apologies i had a tiny accident and will not be posting till next weekend

No Sleep, No Problem!

I dedicate this post to all of the over-achievers and parents out there who can't remember the last time they had a full 8 hours sleep.

Despite the title of this post, no sleep is a very big problem indeed. No sleep equals cranky, tired, delusional, hallucinations, and for me, a serious case of the giggles. Delirium+Giggles=Creepy. This math has lead many of my managers from time to time, when working on projects that required very long hours, to comment, "You have a maniacal laugh." I can't help myself, there is something about not sleeping that I apparently find ultra funny to everyones dismay and annoyance. To top it off, when I get in this state, I find it hard to sleep when presented with a bed. Too tired to sleep, pss-shaw!

So here I am, about to approach the marker which lets me know, "Danger, danger Will Robinson!" - I am about to become a female version of the villainous Joker. What to do, what to do?

I, know! Sleep - goodnight folks :)

Tomorrow, Ettiqute, Are You Sure You Spelled That Right?. . .

News From Beyond

I was up late (5am) doing volunteer work for my friend who is becoming an apostle in adition to being a pastor and MDiv (masters in divintiy) holder, so please forgive this late post.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about promises I've made to people. I am a promise keeper (this is a reference to a Simpsons episode), I like to keep my word - to me it's part of being a good person. The problem is, I made a promise when I was 20 to my ex-boyfriend that a) I don't want to keep (at least not the way I am supposed to do it) and b) I don't know if I can keep.

If you are an avid reader of my blog, then you know that I believe in an after life of sorts which entails us all changing into energy. The point is, I was asked to, if I should die first, contact him and let him know what it's like being dead. I thought this was a strange request, but I was in love and vowed to contact him. Only now, if I could contact him and wanted to waste my afterlife time doing it, I would want to haunt him. You know, like slam cabinet doors and rearrange furniture - something that scares the poop out of him :)

I think I'll email him tomorrow and tell him I will not be keeping that promise :)

The second half of the equation is that he promised to do the same for me - now, quite frankly, if it is possible for the dead to speak to the living from beyond, I would prefer they put me on the 'Do Not Call' list. I promise I won't conduct any seances and I want them to stay the heck away from me because although I love horror movies, real life scary things totally scare the poop out of me :)

It's all too droll isn't it ;)

Tomorrow, No Sleep, No Problem!. . .

How'd They Think Of That

I often wonder, "How's they think of that?" when it comes to certain things. I can only imagine that a life or death situation presented itself and an odd solution was revealed.

For instance, have you ever wondered who was the first person who said, hey, I think that if I pee on the spot where someone got bit by a jellyfish the pain will go away.


Or which was the first geisha to discover that pigeon poop lightened skin.


And what about all of these fertility drugs, do you know that some of them contain the urine of pregnant cows and women; how did that subject come up in the lab one day?

I can't help but think about the genius who figured out that by swallowing whip worm eggs and allowing them to hatch in your stomach you can alleviate ulcerative collitus (pretty sure it's spelled wrong so watch dr. Oz). I mean that is just gross.

Can you think of any others?

Tomorrow, News From Beyond. . .

Getting Away

I love vacation. Vacation is my time to explore the world and take time to relax. I always try to schedule at least 3 things to do and then I let myself be free to goof around the rest of the time I'm away. My favorite things to do on vacation:

Visit a museum or landmark

Go have a good meal at the best restaurant in town

Walk around like a local

The funniest thing I ever did on vacation is learn to surf. My husband and I took a surfing lesson in Barbados a few years ago and the surf instructor looked super frustrated. Neither one of us ever was able to stand up on the board and I was so worried about the bottom half of my bikini coming off that I wouldn't let them go. That was just disastrous.

The coolest thing I ever did on vacation, indoor sky diving in Vegas. They warn you about how to roll off the air blowing you up safely and to give a thumbs up when you roll off to signal that you're okay - I didn't do that right away and the instructors rushed over to me -  felt so embarrassed :)

My next vacation was supposed to be in Australia but it's still recovering from some natural disasters so Paris or Budapest it is - already wishing you were here. . .

Love,

Normal To EatPB

Tomorrow, How Do they Think of These Things?. . .

Extended Easter Break :) No Post Today

Sorry, Easter Break Folks :)

Finding Balance

Finding balance is hard for me; sometimes I feel a bit manic, wanting to either work super hard even through weekends, or wanting to crash for eternity and just lay back and let life happen. I have tried to make myself be more balanced, what helps me are schedules for everything - from cleaning the oven and refrigerator to going to the doctor, otherwise things would just be a mess and other things wouldn't get done at all. That's not to say that I never veer from my schedule, but it's a good guide and I feel guilty when I don't do something.

I tried yoga for added balance too, literally and figuratively - but it never stuck for me, I like moving when I'm exercising. Walk in the park and painting help me mellow out well though. My mind feels free and my spirit can breathe during these jaunts into a zen state.

How do you find balance.

Tomorrow, Getting Away. . .

Montage

In this post, I will share some of the things I love in all manner of artistic expression. Some of these loves of mine are more like triggers, I know, I keep coming back to them to experience or intensify some emotion, like sadness. Some I've already mentioned but, just to be organized and have a list in one post, may be listed here again.

Movies:
Back To The Future
Donnie Darko
Eye of the Beholder

Music:
Mad World by Gary Jules

Vincent by Don McLean
Coming Around Again by Carly Simon
Human Nature by Michael Jackson

Artists:
Jackson Pollack
Monet
Manet
Myself :)

Poetry:
My Own

Robert Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening ~

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
 
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
 
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


This site has some good poetry too and was started by a couple of friends of mine: The Art of Haiku

Novels:
The Dark Tower series by Stephen King(1)

Pere Don Callahan had once been the Catholic priest of a town, 'Salem's Lot had been its name, that no longer existed on any map. He didn't much care. Concepts such as reality had ceased to matter to him.

