The bathroom conspiracy

So, yesterday? Remember the problem I had? Particularly exacerbated by the difficulty I had getting into the ladies room? Well, the plot thickens.

For the entire school term last year, we were waiting for our rooms to be re-keyed. All doors were redone to be handicap accessible, but all doors then had the same "builder's" key or "contract" key. That's because although the district contracted out for new doors, they forgot to add that we needed each to have a different lock. So, we had to have our district locksmith do it. As every school in the district (all seven) had the same work done, and each school has over 100 doors, and as we have only one locksmith, we knew it would take a while. An entire school year we didn't expect, but we waited it out.

Until the new keys came, we didn't have a key for the locker hall doors to get to the staff bathroom. We lived with it, because we knew, of course, that when the locksmith got around to re-keying the doors, he'd do the locker hall ones too. Besides, we would wedge the door open a bit anyway, so we wouldn't have to run around to the other side. Most of the time this worked.

One day, I went to the doors, and they were no longer wedged open. In addition, there was no way to keep the door unlatched; it automatically locked from our side when closed. From there on, I ran around the back of the building, went in the OPEN doors on that side, and came back out of the original doors, only one door away from my room. That was more of a bother, but not impossible.

Then yesterday came. When the elementary teacher said she didn't have a key to the locker hall doors on her side, I didn't question it, since I didn't have one for the ones on my side. Even though we finally got our new locks, and I now have one individual to my room, the lock on the other doors hasn't changed.

Come to find out that it's not that she didn't just have a key. They are trying to keep our junior high teachers out of the bathroom! Really. See, I may have mentioned that our supply budget has been cut by 40%. This, we are told, is due to the raise we fought so hard to get last year (which was only what the cost of living increase was, which was determined by and sent to our district by the state board of Education. Meaning, that the money had been sent down anyway. Our local school board is now just punishing us).

Toilet paper, paper towels and handsoap are part of those supplies. We get our money, and the elementary school gets their money. We have our custodians, they have their custodians. Actually, there is one custodian that we share as well. Anyway, from what I heard, the junior high custodians "borrow" the supplies from the elementary school supply closet, and don't replace what they take. That's got the elementary secretary all up in arms. Even though we are supposed to share the staff bathroom, she feels that they're paying to keep it stocked, therefore we, the junior high teachers, should not be allowed to use it.

Oh. My. God.

This is what I'm reduced to. Fighting over the right to use a spare square of toilet paper. Fighting for the right to use the bathroom during one of the three 4-minute breaks I get between 8:30 and Noon. Fighting to stay somewhat close to my classroom, as the next staff bathroom is at the front of the school, inside the main office.

This is such malarky.

I'm a professional, I have a Master's degree, I'm trusted with people's cherished children.

Yet I'm kept from using the toilet over a few bucks.

Sometimes I just want to throw my hands up in the air in disgust.

I didn't wear my "first day of school" dress today

And it's a good thing I didn't. I've worn the same pale green, Liz Claiborne dress for the last 8 years on the first day. It's what I call a magic dress; it always fits, can go to a wedding, the first day of school, graduation day, a job interview, and it's made out of Polyester. That means I can put it in the washer and dryer. I try not to buy clothes anymore that can't go in the washer and dryer. However, dresses are tricky that way. Hard to find in the first place, and then, ones that are decent looking are often made of something that either has to be dry-cleaned or ironed. Both of which are undesirable.

However. I didn't wear the magic dress, because it's been stinkin' hot, and Polyester and sweat just don't mix. I wore a pink polo shirt from Target, and a cute black cotton skirt I got on sale at Sears. I know, Sears? Yep. Every once in a while I find a little gem there.

So anyway, I'm at school, all ready to go, and first period goes well. An honors class, lovely students if a little noisy; there's one boy in particular that I'm already worried about, but we will see. Then second period. My reading class. There are some knuckleheads in here, and a few cuties. One in particular that I just want to pat on the head. A little seventh grader with glasses and a small voice. Oh what a sweetheart he is.

About 25 minutes into the class, I feel a warmth spread in my... ahem...lower region. It was not a pleasant moment. More of a "holy crap" moment.

See, I started my period this weekend. No biggie, right? Wrong.

(PSA: if you are grossed out by the wondrous workings of the female body, and what it does every month, bummer. You won't want to read any more of this. Now go get over yourself.)

I had the tampon, I had the little panty liner. I had the panties (god, I hate the word "panty." It sounds nasty. Just the sound of it. Ick. I had the underwear on). I even had a short/slip thing, called a "petti-pant" to wear under my skirt.

Nope, that flow of mine just gushed on through. Think of the overly-nourished child I might give birth to if it actually wasn't leaving my body and instead was headed to a little goober inside. Wow. This happens sometimes to me, but usually in the morning. Right when I sit up, blammo. Yes, it has happened once when I was...um... not alone. All over his new Ralph Lauren sheets.

Now that was embarrassing.

Back to this morning. I made it to the end of second period, and ran out the door. We have 4 minutes between classes, and I had to shut the door to my classroom, even as third period students were starting to come in. I can't let them in my classroom without an adult present.
"Sorry, sorry you guys, I gotta go, nature calls, you know, be right back!"

Not the best way to meet my new pupils, but oh well.

I race around the back of the school. See, there is a staff bathroom two doors down from my room, but I can't get in that way. It's inside the doors of an old locker hall that's not used by kids anymore. Last year we got all the doors of our classrooms re-keyed, but not the locker hall doors. Our old keys would open those doors, but we had to turn our old keys in. Which means no one can open those damn locker hall doors from my side of the building.

At the back of the building, the other side, I can usually get in, because the locker hall doors are usually open over there (there's an elementary school there that shares our campus).

Not today. Both of the doors on that side are locked as well. Their kids are in the yard there, having recess, so I ask one of the teachers to lend me her key.
"I'm sorry, I don't have a key."
"uh, okay. It's kinda an emergency (and remember, I only have 4 minutes)."
"Well, you can use the kid's bathroom."
Great. I run in there, all sweaty by now, and go into one of the mini stalls, and sit on the micro toilet. I pull down my pants.

Again, HOLY CRAP.

It looks like someone got shot in my underwear. I clean up best as I can, do what I need to do, flush, wash my hands, and run back to my room.

Good thing my skirt was black.


And welcome back to school.

The doggie trail near the beach 

Just as I predicted; hotter than the hinges of Hell

Good God.

It's evil I tell you, evil.

Started yesterday. Everyone's in their rooms, moving furniture around, getting their overheads and class sets of books from the library on carts, and we realize, IT'S HOT. Sweat-dripping-down-our-faces-and-every-crevice-in-our-bodies hot.

So, Michelle and I went on our walk around 4:15. Problem was, it was half an hour after high tide. Very high tide. 5.07 feet high tide. Which meant we couldn't walk on the off-leash beach, because it gets cut off when the tide gets up to 4 feet or so. Rats. We knew the beach would be the coolest place, so we just went down to the walk near the harbor instead. I forgot for a moment just who the heck we were walking with. Michelle doesn't just stroll along, and feels for a good walk, we need to go to at least Ventura and back. Really. We had walked about a mile when I asked,
"So, where are we going for Happy Hour?"
"Oh, I thought we'd go to the Casa Cabo San Lucas."

