Lovely.

Every time I walk outside, I curse my hair, I tell you! $%&#!

Stupid growing bangs… slip right out of my barrette. The longest hairs – just lengthy enough to blow directly into my mouth. The shortest – conveniently short enough to stab me right in the eye.

So here I am, like one of those girls who sit nursing a frou-frou drink from a pineapple adorned with a miniature umbrella at the bar, after cramming herself into her tightest dress – all the while flirtatiously brushing her hair out of her face at some most-likely-already-married-prospect she is convinced will eventually notice her if she continually fiddles with her hair.

Although, I’m sporting a puffy coat and polka dot rain boots. And my barrette –after sliding from my forehead, is now grasping on for dear life upon the ends of 7 random wind-swept hairs jutting out from faux-fur lined hood. So not only am I brushing hair out of my face with the determination of some disillusioned bar girl, but I appear disheveled and perhaps, a touch crazy.

Stupid bangs.

lucky

Things happened the way they are supposed to in my family. No one fought. I mean, no one. Not even the kids. Not ONCE did I ever see my mama and dad say an unkind word to each other or raise their voices in anger at each other. We weren’t beaten or abused. There was always food on the table – wonderful food. We were free to play outside without the fear of being abducted, murdered, or hit by a speeding car. If we were sick, we went to the doctor, and my mama took care of us. My grandmother lived with us the entire time we were growing up, and she was just as integral a part of our lives as our parents. Each taught us through example. We stayed in line, mostly, because we didn’t want to disappoint them, as we respected them all so much. My parents were – parents. They never faltered in this role. They weren’t our best friends – until we were in our 20’s, when it was an appropriate age to be our best friends. I’m not embarrassed to say I had an amazing childhood. My parents worked hard to provide this for me, and for that I am eternally grateful.

My parents were NY depression kids. My mama and her siblings shared shoes. They knew not only the value of a dollar, but more so, the value of family. When you lose your loved ones needlessly at an early age to minor diseases, I think your focus swiftly becomes vastly different. My mama ate nothing but potatoes for a long time when she was a kid. She never talked about this very much as an adult – I think mostly because she never was the kind to lament. This potato fact just slipped out of her one day. (I tell you, she made the best damned mashed potatoes I’ve ever eaten. I’m unaware if this was related to those potato years). She did tell me that if she and her sister somehow ever got a hold of a few cents, in lieu of going to the movies, they would buy a container of heavy whipping cream. They would whip it up with a touch of sugar and revel in its sweetness. They’d consume the entire bowl. She seemed fond of this memory.

Later, my dad became a chemical engineer, and my mom, an artist. With 7 kids, being an artist, unfortunately, became more of a hobby than a career. She never complained about this either. My parents have always been kind, considerate, welcoming, generous, and REAL. They’d never have an unkind word to say about anyone. But, if they’d witness injustice, they wouldn’t just take it sitting down. They’d do the right thing, rather than the popular thing. For fun, both would complete complicated crosswords and attempt to outwit each other at Jeopardy. Even their time spent with friends usually incorporated games involving some sort of strategy. More intelligent and witty than most individuals I’ve ever encountered – the two of them.

Mama died in April of ’08 – unnecessarily. Dad remains as kind, giving and brilliant as ever. He still does the crosswords. Now he goes to the racetrack with his new wife. Life goes on, I suppose.

Yesterday, one of my dear friends said to me on the phone, “Whether we like it or not, we become our parents.” I secretly thought, I should only be so lucky.

perhaps I'll just get a catheter

I spent a good deal of last week peeing blood and passing kidney stones. I have a history of such delightful events, the last being a kidney stone surgery in January accompanied by two hospital stays. $14,750 later…

I moved to the Bay Area, you know, where it’s warm & sunny all the time, opportunity abounds, and you’re so happy, unicorns and rainbows shoot out of your ass. So, while you are out spending this excessive amount of money you are now apparently earning, occasionally, you’ll feel that little twinge in your nether regions, and matters must be addressed. It’s time to pee; NOW. So, let’s go find a potty so we can get back to more important matters, shall we?

Good luck.

