congrats bodhi, class of 2008!

Dog Blog #2

oh sweet jesus, mary and joseph. it took all i had to drag my ass to PetSmart today for the climactic event known as "puppy graduation." no amount or combination of sexual favors (well, actually just promises of them), wheedling, begging or threatening would convince my sweet husband to accompany me for moral support on his only day off. but how could i blame him? all i do is bitch about how awful it is to have to take my usually loving, funny, loyal best friend to a place where he is forced to sit in the corner of a tiny room, on a very short leash, surrounded by his own furry b.f.f.s while some woman yells, confuses and belittles us, dogs and humans alike. 

thank god for ruthie, owner of trooper, a huge yellow lab who loves to hump bodhi as much as bodhi loves to hump him back. but humping is not permitted in puppy class 101 apparently, even though everyone i've ever met at any dog park anywhere just blushes a bit and and says, "oh, it's just a dominance thing." no, in baby doggy class doing what comes canine-naturally is a sin worse than murder and according to cindy, the "correct" way to teach our pets to curb their carnal urges is to grab both humper and humpee by the collars, rip them apart and loudly yell, 

"WRONG!" i half-heartedly did my best to do just that when trooper mounted bodhi but due to the fact that blue cross/blue shield sucks ass and most likely won't pay for my mandatory shoulder reconstruction needed after pulling 170 pounds of horny hound flesh apart i pulled an anna nicole smith (R.I.P. babe, i really loved your whacked out self) and faked it.  but alas, cindy caught wind of my lacksidasicality and huffed over to tell me once again, how much i suck as a dog owner. 

back to my bud, ruthie, my partner in righteousness, she and i agreed that we would finally stand up for ourselves, our dogs, our classmates and the world at large if (i mean when) ms. dog nazi once again ceased to hold her tongue. unfortunately that cryptic moment occurred when ruthie was forced to take trooper out to pee and it was my turn to make bodhi do the one thing we didn't learn at the one class we missed. the vehemence spewed at me, the thing that caused cindy to get up out of her chair and march over to me in the middle of the micro-room in front of everyone (everyone that is but my ruthie) was so thick, so hostile that its very existence must have created an amnesic affect so strong, so self-preserving, that it's all i can do to use my writers' license and describe it as well as any semi-realistic/based on a sort of true-ish story told to someone's sister's brother's hairdresser in the 1800s...something to do with "sit" vs. "stop" as opposed to "wait" and all the while her scrunched up face smoker's breath voice yelling at me, "did you hear anything i said? how is he supposed to know the difference between sit stay come lay hump don't hump get the mail do the dishes if you don't train him correctly??!!"  bodhi's inching closer to my legs (which, according to cindy-lou-who is a sign of protection/dominance that will most definitely end up producing a full-fledged cold blooded killer dog...ya, or maybe my submissive and loving dog is scared shitless of this woman and is doing his best to protect me?!) i'm blind sighted so all my woman-power shit/witty retorts and strength shrivel up and i stand there like a second grader who just peed her pants, lips trembling and say something like, "um, can i try again?" and then proceed to blame MYSELF for a.d.h.d not because i'm weak but because i'm a nice fucking person and can't fathom how someone can be so mean. someone who is supposed to be teaching us. someone who we paid $109+tax to and for all intents and purposes should be able to remember to take her damn lithium before class.

enter ruthie. i give her "the eyes" and she sits down with trooper, the room is completely silent and i take a deep breath, give my dog (who is standing by the door, visibly shaking) a kiss on his cold wet nose, look cindy right in the eyes and say, "ok, let me get this straight"....blah blah blah insert whatever i think she wants me to do here...."and can you please not talk while i'm doing this because it's really hard to focus when i'm being scolded." 

bodhi rocks, covers for me, would have snuck me a valium if he had one and got his damn diploma.

i take pictures of all the graduates wearing (i'm not kidding) actual graduation hats, not because i'm supposed to but because i know it'll be funny as shit when i post them on this blog.

(later, 'cuz right now i need to give my dog some therapy and hugs and make myself a big fat cosmo).

i thanked and hugged cindy when we left, not condescendingly or because i was trying to earn some karmic credit, but because i know she must not be a happy person to have to be so gruff, so mean, so contradictory.  because her pants are so short and her cigarettes fell out of her pocket once and a dog almost ate them and i went to give them back to her and she looked at me like i was satan. because her big german shepherd mac sits in his cage (which takes up half the tiny room) the whole class and when he barks or whines she yells at him to SHUT UP and KNOCK IT OFF and for some reason, that just doesn't seem like the way a dog trainer should treat her own dog.

my intent is truly not to dis this woman. this dogblog was originally supposed to be funny. but when people, no matter who, what, how or why treat other people, even other creatures for that matter, with hostility and abuse, then my humblest two bits of advice/insight are these:

1. we need to be strong, to stand up for ourselves, our pets, our friends,families and fellow human beings no matter what our race, religion or parental/societal advice may be. doormats do nothing but get stepped on and it is in no way wrong to speak our minds when we feel wronged.

2. for the most part, when people are mean, they are unhappy. they are insecure, jealous and afraid.

they need love. more love. love supreme. god it's hard to hug someone who tells you that you suck but it's common and easy to sink to their level. 

thank you ruthie, for sitting in the park with me and letting me scream. 

thank you bodhisatva for being exactly who you are.

we did it dude, it is finished. 

