Eat Me, Drink Me

I want to admit something today: I have given myself food poisoning. I know, I know, you must be thinking that I'm a really bad cook - or a really dirty one - but you would be wrong, I am in fact, I really low-energy hostess with bad vision when I first wake up.

You see, the worst case I ever had was after I had thrown myself my 25th birthday party at my apartment. I served fried chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes and appetizers. I had 15 guests, and we laughed and reminisced and drank and ate. There were large serving bowls of food everywhere; when my guests left I was exhausted and fell asleep on my couch - all of those serving bowls of leftover food still in the dining room. It was 3am.

When I awoke, it was about 3pm the next day and I was starving. I picked up a piece of chicken from the serving platter and took a bite, then I picked up a cob of corn and took a bite. I walked to the kitchen, poured myself a drink, and walked back to the living room. By the time I reached the couch, I had experienced a pain I never felt in my life. I was sweating and my stomach was cramping so bad I couldn't stand up straight. It was like Mike Tyson was giving me body blows. I collapsed on the couch and passed out. 2 hours later I woke up still sweating. I struggled off the couch and staggered to the table. The chicken still looked and smelled fine, but when I picked up the corn, there was bright blue mold all over the sweet yellow kernels. There was the culprit, so obvious now that I was actually paying attention.

And so people, I nearly killed myself with food, have you?

Tomorrow, I'm A Donkey. . .

I Have No Pretty Pictures For You, Are You Disappointed?

I have noticed a trend, most popular blogs have pictures in just about every post. They have ads, they have all of this blog margin-bling, they 'pimp' other blogs; meanwhile, here at Normal To Eat PB, all you will find are words and a couple of lists with more words.

I want to give; I want to nourish, in fact. So, I wonder, are my words enough? Are my words too much? Are they like Melba toast without topping or accompanying drink or do they fatten like baby back ribs? Do they leave you wanting more like potato chips or do you walk away feeling gorged on cookies? Are they like vitamins? Are they tasteless, bland, grey? Do you take them in because they are here for the taking or because there is something you get from them, some flavor, some satisfaction; a trigger for thoughts, memories, loves?

Perhaps, in them, you read little snippets of the mundane, and it makes you feel comfortable. Or perhaps, here, you read little tatters of pain, and it makes you feel superior - happier. Perhaps, these words don't matter and don't apply to the general population - no one is interested really, and in fact, it is not the words that draw you here, but me. Because I've been honest, and maybe my truth is of no consequence to you, but the transparency of my vibrant and defiant spirit is.

I could make you comfortable; break up all these letters with visual interest - allowing you to catch your breath for a moment. But I like to bat you around like a cat with a mouse and introduce you to my horrors and loves; introduce you to my nightmares and lovers; introduce you to my strengths and weaknesses; introduce you to my dark and light. I like to watch you sweat and twitch and stumble - I'm nervous too and I don’t want to feel alone. I like to think that somewhere and in some way, I am seeping in, although I don't know what impact I may have.

I could show you pirouettes and pliates and breasts and legs; I could take you by the hand and treat you like my poor little baby:

Poor little baby

            Poor little baby with her eyes sewn shut, I’d hold you if I could

            and show you the seven wonders of the world and show you the wonders of the world.

I could take you and use you up poor little baby with your eyes sewn shut.

            Honey, sugar, sweetheart listen I can teach you much. I can show you how to touch and feel

            with me you’d understand and then you would understand.

I could take you and hold you down poor little baby with your heart worn out.

            lovely, innocent, fleshy creature I can fill you with joy. I can make you smile again because I am the one, the only one, I am the one I am.

I could take you and smack you around poor little baby that luckily I found.

            I’ll hold your hand and kiss your lips. I can make you want more, I know what you like, see I know more than you think. You can’t hurt me I’m invincible

I could take you and screw your mind poor little baby with your hands tied tight.

                                                            I hate/love you more than you know

                                                            because in my mind I know you know

                                                            and I’ve seen the tears that you’ve cried

Poor little baby shut your eyes.

I could make you trust me even as I show you, with all of this prose and poetry, maddening images of self-loathing disgust. I could bring you down here, with me. and we could ride out these sentences into oblivion, because the only queendom I will ever have is that of written - and that I've written - and I rule with 'ENTER' and 'DEL'. I knight with 'ALT' and 'CTRL', and you, for this short time, for these few minutes a day, are my subjects and I am yours.

No, there are no pretty pictures here, are you disappointed?

Tomorrow, Eat Me, Drink Me. . .

Can't Breathe

Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe; it's a feeling of being overwhelmed. Hopelessness and helplessness take hold and inflame my most secret insecurities. I grope within me for some form of assistance, never wanting to go outside of me for my own solutions. I take flawed murky water to quench my broken spirit and heal the lacerations; sludge fills me.

Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe; when I venture into the ocean, knowing that my swimming is not strong. Little sea creatures scuttle beneath my feet, mocking me. I stare down at them and conclude that it is unsafe to tread the sand beneath the crystal clear water. And the waves suddenly come. They knock me down, telling me to be brave and to persevere - to swim and breathe.

Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe; my eyes closed and deep in subconscious, nightmaring again. I run in fear from the dark and what lurks there. As I flee for my life, I wonder if the monster is of my own creation. Slowly, the air is diminished, slowly I am deprived, slowly I am choking and fall to my knees.  understand that I have the power to take a breath whenever I want, but my lungs refuse to fill.

Tomorrow, I Have No Pretty Pictures For You, Are You Disappointed?. . .