Okay. The place she was talking about was at least another 2 miles away. Remember my dog has 6 inch legs, and it's about 300 degrees outside. Also, I'm a lazy wanker.

"I don't think Charlie can make it that far. I don't want to walk that far."
"Let's go to the Beer Barrel instead."
So we walk only a mile to that place. Charlie's tongue is hanging out. Not only hanging out, but hanging out on the side, which means he's really pooped. We had to sit outside so he could stay with us, and the only table left was without an umbrella. Whatever. I was just happy to sit down.

Now this is the good part. I've been there for dinner a couple of times, and the food's good, but the service is very s-l-o-w. It can also get very loud in there. However, happy hour was a different story. $3 glasses of wine (good wine, local wine from Santa Ynez) $3 pints of beer they make on site, and, the best... homemade potato chips with melted Gorganzola.

Oh.
My.
Goodness.

They were fabulous. More than fabulous. I love cheese. I love potatoes. This was heaven. Perhaps a little warmer than heaven, but heaven all the same. Made up for the fact that they had just run out of the wheat beer. I got a red one instead. It was a good way to end the day, and even with leaving a 35% tip, it was only $15. I'm going back there any time I can.

But.

Last night was brutal. Tried to go to sleep at 10, but kept tossing and turning. At 3, I got up, opened the front door and closed the screen, and slept on the couch for about an hour. Finally got back into bed and woke up at 6 anyway. Was out to walk Charlie with Katrina and her dog Jelly by 7:30am, and knew it was going to be a hot one today. See, when the fog has burned off that early, and you are at the beach here in my town, it's a tip off that things are going to get sticky. And they did, and they are.

The Santa Ana winds picked up briefly, but have died down again. I spent most of my day at La Cumbre Plaza, in air-conditioned stores, feeling comfortable but bitter that large women basically have to chose between track suits and tunics for fashion these days. I still have a fucking waist, people! Why, oh why, does going over size 14 mean I have turned into a weeble?Why the hell would I want a top that cuts me off right at the widest portion of my body? Why?

On a happier note, I finally got my check for Young Writer's Camp. I finished work on the 29th of July. It took almost a full month, a longer amount of time than what I actually worked, to get the darn thing.

Whatever, it's here, and another bill can be paid in full.

Cheers.

The last day to get ready

Went back to school last night and was there until eight or so. I was up on my ladder, hot glue gunning my posters to the walls. My staple gun jammed.

See, we got a great new paint job last summer in our classrooms, but nothing sticks to it. All last year I tried; masking tape, regular tape, double-sided tape, painter's tape, Duct tape, that gummy stuff that is supposed to stick to everything... nothing worked on the paint. Oh, I forgot to say that three of my four walls are cinderblock. I can use my staple gun on the forth wall (well, until it jammed yesterday), but the cinderblock was a puzzle.

Today is the day we post our students' first period classes on the auditorium windows at four o' clock. Everyone tries to get the hell out of dodge by three thirty, because it's a mad rush of parents and students. MAD rush. And of course, they all want to walk down to the room, and peek in the window of their child's first period class room. Where, I have been caught, years past, dirty, dusty and cranky, trying to finish up what I needed to do. Which, as you can imagine, is rather difficult with several parents just wanting to "tell you about my wonderful son/daughter." I know they're proud and excited; so am I. But at the end of today, I'm not ready to be meeting parents.

So, Michelle and I are going to go and walk Charlie, and go to happy hour. How much you want to bet that Donald will be there?

Just sayin.

And some people call me messy?

I've been told I'm a bit of a pack rat. Having seen this, I beg to differ.

Just when you thought you figured it out

My dad finally wrote back to me. I thought he was being silent for the last two months, but he had been out of town and then his computer died. He hadn't seen any of my emails until today.

He was very apologetic, not only for not getting back to me, but also for forgetting my birthday.

He wrote "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" at the beginning, and "love you, love you, love you" at the end.

I'm crying again.

stress pains

I'm such a wimp. Give me a little stress, and my body falls apart. Two days ago it was one of my famous torso aches, yesterday a migraine that even Vicodin couldn't touch. Pain is supposed to have a purpose; your arm hurts, you move it away from the hot stove. Your foot hurts? You take it off the red ant hill. But this is just nonsense pain.

Even the Thai Sunset picture didn't work.

The headache is now gone, but the stomache ache is lurking. Right now it just feels as if I was kicked by a horse yesterday. It gets worse.

I don't think I'll be writing any long posts for the next few days. I'm overwhelmed with what I have to get done. I get home at night and just want to crash. Yesterday I just wanted to go to sleep and get away from the headache. Not a lot of productivity.

It will all be fine once I get into the swing of things.

Sorry I'm not so peppy this morning.

Department meeting all morning today

Should be loads of fun.
Really.
I mean it.

Why don't you believe me?

Anyway, got some fabulous news yesterday; the VP, who I thought was leaving for greener pastures, has decided to stay. I teared up when I heard it. Huge sigh of happiness and relief. See, he's this great guy, who also keeps our Principal level-headed. The kids love him, teachers love him, parents mostly love him (some parents just can't be pleased).

And, I have three Honors classes. I wasn't expecting that. Maybe two, but three? Yahoo! I get to spend less time disciplining, and more time with the kids, helping them learn.

And... the furniture was finally put back into place. I think Roger was bitter about it, but it was moved.

I gotta go.

Good bye Summer, I loved ye so

Tomorrow morning I will get up, probably around 6:00 or so. This is not unusual; I'm an early riser.

However, it will be different. I won't putter around, make a cup of tea with cinnamon toast, I won't get dressed in my sweats and take Charlie to the beach. I probably won't even get on line.

Nope, I'll do none of these things. I will be racing around, as I will for the next nine months of mornings, trying to get my ass out the door and to school.

I will take a shower, try to dress pleasingly, maybe even apply make up. I will take Charlie-boy on a minimal circuit of the neighborhood, before I look for my keys, turn off the curling iron, and sprint out the door, looking at the clock or my watch every 2 minutes.

Tomorrow is the District-wide meeting. We all gather in one of the high school auditoriums, and listen to "key note speakers" who are supposed to amp us up for the school year. All we really want to do is get into our classrooms and get to work.

Not like we already haven't been. I was in my classroom for about 5 hours today. I went in around 11am, and surprise, surprise, the furniture in my room is still piled up in the corner. Three weeks ago I began asking that it be moved back; at the very least, could they get the heavy stuff? Dell, the gardener, told me the guys had gone to lunch when I went to the custodians office. Friday, he told me they were at a meeting. What gives? So I went to the local (read only) educational supply store in town, and spent $32 on paper and borders for my bulletin boards. No, I don't HAVE to spend my own money, but I do. We all do. Paper on the boards isn't a necessary thing, but we will hear about it if they look shabby. Which mine did.

Also went to Staples and got a memory card for my camera. It now will hold over 300 pictures. When I'll ever have the need to store that many in my camera, I don't know, but if I want to, I can. I think I'll pictures of my students this year, and post them up in the room. Up high where they can't be easily defaced (we are talking 13-year-olds here).

