.

2011-06-02T09:00:00.000-07:00

Most of you know that I work at a grocery store that is part of a large chain in Arizona and owned by a national chain. I worked on Memorial Day, which I didn't mind because I can use all the hours I can get during the summer break. We were busy because apparently it makes the most sense to do all your holiday shopping on the holiday in question. For the most part, our customers were polite, well mannered, fairly sane, and reasonably intelligent. There were, of course, exceptions.

We were sampling ribs, so we had our store grill out front being used to cook said ribs. Now I am sure that most of you know that when a grill is being used, it gets hot and it would not be a good idea to play around with it. We set cones up around the grill, but seeing as we do not have, "leave the grill alone, it is hot, stupid" cones, we used the ones that simply said caution and have the falling man on them. Most of our customers were smart enough to figure out that the cones meant that we did not want them to get too close to the grill when our grillmaster was not there to physically prevent them. However, we had a customer, a grown man, decide that since the cones did not specifically say to leave the grill alone that it meant he could start investigating it. I scared him off just as he was about to put his hand on the side to see "how hot it gets when you cook it." My coworkers said I should have let him burn himself, but I hate to see anyone, even the stupid, hurt themselves.

Later in my shift, I was in the lot grabbing carts when a customer approached me. He had a look on his face that I've seen before, the "I have a problem and I want it to be your problem" look. I took a breath and smiled like a good wage slave. I then had an interesting conversation with him, I'll call him Captain Idiot...

Captain Idiot : "Hey, my car is over there, the green truck, and if I turn it off, it won't start up again. I have to run in really quick to get something. Can you keep an eye on it?"

Me: "No, I can't. We can't be responsible for it."

Captain Idiot : "Don't you have a security guard or something?"

Me: "Yes, but he can't watch it for you either. We cannot be liable..."

Captain Idiot (interrupting me): "I won't hold you guys reliable"

Me (walking away): "It doesn't matter, sir, our policy is clear on this."

Captain Idiot (shouting as he walks into the store): "Sorry you have to work on Memorial Day!"

He was in the store for half an hour and when he came back out, his piece of junk was still there, running and wasting gas.

Pick A Hand

2011-05-23T02:35:00.000-07:00

I am ambidextrous. There is only about 5% of the world’s population who are considered ambi (no, I do not want to spell out ambidextrous a bunch of times), and most of these “ambi” people are converted lefties or right-handed people who have made a conscious effort to learn to use their non-dominant hand.* Around 10% of people in the United States are left handed by comparison.**

I am a natural ambi, I was not a lefty switched to righty or a righty who “picked up” left-handed skills. I have been this way since birth. My mother once told me that even as a baby, I would alternate hands with no preference for either. I was a rare find, an almost mythical beast. My mother was content to let me have no dominant hand, having already had a lefty and two righties.

In kindergarten, I met the first obstacle to my neither-handedness. My otherwise nice teacher did not believe ambidexterity truly existed. To her, it was like big foot or the perfect swimsuit for any woman over a size 6. She thought that I was just being obstinate when I would alternate hands midway through a writing lesson. Through gritted teeth told me, “choose a hand already.” I looked around and noticed most of the kids were using their right hands, so I chose to use my right one for writing. It was the first time I made a conscious decision to favor one hand over the other. When I got older, I taught myself to write with my left, but it will probably never be as good as my right.

Because I am an ambi, I don’t pay much attention to which hand I am using to eat unless I am sitting next to Jamila. She is a natural lefty. If I am sitting on her left, I will make a willful effort to use my left hand. It upsets her when she is placed to the right of a right handed person as she knows they will end up bumping into each other multiple times. She often had that trouble when she was in Head Start.

Having her in Head Start caused many headaches. First, they placed her in the Spanish speaking section. She speaks maybe three words (non food) of Spanish now, and she spoke less of it then. Secondly, the “teacher” (teacher is in quotation marks because that is what her title was, but I considered her as much a teacher as I consider the Flintstones to be a historically accurate cartoon) would “correct” her when she would do anything with her left hand.

Despite my daily complaints, this continued for weeks. I had enough the day I showed up early and she was crying because her “teacher” yelled at her, in Spanish, for knocking over another student’s glass when she was eating. I was not happy. I got down to Jamila’s level and I told her that she had done nothing wrong, that the adults had made a mistake by putting her in the middle instead of on the end. Then I voiced my displeasure to this “teacher” and her supervisor. After the stunned looks started to fade from their faces and the supervisor started to give me a weak apology, I let them know that my left-handed, English speaking daughter would not be returning and left without looking back. It was one of my momma bear moments. I am not a woman to be trifled with if I am in momma bear mode.

*I read this on some website that I am pretty sure was scientific or something, but I don’t remember the website name because I visit a *lot* of websites and I read a *lot* of stuff.

**I am pretty sure that I read this in “Left Handed Kids, Why are They So Different”- the 1997 edition, so it may be outdated information. I only remember the book because of how wrong it was in so many ways.

Regret - a haiku

2011-05-23T01:38:00.000-07:00

I let a lover
leave Afraid I was to speak
the word to keep him

Random Thoughts

2011-04-16T06:57:00.000-07:00

Just some random early morning thoughts -

In Rappiccini's Daughter, could the garden be a fallen Eden, Beatrice would be Adam, Gustavo would be Eve, Doctor Rappiccini would be the Creator, and Professor Baglioni would be the serpent.

I have several teachers recommend that I read Sharon Olds's poetry after reading mine. I have read her stuff, while she has an interesting style, I don't really enjoy reading her stuff.

I will never understand why people will walk further to leave a cart in the wrong place than they would have walked if they had left it in the cart corral.

David Spade's character on Rules of Engagement (I only watch it occasionally and only because it has Patrick (the Tick) Warburton) is not funny.

Carrot cake should not be called cake and if you serve it and call it cake, I will call you a liar.

I really want wall to wall bookcases.

How I Use Class Time

2011-04-14T06:30:00.000-07:00

During class time, I have a bad habit of doodling or writing random little snippets of things. On Monday, listening to my ENGL 373B professor give yet another sex laden lecture this time focused on Whitman, I wrote, "Literature is his heroin." I kind of liked that so I wrote a (extremely) short poem with that as the first line. I still don't like the ending, but I'd figured I'd post it since it's been so long since I've added anything.

Professor S.

Literature is his heroin
Injects it into the minds of his students
The 72 year old dealer doles out Swift
Just a little taste of Whitman
Shooting up a bit of Defoe
A hit of Dickinson
Sex from the chandeliers with Kubla Kahn
Emerson cut with Keats
Freebasing the Shelleys
The only hope for this addiction - television rehab

A letter to a professor

2011-03-01T18:29:00.000-08:00

I have liked most of my professors and even the ones I did not personally care for I have been able to at least learn something from. The professor that I call MegaBoring is a notable exception. I wrote a letter to MegaBoring on my way to her class tonight.

Dear professor,

When one speaks eloquently and succinctly on a subject of which one is passionate and knowledgeable, and uses humor to underscore one's particular viewpoint, an audience can become quite engaged even if they possess an opposing viewpoint or little interest in said subject. A professor who engages his students will be much appreciated, for a student will find the classwork less dreary and tiresome if he is invested in the subject.

You, professor, are passionate about many subjects; few of them have any relevance to the course you are teaching. You are knowledgeable but the small kernels you offer the class are often lost in the pointless blather you wrap around them. Even those students who originally were looking forward to learning about this subject became disillusioned and disinterested after only a class or two. The typing you hear while you speak is not students taking copious notes, rather it is students doing their homework from other classes, updating their FaceBook statuses, playing games, and anything other than actually paying attention to your rambling tangents that occasionally stray onto the actual topic on hand.
Sign me resigned to learn nothing.

Old poem

2011-02-24T12:10:00.000-08:00

This is a collage poem I did last year. I didn't really have a theme or an idea in mind. I just cut out some words from the Tucson Weekly and kept rearranging them until I liked what I saw. It's a little schmaltzy, but I like it.

Totally Selfish am I

2011-02-22T00:40:00.000-08:00

I decided something a couple of days ago; I want to try to find one nice thing to do for someone every day. It’s not about karma or being a “better person” or even about some life changing resolution.I just want that tiny thrill that comes with doing something for someone else. Basically, I want to do something nice for purely selfish reasons.

Angel Wings

2011-02-10T05:43:00.000-08:00

I got an e-mail yesterday from the Pride Alliance at my campus. Brother Jed is back. To help shield fellow students from his hate, "angels" volunteer. To quote the e-mail,

" If you have not seen Project Angel, it is a project in which volunteers wear "angel wings" made of PVC pipe and sheets in order to block what Brother Jed is saying from the people who are walking by.This is made to prevent him from pointing people out. The demonstration is completely silent."

I decided to volunteer for today. As a Christian, Brother Jed offends me and I am saddened that there are others who agree with his racist, misogynistic, homophobic, and anti-Semitic views. I think the hardest part for me will be remaining silent.

After Rocky

2011-01-31T22:41:00.000-08:00

This poem has adult language and situations in it. Please do not read it if you find such things objectional.

AFTER ROCKY

Grime coats the pillar
On the unused side of
The underground el station
Still I grip it tightly
As you thrust your cock
Even deeper into me
It hurts and I know blood
Will come as it always does
I say nothing to you
Enjoying the pain
Anticipating the pleasure

The platform hides
From our view
Trains pass
Unnoticed
Drops of sweat
Fall onto me

Brace thrust brace
Your arm lifts
My hips a fraction of an inch
Bettering your angle
Bringing us to the sacred O
At almost the same time
My head drops slightly
Then rises again

Your stubble scratches
My cheek agreeably
A chaste kiss
We walk over
And wait for our trains
Mine going to the western suburbs
Yours going back to the north side

Las Vegas and a poem

2010-12-28T23:04:00.000-08:00

For Christmas, I went to Las Vegas with Jamila to see the other three. It was an interesting trip. It started with the plane there being delayed an hour and a half because the plane was waiting in Albuquerque for people who were delayed from other places. It came and we boarded. We were lucky and got a 3 seat row to ourselves. During the flight, I kept hitting the attention button when I meant to hit the light button and I spilled a full cup of ginger ale (no ice, of course) all over myself.

We got off the plane and looked for a shuttle when I realized I had forgotten to take out any cash. Back into the airport we went. I found an ATM and it was one of my bank's (yay!). I got the money, paid for the shuttle, and we waited for the driver on the wet sidewalk. We finally board the shuttle bus and head towards the various hotels that the driver has to service. The bus decides to break down as we approach the first hotel. The driver calls in to dispatch and they tell her to wait there for an emergency bus. So we sit on the bus as the other passengers get angry and storm off to find taxis. She was very sweet and we had a lot of laughs while we waited. About 55 minutes later, dispatch calls her and says the other bus is there but can't find us. She asks if he's at the right hotel at the right pick up spot. Then dispatch says the emergency bus driver "gave up and left" and she should just try to push the bus to our hotel and then baby it all the way to the yard.

We made it to the hotel around 11ish. There was a long line and two clerks were working. We noticed that the clerk that was wearing a blazer was much faster and friendlier than the clerk who was not. We decided that the blazer was +5 speed and +2 charisma. As we got towards the front, another clerk started working, he was also wearing a blazer and was quicker than his blazerless co-irker. We were checked in by the original blazer guy and made our way up to the room on the 13th floor. Yes, the 13th floor.

I found out the next day that he was supposed to give me a special coupon when we checked in for the "kids eat free" special that I had booked. I had to go downstairs (after a very long wait on the phone to get the information) and be questioned thoroughly to receive said coupon.

Later during the stay, the 3 younger ones and I went to eat some pizza while Jamila stayed in the room. She was in bed when the door opened. Some Chinese people had the wrong room and spoke almost no English. She tried to explain that they were in the wrong room and resorted to speaking in Japanese to their Chinese including reading out our room number in Japanese to them. That's when we realised that we did not need a key to open our door.

There was other stuff that happened, but I don't want to bore anyone. It was pretty much a typical trip with Jamila. Here's a poem I wrote in the beginning of the fall semester. It's untitled because it's untitled.

UNTITLED

Lost on Sheridan
A familiar curve
Oak Street beach is near
We arrive
Closed to public,
Golf course replacing beach
A hole in the fence
We sneak through
The rocks are still here
I step forward
She is split in two piles
One for me
One for her best friend
A few words said
I hold her in my hand
I let her go
I hold her in my hand
I let her go
The wind picks up over the lake
Throwing her back in our faces
One last kiss goodbye

Spice Christ

2010-12-20T14:51:00.000-08:00

I used "spice Christ" in this poem, some of you know where I got that from and some of you do not. If you don't know then you are missing out a really great website with a superb bunch of regular snarkers.

Also, this is a prose poem, so there are no line breaks. Fair warning, this poem has crude language and adult situations.

