Cake for breakfast, cake for lunch... you get the picture.

30’s the new 20 nigga', I’m so hot still...
Jay-Z, Kingdom Come

Obscure events in history that took place on March 6th:
1820: The Missouri Compromise is signed into law
1836: Texas Revolution: Battle of the Alamo
1899: Bayer registers asprin as a trademark
1992: The Michelangelo computer virus begins to affect computers

People lucky enough to share this day with me:
1619 Cyrano de Bergerac
1806 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
1926 Alan Greenspan
1972 Shaquille O'Neal

...and the ones who perished...
1836 Jim Bowie
1836 Davy Crockett
1888 Louisa May Alcott
1986 Georgia O'Keeffe

Happy Birthday to Me!!!!!!!!!!!!!
If you need me I'll be at Disneyland eating a corndog.
Holla

Guess Snoopy would be assed out if he had to hitchhike too.

I have begun training in a field competition in which I literally have no knowledge or expertise in. I remember reading a Peanuts cartoon when I was a kid in which Snoopy prepared to wrestle in the arm wrestling capital of the world.
Courtesy of findarticles.com:

Wouldn't these macho men be flustered to learn that it was Snoopy who flexed his muscles and brought arm wrestling to the world's attention in 1968?
The sport got its first 15 minutes of fame when Peanuts creator Charles Schultz did a series of 11 strips in which Snoopy was preparing for his trip to Petaluma, Calif., - the birthplace of organized arm wrestling - where he planned to enter the arm wrestling championship.
But Dave Devoto, a founder of organized arm wrestling, said in the final strip, Snoopy was disqualified because the official arm wrestling rules state contestants must lock their thumbs - Snoopy has no thumb.

I was already exhausted upon arriving at the gym Monday evening but managed to pound out a modified regime, warm-up cardio on the treadmill: 20 minutes, stationary bike: 15 minutes, elliptical: 20 minutes, three sets of crunches 25 reps, three sets of push-ups 15 reps, followed by a long stretch session on the mat. Free weights didn’t seem a specific enough exercise for my wrists and Espe ended up asking one of the hulking trainers wandering the gym from http://psychofitness.com/ (namely the muscle encased bald dude in these pics on the site) what were the best exercises to strengthen the wrists.

He looked me up and down quickly. “Is it for an arm wrestling contest?”
I perked up, “Yes! How did you know?”
He shrugged his monstrous shoulders. “Come here.”

We followed behind him like eager puppies. He led up to a lat pulley machine, positioned himself on a weight bench, then gripped the handle in his massive right hand. Each of his calloused fingers were almost double one of mine. Mr. Psycho Trainer showed me two exercises to strengthen my grip and forearm.
He leaned toward me and spoke quietly, “Do you want to know how to win?”
It was golden. I squatted to my knees and peered up wide-eyed at that dude as if we were at a campfire and he was the best story-teller in the world.
“How?” I whispered.

He said: (spoiler) highlight the following if you want to know....

HA HA HA!!! ! Yeah right, like I’m going to tell YOU the secret to annihilating my opponents! Eat your Wheaties and drink your Ovaltine, bitches!!!

With that nugget of knowledge, I took his place on the weight bench and began curling with the weighted handle. Espe stood over me as I struggled. My arm burned after eight reps. I glanced at the weight stack. 4? As in four pounds? Mr. Psycho had bounced that cable back and forth like dental floss. I assumed that I was starting to fatigue so soon because of the earlier warm ups. But damn, I couldn’t pull four pounds without wincing? Then again, I had never worked out with this machine or this specific muscle group before. Hmm... what other excuse could I come up with? Sweat in my eyes?

I told Espe to drop the weight peg to 2. He mumbled something under his breath and wouldn’t shift it past 3. Three reps of 20 on each arm later, I was done. No, really, I was done. I was mentally trying to figure out how the hell I was going to undress and bathe myself that night with broken arms.

My bud Ferdinand has started calling me Hawk and
Espe, who keeps beating me with a rolled-up towel, insists I refer to him as ‘Mickey’.

Training day number one, down. Nothing has snapped yet. So far so good.

Chicks dig big guns

So, my Clarise Starling days aren’t really all that far gone. We decided to take a trip to our local shooting range one weekend after perusing for blood oranges at the local farmer’s market. It was a weird day.

I don’t think I was dressed appropriately, though the fashion etiquette for firing weapons wasn’t exactly posted at the entrance to the range. There wasn’t even a standard "DON’T" list to help me out - for visitors with the big, bold red circle and line drawn through it which would explain the spent shotgun cartridges and bullet casings on the carpeted floor... at the entrance door.

Check-in was liberal. I was waiting to sign an insurance policy and get electronically fingerprinted before the clerk handed a weapon over to me. Maybe a retina scan? Nothing of the sorts. The scraggly NRA hippie behind the counter asked us to simply sign a sheet on a clipboard then asked us how much ammo we wanted to buy. Espe purchased two 50 round boxes of ammunition and picked out a dull looking 9mm Luger from the glass case.

NRA hippie packed our wares into a plastic carry crate. I pulled two full sized male sillohute target sheets from the shelf and folded them while balancing the unfashionable protective earmuffs and goggles in my arms. Espe and I walked from the check-in point through a rickety wooden door to a room the size of a phone booth. A posted sign read: "Protective eyewear must be worn beyond this point." I dropped the crate on the floor, Luger included, and pushed the earmuffs down over my ears. Espe rolled his eyes. "Oops," I said grinning. I pushed the goggles on, grabbed the crate and slammed through the door to the shooting area.

It was loud of course, and hazy. There were people of all shapes and ages sprinkled throughout the lanes. The row of partitions extended about 20 yards, with a counter in each, facing what appeared to be an open hanger area with a series of electric-run pulleys for hanging targets. Bullet holes pierced the ceiling, walls, floor, light fixtures, pretty much any exposed area. I watched with interest while walking down the partitioned row. The first booth caught my eye because there was a large group of people in the both but only one was firing. They seemed excited and cheered each time the guy with the weapon in hand pulled the trigger.

Espe and I settled for a booth midway down the lane. He barely spoke, instead, just pointed around and shook his head yes or no. He handed me the 9mm and bumped the clip out. I had to load it. It took forever to push the bullets down one after another. I struggled once the clip was almost full and tight. It became evident, this was not a place for a French-tip manicure. He motioned me to step up and shoot first. Then he fastened the shooting target on the overhead clip then flicked a switch and I watched it whiz backwards. Far. Way the hell back in the dimly lit hanger. I could barely see it. Espe lay the fully loaded Luger on the counter. I picked it up, retracted the safety and pulled the back slide on the top of the barrel. The weapon felt light in my hands. I aimed at the target and pulled the trigger. He pushed into my knees slightly to make me bend them. I cracked off a few more shots, then I felt his hand on my upper back, making me lean forward into the shooting area. I shot again then lay the gun down. We switched places and he expertly squeezed off ten rounds. He genuinely looked impressed at my shooting ability. I had hit the target in the chest area, one bullseye dead center and several shots to the head. We alternated. It was my turn again. I picked up ol’ Lugey and aimed. Another bullet shell casing from the weapon popped up into the air.

Mind you, shell casings had been flying around this entire time. Not just from us but from the vigilante mother and daughter team next door to us as well as the two gangsters shooting 50-cent driveby-sideways style in the booth to my right. Oh, but my feisty casing flew up in the air hitting my protective goggled eyes (thank goodness) but didn’t just stop there, oh no. The hot piece of metal deflected off my lens, flew up over the top of the goggles, dropped within the small separation of space where the goggles sat away from my face and wedged itself on top of my right eyelid, just below my eyebrow.

