Break on through to the other side

I thought I had a blog post in me today, but I realized nobody wants to hear about what an incredibly shitty day I had during an incredibly shitty week. It would have been a book. So I will pull the one funny thing out of this day to share.

It's not news to some of you that my friend and the beloved minister of my church died of a sudden and unexpected heart attack Sunday on a trip to Boston. It's been a terrible shock. I would like to write more about him, but I can't do it yet. He was my age -- OK, about 6 weeks older. It's always hard when a peer dies. Thoughts of your own mortality and all that. And as Miss Serendipity would have it, Greg and I just had a long talk about that a few days ago, about how we intended to live decades longer. But that's not the story.

Today I had to go in to have some face cancer removed. It wasn't as easy as I expected it would be, but that too is another story. As the nurse was preparing for the procedure, she asked me about my sensitivity to epinephrine. We talked about how it makes my heart race for a long time. I told her a friend had just died of a sudden heart attack, and I didn't think I could tolerate that today, the day after most of us got the terrible news. I didn't tell her that my dad had died at age 46 of a sudden heart attack as well, leaving my mom with 2 kids still at home. I was the oldest of 5 at 24. I just have this thing about not wanting to have, or even mimic, a heart attack. She said she understood and went back to tapping on her tablet.

As I sat and waited for the next question, "Free Bird," the anthem of my youth, came over the speakers. The doctor is about my age, and a guitar player and a lover of the classics, so that's what they play. It's a good vibe for me except these lyrics hit me like a gut punch .... "If I leave here tomorrow/would you still remember me?/For I must be travelin' on now/there's too many places I've got to be ...." Greg's last post on his Facebook read, "The adventure begins!!"

My eyes filled with tears that I tried to dam up. I looked up to let them run down my throat. Not the time. I needed to focus on getting the face cancer off my face.

The nurse asked some more questions, and I answered as the long "Free Bird" solo played through. After she left the room and closed the door, the next song came on. "I, I just died in your arms tonight/It must have been something you said/I just died in your arms tonight ...."

You've got to be fucking kidding me! Right?

I sat there on the surgery chair thinking about coincidence and the afterlife. I used to have a friend who believed her late son, who was killed by a drunk driver at age 19, was still around. He'd turn her radio station so his favorite song would play when she turned on her car. Or he'd help her find things she'd lost in her house. Thinking he was still with her, somehow embodied to reach out to her from time to time, gave her comfort. I didn't deny her belief. What do I know?

The fact is, I don't know what happens to us after we die. I don't believe in heaven and hell. Neither did Greg, because we're Unitarian Universalists and we don't believe in those old dichotomies, nor the trichotomies either. In fact, Greg and I had talked early on about how we didn't believe everything happens for a reason, much as people would like to think it's true. Mostly shit just happens. Sometimes good shit happens. Sometimes really shitty shit happens. Trying to make sense of it, or trying to fit it into a religious mold, can either comfort you or it can make you fucking crazy. Greg and I were of the latter category. The shit just happens category.

But we also agreed that shit happens that is just too strange to discount. And then we don't know what to think, but it's the mystery that keeps life interesting.

And so I thought for just a second, What if Greg hasn't passed on from this world just yet? I mean, it was not his time to go. He had a lot more good work to do. What if he's hanging around for a while before he crosses over to whatever is or isn't on the other side of this life? What if Greg is fucking with me?!?

I kinda laughed at that idea. I didn't feel like laughing today, but I kinda laughed then (because I didn't know the hell that was coming, but that's another story). I had the urge to send Greg an email when I got home and tell him maybe things really do happen for a reason. Just to give him a laugh. Of course, I couldn't do that ..... And the song played on to the end.

And the next song came on. I wasn't really listening until these lyrics jumped out: "Whether you're a mother or whether you're a brother you're stayin' alive, stayin' alive ...."

"You have got to fucking be kidding me!" I said aloud. "Seriously, Greg, this is hilarious!" And then I thought, because of course the dead can read our minds, I wish I could believe you're really in this room distracting me with the golden oldies of our generation. And I really wish I could tell you about this, my friend, because this is some good serendipity. Thanks for the laugh.

