No! Sensei!

Sometimes its just like that… you wake up because you have to pee (for the third time that night) and look over at the clock (like you do every time – mainly so you can torture yourself about the fact that you can only last two hours before your bladder feels like it will burst!) and realize it is forty minutes past when your alarm was supposed to signal that it’s almost time for you to join the drones. I don’t know about you but I hate waking up then getting that evil rush that says ‘holy fuck I’m gonna be late!’.  I prefer that warm rush that says… ‘mmm whatcha doin down there?’ Sadly I had the former rush and would have had to refuse the latter anyhow because of some unexpected issues. I had been subjected to an assault on my ever so sensitive netherdermis.

I may have forgotten to mention this may or may not be slightly or maybe a touch more than slightly graphic?  and by may or may not I mean may and by slightly or a touch more than slightly, I mean yes. And while I may not mind anyone who happens to have access to this reading about the following true (seriously, I am not a fiction writer and couldn’t make this shit up if I had a $20,000 advance) event, I will be kind enough to give fair warning there will be much talk of my who-ha.

Okay, back to the front, or the down to the below, whatever. When I was shocked out of bed by said lack of alarm, I was also put off the normal things I would do during the 4 times I hit the snooze button. Things like roll over so I will get cuddled and have the possibility of rush number two, or start trying to figure out which color of the 27 long tanks I have to wear under the two other layers that will be over it. I will wonder if the coffee was made and mostly I will wonder can I hold it for 10 more minutes without damaging my bladder? So to avoid the damage, I got up and whilst ambling to the bathroom I felt it… the sore-stingey-I used a dull razor to shave feeling – intensified by that (prickley 5 o’clock shadow -as a man might say, but really we have no name for it other than ‘time to get waxed!’) feeling of my jammie bottoms sticking to the little pokey hairs above my happy place. I may have been able to handle this without an issue because, lets face it, we get the prickly pear. It happens, whatever. But this was combined with a ‘I spent last night doin some kinky shit but didn’t get the t-shirt’ ache’. I was not doing kinky shit and had not shaved with a dull razor… I had a bikini wax. The day before.

For those that have never had the house of milk and honey (or the home of jewels) taken down to the parquet… It is not a process that comes without cost, both monetarily and physically. Unless pain is part of your pleasure (I don’t judge) or your threshold is almost nonexistent (mine is pretty high) you must go into your appointment prepared for at least a little pain. As someone who has had this done probably a hundred times over the years, I had no reservations and was actually rather relaxed. I’d made an appointment with someone new, at a highly reputable and well known salon that has been around forever – maybe not forever, but a long time. I trusted that whoever I saw would be fine. And my appointment was with one of their most experienced Estheticians. Maybe I should have realized that ‘experience’ can just mean age and possibly a desire to pretend one is young by trying to fit in with the hip crowd.

I arrived and was quickly ushered in to the esthetician’s room and told to “get out of [my] britches and there is a towel. I’ll be back.” Looking back, I should have run. Where are we?? West-bygawd-Virginia? What professional talks like that? Especially one who will be gettin up close and personal with my vah-jj and rippin’ hair out while she’s there. But before my better sense kicked in she was back. So, I put in my headphones aaand promptly took one out. Apparently headphones in don’t mean ‘I don’t want to talk‘ to everyone. I did however, leave one in to keep my balance and not forget to breathe. I would have done this anyway, but in this case… life-save-er. Thank you APC, really… more than I can tell you APC’s ‘Gravity‘ may have saved a life (not my own).

Like I said, my wits didn’t work so she was back. First, she pulled off the towel off and started inspecting. I’m not sure about y’all but… but that was a first. I was offered no disposables or anything for that matter. Just me layin there half clothed with my socks on like some kind of bad scene out of Striptease only with less lube and cowboy boots and Demi Moore when she looked awesome and Burt Reynolds when well.. and a lot less funny. I guess I passed inspection, so the waxing began.

First strip down, cool. Second, okay. Third, not so bad. For one silly second I thought ‘wow, this is way less painful than I recall’. Silly, silly sars… getting ahead of yourself is never a good idea. Because wait, that’s more wax in the same spot, and then again. Um, pardon me but, aren’t you supposed to like take care of that on the first pass? Hell, I could use some Nads from Target and rip off hair from the same spot 4 times but I’m paying someone to not have that happen. You are supposed to be like the dude who cuts the grass at the baseball field… one pass and the shit is perfect. I’m not so sure I’m okay with this. But too late to worry about that (I have no desire to look like the nether parts of the 40 year old virgin) so forward we go…

I was feeling a bit sore and a tad uncomfortable but I could tell where we were in the process and knew there could not be this kind of torture in the next section. The lower field is usually easier  and I simply don’t have enough hair to require multiple passes! (Really..if that was tmi, forgive.. but, gerald f.! you are readin about me gettin my shit waxed… ??) Thus the next application felt a  little bit, okay who am I kidding, a lot-a-bit different than any of the others and I kinda said ‘that’s different’.  Her response to my query, ‘oh, we,re gonna use hard wax for the sensitive area.’ Alright, no worries, err.