6 Weeks With S.C.

"and that was whenever I seen her last," he remarks of his not quite ex-wife in our post coital bed. Oh my dear Bob, I've fucked an idiot. I resist the urge to correct him. We part. He calls and we meet again. Great Zeus, he doesn't understand negative numbers. Dumbass. He asks me if I am threatened by his intelligence and I reply in a kind manner instead of laughing in his face because I am not yet done with his cock. He takes off his clothes. My brain quiets down so the rest of me may enjoy him. He speaks. Shut up moron, you'll ruin it. I kneel and shut off his meager brain. He's just so damn pretty. The body I wish for Stephen Hawking. He pays for my cocoa at the coffee shop. He tries to hold my hand as we walk to his car. He wants me to meet his mother. Holy fat Buddha, he thinks we're in an actual relationship. "Fuck," I mutter. He replies, "we did." Sweet spice Christ, that's almost clever.

CRADLE

2010-12-18T20:48:00.000-08:00

Whenever my daughter tells me she’s done something incredibly stupid
I ask if she’s outdone my great uncle Cradle
Cradle isn’t his given name but being the youngest,
It was what everyone called him

Life on the farm in the 20s and 30s could get tedious
Convince Cradle became a game four of his older brothers would play
“Milk tastes best from the teat Cradle”
A round of antibiotics was required
“Ma found you on the doorstep Cradle”
His birth certificate was the only thing that stopped his tears
“Hey Cradle, do you want be a paratrooper?”
Cradle agreed readily
Who wouldn’t want to be a war hero?
They took him out to the old barn with the peeling red paint
Up to the dusty hayloft barren except for a few spiders looking for a new home
Since the hay bales had been cleared and sold a few weeks ago
They led him out the barn window out onto the roof
Their sister Diamond saw them from where she was scattering corn for the hens

They called to her, “Bring us Ma’s old umbrella”
She did as she was bid and joined them up on the roof of the barn
“Take the umbrella Cradle. Jump, count to three and open it, it’ll be like a parachute”
Cradle jumped.
His leg took six weeks to heal in a cast
While his leg healed, his brothers did his chores
They chided him for waiting too long to open the umbrella
“If you had opened it on time, you would have been fine”
He had counted to three he argued
“When did you start your count? After you jumped? That’s too late”
The cast came off and his brothers took him back to the barn
“Do it right this time Cradle. How can you be a paratrooper if you can’t even count to three?”

Professor Hottie

2010-10-27T14:40:00.000-07:00

This is the poem I didn't send in to the grad student who's filling in for Poetry Professor. I sent him one about sex ed, teen pregnancy, stds, prostitution, and infidelity instead.

EDIT- To clarify, Poetry Professor is not Professor Hottie

Professor Hottie

My professor smiles revealing
Two symmetrical dips, one in
Each cherubic cheek
My eyes hunger for a peek
Under his academic shell

His nutmeg and cinnamon orbs
Search the class for a volunteer
I almost always have something
To add to the discussion
Which he rarely steers preferring
A more open forum

He draws a picture on the whiteboard
Which hardly resembles the cow he
Claims it to be, Pictionary, he tells us
Is not a game we should play with him
His arms firm yet supple extend as he
Adds what he insists is a barn

His top two shirt buttons are undone today
Revealing his creamy skin beneath
I imagine the rest of his chest to be
Toned but soft and smooth like Michelangelo’s
David wrapped in layers of silk

My professor turns to face the board again
My eyes drift down to the tight roundness
That shapes the top of his pants
My left hand squeezes my laptop almost involuntarily
I force my eyes up to the back of his neck

He turns to face the class again pushing
A curl temporarily back into place
He quickly wraps up the discussion as
We put away our laptops, notebooks, and folders
I wonder if he knows what his female students
Call him when he and the male students aren’t around

Leisure Time

2010-10-07T23:07:00.000-07:00

I should write more poetry
I should write more stories
But homework needs doing
Work must come before
My other life
If I were rich
I might have time
To write the next novel
But what would I write about?

Picture

2010-09-13T21:52:00.000-07:00

I pose for a picture
With my sister and
Our two friends, also sisters
We tease our photographer

Who are the sisters?
It's obvious he claims
The three dark ones
The white girl doesn't belong

He could not see past my
Lack of melanin to see
The features I share with
My darker sister

A Blonde Rant

2010-07-16T22:01:00.000-07:00

When I was young, Polish and Hispanic jokes were all the rage with the people in my neighborhood. Adults would tell them to each other and the kids would overhear them, clean up the language a little and pass them onto their friends. When anyone would object to one of these clearly racist jokes, the retort would be, “But (insert known Polish or Hispanic friend) is (Polish or Hispanic) and he loves these jokes!”

As I got older and the neighborhood increased its Latino population, Hispanic jokes died out. Polish jokes still thrived. I wish I could say that I never told a Polish or Hispanic joke, but I can’t. I told all the jokes that my friends told; I even told dirty jokes before I even knew *why* they were dirty.

I grew up and moved away. I don’t hear any Polish or Hispanic jokes unless the little old racist man comes into my store. No one laughs at his jokes nor do they repeat them.

Now there are blond(e) jokes. I’ve heard them all. I don’t find them funny. I have never found them funny. Yes, I have told them and I have been the blonde that others used to justify their telling of the jokes. “See, she thinks the joke is funny and she’s blonde.” I understand how easy it is to just pretend it’s not insulting to be classified as stupid and whorish simply because you are part of a group that has a common characteristic.

It is easy to make a joke about a group of people, such as blondes or Polish people. In fact, I recognized some of the blond(e) jokes as recycled Polish jokes. It’s easy to tell someone when they are offended by that joke, “relax, it’s just a joke. It doesn’t mean anything.” That is wrong. Jokes are propaganda and have been used as such. Look at World War II era cartoons and comics from the United States, take notice of how they portray the Axis Powers. Jokes show how people are truly viewed. Look at The Daily Show. The whole thing is a joke, yet a large percentage of people use it to stay up to date with current events.

Let me say once again that I am a blonde. I am proud to be a blonde. I do not like blond(e) jokes. I do not like racist jokes. I think telling a blond(e) joke is no better than a racist joke, even if *you* are a blonde. I apologize if this is not as succinct as it should be; I fear I may have rambled. I simply needed to vent my frustration.

Someday

2010-07-03T13:36:00.000-07:00

Someday, he will love me
Someday, the beatings will end
Someday, the truth will matter more than perception
Someday, I will find my happiness
Someday exists only in the minds of poets and dreamers.

2010-06-28T07:44:00.000-07:00

I'm sure who Rert is but someone has 2 room for him.

little girl

2010-05-29T11:54:00.000-07:00

Little girl looks to the sky and dreams
She pictures herself successful
She will want for nothing
Her belly will be full not like now

Little girl looks to the sky and dreams
She pictures herself beautiful
A man will love her, be devoted
No one will call her ugly again

Little girl looks to the sky and dreams
She pictures a father who loves her
A father who treasures her
No more bruising outside or in

Little girl looks to the sky and dreams
She pictures friends who never abandon her
She will never need to do anything alone
No more loneliness like now

Little girl looks away from the sky and cries
No success, no beauty will come
Her father will not change, friends will not appear
The dreamer dies in her

Playing with food

2010-05-18T22:41:00.000-07:00

Some of these are mine, some were done by one or more of my girls.

Wanted

2010-04-30T10:50:00.001-07:00

Wanted -

A carefree summer day spent with my mother speaking of everything and nothing. Reminiscing about my childhood and hers. Eating seedless watermelon as we sit on her front steps, wondering if the ice cream truck will come. Watching her neighbor talk to his squirrels, picking the blackberries from his bushes. Her sweating and asking me how I can wear a sweater. Eating dinner at her table, a perfect grilled cheese. Her telling me to be careful on my way home. Her hugging me to her overabundant bosom, telling me she loves me, asking if I want to take some watermelon home with me.

Item is priceless, shipping is impossible.

A Night So Mad Tea Party

2010-04-20T22:01:00.000-07:00

Halfway through our day at Con-nichiwa, my daughters decided they wanted to go to the Ouran High School Host Club Tea Party. As we headed towards the lounge where it was being held, Jamila and Jovial tried to explain some of the details of the manga to me. (If you are really curious about it, you can go to the Shojo Beat website and find more information. The Wikipedia page is riddled with small errors, and I cannot recommend it.)

We waited in line, the three of us, to try and get into the tea party. We slowly moved towards the front as others went in to the lounge. As we were inches from the door, the organizers asked if there were any pairs. I asked my daughters if they wanted to go in alone while I waited. I was informed that I was not allowed to do that. An announcement was made. Seating was done; next seating would be in one hour. People scattered to the other events. Not wanting to risk not getting in the next time, I told my girls that I would stand in line and wait.

My girls, ever loyal, chose to stand with me. The organizers were huddled. Another announcement was made. The last few people waiting would be seated this session. The three of us paid our $7 each and made our way to an empty table in the back of the candle-lit lounge. Jamila sat across from me, Jovial sat to my right, the chair closest to the rest of the lounge sat empty. A young woman dressed in jeans and a t-shirt came to ask us what we cared to drink.

As the young woman returned with our drinks, two of our hosts came over. The smaller one carried a stuffed rabbit and hopped into the empty chair. This one, I had been informed earlier, was Hunny. The larger one that loomed silently behind him was his cousin, Mori. Hunny greeted us in a chipper, high voice.

“Hello Princesses”

Jovial squealed, flailed, and sent me a text. The text read, “I can die happy now!” She had been hoping Hunny would come to our table. Hunny bounced in his seat and jabbered on about a million little things. The girls giggled and responded. Every so often, Mori would whisper in Hunny’s ear. After one such occurrence, Hunny asked us Princesses if we would like one of the cakes or cookies. We each decided what treat we would have and Hunny sent Mori across the room to get them.

Mori came back across the room and set Jamila and Jovial’s treats down. In a soft barely audible tone, he let us know that the chocolate cake I had requested had run out. I asked in a normal voice for the lemon strudel that Jamila had gotten. As Mori hulked back across the lounge, Hunny shouted, “Lemon strudel, lemon strudel, don’t forget lemon strudel.”

Mori gave Hunny an exasperated look and waved his hand in dismissal. He came back with my lemon strudel. It was sweet, tart, and smelled like childhood. One of the non cosplaying organizers came over and whispered in Mori’s ear. Mori whispered in Hunny’s ear. Hunny got a sad look on his face. The organizer had said that Hunny needed to move on to another table. Hunny said he would in a sad voice, then giggled and added the word later.

Jamila conversed with Hunny about what else would be going on during the tea party. Hunny got excited.

“We’re going to play some games!”

“What games?”

“Marshmallow fishing, and Chubby Bunny!”

“What’s Chubby Bunny?”

“It’s a surprise”

“What?”

“It’s a surprise!”

Eventually Hunny moved on to another table, hugging each of us in turn as he left.

The woman who brought us our drinks asked if we had any host requests. Jamila replied in a nanosecond. She wanted the twins. A few minutes later, a pair of redheads was standing in front of our table. It was Jamila’s turn to squeal. They went to Jamila and stroke her hair. They loved how soft and thick it was. Then they sat down. The twins shared the chair that Hunny had used. The one nearest to Jamila got her to feed him some of her lemon square. She briefly considered keeping the fork she had used.

The twins told us that we were the most fun table there. They noticed Jovial and my matching shirts with the upside down writing and turned their heads in opposite directions in unison. They complimented our shirts. We chatted with the twins for a while, until they too had to reluctantly move on to the next table.
Then the prince slithered up to our table. Unlike the others, he did not sit down. He sidled up to Jamila and took her hand. He stood behind her and leaned into her hair. He whispered something to her. She nodded and said something to him. He smiled, kissed her hand and oozed over to Jovial. He repeated his previous actions and then moved on to me. As he held my hand, he whispered to me.

“Are you enjoying the tea party, Princess?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything I could do to make it special for you, Princess?”

“Make sure they are in the games,” I said quietly as I motioned to my girls.

“It can be arranged.”

He slithered away after kissing my hand softly. Jamila, Jovial, and I giggled. We were glad that I had decided to stay in line. We noticed the hosts milling about the front of the lounge. The twins were conversing with the prince who smiled and pointed to our table. The twins had their mission. They sauntered over and grabbed my daughters.

They were the first to play Chubby Bunny. They had to shove their mouths full of marshmallows and try to say Chubby Bunny. Jovial, my vegetarian, participated without a fuss. She would have a stomach ache from it later; one she decided was well worth it. I laughed as Hunny, Jovial, and Jamila all tried to say Chubby Bunny with their cheeks stretched and marshmallows threatening to explode out of their mouths.

The girls came back and we all laughed as the other Princesses tried the game. Then we watched as others played marshmallow fishing. One of the hosts held a branch on which a string was attached. Tied to the string was a marshmallow. A piece of elastic was put under each contestant’s nose to hold them back as they tried to grab the marshmallow using only their mouths.

We left the tea party, still giggling and looked around the convention, trying to decide where to go next. We knew it did not matter what we chose; the tea party would not be topped.

Kindness Repaid

2010-04-11T18:27:00.001-07:00

Let them into my house
Two little lost ones
Fed them and gave them shelter
They told of a cruel stepmother
A father who abandoned them
Cold and alone in the woods
How the scrumptious smell of
Bread led them to my tiny house
So piteous their little faces
I gave freely what I had
They gobbled greedily
Asked always for more
More I did not have
Witch they snarled
Burn her they cackled
Demonic cherubs screeching
Kill the witch before
She eats us
Bake her in the oven
Aghast and frightened
I cower from them
What has kindness wrought?