 

 

sonmi sweet

dog blog plus tangents

to train or not to train? that is the question i pose in the wee hours of the morning, when the peace and quiet envelops me like a lover. i speak not of chitty-chitty or the midnight express but that costly, annoying discipline we humans created when we domesticated the purest form of nature, those meat eating, prowling, hunting, four-legged canines who could never fathom the uncontrollable need to drive through starfux and fork out $4.99 for their daily fix of half-caf light extra foam latte get-me-through another-day-of-my-asinine-job. while they, our barely evoluted wolf pets stay home alone and do their best to self-entertain. a certain sister of mine recently confessed that upon her arrival home from work, her cute and co-dependent doggie ran happily to greet her with a strange, vibrating item in his mouth. upon further investigation she found a telltale trail of pink plastic chunks leading to her bedroom and under her bed where she did the math and came up with the equation equalling the demise of a certain, expensive and quite effective marital aid known by any woman who's seen sex and the city as "the bunny." leave it to (beaver?) fate/the obvious/ that the bunny done died.

god i wish she had a nanny cam for that one. her 11 year old nephew could upload it and post it on youtube in 5 minutes and before you know it she'd have thousands of views.

pretty.

but i regress, or tangent, or ramble. so be it. it's late, the roofies are kickin' in (jk)

back to dog training.

it sucks.

our teacher is mean and condescending and oftentimes skeedadles out of the microscopic training area for oh, half the class time to smoke, drink, shoot up or what have you but we, the people do what we can to gossip and let them jump, run, play, hump and basically get their ya-yas out.

but then she returns all fire and brimstone and has the nerve to tell us that "we shouldn't let our dogs play for so long." because obviously that's a bad thing. bad but funny when henry, the long, fat, droopy basset hound throws up a big slimy green pile of puke and miss dog trainer lady insists on investigating its contents.

she allegedly detects shreds of a coloring book and a veritable rainbow of color crayon pieces. dog nazi cindy isn't happy so i do my best to stifle my giggles as i think of the times henry's owner told us of his penchant for pop-tarts that her grandbabies unknowingly hold onto loosely enough for henry to grasp out of their grimy little hands quick as a wink.

oh so much more but god damn it's 5 a.m. and i must be manic as i feel as though i could touch up the sistine chapel, run a marathon, streak through downtown asheville (though i doubt anyone would be awake!)  guess i'll have a talk with my little peach colored friend(s) and let them carry me off to dreamland. hopefully long enough so that i don't look like a hairless, eyes-glued-shut puppy in the morning. 

i really need to teach those boys how to make the perfect cup of coffee.

more on puppy class later.

life is so fucking cool and we should all get down on our knees right now to laugh/pray and give thanks for every breath, every connection we make with another human being (even if they're dressed in dogs' clothing). for music, and warm cherry pie with homemade vanilla ice cream while watching carlos mencia or reno 911.

give thanks y'all. 

life fucking rocks.

nothing else matters

the morning after

bless me father (again). it's been a long-ass time since i've verbally barfed onto my mac.

i would like to take this opportunity to thank the academy, i mean my sister leslie, for the steel-toed boot kick in my bony ass and actually sit it down on the couch and blogify. 

she's been urging me to do so for quite some time but my incredibly thick skull must have parted enough to actually hear her words when she texted me something to the effect of: "you must blog today, you are using really good words." so here you go, baby sis. i hope you're sneaking "on the clock" time to revel in my brilliant verbgiage thus far...classics like long-ass, barf and blogify. 

i'll take the praise and "atta-girl" but in reality i'm doing my best to avoid going out into the terrifying world of consumeristic hell otherwise known as BLACK FRIDAY. that "unofficial holiday" (it ain't on my calender!) that begins precisely at 12:01 a.m. on friday, november 28th. i'm assuming it's only in america as i give our brothers and sisters in other countries more credit. i mean really, is it possible that people who sit in cafe's and drink lattes for half the day while journaling and reading hemmingway with no guilt whatsoever could also condone waking up in the wee hours of the morning, donning a pair of poly-blend bend-over slacks and a neon red christmas sweater, embellished with reindeer, santa claus, gingerbread men and actual blinking lights hopping in the mini-van (love you kel! think carlos mencia) and high-tailing it to the largest mall in order to stand in line for two or three hours only to be nearly (and sometimes actually) trampled to death for the great pleasure of scoring one of only two hundred $79 DVD players or one of the last two Wii's left in the entire galaxy.

well golly that sure sounds fun, don't it?

but alas, i'm judging, aren't i? hell yes i am.

let them eat cake or cinnabons till their heads explode. i truly hope they enjoy themselves and live to tell their great grandchildren of their heroic quests.

me? i'm being pulled by the forces of 3 hormonally challenged testosterone maniacs (weird 'cuz you'd think it'd be the girls who gave a flying frick) to "go check it out."

and in all fairness, testostee #1 is home from his prep school and has seemed to have grown at least 3 inches causing his pants to look like he's waiting for the levy to break. and we can't have that now, can we?

plus, it might be funny. i know that's highly optimistic of me but a pre-mall margarita may help calm the social anxiety some. 

i'll look on it as research for part 2...

gonna getcha

ain't no place like home

baby love

flying high

first dream i remember in detail for quite sometime and it was a doozy. there were some previews before the main feature, one involving a very cool old lady who was sitting at the end of my bed when i awoke. she was very "un-old-lady-like" meaning not the stereotypical grouchy, wrinkled, nay-saying nelly. more like a fairy or a goddess in an old lady costume. she smiled at me and giggled when i yawned and stretched. her suitcases were packed and sitting by the front door. she was wearing a suit  the color of ripe pinot noir grapes that had shimmering gold thread woven through the fabric. it seemed bereft of the seemingly mandatory polyester worn by most people over fifty-five.

i didn't ask who she was or why she was in my home partly because she posed no threat but more so because i felt as if i should know her and it would be rude to ask. 

she finally spoke as i got dressed and came out into the kitchen to join her for coffee. she said, "i can tell you're unique because i saw the bullet." 

i searched my mind for what that might mean and she went on to explain how the necklace i used to wear around my neck (in a past life?) was the bullet that killed my husband in battle and the only reason i sold something so valuable was because i needed money to feed our child.

i sold it on craigslist.com, b.t.w.

pretty cool idea now that i think of it, sort of akin to billy-bob and angelina's blood filled amulets professing their endless-ish love. 

my old lady-muse must away as her people come for her. they're going to disneyland and i question how that can be possible when we're in the east.