I couldn't wait to see what was next, but the nurse came back in with the doctor, and I had to pay attention to getting rid of the face cancer. By the time I was listening again, the moment was over. Maybe Greg moved on and played tricks on other people. I dunno. I just know it was one of the best things that happened today, and a lot of the rest of it was spilled milk compared to losing Greg but ..... well, you've got your own shit to deal with, don't you? Stayin' alive. Stayin' alive.


Well now, I get low and I get high
And if I can't get either, I really try
Got the wings of heaven on my shoes
I'm a dancin' man and I just can't lose
You know it's all right, it's ok
I'll live to see another day
We can try to understand
The new york times' effect on man

Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive
Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin'
And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive

Day 21: Coralineisms #55

July 21, 2011

Today, in honor of my granddaughter Coraline's 5th birthday, I offer another episode of Coralineisms, words of wisdom from a --drum roll, please --- 5-year-old.

First though, I'll say that she had a pretty good birthday. We ate lunch at the market where I work sometimes, and she had a surprise play-date with her best friend Carlie. The most magical thing happened though when we stopped at a cupcake shop for cupcakes.

We've watched every episode of Cupcake Wars on Netflix. Which is to say, we got a little bit addicted for a few weeks. So for her birthday I wanted to take her to a real cupcake shop. She did get distracted by the cupcakes at Kroger, and we almost bought her special birthday cupcake there, but I persuaded her to wait and get one from a real cupcake store. 

Turns out it was the right decision. We got there and a photographer was doing a photo shoot. I never did ask why. But when they found out it was Coraline's birthday, and probably because she was dressed like a regular princess in a princess dress and cardboard tiara, they asked if the photographer could take some photos of her choosing a cupcake from the case. I was even asked to get in some of those, which I'm sure the photographer regretted. As photogenic as Coraline is, I'm the opposite. Thus the absence of photos of me on this here blog. I digress ...

So then the owner asked if she'd like to actually decorate some cupcakes herself! She brought out a plate of 3 cupcakes (just like round 2 of Cupcake Wars), a bag of frosting, 4 colors of sugar, sprinkle dots, and gummy bears, and she showed Coraline how to make a big frosting flower on the top of the cupcakes like a real professional cupcake baker. All the time the photographer was snapping photos and Coraline was posing her little princess butt off. 

Thank you, Miss Serendipity, for taking time out of your busy schedule to drop some magic right onto Coraline's birth day! It was so much fun! The owner of the shop even boxed up Coraline's cupcakes, plus all the extra colored sugar and the rest of the bag of icing, and sent them home with us. We still bought the 2 cupcakes we'd gone in there for, of course. I ate one of the cakes Coraline decorated, and it was one of the best cupcakes I've ever eaten. You all know I prefer the cookie, but the cupcakes at Twist Cupcakery are almost as good as a cookie. I will definitely be giving them more of my business.

On to the Coralineisms.

Speaking of food

Coraline: Here. Eat some of this soup I made. Eat a big bite. (Offers air soup.)

Me: OK. That was a huge bite.

Coraline: Yeah, that soup is called the soup of sadness.

Me: Soup of sadness? That was kind of mean, feeding me that.

Coraline: No, that wasn’t mean. It hardly has any carbs in it.

Stumped

Me: (raging about something that was probably stupid) I’m really quite at the end of my rope!

Coraline: And am I in the middle of my rope?

Nice Save

Me: I think these new blue glasses might make me look older. Do they?

Coraline: Yes. Yes, they do.

Me: Oh, no! I don’t want that. They really do? The last thing I need is a pair of glasses that make me look older.

Coraline: No. I mean … Oh, no. They just make you look smarter.

Me: A lot smarter?

Coraline: Oh, yes. A lot. A lot a lot.

Things I don't need to know

Coraline: Poops are brown and have little cracks in them, and they don’t taste good. That’s how you can tell it’s poop.

Me: How do you know they don’t taste good? Did you ever taste one? Wait. Just don’t ever taste one.

Coraline: No, but I can tell how they taste by the smell. The smell doesn’t taste good.

Me: Noted.

Oh, ye of little faith

Coraline: Did T Rexes really eat people?

Me: No, people didn’t exist when dinosaurs were alive. People came along something like 65 million years later, after they were long gone.

Coraline: Are you sure? How do you know?

Me: It’s a fact. I just know it’s true. Everybody knows. (Ok, that was a lie, but I simply can't explain those young earthers to her yet. Or maybe ever.)