I went back to school at around 1pm, and boom, there was Zach and Roger, the custodians, driving by in their little golf cart.
" Hey you guys, are you here to help me?"
"Help you do what?"
"Uh, you know, move my furniture back? I talked to you about it a couple of weeks ago, and... I thought ...well, I talked to Dave...uh"
"Oh you know Ms. S., we're pretty busy today. This is my first day back [which is why the hell I asked him to put the furniture back a week before he went on vacation], and we're uh... kinda busy"
"No shit."

Okay, so I didn't really say that last thing. Out loud anyway. I did say,

"Yeah, I know you're busy, but I can't move some of the things. They're just too heavy for me."
"Could we get to it tomorrow? Do you need it done now?"
"Of course I fucking need it done now! Why have I asked you at least 6 times over the course of the last god damn three weeks, if I didn't need it done now?"

(You're right, I didn't say that either.)

I basically just looked at them. And they drove off. Weakling, I'm a weakling, I know. But I don't want to piss them off either. Ever had a trash can full of old lunch items that hasn't been thrown out for a few days? An open trash can? A large one? It's very stinky.

So, they are going to "help me tomorrow." I'll be at the stupid district meeting until Noon, then 70 teachers will be on campus at our school tomorrow, all needing "help" with something.

What can I do? It will get done.

I finished the bulletin boards, set up my computer, and got my supplies a bit in order. It did take a good chunk of time to get the boards done. Much longer than I thought, and I had a staple gun. Black boards with a "readers are the future" border on one side, and blue boards with an 80's kinda multi-colored brush stroke border on the other.

Oh, and I got my schedule. Not too bad, except my prep is 6th period. Not 5th period, which is right after lunch. I won't do library lunch duty this year because of it. I can't teach four straight classes, then the library, then 5th period. No way. And, I've already said I'm not interested in teaching the zero-period study hall for failing students. I taught that last year, and while it's very good money, it's mind-numbing. And, teaching that would mean I'd be going straight through, with only four, 4-minute breaks from 7:40am to Noon. Nope. Ain't gonna happen.

I'd rather just tighten the belt a bit.

How to give away the rest of your day

So, we went out this morning at 10am to see the USS Reagan. A huge construction it is. look closely towards the right of the thing; that's a pretty darn big yacht. The warship is 20 stories high, and each link on its anchor chain is 6 feet long and weighs almost a ton.

About 5 years ago, a friend came out to visit at the same time the USS Lincoln was in our harbor. On a lark we hopped on the water taxi and went out for a tour. It was pretty interesting, but it was also pre-9/11. Meaning that there was no checking of ID, or signing away your life, or signing up days or weeks in advance to go see it. We also got to see much more of the ship than is allowed these days. I have pictures of that time somewhere. Maybe I'll post them when I find them.

All the sailors and officers that were in town this weekend (6000 on leave) were well behaved, friendly and polite. Young men in their dress whites, and those hats that always make me think of the magic kingdom, walked up and down State Street. Drinking too much perhaps, but still.

When I think of how much good can come of military service for some; a good education, discipline, career training, a sense of pride; I wonder how many would give all that up, not to have to fight a war that doesn't seem to have an end in sight. How many have to live with the horror of what they have seen and done for the rest of their lives for signing up when they did. How many will spend their days trying to get VA benefits (which our esteemed president has seen fit to cut) because they can't work because of their injuries.

How many of them have wives, husbands, families at home that are living hand to mouth because they aren't able to get their paychecks to them? Right now there are about 1800 dead and 10,000 wounded. How about their futures? Their families?

I'm tired of the far right conservative mouthpieces that throw out the word "unpatriotic" any time someone questions what we are doing. Cindy Sheehan? Oh, she's "treasonous" because she wants an answer, and is willing to demonstrate her desire for that answer by camping out in front of Bush's home. That is, until she went home because her mother had a stroke. I'm sure Rush will say that Cindy caused it somehow.

Here's a local example. The city charges a 10% tax on any out of town boat that docks in our waters. This covers the water taxis, increased security if needed, extra sewage removal, etc. We would have received about $20,000 from the USS Reagan. Well, the Navy League here petitioned the City Council to have the tax waived. Some members of the City Council, including our mayor, balked at this.

Well. You would have thought she (our mayor) was assisting Bin Laden herself! She was an "unpatriotic bitch" among other things according to people who inundated her email in-box with hateful words. The city council voted and guess what? Our town just lost $20,000. How is that helping anyone?

Now, after this has been done, the Navy League revealed that Dr. Laura, (Yes, the Doctor Laura, who happens to live part time here) had donated $30,000 recently to cover the costs of the Big Bad Boat docking here. It was all a publicity smear. We have city elections in November, and the conservatives in our town don't like the former teacher as our mayor.

What happened to just being honest?

Oh yeah, I forgot for a moment who our role models are.

amazing moon, limited camera

You can't tell at all, but this is a picture taken of the gorgeous harvest full moon. It was a sepia-toned brown, and looked like it wanted to fill the sky.

I'm sorry it's not as wonderful here. This is the best out of 11 pictures I took, messing with all the settings, trying to get a good one. What can you expect from a starter camera?

I went to a party tonight at Julie and Woody's. They bought a great ranch house up in the hills, and this was their house warming party. It was catered, a pretty well-known local band played, and there were lots of people there. I've been looking forward to it for a couple of weeks.

I just didn't have that great of a time. I don't really know why. I chatted with several folks, caught up, laughed a little bit, ate great Mexican food that was cooked in front of me (oh gosh, the best pork tacos I've ever had in my life) had a couple of margaritas...yet I was, dare I say it? Kind of bored. Maybe I'm getting old, maybe I'm getting cantankerous in my old age.

(now I'm fucking annoyed. Once again, Blogger has eaten part of my post. I even thought I was being smart, copying part of it to Word. But, not the 4 paragraphs I wrote after this. God Damn it to Hell. I don't have Word 2000, so I can't load that new blogger tool bar thingie so this won't happen again. And "Recover post"? that's just bullshit window dressing. It didn't recover shit.)

So, being the proactive woman I am, I asked myself, Becky, what would have made this party less dull for you?

Well, for one thing, some conversation. All niceties and small talk. Where So and So bought her daughter's back to school shoes, and how the USS Reagan (a MASSIVE warship) is docked off our shore, so lots of sailors are in town getting drunk this weekend just don't interest me. No conversation about what that big boat was created for, or any comments about the two nuclear reactors that power the ship, and will for the next 20 years.

Have I become unable to just have fun? I don't think so. None of my really good friends were there, and I had to edit myself; you know, when you want to point out or say something funny, but you aren't sure how the others will take it, so you clam up?

Everyone there was nice, pleasant. Maybe that was it. I am somewhat stumped.

And now I'm tired. I had two margaritas and a glass of red wine, and we're going out tomorrow on Ralph's boat to see the "vessel of destruction" as I like to call it. We have to keep at least 500 feet away at all times, but maybe tomorrow I can make snide remarks. In any case, going out on the water is always fun. Maybe we'll see dolphins.

Dolphins never bore me.