It makes sense that a shell would be fairly hot after being ejected from a pistola, but I mean, damn. Maybe it hurt even more because of the sensitive spot where the metal landed. It stuck there. I continued firing with the afflicted eye closed while it got hotter. Finally I put the weapon down and fished the casing out of my goggles. Espe didn’t notice at first. My eyes began watering. I bent over and checked the tiny piece of metal on the ground for a tiny piece of my eyelid melted to it, but it was clean. I was rattled. He changed targets then began shooting again. With broken momentum, I stepped up to the counter again when it was my turn but flinched when I fired the first round. I continued missing the target completely while my eyelid remained on fire. Espe shot off the rest of the rounds. We swept the casings into a pile. I noticed the target within the stall at the far end of the shooting gallery. The idiots had tied a large Fanta soda bottle to the mobile target and shot wildly. More casings peppered the ground in rapid fire succession as we walked out. All in all, it was an interesting, harrowing adventure and I have another scar to prove it, providing a much more involved excuse for wearing excessive eyeshadow.

eating my feelings

About an hour ago, I pulled up to the order window at Omega burger. There are some moments in life that call for a good, greasy ghetto burger. This was one of those moments. Sad to say that the only thing keeping me grounded, wavering on the edge of a total emotional meltdown and reality was a charred burger patty from an establishment with a faded “B” rating in the window. I hated my world at the moment. I placed my order and provided incorrect change thus lengthening the transaction process. I snatched my white food sack and cradled it. Greasy little paper windows showed through almost immediately. Raw onions stunk up my car just as quick. I haven’t actually eaten solid food in two days so whatever was in the bag was going to taste undoubtedly wonderful.

Something very disheartening had happened to me. I’ve been broken by other people before, but this time it will take some getting over. Turns out I have great friends who care about me; who don’t think I’m nuts for texting them a very disturbing message regarding what had happened, at 2:00AM. I was suffering and I wanted everyone to hold my hand, or at least hold my hair back while I puked up Little Ceasar’s pizza in the toilet at my parent’s house.

I don’t remember what the text message I sent out said exactly. I remember crushing the buttons on my cell phone key pad to the point where my thumb pulsated. I remember wiping away tears and biting my bottom lip until it bled, then wiping away blood with the back of my hand. I’ve been having sinus problems so my nose didn’t run with snot, it stuffed up, causing me to breathe heavily through my mouth. Everything hurt. I was exhausted. Dad said to try and sleep, that things could be worked out in the morning. I thought he knew me better than that? There was going to be no sleep in my future. My mind raced uncontrollably. My body continued to run hot.

I had seen Dr. Chops my acupuncturist earlier. He diagnosed me with an earth-fire, or was it earth-wind-fire fever? My body always runs hot. I usually have trouble sleeping because my brain can’t let me relax. Tonight would be no different. I’m feeling a little better now. A little more civil. The burger helped along with a rainbow sprinkled doughnut from Winchell’s, half a sack full of stale doughnut holes, a diet lemon Snapple tea, and mounds of Trader Joe’s Pirate Booty White Cheddar Puffs. My belly hurts now for obviously different reasons.

Thank you everyone, I’m bouncing back quite nicely. Other than that, Philly whupped the Giants’ asses today. There is hope after all.

Burn!

Where's George Jefferson When I Need him?

Ahh... F'n Christmas. Where do I begin. As I may have mentioned before, or just cried out in my nightmares, I have a “Bad Mexican” side of the family and the “Good Mexican” side of the family. Most of my Good Mexicans have migrated up to the Seattle, Washington and Oregon area. They’re a Gypsy breed. They used to drag me cross country with them when I was barely a teenager, on crazy adventures to hunt down Indian Pow Wows and holistic retreats. I love them dearly and try to keep in touch with them as much as I can. The Bad Mexicans, however, will not leave. I have a gravitational pull that keeps at least a dozen of them living within a five-mile radius of me at any given time. I equate them to roaches. They’re lazy, overweight, ignorant, 300+ pounds and will probably outlive me.

There was no way in getting out of going to the Bad Mexican’s home for Christmas. Lacking the energy to start an assembly line and quality masa resources, I made the mistake of saying I was going to buy and bring tamales. Mind you, I mentioned this WEEKS prior to Christmas when at the time, my world was somewhat stable. All I heard about for the ensuing days was, “Are you still bringing the tamales? Don’t forget the tamales. How many tamales are you bringing?” and so on. Here it was the morning of December 24th already and I wasn’t even done shopping, let alone looking forward to making the trek to East L.A. to purchase quality tamales for the ingrates.

Work let out just after high noon. How very appropriate. I was terrified of fighting the crowds in the malls. I was aimless. Unprepared. Fearing last-minute sales of Sham Wows and Chia Pets. I jokingly told my Supervisor that I was going to end up at 7-11 for the remainder of my gifts and that everyone was going to get beef jerky. She laughed. Suddenly it didn’t seem so wrong.

I hit an ATM, fully depleting my bank account and circled the mall parking lot for 40 minutes. Christ. I walked into JCPenney’s clutching a half-ass written list on the back of a Carl’s Jr. receipt. I couldn’t find a thing that I needed or anything that made sense. I walked out in 10 minutes. I drove toward the freeway and tried talking myself into purchasing lotto tickets for everyone. I would pray for the best.

The second mall was more successful. I found almost everything I needed. I feared the Wal-Mart lot, but there actually wasn't as many people there as I thought there would be. I had to buy additional wrapping paper and bows. ON CHRISTMAS EVE! I wasn't alone but still, it's the principal of the matter. I used to laugh at 'those' people - out on Christmas Eve, hunting feverishly while I sipped on a warm Starbucks soy mocha and strolled the aisles looking for nail polish. Any other year, my shopping would have been complete by Halloween. I was that good. This year, it DID sneak up on me. Damn December 25th. I was increasingly gettin angrier by the minute.

I found a short checkout line. Two elderly Asian business men in cheap suits were completing their transaction, and a skinny thuggish black dude was directly ahead of me with a handful of items. Shweet. The check-out girl looked like Fiona from Shrek. I am not kidding. She was as slow as an ogre too. I couldn't figure out what the holdup was, the Suits didn't even have any items on the conveyer belt. They talked to each other in Japanese and grew increasingly louder. I poked at the wall of gum. My mind wandered.

"Isn't this some bullshit?! I HATE Christmas," said Skinny Black, aloud to the air. I avoided eye contact then I noticed the items placed on the belt directly after mine. A female had gotten in line behind me and steadily emptied her cart. An economy-sized bottle of generic bleach, Febreeze, Wrigley's gum, two of the largest economy boxes of Magnum condoms I've ever seen in my life, Pringles, an almost empty bottle of Welch's strawberry soda, mint dental floss... I became fixated on the bleach. And the condoms. Who in the hell needs that many condoms? What kind of party was she planning? Individually, these items were harmless. Combined, who knows what unearthly force they could unleash?

"This is some bullshit," Skinny Black's whisper faded out. "Do you see that?" he said through his teeth. Rubber Girl peered around me and looked toward the register at the Suits. The screen subtotal read: $7,000.00 in digital orange letters. "Sheeeeet, it's like that?" she said, cracking her gum. The suits appeared to be applying money to stack of gift cards. I counted seven cards which would mean, $1000.00 a card. On Christmas Eve, at 4:00 in the afternoon. Wow, if only I could have been thought of so much, yet so little with a Wal Mart gift card in the amount of more moolah than I had in my WaMu account.

"That's more than I make in a month!" said Skinny. Hm. Really?

