Dear Cousin,
For years I've lived with the guilt of my misdoing. I realize we were young, but there is no excuse for my behavior on that dreadful day, so many years ago.
Mom and dad took their annual excursion to Mexico but decided to leave me in your parents care. Perhaps I was angry for being left behind and not included in the two day trek. Maybe I was concerned that they would forget to bring my supply of cajeta and I'd have to resort to munching on wood chips with caramel to feed my addiction. I honestly do not recall what triggered my ill temper, however, I do know an apology is long overdue.
I'm certain you recall the day; we woke early and quickly drank down our ponche, followed by a soft boiled egg. We played in your bedroom for a while; Barbies, I'm sure. We laid on the floor and drew, or rather you drew while I watched your skillful hand fill request after request for yet another of your sketches which I later took to school to show off.
Before we knew it, it was lunch time. Sandwiches were on the menu that day, followed by scrumptious homemade greasy donuts. Thinking back, I don't doubt the effect those donuts must have had on me. Being the glutton I was...okay, still am....I recall eating more than my share until Auntie cut me off putting the donuts beyond my reach and sent us outside to play.
We hit the backyard with purpose; both headed for the tricycle without regard for who might go down in the process. One trike, two bodies, someone was gonna cry. I still blame the effect of the donuts for slowing me down, doesn't matter now but....you won. The tricycle was yours; for the time being anyway.
I tried to entertain myself by running around after you as you skillfully took every turn in that 12 x 12 foot patio. A speedway it wasn't but man you could maneuver that trike, Mario Andretti had nothing on you. I'd forgotten how long it had been since my last visit but it was obvious you'd been practicing.
Initially my chasing you around was fun enough but after about the 10th round, it was starting to get old...I wanted my turn and I wanted it now. You refused. I whinningly expressed my frustration and concern that you had had a fair amount of time but you just weren't ready to give up the trike. I pleaded, begged and attempted sweet offers but you weren't biting. Finally, I lost it. I called you something I'd regret for the rest of my life; "Stupid". Even I had a hard time believing I'd said it, but I had "Stupid, stupid, stupid!". I still recall the look that washed over your face. I went from being your loving cousin to pond scum within seconds. Crusty old gum at the bottom of a chair had more worth than I at that very moment. I can hear your voice as you called out to me repeatedly to stop. It was too late, I'd gone too far, I'd lost respect not only for you, dear God, but for myself. My voice rang out again "Stooo-ooo-ooo-pid!". I was out of control but the pain I was causing you gave me a sense of power until....I turned...there...in the doorway stood, your mom, my auntie, listening in disbelief. I didn't know which way to turn. Not only had I used foul, filthy, disgusting language, I'd been caught.
Regret immediately swallowed me up followed by shame for having used such language. When had the "S" word had crept into my vocabulary? How could I have stooped so low, I'll never know. I tried playing the victim to your mom but she wasn't buying. I, crusty old gum that I was, angered your mom so much I doubt she was ever the same. I know she limited my donut intake from that day forward. Could I blame her?
Now, so many years later, I find it necessary to free myself of the guilt by asking your forgiveness. I'm not sure that I'm deserving, but it's a chance I have to take. I know the distance has made it impossible for us to share as much as we'd like but just so you know I've tattooed a tear drop below my right eye in your honor.
Just as dry, crusty gum cannot bubble, until I hear you have forgiven me I will find no joy. I apologize from the depths of my heart.
Unable to bubble in L.A.,
Elizabeth well....Marie Elizabeth...Leonard well...Marie Elizabeth Boza
Friday, November 20, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Not long ago a friend and I got on the topic of the how and when we "became young ladies". Funny how for us woman this is something we have no problem sharing with friends. Funnier yet might be how, when and where it did happened. So, since it crossed my mind, and only God knows why, I may as well tell you my experience.
In the Summer of 1967 and at the ripe young age of 12, I became a "young lady". Seconds before that, according to my mother, I was just a young girl. I'd attended the 6th grade assembly at my elementary, only because mom had signed a paper in agreement. Heck! you don't think she wanted to explain the birds and the bees to me, do you?
From my recollection there were both girls and boys in the cafeteria that day and oh, how embarrassing it was. I don't recall a whole lot except that when the lights went down there were giggles and snickering from both genders. We sat and watched a little film with little drawings because we were little kids on our way to becoming young ladies and gentlemen. Afterward, we walked out making every effort not to look each other in the eye which was not too difficult considering we walked back to class in single file.
As Summer rolled right up to my doorstep, so did my first period. I recall entering the bathroom a child, yet, the hush in my mother's voice explained what had happened and with what I needed to do, I realized I was now a young lady.
Mom was always quiet and shy and this day proved to be no different. When I called, she walked into the hallway and up to the bathroom. I told her of my findings as quietly as humanly possible; she nearly fainted. I wasn't afraid in the least bit for what was happening to me but mom on the other hand, must have been sitting in fear since the day she signed that dreadful note sent home suggesting I see the "little film". I watched her as she walked to her room holding on to the wall so as not to fall. When she returned she came prepared with the necessary supplies and either she took the time to apply the whitest foundation I've ever seen or the woman was near to passing out. She was shaking so much she had a difficult time showing me how to wear that awful belt we wore in those days so she left me in the bathroom to tend to the awful deed of figuring it out on my own. I opened the bathroom door slowly and looked both ways down the hall. Once sure there was no one around, I made a bee line to my room and stayed in there until the next morning.
As the days went by and the reality of womanhood set in I realized why everything was said in hush hush tones. This was merely a quick training in how you must express yourself when you felt as if the A train itself was passing through your ovaries. We mustn't scream. We mustn't let anyone know we're no longer naive little girls, we're "young ladies" and young ladies go through cramps and mood swings and cravings and break outs and pure hell. Sometimes we want to kill someone just because they look at us, but it's ok, it's part of being a young lady. So, I came to terms with what life had dealt me, knowing soon enough all the other girls in my neighborhood would become equally insane during their time of month too.
I remember wanting to lock myself in the house some days and it was during one of those that mom asked me to take the trash out. Hesitantly I loaded up the bags and headed for the back gate. My biggest fear was that I might run into one of my neighbor girlfriends and of course they'd know with one look that I was no longer a child.
Sure enough, I open the back gate to the alley where my best friend Sheron, who could smell me out across miles of desert, comes running over to ask me to go swimming. Our conversation went something like this:
Sheron: Hey whatcha doin'?
Marie: Taking out the trash
Sheron: Wanna come over and go swimming
Marie: My mom won't let me
Sheron: Why not?
Marie: She just won't
Sheron: But Why?
Marie: Because
Sheron: Ask her
Marie: She won't let me
Sheron: I'll ask her
Marie: No
Sheron: Why?
Marie: Because she wont' let me
Sheron: What if I help you do chores
Marie: She won't let me
And on and on it went. Sheron was a determined child. I, wasn't smart enough to say "I don't want to, now leave me alone". But, even if I had, Sheron did not like losing. She was an only child and used to getting her way.
Of course, I was dying to go swimming but 1.) My mom had told me you can't swim when you're on your period and 2.) I didn't have the guts to tell Sheron I'd started my period. I didn't want anyone to know. It was possibly the most embarrassing thing that had every happened to me and telling Sheron was like telling everyone. Besides wasn't it obvious enough? Couldn't she just tell by looking at me? I was a young lady now; not a child.
I remember my mom asking me to go with her to the store one day. We drive into the Thrifty parking lot and she says "here's some money, go in and buy some Kotex". WHAT!? I felt like she was asking me to kill the president right then and there. My jaw dropped and I cried "Mom, I can't". She said "yes you can, what's so hard about that?" I was thinking I'm too young, I have no experience at this, people will be staring at me, they'll know! I fought and fought to not have to go into the store that day but she was convinced it was time for me to learn. OMG! From the time I walked in until I got back in the car, it felt as if I was under a spotlight. All eyes were on me buying feminine products. They knew! Everyone knew and I'm sure they went home and talked about it at the dinner table. What was my mother trying to do to me?
Eventually I told Sheron and she was understandable mad at me for not telling her that day. She was actually envious of me....poor girl, what did she know. At that age we were in such a hurry to grow up and Sheron couldn't wait for her turn. I wonder....does she feel the same way now?
In the Summer of 1967 and at the ripe young age of 12, I became a "young lady". Seconds before that, according to my mother, I was just a young girl. I'd attended the 6th grade assembly at my elementary, only because mom had signed a paper in agreement. Heck! you don't think she wanted to explain the birds and the bees to me, do you?
From my recollection there were both girls and boys in the cafeteria that day and oh, how embarrassing it was. I don't recall a whole lot except that when the lights went down there were giggles and snickering from both genders. We sat and watched a little film with little drawings because we were little kids on our way to becoming young ladies and gentlemen. Afterward, we walked out making every effort not to look each other in the eye which was not too difficult considering we walked back to class in single file.
As Summer rolled right up to my doorstep, so did my first period. I recall entering the bathroom a child, yet, the hush in my mother's voice explained what had happened and with what I needed to do, I realized I was now a young lady.
Mom was always quiet and shy and this day proved to be no different. When I called, she walked into the hallway and up to the bathroom. I told her of my findings as quietly as humanly possible; she nearly fainted. I wasn't afraid in the least bit for what was happening to me but mom on the other hand, must have been sitting in fear since the day she signed that dreadful note sent home suggesting I see the "little film". I watched her as she walked to her room holding on to the wall so as not to fall. When she returned she came prepared with the necessary supplies and either she took the time to apply the whitest foundation I've ever seen or the woman was near to passing out. She was shaking so much she had a difficult time showing me how to wear that awful belt we wore in those days so she left me in the bathroom to tend to the awful deed of figuring it out on my own. I opened the bathroom door slowly and looked both ways down the hall. Once sure there was no one around, I made a bee line to my room and stayed in there until the next morning.
As the days went by and the reality of womanhood set in I realized why everything was said in hush hush tones. This was merely a quick training in how you must express yourself when you felt as if the A train itself was passing through your ovaries. We mustn't scream. We mustn't let anyone know we're no longer naive little girls, we're "young ladies" and young ladies go through cramps and mood swings and cravings and break outs and pure hell. Sometimes we want to kill someone just because they look at us, but it's ok, it's part of being a young lady. So, I came to terms with what life had dealt me, knowing soon enough all the other girls in my neighborhood would become equally insane during their time of month too.
I remember wanting to lock myself in the house some days and it was during one of those that mom asked me to take the trash out. Hesitantly I loaded up the bags and headed for the back gate. My biggest fear was that I might run into one of my neighbor girlfriends and of course they'd know with one look that I was no longer a child.
Sure enough, I open the back gate to the alley where my best friend Sheron, who could smell me out across miles of desert, comes running over to ask me to go swimming. Our conversation went something like this:
Sheron: Hey whatcha doin'?
Marie: Taking out the trash
Sheron: Wanna come over and go swimming
Marie: My mom won't let me
Sheron: Why not?
Marie: She just won't
Sheron: But Why?
Marie: Because
Sheron: Ask her
Marie: She won't let me
Sheron: I'll ask her
Marie: No
Sheron: Why?
Marie: Because she wont' let me
Sheron: What if I help you do chores
Marie: She won't let me
And on and on it went. Sheron was a determined child. I, wasn't smart enough to say "I don't want to, now leave me alone". But, even if I had, Sheron did not like losing. She was an only child and used to getting her way.
Of course, I was dying to go swimming but 1.) My mom had told me you can't swim when you're on your period and 2.) I didn't have the guts to tell Sheron I'd started my period. I didn't want anyone to know. It was possibly the most embarrassing thing that had every happened to me and telling Sheron was like telling everyone. Besides wasn't it obvious enough? Couldn't she just tell by looking at me? I was a young lady now; not a child.
I remember my mom asking me to go with her to the store one day. We drive into the Thrifty parking lot and she says "here's some money, go in and buy some Kotex". WHAT!? I felt like she was asking me to kill the president right then and there. My jaw dropped and I cried "Mom, I can't". She said "yes you can, what's so hard about that?" I was thinking I'm too young, I have no experience at this, people will be staring at me, they'll know! I fought and fought to not have to go into the store that day but she was convinced it was time for me to learn. OMG! From the time I walked in until I got back in the car, it felt as if I was under a spotlight. All eyes were on me buying feminine products. They knew! Everyone knew and I'm sure they went home and talked about it at the dinner table. What was my mother trying to do to me?
Eventually I told Sheron and she was understandable mad at me for not telling her that day. She was actually envious of me....poor girl, what did she know. At that age we were in such a hurry to grow up and Sheron couldn't wait for her turn. I wonder....does she feel the same way now?
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Nicknames
Nicknames. They're a strange thing, arent' they. Take mine for instance; Bedgie. Not one I would ask for but there it is, Bedgie. You may or may not care to know how it came about so if you care, read on. If not, catch ya on the fly.
So I'm, what, maybe 8, 9 years old. My oldest brother, Rusty, little sister Michele and I are in my mom and dad's room. She's on the bed and brother is trying to teach her to say my name. Agh....that's another story because....deep breath....how to shorten it. Ok, just read fast...my middle name is Elizabeth (Marie Elizabeth, very regal, I know) first name Marie. Dad wanted to name me Elizabeth and mom won out, naming me after my grandmother....argh....well, kind of; Marie is not exactly Maria de Los Angeles, thank you Jesus, but I'm trying to get to my point here.
So Michele is on the bed with Rusty and he says "say Elizabeth", come on bro, she can hardly say "mama", so she says "Bedgie". Can you blame her? She's on the spot. She's being asked to perform in front of a crowd of one. She panics and out comes Bedgie. Of course I laughed, are you nuts? I was young too. Insensitive to how much damage I could do to a mere toddler. I laughed, he laughed....I thought we were over it and moving on but NOoooo. Rusty insists on calling me Bedgie. Did he consider the life long effect it would have on my very being? Did he consider we'd have to come up with the proper spelling? Did he consider giving my sister a second chance at the pronounciation and the possibility of her blurbing out something a little cuter? Of course not. Why would he do that when Bedgie sounds utterly rediculous. Way to go brother!
Aaaaah, how could I have overlooked that he has a nickname as well. His name is not Rusty. It's Daniel A. Leonard V. Apparently our parents thought we'd be royalty some day and gave us names that would be acceptable within the court. My brother being a red head, blue eyed, first born and suspect to being the Helms man's son (OK, dont' take that anywhere, it's a family joke) gets a nickname that's a little more acceptable. Rusty. I'm sure he's not the first Rusty you've head of.
My brother Greg, royalty as well, is Gregory James Leonard. And consolation prize, as my dad called her, Michele Camille Leonard. I'm not sure it's got a royal ring but it does sound upper middle class at the very least. These two for some odd reason are left to short cut nicknames only. Gregory being Greg, like who wouldn't figure that out and Michele being Shell. I wonder if they didn't feel cheated and maybe we should think something more engaging up for them. After all, when people hear my name for the first time, it's always followed by conversation.
I suppose I just wanted to bring to your attention the fact that I enjoy nicknames. I saw a picture of a friend of mine recently and his.....dare I say it? His....nipple was showing. Nothing meant to be portrayed as risqué, but there it was...his nipple. I suggested we nickname him Nipples but got no response. Why? What's wrong with Nipples as a nickname. People just don't take me serious.
My husband Juan Carlos Boza is called a number of things. Some I can actually print are Juanca, JC or Juanchin. It's obvious to me by our names, he and I were meant for bigger things. And we're still waiting, mind you.
My friend Bunny. Her's is not totally unusal either, except for the fact that it was originally Bumpy because she bumped into everything as a child. How and when it changed to Bunny, I don't recall but I've known her since kindergarten and she's always been Bunny to me.