Coraline: Does T Rex know it’s true?

Me: T Rex isn’t alive now. He can’t know.

Coraline: Then how can you be sure?

Me: Scientists.

Coraline: How do scientists know?

Me: Scientists have ways of telling how old bones are, and there are still some dinosaur bones left.

Coraline: Oh ….. Are scientists still alive?

The weight of meaningless connections

Maleficent

Isn't it weird how things are connected? Reticulated even? This past week I saw several articles about Angelina Jolie's decision to have her ovaries and Fallopian tubes surgically removed, because she carries a gene that would leave her susceptible to ovarian cancer. Her mother died of ovarian cancer when she was ... well, she was my age. In 2013 Jolie underwent a double mastectomy for the same reason: genes. Issues of privilege and fame and should she or shouldn't she clouded what must have been a devastating personal decision. Not my business, I thought, and fuck anybody who judges her. A handsome husband doesn't make up for this kind of shit.

In the meantime, my local library notified me that Maleficent had come in, so Coraline and I stopped by to pick it up Friday. I had no idea Angelina Jolie was in it, but we watched it Saturday night and OMFG was Angelina one magnificent goddess in that movie or what? What a stunning story of deception and revenge and redemption and unconditional love. What would I give for powerful, magical wings like that?

After Coraline went to bed, Netflix suggested I watch Fierce People. I have a big old girl-crush on Diane Lane, so I accepted the invitation. Donald Sutherland was in it too, and I noticed once again he had to get at least a little bit naked and show his skinny butt. It was an OK movie; I didn't regret watching it.

And then tonight, as I was sifting through the movies on my list (and avoiding the blank page that is my blog) looking for something to watch, I decided, based on the description, to watch Taking Lives, which

Taking Lives premiere

stars .... wait for it .... Angelina Jolie and Keifer Sutherland, Donald Sutherland's son. And, I found out, offers a sexy nude scene with Jolie's lovely breasts which no longer exist in real time ......

Do you see the connections? Am I crazy? Do you find these threads running through your life too? I find little meaning in these little connections. I notice them, and then I move on to the next and the next and the next. I rarely point them out to other people, because ... well, why would I? They don't mean anything, do they? They just are ... a movie connected to a book connected to a Facebook conversation connected to a movie .....  It's only crazy if you think they mean something, right? Noticing is just noticing. Nothing crazy about that. Just make note and move on ..... Tell me I'm not alone.

Putting my faith in Miss Serendipity

(clickonenglish.blogspot.com)

Buying a house is both exhilarating and stressful. I'm really excited about my new space, about making it my very own, although I underestimated how long it would take to paint rooms with 12-foot ceilings and highly saturated, dark paint colors. But I'm getting there. I'll post some photos next week.

I also should have suspected I'd have trouble getting people in to do the work I don't want to do myself. That's a given. The electrician I intended to hire for a few small jobs hasn't called me back after almost 2 weeks, so I need to find someone else. He's a friend of my daughter Elvira's, so I wanted to give him the business. I wish he'd told me he doesn't want it. It would have been so much simpler if he'd just said "no," and let me find somebody else 2 weeks ago.

I wrote last night about the trouble I had getting work done over Thanksgiving 10 days week. I was kind of bummed that I wasn't going to get the floors done in time. They need to be refreshed if nothing else, but that's not a job that can be done in a day.

And then Miss Serendipity dropped an answer right in my lap in the form of this blog post on the Young House Love website. Apparently I can do the floors myself with a product called Rejuvenate. It will take hours I didn't intend to spend -- just like everything else has -- but it will also save me the $2000+ the contractor was going to charge me to buff, stain and seal the floors with polyurethane. A win for me.

One thing I was going to do myself, with the help of my future daughter-in-law Montana, was learn to install laminate flooring (something like Pergo) in the upstairs hallway. Yeah, I know, putting laminate over original wood floors in an old Victorian is a sin in a lot of people's eyes, but the floors are in terrible shape up there. So terrible that, after doing some research online, I realized I wouldn't be able to put down laminate, because there's no way to level them.

Miss Serendipity to the rescue again. My excellent friend Chicken Grrrl asked me if I needed any carpet. Turns out her in-laws just bought a house too, and they tore out all the almost new, neutral-colored carpet. She asked if I could use it.

