Monday, December 15, 2014

warts of worry



I re-read what I wrote the other day and cringed. I cringed so hard.

I was embarrassed that 9 people read it on Facebook. I'm worried they think it's stupid.

What I do know is that I worry. I worry so much. I'm worried that I talk about myself too much. I worry that I'm being selfish. I'm worried that I am being mean. I'm worried that I've offended someone or people. 

... and in an act mimicking Ouroboros, I worry about worrying too much. Ouroboros or the "eternal return" is depicted as a snake eating it's own tail. I recently discovered that snakes actually do this when they are severely stressed out.

When I was a little kid, my mom bought me these things called Worry Dolls. They were from Guatemala, teeny-tiny, and super colorful. I loved them, and I'm sure you can still find them at your local educational toy store between the rock tumbler and the wooden puzzles. I would put them under my pillow so they could absorb all the worry of the day. I think this might have started my tradition of squirreling away things under my pillow. Just yesterday I found two pairs of earrings and a headband. Anyway, I was pretty convinced that these things were able to relieve me from the stresses of the day. Things like, why no one would trade snacks for my peanut butter crackers, why was I so terrible at tether ball, and if I completed my homework assignment correct. You guys, do me a favor...try not to cry for my difficult childhood. 

Sooner or later, I discovered that Santa wasn't real, neither was the Easter Bunny, and Worry Dolls were just fun teeny-tiny trinkets floating around in my bed. It was less about talismans and just personal characteristics. 

Some people do not get stressed out... or at least they somehow manage to appear like they don't give two shits when someone so much as frowns at a possible misstep. I guess it can be learned... or like old time-y Hollywood people like to say "Fake it, till you make it, doll." I've tried and I suppose I'm still trying, but there is a thin line between being self confident and being an asshat, which of course I'm worried that I'm toeing that line constantly. 

So I'll just expect the eternal return of worry to keep creeping in, but at least it's keeping me a semi decent person.

Friday, December 12, 2014

Two Years Later

Lately, I've been feeling the urge to write.

Unlike many of my wonderful friends who write, I battle writer's block. Awful, painful, writer's block. It prevents me from finishing stories from fear of being cliche. It stops me from starting an essay because of the possibility of it being bad. It looms over me, whispering deadly phrases like "don't you wish you could... but you can't," and "why can't you?"

I used to say, "I will be a 'writer' when I get paid for my writing." I now have been twice, yet I refrain from calling myself a writer or an artist. I hold back, fearing something that is both inside me and floats around me.

I read my work and I feel ashamed. A word spelled wrong, reminds me of my third grade teacher, who said I couldn't spell... but more so I remember the story my mother repeated for years.
I want to be heard, yet simultaneously am afraid of the repercussions of people hearing what I have to say.

So today I am starting from scratch, I will just write, I will express myself without hiding the parts that might cause ripple.

Being behaved will get you an A but it will not get you noticed.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Jewels for Lobes


About a month ago, I thought it would be a great idea to buy Andrew some plugs for his earlobes.

LOBE

Noun:
  1. A roundish and flattish part of something, typically each of two or more such parts divided by a fissure, and often projecting or hanging.


Gross definition, right? 

Anywho- I don't think that Andrew's plugs are gross, in fact I think they make him look great. My mother on the other hand ...

"wwwhhhhy would he doooo that?! He such a nice smile. You should whiten you teeth to keep up."

Thanks.

I digress... So you have three options when you want to purchase plugs:

1. Go to a tattoo piercing place
2. Go online
3. Go to a hippy open air bazaar 

I went to UC Santa Cruz and owned a pair of linen pants with an Om Symbol printed at the bottom. I was wearing these pants when I tripped on a Nalgene water bottle while playing hacky sack in a field. I'm not lying and I'm not a hippy anymore... so option number 3 was out. 

I bought Andrew some plugs that I found online previously, but sadly after a month of use the "authentic abalone shell" fell out... revealing a sad dark hole of plastic and glue. Even after some legitimate suggestions from friends, I decided that my best bet was to actually hold and examine the plug before purchase. Which left me with the dreaded ...option number 1.

Question: What is loud, extremely judgmental, incredibly image conscious, can make you feel like shit for not fitting in, and not to mention loves little dogs?

Teenage Girls and Tattoo Artists. 