My friend Marsha. We call her Marsh.....that came out of pure laziness. Adding the "a" to the end of Marsh was just too much to ask.
I'm sure we all know someone with a nick name. Are there any as rediculous as mine? Just a one?
So I'm, what, maybe 8, 9 years old. My oldest brother, Rusty, little sister Michele and I are in my mom and dad's room. She's on the bed and brother is trying to teach her to say my name. Agh....that's another story because....deep breath....how to shorten it. Ok, just read fast...my middle name is Elizabeth (Marie Elizabeth, very regal, I know) first name Marie. Dad wanted to name me Elizabeth and mom won out, naming me after my grandmother....argh....well, kind of; Marie is not exactly Maria de Los Angeles, thank you Jesus, but I'm trying to get to my point here.
So Michele is on the bed with Rusty and he says "say Elizabeth", come on bro, she can hardly say "mama", so she says "Bedgie". Can you blame her? She's on the spot. She's being asked to perform in front of a crowd of one. She panics and out comes Bedgie. Of course I laughed, are you nuts? I was young too. Insensitive to how much damage I could do to a mere toddler. I laughed, he laughed....I thought we were over it and moving on but NOoooo. Rusty insists on calling me Bedgie. Did he consider the life long effect it would have on my very being? Did he consider we'd have to come up with the proper spelling? Did he consider giving my sister a second chance at the pronounciation and the possibility of her blurbing out something a little cuter? Of course not. Why would he do that when Bedgie sounds utterly rediculous. Way to go brother!
Aaaaah, how could I have overlooked that he has a nickname as well. His name is not Rusty. It's Daniel A. Leonard V. Apparently our parents thought we'd be royalty some day and gave us names that would be acceptable within the court. My brother being a red head, blue eyed, first born and suspect to being the Helms man's son (OK, dont' take that anywhere, it's a family joke) gets a nickname that's a little more acceptable. Rusty. I'm sure he's not the first Rusty you've head of.
My brother Greg, royalty as well, is Gregory James Leonard. And consolation prize, as my dad called her, Michele Camille Leonard. I'm not sure it's got a royal ring but it does sound upper middle class at the very least. These two for some odd reason are left to short cut nicknames only. Gregory being Greg, like who wouldn't figure that out and Michele being Shell. I wonder if they didn't feel cheated and maybe we should think something more engaging up for them. After all, when people hear my name for the first time, it's always followed by conversation.
I suppose I just wanted to bring to your attention the fact that I enjoy nicknames. I saw a picture of a friend of mine recently and his.....dare I say it? His....nipple was showing. Nothing meant to be portrayed as risqué, but there it was...his nipple. I suggested we nickname him Nipples but got no response. Why? What's wrong with Nipples as a nickname. People just don't take me serious.
My husband Juan Carlos Boza is called a number of things. Some I can actually print are Juanca, JC or Juanchin. It's obvious to me by our names, he and I were meant for bigger things. And we're still waiting, mind you.
My friend Bunny. Her's is not totally unusal either, except for the fact that it was originally Bumpy because she bumped into everything as a child. How and when it changed to Bunny, I don't recall but I've known her since kindergarten and she's always been Bunny to me.
My friend Marsha. We call her Marsh.....that came out of pure laziness. Adding the "a" to the end of Marsh was just too much to ask.
I'm sure we all know someone with a nick name. Are there any as rediculous as mine? Just a one?
Kreativ Blogger Award
My good friend Bunny from I'm Just Say'n passed this award on to me.Thanks Bun, for thinking enough of me to do so and Congratulations on being a recipient!
I've been blogging for just a short time now and find that it allows me an opportunity to express myself and share with others just what I'm feeling; good or otherwise. Of course you never know who'll be reading what you write. Some will agree, others disagree with what you have to say and that's all part of the fun.
The other part is that there truly is an amazing amount of creatively interesting people in this world. So to those of you if fit into that category, my hat is off to you for allowing yourself to be vulnerable to the rest of the world. Continue to use your talent in which ever way you see fit whether it be designing, storytelling, encouraging, writing, performing or blogging, for in the words of William Shakespeare:
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts...
One of our parts seems to be that of the blogger, no?
As a recipient of this gracious award I am required to follow certain steps in order to keep hold and not have my award withdrawn. Darn, nothing in this life is free! But, in this case, I find it a joy to be able to share my friends and their talents with you so here are the rules. Read carefully for if you received an award from me, you too will need to follow through.
1. Thank the person who gave this to you
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog
3. Link back to the person who nominated you
4. Name 7 things about yourself that no one would really know....
5. Nominate seven 'Kreativ Bloggers'
6. Post links to the seven blogs you nominate
7. Leave a comment on each blog letting them know you nominated them...
Seven Things about myself no one really knows..................
1. I'm afraid I've lost my ability to sing. Since having laryngitis earlier this year, I feel like I never recovered completely.
2. I had two surgeries in one week. One planned, the other a total surprise.
3. I'm totally, absurdly allergic to calcium in any form. Yes, really.
3. I'm totally, absurdly allergic to calcium in any form. Yes, really.
4. I always wanted four children and even though I have four, only one is my natural child. God does answer prayers even if it isn't in the way we expect!
5. I miss acting and dancing something terrible (like all the time). I'm sad that, for the most part, my time has passed.
6. My first car was a Volkswagen bug. Because it's so small, I was always afraid I would get in an accident and break my legs, leaving me unable to dance.
7. I often dream of moving to Spain. I think I'm just not over Flamenco and wish I could still be dancing. Hey! I can dream.
1. Debbie @ from Venting to Viggo
2. Norma @ Blogeritaville
3. Anita @ Castles, Crowns and Cottages
4. Jamie @ Songs of the Closet
5. Leslie @ Life, Love and the Random Things In Between
6. Ruben @ Rattus Scribus
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Deep down inside, we're still the same

Earlier this year I started a group on Facebook called "Rio Hondo College 1976 - 1982 Theater Group". If you're not familiar with FB (as all the cool people call it), it's a connecting site. Lots of fun but if you don't watch it, time consuming.
My reason for starting the page was to reconnect with some wonderful people I met years ago while learning the art of acting. Rehearsals leading up to performance take a great amount of time so whilst your sitting around waiting for your turn on stage, you really get to know the other actors.
The first few months, after starting the page, were a little disapointing. I invited friends but only had three become members. Three. Not four, not even five; 3. As happy I was to have those three on board...muah, muah, I love all three of you....(just in case they're reading), I was hoping for so much more. So much for connecting.
Finally I asked the 3 members to invite anyone they'd kept in touch with, since I alone was not able to get results. Either they lied to me about having invited others or the four of us were much less popular than I'd imagined possible. I wondered, have I been reminiscing about my past and making the whole thing up in my mind or did it actually happen. Am I as immature as my daughter says I am and no real adults really join this FB thing; can't be half my church is on there. Okay, maybe my entire church is made up of immature adults. What's going on that we cant' attract any new members?
Then one day I get an invitation (on Facebook) to join a small gathering to see a friend (also on Facebook) who's visiting from out of state and would like me to be in attendance. Yippie! Of course I go and there at that little gathering, a dear friend sits claiming he doesn't have time to join FB or anything of the like. Aha! Bet me! Some how I talk him into checking it out, send him an invitation to be a "friend" and after much deliberation, he joins.
Well, long story short, to date we have 25 members. Now that isn't a huge number but considering we had a sloooooow start, I'm excited. I'm thrilled. I bowled over. The really amazing part is, after all these years (approximately 28 or so), I'm finding that we just don't change. We may change in shape, we may change in financial status, we may even change in religious beliefs but deep down inside, we're still the same. We're loving, we're funny and we're creative. Some have continued on in the arts. Others, like myself, moved on to do other things making the artistic part secondary while still holding on to some of the dream.
It's been a joy "hooking up" with these long time friends. It's as if time stopped and we're still the same young whipper snappers we once were. Or maybe they're all just as immature as my daughter insists I am. Either way, I'm so pleased that we've reconnected. Can't wait until our reunion next Saturday night and the next one to come at the end of January.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
When did I age and how did I not see it coming?
So I suppose I'll have to admit here and now; age has crept in. Like an unwanted weed it seems to keep showing up in the most unlikely places.
I get out of bed; age shows up.
I bend down; age shows up.
Eat the wrong food......who invited you?
Stay up too late, Leave me alone!.
I consider myself blessed in that most people are surprised by my age. I know this because they frequently comment "Wow! I never would have known". Is that supposed to make me feel good? And I tell those who ask what my secret is; "immaturity will keep you young and admit your age to everyone but yourself".
Of course those who are older will always say, "tisk, tisk, your still young". For the most part, I agree...I must be younger than someone. But when the majority of your co-workers could be your children, well, let's not fool ourselves; we're getting up there.
One of the things that makes me more aware of my age is looking at old pictures and just recently a friend posted a picture of me when I had no waist. I don't mean because it was so grown out, I mean because it was so darn small I could have wrapped the tape measure around myself multiple times. Why didn't I appreciate it when I didn't have it?
This picture really discourages me from taking full bodied pictures so I try to focus on the face, if only I could find the right angle to take a picture. If my head is lowered the little pockets (ok, BAGS), under my eyes look as though I'm over packed for a 3 week trip to Europe. If the lighting isn't right it looks like they've mapped the United States all over my face; who needs a GPS?
Although I'm still quite agile there are positions that are better not attempted. I was helping my daughters choreograph a dance for church and removed my heeled shoes so as not to fall. I attempted to turn my foot, stuck on the wood flooring and pulled a muscle that had me limping for a week. No, I'm not kidding.
Today someone at work asked me what I used on my face "so I can use the same thing when I get old". Talk about a back handed compliment. Good thing I don't like him, it saves me the trouble of getting mad at him. It's lucky for him my memory is going too; by tomorrow I'll probably forget the whole thing and like him all over again.
I've decided I must do whatever it takes to make myself look younger. For that reason I am accepting friendship applications. For those interested in applying you must meet at least three of the following criteria:
A full head of gray hair
Arthritis in at least one limb
A notarized birth certificate from 1945 or earlier
Nylons that bag at the ankles
Facial hair growing from unusual places
Veins that protrude from your hands and feet
Thick, curled toenails
For those seriously interested, please include your weight. Anyone weighing less than I, will not be considered. Sorry.
I get out of bed; age shows up.
I bend down; age shows up.
Eat the wrong food......who invited you?
Stay up too late, Leave me alone!.
I consider myself blessed in that most people are surprised by my age. I know this because they frequently comment "Wow! I never would have known". Is that supposed to make me feel good? And I tell those who ask what my secret is; "immaturity will keep you young and admit your age to everyone but yourself".
Of course those who are older will always say, "tisk, tisk, your still young". For the most part, I agree...I must be younger than someone. But when the majority of your co-workers could be your children, well, let's not fool ourselves; we're getting up there.
One of the things that makes me more aware of my age is looking at old pictures and just recently a friend posted a picture of me when I had no waist. I don't mean because it was so grown out, I mean because it was so darn small I could have wrapped the tape measure around myself multiple times. Why didn't I appreciate it when I didn't have it?
This picture really discourages me from taking full bodied pictures so I try to focus on the face, if only I could find the right angle to take a picture. If my head is lowered the little pockets (ok, BAGS), under my eyes look as though I'm over packed for a 3 week trip to Europe. If the lighting isn't right it looks like they've mapped the United States all over my face; who needs a GPS?
Although I'm still quite agile there are positions that are better not attempted. I was helping my daughters choreograph a dance for church and removed my heeled shoes so as not to fall. I attempted to turn my foot, stuck on the wood flooring and pulled a muscle that had me limping for a week. No, I'm not kidding.
Today someone at work asked me what I used on my face "so I can use the same thing when I get old". Talk about a back handed compliment. Good thing I don't like him, it saves me the trouble of getting mad at him. It's lucky for him my memory is going too; by tomorrow I'll probably forget the whole thing and like him all over again.
I've decided I must do whatever it takes to make myself look younger. For that reason I am accepting friendship applications. For those interested in applying you must meet at least three of the following criteria:
A full head of gray hair
Arthritis in at least one limb
A notarized birth certificate from 1945 or earlier
Nylons that bag at the ankles
Facial hair growing from unusual places
Veins that protrude from your hands and feet
Thick, curled toenails
For those seriously interested, please include your weight. Anyone weighing less than I, will not be considered. Sorry.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Yummy first love
If you've never had cajeta, you must, must, must have some before you give up the ghost! I'm not suggesting you'll be leaving us anytime soon but I am suggesting you not chance it. You never know when your time is up and why risk breaking the hearts of those who love you by not endulging yourself in cajeta at least once.
Just the mention of the word suggests love in it's purest form. Say it. Go on...say it! CA..HET..TA. Now say it in a breathy whisper...Caheta. It's enough to drive your husband or wife into a jealous rage so before you get into trouble with your significant other who's probably wondering why your calling out to cajeta while sitting in front of your computer, maybe I should explain how my love affair with cajeta began.
Over 50 years ago, yes we go that far back, in a small town in Mexico, my sweet little tia turned me on to what would prove an incurabel addiction to Cajeta: She and I were home alone. My parents had gone out for the evening, my brothers were invited to spend the night with a friend and my sister...well, my sister was still an egg I suppose (don't tell her I told you). I was bored stiff and my aunt being old could think of nothing to do to amuse me. I can still see her shuffling around in her little black china shoes, black mourning dress and shawl, searching desperately for some way to entertain me. It happened shortly after she'd lifted me up to see a very sleepy parrot for the 3rd time that she was suddenly hit with an idea. I saw her expression change from despair to hope. She grabbed me by the hand, I could tell in that very second something was about to happen. Even at my very young inexperienced age I knew without a doubt something was a'comin.
With my little hand in hers we skated across the floor to her bedroom, a place few had ever entered. She immediately shuffled over to a makeshift closet and there in the corner sat a small box tied with twine. After taking a quick glance about the room to ensure there were no evil doers standing in the shadows, she reached for the box, stopped, and then unashamedly stopped to wipe the spittle that had accumilated around the corners of her mouth with her sleeve. Although the room was dimly lit, I could see the excitement on her face and the glow that seemed to emanate from around the little wooden oblong box. I could hardly contain myself from reaching out and grabbing the box from hands that moved far too slowly for a five year old.
Before the lid could be removed, she said, I must sit like a good little girl. I nearly strangled the old woman! I have no evidence of the fact but believe that day was the root cause of my life long struggle with high blood pressure.
Finally after what seemed an eternity the old bag opened the lid and instead of the toy or money I thought she would produce, there was a gooey, caramel colored substance. Had it not been for the very rich, very creamy and most favorable aroma flowing through the air and up my nostrols, I might have kicked her a good one. The woman was trying my patience!
Finally, and I mean FINALLY, she produced from inside the lid a little wooden spoon. It was cute, sure, but by this time I had little interest in cute. I wanted to get to the point of all this secrecy and NOW. As if in slow motion, she dipped the tip of the spoon into the goo and then with the most careful intention proceeded to spoon feed me but not without stopping within a millameter of my lips to promise me I would love it. I could feel my eyese buldging with rage; I wanted to strangle her already. Had she no memory of what it was like to be a child? Was this some form of torture and was she getting her kicks out of watching me wiggle with anticipation? After what seemed to be a billion years, the spoon finally touched my lips. For the first time in my young life I knew the meaning of unconditional love and NO, I'm not talking about that for my aunt.
Lordy! Holy Toledo! Gee Wizakers and Wow! That stuff was good! I found love on a wooden spoon and couldn't get enough of the stuff. I insisted on holding the spoon myself, something my aunt was not too happy about. She fought to keep a grasp on it but I was much quicker than she. We were about to throw blows when we heard the dogs begin barking signaling the return of my parents and the end of my first encounter with what would soon become my sole purpose for living.
