DISCO DIVA

Some of my fondest memories as a child are of my mother's radio. I loved being picked up by my mother while she was cleaning the house and dancing around with me as Abba thumped out a sweet disco tune from my mom's huge Sony speakers. We had to be careful and could not run through the house when my mom was listening to music or we'd scratch her records.

I remember when she bought that stereo. It was so futuristic with its sexy metallic and black plastic knobs, star trek quality blinking lights and glass cabinet on wheels. She kept a rainbow of records in the bottom and a plant on each speaker which at the time were as tall as I was. I loved sitting in front of her stereo and watch the lights blink in rhythm with the music.

 Sometimes, when we had been good, mom would put the Bambi soundtrack on and we would lay on the carpet and listen to it. To this day, I have never actually seen Bambi, but can quote it all day long. The record itself, was the coolest thing I had ever seen. It was a clear record, with pictures of Bambi and friends printed on each side. Just looking at the record was as magical as listening to it.

I tried to watch the movie when I was about 15, but I lost interest fast and couldn't finish it. It just wasn't as good as what I had stirred up in my mind. I felt the same way when I heard Carol King sing Tapestry. I thought, "How dare she ruin that song." Even though Ms. king has written and recorded the song, after a lifetime of hearing my mother sing it when she was cleaning house, driving or putting us to sleep, Ms. King just didn't hold a candle to my mother.

My mother was a disco diva. On the weekends she would get dressed up in the most beautiful gold and cream colored dresses, cover herself in gold dust, dab perfume on and dance the night away. I loved to watch her get ready and dreamed of wearing makeup and pretty dresses like her when I grew up.

I remember watching my mothers long elegant hands apply her makeup and thought I'll know I’m a grown up when my hands look like hers. I’m 33 and my hands have never looked like hers.

When the disco days ended my mothers music choice gave way to Air Supply, TOTO, Black Sabbath, Fleetwood Mac, Journey, ELO, Elton John, genesis, REO Speedwagon, Supertramp and Olivia Newton John. She wore leg warmers and danced like a maniac in our living room.  She could do ballet to the soundtrack of Xanadu or get down with Michae Jackson’s thriller. She could rock us to sleep to Kenny Rogers, clean the house to TOTO, make dinner to Supertramp and drive to the store to Sting, whom if memory serves me correctly she had a huge crush on. (Who didn't especially when he played in the movie Dune.) She still broke out with the Abba though, and those were the best days.

I did not inherit the ability to dance though when I was younger I was very good at gymnastics and track and softball. Dancing has just never been my thing. I believe it is due in part to having dyscalculia.

When I say I can't dance, I sincerely mean that. I flail around in short spastic movements that frighten people an give children nightmares. I am clumsy, awkward and dangerous. I once worked as a cocktail waitress and my co workers begged me to come out and dance with them on my breaks. I did once...and they never asked again. Though they did tease me about my "but dance". Apparently I do something like belly dancing only with my butt instead. I can however head bang and spin my hair around in wild circles like I am possessed. I believe that is a little something I picked up from the Conan movies.

My mother on the other hand, can dance. She is tall, slender and graceful as a ballerina. I did not inherit any of that from her. I tried. In middle school a special dance team came to our school called "All That Jazz". I was so excited when I heard they were coming. I thought..."This is it, I am finally going to learn to dance like all the popular girls."

Three pretty young women came into our cafeteria carrying a boom-box. They looked so cool  with their ten foot tall sculptured bangs and color coordinated tube socks in Keds. I wanted to be them. My socks never matched and I could never master the bush bangs of the 80's. They had chosen Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation for us to get down to and I was so excited because I loved that song and always dreamed of dancing like Janet Jackson. At this time, I did not know I could not dance. I was still so hopeful!  They started going through the moves step by step, but by the time they were on step four, I was still on step two, trying to make it look "fluid and concise". Needless to say, it took me a while to master all the steps and I stood out like a sore thumb. When it became clear to me, I was slower than the other girls, the next day I made sure I was hidden somewhere in the middle of the row behind all the tall girls.

 Still, when the dance instructors walked through the shiny, brightly colored rows of giggling girls busting out to Rhythm Nation I felt shame. Their eyes literally skipped right over me and I felt the sting. Still I tried. I really did. I went home and practiced in my room for hours. I practiced until my legs felt like jello.

