hate crimes, post shooting

Two Orthodox Jews were shot in their respective legs as they tried to attend a morning prayer service at their North Hollywood synagogue. The wounds weren't life threatening and both men will live, certainly with emotional scars as one was carted off to Providence Holy Cross Medical Center and the other to Valley Presbyterian Hospital.

11:29 AM

spam does not always speak the truth

Whores will stay with you all night long with your new python.

Whores are not easily impressed.

We know how to steal your pain and illnesses.

Only if it's attached to your identity.

Forget about dictionaries we offer soft in different languages.

This one is true.

12:53 PM

research body parts

I was cut by a piece of steel. The upside is that it's a clean cut, but it was deep-ish and bled long enough for me to get the earthquake kit/Kermit band-aids. (I didn't replenish the kit, but I did put back the flashlight and Maker's Mark.) The cut is no big deal; it's not like I'm the first person to take a shank to the knee during sex and I'm certainly not the first to write about it.

One of the girls told me about raw shea butter a while back, so I got in on a group purchase. The look alone was enough to keep the container untouched for months:




A few weeks ago, I ran out of lotion and used the butter instead. That was it: I have used it every day since. It's not super user friendly, so I take a chunk and smush it around the inside of the container's top. One chunk usually lasts me about a week, so I think the container is going to make it into spring.

The girls said it was a cure-all, but Oprah hasn't done a show on raw shea butter, so I was more nodding my head while planning my weekend than paying attention. One said it got rid of her stretch marks, but I don't have stretch marks. If I had kids I don't think I'd have time to write about sex shanking and African treatments via Amazon. When they said it got rid of scars, I stopped planning dinner in my head and started listening.

Day 1:



I've started applying heavy doses of the raw shea butter, approximately every five hours, to my enormous war wound. The only thing I've noticed (on day 1) is that it's not really scabbing over even though it's closing up.

I'll let you know how it goes.



Day 1 Blooper Reel:

"Hey! Whatcha doin'?"

3:01 PM

growing up weird

My oldest sister, a high school freshman at the time, was not taking the separation of our parents particularly well. She wanted to live with our father, who wanted us to live with our mother, who wanted us to live with our father, our aunt, the homeless guy who hung out by the liquor store or maybe a nice Amish family who could dress us in pilgrim-like outfits and teach us how to make bonnets. Had someone not tipped her off to Rumspringa, we'd probably be teaching you how to churn butter.

I quickly realized that working our parents against each other was the fastest way to get what you wanted, so the divorce didn't seem all together bad. With the parental team, you had a better chance of death by shark attack than getting to stay out past seven, but, separated, you might get to spend the night at the friend’s house whose parents were heathens that fed their children ice cream and called it "dinner." If you brought home a B and told Father that Mother's antics caused you stress and less study time you would get sympathy and not grounded. He would then call our mother and a fight over grades would turn into a fight over Cheryl or Susan or whomever our father was dating at the time, making our mother forget who had piano lessons and who was due at the ice rink, never mind that you brought home something less than an A. With five girls, a dog and a soon to be ex-husband who was dating graduate students, you could get away with almost anything as long as there was no blood trail. For a ten-year-old, it was like having my own apartment.

My oldest sister didn't see any of the positives, but, instead, focused on the lack of attention directed towards her. She was not enjoying the freedom that accompanied divorce, but wallowed in the fact that she now had two bedrooms instead of one. One parent's admiration seemed useless and didn't provide the just amount of shine on her achievements. She was artless when being introduced to Stacy, a TA our father was dating, asking, "Are you eligible to vote?" rather than opting for the ceremonial handshake.

I decided she was playing the divorce all wrong and distanced myself from her in order to keep my new, fashionable apartment-like lifestyle afloat. It was a few months later when I noticed my oldest sister was never anywhere without her Shaun Cassidy backpack. She wore it constantly, even sleeping with it strapped to her back. She would threaten our mother and father with the very existence of the backpack, but no one had any idea what was inside. All we knew was what she threatens us with: it was enough to get her to NY City or Montréal in style, where children had boundaries and adults weren't so self-centered and dysfunctional.

In the spring of that year, my oldest sister performed at the graduation ceremony of our father's university. She was an accomplished piano player, having toured with the London Symphony Orchestra for three summers, and was the youngest person to perform a solo at the prestigious university. She practiced for weeks, committing every note of the Concerto in A minor to memory. When it was time for her solo, our parents, on either sides of the auditorium, commenced The Clapping War. It seemed that whoever clapped the loudest was the parent which most inspired and nurtured their daughter's talents. The clapping stopped when their daughter took center stage wearing a black dress and patent leather Mary Janes, accented with a Shaun Cassidy backpack.