"you must mean disneyworld," i say and they smile politely and say, "no dear, there's a small branch of disneyland over at the biltmore house." of course there is. i'm dreaming.

guess that was a rather long preview, makes me want to see the actual movie when it comes out.

pop to the scene where a girl in a lime green spandex tank top is driving a jeep with its top down on the freeway. she's tan and her long, sun-bleached hair is whipping spastically around her face.

i believe i'm watching the scene from another car but it doesn't take long for me to figure out that she is acutally me. 

she/me starts speeding and looking around. i see that there's another car pursuing her and she doesn't look happy about it. it's some guys in a pimp car, something white or gold circa 1970-something. 

she steps on the gas and the jeeps v-6 picks up and gains her a little ground but the boys are relentless and floor their beast too.

suddenly the girl makes an executive decision and pulls a hard right onto an off-ramp, throwing the pimps off for a second. it all seems to happen in slo-mo. as she accelerates into the curve of the hairpin turn she looks back quickly to see if they're following behind. in that instant the car hits the apex of the improperly banked curve which make her slightly under-inflated good-year 

tires give just enough to throw the whole jeep out of balance. before she can correct it she's toppling over and over, grabbing wildly for the rollbar and praying to jesus-god-buddha-mary and oprah to make her a happy statistic.

she notes that she is not only conscious in this moment, but strangely calm.

the jeep finally comes to a hard, final slam down on the pavement near a big white building across the freeway. so hard in fact that it manages to disengage her from the vehicle while she's still wearing her seatbelt, the seat and a sizable portion of the car's metal frame.

people have stopped their cars on the road and are standing with their mouths agape, some have the sense to call 911 but most are in shock and stand silently like deer. 

when the girl realizes she is alive and unharmed for the most part, she stands up with much effort, pulling the seat and frame with her. her eyes are wild and her hair is knotted. her clothes are torn. 

she looks like a feral cat as she begins walking purposefully towards the big white building. she looks like the hulk in her dirty green tank top with her muscles straining to pull the metal enhanced chair behind her. the boys who caused it all are there and they chain-smoke guiltily but can't stop watching, amazed. they walk towards her but she picks up her speed and begins to run. it gets very movie-like at this point as she runs like a cheetah and of course it's magic light and jimi hendrix begins to play. not sure which song but i'll leave it up to mark mothersbaugh to choose when he does the soundtrack. 

end scene as we lose sight of her and all the rubber-neckers are standing around the building, now joined by firetrucks, policemen and a news crew.

flash to a close up shot of girl inside building, which is really like a huge hangar and she's running fast, faster, speed-of-light fast and becomes almost a blur as she jumps, superhero like into an enormous jumbo-jet. the car seat she's in becomes the airplane seat and the metal from the ex-jeep melds into the plane perfectly.

she sits there breathing heavily, a huge smile on her face. tears roll down her cheeks and she begins to laugh maniacally. 

it's an international airplane and she's the only one on board. she's never flown before, which was why at the moment she was tumbling through the air in the jeep, thinking she was going to die, she wished for this one last thing.

she thought of all the obstacles that had been in her way for so long, how many men she had blamed for her loss of time, self-respect and money. how many excuses, reasons, justifuckations.

god it had taken her long enough. 

but she finally did it. she alone. she and her mind and her will and being pushed to the very edge of existence.

she reached for her glass of champagne and nodded to the pilot who looked a lot like bob marley and they flew off into the sunset. 

as she looked out the window she saw the people below looking up with awe-filled faces. she saw the place where she had emerged from the wreckage of the jeep and noticed that an ambulance was there and a gurney was being loaded into it. she saw her family there and remembered she hadn't talked to them in quite some time. in fact the last time they had seen her she was angry and depressed. she made a note to call them as soon as she got back.

the last thing she saw as the plane rose higher into the wild blue yonder, as the people and cars below started looking like miniatures of themselves, was the obvious lump of a sheet-covered body on the gurney. the wind blew and she thought she saw a flash of green underneath it where the wind tossed the sheet aside, but it was hard to tell for sure. 

she sat back and finished her champagne and let the metal dream bird take her wherever it was she needed to go. 

do a little dance

the things we do for love

we're talking loudly across the dog park (meaning: he's talking to me and i'm being nice and responding from the plastic lounge chair where i'm attempting to read the journal i wrote when i was 9).

he's enthusiastically telling me about the "soapy-suds" dog wash place and describing each step in great detail.

there's a girl standing next to him but she walks away and he gravitates towards me.

his dog is a 4 month old, 55 pound st. bernard named layla moon and she is the cutest thing i've ever seen.

of course bodhi fell for her hard, and within a few minutes had her down on the ground, stroking her face gently with his paws. 

derek continued his saga of drug dealing parents and friends who died of o.d.s

we discussed our many tats and talked about how harshly we're judged, even in a place as "groovy and progressive as asheville. it's time to go and as i leave i see the obvious turn of heads, that "oh no, don't let them see us staring," look.

it was cluster of soccer moms and yuppie dads...and yes, i may be judging but their clothes and mini-vans pretty much screamed republican.

they were very concerned with their dogs and who they interacted with when all derek and i wanted was a moment of peace and for our dogs to run and jump and play and get their ya-ya's out.

one of the soccer mom's neurotic dogs hunches down and pinches out a big long turd and bodhi promptly eats it.

derek and i laugh as the s.m. runs over and scolds the dog while picking up the poo with a green plastic doggie bag. she looks so irritated and i wonder if she's off her meds.

when i get back to my car bodhi gives me a big wet lick/kiss that smells faintly of foreign

shit. 

the things we do for love.

