image from Temporada de Patos

More thoughts from an 8th grader about my date, for which she was rather shocked since she was just getting use to me without the boyfriend. These were the questions she posed:

Number 1 Was he hot?
Number 2 Was he funny?
Number 3 Could he bring a Tivo to the relationship?

Most of the time was spent discussing number 3 (or his lack of it) and debating whether or not this could be considered a dealbreaker. Although I refused to answer her on a scale from 1 to 10 question for being way immature, she did have to tell me to wipe that shit eating grin off my face before she barfed a coupla times throughout the evening.

The Rainbow Connection

I don't need to go into how much I love "missed connections". It is my dream that someday somewhere someone will write one actually aimed at me (as I did once to my tow truck driver). Those distractions aside, I still must find a roommate. Since none yet has materialized, I find myself forced to reckon with the "housing wanted" sections. And as we all know, the pickings are slim if you go about it that way. Lots of older men, single people who only want to live with non-gay people, white people who want to live with like, and other vaguely sinister postings. To be honest I find $400 - CHILL YOUNG GIRL LOOKING FOR ROOM TO RENT rather troubling and I am a 58 year old straight male working in Hayward. I have a Senegal Parrot who is pretty quiet. Need a place that has high speed internet access. I am ready to move perplexing. And that is just the tip of the iceberg.

I am intrigued by:

I am seeking a place to live where i can also practice and teach private shakuhachi lessons, about 10 a week. Shakuhachi is a bamboo flute from Japan and is not very loud. It comes from a Buddhist meditative tradition so clients/students tend to be very mellow and educated people.

Alarm bells sound at this one:

Before I begin, I know your time is precious and I thank you for taking the time out to read this ad. I am 24, female, a personal attendant who is working towards her RN. I'm relatively quiet, I travel a lot for work and to see my family, I'm usually cooking something that makes the block smell fantastic, and I'm clean. I've been living with my boyfriend(we've been to ether almost seven years and we are VERY stable, we rarely argue) for 2 years and before I get married, I want a place of my very own. I only have 2.5-3 years left to fufill this goal I have because I would have finished my education and be ready to talk down that aisle the spring of 2007. I have been paying him rent for the last two years very faithfully. When he has been down I have been there to pick up the slack, just ask !!! I'm looking for a place to live for the next 2-3 years. My next move will be into a property that I will own with my future husband. There are some great advantages to having me as a tenant, there are also some negatives. Let me get those out of the way so we don't waste each other's time.

There are the hard luck stories:

Sometimes life throws you curveballs you never saw coming. I have to move out of my current living situation due to my girlfriend and I parting ways. My name is Michael I am an honest 29 year old male who is in search of a one-bedroom apt. Due to certain poor choices I've made, my credit-rating is terrible. I realize as a land-lord/manager/owner it is your wish to rent your properties to tenants with good credit-ratings. I am currently trying to repair my credit (slowly but surely).

And the touching:

We are a non smoking christian couple soon married (She is African-European & I am African American), very clean, respectable and seriously looking for a Studio to a 2 bedrooms apartment,cottage or house to rent from $600 to $800 with if possible a low deposit or an interesting move-in special (desires utilities paid in otherwords pay rent only).We are interested in a long term rental because my wife is starting her premedicine studies and we would like to keep the cost of living very reasonable due to the cost of a college education these days.
Thanks for your offers and Have A Blessed Day...

The over-punctuated:

P.S. I'm sorry that I'm not at all interested in (another) roommate situation right now. As much as I'd like for my need to provide the solution to someone else's, the plain fact is that I just spent 4+years in an LTR* -sharing very intimate quarters up until just 4.5 months ago, and I am really not looking for a "share" at this time. I posted here because I'm hoping for a more private circumstance that'll afford me some time -& a little room- for myself. Thanks. *F.Y.I.(j.i.c.) "LTR" stands for "Long-Term Relationship" :)

There are the communal offerings:

We are a group of hard working, honest adults (all 30's and older: two married couples, a single woman, three very loved and well-behaved cats and one cockatiel) embarking on the most productive, fulfilling years of our lives. To earn a living we are two small business owners: a seamstress (who is working on her nursing degree) and a business to business software developer (who's company has been around for 5 years), two masseuses (one Swedish, one Breema), and one wholesale distributor. We support our community through doing doula work, sculpting, painting, carpentry, landscaping, cooking, sewing and massage. We have all successfully lived together in the past and wish to bring our lives back into closer proximity after a few years of living on our own.

The brief:

i neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed some my moms is kicken me ouut long story
alexander

And the heartwrenching with photo attached:

Hi my name is Sean. I'm 24 years old. I'm a Job Corps graduate. I work full time for Amtrak. I have been working approx 2.5 years. I am African American. I mention that so you won't be alarmed when I show up to look at the place. I'm a really great roomate. I'm calm and collective, drug and alcohol free. I speak with intelligence. I don't fit any "(black)stereotypes" that some people have burned in their brains. I have plenty of money saved in the bank. I also drive. I work in West Oakland Amtrak Mechanical Department. I'm also very diverse. I get along with all different people. Please don't have any pest, (roaches or mice). I'm seeking something 1 year or more. I can pay first months rent and a deposit. I also have references!