“u-um… pardon me that’s a little too hot”.
“I probably just got some off the bottom, it’s the right temp, I checked.”

I’m going to skip the details about  starting to take it off before it was hard enough (stop it!). All I can say is.. Maybe it wasn’t ready because the shit was too hot and taking a while to cool being it’s in a warm area of my body… ya think?!?

I mentioned the temp again and the third time

“wow, that is a lot hotter than I thought it would be, really. kinda uncomfortable”
this I was met with (I shit you not) “its the perfect temperature it just feels hotter because I’m inside you”.

*insert loud sound of tires coming to a screeching halt…* Please hold. ‘because I’m inside you’ There is only one person allowed to say the words ‘I’m inside you’ to me. This chic was about a foot to short, minus a cock, and the bulbous fake tits are not what I prefer, so it sure as shit wasn’t her. (That is another blog entirely so sorry)

All of this… Repeating spots, meh… Wax too hot… meh. Uncomfortable verbiage, meh… None of this was all that bad Until I noticed she had a little pair of scissors. You know like men use for their nose or ear hair when they are some where around 90 and have forgotten there are electric tools and people for that shit. Again, I’m not so sure about you, but when someone who is up close and personal enough with my vaah-gene to use the words ‘inside me’ without even buying me dinner first, has muthafukin scissors in her hands, I’m more than worried. I bypassed worried and went straight to anxious, wondering how to teleport some Xanax out of my bag. She tells me she needs to trim some hairs. Okay, I can see that, be gentle and carry on. Next more scalding wax of doom and I feel a little well stuck if you will. Yes friends, she has used her doom wax to close me off. The netherlips were sealed. Apparently they had secrets and have been frightened enough by the sealing and the ripping that you will never know. In my panic I lie wondering if she was going to perform some sort of vagino-plasty, so I was again trying to espn the Xanax with every cell in my brain. As I tried without success I realized there was a foreign object in the region just below the region setting off the alarms. And said object was making a snipping noise.

What. The. Fuck?!       over.

Is she using the grandpa nose scissors on my vah-j seal of doom? Why yes, yes she is. I thought that alone was going to make me vomit as visions of all sorts of damage flashed before my eyes, distracting me for a split second… just long enough for me lose trac of where said snippers were in relation to my anatomy. And I certainly woke the fuck up when those grandpa slippers poked me in right in my magic button. Straight shot to the center of the target and holy hell bitches! I was definitely alert and let out enough of a noise for her to stop, but not enough to slip and slice. All I could think was ” please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood.”

I lie there mortified and I think I held my breath the rest of the time I was there. I had no desire to anger whomever I had pissed of to receive this punishment.

When she finally cleaned me up (if that’s what we call that) I dressed, paid and left. I had no desire to re-live the trauma right then and no desire to look jigsaw in the eye while trying to explain.

Prickly hairs, meh. Wax too hot, meh. Re-waxing the same patch-o-snatch four times, meh. Leaving bits of wax and residue, again meh. All these things mean nothing when your beautiful little flower is stung by the scissors of death. After a little time to let the inflammation die down and to consult with two Esteticians that I know (just no longer in the field) yeah… I called the salon and had a little chatty chat with the manager. I was nice, I was brief, I did not give the detail I do here, I even left out some stuff. But she was extremely displeased. In fact she was ready to just refund me after ‘still have prickly hairs’ and multiple passes’ and ‘um, its too hot’. But when I touched on the hot button topic, money returned and free services as well. I wasn’t looking for that, I’m not sure I want to go anywhere near there, but at least I know they heard and someone understood.

So sometimes it’s just like that… you go for routine maintenance that turns out to be a page out of Norman Bates torture treasury. However, there is always a lesson to be learned from even from Jigsaws Funhouse: ask around and research well before you go to someone new. (Especially when they are touching your lady bits) Because been around may just mean old. And is reputable does not mean good, it just means they can charge more and have nice drapes.  Also if your Esthetician looks like she’s fifty-three and had enough procedures to feel she should try to fit in with the hip young kids… run.