Before leaving my aunts room, I watched to make sure she returned the box to the same spot. It would take skill and planning but one way or another, that box was mine!
She guided me (against my will) out the door and into my mothers arms then turned and locked the door behind her followed by the chain and then the wooden bar. My entry would take some planning but it would be worth time behind prison bars if it came down to it.
So, there you have it. The story of how I, so many years ago, fell into the pit of no return. Sadly, my beloved cajeta is now made and sold in plastic containers which totally RUINS THE FLAVOR!!! The original packaging was in little wooden boxes and yes, the candy flavor hinted of wood but I'll tell you, if you spread it on tree bark I'd still eat it.
Every year we travelled to Mexico was a spiritual experience for me knowing I'd be re-united with my cajeta and the chance to stock up until my return a year later. The very few times my uncle actually traveled to the U.S. to visit us, he arrived with a generous supply knowing it would gain him entry into the kingdom as work done for humanity's sake.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Fun or Not Fun, that is the question...
A few days ago my husband invited me to accompany him to a gig he had today. It was a benefit event at the Conga Room in Los Angeles and he was on bongo and back-up vocals for OPA OPA. It was a nice event and from what I could tell it was a benefit fund raiser for cancer. He told me to wear a dress and that some of the other significant others; wives and girlfriends, would be there as well.
Guess what. I was the only wife there. No girlfriends showed either. Not a terrible thing except that once we walked into the green room, I immediately noticed I was the only female besides those working for the event. Again, not a terrible thing except it leaves one wondering if the other guys didn't think I was just the busy body wife tagging along. My husband told me not to worry and said "well at least we get to spend time together". My response "kind of".
I don't mean to sound ungrateful that he invited me to go along but since there was no table for the musicians or their others, I really had no where to sit but in the green room. So when they went out on stage (and they only went on stage for four numbers) I sat in the green room and watched them play on the big screen. So glad I got all dressed up.....
The numbers they played were split up, meaning they didn't play all four numbers at one time. The first number they did was all percussion which meant Juan Carlos would be on stage. I got up and tried to walk out to watch but one of the guys (a very nice guy, I might add) stopped me and started up a conversation or should I say a monologue. Like I said, he's a very nice guy and though I've seen my husband play a gazillion times, I wanted to watch. Instead I was stuck/trapped in "conversation". At that point I couldn't even watch the big screen because they had a football game on. So there I stood trying to politely get away and then gave up all together after about five minutes realizing I was going to hear everything he had to say like it or not.
They came down off stage and sat down to do what guys do while they're waiting to go on stage and play; B.S. Carlos was sitting with a few guys and I was kind of .... there. I stood to go get coffee when another of the guys approached me. And so that it's understood, I've known most of them for quite a few years. So, this guys comes over and starts talking to me about how unappreciated musician's are. This is no news to me. I've been there and know exactly what he means, problem is, this is a person who, to put it lightly, has little class. He's talking to me as if I were another one of the guys, complaining about the other musicians, musicians from other groups and singers who think they're hot stuff just because they sing. Of course, according to him, none of them are any good. And then there's the woman who sings and she "ain't no good. She thinks she's all that because she does stuff on the computer", whatever that means. Supposedly, he's better than any of them and if he has to sing in a group with them, he may as well "stay home and scratch his ....s".
Now tell me, what kind of man takes a look at a woman, a friends wife, and feels the need to tell her what it is he does at home when he's alone and what body part it is he scratches? I'm listening and trying to be somewhat agreeable but when he gets to the part about his "scratching", I'm beginning to lose patience. I know I have some facial hair but is so noticeable that he's forgotten he's talking to a woman? Maybe I'm not the most high class woman in the world but I am a woman. Couldn't he have left that part out so that every time I see him I don't get this ugly, verrrry ugly image of him at home doing this disgusting thing?
I had half a mind to tell him what I thought but then realized he probably wouldn't get it anyway and as he continued to talk I stood there looking at him wondering what possessed him to tell me this ugly thing. Is it just me or all woman he tells his intimate, very personal habits to. I started thinking I should tell him about my hystorectomy or what it's like when I get cramps. I thought maybe I should ask him to expand on the details. Ask if he gets any relief or if he ends up having to use baby powder in order to get relief. Maybe I should have told him about that stuff that jocks use or suggest he vist the doctor.
Then as I was finally able to get away I turn into a conversation and hear one of the guys saying that he just went to the mens room and thought no one should go in for a while unless they wanted their nose hairs to burn off. Was I in the wrong place or WHAT!
Thankfully, they were called back on stage...all of them. I was able to recover when some intelligent individual finally changed the big screen to show them playing. I was grateful to be alone for a while. When they finally returned I nearly ran them over as I grabbed my husband and sat him down next to me as quickly as I could so that no other teller of tales would sit by me.
The next time my husband invites me to go with him I think I'll wear army fatigues and a moustache. If I'm gonna be treated like a guy I may as well look like one.
Guess what. I was the only wife there. No girlfriends showed either. Not a terrible thing except that once we walked into the green room, I immediately noticed I was the only female besides those working for the event. Again, not a terrible thing except it leaves one wondering if the other guys didn't think I was just the busy body wife tagging along. My husband told me not to worry and said "well at least we get to spend time together". My response "kind of".
I don't mean to sound ungrateful that he invited me to go along but since there was no table for the musicians or their others, I really had no where to sit but in the green room. So when they went out on stage (and they only went on stage for four numbers) I sat in the green room and watched them play on the big screen. So glad I got all dressed up.....
The numbers they played were split up, meaning they didn't play all four numbers at one time. The first number they did was all percussion which meant Juan Carlos would be on stage. I got up and tried to walk out to watch but one of the guys (a very nice guy, I might add) stopped me and started up a conversation or should I say a monologue. Like I said, he's a very nice guy and though I've seen my husband play a gazillion times, I wanted to watch. Instead I was stuck/trapped in "conversation". At that point I couldn't even watch the big screen because they had a football game on. So there I stood trying to politely get away and then gave up all together after about five minutes realizing I was going to hear everything he had to say like it or not.
They came down off stage and sat down to do what guys do while they're waiting to go on stage and play; B.S. Carlos was sitting with a few guys and I was kind of .... there. I stood to go get coffee when another of the guys approached me. And so that it's understood, I've known most of them for quite a few years. So, this guys comes over and starts talking to me about how unappreciated musician's are. This is no news to me. I've been there and know exactly what he means, problem is, this is a person who, to put it lightly, has little class. He's talking to me as if I were another one of the guys, complaining about the other musicians, musicians from other groups and singers who think they're hot stuff just because they sing. Of course, according to him, none of them are any good. And then there's the woman who sings and she "ain't no good. She thinks she's all that because she does stuff on the computer", whatever that means. Supposedly, he's better than any of them and if he has to sing in a group with them, he may as well "stay home and scratch his ....s".
Now tell me, what kind of man takes a look at a woman, a friends wife, and feels the need to tell her what it is he does at home when he's alone and what body part it is he scratches? I'm listening and trying to be somewhat agreeable but when he gets to the part about his "scratching", I'm beginning to lose patience. I know I have some facial hair but is so noticeable that he's forgotten he's talking to a woman? Maybe I'm not the most high class woman in the world but I am a woman. Couldn't he have left that part out so that every time I see him I don't get this ugly, verrrry ugly image of him at home doing this disgusting thing?
I had half a mind to tell him what I thought but then realized he probably wouldn't get it anyway and as he continued to talk I stood there looking at him wondering what possessed him to tell me this ugly thing. Is it just me or all woman he tells his intimate, very personal habits to. I started thinking I should tell him about my hystorectomy or what it's like when I get cramps. I thought maybe I should ask him to expand on the details. Ask if he gets any relief or if he ends up having to use baby powder in order to get relief. Maybe I should have told him about that stuff that jocks use or suggest he vist the doctor.
Then as I was finally able to get away I turn into a conversation and hear one of the guys saying that he just went to the mens room and thought no one should go in for a while unless they wanted their nose hairs to burn off. Was I in the wrong place or WHAT!
Thankfully, they were called back on stage...all of them. I was able to recover when some intelligent individual finally changed the big screen to show them playing. I was grateful to be alone for a while. When they finally returned I nearly ran them over as I grabbed my husband and sat him down next to me as quickly as I could so that no other teller of tales would sit by me.
The next time my husband invites me to go with him I think I'll wear army fatigues and a moustache. If I'm gonna be treated like a guy I may as well look like one.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Dance ~ The Great Temptation
A few days ago I read my cousin's blog in which she reminisced about her desire to dance ballet since childhood. I began to think back on my own life and how at an early age I had that same dream. I felt such a strong connection to ballet even though I was only a tot and knew little to nothing about other forms of dance or ballet for that matter.
At about eight years of age, my mother shared with me how a family friend made it a habit to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up because he got a kick out of hearing me say I wanted to be a "belly dancer". Of course I meant ballet, but being as young as I was, it was all the same to me.
Mom being quite shy had yet to share with me her strong love for dance. In fact the only reason I had any inkling at all that she loved dancing is that during our family parties, which in those days were almost every weekend, she would jump at the opportunity to dance with anyone who would ask. Dad preferred talking. Anyone who danced with him could attest to the fact because when he did dance, he talked the entire time and only stopped when he stepped on your toes which was almost every dance.
You can imagine the excitement I felt one day when I stumbled across this photo in mom's old album. I wanted all the details of the picture and
clung to every word as she told me about her dance classes and how much she loved dancing. I would stare at her feet, in the picture, with amazement that my mommy could stand on her toes and wondered what it must be like to slip your foot into one of those shoes.
Mom had carefully saved and hung the little dance outfit in the front closet in hopes of keeping it for memories sake. It was light blue with dark blue trim and the material was a thick cotten.
Although mom's intention was to save the dress, I had other plans and one day snuck into the closet, reached way up, manged to pull the dress off the hanger and with great difficulty slipped it on. Even though it was far too big for me I couldn't bring myself to take it off. I fell in love with it and the thought that it would make me dance.
When mom found that I had taken it out and was wearing it, even though she probably wanted to strangle me, she tried her best to explain that it was something to be saved, not worn, to remember the time when she danced. I begged and begged but in the end, back in the closet it went.
Days later with no one around, I managed to sneak back into the closet and slip the dress on again. I recall being scared to death that my mother would catch me but could not fight the temptation to wear it.
Somehow I slipped out the back door and over to the neighbors yard where I wore the dress for quite some time before mom found me out. To this day, I'm not sure if it was her weakness or my stubborn desire that allowed me to begin taking the dress out for a fling on a daily basis until it was all but ruined. At the time there was no guilt involved in my wearing the dress but after some time the material started to fray and as it became dirty and stained I could see the disapointment in my mothers eyes but by that time it was too late. I'd ruined her dress.
Years later as she and I were looking for something in her cedar chest she took out a bag and unwrapped the most ugly, used, beautiful toe shoes I had ever laid my eyes on. Luckily for mom I'd learned my lesson years before with the blue dress and kept my hands off the shoes unless she was around to supervise.
My daughter who is running slightly behind in ballet, due to my difficulty in paying for dance class, often takes the shoes out of their plastic bag and slips her foot in "just to see what it feels like". Fortunately her foot is a bit bigger than the shoes and I'm not nearly as nice as my mom was when it comes to laying down the law in what we can and cannot do.
Earlier today I had the urge to look at mom's shoes. I pulled them out of the plastic bag they've been in for so many years and gave them a good inspection. There on the side of one of the shoes I spied, for the very first time, her name hand printed right on the silk (on the top shoe, near the arch, printed in faded letters it says "Thelma").
I wonder did she write that as a child so as not to confuse her shoes for someone elses or is it possible she wrote it there when I was a young girl to remind me just who those shoes belonged to.
At about eight years of age, my mother shared with me how a family friend made it a habit to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up because he got a kick out of hearing me say I wanted to be a "belly dancer". Of course I meant ballet, but being as young as I was, it was all the same to me.
Mom being quite shy had yet to share with me her strong love for dance. In fact the only reason I had any inkling at all that she loved dancing is that during our family parties, which in those days were almost every weekend, she would jump at the opportunity to dance with anyone who would ask. Dad preferred talking. Anyone who danced with him could attest to the fact because when he did dance, he talked the entire time and only stopped when he stepped on your toes which was almost every dance.
You can imagine the excitement I felt one day when I stumbled across this photo in mom's old album. I wanted all the details of the picture and
clung to every word as she told me about her dance classes and how much she loved dancing. I would stare at her feet, in the picture, with amazement that my mommy could stand on her toes and wondered what it must be like to slip your foot into one of those shoes.Mom had carefully saved and hung the little dance outfit in the front closet in hopes of keeping it for memories sake. It was light blue with dark blue trim and the material was a thick cotten.
Although mom's intention was to save the dress, I had other plans and one day snuck into the closet, reached way up, manged to pull the dress off the hanger and with great difficulty slipped it on. Even though it was far too big for me I couldn't bring myself to take it off. I fell in love with it and the thought that it would make me dance.
When mom found that I had taken it out and was wearing it, even though she probably wanted to strangle me, she tried her best to explain that it was something to be saved, not worn, to remember the time when she danced. I begged and begged but in the end, back in the closet it went.
Days later with no one around, I managed to sneak back into the closet and slip the dress on again. I recall being scared to death that my mother would catch me but could not fight the temptation to wear it.
Somehow I slipped out the back door and over to the neighbors yard where I wore the dress for quite some time before mom found me out. To this day, I'm not sure if it was her weakness or my stubborn desire that allowed me to begin taking the dress out for a fling on a daily basis until it was all but ruined. At the time there was no guilt involved in my wearing the dress but after some time the material started to fray and as it became dirty and stained I could see the disapointment in my mothers eyes but by that time it was too late. I'd ruined her dress.
Years later as she and I were looking for something in her cedar chest she took out a bag and unwrapped the most ugly, used, beautiful toe shoes I had ever laid my eyes on. Luckily for mom I'd learned my lesson years before with the blue dress and kept my hands off the shoes unless she was around to supervise.
My daughter who is running slightly behind in ballet, due to my difficulty in paying for dance class, often takes the shoes out of their plastic bag and slips her foot in "just to see what it feels like". Fortunately her foot is a bit bigger than the shoes and I'm not nearly as nice as my mom was when it comes to laying down the law in what we can and cannot do.
I wonder did she write that as a child so as not to confuse her shoes for someone elses or is it possible she wrote it there when I was a young girl to remind me just who those shoes belonged to.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Performers from the good old days
Bringing up my girls I felt it important to try and keep them away from watching too much junk on tv. You know, movies that would have a bad influence on them. I owned enough Shirley Temple movies to keep them occupied for hours on end and worked hard at finding a balance between television, music, movies, reading and other playtime activities. As a result and without even realizing, I introduced them to Jerry Lewis, Dean Martin, Red Skelton, Carol Burnett and the like.
We own such a collection of Classic movies and musicals on video, DVD and CD that as they started school and began to make friends, some of the other kids thought they were plain strange when they'd be excited about watching an old movie. They normally had no idea what my kids were talking about.
I can remember the girls bringing school friends to the house and then playing some of their favorite music. They'd be singing along as if everyone should know the songs. Sometimes I'd have to tell them that maybe they should put something on their friends could enjoy too. It took a while for them to get it. And yes, they were different.
Today as I was scrolling through Facebook, I noticed Karina had a post that said "I love this video". This is what she posted. If you haven't already seen it, enjoy!
We own such a collection of Classic movies and musicals on video, DVD and CD that as they started school and began to make friends, some of the other kids thought they were plain strange when they'd be excited about watching an old movie. They normally had no idea what my kids were talking about.