By the end of the two weeks they were there, I had come to the realization that I just was not a dancer. Some of the girls from class had signed on with them and would get to go weekly. Some of those girls grew up to be strippers. I'm so glad they found their calling in that 2 week shame-fest.

I have accepted that I can not dance. But, I am gifted with music. Something my mom's disco days inadvertantly passed on to me.

Now, while I can not dance, my daughter on the other hand was only 10 years old when she had memorized the entire thriller dance to my delight. I didn’t even know she had ever heard that song. I regret that when she was younger I could not afford to get her into dancing lessons where she could flourish. I do hope that someday when she is a mother she can dance with her children to oldies like Rhiana and Gaga. I am happy that my Mothers gift was passed down to my only daughter, I gave her the gift of music and art and red hair.

The Ballad of Harry Squatter Part 6 "Shattered Dreams"

I sat on my couch curled up in a freshly cleaned, awesome smelling, afghan and watched Tru Blood for the first time ever. I had  this huge, dumb smile on my face. I was finally feeling better after a two week courtship with the plague, the house was clean and quiet. Me time! Or not...Because I no sooner sat down and got cozy when there was a rap at the door. I could tell by the retarded Morse code, that it was Hobo Harry. I didn't want to let him in, but the Viking called out that "NO ONE'S HOME." Which ofcourse means "come in and please...stink my house up!"

I wanted to kill the Viking. We could have pretended we were asleep or not home...or something.

Immediately Harry began spouting off his newest dilemma which went something like this;

He had had a successful day of picking mushrooms, found a huge patch that someone was sure to beat him to if he didn’t pick it tomorrow but his stupid mom wouldn’t loan him gas money so her could get there. His probation officer issued a warrant for arrest for failure to comply. She was a dirty hateful bitch. Then he went to the bar and Someone was playing "his" machine and won his money from the slot machines.

I tried to let his babbling go in one ear and out the other, but the combined wet dog, body odor smell and his whiney high pitched voice, made it impossible.

me: "Let me get this straight, You go to jail for failure to appear on charges of driving without a drivers license on more than one occasion. Get probation instead of jail time, don't show up to scheduled meeting with your probation officer, and she's the bad guy?"

He tried in vain to argue his point and I tried in vain to show him what an idiot he was. It was clear I had upset him, because he left. BUT NOT BEFORE STINKING UP MY LIVING ROOM AGAIN.

I have decided that every time he talks I'm going to talk over the top of him, bark like a dog, and cough ridiculously and not cover my mouth. But in all honesty, I don't think even the plague could keep this guy away. 

The Ballad of Harry Squatter Part 5 "The Super Flu"

So the past few weeks have been interesting. I managed to catch the Bubonic plague and spent ten days in hell along with the rest of my family. Since starting this job at the call center over a year ago, I have been sick more often than I have ever been in my life. I am pretty sure its all the recycled farts, coughs, sneezes and sniffles we are breathing in. In addition, no one seems to wash their hands there and further spread there germs all over the damned place.

How Swinebirdsarssuperflu Begins

 It started with a small dry cough in the middle of the night. By noon the next day I was pretty sure that I was dying. I went home and slept from 2pm until noon the next day. I woke up long enough to take a shower in boiling water for the steam, inhale a cough drop and went back to sleep.

By nine that evening, my head felt like it was splitting open and every muscle in my body was in pain. I alternated taking a shower and a bath every two hours to help with the muscle pain. Soon my cough turned into a very deep, seal like bark and I'll spare you the phlegm details. I developed a 104.6 fever that caused me to hallucinate that nurses were trying to force feed me popsicles and I apparently had a conversation with a deceased family member posing as a unicorn in my shower.

On the 9th day and 5th gallon of orange juice, my fever broke. Let me tell you that the best feeling in the world is a cool breeze on the back of your sweaty neck, just as your fever has broken. Luckily my whole family managed to get the plague all about the same time so I didn't spend weeks caring for people. We ate soup, if we ate at all, for ten miserable days.

Just when I thought everything was back to normal, Harry, after a two week absence, came back, like a cold sore. Only, I'd prefer a cold sore to his presence.

I spent all day this last Saturday, cleaning my house like a mad woman after we were all seriously ill with the swinebirdsarssuperflu. I washed every blanket, pillow, couch cushion down. I sprayed every flat surface down wielding Lysol like I was fighting dragons and fabreezed the holy bajesus out of everything. I also left all the doors and windows open to air the sick stench from our house as well as scrubbed the bathrooms and counters down with bleach. When I was done, my house sparkled like an Elvis Cape. It was glorious.

to be continued......

