15 Minutes

That's what I have, 15 minutes until the next class. I present something tonight, a critique on technical writing. The author I'm evaluating was writing about his experience. Tech writing didn't seem like a fit for this guy. He was funny and appeared to have a soul. Intrigued, I decided to Google him. I was right. He isn't a tech writer anymore, he's an adjunct English professor. He wants to teach full time. He seems happy. So my presentation has taken a different turn. It is truthful and a tad smart assed. I wonder if my prof will get pissed. Too bad. I got my own soul to protect.

Out of Breath

It started Wednesday with an invitation dinner I didn’t want to accept because the people who invited me are distance relatives and they only invited me because it would be considered bad form not to do so.

I managed to say as little as possible because I now understand that most of their questions do not require an answer chiefly because they are not really interested and change the topic of conversation mid way through any answer I give them so I’ve learned just to stay silent.

So they under tipped the waiter stuffed food from the buffet into plastic bags (for later) did I mention that these people have money and were here because they were antiquing or collecting on the east coast.

The end all was the question so what are you doing. I tell them about the ezine, about the small press I’m working on and as always my answer is interrupted this time with another question .

“Well how much does that pay?”

I start to answer “well it…”

“If your writing doesn’t pay then it doesn’t count for anything”

Another member of our party sees that I am turning purple and offers “well so and so daughter works a blah blah and it’s a”

Now it my turn to interrupt “ I worked for many years at something that I hated and honestly I would rather die than go back to doing any sort of work that resembles that”

There is a mention of a family trip to the lake for the weekend but not a formal invitation which I’m thankful for because I have no intention of spending time in close quarters with people who do not actually like me or at best have no understanding of me. I am surprised late Friday by a phone call describing what I should bring for spending the night on the boat.

I say “I have work to do”

Bring it with you.

I need to be online to work.

We have wi fi at the marina.

Shit.

Once I arrive I try to make myself as scarce as possible. I stay on the sofa with my laptop which took an hour and half to get online because of the weak signal that frequently disappeared in middle of something I was working on. I was there less than 5 hours before there was arguing and some folks were threatening to leave. I email a friend to tell her where I am.
G: I thought we agreed that you weren’t going to do this.

Me: Yes well apparently they didn’t get the memo. I must remember to copy them on it next time.

G:You call me as soon as you get back.

Me:You can count on it.

And the hits just keep coming. I am childless, I don’t make any money, I am Godless, when am I coming for a visit, your hair looks funny. We gave Joey a piggy bank and he’s saving money so we can all go to Disney World.

I don’t remind them that they are comparing me to a five year old. I don’t explain not having children was not my plan I simply didn’t have any plans and it just didn’t happen and given my poverty that isn’t a bad thing it is probably responsible and commendable instead of condemnable. I didn’t say I am not an atheist, maybe an agnostic, I just don’t believe in organized religion. I didn’t declare that if I were to save my money for a trip it would not be to spend time with people who barely tolerate me but I would preferable spend my money in some foreign land where official language is Spanish and there is a beach, good coffee and nice booze(Costa Rica comes to mind). I didn’t say, yes my hair is red and I am aware that no one in the family has red hair (my point exactly).

After a cold night spent in the fetal position I untwist myself and head to the marina for a shower. When I returned I am greeted with “they must have some makeup mirror up there”

I assume this is a dig of some kind although the exact nature of the comment escapes me. I replied that there wasn’t a mirror at all but a concrete shower stall with lukewarm water that I shared with several spiders and a couple of centipedes which sort of shut down the conversation. I think they forget which side of the family I come from; the side without indoor plumbing for most of my early childhood.
I wondered... should I apologize because peeing out doors is not a novelty for me any longer. I don’t.

I begin to feel like a little girl standing in the middle of a room with my dress pulled over my head as I spin around screaming, leave me alone!

I am exhausted by the time I get home Sunday afternoon. I sleep fitfully.

Monday I’m so happy to be among friends. I tell Sean about difficulty that I had publishing his story because of the weak signal at the marina and all that went with it.

He says, “Why didn’t you just get drunk and enjoy yourself?”

I think …the Irish have such a lovely way of resolving family differences.
What makes you think I wasn’t? I say.

