Beautiful Vibe

Commitment to Lower the Bar of Decency

2006-12-16T00:48:00.000-02:00

You know those articles you see on MSN or in Ladies' Home Journal with headlines like "10 Top Ten Things Not to Do at the Office Christmas Party?" My company's party is the place where all of those ten things happen and then some. As Tom, Amy's husband, said, "The thing I like about your company party is that everyone seems committed to lowering the bar of decency." That's quite a fair assessment, and I gotta say it, I wouldn't want it any other way.

Our party is held at our boss's house. For years it was called the "Antech/Anderson Christmas Party", but thanks to an event a couple of years ago, it's now called just the "Anderson Christmas Party," lest the company get sued for unsavory behavior. I have the dubious honor of being responsible for that change, and I now have to finish all my karaoke performances with the disclaimer "No Antech employees were harmed during this performance." I'll tell that story another time.

Our boss's goal is to liquor us all up as much as he can, stir us up, and see where the chips fall. I love that his motto seems to be "work hard, play hard." We definitely play hard at this party..until after 2am. I directed a performance art piece that included 4 new employees reenacting the "birth of Antechians" and proceeded to make fun of a few choice co-workers. Fortunately, I've worked with these people for 10 years, so we've turned into this odd, functional family where we know which jokes are fair game for public consumption and which aren't. The newbies wore black capes and danced like idiots and chanted in whispers repeating key phrases, while Enigma's "Sadeness" played. If only I'd had a smoke machine, it would have been perfect.

The crowning moment of our show was when "the Angel of Antech came down and performed a Christmas miracle." The angel of Antech consisted of my boss's head with wings attached, dangling from a tree branch by rubberbands. Totally ridiculous.. Fortunately my boss has a great sense of humor. Our show was a hit, despite my efforts to just do something so weird that people just didn't know what to make of it.

The performance art piece was the opening act for the next show that can only be dubbed "Naughty Nurses." The admin staff came out in short nurses' outfits with thigh high fish net stockings and did a dance routine to "Dr. Dr., Give me the news..." It was oddly uncomfortable, but that's pretty much what's to be expected from that group.

Tom did a stunning rendition of "Y.M.C.A" during karaoke with another one of the male spouses of a co-worker. As they were conspiring about what they were going to do, there was a lull in the conversations around the room and we just heard Tom say, "Are you going to be comfortable with that?" So, we knew we were in for a show. Yes, Tom and a very good sport, Joe, ended up dancing together and actually rubbed each other's nipples at some point. Good clean, fun!

So while other people at other companies may go to work the Monday after the Christmas party covered in shame, we all hold our heads high and just thank god we work for such a cool company that lets us act like idiots and still get paid.

Merry Xmas!

Dinner over Dead Bird

2006-12-01T22:47:00.000-02:00

A friend asked me the other day in an email how my Thanksgiving was, and instead of giving the usual answer of 'Good. How was yours?" I really thought about my answer. I felt my experience was best summed up with a short little play full of actual dialog that occured over my table. I present to you "Dinner over Dead Bird"

Scene: Kitchen table of my mother-in-law’s house.
Cast: My husband, mother-in-law, my mother, father, father-in-law, friend of the family, and her 16 year old daughter, me

Scene 1:
My Husband: Sue, are you growing your hair out?
My Mother: Yes, I am. I don’t look like a poodle any more.
My Husband: It looks great. I really like it longer.
Mother-In-Law: No….no, I really don’t like it. You should keep it short.

Scene 2:
My Mother: My mom didn’t have any more kids because she had RH negative blood. They would have had birth defects.
Friend of Family: I have RH negative blood too. So does Kaitlin.
Me: What is RH negative blood? I don’t know what that means.
Friend of Family: It has something to do with a racist monkey.
Me: What? A racist monkey…I’m thoroughly confused.
Friend of Family: No, a rhe, a ree, not sure how to say it.
Me: Oh, a rhesus monkey…. I still don’t get it.

Note: I never got a good explanation.

Scene 3:
Me: So, what do 16 year olds do? Do you have a MySpace page?
Kaitlin: Yes.
Me: How many friends do you have?
Kaitlin: 200 and something
Me: Are any of them predators?
Kaitlin: No!
Me: How do you know? Don’t you watch Dateline? Watch out for yourself out there.
Kaitlin: I only talk to my friends on there.
Me: What kind of music do you like?
Kaitlin: Breaking Benjamin.
Me: I have no idea who they are. God, when did I get old?
My Husband: On the way over here. It happened at this one intersection. It was sad actually.

Scene 4:
My Mother: Yeah, I have a living will set up. I won’t be on life support for more than 3 days. I watched my mother on that ventilator for five and a half months. It was horrible. That’s why my brother hated my step-father, keeping her alive like that…
My Husband: Can you set up your living will for a specific number of days?
My Mother: I think after 3 days they just take you off the life support.
Friend of the Family: Well what if you stay alive after that?
My Mother: More than likely I’d just suffocate to death. That’s what happened to my mother.
Me: You’re such an optimist, Mom. Can we change the subject?

Scene 5:
Me: Do people your age still consider Johnny Depp hot?
Kaitlin: Yeah. He’s older, but still cute.
My Mother: He has such great bone structure. You know who also has great bone structure?
All of us: No. Who?
My Mother: Billy Idol.
Me: Wow. I didn’t see that one coming.
My Husband: Me either.

The Story of Scars

2006-11-21T23:09:00.000-02:00

My body is not what it once was. Xrays show 14 broken bones, 1 titanium plate and 6 screws. My skin - 5 surgical scars (4 on the belly, 1 on the left arm), 3 chicken pox scars (2 on my forehead, 1 on my left arm), and a hole where a belly button ring used to be. I am missing a gallbladder and a small piece of jawbone. I am 32 and not a victim of child abuse, violent crime, or car accident. These marks are not wounds, but rather stories of my life. The wear, the tear, the marks of living, losing, hurting and healing. Scars are sexy in their simplicity. Their clean, white raised lines mark their territory, take root and become a part of me. Conversation starters and windows into who I was, who I am.

Parts of me that are seemingly unchanged are just blank canvases for that bruise that I'll certainly get in a week or two. I'll cut the corner too close and clip the coffee table with my thigh, like I always do when I'm in a hurry. I'll watch it change from black and blue to brown to green to yellow. I'll admire it's simplicity, it's clear phases of healing. In a year, my right arm will have another 4 inch scar when a surgeon will saw my ulna in half, take out half an inch and pin it back together just like the left one. Power tools will be used to put me back together.

Almost every major part of my body has a distinguishing feature that in a line up of just various body parts from different people, I could pick out my very own. What distinguishing marks do you have? What stories do they tell?

Mine say I'm somewhat clutzy, yet spent most of my childhood on my hands doing gymnastics. That made my arms grow incongrously; hence the surgeries and titanium plates. A softball to the face shattered my nose, causing 2 surgeries and 3 additional breaks. I broke out with chicken pox during a gymnastics meet at 11, spurred a small epidemic, and was consequently at home watching TV when the space shuttle Challenger blew up. In my early twenties I played in a rock band and wore belly baring shirts; hence the belly button ring. I couldn't get it off before my gallbladder surgery, so my husband took wire cutters and cut it out. I never put it back in. The causes, the effects, the marks, the scars. I may sound like a complete wreck, but I think I'm surprisingly together.

My Birthday Prize

2006-03-06T23:54:00.000-02:00

A good friend of mine has been coming over on Saturdays and I've been helping him learn how to play his mandolin. I've played guitar for 20 years, so even though I don't technically know how to play mandolin, I can help him play some tunes and just get used to playing with another person. It's been great fun and in the process, I've actually started to learn how to play the mandolin, too!