Poetry Corner

Away (3/2/07)

fleeting scenes fly by - pinpoint photos in time

they inspire me

the way you do

to come to you

live in to your rhythm and flow

completely let go

and all i have to risk

is everything

and all i want to give

is everything

so come to me as i whisper your name

come to me

as i take you in

Wind (3/10/95)

the wind is blowing in my ears whispering harsh words to me that sting

and the moon only offers half-light

but the sky is clear

that is all i came to see tonight,

the heaven's above my soul

i stand as a mountaintop above the world, below the heavens

looking up, trying to catch a glimpse of God

maybe even searching for my humanity

and i dare not blink and miss my mystic guide

for i have so many questions

and i want to put an end to my grief

this aching, longing, pain i've had since birth

and perhaps if i met my creator, while still on this earth, i could understand and move on, maybe i could lead the life he'd want me to live.

So i raise my hands to him in praise and prayer

asking him to relieve me

and i notice how the moon pales my skin, covering my form

and how i seem to bridge the gap between heaven and earth

how majestic and exhilarating

Now i realize that God surrounds me, high on mountain tops or amid my brethren, amid fog or stars, sun or moon

The wind stings my face as i stand on this mountain top and my garment is now a tattered rag blowing and conforming to the gusts. My hands still toward God, my thoughts still in prayer, knowing i will never be at peace until peace be with me

living as He has chosen for me

. . .not under the half light of the moon in search of what i know to be true

but being in truth

from the mouth of God

to my soul

WHO SURVIVES?

who survives

when you feel his hand reaching for you , groping you

and all he wants to do is hurt you for his warped purpose , . . . to have a sense of manhood , of being alive and dangerous

then, who survives

who     survives

who survives. who      survives! who survives!! WHO SURVIVES!!! who survives this madness, this insanity, this cruel vile thing?

who survives?

and afterwards

on Earth

everything I touch turns to dirt

To live to die

I still do not survive

and      living

all i m

is anger and rage and pain

and fear,

it will happen again

and again and again and again and again and again. . .

and fear of being a perpetrator or instigator or accessory to that deed

prevents me

to give life so that i may not take it

so i m no survivor

i m no phoenix who can rise from her ashes and start again

no, i m a carpenter building on shallow ruins of what was mine

and once in a while my edifice crumbles and the visage i wear cracks

my façade has ended

i must start again

who survives dear God? who survives

Tomorrow, Can't Breathe. . .

The Unexpected

This post is mostly for me - a record of this time, of what's going on with me and my body - as such, I suggest any sensitive men types stay away for today.

I feel strange, I haven't had a period since December and now I am worried. My surgery went well to release my uterus from my large intestines and remove the degenerating fibroids. I had little bleeding from anywhere since then and my pain varies, although it is not as bad as it was before the surgery. So now what? This is unexpected, I feel like I'm missing my womanhood. I feel incomplete. I feel incompetent. I feel. . .

I want to move on from this; from worrying about my womanly problems. I don't want to think of what it all means, and how it all started (aka Normal To EatPB and Recipe For A Baby). I am lost. The doctor said it may take a few months for things to get back to normal, but it's going on four months and now I am worried. What if this whole thing triggered an early menopause? What if something else is wrong? I have no answers. I can't get any answers; only one word: wait. So I wait, and I am scared, because there are no answers.

Tomorrow, Poetry Corner. . .

My Loves, Inspired By Accidental Miracles

Today, as inspired by Accidental Miracles, I would like to list the things I love;

I love the sun shining on my face on a lazy day when I intend to read a great book or knit or paint. The warmth and the light of it reminds me how wonderful life can be and how simple and uncomplicated.

I love watching people I love laugh, in Laughing Is The Cure I described their laughs - they make me happy when the laughs are sincere and uncontrolled. The laughs make me know that happiness is possible, even in the midst of tragedy.

I love looking my husband in his kind hazel eyes while he strokes my hair. In that moment I know that he loves me and there is a brick wall of confidence put up between my heart and my insecurities.

I love sipping tea on my couch when my house is spotless and I can smell the Lysol and the slight odor of bleach. It gives me peace to know I'm in a clean home.

I love walking through the park and taking in all the colors of the spring flowers. The view of the river in the background and children traipsing through the grass. It slows life down and fixes any ailment in my soul.

I love writing; taking my thoughts, ideas and feelings and spraying them in a document to be immortalized in computer memory - saved for me to read over and over again, or published, so I can share them with you.

What do you love?

Tomorrow, The Unexpected. . .

Play Time Is Over

So, I grew up a tom-boy, and as such I often have boyish behavior - particularly when I am alone with my husband. Often I like to initiate wrestling matches, tickle fights, and I also enjoy smacking his butt. To me, he is so much more than my husband, he's also my friend. As explained in Prom Night, we have a long history. We rough-house often and neither of us like to lose.

So, the reason I bring this up is because my husband usually winds up on the short end of the stick when it comes to us playing. I inadvertently scratch him, or make him strain or sprain something, and when we wrestle and I'm losing I threaten to grab his nuts and squash them. You heard me. I don't like to lose. When he gets hurt, I always feel bad, but I like to win more than I care about feeling bad - I mean, intellectually that isn't true, but in the heat of the moment I never think straight. My husband is a gentle soul, and he usually just lets me bowl him over, but occasionally he likes to show his dominance. When he does this, rarely do I feel like he's hurt me. To me, we're like two tiger cubs batting each other around.

Lately though, I've been thinking that I need to quit this behavior because it just seems so immature even if we are alone and no one (until now) knows that we do this. The thing about it is that after we rough-house I always feel so much closer to him on a human level, not a husband and wife level; it reminds me of playing with my brothers when I was a child.

What do you all think? Is this wrong?

Tomorrow, My Loves, Inspired By Accidental Miracles. . .