Grumbles

Still not interested in posting too much. I don't know why. I haven't done the thing like tornwordo; writing everyday, but still, I don't skip more than a day or two at a time.

Today was the last week day that Charlie and I will be able to go to the beach early in the morning. I go back to school next week, and the kids come back the week after that. Summer's over as far as I'm concerned.

It's been the foggiest August that I can remember. I don't really mind, but I'm hoping that September won't be horrifically hot. It probably will, since that's when we'll all be locked in the cinderblock rooms with no air-conditioning.

I ordered some new school clothes from Eddie Bauer Outlet.com; nothing fit. Nothing! I have three XL belts from Eddie Bauer that all fit me perfectly. I ordered a cute and inexpensive canvas one in the same size, and it's at least 4-5 inches shorter. (I measured because I refuse to believe I've gotten even bigger over the summer). I took a picture of it, alongside the other three belts, just to show you. I don't know why it's so fuzzy.

I then ordered a pair of pants in the size I usually get (I could tell you what it is, but then I'd have to kill you) and another in a size larger, just in case the pants "ran small." Damned if both of them were too tight.

Fuck. So at least the light blue sandals would fit, right? Size 8 is size 8, or is it? They were far too big on me. A hint of toe showed out of the front side of the strap, and there was so much left of the shoe sticking out in back that it looked like I was playing dress up.

Last item, a $29.99 navy blue jersey two-piece dress. Which meant it was really a big V-neck tee-shirt and a long stretchy skirt. That should fit, right? No. The skirt fit perfectly, and comfortably. The shirt was for an Amazon with 5 foot arms. I can't return just part of the dress either, and if I got a size smaller, the skirt wouldn't fit.

I can't win.

9:50pm... Been gone since 6:40am this morning

My friend Katrina's dog, Jelly had to have some special test done down in LA today, and I went with her. Charlie was looked after, don't worry, but I'm tired now and must go to bed. Sorry for not finishing my story. It's rather a let down at this point, so don't get your hopes up.

cheers,
Rebekah

I thought it was MY birthday deal

There was a crane just hanging out on the side of the slough this morning when I went to the beach. It's not the best picture; but you get the idea. I took this before Charlie took off after it. I don't quite know what he thinks he would do if a bird didn't fly off, but instead turned around and squawked at him. He'd probably yelp and run and hide behind my legs.

So, last night, I went out for a drink with my friend Michelle for my birthday. I had a few friends over on Sunday night, so I wasn't into doing any big thing. She's been out of town for the last 3 or 4 weeks, and was actually driving from San Francisco yesterday, just so we could get together and make my day special. We've emailed a few times, so we had it all planned ahead of time. I thought.

She called from the road about three-thirtyish. Suggested three places, two of which I don't like. When I suggested a different place, she said she didn't really like it there. Okay, but isn't it my birthday? And, she told me that she was so tired that she only wanted to stay out until 7 o'clock. We were meeting at 5:30. I thought that was kinda weird too, but whatever. I suggested another bar, but she then said that she was going to be hungry, and so wanted to go to a place with food. I suggested a third place, she said it was too expensive.

Hm... So I finally said, "let me think about it" and asked her to call me again in an hour.

Silence on the other end of the phone.

"Um..."

"What? I'm trying to think of a place. Give me a bit, and I'll come up with something."

"Uh, no, it's not that. I ... invited Donald...and Robert... they're going to meet us."

Huh. Interesting. You might remember, dear reader, that Donald is the young man with whom Michelle believes I would make a great pair. The same young man who is very nice, but is totally taken with Michelle. Here's where I wrote about it before. I suspected she might do that, and he really is a nice fellow, so I didn't mind too much that she invited her friend (although you would think, just maybe, she would have invited one or two of my friends, wouldn't you? Seeing as how it was my birthday?).

Robert is another story. This man is a piece of work. I can not stand him. If I know he's going to be somewhere, I make up some reason not to be there. Although Michelle probably doesn't know the extent to which I loathe this person, she knows I don't like him.

Let me explain why I dislike this man so intensely. About two years ago, I was to meet Michelle for a drink after work. I got there, and there were three other people there I didn't know. I don't like that. I don't mind meeting new people, but I like to know what to expect. Introductions all around, and Robert and his wife are old friends of Michelle. Fine. Somehow, the conversation goes around to health/sex education in the schools. Robert says, with authority,
"You know, in Massachusetts, they're teaching kids how to have gay sex. They are teaching them how to be gay."

(If you know me, you will understand the blood that began seeping out of my mouth, which came from the puncture wounds caused by my teeth placed firmly against my tongue.)

"What? What did you just say? Like someone can be taught to be gay? I don't think you have all the facts."

And the drama ensued. Suffice it to say that it ended with his telling me that I would not only be going to Hell, but be swimming in the River Styx because of my not believing... well, what he believed. Which was, as you've already figured out, that homosexuality is a sin.

Asshole. I always love these folks that have a direct line to God. Like they know better than the rest of us.

So yeah, I don't like him. And he's coming.

My turn for silence. Then,

"Oh."

More to come tomorrow.

I've joined the digital age

My brother and sister got me a digital camera for my birthday (thanks you guys). Of course, the first picture I took was that of my bestest buddy. You can see he's not impressed with my new technology.

I then took several photos of myself making faces to express my dismay at turning 41. They will not be posted.

I'm taking the pooch to the beach. Have a great day.

Completely tuckered out

I made $111 at the garage sale today. Sold the table and chairs for $70 bucks (I only paid $75 for them a few years ago) and $25 for the coffee table (which I bought for $30 less than two months ago. It was too big). The rest was from small items.

Katrina made $171. Not too shabby.

And no em, I didn't sell most of the clothes. And yes Torn, I only charged a quarter for most things. I think that garage sale buying habits are regional. I've never had good luck selling clothes at a garage sale. I don't know why. Today I had some almost new Eddie Bauer, Ralph Lauren and Tommy Hilfiger jeans. I finally cleaned out my "someday-they'll-fit" box. You know those pants you try on that look good for about 15 seconds and then you realize you just can't sit down comfortably in them? Yeah, those. Not one pair sold. Hmm...

Yet, the nasty old raincoat, which was missing its belt and one of it's buttons? Sold for 50 cents. I wasn't even going to put it out, too embarrassed, but nope, someone bought that. Of course.

Then there were the early birds. We clearly stated "no early birds" and that our sale was starting at 8 am, but that meant nothing to these folks. We started moving stuff out around 6:45, and by 6:55 we had our first "Can I just look?" person. Katrina is great at being brusque when she's not pleased, and her dog Jelly barks and runs at people like he's going to chew on their legs (we don't tell people he's really just going to lick their legs). This is good because I'm not so talented at turning people away.

And, about 10 minutes after we started, there was this guy who wanted to buy a $2 vase.
"Do you have any change?" he asked, while pulling a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet.

Excuse me? Who the hell goes to a garage sale with just hundreds? Really? I said no, and then went to help someone else. What does he do? Pulls the same nonsense on Katrina. I know he was trying to get the vase somehow as a deal, but what were we supposed to do? Just say, "nevermind, here you go"?

