Scaaaars!

danielle chose scars as this weeks topic; for some reason, when i say it in my head, i close one eye, make a hook with my finger, and say it like a pirate - scaaars!

the other night i watched the end of jaws on tv. as the the three men on the orca sat around the table drinking, they were comparing scars. and, it was not the size or shape of the scar that made it superior to other scars, it was the story of how it came to be. and perhaps that's why scars are cool - they each have a story. not always a cool story, mind you, but a story nonetheless.

scars are reminders of what we've endured and that we indeed heal; i think that's why i really like them. i don't have many - one on my left leg from a steam burn (i call it the hawaiian island), and about five up and down my left leg from surgery i had about five years ago. the largest one is on my ankle, and the area is still numb to the touch. but every time i look at those scars, i remember how they got there, how much they once hurt, and how amazing it is that they are all that's left.

and if we didn't heal and have scars, we would be walking around with unsightly oozing wounds like massive head-wound harry (see picture, if you don't remember him). which brings me to emotional scars, wounds, and healing, not so obvious, not so automatic. where our tissue succeeds, our minds and hearts often fail - i wonder if these wounds and scars could be actually seen like our fleshly ones, if we would all be grotesque, stinking, oozing messes. and we would say, "hey, where'd you get that one?" and unlike the cool stories swapped in jaws, the answers, the stories, might make us very sad.

I Want to be Wilma (not Flintstone)

will (who needs to come see us) picked TV remix.

my sister and i used to make bracelets out of kleenex colored with magic markers and pretend we were electra-woman and dina-girl. i should note, that in our tv role playing, this was the one instance where she actually let me be a girl character. but i don't want to get into it.

i think i want to be erin gray. erin gray had the two best roles on television - wilma on buck rogers, and kate on silver spoons.

buck rogers was my all-time favorite, and i should note that i did have a BIG crush on buck. so, to be his leading lady, complete with laser pistol and shimmery white spandex body suit... well, let's just say i've had daydreams.

and of course, who wouldn't want to live in ricky stratton's house complete with arcade video games and alfonso ribiero? i wasn't keen on ricky schroeder per se (and he's hideous all grown up, but i did cry when i watched the champ) but the dad was cute, and of course, so was jason bateman. what i would have paid to have been erin gray, riding on the miniature train that ran through the living room.

imdb tells me that erin gray has gone downhill since these roles i coveted; some baywatch, some port charles... and it's really no surprise. there was really no place to go but down.

Summer of Love

yay, v! she picked summer flings.

the summer i fell in love with rick tuttle, i was ten and he was 46. it wasn't that kind of love.

the tuttles had been our next door neighbors for as long as we lived in our house, but i can't say i ever saw them much. they had kids much older than me who, by the summer of love, had all moved out. they had a dog named j.j. that i saw a lot and loved like my own until he ran away. mrs. tuttle was always kind. mr. tuttle had multiple sclerosis and was paralyzed from the neck down. he spent his days in a lawn chair in his living room.

i don't remember exactly what brought me to their house that summer day, but mrs. tuttle invited me in where she was playing computer games with mr. tuttle. they had an apple IIe (ha!) and so did we, so i was familiar with it. she asked me if i would like to play, so i sat down while she escaped to do other things, and for two hours, i became mr. tuttle's hands, pushing the keys he told me to push. we played chess and cribbage, but his favorite game was wizardry. for the rest of the summer (and the next three years) i went to the tuttle's house and played computer games with rick.

he could barely speak; it took a lot of effort. when he laughed, he would open his mouth wide and no sound would come out - he would only make noise when he sucked air in. he had a catheter, and his urine bag hung off of his lounge chair. i could occasionally hear pee trickle into it. when he got thirsty, he would say "drink" and i would grab his glass of watered down cranberry juice and hold the straw to his lips while he gulped. his hands were fixed in tight fists across his thighs, and occasionally, he would shake involuntarily. he told me jokes. he taught me how to play chess and cribbage. he had graph paper in a special folder - when we played wizardry, we mapped out all nine levels so we would know where the doors, pits, and teleporters were. it took a long time. when i had to go home, i would kiss his forehead, and he would thank me. i hated going home.