Get Pointy - The Sequel

Partially because I'm sick and partially because I'm at a loss for what to write about today (and yet I know exactly what I want to write about tomorrow : ) I am posting another benign novel excerpt:

The Point - Chapter 4 Excerpt

     He was ready. He got dressed in his uniform. The plastic bag with the name of the Chinese food restaurants' name on it was removed. The cartons were now in a plain brown paper bag. He drove to downtown Manhattan and parked on 2nd Avenue. He walked past 3rd Avenue, Lexington, and finally he was on Park Avenue. He walked to her building and stepped inside, "Delivery, 8C." His French accent was light and refined.

     "Hold on a minute." The doorman called upstairs, "Hey, there's no answer."

     He knew there wouldn't be. Harold Rosenbaum didn't get off work until well after 7PM, "I do not know about this, but I do know that someone named Rosenbaum called and ordered these meals. I will take them back, but I will not come again."

     The doorman thought a minute, he stopped Peter before he left for good, "Wait, go up, maybe there's something wrong with the line. If no one answers, come right back down."

     He stepped into the elevator and pressed 8. He got off, went directly to the exit and raced to the 9th floor, he didn't have much time. He opened her door using the keys, ran up to her bedroom and placed two cameras, one in the bathroom and one in the bedroom facing the bed - they were undetectable. He jumped several steps back downstairs with the paper bag in hand. He placed a camera in the kitchen along with the transmitter - she was rarely in the kitchen - and the last by the door facing the living space and her desk.

     He left, locking the door behind him, running back down to the 8th floor - leaving the bag in the compactor room - and took the elevator down to the lobby.

     "These people, how dare they make me wait while they check the bag. These filthy Americans!" He muttered to himself as he walked out and tossed one of his hands in the air.

     He got in his car and returned home. He thought of tossing out the jacket, but reconsidered; it might come in handy again. He went upstairs, with the jacket folded over his arm, the first thing he did after locking his door was go to his television and get a view of her home.

     The cameras worked perfectly, he had a great view of her couch and desk, the kitchen and eating area, a view of her huge walk-in shower, and her bed - but he knew how she operated, she would never bring anyone into her sanctuary - she did her whoring away from home.

     It was a bit satisfying, to know he would be able to watch her whenever he wanted without leaving home. He made sure the dvr was connected and on and went to sleep.

     5 o'clock in the morning was his waking hour. He got up and went into the bathroom to get ready, the floor was firm and set and he showered leaving a shadow of a beard behind. He put on a shirt, tie and slacks, grabbed his backpack stuffed with a dark blue jumpsuit and headed out.

     He punched in as he walked into the mailroom. There was a small army of men buzzing around packages, letters, boxes and equipment.

     "Hey, Pete! Over here." His new boss yelled at him from across the room. He walked to where Harry Blumenstein stood, "So what do I do?"

     "You take this cart to floors 16 and 17 and give the people their mail as you pick up. The numbers of the offices and cubicles match the numbers on these hanging folders. You can match the names too. You're early, but you can get started - come back here when you're done."

     "k." Peter walked out the door with the two tiered cart and towards the only elevator well leading down there - the freight elevators leading to every floor. He got in and punched 16, later he'd be punching the 4th floor, where her office was.

     He met many people on his run, a good deal wishing him a 'great!' first day. His run was simple and he gathered by talking to many of the admins that there wouldn't be much outgoing mail. He figured he probably had one of the slower runs. The floors were identical in layout and both dull and grey with niches for cubicles and offices lining the outer walls - like minimum security jail cells with benign lifeless prisoners - for the most part. Security seemed to be low on his route; the floors he serviced were the Corporate Responsibility, Employee Retention and Purchasing departments. He knew that the departments had no information on her that he would be interested in, but he also knew that the lack of the level of security he might find on the 4th floor could serve him well.

      "Hey man, what's up?" A black man got on the freight elevator with a cart of his own.

     "Nothin man, just trying to make it through day 1. What floors are you?" Peter put his foot on the brace by the carts rear wheels.

     "I got 14 and 12. So what are you here for? Tryin to pull a 'Secret of my Success'?"

     "Whatdaya mean?"

     "You know, like that Michael J. Fox guy - what's with the tie?" His tie was flipped up by 2 black fingers.

     "It's what they told me to wear. . . but I guess dress code goes out the window after a while, huh?" He leaned against the elevator wall.

     "Well. . . " the man took a look at Peter's ID clipped to the front pocket of his pants, "Peter, I guess so." the man let out a little laugh. "Gabriel man." Gabriel put his right hand out for a handshake.

     The elevator finally stopped at lower level 2 and they got out, "So what do I do now?" They rolled their carts to the mailroom.

     "You gotta sort for the next run. Plus run any packages you got." Gabriel pointed to a large stack of mail in a bin with Peter's name on it.

     "Oh. . ." The frown on Peter's face caused Gabriel to laugh raucously.

     His lunch break came quicker than he anticipated and happened to coincide with Gabriel's. Despite his best efforts, Peter stuck to the excuse he made not to take lunch together - he had to go to the post office. In fact, there was more truth in it than not. He did go to the Post Office - to rent a PO box, but even if he did not plan to go, he still would have found a way out of the lunch date.

     After the day's work was done, he left the premises and went to a diner 15 blocks away to eat dinner. He had stewed cabbage and water without dessert. The waitress that served him jokingly asked if he was on a diet. He didn't answer, but instead asked for a wedge of lemon with his water. That stopped all of her small talk.

     He finished with his dinner at about 7PM and went back to the office building he spent most of his day in earlier.

     "ID sir." The guard stood by an ID scanner. Peter showed it and swiped it then went to the elevator well stopping on the 4th floor. He searched the floor a bit, but finally found her office, which was open. He knew there was a camera recording his entrance, but there was no other way, her admin was here during the times that he might truly have cause to visit her office, and he doubted she would let him walk in and hide a camera along with a transmitter.