I wanted to say because you wanted your story published and because you said your former editor played fast and loose with the comma splice and you told her so and she got pissed and made me your official handler. I think the two of should just fuck and get it over with because I don’t want to be in the middle of your little spats. Of course I don’t mean any of this in a mean spirited way because I really love the two of them. We are friends and don’t intend for the smart assed things we say to one another to actually hurt. Like these emails I received upon my return.

G: I was gonna mention...
Why is it that half the people in your stable write erotica?

Me: Because writers are sex obsessed drug addicts and alcoholics. That’s my guess anyway.
=============================
G: You’ve got to stop populating your zine with your love bunnies.

Me: Do not refer to the talented and sensitive male writers that I feature as my love bunnies. I prefer to call them my humpty sluts.
=============================

P: Hey Litramatrix,
I'm not sure what I meant in the subject line " Litramatrix "... it was either lit chick and dominatrix combined or some ersatz combination. Anyway I MISS YOU...

Me: Ooooo…I love my new moniker. Litramatrix. I’m keeping it.
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Why in the world would I choose any other sort of life?

Poetry is a Rorschach test

I am not a poet nor am I tying to become a poet. However I am trying my best not to embarrass myself in my poetry class. Unfortunately, as a group we are failing miserably. I thought a poem about a brick was a metaphor for child abuse. I had to explain that I was in a dark place when I came to that conclusion. I also responded with delight to a riddle poem saying aloud, “Oh it’s about a cell phone.” To which the author responded, “It wasn’t a riddle poem.”

I thought a car accident poem was about a bad marriage and an ice climbing poem was about sex. One of my classmates thought my poem about an ugly baby was about race relationships in America. (He’s from Scotland if that has anything to do with his analysis). The professor called my work surreal and compared it to a Brazilian poet who writes about cutting off his dirty hand. (He actually is a poet if that explains his assessment). I decided surreal is code for I don’t know what the hell you’re saying here and I don’t want to look stupid, so it must be brilliant.

In tonight’s stack of poetry is at least 2 poems about the Holocaust, 1 about a dog, 1 about Sarah Palin, 2 about sex, and strangely there’s one about a man I used to date. ( I am almost certain of this and it surprises me, because I didn’t think they knew each other). I hope I'm at least partially right, but I am afraid it will be another interesting evening.

Much ado and Nothing

I’m drinking wine and being pissed in more ways than one. I hate it when technology fails me. I needed to be in a chat room tonight and I couldn’t get logged in. It was so damn frustrating watching this conversation flow and not being able to participate. It was kind of like being a voyeur at an orgy. No fun at all. So here I sit. I can’t get me no intelligent conversation, and I can’t get me no fuel for my car (which is inconvenient but not actually bad, because I want us all to have electric cars. Well most of us). What options are left to me? Why open up that nice bottle of red that your friend gave you on Saturday and blog. Heavy sigh.

Now I feel better, but I don’t feel like writing anything. Drunkenness, well tipsiness really, is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, I feel very mellow, and the other I have no angst and my snark has left me. It’s all for the best really. I’ve been in the cups before and blogged. It doesn’t usually end well. So … rather than have to defend myself later or wrestle with messy restraining orders I think I’ll go and luxuriate in my tipsiness in bed. I’d watch a movie, but I’d feel guilty for not having the attention span to enjoy it. Besides, I spent all day working on this suburban noir thing and it left me feeling very dark. I’ll be back when I’ve recovered.

Growing Younger

Yes, I believe that I am growing younger or maybe I’m just growing into myself. That’s not to say that I don’t still do childish things. Maybe that’s one reason why I feel younger I’m still a child, a child misbehaving in a woman’s body.

A couple of weeks ago I was at a party people with friends from my writing program. The conversation turned to age and things we did when we were younger. I proudly announced my age and began talking about back in the day when I noticed people were looking and laughing at me. I was explaining the size and price of pot back when I smoked the stuff. I realized that they thought I was joking and reciting some sort of when I was girl we walked 20 miles to school in the snow story.

There was a man was sitting next to me that I’d known for almost a year. He turned and said, “You’re kidding right?” I replied, “No.” He was a little drunk. I say this because his date was sitting next to him while he looked me up and down and announced, “I didn’t know that. God you’re hot!”

Later he opened his shirt and showed me chest hair. Somehow this gesture was supposed to convince me that he was a good writer and worthy of publication in my ezine. I already wanted him to write for the mag but I was not to be out done by male chest thumping. “Oh, I said (heavy on the sarcasm), “why didn’t you show that to me sooner. Chest hair is like gold and makes all the difference in world.” The jibes sort of escalated after that into an embarrassing pissing contest of flirting.