Not a Crowd

extra credit

tiny bottle, mighty clean

this is the color i dreamt about last night. as well as the grateful dead. nice to have my dreams back after a day of detoxing. yes, you heard me right, detoxification. you see, while many (even most or "all" according to some people who live quite happily in the confines of their own deluded minds) white people choose, no, are actually bound by the very d.n.a. of their inferior race to do ridiculous thing like drive mini-vans the moment they pop out a kid or 2.5., buy cartloads of unnecessary shit from wal-mart while doped up on prozac then have to pay for off-site storage 'cuz amazingly enough it won't fit- in their 3k+ square feet of scotch-guarded beige wall-to-wall carpeted suburban space. oh, and most importantly of all, they (we) regularly vacation at the slightest hint of a "holiday." everybody who's anybody my friends, is . working for the weekends. tack an extra day or two onto those sat/suns. and it's like you won the fucking lottery.  a christmas eve, disneyland, sick day, soggy wet twenty dollar bill found in the pocket of your girlfriend's jeans when she's not home kind of happiness. i mean, come on, dumb-ass shoulda checked her pockets first, right? fine, buy her some goddamned flowers with it. she'll be none the wiser.

and how, my sober inner editor asks my not so sober anymore self...do one-day-detox and suburban stereotypes jive? 

hmmm...my third fantastically perfect pink drink say they a. don't and b. don't have to. so neiner, neiner, neiner.

very mature whit.

if i may step out onto the slippery slope of controversy and lay, no slam my fifth amendment card down on the table with the safety net of carlos mencia, and all those other comedians i love who speak of stereotypes in a way that's acceptable (by the folks who will dare to even watch them) because they speak of every race and religion and creed (?) including themselves which must obviously cancel them/it all out...i will say that jesus, mary and joseph must have hand chosen me on this holiest of holidays known as "labor day" (um, which means we don't work to appreciate the fact that we have a job but those who have to work get time and a half and the ones who don't must just have jobs that suck...?)

because i was the advocate, not only of obsevation, but the patron saint of "smoothing it over for all races in spite of my white-but now summer golden skin."

here is what occurred.

1. upon awakening and escorting my leashed canines to the fecal depository in the rear of the crack apartment complex i encountered a gentleman with skin the color of dark chocolate, teeth as straight and white as any laser whitening billboard and yes, a big gold initial hanging from a chain around his neck.  he complimented the beauty and intelligence of my dogs then proceeded to tell me the heartbreaking story of the recent poisoning of his beloved pit bull puppy, a rare, all white male with one "carolina blue" eye (yes, he said that) and one brown one.  so horrifying and controversial was this travesty that it was allegedly on the news. he wrapped up said story by showing me multiple photographs of his dead baby on his i-phone. *side note that may or may not be pertinent were the items he had just acquired from harris teeter which consisted of 2 large plastic bottles of hawaiian punch (goes great with vodka i discovered in the not so recent past) a flat of ramen noodles (chicken) and enough t.p. to mummify the entire complex twice. again, just noticing.

2. when the dogs were whining due to lack of food and i dragged my sleepy ass to "pet supplies, plus more" (??!!) and hefted a 40 lb. bag of human-grade food containing oatmeal, lamb and, i swear to god, amino acids...i was sucked into the incredible magnetic force known as wal-mart and zombie-d around looking for things no one ever needs...when i was confronted directly by two cute, almost anime characters, a mother and a daughter who seemed to be having a crisis involving TIDE. 

"excuse me..." the mother said ever so politely and for a moment i wondered if i looked like i worked there. was i wearing blue? a vest? were my roots showing or were my jeans pulled up too high? did i mutter phrases like, "didja find everythin' you was lookin' for?" 

but i let it go and decided to be of service to these lovely ladies.

i took a deep breath and was there now. mom put two orange plastic bottles of TIDE down on the shelf in the furniture section i had been wandering around in for no apparent reason. 

"can you tell me what  is TIDE with fabric softener?" she asked, looking me in the eyes so kindly and lovingly i wanted to hug her.

she pointed to the other one and sighed. 

her beautiful daughter (16?) took out her earphones and smiled at me. "she wants to know what the difference is." she said.

she went on to talk about her husband wanting something and kept pointing to the two orange bottles and looking at me with increasing desperation.

"well," i began, speaking slowly and loudly to make up for my failure to know even one word of japanese (not counting domo aragoto mr. amato) "this one," i said, pointing to the one that didn't contain fabric softener, "is just laundry detergent." she smiled and bowed. 

"and this one," i said, pointing to the other that had a splattering of lilacs and fluffy words with exclamation points touting the softener addition, "has a softener in it." she cocked her head sideways and i imagined her in japan, with all the noise and chaos and crazy weird language and knew i should pay attention because this moment was surreal. 