Fiona the checker had a look on her face as if she needed to take a massive shit. Either no one had ever purchased gift cards from her before or she was completely burned out. The purchase finally went through and Skinny shifted his conversation from hating Christmas to not being able to afford anything. He and Rubber engaged in a lengthy conversation. They bonded. I just wanted out. I made it to my car and headed home. Ahhhhhhhhh..... I had forgotten the damn tamales *cue the rain* I was indeed in hell.

There was no way I was going to make the trip to Lilliana's on Cesar Chavez Ave. in Los Angeles. I called Zee, stressed, cursing, almost in tears. He talked me off of the ledge and recommended I stop by Diana's. The line was short with good reason. They were completely out of the pork variety of tamales (the best!). I ordered a dozen sweet and a dozen of both chicken and pork which cost me a half hour wait time. Finally, with a sack of tamales and hot salsa in tow, I headed to my parent's house then back to the apartment through the pouring rain. I flicked on the 24 hour marathon of "A Christmas Story" and began the daunting task of wrapping endless boxes of gifts.

What started out as a fanciful "Nightmare Before Christmas" decorations theme complete with special tree ornaments and flocked, boldly printed paper and ribbons ended with me slapping neon colored crushed bows from holidays past onto wrinkled Snoopy wrap. I finished just before midnight and swore that I would NEVER again wait until Christmas eve to finish shopping and all the rest of that crap. Lesson learned. Didn't even need a visit from Christmas ghosts to teach me that little kernel of wisdom.

I got your coal right here, bitch.

Ahh... the start of the yuletide festivities, earmarked with a five page notice from administration sanctioning the 'Holiday Season Decorations' (notice they didn't specify CHRISTMAS), at our worksites:

"Should your department's facilities permit decorative displays and exhibits, please ensure that the minimum requirements listed below are followed:

I. PLACEMENT OF DECORATIONS
Natural cut trees shall have the trunk bottoms cut off at least 1/2 inch above the original cut and shall be placed in a support device complying with requirement below.

The support device that holds the tree in a upright position shall be of a type that is stable and meets all of the following criteria: the device shall hold the tree securely and be of adequate size to avoid tipping over of the tree; the device shall be capable of containing a minimum two-day supply of water; the water level, when full, shall cover the tree stem at least 2 inches (51 mm); the water level shall be maintained above the fresh cut and checked at least once daily.

The tree shall be removed from the building whenever the needles or leaves fall off redily when a tree branch is shaken, or if the needles are brittle and break when bent between the thumb and index finger. The tree shall be checked daily for dryness.

The required width of any portion of a means of egress shall not be obstructed by decorative vegetation.

Candles and open flames shall not be used on or near decorative vegetation. Natural cut trees shall be kept a distance from heat vents and any open flame or heat-producing devices at least equal to the height of the tree.
The use of unlisted electrical wiring and lighting on natural cut trees, and artificial decorative vegetation, shall be prohibited. The use of electrical wiring and lighting on artificial trees constructed entirely out of metal shall be prohibited.

(These are a few excerpts of the first two pages. There are three more pages detailing the useage of lights and decorations and fire code guidelines.)

"Holiday Season" is repeatedly referred to, so does this make the tree a "Holiday Tree"? No word yet on a potential ban on gawd awful Holiday Sweaters that blink/rattle/jingle, or emit peppermint aromas. What in the hell happened to Christmas, Charlie Brown?

Para bailar La Obamba!

The sky seemed to have completely opened up on the morning of November 4, 2008. It made me even more determined to get my ass out of bed at 5:00AM and stumble around in the dark, put my clothes on and make it to the election polls on time. I volunteered to serve. Again. Even after the senior citizen induced migraine I endured from the June election earlier in the year, I bit the bullet for round two. I was responsible for bringing the donuts.


Peggy, the poll coordinator for this location was also my mom’s Avon lady. Obviously she had been a pollworker since Lincoln was elected into office. She made sure to call me way back in August to assign me the task of bringing doughnuts for the Election Day potluck. I’m Homer Simpson when it comes to a box of doughnuts. Doughnuts gave me hope. Sweet, sweet hope. I dressed in layers of alternating tank tops, a fitted lilac sweater, jeans, and a grey sweatshirt over all of that. I was still cold. My election training packet was at the bottom of my cargo compartment where it lay there since I received it a month ago. I dug it out from beneath my dry cleaning and made the trek to Starbucks for my life blood.

Ooohhh.... FYI - Starbucks has a tasty signature wintery cocoa called a “Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate.” I initially bought it on an employee’s recommendation and now I’m hooked.

I placed my order and upped it with a shot of espresso. The clerk saw my election poll button nestled between my boobs. After I had paid, he repeated my order, then said, “You have one shot, would you like another one?” “Sure!” I said. Wow, this button was magical! Or maybe it was the sweater? Or the fact that I looked like a soggy, wet, puffy-eyed mess and he took pity on me. Whatever – I was going to be soooooo high!

Liquid crack in hand, I swooped by Winchell’s for a quick dozen (the button didn’t work there, nor did a push for my 10% AAA discount), then headed to the polling spot. It was in a private home in a residential area close to where I grew up. In fact this was the first place I ever voted. My sentiment turned to shock when I saw the line of people standing outside in the rain. It was 6:30 exactly. The polls didn’t open until 7:00. Peggy the coordinator and the Old Bones squad were still struggling to put up signs. I walked into the icy garage and spoke aloud.... apparently to no one in particular. They ignored me. I set the doughnuts on the back counter next to a store-bought pound cake. Diane, a quiet elderly Samoan lady introduced herself to me and then pointed out who was who, Pearl, Annie... their names immediately went in one ear and out the other. Thank goodness for nametags.

Peggy looked like a trailer trash version of the Wicked Witch of the West. She smoked Pall Malls and had black stubbly whiskers poking up from the tip of her nose. Her wiry thin grey hair was twisted in a fancy side ponytail, leaving a trail of brittle strands everywhere she perched. All five of the elderly women were cranky, on the verge of snapping. I could feel what little youth I had being sucked out through my pores. I seated myself at the table handing out ballots since Peggy couldn’t figure out where to place me. She made the announcement at 7:00AM exactly:
“The polls are now open.” I let out a little cheer. They all remained silent.

People streamed in steadily. Ten minutes into the voting, I mistakenly tore a ballot from the pad – leaving the receipt attached to the top of the pad. Oops. I handed it to a voter without looking to see if there was an open booth. Oops again. It was crowded and the booths were smashed together. “It will be one moment, sorry about that,” I said to the man. Pearl, Offended Senior #1 to my left snatched the ballot from the voter’s hand, and then slammed the pad down on the table. “You have to tear this off here at the top and you can’t hand him the ballot until there’s an open booth.” I looked around and said, “I apologize. I neglected to see if there was an open booth before I handed him the ballot.”

Pearl lost her fucking mind. "I’m not going to take this!” she screamed. I froze. Peggy came rushing over to us. Pearl ratted me out. I repeated to her exactly what I had said to Pearl in an even, monotone voice, “I neglected to see if there was an open booth before I handed him the ballot.” Pearl said, “I’m not going to stand for this type of attitude!” I looked at Peggy. “What attitude am I having? That was all I said to her!” I was trying to restrain myself from laughing. I couldn’t. It didn’t help the situation. Peggy said, “You two need to shake on it.” I thrust my hand in Pearl’s face. She recoiled as if I had pointed shit on a stick at her. “I’m not shaking her hand! Don’t you touch me!” she yelled.

All this time, I’m steadily handing out ballots to concerned voters. That was one thing I learned in the election class: VOTING NEVER STOPS. Even if you have a delusional ol’ blue-hair with a mental breakdown casting your ballot, VOTING NEVER STOPS.