OMG UNICORNS

 I have been pretty busy all week, what with being a domestic girlfriend/slave and all. I was able to find some pretty nifty links including one that will rock your freakn socks off! Say hello to my leetle friends over there on the right and get your picture cornified like this one!

The birth of Karate Unicorn

Dedicated to Tina, my Karate buddy.

I knew today was going to be bad as soon as I woke up. I had actually dreamt that I was too drunk to go to work and was stumbling around trying to get dressed when the alarm went off. That’s funny because I don’t drink. However, I did wake up like I was hung over and consequently hulked out and ate my dishwasher for being too loud.  Now I have a headache and a sudsy after taste in my mouth.

It was a friggn monsoon on the drive to work. Seriously, Noah paddled by us in his ark. Traffic was retarded and a dump truck full of rocks decided to pull out in FRONT of us, when there were no cars behind us at all, and then proceeded to drive in front of us at 15 miles an hour.

Upon entering my place of employment, I walked into the ladies room and right into someone’s mushroom cloud of a fart which I do believe actually got onto my clothes. While catching up on the local news via internet, I discovered the Vikings lay-off AND found that the company that underbid his company will more than likely NOT be hiring anyone from his crew even though he has 11 plus years on the job. I then found out that our local elementary school will be closed and the kids will have to be bussed to a neighboring town’s school. I no sooner read that report, when the front desk informed me bill collectors were calling me there. Hello? Embarrassing?!

I am not going to lie, I thought I was going to crap myself right there.  It was everything I could do to hold it together at my desk, but I did it and hung in there until lunch. I was so hungry I was shaking because apparently dishwashers are like Chinese food and fifteen minutes after eating it you’re hungry again.

We are pretty broke these days with our savings having been wiped out and my wages being garnished so my daily lunches at Tea-Time are over. Instead, I had in my possession four quarters. Four measly quarters which I hastily plunked into the vending machine. As if exacting some sort of electronic and morbid justice for the massacre of the dishwasher, the vending machine refused to acknowledge that I had indeed put four quarters into itsn coin receptacle. Nope, it had swallowed my quarter whole and refused to spit out the granola bar which cost a total of  .85 cents. All that stood between me and the glorious, honey coated oats, almond and granola goodness was a thin pane of glass. I looked around, snarling like smeigel. I could feel a diabetic coma wrapping around my throat and decided I was really to weak to round house kick the glass in and snatch away my precious. I sat back down at my desk and pouted.

That’s when a co worker sent me a whisper. It was a funny light hearted conversation. The sun parted the clouds and I began to feel euphoric! I began to realize that was my brain eating the fat stores I had been saving up for such an occasion. That is when Kungfoocios a.k.a. Karate Unicorn was born.

Karate Unicorn, is so awesome he can believe it’s not butter, can turn lead into gold and is a protector of the underdog, fighter for the oppressed and hopeless. He is your kick ass, last minute move, just when you thought you couldn't win. He is 32 hands high, 1.5 tons of pure Herc'ed out AWESOMENESS! Is there a bully in your life you can't seem to beat? Are bill collectors calling you at work? Are you held up by bureaucracy and red tape? Send him a message! Karate Unicorn.

 With guaranteed results 2% of the time, how can you go wrong? He eats Chuck Norris for breakfast and washes him down with an explosive concoction of Red Bull, battery acid and the left over powdery-stuff in the empty box of Captain Crunch. In fact, he taught Chuck all of his sweet moves. Nothing can take him down and he has no known weaknesses, except for little girls who do not believe he exists. He can run faster than the speed of light, fly, ride rainbows and shoot lasers from his eyes.

The next time someone parks so close to you in the parking lot that you have to get a can opener to get back into your vehicle, leave them a Karate Unicorn token to show your appreciation. These can be used whenever someone in your life is being an asshat.

Bill collector won’t stop harassing you and threatening to call your family, have you evicted or repo your sweet Fragle Rock collectables? Send them a new currency! Karate Unicorn bucks!

This bucks for you!


You can send Karate Unicorn e-mail with your questions or comments at Karate.Unicorn1@gmail.com of find him on facebook!

SparkleFingers and the Abyss!