My lesson… STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY WHO-HA WITH MUTHAFUCKIN GRANDPA SCISSORS!

Sometimes its just like that… you wake up because you have to pee (for the third time that night) and look over at the clock (like you do every time – mainly so you can torture yourself about the fact that you can only go two hours before your bladder feels like it will burst!) and it is forty minutes past when your alarm was supposed to signal that it’s almost time for you to join the drones. I don’t know about you but I hate waking up then getting that rush that says ‘holy fuck I’m gonna be late!’ I prefer a rush that says… ‘mmm whatcha doin down there?’ But no, sadly I had the former rush and would have had to refuse the latter anyhow because of some unexpected issues. I was subjected to an assault on my ever so sensitive netherdermis. 

Oh, did I forget to mention this may or may not be slightly or maybe a touch more than slightly graphic? And while I may not mind anyone who happens to have access to this reading about the following true (seriously, I am not a fiction writer and couldn’t make this shit up if I had a $20,000 advance) event I will be kind enough to give fair warning there will be much talk of my who-ha.

Okay, back to the front, or the below. When I was shocked out of bed by said lack of alarm I was also put off the normal things I would do during the 4 times I hit the snooze button. Things like roll over so I will get cuddled and possibly shock number two, or start trying to figure out which color of the 27 long tanks I have to wear under the two other layers that will be over it. I will wonder if the coffee was made and mostly I will wonder can I hold it for 10 more minutes without damage? So whilst ambling to the bathroom I felt it… the sore-stingey-I used a dull razor to shave feeling – intensified by that (prickley 5 o’clock shadow on a man, but really we have no name for it other than ‘time to get waxed!’) feeling of my jammie bottoms sticking to the little pokey hairs above my happy place. I may have been able to handle this without an issue because, lets face it, we get the prickly pear. It happens, whatever. But this was combined with some ‘I spent last night doin some kinky shit but didn’t get the t-shirt’ ache. I was not doing kinky shit and had not shaved… I had a bikini wax.

For those that have never had the house of milk and honey (or the home of jewels) taken down to the parquet… It is not a process that comes without cost, both monetarily and physically. Unless pain is part of your pleasure or your threshold is almost nonexistent you must go into your appointment prepared. As someone who has had this done probably around one hundred times in the past, I had no reservations and was actually rather relaxed. I’d made an appointment with someone new (keep track here) but since it was a highly reputable and well known salon that has been around forever – maybe not, but a long time. I trusted that whoever I saw would be fine. Ah-no. Really, big no. I should have realized that ‘experience’ can just mean age and a desire to pretend one is young by hanging out with the hip crowd.

I was quickly ushered in to the esthetician’s room and told to “get out of [my] britches and there is a towel. I’ll be back.” I should have run. What professional talks like that? Especially one who will be gettin up close and personal with my who-ha and rippin hair out while she’s there. But before my wits kicked in she was back. So I put in my headphones and then promptly took one out because apparently headphones in don’t mean ‘I don’t want to talk’ to everyone. I still left one in to keep my balance and not forget to breathe. Thank you APC, really… more than I can tell you APC may have saved a life.

Things were all well and good, until she pulled the towel off and started inspecting. I’m not sure about y’all but… but that was a first. I was offered no disposables or anything for that matter. Just me layin there half clothed with my socks on like some kind of bad scene out of Striptease only less funny. Thus my ordeal began.

I guess I passed inspection, so let the waxing begin! First strip down, cool. Second, okay. Third, not so bad. For one silly second I thought ‘wow, this is way less painful than I recall’. Silly, silly sars… getting ahead of yourself is never a good idea. Because wait, what’s that? More wax in the same spot, and then again. Um, pardon me but, aren’t you supposed to like take care of that on the first pass? Hell I could use some Nads from Target and rip off hair from the same spot 4 times. You are supposed to be like the dude who cuts the grass at the baseball field… one pass and the shit is perfect. I’m not so sure l’m okay with this. But too late now so forward we go… Oh, you thought that was it, ha!

There I was feeling a bit sore and a tad uncomfortable but I could tell where we were in the process and knew there could not be this kind of torture in the next section. I simply don’t have enough hair to require multiple passes! (If that was tmi, forgive but, gerald f.! you are readin about me gettin my shit waxed…) The next application felt a  little bit, okay who am I kidding, a lotabit different than any of the others and she said, ‘oh, we,re gonna use hard wax for the sensitive area.’
Alright, no worries, then came the hot wax. mmkay. “pardon me that’s a little too hot”.
“I probably just got some off the bottom, it’s the right temp, I checked.”
I’m going to skip the starting to take it off before it was hard (maybe because the shit was too hot and taking a while to cool being its in a warm area of my body… ya think?!?)
The third time I said this I was met with (I shit you not) “its the perfect temperature it just feels hotter because I’m inside you”.