     He took his time to find a perfect spot for the camera where it would not be blocked by the door opening or closing, but still had a perfect view of her at her desk. He wrapped the transmitter in a plastic bag and buried it in the soil of her potted plant. He wiped his hands on a napkin, made sure he had all of his belongings and left.

     As he walked back to the elevator well, a guard approached him, "ID."

     Peter took out his ID. The guard looked him over for a second, "Alright."

     Peter left and was on his way to his night job. Peter was back in the Bronx by 8:30. He walked to Bronxwood Avenue and jogged up the steps of Harrison High School. He banged on the door, after the first knock there was an answer, "All right!" An elderly man dressed in a blue jumpsuit smelling of pine and rum opened the big metal door.

     "And who might you be?" His Irish accent was there although not prominent.

     "I'm Peter. . . you know, the guy you hired to cleanup in the night - you remember? Quiet an off the books?" Peter stood at the front door with his backpack slung over his shoulder staring at the old man.

     "Bout time you got here, where’s your clothes? Unless you plan to scrub shit an graffiti in your nancy boy clothes." He and Peter walked down the hallways as Mr. Flannigan showed Peter where the bathrooms were on the floor, explaining that they would be in the same location on every floor except the basement where the locker rooms were. He didn't really need a tour, he spent 4 years here being tortured in one way or another.

      "Can’t bend like I use to, but you go an get to it. I'll be up front waiting for you. The mop, bucket and such are over there. . . . and, I'll know. . ."

     "You'll know what?"

     "Why, I'll know if you fuck it up son." Peter walked away and got to work. He finished in exactly 1 hour attacking the dirt and grime ferociously. By 10:00 PM he was home to start it all over again.

     Adrienne ate another dinner with Carl, this one not as somber as the first couple. She wondered, as they talked about his family, what he would do once he was all alone in this big quiet house again. She wondered what she would do without his company - she did know what she hoped not to do, but old habits die hard. In the mist of their conversation the phone rung, "I'll get it." He'd already forgotten that she was a temporary guest and not family  - not someone with the right to answer the phone.

     He came back into the kitchen with a sour face, "That was Chief Wallace. He says the Andersons and the Fosters do want to hold a memorial service for your friends. . . . . . .but they would prefer if you not show."

     "Thank you for your kindness Carl, but I am almost positive they demanded that I not be there. It's alright, I don't need them or anyone else to help me remember my friends, I just wanted to make sure they were remembered." As Adrienne spoke, tears ran down her face. Carl knew in his heart that she wanted to share her grief with people who felt the same way as she did about her friends, but it couldn't be him. He didn't know them that well and he was a recluse. All he could do was go to her and give her a hug and she hugged back with all of the hurt and pain inside her.

     When they parted her lips muttered a question, "When is it?"

     "Tomorrow at noon."

     "Will you go for me?"

     "I'll go for you."

     "Thank you for everything, everything."

     "You're welcome to everything, everything." She wished he had been her father, she wished she could bring him with her to nurture her and protect her. . . .she wished.

Tomorrow, Play Time Is Over. . .

Be A Bitch

I used to be a good girl, no scratch that, a nice girl. A super nice girl. Always making promises to help people; loaning out money like a bank, giving away money like the lottery, using my free time to volunteer for whatever came my way. I was a promise machine and people knew that they could come to me if they needed something.

I'm not sure if that has really changed. I started this blog entry with the intention to say I have become a bitch. I wanted to say that I took inventory of my life and have decided that I need to do more for me, but as I was about to type those words, I realized the truth. The truth is that just last week I volunteered to help promote a friend's performance. I stood out in the cold without a scarf and now I am sick. The truth is I just loaned a friend money when I am in fact jobless and have no income. The fact is I have an unfinished novel but am now occasionally writing two blogs to help promote a friend. Yet, I want to be, no, I need to be a bitch.

There are things that I need to get done for myself, but I've been sluggish. It's almost as if I prefer to deal with other people's issues than with my own. I understand the need for altruism in society, I understand the spiritual blessings that can come from aiding others, I understand that love is caring in action. Yet, I need to be a bitch; I need to finish my novel, I need to save money, I need to promote my own endeavors.

Is it fear that keeps me on this path? Rejection, abandonment, ridicule; are these the little angel/demons on my shoulder prompting me to continue to extend myself in this fashion?

I will admit that when I was younger, it was worse. I over-promised and under-delivered consistently because I had so many commitments. I would promise to be in one place at 3 in the afternoon and promise to be somewhere half way across town at 4 pm knowing that even if I left early, I would never be able to make it on time. Sometimes I would loan out money and not be able to pay my rent. These things I don't do any more. I like to keep my promises, and I really dis-like disappointing people, so I have been saying no a lot more. And really, this is what I mean by being a bitch - saying no.

So, yes, I have learned to make the word no a part of my vocabulary and not feel bad about saying the word when it needs to be said. Perhaps I am still more over-involved in things outside of what needs to be done for me, but I have improved, because it's okay, and we all have the permission of our own spirits, to be a bitch.

Don't you agree?

Tomorrow, Get Pointy - The Sequel. . .

Everybody Poops

Don't worry, this entry is not about the poop that winds up in the toilet - it's about poops in the mind. You know, the thoughts that are sometimes spoken, and as they come out we know we need to wipe our mouths and the faces of those around us and flush away the offense. I've been having these mind poops for years.

I remember when I was 16 and worked at a music store I made a comment to a gentleman at work that essentially boiled down to, you are old and senile and I am better than you. I thought I was just being truthful and nice - that is, until the words were crossing my lips. I could hear how snarky I sounded as I was speaking. I wanted to shut my mouth, I wanted to turn and walk away, but for some unknown reason I kept talking. I guess it was because my mind was telling me the thoughts were okay, so why wouldn't the words be. He promptly hit me on the crown of my head with a CD and walked away. I never saw it coming.