This onetime priest now held a heathen object in his hand, a scrimshaw turtle made of ivory. There was a nick in its beak and a scratch in the shape of a question mark on its back, but otherwise it was a beautiful thing.

Beautiful and powerful. He could feel the power in his hand like volts.

"How lovely it is," he whispered to the boy who stood with him. "Is it the Turtle Maturin? It is, isn't it?"

The boy was Jake Chambers, and he'd come a long loop in order to return almost to his starting-place here in Manhattan. "I don't know," he said. "She calls it the sköldpadda, and it may help us, but it can't kill the harriers that are waiting for us in there." He nodded toward the Dixie Pig, wondering if he meant Susannah or Mia when he used that all-purpose feminine pronoun she. Once he would have said it didn't matter because the two women were so tightly wound together. Now, however, he thought it did matter, or would soon.

"Will you?" Jake asked the Pere, meaning Will you stand. Will you fight. Will you kill.

"Oh yes," Callahan said calmly. He put the ivory turtle with its wise eyes and scratched back into his breast pocket with the extra shells for the gun he carried, then patted the cunningly made thing once to make sure it rode safely. "I'll shoot until the bullets are gone, and if I run out of bullets before they kill me, I'll club them with the...the gun-butt."

The pause was so slight Jake didn't even notice it. But in that pause, the White spoke to Father Callahan. It was a force he knew of old, even in boyhood, although there had been a few years of bad faith along the way, years when his understanding of that elemental force had first grown dim and then become lost completely. But those days were gone, the White was his again, and he told God thankya.

Jake was nodding, saying something Callahan barely heard. And what Jake said didn't matter. What that other voice said — the voice of something

(Gan)

perhaps too great to be called God — did.

The boy must go on, the voice told him. Whatever happens here, however it falls, the boy must go on. Your part in the story is almost done. His is not.

They walked past a sign on a chrome post (CLOSED FOR PRIVATE FUNCTION), Jake's special friend Oy trotting between them, his head up and his muzzle wreathed in its usual toothy grin. At the top of the steps, Jake reached into the woven sack Susannah-Mio had brought out of Calla Bryn Sturgis and grabbed two of the plates — the 'Rizas. He tapped them together, nodded at the dull ringing sound, and then said: "Let's see yours."

Callahan lifted the Ruger Jake had brought out of Calla New York, and now back into it; life is a wheel and we all say thankya. For a moment the Pere held the Ruger's barrel beside his right cheek like a duelist. Then he touched his breast pocket, bulging with shells, and with the turtle. The sköldpadda.

Jake nodded. "Once we're in, we stay together. Always together, with Oy between. On three. And once we start, we never stop."

"Never stop."

"Right. Are you ready?"

"Yes. God's love on you, boy."

"And on you, Pere. One...two...three." Jake opened the door and together they went into the dim light and the sweet tangy smell of roasting meat.

TWO

Jake went to what he was sure would be his death remembering two things Roland Deschain, his true father, had said. Battles that last five minutes spawn legends that live a thousand years. And You needn't die happy when your day comes, but you must die satisfied, for you have lived your life from beginning to end and ka is always served.

Jake Chambers surveyed the Dixie Pig with a satisfied mind.

THREE

Also with crystal clarity. His senses were so heightened that he could smell not just roasting flesh but the rosemary with which it had been rubbed; could hear not only the calm rhythm of his breath but the tidal murmur of his blood climbing brainward on one side of his neck and descending heartward on the other.

He also remembered Roland's saying that even the shortest battle, from first shot to final falling body, seemed long to those taking part. Time grew elastic; stretched to the point of vanishment. Jake had nodded as if he understood, although he hadn't.

Now he did.

His first thought was that there were too many of them — far, far too many. He put their number at close to a hundred, the majority certainly of the sort Pere Callahan had referred to as "low men." (Some were low women, but Jake had no doubt the principle was the same.) Scattered among them, all less fleshy than the low folken and some as slender as fencing weapons, their complexions ashy and their bodies surrounded in dim blue auras, were what had to be vampires.

Oy stood at Jake's heel, his small, foxy face stern, whining low in his throat.

That smell of cooking meat wafting through the air was not pork.

FOUR

Ten feet between us any time we have ten feet to give, Pere — so Jake had said out on the sidewalk, and even as they approached the maître d's platform, Callahan was drifting to Jake's right, putting the required distance between them.

Jake had also told him to scream as loud as he could for as long as he could, and Callahan was opening his mouth to begin doing just that when the voice of the White spoke up inside again. Only one word, but it was enough.

Sköldpadda, it said.

Callahan was still holding the Ruger up by his right cheek. Now he dipped into his breast pocket with his left hand. His awareness of the scene before him wasn't as hyper-alert as his young companion's, but he saw a great deal: the orangey-crimson electric flambeaux on the walls, the candles on each table immured in glass containers of a brighter, Halloweenish orange, the gleaming napkins. To the left of the dining room was a tapestry showing knights and their ladies sitting at a long banquet table. There was a sense in here — Callahan wasn't sure exactly what provoked it, the various tells and stimuli were too subtle — of people just resettling themselves after some bit of excitement: a small kitchen fire, say, or an automobile accident on the street.

Or a lady having a baby, Callahan thought as he closed his hand on the Turtle. That's always good for a little pause between the appetizer and the entrée.