On my birthday, my husband and I took the day off because our puppy was having some surgery that day. We figured we'd go frolick during the morning and early afternoon while Aussie was at the vet and then we'd have a nice quiet evening at home. While we were out we talked about me getting a mandolin. We drove by this strip mall with a music store I'd never been in. On a whim I said, "Let's go in there."

I walked in and there was one mandolin on the wall with a very attractive price tag on it. I took it down, played it for 5 minutes and said, "I'll take it." I know I could have done a ton of research and all that stuff, but this thing played great, sounded great and was right in my price range. I said, "Happy Birthday to me" and took that thing home.

I got home and immediately whipped out some music from Nickel Creek. If you don't know who they are, they are an amazing group of three young kids that are just extraordinary musicians. I had to laugh that the first song I was going to try and tackle was this piece called "Ode to a Butterfly". It's crazy difficult. I figure if I'm going to learn something new, I might as well really challenge myself in the process.

As I was sitting down struggling through the first few bars, my husband told me to close my eyes while he brought my birthday present out. When I opened my eyes, there was a gorgeous wooden music stand he had bought for me. It's totally hand crafted and beautiful. So, I got to spend the rest of the evening playing my new mandolin and reading music from my new stand. It was great.

It's been interesting to learn this new instrument at this stage of my life. It's odd to look down at a fretboard and have to think about what notes I'm playing...or worse yet, not knowing at all. With the guitar I am at home. With eyes closed I can tell you what notes I'm playing and will know what something is going to sound like when I imagine my fingers running up or down the fretboard. With the mandolin, it's mostly a mystery.

I remember when I was learning to play guitar I would look at the chord charts and put my fingers in the configuration and say "That's a D major" and not realize that there are easily 20 different ways to play that same chord. I was a kid and just thought that I had to just do what was shown to me.

So now I come to the mandolin and I see those same kind of chord charts, but I know those black dots and lines are just a guide and not really the "law," so to speak. So I fumble around for a bit and can think through the theory of the chord and find better variations of it to play, that make more sense to me. It's much like getting older. Experience gives you the knowledge to improvise, make better decisions and judgements, and get through the rough times more quickly and with greater ease.

Fun Tina in Spain

2006-03-06T23:10:00.000-02:00

I spent most of Sunday writing emails to various hotels in Spain because I am taking a 10 day trip there in May. I've been put in charge of hotel rooms because I am definitely the pickier of the two of us going. Amy is an amazing creature that has absolutely no problems sharing a bathroom with strangers. That's really not in my blood.

My blood is the blood of a family who rarely vacationed and when we did, "roughing it" was considered no towels at the Holiday Inn. In fact, I'd never camped in a tent until I was 26. Sure, I had done the sleep over in someone's backyard in a tent, but a real campground... that might as well have been a foreign country.

Speaking of, this will be my first trip to Europe. I can't believe I haven't made it there yet. I'm just glad we're going to a country that Amy hasn't seen and I speak the language. I think this will be a good first European adventure --- Madrid, Toledo, Sevilla, Jerez, Ronda, Granada and Barcelona. It just sounds exotic to me.

I'm also glad we're going to a country that believes in three hour naps in the middle of the day. I like any place that holds the nap in such high regard. I recognize the siesta isn't just for sleeping, but napping is the star of that show if you ask me. This way, when we land we can immediately take a nap and Amy can't drag me around demanding that I stay awake until 10pm. I fully intend to do as the Spanish do.

I hope my Spanish holds up. I studied for 8 years in school and I'm doing great communicating via email, but much like my everyday life, I am much more comfortable writing than speaking. It's not that I'm uncomfortable talking, but I like the solitariness and quietness of writing. The beauty of editing sentences and playing with words is gone in conversation. I know there's much to be gained in a conversation, but crafting your words is much more difficult in that situation. However, there is one thing that does help my conversational skills in Spanish -- alcohol.

When I drink, my alter-ego "Fun Tina" appears and apparently she can speak and understand Spanish like nobody's business. I will be on vacation, so I could indulge a little more frequently than usual. Fortunately it takes very little to coax Fun Tina out from hiding --- about 1.5 glasses of wine will do the trick. Todo es bien!

Year of Puppy Improvement

2006-02-28T00:58:00.000-02:00

At the start of the new year my husband and I had declared that this would be the "Year of Home Improvement." In the fall we had tiled our foyer and kitchen area and were impressed by how that relatively small change had a dramatic effect. So, we were pretty excited about this. I had dreams of adding in some new lighting and different sink fixtures, a bigger shower, etc... However, in January we got some bad news.

We have three dogs that we absolutely adore and our oldest puppy, Aussie, has severe arthritis in her hips. Considering how bad her hips look in an x-ray, she gets around amazingly well, but she does have the occasional bad day where she can't walk that well. We took her to the vet and were essentially told, "Aussie's not a candidate for surgery and all you can really do is give her narcotics and anti-inflammatories for the rest of her life. But the anti-inflammatories will also damage her kidneys and liver in the process. The prognosis isn't good."

We were crushed at the news and were depressed for about a week and a half. The only ray of hope the vet gave us was to suggest acupuncture. She said many dogs have had success with this. We are pretty much willing to try anything to help make her more comfortable.

So I found a certified holistic vet who does acupuncture and chiropractic care, along with conventional veterinary care. Amy said I have found the place where all the crazy people take their pets and essentially, she is right. I am quite at home. Every Friday we take her in for acupuncture and a chiropractic adjustment. I believe I am taking better care of my dog than I am of myself right now. That's sad, but true.

During the appointment, the vet brings us some pillows and a mat for Aussie to lie on. They then insert 16 needles into various acupressure points and then dim the lights and we sit there with her and pet her. She does pretty well with it and she does seem to be doing better. Since we've started, she hasn't had any bad days and is able to go for longer walks and just seems more comfortable.

Just to add even more crazy into the mix, we bought a book on puppy massage. Every night we give her a 20 minute therapeutic massage and then take all three dogs for a walk and then feed them some fancy dog food that actually reads, "Contains human ingredients." The dogs are eating New Zealand Venison and Barley and Flax Seed, and Atlantic Whitefish with carrots and barley on a nightly basis. It's just obscene and I know it, but hey, I love those dogs. A friend of mine once said, "When I die, I want to come back as one of your dogs." I took that as a compliment.

I don't want to think about how much all of this is costing, but none of it really matters when I see her jump up after a massage and start barking to go for a walk. In dog years, she's 72 years old. That's not bad behavior for an old girl.

On a side note, it was my birthday yesterday. In dog years, I'd be dead.

Staring Crazy in the Face

2006-02-04T16:28:00.000-02:00

Have you ever stared crazy in the face and had it yell back at you? I had the pleasure of that last year, and in my boss' office, no less, with someone who worked under me making bizarre accusations of physical abuse. For those who have no idea what I look like, I'm not even 5 feet 2 inches and a man in his mid-thirties claimed I struck him and constantly intimidated him in a domineering, physical manner. Anyone who is physically intimidated by me really needs to get on some medication and apparently this guy desperately needed some chemical balancing.

I spent two months in a pretty bad emotional state. This was someone I had tried to help and I just couldn't make sense of how things got out of control so quickly and how every one of my actions had been misinterpreted in the worst possible manner. Unfortunately I think he was just one of those people that was so down on himself he saw negativity in everything. He would always believe that he was the victim and people were out to get him. He definitely had a personality disorder that distorted his view of himself and of others.