I said many things over the years I wish I could have taken back or never said. The words, "Leave me alone!", "I don't have time.", and "Wow, that really doesn't look right on you." come to mind. I'm not sure how I would feel if I were really left alone, and I have regretted not spending time with the people I love who needed me, and sometimes people need the confidence to move on from a certain look rather than a brash insult.

How often have I told people, "I don't like you." just because in my head I was being true to my feelings, only to wonder about the impact of those words as I watched the persons face turn into a quizzical hurt contortion of flesh. No one has been spared from my mind poops; not the young, nor old, nor family, nor strangers. All have been used as porcelain thrones to the waste that I have spewed. It was so bad that people at work used to treat my little musings like a sport; just waiting for me to drop those little stinkers. Once, I told a boss of mine, as she was moving her belongings to another desk, "Oh, a blonde with books?" Another subordinate helping out laughed himself silly. I guess as I was saying it, I gave the stink face.

As I have gotten older, I find that I speak a lot less than I used to and listen more, but the thoughts are still there. I fear I may have mind constipation and will need a laxative or fiber (aka The National Enquirer or a dictionary); it makes me worry about the next mind poop I have, because I know it's really gonna hurt.

At least I can take comfort in the fact that I am not alone, I know that everybody poops. Would you share your poops with me in the comments section below?

Tomorrow, Be A Bitch. . .

PS, Daniel Tosh on Tosh.0 uses his mind poops regarding videos to make a living, maybe I can try this too. . . :)

Laughing Is the Cure

I just realized that C Lo at One Smarmy Mama was kind enough to list my blog on her site as well as Susan at Non Linear Thinking. This must have been for a while now - I am super dense :), I am at both of these blogs with every new post and I look at my stats constantly - how this escaped me, the world will never know.

Now, on with the show. . .

Laughing in my family is an art form. We have the horse laugh - my mother and I possess this laugh, it's kind of like a wild bray. The rico suave - two of my brothers have this laugh, it's a cool couple of mild laughs accompanied by a slight smile. We also have the hick laugh - it's a brash southern chortle that invites you to laugh along, without scaring people unlike the horse laugh. Lastly, we have the sarcastic laugh, mastered by my youngest brother, when he laughs you just know he thinks you're a fool. I also do a high squeaky laugh, but that's reserved for things that are particularly funny.

I haven't laughed a lot lately; I've been amused, but my laughter has pretty much died. I wonder if it's a phenomenon that comes with getting older or if it's just because my life's circumstances have been so grim. But I do know that laughter is part of the cure. It's the part that welcomes joy back into my life, it's the part that invites people to share in my happiness, it's the part that lightens my heart. What is life without laughter?

Things/people that make me laugh:
My husband
Daniel Tosh on Tosh.0
People falling (I know it's wrong, but honestly I can't help it)
Snot bubbles
Unexpected farts
Susan at Non Linear Thinking
JJ at Methenjim
Simple Dude In A Complex World
Me choking on food, which does not help the choking
The cascade of mini-comedies that erupt in every day life

What makes you laugh?

Tomorrow, Everybody Poops. . .

Bees Sting

I remember bees. My first time away at camp at age 13 I saw bumbling bees by berry bushes. They looked lazy; slow and full of pollen or whatever else it is that bees eat. The sun was bright but the berry bushes gave dimpled shade and perfumed the sticky air - and I watched inadvertently as I picked berries, one thought echoing through my head. It was something my mother said to me - snakes like to hide near berry bushes.

Walking to work, I passed gladiolas. It was 7am. Bees were busy at work sipping and bumbling along. I walked confidently towards them and then passed them, but my perfume was sweet. It attracted one bee in particular - he was in love. He followed me all the way to the entrance of the subway, careful not to get too close, but close enough to take in the aroma. We parted ways as friends.

Watching the nature channel, I saw a queen bee. I paid little attention to it, I was interested in the male bees. I was interested in how they were drawn to the queen. How all they wanted to do is stick their little bee penis's in the queen. But what happens after the intercourse? The little male bee’s penis breaks off inside the queen and it dies. At least, this is what I remember.

They die, the bees, when they get angry enough to sting, because unlike wasps, bees stingers are barbed and they break off in their victims often exposing their innards. Yet, their angrier cousins, the wasps, get to live. What if people died when they were angry enough to hurt others. What if people's innards were exposed once they shot or stabbed or raped?

What have I learned from the life of a bee? I have learned to enjoy the aroma of the roses, but to get the work done. I have learned to love and let go when necessary. I have learned that love can be deadly. I have learned that anger can kill us both, because this is what happens when bees sting.

Tomorrow, Laughing Is The Cure. . .

After Life?

Before I start this post I wanna be all ghetto and give a shout out to the countries where my traffic comes from:

US - my home country, gotta love it

Germany - only ever been in your airports - the people in the Frankfort airport were nicer than Munich

Canada - never been, but I hear good things about you

UK - Many of my friends come from or reside here, so I send my love

Ukraine - I always think of that movie Hostel when I see you, please comment and give me a new perspective

New Zealand - Kiwis are pretty funny

Australia - Aussies are pretty hot

Hungary - Regal in nature

Vietnam - Mysteries to me

Philippines - Love your food!

Pakistan - Not sure what to think but what a political climate

India - Outsource heaven

Denmark - What is there in Denmark, someone please enlighten me

Indonesia - Heard you could vacation like a queen here

Iran - Please forgive me, but I always think of Osama Bin Laden

Italy - Loved Florence! and the people were so sweet!

Jamaica - Loved Jamaica, but it felt dangerous at times

Barbados - Sorry, but super boring - been there done that

The Netherlands - Ummmm, ice?