I am very competitive and was not going to back down, politely blush and quietly remind him about his date. No one of us was going to see the other in the halls of learning and hide a bit shame faced and it was NOT going to be me.

And it wasn’t. Now this was delightfully juvenile of me and sure enough I look several years younger now. The other surprising side effect is that I look like I’ve lost weight and gained a cup size in my bra. No kidding!

Maybe the great thing about getting older is not taking everything so seriously. It’s liberating, the place I find myself these days.

David Duchovny's sex disorder and why life is brutally unfair.

David Duchovny is addicted to sex? Who knew and why is it that me and singer/musician Bree Sharpe are the last to know? Bree had a hit song based on her love for Duchnovy where she asks, David Duchonovy why don’t you love me. Little did we know that Mr. Duchonovy was a lot freer with his person than either of us suspected. In light of the fact, that I too have had a crush on this guy for years. Hell, I thought he was hot even when he was dressed in drag on Twin Peaks.



This is information I could have used years ago. If I had known Duchovny was such an easy mark I really would have tried harder. I’m pissed at the so called investigative journalism in this country. First, they totally drop the ball on the Bigfoot in Georgia thing and now this. Seriously, switch the focus from Britney Spears for just a moment will you. Because of the media’s lackadaisical approach to celebrity news, I feel that I, and many other women, have missed an opportunity; the chances to have David Duchonvy actually love me. Life is so unfair.

According to the story by Jill Serjeant, Duchovny announced Thursday that he was voluntarily entering rehab after years of denying that he had a problem.
Okay, who did he deny this to, not me, I can tell you that (she said bitterly).
The story goes on to say that the American Psychiatric Association does not formally recognized sex addiction as a "diagnosable disorder."

This part of the story makes sense to me because if liking sex is a disorder then I’m totally mad and if the idea of sex with David Duchovny is a problem, well lock me up.
In the article, an addiction specialist, Dr. Steve Echel states, “The concept of sexual addiction is a controversial one and that's because it is difficult to define."

I don’t agree with Dr. Echel because I can define this so called addiction fairly easily. Sexual addiction: I like me some nookie when I’m depressed. Pretty much sums it up for me.



The next little quote from Serjeant’s story sort of threw me. “Sexual health experts estimate that about 3-5 percent of Americans have the disorder, including women.”

These numbers seemed a little low to me. Based on what? Which experts? Who did they survey, fundamentalist Republicans? And what’s this including women crack? Geez, we get blamed for male bad behavior all the time. Ooooo, I’m so sorry I tempt you. Then when it comes to enjoying sex we aren’t supposed to. The including women comment confirms that the generally accepted belief is that when it comes to enjoying sex women are somehow excluded.

I don’t know about the rest of the ladies out there, but I’ve spent most of life getting dolled up, smiling politely, and pretending to care about sports because I have zero interest in scoring with a guy. Yes, that’s sarcasm.

Here’s another gem of a quote from the same article,

“According to the Mayo Clinic, symptoms range from rampant promiscuity to spending hours looking at pornography and using sex to escape from problems such as depression or stress. It is often accompanied by secrecy and shame, and sufferers have difficulties with emotional intimacy.”

DUH! Sort of sounds like the Sunday morning after the Saturday night doesn’t it? Be honest now, how many times have you called that special person you woke up with honey, baby, or sweetie because you don’t remember their name? And who doesn’t use sex to relieve stress and depression? Doesn’t it beat going to the gym?
Some guy from the Sexual Recovery Institute in Los Angeles is quoted as saying, “The Internet has provided a level of access (to pornography) that was previously unavailable. So many people have this problem and the Internet has driven that.”

Yeah, for the internet! What I want to know is what chat room was Duchovny in and how did I miss him. Damn! Look this would not be my first choice of contact but given the price gas and the distance between me and Los Angeles I’ll take want I can get. Cyber love is better than no love at all.

Poor Tea Leoni not only is she married to a hot guy that millions of women want to have sex with, but now hubbie has publicly placed a bulls eye on his crotch by announcing, “Hey I’d like to sex with all of them too. Did I mention the name of the rehab center where I’ll be working out my problem? I want to be sure to include the visiting hours in my announcement because I have so many cousins who may want to visit (wink, wink).”