*insert loud sound of tires coming to a screeching halt… Please hold. ‘because I’m inside you’ There is only one person allowed to say the words ‘I’m inside you’ to me. This chic was about a foot to short, minus a cock, and the bulbous fake tits are not what I prefer so it sure as shit wasn’t her.

But I digress, that was really not a big deal. Repeating spots, meh… next she reached for the little scissors. You know like men use for their nose or ear hair when they are some where around 90 and have forgotten there are electric tools and people for that shit. So again I’m not so sure about you, but someone who is up close and personal enough with my vah-j area to use the words inside me without even asking, has muthafukin scissors in her hands, I’m more than worried l’m wondering how to teleport some Xanax out of my bag. She tells me she needs to trim something. Okay, carry on then. She applies more scalding wax of death and I feel a little well smothered, stuck if you will. Yes friends, she has used her death wax to seal me up. The netherlips were sealed. Apparently they had secrets and now they have all been ripped away so you will never know. Wondering if she was just going to perform some sort of vaginoplasty, I was again trying to espn the Xanax when I realized there was a foreign object in the region setting off the alarms and it was making a snipping noise. What. The. Fuck?! over. Is she using the grandpa nose scissors on my vah-j seal? Why yes, yes she is. I thought that alone was going to make me vomit as visions of all sorts of damage flashed before my eyes, distracting me for a split second… just long enough for me not to notice where said snippers were in relation to my anatomy. But I certainly woke the fuck up when those grandpa slippers poked me in my bean. Straight shot to the center of the target and holy hell I was alert and let out enough of a noise for her to stop, but not enough to slip and slice. All I could think was ” please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood.” I was mortified and I think I held my breath the rest of the time I was there.

Prickly hairs, meh. Wax too hot, meh. Re-waxing the same patch-o-snatch four times, meh. Leaving bits of wax and residue, again meh. All these things mean nothing when your beautiful little flower is stung by the scissors of death. After a little time to let the inflammation die down and to consult with two people I know that are esteticians (just no longer in the field) yeah… I called the salon and had a little chatty with the manager. I was nice, I was brief, I did not give the detail I do here, I even left out some stuff. But she was extremely displeased. In fact she was ready to just refund me after ‘still have prickly hairs’ and multiple passes’ and ‘um, its too hot’ but when I touched on the hot button topic, money returned and free services as well. I wasn’t looking for that, I’m not sure I want it, but at least I know they heard and understood.

So sometimes it’s just like that… you go for routine maintenance that turns out to be a page our of Norman Bates torture treasury. However, there is a lesson to be learned from my ordeal that is not: ask before you go to someone new, just because the salon has been around and is reputable does not mean good or if your esthetician looks like she’s fifty-three and had enough procedures to feel she should try to fit in with the hip young kids… run. The lesson is, STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY WHO-HA WITH MUTHAFUCKIN GRANDPA SCISSORS!

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bluffing…

You are overwhelmed, tired, feeling like the walls are closing in and all you want to do is go… go for a drive and have time to think… Listen to music, angry, soft, loud, emotive, piercing, any music to calm the mindPod… but no. Your keys are in your hand. Your tank is full (well, sorta, you never can tell since you tend to run out when the gauge reads in the neighborhood of half tank), you have a little cash for snacks and a plan, or rather non-plan, but that is the plan, but no. None of it matters, you are fucking stuck. You can’t just go. Can’t go to your favorite breakfast place to read a book and people watch. Can’t just drive and sing loudly to the same song over and over because it is what you feel right that moment. Can’t spend the day hiking along the bluffs or go kidnap your best friend to get lunch somewhere he’s never been.You no longer have that option.

Sometimes its just like that…. you sit. With your head in your hands. You sit with your head in your hands because no matter how many reasons you can find to blame someone else, the choice that brought you to this place was yours. You put yourself on this stoop with your keys in your hand next to a vehicle that is completely unsafe to take more than 15 miles without AAA and telling everyone you care for where you’re going and which route you’re taking. You made a poor choice and it was not the first time, its just visible to more people than the rest have been.