I can remember the girls bringing school friends to the house and then playing some of their favorite music. They'd be singing along as if everyone should know the songs. Sometimes I'd have to tell them that maybe they should put something on their friends could enjoy too. It took a while for them to get it. And yes, they were different.
Today as I was scrolling through Facebook, I noticed Karina had a post that said "I love this video". This is what she posted. If you haven't already seen it, enjoy!
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Not with my Mommy, you don't! What?!? No! Not with me either!
Being a Massage Therapist can be an exciting career. It can be lucrative when the economy is on the upswing but at times it can also be a misunderstood profession.
I can't begin to tell you how many times I've seen that raised eyebrow at the mention of my title Massage Therapist. Of course I've never seen a woman react with the raised eyebrow and why is that? A woman understands and appreciates the benefits of therapeutic massage while many, many, many men have ill misconceptions of what it is we're trained to do.
I'm currently working a temp job as a receptionist. Many people, the majority being men, approach my office to ask for supplies or mail. Frequently they come by for nothing more than a chat and it was during one of those chats that the subject of massage came up.
Before I go any further let me say that any time I speak to a man who seems just slightly flirtacious I make it a habit to make sure he see's my wedding ring (I never leave home without it) and then fit my husband into the conversation; something I've learned to do over the years due to mens inability to understand that my friendliness is directed toward everyone; male and female.
As I sat chatting with this individual about the lack of work in the massage field, another employee walks up and overhears our conversation....Bingo! Bango! Wango! Antenae up, sonar bouncing off the walls! This individual who so "respectfully" refers to me as Doña Mari, frequents my desk with little business and much bla, bla, bla.
Please don't think me conceited, but as a woman I know when a man is trying to "play me". There is something in his voice that rings of bad intent and beyond that I'm incredibly perceptive and intuitive. It's something that was passed on to me by my father who at times, like I, chose to close his eyes to some very obvious signs so as not to insult anyone.
Just a little example of that: Dad had a friend, a political buddy, who I took an imediate disliking toward. I expressed this to my father many times but because he liked this guy he brushed me off each time. At first I wasn't sure what it was that bothered me about him until one day while we all sat in the kitchen talking. I realized that besides his outright arrogance, he was subtly hitting on my mom. There, directly in front of my dad, he was flirting with mom. Straight out flirting. Of course mom, being the humble woman she was would not acknowledge that any man outside of my father would even think to do such a thing.
To make a long story short, one evening dad finds himself more tired than usual and decides to hit the sack early. While he's in the bedroom snoring to the tune of "Whistle While You Work", a knock comes on the door. I'm in my jammies, watching tv with mom so I suggest she open the door. I move around the corner so as not to been seen when I hear the Big Bad Wolf asking if Dan is around. My first reaction is Wait! this character doesn't belong in this story but Snow White apparently has forgotten that every fairy tale has a villan. So our villan asks (oblivious to the hero lurking in the shadows), "well, if Dan is sleeping why don't you let me in so we can chat?". Sweet mommy doesn't get it. She trys to say no but the villan grows impatient and says "look he doesn't have to know". OH NO HE DI-INT! This is where I, without cape or magic wand, decide to pluck this fool outta da story.
I calmly walk around the corner, jammies and all, step in front of mom and say "I think it's late, you heard my dad is asleep. If I ever get the feeling your making a pass at my mom again I'll go straight to my dad. Bye, bye!" The jerk left and no, I didn't wait for the next time. I reported the whole incident to my dad the next morning. I'm not sure exactly what happened after that point, only that the wicked Queen, AKA the ugly 'ol witch never did show up with that red apple. End of story.
You know how it is when you know what you know. So in my story Mr. Suave shows up at my office to talk the day after he hears I'm a MT. Suddenly, he has shoulder and hip pain. He say's I hear your a MT. I say yes, already knowing where he's headed. "Ahhhh", he says, "because I need someone to work on me, I just cant' take the pain anymore". Before I can get a word out he says "but! It can't be on the weekend because I'm very busy on the weekends". I was dying to ask "Is that with the wife, by any chance?".
My story is taking far too long so before I take you right into tomorrows lunch time, I'll just say that I told him I'd check with my husband to see what day he'd be home and that I wouldn't think of working on a man without my husband being around (partly true). The bafoon had the nerve to ask if I would consider doing it somewhere else.
I wish I could be accused of making this up in my head but after his attempt to sing and recite poetry to me, I'd have to say YOUR WRONG! I may not be young and I may not be the size 9 I was when I met my husband but even fat, old ladies get hit on by desperate men trying to meet their quota. Do they actually think this one more score will get them that much closer to paradise?
Men, I apologize if I sound like it's pick on men day. That's not my intention. But as they say one bad apple spoils the bunch, my pretty.
I can't begin to tell you how many times I've seen that raised eyebrow at the mention of my title Massage Therapist. Of course I've never seen a woman react with the raised eyebrow and why is that? A woman understands and appreciates the benefits of therapeutic massage while many, many, many men have ill misconceptions of what it is we're trained to do.
I'm currently working a temp job as a receptionist. Many people, the majority being men, approach my office to ask for supplies or mail. Frequently they come by for nothing more than a chat and it was during one of those chats that the subject of massage came up.
Before I go any further let me say that any time I speak to a man who seems just slightly flirtacious I make it a habit to make sure he see's my wedding ring (I never leave home without it) and then fit my husband into the conversation; something I've learned to do over the years due to mens inability to understand that my friendliness is directed toward everyone; male and female.
As I sat chatting with this individual about the lack of work in the massage field, another employee walks up and overhears our conversation....Bingo! Bango! Wango! Antenae up, sonar bouncing off the walls! This individual who so "respectfully" refers to me as Doña Mari, frequents my desk with little business and much bla, bla, bla.
Please don't think me conceited, but as a woman I know when a man is trying to "play me". There is something in his voice that rings of bad intent and beyond that I'm incredibly perceptive and intuitive. It's something that was passed on to me by my father who at times, like I, chose to close his eyes to some very obvious signs so as not to insult anyone.
Just a little example of that: Dad had a friend, a political buddy, who I took an imediate disliking toward. I expressed this to my father many times but because he liked this guy he brushed me off each time. At first I wasn't sure what it was that bothered me about him until one day while we all sat in the kitchen talking. I realized that besides his outright arrogance, he was subtly hitting on my mom. There, directly in front of my dad, he was flirting with mom. Straight out flirting. Of course mom, being the humble woman she was would not acknowledge that any man outside of my father would even think to do such a thing.
To make a long story short, one evening dad finds himself more tired than usual and decides to hit the sack early. While he's in the bedroom snoring to the tune of "Whistle While You Work", a knock comes on the door. I'm in my jammies, watching tv with mom so I suggest she open the door. I move around the corner so as not to been seen when I hear the Big Bad Wolf asking if Dan is around. My first reaction is Wait! this character doesn't belong in this story but Snow White apparently has forgotten that every fairy tale has a villan. So our villan asks (oblivious to the hero lurking in the shadows), "well, if Dan is sleeping why don't you let me in so we can chat?". Sweet mommy doesn't get it. She trys to say no but the villan grows impatient and says "look he doesn't have to know". OH NO HE DI-INT! This is where I, without cape or magic wand, decide to pluck this fool outta da story.
I calmly walk around the corner, jammies and all, step in front of mom and say "I think it's late, you heard my dad is asleep. If I ever get the feeling your making a pass at my mom again I'll go straight to my dad. Bye, bye!" The jerk left and no, I didn't wait for the next time. I reported the whole incident to my dad the next morning. I'm not sure exactly what happened after that point, only that the wicked Queen, AKA the ugly 'ol witch never did show up with that red apple. End of story.
You know how it is when you know what you know. So in my story Mr. Suave shows up at my office to talk the day after he hears I'm a MT. Suddenly, he has shoulder and hip pain. He say's I hear your a MT. I say yes, already knowing where he's headed. "Ahhhh", he says, "because I need someone to work on me, I just cant' take the pain anymore". Before I can get a word out he says "but! It can't be on the weekend because I'm very busy on the weekends". I was dying to ask "Is that with the wife, by any chance?".
My story is taking far too long so before I take you right into tomorrows lunch time, I'll just say that I told him I'd check with my husband to see what day he'd be home and that I wouldn't think of working on a man without my husband being around (partly true). The bafoon had the nerve to ask if I would consider doing it somewhere else.
I wish I could be accused of making this up in my head but after his attempt to sing and recite poetry to me, I'd have to say YOUR WRONG! I may not be young and I may not be the size 9 I was when I met my husband but even fat, old ladies get hit on by desperate men trying to meet their quota. Do they actually think this one more score will get them that much closer to paradise?
Men, I apologize if I sound like it's pick on men day. That's not my intention. But as they say one bad apple spoils the bunch, my pretty.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Fuchie!
Thursday eveing as I was driving to pick Karina up from RevX, the church youth group, I drove past the 91 and 605 freeway junction. That particular spot always smells of stagnent water. I'm not sure what goes on there but it smells something awful.
Although I was alone in the car, I immediately started laughing and called out Fuchie! For anyone who doesn't know, fuchie is a word I've heard since I was a kid and I imagine it comes from the word poochie, which means smelly. I guess it's a Mexican word, meaning a word in Spanish but used by the Mexican community. So I'm in the car alone but I had to say it anyway.
Just a month prior I drove past the same spot with 3 teenaged girls in the car and they all yelled out the same thing; "Fuchie" and then immediately went into hysterics pointing fingers at each other as if it were one of them causing the stench.
The other evening after dinner (thank God), the subject of passing gas came up. See Matthew, our 23 year old, just moved in with us and until we were able to move the two girls back into their room together, Karina was sharing a room with him. She said, and I quote, "I don't mind sharing a room with Matthew, his farts don't smell that bad." Matt quickly responded, "that's cause I don't fart much". The conversation was open for discussion at that point, so Carlos chimes in saying we all fart in our sleep and then begins to make fart noises, with his mouth, saying that he and I do concerts at night and we rarely hear anything because we're asleep. Here's a grown man, making different toned fart noises with his mouth to show how it might sound. I lost it. I couldn't help but laugh because this is a man who until about five years ago would never even mention the word fart much less focus on making different sounds to amuse his children. What happened?
So as I'm driving along, all alone, laughing, I start to think of all the comedians in the world who have spent entire monologues on the subject. George Lopez frequently works them into his act as has George Carlin, Eddie Murphy...well, all the funny guys. What in the world.....here I am writing about it and maybe it's cause I still cannot figure out why we must discuss it at all. It's a gross, disgusting subject yet, the second it comes up people of all ages and races start to laugh.
And why are we laughing?
What happens in a persons life that they find it necessary to discuss and point the blame onto someone else. Why can't we just be like dogs....we even blame dogs when someone leaks one out, poor little things. Do you think they laugh about it. Or maybe they blame each other....better yet, I wonder if they blame us for their exhaust. I just don't know.
Us human's are a strange bunch aren't we? Something smells bad, we quickly look to blame someone. I say we start a movement...we'll call it Proud Farters of America. We'll just relieve ourselves anywhere, anytime and not be ashamed. We can distribute fart literature and have fart concerts...okay, maybe that one should be up for discussion...but how about parades, parties, and a national day of farts. There are gay parades aren't there? Why shouldn't we have our own? The only way to get past the shame is to bring it out in the open. Let it rip...so to speak.
All those in favor say aye!
Although I was alone in the car, I immediately started laughing and called out Fuchie! For anyone who doesn't know, fuchie is a word I've heard since I was a kid and I imagine it comes from the word poochie, which means smelly. I guess it's a Mexican word, meaning a word in Spanish but used by the Mexican community. So I'm in the car alone but I had to say it anyway.
Just a month prior I drove past the same spot with 3 teenaged girls in the car and they all yelled out the same thing; "Fuchie" and then immediately went into hysterics pointing fingers at each other as if it were one of them causing the stench.
The other evening after dinner (thank God), the subject of passing gas came up. See Matthew, our 23 year old, just moved in with us and until we were able to move the two girls back into their room together, Karina was sharing a room with him. She said, and I quote, "I don't mind sharing a room with Matthew, his farts don't smell that bad." Matt quickly responded, "that's cause I don't fart much". The conversation was open for discussion at that point, so Carlos chimes in saying we all fart in our sleep and then begins to make fart noises, with his mouth, saying that he and I do concerts at night and we rarely hear anything because we're asleep. Here's a grown man, making different toned fart noises with his mouth to show how it might sound. I lost it. I couldn't help but laugh because this is a man who until about five years ago would never even mention the word fart much less focus on making different sounds to amuse his children. What happened?
So as I'm driving along, all alone, laughing, I start to think of all the comedians in the world who have spent entire monologues on the subject. George Lopez frequently works them into his act as has George Carlin, Eddie Murphy...well, all the funny guys. What in the world.....here I am writing about it and maybe it's cause I still cannot figure out why we must discuss it at all. It's a gross, disgusting subject yet, the second it comes up people of all ages and races start to laugh.
And why are we laughing?
What happens in a persons life that they find it necessary to discuss and point the blame onto someone else. Why can't we just be like dogs....we even blame dogs when someone leaks one out, poor little things. Do you think they laugh about it. Or maybe they blame each other....better yet, I wonder if they blame us for their exhaust. I just don't know.
Us human's are a strange bunch aren't we? Something smells bad, we quickly look to blame someone. I say we start a movement...we'll call it Proud Farters of America. We'll just relieve ourselves anywhere, anytime and not be ashamed. We can distribute fart literature and have fart concerts...okay, maybe that one should be up for discussion...but how about parades, parties, and a national day of farts. There are gay parades aren't there? Why shouldn't we have our own? The only way to get past the shame is to bring it out in the open. Let it rip...so to speak.
All those in favor say aye!
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Could it be?
Last night at 1 o'clock in the morning................wait, wait, wait...that makes no sense! Let me start again.
This morning, 1 o'clock a.m. to be exact, I found myself in the kitchen. No idea why, I just walked myself on over and then stood there looking. What the heck for, I have absolutely no idea. While I was standing there dumbfounded at how I even got there, two friends immediately came to mind; Debbie and Bunny. Reason being, these two long time friends (I no longer use the term "old friends"), recently expressed their inability to sleep at night. Both admit they've been exposed to that dreadful, incurable plague "Midnight Munchie Syndrome". While it's yet to be determined how one contacts such a plague, we do know that it attacks the body and mind around the same time as pre-menopausal symptoms hit. As I stood there thinking I was suddenly hit with the image of those walking bodies in "Night of the Living Dead" except in our case, we're not looking to munch on bone....(oh, yuck! I can't believe I said it) we're looking food, or whatever we can sink our chops into.

(I especially like the picture of the dead to the far right. Is it a man, woman, he-she, what? Looks like a skirt and breasts but it also looks like it has a moustache. Of course hair does continue to grow after you die OR hit menopause!)
This morning, 1 o'clock a.m. to be exact, I found myself in the kitchen. No idea why, I just walked myself on over and then stood there looking. What the heck for, I have absolutely no idea. While I was standing there dumbfounded at how I even got there, two friends immediately came to mind; Debbie and Bunny. Reason being, these two long time friends (I no longer use the term "old friends"), recently expressed their inability to sleep at night. Both admit they've been exposed to that dreadful, incurable plague "Midnight Munchie Syndrome". While it's yet to be determined how one contacts such a plague, we do know that it attacks the body and mind around the same time as pre-menopausal symptoms hit. As I stood there thinking I was suddenly hit with the image of those walking bodies in "Night of the Living Dead" except in our case, we're not looking to munch on bone....(oh, yuck! I can't believe I said it) we're looking food, or whatever we can sink our chops into.