My son Drake was home last weekend, so he went with me to their new house, and we filled my van with carpet and pad. Now I just need to find somebody to lay it. It's not original hardwood, but it's a solution I'm perfectly happy with.

Finally, last week I set up an appointment for professional movers to move my large items over: washer/dryer, couch, wall units and bookcases, dining room furniture. What warms my heart is that the moving company is owned by the parents of the last tenant of my house, who is a dear friend. In fact, she loved the house and wanted to buy it before she decided to move to Austin with her man. I met both of her parents at her going away party, and now they're going to move my stuff into what was their daughter's house.

Connections all over the place!

(I'll be writing soon about the fiasco that was my last move, and why I won't ever hire Two Men and a Truck again. Ever. In fact, if they offered to move me for free, I'd tell them to drive their truck up their manager's ass. It was that bad, and I am a veteran of many professional moves. They would have to pay me to move my stuff.)

I don't expect that to happen this time.

In fact, I am working hard to trust that everything will work out just as it should: that I will finish the work I want to do myself and have done by others on the house (at least what has to be done prior to moving in), that a few of the people who have offered to help me move my stuff will have time to come and help me, and that everything will fit when I get it all into the house.

Truly, the hardest part at this point is waiting to move in. I'll still have a lot of work ahead of me unpacking and organizing once I'm in, but I can do that in my own time .... and I will be in my own house doing it.

Harmony House

It makes you go "hmmmmm....."

We all have those experiences, don't we? The ones that make you go, "hmmmmmm....." The ones that make you ponder whether what happens in our lives is random or whether there are some bored gods somewhere playing D&D, the Earth version.

My hmmmm moment(s) happened tonight on a bike ride. A Man Called Horse and I were riding south on the bike path. It's a route that runs kind of out in the middle of nowhere, between the river and a major interstate.

We were about 9 miles from my house when we came around a curve and a group of a dozen or more people were crossing the path, walking from the river to what turned out to be a boathouse. As we slowed down to avoid hitting them, I realized one of them was a good friend, G. And a few people behind her was another friend, L.

We stopped and were all surprised to see each other out there. They were taking their first rowing class and  .... it doesn't matter really. After we'd all greeted each other, A Man Called Horse and I left them to their class and rode on for a few more miles.

Then on our way back as we came up to that spot again, I said, "I wonder if they're on the river and if we'll see them." Not 10 seconds later they flagged us down from their car on the side of the road. They were finished with their lesson and had just been leaving when we came into sight.

What The Fuck?

How the hell does shit like that happen? If we'd ridden past one minute sooner, we wouldn't have seen them and they wouldn't have recognized us even if they'd seen us from the river. If we'd ridden by one minute later on the way back, they would already have driven away, back to the city where they live. The odds of us meeting up on that bike path -- them at their rowing lesson and us riding along 9 miles from downtown -- have to be about the same as the odds we'll find Martians on Mars ..... well, maybe not that great.

What do you think? Cosmic fuckery? Or just coincidence both times? Something else? Don't look at me. I've got nothing but the story. But if I had to venture a guess, I'd just say Miss Serendipity is laughing .... again.

I will not talk about poo....and that's final!

Miss Serendipity just will not stop. I'll let this "coincidence" speak for itself, but first let me summarize the story so far. A couple of days ago I wrote about having commented on another blog that I never talk about masturbation in my classes, and the very next day I held classes, I ended up talking about masturbation in one of them. In the comments of my post, Laura from Autodidacticpoet, wrote that she talks about masturbation to little boys all the time, and further that she's had to learn what coprophagia is. (Don't ask. It has to do with poo and that's all you need to know.) She said at least my students wouldn't talk about that, and I said they could very well talk about 2 girls and a cup someday. (It has to do with poo and that's all you need to know.)

In the meantime I've been working on a post in which I defend my decision to become an art model. One of my notes reads: "The monkeys in my brain throw some mighty toxic poo. And this past spring and summer they found a new supplier who gifted them with armor-piercing poo." I wrote that Monday.

OK, that's the story so far......

Here's what played out in today's class.

Me: Something blah blah blah about citing your sources blah blah blah and make sure you engage your sources blah blah blah blah.....(I don't really remember what led up to this, so work with me.)