Russia - The accents are intriguing and it's where my husband’s people come from

Slovenia - My brother loves you guys so you can't be that bad :)

Brazil - I've heard wild stories - you should be on 'Countries Gone Wild'

Japan - Praying for you with all my might

Korea - Worried for you

China - May visit you next year

Spain - May visit you this year - Barcelona here I come!

Portugal - Spain's quiet cousin

                                     

One more shout out: Thank you Simple Simon Says for listing me (Rosaria, he listed you too - hugs everyone)

So I was watching that movie Hereafter, and I began to think about what happens to us after we die. It's never been a thought for me before because I grew up Christian, and most Christians believe you go to Heaven when you die. I never really questioned that, even when I got older, even through my doubts, and then at some point I just didn't care about where I went to after I died anyway. But after watching that movie, I really examined my feelings on the subject. Anyone who knows me very well knows that I like having contingency plans - or in this case contingency thoughts. What if there is no heaven to go to after we die; what can I believe in instead? Pretty silly, huh? I mean, since I'll be dead, it really doesn't matter now does it? Anyone who knows me really well also knows that there is a scientific mind packed away in here somewhere, so this is what I've come up with: In physics we learn that matter is neither created nor destroyed, and it has been scientifically proven that when we die we automatically lose weight - a few grams. Does this loss of grams represent our souls leaving our bodies, I don't know, but I do know empirically that matter is neither created nor destroyed. So my contingency thought is that the energy, that made us uniquely who we are (you may call that a soul, personality, what have you) , goes into space - unbound by gravity, and it drifts, maybe running into other energies as it travels. And there is the imprint of memories on this energy, but no feeling, only weightlessness and a sense of vastness.

What do you think?

Tomorrow, Bees Sting. . .

Get Pointy

Well, anyone who's read the comments section of by blog entry yesterday knows that I really don't know what this entry will be about - which is strange for me because usually I have a pretty good idea what I'm going to write about the day before. I pick a title that reminds me of something, and then viola! I write. But today, get pointy, this could be anything!?? This could be about sex - if I have to explain why then you probably shouldn't know why. This could be about my novel, The Point - that sounds like a good fit. This could be about being protective of one ’s self. This could be about being an assailant. I mean really, where am I going with this?  will freely admit that some of my posts this week have not been as fluid and comprehensive as my posts usually are, but today I am completely stumped! I promise to continue this post, but before I do. . .

What Does Get Pointy Mean To You???

Well, I understand from comments and emails that 90% of you think that my novel is too graphic and refuse to read it past the first excerpt despite that fact that the second excerpt was super tame, I will post an excerpt from chapter 3 today because my friend Rosaria is curious. Please forgive me the rest of you - this excerpt will be harmless as well, but I'm sure you don't want to be reminded of the first :)

The Point - Chapter 3 Excerpt

The day snuck by her as she thought of her past. She even began to think of those before Dan.

      Smith was a man she'd met at a fundraiser at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. "Hello."

     "Hello." Adrienne looked at the stranger tentatively.

     "Do you like what you see?" He pointed his nearly empty Champaign flute towards the pop art in front of them and drew his last sip from the glass.

     "I'm not a huge fan of pop art, but I can appreciate most forms of human expression - of the release of that spark that yearns to get out into the world, that spark that demands to exist." She spoke to the graphic art piece and occasionally glanced at her new companion who was now holding out his right hand.

     "I'm Smith, and I am very pleased to meet you." He was a well-manicured man with a stiff stance and firm handshake.

     "Adrienne." She gave him her standard courtesy smile.

     "Would you mind if I accompanied you for the remainder of this evening - that is, if you haven't come accompanied by someone in particular." He had a wide grin and twinkle in his eye.

     "I'm sure that I would enjoy your company, and indeed I welcome it, but I don't plan on staying much longer." Adrienne picked up a glass of Champaign from a waiter passing, as he deposited his empty glass on the very same tray.

     "Could that be the reason why I haven't noticed you at these events? Do you often leave early or do you choose to avoid them entirely?" He offered his arm for her to hold onto, as though she no longer had the strength to stand without his support. She took it instinctively.

     "I often leave early, but had I known I'd meet you, perhaps I would have stayed until the absolute end of every fundraiser." They strolled arm in arm to the next display.

     "An avid art lover, yet not an avid socialite?" They gazed at the painting before them.

     "True, but please do not mistake my brief appearances as a sign of anti-socialism. I merely often have strains on my time." She sipped her Champaign purposefully.

     "I suspected someone such as yourself would, may I become another strain on your time?"

     "I hope not a strain, but a welcomed distraction." Her smile went from merely cordial to irresistibly seductive.

     Smith reached into his upper-inner jacket pocket and produced a business card, "My card."

Smith Copperland, Architect PC

Copperland Krandell Associates, LLP

15 West 12th street

New York, NY 10013

     She pressed a small gold case she'd been carrying in the palm of her hand. As it opened she held it in front of him so that he may take a card - being that her other hand was otherwise occupied with her campaign.

     "Well, Miss Adrienne Tell, it has been my good fortune to meet you." He placed her card in his lower-inner jacket pocket.

     "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending this year's Children's Art Gala. Your generous donations have funded arts programs in 20 inner city schools in the New York City area. Thank you again, and please feel free to take a listing of the funded schools on your way out."

     "We're being shown the door. Will you accompany me to a place where we may have a cocktail and get to know each other a little better?"

     "I will, but I haven't much time."

     Smith and Adrienne walked down to a small trendy bar and ordered Manhattans.

     "Have you ever painted?" He leaned towards her and waited with baited breath for her answer.

     "I have. I love to paint, write, and just generally express myself. I wouldn't call myself an artist though. Do you paint?" She leaned forward and touched his knee as she asked.