I was mad, sad, a bit scared and just completely baffled by this whole experience. One night I sat down at my computer and all of a sudden this odd style of writing came out of me. I hate to say it, but it almost has a rap kind of flow. It's like it's someone else's voice and I found it intriguing how quickly it came. It doesn't have a name or anything, but here it is:

So you think the world’s out to get you?
Yeah let’s believe that's true for a second.
It has nothing to do with the choices you choose,
It’s someone else who’s left this mess for you.

Maybe Jesus hates you and has set you up to fail
miserably at life, so when the rest of us prevail
we have something to compare our lives to, something
to measure against…a ruler, a yardstick to say “Yeah,
we’re definitely better than you.”

That’s what you think, that every time we laugh it’s at you,
and not with you. Like that would make a difference. There
are a lot of worse things in life than being laughed at, like cancer,
rape and pedophilia… You think we really spend that much time
thinking about ya, dealing with ya? Please, everybody’s so self absorbed
we’re sponges that can’t soak anything else up…but you gotta be strong like
the quicker, thicker picker upper…Brawny towels that don’t split open under the
weight of a bowling ball or some other unbelievable shit you see on tv.

You see everything as chaotic, but once you take a moment and let
it all slow down you see there’s a pattern and at the center there’s always
You. You’re the constant, you’re the thing that remains the same. Did you ever think
that if you change for a second, you’ll break the chain…like a dog on a leash begging to be free? You can run from yourself, run from the police but nothing's gonna change if you don’t stop…don’t stop and own what you create, what you fake, and know what makes you shake.

You find that thing that scares you and you stare it in the face. I promise
nothing is as scary as you believe it is if you knock on its door. It’ll crumble as soon as you kick it to the floor because you gotta want peace of mind and peace of heart so much more than whatever has been holding you back.

Time for a little honesty

2006-01-30T22:18:00.000-02:00

Despite my repeated promises that I will write on a regular basis, this will come to no surprise to anyone stopping by: I am a big fat liar. I imagine any fiction writer could use those words to describe herself, but without the actual writing part, I’m whittled down to just plain liar. I don’t normally use that word to describe myself, but in this instance, it is more true than I’d like to admit. John’s nagging is having a profound effect, as well as his encouragement, despite the lack of entries. It weighs on me when I can’t sleep at night and think about all the things I haven’t accomplished.

One of my favorite quotes is by Goethe: “Hell begins the moment God shows you all you could have been had you only applied yourself.” That is one of those bone-chilling statements that just floors me every time I read it. I want to write a sentence that has that much power, but I will never write a sentence like that if I don’t write.

This is not an excuse, but has been a truth for the past month. My evenings have been spent learning new material for a band I’ve joined. From the time I was 13 until I was 28 almost every weekend of my life was spent playing in some kind of bar, moose lodge, theater, or dance club. Playing guitar has been such a huge part of my life, but after a few bad experiences back to back, I limited my playing to only recording in my studio. I was completely disenchanted with the whole scene. I suppose I was tired of being disappointed.

I don’t want to make a blanket statement about all musicians, because that is simply not fair. However, an unusually high number of them have chemical imbalances, personality disorders, addictions, and I suspect missing chromosomes. Or perhaps that is just what I attract.

I like to think of myself as a successful person. I’m educated, gainfully employed, happily married with 3 dogs and a modicum of talent. I have a good life. But in all honesty, I feel like a failure musically. I am the musical equivalent of some cartoon character that has the best intentions, but will always fall into the big deep hole or open up the package that blows up in her face. So, I’ve decided that perhaps my gift will be to write a book called “How To Not Succeed in the Music Industry.” This will give me several topics to write about on my blog to get the writing going. Here are just few essay topics I plan to include:

Fake English accents and socialist aspirations…not a good mix.
Beware of musicians with names like “Heaven” or “Destiny.”
Spot Drug Dealers Immediately
Don’t show up on a drunk drummer’s doorstep and demand money
Get Free Toiletries
Stalkers and You

I'm not completely pessimistic about my musical future. This band is actually quite good and they are the caliber of players I've been looking for. The only down side is they live four hours away. I went up to Baltimore two Saturdays ago and had a three hour rehearsal and played a show with them that night. It was pretty exciting. The thing is that I love every moment that my hands are actually on the guitar, whether its on stage or in the drummer's basement. It's all the stuff inbetween that kills me and makes me question if I really want to go down this road again. These are the things I hate:

1. Sitting in a bar for three hours waiting to play
2. Band groupies...especially the ones who hang around these kinds of clubs and drink too much jaegermeister and punctuate their sentences with "Woo hoo."
3. The people who claim to be the band's "stylist" or other various self-appointed titles
4. Sound checks that never start on time, or worse yet, never happen
5. Shows that are supposed to start at 10:30, but don't start until midnight.

Okay, maybe those things don't sound that bad, but after you read about a few of my past experiences you may see why these things can infuriate me.

Blackbird

2005-10-01T23:51:00.000-02:00

I miss real records, the kind that came in 12 x 12 sleeves, and crackled when the needle hit the grooves. I spent hours as a kid flipping through my father's record collection - Led Zeppelin, The Who, The Rolling Stones. I remember the neatly groomed young men on the Meet the Beatles album, that morphed into military regalia on Sgt. Pepper, and long-haired hippies crossing Abbey Road. I envied the way my dad talked about waiting for a new Beatles album to be released and listening to it the first time. What must that have been like to witness such a phenomenon where it wasn't about media hype, marketing, and trying to make people want to drink more Pepsi? It was about art and great songwriting. It was simply music.

I learned to play guitar from a Beatle's song book a friend left me before he went to college. I was 10 and while my friends were dancing to Madonna with hairbrush microphones and lace gloves, I was strumming away to "Strawberry Fields" and "Taxman." My dad played bass in a band as a teenager, so he was very pleased when I picked up the guitar. He was even more pleased when I learned to play "Blackbird." I've played that song for 20 years and other than telling you that it's in the key of G, I have no idea what I'm playing. My hands just know where to go when they get there, and the minute I start to think about where I'm going, I stumble. Muscle memory is an amazing thing.

On Saturdays, my dad would ask me to go for a ride with him. We'd somehow end up at some music shop, and he'd take a guitar off the wall that we both liked and put it in my hands. We'd plug it in. Picking up a new guitar is like meeting a fascinating, challenging new friend. Each one has it's own tone, it's own feel, and yes, personality. That inanimate object somehow changes the way you play. It asks to be played differently, and demands that you check yourself and see what that guitar has to show you. The test for whether or not my dad and I liked the guitar was how "Blackbird" sounded on it. Even though that was technically an acoustic song, I've tested it out on everything from Les Paul's, Fernandes, Parkers, and G&Ls.

One Saturday, we found this gorgeous Rickenbacker guitar: maple body that sunbursted out to a darker hue. A single F-hole, and rosewood neck. My dad handed it to me, and we went through our usual routine. It passed the test. My dad looked at the price tag and said, "Not sure how we're going to afford this, but your mom will understand when she hears it." I still wonder how they managed to buy me as many guitars and other musical equipment over the years, and still kept us fully clothed and fed with a roof over our head. One year for my mother's birthday, she asked for a Tascam 4-track recorder so she could give it to me. I had been writing songs, but needed something to actually capture them. I still well-up when I think about all the sacrifices they both made to give me gifts like that.

So, here I am, finally an adult with money of my own. My dad's birthday was at the end of September, and I really wanted to do something special for both of my parents. Dad is a huge Paul McCartney fan and has never seen him, despite seeing so many great shows in his life. Both of my parents are Beatles' fans as well. So, I jumped on eBay and bought them tickets for a McCartney show in DC.