looking back, i imagine i was a great help to mrs. tuttle, giving her free time to do other things. but they were a great help to me. there is something so pure about love from a man who is completely incapacitated and vulnerable, who exists to just, well, exist. i know i brought him joy and brightened his day, but he loved me in a way i needed at that age - his house was my escape, and his friendship was the safest i'd ever known.

the tuttles moved to clearwater beach when i was thirteen. i occasionally went to to see them, but not very often; by then, a book had come out with all the maps to the levels of wizardry. when i was sixteen, rick tuttle died. i hadn't seen him in a while, but at his funeral, i sat in the very back and cried more than his family. i understand he was probably a burden to them. but he was never that to me. i went to his casket and kissed his forehead one last time.

why do the good ones always get away?

and that, my friends, is as melancholy and nostalgic as i get. i'm now going to go have a good cry and put my broke ass on ice.

Teacher Top Ten

sorry for the late post on b's excellent topic, teachers; i blame the delay on my broke ass.

TOP TEN teacher memories that may have messed me up just a little:

10. androgynous high school volleyball coach known just as "yengel" (like "prince" "madonna" or "yeti") called me "lead-butt o'brien" during suicide drills.

9. mr. gray, high school IPS teacher, pulled me aside and threatened to sue me for slander because he read "button your shirt, mr. gray is a pervert" written in pencil on my black lab desk. my friend kim wrote it, and when he went to show me, he couldn't find it. and, i think he meant libel.

8. senora fernandez cried in front of my honors spanish II class when she learned that eric beyer stole the midterm exam and we all had a party and memorized the answers. "how you do this to me?" if i wasn't sad for cheating, she broke my heart.

7. mrs. neumeier shamed me in seventh grade for jokingly kissing a boy. she grabbed my wrist hard and said, "i can't believe you did that!" i wanted to die for days. i recently saw mrs. neumeier in clearwater at a picnic. she said to my friend cate and me, "i have always LOVED you girls. i just LOVE you." she got up to wipe her eyes, and i looked at cate. "wasn't she really mean to us?" she laughed. and nodded.

6. in sixth grade, my science teacher mrs. golding intercepted a note i was trying to pass to my friend jannette. unfortunately, all the note said was "Mrs. Golding is UGLY!"

5. a favorite pastime of young parochial school children filing down the hall is to hold up one hand and make the peace sign in the little windows in the doors of classrooms. in first grade, my teacher mrs. donahue got tired of this one day and slammed her hand through the window. the glass shattered and her hand was all bloody. who puts these people in charge of small children?

4. as a senior i took anatomy with mr. gasper. he relentlessly picked on me. once we were discussing the hardware in the penis. he asked the class how the penis knows to release semen or urine, then he called on me (i did NOT raise my hand). i said, "um, there's a flap." he said, "oh, no, susie baby, the girls are the ones with the flaps!" i turned very red. and, there IS a flap. jackhole.

3. last night i had class with dr. blankety-blank. i don't know if it was my broke ass or his incredibly long, boring lecture, but i tried to slit my wrist with the edge of a page of tennyson's poetry.

2. mr. calise taught me eighth grade english. he made me love writing. in my yearbook (several pages after my ugly mug) he wrote, "you are a very talented writer. i'll be looking for you to win the pulitzer prize... you can do it!" is that why i'm here? oh, good gracious, i hope not. but, i did love mr. calise.

1. in freshman religion class, sister deborah told us if we were struggling with sexual desire, it is best to masturbate rather than sin outwardly with another. now that i think about it, she was always such a happy nun...

Robot Chicken-Star Wars parody

in honor of keegan - this is his fave.

