SEPTEMBER 31ST

The other day at school several kids tried to correct me when I posted that Monday's work is due on October 1st.  They insisted that I was wrong, that Monday is September 31st.

I said, "When in your lifetime has September had 31 days?"

Several thought I was yanking their chains and that I must be the biggest idiot since everyone knows that every month has 31 days.

Hadn't they ever heard the jingle, I wondered.  Most hadn't.  So I started:

Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November.

They were awestruck.  So I repeated and continued:

Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November.
All the rest have thirty-one.

It was as if I were speaking Klingon.  Surely I must be wrong, they insisted.  Why would some months be short?  I let this debate go on until I honestly thought someone's head was going to explode.  Then I sang out:


Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November.
All the rest have thirty-one,
Except for February because it's stupid.

Stupid?  Why is February stupid, they wanted to know.  Why, why, WHY?

Because I couldn't remember the last line of the rhyme.

Look for my September 31st column on Monday.  If you find it, RUN ... because there's no such thing, kiddos, truly, there is no such thing. 

NAP TIME!

You want to know what's under-rated?  Naps.  That's what.

Babies don't really nap - they sleep.  Toddlers fight naps lest they miss something important, like potty training or Elmo.  Youngsters don't need naps because they have more latent energy stored than nuclear fission.  Teenagers nap from 4 a.m. until mid-afternoon.  

You know who needs naps?  Grown-ups, that's who.

Oh, we go and give them silly names like siestas and cat-naps.  We say clever things like, "I was just resting my eyes" or completely deny the experience ("What?  Sleeping?  No… I was just … dozing for a second.")  Anyone who has ever seriously considered (or actually acted upon) napping at a red light because exhaustion was just too overwhelming knows exactly what I'm talking about.

But the truth is that Rodgers and Hammerstein got it dead wrong with the dame stuff because honestly the tune should be, "There Is Nothing Like a Nap."  Sure, it could go like this:

We've got sunlight on the sand. We've got moonlight on the sea.

We've got cradles that rock back and forth right there atop the trees.

We've got caffeine and Red Bull and lots of gingersnaps.

What ain't we got? We ain't got naps!

At the office or at home, at the movies or at shows,

We get speeches 'til our breeches fall asleep right to our toes.

We try fresh air, we try face splash, we try inhaling pleasant smells.

What ain't we got? You know damn well.

We've got nothing to stay awake for.

The TV is just a big bore. 

And though it's barely half past four,

I could lay down right on this floor,

Because …

There is nothing like a nap. Nothing in the world.

There is nothing, holy crap, that is anything like a nap!

This has been today's public service announcement.  Do you know where your nap is?  If not it could be because I just took it.  All twenty minutes of it.  And it was grand!

(PS - I know these aren't the performers from South Pacific, but how can anyone pass up dancing Stormtroopers?  It's like a nap-time dream come true.)

 

POETRY IN MOTION

For some reason, I am still pissed off about the poetry class that I commented on Wednesday.  You remember, the instance where I shoved my entire foot all the way to beyond the ankle into my stupid big mouth.  THAT comment.

I have been mulling it over.  I mean, let's be honest here.  I'm no Hemingway (thank frikkin' God because I'd be drunk, hairy, and dead), but I'm no hack, either.  I know how to write a goddamned poem, and I can write 'em pretty flipping well, I might add.

My problem is free verse.  I mean, really.  What the hell is there about a red wheelbarrow?  And who cares if it sits in the rain?  Honestly.  WHO CARES?

I care about Paul Revere's midnight ride (that never really happened because the dumbass got captured almost immediately).  I care about the Highwayman's girlfriend getting shot in the chest warning him away.  I care about the Inchcape Rock, Jemima's curly hair, the Jabberwock, and I've even shown some affinity for Abou Ben Adhem (though I'm damn sick of his tribe increasing).  Water ... water ... every-damn-where nor any drop to drink, so I'm just hanging around and waiting for the fly to buzz when I die.  And truly, how many ways do I love you?  All of you?  More ways than can fit into a goddamned wet red wheelbarrow, I can assure you of that.

So how come the only poem my professor liked was the one it took me less than five minutes to write that I created using Scholastic's Poetry Generator on my SmartBoard?  How is this possible?  How is this fair?  How is this even remotely justifiable?