When my dad got home, he called me. "That was amazing. It was the best show I've ever seen in my life. It was like seeing a living legend." He sounded like an excited little boy and I was so pleased. That was exactly the kind of experience I wanted him to have. He, of course, complained about how much it must have cost, but the joy in his voice was priceless.

I listened to him excitedly recite the songlist, "Get Back, The Long and Winding Road, Jet, Band on the Run, etc..." Occasionally he would stop mid-sentence and keep listing out song titles, like he had a sudden case of ADD. He said, "I never treat myself to stuff like this because it's so expensive." I marveled at all the Saturdays he took me out and would drop $900 that he probably didn't have just because he liked the way I played Blackbird on a guitar. I only wish he would start to treat himself as well as he has always treated me.

Hot Tile in the City

2005-09-23T13:23:00.000-02:00

My house morphed from suburban bliss to a ghetto maze in a matter of days --- refrigerator in the living room, stove and dishwasher in the dining room, closet doors lie sideways blocking all the entrances to the kitchen. It looks like one of those pictures given to first graders to circle what was wrong or out of place. In that picture, you'd find my husband on his knees, mortar stained jeans, trowel in hand, buttering 12 inch ceramic tiles. Sweat equity looks good on him.

While taking a break from tiling, a commercial came on with Kate Winslet. Paul paused a moment and said, "I think she's on my list now." The List being the top 3 celebrity women he'd be allowed to have relations with, if the opportunity ever presented itself. "Who is on the list right now?" I asked. The list constantly evolves, so I try to check in periodically.

He wiped mortar from his finger onto his jeans, and said, "Hmmm... haven't really thought about it."

As I looked across our kitchen table at him, that was now in the middle of our living room, I said, "I bet a woman who could lay some tile would rate pretty high. Carol Earle would be topping your list."

He said,"Yeah, she's looking pretty hot right now."

For those of you who don't know who Carol Earle is, she's one of the stars of the Romantic Ramblings blog. Watch out, John. My stellar golfer of a husband has his eye on your lady.

A Lyrical Interpretation of "My Humps"

2005-09-09T22:29:00.000-02:00

I had a great week last week that I'd love to share with you all, but unfortunately I am unable to disclose any information about it. The reason is a simple, yet powerful three letter word: Amy. It seems that most of my readers are of the clan Earle or a friend of the Earles, so if I were to write all about the great things that happened last week, I would be stealing her thunder. She wants the pleasure of telling you all herself and I suppose I can respect that, lest I fall out of her good graces and even farther away from a coveted sweater.

So, in lieu of sharing the good news, I read on Karyn's blog the other day an interesting post about a song called "My Humps" by Black Eyed Peas. Reading the lyrics, I marveled at how a white person could never have written this song... or at least made a hit out of it. For my own entertainment I have rewritten the lyrics as they may have been written by a very, very white person. My interpretations will be in italics. You will quickly see why this song would not work outside of the deft hands of will.i.am of the Black Eyed Peas. This song is a duet between will.i.am and Fergie and their parts are denoted by their names in brackets.

[Will.i.am]

Whatcha gonna do with all that junk
all that junk inside your trunk?

[White Interpretation]
May I kindly ask what your intentions are with your unusually large rear-end?

[Fergie]

I'ma get get get get you drunk
get you love drunk off my hump
my hump my hump my hump my hump my hump
my hump my hump my hump my lovely little lumps

[White Interpretation]
I fully intend to get you inebriated and intoxicate you with my lovely buttocks.

Check it out...

[White interpretation]
Please, kind sir, listen to this.

[Fergie]

I drive these brothers crazy. I do it on the daily
They treat me really nicely. They buy me all these ices
Dolce and Gabbana, Fendi and then Donna Karen they be sharin
All their money got me wearin fly gear. Brother, i ain't askin',

[White interpretation]
Every single day I drive these negroes hysterical. They treat me kindly and buy me diamonds. They purchase me expensive clothing from Italy and New York. All of their coinage has me donning a fantastic wardrobe, negro, so I am not inquiring, lest they stop giving.

[Fergie]
They say they love mah ass in Seven Jeans
True religion I say no but they keep givin
So I keep on takin And no I aint taken'
We can keep on datin ill keep on demonstrating

My love my love my love my love you love my lady lumps
my hump my hump my hump my humps they got you spendin all your money on me..and spendin time on me..

[White interpretation]
They say they adore my posterior in fancy jeans. True religion, I say no, but they keep bestowing gifts on me, so I keep taking, and by the way, no, I am not currently being courted by anyone. So we can keep encountering one another and I'll keep on showing you my love, my love, my love, my female buttocks. My buttocks, my buttocks, my buttocks, my buttocks have you spending all of your money on me and occupying all of your time.

[Will.i.am]

Whatcha gonna do with all that ass
all that ass inside them jeans?

[White interpretation]
Whatever will you do with that giant portion of booty you have inside your trousers?

[Fergie]

I'ma make make make make you scream
make you scream make you scream
cuz' of my humps my hump my hump my hump
my hump my hump my hump my lovely lady lumps

[White interpretation]
I will make you talk at an unusually high volume because of my buttocks, my buttocks, my buttocks, my pulchritudinous female buttocks.

[Will.i.am]

I met a girl down at the disco She said hey hey hey yeah lets go
I can be ya baby, you could be my honey Lets spend time not money
And mix your milk with my cocoa puff milky milky cocoa
mix your milk with my cocoa puff Milky milky
Riiiiight...

[White interpretation]
I met a young lady at the discoteque. She said, "Hello, good sir. Let us away. I can be your lady, and you could be my syrupy sweet substance. Let us pass the time together and not spend money. I'd like to protect my 401k. Let us mix our dairy products with breakfast cereal.

[Fergie]

They say I'm really sexy. The boys they wanna sex me
They always standin next to me, always dancin next to me
tryin'a feel my hump hump Lookin at my lump lump

[White interpretation]
They say I arouse them in an extremely sexual manner. The young men wish to have sexual intercourse with me. They are always in my proximity, always moving in rhythmic, animated gestures beside me trying to touch my deriare, deriare, ogling my deriare.

[Fergie]
you can look but you can't touch it. If you touch it
I'ma.. start some drama. You don't want no drama, No no drama no no no no drama
So don't Pull on my hand, boy you ain't my man, boy
I'm just tryna dance, boy And move my hump
my hump my hump my hump my hump my hump my hump
my hump my hump my hump my hump my lovely lady lumps
my lovely lady lumps my lovely lady lumps

[White interpretation]
You can observe, but you may not, under any circumstances, come in contact with it.
If you do come in contact with my behind, I will cause a public disturbance. And I assure you, kind sir, you are not desirous of that. So do not draw me near. Young man, you are not my significant other. I am just trying to gyrate my body in rhythmic motions and move my buttocks, my buttocks, my lovely female buttocks.

Wrestling...not a good idea

2005-09-04T12:22:00.000-02:00

My husband and I signed up for a class called Combat Submission Wrestling. While other couples go to marriage counseling and talk about their feelings, we wrestle it out. If you had asked me a few weeks ago, I would have said this was a great cathartic exercise. Nothing says I love you like pushing your partner down and choking them out. However, this week I'm not exactly singing its praises.

