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Sunday, November 25, 2012

My little pony, mine



 I grew up in the generation that pegged all children as “The future”. We were all of us special, unique and filled with glorious potential. Games were never about competing, or winning. Even the losers got awards just for trying. Because there were no losers, only slower kids. Adults loved to encourage such ideals, little did they know. That despite their positive reinforcement . Darling children were still competitive, judgmental and and certainly knew a stupid kid when they saw one. So try as the adults might, to foster a world of pure love and rainbows.  In our private kids world, it was always beyond Thunderdome.
  I was never the competitive type, still to this day I have no drive to win at anything.  For people like me, an incentive to win is created, it’s called a “prize” or “reward”.  Such incentives had/have little appeal to me. 
Except once.
 It was preschool, some holiday I don’t recall. The teachers decided we would play a game of musical chairs. Musical chairs is when some silly song is played and all the kids stumble around a circle of chairs. The music stops and all the adorable innocent children become rabid monkeys. Throwing each other about, pushing and protesting, until they claim a chair for themselves. I had thought this game was for chumps. It wasn’t hard to watch the teacher, to see when she would press the pause button on the tape player. Yet somehow all the other kids were lost in their dream worlds and would scramble like confused drunkards whenever the music came to a halt.
                                                        The game bored me.

I saw the losers walk over to the teachers, sniffling or complaining.  But ah whats this?
 They were getting consolation prizes. I was already familiar with this ritual and knew at the end of the game we would all have a dollar store trinket to show for it. But this time was different, they were handing out My little pony toys. Oh dear sweet baby Jesus on a hot roll!  I was at an age when My little pony lust consumed my every waking moment.
 It was pink, and had glitter on it’s rump. It had to be mine. But oh dear, they only seemed to have a finite amount of ponies. Only the next few girls would get them, for losing no less. So the actual better players and ultimate winner of this musical death match  would have to choose from the grab bag of cheesy dollar store items. Are you kidding me?  I knew what I had to do. 
                                                       Yes Master!

   The music stopped and the clumsy children, bewildered, all began to stumble towards chairs. I tried to act confused myself. Practically pushed this one kid into a chair so I didn’t have to take it.  I threw my hands up, “Uh oh, I lost!” Smiling I accepted my ill-gotten gains. All the other girls got slap wrist bracelets and begged me to trade my pony for one.  No can do ladies, no can do.
 And that’s how I won a pony by throwing a game of musical chairs.

Friday, November 16, 2012

Stumbly McMonkey



 Several weeks ago my friend Janelle started teaching a class about the regional dances of Egypt. I have thus far in my dancing hobby, only taken classical Egyptian style dance classes. So, in the interest of supporting my pal and just for curiosities sake. I signed up for the class. I’m the only noob there, the rest of the students are experienced dancers. But I don’t need to be self-conscious though. The other ladies are so concentrated on perfecting their skills. That my clumsy stumbling antics go mostly unnoticed.
                                 I sometimes feel a little out of my depth! 

I still have fun though, we get to play around with canes, zill's and scarves. This past week, Janelle was teaching a class about the dances of Nubia. Nubian women wear purtyfull scarves on their heads and use them during their dances.
  She demonstrated how they use the scarves, and it seemed so adorable and we all couldn’t wait to try it. Especially me, because I thought.... "Sweet all we have to do is dance around with scarves. I'm gunna own this!" She had brought a bunch of pashmina scarves, and we used hair clips to fasten them onto our noggins.  All the other students were mimicking Janelle’s lovely feminine movements. For some weird reason, despite my best effort. I couldn’t get the hang of it.
                             I resembled the B-52 bomber of the scarf world.  
Let this serve as a lesson, that things are never as simplistic as they may first appear. 
Lesson learned!

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Me want Job

Times are tough and I’m looking for work.
 I am very fantastic in all the ways an employer would wish for, but competition is steep. As wonderful as I am, there are 100 hundred other people applying for the same job. At least 4 of those 100 people have to be more wonderful than me. That’s not the worst part, the worst part is the interview. 