I'll tell you how - It's the same bizarre space orbit that keeps my foot in my mouth.  I can bust my ass and slam my head against a wall and write poetry until my fingers shoot blood across the paper, and it'll never matter.

ANYONE, any damn idiot can write free verse, so it stands to reason that ANYONE, any damn idiot can grade it, as well.

So here's my new poem. 

ODE TO FREE VERSE

Oh free verse,
So perverse,
You claim not to rhyme
Or have meter.
You peter
To the end of your line.
I hate you,
Berate you,
But write you I must.
Defenses swell
(My poem ends well) .
 You're welcome.

(Disclaimer:  No offense intended to poets.  I'm just pissy.)

FOOT-IN-MOUTH DISEASE

So I put my foot in my mouth Wednesday afternoon.

I'm used to it.  I try to keep my feet clean and covered in BBQ sauce because I have at least one foot in my mouth weekly.  Maybe even daily.  Hourly.  A lot.

I was sitting in my grad class waiting for the teacher when a gentleman from one of my summer classes came in.  We got talking about writing and got on the subject of the poetry class I took last spring.  I mentioned that I didn't think the professor did a very good job, and that the first words out of his mouth were, "I'm going on sabbatical next semester, and I don't even want to BE here."  The poetry professor's last words were, "I really wish someone had written poetry about basketball."

Say, WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT, Jack????

And after having a good rant about that and how my poetry was considered shit in that class, I realized that two of my current classmates sitting at the table and bearing witness to my mini-rant were, indeed, from my poetry class two semesters ago.  One of them was very friendly with the professor, as well.

Mother-f****r. 

Someone get the jaws of life, will ya?  My damn foot's in my mouth.  Again.

RUDE PERSONIFIED

I encountered two incredibly rude people in the past twenty-four hours.  Both of my reactions surprised me but in markedly different ways.

The first encounter happened at the doctor's office.  I have been having a couple of very annoying and rather frightening medical issues of late, and I was back for round three of tests and prodding.  I waited in line like a good do-bee and seated myself at reception desk #3 when the girl called me over.  No sooner had she entered my information when  another woman came over and stood behind my chair, started talking to the receptionist, and the clerk who had been helping ME actually started helping the idiot standing BEHIND my chair… while … I … was … still … sitting … right … there.

I was incredibly annoyed, so I stood up and leaned over her desk and said, "YOU are incredibly RUDE."  Then I looked at reception desk #2, and surprise surprise NO ONE was with the clerk.  I mean, was there really a reason that the woman who took over my spot couldn't have gone to the OPEN receptionist? 

So I said to receptionist #2, "Are you busy?  Apparently your coworker is too busy to actually help the person she called over.  I see that being rude is far more important to her than actually helping people."

At this point receptionist #3 stood up, apparently able at THAT moment to stop helping the other woman, and tried to defend herself, saying the woman had actually been waiting LONGER than I was.  Really, sweetheart?  Because there IS a place to stand in line.  I smiled and responded, "All you had to do was either TELL that woman to wait one moment, or you could have acknowledged ME and asked ME to wait a moment, but you simply started helping me then you ignored me while I sat right there.  YOU ARE RUDE."

Receptionist #2 smartly agreed with me and apologized profusely, processing my paperwork in forty-five seconds that had been apparently too much for receptionist #3 to handle.  I have to admit that normally I would have just sat there and allowed myself to be humiliated, and I was damn proud of myself for refusing to be treated like a second class citizen in a place where I pay good money to be treated with some modicum of respect and privacy.

The second incident involved my place of employment.  The janitor has been trying to find a spare moment (we are operating in a pre-construction zone) to install my pencil sharpener.  Today, during his lunchtime and mine, he found a few minutes to drill the holes in the cement block and attach the sharpener to the wall.  In the ninety seconds it took him to drill four holes, he somehow managed to offend a classroom above mine and two doors down.  A woman who is not exactly known for her tact flew into my room and started yelling at the janitor about how much the noise, all minute-plus of it, was completely and totally ruining their movie. 

What she didn't see was me.  My desk is strategically located so that you can see me when the door is wide open or completely closed, but you cannot see me if the door is open halfway.  After berating and completely emasculating a member of the janitorial staff, she spotted me sitting at my desk and seething quietly over her intrusion.  How dare she, a newbie, enter my domain and complain about routine maintenance noise that took less than two minutes? 