For those of you who don't know what Combat Submission Wrestling is, it's as brutal and primal as it sounds. It combines everything from Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Greco-Roman wrestling, Muay Thai boxing, street fighting and all around viciousness. If you've ever watched an Ultimate Fighting Championship, that's pretty much what it is. The main goal is to either choke someone out which means getting them in a headlock and making them lose consciousness (people will "tap out" before this happens and you're supposed to let go and allow the blood to continue flowing to their head. How nice), or just get them into some kind of joint lock that submits your opponent. Sounds lovely, no?

When we first started, the class had a few guys that had been doing it for years and they were extremely nice and helpful while kicking the crap out of us. That's really all I can ask. If you're going to kick my ass, please do so nicely. I never felt that my safety was jeopardized. I was learning, being challenged and having fun. However, over the last few weeks, the demographic of the class has drastically changed. It went from experienced, nice people who want to help teach you, to gung-ho twenty year olds who have no concept of control and just want to beat you. They don't take into consideration that neither my husband or I have a wrestling background and that we're 11-17 years older than they are. Let's just say we don't recover from a beating quite as quickly as they do.

The turning point from fun and interesting to not-so-fun and dangerous happened about 3 weeks ago. This one kid, I'll call him James, competes in UFC like tournaments on a smaller scale. He has been wrestling for about 9 years and is as intense as you can get. Even while doing sit-ups he was yelling at my husband, Paul, to "CRANK OUT ONE MORE, DO IT MAN. COME ON!!!!! LADIES LOVE TIGHT ABS!" I appreciate him encouraging the tight abs, because yes, ladies do love them, but later in class I saw this kid pull a move that made me hold my breath and just hope that the other kid was going to get up.

James and another kid were facing each other, down on their knees. James had the other guy in a front headlock and the other guy was trying to wiggle out of it. While the kid's head was still in a really tight headlock, James spun his entire body around in a 360 degree circle, causing the other kid to flip 360 degrees, too. I thought for sure the kid's neck was going to be dangling from his body like a wet noodle when they were done. I know if I had been in that situation, I wouldn't have spun with it because I had no idea you could do something like that. I would have resisted and consequently had my neck broken. Paul and I were stunned and silent as we watched this. Right after that, James ran out of the school which I thought was odd, and he puked. If anyone should have been puking it was the other guy.

When James came back into the studio, he said, "I took a knee in the head last week and ever since then I can't keep food down, I'm dizzy all the time and I'm seeing spots." He says this casually as though head trauma is a mere nuisance like indigestion and traffic jams. He says he can't go to the doctor because he doesn't have insurance. What the hell??? I recognize that this class doesn't necessarily attract philosophers and rocket scientists, but it seems like insurance should be a pre-requisite to be in a class like this. It's not a question of if you're going to get hurt, it's just a matter of when and how bad.

Okay, so that event got me a little nervous and thinking maybe yoga and swimming looked like better options for me and my expanding ass. In the first few weeks of training, I had hurt my left wrist. Then, one night I woke up with excruciating pain in my first two fingers on my left hand. It was like they had been smashed in a car door. Every night since then, the joints seem to flare up and it hurts to move them. That's no good for a left-handed musician. Now I'm being treated for tendonitis. But that's nothing. Here's where things stopped going just a little wrong and went really wrong.

Paul was wrestling with one of the new guys. He was on the bottom bunched up in a ball with his head on the mat. Assuming the fetal position is about all you can do when someone is wailing on you. The guy put all of his weight on Paul's upper body, and Paul rolled over on his neck with a 160 pound man on top of him. Paul immediately grabbed the back of his neck and was grunting, moaning, obviously in a lot of pain. He couldn't pick his head up.

The odd thing was that the teacher didn't stop the class. He asked Paul to get out of the way so other people could keep wrestling. Granted, Paul has pulled a muscle in his neck before and the teacher had seen it before, but this looked different than anything I had seen Paul go through. He was also grabbing his neck in a different place. By the end of class, Paul could not move without wincing. Getting him into the car was a nightmare and every little bump in the road on the way home made him scream in pain.

Paul doesn't like to go the doctor, so he just wanted to go home and get in bed. By the time he woke up the next morning he said to me, "I can't move." I noticed he was in the exact same position he was when he went to sleep and that freaked me out a bit. I said "You mean you can't move your limbs or you just can't move your neck?" Not that either one of those is good, but I was at least hoping the limbs could move. Turned out it was just his neck. He struggled for 15 minutes to get out of the bed and it was horrible watching him try to flail about. I couldn't do anything to help and he was just getting angry at himself. He growled, "I feel like a freaking invalid."

After getting him dressed, down the stairs and into the car, the ride to the hospital was plagued with potholes and accompanied by squeals of pain. When we got checked into the ER, the admissions person called a tech to put a neck collar on him. At first Paul refused and the lady got tough and said the following words. "You can refuse the collar, but if you have a broken neck, you're making a really dumb decision." Broken neck! We were stunned. We hadn't thought about that for some reason. Paul has a neck muscle spasm thing that acts up every few years, so that's really all we were thinking was wrong with him. But then I replayed the scene in my mind and the unnatural way his neck had bent with his own body weight on it and that of another grown man's on top.

The ER was busy that day. I sat in the hall while Paul was in a hospital bed against the wall. For 4 hours I thought about how much he had moved since the accident and if his neck had been broken, what damage had been done. I watched a lady who was 4 months pregnant with severe chest pains and a nose ring writhe and gasp for breath. I saw a lady who was cleaning her pool just an hour before brought in on a stretcher; her foot a bloody mess, dangling precariously from her leg. I saw things I typically only see on TV with commercial breaks.

Hospitals are full of people whose stories all start with "I was supposed to be's." "I was supposed to be flying to Vegas today..." "I was supposed to be at a baseball game..." "I was supposed to be this or that." The hours between admittance and diagnosis are filled with "If only's...." I sat there watching my husband lie in a hospital bed immobilized thinking "If only I hadn't told him about this class," "If only we'd gone to the hospital last night," "If only, if only, if only..." Then I went through the "What if's..." "What if he's paralyzed, what if he can't work any more, what if he can't drive again..." The whole "for better or worse" part of the vows really come to life when you're in a place where so many lives are forever changed and the "for worse" part stares you in the face.

After the 4th hour, the nurse finally came and said his neck wasn't broken. We were extremely relieved to hear the news. He got a shot of painkillers and shortly thereafter fell asleep. It turns out he had torn his trapezius muscle. Not that that's a great thing, but at least it's not a broken neck. Needless to say, we have stopped taking Combat Submission Wrestling. I don't like to quit things, but it's definitely not worth risking that kind of injury again. Fortunately our marriage is happy and healthy, so I think we can skip the counseling and the ass kicking for awhile.

Sweater Mensa

2005-08-30T22:02:00.000-02:00

I've spent a lot of time today pondering the majesty that is the Earle family sweater. For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, go here. There's a link to a photo and a little explanation of what the sweater is about. The short of it is this: all the Earle's have a sweater handmade for them by Carol, master loomer. The best part is that they all match and they wear them in a group out in public. It reminds me of an Osmond Family Christmas special or a postcard for the Special Olympics. I don't mock because I love. I mock because I envy.

Having an Earle family sweater is like being invited to join an elite group like Mensa, but without the testing. The rules for earning a sweater seemed simple at first. You have Earle blood, you get a sweater. You marry an Earle, you get a sweater. Those rules makes sense. However, I noticed that there are a few "outsiders" who also own sweaters. As you may have noticed, my name is not on the list. So this begs the question: exactly how does one get invited to join Sweater Mensa?