 Lets face it, people just want a job they can stand doing, for a reasonable sum of money.
No one wakes up and goes “Boy oh boy, I can’t wait to get yelled at by strangers on the phone all day!” Or “Sit in a chair in a big grey room, typing numbers mindlessly into an excel sheet.” That is unless you work at the candy, puppies and big comfy couch department of Kick ass awesome peoples incorporated. So an interview is pretty much, me telling lies and the potential employer grading me on how well I lie.
 You have to act genuinely enthused to be a part of whatever it is the company does. 
  In reality when considering jobs, I consider salary, locale, environment and is there potential for growth? Of course I consider the industry, no one wants to work for a place that conflicts with their morals.  Like I wouldn’t work at a baby kicking factory or anything like that. But times being what they are, ……well ya know how it is?
 My issue is, in truth, I’m just a laid back artistic type. In my heart I don’t want a stuffy office job. Growing up, I thought office jobs were the only option for adults. Seattle is quite a different city however.  If I ever thought I could have made a living making coffee, or selling books or being an artist. I never would have submerged so deeply into the  drone role.
  I can only hope in my effort to break out of that role. Some eccentric shop owner or quirky business manager will hire me to file their LOL cat pictures or organize their monkey teeth collection, or whatever eccentric business people do. But if a drone job pops up before then. I’ll have to suck it up and be all adult about it. Times being what they are, I’ll have to take what I can get.
I'll end of writing smut for money, I just know it. 

   I realize I will have to job search for a long time. Researching every place I apply to, convincing myself I'm thrilled to do whatever it is they ask me to do. This is something everyone has to do at some point in their lives, some more than others. Either way, I'm convinced that by the end of this job seeking adventure.  I will be thoroughly aggressive crazy, rampage nuts competitive for even the crappiest job.
                                                    ME WANT 401K!
 

Thursday, November 1, 2012

Intense newsletter



 When I was a freshman in high school, I hadn’t read much at all. I was more into angry music, vampire movies and burning copious amounts of incense. My Mother out of the blue one day, came to me with a neon orange and yellow zig zagged design paperback book. “Intensity” by Dean Koontz. There had been commercials on television for it, yeah really, commercials on television for a book. I figured it was a new bland book for divorced women, so it stirred no interest in me. She pressed the topic, “Just give it a try!” It lay buried in my room for several weeks, One day, I don’t know why, I did pick it up and began to read.
 The next 3 days, I spent any free time I had with my nose shoved in that book. Maneuvering through crowds, hiding it inside my health school book, so I could read in class.
 Telling my friends to shut up about Trent Reznor and his emotional problems, I was reading goddammit! I was all over my next Koontz book, then another then another. Other authors soon followed.  But I remained a full-fledged Koontz freak.  One day, I got the gumption to write Mr.Koontz a fan letter. I realized he was probably the biggest author in California at the time. And assumed thousands of letters poured in for him daily, from people asking for a lock of his hair and what not. I decided mine would be short and simple, and to the point without gushing. I wrote as elegantly as I could manage, letting Mr. Kootnz know that he was a big influence on me, and I wanted to be a writer. Also that I did not expect a reply, or anything autographed. That I just wanted to let him know that he made a difference in my life and I wanted to thank him.
P.S.” I also wrote “I will ask that you do not send me some automated response, or anything with your named stamped on it. That would add tackiness to what I intend to be a sincere letter of regard.”
Or something to that effect.  About 2 months later, I’m at a friend’s house and my Mother calls my cell phone. In the post a letter came for me from…..Dean Koontz!! Damn the torpedoes! I ditched my friends and hauled ass home. 
                                                   I’ve got a golden ticket……
I got home and Mom and I were all giddy as I opened the letter. Wouldn’t cha know it? Our enthusiasm changed to disappointment. It was an automated letter signed by some yahoo, and a name stamp of Dean Koontz. Thanking me for signing up for a Dean Koontz newsletter.  
                              Oh joy of joys, be still my beating heart.

I wasn’t crushed or anything so dramatic. I realized Koontz is a very popular author, and probably hires people to sift through fan letters for him. It’s just my letter had been of such a personal nature. I pictured giant and bulging dirty sacks containing clean white envelopes being dragged into a room and shoveled into a fire somewhere deep under the Earth. By greasy tired men, in wife beater tank tops. Paying no never mind to what they were feeding the fire, being such miserable harbingers of working class woe.
                                                Aww man, …weak…….lame….