The article concludes with a description of therapy and treatment and claims that some medications used in the treatment of “disorder” cause a reduction in libido.

Psst, David don’t take the blue pill.

Sadly, the article ends with the warning that relapse is common given the difficulty in giving up sex for the rest of one’s life.
Halleluiah! At least there an up side to this story.

My brother has cancer

My brother has cancer. It sounds … unbelievable, unreal.. I say it, the words, but the true weight of them is absent. Is that denial? I cry. I’m worried. I’ve researched articles on the disease, on treatments, on support and still it’s like this is happening to someone else. How stupid of me, it is happening to someone else, it’s happening to my brother. It is treatable, but nothing is 100% and the doctors don’t sugar coat anything. Our mother wants guarantees because she is a mother, our mother, his mother. Steven’s odds are very good, his odds…what a horrible thought. Words like odds don’t belong in the same sentence with my brother’s name. Forty four radiation treatments, 4 to 5 times a week and my brother will get tired, very tired and he will lose his hair.

I want to take the disease into myself because…I can get angry at it, fight it, and hate it. I don’t feel stronger than he is; I’m not more deserving of cancer but he is so very undeserving. When the phrase, “life is unfair,” was coined I suppose this is what they meant. I suppose the definition of the word helpless is what I feel right now.

He says he doesn’t feel sick, he says he feels fine but then he tells me that he is looking for things…things that he hasn’t seen in a long time, like his high school ring.

“The last time I saw it was before the move. It was still in the box, the price tag was still on it. You know the foam stuff that holds it in place.
”
“Yeah,” I say.

“It had turned to dust, totally disintegrated. And now I can’t find it.”

He’s called old friends too. This is how I know that he’s worried. His girlfriend said he was being mean to her about small things, arguing, complaining, about nothing really. She told me that’s how she knows the stress is getting to him. She understands. He’s frustrated and she’s close, so she bears the brunt of that frustration. She lets it pass.

I guess when your own mortality slaps you in the face you go through a wide range of unpleasant emotions. Think about it. We all, all of us, live our lives believing that yes someday we will die, but none of us actually lives our lives like we truly believe it. We maintain an unfounded belief in our own immortality; constantly plan ahead for the next day, the next year or our retirement. We do this in spite of the fact that the future is not guaranteed. Nothing is 100%.

La Concha Hotel San Juan, Puerto Rico or Pool Crashing Part Duex

I recently spent time in Puerto Rico…ah writing…yeah. I was supposed to be writing and I have the bitchin tan to prove it. So I would like to give props to the folks at La Concha Hotel. As I said in my previous posting the Marriott has a nice pool despite the peeping Toms that were frequenting the place when I was there. Eventually, we were busted by an employee who was a hard ass about us crashing the pool. He directed us to a place where we could buy a non guest pass for a whopping $30 per person per day. Sorry Marriott your pool ain’t that special.



This brings me to the lovely folks at La Concha who don’t seem to mind non guests using their awesome pool, especially nicely attired folks who hit the bar right off the bat and start a tab, like me and my friends. Let’s do the math shall we. Marriott zero dollars, La Concha …I don’t really remember but it included lunch sometimes…I think…yeah, I’m pretty sure about lunch. Drinks were expensive, but the point is that they got my cash and Marriott did not. La Concha has beds on the beach and massages and ice water and people who bring you drinks.



So Marriott, poop on you and your over crowded family oriented swimming pool. Oh and it turns out that the bar at La Concha is one of San Juan’s hippest night spots on Friday nights.



Now I can include my bitchin photos of La Concha and no…. these aren’t the hotel’s PR photos. I took these all by myself.

Adventures in Pool Crashing in Puerto Rico

He rushed past us telling the security guard, “I know what happened, where’s the guy?” His accent was all Jersey, his barreled chest thrust out and at the ends of his tattooed arms were clinched fists. I look to my friend and say, “I think there’s been a fight.” Just then, we see a distressed woman sobbing and clutching a beach towel making her way around the sundeck of the Marriott’s pool. This is both a good and a bad thing. It’s good because we are contemplating crashing the hotel’s pool and this allows us the opportunity to see the hotel’s security at work. I know how callous this sounds, but we have been warned about the deadly rip current here and the frequent drownings of locals and tourists. To believe that I, an extremely poor swimmer, will risk my life for a little aquatic relief from the merciless sun is almost inconceivable. Unless I’m driven mad by the heat nothing higher than my ankle is getting wet. This distresses me to no end to be so close and yet so far from a cool dip, swim up bar and handsome cabana boys while I tan.