The closest person on the outsiders list that I can draw a parallel to is Marie. Let's look at the stats. Marie is a good friend of Amy's. I'm a good friend of Amy's as well. We're the same age. We're both nice, fine upstanding citizens. We're both ladies. I will say that Marie is the nicest woman roaming the planet, but clearly my wit and charm balance out the tables. So why does Marie have a sweater and I don't? Here's my theory: Marie came into the Earle's lives when she was young, cute and vulnerable. They fell in love with her and wanted to dress her up in cute things. Bam, she dons a sweater. Me, I came into the picture as an adult and I guess they didn't want to dress me up in cute things. No sweater for me, just cold, harsh winters. I think I just missed my window of opportunity.

But could it be that simple? I fear not. There is some esoteric system they have that determines who gets a sweater. That's the only way I can explain Lou's presence on the list. Lou is Marie's husband, but come on.... he has no Earle blood, and technically he didn't marry into the family. Granted, Marie is like family, but that connection is not sweater-worthy. It might warrant a scarf or a hat, but not a whole freaking sweater. When I consider how hard Tom had to work to earn his sweater, and believe me, Amy had him working, the fact that Lou was "handed" one is as unjust as the OJ trial. Throw a flag out on the field because something foul is going on. Yes, I just compared Lou getting a sweater to a murder trial gone wrong. It is that grave of an offense and changes need to be made in the selection process.

I suggest a more structured, systematic approach to new membership. Testing would be good. The test could check for general knowledge of all things Earle with both multiple choice and essay sections. A sample question would be: "You have a swimming pool in your back yard. You choose to do what with it: a) Swim b) Float on a raft to cool off C) Fill it in with dirt and landscape it. A basic IQ test could weed out the weaker minded, and some feats of strength would be nice. I'm looking for quantifiable terms that will clearly draw the line between the haves and the have nots. Right now, it's a blurry line and I'm very confused.

Now, a brief change of subject. A note to John:

As for threatening to tell people of my porcelain phobias if I don't write on a regular basis and calling my blog "once witty" which implies it no longer is, the gauntlet has been hurled, John Earle. Not only will I write, I will rhyme and I will gibe and I will divulge the madness that is my crazy mind. The one that fears I will have to go, when I am so very far away from that porcelain commode. You thought I would shrink in fear with your taunts and threats, but you see, I have grown comfortable with my belly unrest. I no longer fear and I just embrace the fact that my stomach has no grace. It's weak and it's wild and often unkind. And yes, I am a bit obsessed with where I put my behind. It must be clean and it really must flush, but I really don't think I'm asking too much. So what say you now, Senor Earle, since I've already divulged my dirty little secret to the world?

Travel: Earle Style

2005-08-28T21:51:00.000-02:00

There's nothing like being called out with an active link to this blog from someone else's very popular blog to motivate me to post something. I have to thank John for doing this. It's like a writer's intervention telling me that I have a problem since my latest post had to be 6 months ago. I am pathetic.

John called me out because I have accused The Earle Family of many things, one of which is taking travel extremely seriously. Mere mortals have no idea of the amount of reading, researching, downloading, phone calling, and divination that is involved with their vacation plans. Their approach to travel is a religion, and I'm sure there are 10 travel commandments that Carol has etched in stone or cement tablets, which she made by hand. I only hope that I get to read them soon, because next year I am taking my first trip to Europe with John's daughter Amy.

I am seriously afraid I will fail at traveling Earle-style, largely because I grew up traveling less "Earlesque" than I would have liked. My family rarely traveled, and I admit, I have done and said some things in front of Amy that make me a less than attractive travel companion. For instance, I said that parts of the Bahamas were "like a third world nation" and I was actually plagued with spontaneous diarrhea when Amy wanted to take public transportation. I know it sounds ridiculous and I am not proud of those comments or events. However, I had to explain to Amy that when it comes to travel, I'm like a pre-schooler. They just say whatever comes to mind and poop in their pants all day. She seemed to appreciate the parallel that was drawn and I think she felt sorry for me. Who wouldn't?

Over the last three years I have taken great strides with my traveling skills. I would say I'm about a junior in high school now which is quite a good evolution if you ask me. I was quite surprised when Amy asked me to go to Spain next year for my birthday. It was like a rite of passage being asked on an Earle vacation. I kind of welled up when she invited me.

I realize it's not truly an Earle vacation because it will just be the two of us. I have not penetrated the holy circle that is a true Earle Family vacation such as their yearly ski trip. This has been something I have envied for years. They all wear matching sweaters, go to Colorado for a week and ski. It's sweet, it's quaint, it's all that my family vacations never were. Since I am not a family member, I realize this door is closed to me, but I have a plan. My husband and I are just going to show up one year. We'll show them. We'll make our own damn sweaters.

Tagged??? What the hell?

2005-05-03T23:14:00.000-02:00

I don't normally respond to internet bullying, but I've been meaning to write something for a while, so I'll appease John Earle and do this "meme" thing that he tagged me with. Yes, he "tagged" me like a 6 year old. I guess that makes me "it".

Okay, I'm sure the two people that may be reading this are wondering what the hell I'm talking about. Basically he sent me a list of sentence starters like, "If I could be an astronaut..." and I have to complete 3-5 of the sentences. I'm not quite sure if I'm doing this right, but I'll give it a shot. For better or worse, here are my three completed sentences:

If I could be a midget stripper I’d only be stripping to work my way through grad school. I’d consider my stripping “research” for my historcial thesis: “Baring the Truth: Why George Washington’s Face Looks So Much Better Between Two Breasts.”

If a Jedi I could be, invert all my sentences I would.

If I could be a movie reviewer, I’d look right in the camera and cry heavily every time I saw a bad film and say, “Damn you, Angelina Jolie! Have you no shame!”

If I could be a llama rider, I'd wear a jockey outfit all the time and walk around with a riding crop, and make a matching mask for my llama to wear like a race horse. When people asked me why I was riding a llama, I'd say, "He's no llama. He's a race horse." Then people would think I was crazy and they'd leave me alone. Or they'd feel sorry for me and give me money.

No Lifeguard on Duty

2004-09-04T01:00:00.000-02:00

Dogs are much better than children, paws down. I know some of you think that's a horrible thing to say, but let's look at the facts. Kids are like boats. It's better to have a friend who has one. If you want to play with it, you can, but you don't have to do all the investing, the maintenance, and repairing. You can keep your freedom and "dabble" with parenting. If you teach your friend's kid something wrong, such as the beauty of the word fuck, you won't be the one at the parent teacher conference explaining why your 6 year old has the mouth of a 40 year old truck driver.

Everyone says how rewarding parenting is. I wouldn't buy this idea no matter how good the sale may be. Think about how many people you meet in life that truly sparkle, that make you go, "Wow, that person is amazing." Now think about how many self absorbed, jejune jerks you come across that make you say, "Freakin' asshole." People of the latter category cross our paths more often than the former. I'm a bettin' lady, and the odds are against most people producing one cool person.

Don't exacerbate the problem and try to help your odds by continuing to multiply. This is not a good plan at all, particularily if you do it right the first time. If you have a kid who sleeps through the night and doesn't have a third eye or a face that stops a truck, quit while you're ahead. Take your chips and walk away. Ignore any biological imperative to spread your seed. No matter how much you think you want to skinny dip in that gene pool again, just remember there's no lifeguard on duty.

Pop-culture Lucidity

2004-08-31T00:04:00.000-02:00

I need a new topic. I fear that my utero-centric writing has just empowered the uterus and it's now acting out just to get attention and to remain the topic of my blog. It's like a child star who may lose the sitcom and doesn't know how to get validated anymore. It's causing me so much pain right now, it's demanding that I take drugs, just like Dana Plato and Todd Bridges. Yes, I'm showing my age with references like that....