Blogging is a lot like interpretive dance. You either "get" it or you don't. I know that I will never be a  Unicorn,

a queen or even a princess.

I 'll never be a famous artist, dancer or writer. I'll never be a famous anything, but still I have some comfort in knowing that my words are getting cemented into some pixilated information highway. Sometime in the distant future, UNLESS SKYNET BECOMES A REALITY, a weary traveler will get lost on this endless, twisting highway (because of a defunct Tom-Tom) and will  find themslves in a ghost town of blogs.

They will stumble upon these words and they will ask themselves...."Really? How much was therapy back then?"  as a tumbleweed of misused commas blow by.  In the distance a hungry pack of Verbs can be heard howling. Because this traveller got lost, they found me and I am alive again, for a few moments more. To dance across your horizon and your eyes follow me from left to write.
It's okay if people don't get me, or interpretive dance, or peanut butter and cheese sandwiches, or Flintstone feet, or Beethoven Hair, or fart jokes. It's okay. I'm not one size fits all. You're not one size fits all. My own parents don't get me. Somebody out there, in the twisting nether, is gonna' recognize themselves in these mindless babbles. To them I say, "Welcome! Now show me your best sparkle fingers!"

The Ballad of Harry Squatter Part 4, Squatting Hobo, Hidden Poop Mess.

I snapped yet again. He came over one night while I was alone with the boys. He popped his head in the door and asked for the Viking.

Me: "He's not here. He will be back soon."

Harry: "Viking! I need to use your air compressor!"

He called out, disregarding what I had said.

My eye twitched a little.

ME: “He’s not here and when I say he’s not here that’s exactly what I mean.  When he gets in, I’ll tell him you need the compressor and he can find you BY THE BARN! Now get the fuck out of here!”

He really looked like I slapped him and he slipped back through the door without a word. I absolutely did not care. My hands were shaking as I washed the dishes, but I felt a little bit powerful at that moment.

I was tired of everything I said being disregarded or ignored or dismissed becuase I was not the Viking and I was tired of not having any back up.

I made a prmoise to myself I would stay firm. I would win this little war. 

He came back again around a month later. He had gone back to his home after squatting on our property for months…well, close to a year actually, to find that someone had broken into his home and vandalized his Mustang.  (since he didn’t have a drivers license he left that car home and drove another.)

This was the first time I had ever seen Harry Cry. I genuinely felt bad for him. Especially when he busted out the power chords of sobs.

“Whenever I get something nice, someone else has to ruin it.”

It appears as though the other hobo with whom he had pooped on his mushroom claim, had decided to enact revenge. Apparently there had been more poopings and he wasn’t gonna’ put up with that. Also it appears that his crazy ex girlfriend and this hobo had gotten together and apparently they like pooping on things as a team.

I didn’t want to mother Harry. I didn’t want to add to his frustrations, but I had to tell him, I had to say it. I had to keep my promise.

Me: “Maybe if you stayed home, at YOUR home, you wouldn’t get robbed, your dogs would have a nice home and not get taken by the dog pound and you’ll be…clean and stuff.” I  emphasized the “clean and stuff”. I didn’t want to make him feel bad… I really didn’t.

I busted out with an operatic lecture the likes which have never been heard before. The empathy removed from my tone.  I felt like a bard, combating evil with powerful notes of wisdom. I was the pied Piper…driving rats away. I felt powerful. I felt relieved.

His eye twitched. Again he looked like I had slapped him.

“I don’t want to go home. It’s lonely.”  He said..weakening me with his Jesus eyes.

I held my ground. I was resistant to the Jesus eye and we didn’t see Harry again for close to two weeks. It was nice. I cleaned my whole house, washed the furniture and pillows, Fabreezed everything. I didn’t have to fight with the Viking about his needing to talk with his old buddy about his frequent visits and my wanting to buy a stungun.

For two glorious weeks I could walk around nakey if I wanted to, or hang out in my nightgown. I didn’t have to hear his nasally whine. I could stand to sit on my couch and it didn’t smell like hobo’s, there was no extra plate to wash, or extra mess to clean up and most importantly, I didn’t have to worry about my dogs getting mauled by his dogs or worse...raped!

Was I worried about him out there in the cold? I am a terrible person, because I have to admit that I did not worry about him at all.