She continued yelling about me. “I don’t have to take this kind of behavior, Peggy. This is my house!” I looked down at her. “Aww, you want a hug?” Her eyes widened as I leaned in. “Wanna hug it out?” Pearl scooted back to the edge of her seat. “Don’t you touch me! No I don’t want no hug! This is my house and I won’t be treated this way!”

“Oh lord woman, then what?” I looked at Peggy. “You want to send me home? What, you’re going to fire me?” I outstretched my arms dramatically and hit on my chest, reminiscent of Denzell Washington in Training Day. My next line should have been, “KING KONG AIN’T GOT NUTHIN ON ME!” Peggy ran away. People stared.

I continued greeting voters and passing out ballots. Pearl scooted her chair to the left and froze me out. Christ, it wasn’t even 7:30 yet. The torrential rain swept my neighbors in. People I had seen in passing, but haven’t spoken to in years. Mr. Wooldridge showed up shuffling himself along with his cane. I smiled when I saw him. “Where have you been all my life?” he asked me. “Working,” I said, laughing. He updated me on his sons Randy and Eric. Hmm, to this day he probably still doesn’t know about the massive NYE’s party we had in his house right after I graduated high school. Good times.

I became the whirlwind poll helper. I eventually was assigned to a back table assisting provisional voters, but the duration of my stay was on the line handing out ballots and helping voters place them in the machine. I instructed voters on the Ink-a-Vote machine and monitored the line. I was everywhere and I didn’t mind it at all. I would rather be bouncing around instead of being cooped up any day. The clerks called out to me each time someone needed help. “You’re a people person, aren’t you?” said Annie. I had never thought about it before. I was just working. My energy stayed up for most of the morning. I recognized a lot of faces and they seemed genuinely happy to see me.

I sent out a text to everyone reminding them to get their asses out and vote. I heard from Ferd first: Rasta don’t work for da c.i.a.

A young man in a button-down shirt and tie came through. We made eye contact. “Sup movie star?” he said. I laughed. “How you doin Boo Boo!” He turned pink. I bet he hadn’t been called that in years. It was Miguel – a dirty little punk kid I had known since he was in kindergarten. He used to stay in the streets on his bike. Miguel cleaned up well and was now into real estate. “Look at you with your big boy clothes on!” I said. He continued to blush and told me about the economy and how things were going, then handed me his business card. I genuinely was impressed and told him so.

Mr. Bryant rolled through and didn’t speak. As usual. But his wife did. She hugged me and chatted my ear off. A few minutes later, Cinnamon, her oldest daughter came through with her two little girls. Cinnamon is a few years older than me and has four kids. Damn. “When are you going to start having some?” she said. “Ahhhhhhh, I don’t know... but you’ve got enough for the both of us!” She grinned, dragging her cranky toddlers away.

My dad was steadily texting me to receive updates about the length if the line. Things died down around 10:00. He came just before lunchtime. I was tied up assisting with a provisional ballot so I wasn’t able to mess with him. He hollered before he left, “OK take it easy my (fill-in-the-blank-with-the-childhood-nickname-he’s-called-me-since-I-was-born)!” I groaned. He was embarrassing me on purpose, laughing all the way out to his truck.

I munched on a doughnut with sprinkles in between breaks. Ug. I haven’t eaten this much crap in a long time. Sugar shock was eminent. Let’s see, I topped off my dietary intake list with a Grande hot chocolate with espresso for breakfast, doughnut with sprinkles and a bowl of potato chips. I rifled through the rest of the junk on the counter. One of the women had made a HUGE 12 x 12 Tupperware container full of..... tuna? Chicken salad? Every time I asked someone, they gave me a different answer. If they couldn’t figure it out, I wasn’t going to try to either. It had mayo in it and had been sitting out for six hours now. I passed.

Peggy sat huddled in the corner with a paper plate and a stack of stale Ritz crackers. I watched as she shoveled the mayo mash into her nicotine stained mouth. I finally deducted that it was cat food. She purred gently and licked the plate clean then proceeded to preen herself by smoothing her whiskers with the back of her fuzzy hand.

More neighbors. More ballots. Just over 300 votes had been cast by the early afternoon. For some reason, the voting machine started making a strange “whirring” noise. Peggy announced that the machine was making a weird noise then walked away without doing anything about it. Moments later, the machine jammed. A man went to put his ballot in and the feeder wouldn’t take it. The control screen said, “NO READER”, whatever the hell that meant. The poll workers became flustered. I tried trouble shooting to no avail. I checked the connections, the plugs, not much else. It was a very simple machine with one button – the power switch. I asked Peggy if there was an instruction manual. She threw her hands up in the air, said, “I don’t know where anything is!” and walked away.

Ookay.

But alas, VOTING NEVER STOPS. The voters were becoming suspicious. I was prepped for emergency and instructed Pearl to take the ballots and put them in the bottom security bin where the absentee ballots and mail-in ballots were deposited.

“Peggy is there a phone number that I can call to get some tech support?” I said. She became indignant. “I tried calling for the audio machine and no one picked up the phone.”

“So, you have a phone number?”

“I tried calling and calling but I couldn’t get through. There was no one there. It just rang.”

“Umm, can you give me the phone number that you called?”

“I don’t know what good its going to do.” She walked away again.

This woman was insane. I punched buttons on the touch screen then called Beans. She was working the polls too. I figured she’d have a quick fix for me. Her phone rang and went to voicemail. I sent her an emergency text then leaned over to the audio voting machine that was butted up against the dryer and dialed the 1-877 phone number on the sticker. A clerk immediately answered. I told her what happened and she put a technician on the phone. It took all of 30 seconds for Eli the tech to instruct me to press the magic button and turn the machine off and on. You would have thought that little black button controlled all of mankind and our existence as we know it.

Peggy re-appeared once I started talking on to Eli. “Tell him I’m the inspector,” she said. “Give him my name.” I ignored her and began repeating his instructions aloud as if I was a surgeon prepping for a major transplant. “OK Eli, I’m bending down, I see there’s a side panel with two connectors. OK, there’s the off and on switch, I should press that? What will happen to the votes, the numbers won’t be erased right?” Eli assured me everything would remain as is.

Peggy hovered, ready to throw her body over the machine at a moment’s notice. I did not want to be the one to flick that switch but dammit, there were no other switches to flick. I pressed the button. The control screen went dark. I sucked in a mouthful of air and turned it back on. Nothing happened. Crap. I waited. A few moments later it finally rebooted. I exhaled. It took ten minutes of my staring at a re-boot screen for it return to working order. I cheered. No one said anything, not even a thank you. Whatever. I saved the election, tucked my superhero cape back into my superhero stretchy pants and carried on with the ballot flinging.

I put the dinner text to my dad: “Need food...feeling weak. Help.” Mom called me back. The easiest thing to pick up was a chicken sandwich from McDonalds. My father is notorious for messing up food orders so I figured a simple request would work. Things moved along smoothly right up until 5:00 when the people began to trickle in again. Dad pulled up out front and called me. I ran out of the polling area into the street, screaming, “ARRGG! TAKE ME WITH YOU!” and waving my arms around wildly. My mom and dad laughed. I grabbed the bag and started inhaling the McDonald’s fries. Ug, the salt clashed with my sugar intake and made me dizzy. I was out of breath and tried to quickly tell them about all of the drama that had happened before making my way back into the pit.