"you know, like those dryer sheets" i said, miming the box and the sheets and looking at the daughter who had re-inserted her earplugs but was smiling at me like i was the queen of the world. 

and here, i couldn't help myself..."dryer sheets," i said, "those nasty things you put in the dryer when you're done washing your clothes, the things that smell bad and have lots of CHEMICALS in them..."

they smiled and bowed.

mom pointed to both bottles again.

"so if i put this in this then this is not for this?"

her daughter patted her on the shoulder and i tried again.

"this one," i said, gesturing to the plain one, "is only for doing your laundry." 

"this one," i said, pointing to the lilac chemical added one, "is like if you added dryer sheets, you know, to make the clothes softer." 

she shook her head vigorously as if she understood.

"if you want to make your husband happy" i said, "you could buy the one with the softener."

daughter went into story about dad not really knowing or caring what was going on domestically after all so i continued.

"but if you want my opinion" (which i assumed they did as we were 20 minutes into a discussion in wal-mart about laundry detergent) "you should get the one WITHOUT so many chemicals."

"i personally hide the dryer sheets that MY husband buys all the time." 

she giggled and i wondered if she had a clue as to what i was saying.

"they are bad, they are evil and they give my children rashes on their legs."

at this point i considered for one millisecond telling her about the $7 dryer sheets annointed with essential oils of lavender and gardenia that i splurged on then ripped in half as if they were pure columbian cocaine but she seemed to be having an anxiety attack about the two orange bottles already so i abstained.

i told her again what i thought the difference was, gave her my opinion in the nicest way i could then ended with a compliment on her english skills.

i imagined myself in a wal-mart in japan asking some japanese housewife about some products i didn't recognize with foreign writing on the bottles. 

then i wondered if her daughter attended my son's prep school.

3. driving back from half-way to boone to deliver my surrogate son to my friend whose dad is dying and my own babyone is trying to engage me in the "who wants to be a millionaire" boardgame and i'm trying to pretend like i'm present...we see a plethora of cops with their blue lights swirling and we rubber-neck enough to see...a black guy with his shirt off (come on dude!) so i start singing "bad boys bad boys whatcha gonna do?" and i wonder what he did, if he lives in my apartment complex, why he would be so stupid as to walk around shirtless doing anything worthy of po-po intervention on labor fucking day...

and just like carlos i end this post, this day, these thoughts with the groovy, un-deniable fact of unity, one-love, that thing that bob marley so aptly wrote about.

let's get together and feel alright

one love

one heart

give thanks and praise to the lord

and we will feel alright

happy labor day

 

bleu graz

i am not worthy

the name tag pinned to his standard issue royal blue polo shirt said 'Cameron' and he was doing his best to maintain some semblance of normalcy while scrunched awkwardly in his wheelchair. they placed him strategically at the entrance of the automatic doors so you couldn't help but confront him in all his deformed and handicapped glory.  before the doors even swooshed shut behind me he was stuttering hello. had i failed to give him the courtesy of acknowledgement he deserved then i should just start drowning kittens and stealing from the blind. "how...hhhh...hh...how are yyy...yyou?" he stammered, his head bobbling wildly like a dashboard jesus. 

in the nanosecond that it took for me to respond i noticed that he was young and good looking, almost movie star good looking even and that he seemed genuinely interested in doing his job well. 

i smiled at him and said "i'm fine, how are you?"  but i didn't stop, just kept walking slowly towards the big neon yellow smiley faces announcing the  rolled-back price cuts. the sound of his reply faded as i looked back over my shoulder and saw him attempting to turn his head and look at me. in that moment i felt like shit.  i walked zombie like to the women's clothing section and wandered through sales and colors and prices i should probably care about. as usual i had no idea which section, if any, was meant for me. i lethargically pulled a cute-ish looking flimsy pale yellow and green hippie skirt from the rack and shuffled around aimlessly, wishing i had the courage to go back and talk to him.  my kid calls from his cell and asks where i am. i ask if they saw the dude in the wheelchair when they came in.  i walk closer to the entrance but make sure to lay low behind the plus size tent dresses so i'm not spotted. there is a cute young brunette girl standing behind the wheelchair, her hands rest casually on his shoulders. they seem to be conversing and i love her so much. another guy comes in from outside sporting the same droid blue polo and the three of them laugh and talk.  i'm confused because there doesn't seem to be any pity. i don't see some manager forcing them to spend time with him, it's almost as if...he's normal.

and who the fuck knows what normal is anyway? 

the kids find me and gabe's got that "let's get the hell out of here now" face nearly everyone gets after more than 10 minutes in any SuperStore but babyone wants to show me every single skateboard, bike, plasma tv and board game in the place. they're fighting and whining and i notice it's 8 p.m. and we haven't had dinner. we decide on operation 'cuz i haven't played since i was 11. 

i tell gabe how sad i am and he puts his arm around me. i notice that he's almost like an adult 'cuz he's maybe half an inch away from looking me eye to eye. i tell him that ever since i was very young i've felt extreme compassion for people with disabilities. how i feel almost guilty that cameron's in a wheelchair and i'm not. i wonder if he's happier than me. i wonder what happiness really is. 

gabe listens kindly then gives me the requisite scolding for spending money on crap we don't need and i tell him  it's a goddamned game and a goddamned skirt. i tell him i appreciate his concern but that i'm the parent and he's the kid and i've got it covered. "you don't even have a job" he says.

zach is quiet, as usual and we read each others' minds. we let gabe try to tell us we suck but we know he's only trying to help. 

i glance over at cameron once more as we exit the store i hate but get magnetically sucked into on a semi-regular basis and send him love. 