"Now come Gilead's ka-mais!" shouted an excited, nervous voice. Not a human one, of that Callahan was almost positive. It was too buzzy to be human. Callahan saw what appeared to be some sort of monstrous bird-human hybrid standing at the far end of the room. It wore straight-leg jeans and a plain white shirt, but the head rising from that shirt was painted with sleek feathers of dark yellow. Its eyes looked like drops of liquid tar.

"Get them!" this horridly ridiculous thing shouted, and brushed aside a napkin. Beneath it was some sort of weapon. Callahan supposed it was a gun, but it looked like the sort you saw on Star Trek. What did they call them? Phasers? Stunners?

It didn't matter. Callahan had a far better weapon, and wanted to make sure they all saw it. He swept the place-settings and the glass container with the candle in it from the nearest table, then snatched away the tablecloth like a magician doing a trick. The last thing he wanted to do was to trip over a swatch of linen at the crucial moment. Then, with a nimbleness he wouldn't have believed even a week ago, he stepped onto one of the chairs and from the chair to the table-top. Once on the table, he lifted the sköldpadda with his fingers supporting the turtle's flat undershell, giving them all a good look at it.

I could croon something, he thought. Maybe "Moonlight Becomes You" or "I Left My Heart in San Francisco."

At that point they had been inside the Dixie Pig for exactly thirty-four seconds.

FIVE

High school teachers faced with a large group of students in study hall or a school assembly will tell you that teenagers, even when freshly showered and groomed, reek of the hormones which their bodies are so busy manufacturing. Any group of people under stress emits a similar stink, and Jake, with his senses tuned to the most exquisite pitch, smelled it here. When they passed the maître d's stand (Blackmail Central, his Dad liked to call such stations), the smell of the Dixie Pig's diners had been faint, the smell of people coming back to normal after some sort of dust-up. But when the bird-creature in the far corner shouted, Jake had smelled the patrons more strongly. It was a metallic aroma, enough like blood to incite his temper and his emotions. Yes, he saw Tweety Bird knock aside the napkin on his table; yes, he saw the weapon beneath; yes, he understood that Callahan, standing on the table, was an easy shot. That was of far less concern to Jake than the mobilizing weapon that was Tweety Bird's mouth. Jake was drawing back his right arm, meaning to fling the first of his nineteen plates and amputate the head in which that mouth resided, when Callahan raised the turtle.

It won't work, not in here, Jake thought, but even before the idea had been completely articulated in his mind, he understood it was working. He knew by the smell of them. The aggressiveness went out of it. And the few who had begun to rise from their tables — the red holes in the foreheads of the low people gaping, the blue auras of the vampires seeming to pull in and intensify — sat back down again, and hard, as if they had suddenly lost command of their muscles.

"Get them, those are the ones Sayre..." Then Tweety stopped talking. His left hand — if you could call such an ugly talon a hand — touched the butt of his high-tech gun and then fell away. The brilliance seemed to leave his eyes. "They're the ones Sayre...S-S-Sayre..." Another pause. Then the bird-thing said, "Oh sai, what is the lovely thing that you hold?"

"You know what it is," Callahan said. Jake was moving and Callahan, mindful of what the boy gunslinger had told him outside — Make sure that every time I look on my right, I see your face — stepped back down from the table to move with him, still holding the turtle high. He could almost taste the room's silence, but —

But there was another room. Rough laughter and hoarse, carousing yells — a party from the sound of it, and close by. On the left. From behind the tapestry showing the knights and their ladies at dinner. Something going on back there, Callahan thought, and probably not Elks' Poker Night.

He heard Oy breathing fast and low through his perpetual grin, a perfect little engine. And something else. A harsh rattling sound with a low and rapid clicking beneath. The combination set Callahan's teeth on edge and made his skin feel cold. Something was hiding under the tables.

Oy saw the advancing insects first and froze like a dog on point, one paw raised and his snout thrust forward. For a moment the only part of him to move was the dark and velvety skin of his muzzle, first twitching back to reveal the clenched needles of his teeth, then relaxing to hide them, then twitching back again.

The bugs came on. Whatever they were, the Turtle Maturin upraised in the Pere's hand meant nothing to them. A fat guy wearing a tuxedo with plaid lapels spoke weakly, almost questioningly, to the bird-thing: "They weren't to come any further than here, Meiman, nor to leave. We were told..."

Oy lunged forward, a growl coming through his clamped teeth. It was a decidedly un-Oylike sound, reminding Callahan of a comic-strip balloon: Arrrrrr!

"No!" Jake shouted, alarmed. "No, Oy!"

At the sound of the boy's shout, the yells and laughter from behind the tapestry abruptly ceased, as if the folken back there had suddenly become aware that something had changed in the front room.

Oy took no notice of Jake's cry. He crunched three of the bugs in rapid succession, the crackle of their breaking carapaces gruesomely clear in the new stillness. He made no attempt to eat them but simply tossed the corpses, each the size of a mouse, into the air with a snap of the neck and a grinning release of the jaws.

And the others retreated back under the tables.

He was made for this, Callahan thought. Perhaps once in the long-ago all bumblers were. Made for it the way some breeds of terrier are made to —

A hoarse shout from behind the tapestry interrupted these thoughts: "Humes!" one voice cried, and then a second: "Ka-humes!"

Callahan had an absurd impulse to yell Gesundheit!

Before he could yell that or anything else, Roland's voice suddenly filled his head.

SIX

"Jake, go."

The boy turned toward Pere Callahan, bewildered. He was walking with his arms crossed, ready to fling the 'Rizas at the first low man or woman who moved. Oy had returned to his heel, although he was swinging his head ceaselessly from side to side and his eyes were bright with the prospect of more prey.