As it turns out, he had been staying home, cleaned his house and washed his clothes. I thought everything was going to be ok now.  Maybe Harry had finally grown up. He finally decided to stop mooching off of everyone and squatting on our property. That is until I saw him asleep in his car this morning in our driveway.

Oh brb…there’s a knock at the door…

Ok yeah, no...Harry is stinkier than ever and standing wet in front of our woodstove and the stink is coming off him in waves.

sigh...

The Ballad of Harry Squatter Part 3 "Rabid Otter"

After snapping and Harry dissappearing for a bit, he came back...with  a vengeance.

Harry had a new vehicle and oh look his dogs that were living with him in his car had puppies and they are pitbulls and now they were ALL living in his car with him. Every time I walked by his truck carrying my broken legged puppy, his dogs tried to climb out the window at me. They snarled and barked ferociously and I was scared. Especially after hearing his horror stories about how his dog Daisy Doo was a "Biter" AND WAS KNOWN TO BITE PEOPLE SHE DIDN'T LIKE! I imagined Daisy Doo sensed my dislike of her and her pet human and knew she wanted a chunk out of my ass. I wanted him to leave. I wanted him to just disappear. I didn't need this crap right now.


Stressed I was, but I still remembered how horrible I had felt when I was mean to Harry so I did not turn him away. I tried to be as pleasant as I could. He complained that the mushrooms were not in season and no one had any work for him. He was hungry, cold and desperate. My heart broke when I looked into his Jesus eyes and I relented.

Me: "I know the Viking could use your help with so many things around here and… we'd pay."

I had a whole list of things the Viking needed done and I really wanted to surprise him with help since we literally were doing every thing by ourselves.

I decided the smell could be washed out of the house so I agreed to let him come in and help me paint while we waited for the Viking.
I honestly thought the Viking would be pleased to have help. However when Harry showed up with a friend and then stood inside by the fireplace all day while his friend actually crawled around outside with the Viking doing the wiring, it became abundantly clear I had made a mistake. Harry did very little to help me. He did nothing to help the Viking. Still I forked out the cash to he and his friend, bit my tongue and sent them on their way. The friend apologized for Harry's laziness as if it were his fault, and offered to come back the following weekend. I agreed, but he never showed. I WAS SOOOO ANGRY!

I felt I deserved that burn because I had been so rude to him before. This was God or Karma or something paying me back. I deserved this lump so I took it and shut up. We never saw Harry again until the house was nearly finished and we were illegally living in it. I say illegally because we hadn't had our final inspection yet, but were told by the inspector we could sleep in it.

It was dinner time. I was making a fantastic pot of “chilli mac”. All cheesy and yummy....when a knock came at the door.

MY GUT TOLD ME, NOT TO ANSWER THE DOOR.

My gut: "Quick, don't move. Pretend your a bean bag and maybe it will go away!"

But the Viking unglued himself from his Warcraft chair and opened the door.

There he stood. Harry, clean shaven,  his dreadlocks gone, and he was not wearing Cammo. I was shocked. He wasn't surrounded by flies, and I could not smell him.

We listened to his usual B/S story and found that he had won some money gambling, as well as having a good mushroom season and decided to clean up a bit. I was truly glad for him.  We fed him, chatted and then he was gonna again.

A few weeks later he was back, slightly more dirty, but not the horror he was before. I fed him, we chatted and he was off again.

I could handle this. I can handle Harry in small doses. But then...

Then his visits became more frequent. Each time he was dirtier. Smellier. His dogs more violent and menacing. His conversation more vulgar and ...

              disturbing.

I didn't like hearing about his drug stash getting stolen. I didn't want my son's hearing this. I told him to stop and when he persisted, I begged the Viking to make him stop talking like that.

Nothing.

I was on my own.

Viking: "YOU FED THE PUPPY."

More visits.

More dirt.

His smell became eye watering. His voice like nails on a chalkboard. He flopped down on my nice furniture leaving dog hair and his scent all over everything.

Everyday...

The same thing. I was going mad. Once he leaned in my doorway while he was talking at me and his god damned pants almost fell off and I saw little Harry and the twins. I was mortified! THE IMAGE IS BURNED INTO MY BRAIN!

I began thinking I was overreacting, but the more I tried to punish myself for thinking about running Harry off with a rabid otter and  some pepper spray,  the more I started thinking about all the reasons I would be justified in doing so. I was conflicted. Five years of this lunacy. Five long years.