As the morning went on, I was trying to pay attention to what I was selling. Whether it was Katrina's or mine. Of course, she had more stuff to sell than me, and it's easy to say "whatever" when we're dealing with quarters, but still. I noticed once or twice that Katrina sometimes sold a pile of stuff, but didn't realize that some of the things were mine. The third time, I said something like, "No, I think you owe me a dollar, not 50 cents." (If you think this is petty, well, I'm petty then.)

Her reply was to roll her eyes, and sigh as she dug out another couple of quarters. She then said rather tersely, "well, are you going to pay for half the newspaper ad?"

Of course I was. Sheesh.

And I did, when reminded of it later by her husband. Oh wait, didn't I buy the mochas and pastries this morning? And yes, didn't I pay for the yard sale signs and the price stickers from Office Max the other day? And didn't you say "oh, don't worry about it," earlier when I asked how much the ad cost? I'm kinda pissed, but also feeling like I should just shrug it off.

It's just that it's not the first time something like this has happened. And it's not that I don't love Katrina or think she's trying to cheat me or anything like that. It's that she makes me feel so small for trying to make sure things are even. I should have brought up the coffee and the signs, but because of what she had done earlier, with the heavenward direction of her eyes and her exhale of breath, I felt I would look chintzy to ask her to split it.

This is the deal. I don't think I'm cheap, but I do have this thing about being fair. I suffer from a fairness problem. You know when you're a little kid, and whine "it's not fa-air!" to your mom and she answers, "life's not fair"? I never understood that. I thought it should be. I still do.

I made, after the eight bucks I gave Sam for the advertisment, 103 dollars. I should be happy with that, and just let it rest.

My Charlie Boy

Sometimes I wonder if I love my dog so much simply because he's so damn cute.

Nah, I'd love him anyway. Here's the story of how he came to be my wonderful canine companion.

I love dogs. Always have. I've wanted a dog for a very long time, but renting in Santa Barbara puts you under the control of a landlord. I've never lived (until now) where I could have a dog. I got my doggie fix from my friend Deborah's dog Rio, or from my sister's dog, Indy, but it wasn't the same.

For five years I lived in an apartment complex which was pleasant (at least at first), but kept trying to find a place that would allow pets. As the building became peopled with more young mothers, and college students, rather than the mostly retired folks who were there when I first moved it, I was ansty to get out. Nope. I was going to hold out for a pet friendly place.

It finally happened. The property management company knew I was looking, and told me about a place that might be what I was looking for. They "managed" the place, even though my landlady lives here, because her job takes her away for 5-6 weeks at a time. I went, fell in love with the little cottage, and met Mrs. P. She approved, told me I could have a dog, and that was that.

I went to the County shelter the next day. I didn't adopt Charlie that day though, I became a volunteer instead. I wanted to make sure I got the right dog for me, and I really wanted a Beagle. I did all kinds of research on the internet, took all kinds of online quizzes to see which breed would be best for my situation... and Beagle was on the list. Not at the top though, that was a French Bull Dog.

Purebreds are not for me, however. I knew I'd be getting a shelter dog, not paying hundreds or even thousands of dollars when there are so many dogs out there needing a home already. Unless someone is showing a dog in shows (which is rather silly), I think it's ridiculous to spend that kind of money on a special "breed."

So, I moved, volunteered at the shelter, and one day, Charlie came in. Tina, the head of the volunteers said that he had been taken by animal control from the home he had been in. There had been some kind of crime at the home; when the police came to investigate that, they saw Charlie as well. They called animal services, and the owners no longer had possession of the little dog.

When he came in, he was covered in sores. He doesn't shed, and they hadn't cut his hair, so it was matted and dirty. That is, where he hadn't chewed through to his skin. He had flea bites all over his body, and raw places where he had been scratching. He had a staph infection as well that caused scabbing. Turns out he has a severe allergy to fleas, and he hadn' t been given any protection against them.

He had been cleaned up some by the time I first saw him, but he was still raggedy when Tina asked me to just sit with him and help "socialize" him. I think Tina had a plan all along. Charlie wouldn't even look at me that first day. He wouldn't come close, he wouldn't take food from me... he just kept his distance. Finally, after about 30 minutes, he took a cookie off my knee (I was sitting on the ground with him).

So, this pathetic, skittish, mangy looking animal? I fell in love. I had to take him home.

Wait, not so soon. The shelter wanted to make sure he was healthy first, and he had to be neutered, and volunteers had to wait at least 4 weeks before adopting any dog. So, I kept coming in, and working with the dogs, and kept falling more and more for this little guy. He loved all the other dogs, and slowly started coming out of his shell. I couldn't learn much more about his life before the shelter, but Tina said she thought he'd been basically tied to a tree in the yard for the first three years of his life.

Finally the day came, and I took him home. It happened to be Halloween. He was one scared little puppy. He sat as far away from me as he could and still keep an eye on me (yes, he would look at me now). I stayed home that night, hoping I did the right thing, instead of going to my friend's party.

Here it is, close to two years later, and I have the most perfect dog for me in the world. He snuggles up to me at night, and makes me laugh. He forces me to get outside of myself and my thoughts. When I see him running at the beach, the happiness he exudes (or that I project on to him) is infectious. Every time I come home and he jumps on me, "Hey, you came back again!" I know there is another living being in the world that loves me unconditionally, warts and all.

Not that I have warts. It's just an expression. Not that warts are a bad thing. Well, they are a bad thing, but not that warts are a horrible thing. Compound W takes them away. I digress.

A few years ago I was on several medications for clinical depression. I took sleeping pills,and two different anti-depressants and an anti-anxiety one too. If Charlie had been in my life then, I think it might have been unnecessary.

I know it's unnecessary now.

Garage Sale

Anyone that knows me knows I'm a pack rat. I "might need it someday" is usually the excuse I use. It's hard for me to let go of things. I am getting better at it, but still, it's a challenge.

About a year and a half ago, two girlfriends came over to help me do a "clean sweep" of all my crap. I got the idea from a TV show of the same name. I liked watching it, because the people's houses were always far worse than mine; I could be superior about it all. We purged quite a bit. However, after we had a truckload (a Toyota truckload, but a truckload just the same) of stuff, my landlady said she wasn't too hot on the idea of a garage sale. So, off it all went, even the paperback books that I could have taken to The Book Den, the used book store, and sold for money, off it went to the Alpha Thrift store.

I've rarely had good luck with garage sales. The last time I took part in one, I ended up spending more than I made.

But, hope springs eternal, so Saturday, I'll be trying it again. I still have the same anti-garage sale landlady, so I'll be going over to Katrina and Sam's place. He's going fishing, of course, so it will be up to us. This time I'm selling my Kitchen table, and chairs and the almost new coffee table from Ikea that I bought a month or two ago and which is too big for my little place. I've also got a ton of clothes and stuff to go, but you never know if that's going to sell or not.

So, here's the deal now. My aunt gave me my grandmother's table last Christmas, so that's center stage. However, she only gave me two of the chairs, and only one of the chairs is usable. The other looks like it was bashed against a wall in 1952 and has been glued together 20 times since. And, my aunt's dog chewed through one of the legs so badly that I'm afraid it will break if more than 12 pounds is put upon it. I thought it was just too far gone to save, but my mother said "oh no, those chairs are very valuable" (see where I get the packrattedness from?)