I sat at the provisional table in the back and ripped open the bag. Chicken nuggets? It wasn’t a chicken sandwich, but close enough. I scarfed the junk food down, trying not to think about it eating away at my insides. Peggy magically appeared in a green mist. She glanced at the table. “Mc Donalds!?!?’ she said with disgust. I looked at the red package next to my sweet and sour sauce packet. “Cigarettes?!!?”, I said, equally disgusted. She grabbed her box and hissed. As my punishment for defending myself and not taking any shit from these women, AKA, “being a smartass” Peggy informed me that I was going to be the one responsible for the ballot count at the end of the night. WTF!!?!? What the hell will everyone else be doing while I’m slashing tally marks into my forearm? I thought. She probably figured I would refuse. Ha. I told her OK enthusiastically. Bring your worst, you cackly hag. I was there to be part of history. It would be an honor to sign my name on the records sheet.

A guy came in with his little boy. I overheard him asking Peggy if he could take a picture of the voting area. “No!” she snapped with no other explanation. He politely said, “OK, thank you.” The guy moved down the line to receive his ballot. “What did you ask her?” I said. He replied, “I just wanted to know if I could take a picture, I mean this is such a historical time,” he started to get choked up. I told him not to worry and to come back to me one he was done voting. He hesitated and said he would. What was that broad’s issue? People had been coming in taking photos periodically throughout the day, the only difference was they just did it. They didn’t ask her for shit. There was no law saying you couldn’t take a photo. He returned his ballot to me and proudly held his son in his arms. They poised over the machine with ballot in hand. I snapped. The ballot dropped in and was counted. the man stood smiling with his son being adorned with "I voted" stickers. He thanked me profusely and left. Add 'granting wishes' to my list of dreams.

The last two hours were horribly slow. Everyone expected a huge rush of people, but virtually no one came in. I recognized another guy I went to high school with. Actually, Jason was my classroom T.A. for History and his little brother Jared and I used to have classes together. I asked how Jared was. Apparently he’s into music production and doing really well. Some of his stuff was used on the new Madden game and he’s working with a couple of hip hop artists. As Jason was walking out he said, “That was you in that commercial, wasn’t it!” I laughed and said yeah. “I knew it!” he yelled. “I knew that was you, I told all them fools!” We talked for a bit more before he took off.

We closed our site down at exactly 8:00PM. At 8:03, I heard fireworks going off and people screaming in the streets. They cheered and yelled. I knew it was over. I hadn’t heard any updates but I knew Obama had taken at least the unofficial lead. The text messages on my phone started rolling in.

From Mich: Obamba is in the white fools! (La Obamba apparently...)

I text my Dad, telling him that I was counting the ballots and ready to quit.
From Pops: No no all of them count regardless they can still try something! Thank you, Conspiracy King.

I continued to count and pack up everything. The final tally was 655 ballots were being submitted. We were 5 over, but finally finished just after 9:30. Two of the women thanked me for all my help and said they had never gotten out so early before. They hoped I would be back again. Pearl and Peggy disappeared without speaking to me. Eh.

I drove to my parent’s house and watched to re-play of the speeches. They were incredibly enthusiastic. I asked Mom, “Did you think you’d ever see this?” "Yeah,” she replied. Totally un-phased. Good ol’ optimistic mama.

Coverage continued on all of the channels. Recaps, counting, endless news stories. It was a media mindfuck. Everyone came out to vote at our tiny residential polling place – the old, young, first time voters, people who couldn’t even speak English. All one woman kept chanting was, “Obama! Obama! I wan one vote, Obama!” I helped her stick the ballot into the Ink-A-Vote machine. She used the pen to make one selection and removed her ballot. I asked her, “No propositions? You don’t want to make any other selections?” She grabbed my hand and dragged me to the recorder. “Obama! I wan Obama. Obama!” She fed the ballot through the feeder. “Es good? Obama?” I nodded and said, “Yes, Obama.” Grinning, she walked out with her “I Voted sticker” on her sweater, shaking her hands to the sky. “Obama! Yes Obama!” I was in awe. There suddenly seemed to be renewed hope. Change. Hope. Change.

My Dad’s text message to me earlier in the evening summed it up: Obama is over the top!! In my life time!

Damn right Pops. He did it. We did it.

Mmm... Chocolate Salty Balls!

Happy Halloween, my peeps! Hope everyone has a great, safe night. I can’t see my bedroom floor anymore so I’ll be home folding a week’s worth of laundry. Waah.

I don’t get the Trick o’ Treaters in my neighborhood anymore but I bought plenty of crap to pass out just in case. My GBFF Mish's b-day party is tomorrow at some rooty tooty, high fallutin’ club in Glendale. The website looks glossy. The people I predict will be as equally shiny and one dimensional. *Sigh* Well, I’m going for my girl. Er, she’s sort of forcing me to go but whatever. Maybe it’s time I put on my big girl chonies, got out of the house and did something fun. Check back next week for my club review.

Watch out 818……….. here she comes……………….

Hey Oprah, can you lend me some loot?

A Million Little Money Grubbers

I kept getting random 'update' emails from a crazy Aunt for a while, I always assume everyone's got at least one nutty relative. If you don't, then you're probably the one. We call her the grim reaper because she usually only makes phonecalls when someone in the family has died. At the moment, Auntie has the family divided over an equally weird situation. I have a relative who "wrote" a controversial book and was just in the Enquirer for the second time. IT resurfaced on the news this week. Hard-hitting journalism at its finest.

Whoo hoo. I Googled and found the following, among other fodder:

A book 'review' of RUTHLESS
If you are laughing upon sight of this review of Ruthless: A Tell-All Book, I can say that I join you in your laughing. I’m going to be upfront and say that I’m no fan of Oprah Winfrey for many reasons. Yet, one would think that I’d be giving this trashy anti-Oprah book positive reviews then, right? First, a bit of background.

Keifer Bonvillain worked as an office manager at Harpo Studios when he decided to tape record Oprah and then write a tell-all book about it. I’m not going into the details as to what prompted him, since that’s not really that important, and if you really want to know you can buy the book yourself. But chances are after reading my review you won’t bother. The problem resides in so many discrepancies and so much he-said she-said gossip that one can only take this account as seriously as one does the National Enquirer. Much of the information the author provides, for example, is told second hand through a guy named "Todd." Some of the "juicy" tidbits revealed are as follows: Oprah is a racist, a lesbian, a liar, a greedy wench, and while all or none of this may be true, even if it were true, it’s not like one can trust that the author is telling the truth.
Just to give an example, Todd spends a good deal of time discussing the many ways in which Oprah is a racist, specifically how she chooses to discriminate against black males — either by portraying them as violent "wife beaters" in the films she’s been involved in or having hardly any black men on her staff — to having very few black male authors in her book club. In the film Their Eyes Were Watching God, for example, the actor who played Tea Cake was actually a light skinned black male, rather than the dark-skinned man Hurston describes in her novel. The author then believes this to be another piece of proof in the Oprah racist puzzle. Of course, any Oprah fan could undermine his claim by the mere mention that Oprah endorsed Barack Obama for President. In fact, there were many places online that were calling Oprah a racist, yet in the other direction - simply because she backed up Obama because he was black... So which is it?
It is impossible to take this book seriously, and it only succeeds in backfiring, giving Oprah fans more ammo in her defense. I would invite anyone to actually write a serious anti-Oprah book that discusses the hypocrisy she represents, from her silly endorsement of "The Secret" to the spoiled brat author Elizabeth Gilbert and her childish "advice" in Eat, Pray, Love, to Oprah’s endless preaching and fluffy interviewing style, to the "promotion" of Hallmark Card doggerelist Maya Angelou. (I was sickened when I happened to see when she had Sting on her show a few years back to discuss his memoir, and instead of asking the musician serious questions about his career, she asked what he and his wife did in bed together - had this been a man asking this of a woman, you can bet there’d be complaints, but coming from a woman it’s okay).
Anyway, so don’t bother with Oprah, or this book - that’s my advice. And before you go calling me "jealous" of her "success" I’d like to mention that at least I don’t exploit people on national television - and I also look better in jeans.