Yet for all of my chest puffing now, what I didn't do was react then.  Oh, it's probably the right thing in the long run.  Lord knows I do enough line-walking to get fired at least once a week, and arguing with someone who is probably friends with my boss and my boss's boss and my boss's boss's boss would've hurt me in the long run.  But what I truly wanted to say to her was, "If I EVER hear you talking to a member of the janitorial staff like that again, and if you EVER stamp your way into my room again, I will rip your fucking ugly-ass face right off your over-inflated cranium."

God, I would've paid myself money to pull off that move.  I would've patted myself on the back for weeks to come had I said that, and I would've been doing so from the luxury of my own living room after being fired.

Instead, I just stared at her and let her catch her breath because once she saw me bearing witness to her intolerant rant to whom she obviously considers "the help," she tried for eight long and painful minutes to backtrack, saying how wonderful it was I had a pencil sharpener and how wonderful the pencil sharpener was and how she would come down from her room just to use … my … pencil … sharpener.   

Bitch.  Charlatan.  Not a chance in Hell.

Ah, there.  NOW I feel better.  And I still have my job.  Amazing how that works sometimes.  

ODE TO SCHOOLWORK ... yuck!

I signed up for more grad school classes
To get a degree I don't need
Now I'm at some kind of impasse
This homework makes my poor brain bleed

I had to drop one of the courses
The one for American Lit
No Hawthorne nor Melville nor Cooper:
Just some feminist chick-written shit.

I'm struggling now writing a profile
It's a noun - person, place, or a thing
My paper is coming out crappy
I'd better just toss the towel in

I could stay here all night and avoid work
But it won't get that damn paper done
So I'll struggle to just get it over
And rejoin the cyberspace fun

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

FANEUIL HALL WELCOMES YOU, NOT

September 24, 1742 -- Faneuil Hall opened in Boston.  Thanks to a local wealthy guy, Pete Faneuil, there was even a grasshopper weather vane attached to the cupola of the meeting house, and because it's too high and dangerous a reach for anyone except clever MIT engineering students, the gold-plated vane is still there.  Lots of famous people have given inspirational speeches at Faneuil Hall, people like Sam Adams, Daniel Webster, Steve Sweeney, and Craig Ferguson.  When John Kerry conceded his bid for the presidency, he gave his speech of shame and humiliation at Faneuil Hall.   

Even though Faneuil Hall is on the Freedom Trail, it has morphed from boring old meeting house to party palace as it sits right smack in the middle of the bar-laden marketplace.  It's a stone's throw from the Rose Kennedy Greenway, which is actually mostly tar, that housed smelly hippies who urinated and defecated in and around tents almost a year ago in that famous(ly forgotten) movement Occupy Boston and Make a Nuisance of Your Lazy Unemployed Ass While You Go Weeks and Weeks Without Showering or De-Licing Your Bad Self.   On warm days, the aroma from the occupiers still makes the area smell like the underside of the overpasses in Jamaica Plain.

If you've never had a chance to visit Faneuil Hall, don't.  We have enough rude tourists trashing the place without you people adding to it.  Here, just look at the picture.  See, there it is.  Now you can say you've been there, and you don't have to wonder why all of us locals are waving with one finger on each hand.  It's just something we do here in Boston.  It's our way of pointing your attention up … up … up to Pete Faneuil's weathervane, which hopefully is showing you the way to East Boston where there's an airport so you can fly back home to wherever it is you came from in the first place.   

Honestly, I don't know why people say Bostonians aren't friendly.  Aren't we always ready to tell you where to go?  I mean, if we can expel the British, you out-of-towners should be a breeze.

(Disclaimer:  I am technically not a Bostonian.  This is technically a parody.  But everyone knows that technicalities are just excuses and that excuses are like assholes - everyone's got at least one, and they all stink.  I'm just saying.)

CANON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM...

There's a chill in the air. 

I suddenly realize I forgot to restock my supply of toe and hand warmers, the ones that are air-activated and stick to socks or fit into gloves.  I scour through last spring's pile of junk that I stuffed thoughtlessly away when the season ended.  I find several packets of Toasty Toes and silently pray they are still chemically viable. 