K: (Feet up on her desk; cute black glasses and bright red lipstick and a bob with bangs.) ... Like how we all used to be monkeys.

Me: Humans didn't really used to be monkeys, you know. You know that, right?

K: Well, sure, we didn't personally used to be monkeys.

Me: No, humans didn't evolve from monkeys. You guys all know that, right? We evolved from common ancestors that weren't anything like monkeys or humans.

K: Yeah, I knew that, but there were monkeys that evolved into humans but it was a long time ago.

Me: Well....no, that's not really how evolution works, but I'm not here to teach you biology. (And I turned my back to walk back to my desk. I should know better than to turn my fucking back on them.)

L: (Remember him from the masturbation post? The wanker?) Who doesn't want to be a monkey? Don't you want to be a monkey?

Me: (I quickly face the classroom, but it's already too late.) No, we're not talking about monkeys today... (The truth is, I was afraid he was going to talk about monkeys masturbating. Miss Serendipity is so much more complex than that though.)

L: You have to want to be a monkey. Monkeys get to swing through the trees...

Me: No more monk....

L: And monkeys get to throw poo. How much fun would that be? To throw poo? (The class laughs. I stand defeated before them.)

Me: L, I knew you were going to say "poo" today.

K: How could you know he was going to say "poo"?

L: Is it because I talked about masturbation?

Me: I not only knew you would say "poo," I blogged that you brought up masturbation and then I said it was possible you would talk about poo. Just so you know, we are not going to talk about poo today.

L: How could you know I would say "poo"? Are you psychic?

Me: No, I'm not psychic. Let's just say I've read ahead in the book.

Isn't she clever, Miss Serendipity? Just as smooth as that, she connected two dots at once. I was impressed. In fact, I was so blown away, I put my class into groups and had them work while I read a newspaper someone had left behind on my desk. I had nothing else to offer them today.

Monkey poo.  Fling it, Miss S! Fling that shit!

I will not talk about masturbation.....yes, I will

I hate to blame everything on Miss Serendipity. I really do, and I'm sorry I'm posting again so soon. I'm a lousy blogger.

coloring-pages-and-more.com/dot-to-dot.html

But she's done it again. I don't know how to explain these .... dot-to-dots that I notice running through my life.  I know other people don't see them so often, but they are real, the dots and the connections. If I wrote about all of them, I'd need several blogs and more hours in the day. I must share this one though because it has to do with masturbation and I don't think I've ever written about that. Or maybe I have, but I want to again.

Last week I read a post on Jane Pratt's blog, xojane.com, about how her 9-year-old daughter took to class an editor's note Pratt had written for Jane magazine that included a reference to masturbation. The assignment was simply to bring a piece of writing from an adult in her household that didn't have any thing "age-inappropriate" in it. Pratt claims she has talked with her daughter a lot about masturbation and doesn't consider it inappropriate for 8- and 9-year-olds to discuss. And then she wondered if she's the worst mom in the world for letting her daughter take it.

Before I go on, I have to share what went through my head when I read her short post. I have both been a 9-year-old girl and I have raised a 9-year-old girl. Neither of us were thinking so much about masturbation at that age. I was open with my kids about all things sexual when they wanted to talk. In fact my daughter once thanked me for being a sex-positive parent .... awwww. But Jane Pratt says she has "talked to [her] daughter about it plenty." Plenty? How do those conversations go?

Jane: (from the kitchen where she's fixing dinner) Sweetie, please don't play with Mommy's vibrator. You'll run down the batteries and then it won't work when Mommy needs to masturbate.

9-year-old daughter: But, Mom, Barbie and Ken just had sex and he had his orgasm before her. Now he's asleep in the Barbie fun house and she needs to get her cookie masturbate too.

Jane: OK, of course she does Just remember to put it back in the dildo basket by my bed so I can find it when I need it. 

9-year-old daughter: I will, Mommy. Thank you. Barbie says thank you too. (Buuuuzzzzzz.....)