Sometimes its just like that… the ripples in your pond- the decisions you’ve made, those choices you have found ways to put band-aids on and share blame with others; or pawn off on them completely, or better yet, decisions you’ve chosen to ignore all together…. those are making the ripples in your pond. They have started to clash into each other and make bigger ripples and even waves at this point. So much so that you can’t ignore the ripples and you can see those fucking waves from your stoop. The truth is reflecting back in a way that is certainly not as pretty as it was from the glassy pond…. but reality, you threw those fucking rocks, help or no, they left your hands before hitting the water. River rocks, giant stones, small pebbles, chunks of concrete, tar from the road… they all came from you and you have to feel the effect. You are responsible for the fact that all water sports have been suspended until further notice.

It’s time to to calm the water and bring it back to a glassy pond. Time to find the bluff that lets you look down at your reflection and forgive yourself because try as hard as you like… you can’t jump in and pull out what you threw in. You can’t undo the past. You can only forgive yourself and realize it will take work to calm the waters, to trust yourself to hold a skipping stone. It will take time to find the calm and face your reflection once more.

Sometimes… its like that… you must climb to the top of the bluff to find forgiveness. It is difficult and steep.  It’s taken a long time to even get here… you’ve stopped a few times (even threw another pebble or two). But you are here now. The top of the bluff is within your reach. When you get there and see your reflection clear from the peace forgiveness brings, bring back the water sports… jump off the bluff on a sunny day, into the glassy water and make a new kind of ripple.

the slope

I don’t think I’m boring, well, maybe I am boring. I never used to think I was boring. Okay I’m not its just one of those days.

Sometimes its like that when you are sitting listening to your friend talk about her life and things… I think I may have fallen off into the abyss of canned pears in heavy syrup boring. I never used to think that. I never used to think I was vanilla but lately when I look in my closet at the 25 long sleeved plain colored layering t-shirts I start to think there is a distinct possibility mensa may skip my house in favor of other applicants (mine were written in sharpie you know, color makes a statement).

So lately I’ve been feelin a little on the short scale of the bell curve. I’m feelin kinda like that kid who’s friends point over there, then swipe his chocolate milk because he looks, over there, every time. And then wonders where the hell he put his chocolate milk.

Today is a blue day. A Vanilla blue day. My real life is full of amazing and creative and brilliant and fearless people. I have been on a mission to slough of those that suck away my own creative energy… and yet still… today.

I feel like I am staring through the window watching the cool kids. I’m wearing my cute clothes that make me have a girl shape and I am here, staring… watching through the window hoping that instead of just wandering out on occasion to say hi or chat or get away from the annoying bitch they came with and laugh with me for a minute, they’ll want me to come in… and hang out, sit at their table. Maybe some of whatever it is they have will spill onto my plate and it will make me feel less small. Maybe I won’t feel so weak and vanilla. Maybe I will remember how it used to be to be pink. Yesterday. And then I can get out of this bed and pick up that magazine from the New York Times Sunday Paper that keeps taunting me, and I can remember…

 

WoW: FuckSox Friday on Wednesday

A Blank page is staring at me. It’s been this way for a week and it’s unnerving. There’s this unseen pressure about where to start and what to fill it with. So I go read other peoples pages… oops, not the best idea really… now there is a further desire to be funny or profound or informative or shit just funny… But I have a story and FuckSox Friday needs to have some stuff in it stockings. I have some crazy shit to share, shit that makes the track of my bipolar express, and this may be the push I need to do it. So I will attempt to make the page not blank. As always keep your rose colored glasses handy.

Becca had this lovely flow, this prose-esk way of writing her Familial Friday and starting with “I remember…” I love that. It took me with her back to her space, along with her to her memory. I don’t have anything quite so lovely, but I have something familiar. Sorry it’s not short, but then, we were told word count wasn’t the goal (yay for you!)

Write on Wednesday: Make it Better…

A FuckSox Friday piece on a Wednesday.

Sometimes it’s just like that… you’re almost 12 and your Mom is doing her best to embarrass you with her dead on Billy Martin impression. She’s screaming at the ump at home plate because the opposing catcher kicked you with her shin-guards in a futile attempt to keep you from scoring the winning run for your team. Little did miss catcher girl know that your 6′ tall mother, who was managing your team, would have no problem charging the field, picking you up and sitting your blubbering ass on the plate, before screaming at the ump with her thick and getting thicker Boston accent (this is California – they think you are making sexual advances when you just want to eat your lunch) about how little miss shin splints should be banned for life for unnecessary roughness. (um I think that’s a different sport ma, but thank you for playing) At this point you have gone into full asthmatic meltdown and the fact that you can’t breathe is barely enough to cover your shame ad embarrassment. Your mom is ejected from the field, your dad has no idea how to handle any of it and you are really thankful that someone’s mom knows that you put ice on a shin to keep it from swelling and had enough sense to find your inhaler.