Perhaps, though, this is all I really need:

$625 - 2 guys mid 20's - handyman type - fix cars & computers

There is a whole world out there with its heart on its sleeve looking for the
right place to call home. And I find inspiration in each and every one of them.

Today I was just a little off. I think what with all the excitement of the last couple of days--operating the new and heavy equipment--I haven't been sleeping too well. Instead of congratulations and high-fives at the office for my superb maneuverings, it was Are you feeling OK? and You look so tired!. Don't tell me you got you get food poisoning again?

The best way I can explain it is this. I came home and all I had to do was reheat the soup for supper. At the last minute, I realized there was an awful lot of veggies in the fridge that needed to be used before they got too soggy. I chopped the Costco-sized baggies of zucchini and carrots and put them in a pot with a steamer. Well, what I assumed was a steamer. It was actually a plastic colander. And it was only a matter of minutes before the veggies, the pot and the steamer/colander were are melted together and, ruined.

Then, it was more of the same: putting the dirty glass in the fridge and the milk in the sink. The bathtub overflowed, the cat got shut in the pantry, the mail put in the laundry hamper, the salt poured into the hot coffee, and don't even ask me where my keys went. It was one right after the other. With the stench of melting plastic engulfing me, and the smoke detectors going off, I blinked at the black screen of the TV and realized, it was high time to call in the troops and admit defeat.

Who will buy this wonderful feeling?

This morning I was awoke by the sound of birds chirping. And then my alarm went off--well, really, all three of them. I opened my eyes and there were tiny cartoon sparrows raising open the white curtains to let in the light just like in Snow White. And guess what? It was a gorgeous day! I felt refreshed and sunny, ready to embrace the day.

I hopped out of bed and into the bathroom. Upon peering into the mirror, I saw that all of my wrinkles--those hideous smile lines--had disappeared overnight! I smiled and my teeth gleamed so brightly I nearly blinded myself. My hair shown luxuriantly and there were other things, too. My eyebrows were in perfect arches, my bags no longer packed, and my skin smooth and soft--not blotchy and freckle-y at all. I had to admit there was a certain youthful glow, a healthy blush in my cheeks and a sparkle in my eyes. Why, whatever happened? I asked the mirror. To my question, the mirror remained silent, yet I noticed a certain conspiratol tone--if mirrors can act such a way. Since I looked so good and felt perfectly rested, I skipped the shower.

I got dressed. But what to wear? Sneakers or sandals? Sporty or spicy? Robin's egg blue or smoldering rust tones? Was I feeling springtime or autumnal? I couldn't decide, but I did notice that I looked good no matter what I wore! The clothes all fit perfectly, I appeared at least a foot taller and, I swear, for the first time in my life, I pulled off leggy.

With a bounce in my step, I grabbed my bag, my steaming coffee (which had never tasted so good!) and got in my car. For some strange reason, the radio this morning was commercial-free! Inexplicably, I had a full tank of gas. The cars in front of me parted like the Red Sea. I began checking my voicemail which was unusually full this morning. 22 messages!

Many were roommates finally responding to my various desperate ads in foreign papers. It seems a bidding war was ensuing. They were all going to be sending resumes with headshots, references from heads of state, and small gifts--not to be confused with bribes. There was a message from the NEA, announcing that I had been selected as the first recipient of their new initiative-to-support-emerging-individual-artists-of-distinct-merit-talent-and-tenacity. I can't say too much more about it, except the word nomination was mentioned once or twice. My boss called telling me I could take the day off. All this, and I still had a full mug of steaming hot coffee!

But since I have the best job ever, I decided to go in anyway. There was new equipment to test drive, world records to be broken and important scientific theorems to be solved. And, my friends, I felt just the gal for the job. I arrived, suited up, and strapped on my helmet with a dramatic flourish.

Chance encounters

The Hole, Tsai Ming-Liang

We are all aware that it is a lonely, lonely world out there. Just considering the amount of luminous matter in the night's sky, is enough to make you feel like the last little ice cube melting at the end of a party. We commute to work, guarded and armed with self-doubt, we sit inside our tiny cubicle within a sea of tiny cubicles, we call tech support from far away lands hoping to get some help, we may touch shoulders on the subway, but our heads are firmly buried behind the morning's news. Occasionally, freak accidents have been known to occur. An encounter with another transpires. Whether by chance or force, begrudgingly or desperately, once this interchange happens, it can entirely change the course of things. What we once were, becomes who will we be.