Speaking of, I had an epiphany the other day. I realized that I am as pop-culturally literate as I'm ever going to be because the people that are writing and producing all that crap right now are my age. They make references to the Banana Splits, Tootie, and Dee from What's Happening and that means something to me. I remember being a kid and not getting jokes on TV that my parents laughed at. It's because at that time, the people that were writing the crap were my parents age and had the same experiences and memories as they did.

So, I'm going to ride out this wave of pop-culture lucidity for as long I can because then it's a really fast sliding slope to ignorance. I rue the day when nostalgic references to Yu-Gi-Oh become part of adult pop-culture. I'll have no idea what's going on at that point.

I recently saw a movie that signifies I'm already on that slippery slide. It was Napoleon Dynamite, and I absolutely hated it. I'm pretty sure there was an age thing and I just couldn't find it funny. Yet, the soundtrack resonated with me. It was a perplexing mix.

The good thing is that with age comes a nice inverse proportion: increased wisdom with a decreasing sense of self-consciousness. It's quite a nice blend.

P.S. My uterus still hurts. Dammit.

My New Friend, the IUD

2004-08-17T21:21:00.000-02:00

I have the pleasure of being on prescription pain killers right now. However, I had the displeasure of "skootching" to the end of a table, hanging my bare ass off the end of that table so a doctor could clamp my uterus with a medieval device and put me on the road to sterility with my new friend, the IUD.

What is most bizarre about today's events is that I elected to have this done. By "this" I mean one of the most painful things I've ever had done in my life, and keep in mind that I have broken 13 bones, suffered a severe gallbladder attack, and watched the movie "Anchor Man."

My husband and I loathe children and wish to do everything in our power to keep my egg from meeting his evil swimming soldiers. So, this is our first step toward that end. I knew this would not be a walk in the park, but what I encountered on that table today exceeded my expectations. Let's relive this journey together. It will help with my healing process.

I was told to undress from the waist down and read some literature before the doctor came in. Sounds like a perfectly normal request for a Tuesday afternoon. I read all about the IUD and had to sign this piece of paper that says I voluntarily let the doctor do this to me. They should have included the line, "I hereby declare I am not only a masochist, but an idiot as well." I was then waiting so long in there, sans pants, I read the doctor's instructions for inserting this device as well. There is such a thing as too much information, by the way.

For something that is the size of a quarter, the box the IUD came in was 12 inches long, by 3 inches wide, and about 2 inches deep. The box included a whole device used for implantation. It had a handle and a long speculum with the IUD at the end. It was a little intimidating to say the least. If I rested the bottom of the handle at my crotch, it was long enough to almost reach my boobs. That was a little too long for my liking.

Finally the doctor comes in and I skootch on down and now the fun starts. The foreceps are cake, the swabbing to clean the cervix was okay...just a little pressure. Then he says something that disturbed me. "I'm going to clamp your cervix now," which was followed by a screaming sharp pain. I cursed many deities and asked if it was too late to get a prescription for birth control pills. Sadly the answer was yes.

Then the doctor said he was going to insert the IUD now. It seemed simple enough. However, apparently my cervix defends her territory like an ancient Roman soldier. Good for her, I thought, but holy Christ, this was no time to be hostile. I tried to mentally tell my cervix to relax, but she was embattled with this clamping device and a speculum. She did not hear my cries. (Yes, my cervix is a she and I'm as uncomfortable as you are referring to it as that.)

Anyway, finally he declared my cervix as "uncooperative." I felt like a parent with an unruly child at a bad parent teacher conference. I wanted to defend it, but I really just wanted this to be over. He then said, "We need to dilate you with sound." With sound, I thought. I asked, "Are you gonna sing to it or something? She likes jazz." He said, "No, with a metal device." Wow. I really wish I hadn't asked that. Here is where the pain really kicked in. The nurse just looked on as I winced, cursed and wished that during my internet research on the topic someone had written more than, "It was uncomfortable getting the IUD put in." Uncomfortable? This was the kind of pain you only wish on your mortal enemy who slaughtered your family as you watched. Some metal device was then inserted and proceeded to cause searing pain in my internal organs.

The doctor looked at my crotch with concern, which is never a good sign. He said, "This is the most difficult one I've done all year." And it was August! I deserve a freaking discount then, a medal of honor, or at least a nice plaque with my name on it, I wanted to say. But then finally he said, "It's in." He removed the metal prying device, the speculum, his hand and the foreceps. Yes, all that was in my crotch. Honestly, no more than one thing at a time should enter there.

So now, I'm back at home where my husband is treating me like a queen, as he should. Sterility is a tough road, the cervix a harsh mistress, the IUD my new friend, despite our rough beginning.

Here's to you sterility!

Shaft got the Shaft

2004-08-17T14:33:00.000-02:00

I have some bad news to report. My beloved fish, Shaft, lost his battle with....life, I guess. I don't think it was his swim bladder that killed him, but I suspect it was Mrs. Plum with a wrench in the billiard room. I have no idea what killed him. I am saddened by this loss, but instead of dwelling on the bad, I will celebrate the good times. I had a nice peaceful ceremony in the Ladies Room with him and had this to say:

"You fought a brave battle, my friend. Men feared you, women loved you. You've lived, you've loved, and you've swum. A fish couldn't ask for more. However, seeing how you're dead, I can see how you'd think you got a raw deal out of this. Just remember that you will live on in my heart. I salute you, my friend, my soldier, my fish. Goodbye, Shaft." (Insert flushing sound here.)

I kindly ask that everyone who reads this takes a moment to think of Shaft. He'd appreciate it.

Sanctity of the Dancer and Song Lyrics

2004-07-19T21:37:00.000-02:00

I have officially healed the fish I have been obsessing over. In the process, I've finally given him a name: Shaft. His companion has been named Sushi. So now I have pets that sound like an early 80's sitcom: Sushi and Shaft. They sound like crime fighting fish, or unlikely roommates who have to find a way to somehow get along, or maybe cross-dressing fish that masquerade as women to get cheaper rent and fall in love with a hot fish named "Sunny."

As another follow up, the bachelor party seemed to have gone well at my house. However, my husband Paul uttered the funniest phrase I think I've ever heard before I left the house for the evening. I was asking him what time I needed to leave. He said, "Sometime before the stripper gets here. Your presence will tarnish the sanctity of the dancer." Think about that: "the sanctity of the dancer." I was unaware that dancing naked on my coffee table was a sacred ritual and that somehow my being there would be as gauche as going to a baptism in a cheesy Satan outfit. Paul will hear about this for the rest of his life, which I think is part of the duties of a good wife: remind the man of all the dumb things he's said over the years. Men love that.

I've written a song and Paul has been producing it. He posted it on this audio forum website to get some feedback about the technical side of the recording. This forum has nothing to do with songwriting or lyric writing; however, this one guy chimed in to recommend a lyric change. I try to be open minded about criticism. I've really been working hard at it, but the more people I encounter, the more I learn that God did not see fit to equally distribute intelligence and talent amongst the people. I think the sooner you embrace this fact, the closer you will be to happiness. Anyway, the first line of the chorus is "I've known people like you, tearing down what I'm trying to build." So dumb ass writes, "It needs a stronger/punchier lyric. It points a negative/accusatory finger at the listener. Try, 'I'm breaking free, you can't fool me'. It's open and says the same thing."

My absolute distaste for this man's suggestion exists on many levels. I recognize that some of the best songs ever written have some stupid lyrics in them, but I can't figure out on what planet this guy thinks that line says the same thing as my original line. He says "it's open..." like, here's a little gift. You can have this one for free." No thank you. I want that line about as much as I want to be anally probed with large organic produce. Taking that suggestion would be like the Indian who accepted the small pox infested blankets. A plague would come over my song in the matter of minutes if I listened to people like him.