(I especially like the picture of the dead to the far right. Is it a man, woman, he-she, what? Looks like a skirt and breasts but it also looks like it has a moustache. Of course hair does continue to grow after you die OR hit menopause!)
Normally a flour tortilla with butter or a piece of starchy white bread with peanut butter would do but this morning was different. I craved something sinful. Something my family would stop me from eating had they an inkling of my whereabouts. And then as I opened the cupboard door I immediately realized what I'd come to do; down some Puffed Cheetos.
Five in total slipped down my throat all too quickly. Before I could stop myself from sealing the bag back up, they were gone. I turned and stalked out of the room angry at myself for not grabbing a handful, brushed my teeth and went to bed bearing the shame.
I havent' been to the doctor yet but I'm beginning to wonder if I too am part of the pre-mem group. I had a hystorectomy in 2000 but asked the doctor to leave my ovaries in if they looked ok. Apparently they were quite a site to behold because they're still tucked away deep inside. Last check-up I had the doctor burst my bubble when he told me they were "shrinking". Of all the heartless things to say to a lady...some people just have no tact.
Like Debbie and Bunny I sleep much less than I used to and have been known to have hot flashes. After my surgery I suffered one night of sweats but other than that, my mood only swings when I get a push. And I'm perty even keel most of the time. You might have to ask my husband and kids if it's proof you want, but I'm sure they'd tell you I'm the wicked witch reincarnate. They lie.
I supppose I'll have to go to the doctor soon and find out if I can start blogging about living with menopause. Why should Debbie and Bunny have all the fun.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Times have changed..........
a statement we've all heard and said ourselves. Today as I sat at my desk answering phones I was reminded of just how much.
Back in 19cough, cough....I worked for a leasing company as an Accident Claims Processor. Being the outgoing, ready and willing to learn person that I am, the office manager asked me to be one of many back up's for the receptionist. Without hesitation I agreed, thinking it would be fun, exciting and a plus in furthering my career with the company or at least put me in good light with my direct supervisor. The more you know, the better asset you are to the company, right?
If you're too young to know, too old to remember or just unwilling to admit that you might be old enough to have been around at the time, this was when the switchboard looked like an octopus being pulled every which way; a la Lilly Tomlin snort, snort.
I recall sitting there watching her in awe as she, with the biggest head set known to man, pulled the cord of an incoming call, answered "National Car Rental, how may I help you?", then stretch that puppy from the base of the board (incoming lines) to the wall board (in-house lines) while moving on to the next caller in lightening time. And if that weren't enough, while she was answering a new call, and without blinking an eye or hesitating for thought, she could spot an ended call and pull the plug without so much as a hiccup. How she managed to spot that in the middle of this cord hell, I'd yet to figure out.
Back in 19cough, cough....I worked for a leasing company as an Accident Claims Processor. Being the outgoing, ready and willing to learn person that I am, the office manager asked me to be one of many back up's for the receptionist. Without hesitation I agreed, thinking it would be fun, exciting and a plus in furthering my career with the company or at least put me in good light with my direct supervisor. The more you know, the better asset you are to the company, right?
If you're too young to know, too old to remember or just unwilling to admit that you might be old enough to have been around at the time, this was when the switchboard looked like an octopus being pulled every which way; a la Lilly Tomlin snort, snort.
The hairdo isn't quite right, but the board, albeit small, is very familiar.
My first training session was frightening, to put it lightly.Within just a matter of minutes I gained a new respect for my friend who had been on the job for a few years already.
I recall sitting there watching her in awe as she, with the biggest head set known to man, pulled the cord of an incoming call, answered "National Car Rental, how may I help you?", then stretch that puppy from the base of the board (incoming lines) to the wall board (in-house lines) while moving on to the next caller in lightening time. And if that weren't enough, while she was answering a new call, and without blinking an eye or hesitating for thought, she could spot an ended call and pull the plug without so much as a hiccup. How she managed to spot that in the middle of this cord hell, I'd yet to figure out.I began to wonder if I'd made a mistake by so readily accepting the challenge. All those feelings of self doubt; "What was I thinking, I'll never be able to do this", followed by "I'm not capable of learning this", and "I just know they're gonna fire me".
After my watching for sometime she said, in a perky little voice, "Okay, ready to give it a try?" WHAT! Ready? I'll never be ready....EVER! Everything in me wanted to grab her by the collar, scream and run as quickly as I could for the rear door.
Instead, like a fool I responded "Sure, let me give it a try". After the words left my mouth, I nearly grabbed my own collar and yelled. Dumb, dumb, dumb... all I could think to myself was that I'd be the laughing stock of the company. So much for being in good light in my Super's eyes. I mean, what happens if I disconnect the President of the company? How long does it take to get your first unemployment check anyway?!
As frightened as I was, and as much as my hands trembled, my dear friend simply moved to one side and threw me head first into the beast with a million tentacles, coming at me from all sides. I could have sworn I was under attack.
First call, I forgot the company name. I must have sat there frozen for all of 3 seconds but it felt like 20 minutes. I had a blank look on my face as fear poured over my entire body. My hands and feet began to sweat profusely when I suddenly detect a voice next to me say "answer....answer! Come on....Nation....." My voice finally came out but it was an out of body experience. Thank God my friend failed to tell me not to touch the metal prong as I plugged it into the socket because I got a shock that ran all the way up my fingers through my arm and directly into my heart which is why I survived the whole ordeal.
After a days training my friend felt confident that I could survive it alone while she ran to the bathroom. I admit the second she walked away I felt like a 3 year old being deserted by the only parent I'd ever known but I determined to do my job like the adult that I was.
Just a few days later and a number of hostile callers asking why I'd disconnected them "again", I was finally able to grab the octopus by the tentacles in full, or at least partial control.
Today as I sat answering the phone with a smile in my voice and with mouse in hand I grabbed a call on the computer screen to drag in into the extension the caller requested. I pushed a few buttons and napped in between calls. The beauty of technology; something you learn to appreciate with time.
Hup, hup. Hup to three four.....or maybe it's Left, left. Left, right, left
It's that time of year when the Norwalk High School marching band begins their travels. Although travels are limited due to school funding, meaning only one bus instead of 3 is paid for, and a tonnage of fund raisers in an attempt to raise money to pay for transportation. I'm sitting here feeling a little disappointed that I won't be able to chaperon much this year due to my work schedule while last year I was able to take days off to attend.
This Wednesday they'll be competing at the L.A. County Fair. I was right there with them last year struggling to get through the crowd as the parents march alongside the band (ok...we run at a rediculous pace while stepping over people, squeeze between people, stumble around carts, bump into poles, fall off curbs, dodge balloons and step on sticky gooey who knows what) while trying to maintain some dignity as a parent who just wants to make sure your child and all the others get a measly little drink of water when and if they need it. It's a blast!
I remember last year quite well because it was dripping wet hot and as a band parent you quickly learn that it's much better to volunteer during the winter parades then Summer. Not so much for the obvious reasons but for reasons you must experience first hand to truly understand.
Last year, for instance, we arrived at the Fair at approximately 9:30 a.m. The kids took off until their call time, 3 p.m. Of course they've been out in the sun all day and wait until the last minute to return so they show up at the truck ..... hmmmm .... damp? wet? Sweaty. That's it. Plain and simple. They're sticky, sweaty and ..... yes, smelly (not all, but many). There were 130 kids or so and each one must find their uniform, change out of their regular clothes, and fix their hair.
Being I was a "new parent" or better worded "stupid and inexperienced parent" ---- (I know what those other parents were really thinking), they gave me the honor of helping the kids to put their hair up. See for competition not one single wisp of hair can show from under the hat. The judges can and will mark them off for such a crime. So there I am with bobby pins, hair nets, hair spray and comb in hand waiting for the little buggers.
We have guys with long matted hair, guys with fro's (in this day of age you've gotta be kidding) and guys with long straight hair stuck to the back of their necks with pure down home sweat. YUUUUCK! Of course guys have absolutley no idea, nor do they care to know how to put their hair up. They simply walk up to you and stare into your eyes waiting for the magic quesion "would you like me to help you?". Sometimes they actually mouth the word "yes". Mostly they just shake their heads and wait for you to perform some kind of magic on them. You somehow have to get yourself beyond the sweat and stanky and just do it.
I had one kid, who actually turned out to be one of my favorites, who's hair was straight and somewhat matted. He spoke very little but sweated enough to make up for it. He had the most uncooperative hair I've ever seen and it did not like hairnets. No matter how much spray or little poneytails I made on his head, his hair always managed to come lose. I often thought he did it purposely to test my mommyship. He wanted to know if I would mother him even if he did have wild hair.
Another kid who although born in the 90's had hair that was stuck in a 70's timewarp because he had such a big fro I had to put two hairnets on him. He looked like Mickey Mouse from the front angle the nets split his hair right down the middle. But I got it all in the hat, and that's really all I cared about. That he looked like an overgrown mouse was of little concern to me. He wasn't my kid.
Then there was the kid with no forehead and long straight stubborn hair. I put more rubber bands on his head in one parade than I've used in a lifetime on mine. Didn't matter, his hair came out anyway. I wanted to take a pair of scissors to him but didn't for fear of not being asked to walk the next parade. To this day, I think he trained his hair to go limp whenever I was around.
Where were these kids mothers? Why the heck was I putting their hair up instead of the women that bore them? Why? I'll tell you why, those women were smart. They let some other fool do it. They said "I can't I have to work", "I can't my dog is sick", "I can't, my kids too sweaty".
It's ok. I had a good time with those kids and this Wednesday while I'm at work and they're out there marching in the hot sun, sweating like pigs......oops! I really didn't mean pig, pigs....I meant....I don't know what I meant. But I will tell you this, I'm gonna miss those sweat heads. They're a good bunch.
This Wednesday they'll be competing at the L.A. County Fair. I was right there with them last year struggling to get through the crowd as the parents march alongside the band (ok...we run at a rediculous pace while stepping over people, squeeze between people, stumble around carts, bump into poles, fall off curbs, dodge balloons and step on sticky gooey who knows what) while trying to maintain some dignity as a parent who just wants to make sure your child and all the others get a measly little drink of water when and if they need it. It's a blast!
I remember last year quite well because it was dripping wet hot and as a band parent you quickly learn that it's much better to volunteer during the winter parades then Summer. Not so much for the obvious reasons but for reasons you must experience first hand to truly understand.
Last year, for instance, we arrived at the Fair at approximately 9:30 a.m. The kids took off until their call time, 3 p.m. Of course they've been out in the sun all day and wait until the last minute to return so they show up at the truck ..... hmmmm .... damp? wet? Sweaty. That's it. Plain and simple. They're sticky, sweaty and ..... yes, smelly (not all, but many). There were 130 kids or so and each one must find their uniform, change out of their regular clothes, and fix their hair.
Being I was a "new parent" or better worded "stupid and inexperienced parent" ---- (I know what those other parents were really thinking), they gave me the honor of helping the kids to put their hair up. See for competition not one single wisp of hair can show from under the hat. The judges can and will mark them off for such a crime. So there I am with bobby pins, hair nets, hair spray and comb in hand waiting for the little buggers.
We have guys with long matted hair, guys with fro's (in this day of age you've gotta be kidding) and guys with long straight hair stuck to the back of their necks with pure down home sweat. YUUUUCK! Of course guys have absolutley no idea, nor do they care to know how to put their hair up. They simply walk up to you and stare into your eyes waiting for the magic quesion "would you like me to help you?". Sometimes they actually mouth the word "yes". Mostly they just shake their heads and wait for you to perform some kind of magic on them. You somehow have to get yourself beyond the sweat and stanky and just do it.
I had one kid, who actually turned out to be one of my favorites, who's hair was straight and somewhat matted. He spoke very little but sweated enough to make up for it. He had the most uncooperative hair I've ever seen and it did not like hairnets. No matter how much spray or little poneytails I made on his head, his hair always managed to come lose. I often thought he did it purposely to test my mommyship. He wanted to know if I would mother him even if he did have wild hair.
Another kid who although born in the 90's had hair that was stuck in a 70's timewarp because he had such a big fro I had to put two hairnets on him. He looked like Mickey Mouse from the front angle the nets split his hair right down the middle. But I got it all in the hat, and that's really all I cared about. That he looked like an overgrown mouse was of little concern to me. He wasn't my kid.
Then there was the kid with no forehead and long straight stubborn hair. I put more rubber bands on his head in one parade than I've used in a lifetime on mine. Didn't matter, his hair came out anyway. I wanted to take a pair of scissors to him but didn't for fear of not being asked to walk the next parade. To this day, I think he trained his hair to go limp whenever I was around.
It's ok. I had a good time with those kids and this Wednesday while I'm at work and they're out there marching in the hot sun, sweating like pigs......oops! I really didn't mean pig, pigs....I meant....I don't know what I meant. But I will tell you this, I'm gonna miss those sweat heads. They're a good bunch.
Friday, September 25, 2009
I REALLY SHOULD STOP COMPLAINING.....BUT I DON'T WANT TO
Today was one of the longest work days anyone could ever experience. It was busy, and if you don't know, I'm working a temp job and so that I don't use the "H" word, disliking every minute of it. The job itself isn't all that bad, especially if you have zero office experience. In fact, if that were the case, this would be the perfect place to get your feet wet.
In my case, besides being at the reception desk and answering phones all day, the rest is so mundane it feels like a slow suicide. It's like deciding to commit hari cari in slow motion. You decide where you want to insert the knife and then start the process of pushing it in...slooooooowwwwly, bit by bit, inch by inch, every day. Death by boredom.
The folks that work there are very nice, so it's not a matter of not being in good company. They're appreciative, friendly, easy going....you know. I'm sure your getting the picture. I've had several of the principal people, including the owner, come up to me and tell me how good I am and today I overhead a client talking to the owner saying "is she the one who's answering the phones now? She's excellent". Now while all that is flattering, and all, I'm still bored outta my skull.
So yesterday the young gal who I've replaced comes down to tell me that the word is, when the other girl who's on maternity leave returns, they're gonna give her a chance but as soon as she's late 3 times, that's it. She's getting the axe. She's says "that way you can come back and have the job". I'm smiling at her and wondering if I should tell her how much I despise the job, laugh or cry. First of all folks, I got news for you; I don't like this job and for someone who's bilingual, it sure isn't paying what bilingual pays....or does it? Now a days who knows.
I only know this: I'm bored and after I'm done being bored, I move on to bored only to be followed by bored which always ends with bored. What happened to the days when I actually had to think at work. Where it took research or imagination to complete a job. Instead I'm filling orders for 3 cans of coffee, 2 cans of cream and 4 boxes of sugar. Lord be with me now!
Today was a special treat. I got my first request to fill a large envelope with splenda and then I got to type five tabs for a binder. I was on a roll. You shoulda seen the sweat on my brow. Ok, enough of the gripe session. Monday's another day. Another day closer to this job ending that is.
Did I say thank you Jesus for giving me a job with a check at the end of the week?
In my case, besides being at the reception desk and answering phones all day, the rest is so mundane it feels like a slow suicide. It's like deciding to commit hari cari in slow motion. You decide where you want to insert the knife and then start the process of pushing it in...slooooooowwwwly, bit by bit, inch by inch, every day. Death by boredom.
The folks that work there are very nice, so it's not a matter of not being in good company. They're appreciative, friendly, easy going....you know. I'm sure your getting the picture. I've had several of the principal people, including the owner, come up to me and tell me how good I am and today I overhead a client talking to the owner saying "is she the one who's answering the phones now? She's excellent". Now while all that is flattering, and all, I'm still bored outta my skull.