This was pretty much the end of my oh-so-illustrious softball career. The point where I became known as “that lady’s daughter” or “hey, isn’t your mom the one that…” and my favorite… “dude, you got totally boned at home plate and your mom is a badass!” I admit I was not the greatest athlete, but I enjoyed the game. Over time when playing here and there, I even learned to deal with my nicknames having to be printed in a mini-font and taking the entire back of my jersey… I learned to embrace being her daughter.

As I’ve grown older I learned that Billy Martin Ma wasn’t reserved for the softball field. She is a protective bitch (probably the only time you will hear or see bitch and my mom in the same sentence and it is a respect thing). In fact being protective is a trait she passed down to me, kinda like being ‘her daughter’ would follow me always. Just like looking back on the incident that day, being her daughter isn’t a bad thing. It is a major part of what has shaped me. I don’t sit on the bench and watch those I love get kicked in the shins by some stupid bitch in plastic guards. I don’t give a shit if I get kicked out for saying what I think is right even if my voice is sometimes at the wrong tone. And even though I may not be in the best place with her at that moment, I am never ashamed to be introduced as her daughter. Because sometimes it’s just like that… you get totally boned by life one way or another only to realize your mom is still a badass.

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 18 – Look through your previous WoW posts (or select a short writing piece that you would like to work on). Read through your piece carefully and let’s attempt to make it better. Look for redundant words, clichés or overused phrases. Chop and change. This is not an exercise in word count; it’s not about simply whittling it down. Make it a better piece of writing. Post your original and edited piece. THEN, throw it to the*wolves. Ask for advice from WoWers. With  help you can make your writing shine. **

Original:

A Blank page is staring at me.

 

It’s been this way for a week and it’s unnerving. There’s this unseen pressure about where to start and what to fill it with. So I go read other peoples pages… oops, not the best idea really… now there is this pressure to be funny or profound or informative… But I told Becca last week on her post I wanted to steal Familial Friday. (Probably because if I called it FuckSox Friday no one would know what it was about… or think it about something else entirely! Maybe I don’t care and FuckSox Friday it shall be.) I have some crazy shit to share, beyond my normal bi-polar express, and this may be the push I need to do it. So I will attempt to make the page not blank. As always keep your rose colored glasses handy.

 

Sometimes it’s just like that… You’re goin on 12, and your Mom is doing her best Billy Martin impression with the ump at home plate because the opposing catcher kicked you with her shin-guards in a futile attempt to keep you from scoring (what would ultimately be) the winning run for your team. Little did she know that your 6′ tall mother, who was managing your team, would have no problem charging the field, picking you up, sitting your blubbering ass on the plate before screaming at the ump with her thick and getting thicker Boston accent (this is California – they think you are making sexual advances when you just want to eat your lunch) about little miss shin splints should be banned for life for unnecessary roughness. (um I think that’s a different sport, but thank you for playing) At this point you have gone into full asthmatic mode and can’t breathe, your mom is ejected from the field, your dad has no idea how to handle any of it and you are just thankful that someone’s mom knows that you put ice on a shin to keep it from swelling and found your inhaler.

This was close to the end of my oh-so-illustrious softball career. The point where I became known as “that lady’s daughter” or “hey, isn’t your mom the one that…” and my favorite… “dude, you got totally boned at home plate and your mom is a badass!” I admit I am not the greatest athlete, but I enjoyed the game. I even learned to deal with my nicknames having to be printed in a mini-font and taking the entire back of my jersey… I learned to embrace being her daughter.

As I grew older I learned that she was protective and that was a trait she passed down and that being her daughter would follow me always. In my adult life (oh yes, 20+ years later) I learned to get used to being introduced as “her daughter … Oh I just love your mom” or “Have you met sars? no? Oh, she’s her daughter. OH!”

Write On Wednesday

 

correspondence or some shit

bro,

You are fucking awesome. Here is a list (in bullet form as I am a nerd) to aid in making my point:

*You are a feminist whereas I am not, I say open my door damnit! But you give me hope that it is not a bad thing to be a feminist and are the only person I can say that about.

*You love unconditionally. It hurts to do that, but you persevere and are a stronger man for it.

*You are a good human. You don’t have to take my word for this, ask others or I can provide letters of reference.

*You follow what you believe and stick to your ideals even when it isn’t easy and makes doing something good really difficult.

*You can punk me out but it doesn’t feel like punking, well most of the time.