My Ass Beseeches You.

2004-07-01T00:25:00.000-02:00

What do you get when you combine pants and a generous helping of ass? One pissed off lady, that's what. I am not a large lady, but I seemed to have received a double-scoop of ass when I was made. This blog is dedicated to all the ladies out there who would rather gnaw their own arm off than squeeze into pants in a flourescently lit closet sized room with a mirror in front of you. I know you're out there. We all got asses and a need for pants. I am not alone. So this raises the question: Where are our pants?

While this is dedicated to all of us "booty-centric" ladies, this is also a plea to all pants-makers who seem to think women should not have a little-bitty waist and a round thing in your face. We are an ignored group. You've seen us with our pants gaping in the back, showing you way too much of our underwear. You've seen us with our pants all bunched up in the back with a belt. Considering all the great things we've achieved: space travel, a cure for polio, cheese whiz (really, cheese in a can is genius. Think about it) you'd think someone with some sewing skills could make us all some proper pants.

Someone needs to open a store just called "Big Ass Pants." I'm sure it would act as a beacon for all of us who have cried in an Old Navy dressing room and said a prayer that went like this: "God, why did you make my ass so big?" and the answer was, "Because Jesus likes a round ghetto booty. Shake yo' ass. Show me what you're working with!"

I would definitely put the brakes on if I saw a sign that said "Big Ass Pants." Men have Big & Tall stores. We deserve our own store, our own brand of pants made just for us. It's not too much to ask. Really. My ass beseeches you. Someone tell me where I can get good pants.

Frappucinos and Unitards

2004-06-18T00:12:00.000-02:00

As my two loyal readers know, I have become obsessed with saving the life of a fish at my office. A black goldfish whose life has hung in the balance for a few weeks has become a much larger focal point in my life than it should. However, I am starting to see success with my maniacal hand-feeding, pea thawing therapy. If any of that sounds strange, read my previous post "Under Pressure...and saving Fish" and like an enlightened Buddha it will all come clear, my friends. Today he swam all day long in formal fish fashion. The pomp, the circumstance...it was beautiful. I swear he saluted me with a fin today. There was no floundering, no hovering like a drunken snorkler. What I saw today was quintessential goldfish flotation and it made me proud.

If this fish survives, I can only assume one thing. I have a gift. Nay, I am a fish savior. I'm not quite sure what that should get me, but I'd think at least a free frappucino from Starbucks. So here I sit in my bedroom thinking about my new found super-powers and I realize that I am about to walk a hard road. The same kind that people like Jesus, Ghandi, Aquaman, Spiderman, and all those Superfriends have walked before me. I am apprehensive and contemplative. I may be persecuted and pelted with rotten lettuce, but I believe that's a price I'm willing to pay.

So now the next logical question is, what should my costume look like? Jesus had his robes, the great abs and the crown of thorns. Ghandi had the glasses and Spiderman had the adult unitard. I think I need to do something somewhere between them all. I'm thinking something with a monocle, a headdress of some sort, and something not quite as form fitting as a unitard. This superhero is on Atkins and is making great progress, but isn't ready for a body suit. This is obviously a work in progress. I will see what I come up with over time. A costume can't be taken lightly.

Unicorns and Strippers

2004-06-16T22:49:00.000-02:00

I will be homeless for the first time in my life come Friday. It will only be for four hours, but I believe it will be spiritually enlightening. I will wander the streets, perhaps hang out by the Home Depot and look for the best cardboard box to build my new home. I will make a cardboard sign and write something like, "I need a miracle" on it and beg for the kindness of strangers. Either I will walk away with a renewed faith in mankind and its philanthropy, or I'll continue loathing most people. It's a karmic roll of the dice.

Why will I be homeless? I'm sure you're wondering. My husband is throwing a bachelor party for a friend and since a stripper will be writhing on my coffee table and may deep throat some of my candles, I am banished. I am being kicked out of my own house by a woman I don't know and this intrigues me. I wonder what secrets the bachelor party strippers hold that the rest of us beautiful, yet mortal women are denied. It's this esoteric men's club that I want to investigate.

I respect these women and I don't think that what they do is demeaning. They choose it and they get paid for it. More power to them, but now this woman's choices are impacting my life. I won't have a home for Christ's sake and nothing pisses me off more than not having access to my own bathroom.

My husband is by no means a pig of a man. He does have webbed-toes which makes him a bit more amphibious and a better swimmer, but I digress. He's quite lovely in every sense of the word, but he does maintain this impenetrable code of silence that shrouds the mythic bachelor party. I think I'd see a freaking unicorn before I found out what really happens at these things. Perhaps it is best that I don't look into this any further. Ignorance may truly be bliss. However, I am big believer in knowledge. It's largely why I'm not stupid.

Short of becoming a stripper, which is no longer a career path I could pursue due to surgical scars and a fear of large cakes, I'm not sure how I will find out what goes on at these parties. I must devise a plan by Friday.

Under Pressure...and saving Fish

2004-06-16T13:55:00.000-02:00

I've only had this site for a day, and it's already stressing me out. Chuck is demanding wisdom and pictures of animals...both of which I have plenty of. You know, I did what he said and got a site. Now he's demanding more. Are we sure that crying on his site http://cdoudblog.blogspot.com (see the audio clips) is really his son and not him?

Unlike Chuck, I don't speak to millions of people everyday on the radio and the pressure of putting things out there everyday that some people would read is highly abnormal. I'm going to have to get used to this and think of more interesting things, because so far I'm not doing so well.

Let me tell you about my latest obsession. In my office there is a girl who has 2 goldfish. However, she doesn't care about them, hasn't named them and often wants to send them to their death via the toilet. One is black and one is white with what looks like a piece of sushi on his head. One day, their bowl was so cloudy it looked like the tank had cataracts and the fish were swimming like a paralyzed Mark Spitz. So I took it upon myself to clean that bowl and bring them back from the brink of death. Here is my first bit of wisdom--- something happens between man and beast when a life is spared. It's a connection that cannot be broken. It's very symbiotic and I have to say, those fish look at me with love. I am their savior and they know it. They show the proper respect.

I went on vacation a week ago and when I returned, the black fish was swimming awkwardly and he stayed at the surface. I did some internet research where I have self diagnosed my own gallbladder attack, so I knew I'd find the answer and that I was qualified to play veterinarian. It seems the fish has swim bladder disease and apparently feeding the fish frozen peas will help correct the problem. That's what the internet said, so it must be true. So I've been thawing green peas for this fish, but the problem is this. I put the peas in and they quickly float to the bottom, which the black fish can't get to because he's bobbing up at the top like a snorkler. I have literally tried to hand feed this fish, and it's worked some, but he misses more than Stevie Wonder swinging a baseball bat. So, the white fish is getting all of the benefits of the frozen peas. This is frustrating and clearly I have more important things to deal with.

I have decided that I have done all I can do and I'll have to let Darwin take over. I'll continue to feed them, but this hand-feeding bullshit needs to stop. This is taking up way too much of my time and I need to let this go.

First Time Blogger

2004-06-15T17:15:00.000-02:00

Hello fellow bloggers and other nosy people who like to read people's diaries. Welcome to my site where I wish to impart wisdom, wit and cast voodoo spells. Really I don't know what I'm doing, but my friend Chuck told me I had to do this. He's much like that dog that told Son of Sam to kill people, only nicer. He just makes me blog.