I take out the camera, still loaded with summer's soccer pictures, and prepare to erase the saved files.  I have another epiphany: I haven't restocked AA batteries since July.  In season, restocking batteries is a full-time job.  Taking pictures at a rate of two hundred to a thousand action snapshots per week, depending on the season and competition level, I manage to keep our local supermarkets and pharmacies in close contact with EveryReady, Panasonic, and Duracell.  I am simply trying to do my part in keeping people employed at many different levels.

I'm no pro, but I am diligent.  I accidentally showed up to a freshman soccer game years ago with a brand new digital camera, and the "coordinator" (militant parent) dubbed me "Team Photographer," a job no one ever thought I would take seriously.

But they were wrong.  Frighteningly wrong.

One hundred thousand pictures later, my camera's counter has reset itself several times, and I have even managed to get several hundreds of shots on credible websites.  Many of my photos have been used to make banners, collages, videos, DVDs, recruiting films, and team website pages.  I still can't work every aspect of my camera seven years later, but every so often I manage to take a picture that's so clear and so fresh and so right, it's damn amazing.

There are two positive notes about my action-snapping obsession.  The first actually benefits the coaches.  As a way-too-vocal sideline ref-wanna-be, taking pictures and videos forces me to keep my mouth shut, especially when I'm alone on the sidelines.  If someone yells, "That call SUCKED!" and I happen to be the only one standing there, no camera is going to talk me out of being guilty as charged.  My loner-hobby forces me to be a quiet spectator. 

The second positive note is that I am losing my vision, like most middle-aged people, and I cannot see the camera screen clearly even with my glasses on.  I prefer to have the camera to my face, peering through the viewfinder, snapping away at semi-blurry action, snap-snap-snapping away on sports mode as if I know what I'm doing.  When I get home and download the pictures onto the computer screen, where I can actually see them, I am always amazed at the results. 

Often after a game while I am still on the sidelines, a player will ask, "Did you get a shot of my goal/hit/pass/somersault/penalty…?"  I usually answer no, believing in my heart that I didn't.  Then I see it… on the screen.  The exact moment the player twisted his knee and blew out his ACL, the grimace of pain as he falls but hasn't quite hit the ground; the jubilant celebration as the number thirty-three seed takes down the number three seed and knocks them out of the NCAA tournament; the airborne bicycle kick as the soccer player manages to score out of nowhere to tie the game; the movement of the lacrosse players as they are airborne, seemingly standing on nothing while their feet move several inches off the ground; the incredible save, the impossible goal, the bone-crunching hit, the thrill of victory and agony of defeat.

Fall-ball lacrosse starts today.  I am obsessed.  I am addicted.  And I'm ready. 

ARE WE LOSING THE RACE ON RACISM?

Some principal by the name of Gutierrez says peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are racist.

 

Isn't it enough that school nurses everywhere have worked tirelessly to get PB&J banned from school cafeterias all over the United States?  Isn't it enough that Peter Pan has to battle Skippy every goddamned day of the week on grocery shelves across America?  Isn't it enough that Teddy kicked Jif's ass in side-by-side taste tests?  Isn't it enough that peanut oil is now the scourge of restaurant owners and chefs everywhere?

Now ya gotta go and call my favorite sandwich frikkin' RACIST?

Wait a sec…. Wait just a damn second.  Maybe they're onto something. 

I mean, peanut butter is BROWN, like the skin-color of some Europeans, South and Central Americans, Africans and even Elizabeth Warren's make-believe Native American relatives.  Maybe because it's brown and not white, it's racist against Albinos. 

Oh … my… God …

Peanut butter IS racist!  Albinos everywhere should stand up and assert their rights!  Up with Fluff!  Up with Fluff!

And tortillas are yellow!  People with hepatitis should be soooo offended.  They should sue Taco Bell, and corn growers, and the … the … the SUN!  They should sue the sun for being yellow!

 

Don't forget tomato sauce (or gravy, for you hardcore Italians).  Tomato sauce is RED, and that insults people with hives and fevers and road rash.  Embarrassed people all over this country should stand up and protest.  Except they're too embarrassed.  We should protest for them!  Bad, tomato sauce, bad, bad, bad!

Pina Coladas are white.  They must be racist, too.  Let's ban Pina Coladas, milk, bread, diapers, gauze pads, tampons, toilet paper, tissues, lined notebook and printer paper, and standard household appliances as they are WHITE.  Holy shit, white is bad; it is evil.  It is the color of … SNOW.  Hell, we'll ban SNOW. Sue Mother Nature, sue, sue, sue!!!!!!!!