He Loved Me Not

leave it to the poet to select unrequited love. thanks, sandra!

my eighth grade year, i fled the shelter of parochial schooling and attended palm harbor middle school. not only did the students not wear uniforms, but they made out in hallways, cussed a lot, and had food fights in the cafeteria. please know i did not stand in judgment of such shenanigans - it just shocked the pee out of me.

as if being forced into such strange surroundings wasn't enough, i was UGLY. now, you say, oh you were probably cute... but trust me. i didn't got no alibi - i was ugly. i had braces and a poorly growing out asymmetrical haircut. i think i dressed like a dork. i have a yearbook - i can prove it.

still, i was not without love interests. i set my heart on jimmy schimpf. in my twelve year old world, i LOVED him. and, he knew it. in graphics class, i carved a keychain that said "i love jimmy." in shop class, i made a wooden clock in the shape of a football helmet, and meticulously painted the washington redskins logo on it. i gave it to my dad. that is a side note, but this post is on unrequited love, right?

jimmy was my friend, but he never gave me a second glance for anything more. i thought of him, looked for him everywhere i went, daydreamed about the day he would ask me to be his girlfriend, and of course, kissing him, though such realities were foreign to me. at the end of the year dance, he asked me to dance. but don't get excited like i didn't- he was just a nice guy who knew i'd lasted all year with my heart on him. it was sort of like end of the year charity.

there is nothing quite like admiring someone and not being admired back; it tends to confirm low self-esteem and negative beliefs. it is rejection of the heart - i say, "here it is!" and he says, "um. no thanks." hope is the only thing... i kept hoping all year that jimmy would like me when he never would. i think there is some safety in that... liking the boy who you know will never like you. i'm not sure what i would have done if jimmy had returned my favor - i probably would have run and hid.

the next year, my hair grew out, i got highlights and my braces removed. i ran into jimmy at the football jamboree at his high school, and he did a double take and stopped to talk to me with great interest. he said maybe he'd call me. but it was too late. i'd moved on to matt sipera.

he didn't love me either.


see, i told you i was ugly.



oh, but look! so was jimmy.

marriedtothesea.com

Chicken Sweat Very Often!

kara chose jobs.

the events you are about to read about are absolutely true. they really happened. nothing has been embellished or exaggerated. i am a little embarrassed about this.

my father's partner in cardiology was john k. dr. k had a wife named carmen and a son named sean. oh, my dear, dear sean k. i began babysitting him when i was about twelve and he was nine. i think his parents were paying me to be his companion more than his caretaker, but i didn't mind - $7 an hour plus dinner was unheard of in 1986. when i consider the various jobs i have had over the years, this one is my favorite. i will highlight select adventures.

• he had a llasa apso named "cuddles" but he called her "sonia!" he had this squeaky, exaggerated voice when he did this that i so wish i could explain. like, "soooohnya!" once while on her back, he squealed, "sonia! i see your vaginia!" we once got out his camcorder and he put sonia in a chair. i sat next to her wearing a skeleton mask. he filmed us - my name was "skeletor's bride" and i was there to interview cuddles. when i asked her questions, sean would speak her answers from behind the camcorder. this exercise was complete with commercials. i sat on a stool with a guitar and sang the tune for doxidan (when nature needs a helping hand). sean was obsessed with a local weather guy named dick fletcher (danielle may know this guy!) and he gave weather reports. he would start, "hello, my name is diiick fletchah!" it was wild. he basically forced me into all of it, and although i secretly enjoyed it, i was MORTIFIED when he insisted on playing it for his parents when they got home. but, they did ask me back. what i wouldn't give for that tape now...

• he wrote a self-illustrated book called "Alfredo's Alphabet Pritz!" sean had recently discovered that "pritz" was the german (i think) word for fart. alfredo was the main character who went through the alphabet encountering different pritz situations. A was alfredo. B was "Blondie Butt - she pritzes with her lips open!" C - "Catfish Caper - you can see the image of a bucking horse in his pritz!" H was just a scribbled mess with the heading: "Henry! Not Now!" i'm telling you, this kid was priceless.

• i watched him a lot one summer during the day - we would walk to ponderosa and zayre, pushing a cart around, mocking their commercials... "notebook paper, notebook paper..."

• he got me hooked on mary poppins. we watched it OVER AND OVER. and sang all the lines.