Bottom line? I have only one chair that is functional, other than the old computer chair I'm sitting in right now.

And I'm supposed to have people over on Sunday night.

Oops.

Dried Up

“The reasons that so many women find themselves in this predicament are complex, but one of the most tragic reasons is ignorance. Even highly educated women, it seems, have not fully grasped the reality that their childbearing years are relatively limited and that they must take this reality into account when establishing their life priorities. They were so busy climbing the career ladder that relationships took a back seat. Before they knew it the years had flown.”
-Sylvia Ann Hewlett, Creating a Life; Professional Women and the Quest for Children

Oh my.
Just another way to make me feel wrong.

This time there’s no reference to being hit with a terrorist bullet... maybe because that chance isn’t so far-fetched anymore.

Before, it was a 3% chance of getting married after 40.
Now, it’s learning that I’m ten years behind in having my children.

I’ve been losing fertility for ten years... where did it go?
Is it hiding in the teenage girls I teach?
Girls that don’t even know how to walk in platform shoes?

Really... it seems to me that every few years or so, there’s some new study that shows how women are still messing up.

Just now I find out that my most fertile years were spent getting over the fact that the man I planned to spend my life with was gay.

Now, whom can we blame that one on?

I wasn’t working on my career, Hell, I didn’t even have a career until I was thirty (already three years past my prime, according to the report).

Okay, I accept my body, back fat and all. I don’t believe anyone cares if my hair is out of place. Men are not from Mars, and Venus is just the name of the razor I use to sometimes shave my legs. I love my job, but there’s no rung of a corporate ladder to climb; I spend my days extolling the virtues of specific details, verb tense and the semi-colon.

Sometimes I yell at 13-year-old boys to pull up their pants.

Holding out for true love sounds corny, but it’s also what I’m doing. How did that simple desire become something to be ashamed of?


{This was written almost four years ago, and yet it is still true for me. The latest I've heard is that I have a higher chance of breast cancer now because I've never breast fed. It feels like I can't win.}

"Smile!"

This is usually said by someone who has no idea what's going on in your life. You may have just had your heart broken, been read the riot act by your boss, have a splitting headache, or maybe you are just trying to remember if you turned off the iron before you left the house.

I've always been a bit annoyed by this command. As if a less than happy look on one's face is something to be fixed or corrected. It does sum up how I think our culture views unhappiness; as if it's a problem needing to be solved, rather than just a part of the whole picture.

Think about it. Most times, when we talk about why we aren't happy, others try to convince us we should be. Often, they compare other's situations against our own, showing, they think, how much better our life is than we know.

An example: My sister and I were discussing my father several years ago. I was expressing how sad I was that he didn't seem interested in my life, and my disappointment that he didn't appear proud of me.
Amy said, "You know, other people have had it a lot worse. We weren't beaten, we had a roof over our heads, food to eat."

Okay, that's true. The point is, I'm not another person. I'm me. I know there are terrible, horrible things out there, I acknowledge those terrible horrible things, but I still have to live my life. Someone has always got things harder, someone has always got things easier. It seems as if we aren't allowed though, to feel badly about our situation without also feeling guilty that we feel badly, because someone out there has "real" problems, more important problems, or more severe problems.

What is it that makes us so uncomfortable when someone else is down or depressed? Why are we considered weak if we "let things get to us?" Why are we supposed to smile all the time?

Leafblowers are instruments of Satan

My little house sits on the side of a slope; this means that my south facing windows (kitchen, living room and bath) are almost level with the driveway. I like this most of the time because I can have lots of light, but it's also private. Sure, someone could peek in, but they'd have to lean over and be really obvious about it. The top of the windows come to the knees of anyone walking by.

However. Once a week my landlady has the gardeners come by. They don't touch my yard, oh no, but they take care of her areas. This is fine, the less strangers in my space the better, but they still make their presence known.

In the almost two years I've been here, we've had at least 5 different gardeners. They don't do what she wants them to do, or show up when she wants them to... I'm not sure of all the reasons. There's always something wrong. The problem from my side is that I never know when one is going to show up. Maybe at 7:45 on the only Saturday I choose to sleep in, maybe at 6pm when I'm just sitting down to eat my dinner.

I like the sounds of raking and sweeping and clipping; I even enjoy the sound of a power lawn mower. I certainly like the smell of fresh cut grass.

What I don't like is the contraption without a purpose. Yes, the leafblower. The leafblower that all gardeners feel they must use. Several years ago, I lived in a three-story apartment building. I was on the third floor. There were no plants, no leaves on the third floor. Yet every Wednesday the man with the machine on his back would go up and down every one of the outside walkways and blow. What he was blowing, I don't know. Pollen? A button fallen off someone's coat?

Pollution. There are a lot of things considered pollution, but leaves are rarely put into that category. Yes, if they are clogging up your roof drain, they can be irritating, but who doesn't like leaves?

Noise? Yes, that can be considered pollution; there are lots of noises that are not admired or appreciated. Dare I say there are some that are hated? Yes, there are:

The full-throttle scream of a 3-year-old who isn't getting his way in K-Mart. The hawking done right before a sticky stream of spittle hits the sidewalk. Feedback. Nails on a chalkboard. The crunch of metal against metal when you've backed up into another car. Crows outside your window cawing at 5 am.

And yes, the leafblower. I'm sure I'm losing my hearing ability every week I'm subjected to it. No matter how high I turn the volume on the stereo, I can't get away from it. It goes on and on and on. Our driveway is not long enough for the 45 minutes spent blowing pine needles and geranium blossoms that I have to endure. Add to that the dust that is blown up into the air briefly only to settle back down after it has irritated my sinuses and caused my allergies to flare up again. How, oh how is this a productive use of time, gas, energy, anything? Leafblowers don't actually do anything. God I hate them so.

Oh yeah, the windows. Remember? Well, the leafblower, coupled with the level of my windows and the downward slant of the driveway is cause for massive anxiety on my part. I race around, trying to shut the windows (never mind it's 90 degrees) before the crazed instrument can blow debris into my place. Of course, with the random arrival times of our garderners, this isn't always possible. I've come home to a fine layer of grit all over the washed dishes left in the drainer to dry. All because I forgot to close the windows that day.

There was a push in our fine city years ago to ban leafblowers. The city of Santa Barbara did ban them in most places.

Too bad I live in the county.

I have the cutest dog in the universe

my lonliness quotient: 34%

Why do I bother taking these lame on line quizzes? And, the advice given is 'you really need to search for that man of your dreams." Ooo... big help there.

Loneliness Quotient: 34%

Your Personalized Assessment Report:

Your LQ score suggests your relationships are rather healthy. Your score is on the lower end of the spectrum. Let's take a look at each area of interest. You are okay in your relations with your friends. This is good. Additionally, your family situation is not causing you any troubles. A positive family situation is definitely helpful. Your romantic life, however, needs work. There is a lot of room for improvement there, and you really need to search for that man of your dreams. Thankfully you do not have a problem with shyness, so pursuing romantic leads will not be as difficult for you. You definitely don't have any major insecurity issues holding you back, so your pursuit of elimating loneliness will not be held back by this potential pitfall.