"We go together," Jake said. "They're buffaloed, Pere! And we're close! They took her through here...this room...and then through the kitchen — "

Callahan paid no attention. Still holding the turtle high (as one might hold a lantern in a deep cave), he had turned toward the tapestry. The silence from behind it was far more terrible than the shouts and feverish, gargling laughter. It was silence like a pointed weapon. And the boy had stopped.

"Go while you can," Callahan said, striving for calmness. "Catch up to her if you can. This is the command of your dinh. This is also the will of the White."

"But you can't — "

"Go, Jake!"

The low men and women in the Dixie Pig, whether in thrall to the sköldpadda or not, murmured uneasily at the sound of that shout, and well they might have, for it was not Callahan's voice coming from Callahan's mouth.

"You have this one chance and must take it! Find her! As dinh I command you!"

Jake's eyes flew wide at the sound of Roland's voice issuing from Callahan's throat. His mouth dropped open. He looked around, dazed.

In the second before the tapestry to their left was torn aside, Callahan saw its black joke, what the careless eye would first surely overlook: the roast that was the banquet's main entrée had a human form; the knights and their ladies were eating human flesh and drinking human blood. What the tapestry showed was a cannibals' communion.

Then the ancient ones who had been at their own sup tore aside the obscene tapestry and burst out, shrieking through the great fangs that propped their deformed mouths forever open. Their eyes were as black as blindness, the skin of their cheeks and brows — even the backs of their hands — tumorous with wild teeth. Like the vampires in the dining room, they were surrounded with auras, but these were of a poisoned violet so dark it was almost black. Some sort of ichor dribbled from the corners of their eyes and mouths. They were gibbering and several were laughing: seeming not to create the sounds but rather to snatch them out of the air like something that could be rent alive.

And Callahan knew them. Of course he did. Had he not been sent hence by one of their number? Here were the true vampires, the Type Ones, kept like a secret and now loosed on the intruders.

The turtle he held up did not slow them in the slightest.

Callahan saw Jake staring, pale, eyes shiny with horror and bulging from their sockets, all purpose forgotten at the sight of these freaks.

Without knowing what was going to come out of his mouth until he heard it, Callahan shouted: "They'll kill Oy first! They'll kill him in front of you and drink his blood!"

Oy barked at the sound of his name. Jake's eyes seemed to clear at the sound, but Callahan had no time to follow the boy's fortunes further.

Turtle won't stop them, but at least it's holding the others back. Bullets won't stop them, but —

With a sense of déjà vu — and why not, he had lived all this before in the home of a boy named Mark Petrie — Callahan dipped into the open front of his shirt and brought out the cross he wore there. It clicked against the butt of the Ruger and then hung below it. The cross was lit with a brilliant bluish-white glare. The two ancient things in the lead had been about to grab him and draw him into their midst. Now they drew back instead, shrieking with pain. Callahan saw the surface of their skin sizzle and begin to liquefy. The sight of it filled him with savage happiness.

"Get back from me!" he shouted. "The power of God commands you! The power of Christ commands you! The ka of Mid-World commands you! The power of the White commands you!"

One of them darted forward nevertheless, a deformed skeleton in an ancient, moss-encrusted dinner suit. Around its neck it wore some sort of ancient award...the Cross of Malta, perhaps? It swiped one of its long-nailed hands at the crucifix Callahan was holding out. He jerked it down at the last second, and the vampire's claw passed an inch above it. Callahan lunged forward without thought and drove the tip of the cross into the yellow parchment of the thing's forehead. The gold crucifix went in like a red-hot skewer into butter. The thing in the rusty dinner suit let out a liquid cry of pained dismay and stumbled backward. Callahan pulled his cross back. For one moment, before the elderly monster clapped its claws to its brow, Callahan saw the hole his cross had made. Then a thick, curdy, yellow stuff began to spill through the ancient one's fingers. Its knees unhinged and it tumbled to the floor between two tables. Its mates shrank away from it, screaming with outrage. The thing's face was already collapsing inward beneath its twisted hands. Its aura whiffed out like a candle and then there was nothing but a puddle of yellow, liquefying flesh spilling like vomit from the sleeves of its jacket and the legs of its pants.

Callahan strode briskly toward the others. His fear was gone. The shadow of shame that had hung over him ever since Barlow had taken his cross and broken it was also gone.

Free at last, he thought. Free at last, great God Almighty, I'm free at last. Then: I believe this is redemption. And it's good, isn't it? Quite good, indeed.

"H'row it aside!" one of them cried, its hands held up to shield its face. "Nasty bauble of the 'heep-God, h'row it aside if you dare!"

Nasty bauble of the sheep-God, indeed. If so, why do you cringe?

Against Barlow he had not dared answer this challenge, and it had been his undoing. In the Dixie Pig, Callahan turned the cross toward the thing which had dared to speak.

"I needn't stake my faith on the challenge of such a thing as you, sai," he said, his words ringing clearly in the room. He had forced the old ones back almost to the archway through which they had come. Great dark tumors had appeared on the hands and faces of those in front, eating into the paper of their ancient skin like acid. "And I'd never throw away such an old friend in any case. But put it away? Aye, if you like." And he dropped it back into his shirt.

Several of the vampires lunged forward immediately, their fang-choked mouths twisting in what might have been grins. Callahan held his hands out toward them. The fingers (and the barrel of the Ruger) glowed, as if they had been dipped into blue fire. The eyes of the turtle had likewise filled with light; its shell shone.

"Stand away from me!" Callahan cried. "The power of God and the White commands you!"

Posted with permission of Simon & Schuster. Copyright © 2004 by Stephen King

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Tomorrow, Finding Balance. . .