Take, for example, the story that took place in a small town just outside of Lima, Peru. The annual carnival just set to open it's doors, the tent poles just hammered down, when some clown--probably hungover--accidentally bumps the carnival cannon. In turn, the bump--ever so slight--causes the human cannonball to miss her target entirely and crash land in the town recluse's living room--an unexpected visitor.

Or the migrant worker who meets her twin sister--separated at birth and presumed to be dead--while working side-by-side in the bean fields of New Mexico, thousands of miles from their hometown, Pirenopolis, Brazil. The tow truck driver who not only changes a woman's flat tire by the side of the road in Cody, Wyoming, but 2 years later is one of her students in an adult education English class at Laney City College. Or two well-published and tenured professors who realize, through the careful examination of their family archives, that their parents had had a secret affair with each other 40 years previous.

Despite what we know about human interactions, people have been known to enter other people's lives. A connection is made with a total stranger. Many a time these opportunities are missed. And sometimes they are refused. Once in a while you may even get a second chance. But there it is, the knock on the door and the next thing you know, you are opening the door, your hands still hesitant on the handle.

Remember, the car that drives down your street like clock work, always playing that annoyingly catchy Milkshake song at a death-defying volume, just might one day pull over in front of your driveway, turn down the volume and ask politely for directions. And the real question is, are they any different from you?

A quick tour of the neighborhood

For those of you still interested in the room, I would like to share some of the idiosyncrasies of our neighborhood.



This morning I found a lone red heel in front of my truck. It looked like it had been left in a hurry, but the shoe was still very much in proper working order albeit a little scuffed up.


In my neighborhood, there are many renters and not so many owners. Part of the reason, I think, is because people take their car (and rims) ownership very seriously. My neighbor has not one, but two, Rolls Royces. This one, he came home with only a couple of months ago. He rarely drives it, and for the most part, it is kept underwraps. He does wash it religiously on Sundays (when he can also be found pruning his rose bushes).



On the opposite side of the street we find the perennially full junk truck. The junk truck, in particular, likes to park in front of my house (not pictured). The junk truck drives around the streets of Mudville collecting crap from which it rarely seems to part.



A macro view of the street reveals that many of the houses have bars on all their windows and doors. While this may be useful for deterring burglars, it is rather frightful when one thinks Fire!



I would go on, but the folks get rather suspicious around these parts when a camera (or anything) is pointed in their general direction. Tomorrow, I will regale you all with the sniper/SWAT team story that took place in my backyard (photos not included).

still looking for a roommate

What I'm looking for:

You are a foreign exchange student from the nearby art college, here only for a semester or two. Coming from where you're coming from, my neighborhood seems very posh and your room very well equipped. You have few friends and no love interests, yet are in possession of a sunny disposition. You eat very rarely and when you do, you make little mess nor smell. Occasionally, when you are feeling homesick, you will prepare a 5 course meal from your homeland and since you come from a large family, this meal will be able to feed many of my friends. You enjoy spending time in your room, gazing out the window at the lovely view of the neighboring apartment building and wondering about the lives displayed so prominently in front of you. You are a heavy sleeper not bothered by the snooze alarm going off for an hour each morning, followed by a loud thud as the clock hits the floor. Nor are you bothered by the neighbor's throaty and incessant chatter early Sunday morning as she screams out to her friends who are honk their horns as they pull up in front of our house. You can also sleep through the neighborhood karoake klub (from wherever it comes) Thursday through Saturday nights.

Because you are in school, you are at home mostly during the day but can be found at the library dutifully studying in the evenings. You are the proud owner of a suitable-sized bladder which permits you to sleep peacefully through the night. When you are feeling a little bit down, sweeping and mopping cheer you up! As does petting my loud and emotionally neglected kitty. And watering the plants!

Because you have received a lump sum for your study abroad, you would prefer to pay for all 6 months of rent in advance. Even though you do not actually have a computer, you are still willing to split the DSL bill. As a strong conservationist, you will not turn on the furnace no matter how cold and instead prefer to just bundle up. You are an avid recycler and enjoy taking the recycling out on Tuesday nights. You are equally enthusiastic about my overlywrought composting system and also dedicated to the maintenance of a weed-free yard (both front and back).

I know you are out there. And I will wait until I find you. Or until I am broke enough to compromise.

Happy Birthday Co-Sister!

As of the year 2000 there are more step-families than in-tact biological families.

About 65% of remarriages involve children from a prior marriage and, thus, form step-families.

Currently, there are roughly 35 million American step-families.

More than 1300 step-families are forming every day.

The average step-family consists of 60 members.

For more information on how you can obtain your own co-family, should you feel one family is simply not enough: www.sfhelp.org.

"Guard your descendents against the silent ancestral cycle of psychological wounds, losses, health problems, and premature death."

Another jolt of happiness (they are few and far between so bear with me!) Someone stumbled onto my site by Googling "what does wake and bake mean?" I hope it was another 14-year old I could enlighten. It also pleases me to know just how often people Google "Mighty Casey has struck out" and get my blog (at least once a day) --and that's not even the name of the poem.

