Blight of the Star Crossed Lovers and Hopeless Romantics

Each day I am delicately brainwashed by the ideals of silver screen love. I smile at Patrick Swayze's easy moves. Cary Grant, Clark Gable, and Romeo seduce my eye with the satisfaction of a role well fulfilled. Again I have cried at the frightful sight of a ghastly pale Gilbert Blythe emaciated from scarlet fever. And yes, I do always clutch my heart in agony as lovers part.
Diamond sunbursts and marble halls... Hmph.
This unrealistic euphoria is the archetype for almost all books, music, movies, and the media in general. Our society has glitter in its eyes and a soundtrack in its ears. Thus it is blind and deaf to the horrifying, gut-wrenching truth: this could never happen in real life.
Preschool was truly the closest I've ever been to these emotions. It was a simplistic love in its most innocent form. He tried to kiss me at recess, and after that I never spoke to him again.
To quote my beloved Lord Byron:
"Alas! the love of women! it is known
To be a lovely and fearful thing!"
Romance, true romance, unlike the kind they spoon feed you in the movie theater, is an unobtainable concept that has been doing irreparable harm to our psyches for as long as we can remember.
It’s not just the fantasy we’re going after…it’s what we think the fantasy leads to, which is the cause of the problem. It’s that feeling- that chemical imbalance- with the magic, the butterflies in your stomach, and the random acts of sappiness. It wraps around the 10 percent of our tiny brains that we actually use until we are incapable of intelligent thought or rationale. The phrase “Fools in love” truly has meaning.
Wednesday night is girl's night; a feminine evening spent in the company of friends procuring pedicures and gossip. But what does it lack? Ah, yes. The chick flick; which was devised as a means to satisfy the desperate craving for romance in a girl and instead leaves her empty handed and half crazed. This is the stereotypical activity that all women must enjoy, and every Wednesday I am forced to balk at my own misfortunes and seriously ponder my love life. Wait! It doesn't exist!
L-O-V-E, the four letter word that we have created for this psychosis, has been hyped up and cut down so many times as to quite leave me in the dark. The whole idea is extremely vexing. What am I to believe? From the pain I've observed in other people as they recover from falling in love, I am seriously considering a support group for those who have what we call 'The Happily Ever After' syndrome.
There is one thing that hopeless romantics everywhere should never neglect to remember: don't let the glitter blind you from all that crap lying around.
Move over Romanza. We're recovering from love and we will take no nonsense from you.

Jossay's Return: Part I

Often in my mind a nagging Thought creeps about. It settles in the folds of my brain and scratches with its claws until I can't ignore it any longer. "Who?" it asks, "Who, is your favorite person?"
By no means would I ever give any regard to this itchy little Thought. I know far too many glorious and wonderful humans to be so biased. However, if that Thought were to re-think itself, and instead ask, "What is your favorite person?" I could make a reply.

Perhaps in order for one to understand this, I must outline a story to further clarify the facts. Unfortunately this particular story will be very vague and will perhaps cloud up the situation even further. I don't find it unsettling however, and neither should you. There is, after all, only one who will truly know.

There is a body outlined in white. It's shaving cream-no- it's chalk. Either way, it looks dead.
We are so very clever. You may even say that we are stupid cool.
I owe you $1.60. We sit in the car and listen; we are completely quiet, still dressed in our concert black.
Somewhere from my left I hear sarcastic snorts. I turn my head. We make eye contact, grimace, and quickly turn away to hide our smiles. Mr. Thompson has something on his lip... or is that big gay Al's idea of a joke? Either way we laugh the same. It rises to its peak and then ebbs slowly away until it dies. By no means is it a graceful laugh, but it is nothing close to a man's.
No bake cookies are no good. They have turned into peanut-butter oatmeal mush. There are a couple mixed up cards, and some phone calls that have provoked anger; and lies that have ensured it.
A 1945 editon of Pride and Prejudice. A precious note scrawled across lined notebook paper.
Everything is set right with a perfectly organized glass cabinet at one o'clock in the morning.
Crepes make a delicious meal. Tea, anyone? Yes, we love old books.
Will you have seconds? Yes. Thirds? Yes. Fourth's? Ye- No!
Oh how we shall always regret...

Perhaps I should thank you.
To be joined at the hip -related by name and not by blood- is indeed an honor.
Pesky little Thought! If you were to ask the question again, I could indeed make a reply.
And it would go something like this:
Jossay forever!