I’m used to living in the Midwest. If I needed to pee while I was out running errands, shopping, etc., I would simply find the nearest public restroom. There, restrooms in larger stores are readily available for use by the customers. You’d be hard-pressed to ever find a restaurant without a provided restroom. Here, if you are, indeed, lucky enough to find a public toilet within a 4-mile radius, prepare to wait in a line for approx. 10 minutes, and don’t forget to bring your hazmat suit. If you’re in a store and they don’t have a 20 foot neon sign signaling the restroom, don’t bother to ask if you can use the one hidden in back, cause, “Uhhhhh… we don’t have a bathroom.” Nor do the restaurants, or the public transportation centers, the galleries…

I’ve been told it’s due to the incredible homeless population here. No one wants to facilitate the homeless utilizing their restroom facilities. Hmmm. Okay, I understand that if there were only five proprietors in the entire Bay Area offering facilities, the entire homeless population would flock to those toilets, thus causing an issue for the proprietors of those businesses.

Hey, here’s a thought: With the 9.75% taxes that we pay on everything that we purchase, the $6.00 we pay to drive over the bridge, the $65 we pay for merely a parking ticket, take out just a few pennies per person, build some public restrooms, then hire some people that would actually be willing to clean them. There are people looking for jobs. Perhaps this might even help with the unemployment problem. Better yet, offer a TAX INCENTIVE and a CA. WATER REBATE to ANY business owner with a public, working restroom on the premises. It would then benefit the business owner to provide, maintain, and upkeep a suitable lavatory. Thus, vastly increasing the quantity offered throughout the Bay Area.

So, Bay Area / California government – why should this tinkle issue affect you? Well, it is my understanding that the Bay Area seems to attract a fair amount of business travelers, tourists, academia, investors, active sports enthusiasts, artists, musicians, technology whizzes and professionals in all areas. You’d think it would be to the benefit and welfare of the Bay Area to provide indoor facilities, as maybe the frequency of the aroma of warm piss wafting up during meals at the sidewalk cafés will decrease. The prevalence of men gripping their junk whilst peeing on the face of a building may subside. Perhaps, as a bonus, some of the wads of snot and saliva won’t be tracked back into the hotels on the soles of your fancy potential new residents. Just a crazy thought, California.

Well, gonna go pee now. Maybe.

fatty.

My floors are uneven. I live in an old warehouse. The floors are basically fiberboard. No big deal. Well, until I bought this cheap IKEA scale. I stepped on it in the store. My weight was appropriate. It was more compact than the glass one that I had brought from home, and could be easily tucked neatly away between the toilet and the bathroom cabinet. Perfect. A scale is a scale is a scale.

I’m not one of these wacky women who weigh myself every ten minutes to see if I’ve gained three ounces, then go shove my finger down my throat. Every few days or so, I weigh myself to make sure I’m not packing on the pounds. So, I get on this fine piece of Swedish machinery, and holy shit! I don’t know what the hell I’ve been eating, but I have ballooned from 112 lbs. to 118 lbs. “What the FRACK!” (I did not say FRACK). Now, I hear you already. Many of you are saying, “Awww, boooo hoooo; 118 lbs. Go cry me a river, fatty.” But you need to understand that at one point I weighed 205 lbs., and it was a horribly unhealthy and miserable point in my life. Anytime I gain any weight, I see it as a gateway to my larger, 205 lb. self. Just two years ago, I weighed 105 lbs. before my accident, and creeping up to merely 112, I already feel like I’m on a Slip n’ Slide full of lard.

So, for the past few weeks, I have been really watching what I eat. I’ve been doing crunches like Jake Lalanne. I’ve been even more conscious about my fat intake and the like. I’d weigh myself in the bathroom and one day I’d weigh 118, the next 116, the following 119. FRACK me! This morning, butt naked, I brought the scale out into the main room. I placed it onto the floor. I stepped onto it. One hundred freaking twelve pounds. What? Could this be true? Another location; 114 lbs. Another; 116. Moved it again; 112. Obviously, the uneven floor had been throwing off the reading the entire time.

Going forward, I have a designated spot in which I will weigh myself. I have carefully outlined the rickety scale on my fiberboard floor with chalk like a dead prostitute at a crime scene.

And now that I have solved this dilemma – I shall annihilate numerous Trader Joe’s Dark Chocolate Clouds.