When, two years ago, I found that very same backpack on eBay and sent it to my sister for her fortieth birthday, she was not so appreciative. She did not deny owning one in the past, but did not understand what would drive me to make the purchase. As quickly as it appeared, the Shaun Cassidy backpack was never seen again. I still think she buried it in the backyard or sent it off to Australia to live with relatives. I had no idea what was in that backpack. I imagined wads of money rolled up in rubber bands, a compass, some toothpaste, a map of every major city in the US and Canada, a pet rock and maybe a mood ring. As an adult, I've asked my oldest sister numerous times what was in that backpack, but she always tells me she's busy and that if I had kids I'd understand.

Yesterday, for my birthday, my sister sent a gift bag full of weirdly unrelated objects. They included four Kit Kat bars; a blush brush, blue eye shadow and an eyelash curler; a polka dotted two-piece swimsuit; two tampons; a pair of flip-flops and a printed image of a Tiger Beat magazine with Leif Garrett and Shaun Cassidy on the cover.

4:26 PM

things that scare me more than the pork belly flu:

The vaccine. Not on it's own, but getting it from a seasoned German woman who is taking 70 plus years of frustration out on my minuscule muscle makes me want to scream. Now.

Hard "news" shows that report on the mishaps/life of Lindsay Lohan.

Lindsay Lohan.

My brokerage account.

The noise my refrigerator makes when I want ice.

Bird poop on or around door handles.

She by Sheree.

Waking the beast.

The fact that construction guys don't whistle at me anymore nor do they tell me the things they want to do to me, which I'm only familiar with because of gay porn. Now it's just gardeners. I guess the plus side- for my ego- is, in this economy, there are more employed gardeners than construction workers.

My retirement plans, which now include making gloves in China, because the cost of living is so much lower there.

People in their 20's calling me "ma'am."

2:38 PM

the oc (don't say that)

I was informed by a friend of an employee that, if I hire her, I will be employing every black girl in Orange County.

Three.

12:27 PM

he watches...

When I'm home, Research Kitten can't stand to be separated from me for even a second. He follows me around the house as if I were his drug dealer: into the kitchen, into the washroom (so I can practice being the Singing Black Oprah) and into the shower. He tried climbing up my arm and even jumped right into my face, almost causing me to lose an eyeball to one of his extra nails, when I gave him a bath, but he follows me into the shower every morning. It turns out he's not bothered by water as long as he's not the focus of the shower. If I leave his line of sight, he whines as if someone were peeling back his skin with a pencil.



I can't imagine what he's like when I'm not home. His first week with me, I'd come home and open the door to find him arched and ready to attack. It took a second for him to realize it was me and then he was OK. Now, when I get home, he's waiting and jumps all over me the second I walk in the door.

"OH MY GOD! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? There was this noise a few hours ago and I couldn't figure out what it was. Then? Then there was a motorcycle and then a car and then an SUV and then the dog downstairs started barking and then someone walked down the hall, but it wasn't you, and then the trash got picked up by some really noisy beast of a thing and then these birds were landing on the deck just praying I couldn't get through the screen and then that lady walked her basset hound past the house AGAIN just to piss me off and someone was playing tennis, but I couldn't reach the balls. YOU MISSED IT!"

4:14 PM

redundancy leads to penetration

I'm going to tell you what I would tell Twitter (if we were talking):

I could not take my eyes off a man walking down the street. I kept watching, or maybe "staring," because he was walking like a woman, if she were trying to imitate a man. His gait was heavily exaggerated, his back arched even more than Ice's before he left the shower area (in undeniable disgust) and his arms were so far off his sides he looked like a pissed off Gibbon monkey. Or maybe his muscles are so big that his monkey like arms have to hang that far off his body. I don't know. I wish I had taken a video, because I want to watch it again. Now. I miss him.

And Facebook? Someone I work with is a totally self-absorbed ass. He thinks he's the shit- I just don't know what "the" means.

12:19 PM

amendment

I'm going to run the business like a car wash: we close if it rains.

8:44 AM

wednesday

Someone called this morning asking for help with their computer. I get this call about every two months, so I didn't bother asking what the problem might be. It's usually something like a deleted shortcut on the desktop which makes them think THE PROGRAM HAS DISAPPEARED!

Today it was google. This (well educated and professional) person thought they had clicked something or downloaded a virus that somehow ruined google. Know why?



"There are just lines where google used to be! What happened?! Can you get it back?"

3:15 PM

iphones are so dreadful

You don't think I update enough? HUH? You dare me to update now? I laugh at your silly threats! I am just drunk enough to make
this work. HAAHAHAHAAAaAAHAHAHAAAAA!

(Sorry. They dared me and I am such a child- who was not hugged enough. I'll tell you all about it when I see you.)

HAAHAaAAAHAhAHAAAHAAHA.

(aardvarks are so underrated.)

11:49 PM