Meet Me At The Met

My favorite thing to do in the summer is visit the museum, albeit I don't do it very often. Here are some exhibits I like to visit:

Modern Art, particularly Jackson Pollock

I see a whole world in those splatters of paint. People, animals and movement.

I love Monet

Water Lilies is beautiful, I like getting up close to it and seeing the like blotchy looking paint and then backing away to reveal the picture that was seemingly lost.



His student, Manet

gives emotions that transcend time


I love the symmetry and geometry of Muslim art

The Knight's Armor gives me visions of great feasts and death defying jousts

. . .and who could resist a well-appointed Victorian room?

Breathtaking

Tomorrow, Montage. . .

Sushi And Me

Yesterday I was enjoying a wonderful crunchy spicy tuna roll and crunchy spicy salmon roll for lunch for the 4th time in four days when I thought to myself, 'This has got to be the best meal I've eaten.' Then I thought, 'That can't possibly be true.' Which started me reminiscing about some of my best food experiences.

In Barbados a few years ago, my husband and I went to a restaurant and sat on the beach eating conch and lobster while we dug our toes into the warm sand and stared out at the crystal clear blue water lapping at the shore only a few feet away.

Thanksgivings spent with my family are always memorable; the laughter, the stories, the food, and making new memories.

Eating a meal at a place where the food is delicious, the service impeccable and the ambiance soul satisfying makes my meals at Per Se and Bouley worth remembering.

My first home cooked Greek meal provided by my ex'es mother was devine and opened my palate up to new taste adventures.

My first attempt to make matza ball soup for my husband was a lesson in food disasters, but he ate my small rubbery balls with a smile.

There are more, but too numerous to share - maybe another time :).

Tomorrow, Meet Me At The Met. . .

Fake It Till You Make It

Shout out to JAL at Lesbian in Cincinnati for the first link from her blog to mine :)

Today's lesson class, is faking orgasms. Why do it? Because sometimes you're just not in the mood, or your partner is like some Olympic lover, or they try too hard to make it happen - or, like in my case, sometimes I get a little mind blocked and have performance anxiety. It's hard, my experiences require that I put up a mental brick wall guarding my current experiences from my past experiences in order to enjoy myself. If I don't have the appropriate prep time before sex, it's hard for me to let go and not reject what's going on. It's like having a transplant - your body needs the organ (orgasm) to live but fights it all the same. Okay, maybe it's not that critical, but I think you get what I'm saying.

I'm not really good at faking it though, so when I fake it he still keeps going and I must then either wait it out or ask him to stop. I moan and moan, but to no avail - perhaps I should start screaming to the top of my lungs like my hair is on fire :) I need suggestions on new methods; and no, I could never pull off the "When Harry Met Sally"

Tomorrow, Sushi and Me. . .

Keep Up With Me

I have always spent as much money as I wanted to with very few financial goals. Some people in my position feel like they need to buy things to impress colleagues or friends or even potential mates; there are so many people to keep up with in this town. I never felt that way, but I love lavish vacations; suites in 4 and 5 star hotels, full day spa treatments, and fine dining around the world. I like being spoiled in that way, but as far as cars and a fancy home - I don't have those things. If it weren't for the industry I work in, I wouldn't have fancy clothes either.

Is it wrong to spoil yourself for the sake of feeling pampered? Is it wrong to feel like you need to spend as much as your peers?

I feel like in some ways, being on par with your peers is an important step in moving up in your career. I can't help but to notice that many people promoted have a similar look, they eat at the same restaurants, they drink at the same bars, they shop at the same stores. They rise together, their lives are normal, and tragedies are few and far between.

In other ways, I want to rebel. I want to tell the world that you can be who you are and succeed and this is the rule, not the exception. I want to walk around in sneakers and not heels. I want to stop wearing makeup. I want to put an end to the Tahari suits. I want to be me.

But I follow the money; I'm chasing the dream. Are you keeping up with me?

Tomorrow, Fake It Till You Make It. . .

sorry playing hookie today and tomorrow :-P

Fuel Me

Food makes me laugh and it makes mr cry. It's a source of memories; smells triggering machine gun rat-tat-tats in vignette form. Colors taking me to Florence, Athens. . . Flavors giving me musical chills that are carribean; rythmic.

A source of life and death; joy and hate.

Tomorrow, Keep Up With Me. . .

Even Pointier

Here we are, all being even pointier:

The Point (Chapter 5 Excerpt)

Carl sat on the edge of the bed and watched as Adrienne took tiny careful bites of one of the chocolate chip cookies on the plate before her. Each bite was followed by a small sip of the ice cold milk, "I always wished I could have milk and cookies in bed when I was a kid. My parents, they. . . well, it never happened."

     "I used to give milk and cookies to my daughter every Sunday night after prayers. She'd giggle and laugh and ask me if angels got milk and cookies in bed on Sundays after prayers. Up until she was twelve. . . it was the same chocolate chip cookies and glass of whole milk."

     "How did you answer her question?" Adrienne bit into another cookie.

     "I told her that I didn't know about the angels in heaven, but my angel here on Earth did." Carl put his hand over his eyes for a moment and then looked at her with tiny pools of tears stagnant in his lower eyelids waiting for him to blink so they could escape. It was the first time Adrienne saw pain coming from the man with so much light.

     "Carl, you've given me so much - not the least of which is your ear. If there's anything you want to talk about, I'm here for you - as much as you want me to be." Adrienne put a hand on Carl's shoulder and rubbed it.

     "Thank you, but my pain is old, it's yours that's fresh and needs the most nursing." Carl rose from the bed, "I won't keep you, goodnight."