Wit and Wisdom from a reliable source

We have all heard it a million times before. It is etched in our brains. The beauty, the confusion, the controversy; whether we want it or not it will always have a place in our lives. It is universally acknowledged. It is loved worldwide, yet it is hated within each of us when we cannot understand it. When our ideas match those the footnotes spit out however, we emerge shining and triumphant from our labors. Every time one mentions "assasination", or "skim milk", or 1700 other privately coined phrases, suffixes, and prefixes, we acknowledge its influence.

It is Shakespeare; the Great and Immortal Bard of English literature. 154 sonnets, 37 plays, 13 suicides, and countless loves later, we are still puzzling over this man. My conclusion? Genius.
Sheer, undeniable, perfect, absolute, bona fide genius.

While strolling through Shakespeare's works, I have selected my favorite quotes, thoughts, and facts.

In As You Like It: Because of the obscurities of gender and the fact that women were not allowed to act on stage, Rosalind would have been played by a man, playing a woman. In the play Rosalind emerges as a man who pretends to be a woman who pretends to be a man who pretends to be a woman to win the love of a man.

Romeo and Juliet: "Thou small grey coated gnat."
"Beauty starv'd with your severity
Cuts beauty off from all posterity."

Hamlet: "Thou vicious mole of nature!"
"If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry."
"Go, ye giddy goose."

Henry IV: "Thou leathern-jerkin, crystal-button, knot-pated, agatering, puke-stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish pouch!"
"You are as rheumatic as two dry toasts."
"Peace, good pintpot, peace, good tickle-brain."

Macbeth: "By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes."

Call me a nerd. But until you learn to appreciate Shakespeare for its gorgeousness, your insults mean nothing to me, you cockered fly-bitten pumpion!

"All the world 's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts."

Keena's Kure

I have decided to reveal a startling new trend in modern medicine in which I have recently taken an interest. It is very sparsely known at this point in time, but my connections in the medical field have allowed me an early insight into the situation.
It began with Brooke Greenburg. She is a child frozen in time--though 12 years old, she still has the characteristics of an infant. Through many studies and tests, it has been discovered that little Brooke has an excess amount of DHEA in her system. Although slow growth may not be desirable in a human body, so-called scientist H.W. Keena at Stanford University realized the full potential that the anti-aging hormone, DHEA, could have on society. Through careful analysis and practical problem solving, this ingenious human has developed a monthly DHEA serum to inject in domestic animals. He is calling it, "Keena's Kure."
Now, don't get me wrong. I am not for animal testing, nor would I ever promote an institution that encouraged any morbid practices. This injection is intended specifically for cosmetic purposes. It has little or no side-effect on the creatures (it has only been tested on mammals: felines, canines, and nigripes) though it has been observed that the DHEA has an affect on metabolism and requires more caloric intake on the animal's part, as well as benign red spotting on the soft underbelly.
What does this all mean? I'll tell you. Frou Frou, your precious puppy, will never become a slobbering, smelly, fat, old Catahoula Bulldog, but will rather stay young and sweet forever. Or, more like, as long as you can afford the shots. They're pretty pricey over the black market, running at over $110 per dose.
This dramatic discovery will allow oodles of kittens and baskets of bunnies to stay young and darling for longer.
However, it must be clear that Keena will not turn the world into a perpetual Neverland where puppies and piggies never grow old. Remember, even though Brooke Greenburg looks like a baby, she is still twelve. DHEA will not prolong life, but rather enhance it with the joy and beauty of youth.
Or course, this drug has not been universally accepted in any country excepting Azerbaijan, where the empress has been injecting her pet panda for several months now. Because of certain animal rights activists, this miracle drug cannot be distributed on the market. This is ridiculous, of course, and I believe Terrier-loving Prime Minister Tony Blair should be slapped for his private claims that the injections are inhumane. The British have always been too closed minded when it comes to their dogs.
I for one vouch that as soon as I lay my hands upon a couple of syringes and a bottle of Keena's serum I will take a trip to the local pound and inject as many animals as I can. Their chances of adoption as babies is increased ten-fold. In fact, I have already begun recruiting members to join the Y.A.B.B.A. squad. It is an organization of individuals that will promote Young And Beautiful Babies Always.
Whether you agree with this practice or not, I would dearly love to hear your opinion. If you have any interest in joining Y.A.B.B.A., drop me a line.