Yes, I'm casting a broad stroke... but if you don't look a certain way and happen to walk into the wrong tattoo shop... good luck, buddy. I'm not an ugly lady, but I sure as hell am goofy. I tend to think my nose stud is edgy, but it's so small most people don't know that I have it. I know how I look... I got that parent approved fresh scrubbed look. Which equals a big ole eye roll when I lumber in looking for stuff for my boooyfriend. Knowing all this, I wanted to lessen the blow of judgement by going to tattoo shops that were say... down to earth. 

Against the snooty San Francisco belief, Oaklanders tend to be the most low key people in the Bay Area (I would know... I am one) so I figured all the Oakland people who professionally stick ink and needles into bodies would be mellow as well. Guess what...

They were! Sean at Old Crow and the two dudes playing pool at Ink Well were the nicest guys I've ever met in the tattoo game! But no one had plugs to sell. The name that kept coming up was Industrial. 

Industrial Tattoo is in Berkeley. Which is like mecca for the college kid in need of some quickie edge. Hell, even I got my nose stud in Berkeley. Thousands of drunk college kids wanting eyebrow rings and fairy tattoos probably get old... which makes the already grumpy tattoo artist more impatience and judge-y. Yet, I had to go, because they have an large collection of plugs and I didn't want to cross the bridge. I dragged my friend Tamar, and marched into the packed shop. A very tall man with huge lobe holes that were weighed down by giant metal rings that grazed his shoulders greeted us sternly. I was trying to take everything in, as he marched through the show room. It was all very intense and confusing. Finally, Tamar asked why weren't all the plug sizes together instead of (what seemed like) randomly placed in fancy glass cases. 

This set our guide off...

He began ranting and raving about Taste. When met with out blank stares he alluded that maybe we didn't have it. He thought for a minute, then said he came up with an analogy that we ladies might understand: you wouldn't put Prada next to something from Target. This shitty speech was exactly what I was hoping to avoid. Thanks dude, just because I don't have a spiral tattooed on my forehead and a feather adorned rat tail dreadlock doesn't mean I shop at Prada.  At this point, I started to zone out. As he continued to belittle Tamar's comment, I noticed how much his ears looked like vaginas. The heavy weights caused them to sway from side to side with every frothy word that spat from his red bearded mouth. After letting him loose steam, I decided to pick a pair and go. It must be exhausting to be a douche to everyone you meet. 

Once I left the store, I realized that this time I didn't feel like a looser... even with the harsh schooling about classy earlobe jewelry. The swinging vaginas flashed through my head again, and it dawned on me that I was probably just as judgmental as he was, but I choose to keep it in my head (and on this blog). Maybe we all have some teenage girl (otherwise known as insecurities) lurking in each of our personalities. I'm cool with who I am... and the more comfortable I get the smaller that teen becomes.






Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Double Strength Double Size



Every week or so, I treat myself to a Rockstar energy drink. I sip on the neon fizzy sauce until I'm so rev'd up I can hear my eyelids blink. When I pee- it comes out neon and fizzy, too. This makes me laugh because when I'm that jacked up, everything is awesome. 

I drink Rockstar, because it's the meat head older brother equivalent to Redbull. Its manufactured in Las Vegas for crying out loud. The can is so black and gold it looks like there should be a Jager shot included. When I sip on this drink, I get to indulge in my hidden yearning to be a douche, which is key, since by outward appearances I am a lazy Blipster Librarian.

Here are some more reasons why I drink Rockstar:

1. It taste so gross that I like to imagine I'm drinking booze, steroids, with a splash of cocaine.
2. I get so crazy- air punching is normal.
3. Everything I do at work seems like a Master Class with Sensei Nnekay
4. I like to imagine that it turns my insides BRIGHT GREEN- which it probably does... along with destroy the lining of my intestines.
5. Tea drinkers equate it to meth, and I like to freak out Tea Drinkers.
6. Their tag line: Double Strength/Double Size... is redundant and stupid- but when you add Double Fist, it makes it the best. 
7. Sometimes I like to drink it while I make eye contact with kids who are making a scene. It scares them more.
8. After finishing a can, I like to kick doors open instead of using the knob. 

Last but not least, I end up looking like this:




How Did I Get Here?



Once upon a time, my mother used to tell me that teaching would be a wonderful career choice to look into. I, then did the very mature thing of miming projectile vomit from both my mouth and eyeballs. Little did I know- seven short years later I would find myself knee deep in teenage sludge yelling at the top of my lungs about respect. I'm not a teacher, so I don't get those little "Stand and Deliver" moments... just constant yelling...