*You are intelligent, funny, kind hearted and cute, also very colorful, both literally and figuratively

*oh, yeah… you ran 13.1 miles on a fractured foot to give money to a child with blood cancer pretty sure you should get a medal for that – oh wait.

I don’t need to say more but I can elaborate, for pages.

less than three,
sars

*****

Dear job,

Nevermind. My filter is still working.

grumble.

sars

*****

Dear filter,

Please uninstall yourself so I can get some shit out. I have some anxiety happening up in this bitch and it needs to stop. like now! If you would kindly allow me to remove the gorilla glue so I can just utilize at my leisure I would appreciate it.

now!! kindly,
sars

*****

Dear Matrix,
*not the car

Why can’t I look like the hot chick the ended up breaking her leg performing her own stunts? Without breaking my leg of course. I’m not fat. So maybe I just need to be more bendy. That would be helpful. Is there a red and/or blue pill for that? Please advise.

yours binarily,
sars

*****

dear old ass dude on a bass-ackwards (I hate that phrase too, but really, it applies) tri cycle,
**also wanna-be skater kid, coffee shop hipster and stroller pushing crack mom…

There are rules of the road for a reason, namely your safety. I like to think of myself as a patient person who is understanding. Occasionally you have to endround a rule to keep from becoming a smudge on the pavement, but that is on occasion. Riding or pushing as it were, down or in a one-way street, the wrong way, is not okay and not safe really – especially if say you have a child in a stroller. Rolling out of a driveway, THE WRONG WAY, also not okay. These are ways to insure sudden smooshing under the wheels of my tank car.

And to you specifically old ass dude… I realize you are from an era when dinosaurs took up the entire field and you had to club them with a log to get where you were going and thus you feel some sense of entitlement to take the entire lane… at lunchtime… in the downtown area… going 3(ish) miles per hour, backing up cars for two blocks. But hear me now old dude… You are not entitled to this privilege. Bring a dino and maybe. Hug the cars on the side giving room for my large, but not canyonarrow sized, vehicle to go by you kindly and I will not feel the need to have my passenger door check you or honk unexpectedly as I pass your ear. We can have a peaceful coexistance. Much like you and the brontosaurus once had.

namaste,
sars

*****

you put up with my blithering… here is a treat.

The Black Keys: Howlin for You

[youtube]http://youtu.be/TLSpj7q6_mM[/youtube]

bithday bs!!!

Dear Weather Control Peeps!
I will fire your asses if you do not change the forecast right now….. I expect sun and poolside cocktails for my birthday. If you want to rain, do it now, don’t wait until Saturday. I do not have a plan b. It is MY day, I should not have to. If you do not comply, you will not only feel my regular wrath but my i-am-getting-older-and-thus-frustrated & crotchety-and-don’t-need-a-good-reason violent side as well.

Thank you very kindly in advance for your prompt attention to this matter as I would like to be very mellow and most importantly war on my birthday.

 <3 sars

unstuck

Being in the middle is hard sometimes. You aren’t the good one and you aren’t the bad one just the one who usually fucks up, even if you didn’t. Sometimes you aren’t the middle one at all you just ended up there by default because the oldest and youngest got flipped around by an error in the programmer’s code, but no one notices because they can’t read html. Regardless of how you got there, its the middle and you are no longer the apple of daddy’s eye or mommy’s best girl. You just are. Whatever fuck up comes along that you get yourself into, fall into or happen to be passing by as it hits the fan and lands on you may go un-noticed by everyone but you.None the less, there it is, noticed. Being in the middle is hard sometimes. It means that you have to hold up both ends of the weight and burn both ends of the candle to figure out which way you are supposed to face.

Then sometimes, it means dropping both sticks and blowing out the candles ends in favor of walking forward in the dark, listening to the sound of your breath, remembering that you don’t have to be stuck in the middle you just have to be you. Sometimes you can just close your eyes and sway gently to the dreamers song that is your memory of you, who you are and see that light that still exists where you thought it was dark. Being in the middle is hard sometimes because you forget that it isn’t a role… its a place. its a place you can leave if you choose and become the top and bottom… just yourself.

what tube?

I guess I tube.. or youtube.

I got asked to read something I wrote  for those of you that have been reading a long time, now you will know, I am that crazy in real life. It is not just for show in print, er digi-print. If you’ve been reading long enough you will have read these for yourself and will now get my little voice stuck in your head as you read from now on…. HA!!! I plague you. :)

So here is the link if you wish to watch my theatrical (sorta)/reading/sharing in public debut, though don’t kid yourself, it was not my first time on stage. Though I have learned concretely, I don’t like being in front. I prefer the side, preferably by the bar or behind the guitar player. Yeah…. or at the bar behind the guitar player with the drummer. Perfect!!!