     Adrienne spent the rest of the night wondering about the memorial service to come and wishing that Dan was there. They were his friends too and despite whatever he felt about her or she felt about him, he should know that his friends were brutally murdered. She had no way to contact him, she didn't even know if he was still alive. Her theories as to what exactly happened to him ranged from the theatrical to the utterly ridiculous. Sometimes she thought that maybe someone told him of her many secrets stemming from past relationships. She often thought that maybe he was in fact gay, and couldn't bring himself to be with her, but lately she thought maybe that man, the monster, maybe he tracked him down and it was Dan that was the first to be violated with that razor. The only thing she knew for sure was there were now three men that would live in her mind’s eye forever and could not be blotted out by selective memory. One monster stalking her dreams, one lost lover haunting her heart, and one beacon of hope nurturing her soul.

     The sleep that came was riddled with faces and screaming, she awoke both angry and frustrated to another perfect summer day feeling just as tired as before her nights’ sleep. She would need to turn to the sleeping pills again, but this time she would get her own prescription. She climbed out of the bed and into the shower down the hall, she didn't know how he managed to do it every morning, but Carl was up before her once again. Not only was he up, but it smelled like he was cooking French toast. She resigned herself to gaining a few pounds while she was sheltered by him.

     She got dressed and went downstairs to consume, "Good morning." She smiled and rubbed her belly, she wondered if all of her smiles to come would be hiding this pain.

     "Good morning, your eyes seem to open as soon as food hits a frying pan." They shared a sweet laugh. Breakfast was French toast, fruit salad and grapefruit juice. She filled up on the delicious body fuel and they sat afterwards content and ready to face the day while sipping a freshly brewed cup of coffee each, "I'd like to go to a doctor here to get a prescription for something to help me sleep. Who's the doctor?"

     "Well the only one is Bob Mueller, who's also the coroner. Might have time to go before the service." They cleaned up their breakfast dishes and set out on their journey to Main Street. Arriving at the grey 2 story structure was surreal for Adrienne, there were people walking the town and driving about who seemed to be prepared for the memorial service that she was forbidden from attending.

     The metal door to the place clanged and scraped as it opened, leading to a long hall with a room marked 'morgue' at the end of it. "Does everyone come to the morgue for a doctor’s visit?"

     "No. . ." He didn't want to finish that sentence because it ended with '. . .when he's busy you do.' and they both knew what he was busy with. It would be just one more thing on this miserable day.

     "Mornin' folks." Coroner Mueller was in the process of cleaning off his dissection table.

     "Good morning." Adrienne stepped forward towards the table on which the cold mutilated bodies of her friends once laid.

     "What can I do ya for?" Bob Mueller looked up at Adrienne and Carl, "Oh, how ya doin' there Carl?" As the words came out he realized that if Carl were here then his companion must be the only living survivor of the mess he had the unfortunate task of helping to clean up.

     "I'm doin' fine, Bob. This is Ms. Tell, she's the one that could use your help."

     "If you don't mind, I'd like a prescription for something to help me sleep."

     "I should think so! It was a mess folks, a real mess." Coroner Mueller put his cleaver and bone saw in a drawer by a locker in the corner of the room. He reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out a prescription pad. After a few utilitarian strokes of the pen he tore off the sheet and handed it to Adrienne, "Ambien CR, the drug store may not have any - lot of people complaining of sleepless nights lately - if not there's a substitution on there."

     Adrienne wanted to remain indifferent to the thoughtless comments of the coroner but inside she was a boiling pot of rage. If Dan were here, he'd ask her why, and she really didn't have an answer beyond the fact that she didn't like this husky middle-aged man commenting on her experience. She just wanted the fucking prescription and to be done with it. Before her mouth could form those words she realized that in her daze Carl had led her out of the room and down the hall to the exit.

     "He means well, but his mouth doesn't know any better." They rode back to Carl's house with enough time for him to change and leave for the Foster's memorial service.

     The service was held in a small church on the west side of the island. By the time Carl pulled up there was nowhere to park in the small lot adjacent to the tiny church. He pulled onto the grassy lane separating the church's drive from the main road. Walking to the church he met up with Chief Wallace, his wife and the Newman’s who owned the main market for the island, "Good noon to ya Patricia, Sam. Good noon Frank, Betsy." They all replied in kind, but otherwise they were silent.

     The tiny church had no air conditioning and was packed like a tin of sardines, but there was no sign of complaint. Instead, Carl believed the low buzz to be the reminiscing of people paying tribute to friends.

     Up in front were the Andersons and Fosters, "I can't believe this is happening. . ." Mrs. Anderson trailed off into a private thought. Her husband grabbed her hand.

     "At least that fuckin bitch isn't here." Jason's brother huffed into his mother's face and kissed her cheek.

     "That woman was a friend, to both of them, and this is still a service to honor your brother and his wife, please don't disrespect that . . . ." Mrs. Foster's gaze was steady and tempered with the sadness that had overgrown in her heart.

     "That bi. . . okay mom, okay." Tom faced forward once again in the pew.

     "There, but before the grace of God go I." Mr. Foster stared out past the plaque memorializing his son and into an expanse of cloudy memories.

     "Do you remember the wedding?" Mrs. Fosters face gleamed with a dewy nostalgic smile, "He was so nervous."

     "That's because he didn't know. . .he didn't know if he was man enough to give her everything she needed, but I knew he was. I told him that. I knew my boy wasn't a boy anymore, but a man - and a good one at that." Mr. Foster spoke, still traveling back and forth through time in his mind's eye.

     "Lynnie was nervous too. She wanted everything to be perfect, she was marrying her prince charming. She sat in the suite with her dress on looking in the mirror and asking me how her hair looked and her makeup and her dress and her teeth and her toes!" Mrs. Anderson let out a loud laugh, "and in the end it was all so beautiful. . ."