Pratt got a variety of responses from hellz yeah, she should take mommy's masturbation writing into class; fuck 'em if they don't like it to more sensible responses like the one I posted:

Talking to your kids about masturbation is admirable. I talked to mine about it too. And when I did, I told them it was something they should do in private. With boys in particular it’s necessary to have that talk at the "I need to hold on to my wiener 24 hours a day" stage. It's the private part that's important. Both in practice and in speech, masturbation is a culturally sensitive topic. So I also expected they knew better than to get up in front of the class and talk about it, which would include not talking about Mommy talking about it. And I walk the masturbation walk myself. I don't stand up in front of my college English class and talk to them about masturbation. I could, and probably in a way that would entertain and scandalize them way more than thesis statements and annotated bibliographies. But it’s not a dildo I intend to fall on just to prove a point that masturbation is natural and feels good and lots of people and monkeys do it. I don’t think a suggestion to your daughter that she choose a more appropriate piece of writing would have taught her the wrong lesson.

Yes, the  red text is important. I didn't teach a class after I posted that comment until today. I held individual conferences for two days last week instead of meeting with my classes. In fact, by the time I crawled into my class from my death bed today, I'd forgotten entirely about my  assertion that I would never talk about masturbation in class. I was suffering (terribly) from a scratchy throat and a congested head, so we watched several short videos to support our discussion of argument fallacies. One of the videos was a Monty Python clip, which I've posted below. I didn't even notice one of the characters used the word "wanker" in it.

But one of my students, L, did. "He called the guy a 'wanker.' What does 'wanker' mean?" Now earlier in the quarter this guy also said he didn't understand why Michelle Bachman shouldn't eat a corndog in public.

Michelle Bachman giving head to a corndog.

I'm not sure if he's serious or if he's fucking with me, but my syllabus says no questions are stupid. So. "What does 'wanker' mean?"

I stared at him. Several students snickered, but nobody helped me out. They just looked at me with those Lord of the Flies eyes they get sometimes.

"Really, I don't know. Is it somebody who wanks? What does wank mean?" He seemed sincere, damn it.

I sighed. "It means to masturbate. A wanker is a masturbator and to wank is to masturbate. It's a British term." How do you like me now? Giving the etymology and everything.

Another student, E, corrected me. He said, "It's more than just a masturbator. It's a gay guy who masturbates another guy."

"What?" I said. "I've never heard of that."

"It's true," E said. "Look it up. Look it up now."*

"No, I'm not looking it up," I said. "I never wanted to talk about masturbation with you guys in the first place...."

"Why not?" L said. "I do it all the time." I glance over at the interpreter for my deaf student to see if she's getting all this. Yes, I know sign language.

"Well, there's nothing wrong with that, L, but I've just made a fool of myself by talking about it. I just posted a comment on someone's blog last week, after our Monday class, and said I would never talk about masturbation in one of my classes. And now I've said it 37 times, you wanker. I just can't believe the timing." I told them about the post and what I said. I did not show them, and they did beg.

"What's wrong talking with masturbation?" L said. He gets this really sincere look that probably works for him with the girls.

"Nothing is wrong with masturbation." They all laugh. I wait for them to get control. "It's just that we're here to talk about argument fallacies, not wanking."

"Give us an argument fallacy about wanking," someone shouted out.

"No, I'm not talking any more about masturbation. I'm not saying that word again in this class."

See what I mean? Things like this happen to me every day. Can this be coincidence? Or is Miss Serendipity a god, a clock-maker? The woman behind the curtain in the Oz of the Universe? What do you think? Are these dot-to-dots all coincidence, the product of the over-active imagination of someone who needs to toss out her foot-long, 50's style "massager" and buy a bullet or a rabbit?

And the other question is, would you let your 9-year-old daughter take your piece of writing that mentions masturbation to school? Am I really a prude in disguise?

One more thing. Please don't send me any photos of yourself masturbating. I don't think it's all that OK really. (That includes you....and you know who you are.)

* I did, when I got home. It's a popular word in the Urban Dictionary, which is where I get my cool. Look for yourself, ya wanker.

Mom? Is that you standing naked in front of my class?

http://www.conceptart.org/forums/showthread.php?p=2321375

 

Miss Serendipity must love me in spite of my bucket list resistance. Or maybe she's trying to show me I really do have a bucket list that I need to take charge of. Occupy the bucket list, if you will.

Remember I wrote last week about living on Wisteria Lane? Get this! In tonight's episode of Desperate Housewives Susan, who is taking a fine art class, was unexpectedly confronted with a live, nude model. And then because she giggled the instructor told the class they'd have to work in nude so they could get rid of their inhibitions, but that's not the reticulation here.