Observations of a Musical Inclination

Thanks No Shame Theatre.

sometimes it takes a while

I know I have been radio silent… to a degree I’m sorry, but kinda not. I did promise “something nicer next time” and maybe I set myself up for trouble by doing that. I’ve been working on writing new stuff, but have been having a rough go finding words. I will have something to post soon, but have a feeling it won’t be what is expected. I seem to be spending too much time trying to provide something witty or with some underlying nugget of wisdom – trying to fit some mold of what I think others want. I didn’t start out writing for anyone but me. Writing was a catharsis, a means to release my feelings. And unbeknown to me when I started, was an extremely useful therapeutic tool.  I miss the freedom I felt when I started writing almost 8 years ago. I miss being fulfilled by even posting something so simple as:

hot tamale
mood: full
It has been a while since I’ve written anything, but what better to pull me out of my writing slump than food. The tamale lady came to my office today. The beautiful amazing tamale lady. Why is she beautiful and amazing??? She had chili-cheese tamales and she doesn’t use lard. Oh Happy Day!!!!!! I am sitting here at my desk enjoying the bounty of her labor, toasting the beauty that is the Mexican culture and it’s fine cuisine. My mouth is on fire and yet I still smile. oh yes it will be a good day.

Listening to:Roots
The Israelites /2004
That I posted in December ’06.

Or in November ’05 when All I wrote was
I need more cowbell…

It was easy to just be free. Of course I didn’t post status updates of Facebook and there was no Twitter so my writing was it. I will figure out what to do to change whatever it is that I need to, in order to find fulfillment in my writing again. Maybe I have already answered my own questions.

Until then I wanted to share a about a woman who no one really knew about. She was discovered by accident after she died. Who knew what could have been different for her, maybe she would have flourished (though I doubt her work could have been better) or maybe it would have stunted her creativity. I hope she was happy and fulfilled by taking photographs in her day-today life.

Vivian Maier

I hope today you have a moment for you that leaves you fulfilled. I just did. with love & solidarity ~sars

I promise some nice stuff next time

Hey you, the one over there taking up space on the eliptical machine… Get off the fucking phone! This is the gym! Great Gus people REALLY? If your iPhone doubles as your iPod then so be it… but don’t answer the fucking thing while you are working out. How can you actually workout while gabbing away about what the kids had for lunch and what time they have to be at soccer practice. Can’t it wait for you to work out for 30 minutes and burn off some of the chub you have built up because you aren’t actually working out, you’re talking on the phone.

Now you, girl talking in text speak. Do you realize that you sound like an uneducated idiot? You are somewhere in your early 20’s (you’re in a bar, lets hope this to be true) and you can’t go three sentences without a text abbreviation for something, and you can’t go three words without saying like. WTF? STFU. Use all that money daddy just spent for good, not evil. PYHO and use some of that education to find a job somewhere. And OMG! the 80’s were the decade before you were born, not the one we’re in… send your cloths back from whence they came.

Next, little table o’ frat boys at my favorite writing spot. I don’t care if it’s Sunday Funday or Monday night Football or what-the-fuck-ever…. The servers here are awesome. Have you noticed there are only two? For the whole place (yes back room included)? So when you flag one of them down, Hey, hey, HEY!!! and then your drunk ass buddy sits there, uh, uh, uh and doesn’t know what he wants… I want to hit you, more importantly she wants to hit you (or him) because you are making it look like she sucks to all the other people waiting for their beers because your dumb ass had performance anxiety. Take notice of your surroundings man. Next time I may just call her over – hey, hey! and order a can of whoop ass for your table. She’ll probably do it too (she likes those big ass rings).

Drunk guy who happens to be sitting next to me at the pub… Thank you kindly for cutting me off and telling my awesome bartender (that I love and take good care of) that you’ve got my drink. Very sweet. The quarter you left as a tip…. NOT fucking sweet. Learn how to tip man. This is a bar, know your etiquette, tip accordingly. better yet, if you want to impress a lady… try not being a tard.

I will let this be all for now. because I could go on and on and on….. I have nice stuff, fun stuff, rainbows and kittens and heartwarming shit that makes me almost throw p in my mouth. But this had to come out first. sorry?

(in the vain of the old myspace blogs) Currently Listening to: Andrew Jackson Jihad;
Candy, Cigarettes & Cap Guns

From Blogger Pictures