 I was a tough kid and chalked it up to experience. A month or so later, I began receiving my monthly newsletter from the Dean Koontz fan club or whatever. I read it, figured what the hell? Soon, the newsletter’s began to get a little…..strange. Mr.Koontz is an avid dog lover, and has himself golden retrievers that he dotes upon.  Well apparently, his most beloved retriever Trixie died. Leaving a great big hole in his heart. A hole he decided to fill up with crazy! 

 Each new newsletter, came with a piece written by Trixie. Or rather, Trixie’s ghost…yeah… “I Trixie, who is dog…”  it would say, because apparently dogs have their own sort of LOL speak just like cats.  Eventually Trixie published her own Book “Life is Good” edited by Dean Koontz. Eventually I stopped reading the newsletter. Getting my copy of dead dog monthly was getting old.   What’s next?
   I tried to unsubscribing, but kept receiving the newsletter regardless.  There is no escape.  After moving 3 times, eventually Trixie’s ghost lost track of me and I no longer receive the newsletter.
  So today if someone asked me, who my favorite writer is. I would probably say Stephen King.  Not out of any bad feelings for Koontz. I still dig him.  Just King’s work appeals to my more adult brain, while Koontz books appeal to my teenager brain. And Clive Barker’s books appeal to the disembodied ghost brain I will one day become. In the mean time I will read anything.
  So who is the author I love so much I would kidnap him, hold him hostage in my cabin in the woods, and break his ankles with a sledge hammer? Stephen King,…but I’d make Koontz watch!


Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Super Meat Woman vs. Chicken Foot

Like any dog, Andy will eat most anything you put in front of him.  Also whatever he finds on the kitchen floor, or the sidewalk…..or splattered against a telephone pole. I am his treat hero, since I work from home most any goodies he gets, he gets from me. This has led him to fancy that treats spring from my palms like some weirdo super power. Sometimes he just sniffs my hands, rubbing his wet dog nose on them, hoping a treat will fall out.  
Because I am meat woman. 

My husband and I went to a local farmers market to peruse, the vegetables, hemp jewelry and wooden bowls and hippies. Because that’s what farmers markets have. There is a woman there growing a handsome mustache, who makes and sells her own organic dog treats. I thought it would be a nice thing for Andy to have so we bought a bag of sweet potato goodies. Next she holds up an opaque bag, it’s heavy with something. Whatever it is, it’s greasy because it’s blotching clear spots on the bag. She tells us, they are dried chickens feet. You get 4 dismembered feet for 2 dollars.  She says, dogs love them and that it helps eliminate the waste of butchering chickens for food. My 1990’s must save the world guilty conscience kicks in and I think. 

 “Hmm, well the Indians are said to have used every part of the animals they killed. Yeah, why not? I mean I don’t want to be wasteful.” I buy a bag of chicken feet without looking at them.  And go home, feeling better  because I did my part to save the world. Buying the severed foot of a farm bird, may have stopped the polar ice caps from melting.   Perhaps.
                                           Dear gawd, they’re hideous!
I can’t say I had really given thought to what a severed chicken foot would look like. But it’s all curled up, spotty and greasy and the nails are still on it. It looks like someone bought it at a bazar to get 3 wishes off of it. 
Andy likes them, but now he wants to hide them in the couch. He has always hidden his treats before consuming them. It’s cute to watch him trot around the house with a biscuit or chew stick in his mouth contemplating where to stash it.  But now it’s like a horror movie…  
 I forbade him to take the foot on the couch.  So now when he can’t find a good enough place to hide the foot, he cries. Usually I help him, lifting pillows or his toys until he decides he can finally hide the treat. But this foot is just too nasty. 
The other day as I was working, I hear his muffled whines and his claws clicking on the ground. “Andy puppy?” I call “What’s the matter baby?” He clicks down the hall and there it is.
 The dead deformed chicken foot jutting out of his mouth. It’s just too big, it looks ridiculous. I had to help him hide it, under his rope toy. Never again!

Movin' on up



We moved!

Off of the island and back into the city. It could not have come fast enough for me. My husband even received a foot injury the day before, but I was prepared to carry him onto the ferry and back into civilization myself, if necessary. I love our new place and the location. Andy dog loves it too because he gets worshiped by people on a daily basis now.  Nothing much, just happy feelings.