Fears

In true Michael Bernard Loggins style, I will attempt a list of my own fears of my life, irrational and otherwise. Many are similar to his and they may be similar to yours, too.

1. Fear of dying alone. This is especially acute since suddenly finding myself single.

2. Fear of elevators. I often choose to take the stairs. Were I ever to get stuck in an elevator, I hope I could convince someone to just knock me the hell out. We'd all be better off that way.

3. Fear of subways. Ever since a friend of a friend told me a story about getting stuck in a sweltering subway for hours and then having to walk through the tunnel in the dark to the nearest exit, I have been afraid of this very same thing happening to me.

4. Let's face it. I will never go splunking again. File this one under a general fear of inclosed spaces.

5. Fear of hammer toes. My mom has them.

6. Fear of becoming my mom. Self-explanatory.

7. Fear of becoming my step grandma. Although, we do not share the same genes, we do share some of the same traits. Grandma Joyce was keen on post-it notes and wrote many of them to herself. These could be found throughout the house, on most pieces of furniture and inside magazines, photo albums, and laundry baskets. I, too, am keen on post-it notes, although, I stuff most of them in my purse.

8. Fear of an earthquake. Mostly that my unretrofitted and un-earthquake-insured house will collapse.

9. Fear of cold eggplant. There are really quite few foods I cannot eat, but this is one of them.

10. Fear of becoming Catholic again.

11. Fear of bedbugs. Ever since I read that article, this is one more thing I have to worry about.

12. Fear of accidentally killing my cat. This almost happened once, when I left town for the weekend and had inadvertently shut my cat inside a dresser drawer.

13. Fear of accidentally killing my baby should I ever have one. I once had a dream that I put the baby in the broiler.

14. Fear of bad manners. If I were to ever eat among dignitaries, I would surely not know what to do.

15. Fear of getting shot in the mouth while walking down an urban street yawning. I have had this particular fear for a number of years.

16. Fear that my parents will one day move in with me.

17. Fear of falling. I mean tripping and falling.

18. Fear of a bad haircut. I have one of those currently.

19. Fear of forgetting. This is not a fear, but an actuality.

20. Fear of this statement: it's all downhill from here.

"If you have no wounds how can you know if you're alive?

_{Vanessa Beecroft Pissing}

If you have no scar how do you know who you are? Have been? Can ever be?"
As spoke by Edward Albee in The Play About the Baby

For the benefit of your analysis, and in the effort to understand myself better, here are some of the emotional, physical and mental scars with which I have been blessed.

A. I am in pre-school. It is Christmas time. We have made lumpen Christmas figures of clay and painted them red and white. We have glued cotton on them for snow and beards. We are told to leave them on the table so they can dry. After school we return to pick up our lumpen figures and take them home. Mine is gone. I am heart broken as I was really proud of my clay santa. My mom tells me to just take another one.

B. Age 12. My mom has nervous breakdown #1. There are many painful moments related to this incident, but the one that stands out for me today (or that is, the one I have not yet picked to death) is when the principal, Sister Margaret, calls me into her office. Sister Margaret was a mean, wrinkly nun with a giant bosom who had until that moment only yelled at me in Church and on the playground. Concern was not a characteristic she wore well. I remember staring at the brass placard on her desk unable to meet her gaze as she asked me if there was anything wrong...at home.

C. High School. This was another low point for my family. My dad, with whom I had spent many of my childhood hours in the unemployment office, was now gainfully employed in television. The downside of this, was that it meant he had a bad 80's cocaine habit. One morning I woke him up so that he could drive me and my girlfriend to school. As usual, I brought him his coffee (milk and sugar), but even I had to admit, he looked pretty bad. When he finally stumbled outside, still high as a kite, he walked up and down our street trying to figure out where he had parked his car. He never found it and we had to take the bus.

D. College. I am in Los Angeles for the summer, working for a youth-in-arts program and living with my mom. I discover I am pregnant by an ex-boyfriend who is many miles away. Apparently, that morning after pill that made me throw-up for 2 days did not do its job. The ex claims he has no money to help pay for the abortion nor can he afford to come out for it. I insist he borrow money from his boss so he can at least TAKE THE GODDAMN BUS. A couple of weeks later, I pick him up at the bus stop, drive us to the clinic, pay for the abortion myself and refuse to speak to him the entire time he is there. The following semester at school, I take a book making class and make a cloth book that is the story of the abortion. I sew 15 copies of this book (a requirement of the class is to make an edition) which is actually more like a small quilt. It takes me weeks to make all of them, listening to NPR the entire time, hearing the same news stories over and over, and pricking my fingers repeatedly. Everyone in the class got one of these things and I always wondered how they felt about it. One guy in the class told me it made him and his girlfriend cry because they thought they were pregnant once.

I jusy saw that someone came upon my website by typing in Google "plural of masseuse". This makes me inexplicably elated. For those out there searching (like I must have been) the plural, I believe, is masseese.