Wow, that's pretty accurate.... but how did he get his own Wikipedia page?

If you saw the piece of junk, you would realize how much of a farce this whole situation is. Our family was sent a copy of the ill-written crap and I couldn't get through it. There were misspellings and so many grammatical errors in it, it was hard to decipher. Then halfway through the book, the second section was bound together upside-down so you had to flip it in order to read it. The pages were numbered incorrectly and the typeset was off. It gave me a headache.

My cousin tried to bring down a woman who has more money tucked into her double chin than is contained in the entire economic standing in some countries, with a book that looked as if it was put together by chimps. Credit given where credit is due.

By the way, no one has seen or heard from him in months.

The family reunion next year is going to be a hoot.

Temporary Markings............ by me!

Temporary Markings

Rigid and smooth,
tiny cuts scratched at the epidermis
gnawing pinpricks kissed the flesh
in every groove, numbing nerves,
submersing red platelets;
Sex, drugs and death rule the needle
in that order; too far gone to stop just yet.
I am shallow. I remain empty.
In a momentary lapse of clarity
I find myself full of life and thumping blood
watching as he scarred his pain in black octopus ink
and in etching broad shadows across his canvas
needle punctures traced a carbon design
abstract pattern in the least
leaving dark blue-green markings
and trailing smooth maps
around the stitches and scars healed fine
bruisings and cigar burn marks from past
dares and stupid indiscretions
one of them, lingering; one of them, mine.
Flinching pain and tribal barbed wire tracings
accompanied the musical buzzing of
overhead fluorescent lights
and cast-off dismal fixings
while an ominous phrase and a number appeared,
in swollen, raised Olde English letters
bled an ornate branded name
and let down self defenses
inking a seal on his upper back; permanent mark
stark, revealing rude, harsh, and hot senses
like a random fuck in the dark.

...because I got so many questions...

RE: WTF is a "Dirty Sanchez?"
Come on, you could have googled it. Don't be lazy.

Too many freaks, not enough circuses.

I can't describe all of the past weekend's events by no fault of my own. I've highlighted the highlights.

My night involved, but was not limited to the following:

Women restroom attendants who carry switchblades

Multiple “El Don” margaritas

A stranger named Jeff showing me photos on his cell phone of his newborn baby, buying me a shot of Patron then proceeding to sniff my hair and neck before stumbling away

Rounds of Jagerbombs

Stares

Nearsighted Merchant Coast Guards with money to burn

Drunk dialing

Long-stemmed roses

Large carafes of “Adios Mutherfuckers”

Chair dancing

Drunk texting

Mechanical bulls

Flashback of, “I Wanna Sex U Up,” by Color Me Badd

A Denny’s restroom stall

A conversation revolving around Dirty Sanchez references

More than one person vomiting into multiple parking lot gratings

My purse being filled with paper towels, napkins and toilet seat liners

An obscene photo with a giant, fake horse

The Curious George parking structure at Universal Studios Hollywood

The Dinosaur parking structure at Universal Studios Hollywood (three hours later)

Bruises

Letting a someone with a horrible driving record, notorious for crashing cars, drive my car (and me home)

Dizziness for three days

That about sums it up.

Just "X"

My name is too damn long. This is evident after having to scrawl it on credit card receipts at 1:50 in the morning.

21 letters total. 21 letters that seem as if they go on forever in a loopy, upwardly tilting way. I came to this conclusion under the guise of Graphology, while sitting with the rest of the unwashed waiting to sober up after too many fiery (yes, there was actual fire involved) shots at Sharkeez last weekend.

The thought of this as an actual profession is... mildly interesting? It prompted me to think back to when I used to work at a company called ISN – Information Systems Network, where I was trained in the covert operation of document evaluation, criminal records and questioned document authenticity verifications. The job description sounded like a secret spy mission. It wasn’t. The office was located in a very non-descript building in El Segundo, California. For some reason which I have always questioned, the entire place was filled with women. All of the employees in this entire office BUILDING, were female. Even the janitorial staff.

All women or not, I didn’t fit in. Clearly. I realized this within 2 hours of my first day of employment, though it took me 2 weeks to realize the non-existence of males bodies. The office itself was blissful. Private industry has its perks, mostly based on free stuff. We had a kitchen stocked weekly with snacks and beverages and an individually climate controlled environment. Everyone had their own security badges and keyed entry passwords. The “puffer” technology was barely emerging. Cutting edge, baby. In this case, the machines were being used at the main office entrance to check for drug residue or weaponry I assume. I just know I was violated by that doorway everyday with jetstreams of air shooting straight up my vaginal canal and out my ears.

I quickly grew to dislike my position at ISN. It was interesting, but also the closest thing to working in a sweatshop that I come in contact with. There were quotas to meet. Fancy dry-erase boards with notes all over the place. My office mate Di used to color her fingernails with the red markers and use the green markers to paint her piggy little toenails on the days she wore open-toe shoes. The office supervisor, Bettina was a bitch. She took a month vacation to have a boob job and got ungodly white veneers on her top front teeth. When she came back, she had a constant buck-toothed grin due to the fact that she could no longer pull her lips completely over and drooled uncontrollably on her perpetually hard marble nipples.

I quit that place before I was fired. Actually, I quit minutes before I was let go, but hey, whoever says it first wins, right? The experience I gained was pretty cool. I absorbed their tools and have been able to use my skills to pay the bills on quite a few jobs after that fiasco. How very Law and Order-ish of me.

Evaluate your own signature and see what it says about you.
And never get a mouthful of toothy veneers. You’ll never be able to say “M” words properly again.

Beans is bye-bye.

Beans left me. I’m trying to deal with this somewhat amicable separation peacefully. With breakups, I never look back but I might have to make an exception in this case.

We gutted her cubicle yesterday morning. No, her body wasn’t even cold yet. I confess my total hoard:

4 – unopened Post-it notepads
1 - handful of rubber bands (if I hadn’t shot most of mine at her purple balloon while she was here, I probably wouldn’t need them.)
9 – white imprinted envelopes
2 – boxes of black ink pens (V took one & I took one)

The girl didn’t leave much to steal. And she left on Friday without officially saying goodbye because God forbid, I had to take my LUNCH to pick up her 'going away gift' at the same time that she was approved to sneak out early. Skank.

Beans loves her new home. I wish her bright light, plenty of snacks, and pray her new plant lives through the cold months and her neglect.

Let's get physical! In an awkward, unattractive, unfulfilling sort of way.

I hit the gym early today. Earlier than usual anyway. It was the first Sunday in a long while that I was able to get up and functioning before noon. There was a Pilates class with a new instructor that I was interested in trying out and it started at 9:30. For once I was on time. The aerobics room was sparse and I couldn’t tell who the heck was the instructor (Marisela).

These women all obviously knew each other from previous once-week class participation of some sort. They were all older than me with tan, spotted, leathery skin and expensive looking tennis shoes. They greeted each other by their first names and seemed to gravitate toward pre-determined sections of the work out area. No one greeted or even spoke to me. Clearly I was an outsider.

I followed their actions – having been a member of this gym for six years and never actually set foot in this room before. Up until this point I thought this was where the trainers dragged and stored the gelatinous bodies that collapsed in the Spinning classes.