So yesterday the young gal who I've replaced comes down to tell me that the word is, when the other girl who's on maternity leave returns, they're gonna give her a chance but as soon as she's late 3 times, that's it. She's getting the axe. She's says "that way you can come back and have the job". I'm smiling at her and wondering if I should tell her how much I despise the job, laugh or cry. First of all folks, I got news for you; I don't like this job and for someone who's bilingual, it sure isn't paying what bilingual pays....or does it? Now a days who knows.
I only know this: I'm bored and after I'm done being bored, I move on to bored only to be followed by bored which always ends with bored. What happened to the days when I actually had to think at work. Where it took research or imagination to complete a job. Instead I'm filling orders for 3 cans of coffee, 2 cans of cream and 4 boxes of sugar. Lord be with me now!
Today was a special treat. I got my first request to fill a large envelope with splenda and then I got to type five tabs for a binder. I was on a roll. You shoulda seen the sweat on my brow. Ok, enough of the gripe session. Monday's another day. Another day closer to this job ending that is.
Did I say thank you Jesus for giving me a job with a check at the end of the week?
If you haven't tried it, think twice before you do.
I'm gonna tell you a little secret that kinda makes me sick....I've been playing a game on my phone. AHHH, I know, I know. It's so childish but I can't seem to stop.
This whole thing started about a month ago when I found myself alone and very, very angry. I won't tell you what I was so angry about but I will tell you that I wanted to escape. So, being the ever clever person that I am, I closed the bedroom door and went out on the back patio through the slideing door in my room, pulled up a chair and sat there. Boy I'm good.
Time passed and I was still angry. I started thinking "who can I call?". I looked at the time and saw that it was 12:59 a.m. Not to worry, it was a Friday night so I didn't have to get up for work, church or a meeting. Nothing on the books for the next morning but too late to call anyone. Now I'm really pissy. Is that a bad word, pissy? Well, if it is, I apologize but I was getting pissy, bad word or not.
The longer I sat there the p...ier I got (does that make it any better?). I look at my phone again and it's 1:05 a.m. It felt like 25 minutes already but it's only six. About this time I start talking to the dogs cause they're sitting there looking at me like it's story time or something. Whada they think? I'm gonna entertain them. I thought dogs were supposed to have this instinct that told them when to run like heck cause they're owner is in a p...y mood. Mine must be dumb cause they just sat there looking at me. I tried growling at them and all they did was that thing dogs do...tilt the head, arch the eyebrow...did they growl back? No. They just sat there. Penny tried looking away but she couldn't help herself, she did that head turned eyes still looking at you until the whites of her eyes were showing...now how often do you see the whites of a dogs eyes?
Two minutes pass and after shussssing the dogs away (no, they didn't leave), I take out my phone again. I'm desperate for something to do so I open a game "BrickBreaker"....That STUPID, STUPID game. At first I lose within the first 3 minutes which does not help my mood. But fool that I am, I keep trying. I mean what the heck else am I gonna do at that hour, right? So I play until I can't take it anymore, I'm exhausted. I need sleep. I need water. I need to go to the toitoi. It's rediculous. I'm playing a game on my phone. I'm 54 years old, playing a game on my phone at 2 o'clock in the morning.
You think that's the end of the story, don't you. Wrong! Today at lunch, I take a ... well, what else? A lunch break...see what these games do to your brain. So I take a break and you know what I did, don't you? I took the phone out and opened the game. Why? WHY? I'm telling myself, this is good eye/hand coordination practice. This is to give me patience. This is so I can learn to challenge myself.......This is DUMB! I'm like a drug addict looking for excuses to play this stupid thing.
What has happened to me. I used to be a woman people respected. I was someone. I coulda been a contenda! Look at me...I'm a washed up, no good pissy woman. There. I've said it. I always wondered what it meant "you have to reach bottom before you can wanna change". I think I understand now, I just can't figure out what kind of treatment center to check myself in to. All I know is, if I don't do something soon, I might be tempted to try a new game. What will become of me then. Who will raise my kids.
I'm gonna go see if I can find a church that never closes. The only way out is God. Pray people. Start one of those chain emails asking for prayer on my behalf. I can tell the road ahead will not be an easy one but I'm gonna be alright. And just a word of advise, If you haven't tried playing games on your phone, don't start now. Life is too short.
This whole thing started about a month ago when I found myself alone and very, very angry. I won't tell you what I was so angry about but I will tell you that I wanted to escape. So, being the ever clever person that I am, I closed the bedroom door and went out on the back patio through the slideing door in my room, pulled up a chair and sat there. Boy I'm good.
Time passed and I was still angry. I started thinking "who can I call?". I looked at the time and saw that it was 12:59 a.m. Not to worry, it was a Friday night so I didn't have to get up for work, church or a meeting. Nothing on the books for the next morning but too late to call anyone. Now I'm really pissy. Is that a bad word, pissy? Well, if it is, I apologize but I was getting pissy, bad word or not.
The longer I sat there the p...ier I got (does that make it any better?). I look at my phone again and it's 1:05 a.m. It felt like 25 minutes already but it's only six. About this time I start talking to the dogs cause they're sitting there looking at me like it's story time or something. Whada they think? I'm gonna entertain them. I thought dogs were supposed to have this instinct that told them when to run like heck cause they're owner is in a p...y mood. Mine must be dumb cause they just sat there looking at me. I tried growling at them and all they did was that thing dogs do...tilt the head, arch the eyebrow...did they growl back? No. They just sat there. Penny tried looking away but she couldn't help herself, she did that head turned eyes still looking at you until the whites of her eyes were showing...now how often do you see the whites of a dogs eyes?
Two minutes pass and after shussssing the dogs away (no, they didn't leave), I take out my phone again. I'm desperate for something to do so I open a game "BrickBreaker"....That STUPID, STUPID game. At first I lose within the first 3 minutes which does not help my mood. But fool that I am, I keep trying. I mean what the heck else am I gonna do at that hour, right? So I play until I can't take it anymore, I'm exhausted. I need sleep. I need water. I need to go to the toitoi. It's rediculous. I'm playing a game on my phone. I'm 54 years old, playing a game on my phone at 2 o'clock in the morning.
You think that's the end of the story, don't you. Wrong! Today at lunch, I take a ... well, what else? A lunch break...see what these games do to your brain. So I take a break and you know what I did, don't you? I took the phone out and opened the game. Why? WHY? I'm telling myself, this is good eye/hand coordination practice. This is to give me patience. This is so I can learn to challenge myself.......This is DUMB! I'm like a drug addict looking for excuses to play this stupid thing.
What has happened to me. I used to be a woman people respected. I was someone. I coulda been a contenda! Look at me...I'm a washed up, no good pissy woman. There. I've said it. I always wondered what it meant "you have to reach bottom before you can wanna change". I think I understand now, I just can't figure out what kind of treatment center to check myself in to. All I know is, if I don't do something soon, I might be tempted to try a new game. What will become of me then. Who will raise my kids.
I'm gonna go see if I can find a church that never closes. The only way out is God. Pray people. Start one of those chain emails asking for prayer on my behalf. I can tell the road ahead will not be an easy one but I'm gonna be alright. And just a word of advise, If you haven't tried playing games on your phone, don't start now. Life is too short.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Wake up AND open your eyes people
I just finished reading my friend Bunny's blog Rude Awakening and it totally reminded me of an incident that occurred when Jenifer started 6th grade, or middle school, about 9 or 10 years ago. Whoaaa...
Wait a minute! How can that be.............
Back to subject: The first week of middle school there's a mandatory parent meeting to familiarize both parent and child with school policies, classroom etiquette and various other topics, one of which is school uniforms. We live in a school district that believes in kids wearing uniforms, which I personally agree with. One reason I'm in agreement is the cost factor. I typically would buy the girls a combination of pants, skirt or skorts along with 4 to 5 tops so that we only have to wash one a week. I would say it's not because I'm lazy, but if I expect my children not to lie.....
The second reason I'm in agreement is that I've read studies that have shown how kids in school districts where uniforms are worn tend to do better in school as the focus is less on what they're wearing and more on what they're learning. I like it. I believe it, and I want that for my kids.
So there we are, Jenifer and I, at this meeting where we're both excited and nervous because she's so young and already starting middle school. It's bad enough our kids are exposed to far more than we'd like without forcing them to join an "older" group of kids before they're ready. And in my opinion a sixth grader isn't ready. I will say that I've always tried to instill wisdom and fear of their mother and father in them ;-).
No, I'm not kidding. Wisdom to know when to say no and fear as a double check.
During the meeting the Teachers and Principal cover a range of subjects and then as a last note turn to the policies regarding mandatory uniforms. One parent who has been sitting quietly throughout the entire hour suddenly decides to speak up. The conversation goes something like this:
Parent Question: Why do the kids have to wear uniforms
School Rep Response: It's mandatory in this district
Parent Question: Can I sign a waiver so that my child can wear whatever she wants
School Rep Response: Yes you can but we'd prefer that all children wear the uniform
Parent Question: I don't understand why they have to wear a uniform. The high school is in the same district and they don't have to wear uniforms
School Rep Response: I understand. I believe they feel high school children should be able to choose appropriate clothing to wear to school
Parent Question: Then why can't our children wear what they want? I don't want to go out and buy uniforms. They're ugly.
School Rep Response: There are several stores selling uniforms in the area. I'm sure you can find one she'll like that will be appropriate.
Parent Comment: Well, have you seen how some of those high schoolers dress? It's terrible that they can wear whatever they want. They should be wearing uniforms.
At this point my sixth grader looks at me and says "Mom, isn't that the same lady that just said she doesn't think kids should have to wear uniforms?" Now I ask you, if a parent sits and argues with school authority while they're child is present, what message is the child being sent? And secondly, this parent doesn't' even have the sense to form an opinion and stick with it.
So we wonder what's happening to our children and why the lack of respect for adults and the "system". I'll tell you what's happening to children: Parents. Parents who haven't' enough sense to understand that the schools and it's teachers are on the childs side. These same parents are the ones who go into our workforce and cause trouble amongst their co-workers because they want the world to revolve around them and when it doesn't, someone is gonna pay. They spread the bug of complaint, the virus of discontentment and the disease of gossip.
These are the people who have the first voice in their childs behavior, lives and future. How do you open the eyes of one who is so intent on keeping them closed? How?
Wait a minute! How can that be.............
Back to subject: The first week of middle school there's a mandatory parent meeting to familiarize both parent and child with school policies, classroom etiquette and various other topics, one of which is school uniforms. We live in a school district that believes in kids wearing uniforms, which I personally agree with. One reason I'm in agreement is the cost factor. I typically would buy the girls a combination of pants, skirt or skorts along with 4 to 5 tops so that we only have to wash one a week. I would say it's not because I'm lazy, but if I expect my children not to lie.....
The second reason I'm in agreement is that I've read studies that have shown how kids in school districts where uniforms are worn tend to do better in school as the focus is less on what they're wearing and more on what they're learning. I like it. I believe it, and I want that for my kids.
So there we are, Jenifer and I, at this meeting where we're both excited and nervous because she's so young and already starting middle school. It's bad enough our kids are exposed to far more than we'd like without forcing them to join an "older" group of kids before they're ready. And in my opinion a sixth grader isn't ready. I will say that I've always tried to instill wisdom and fear of their mother and father in them ;-).
No, I'm not kidding. Wisdom to know when to say no and fear as a double check.
During the meeting the Teachers and Principal cover a range of subjects and then as a last note turn to the policies regarding mandatory uniforms. One parent who has been sitting quietly throughout the entire hour suddenly decides to speak up. The conversation goes something like this:
Parent Question: Why do the kids have to wear uniforms
School Rep Response: It's mandatory in this district
Parent Question: Can I sign a waiver so that my child can wear whatever she wants
School Rep Response: Yes you can but we'd prefer that all children wear the uniform
Parent Question: I don't understand why they have to wear a uniform. The high school is in the same district and they don't have to wear uniforms
School Rep Response: I understand. I believe they feel high school children should be able to choose appropriate clothing to wear to school
Parent Question: Then why can't our children wear what they want? I don't want to go out and buy uniforms. They're ugly.
School Rep Response: There are several stores selling uniforms in the area. I'm sure you can find one she'll like that will be appropriate.
Parent Comment: Well, have you seen how some of those high schoolers dress? It's terrible that they can wear whatever they want. They should be wearing uniforms.
At this point my sixth grader looks at me and says "Mom, isn't that the same lady that just said she doesn't think kids should have to wear uniforms?" Now I ask you, if a parent sits and argues with school authority while they're child is present, what message is the child being sent? And secondly, this parent doesn't' even have the sense to form an opinion and stick with it.
So we wonder what's happening to our children and why the lack of respect for adults and the "system". I'll tell you what's happening to children: Parents. Parents who haven't' enough sense to understand that the schools and it's teachers are on the childs side. These same parents are the ones who go into our workforce and cause trouble amongst their co-workers because they want the world to revolve around them and when it doesn't, someone is gonna pay. They spread the bug of complaint, the virus of discontentment and the disease of gossip.
These are the people who have the first voice in their childs behavior, lives and future. How do you open the eyes of one who is so intent on keeping them closed? How?
Monday, September 14, 2009
1979 ~ The year of two heads and lots of other unusual stuff
In 1979 I was lucky enough to be cast in a show that would allow me to travel throughout the Orient. My character had no lines and was inconsequential as far as I was concerned but I didn't feel in the least bit slighted, I got to travel either way.
Including the director, I believe there were 13 of us in the group; my cousin being one of them. How cool is that, I was able to travel with my cousin and now that I think of it, she actually was cast in the part I auditioned for. I never felt bad that she won the part because she captured the character of the Raven so much better than I did.
Our tour started in Japan and then we went on to Korea, Okinawa, Guam and the Philippines. As it turned out, there was some kind of mix up in our first stop, Japan, so we weren't scheduled to perform the first few days. It was wonderful. I'd traveled outside of the U.S. before but never to a country that didn't speak either English or Spanish so it was a challenge.
The beauty of eating in Japan is that the restaurants have little plastic food bowls in the windows so you can see what they serve and decide before going inside if they offer what you want to eat or not. I'd never seen anything like it and found it quite entertaining.
Our first evening there we were taken to a traditional Japanese restaurant where we sat on the floor and were served saki and the whole enchilada....ok, no enchilada but you get my drift. I recall sitting on my legs and thinking the evening might never end, wondering; How the heck do these people sit on their legs so long without them falling asleep. It's got to be one of the most uncomfortable things any adult human would want to do while eating. Maybe if your a fly weight, it doesn't effect you, but if your of any normal size...and I probably only weighed 120 at the time, it feels as if you'll never walk again. First you try to lean to one side by slowly shifting, hoping no one will notice and think you're wimping out. Then you shift to the other side always with a beautiful smile on your face which is actually a grimace because you've just rolled over your ankle bone and are not sure if the grinding you hear is because you've just broken your bones or maybe you're putting them back in place. And heaven forbid everyone else do this at the same time because if they do the whole group will look as if they're out at sea.
And while you're trying to sit there, looking as graceful as one possible can while being tortured, you're also learning to use chopsticks. I recall a deep desire to yell out....Porque Jesus, porque (and that movie wasn't even out yet). At some point I looked around to see if maybe it was just me, and it was. Everyone seemed to be oblivious to the pain I was suffering. Maybe they were better at bone crushing than I or maybe they were throwing down far more saki than I was aware of, I'm not sure. I only know it was a loooong evening. One that gave me a sincere respect for the culture.