4 Rides

2010-04-11T18:11:00.000-07:00

Ride 1

The door opens to reveal a black flat surface which can unfold into a ramp. It stays flat and unfolded. I lift myself carefully into the bus. I slide my pass, with the magnetic stripe facing away from me and the cactus facing me, through the slot in machine that separates me from the driver. I wait to hear the machine confirm my validness. I do this while showing my ID card that proves I’m poor enough to warrant the discounted pass that I have just used. I take a deep breath. That was a mistake.

I am assaulted by an acrid, vinegary scent. As I walk towards the back of the bus hoping to escape the smell, I notice there are no children aboard. An adult is responsible for the odor. I find a forward facing seat in the very back where a vent caresses my hair as I try valiantly not to inhale too deeply. I cover my nose with my shirt hoping the cotton will act as a filter. I begin to wonder exactly from where the smell is coming. I scan the suspects.

There are about 20 people on board. I can only see the top halves of most of the other riders. I notice several others are covering their faces, obviously trying to escape the smell. I eliminate from my suspect pool those trying to escape the smell and those who got on the bus after me. This leaves me with 3 people as possible odor causers.

Is it the young olive skinned woman with the dreadlocks and multiple piercings on her face? Is it the young man with the pale complexion and magic marker black hair? Or is it the middle aged woman with the wind combed short brown locks and the mask of makeup on her face?

I scrutinize my suspects. The dreadlocked woman is sitting across the aisle from me. Her clothes scream hippie wannabe, a long hemp skirt paired with a tied dyed long sleeved t-shirt. The shirt hangs off of her loosely and she looks as if a swift wind could carry her away. Her probably size 8 feet protrude from a pair of size 7 ½ worn out leather sandals. Her toenails have recently been manicured and they sport a red hue that reminds me of the heart shaped boxes that overfill the stores around Valentine’s Day. I doubt her responsibility for the foul odor.

The young man with the obviously dyed hair sits in a seat that faces the aisle. An unoccupied seat separates us. He looks like he raided Johnny Cash’s closet. The only thing missing is a cowboy hat on top of his square shaped head. I notice a smudge of white by his chin. I study his face carefully. Little clumpy white smudges make themselves known. I recognize these little clumps from my “Rocky Horror” days. He is using clown white to make his complexion look lighter.

My third suspect is sitting a few rows up. She is facing the aisle although she is sitting in a forward facing seat. She has a five o’clock shadow just visible under a thick layer of foundation and a scarf tied around her neck. I wonder if she is pre-op. or post-op. She has pulled out a comb and is trying to get her brown hair back in place.

I look out the window; I am a block from my stop. I pull the cord to signal the driver. As the bus slows to a stop, I rise and head for the door. I peek at the brown haired woman and notice a slight bulge in her blue jeans. She’s pre-op. I push the yellow stripes on the back door, it opens and I am freed from the scent without knowing who was responsible.

Ride 2

The doors open to reveal three black steps with yellowish orange stripes on them. These steps can turn into a lift for those who need it. I climb the stairs and pay my fare. My old friend Richard is driving. I sit in the front seat that faces the aisle so I can talk to him. It has been ages since I have seen him last. Richard looks back at me for a moment and then points to the bus’s windshield.

“Big window.”

“Very big window.” I laugh at our old, private joke. I met Richard more than a decade ago when I was working at the telephone survey place and he drove the number 9 that I took downtown after work. Richard was one of the fun drivers. He was always cheerful even when dealing with drunks and unhappy people.

Once, when a young man wearing headphones got on the bus, Richard pretended to say full sentences but only said about half the words and mouthed the others. When the young man took off the headphones, Richard continued to say only about half the words of his sentences. Richard did this until I started laughing. Then Richard and I had our first conversation. It was the beginning of our friendship.

I stopped working at the survey place, Richard’s route got changed. I still bump into him from time to time and we catch each other up on our lives. I don’t remember the origin of the “big window” joke and neither does he, but we still laugh at it every time.

Ride 3

I am sitting toward the front of the number 10 bus and we are heading north. We are on Stone Avenue and we are turning onto Speedway Boulevard. We stop in front of Pima Community College and a few people board. One of these people, a woman in her 40’s, sits two seats away from me and tries to start a conversation with me.

I stare out the window watching the drab buildings going by and try not to pay this woman any attention. She seems upset about something and I don’t want her to take it out on me. She keeps saying how she can believe it. She says she got ripped off. Someone in the park ripped her off. I think she must have come from Stoner Park (a little park at Stone and Speedway, I know that is not its real name, but I never learned its real name and this one is very appropriate) and I am not surprised someone ripped her off if she was in that park.

“I can’t fucking believe it! He fucking took my money! He ripped me off! He took my money for a rock and never came back!”

I moved to the back of the bus.

Ride 4

My contractions are pretty close together. I am not sure how close together because I forget what time it was the last one started each time a new one starts. It was not my due date according to my doctor, but it was the date that I figured out using the exact date of conception and adding nine months. It is raining and the bus is late.

It may seem crazy to be having contractions and to be taking a bus. I was in no rush to get to the hospital. My first daughter was born after 20 hours of labor and a caesarian section. My second was born after 3 days of labor and another caesarian. My third daughter was a full 5 days of labor, no caesarian but she did require a vacuum. My girls were not in any rush to leave my womb.

The bus arrives, it’s been about 30 minutes since my contractions started, I think. I trudge up the steps and pay my fare. I joke with the driver about the rain. I say it is great weather for a duck. I try not to show the pain as my contractions increase in intensity. I stop noticing anything or anyone else on the bus. The buildings outside are a blur. I spend the twenty minute ride convincing myself that the doctors will send me home again, that today won’t be the day she is born.

“Craycroft,” the prerecorded voice announces on the bus’s sound system. I get up and exit the bus. I go slowly and the woman behind me tells me to hurry up. I cross the street and enter the labor and delivery department. Ten minutes later, I am holding my daughter.

Satanism and Goat’s Blood

2010-04-09T11:37:00.000-07:00

My children are weird. I have four beautiful daughters and they are quirky. They know that they are odd. They revel in it. Social norms are to be ignored or exploited. The minds of other people are playthings. Being called “strange” is a compliment. This does not worry or upset me, quite the contrary. It pleases me that my children ignore society’s call to conform. It is proof positive that they sprung from my loins. This enjoyment that comes from confusing and befuddling people is a family trait. It started with my mother.

When I was a toddler, my mom would watch her friend’s daughter Sarah who was a few days older than I. Sarah was as black as I was white. Sarah had deep brown eyes while my eyes were (and still are) blue. My hair was almost white, thin, and straight. Sarah had a black afro. One rainy Tuesday afternoon, she put us in the stroller and went to pick up my siblings from school. The crossing guards were already out and guiding people across the street. One of the guards, a woman around thirty, cooed over us while we waited for the light to change.

She looked at Sarah. She looked at me. She looked at my mother. She compared Sarah’s skin color to my mother’s pinto bean colored skin. She compared my skin color to both my mother’s and Sarah’s. As the light turned and we crossed the street, the crossing guard asked my mother a serious question.

“Which one is yours?”

“Both,” my mother replied sternly leaving the guard with her brow furrowed.

My mother passed this trait to three of her four children. We enjoy leaving confused looks on the faces of strangers and making jokes that reference the obscure. Our friends either have a similar inclination or simply have grown to accept our oddness. Our sibling who does not share our proclivity for shenanigans, among other sins, warrants no further mention.

My sister Vickie and I have been known to play “Bob and Janet” in stores. It’s a game we made up as teenagers based on an ancient (from the 1980’s) Kmart commercial. When we are in a large store such as Kmart or Target, one of us will inevitably wander away. So we will call out to each other but instead of using our names, Vickie calls, “Bob,” and I respond with “Janet.” Once we are in visual range of each other we revert to our actual names.

As teenagers, my brother Shawn and I shared a lot of friends. We would often go for rides in one of their cars. To make things interesting, we would ask for directions to the street we were currently on from another car. We preferred to find cars with only a driver and no passengers. We would get the driver’s attention and trying to look as lost as possible, one of us, usually Shawn, would ask for directions.

“Do you know where Cicero Avenue is?”

“You’re on Cicero!”

“No, where is Ci – ce – ro Avenue?”

“You’re on it!”

“No, we need Cicero Av-en-ue.”

The driver would invariably give up on us and speed away, shaking his head.
While I mostly did these types of things simply to amuse my family, my friends, or myself, there were two times that I did them to help my mother. My mother loved people individually but not in clumps. She had severe claustrophobia and could not stand having people right on top of her. When forced to deal with a crowd, she would become agitated. Her view of the world would change. Simple questions were personal attacks. Concern was obviously condescension and pity. Any attempt to calm her would anger her. Hours later, when she was herself again, she’d be beside herself with guilt about her behavior.

The first time I did something odd to help her was when I was 17. I would visit my mom €€twice a week and go shopping with her. We would shop when we knew the stores would be practically empty. Then the dollar store opened. My mother loved it, but the lines at the registers were slow moving and often extended into the narrow aisles. While we were waiting one such line on a Tuesday afternoon, people were crowding around us and my mother had a look of panic beginning to form in her eyes. I did not want to embarrass her by asking people to give her some space, so I decided to make them uncomfortable around us. I looked at my mother and stated flatly, but loudly, “I’m considering converting to Satanism.”

“Kelli...”

“It’s not that much different than the snake handling we already do, Mum.”
Everyone around us suddenly needed urgently to be elsewhere. Even the people behind us in line took a giant step back. The panic drained from my mother’s eyes and we made it out of the store without her breaking down. We laughed about it on the walk back to her apartment.

The second time wasn’t a shopping trip but a ride on the CTA bus when I was 18. We were going to Aldi’s to buy the cheapest canned goods in town. The bus wasn’t that crowded when we got on at Ashland and Division. We found a two seater bench facing the front on the bus and I sat next to the window. My mom sat next to me on the seat next to the aisle. I watched the grayness of my mom’s neighborhood sail by the window as we headed north. Each stop seemed to exponentially increase the number of passengers sharing our ride. By the time we had gone a mile, the aisle was full of people standing and holding on to poles, the backs of seats, or whatever they could find to steady themselves. My mother’s hand began to twitch. There were too many people close to her, invading her space. I had to act.

“Are you going to kill the goat or am I?”

“You can kill it, Kelli”

“If I have to drink the blood, I shouldn’t have to kill the goat.”

“Fine, I’ll kill the goat.”

People tripped over themselves to get away from us. My mother was still a little twitchy and irritable when we got off the bus. I hadn’t been able to keep her claustrophobia completely at bay, but it was not as bad as a full blown episode and she calmed down by the time we had finished shopping.

I am glad that I inherited this oddness from my mother, this joy in playing with people’s minds and refusing to conform to social norms. It pleases me that my children have inherited this quirk from me. My daughter Jovial, who resembles my mother both in appearance and temperament, will face the back of an elevator and sing “The Wheels on the Bus” until she reaches her floor. All four of my girls and I will play Marco Polo in stores, create instant parodies of popular songs when we are walking places, and speak in complete gibberish to each other. When we go out to eat, we will switch places whenever our server leaves the table. We are never bored, no matter where we are or what we do. Nor was I bored growing up thanks in a large part to my mother. She has been gone for almost a decade, but that special oddness about her lives on in me and my children.

2010-02-27T15:04:00.000-08:00

This is something I did in Creative Nonfiction. It doesn't totally suck.

Early Memory

I do not remember much of my early life. I had three separate head injuries as a small child which may explain this. One injury was from when I literally ran into a wall. I told my mother I just couldn’t stop. Another injury happened only a week later when I was once again running, this time I tripped and fell into a luckily very sturdy glass table. The third injury is my earliest memory and is still fairly vivid in my mind.

My family was in my father’s taxi. My older sister Marjie, my older sister (the one I actually like) Vickie, and my older brother Shawn were in the back seat. I was between my parents in the front seat since I was just a tiny three year old. Ah, those good old days in the 70s when you could put toddlers in the front seat and booster seats were something you used at restaurants so the wee ones could reach the table.

I remember my mom smelling as she always did, a mixture of French fries, grilled meat and cigarettes. Her skin was the color of russet potatoes. She had not yet begun to get her “summer color” as she called it that would darken her normally to an espresso and sometimes to a chocolate. Her eyes were bluer than the sky could ever hope to be even on the clearest of days. Her hair was a thick chestnut brown cut to graze her shoulders. My sisters and my brother were like her reflection in a pool.

I was my father’s reflection. I shared his pale complexion, his baby fine hair, his dark cloudy blue eyes. I did not inherit his red hair which had turned white by the time I was born. I had pale blonde hair that would darken and gain red highlights as I aged. That day in the taxi, my father smelled of cheap beer. He had not had any beer yet, but his alcohol use was so frequent and extreme, his sweat would take on that odor. His scent mingled with my mother’s reminding me of bowling alley.

My mother had insisted on putting my seat belt on even though it was difficult to get it tight enough to fit around my tiny waist. My sisters and brothers were buckled in and then we took off. I do not remember where we were going to, only that we were going. So we pulled out of the parking space and I was excited.