The plan was just to ask the hotel but that plan involves risk; the risk of being told no. I have learned that it is often preferable to beg forgiveness than ask permission. Somehow I feel that that Puerto Rico’s prisons are far too overcrowded to handle an influx of pool crashing weak swimmers. I think we are safe to slip in and use the facilities. Besides being curious about what made Jersey man fighting mad, throwing ourselves into the action offers valuable face time with the staff. If they recognize us as concerned guests we are less likely to be asked to show our room key or some other such nonsense. Familiarity beats shopping for the correct color beach towel distributed poolside to paying guests and it’s cost effective. Anyway the entire hubbub was about a peeping tom.

It appears that Mrs. New Jersey was in the ladies when there came a tapping on her stall door. She answered that the stall was occupied and the presumed knocker went to the stall next door and entered. Mrs. New Jersey was surprised or should I say horrified a moment later seeing the face of an Asian gentleman staring up at her from adjoining stall and watching her go potty. She proceeded to scream, “You sick bastard!” to the top of her lungs and began struggling with her clothing. Once semi attired she gave chase but sadly lost peeping Chan. She then alerted her spouse and began to sob with great vigor. When I hugged her and said, “Oh you poor thing” the blue mascara was running down her freckled nose. Hotel management, security and all sorts’ folks came forward to offer comfort and support. Mr. Jersey was yelling that they were checking out and the manager was trying to reason with him, to which he offered these words, “Tell me what you’re going to do for me, your very best, because and he looked at me when he said this, cause where I’m from we call that kinda guy a sexual predator.” You tell him Jersey because I’m sure they call perverts something totally different in Puerto Rico. The Mrs. began to cry as she recalled, “Our daughter used that bathroom three times today. I don’t want some sick bastard looking at my daughter.” Indeed. I asked the staff and security all kinds of questions like, what bathroom was it and do you think he was a guest (aghast) here at the hotel. Oh my goodness, are we safe here? After a little while we left the pool area and hit the casino for a few minutes. I think we are home free for pool time for the rest of our stay.

Capturing the Muse in Puerto Rico

So, I’m in Puerto Rico, it’s 5:03 and I’m having a drink. I’m winding down from an eventful day of sight seeing and acquainting myself with my new surroundings. I’m finding it difficult to be writing about growing up in the rural South when I’m about a block away from the ocean and less than that from restaurants and bars in bustling San Juan. The sun is completely set by 7 pm which is very different from the 9 pm setting of Georgia. Outside my window the city comes to life as the dark closes in and the jack hammers lay idle. All day I see and hear cars, buses, trucks and motorcycles. The sounds of hydraulic brakes hiss and squeal from four floors below and remind me of the bus I took into Old San Juan this morning. I love the sounds of this place, the buzz of a city and hum of the ocean. They shouldn’t mix but if you have to live in the urban jungle it’s lovely to have Mother Ocean at your back door, which for the next few weeks I do. Either I’m not very disciplined or the muse has other plans for my stay here. I’m not going to fight her lead it’s bad ju ju for one’s writing to do so, at least that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
One of my roomies on this trip ordered some chouro sausage for dinner last night. She offered me a sample and the taste provoked a vivid memory of my childhood. It tasted just like the sausage I grew up with which was served at breakfast or dinner in South Carolina. I remember thinking this would be great with some oatmeal and some maple syrup. Immediately, I was transported to my grandmother’s kitchen table. My grand father always sat at the head of the table, my brother to his left, me to his right. Grand mother sat at the opposite end with my mother at her side. The smell of rich warm coffee and hot sizzling sausages flood my memory for a moment and then bam I’m back in Puerto Rico. I think, “That’s where the cellulite came from.” I’m going to look like a strained whale floundering on the beach tomorrow. I imagine Puerto Rican men pouring water over me and then trying to drag my fat sausage ass back into the sea. Strange trip the muse has planned, strange, strange trip.