     "I sketch more than paint - I love sketching, it's the number one reason why I became an architect."

     "What about your family? Are they so inclined as well?" She took a sip of her Manhattan.

     "My parents were doctors and my brother is a professor at Yale. I'm the only one who can draw a straight line in my family." A small controlled laugh left his lips.

     "Well, this has been nice - but I really have to go now." Adrienne stood and readied herself to leave.

     "Let me hail a cab for you." They left the bar together and walked to the curb. As a cab pulled over he held her shoulders and kissed her deeply, "Good night."

     "Good night sir." She hopped in the cab and was gone. She liked this new man. He was a bit pompous, but she could be pompous as well - and that kiss! It was spectacular. It reminded her of something out of a movie.

     As she passed the doorman she nodded a goodnight and headed up to the 8th floor. She opened the door, left her keys on a small hook by it, and went up to her bedroom. She wondered what this new man would mean to her, who he would be in her life. As she lay her head on her pillow and closed her eyes she thought of all the future might hold for her.

     "Mr. Smith Copperland is on the line for you."

     Adrienne looked up from the presentation she was preparing, "Who?"

     ""Mr. Smith Copperland? He said you were expecting his call since last week?" Patricia shifted uncomfortably in her black matronly suit.

     "Okay. Thank you Patricia." Adrienne picked up the phone, "Smith?"

     "Good afternoon Ms. Tell. I've been thinking about you and decided that today would be a good day to call you."

     "Why is that?" Adrienne tapped her pen on her desk.

     "I would love to see you tonight - Le Cirque?" He let a moment of silence pass between them. "Around 7?"

     Adrienne considered how far along she'd come with her IBD presentation to Equity and thought about how long it had been since she had dinner at Le Cirque, "7 At Le Cirque, I'll be there."

     "I'm looking forward to it."

     Adrienne closed her laptop and packed it into her briefcase, "Patricia, I'm working from home for the rest of the day.", and with that, Adrienne was on her way to Park Avenue.

     As she setup her laptop, her cell phone rung, "I just emailed you and Patricia some slides I want you to include in the IBD presentation. We should meet tomorrow to go over the entire slide deck." Groeller sounded as though he were out of breath.

     "Done. Are you running to catch your flight back to New York?" She pictured him dashing through the terminal and jumping luggage like hurdles in an Olympic dash.

     "How'd you know? I should be in at about 10 tonight. Have Patricia send me a meeting invite and cc Rose on it - I'm free most of the day." In the background the sound of an angry mother threatening Groeller was dismissed by him.

     "Okay - have a good flight." She ended the call and speed dialed her assistant Patricia, "Patricia, send out a meeting invitation to Groeller and cc Rose for tomorrow to review the IBD presentation to Equity. He said he's free for most of the day. Did you get the slides he sent you?"

     "Yes, I've already imported them into the main document and I was just about to send it to you."

     "Okay, well I’ll let you know if I have any changes before 6. Have a file made and print 2 copies after I give you the final version - and let's try to have the meeting in the morning. Thanks, I'll see you tomorrow."

     She opened her email and reviewed the updated slide deck that Patricia sent her. She sought out the added slides, "This is a fucking mess. . ." As she looked at the slides she grew more exasperated and tried to figure out a way to edit the slides without incurring the wrath of her boss. The additional slides opened a whole can of worms that she did not want to deal with, nor did they have the time to address in their 30 minute overview of IBD and its link to Equity.

     She tinkered with the slides a bit and emailed them to Groeller and Patricia. After checking her email once more, she started to get ready for her date.

     She decided to wear a cute little red strapless dress with red patent leather sling backs. She walked into the shower and turned on the water, it instantly adjusted to her preferred temperature. She showered with a cucumber gel and made sure to loofah. At her legs she took a fresh razor and shaved. She made her way up to the patch at her crotch and trimmed it a little. Lastly, she shaved under her arms. She scrubbed her face, shoulders, hands, and bottom with a coarse apricot exfoliate, rinsed and turned the shower off.

     After she dried off, she scrubbed her face again with a fine exfoliate, rinsed and applied a lavender mask and left it to dry. She covered herself in almond body butter and plucked her eyebrows as it absorbed into her skin. She rubbed the remainder of the unabsorbed body butter into her skin and peeled the facial mask.

     Next, she sprayed a light perfume all over and in her hair, which she pinned up. She applied a bit of foundation, smoky black eye shadow, black eyeliner, matching mascara and a silky wine colored lipstick.

     She found a new pair of silky black stockings, put them on and clipped them to a black lacy garter belt after putting on the matching panties. She decided to wear a black lace-up corset with boning, the trim peeked out from above the dress she slipped on. She slid on her shoes and grabbed a small black purse from her walk-in closet.

     By the time she finished, it was 6:30 and she took her tailored black Spring jacket with her as she stepped out the door.

     The doorman hailed her a cab, she knew she would be late - the traffic was thick, even for a Thursday night. It took her 30 minutes to arrive at her destination.

     "Adrienne."

He stared as Adrienne walked up to him in the restaurants’ entryway. She was stunning. Smith came to her side full of pride and a bit of arrogance, kissed her on the cheek and held her hand.

     "Smith." Adrienne smiled and was glad to see he appreciated the time she took to look beautiful for him. He helped her with her coat and checked it. She attracted stares and private secret glances from all those in her line of view.

     "Please, follow me this way." The matre'de walked them over to an ideally placed table - one that was for seeing and being seen. "Please, enjoy your dinner." The matre'de deposited the menus and left the table, but not before giving Adrienne one final slightly longing look.

     "You look gorgeous, but of course, you know that. Let me tell you something you may not know - I fought hard to wait 7 days to call you. I can't begin to count the number of times I dialed your number until it came to the last digit and hung up. . . so, needless to say, I am very excited to see you. Are you as excited to see me?"