Hockey mom in front of me walked to the weight room and came back with a foam yoga mat. I did the same. Plus-sized PTA mom to my right grabbed what looked like a bouncy Bocce ball from the storage area near the front mirror. Hers was bright green. I picked up a bright green ball too. Petite Asian soccer mom (who, for whatever reason, kept on her weightlifting gloves the entire time), spread her fluffy Nike towel over the yoga mat. I shook out my blue, not quite-a-washcloth-towel I ripped off from a Carnival cruise ship and spread it over my mat. The corner of my towel had a chocolate pudding stain. I flipped it over and tried to remember when I had chocolate pudding last and why it would be on my towel.

Marisela blended in with the rest of the average women. She had a thick German accent which I hoped wasn’t the sign of an exercise tyrant. No German accent ever sounded pleasant. The first couple of songs on the boom box were No Doubt. I perked up. Marisela dove right in without so much as a “Good morning class.”

“Sit on your hiney, legggs spred all zee way oot in frunt. Grab zee ball!”

I grabbed zee ball. Suddenly I was mildly retarded. I don’t take aerobics classes for this simple reason. There’s too much going on. We were supposed to be stretching, holding the rubber bocce ball in front of us. The ball in fact was weighted. I read the printing as beads of sweat immediately formed on my eyelids. Six pounds. That little green sucker only weighed six pounds? Why did it feel like 20? I looked around the room. Everyone else had yellow balls except for Helga Von Muscle on my right, and myself. Yellow was a happy color. Yellow was also probably way lighter. My fault for not reading fine print.

We flexed and shifted. The obliques work was probably the worse. I gave up on translating Maricela’s orders and just mirrored her movements. The ball became slippery with sweat. I arched and crunched it over my head bending my arms as she instructed and almost dropped it in my face. Looking decent went out the window.

The class ended with everyone in a plank position. I couldn’t hold myself up on the mat properly. My arms kept slipping from under me and the sweat was making them itch. I felt totally disgusting. The class didn’t even last a full hour and here I was looking like a rape victim. I collapsed in a puddle of perspiration next to my yoga mat. I knocked against the stupid 1,000 pound rubber ball and watched it roll against the wall. I’m sticking with the meatheads on the other playground from now on.

The Graduation (PART THREE - Finally!)

Driving up and down a country road in the dark for an hour (again) is not my idea of fun. When I finally made it to the hotel, it had begun raining. I was weak. I stunk thoroughly with the scent Arby's curly fries mingled with rental car. My Ramada hotel room smelled like stale cigarette smoke and I was leery about even touching the floor with my bare feet. I plugged my cell phone into the wall and answered the frantic text messages and phone calls. My brother couldn't believe that I had barely made it in to town. He had been in downtown Chicago partying with friends since the night before. I didn't have the strength to unpack anything. After I showered and set the clock for 4:30AM, I wrapped up in a sweatshirt and passed out on top of the comforter with the T.V. on.

I knew I was going to oversleep. Dammit.

The Naval base began letting people in at 5:30AM. I woke up 5:00. Shit. My brother had called me twice by the time I was in the car driving. He was in the line to get into the base. Crap. The car line extended two miles deep. I found my brother eventually, cut ahead of him and crept along with the other naval supporters onto the base. The officers stopped the visitors repeatedly; asking questions, checking trunks and even making rounds with drug sniffing dogs. I was fascinated by the ordeal and videotaped as much as I could. I hadn't seen my big brother in about a year and he looked pretty much the same. I hugged him as far as my arms could reach around his huge belly and arms. We walked through the check-in and made ourselves comfortable on the hard metal benches in the naval base gymnasium, section 280 (my nephew's squad).

There was a great deal of fanfare, horns blowing, cannons shot off, flags waving, saluting, standing, sitting... bro said it was like Catholic mass. I dug through my purse for my back-up camera. I had a camera in each hand now, but for some reason my bag still weighed a ton. I dug deeper and unzipped the inner pocket. Holy shit. I had walked onto the base, past the numerous NO UNAUTHORIZED ITEMS / WEAPONS signs with two canisters of pepper spray and my taser. I froze. Bro could tell something was wrong when I suddenly became quiet. I quickly zipped up my purse and went back to jabbering about how my butt was numb from sitting on the benches for so long. As long as I didn't get stopped or randomly searched for some strange reason, I would be OK.

The ceremony ended and all of the people in the stands rushed to the floor. I hugged my nephew. He had gained a little weight, but was still rail thin with his 6'3" frame. All three of us walked outside and took pictures the entire way. I opened my purse to drop the disposable camera inside.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" I heard from behind me.

A base officer gestured to my arms. "No pictures outside please."

Whew!

Nephew gave us a quick walking tour then jetted off to locate his graduation photos. We drove to the local mall (not all that local) in Gurnee, and he treated us to lunch at the Rainforest Cafe.

It was quite a sight to see someone who hadn't eaten a real hamburger or drank a soda in 16 weeks, try and scarf down an entire meal in a few bites. He choked it down as if it were the best meal he had ever had.

I told Bro he could get some sleep back in my hotel room and nephew and I settled on a movie at the theater next door. We bought a ton of candy from Target and made it just in time for the beginning of "Hancock." He bugged me about calling his girlfriend, so I let him chat away on my phone for almost a solid hour. He looked worn out after the conversation but still upbeat. I don't think the distance thing is going to work with them. Anyway, she's a crazy hoochie.

Bro met up with me to take nephew back to the base. Sadly, I said my goodbyes and watched him walk away in his..... scuffed, unpolished shoes!?!?!? I hadn't noticed that before. "I'm telling Papa!" I yelled. (His grandfather would probably make him shine his shoes in his own spit. And blood for that matter.) "NOOOOO!" He ran away laughing.

I couldn't wait to get back to the hotel room and take a nap. I was exhausted.

"So," I asked bro, "What are you going to do now?"
He became huffy. "I don't know, I guess sleep in my car. I need to head out first thing in the morning."

Arrg. Too cheap to rent a room of his own, he was trying to mooch his way into my room for the night and I wasn't going to let that happen.

"OK," I said, let me know if you wanna eat or something. I'll call you later."

Silence.

Guilt.

I left him in the parking lot and began walking up the hotel stairs. He followed briefly. "Well maybe I'll just hang out in the lounge for a bit and return some calls," he said.

I told him cool - after I rest maybe we could eat dinner together.
I passed out again but not for very long. It was getting dark outside but I didn't even know what time it was. After I showered I turned on the T.V. and saw the opening ceremony for the Olympics in Beijing. I had completely forgotten about it.

Downstairs in the lounge, bro had a table all to himself with a pitcher of beer and his writing tablet. He had one shoe off, sitting dead center in the middle of section and was reclining comfortably while people around him were eating and talking. The bar had a massive projection television with the Olympics coverage blaring. It was surreal. Here I was in this middle of nowhere town, all alone except for my drunk, dreadlocked brother and a bar full of strangers, eating the best chicken teriyaki sandwich I had ever eaten in my life, wearing my rubber ducky printed pajamas, watching the 2008 Olympics. I wouldn't have had it any other way.

On the way home my standby flight was booted three times. I spent the night in the Seattle, Washington airport terminal and I lost my cell phone on the plane. That's really when all the drama began but I'm sick of writing about this saga now. After 36 hours with no sleep, I finally made it home, ate some pancakes and all was right with the world again.

...giant crickets, oh my... (PART TWO)

Everything in the so-called country is far. It’s far, and ‘just down the road’, or ‘just over/under the bridge’ and ‘if you passed the water tower/gas station/cow in the road, you went too far.’ I considered the area I was in to be the country because of the numerous deer that appeared to be grazing off the side of the freeway, oblivious to the rush hour traffic just yards away from them. Also that country smell of... nothing.