Just pie

So I am back from my "retreat" having discovered (yet again) a couple of things: No, I will not be moving back to Los Angeles anytime soon. And, at the present time, I am not ready to take on any kind of religious activities. Some high-(and low)lights:

1. My friend Kathy invited me over for diner. This included baking a pie, since she is a great lover of all things baking. She told me she was going to be making a chest pie about which I was rather excited since I had never eaten one before and the name did sound alluring.
What's in it?
It's a pie made of sugar and eggs and butter.
So it's a pie with nothing in it?
That was not the reception, I think, she was hoping for. Upon my arrival, the pie was still baking in the oven.
How's the chest pie?
The what?
The chest pie.
It's a CHESS pie.
A chess pie?
She had to spell it out for me. It comes from the southern vernacular, as in, "we're just having pie for dinner." Just pie. The chest pie, or chess pie or just pie was intensely sweet, like a pecan pie but without the pecans. It went well with blackberries.

After dinner I was looking through her CDs while she was doing the dishes. (I know, I know, what kind of guest am I?)
Are you cold?
No.
You're not cold?
No!
You're not cold?!
No, why is there a window open?
I said full! You're not full?
Despite the misunderstandings, the arguments we got into over the movies Spanglish (no, it wouldn't have been a better movie if they had gotten together in the end) and Closer, and all the white cat hair on my black dress, I had a good time and a full belly.

2. My family is a family of performers. And we're not talking like those first born attention-seekers. They are improv actors, they DO comedy, they tell jokes, they know magic tricks. They are in the business of making people laugh, and I mean, every waiter at every restaurant in which my family can be found. (I once counted how many times "that's what she said" was uttered on Xmas. The number neared one hundred.) In the family hierarchy, it is my job to either laugh or be the sullen lump in the corner.

There was a pool party for my sister's birthday. Everyone was in top form that day (as usual) having just come off their sketch show, Christians vs. Jews from the night before. We were in the sauna. All day I had been half happy to seem them and half a complete wreck, because both my sisters are happily married wives, one with adorable children and one with a husband who is not only funny but employed and handy. After 20 minutes of banter in the sauna, I come out with: Man, it's like a sauna in here. There was a moment of absolute shock and bewilderment before a couple of them actually laughed. Yes, Casey never tells jokes around her family because the competition is fierce. While I can whip them all in Boggle, my humiliation knows no bounds when we have to play those modern charade-based games. Fortunately, this was a day without them and I only had to lock myself in the bathroom to weep inconsolably once.

Does every experience have to be a humiliating one?

Today was a momentous occasion. Today I came out to my family and friends. Mom, Dad, I have a blog. They were shocked and incredulous. There was a lot of explaining to do. Some of them demanded proof. But, we've never known anyone who blogs! Was it something that we did? And then it was Who have you told?!! I could tell by the glazed look on my dad's face, he had no idea what was going on.

They gathered around as I fired up the computer and allowed them to read a couple of posts. My friend Kathy snorted at the intuitive line and I took it as a compliment. But I could tell they were wary. I tried to explain to them about the blogging community, our idiosyncratic code of ethics, but all my mom could say was, you spend how much time doing this a day?

It's true. I come from a long lineage of non-bloggers.

They kept getting distracted by the details. I can't believe you posted that picture of me! How much money is this costing you?! and Couldn't you have chosen a better font? Like all things between me and my family, it didn't take long for them to become wholly uninterested. They began backing away. As my mom was leaving the room and shutting the door behind her, she admitted, anything that could help her daughter find a potential lifemate and thus secure herself some health insurance, she was all for.

St. Joan of Snark

The convent does not, as it turns out, have a very fast internet connection. In fact, correspondence of any kind is frowned upon here--and this just might be related to the daily scheduled brainwashing. But Sister Mary Mother of God Margaret does have an old PC and now that they've opened up a Starbucks, I am able to speak to you from deep within these bougainvillea-covered walls.

Botox, belly dancing, and scientology--it seems, the Roman Catholic Church has become quite indiscriminate when it comes to who can sign up to for being a nun. Age, race, gender, it doesn't really matter; you just can't, you know, become a priest any time soon.

The schedule here is quite rigorous. Pilates at 8, colonics at 9, followed by aroma-hypnotherapy. When it comes to purification, they really mean business! The confessions are daily, as are the group therapy sessions and the AA meetings. I'm not quite sure what the Kegel exercises have to do with it, but I am sure the Sisters have a master plan. I just don't want to get booted off anytime soon.

But really, it's mostly a bunch of 30-something women, who lie about their age and how many times they've conceived. All that being said, they are not without humor. I am sure that, when the other participants locked me in the bathroom without the lights on, and forced me to say Bloody Mary twenty times while looking in the mirror, they were all kidding.

Get thee to a nunnery!