     "More." She often kept her lies simple single word answers.

     "Well, that puts me more at ease. Do you need to see the menu?"

     "No, I know exactly what I want."

     "As do I." The inflection in Smith's voice implied a deeper meaning.

     The sommelier walked over to their table, “May I start you off with a glass of wine?"

     "Yes, please. I will have a glass of Merlot, which would you suggest?" Not once did the stranger's eyes leave Adrienne as he voiced his opinion.

     "I'll have the same." Smith winked at her and gave her his most charming smile. "You attracted quite a fan club."

     "Really?" She gave a little nonchalant shrug.

     "It's a good thing I have you all to myself tonight."

     "That you do."

     The waiter approached the table, but did not interrupt until there was a break in their conversation, "Are you ready to order?"

     "Yes, please. I'll have the duck."

     "And I'll have the fillet mignon rare please - and may we have more wine." Smith handed the menus over to the waiter.

     "Yes. Thank you." The waiter backed away, rather than turn and walk away, to view Adrienne as long as possible.

     "I must remember to keep you safe and lock you away at night."

     "Pardon?"

      "Well, it seems as though it's that or continuously having to beat men off you with a stick - and you wouldn't want me going to prison, would you?"

     She smiled a genuine smile, "No, of course not!" What made her smile was the thought of this handsome rigid man bending over in a cramped cell for his new found roommate.

     "Well then, be ready to be my caged song bird. . .Tell me, is there anyone else?" His face turned downward for a brief moment and then he looked Adrienne directly in the eyes.

     "As of now, there's only you." She sipped a bit more wine and returned the glare. She knew the moment she met him that she would sleep with him, but now she knew it would be tonight.

     The food arrived and they ate, "Those tiny tentative bites you're taking are very sexy, but you don't have to eat that way for my pleasure."

     She laughed hard and almost choked on her duck, "As if I don't know that?" She smiled tenderly at him in hopes of softening the blow to his ego, but she definitely couldn't have let that one go.

     He returned the smile, "You are going to be a handful."

     "Once again, you are correct." The rest of the dinner was full of flirtatious overtures and light laughter. They were the light of the room and the other patrons were moths drawn to a flame, unable to avert their eyes from the blinding light.

     After the bill was paid they decided to go back to his loft to look over building plans he was currently working on. When they arrived at 12th street they passed the lower entrance clearly marked as his office and walked up the brownstone steps to his private home entrance.

     The modern sleek style complimented Smith and she examined every piece of furniture with a discerning eye to learn more about him then she knew he would ever reveal. A 50's low back white vinyl sectional was paired with a 60's wood laminate free form coffee table. The lamps, clearly made this year but inspired by 70's futuristic musings, were white plastic and spherical with undulating waves deeply carved into the shade creating a beautiful 3 dimensional piece of art. All surfaces were dust free and a 42 inch plasma television hung like a precious painting over a fireplace stocked with candles of varying heights and thicknesses.

     In the background, she heard soft classical music playing. He was good.

     "I'll be right back." He rushed to the kitchen and came back to the living room with a small rolling butler's cart holding 2 glasses, a bottle of Port and matches. He lit the candles in the fireplace and rolled beside her, "Please, have a seat." He poured her a very full glass and himself no more than a mouthful.

     They sat on the sectional facing each other with the small cart off to the side by Smith.

     "So. . . . where are the plans?" Adrienne took a drink and held the glass in her lap.

     "It's more of a conceptual plan then an actual drawn out one. It's for a condo on the upper west side. .." He swallowed all of the contents in his glass. Before she could get in her questions about what she'd truly come to see, he began again, "I see two feet of exposed distressed brick wall with random raised sections as you enter." He leaned towards Adrienne and moved in closer, "It's downlit. Then, White glossy acrylic overlay in 5 foot panels running throughout the common living space - except at the rear wall - the focus. I see black wood grained overlay in one solid section with 1 foot squares of the white acrylic overlay used as shelves and backing for the shelves."

     "What do you mean? . . .about the shelves?" She gulped a good deal of the wine in her glass and watched as he came closer.

     He took one of her hands in his, "Well, I would take two 1 foot pieces of acrylic, form an L, and secure one of the sides parallel to the wall leaving a shelf and its backing." He waited for her to drink the last of her wine and after she finished swallowing he removed the wine glass from her hand and put it on the floor behind him.

     "That sounds beautiful."

     "I think you're beautiful." He leaned in and kissed her deeply, softly pressing his lips against hers and then making his way into her mouth with his tongue. His hands were stroking her shoulders and ran down to her thighs.

     They kissed without stopping for what seemed like an eternity to her. Then his arms wrapped around her waist and he forcefully pulled her so close to him that she found herself in his lap.

     Yet he still kissed her, with her neck craned back like that of a swan to face him. his hands made their way back up to find her breasts, but the corset she wore gave his hands no purchase, "Come with me."

     They climbed the stairs to the second floor slowly and with the gait of two tipsy lovers. His bedroom was the entire second floor and she saw the king-size bed off to the right near the back of the space. She walked toward the bed ahead of him, feeling his hands groping at the zipper to the back of her dress and next she felt the dress slipping down her body to the floor. She turned to face him in the dimly lit space, she wanted him to get a good view of what he intended to fuck. She stood there, in her black lace corset, matching garters, panties, and stockings leaning to one side in her red patent leather heels, "Well?" She waited a few seconds, then began to unhook the corset - watching him watch her as she worked her way down.

Tomorrow, After Life?. . . I definitely have a topic for tomorrow which has nothing to do with The Point - maybe I should have written about this today :D ) PS - I just realized I wrote the F word, sorry to all you sensitive types *blush*