Take the Loneliness Quotient Test at Dating Diversions

I mean really.

Beauty, plants, and life

So, I got up this morning, put in a load of laundry, and started working on my backyard. There is nothing that comes close to this picture in my backyard. I took it at a shrine in Japan. For luck people use a dipper to toss water on the statue. We were there early in the morning and I was struck by the icicles hanging down from the tree and the hands of the statue. A simple thing really, water and a freezing temperature, but also unique.

My backyard is not unique. If I get a digital camera for my birthday (which would be a hint except my mother never reads this), I'll take a picture of it. It's very small, made up of mostly rocks and drought resistant plants. I rent, remember, so I don't have much say in the matter. My plants are all the ones in pots.

I spent 20 bucks yesterday on potting soil and plants, and by 8:30 this morning I had planted a window box with Impatiens, repotted a spider plant, and some other plant I can't remember the name of, put two pretty plants (one white, one purple, again don't know the names) together in a big pot, cut back a huge Rosemary bush which I haven't touched in the two years I've been here, planted a Curry plant (it really does smell like curry!) and a Cilantro plant, put a pink and yellow Lantania plant in a big pot by my gate, and swept up the whole patio. Oh, and I picked up about 2 weeks of dog doo.

I love looking at things I've grown, even though I usually end up killing them in the end. Too much water, too little water, too much shade, too much sun, you know how it goes.

I do have one plant right now that was Tornwordo's. He gave me several before he moved to Montreal, but only this one survived. It's in a copper-plated little planter, and much of the copper has worn off. If I recall, he actually had this plant before he and Serge met. That means the plant is at least 13 years old. Eek. Every time I look at it I think of all the homes it has had. At least three with Torn, and two more with me.

{There is quite a bit more I wrote this morning after this part. However, when I went to post it, I got one of those lovely "the site you are looking for is not available right now" pages. I went back to this page, but half of what I'd written was gone. I write straight onto blogger, not saving it on Word, so now the rest will have to be written again. Bitter. I am so bitter right now.}

Another plant I have is one that was left in my classroom by the former teacher. It had been left on a dusty windowsill for about 10 weeks when I found it. I nursed it back, and it's been with me ever since. I take it home every summer, and shower it with love and care. Sometimes I goof up. One summer I almost killed it by taking it outside to "give it some sun." It wilted almost immediately, and several of the leaves gave up and just fell off. I've repotted it twice, and probably will once more before school starts (two weeks from now, sigh...).

Funny thing is, it turns out that Michelle, my friend from school, had given it to the former teacher as a gift. She said it had been a tiny little plant when she had last seen it, and didn't even know it could get that big.

Plants represent all kinds of things to us. My mom finally screwed up enough courage to go over to our old house (the one we lived in for 26 years, and the one which my father forced the sale of after he left my mother), and ask the current owners if they still had the Boysenberry bush. See, my sister wanted to plant boysenberries in the yard of her new home, and my mother knew it would mean something to have a cutting from our old place. Well, the bush was still there, and mom got some for me too. She told me to put it in water, in a sunny place, and wait for it to root.

Well, that was early June. It's now August, and I don't think my boysenberry branch is going to make it as a boysenberry bush. It's in water, in a sunny place, but no roots. It's not quite dead yet, but it's not looking good. I've cut the end off twice, hoping it will get more water, but to no avail. My sister, who is not patient at all, got fed up, bought some rooting powder, and stuck it in the ground. Maybe it will work. I hope so.

Now, I know there is a metaphor lurking in what I just wrote. I just don't have the energy to articulate it.

Have a beautiful Saturday.

more about photos

You know those pictures that no matter how many times you look at them, they still make you laugh? This is one of mine. It was taken in a photo booth down on the main street of my town, right outside the Woolworth's store. Neither the photo booth or the store is there any longer.

I can't remember exactly the date; probably when we were seniors in college. I have it in a tiny silver frame that sits on a book case in my computer/extra stuff room. These are the two girls, and then women who have been with me through everything in my life. We've known each other since junior high school, and I actually knew Tami back in grade school. I got to know her in 7th grade though. She was in my English class and always wore scarves. She was one of the smartest in the class.

I got an "F" in English my first quarter. I was never a great student.

Carol was in my PE class in 8th grade. She was tall and gangly, and told the worst jokes I'd ever heard. She and I commiserated in our lack of coordination. Hers was a temporary condition however, due to a massive growth spurt (in high school, she was a member of the varsity track team and rowed crew in college). My lack, sadly, was just part of the physical cards I was dealt.

Both became good friends of mine when we all joined the choir in high school. Tami and I in ninth grade and Carol in tenth. Tami was an amazing singer, and also played the piano when needed. Yes, it was called the Acappella Choir, but it wasn't always acappella. Carol and I goofed around more than Tami. We were sent out of the classroom more than once during 4th period.

It would be a whole novel to describe our history together. We went to three different universities, traveled in Europe together for three months, and the two of them moved to Los Angeles together, while I stayed in our home town, then moved to Japan. We weathered broken hearts and crummy jobs, and graduate school. One got married, moved farther away, and started a family. The other also fell in love, bought a house, and set up housekeeping. I've been single for what seems like forever, and I'll probably rent until I die.

Even so, with all the differences in our lives, I share the deepest friendship possible with these two women. How lucky and blessed I am to have found them at such a young age, and to be able to still have them as a part of me.

Mind over matter

About six months after I moved to Japan, I started getting these awful stomach aches. I was 24 years old, and it was my first big move. Of course, it couldn't be to like, say, Los Angeles or San Francisco, oh no. I had to sign a three year contract and move 11 hours away by direct flight.

I at first thought it was something I was eating. I cut out dairy, cut out fat, cut out alcohol, cut out caffeine... tried fasting for a few days, but nothing helped. These were not regular, "I gotta go to the bathroom" tummy aches. These would wake me up in the middle of the night with the pain. These were hunched-over-like-an-old-lady torso aches. It didn't seem to matter what I did; they just happened along, and then went away with no discernible reason.

I then thought they were psychosomatic, that I was lonely, and that it was just a physical manifestation of my feelings. So I chose to ignore them. That didn't work either.

I finally went to a Japanese doctor, with the secretary from the school to translate for me. Through Makiko, I told him what was going on. He said something, laughed,and she looked at me and turned red. Later, she told me he had said the pain was from carrying around the large breasts on my body.

Yes. That is what he said.

So I went to another doctor; this time to one who spoke English. He did some tests, and came back into the room with a grave face.
"It does not look good."

Oh My God! I was going to die!

"It looks like you have an ulcer."

That's all? Sheesh. Lots of people have that. I went home to California for Christmas shortly after that, so I went to my regular doctor. He didn't think it was an ulcer, just an "overproduction of stomach acid."

Then came the several years of Zantac and Prilosec and all the other antacid and whatnot that didn't work. My family doctor insisted that it had nothing to do with stress, and I insisted just as strongly that I thought it did. I have a different doctor now.

