Thursday, June 28, 2012

I have a story up at Metazen.  It is a husband/wife type of story.

 "caper salad"

Janey Smith asked me to send him a story and that is what happened. Thank you, Janey Smith for the opportunity.

My boss's birthday was today so I emailed her a picture of a black pug puppy lying down in front of some balloons.  The picture said, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" and that was a sufficient birthday greeting for my boss, IMHO.

One of the guys that works at my work baked her a carrot cake with homemade frosting.  It was pretty damn good for a big guy that works with his hands a lot.  Then I made an accidentally racist remark about an Asian lady in our office and felt bad about it for appx. one hour.  It was completely unintentional but reflecting upon it, I was like, 'that sounded REALLY bad."

I guess maybe I still feel bad about it.

I am not racist.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

This morning I saw one of those movie catering trucks drive past me.  Two, actually.  The name of the company was “The Cast Supper.” 

This annoying crazy lady at work keeps winning the Fantasy Five lottery thing every week.  A week or so ago she won $1,000 then this weekend she won $384.  It’s all she talks about.  Every morning this week she’s bust into my office to talk to me, in some form or fashion, about her winning the Fantasy Five.  It was okay at first but now it’s getting a bit irksome.  I want to win $3000 so I can shut her up already.

It’s heating up in So Cal. Come with me.  Let’s go down.   

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Three Parties Just Today

The girl is four, so 86 people.  86 people seems right.  Sarcasm.  I expect the street will be sardine-packed like Superbowl Sunday party time.  A gigantic bouncy castle.  I am a good neighbor so I will park my cars in my driveway, give them some street room.  I am a good neighbor so I am re-gifting her two new stuffed animals.  I do not need stuffed animals anymore.  I am an adult.

I have a human stapler remover in my purse.  It removes human staples.   Staples go into scalps much like you expect staples would.  If you are strong you don’t scream.  Even if the numbing gel doesn’t exactly take like they promised it would.  Plugging your ears is the wrong choice.  I will know better for next time.

The month is full of parties.  You will know how much I love you by the number of balloons I blow up and tether to objects at your party.  I will eat every bit of your cake except the part with your face on it.  That, I will give to you.  I will ask, “How do you taste?”  You are so old now.  I remember when that seemed so glamorous.  Now it just seems like this is forever.  Like a promise you’ve managed to keep longer than you thought you could.  

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

My Zumba teacher has ass-tassels on her workout pants.  When she shakes her Salsa hips they follow quickly; left, right, left, right, left and so on.  It’s mesmerizing and suddenly I am wanting ass-tassels too.  I think about stapling Christmas tinsel to the buttcheeks of my swishy sweatpants that I am wearing.  How awesomely ridiculous that would look.  How the ladies in the class behind me will be giving each other looks about me which mean, “WTF with the lady with tinsel on her ass?”  I won’t even care because look how I can shake it!

We are a few weeks in to the new session.  I am starting to recognize the songs and the moves within each of them.   I am trying to learn the moves.  It is hard.  I feel mostly like an idiot half the time but I don’t stop.  At Zumba nobody is concerned with how much of an idiot the other guy is, they are mostly concerned with not being one themselves.  After particularly hard, fast-paced songs there are random clappings and “woo’s!”  People feeling like they accomplished something difficult.  I am one of them.

I sweat profusely.  Between certain songs the instructor makes a “drinking water from a water bottle” motion and we all flock to the sides of the room to drink and towel off.  These are the best parts of the class.  I put ice in my water bottle.  The water burns cold through my guts and paints bright colors on my insides and I am ready to embrace the suffering that the next song will bring.

There is a move that seems to be integral to certain Zumba routines and maybe it’s a traditional move in the country of Zumba where the exercise originated.  I might have written about it before but I don’t care.  I will write about it again.  It’s a fun and easy move.

In this new session we are in, the move takes place in a certain song during a part in the song where it seems like they are singing, “Winklevoss.”  Winklevoss, winklevoss.  And I think about Facebook and the twins and wonder if maybe they were born in the country of Zumba and therefore the Zumbians wrote this song in tribute to them.  Maybe it speaks of their technical heroics and eventual robbery by Mark Zuckerberg.  I don’t know because I don’t speak Zumba.  Yet.  But I am learning. (sort of)

I call the move “The Picking Flowers and Throwing them Behind You Move” followed by the “Spiraling Airplane.”  You stand facing the front, then throw your right hand up in the air, then you hurl your right hand to the ground to “pick the flower” while simultaneously sticking out your right foot to the side.  Then after you pick the flower you quickly stand back up again, legs together, while pulling the flower out of the ground and casually tossing it behind you.  You do this twice and after the last flower is thrown you keep that arm up in the air and extend your left hand toward the ground, like you are a sideways airplane and then you spin around to the beat of “Winklevoss, winklevoss” by only moving your right leg, your left leg stays and spins.  It sort of feels “belly dancer-ish”.  It feels like I should have veils spinning out around me.

I have a lot of strange thoughts during Zumba class.  It might be because I am in that twillight space between life and death.  It's not an easy class.  

I want to go shopping to find some workout pants with ass-tassels.  I want to be able to move my hips like my instructor.  I want the ladies behind me to be so moved by my sexy ass-tassling that they become sweaty men with dollar bills that the bouncers have to hold back from the stage because my the allure of the total sexiness of my shaking ass-tassels have overcome them.  Or, really, at the least, I want my hips to not lie like Shakira's don't lie.  I want to be able to move my hips so sexily that blind men will get erections.  Okay, there, I said it.  I want the hip movements of a Columbian belly-dancer-ish twenty-something.  Is that too much to ask?  

Answer: Probably.