And as if sitting on your legs for dinner isn't enough, you need to see how the Japanese wait for the bus because again, these people are either very creative or very lazy. I still have not come to any conclusion as to which but picture this if you will. Your in a bus and as you come to a stop you see a group of people stand. Normal. Nothing out of the ordinary until you notice there was no bench. Odd. Next bus stop, same thing....people sitting waiting for a bus, the bus approaches, they stand and board the bus. Now I'm not one to cause a scene but I'm beginning to think I'm hallucinating. As we travel along, I'm thinking next stop I want answers, does the bench lower into the side walk, is it clear plastic, just what am I missing? We drive to the next stop and I finally get a clear picture. These people are not sitting on anything, they're squatting. Yeah, squatting like....squatting. I don't know about you but if I squat like that for 30 seconds, much less wait a good ten minutes at a bus stop, I can promise you I'm probably gonna take down the person next to me trying to get up. I just can't handle that stuff. And I won't even get into the issue of how they use the restroom because I'd rather not go into detail except to say that when you're out in the middle of no where and the bus pulls over to use a Japanese toilet, before squatting, check carefully for spiders. End of subject; I'm moving on.
Our last stop on the tour was the Philippines. Besides the fact that I was sick most of our time there, I really enjoyed the Philippines. What's that you ask? Why was I sick? Ahhhh, now there's a story.....
We stayed at some very lovely places, one of which was a hotel on the beach. Sadly, we arrived late in the afternoon. We were tired and ran up to check into our rooms, not able to enjoy the beach at all, as I recall.
I was scheduled to room with Cynthia. We ran into our room and as I turned to look at the beds I noticed a cockroach about the size of a fully grown, 1,000 year old desert turtle on the pillow of one of the beds. I quickly ran to the other bed, threw my stuff on it and said in the sweetest, didn't see a thing voice "that bed is yours". I can still remember the look of terror on Cynthia's face as she screamed. Then and there we knew it would be a sleepless night. We paced the floor together wondering what we could possibly do to escape the creature. Neither she or I could come up with a solution so she immediately called for room service and ordered two beers (I was not drinking at the time). Within no time room service appeared and as we answered the door to our salvation, over the head of the bell hop flew in what looked like two dive bombers on a mission to destroy. And destroy is what they did. Cynthia and I were sure we would die. In a panic we grabbed the drinks and ran out the door directly behind our bell hop leaving him to think he'd done something wrong but we didn't care, if we wanted to live through the night, we had to leave the room then and there. We ran to the patio to have our drink in peace. To our surprise, just about everyone else in our group was already down there with the same dilemma, same solution; drunkenness feels no pain. We all laughed and drank until the deadly hour when we needed to return to our rooms.
Cynthia and I were in luck. The boys had had just enough beer that they were feeling very heroic. They offered to walk us up and check on the beasts for us before retiring to their own hell.
Before we could walk in the room, the boys removed their shoes. Aha, they were thinking, they weren't the young, dumb, boys I thought them to be after all, these were men. Men's men. We opened the door, turned on the light and there before us was an army in it's entirety. The cockroaches were out in full force and they were determined to take over our room before dawn. Our men's men turned into screaming girls....opening closet doors and slamming anything that moved with their shoes all the while yelling "die you gravy sucking pig". They turned up mattresses and pulled back covers until they could no longer take it. Our men flew out of the room and down the hall to their own quarters where we could hear them squealing and pounding their shoes long into the night. By morning I was so sick from Ulcer pain and lack of sleep, I wondered if I would ever recover.
And just one more horror story...Korea. Korea in itself wasn't a horror unless you consider the night we spent in a hotel on the economy. We checked in, as we would any other hotel. I was lucky enough to be scheduled to room with my cousin, Anita. Happily we found our room and began to settle in for the night. Within a few minutes there was a scratching on the walls. We both froze and looked at each other wondering what it might be. It took little time before we realized we had company and they weren't of the human kind. Ohhh, no. Our visitors had four legs and a long skinny tail. Our initial thoughts of showering were quickly put to bed as neither of us had any intention of slipping one toe onto the floor unless it was in clear daylight. Somehow we managed to fall asleep but not without fear on our minds. When morning came, we were up and ready to go probably faster than any other day of that tour.
We moseyed our way down to the lobby where we'd been told to meet the night before. And as we arrived we found one of our group members sleeping on a love seat. He looked terrible from lack of sleep. We asked what had happened and he nearly broke down in tears as he described his escape from hell. Apparently he too heard the scratching on the walls. It became impossible for him to sleep so he decided he would leave the room. As he walked out he was followed by one of the same furry type creatures that kept us company, but this one followed him all the way down the stairs to the lobby where it ran up on the desk where the attendant was fast asleep. The attendant of course went undisturbed the entire night. Needless to say, we carried more baggage that day than any other as every single one of us had bags under our eyes.
All in all, it was a wonderful tour.....by the way, did I tell you about the unexpected, loud rumbling we experienced our first night in Korea? I think I should save it. You might get the wrong idea and think our tour was terrible.
I really don't want to close on a bad note so I thought I'd include a picture of two of the main characters out of the musical we performed through out our tour. In 1979 performing in the Robber Bridegroom, two heads were better than one.
Scott Anderson and Robb Tracy
Including the director, I believe there were 13 of us in the group; my cousin being one of them. How cool is that, I was able to travel with my cousin and now that I think of it, she actually was cast in the part I auditioned for. I never felt bad that she won the part because she captured the character of the Raven so much better than I did.
Our tour started in Japan and then we went on to Korea, Okinawa, Guam and the Philippines. As it turned out, there was some kind of mix up in our first stop, Japan, so we weren't scheduled to perform the first few days. It was wonderful. I'd traveled outside of the U.S. before but never to a country that didn't speak either English or Spanish so it was a challenge.
The beauty of eating in Japan is that the restaurants have little plastic food bowls in the windows so you can see what they serve and decide before going inside if they offer what you want to eat or not. I'd never seen anything like it and found it quite entertaining.
Our first evening there we were taken to a traditional Japanese restaurant where we sat on the floor and were served saki and the whole enchilada....ok, no enchilada but you get my drift. I recall sitting on my legs and thinking the evening might never end, wondering; How the heck do these people sit on their legs so long without them falling asleep. It's got to be one of the most uncomfortable things any adult human would want to do while eating. Maybe if your a fly weight, it doesn't effect you, but if your of any normal size...and I probably only weighed 120 at the time, it feels as if you'll never walk again. First you try to lean to one side by slowly shifting, hoping no one will notice and think you're wimping out. Then you shift to the other side always with a beautiful smile on your face which is actually a grimace because you've just rolled over your ankle bone and are not sure if the grinding you hear is because you've just broken your bones or maybe you're putting them back in place. And heaven forbid everyone else do this at the same time because if they do the whole group will look as if they're out at sea.
And while you're trying to sit there, looking as graceful as one possible can while being tortured, you're also learning to use chopsticks. I recall a deep desire to yell out....Porque Jesus, porque (and that movie wasn't even out yet). At some point I looked around to see if maybe it was just me, and it was. Everyone seemed to be oblivious to the pain I was suffering. Maybe they were better at bone crushing than I or maybe they were throwing down far more saki than I was aware of, I'm not sure. I only know it was a loooong evening. One that gave me a sincere respect for the culture.
And as if sitting on your legs for dinner isn't enough, you need to see how the Japanese wait for the bus because again, these people are either very creative or very lazy. I still have not come to any conclusion as to which but picture this if you will. Your in a bus and as you come to a stop you see a group of people stand. Normal. Nothing out of the ordinary until you notice there was no bench. Odd. Next bus stop, same thing....people sitting waiting for a bus, the bus approaches, they stand and board the bus. Now I'm not one to cause a scene but I'm beginning to think I'm hallucinating. As we travel along, I'm thinking next stop I want answers, does the bench lower into the side walk, is it clear plastic, just what am I missing? We drive to the next stop and I finally get a clear picture. These people are not sitting on anything, they're squatting. Yeah, squatting like....squatting. I don't know about you but if I squat like that for 30 seconds, much less wait a good ten minutes at a bus stop, I can promise you I'm probably gonna take down the person next to me trying to get up. I just can't handle that stuff. And I won't even get into the issue of how they use the restroom because I'd rather not go into detail except to say that when you're out in the middle of no where and the bus pulls over to use a Japanese toilet, before squatting, check carefully for spiders. End of subject; I'm moving on.
Our last stop on the tour was the Philippines. Besides the fact that I was sick most of our time there, I really enjoyed the Philippines. What's that you ask? Why was I sick? Ahhhh, now there's a story.....
We stayed at some very lovely places, one of which was a hotel on the beach. Sadly, we arrived late in the afternoon. We were tired and ran up to check into our rooms, not able to enjoy the beach at all, as I recall.
I was scheduled to room with Cynthia. We ran into our room and as I turned to look at the beds I noticed a cockroach about the size of a fully grown, 1,000 year old desert turtle on the pillow of one of the beds. I quickly ran to the other bed, threw my stuff on it and said in the sweetest, didn't see a thing voice "that bed is yours". I can still remember the look of terror on Cynthia's face as she screamed. Then and there we knew it would be a sleepless night. We paced the floor together wondering what we could possibly do to escape the creature. Neither she or I could come up with a solution so she immediately called for room service and ordered two beers (I was not drinking at the time). Within no time room service appeared and as we answered the door to our salvation, over the head of the bell hop flew in what looked like two dive bombers on a mission to destroy. And destroy is what they did. Cynthia and I were sure we would die. In a panic we grabbed the drinks and ran out the door directly behind our bell hop leaving him to think he'd done something wrong but we didn't care, if we wanted to live through the night, we had to leave the room then and there. We ran to the patio to have our drink in peace. To our surprise, just about everyone else in our group was already down there with the same dilemma, same solution; drunkenness feels no pain. We all laughed and drank until the deadly hour when we needed to return to our rooms.
Cynthia and I were in luck. The boys had had just enough beer that they were feeling very heroic. They offered to walk us up and check on the beasts for us before retiring to their own hell.
Before we could walk in the room, the boys removed their shoes. Aha, they were thinking, they weren't the young, dumb, boys I thought them to be after all, these were men. Men's men. We opened the door, turned on the light and there before us was an army in it's entirety. The cockroaches were out in full force and they were determined to take over our room before dawn. Our men's men turned into screaming girls....opening closet doors and slamming anything that moved with their shoes all the while yelling "die you gravy sucking pig". They turned up mattresses and pulled back covers until they could no longer take it. Our men flew out of the room and down the hall to their own quarters where we could hear them squealing and pounding their shoes long into the night. By morning I was so sick from Ulcer pain and lack of sleep, I wondered if I would ever recover.
And just one more horror story...Korea. Korea in itself wasn't a horror unless you consider the night we spent in a hotel on the economy. We checked in, as we would any other hotel. I was lucky enough to be scheduled to room with my cousin, Anita. Happily we found our room and began to settle in for the night. Within a few minutes there was a scratching on the walls. We both froze and looked at each other wondering what it might be. It took little time before we realized we had company and they weren't of the human kind. Ohhh, no. Our visitors had four legs and a long skinny tail. Our initial thoughts of showering were quickly put to bed as neither of us had any intention of slipping one toe onto the floor unless it was in clear daylight. Somehow we managed to fall asleep but not without fear on our minds. When morning came, we were up and ready to go probably faster than any other day of that tour.
We moseyed our way down to the lobby where we'd been told to meet the night before. And as we arrived we found one of our group members sleeping on a love seat. He looked terrible from lack of sleep. We asked what had happened and he nearly broke down in tears as he described his escape from hell. Apparently he too heard the scratching on the walls. It became impossible for him to sleep so he decided he would leave the room. As he walked out he was followed by one of the same furry type creatures that kept us company, but this one followed him all the way down the stairs to the lobby where it ran up on the desk where the attendant was fast asleep. The attendant of course went undisturbed the entire night. Needless to say, we carried more baggage that day than any other as every single one of us had bags under our eyes.
All in all, it was a wonderful tour.....by the way, did I tell you about the unexpected, loud rumbling we experienced our first night in Korea? I think I should save it. You might get the wrong idea and think our tour was terrible.
I really don't want to close on a bad note so I thought I'd include a picture of two of the main characters out of the musical we performed through out our tour. In 1979 performing in the Robber Bridegroom, two heads were better than one.
Scott Anderson and Robb Tracy
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Not to worry....
I didn't throw ice cold water on him and I didn't kill him. I tried words of kindness again. It may work, and it may not. Only time will tell.
I just wanted you to know that I won't be thrown in the clinker and you won't have to attend the funeral of a young man who's yet to live out his dreams.
All I can say is...he's one lucky kid.
I just wanted you to know that I won't be thrown in the clinker and you won't have to attend the funeral of a young man who's yet to live out his dreams.
All I can say is...he's one lucky kid.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Money doesn't grow on trees....I know cause my mom told me so
So, I've told you how I haven't been working and how tough it's been financially. AND I've told you that I'm now working at a temp job that pays little but little is better than nothing. And yes, although you can't hear it, I can. The air conditioner is running in the studio. And guess what?.....I'm giving you time....give up? My son just walked out of the studio locked the door and went to bed. Once again he's left the air on. Maybe he's just feeling sorry for the crickets in the studio and wants to give them a comfortable place to chirp...
Maybe since the air has been running all day, or at least since he got home from school at about 11:00 this morning he thinks he may as well leave it on until he goes out there again tomorrow sometime so it'll be really, really, really cold and he won't have to even think about the heat.
Do you think he'll help me with some money? Hmmmm. Seeing as how he isn't working right now, it's not too likely.
I hate to sound like a cry baby about spending money on the air, but holy! What can I do to get this guy to understand that when you use the air all day, or when the room is lucky enough to stay cool all night even when the temp has dropped and there will probably be icicles on the equipment....MONEY IS BEING WASTED!
I hate being the wicked stepmother but maybe I should wait until he falls into a deep REM sleep and starts with the dreams and rapid, low-voltage brain waves, irregular breathing and heart rate and involuntary muscle jerks I'll go pour a bucket of iced water on him so tomorrow he won't feel the heat and need the air on!
Ok, now I sound like the wicked stepmother, don't I? I'm about to go tell him "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times...." or maybe I should say "do you think money grows on trees?".
I'm gonna go out there and turn it off because I'm kind. No other reason. I'm kind right now that it's way, way past my bedtime. But it won't last because when I get up in the morning and I'm really tired because I was up doing God knows what and writing on my blog, I'm gonna kill him! Dead! He's gonna wonder what it was that slammed him on the head and then, and only then will he start to catch on that I can get mean and ugly when I have to.
I gotta go.....I'm gonna throw on that video that teaches women how to attack men that do dumb things and I happen to think it's in the studio where I can practice without any unsuspecting man watching me.
Maybe since the air has been running all day, or at least since he got home from school at about 11:00 this morning he thinks he may as well leave it on until he goes out there again tomorrow sometime so it'll be really, really, really cold and he won't have to even think about the heat.
Do you think he'll help me with some money? Hmmmm. Seeing as how he isn't working right now, it's not too likely.
I hate to sound like a cry baby about spending money on the air, but holy! What can I do to get this guy to understand that when you use the air all day, or when the room is lucky enough to stay cool all night even when the temp has dropped and there will probably be icicles on the equipment....MONEY IS BEING WASTED!
I hate being the wicked stepmother but maybe I should wait until he falls into a deep REM sleep and starts with the dreams and rapid, low-voltage brain waves, irregular breathing and heart rate and involuntary muscle jerks I'll go pour a bucket of iced water on him so tomorrow he won't feel the heat and need the air on!
Ok, now I sound like the wicked stepmother, don't I? I'm about to go tell him "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times...." or maybe I should say "do you think money grows on trees?".
I'm gonna go out there and turn it off because I'm kind. No other reason. I'm kind right now that it's way, way past my bedtime. But it won't last because when I get up in the morning and I'm really tired because I was up doing God knows what and writing on my blog, I'm gonna kill him! Dead! He's gonna wonder what it was that slammed him on the head and then, and only then will he start to catch on that I can get mean and ugly when I have to.