The picture I posted today is the only thing (other than Vicoden) that works when these stomach aches come along. I took it in Koh Samui, in Thailand, after a vespa ride around the island. After I finished the three years in Japan, I took a solo trip, backpacking from Bangkok to Malaysia, to Singapore. I met lots of others along the way, and I was never lonely. I spent a week on Koh Samui, relaxing in the sun, drinking, and going out dancing every night.

I took several photos of the sunset that night, but I tacked this one to my bulletin board when I got home. When I took it I had no responsibilities. No job, no rent, no bills.

Of course, I got one of my stomach aches after not too long, and happened to be looking at the photo. I realized that the pain was ebbing away a bit. I concentrated on the photo, and it really seemed to be helping. I thought of the little toy or figurine used as a "focal point" for anyone in the movies having a baby, but it wasn't like that. Something in my brain was using that picture to send endorphins or whatever to get rid of the pain.

I tried it the next time I had the stomach ache, and the next, and the next. Even now, just looking at it makes me feel calm and content. It's full of magic, that photo that's never even been in a frame.

There must be others. Do you know of any?

Fiesta

Tonight is the beginning of Fiesta, or Old Spanish Days, in my town. It's a week of food and fun and dancing and two parades, and craft booths and lots of drunk tourists. One of the parades is the biggest horse parade in the United States, I think. I don't like parades. I talked about that before during the Summer Solstice parade deal. Too crowded, too hot, and not all that interesting.

Although, it's quite foggy today. I got up early and took Charlie to the beach, where he found the carcass of a dead seal or sea lion, and proceeded to roll in it. Charming. He's washed now, I'm washed now, and it's time to get my day going.

I may go to Fiesta Pequenia (don't know how to put the tilda over the "n" in that word) tonight at the mission. It's the opening ceremonies thing, lots of dancers, including the cute little kids, the "Spirit of Fiesta" and the junior "Spirit of Fiesta", Chumash dancers, all with a priest blessing the whole sheebang.

I haven't gone to this particular event since I was six years old. My mom said she saw people with chairs and sleeping bags setting up last night as she was driving home. I have that crowd issue. I'm okay as long as I can sit down, but...getting there will be a bitch.

And, a friend is in town with his wife and kids; they said they'd like to go. Hmm... do I want to do the family thing? I love him, but his wife is one of those intellectual types that doesn't have a silly bone in her body. Her contributions to the conversation are along the lines of "Tell Becky what you studied in school last month, Patrick."

She's very proud of her kids. However, they don't smile much. The kids I mean. They don't just fly kites, but they discuss the idea of area and lift and mass while they are flying the kites. I think she feels she needs to justify being a stay-at-home mom by producing mini-braniacs instead of children. She's got her Ph.D. in 17th century Czechoslovakian poetry or something like that. This is the wife of the man who asked me when I majored in English Literature, "So, what kind of job are you going to get with that?"

I've know my friend since we were 12, and I love him unconditionally, so why is it so hard for me to understand anything his wife does? He's very intelligent, and so is she, but somehow he has an innocence, or an openness that I find wonderful. Even though we disagree, he's always ready to listen to a good argument.

Listening. Something I need to do more of.

I need a hook

As I discover more and more about this blog stuff, I realize that to have a wider audience, I need a hook. Like this guy has with his blog, The Sneeze. I only read his posts about weird food, but he had me laughing out loud more than once.

On the other hand, do I really want more people reading my blog? Honestly? I already am careful about certain things I write; I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings or give anyone's secrets away. I also don't write about topics that would make my friends uncomfortable. I might someday, but not now.

I have to keep in mind that there's always a chance a student or a parent of a student of mine could happen upon my little bit of blog land. Can't be too up front about a little stinker in my class, or write who at work I think is an asshole. Could catch up with me.

So, how do I keep coming up with topics?

If you know me, you know I can talk to the wall. My friend in New York has said I'm like a monkey with a typewriter; "with enough time, something profound comes out of you. At least once an hour." And that's it. That is the name of this thing, after all. It's what I do.

I'm not being very direct here, am I? Sorry. I'm tired, and I need a nap now.

Why I got 56 hits views on my post today

I believe it might have been due to the use of this site, and the word "clitoris."

Why else would I have the most hits every since beginning this blog in May?

Hmm...

Passion Party

"Nipple Nibblers"

That's the name of one of the items I could have bought Friday night at Mary's house. She hosted a Passion Party; kind of like a tupperware party for sex stuff. I tried to get out of going, but couldn't come up with a good enough reason (unlike Montreal, a simple "no" would have been rude).

The invitation said it started at 6pm, however I was the first one to arrive. "Sorry" Mary said, "I told some people it wasn't starting until 6:30." Great. Where's the booze? I need a drink.

Mary made Mojitos, but used about 1/2 cup of rum for two pitchers of them, so they were basically very tasty soft drinks. There were brownies and cookies as well. Of course, I hadn't eaten dinner, since I had hurried over to get there at six, but I dealt.

We were all handed catalogues and order forms at the beginning of the sales pitch. We started off with just the sugar scrub and the body wash with phermones... $18 for body wash? Whatever. Then on to the edible, lickable stuff. Like the above mentioned product. Anna, the sales rep said to "just lift up your shirt and rub it on your nipple."

Um? I don't get embarrassed easily, as anyone can attest, but I'm getting uncomfortable with this. I don't do it. Anna said it was a great lip balm as well. I rubbed a bit on my lip instead. Orange mint flavor. Not bad.

So it goes. We then taste all the flavored lubes, which aren't bad, but what the hell need do I have for a flavored lube? Next is "Pure Satisfaction," a gel that's supposed to enhance sexual arousal and satisfaction. This time, she puts a drop on our fingers and says, "now go into another room by yourself and rub this on your clitoris."

What?

Good god. But of course we dutifully go and do as we are told. Everyone's coming back into the living room; "oo, it feels warm," "It feels a little like menthol," "I get a cooling kinda feeling."

Me? Nothing. I feel nothing. My clitoris is broken.

I'm frustrated already as it is. I haven't had sex in over 5 years (At least with anyone else in the room). Now I find out that I can't even feel this stuff that everyone is commenting on. That's supposed to last for up to 12 hours.

On the other hand, arousal for me is not something I really want to enhance. It's not a problem in the first place, and in the second, I've got no one with whom to share aforesaid arousal, enhanced or otherwise.

We move on to the toys. Okay, maybe I'll find something I like here. There are all kinds of vibrators and dildos and cock rings (didn't look too closely at those) to be bought. There's some little thing called The Bullet... which looks like a metal ob tampon... not something I want up inside me. Most of them are made out of "jelly vinyl" which has this horrid, petrochemically smell to it. Some definitely looking interesting, but most are rather frightening. And the price tags! The "Escalating Elephant", is $153. I only paid $29.95 for my coffee table, and I use that everyday.

I did learn something though. I commented on how weird it was that so many of the toys had little faces or animals on them. Anna told us that most are made in Japan, where it's illegal to make anything in the shape of human genitals, so they create these other images to get around the rules.

In the end I bought nothing.

I did win a sample size of raspberry flavored Nipple Nibbler though. Guess I'll have no need for that waxy old chapstick anymore.