Luckily, I have been able to get some droplets of awesome from some interactions with kids and being a chaperon on a few trips... but mainly when I'm not balancing the budgets, creating schedules, attending meetings, ordering books, making displays, teaching orientations, fixing the printer, moderating clubs, sending out late notices, and managing the websites... I'm shushing kids. Telling people to be quiet is the worst. You don't think so... alright, next time you are on the bus, try walking to the back of the bus and tell those teens to be quiet. I don't blame the kids for giving me lip, if someone told ME to be quiet, I would most definitely roll my eyes. Then,again I am sassy and roll my eyes to just about anything... maybe it's a tick.

Being a High School Librarian involves a lot more than wearing hot glasses, when I was an Academic Librarian- I would do what most University Faculty do... look down on the peons in lower academia.

What a snob I was. This job takes tough skin and heart... and I've been lucky enough to score a job in a private high school- where job security is little more prevalent than in the public school arena. I think it's time we start to prioritize our state budgets and move some hard earned tax payer money into the school... because without great high school librarians... you get a bunch of dumbass kids.

Five bucks Chris Brown never went into the library when he was in school.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Chris Brown Is the Wooooooorst


Hey remember when Chris Brown was the next Michael Jackson? When he was a sweet little thing that had amaze-ball dance moves that made the boring creaky VMA worth watching again? This of course was pre- Kanye actn' a fool and making live TV the best thing ever. Here I'll remind you:




What a little turd shit he turned out to be.

In fact, "little turd shit" is too light for him. He is beyond words. Of course we all know why he is such a horrible person. There was the beating, then the parade of non apologies, then complaining of so called "haters", the unapologetic name of album F.A.M.E (forgiving. all. my. enemies- shut the hell up with that insane bullcrap), the cheating on his current girlfriend with an ex he beat up (LEAVE RIHANNA ALONE), the lyrics that objectify women, all his homophobic tweets, the accolades from the imbeciles who think he's still a good guy.

THE LIST CAN GO ON and ON.

But really the buck stops here:

His newest tattoo. 

I'm not even going to post the face of post beating Rihanna... ya'll can look that up- all you need to know is that woman's face looks just like it. 

Let that sink in. 

Also let me remind you that this is permanently on his neck. 

So, a lot of people are protesting that this is a "dia de los muertos face" or " it doesn't look like her at all" to all of that I say:

BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH

No matter how you spin it... it's an altered woman's face. Chris Brown physically altered a woman's face. 

Case Closed, He Sucks. 

I know, he has good jams: here's a tip he didn't make the beats, a producer did.
Sure, he has a great voice: there are so many male song birds out there to wipe this jackass from memory. Yes, he's a good dancer: watch So You Think You Can Dance. 
His craziness is entertaining: go the way of Kanye... he's twice the crazy and doesn't beat up women. 

Can we please say "Good Bye" to Christopher "I beat women and don't say sorry" Brown?!

He is a festering stain on the fabric of our Youth and Culture. As long as we celebrate him and keep giving him awards... he will keep doing WILDLY INAPPROPRIATE THINGS... which will tell our kids that it is not only OK to do these WILDLY INAPPROPRIATE THINGS, but you will get paid millions of dollars for doing so. 

Monday, September 10, 2012

Ghost Blocker






We recently got cable at the Homestead.

I've been living with Andrew for close to a year, meaning I've been living without cable for just as long. This is insane, because before I moved in I was pretty certain I would shrivel up into a wafer of sadness without ye ole boob tube.

To my surprise, I got used to not having it, but lets be honest- I was still watching Hulu and Netflix. It's not like I was looming a tapestry by candle light... come on now. So when we finally decided to jump back into the game, I sat blinking at the THOUSANDS of channels in the menu for me to surf. I felt like a WW1 POW driven insane by rapid flashed on the motion picture box. Meanwhile Andrew tucked into a variety of shows- mostly ghost related:

Paranormal Witness- Ghost Stories with Re-enactments

Haunted Antiques- Spooky Old Things

Ghost Adventures- Douches Yelling at Spirits

I would put the proper times and channels on here, but I'm not a TV Reviewer, plus I barely know what's going on with that box anymore.

29 = Confused Old Lady

Anywho- all this ghost watching has reminded me of my inability to connect with the beyond... beyooond. Believe me, I've tried. They just think I'm bootsy or something and stay the eff away. In other news- I've been having trouble with WiFi, both at work and at home.

This leads me to the only conclusion that something in my big head blocks frequencies... which both WiFi and ghosts communicate through.

I'm a Ghost Blocker.