maybe he's the one who's got it all figured out and i'm the one who needs help.

we walk out into the humid southern air and the smell of wet pavement rises up and fills our nostrils, enriches our brains. 

i try to be here now, for the gazillionth time. this moment, this feeling, this plastic blue bag in my hand. i look at my two beautiful boys and i think of cameron's mom. all is bliss. all is bliss. 

neon bondange

bodhisatvic bliss

he is perfect. everything he does makes all who witness him say, "ahh..." like he's purposely trying to be the cutest fucking creature who ever walked the earth. each pose he falls into so naturally screams PURINA PUPPY CHOW PHOTO SHOOT!!  he makes me laugh as he lopes and scrambles around in his over-sized lanky puppy dog body.  i could look at him for hours.  he's getting so big that i can lie down next to him and cuddle with him like he's an adult human person. when i don't pay enough attention to him he sits right next to me and emits this grovelly growly moan that's simultaneously pathetic and hilarious and makes me want to give him anything he wants.  i wish i had that power. he looks me in the eyes when i speak, comes when i call him, sits when he thinks i have cheese or meat, just in case. how can i resist? i'm in love.  i kiss him on his slightly wet black velvety nose that's speckled with pink and white polka-dots. every time i kiss him he sticks his long pink tongue out real quick. so i kiss him repeatedly, like 5 or 6 times just to see if he'll continue his pattern, which he does.  according to the girl in the groovy asheville dog boutique, he chose me. and i'm inclined to believe her 'cuz chloe and i sat in the stinky wet puppy pens at the humane society and allowed ourselves to be licked, scratched and mauled to death in an honest attempt to finally pick the right one. bodhi was the mellowest guy i' ve ever seen. he stared into my eyes for a long, long time and had the personality of jeff spicoli. if he could talk i'm pretty sure he would've said,  "dude, i'm the one."  some retarded guy came by and told me i couldn't leave without him. i willingly concurred and proceeded to convince the staff that i needed take him home that very day, even though he was scheduled to have his manhood sliced soon and wouldn't be available for a few days. but i convinced them because my reason was solid. my baby sister was visiting from california and brought her dog, talisker (named for a whisky her husband loved) along. when tallie wasn't busy flying the friendly skies, he was home alone for a large part of the day. he needed a friend and had been having a ball with my psychotic little white bichon.  by acquiring a second canine before she went home, she could witness the joy that comes from a furry companion. 

little did i know that my "friend for my dog" dog would end up being my "soulmate" dog. suddenly it became crystal clear that my high maintenance paris hilton dog must be the "friend dog" for my sweet yuppie sis. i'd even go so far as to say he's her soulmate dog. in a few months she's coming to get him at which time i suppose bodhi will need a new friend...

ok, i'll admit that he needs more exercise and training to be the absolute coolest dog ever, but who, i ask, has time for that? i need that sexy foreign dog whisperer guy to come and live with me and train my dogs. i'll fetch him super-sized plastic tumblers of sangria and he'll don his uber-tight levis and pec-enhancing black shirt. he will shoot poison arrows at my dogs with his eyes and say things in spanish that sound quite naughty. but they will instantly come sit stay fetch roll over and make me a cappuccino with perfect foam.  i will thank him by taking naked photos of him at magic light. or maybe just in cowboy boots. the dog whisperer network people will call and beg to use my beautiful and  perfectly trained dogs in an upcoming special and we agree on a $50k fee.  shit, i just got hit on the head with a reality stick that smells suspiciously like poop. 

muchas gracias caesar.

barbie trips

these are a few of my favorite words

asbestos

ballistic

cantankerous

dilapidated

egregious

fellatiate

gregarious

hostile

ignominious

ju-ju

karmic

lackadaisically

metallic

nemesis

oppression

quintessential

rectify

scintillating

trajectory

undulate

vivify

wallow

x-con

yeoman

zen

fun at the oasis

so we're at the pool and i finally send the boys away 'cuz all they're doing is hucking balls at each others' heads. balls that have been saturated in water and they're being loud and feral.  i'm probly s'posed to be doing something about it, but the problem is that i don't really know what that thing is. 

it's like, one day i was me, the me who barely knew who the fuck i even was, then bam! i fall in love/lust, pop out a kid then all hell breaks loose. all of a sudden there's someone else, someone who is entirely dependent upon you. someone who's part you, who just drools and stares at you like an idiot, like you're jesus fucking christ or something. you're all-encompassing, all knowing and quite possibly immortal. you are the fucking shit. 

but they're gone now. i'm sittin' on the black and white rubber lounge chair that's broken and my ass keeps slipping through the cracks. it's no where close to comfortable, even when i lay in this weird-ass position so it doesn't hurt as much.  

the book i'm reading is so incredibly hilarious that i don't want to stop. ever. i have to hide my face with my hands 'cuz spit is flying as i imagine the demented scenes the authoress paints for me. i drink the last of my vodka and hawaiian punch and sigh heavily. is it so wrong to feel that having a full-time, personal bartender is a necessity rather than a luxury?

some germans come to the pool. i know they are german because they talk in staccatos and sound like every nazi movie i've ever seen. the 2 women are voluptuous and super over-tanned. the guys are doughy and have bad, dumb and dumber haircuts. they're talking all crazy and fast and they're laughing like they're on hallucinogenics. i wonder if they are and if germans are generous with their mind-altering drugs. a few chapters later i peek over the top of my book and suddenly they're getting all sexy-time in the pool right in front of me. they're hanging on each other and shoving tongues in ears and pulling aside bathing suits. in an attempt to keep from puking i cough and stare at them like i'm some kind of rent-a-cop angel. they seem completely oblivious of me and swim like dolphins mermaids and salmon down to bikini bottom bar. 