Pink Heart Shaped Pillow

I was carrying the laundry upstairs when I turned the corner into the bedroom and saw him jacking off on my pink heart-shaped pillow. Shocked, I immediately back out of the room. Then I thought, this is my house, and that’s my pillow, and if he doesn’t have any shame why should I. I waked back in the room and he looked up at me, but continued about his business. I put down the laundry and yelled downstairs to Bret,
“Hey, you need to come up here.”
“Why?”
“Because your son is jacking off on my pink heart-shaped pillow.”
“Is he still doing it?”
“Hell yeah he’s still doing it, get up here.”
Bret came upstairs and we both stood there and watched for a moment. Mojo had a paw on each side of the rounded heart, kneading away while he rubbed his genitals against the pointy end.
“Damn, that is what he’s doin.”
“I told you”
“Mojo kitty did they miss something when they cut off your nunnies.”
I began to laugh at this point and apparently, my laughter triggered a shame response from Mojo. He stopped, and got a very sad look on his face, which prompted a stern admonishment from my spouse.
“Don’t laugh at him. Remember Bill got all jissy there for a while.
(Bill is our other male cat). Look you hurt his feelings.” He rushed to the bed and began to comfort Mojo. “It’s okay, little boy, Mamma didn’t mean to laugh at you, it’s perfectly natural. You can do that whenever you want.”
I approached the bed and said,
“That’s easy for you to say, here’s not doing it on your pillow.”
“Well, I don’t think he hurt anything. Here smell it,” as he shoved the pillow in my face. I immediately noticed the wet spot and pushed the thing away.
“OH! DAMIT”
“What?”
“There’s a wet spot on it.”
“Ooooh, that sucks.”
“Oh really, ya think” I paused for a moment and asked, “Why do think he’s doing that?”
“I don’t know. It’s really soft and it smells like mamma.”
“Yeah, that’s what creepy about it.”
For me this incident put a whole new perspective on how that little kitty jumps in my lap and forces kisses on me and how he cries and insists on uncovering my head on weekend mornings and forces kisses on me. I equate this to a woman walking in on her teenage age son fondling her underwear. It’s just weird. I really like that pillow myself, although I have never felt the urge to express my feelings toward it sexually. It is really soft. The problem is Mojo won’t stop loving it. When I leave the house, I have taken to hiding it under the covers. I thought making it difficult to reach would discourage the little guy from pleasuring himself on it. Unfortunately, every time I turn around he’s at it again. I mean you can only wash something so much.
The other day I was on my way to school. I got into the car and then realized that I had left something in the house. I returned inside, climbed the stairs, and went back into the bedroom to retrieve whatever it was. Just a few moments earlier, all three cats were asleep on the bed, but not so upon my returning. Bill was still asleep on the edge of the bed, however Mojo was once again engaged in his new favorite pastime, and Pudding , my female kitty, was having a field day playing in my cosmetics. I swear it’s like having teenagers. I left feeling as if I had return a little later Bill would have been awake and in the process of raiding the liquor cabinet or his Daddy’s stash.

Macy’s, Sears, Walmart, Kmart, Home Depot, Office Depot and other machines of torture and humiliation

I’m graduating from college next week and like most people in my position I’m wondering, will I have to go back into retail now? Personally, I’d rather eat a bullet. Seriously I’m having weird nightmares about being stuck in department stores and malls. In these dreams whenever I step onto an escalator the stairs go flat and form a straight steep incline to the top and worse the hand rail, which I’m holding onto for dear life, runs slower than the stairs. The result is that I’m going up at a high rate of speed feet first. Of course, this is a series of escalators rising several stories and fall would be fatal. I had this one dream where I’m sitting at my computer writing and this man and woman (manager/supervisors) enter my office and tell me rather sternly to, “Get back out on the floor!” I go out to a cash register where I am confronted by a surly co worker and even surlier customers. Then this huge metal display falls because of an earthquake or something. In the dream, I think great I can use this natural disaster to escape. Unfortunately, as I approach the door all the glass (and there is a lot of glass) begins to shatter and rain down on me. I’m approached and halted by the supervisors/managers. I begin to speak, but my mouth s full of broken glass. I try to make sounds, but broken glass just keeps falling out. It’s horrible!