     "When J asked me to be his best man, I was thinking about saying no. I didn't want to screw up, but before I could open my mouth he said, 'Bro, you can do this. Do you know why? 'cause you've always been my best man and today, me asking you to stand up with me - it's just my way of saying thanks.' and he didn't say it, but I knew it, my big brother loved me." Tom began sobbing uncontrollably and reached for the comforting arms of his mother.

     Other conversations were taking place as the families of the slain couple remembered.

     "Did you hear?"

     "Did I hear what?"

     "About what they liked to do?"

     "No. What did they like to do?"

     "Well, you know Grant's Lodge. . ."

     "No. . ." a hushed gasp escaped.

     Down and across a young couple exchanged looks coated in flushed cheeks as they thought about a night they shared with the Fosters. Two years ago they met on their way out of Grant's, "Hey, you guys, you guys were pretty good." Jason looked up at the young man. "Thanks, I didn't think they let minors in this place." Jason grabbed Lynn by the back of the neck as she attempted to walk off to the car alone.

Tomorrow, Fuel Me. . .

Forget About The Past

I want to move on and forget about the past, but I also want to retain the lessons I learned from the past. It's like having selective memory - all of the worst images from my past disappear while I remember what to do if the situation ever arises again; it would be perfection. It reminds me of Donnie Darko and the scene where Donnie and his new girlfriend are explaining a fictional invention for class where they feed babies only positive images via a virtual reality headset so that later in life the children can use the positive images to replace the bad negative ones in their heads - like being abused.

If you haven't seen the movie, I suggest you watch it, here's one video montage in the movie:

Tomorrow, Even Pointier (I Promise). . .

Back To Normal

I wanted to write about being back to normal today - it's funny, but things really are back to normal; I just had my worst trip ever! From the time I touched down in Las Vegas and checked in to Mandalay Bay, I was dissapointed, dis-serviced, and disrescpected by te staff at that casino; I have never felt more like a minority and non-high roller type. . . Argh! I have been to Vegas numerous times and this was a first, and to top it all off, I left my precious cell phone in my hotel room and it was subsequently stolen and used with no sense of urgency to retrieve it on behalf of the casino despite the fact that I had the last number called and tri-angulation of where the phone is :) Thank goodness for insurance.

Things going wrong - most definitely normal.

Well, this is not going to be a long post, as I now have to chat with Las Vegas police to file a report, but thanks for listening to me vent :)

Tomorrow, Forget About The Past. . .

All Cartoony

It's a pretty safe bet that you all know I a. Older than 25; having said that, it almost pains me to say i am seriously addicted. . .to cartoons. Am i embarrased, somewhat. can i help myself, absolutely not. As a matter of fact, i'm watching Spongebob Squarepants right now. :-p

My addiction knows no bounds, from adult swim's Aqua Teen Hunger Force on the Cartoon Network to Wow Wow Wubbzy on Nick Jr. - I know, disgusting, isn't it. . . There are some I won't watch though, such as poor remakes of classics like Nick Toons Iron Man in which Iron Man is a teenager :'(

What are your thoughts on adults watching cartoons,immature or a stress reliever?

Tomorrow, Back To Normal. . .

Feeling Lucky

I ask for forgiveness and say apologies now for misspellings and the brevity of my posts; I've been posting from my phone (sorry for calling you Maria yesterday Rosaria :-))

We've been playing lots of casino games lately and I've been trying to convince my hubby that he needs to train himself to walk away from the tables when he's ahead, but he says you have to play a winning streak. Anywho, I walked away from a table with 300 bucks but he left owing $300. Yesterday it was vice versa though. What do you all say, walk away or play a streak when your feeling lucky?

Detour: All Alone

I promised still pointy, however I have chosen to pose this question instead: when you're on vacation, what is the longest acceptable time apart from your significant other?

I never believed on being attached at the hip, but when is it time to become concerned. My blogging friend Rosaria sort of posed this question in a series of posts labeled as excerpts from her 'Unnamed Madonnas' novel. The main character's husband suddenly disappears from a square where he and she shared coffee with other tourists taking in the sights of Venice. By the end, he resurfaces; now, are you grateful he returned or angry that he left?

Tomorrow, Feeling Lucky. . .

Blankety, Blank, Blank

I have been telling myself for at least 4 years now, every New Year's Eve, that I would cut back on my cursing. I have found that the older I get the more I curse. I mean, I curse for no reason now - I curse for every emotion. . . . Happy - "Hell yeah!", Sad, "Fuck no!", Angry, "Fuck you", Frustrated, "Son of a bitch!"

When I was in my 20's I used to say things like, "Good gravy!" and "Mother of pearl!" - so what happened? I'm not quite sure. My husband rarely cursed when we re-met, but now my potty mouth has rubbed off on him too. I feel like such a bad influence.

On top of everything, I have begun swearing in public, which I never used to do. I see people looking and I know their thinking, "So unlady-like!". More than a few times I've let an expletive slip only to look around and see a child - then I feel so ashamed. . .

Tomorrow, Still Pointy. . .

Back To The Future - No, Really

I have an affinity for Back To The Future, the whole idea of being able to go back in time and change the past intrigues me. I often think of the things I would like to change and whether or not I would actually go through with it - go through with making those changes that may very well change my life for the worse. In the end, in the scenario in my mind,  always go through with it. I picture myself talking to the younger me and in most cases I would listen, but not all - I know that about me :). I would say, 'do this. . .' and 'don't do that. . .' and most of all, 'be grateful. . .'