my laundry isn't drying and i'm out of dollar bills. 

i should go but then i have to figure out what the hell's for dinner. hopefully they figured something out already due to their recent incessant hunger. 

i'm fantasizing about having hard salami and fat-full cream cheese as my main course when i spy a little german eye looking in my general vicinity. in fact all eight eyes are fixed on me and they look hungry or horny or both so i quickly gather my shit and high-tail it outta there, throwing a quick "white-light" spell on my laundry to ensure it'll be there when i finally make it back. 

don't get me wrong, just because i've recreated x3 doesn't mean i'm dead to fun and adventure. au contraire. it seems to have created an uber-adventurer, if you will, though she mostly resides in my mind. 

a german orgy...or a bath and salty preserved snacks...

what would hitler do?

cheese is the answer

i love cheese. cheese is good and it must be good for you because it's so fucking delicious. i can live without milk, bread, toilet paper and butter (barely) but life without cheese is no life at all.

don't get me wrong, i'm not cheese-ist, i love all types. gouda, cheddar that's organic and white or brazenly dyed orange.  even those kraft single slices with the consistency of rubber, smooshed between those two clear filmy things... hell, i'd eat spray velveeta if it was the last cheese on earth.

i'd gladly give up an entire meal in order to ease the guilt of the 2,000 calories consumed at one sitting comprised entirely of cheese.

is it possible to find a more versatile and flexible companion to oh so many culinary delights? from flaky philo dough to triscuits, cheese has a subtle and sassy way of saying, "ya, i go with that."

it's good cold with chardonnay, melted just right on that midnight munchies grilled cheese and holy crap how 'bout liquid cheese??!! fondue me right here and now. 

get to know it people. cheese is your friend, makes gas cheaper, improves the economy in general and keeps you thin, rich and young. 

cheese-us-christ, can it get any better than that?

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short bus enlightenment

the brain is the only organ that can think about itself.  how fucking weird is that to...think about?

i admit i think too much.  i know this because there's a book about it.  wanna guess the title...?  here's a clue: "vaginas who contemplate excessively."  

apparently this is not the lovely gift i believed was bestowed upon me at conception then bragged about from the moment i could talk.  sadly, according to my latest favorite mentor, none other than the cute and groovy deepak chopra, my disneyland of a brain not only not a blessing, it's a damn curse. 

so how, i ask, does one stop thinking?  and please correct me if i'm wrong (anyone, that is, who is not currently living in a cave at the top of a mountain in or around the vicinity of tibet, india or any other place one would deem "extra-spiritual.") but isn't the first thing that occurs to your average, non-yogi master, even if said seeker has pink pony sinshine (oops! i meant sunshine) daydream goals of self-awakening....to think about it....??!!! 

how many times do people say things we think we understand, only to have a "bathroom revelation" later that day or week or month which causes us to re-contemplate the entire scenario?  do they know we may have completely misinterpreted their meaning?  do we go back and ask them if they thought we understood the thing they believed they were conveying to us with razor-sharp accuracy?  how do we ever even know if what we say to someone gets into their head and does its pin-ball bouncy-dance then somehow, magically, is assimilated into their psyche in a form that resembles anything close to its original meaning?  might we know by their response?  their lack thereof?  do we care and does it even matter?  are we spewing our all-important opinion for their benefit or for ours? what the hell is communication anyway?  what's this bulllshit known as "active listening?"  what exactly is "mirroring?"  how can we know if someone is paying us a true compliment and when they just want to get laid/off work early or paid?

here i go again.  females who ponder wildly.

why did our all knowing creator give us this brain only to have it decide that over-using it is detrimental?  do we create our reality or does it create us?

i must stop. 

thank god for red red wine.

purple haze

though the temptation to watch oprah's episode featuring the pregnant man is very strong, my desire to sit out on the back porch in my wife beater and panties while listening to the awesome pounding of thunder and occassionally catch a glipse of a hot white lightening bolt slam to the ground (hopefully not too close to where i sit happily sipping an abita purple haze, "a crisp, american style wheat beer with a fresh raspberry puree added after filtration") and write, is stronger.  for that i am so happy. 

this morning in the bath, i finished a book called, "hypocrite in a poufy white dress."  as is typical for me, immediately upon the completion of a book i found not just enjoyable but actually good enough to cause the contemplation of my own life and imminent death; possibly even a fleeting moment of that "one-ness" bob marley spoke of, sans pot. and of course, i'm instantly depressed because it's over and now i need to find a new book.

ahhh.....the sweetest most perfect wind just blew through my unbrushed hair and my puple haze is just about gone, as are my children and husband, so rather than sit here and write more like i "should" i believe i'm going to do something completely irrational like....hold on....it's coming....oh shit, i had temporary amnesia and forgot that i live in boone, nc where the most exciting thing to do is/was to drink at the bar known as the "boone saloon" owned by our lovely friends whose names i won't mention due to the female half of said bar requesting i keep her identity annonymous....(love you, K...Y!)

so i believe i will venture out to one of the two bookstores here to giddly peruse the shiny happy covers holding hands. 

because honestly, i'm in a bit of a funk. i truly have so much to be happy for AND my kids are gone and i have all this TIME to lounge, debauch, sleep, read, eat, drink and be merry and i actually, kind of, sort of....really miss them a lot. they're my buddies and i don't give a shit what those self-help books say about that. i have a couple boundaries...don't hit, don't steal, don't wake me up from my nap and fireworks are o.k. until you lose body parts (or some recent vet comes knocking on my door on new year's eve telling me you need to get a clue about the danger of explosives). love is the answer, really, it is. 