The reticulation is that I have committed to being a live, nude model for a friend who is an art professor! For his class. I couldn't do it this quarter because we were both teaching M/W/F classes, but next quarter I've been unexpectedly assigned the coveted T/Th classes. So I'm going to get my background check and stand in front of a bunch of art students dressed only in my skin* and I'm going to tell you right now the whole thing scares the shit out of me ..... and that's why I'm going to do it.

Mark assures me I won't look like a freak--or at least he implied I won't be the most freakish model he's used before. I am a little afraid I'll remind the students of their mothers, but they're adults. They know where to find a therapist. And it's not as if I am their mother. I'll just be a naked middle aged woman who doesn't have any clothes on. That's all.

As the actual .... event ... looms closer, I'm sure I'll find all kinds of things to panic about: shaving, cellulite, what if one of my current or former or future students is in the class. OMG! What if one of my current, former or future students sees me naked!?!?

Oh, but Miss Serendipity wants me to get back to the topic: her. My life on Wisteria Lane**. I wonder what could happen next. Lynette Scavo wants to get laid. Gabby Solis is the head of the PTA. And Bree Van de Kamp is working in a soup kitchen. Yeah, let's go back to Lynette Scavo. I hope she gets a cookie, and I don't mean from the soup kitchen. Are you listening, Miss Serendipy?

Of course I will report later on the modeling. How difficult can it be to stand naked in front of a classroom full of strangers? At least they'll pay attention to me, which is more than some of my students do.

I have been reticulated again. It tickles and delights me. And maybe makes me look a little insane .... like I give a fuck. I can't decide whether to post photos of some of the product. I hear the students sometimes gift the model with drawings. What do you think?

* No saggy, baggy elephant jokes please. My self esteem is particularly fragile right now.

** Still not writing about the dead body. Suck it.

I Don't Need No F&%^ing Bucket List!

The other night...or was it early morning...I wrote about how I don't have a bucket list, but how Miss Serendipity leads me to things that should be on my bucket list and then I cross them off the non-existent bucket list. I was really writing about theatre, but the bucket list was there, probably in the footnotes because I don't have one. There was that time I was going to make a vision board, but I didn't finish it. OK, I cut some photos out and left them in a pile on the coffee table. Whatever. I have neither a vision board nor a bucket list. Ask me what's on my bucket list and I'll just give you a stupid look and change the subject to your bucket list.

Anyway, after I published that post, I checked for new posts from my regular blog porn and the only one there was about ... you guessed it from the title of this post so it doesn't count .... an entry The One True Sue wrote about a bucket list contest she'd entered*. Today as I was flying to Greece in a private jet waiting for my malware software to clean up a nasty critter that infested my computer, I went back to my blog porn and the first post that came up was Laura Mayes' latest post at Blog con Queso and it's about .... don't bother to guess because of course its about her bucket list, which she calls her life list. What the fuck? I thought. (Yes, I think in words, not in acronyms. I did not think WTF?)

Oh please, Miss Serendipity, don't make me write a bucket list. Unless the purpose is to win that contest, which I don't even have a link to, please don't make me write a bucket list. I've done similar visionary bullshit before. I've written what I want on pieces of paper and done all kinds of rituals, with or without people, during full moons and dark moons and even while I rode around in the night sky on my broom, and none of this shit works. Writing the things I wish I could do on a bucket list makes them no more likely to happen than I am likely to spontaneously start farting Mozart. I sometimes suspect just the act of asking for dreamy things like .... no, I'm not going to list any .... just the act of asking makes the Universe laugh and hold them there, just out of my reach.

Sigh.

Damn it.

Miss Serendipity is fucking with me. She does that. Then she hits me over the head a couple of times--metaphorically if I'm lucky--and I'm supposed to listen. A bucket list. The next thing I need to do, as if I didn't have enough to do, is write a bucket list. It's nothing but a recipe for disappointment. I know it is.

But I'm going to write a bucket fucking list.

And find that contest. I'm not doing this for nothing. Sorry, Sue. You're gonna have some competition. It won't be much, trust me, but I'm not doing this because I think anything good will come out of it. I need a higher purpose; I need competition. (I sure don't need no fucking bucket list.)

*She didn't post a link to the contest though because she doesn't want the competition. She's wily, that one.

There's a list in this bucket somewhere.