I once had a party to which I invited all my exes. One of them couldn't make it. At some point in the evening they started comparing notes. Besides the cheating, kicking and biting this is what they came up with:

She always burned the milk.
She'd put the smallest amount of milk in a pan and just walk away.
She did the same thing with the tea kettle. Only she left the house!

They were all in agreement that I had forgotten all of their birthdays at least on one occasion.

She called my dad Bob!
She told anecdotal stories that had NEVER happened when we were together.

Boy, were they getting riled up.

Was she always unable to part with the rotting vegetables and moldy cheese?
I was afraid to eat her meals.
I had to sneak in there and throw away the sour milk or she'd use it.
And the coffee.
The coffee!
She couldn't let any amount of coffee go, no matter how cold.
I once counted 4 paper cups each with less than a finger full of coffee in the fridge.

They had, of course, their particular complaints.

#4 who had only moved here recently, hated the way I shouted directions at him AFTER his ability to follow them had passed.
#3 had a bone to pick with my choice in shoes. He complained I was unable to make a practical decision in this regard, no matter how far he tried to plan in advance.
#2 was visibly upset every time I cussed in front of his parents.
#1 was tortured by my loud conversations in movie theatres. He admitted that we had often sat apart.

Things took a turn for the ugly.

She once tried to use orientate in a sentence.
I heard her say fishes, but it might have been in her sleep.
We were at a party once and she kept saying detrus instead of detritus.
I could never read her handwriting.
She really overused the word intuitive.
She had no idea what the difference was between cumulus and mammatus clouds nor any idea of their proper spelling.

Although it has been some time, I still smart from this exchange. And no, they are never invited over again. I have decided, though, some Casey down time might not be a bad idea. I'm going back to the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary and I will be bringing some really tough questions like: What have I done to deserve any of this? I'll let you know if the Rectory has an internet connection.

A Grammer Dream

I just had a dream about grammer. I dreamt that masuti was the plural of masseuse.

This doesn't bother me as much as wondering about why I even dreamt about grammer at all.

And the real question is: am I gonna pay the $90/hour to find out?

Advice from a 14-yr old

Rosie says these were the options available for cheering me up:

#1 She could say, O sucked anyways.
#2 She could say, Women don't need men!
#3 She could say, Why don't you play for the other team? (her mom is gay and could probably set me up.)
#4 She could say, I love your hair--that not-washing-it-for-three-days look is really working for ya.

She decided there was no way she was gonna be able to give me a pep talk, and after all, it wasn't in the job description. But she did suggest that listening to that same Rufus Wainwright song over and over was probably not a good idea.

The nice thing about 14-yr olds is that they are always gonna be way more negative than you are. And that I find comforting.

A Wasted Entry

I finally remembered another joke. It was told my friend who is a stand up comic. The only reason I've remembered it here is because I've heard his routine a few times. And I can understand all the words! It's probably one of those jokes that isn't very funny to read, or maybe it truly is just that I simply can't tell a joke. Anyway, it's a variation on a theme:

Whenever I take my a girl over to my friends' house, they take me aside. You can do better, man. I look at them. Yeah, but better ain't trying to do me. Better is out there doing best. And I'm gonna do just OK.

Ahem. That wasn't funny at all. I just took what was a 5 minute routine and ruined it completely. See, the punch line, well, it's all in the intonation. The punch line is really quite funny. Shit, maybe that wasn't even it! And there were a lot of pregnant pauses. The audience laughed. I don't know, read it again and throw in some pauses and tell me if it isn't funny. I guess you just had to have been there....


Just be lucky I didn't tell you my Dali and Picasso joke. Will you take a funny picture instead?



OK that's not that funny neither. But this is what my neighbor had to say to his son this morning:
I've got two words for you:
Put the mitt and ball down!

3 adolescent moments

Letter from my step-sister circa 1984 or so:

Dear Casey,
First of all I'd like to thank you for sinking about as low as you possibly could. Casey, I can't believe you'd do this to me! I trusted you with so many of my feelings and you just shit on them. This shit isn't the first time you've done this though. Remember... (letter torn in half here)...You've betrayed me Casey & I may never get over this. But I'll NEVER forgive you & things will NEVER be the same between us! You've caused me so many tears! You're probably not even gonna take me seriously. I can’t believe you'd do this! I loved you, trusted you and confided in you. I don't think we'll ever be true sisters. Just think of us as STEP sisters. A real one wouldn't do this.

10th grade diary entry:

i'm in drama, i just finished my scene-
i didn't like it though-
my mom's gonna git me a new shrink-
i'm excited-
i can start over new-
me and Lisa worked together yesterday-
she's so beautiful-
we did donuts in Lot 1 after work-
we're gonna go to the "Doors" Whiskey together.
(I believe I was referring to a Doors tribute band.)