Just clean air and highways spanning six lanes across going in one direction. There were toll booths for what seemed like every few miles and my interaction with actual living, breathing toll operators was limited. I didn’t know proper booth etiquette or that I was supposed to just toss the correct change in and go about my business like the other highway regulars. The 45 (?) freeway had held me captive for almost an hour. I took surface streets and exited to what seemed like the same point EVERY DAMN TIME. I kept ending up with the same tollbooth guy who tried to help me within the few seconds I paused in his lane.

Tollbooth guy: “Which way are you headed?”

Me (rushed): “Tryingotcatchthe41Ithinkheaded toWaukegan???"

Tollbooth guy: “You just missed it – get off ahead and make a left at the second on ramp.”

Me: (tossing the $.80 into the change hopper) “Thank you!”
This happened two more times. I felt as if I was paying him for his friendliness.

Once I clarified that the “left” at the second “ramp” was in actuality an unmarked road,

I finally headed in the right direction, $2.40 lighter.

I drove for almost an hour. The sun was starting to set which was just what I didn’t want. I had no desire to be stuck on country turf at night in the middle of nowhere. When I exited the main stretch, it was humid and silent on the “street.” The blackened asphalt highway soon turned rough and rocky, then eventually to gravel and at some point, dirt.

The Hertz map was vague at this point. It did not detail the tiny county roads, only the main strip. I could only go East or West – both directions were equally dark and limitless. I picked up my cell phone to call the hotel. The screen was dim. My battery was dying and had only a minute or so of life left in it.

I was stuck in a Stephen King novel.

The crickets chirping outside my car window seemed to be louder to the West, so I made a right. I had no time to battle giant crickets.

Dora the Explorer never flew standby (PART ONE)

My adventure to Illinois was... just that. An adventure. Pops took it upon himself to drop me off at the airport for my 6:15AM flight. He was half asleep and so was I. Maybe that explains why we ended up circling LAX and surrounding Westchester for half an hour after he missed the DEPARTURE entrance. For Gawd’s sake, we’ve been to this airport a hundred times! Something about driving that time of the morning in the dark, with no caffeine is very disorientating.

I was flying standby (thank you for the buddy pass, Gloria!) and for those of you who don’t know what that is, let me explain what a pain in the total behind it came to be. Standby = bottom feeder.

If you get to your departure point early enough, and if you’re super nice to the Customer Service Associates (or A-holes), then they’ll perform their God-complex duties and put you on an outgoing flight that isn’t filled. So I came to find out that there’s a lot of crossing of fingers and fairy wishing going on with this process.

I left LAX on time as planned. They sat me next to an emergency exit which meant I had to remain alert and functioning at all times. Heaven forbid I would be the one responsible for pulling the door lever... or flipping the window latch... or whatever I was supposed to do. The guy in the seat behind me promptly took off his shoes and socks. My row quickly smelled like pickles. No problemo.

I arrived in Seattle Washington a few hours later because with Alaska Airlines, ALL of their flights stop in Seattle no matter where you’re going. I checked in as planned but lo and behold, I got bumped to the next flight. I ate a little bagel sandwich, made some calls, and relaxed. When the next flight was close to departure, I kept hearing “full to capacity” which meant I probably was going to be screwed over again. I decided to pour on the sweetness and I walked up to the counter.

The female CSA looked up at me with her mouth hanging open. “Hi,” I said, as sugary as I could in a little girl’s voice, “Is there any way I could possibly get on this flight? I’ve been here a while.”

CSA mouth-breather immediately began tap-tap-tapping on her keyboard.
She responded, “Do you know who you look like? Oh my God, I was just about to call my husband!”
Surprised, I smiled, “Yeah...I’ve kinda heard.”
“Wow,” CSA said, “I can’t believe how much you resemble Gabrielle Union!” tap-tap-tap
The airway door began slowly closing.
“Thanks, I guess.” I said, “I guess I could look worse. So, is there any way...?”
CSA: tap tap, final click. “No, I’m sorry. I’ll go ahead and move your information to the next flight.”
Me: “Um, you really think if I was Gabrielle Union that I’d be flying standby?”
CSA: “I dunno. You could be incognito.” She shrugged.
Bitch.

I made the next flight and was lucky enough to have a two-year old seated directly behind me who wailed, screamed, and kicked my seat for four hours straight. Her mother looked all of 16 and seemed used to the behavior. Or numb. The stewardess kept offering the little girl snacks but nothing shut her up. I turned and peeked through the opening in my seat. I stared dead into her blue, watery eye. “How about a Benadryl?” I whispered. “That will make you stop crying.” She stared at me, sucked in a mouthful of air and her yelping continued with two minute breaks in between sets. I was miserable. The worst possible airplane situation I could be in without my Apple.

15 minutes before we landed.... she fell asleep. I had to restrain myself from pinching her fat little thigh as I hustled off the plane.

Hello Chicago!
Immediately I picked up my luggage and boarded the Hertz rental shuttle to the rent-a-car terminal. The line was out the door. Half hour later, I was in my rented Hyundai Santa Fe and leaving the lot. Security at the gate saw me fumbling with my printed Yahoo maps and the regional map I ripped off of the wall at the Hertz office.
“Need help?” he said. “Yeah" I said, "How do I get to the 94 West?”

He motioned to the end of the street, “Go down and make two lefts. Then go under the bridge and take the 134 East to the 90 South to Indiana. You’ll cross the 94.”

All I heard was two lefts. Indiana? The state?

Cars began backing up behind me. “Thank you!” I waved and began driving.
Of course I made a right.

TO BE CONTINUED

Today, my Apple died.

I am beyond upset right now. Trauma has set in.

My poor little Apple Shuffle just quit on me at the time I needed it most. Dammit, I'm about to board a plane for gawd knows how many hours??? and how many effin' layovers with NO MUSIC! NOTHING TO LISTEN TO!!!

Beans tried her best to help me. I mean, she stopped whatever work she was doing and tried troubleshooting the "factory restore" (sync) issue that I was having when I tried to transfer some CD music files to my shuffle, and for whatever reason, I had wiped out my entire music library and the damn thing refused to load any new material. I was absolutely devastated. I've been plugged in for the past few days; STRESSED, bypassing conversations and human contact. Now I have a belly ache.

I liked my (temporary) serene musical world. Just having the safety of those little white earbuds tucked into my lobes gave me a sense of anonymity. I didn't need to make airplane friends. I could ignore perverted porters and the stares from strangers who think I'm someone I'm not.

I was able to pick up a new read that I've been waiting for: Magical Thinking along with a few leftover trashy Enquirers and Globe magazines from my Mom. Along with these, clutching my Pepperidge Farms Brussel Mint cookies and whatever energy drink I can find, dressed in a gray track suit and oversized shades I'm going to look homeless on that plane. Or like a star.

Rest in pieces, little Apple Shuffle.

For you I dedicate: the lyrics to Chasing Pavements (because I've been singing this song all day, and now it's all I've got...)

I've made up my mind / No need to think it over, If i'm wrong I aint right / No need to look no further,

This ain't lust, This is love but, If i tell the world, I'll never say enough,

Cause it was not said to you, And thats exactly what i need to do, If i'm in love with you, Should i give up,

Or should i just keep chasing pavements? Even if it leads nowhere, Or would it be a waste? Even If i knew my place should i leave it there?

Should i give up, Or should i just keep chasing pavements? Even if it leads nowhere, I'd build myself up, And fly around in circles, Wait then as my heart drops, and my back begins to tingle, finally could this be it...