I wanted to look around me but I could not see my sisters or my brother in the back seat. I had no interest in looking at my father to my left. My mother was too familiar to maintain my interest. I couldn’t see over the dash and out the windshield so I started looking at all the neat things that a taxi has up front. Like my father’s hack license. I was still a year from reading so I did not know what it said but I recognized my father’s picture and some numbers. My eyes then went to the meter. It had numbers and those letter things that my sisters were learning in school. It had a bright red flag that was pointing to the ceiling. It was amazing thing. Then my mom screamed.

“Shit!”

I heard metal hit metal and the red flag flew at me. Pain enveloped me and blood erupted from my forehead.

“Mommy!”
“MOMmy!”
“MOMMY!”

And then blackness

Ingrid

2010-02-27T14:56:00.000-08:00

This is really part of a much larger story, but I'd figure I'd let y'all take a look at it. I may or may not put the rest up some time in the future.

Ingrid was furious. This man here, this imbecile, was telling her that she was not pretty enough to win the pageant. She flicked her brown curls out of her baby blue eyes and pursed her full, pouty lips. “Are you insane? I’m pretty than all those other girls. I don’t have an ounce of fat in the wrong place unlike Chubby Chelsea.”

He looked her over again as she stood in the doorway, paying special attention to the soft parts. She had a great body, a gorgeous face, lovely hair, but no, she was not pretty. Her physical form was divine; it was her personality that was ugly and dark. That would keep her from winning; he knew that much for sure. She would need to fake a better personality or improve on her own. He felt she stood a better chance of accomplishing the former. “Ingrid, honey, I said your persona wasn’t pretty enough. Referring to the other girls as chubby won’t help you win over the judges. Neither will your arrogance.”

“What do you know Roy, you old fag? My momma won, her momma won, and I’m gonna win. I’m prettier and more talented than all those hags with their fake niceness, no tits, flabby butts, bloated bellies, and ‘I want world peace’ bullshit.”

“Calm down, Ingrid and listen to me for once. Your momma won because she listened to me. She wasn’t even the prettiest girl and her talent, if you can call it that, was playing the spoons. She won the judges over with her class and style. Two things you have none of right now, Missy.”

The color drained from Ingrid’s face. She looked around his tiny office. She looked at the pictures of him with beauty queens from around the county. She looked at his desk almost completely covered with headshots of wannabe queens begging for his services. Roy was right, she did not want to admit it, but she knew it was the truth. Roy had helped her mother win way back when and he could help her win too if she let him.

Roy’s sea green eyes focused intensely on Ingrid. He was waiting for her to attack his thinning gray hair and the extra pounds he had acquired around his stomach. He knew how she liked to launch personal attacks when she couldn’t win with facts, which was most of the time. He sat and waited for the onslaught. It never came. Ingrid sighed.

“You’re right, Roy”

Roy was stunned for half a moment. He didn’t think she had ever admitted anyone else was right in her entire life. He had known her since she was a stubborn little baby refusing to come out and meet the world according to anyone’s schedule but her own. He had seen her grow into a willful child with no respect for any authority but her own. He took a deep breath. “Sit down girl.”
Ingrid plopped in the chair. Roy groaned and motioned for her to stand again. She rose from the chair and tried again. This time she gently lowered herself into the chair, keeping her legs together and demurely crossing them at the ankles. She looked at Roy and smiled sweetly.

“How’s that, Roy?”

“It’s good, honey. We still need to work on your manners, your attitude, your posture, and your diction. We have a hell of a long way to go, but by God, at least you can sit like a lady.”

My Truths

2010-01-30T22:31:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I've posted anything. First there was the problem with my rib which is mostly better. Then school started back up and because I am a bit of educational masochist I decided to take 5 classes and work on the Lit. magazine. Well, I will have my summer mostly free except for the mindnumbing menial work I do at my great low paying job.

Enough of my whining, here's a list of my truths. It's not really a poem or a story, but at least it's a post.

My truths

No baby is ever ugly to his mother.
Chicago is the best place for pizza.
New York is the second best place for pizza.
Life is too short to worry about being normal.
Laughter keeps the heart young.
If my mother had been a “normal mom,” my life would have been pretty boring.
A woman’s worth is not dependant on her reproductive health.
You can be too skinny and too rich.
There is no such thing as “man’s work” or “woman’s work;” there is only work and it cares not about your gender.
The use of multiple exclamation marks is a sign of a deranged mind.
Common sense is extremely rare.
I may never be rich, but I will never be boring.
Love is beautiful regardless of its orientation.
A human being can get used to anything given enough time.
A good vocabulary will allow you to insult people without them realizing it.
You begin to die the moment you are born.
If you make no mistakes, you have not lived.
No one truly listens to the answer when they ask how you are.

Mid April Frost

2010-01-09T08:51:00.001-08:00

They stand in a row
Heads hung low
Inspiration lost
Mid April frost.

Insomnia

2010-01-01T03:51:00.000-08:00

Sleep, you vile temptrest
Seduced by your promises
I wait for you again
You come only when
It pleases you
Fickle lover
I wallow in abandonment

Expired

2009-12-20T18:24:00.001-08:00

Always alone
No one stays
Unwanted, discarded
I am past my
Use by date

Jubilee

2009-12-14T13:59:00.000-08:00

They think you silent and
For them you are
Alone you fill every atom
With words strung like
Magician's handkerchiefs
Profound and mundane
Require equal discussion
Your views steadfast and sure
Authority exists to be ridiculed
O daughter, O celebration
You reflect me in more
Than physicality

YI

2009-12-14T12:23:00.000-08:00

Chocolate waves of silk
Caramel skin
Mocha eyes
Peanut butter kissed lips
My little, almost edible, love

Waiting

2009-12-14T06:36:00.000-08:00

I wait in the cold of my heart
For a fire worth stoking

Sarah's Wedding

2009-12-07T12:18:00.001-08:00

This is a short story (very, very short story) I wrote for my Lit 260 class. I'll be discussing it in class on Thursday as part of my final presentation. I decided it was best to go first and thus be done with it. I hope it doesn't suck.

Sarah’s Wedding

Sarah looked at herself in the mirror. Every brown curl was in place. Her makeup was impeccably applied. Her nails were freshly manicured and painted a demure pink to match her lipstick. Her dress was adorned with Victorian lace and fresh water pearls. The train of the dress was over a foot long. Her shoes were a perfect match of the ivory colored dress although it was not likely anyone would see them. This was how she had always pictured herself looking on her wedding day.

Her flower girl matched her bridesmaids who were decorated in pink taffeta. The groomsmen would be wearing pink cummerbunds with their black tuxedoes. Alex had tried to talk her into a black and white themed wedding, but she refused. It was too trendy; Sarah wanted a traditional wedding like she dreamed of when she was a little girl.

A knock on the door startled her. It was the flowers arriving none too soon. Seven small bouquets of pink roses surrounded by baby’s breath for her bridesmaids, a medium size bouquet of lilies for her to carry and a basketful of rose petals for her flower girl to scatter along the bridal path; the bridal path that she soon would be walking with her father.

She looked over to her mother and asked if it was time. Not quite yet, about ten more minutes. Her mother, once again, started to cry and tell her how happy she was for Sarah and that she hoped Sarah’s marriage would be as wonderful as her own. Sarah’s mother and father had been married right after high school and despite everyone saying it would never work; they were still together and deeply in love thirty years later. That is what Sarah wanted, a marriage where she woke up each day more in love than the day before. She was sure she would have it with Alex.

It was time; the bridal party left the little waiting room and spilled into the church hall. The hall was surprisingly warm despite the cold New Hampshire winter. Sarah’s father took her arm as they watched the flower girl disappear past the double doors and down the aisle. He told Sarah how much he loved her and how happy he was that she found a love he knew was as wonderful as the love he had found with her mother. He was so very proud of her and a tear slipped down his cheek. It reminded Sarah of the day that Alex and she had told their parents they were engaged. She had never seen four people so happy.

Alex’s parents had insisted that she start calling them Mom and Dad right then and there. Both sets of parents had wanted to pay for the wedding and had eventually agreed to split the costs. Sarah knew how lucky she was to have future in-laws who truly liked her. Her friend Jane’s mother-in-law had actually stood up and objected during her ceremony. No one would be doing that today.

The bridal march began to play. Sarah’s father looked at her and asked if she was ready. She laughed; she had been ready since the day Alex proposed. They walked down the aisle, arm in arm, until they reached the altar. Alex was standing there waiting for her and took her hand from her father. Alex looked so beautiful; she was dressed in an ecru gown but had refused to wear the veil that Sarah had picked out for her. Alex’s golden locks fell to her shoulders in waves that always reminded Sarah of the beach where they had first met.

The reverend’s voice filled the church. Sarah pledged her love for Alex. Alex pledged her love for Sarah. The rings were blessed and exchanged. They were pronounced married and they shared a sweet, gentle kiss. A cheer arose in the church as they made their way down the aisle taking their first steps as a newly married couple. It was all how Sarah had dreamed it would be; a sweet, traditional wedding with the woman she loved

Saturday People

2009-12-07T12:11:00.000-08:00

The smell from the spill wafts
Cheap whiskey burns my nostrils
So badly my eyes scream in protest
Stupid Saturday people
Value only the now
Gas fumes not as
Unpleasant as the whiskey
Another now choice
Forward thinking impossible for those
Who barely think past desire
Burning wood and vomit swirl into one smell
Kill your brain cells while young
Die childless, stain not humanity
Acid wash your genes
Remove the miasma
From the flesh of humankind

Once

2009-11-27T17:52:00.000-08:00

Always they talk about my hair
Long curls spun from the sun
Easily I was lost in the woods
Looking for flowers for Mother
The smell of porridge was so inviting
I knocked and there was no answer
I tried the door, I know it was wrong
Into the house I went undaunted
The smell of sweet honey and oats
Reminded me I had not eaten
A little taste could not hurt
Sated I needed a rest
How could I know it was not
Strong enough to hold me
A nap was needed before
I went back into the woods
They woke me, growling
Frightened I ran out of the house
Out of the woods I found my
Way back to my home
Mother punished me and said
I was lying when I told her
Of the house in the middle of
The woods, too many fairy stories
Is what she said, time to grow up
Bears do not live in houses,
Wolves do not speak to little girls lost
No prince would choose a peasant
So I faced the reality of my life
Where fairy godmothers do not grant wishes
And peasant girls like me grow
Into farmers’ wives and barmaids
And raise little peasant girls and boys
To take our places when we move on

Get rid of aunts

2009-11-25T15:41:00.000-08:00

No more red lipstick stains
Cheeks go unpinched
No awkward moments
When they try to remember
Your name, your birth number
No smelly perfumes
Mixed with mothballs
And cigarettes
No hairy places
You are supposed
To not see
Get rid of aunts
And maybe
Uncles too

group effort

2009-11-24T20:22:00.000-08:00

So Monday, we did a little class exercise. We each wrote a line or two and passed it around the class so that everyone wrote at least one line and then we wrote an ending. Some were pretty funny and I wish I could remember them or had copies to post here. The assignment we were given was to take these poems, such as they were, and revise them. The only caveat is that we had to leave at least *2* words from each person.

This is what I ended up with at school - The black text is mine and I will use a different text color for each person's contribution.

(untitled)

The azure sky was interrupted
A saffron burst of light
glared from afar, slightly blinded
each man standing along the bridge of burden
there be just a twinkle of fright
as it is undertaken, steadfast they stand
anxiously waiting for the reaper to grant them release
Firetruck, run over this concrete squirrel madness of city and rust
leave your men for burnt nights
Days are ablaze now, the city an ash of nothing
Burn down the very walls of my being
End me in a sheet of copper

This is what I revised it to for tomorrow

Schizophrenic Pyromania

Azure sky
Saffron burst
Glared blinded
Bridge of burden
Twinkle fright
Undertaken stand
Reaper release
Burnt nights
Days ablaze
City ash
Burn down
Sheets of copper
Bask nothingness

I Am Purple

2009-11-23T06:34:00.000-08:00

I am purple, vibrant and bold
You are a washed out gray
I face my sepia world armed
With a box of bright crayons
You face your world ready
To drain all the color away
I prefer bold hues
You prefer subdued shades
I live for the red, the orange times
You live for the muted pink

Why is there nothing new here?

2009-11-22T22:44:00.000-08:00

I can't post the first poem I wrote for tomorrow because it is a collage poem and I don't own a scanner (if I get a chance to scan it at school, I might) and I can't post the second poem since I haven't written it yet. I may post one of the poems I wrote for my other poetry class (yes, I am taking two poetry classes, no I am not completely insane....yet) but not right now as I should be sleeping since I have to get up early tomorrow and write a poem.

the accident

2009-11-13T21:17:00.001-08:00

My God why did he slam on the brake?

He gave me no room to stop

Probably some stupid old guy

He was going too slow anyway

Now I'm going to be late for work.

Why didn't she watch the road

In front of her? Stupid blonde,

I bet she was text sending

Or doing something stupid

They shouldn't let young bimbos

Drive big jeeps like that.

Is anyone hurt? It doesn't look

Like it, thank goodness

I can't believe she

Was not paying attention

To the traffic, doesn't look like

Either car has too much

Damage Good I don't

Want to be involved

I will just keep walking

I know the cops would

Find some way to

Make it my fault

They'll call me

A stupid drunk

Bum again and

Tell me I smell

Just keep walking.