The author's first attempt at an e.e.cummings styled poem with spastic overtones also from 9th or 10th grade:

open book faces
kill me-
(they really do)
magnificent stenches
haunt me-
maybe i told him
or he told me
(we forget)

A room to end all your searches

It seems my roommate listing has received the blog equivalent of zero hits. Apparently, they are not the desperate ones, I am. Clearly I need to improve my score. Here is a draft of the new version:

Wouldn't you like to live with me in my 2 bedroom house? The house is a charming California bungalow with inlaid wood floors, a handsome fireplace, built-in cabinets and other craftsman-like details. There is a wisteria that grows up the porch with a most pleasant smell that blooms not once but twice yearly. There is backyard with a finely oiled Hibachi. In the summer there are vegetables that grow with little to no effort! Weeds are rare and the sun always shines.

And why would you want to live with me, you might ask? Because I have great taste, for one. I have read many books, at least half of which I remember. I have cable and TiVo and yet, rarely am I in front of the TV watching it. I have CDs and DVDs and even MP3s and so do my fabulous friends. There is a fax, a printer, a scanner, an obscene amount, really, of electronic equipment. I own quite a collection of zines (including some old Duplex Planets) and original art , some of which is mine. I have fascinating bric-a-brac from when my grandmother passed and a lot of useless gifts of the kind found at the check-out counter at Barnes N' Nobles.

I am a master barbecuer and not to shabby in the kitchen neither. I own my own canning equipment and still have a few jars of that salsa I made two summers ago. I have a bar, or at least, the capabilities of throwing wild, sensational parties that people will talk about for eras to come. When I throw a dinner party, I feed armies!

There is a small guitar that gets little action and plenty of places to sit. There are a fair amount of houseplants, which do not require watering. I can darn, mend and even sew, although, I cannot seem to thread my sewing machine. I have an exotically bred cat without any dander. Every part of the house emits a soft calming glow. Based on studies we've conducted, your emotional quotient will dramatically increase, your wrinkles disappear, and unwanted pounds shed, once you step foot into this home and sign your name on the dotted line.

I woke up this morning with a heavy, heavy heart as I realized, like Milky The Marvelous Milking Cow and Hungry Hungry Hippo, I will one day tire of this, too. Should that ever happen, I would like to apologize for it now.

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y N-I-G-H-T

I was going to blog part deux tonight, but I'm just not feeling up to the challenge. Please accept my sincerest apology.

On the other hand, this photo reminded me of one of the greatest all-time recordings to be found on CD of which I am sure you are all already familiar: The Langley Schools Music Project.

Nothing sets me off in the saddest and yet most hopeful way as much as listening to that version of Desperado.

And thank you Jesus. You really have such an excellent sense of humor.

P.S. I really love the kid in the back row with the Bay City Rollers vest and the way cool attitude. And the girl in the middle front row is clearly going places.

My Roman Catholic Upbringing: A Brief History Part I

Piss Christ by Andres Serrano

I. Early Childhood Development

I do not remember my Baptism, but I was told it happened.

First Holy Communion: I wanted a frilly, puffy dress like the ones all the other girls had and instead I got this Little-House-on-the-Prairie smock with white eyelets that my aunt made.

In third grade I receive The Children's Book of Saints. I decide to become a saint. During Lent, I go to church every day at lunch time and forgo any food.

Fourth grade I become disillusioned with the Roman Catholic Church and refuse to participate in choir practice. Because I was the teacher's pet (for the first and last time), she let me stay in her classroom for the "elective" cooking class.

I am never, not once, selected to be Mary in the Christmas Pageant. I am usually one of the peasant townspeople or a pack mule (yes, an ass).

Sister Mary Margaret can never remember my name and repeatedly refers to me as "flananagan."

My mom no longer bothers to come to church with me and instead, drops me off at the corner. I quickly learn to wait in the bathroom a few minutes and then walk over to Smith's Food King where I read Mad Magazine.

II. Adolescence

Suddenly going to church is totally hot! There are ALTAR BOYS and they are on stage for all of us to admire. The wear long robes and ring bells and kneel repeatedly. Walking up for Communion becomes the main event of this most pleasant social scene. Many students return multiple times so they can scope out the other adolescents. It is de rigeur to stick out your tongue to a select individual of the opposite sex after receiving communion as you return to your seat.

My classmate, Merci-Anne, decides to wage war against the parish because girls cannot be altar girls. Her parents support her in her struggle. She starts a petition which we all sign. After the winter break, Merci-Anne and her family quietly disappear. We never hear from her again.

I discover blasphemy. That is, the joy of doing unholy things in holy places. We begin to tell enormous lies at confession. We take communion and come back and spit the hosts out in our hands. We walk in front of the crucifix without genuflecting. We sing our own dirty version of the hymns for the May Crowning. And then, I am Judas for the Christmas pageant.

In eighth grade, I am bullied into taking Confirmation. There is simply no other choice offered to me. I am thoroughly humiliated that I cannot stand up to the forces that be. With another group of malcontents, I ditch youth group and in the school parking lot I smoke my first joint and learn how to french kiss.