Now you might be wondering how and why a grown woman is so terrified of department stores. Well, I’ll tell you. I know from personal experience in retail sales and management that the systems on which it is designed and based methodically and purposefully break human beings down psychologically. .I don’t know the point of origin (I’m certain it is a closely guarded secret, like the reality of flying saucers) but I believe the current model was developed in Nazi Germany. Oh sure, there have been revisions to the evil plan and they (the powers) have learned to disguise things better, but the basic structure remains. Victims still enter retail believing that they are being given legitimate work. What they actually sign up for is years of mental and physical torture. For example, company policy is code for one particularly heinous form of torture. Victims are forced to repeat some “policy” that they know is not only stupid, but is designed to piss off the other victims (known as customers). It’s ingenious how they (the powers) manage to get the victims to fight among themselves and blame each other for their lot in life. I am amazed at how well this works and continues to work decade after decade. For those who haven’t figured this out here’s how it works.
The victims (buying public) are convinced through splashy ad campaigns that they must have some product. These products rarely live up to the hype as they are not anything one actually needs. They are something the victim is made to want. The product fills a hole in the self, a hole the victim wasn’t even aware existed until a splashy ad campaign made them aware of their short comings. So the victim goes off the site of torture seeking the product. They get distracted by a bunch of other products that they weren’t aware that they needed and then they sell their souls in order to purchase these illusions. But wait here’s where things start to get good. Now the other victim must recite policy to them. Policy says you don’t have the right currency, or policy says you didn’t pay your bill so you can’t have the shiny things you so desperately need. Now the pain begins to escalate on both sides, the arguing, insults and accusations fly and one victim screams out in agony, “I WANT TO SEE A MANAGER.” Oh now they’ve done it and a third victim arrives. I used to think the manager had it easy, until I became one. You see that too is illusion, the illusion of power. The manager only appears to have some authority, but they are just another part of the torture process. There are only certain things managers can say yes to or fix and when they do there is always someone other victim further up the chain who will beat them with the NUMBERS and PERCENTAGES and POLICY. It’s the little things that eat away at the manager’s sense of self. For one thing they get paid less per hour that the other victims. It’s true. They go in thinking they will have power and more money, but in retail there is always a catch. In this case, the catch is called being salaried, which means the powers can work managers twenty fours hours a day seven days a week and they can’t do shit about it. To add insult to injury the other victims are aware of this fact and (given they already hate managers) this gives them all the ammo they need to belittle them and talk smack about them behind their back.
I think you can see where I’m headed with this by now. Retail is a vicious cycle that feeds on its victims in ways they are usually conditioned not to notice. The victims suffer from a generalized unhappiness and an over whelming sense of hopelessness. The victims are in so deep they don’t see a way out. The cruelest blow of all is that victims are habituated to have one response to their misery. GO OUT AND BUY SOMETHING! And so it begins again.
If they really want to extract information from terrorist I say make them work the gift wrap counter at Macy’s during Christmas. I not only guarantee that they’ll crack, but I’m sure they’ll no longer believe in any god and their brains will be so pliable that they’ll ask to be rehired next Christmas. I’ve seen it happen to even the most devote and principled among us. So, next time you out at the mall think about it.

What's Up!

I was recently sent an email from a friend wondering where I’ve been. Well, I tell you. I’ve been in weedville, that’s right weedville. I was up to my ass in education. It’s my final semester, and I’m in an accelerated master’s writing program, which means I’m finishing my undergrad while beginning my master’s. And it is fucking hard!!!!!! I have to read the equivalent of War and Peace each week and write about 30 pages on all kinds of shit. Hell, I’m out of breath just thinking about it. As of 3:15 pm yesterday, I started Spring Break. I plan to spend the time trying to catch up, and maybe get a tad ahead with school, touch base with friends and family, and have the occasional cocktail. Oh yeah, and burn through that pile of films from Netflix.

So, to catch up. My Bday in NOLA was awesome. The best music is out on the street and I woke up one morning to a lone sax playing Summertime. It was freezing in ATL, but beautiful Spring weather in New Orleans. The food was excellent. I ate at Brennen’s, Mr. B’s Bistro and spent lunch everyday at my favorite oyster bar in the whole world, Acme. Abita has a new beer, a stout called Turbo Dog. For those of you who know me well, I’m Guinness girl, but this beer made me cheat on my old favorite. The French Quarter is doing well, but the you don’t have to go far to see where things are still demolished. I took the streetcar up Canal until the end of the line and back. I saw plenty of abandoned buildings, FEMA trailers and a tent city of homeless men under the I 90 Bridge. The people do seem to be coping and I was overjoyed that a city that I love is recovering and surviving. Oh and I did hit a few clubs while I was there…just a few…some before noon…sorta became a habit. Damn that Turbo Dog is good beer.