Wow an accident!

Any one hurt? No.

The vehicles aren't

Even damaged that

Bad If you're going

To back up traffic

You should at least

Give me something

To look at so I have

A Story for when I

Get to that damn

Boring office No

One wants to

Hear "but everyone

Was okay" it's not

Juicy enough to

Earn a cup of coffee

Yet alone to distract

People from the

Firings they know

I have to do soon.

Not another accident

I've got to get

My kids to school

Come on get it off the

Road, got to drop

The kids off, got to

Get to work, got

To stop first and get

The bagels, damn I

Wish I had not

Forgotten to get

Them last night

Damn Timmy getting

Sick like that. God

I'm an awful father

What is wrong with

Me? At least I'm not

That stupid blonde in

The jeep, I hope

She doesn't have

Any kids, she's

Obviously too stupid

To handle them.

Stay calm stay calm

The traffic will

Move soon, the traffic

Will move soon

Then I will get

To the hotel

And he will be

Waiting for me

He always waits

Did she hit him or

Did he hit her?

It had to be

Her hitting him

Her car was behind

His, mine behind

Hers, so glad it

Wasn't my car

I don't need that

John would ask

What I was doing

All the way over

Here this time of

Day.

The little stone house

2009-11-13T20:43:00.001-08:00

The stone house down the road

Where the fire was lit by the

Farmer's wife while he tended

The livestock and planted the

Crops to fill the cupboards, crops to

Sell to buy the fancy window

Hangings she fancied down at

The general store that made her

Feel as if the house wasn't so

Plain and the floor weren't cheap

Planks loose here and there that

Creaked each time the children

Ran through the house stopping

Only long enough to grab a quick

Bite and change out of their

Fancy school clothes into their

Chore clothes, she barely saw

The children now they were older

Except for Sundays after they

Did their knee time down at the

Church, they'd fill the little

House back up with laughter,

The fire would be lit,

Papa would sit in his rocking

Chair near enough to singe

His whiskers, he had no

Idea how old he looked

Nor did she, they had

An unspoken agreement not

To let any looking glasses into the

House, the small house which

Creaked and groaned its

Loneliness in the night

The kitchen which never

Saw a hungry child

The big room in the front

Where they gathered in the

Cold nights around the fire

Before going to one of the two

Little bedrooms to sleep

Warmed by the closeness of

Each other dreading the

Call of nature in the middle

Of the night having to get

Dressed and creak along

The house, out the back

Door, down the little path

To the little shack hoping

There was still a page of

The Sears catalogue left

And then back in the house

Every plank letting the rest

Of the family know you

Made back in safe

And sound into the

Little stone house

That was so cold

In the winters

Yet was so

Warm in their

Hearts.

Near North Side

2009-11-11T20:48:00.000-08:00

My life is a slum neighborhood
Prime for gentrification
Gone will be the unsightly
Gone too will be the flavor
Safety will increase
Personality will die
The uniqueness washed clean
Bland faceless facades
Replace ramshackle row houses
Gone will be the corner store
Swallowed by the corporate behemouth
What price betterment?

Unavailable

2009-11-03T17:52:00.001-08:00

This poem is a little geeky, I decided to use library science jargon.

Unavailable

Your call number is unclear, your place in the stack unknown

What is your ISBN, I must order more of you

I cannot find you in the catalog

Even with my information literacy, I am left without a clue

Are you desiderata? Controlled vocabulary will not help

Has a patron checked you out or put you on hold?

Never Daddy

2009-11-03T17:38:00.001-08:00

A quick explanation - I had to write prose poetry this week for class, so this is a little different in form. I personally do not care for prose poetry, but I don't run the class.

Never Daddy

O father, I hate you. You know my birthday? No. Tell me my middle name if you can. Mother why did you stay so long? Shelter after shelter. Deny my paternity. My visage betrays me. Beat me until I behave. My child's will stronger than your. Your death came much too late. Your body, a gift to science. A gift the six agreed. Let the bastard do some good as he has never for us. Miraculous liver. Years without time soaked in the milk of demons. Five years of cancer you survived. Regrew hair you lost long ago. Your personality far worse than the colostomy bag. Less than one year Mom had. Even at her memorial your son from the first family wanted you in her place. Long ago he's cured the doctor cried. Take him home. The children are safe. Siblings shivering as my diaper bursts. His only fatherhood. A dry diaper while they cry locked outside. Appeal to the reasoning of a mad man who shuts out his beloved and shuts in his which is not his. Forgive you father, for you have sinned. Forsake aspirations of paternal love or even regard. Deny me your love, I will thrive on malnutrition. Dangle me over the railing. (What was the girl's name who fell and bit her tongue off?) Mother, forbid me the cycle

thoughtless

2009-11-01T22:53:00.000-08:00

Whine to me and
Tell me she is the one
You really love and
Miss while I let my
Heart suffer more
Than I should for
A man who does
Not think of me

the ties that blind

2009-11-01T22:52:00.000-08:00

A little lie is all
You can give me
At least at this
Little liasion
I will accept
It as truth

Mother tree

2009-11-01T22:50:00.000-08:00

Rejoice tree, embrace your loneliness
Your apples have fallen
Fulfilled their purpose
Rejecting your love

Onomatopoeia

2009-11-01T22:49:00.000-08:00

Bing, bang, boom
Meow goes zoom
Woof goes crack
Woof gets snack

Untitled

2009-11-01T22:39:00.001-08:00

At right – the might burned off the testament

Unashamed of their flag-flying hatred

Their brains so weak, their reasoning a new low

They quote an unreliable source –report it as gospel

Their cronies in Washington allow their crime

To flourish free from the steel gaze of truth

While spineless men behave as human cattle.

They have two choices they can see, only two.

One is the brainless following of right wing;

Fat cats and clods, feeble nimrods, the lies

Stacking up clinging to their minds and souls.

The other is thinking in a new way.

They hate the idea, the freethinking anger,

And the way, they get lost in finding views

Gays, taxes, economy, and foreign trade,

Crippling thoughts of chaos that they breed.

Calamitous

2009-10-26T22:08:00.000-07:00

She wakes up a mere three hours late
She runs for the bus and falls on her face
Part of her knee stays on the sidewalk
The bus drives an entire two blocks
Before it breaks down completely
Another bus will be there, in an hour
She pulls out her phone, no signal
Blood pools around the new rip in her jeans
She waits in the hot sun until the new bus comes
She arrives, sweaty and bloody, at her work
The boss frowns and says he tried to call
“We don’t need you today, you can go home”

In the Old House

2009-10-19T21:04:00.000-07:00

Underneath a loose floorboard,
priceless treasure lies
secure in a box of azure.

Faithful truck used
for countless getaways
and trips to the unknown.

Gold dubloon cleverly disguised
as a smooth black button
with an anchor on top.

Pieces of the ransom note
never sent to extort cookies
from Mom before lunch.

The key to a thousand
treasure chests dug up
in the back yard.

Red raffle ticket used
to board countless trains,
planes, and buses.

Pins of the secret society,
a shamrock and a pegasus,
one for each member.

All these treasures lie secure
in the little blue box and
in childhood.

Escape

2009-10-19T21:01:00.000-07:00

Almond, vanilla, and woody scents through the air waft
Dance on a yellowed page black inked words
Cry “Hold me” soft, sensual covers
Beckons other worlds contained within
From reality bleak, I disconnect
Choices have these characters lack I
Hours at a time through them I live
A laugh elicits this one
Evokes tears this one
This one a shudder prompts
Not free from pain or strife are these
unlike mine contained easily
Into the pages I will myself
In other reality I ache to live
In actuality I live to ache

Snake *

2009-10-19T20:58:00.000-07:00

Slither, slither, slide
Sneak up in the grass
Soak up all the sun
Silently slide away
Look for food
A nice field mouse
Suck it in and swallow
Find a quiet, warm place
Slither, slither, slide, slide
Too cold now to slither or slide
Find a nice rock in the quiet
Slither under, coils wound tight
Sleep through the bitter cold
Awake again in the spring
Slither, Slither, slide
Shed the skin too tight
Bask in the sun again

once again some of the formatting of the original was lost, it used to wind on the page like a snake

Pen

2009-10-19T20:35:00.000-07:00

Scritch, scritch, scritch
Words from you flow
Smudges form on my hand
As I try to write fast
Enough to keep up with
My thoughts
Your barrel grows
Warm the longer
I grip you
I need more words
My hand bring you
To my
Mouth
Absentmindedly
I chew your
Pointy cap
I lower you
Back to the
Paper no longer
Pristine
Scritch, scritch, scritch
Your blood
No
Your ink
Flows once
More
As I fill
The page with
My humble words
And I
Wonder
If you
Approve of
The words
I force from
Your body,
Your center
Your soul
I empty
You
And set you
Aside
Useless to me
I grab a
New pen
And delight
In its
Coolness
Against my
Sweaty hands
Feverish
To release the
Words inside
It as I have
Emptied you

Pitiful poetry

2009-10-07T07:25:00.000-07:00

Yes, I have more pitiful poetry for you to peruse.

This was for my vocabulary quiz to demonstrate free verse

This poetry test is so very hard
My mind wants to wander
South Park plays in the background
It amuses me not
Jack in the Box is not scary
The King from Burger King is
I should be studying
Where did I leave? my shoe?
Did I check the mail today
Wait
The test
Concentrate on the test
Focus…ooh…shiny

This one was to demonstrate metaphor

My mind is a steel sieve
That strains the juice
And keeps the meaty bits
Of my memories

This one was to demonstrate connotation

I must be connected
Wire me now
Stabilize my ports
Insert my cables
Increase my bandwidth
Celebrate my uploads
Have pity on my downloads
Never leave me wireless
Connect, connect, connect

And this one was to demonstrate parody. We had to parody "my love is a red, red rose" (look it up, you're online anyway, google is just a few clicks away)

O, my cold is like a red, red, nose
From which the snot doth flow
And fills my tissue
Every time I blow

An intoxicant fills up my glass
I love thee, Nyquil
And I will love you even more
When my body is tranquil

My cough grows harsh, oh dear
My head pounds once again
I take more of you sweet Nyquil
And a tiny shot of gin

Bright and lively, I put
You back upon your shelf
Til once again I feel the need
To medicate myself

This one was one of my homework poems is supposed to employ slant rhymes (Look it up. Do I look like google to you? Okay maybe a little around the eyes but still) WARNING - The following poem has a very adult word at the end that may offend some people

Happy Ending
Kelli Reynolds

It’s been a while
Since I was a child
Toys I no lover have
Rocks I no longer save

Open no longer
Is my heart
I do not linger
Dreaming by the hearth

No longer do I wait
For the princely promise
Promises too sweet
I know to dismiss

My views may be extreme
Perhaps I am jaded
But men will say anything
To be properly fellated

This is my other homework poem and I may have slightly plagiarized a tweet I did several months ago

Homework Haiku

I sit at my desk
I stare blankly at my wall
And think of nothing

2009-10-02T08:20:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up after a good 3 hours of sleep and jumped in the shower. I am flying back to Las Vegas today, so I grabbed the bags I packed - one back pack with two sets of clothes, my laptop and the manga Jamila lent me last week (the first three Shutterbox books,now I want 4-6!) and my ugly black purse filled with happy meal toys and Their Eyes Were Watching God - I ran out of the house planning to catch the early bus in order to get to the airport as early as possible just in case my purse full of happy meal toys earned me the honor of an extra, more personalized security check.

I had decided not to put on a sweater thinking it would warm up as the sun rose. The sun rose without warmth. I froze my tukas off. The bus came and it was a full 2 degrees warmer than the bus stop where I had waited. The busw was a bit crowded, but I found a seat. I started reading Their Eyes Were Watching God.

Halfway to the airport, too late to go back home and get back in time, I realized that I had left my boarding pass at home. Crud, I thought. I decided I would just have to check in again at the airport. The bus arrived at the airport on time and I rushed in ready to face the long line I envisioned at the check-in counter. There was no line. I explained how stupid I was to the lovely agent behind the counter who asked me if I really wanted to fly today. I responded affirmatively and she printed a new boarding pass for me.

As I waited in line at the security checkpoint, they decided to open a new lane speeding things up. The guy in front of me had to have his luggage rescanned but they made him wait until after my things went through. I glided almost effortlessly through security. I put my shoes back on and was putting my netbook back in my backpack when I noticed that I had not packed my camera.

I bought a sweater at the airport and I am now stuck with Tucson written accross my chest.
I stopped to get a sandwich for the flight and a din broke out. Clapping, cheering, shouting and Spiderman caught my attention. Spiderman was carrying a young boy and Spidey put that young boy on a flight. That flight was a wish flight (http://www.somethingmaagic.org/wishflight.html ) and the boy who is most likely very, very ill looked ecstatic.

I don't have any real point with any of this. This is just my friday morning. Soon I will be in Las Vegas celebrating Jyoti's 7th birthday and praying that she (and the other girls) never will be on a Wish Flight

crapatacular poetry

2009-09-29T20:43:00.000-07:00

More crappy poetry! Rejoice the well has not yet run dry.