I wish I could apologize, but this colorful agenda has stepped a little over the line.  Look, you can throw the race card whenever you want (and don't bother calling me a racist because I'll just throw a very brown peanut butter open-faced sandwich in your direction and hope you're deathly allergic), but it just makes you look .... well ... like a racist.  Someone whose sole life agenda requires it being based on race alone, even with the best of intentions, makes that person, quite simply and obviously, RACIST. 

But when you start calling a sandwich racist, dude, you're whacked. 

You're fucked. 

You're damn-near insane.

And if this "protest" actually gets air-time and passes laws to that effect, then so are we, kids.  So we are all whacked, fucked, and insane.

WHO PUTS THE ASS IN MASS?

Massachusetts Senate Race Debate in a nutshell (and I do mean NUT):

Keller:  Welcome to the debate.  Professor Warren, how are you tonight?

 

Fauxcahontas:  Once when Obama rubbed my belly, magic bubbles came out of my nostrils.

Keller:  And Senator Brown, how are you this evening?

Brownie:  We need to draw a line in the sand.

Keller:  Well, candidates, how do you feel about the economy?

Fauxcahontas:  I think the environment is just ducky.  It's green and it's a rainbow and the air is a cornucopia of love and peace!

Keller:  Uh, that would be the ecology, Liz.  And Senator, your thoughts?

Brownie:  We need to draw a line in the sand.

Keller:  How about the state of higher education, candidates.  Your thoughts?

Fauxcahontas:  If I can cheat my way into Harvard, EVERYONE should be able to cheat their way in, even the … scummy … middle … class.  (spits to cleanse palate)

Brownie:  It cost me the shirt off my back and the pants off my bottom to get through law school.  And Cosmo helped a little.  By the way, we need to draw a line in the sand. (flexes)

Keller:  Lastly, candidates, how will you resolve the conundrum of voting along party lines?

Fauxcahontas:  I … am … not … a … robot … beep beep beep … I … am … not … a …. robot … beep beep beep … I … am …  nooooooooooooooottttttt (whirrrrrrrr snap)

Brownie:  My daughters had a party once, but we had to draw a line in the sand.

Keller:  And there you have it, folks.  Proof positive that we are completely and totally fucked.  This is John Keller in Boston, bending over and kissing my dog and my ass good-bye.

#@%& *!%

Let's be serious here.  Is there anyone at all who knows me who has yet to be informed that I swear like a drunken sailor on a five-day bender?

No, truly, I want to know.  I need to know.

You see, my writing class shared drafts via email, and we all made comments about each other's work at this afternoon's class.  During the workshop, I discovered that some people think I am highly offensive.

 No fucking shit, Sherlock.  Where the hell have you been hiding all these years? Have you had your goddamned easily-offended little head up your goddamned easily-offended big ass? 

One woman/student was floored and I suspect mightily offended by my use of the words asshole and fuck.  I want to clarify that I did not use the two words together, so if you think maybe the woman is homophobic, you may well be correct but it won't have anything to do with my story.  Fuck preceded asshole by at least two paragraphs.  They weren't fraternizing; they were working a story.  My story. 

Folks, if two (or more) little swears are going to ruin your life, or worse, upset your delicate sensibilities, you might want to take some meds, or worse, you might want to go read something less offensive like maybe the Christian Science Monitor.  These are my stories, this is my fucking blog, and no asshole is going to shit on my goddamned fucking parade.      

TO PHILLY AND BEYOND

I was thinking today about our trip to the Liberty Bell Judo Tournament.  It may have been because I heard someone on the radio who was from Philadelphia, but I wouldn't put any money on that for sure.  I cannot pinpoint exactly what sparked this memory, and it isn't so much the competition I remember as the bizarre trip into the city itself, the City of Brotherly Love.

First of all, how on earth did such a godforsaken place get that moniker?  We saw no love while we were down there and actually feared for our lives more than a half dozen times.  Parts of the city looked like Beirut circa 1983.  All the one-way streets met in the middle and we couldn't actually go anywhere because every street we tried to take was one way going the wrong way.  (Driving in the 'hoods of Philly is like being a rat in a really horrifying maze only worse because there isn't any cheese at the end.)