III. High School

I am confined to an all-girl secondary education. The only man on campus is the janitor. During summer, his son, Vladimir Espinoza, works with him. During the summer before I begin school, I start dating the janitor's son. Ok, we are not really dating, we are just fooling around. By the time school rolls around, I have inadvertently made a lot of enemies.

The school, once a bastion of liberalism in the 70's has, along with the rest of the country, taken a decidedly conservative turn.

For a short period I become a Goth, as many a Catholic teenager do.

For a short period I consider myself a lesbian, as many Catholic school girls do.

I discover that e.e. cummings trumps all.

Virginity becomes something to loose as quickly as possible.

There are probably many ways to get kicked out of an all-girl Catholic school, even if Jesuit, but I never figure out a way.

At graduation, we wear white gowns and hold a dozen red roses. We are paraded around like the Christ's miniature brides that we are. I am again humiliated for allowing myself to engage in such charades.

a room without a view but nonetheless a room

OK, so I put my ad up for the now available room for rent. And no one has responded! Could it be that my ad was too honest? Did I sell myself short? I have, after all, been accused of this in the past.

Looking for a roommate who is similar to me, but who won't be around too much, but is cool enough to hang with when they are around, who isn't desperate for new friends, but, you know, my friends would get along with their friends were we ever to throw a party, who either does not have sleep-over partners or if they do, it's just way more comfortable to go your partner's house, who is tidy but not OCD, who makes very little noise, who won't really be seen watching my TV and cable and TiVo in the living room, who can hold an intelligent conversation, who is not 420 whatever the fuck that means, who is not so young that I could have been their babysitter 15 years ago, but is not so old that they have hoards of grandchildren they babysit, who will not lecture me when I cook meat, who uses the bathroom infrequently, especially in the morning hours, who comes without a pet, but who will gladly feed mine when I go away on vacation, who won't use the phone, who really would rather wear five layers of clothing than turn on the heat, who will not have Bible Study nor any other religious group activities at the house, who is not hideous to look at, whose voice is not grating, whose laugh will not send me into panic sweats by its shrillness, who will never complain, who will forever be grateful, who will just disappear one day when I finally get my finances together to live here alone.

What you would get in return is a 12 by 12 room with a closet, hardwood floors, 2 windows, some curtains and a door that closes (but your really have to slam it). The windows overlook the poorly designed 70's apartment building next door and you might want to consider placing your bed as far from that window as possible because you can hear everything that goes on in those apartments. And boy, do they like to party! You can have one shelf in the fridge, one ledge in the medicine closet, but really there is not a lot of room left for storage. And oh yeah, your closet is where I store my bike so, you know, I will be coming into your room to retrieve that.

Please come prepared with a monologue, I will be handing out personality tests at the door, transcripts are recommended as is a letter of recommendation from your parents, and if you come with any preconditions, you might want to consider bringing a note from your doctor. Good luck!

Is that really too much to ask for?

foxfire never says sorry

Because I was in a middle school gymnasium tonight, I was thinking about my own middle school experience, which was difficult since technically I never went to middle school. I went to Catholic School and, as all good little Catholic students know, we are talking about a K-8th experience. No tidy siphoning off of the hormone-riddled socially-perplexed undergoing-the-most-dramatic-transformation-of-their-lives-since-birth adolescents here. No, we all went down together.

Catholic school, because really it is the cheapest private school. Catholic school because children always pay for the sins of their parents. Catholic school because there are very few rules or even standards that have to be met.

Let's just say, I knew my classmates well. I sat with the same group of students for 8 years. I had a crush on the same boy for 6 of those years, and his best friend felt the same way towards me. Jere Deranja, the boy I loved is dead now. I don't know what became of Michael Cazian, but I do know that for every day he put a wilted flower and a cut-out card penciled with, "Will you go with me?" inside of my desk, a little piece of me grew harder when I had to turn him down.

7th grade. Kind of an exciting year. There was a new student, Denise Portillo. She was petite, had amazing feathered hair, rolled her skirt high and, most importantly, decided to be my friend. Denise, I could tell, was wise beyond her years and having just come in from public school, had a lot to offer. She was constantly trying to get me to set my sights a little higher: "What about the 8th grade boys?" "What about that one?" "He's way cuter than Jere!"

Together we fell in love with Prince. We watched Purple Rain a million times. We lied on the floor of her room, dizzy with all the sexy imagery we were just beginning to unravel, and stared up at the ceiling. I had never been so happy. She was in love with a boy in high school named Wayne. And we sang, "Purple Wayne, Purple Wayne" until we both swooned.

I loved everything about her. Her skinny and smooth legs. The "o"'s in her last name. The way she could always get a hall pass to the bathroom. Even though our friendship only lasted a few months, it was something to even be singled out.

She taught me how to roll my socks, how to sign my name with a flourish, and the significance of doing something just because it felt good to do it.

Denise Portillo was a stone cold fox and I am sure that she remains one to this day.