This is the poem I was supposed to turn in yesterday which I will turn in tomorrow. (t was supposed to be like the Acadian Dream Garden which I do not like. Some of the formatting will be lost again, but it's not important. It's really short

Mythical Love Garden
Kelli Reynolds

A statue of Hades littered with rose petals
A statue of Kore covered in thorns

Wildflowers dance around the glorious fountain of Poseidon
Weeds climb and choke the cracked statue of Canace

Zeus’s concrete body reclines leisurely in the grass
Europa, Leda, Metis, and Taygete cower on the barren soil

Apollo sits in his chariot among the clover
The serpent coils around Dryope holding her fast to a poplar tree

This is the second poem is for the same class and was also due yesterday. There were no parameters.

Jamila
Kelli Reynolds

You were a fuzzy lump
My little fuzzy lump
Cheeks the size of sumo wrestlers
Chubby little toes
Dimpled little legs
Thumb never far from your mouth
I fell in love
You grew
So did my love for you
Your eyes changed
They still change
Minutes became years
The fuzzy lump became a young woman
A beautiful, intelligent young woman
I miss the fuzzy lump
But I love the young woman
I would not trade her for the lump

2009-09-28T23:14:00.000-07:00

These pictures are from June 28, 2003. The girls were so small and Jyoti wasn't even a year old yet. She will be 7 on Friday. It's amazing how much the girls have grown. I took some pictures this weekend when I visited Las Vegas, they didn't come out very well, but I'll post a couple to use as a comparison. I will try to take better pictures when I go back Friday for Jyoti's birthday.

Jyoti with some chocolate on her face

Jubilee and Jamila (12 and 16!)

Jovial (14) with her new stuffed pig

2009-09-24T20:59:00.000-07:00

Hopefully, you few who read my blog aren't too tired of my crappy poetry because, yes, oh, yes, I have more!
The first poem was from an exercise from my Whitman week in Lit 262 in which I had to write a poem similar to the Song of Solomon (from the Bible) about someone I love or hate. I figured writing a hate poem would be more fun. I was right. I didn't title it. Oh and the person I am referring to only uses the internet for porn.

Take heed, you are hideous, young man, you are hideous; you have enough grease in your hair to fry three months worth of food at McDonalds; your hair is like a thousand cockroaches scattering from the light.

Your eyes are like two clouded marbles, ever rotating away from each other, each repulsed by the other’s resemblance to excrement.

Your nose is like a trip to the gynecologist, unpleasantly unforgettable.

Your lips are like two pieces of used dental floss, worn out and speckled with disgusting bits of what was once food.

Your neck is like a tree stump overgrown with moss, slowly decaying.

Your chest is like a bowl of bread dough waiting to be kneaded.

Your back is like an overfilled jelly donut, pasty with bright red globules bursting out.

Your genitalia are like a Ken doll.

Your buttocks are like homemade mashed potatoes that have been left on the table to cool for a few years.

Your arms and legs are like sweater wearing pencils.

Your feet are like ginger roots dipped in Oreo cookie crumbs and skunk juice.

Your personality is like the odor that clings to a dead body decaying and decomposing

I'm not sure the second poem (which I really didn't like) will look right on here. It was for WRT205 as a list poem of signs (the instructor let me know that I didn't filfull the "list" requirement and I didn't care). I just threw it together and hoped it wasn't too craptacular.

Safe Place

STOP

Do Not Enter
Left Turn Only
Right Turn Only
No Turns
ONE WAY
AUTOMATIC CAUTION DOOR
Wait For Light, Then Open Door
PUSH
PULL
YIELD
THIS DOOR BLOCKED!

*Okay it didn't post the way I had it. The words were all in sign shapes, and the words were not just one right under the other, some were on the left, some were on the right and some were centered. So I guess the blog will have the *light* version of it because I probably could figure out how to duplicate it, but I should be packing for Las Vegas since my plane leaves in about twelve hours.

feel me up, feel me down

2009-09-17T18:29:00.000-07:00

If you have a Y chromosone, this post maybe slightly uncomfortable for you. Fair warning - this post will discuss hormones, gynecology and yes, the dreaded menopause. By this sentence almost all the guys have moved on to manlier blogs about manly things like chest waxing and the proper way to readjust a penis in public.

On Monday, I went to see my new gynecologist. I was not looking forward to it. I hate going, so much so I hadn't been in more than 4 years. (Yes, I know, that's bad, bad, bad) I picked the new place because they have a birthing center that uses all kind of cool stuff like pools, massages, spa bathrooms and what not. No, I don't need a birthing center. I just like the way they approach gynecology. There is no Dr. So and So, it's this is CeCe. I figure if a woman is going to stick things up my hoohah, I should at least be on a first name basis with her. It's also the first gynecological office to ever ask if I sleep with men, women, or BOTH. It has a happy granola feeling to it.

So I met CeCe. She was a big woman, warm and kind, she reminded me of my mother. We discussed my medical history. She congratulated me for fighting with my doctor to do a VBAC after two Csections and being told I was "too small" to ever pop a kid out of my bajinga. Then it was time for her to pop out while I put on the oh so flattering hospital gown and arranged a paper blanket on my lap.

Cece returned and felt my boobies. Good news there, nothing but fat. Finally, I slid down and let Cece play "find the cervix." It only took her two tries. My last gyne needed 4 minimum. I have an extremely high cervix apparently. My old gyne used to laugh about how hard it was to do my pap smears while I writhed in pain. Cece apologized to me and seemed genuinely upset I was not having a happy fun time. Then she left me with my shame.

So, after I redressed, Cece came back in and gave me the preliminary verdict. Either I am entering perimenopause (yippie more Hormone induced mood swings!) or my thyroid is screwed up. I'm not sure which to root for. And yes, I just ended that sentence with a preposition.

even bloggirls get the blues

2009-09-17T09:14:00.000-07:00

Okay as part of my assignment for lit 262, I had to write a few verses of a blues-type poem. Here is my humble attempt.

It is what it is

My man done left me
Left me high and dry
My man done left me
It is what it is

My man done left me
Left me with his child
My man done left me
It is what it is

Ain’t no food on the table
While my baby cries
Ain’t no food on the table
It is what it is

My man done left me
Left me high and dry
My man done left me
It is what it is

No money in my pocket
Tears I will not cry
No money in my pocket
It is what it is

My mama warned me
He’s no good child
My mama warned me
It is what it is

My man done left me
Left me high and dry
My man done left me
It is what it is

New York

2009-09-14T21:31:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I went to New York this weekend (well technically I went to New Jersey and just visited New York on Saturday, but it sounds cooler to say New York) and I figured I'd use it for the poem that was due this morning. The version I turned in ended at the Walk after Times Square and I added to it tonight. It's probably all out of the actual order, but my memory is a little fuzzy and I don't think the order is that important.

By the way, it's supposed to resist ending and be primitive as part of the assignment.

New York
Kelli Reynolds

Path Train
Ground Zero
Flowers, candles, tears
Unfinished balloon animal
Walk
RR Donnelly & Sons
Hellhole
Walk
Church
Remaining beams form a cross
Walk
Stock Exchange
Walk
Rain
Walk
Parade
Walk
Handbag miss?
Saint Paul’s Cathedral
Walk
Times Square
Walk
Falafel and pretzels
Walk
Parade
Walk
East Village
Walk
Street faire
Walk
Roasted corn
Curly haired child
Walk
West village
Walk
Hudson River
Statue in the fog
Fake birds on posts
Walk
Kayaks
Laughter
Walk
The Dakota
Walk
Central Park
Strawberry Field
Imagine
Cameras and footprints
Walk
Living statue
Walk
Battery Park
Walk
Melted metal globe
Walk

2009-09-09T14:07:00.001-07:00

Okay, I have a nasty rash on my leg for which I have to take even nastier pills. The side effects list is way creepy. Hopefully, most of it will be gone by the time I land on Friday. I thought I'd check in really quick and post the poem I turned in during class today.

Nothing but Net

The banal, the inane
Must be stopped
The internet has become
A breeding ground for mediocrity
We can, Nay, We shall
Do better than this
LOLCats are forbidden
No one shall “can has”
Real words are required
Save TXTSPK for sending texts
Forwarding shall be minimal
Mass emailing is verboten
Facebook is not a verb
Quoting is fine BUT
If you have nothing original
To say Ever, say nothing
Connect, embrace, champion
Your cause, your movement, yourself
Discuss, dissect, debunk
Your issue, his issue, every event
Post your poetry, your prose
Be it good, bad or ugly
Talk about your life
Your loves, your losses, your wins
Find something no one has seen
Show it!
Entertain yourself
Ignore the Trolls
Admit your guilty pleasures
To someone you will never meet
Do not engage in
TREK VS WARS
(trek is better, picard is superior)
Learn the rules of a forum
Before posting
D0 ]\]07 \/\/ri73 i]\] 1337
(in public posts)
It confuses the newbs
Be kind to newbs
You were one….once

quick post

2009-09-03T09:36:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted lately for two reasons, one - school has started and I therefore have homework that I must do and two - I did try to post something from my phone's web browser, but the internet ate it.

Right now, I am sitting at the downtown campus which is full of loud construction noises which really help the pounding in my head. My Lit 240 class starts in a little bit and I am anxious to see if the teacher will be wearing a blouse that is not see through. In our first two classes, I am afraid I was too distracted by the contrast of her skin to her bra to really pay attention to much of anything. This is why I can not be a teacher, I simply can not bring myself to wear anything see through.

2009-08-23T21:30:00.000-07:00

In just a few hours, my redhead will be 12. It will also be her first day of 7th grade. Mila will start her last year of high school. Jo will start her first year. Jyoti will start 1st grade. And I will be starting my sophmore year in college.

I don't know which makes me feel older, knowing my kids are far from babyhood or looking at my classmates and knowing they're only a few years older than my Mila.

The birthday girl is in the happy bunny shirt

blowing in the wind

2009-08-21T22:22:00.003-07:00

My mother had always told me that when she passed, she wanted to be cremated and have her ashes spread out over Lake M* by a certain beach (I am being purposely vague) she used to swim at as a child. So when she died, far too soon, in 2000, my sister (the good one) made the memorial arrangements. It is illegal to spread ashes in public places, so we decided to do it late at night. The law was not going to stop us from fulfilling her wishes.

So after the memorial most of us headed towards that beach that I won’t name. Everyone found parking spots and no one noticed the machine that dispensed the parking stickers. We walked towards that beach and it was not a beach anymore. It was being converted into a golf course. This did not stop us. We found a way in, there is always a hole in a fence; it is one of the great unwritten laws. We headed towards the lake. We stood on the rocks and prepared to spread my mother.

Her best friend and I each took half of her. After a few quick words, we got ready to send her on her way. It had been calm most of that night. As we began to spread the ashes, the wind came at us and so did some of my mother. I think she would have found that hilarious. I would not have been surprised if the parts that were coming towards us had once been her posterior and this was her final way of telling the whole world to kiss her ass.

Everyone ended up with a parking ticket. We may have inhaled pieces of my mother. We broke at least three laws. It may not have been the most dignified send off, but it was funny and a great story. My mother would have been pleased.

2009-08-18T13:30:00.000-07:00

Oh and I hate that a rose shows up on my blog.

2009-08-18T12:59:00.000-07:00

I go to the movies fairly often and I go alone most times. I enjoy going alone because I never have to argue over which movie to see or justify seeing an animated film. I also don't have that awkward moment where we discuss if we should share popcorn or get our own. I always want my own because as much as I like my friends, I hate the thought of touching food someone's hands have been all over. Strangely, I don't mind sharing food that my daughters have touched or even finishing things they have taken bites out of it.

On Thursday, I got two free passes to a screening that's going on today. I made the mistake of inviting my friend Cyn. She often cancels out on me, normally at the last minute. I invited her on Friday, she said sure and I even offered to buy the snacks. I checked with her on Sunday and asked if she could still make it today. She responded affirmatively. I thought this might be one of the rare times that she didn't cancel. I talked to her yesterday and asked if she wanted to grab dinner before and she said sure. I thought that she might actually not cancel this time. I was wrong.

This morning I sent her a text just saying hi. She sent me a text back half, an hour later, just saying hi. The delay made me suspicious. I sent her another text asking if everything was okay. Fifteen minutes later, she sent me a text saying yes, but she has to cancel tonight. Because I am an adult (shut up) and I have adult (shut up, shut up) friends, finding someone to do something on a weeknight last minute is pretty much impossible. So I guess I'm going alone, which I really don't mind doing, I just hate wasting a free pass.

Not hard boiled

2009-08-14T22:03:00.000-07:00

The idiot told me one of his friends had a problem with me, this letter is my response.
The names in the following letter have been changed to amuse me.

Ms. Huge Ego:

You recently informed my ex-husband, Mr. T. Idiot, that you are dissatisfied with my performance at my place of work. You expressed dismay at what you considered to be my unprofessional and personal attack on your delicate perishables. I was shocked when informed of your claim. What is the reason for my dismay? I have no idea who you are.

You see, although you are so familiar with me that you were able to recognize me with only the
help of a name tag and information gleaned from Mr. Idiot and your mutual friend Ms. Whatever, I regret to inform you that until informed of your complaint, I had no idea you even existed. Even now, with my new knowledge of you, I still could not pick you out of line-up. The only visual clues Mr. Idiot gave was a vague racial category.