Once we did finally figure out where to go (and where NOT to go, alas, too late since we had already been there), Philadelphia was not as bad as my first impression led me to believe.  After all, we were still alive, I still had cash in my pocket that I hadn't been robbed of, and we ended up in the Barrio, a place where I spoke the language and there were windshields and tires on every car.  Finally, we landed in Philly proper.  We saw Independence Hall, the US Mint, and the Liberty Bell.  I reached out and touched the Liberty Bell because at that time you still could get away with it.  Years later some whacko with a mallet beat the crap out of the bell before being wrestled to the ground, so now there's a Lucite box surrounding it.

I suppose all cities have their bad sections.  If visitors want to see the zoo in Boston, they might be well-prepared to drive there rather than hop public transit because it's really not a walking-around type of 'hood, and Joe the Gorilla (the notorious escapee) just might be waiting alongside them at the bus stop.  But, and this is a huge but, I cannot think of any neighborhood in Boston that has been firebombed by the government, nor any multitude of streets that all meet in the middle leading to nowhere, nor any neighborhoods resembling a war-torn jihad-infested country.   

  Then again, I haven't been to Mattapan in a while, so I could just be talking outta my ass.

KISS ME!

On this day in history, a very historic historical event made historic history.  This historical, history-changing event:

1990 - A 500 lb 6' Hershey Kiss is displayed at 1 Times Square, NYC

This is important to chocoholics everywhere.  This is like the Holy Grail of chocolate.  Forget Lindor or Godiva or any of the specialty brands and types, a 500-pound Kiss is akin to winning the lottery, becoming royalty, or even winning Let's Make a Deal.

Please, in honor of this momentous anniversary, a moment of silence, to be disturbed only by the sweet ripping sound of thin foil being torn carefully away from the precious thin-tin-foil-covered pyramid of cocoa.  

Now, with the songs of angels and the flying by of unicorned pegasuses (pegasi), I give you the 500-pound confection of pure happiness to we addicts and pure evil to blood-sugar regulators everywhere.

FOR WOMEN ONLY!

FOR WOMEN ONLY.  Men, you have been warned.  TWICE already.  Look away.  For the sake of your stomachs and for respecting women in general, LOOK AWAY NOW because today I'm going to address:  MENOPAUSE.  For the love of God, men, STOP READING! 

Okay, you've been pre-warned, warned, and warned again.

I am middle-aged.  I have been denying it for years because I plan to live to 121.  I've no idea why I chose that number, but I figure it's long enough to make my grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren all have to suffer by visiting crazy old, pee-pee-smelling great-great-grandma at the nursing home a couple of times a year.  So I wasn't expecting middle-age for another decade.

But here it is.  Looking me square in the eye, or, perhaps somewhere a little lower.  And speaking of lowering, I have to lower myself Friday to telling my young male teammate and the middle-aged tech guy that my body has finally turned on itself.  It is an embarrassing moment, but since I think I am dying, or worse that I might pass out in front of the students in a pool of my own blood, I figure I should tell somebody close by, just in case.

You see, after two months without much to write home about, my period decides to return.  Well, it doesn't just return.  I actually suspect that my uterus has decided to expel itself like a continuous afterbirth until I completely hemorrhage to death.  All of this because I wore a brand new dress to work. 

That's right - the dress caused this: A spanking new, stunningly form-fitting, body-complimenting, cheetah-print, belted, pocketed, knee-length, smokin' hot dress.  Had I just worn black pants or jeans to work like everyone else, my body never would've seen this as a golden opportunity to completely and unequivocally destroy my life.  But no, the cheetah-print dress has to give itself away like a wounded animal on the Serengeti, screaming to my menstrual cycle, "Come and get me!  I AM the weakest link!"

After blowing through multiple combinations of plugs, pads, and protective gear that rival Medieval chastity equipment, it becomes obvious that I am probably having a serious medical issue.  I mean, I enjoy an occasional potty break at work, but this is turning into an 80-20 ratio, and the bathroom is winning.  I tough out the final two and a half hours at school, completely decimating what is normally my full-year sanitary supply in less than 180 minutes, and willing myself not to puke nor keel over from the cramps that rip my stomach and back to shreds.  Finally, at 2:30, I drive home like a speed demon, gripping the wheel in white-knuckled agony, knowing full-well the twenty-minute ride might result in a blood-bath.  (Thank God for Scotch-Guarded upholstery.)