Let’s see what else is new. A couple of weeks ago I attended a writing seminar, “The Hollis Gillespie Shocking Real Life Memoir Writing” blah, blah, something. That was fun. There were several other writers attending and they were a very interesting crowd. The mimosas flowed all day. We brainstormed ideas for possible novels and received some publishing and agent contact information along with query letter advice. I would recommend it anyone who is writing and outside of the academic setting. You need feedback and a community if you are going to be a writer. Out there in the real world it is very hard to get support, so it was great for networking with other writers.

My grandmother is still handing in there. Volunteer hospice is coming several times a week. It’s sweet that she doesn’t understand what hospice means. She believes nice people are coming over to help my mom take care of her. We are not educating her as to what hospice actually means and she doesn’t need to know. She still wants to go home and assumes that she will as soon as she is better. She has a goal, is cooperative and likes entertaining her new friends the hospice people. As long as she is comfortable and my mother is getting a break, I am thrilled. The stress was really wearing on my mom.

Well, it’s 4:15 in the afternoon and since I don’t have any immediate plans, I think it time for some vino. I may even watch a little TV. Gosh, I feel so decadent.

To all my friends, if I missed your birthday, party, gig, wedding, orgy or funeral or other special event, I am truly sorry. Believe me if I could have attended, written, called or joined in, I would have. Anything with my buds is preferable to what I have endured lately. Please keep me on your invite list, as I should be out of prison in May. Now if you will excuse me, It’s time to liquored up.

Love and Kisses,
Sheff

The BIG?

I have a birthday coming up, and it is a significant one, a milestone in life as it were. I am feeling pretty good about it, and if you had asked me a decade ago I probably would not have so generous with myself. A few great things come with age. I don’t give much of a shit what other people think anymore. It isn’t that I don’t value the opinions of friends or family, it’s just other folks in general that I don’t care about. I’m sort of past winning approval for what I do, think, or am. I have tried to change some things about myself that are unappealing, but in the end some things are as natural as breathing and can’t be reprogrammed. So, world you just gotta take me warts and all, cuz much can’t be fixed at this stage in the game.

I’m also in better health mentally and physically than I have ever been in my life. I quit doing drugs years ago. My consumption of alcohol is very limited. I enjoy a nice glass of wine and bonus; I’m a cheap date these days. I work out, although I have never gotten that runner’s high that gym rats are always talking about. I feel better after I workout. What I get if I don’t workout is a bit of self loathing that I could do without. So to keep my inner insecure bitch at bay, I work out. I must say it does improve my appearance and self esteem.

A couple of days ago I put on a pair of riding pants that I bought around 1989. Back then leggings were popular for the first time and these were on sale because they weren’t plain like regular legging but reinforced like, well, riding pants. Call me bohemian or cheap but I bought 2 pair for 10 bucks each. Today the damn things are sort of roomy on me. Now I’m impressed with myself because I don’t know of anyone who can still wear their pants from 1989. Hell, they are back in style now. Bret said, Hey, I remember those pants. You look good in them.” I looked hot in them, I’ll have you know.

That’s another thing that surprises me about getting older. I feel sexy. I am more comfortable and secure in myself than when I was a younger woman. I flirt and have a great time with men. If anything has changed it is that I am perhaps more of a handful than most guys expect. And that’s kind of fun too.
So let’s see I’m happier, healthier and sexier than I was 10 years ago. Wow! That’s an accomplishment. My only regret is the wisdom that comes with age doesn’t come sooner. That’s probably everyone’s regret.


You may wonder how I’ve decided to spend my big day. Well, I booked a flight and a deluxe king suite with a balcony in New Orleans. I’m going to make some reservations to a couple of my favorite restaurants and I am going to walk, drink, and eat my way through the French Quarter. I plan on throwing and earning some beads. I still have a great rack and I intend on using it. I’m going to listen to some great music and ponder my future, which I envision as hopeful and bright. If anyone is NOLA on Feb 9th and 10th I’ll be staying at the St. Louis Hotel. Stop by and have a drink. My friends are welcomed to join the celebration.