As for my alleged attack on your precooked omelets, I did not wantonly and willfully destroy them. I do not know you. I do not care about you. I do care about my job. It may not be glamorous or what some people would consider important, but I take pride in my work. Even if I despise the customer I am serving, which has never happened, I would never do less than a stellar job. If you do not wish for me to serve you, that will not hurt my feelings as I will still get paid.

Mr. Idiot also informed me that you sought my dismissal by bringing my alleged misdeeds to the attention of my work superiors and you were disappointed when they did not immediately discharge me. I must further inform you that I was not aware that you had even registered a complaint about my service as I have only received commendations from said superiors.

Now to put all this in simple words in case I have overestimated your intelligence – I did not break your eggs. I don’t know you. I don’t care who you are, I’ll bag the same. I didn’t even know you were petty enough to try and get me fired because I do such a great job my bosses are too busy praising me to tell me anything negative.

In parting, I would like to thank you, while I was temporarily confused by your complaint, you have given me quite a jolly laugh.

I will

2009-08-10T01:28:00.000-07:00

Okay, so when I get insomnia, I write crappy poetry. I enjoy writing it and I enjoy subjecting others to it. So read it, make fun of it, laugh at how bad it is; I already have.

I will

I will eat oranges.
I will eat grapes.
I will eat bananas.
I will not eat grapefruit.

I will read too much.
I will write, poorly.
I will sing off-key.
I will not dance…in public.

I will remember my friends.
I will forget their sins.
I will treasure their love.
I will not abandon them.

I will make fun of you.
I will make fun of myself.
I will make fun of everyone.
I will not spare anyone.

I will laugh.
I will cry.
I will pout.
I will not take life too seriously.

I will love.
I will lose.
I will win.
I will not hate.

I will live.
I will try.
I will do.
I will die.

2009-08-08T11:11:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning when my alarm went off at seven. I decided it was too early to be up and went back to sleep. I woke up again when my second alarm went off at seven thirty. I decided that it was still to early to be up and went back to sleep. Then my phone rang at nine twenty and sleep was no longer an option.

I turned on my television and tried to find some decent cartoons. I didn't pay too much attention to the television until I realised that I was watching the Care Bears. As if that realisation was not horrific enough, I also realised that I had already seen this particular episode....twice.

2009-08-07T21:08:00.000-07:00

A day or two ago (I lose track of time when I'm not working or going to school and today was my first day back at work after four straight days off), I was reading http://www.mommywantsvodka.com/ I absolutely adore Aunt Becky and I read her every day, but what I'm trying, in my own meandering way, to get to is that a post that she wrote about understanding her adorable boy's babble made me remember when I couldn't understand Jo.

Before I even met the idiot, I realised that one day, I might have children. I had already done a lot of babysitting and had even been the primary caretaker for my sister's spawn for a stint. Somehow, I didn't think that real life experience with other people's children had made me ready for my own. So I did what I always did when I was unsure about something. I checked an armload of books out of the library.

I had my oldest, Mila, first (which normally the way it happens) , she was a dream baby. She slept through the night by the time that she was a month old. She hardly cried. She was the perfect little baby that no one believes really exists. She even potty trained herself the Christmas before Jo was born. There was never even a pull up stage with her.

Then Jo was born. Mila adored her from the day she was born and even changed Jo's diapers. Yes, I let my toddler change her newborn sister's diaper. I know I'm evil. Jo was not an easy baby. She was full of energy. Lucky for me, Jo also adored her big sister. Mila was more help than most of the adults around me (except for my mom, of course) and the two grew close.
Jo was always in a hurry to do everything and she hit most of her milestones early. I think she was just trying to be just like her sister.

One of the things she did early was talk. This would turn out to be not a great thing later on. Now, because I had read all those books and continued to read more books and researched things online, I knew that I should be able to understand about 50% of everything my girls said by the time they were two and 75% by the time they were three. With Mila, I understood about 75% of what she said when she was two and 99% of what she said when she was three. (I now only understand about 80% of what she says, but that's because she tends to speak Japanese.)

It was not the same with Jo. When she was two I only understood maybe one-third of what she said. I was concerned and brought it up with her doctor. Since she was doing great otherwise, he thought it might just be a delay and we would see how she was doing at her three year checkup. A year flew by and the redhead joined our family. I took Jo for her three year checkup. I only understood about half of what she said at this point. It was very frustrating for her. I'd constantly have to ask her to repeat herself and try my hardest to decipher from the words I could understand what she wanted or needed. Having had a speech problem when I was little, I completely empathised with her.

Her doctor asked to her to say a few things, asked her a few questions and gave us a referral for a speech therapist. I was elated. Jo was going to get some help with her speech and I'd be able to understand my little ball of energy. I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up. I took Jo to the speech therapist. The therapist asked Jo to say a few words and grilled me about Jo's development. She looked at Jo's mouth from every angle but inside of it. Then she burst my happy little bubble.

Jo's speech problem was not a physical problem. The reason Jo had developed the speech problem was because she had started talking too early. Then she told me the last thing that I wanted to hear. Our insurance wouldn't cover speech therapy for Jo because she didn't have a physical defect. There was no way we could pay out of pocket for it. She would have to wait until kindergarten to finally start it. I had to spend two more years asking her to repeat herself and playing translator between her and everyone but Mila (strangely Mila understood her).

She got through speech therapy and if you spoke to her now, you'd have no clue that she had ever had a problem. She is still a ball of energy at fourteen and is far more verbose than I am.

Shut your stupid mouth already

2009-08-03T14:41:00.000-07:00

I'm in a mood so I guess this list reflects it.

8 things I never want to hear again.
I am sick of hearing certain things and I really have no desire to hear them again.

1. Blonde jokes or” having a blonde moment” – Replace blonde with your favorite racial slur and you’ll have a classic racist joke. They weren’t funny as racist jokes and they’re not funny now. They’re just excuses to make fun of women as stupid and slutty.

2. Don’t crush my bread/ be careful with the eggs – I was going to pretend the bread was an accordion and juggle the eggs, but since you warned me to be careful, I’ll pretend I have a modicum of common sense and treat them as if they were fragile. Thanks for letting me know how delicate such items are, I never would have figured it out on my own with my lousy 3.9 (darn math 122!) average.

3. Item A is the next/new Item B – Pink is not the new black. The snotty high school basketball star is not the next Jordan.

4. Your hair is so short! – Oh my bob, it is! Here I was thinking I was ready to play Rapunzel sans silly wig and now you’ve destroyed my delusion.

5. My sponsor/going to meetings/any 12 step references; I had to drop; I was so high; my p.o. - Now if I was actually in a conversation with you and revealed these things in confidence, it probably wouldn’t annoy me. You talking about these things loudly, in public, annoys me. When did the second A in AA /CA/NA change from Anonymous to Announcers? If you are out on probation on a drug charge, do you really need to announce to everyone on a public bus that your last drop was dirty because they told you not to smoke weed so you smoked some crack instead? (For those of you not up on the lingo – drop is the term for having to submit to urine analysis and a p.o. is a parole officer – the things you learn on the public bus is amazing.)

6. I’m so broke/I’m so poor/ this pay is so lousy– This is normally from someone drinking a four dollar coffee who has never worried about being evicted or which meals they would need to skip. People who have never had only one hot meal a day in a church or community center where they had to sign their name for each plate. People who never slept during the day at the library and walked around at night, trying not to be picked up for vagrancy. People who have never tried to feed five people and get school supplies and clothes on an $8 an hour job.

7. Any complaint about the weather before it hits 103 – This is Tucson, it gets hot. It gets hot every year. It’s not a surprise. It’s not considered a heat wave. It’s normal. It isn’t even as bad as Phoenix, so quit whining.

8. Don’t you miss the girls? – No I’m heartless and emotionally void. Of course, I miss them. They’re the reason I’m transferring to UNLV next year instead of U of A. They’re the reason I go to Vegas as often as possible. They’re the reason I put up with the idiot.

Afterthoughts

2009-08-02T22:23:00.000-07:00

I wasn't sure about posting this here. If you hate it, I won't be offended. It's a very short story I wrote about a month ago. It's a bit depressing and there's no humor in it.

Afterthoughts

She looked at him, this man she once cared for, and imagined him choking on his own blood. She despised him, loathed him. His touch made her skin crawl. His drunken slumber was loud and his limbs flailed. If she were stronger, physically and emotionally, this would be over tonight, but she was weak, dependent on him for everything. She had let him run her life. He kept her from having any friends of her own, moved her away from her family.

She hated herself almost as much as she reviled him. She knew better than this, had been raised better than this. Why was she here? Surviving her childhood had not been easy, had she learned nothing from it? Why didn’t she grab the kids and run, somewhere, anywhere? She knew there were places that would take her in, protect her. Why was she so afraid to leave?

Tonight he had come home drunk, again. When they had first married, he had agreed that if he were ever to come home inebriated, he would sleep on the couch. He knew how the smell of alcohol made her think of her father, how it triggered the fuzzy memories of which she wanted no part. Tonight he didn’t sleep on the couch. He came in to their bedroom, held her down and forced himself on her. The violence of it seemed to increase his pleasure.

Still she couldn’t do more than imagine the knife slitting his throat. She was a coward. She deserved what he gave her. She cried. She thought of her mother, miles away, slowly dying of cancer. Her mother was a strong woman; so much stronger than she could ever hope to be. She put on some clothes, careful not to rustle the fabric.

She went to her children’s bedroom. Her precious, beautiful children. Thank God, she thought, they sleep so soundly. Please dear God, she pleaded, don’t let them ever find out how he behaves when we’re alone. She put the blankets they had kicked off back on them. They slept as fitfully as their father. She went to the bathroom.

No bruises. He never left bruises. Bruises would have made it easier for her to leave him. She suspected he knew that. She knew that he would apologize in the morning. She knew she would say that she forgives him. She knew that she would not forget. She knew he would overcompensate for his behavior for a week, and then it would start again. He would hurt her again, as he had before. He would force himself on her, as he did before. That was how they had conceived their middle child.

She went back into their bedroom. He was still now, in a deeper calmer sleep. She lay down next to him and wept herself to sleep, terrified to stay and terrified to leave.

nothing

2009-08-02T22:07:00.000-07:00

I have nothing to say today. I had nothing to say for a couple of days now. Actually, I have had a few things to say, just everything I had to say, I thought of at work, where I couldn't write anything down. Since I'm easily distracted...ooh shiny...what was I saying? Oh yeah, since I'm easily distracted, if I don't write down my ideas or at least text myself a short synopsis, I forget what I was thinking. I have been known to forget what television show I am watching during a commercial. I'll try to have something interesting up some time soon. Now, back to the shiny thing. It's so pretty.

2009-07-30T19:48:00.000-07:00

For the past few days, tiny men have been trying to dig their way through my ear with rusty pickaxes (or so it felt), so I decided to drag my lumpy behind to the doctor's office. First I called my doctor, who I used to loathe but have now come to almost adore. I normally don't have a problem getting a same day appointment and I probably could have today....if he wasn't on vacation. So off I went to urgent care.

I got signed in fairly quickly because I had downloaded their registration form online and filled it out on my way there. Then I waited. I picked up the Highlights magazine which every medical waiting room is required by law to have regardless if children are seen. I found it far more interesting than the magazine next to it that had articles on erectile dysfunction and bedwetting on facing pages. Gallant and Goofus were up to their usual schtick. I found the hidden pictures.

I was called into the tiny room. The nurse, or whatever she was, came in and asked me why I was there. I was tempted to tell her that I was lonely and wanted to be surround by people with big hair in scrubs, but I resisted that urge and told her, as I had told the reception people and as I had written down, I have an earache. Lucky as I am, I got the chance for bonus points! "Which ear?" she quizzed me. Not wanting to lose points, I told her it was the left. I got it right, first try! Then we got to do the scale, because there's nothing more fun then having to tell the skinny girl weighing you, she needs to move the bottom part over.

Finally, it was time for her to take my vitals. My temperature was a little raised but not worrisome. For some reason, she decided to cut off my circulation in my left arm. Sure, she said she was taking my blood pressure, but I'm not sure I believed her. She released my arm from the boa constrictor she had disguised as a cuff and told me the doctor would be "right in." That is one of those lies that continues to spread even though no one believes them -the doctor will be right in, the government works for the taxpayer, no those jeans don't make your butt look big.

I waited. I sent texts to the idiot. I read the Grimm Fairy Tales on my Ipod. I waited. I looked out the tiny window at the driveway behind the center. I waited. A mere twenty minutes later, the doctor was there. It was lightening round time, but I was ready. Why was I at the urgent care, which ear, how long has it hurt, any other symptoms, do you have allergies? Amazingly, I knew all the answers. Then the doctor took his little flashlight thingy (sorry, I'm not a medical person obviously, and I have no idea the name for it) and first looked in my throat and then in both my ears. I bet he wanted to make sure I hadn't mixed up my left and right ear.

Then it was the doctor's turn to provide answers. So why has my ear been hurting for days? Allergies.