Now, I'm an intelligent woman, and I fully understand and accept the changing mechanisms of menopause, but I have birthed three children and delivered three placentas, and I have never scene anything like this in my life.  I am passing clots that rival Pluto, and I sure as heck don't want NASA trying to label anything (I'd drawn enough stupid attention at school telling the male social studies teacher, the tech guy, the office ladies, and the nurse…), so I call the doctor.  A few hours later I get the diagnosis that makes us all feel so special:  "Take some ibuprofen, and call us back Monday if …"  If what?  If I'm still alive?  If I haven't bled out?  If the town doesn't declare my home a bio-hazard site?  "…things haven't improved.  Oh, and be sure to let us know if it happens again next month."

As I hang up the phone, I begin to wonder how bleeding at the rate I am bleeding for another sixty hours might even be physically possible.  I calculate that I am losing blood at the rate of two solid ounces every half hour, figuring I will have lost a pint of blood by the time Say Yes to the Dress is over.  Surely I will be dead before morning.  Thank God.  At least it'll happen while I'm asleep.  Bless you, body, for small favors. 

I realize I do not have nearly enough sanitary nor medical supplies to deal with the possible ramifications of this charming life-event, and I prep myself for the fifteen minute mad dash to and from the nearest pharmacy.  As I put the giant box of pads and the two giant boxes of tampons on the counter, I smile at the young teenaged check-out girl and sweetly sing, "Menopause SUCKS."  Twenty dollars lighter and one frozen strawberry daiquiri and two more ibuprofens later, I put on a clean tank top, some terry-cloth shorts, and prop myself up to a sitting position in bed.  After all, my hair should look good when they find my corpse in the morning.

I wake three times during the night (once at 12:34, which I think is hilarious for some odd reason that I should awaken at 1-2-3-4), and am quite surprised to discover at 6 a.m. that I have survived the night.  Though things haven't improved too much, I do remember the doctor said to wait until Monday.  I have an engagement party to attend on Sunday, so I'm keeping my fingers and legs crossed, hoping and praying that my guts decide to cauterize themselves as rapidly and efficiently as they decided to bleed out.

As I type this, the inside of my house smells strangely like a meat packing factory and the bathroom resembles Polanski's living room.  I marvel that people can get shot and pass-out from blood-loss within minutes but that I am still standing (well, technically all I can do is sit and pray I don't destroy clothing and furniture) nearly twenty-four hours later. 

But the best part about all of this is that I saved the dress.  Yes, I did, I saved the dress from potential destruction.  The cheetah will live to see another day.  If I'm still here Monday, that means I did, too.

(Thanks, gentlemen.  I know some of you are still reading this.  Men just don't listen, do they?  But that's what we love about you.)

MONOLOGUE FROM A NOTORIOUS ANTI-HERO

Snow Ain't-So-White: Greetings from Fiction Class

You can't blame me for Lord White's passing.  Look, when I married the old goat, he already had one foot in the musty grave and the other on a slippery banana peel.  Sure, he left me this charming mansion, but I worked my ever-loving butt off for this place.  For god's sake, the man was ancient.  He had more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei. 

Don't forget, he also left me that brat of a daughter.  Snow.  You heard me right: Snow.  What kind of a whacko names his kid after precipitation? And what kind of name is that for a princess?  Why not cut right to the chase and name her Flake?  That's right, I said it.  The girl is a flake.  She talks to midgets.  Oh, pardon me - dwarfs.  The Flake talks to dwarfs. 

I wish she'd just choke herself and do us all a favor.  Maybe one day when she's eating a plum or a peach or Bing cherries, she'll inhale the wrong way.  That would be sweet.  What's that you say?  An apple?  An apple?!  Apple seeds aren't big enough to get wedged in her throat, you blithering idiot.  What?  The core?  Right, because everyone knows how common core-eating is.  Poison?  Now you're talking.  Now, there's an idea I can live with.  Live with… get it? 

That's rich.  Ha, and so am I, or will be, if I can just find a way to make Princess Snowflake melt away permanently. 

I'm so glad we had this chance to chat.  Now tell me truly, Mirror, who is the fairest in all the land?