I gotta go.....I'm gonna throw on that video that teaches women how to attack men that do dumb things and I happen to think it's in the studio where I can practice without any unsuspecting man watching me.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Lousey Memory
Why is it I can't remember lyrics? I remember a time when I could and it doesn't seem I could have done all those musicals unless I could. I'm not sure if it's just an age thing, laziness, or the lack of desire to remember.
Years ago when I was doing musicals I had no choice but to lock the lyrics into my memory. Can you imagine singing a song and forgetting what it is your supposed to say. You can't fake it in front of an audience unless they're totally unfamiliar with the musical and even then, it's just a little difficult to get through West Side Story, for instance, by singing "I feel hmm hmmm, oh so hmm hmmm". Or even "I could have hmmmmmmed all night". Just wouldn't work. Someone would eventually catch on.
I do remember doing Chapter Two with a fever so high I was delirious. I had so many quick changes that each night I had two people back stage helping me change clothes. One of which was a guy. Of course, he wasn't in the least bit interested in seeing me in my underwear so I didn't mind but that night I ended up on stage with my buttons done wrong.
One scene in Chapter Two was a two way telephone conversation. I was on one side of the stage and the guy calling me was on the other side. As each of us would pick up the phone the others side of the stage would dim slightly. It was a series of calls so on the first call I picked up the phone and had a brief conversation, hung up and as I turned to walk away, the phone rang again. I turned back and answered as was scripted to do, everything normal there. I hung up, the phone rang again so I answered. As the dialog was written during this last call I was to say good-bye and hang up but because I was sick, I forgot to hang up. The poor guy on the other line kept saying things to get me to hang up, because he was stuck holding the line...I was totally oblivious and the light crew didn't know what the heck to do. I stood there in silence until I heard a rather strong whisper from back stage saying "hang up the phone", which I did rather promptly. I recall standing there wondering where the heck I was.
Somehow or another, it all worked out and I was able to get through the remainder of the show slightly sweaty but with full memory of where I should be and what I should say and got rave reviews. When I saw my leading man backstage after the show he looked as if he would like to kill me but instead he asked how I was doing. There were only four people in the cast and I managed to get the other 3 sick. None were as bad as I was but they would have liked to kill me anyway.
So if I managed to get through a show with high fever and a few crocked buttons, how on earth is it, I have trouble remembering my lines?
I know people who memorize lines for a show and 10 years later still recall total monologues. I do a show and 10 minutes after it closes I couldn't tell you one line much less a monologue.
I sing at church every Sunday and use music to get through the songs. Sad as it is, I still have trouble with lyrics. But why? I seriously do not understand. I'd blame it on my age but geez, I'm not that old, or am I? I try with everything in me to sing with all my heart and full understanding and really have a difficult time singing songs I don't like because it's too hard to express myself if I don't like the song.
There's got to be a trick to memorizing that I'm just missing. If you know what it is, let me know. I still think you can teach an old dog new tricks and I'm willing.
Years ago when I was doing musicals I had no choice but to lock the lyrics into my memory. Can you imagine singing a song and forgetting what it is your supposed to say. You can't fake it in front of an audience unless they're totally unfamiliar with the musical and even then, it's just a little difficult to get through West Side Story, for instance, by singing "I feel hmm hmmm, oh so hmm hmmm". Or even "I could have hmmmmmmed all night". Just wouldn't work. Someone would eventually catch on.
I do remember doing Chapter Two with a fever so high I was delirious. I had so many quick changes that each night I had two people back stage helping me change clothes. One of which was a guy. Of course, he wasn't in the least bit interested in seeing me in my underwear so I didn't mind but that night I ended up on stage with my buttons done wrong.
One scene in Chapter Two was a two way telephone conversation. I was on one side of the stage and the guy calling me was on the other side. As each of us would pick up the phone the others side of the stage would dim slightly. It was a series of calls so on the first call I picked up the phone and had a brief conversation, hung up and as I turned to walk away, the phone rang again. I turned back and answered as was scripted to do, everything normal there. I hung up, the phone rang again so I answered. As the dialog was written during this last call I was to say good-bye and hang up but because I was sick, I forgot to hang up. The poor guy on the other line kept saying things to get me to hang up, because he was stuck holding the line...I was totally oblivious and the light crew didn't know what the heck to do. I stood there in silence until I heard a rather strong whisper from back stage saying "hang up the phone", which I did rather promptly. I recall standing there wondering where the heck I was.
Somehow or another, it all worked out and I was able to get through the remainder of the show slightly sweaty but with full memory of where I should be and what I should say and got rave reviews. When I saw my leading man backstage after the show he looked as if he would like to kill me but instead he asked how I was doing. There were only four people in the cast and I managed to get the other 3 sick. None were as bad as I was but they would have liked to kill me anyway.
So if I managed to get through a show with high fever and a few crocked buttons, how on earth is it, I have trouble remembering my lines?
I know people who memorize lines for a show and 10 years later still recall total monologues. I do a show and 10 minutes after it closes I couldn't tell you one line much less a monologue.
I sing at church every Sunday and use music to get through the songs. Sad as it is, I still have trouble with lyrics. But why? I seriously do not understand. I'd blame it on my age but geez, I'm not that old, or am I? I try with everything in me to sing with all my heart and full understanding and really have a difficult time singing songs I don't like because it's too hard to express myself if I don't like the song.
There's got to be a trick to memorizing that I'm just missing. If you know what it is, let me know. I still think you can teach an old dog new tricks and I'm willing.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Ferdinand the Bull
One of my favorite stories from childhood is Ferdinand the Bull (The Story of Ferdinand). I remember sitting on the living room floor for hours, not only reading and looking at the pictures but listening to the 45rpm, record that came with the book. I absolutely loved his story of Ferdinand the little bull who just wanted to live a peaceful life, smelling flowers and laying under the tree. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with the bull ring even if that stinky old bee did bite him in the bahooty.
Years ago when my girls were little I decided I just had to read this story to them. Of course, my original copy and the 45 had been thrown out long before and I couldn't find a current copy. I began the search of finding a copy probably more to fill my own reminiscent need more than anything but because this little story made such an impact on me, I was sure my kids would reap the same pleasure. I looked on line, asked friends and made phone calls only to find that any available copy was priced high enough to afford me a closet full of clothes. After many weeks of searching, I finally dropped the dream of finding the book as a friend of mine at work told me that she too was unable to find anything but the collectors copies which of course were ridiculously priced.
One day while shopping at Costco, about five years ago, I came across a copy. UNBELIEVABLE! I was excited beyond words but somehow managed to keep my emotions at a minimum, until I reached the car that is. I could not wait to get home. Sitting there in the car I opened the book and read the story. Believe it or not, I still could not wait to get to each new page. I might mention that the book was not the original "Reading Railroad" size because it was a special edition copy about 22"x34".
So there I was in the drivers seat struggling to turn the pages without knocking the glasses off my nose or worse yet, getting a paper cut on my face, legs or arms. The president himself could have knocked on the car window and I probably would have asked him to wait until I was done "sorry, Mr. President, I'm in the middle of something of high importance". Finding this book, was just as important as finding the Titanic as far as I was concerned.
I got the book home and attempted to show my girls who took it with a grain of salt. What do they know, they're young! I tried reading it to them, right then and there. I put the book on the kitchen table and made every effort to draw them into the images before them. Nope. Nothing. Maybe a little fake excitement for my benefit but overall, they felt nothing.
So for the time being Fernie sits up in the closet, probably collecting a little dust and bored out of his witts until perhaps a grand baby comes along. I'm praying that that won't be anytime soon.
Years ago when my girls were little I decided I just had to read this story to them. Of course, my original copy and the 45 had been thrown out long before and I couldn't find a current copy. I began the search of finding a copy probably more to fill my own reminiscent need more than anything but because this little story made such an impact on me, I was sure my kids would reap the same pleasure. I looked on line, asked friends and made phone calls only to find that any available copy was priced high enough to afford me a closet full of clothes. After many weeks of searching, I finally dropped the dream of finding the book as a friend of mine at work told me that she too was unable to find anything but the collectors copies which of course were ridiculously priced.
One day while shopping at Costco, about five years ago, I came across a copy. UNBELIEVABLE! I was excited beyond words but somehow managed to keep my emotions at a minimum, until I reached the car that is. I could not wait to get home. Sitting there in the car I opened the book and read the story. Believe it or not, I still could not wait to get to each new page. I might mention that the book was not the original "Reading Railroad" size because it was a special edition copy about 22"x34".
So there I was in the drivers seat struggling to turn the pages without knocking the glasses off my nose or worse yet, getting a paper cut on my face, legs or arms. The president himself could have knocked on the car window and I probably would have asked him to wait until I was done "sorry, Mr. President, I'm in the middle of something of high importance". Finding this book, was just as important as finding the Titanic as far as I was concerned.
I got the book home and attempted to show my girls who took it with a grain of salt. What do they know, they're young! I tried reading it to them, right then and there. I put the book on the kitchen table and made every effort to draw them into the images before them. Nope. Nothing. Maybe a little fake excitement for my benefit but overall, they felt nothing.
So for the time being Fernie sits up in the closet, probably collecting a little dust and bored out of his witts until perhaps a grand baby comes along. I'm praying that that won't be anytime soon.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Deal with it!
Well, I'm back at work....sort of. I took a temp job making peanuts for pay but it's 3 months steady work and considering I probably will not get unemployment, being underpaid is better than not getting paid at all. I must tell myself this in order to believe it so if you tell me too, maybe, just maybe, I'll start to believing it.
I'd rather not mention the company name but its a job working in the city of Vernon, another not so lovely part of this job. There's a stench that goes along with the location, like none other and if it happens to be hot out, well, you can believe the odor will increase to a sometimes nearly gagging odor.
Over the years I've grown to enjoy time alone during lunch. I'm not anti-social by any means but, it seems that it's one of the only times I can spend time alone, besides a time like this when I'm writing and the fact that even if I did want to spend time with co-workers, for the job I'm filling, I'm forced to take lunch alone anyway.
So today, I thought it being cooler outside than the last few days, I'd spend some time in the car in the shade of a tree, reading. It sounded like an excellent idea and the car was cool enough to actually sit in and still be able to breath without feeling like I was suffocating but Lordy, the smell of something far worse than cheap perfume, was unbearable.
Have you ever driven by a location where there is stagnent water and it's like driving through a vat of hard boiled eggs? Well, let's multiply that a couple a dozen times. Of course the benefit to working in a smelly part of town is that you grow to appreciate clean air or so I keep telling myself because truth be know, I'm not sure there is a benefit.
So if your out there and you happen upon my blog, please, please, please, if you have any secrets that might help, share oh please dear God, share. I can only apply so much cologne and wearing nose plugs, besides being unattractive, just wouldn't go over well while working with the public. I've considered the 'ol clothes hanger on the nose, but totally hate the idea of having the indentations left at the end of the day. I'd stick kleenex up my nose but I'm afraid not everyone was raised with an Aunt Camille who thinks it's perferctly normal to shove kleenex up your nose and then leave it there for all to see. Where's your sense of humor people?!
Until I get some input from you all, I'll be forced to deal with the stink and pray that it doesn't penetrate my clothing and take a free ride home with me to be enjoyed by my family. Until then, I piddie da foo who has to sit next to me at the dinner table if I don't have time to shower and change before we dine.
Patiently awaiting your suggestions,
Marie
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
It's late, but I can't sleep. Everyone is either out or asleep. What to do, what to do.....
Why not write, I ask myself. No answer. In fact, my brain is a little tired and empty....can your brain be empty? Maybe not but sometimes it feels that way. But I'd like to write...its just that sometimes when I start writing and I don't have anything in particular in mind, which is most of the time, I write strange things. I don't suppose it matters if it's strange or not since my blog is mostly for me. I don't think many people read it anyway.I wonder what people do think of me if they happen to stumble across my blog. Outside of the few people whom I know read my blog, how many actually "stumble" across it?
You know, if this is my therapy, and it seems to be, maybe I should be paying myself. After all, if I had a therapist, I'd have to pay, wouldn't I. So then the question is, how much? Let's just say I'd pay a therapist $50 an hour (determined by my gross income which at this particular time is nill), do I give myself a discount? Can I pay once a month or do I have to pay on the spot or worse yet, up front. Can I write a check or does it have to be cash at the time of service? Is that all I'm worth, $50?
If I am self therapizing, should I lay down on a couch while I write? That would make it difficult to type............If I can lay down and type, I think I deserve to be paid more because typing in a position that is not all that easy, is an art. With that in mind, my fee just went up to $75 and since I'm worth more, I should be able to provide myself with better results. I should be stress and worry free for that kind of money!
Maybe I'll stand and write...........no, that would cause stress to my body and then I'd have to give myself a massage. If I self therapize and then follow up with a massage, I should be making at least $150 and hour. I'm getting expensive!
Am I ripping myself off? If I'm not getting answers and I still need a massage afterward $150 and hour is quite high, don't you think. But then again, where else could I go for therapy AND a massage for $150 especially at this time of night? No where. I'd better pay myself more because I'm making myself available at a time no one else would even care. Geez, I'm affordable, I provide extra perks and I'm available at all hours of the night. What more could I ask for!
Well, if you'll excuse me, I have a client to see... Let's see..... ahhh....Marie. How are you? Lay down right here and talk to me. You can tell me anything, the confidentiality in this place is better than any other. Now, before we go too far, can you make that check out to M A R I E B O Z A and just so you know, there's a $25 charge for returned checks.............
Why not write, I ask myself. No answer. In fact, my brain is a little tired and empty....can your brain be empty? Maybe not but sometimes it feels that way. But I'd like to write...its just that sometimes when I start writing and I don't have anything in particular in mind, which is most of the time, I write strange things. I don't suppose it matters if it's strange or not since my blog is mostly for me. I don't think many people read it anyway.I wonder what people do think of me if they happen to stumble across my blog. Outside of the few people whom I know read my blog, how many actually "stumble" across it?
You know, if this is my therapy, and it seems to be, maybe I should be paying myself. After all, if I had a therapist, I'd have to pay, wouldn't I. So then the question is, how much? Let's just say I'd pay a therapist $50 an hour (determined by my gross income which at this particular time is nill), do I give myself a discount? Can I pay once a month or do I have to pay on the spot or worse yet, up front. Can I write a check or does it have to be cash at the time of service? Is that all I'm worth, $50?
If I am self therapizing, should I lay down on a couch while I write? That would make it difficult to type............If I can lay down and type, I think I deserve to be paid more because typing in a position that is not all that easy, is an art. With that in mind, my fee just went up to $75 and since I'm worth more, I should be able to provide myself with better results. I should be stress and worry free for that kind of money!
Maybe I'll stand and write...........no, that would cause stress to my body and then I'd have to give myself a massage. If I self therapize and then follow up with a massage, I should be making at least $150 and hour. I'm getting expensive!
Am I ripping myself off? If I'm not getting answers and I still need a massage afterward $150 and hour is quite high, don't you think. But then again, where else could I go for therapy AND a massage for $150 especially at this time of night? No where. I'd better pay myself more because I'm making myself available at a time no one else would even care. Geez, I'm affordable, I provide extra perks and I'm available at all hours of the night. What more could I ask for!
Well, if you'll excuse me, I have a client to see... Let's see..... ahhh....Marie. How are you? Lay down right here and talk to me. You can tell me anything, the confidentiality in this place is better than any other. Now, before we go too far, can you make that check out to M A R I E B O Z A and just so you know, there's a $25 charge for returned checks.............
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