Weighty Issues

2009-07-29T22:43:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, I was thin (a condition that I have long since overcome!) and short. Not just regular kid thin, but wearing a size less than my age in slim with a belt thin. My redhead and my littlest one have the same build I did as a kid. My sister (the one I like) was not thin. She was not obese by any stretch of the imagination. She was just a little bigger than average. My darling Emo Snow White has the same build, healthy but far from skinny.

When my sister and I were children, strangers felt compelled to share their opinions about our respective sizes with my mother. They would stare at me and ask my mother if she ever fed me. My mother, being the wonderful role model she was, would respond with such gems as “but if I feed her, I’ll never get rid of her.” I know that they would also stare at my sister (people suck) and make snide remarks (people really suck) but I’m afraid that I was so egocentric (I was a child) that I don’t remember what the people said or what my mother might have said in response.

I would love to say that people are no longer as rude as they were, lo those many years ago, when the world was young and so was I. I would love to say it, but I try not to lie on the internet. (I want to be unique) When my Emo Snow White was little, people would stare at her and tell me things like, “don’t worry, a little exercise will slim her down.” Being who I am, I would normally respond with something like, “and a few manners would do wonders for your personality.” When my redhead was little, she perfected the meanest looks and few people were brave enough to comment on her figure. When she started kindergarten, an older child told her she was too little to be in school. My delicate little thing responded with an uppercut. My littlest (and she still is a tiny thing, weight wise) was not spared any remarks. I had one lovely grandmother figure ask me if I ever fed the poor thing. I said no, she feeds herself. (She was two by then.)

Speaking of lovely grandmother figures, I always want to slap them. Okay, not all of them, just the ones who think, because they have somehow managed to live past 50, they have the right to sit in judgment. Like the one who told me how cute my little boy is (I’ve never had a boy) and when I told her my youngest is a girl, she told me that my daughter, whom everyone said looked so much like a darker version of me, had a boy’s face. This happened on one of the rare occasions I actually dressed her in pink! (The outfit was given to me, I would never, never, never, never buy pink!)

Finally, this is directed to the idiot’s mother (I know he won’t read this and she probably won’t either), my children were given perfectly good, if a tad unusual, first names. I did not pick these names out of a hat. I did not surprise your son with them after the girls were born. I did not pick these names to upset you. Remarkably, I did not even think about you when I was considering what to name the fruits of my womb. Their first names may never meet with your approval. That does not give you the right to refuse to use their given names. Oh, and the redhead’s first name? Your son picked it out.

Who I am

2009-07-28T19:47:00.001-07:00

At work, I converse pleasantly with the customers, even the ones who grab $400 worth of groceries and only have $150 on them. I smile, I repack in paper when they change their mind after they tell me plastic is fine. I apologize and get them a fresh loaf of bread after they smash it in their cart. I thank them and tell them to have a nice day while they grunt at me. I tell them it's my fault when they run me over or back into me with their carts. I'm pleasant when they yell at me. So I know I have the capability of filtering my responses.

I just don't know how to filter in my personal life. I am the person who will tell you that your hair looks like a pet groomer cut it. I'm the person who will tell you that your breath stinks and shoves a roll of breath mints at you. I'm the person who laughs at your bad comb over. I'm the person who will correct your grammar. I'm the mean person who will tell you that it's not the pants that make your butt look big, it's the ice cream you ate for dinner. I'm the person who will tell you that your writing is derivative. I'm the person who will tell you that you look like a serial killer in your picture.

I am also the person who will remind you that hair grows back and a good shampoo will make it better. I am also the person who will make sure no one else knows about your breath issues. I am also the person who will proofread your essays for you and help you raise your grade level without wanting anything in return. I am also the person who will commiserate with you as we both try to have a healthier diet (ice cream for breakfast only!). I'm also the person who will make suggestions, if you're open to them, of ways to improve your writing. I'm also the person will still love you even if you do look like a serial killer and remind you that Ted Bundy was considered very handsome.

Panties and a butt, but not together

2009-07-24T22:07:00.000-07:00

I like to post pictures on my Flickr stream from time to time. Sometimes it's a cute picture of one or more of the fruits of my womb, sometimes it's just something I saw that looked odd or interesting. With Flickr, I can see how many times a picture has been viewed. These are the top 2 pictures on my stream.

This is number 2

This is number 1

I find it kind of disturbing that a guy with a bad rash (the picture doesn't close to the reality) on his hindquarters and an empty pair of panties are the most viewed of all my pictures. It's almost as disturbing as when I saw said panties on the bus. I know people forget things on the bus like umbrellas, toys, wallets, purses and occasionally their manners, but how do you forget your panties??

I found it!

2009-07-22T23:11:00.000-07:00

So I guess I'm a little slow because I had a copy of the final draft in my school email (duh!) since I had to use turnitin.com. Here's the final draft

Pizza Hut versus Magpies (take 2!)

Magpies Pizza and Pizza Hut sell freshly made pizza at a reasonable price. Magpies Pizza and Pizza Hut have websites featuring menus, nutritional information, and money saving coupons. Magpies Pizza and Pizza Hut have dine-in, pick-up and convenient delivery service. Magpies Pizza and Pizza Hut have locations in every major part of Tucson.

Magpies Pizza is a locally owned company that has easily won the Tucson Weekly's Annual "Best of Tucson" Best Pizza award nineteen times. Pizza Hut is a national franchise under the Yum Brands Inc. umbrella of questionable food choices. The Yum Brands Inc. includes such culinary atrocities as the greasy, understaffed Kentucky Fried Chicken, the nauseating Long John Silver's, and the E. coli haven Taco Bell.

Magpies Pizza delights the palate with their heavenly regular, scrumptious sourdough, and healthy wheat crusts to which cheese and herbs can be added. Sauces that can be added to the hand tossed crust at Magpies Pizza include the refreshing "House" pesto, the tantalizing spicy "Juan Carlos" pesto, the delicious tomato pesto, the uncompromising "House" red sauce and the simple yet satisfying olive oil and garlic. Pizza Hut disappoints with a choice of cardboard, thinner cardboard, undercooked biscuit dough, and undercooked biscuit dough with chunks of cheese crusts. The only sauce available at Pizza Hut is an overly sweet, conformist red tomato sauce.

Cheese is lovingly and generously applied at Magpies Pizza. Gooey mozzarella, fragrant feta, creamy ricotta, and hearty cheddar among others clamor for mastication. Light, soy or no cheese is an option for dietary concerns. Pizza Hut has a waxy cheese that employees take great care to distribute in the smallest possible portions. Ordering extra cheese is the only sure-fire way to have the entire pizza dusted with the cheese.

Magpies Pizza serves slices made to satiate Paul Bunya which take mozzarella cheese to a height normally reserved for the perfect grilled cheese sandwich. Pizza Hut serves personal pan pizzas that leave a toddler hungry cut into four triangular pieces. One of the four pieces will have all the cheese; the other three have only the doughy crust and the bright red sauce. These three pieces are reminiscent of used surgical sponges.

Magpies Pizza keeps a staff of happy, intelligent, caring individuals. Their dining rooms are cozy and brightly lit. Some locations feature butcher paper and crayons on the tables. Children and artistic adults have their tablecloth creations proudly displayed by the window in which the pizza dough can be seen being handmade. Pizza Hut keeps a staff of depressed mannequins on valium. Pizza Hut dining rooms are ten percent brighter than an underground cavern and have the atmosphere of a funeral for the guy in the office no one really liked. Children are occasionally tolerated by the wait staff. The kitchen is well secluded in an attempt to hide their gastronomical gaffes.

Saving ten box tops from Magpies Pizza will earn a free large pizza. The pizza toppings include over forty, mouthwatering, gourmet choices including squash, zucchini, and eggplant. Any pizza with that many vegetables qualifies as health food. Vegetarian choices abound. Saving ten box tops from Pizza Hut will earn an unfortunate smell in the house. A vegetarian must use care when ordering since the same cooking surfaces, utensils, and oils are often used for both meat and non-meat items as disclosed in the allergen information section on their website.

Delectable, robust calzones tantalize the taste buds year round at Magpies Pizza. Paired with any of the enticing sauces, or on their own, these pieces of heaven offer a suitable alternative to pizza that gets the filling to crust ratio exactly right. It feeds a small army or one hungry teenager. Calzones are occasionally proffered at Pizza Hut in two varieties; burnt and tasteless or doughy with sweat sock filling.

Ambrosial desserts can be had at Magpies Pizza. Sinfully creamy cheesecake, decadent tiramisu, scrumptious cinnamon swirls, and the heavenly almond cream cake all plead to be devoured. These homemade treats are worth an extra thirty minutes at the gym. Pizza hut offers baked cinnamon sticks. These "sticks" are basically their pizza dough formed into bread sticks, drowned in butter and suffocated with cinnamon, then baked in the same oven as the unsavory pizza which leaves them with an unappetizing aroma of cinnamon dusted pepperoni.

Ordering from Pizza Hut, available nationwide, guarantees the same tasting pizza whether in New York or California. Ordering from Magpies Pizza, available only in Tucson, guarantees a great tasting pizza.

Old essay

2009-07-22T20:52:00.000-07:00

This is from way back (April of 2008!) and it's the first draft of a finished essay that I can't find. I know I changed the Barney line but I don't remember to what or what else I changed.

UPDATE:

I've deleted the first draft because I realised the only differences in the final draft was the removal of the torture/barney line and the addition of the last paragraph.

Self Betrayal

2009-07-20T22:12:00.001-07:00

Your voice fills my heart
In a way I never thought
Would be possible
Your words mean more
To me than any other words
Ever have
My logical brain shuts off
My emotions take over all
Things concerning you
I find myself smiling
And hating myself for it
I do not like
Not being in control
I am not some silly
Schoolgirl seduced by your
Poetry and finding
A soul mate in your verse
Yet I am drawn to you
Even though I find fault
In your words, my heart
Still leaps at the
Sound of your voice

Almost Love

2009-07-20T21:43:00.000-07:00

We sat on the beach and I asked you what kitchy coo means.
You looked at me and laughed.
What a great song that would make you told me.
We waited for the sun to rise over the lake.
We sat side by side, neither brave enough to make a move towards the other.
The sun emerged from the water as you rose from the sand
You offered me your hand.
A ray illuminated your cheek as we walked towards the train.
We had a conversation that would soon be forgotten
On a morning that never would be.
Your stop came too soon and we parted
With a gentle kiss that would never be repeated

I hate Glinda

2009-07-18T23:11:00.000-07:00

I've never been particullary fond of The Wizard of Oz. The flying monkeys didn't scare me, even though I questioned their fashion sense (Why dress like bell hops?), they seemed kind of cool. The Wicked Witch seemed ok, she just wanted her sister's shoes back from the girl who killed her. I hated the way the movie dismissed Dorothy killing the Witch of the East. Even Gregory Maquire wrote both slayings as accidents. Okay, so I'm rambling, but the point I'm trying to make is that I don't like the Wizard of Oz. Not the movie and not the books.

I especially loathe Glinda. Maybe it's because I was never particularly girly or into frilly things. Maybe it was the blonde curls (I have blonde hair when I don't dye it, but much to my mother's frustration, I could never hold a curl) or the garish makeup. Maybe it's because she was portrayed as the Good Witch even though we have no proof of her goodness other than the Munchkins like her and she knows the way to the Wizard. She is still referred to as a Good Witch even though she sent Dorothy on an extremely dangerous journey that was completely useless. She robbed the so called Wicked Witch of her sister's shoes and who knows what she does with those Munchkins when the cameras are off.

I probably had a point when I started this post, but I have no idea what it might be besides I hate Glinda

Too Verbose

Random Monday Thoughts

ON HOLD

New Poem

Post Created Sep 16, 2011 10:34:20 AM

Soul Separation

Post Created Aug 25, 2011 2:17:24 PM

All you want

Reruns

A quick note to Facebook users

Short Poem

Sleep and head into NodSee the words flyAway from the poet,The musician, the writerChasing them like...The ice cream trucksOf YouthCatch your wordsHold them tightAs you dream back to reality

Bad Parenting Advice

Blarg.

I won't bleed for you.

Pick A Hand

Regret - a haiku

Random Thoughts

How I Use Class Time

A letter to a professor

Old poem

Totally Selfish am I

Angel Wings

After Rocky

Las Vegas and a poem

Spice Christ

CRADLE

Professor Hottie

Leisure Time

Picture

A Blonde Rant

Someday

little girl

Playing with food

Wanted

A Night So Mad Tea Party

Kindness Repaid

4 Rides

Satanism and Goat’s Blood

Ingrid

My Truths

Mid April Frost

Insomnia

Expired

Jubilee

YI

Waiting

Sarah's Wedding

Saturday People

Once

Get rid of aunts

group effort

I Am Purple

Why is there nothing new here?

the accident

The little stone house

Near North Side

Unavailable

Never Daddy

thoughtless

the ties that blind

Mother tree

Onomatopoeia

Untitled

Calamitous

In the Old House

Escape

Snake *

Pen

Pitiful poetry

crapatacular poetry

feel me up, feel me down

even bloggirls get the blues

New York

quick post

blowing in the wind

Not hard boiled

I will

Shut your stupid mouth already

Afterthoughts

Sleep and head into Nod
See the words fly
Away from the poet,
The musician, the writer
Chasing them like
...The ice cream trucks
Of Youth

Catch your words
Hold them tight
As you dream back to reality