SPAM-A-LOT

In honor of being served up a whole lot of Spam, let's talk about serving it back.  All entries taken from people just as seemingly normal as you and me:  Ten Ways to Serve Spam…

1.  cut up, fried and served with buttered macaroni

2.  breakfast meat with eggs

3.  fried up and put in a sandwich.

4.  grind it really small, add melted butter, some cheese, (sometimes a little pickle relish), put it on hamburger bun halves, and heat in the oven

5.  slice and heat it and put cheese on it

6.  sandwich with mustard and dill pickles

7.  cut it up like ham and add with other ingredients to make a salad

8.  baked with pineapple or maple syrup

9.   eat it with mayo on soda crackers

10.  Thinly slice potatoes, onions, peppers, cubes of spam & when all is fried I pour scrambled eggs

COME ON IN, WE'RE OPEN!

And ... we're open for business.

Apparently I've been spammed.  Now, I'm not sure if I did it to myself or if someone did it to me or if technology bites (bytes?) because this is a public blog.

I, however, believe it is extremely appropriate that I, who grew up with Monty Python's Flying Circus, who could quote every line from the Argument Clinic episode, who truly believed in the Ministry of Silly Walks, who waited for the penguin on top the the telly to explode, who knew sheep lived in walls long before Son of Sam tried that shit with a dog -- I WAS SPAMMED!

I am so damn proud of myself it hurts.  No, really it does, but I'll take two aspirin and call all-y'all in the morning!

Welcome back from our Lord-of-the-Blog-Gods-imposed 24-hour time-out, people.  We're gonna have some fun.

TRAWLING FOR COMPANY

I am a liar.  Plain and simple, to be honest, I am a liar.  Let's put that right out on the table. 

If I tell you my first creative moment, I have to admit that moment leaned heavily on a blatant fabrication.  The only kids my age in my neighborhood were boys, and that gets really old after a while.  There are only so many times a girl can play Army men and cars and kickball and go bug collecting before suffering sequin-withdrawal.  I needed to branch out.  I needed to find some pre-pubescent estrogen.

We lived in one of those grid-neighborhoods, the 1950's and '60s version of planned suburbia, where ranch houses spread out like plaid on a picnic blanket.  One day when I was five, I ditched my mother at a neighbor's house and started canvassing the vast streets for children.  I knocked on doors; I ran through back yards; I wandered to the park at the far end of the safety zone, asking the same question over and over:  "Do you have any children here I can play with?"  The answer was always no, followed by nervous glances around, followed by the inevitable, "Where's your mother, dear?"

I simply smiled and fibbed, "She's next door at the neighbor's house."  Sensing I'd been bagged, I would usually slip off into the nearby bushes while the unsuspecting homeowner craned his or her neck to search for a nonexistent garden party.  Amazing I didn't get myself kidnapped or worse.   

My mother was not horrified by my wanderings because she didn't know, though I did catch a smack for admitting I was at the park.  I mean, didn't I know how dangerous it was to cross that busy street alone?  If she only knew I had been exploring boundaries far greater and far more heinous than the big slide and cat-litter sandbox, she might well have had a stroke.

LOSING MY RELIGION?

I am proud to be an American but I am sad for my country. 

Yesterday, on the anniversary of 9/11, radical Muslim terrorists stormed and defaced the US Embassy in Egypt.  They burned and shredded our flag, erected a Muslim flag, and wrote all kinds of allah propaganda all over the compound. 

The current administration's response?  An apology.  A goddamned apology to the Muslims who attacked the embassy and to those who killed Americans and others in terrorist attacks on 9/11/01.

Here is the apology, in case you missed it:  The U.S. Embassy said that it "condemns the continuing efforts by misguided individuals to hurt the religious feelings of Muslims -- as we condemn efforts to offend believers of all religions." 

So our government is saying since we are Americans, believe in all religious freedom, and fly our flag in our own embassy, that we are therefore mistreating Muslims?  That we are hurting their feelings?  That we should let them attack us because we have somehow offended them for our living?  That they should take our tax money then try to kill us (yet again)?

Generally speaking, I try to have a tolerant nature.  I really and truly do, at least when presenting myself in public.  I think we all are obligated to tolerate each other as best we can when in a public arena, say, oh, I don't know, like maybe … a country's EMBASSY.

I'm sorry, and I hate to be so blunt, but truly … What the fuck.  What the holy fuck.