• he had a little casio keyboard. one feature was that you could record up to four vocal sounds and replay them on four buttons. you could then do your own remix with the keyboard and the sounds/words. his four words: "chicken" "sweat" "very" "often" - remixed, it was like this: "ch-ch-ch-chicken, ch-ch-ch-chicken, sweat-sweat-sweat-sweat-sweat-sw-sw-sweat-sweat, very- very - v-v-very, oooooooften (he would slow this word down so it was low and drawn out).
  

this post in no way does justice to the most bizarre adventures i had with sean k. he was the greasiest, most obnoxious, yet wonderfully weird and creative person i've ever met. and his parents were straight-laced as they come. they paid me well - but i would have done it for free.

i googled sean k, thinking he is either a multi-millionaire creative wonder genius or in jail - turns out he is a life coach. go figure.

Curse You, Chin-Up

... the kind you do in p.e. - not that sweet song that charlotte sings to wilbur.

i am fairly athletic and remember very much enjoying p.e. - it was like recess but with more structure. and orange cones. and red uniforms. but once a year, for one week, i did not enjoy p.e. - it was time for "physical fitness."

first, the class was divided into groups according to age; the red group with the older kids, the white group with the younger kids, and the green group with one kid - me. i was a full year younger than my classmates in school, and my standards for physical fitness testing were lower than theirs. this created sighs and dirty looks when they had to run 1.2 miles and i only had to run one. shut up, i thought, you will have boobs and a driver's license before me.

coaches stood over us with charts and clipboards, counting our sit-ups and timing our miles. i never did a single chin-up during physical fitness, but i grabbed the metal bar and pulled, turning red-faced and sputtering, my palms becoming red and chaffed. the clipboard carrying tyrant would utter futile encouragements while i hung there like a pathetic monkey with no hope of even doing a nose-up. i would drop to the ground humiliated, take my big fat zero, and move on to the metal pole climb where, once again, my lack of arm strength would bring me misery. i suppose there were benchmarks - certain things you should be able to do at a certain age. but i am now almost 33 and i still can't climb a pole or do chin-ups.

i reflect on this now, and wonder: wtf was up with physical fitness? what did it really matter how many chin-ups i could do? i've never given this information on any application of importance. it is not listed on my transcript next to my SAT scores. and, didn't they already know that fat sandy thurman would not be able to complete her mile in under 20 minutes? did they really need to test and humiliate her?

it would have been much more interesting if they would have measured, say, how many hot dogs we could eat in a single sitting on hot lunch day. or, more obscure talents like, jimmy mcknight can't do a single sit up, but he deftly picks up small objects with his toes. or, better yet, get sister therese marie's butt out of the principal's office and see how many chin-ups she can do. in her habit, of course.

My Dearest Blog Friends,

i'm up. after serious contemplation, i have arrived at this topic: P.E.

Coke Nail

sweet mya has suggested fingernails.

i have researched the phenomenon of the long pinky nail with no credible results - just a lot of forums and message boards with subject lines like, "what's up with the long pinky nail? LOL!"

apparently, it is more common among asian men. sometimes, it is a sign of wealth. more often, it seems to be used for very practical purposes - picking the nose, cleaning the ears, and snorting coke on the go. this last use was most commonly suggested among the blogs i read - it is referred to as the "coke nail."

but why stop at cocaine? what if we all grew our pinky nails really long and started using them as official measuring units? would you like some coffee? sugar? how many coke nails? it would save clean up while baking cookies if we only needed to add two coke nails of vanilla extract instead of messing with the little metal spoons.

once this custom is firmly embedded into our culture, the coke nail will invade our vernacular, and "coke nail" will replace words like "smidge" and "dash." upon breakups, one lover will say to the other, "don't you love me anymore? not even a coke nail?"

if this post is really bad, i apologize. i have been up since four; i didn't sleep a coke nail.

Who's Up?

i've lost track... i think it's mya, but she's out of town. are we on hiatus? do we want to poll to see who still wants to do it?

while we're deciding, i have posted this picture. you must come up with a caption. leave in a comment if you want to play.