One thing I wouldn't change though, is moving out of my mom's house. that really gave me insight into my fortitude and sense of self. I would not have gone on to do many of the things I have done professionally if it hadn't been for me moving out. Ultimately it led to me being on my own, and I believe adamantly that everyone should spend at least a year on their own. You learn so much about yourself and your ability to survive without assistance; it helps you learn about responsibility and ownership. I am grateful for my time alone.

Besides the things I would and wouldn't change, I also had a crush on Michael J. Fox - so here's to you Marty McFly - I raise my glass high and tilt my head back to catch every drop. I hope the remake doesn't suck.

Tomorrow, Blankety Blank Blank. . .

Finishing Touches

Okay people, you sensitive types should go read the paper. Today's post is about masturbation and I have no idea what I'm about to say so hold on to your sheets! Well, I don't know, maybe I won't be all that risqué, but don't say I didn't warn you.

Although my mother was very explicit about sex and teaching me all of the parts of males and females, she never discussed masturbation with me, so I never grew up with this idea that it was either good or bad. I just knew that it felt good when I rubbed stuff up against my crotch. It started when I was about 12 I guess. I used to sleep with my teddy bear and for some reason or another at about that time I figured out that rubbing it against my crotch was fun. I did a lot of experimenting with different methods but not much changed. I really prefer doing it with my clothes on as I tend not to penetrate myself when I do it. When I saw pornography films for the first time, I was a little embarrassed because I realized that I didn't masturbate the same as other women; I wondered if I was wrong or strange.

Don't worry, I won't ask you how you masturbate, but were you taught it was wrong?

Personally, I don't buy into the whole 'masturbating is the devil's way of getting you to wastefully spill your seed' belief. I'm a Christian, and I have read the bible several times, and as far as I am concerned the New Testament is the time we are supposed to be living in and there is nowhere in the New Testament that says anything about masturbating.

But even if you aren't Christian, some non-Christians disapprove of masturbating as well. I totally don't get it. I guess this is why I don't have a problem with watching pornography depicting two consenting adults having sex - it doesn't bother me to watch it and I don't care if my husband watches it. Somewhere down the line, I learned that this was wrong too; I learned from television and friends that my husband shouldn't watch porn. I can't muster the emotion to care whether or not my husband watches porn - I'm too busy trying to decide what nasty little flick I want to watch myself :)

Tomorrow, Back To The Future - No Really. . .

Young Phenious Walks, As Promised

Well, as promised, here is an excerpt of Young Phenious Walks – it’s a draft so please be kind :)

Hi, I’m Phenious, and I’m your friend. One of us is imaginary, but that’s okay.

We’re going on a walk with my dad through the city. The sun is bright today and we can see everything – we can see for miles.

“Dad, look at that! Whoa!”

                “What is it, son?”

“Dad, I see a dragon pond!”

Do you see it? It’s right there, in the tree roots. Do you see how the rain water from yesterday was trapped by that tree’s roots and now it’s a little puddle? What do you see?

[Pic or illustration that doesn’t exist yet]

“I think you’re right Phenious – look, there goes a dragon now.”

“Daaaaad! That’s a dragonfly. My friend and I are using our imaginations.”

                “Oh, I see.”

Walking through the city is fun, isn’t it? There are people, and cars, and stores, and parks, and dogs, and all sorts of big things to look at; but now dad is taking a shortcut through the big park. Look there!

I see a spaceship and there are flying aliens! Do you see it too? Maybe you see something else.

“Dad, there’s a spaceship hanging from that tree and flying aliens all around it, be careful or they’ll beam us up!”

“Are you pointing at the hummingbird feeder? Oh, uh, I mean, yes, I do see the spaceship Phenious. If we go closer, we might be able to hear their alien language.”

“Daaad! That’s just their wings flapping really really fast – jeez!”

Tomorrow, Finishing Touches. . .

There's Nothing Here

Apologies, but there is nothing here today. Why, no, I have no bananas. I am working on Young Phenious Walks.

Tomorrow, Young Phenious Walks As Promised. . .

Feed Me Your Soul

SACRIFICIAL LAMB ; My Innocence

Sometimes I let the liquid spill over my lip on purpose

it runs over and under

to my chin,

                   until I wipe it away

                             as I imagine

                             as I play

                   My hands don’t do much good

                             to hold the cup near my face

                             because they tremble in fear

                             as my eyes stare,

                             they stare at that place.

My head does not tilt,            

                   as one would to gulp the last

My tongue does not taste as would yours

                   instead it shrivels back rejecting...

                             rejecting the ghoulish wine

                             mine has brung to me

Sometimes I let the blood flow,

                                      on purpose down my lip

                                      one single drip

                                      as I remove the cup from my mouth

         My eyes still fixated on the growing grotesque evil

        

         My mind still warped by its intelligible crys of righteousness

         My limbs still frozen as if in a timeless frame

         BY THE FACE OF MY FATHER I’VE FORGOTTEN MY        NAME

                   My eyes still fixated in that stare

                   My mouth sticky with the sacrifice

                   My soul to blame for the murder

                   in longing and in acts

          ...but I hate this

           as if I hate this

           so I lunge at the BASTARD

                   The fear within swelling to a grin

                             as I thrust my minds I towards death’s  groom

         

          ... How could I live without her,

          her sweet svelte petals

          her tame merciful core

          her great securing love...

I meet him with sharp unadulterated pain unleashed

he stumbles

beneath

me

he watches for my next attack

blow for blow he counters me

We can’t hide

living in the same mind

so we try

                   to rip one another out

                   to toss aside

                   like the giblet of a chicken

                   but neither can win

                   there will be no winner

He brandishes a dark cloak and exits wearing its frame

          to camouflage into the vast emptiness of my mind

          until we meet again....

                                          ............, 

Copywright 1994 Nov. 8