the quality of the maharashi for today is "ultimate creativity" and i had such grandiose plans earlier on to paint some sort of "cystine chapel meets dali" masterpiece but now all i wanna do is go to wal-marx and try on ridiculous clothes and take self-portraits in the dressing room. 

life is good. god it's good.

to hell on a harley

it's happening again. somewhere around 3-4 a.m. i am awakened by thoughts of blogging and the unmistakable feeling of hunger pangs.  i begin silently reciting actual sentences which are surprisingly pre-edited and somewhat literate for someone who was only moments earlier passed out in a deep and drooling sleep.  but this time i don't resist. i crawl quiet as a mouse out of bed, snatch my mc laptop and find, amazingly enough, that there is one generous serving of peanut butter puffins left in the box.  call it divine intervention if you must, it is the middle of the night and i am awake and writing.  I don't fancy myself a superstitious woman per se but as i peel off layer after layer of the onion that is me, i tend to be more accepting of the obviously deep, spiritual meanings masked in rather mundane packages.  i was trying to recall the first book i ever read that could be classified as self-help, not counting the numerous christian, bible-based, fundamentalist ones i was allowed to read.  this particular thought sent me careening off the main thought highway onto a bumpy dirt side-road where i was compelled to dwell on these books for awhile. as far as i can remember they all said basically the same thing; "i was born a sinner, jesus was crucified because of me, even thought he made me and knew what  i was going to do my whole life." and if i was lucky enough to hear "the message," and drop to my knees to recite the magic prayer which  i'm a filthy sinner who needs forgiveness, please come live in my heart forever and ever, amen.  suddenly BAM! my access to heaven is granted.  i really can't recall the first time i said, "the prayer" but i can tell you that i soon thereafter hopped on the "re commitment train" by saying "the prayer" again and again for many years to come.  these re commitments usually took place in a tent or a fairground and you can be sure that the choir was always belting out the sappiest, weepiest songs, pleading for sinners to come home.  the girls in the choir were draped in chiffon dresses of various heavenly colors with names such as "pepto-bismol pink" and "lemon-meringue yellow." their hair was lacquered to the point of fossilization in angelic waves and often times there were actual tears slipping down their cherubic faces, creating small, thin troughs which parted the thick beige foundation, much like the way moses parted the red sea. there was no doubt that i was saved. i was saved, re-saved and forgiven for all my sins. i believed, oh lord did i believe.  the problem was that i was was shy and shyness didn't help me accomplish the mandatory task of spreading the message of the gospel to as many sinners as i could in a holy effort to save them from a quick trip to hell.  hell, as i interpreted it, was a place where you answered to the king of darkness and his peons, separated for all of eternity from those who managed to say "the prayer."  but i must reiterate and say that i was truly a shy child who would rather slice my own eyeballs into thin julienne slices than to have to "share the message."  which made me just one teensy-tincey bit above those darned sinners who failed to say "the prayer".  the guilt and shame i felt from my inability to do my job as a disciple of Him made me feel as if i were. personally driving them all straight to hell on my shiny red harley. 

peanut butter angels

i just read this cool book called, "Your Psychic Self," and the author said that sometimes her angels wake her up in the middle of the night to tell her important things. Apparently my angels woke me up this morning to tell me to eat a bowl of Peanut Butter Puffins and finally start blogging.  I'm somewhat of a virgin blogger but have been journaling since i was eight. my very first journal, a small, fake denim  book, once had a tiny gold lock, whose whereabouts are unknown. not a problem, since the plastic strip holding the thing together has since been cut, making my deepest childhood thoughts a veritable public free-for-all. page one begins with this literary masterpiece, "mommy was being very mean today." mom, if you're reading this it probably had something to do with adam.  adam, if you're reading this you probably took something that was a. mine or b. perceived by me to be mine. just remember that i was, and always will be the oldest child and therefore, the "boss of you."  shelby, leslie and sarah, you can all calm down as none of you were even born yet, but thanks for reading this and for all your love and support. i love you all to death :) dad, i love you too, you just weren't involved in this particular crisis.

as i begin to fade, i realize that early morning blogging may not be the best idea for a non-morning person and therefore may not produce the best material. but i (with the help of my angels, thank you very much) am committed to writing every day.  a writer i was once in love with put it quite succinctly; "if you want to do something well, do it every day." somehow the simplicity masking the profundity of that statement makes it hard for many would-be writers to digest. it's not enough to read about writing or talk about writing. writers must actually, by definition, write.

so while i admit whole-heartedly that late night/early morning blogging is a rather humble start, it's a start nonetheless. and you know that cool thing that famous guy said about the first step, right? good, 'cuz i can't remember.  but as soon as my peanut-butter angel gets cozy on my left shoulder (isn't the angel on the left? and when we view them on t.v. it's "my right, your left?") the devil on my other shoulder thinks he's funny and causes the battery symbol on my mc laptop to flash the scary red color.  to a person less lazy than myself,  this may mean it's time to get off their ass and find the damn power cord. but to yours truly, an obviously more enlightened being, it merely means it's nigh-night time.  and besides, my puppy chewed the cord and it's currently being held together by black electrical tape.  ok, so i've been mildly electrocuted a handful of times but hey, i'm quite the dedicated writer and the show, as they say, must go on.  more on electrocution and dedication to a cause tomorrow.  from me and my angels, goodnight :)