Departure of the Small Ones

It has happened at last; I have my room back.
Never before have I missed something so much as the scent of my pillows, or my down comforter--I was so happy to creep into the cool darkness in the wee and twinkling dawn after they left. Gone are the tubs of Benefit product. There will be no more laughing at "Ex's make great speedbumps". No more staying up until 2:00, sleeping in until 11:00, and napping at 3:00. No laughter at dinner. No conversation. No mocha heath ice-cream. The entryway will no longer be flooded with their shoes. They're gone, and with them they have taken that special charm-- that enchanting spell that visiting loved ones always bring.
I have my room back, but I would rather sacrifice my privacy forever than return to how things were before they came.

Dawn of the Diabetics

On this day six years ago my adventure began.

There we sat, surrounded by endless rows of immaculate white T-Shirts. Cambria's feather bed was fluffy and smelled of disuse. She said I looked pale. I told her it was nothing.

I remember that we girls went with Paul and Jaylyn to watch the hot-air balloon launch; I marveled at the blazing colors in the sky, and could almost feel the excited tingling as my feet magically left the ground. We listened to techno music in Kari's car, and I thought maybe this would be enjoyable if I wasn't so thirsty. The best part of the ice-cream was the peaches, and the best part of those was their juice. I only wanted to sit down.
My dad was suspicious. I drank from boiling hot water bottles during the fireworks. An unfortunate local had their bush watered. To the hospital we went. My condition worsened.
I fell in love with my intern. I gave shots to an orange. My mom stayed with me day and night. I felt old, sick, and decrepit. I weighed 57 pounds.
Somebody said to me, "You're going to die?"
I didn't cry. I knew they were ignorant.

I shook up my parents with my shaking. I scarred Koseli's finger. I bumped my head. I went to camp and I hated it; I went back again and hated it still.
I became an expert on islet cells, and insulin, and the form and function of the pancreas. I gave lessons in health class. I taught the firsthand truth.
I discovered I could get out of school easily on any excuse, and that I could use my disease to manipulate and frighten my teachers.
I have a special tool.
For six years my pancreas has not worked. Hooray for implants! Hooray for pumps! And hooray for modern medicine!
As much as I love it, I hope I can rid myself of my power soon.

Born in the USA

The Fourth of July: our nation's most celebrated day. It is a time to enjoy independence, freedom, and liberty with fireworks and delicious food.
Last night I discovered some unexpected ties that I have with America (besides the very obvious ones) and I would just like to briefly outline them. They are amazing. Truly.
It has always been a well known fact that my father is a member of the U.S. Air Force. However, what I did not know is that he is a lieutenant colonel, and in his younger days was chosen selectively out of thousands of applicants by this institution to attend medical school with the entire cost covered. This allowed my parents to stay debt free through all their schooling, as well as a rare opportunity to live in a foreign country. While in Norway, I also found, my dad worked for NATO, and was in charge of all medical care for the air force in that entire country, as well as the Vice President (Walter Mondale) when he came. He has been publicly honored in France, has dined in a palace with war veterans, and has flown all over the world administering aid in a KC-135.
Of course I had to squeeze all of this information out of him drop by drop, and with coaxing and added facts from my informatant... aka Mom.
The next astonishing fact came from my grandfather, who worked at Ft. Detrick in Maryland during WWII as a chemical engineer. That patriotic man is so loyal to his country, that to this day he will not reveal the top secret work that he did during the war. It is a mystery whose nature we can only nit-pick and guess, and from which I have been strictly forbidden to publicly muse.
I suppose this patriotism originates from my great grandfather, who was a prison guard in WWI. He was a given a gun-- with no bullets. While away, his wife and child died from the Spanish Flu epidemic and from his convalescence he was able to meet my great grandmother. His is a romantic tale of heartache, loss, and re-birth. Perhaps I should find out the details before I say any more. I tend to exaggerate my stories greatly.
It is through these family members that I can at last fully appreciate the close bond that I have with our nation's history. It's in my blood... so maybe it's not weird after all that I like politics!

Oh, and by the way, my mom is a Reagan Republican.

Undeniable truths of the week

It's the weekend at last!
From this end up the spectrum, one can look back over the craziness and begin to pull the pieces together. Being able to boast of a particularly interesting week, I find that within the emotions I have discovered several truths. One of these is that no matter how hard you work for something, it never turns out how you hoped. Another is that human beings are naturally jerks, and that if they obtain no personal gain from you, you are worthless to them. The last is that parties are over-rated, always turn out boring, and leave you feeling empty and alone.
I spent all day yesterday cleaning. All day. And the day before that. If I left the room, things would not stay the way I wanted. It was my obsessive compulsive perfectionist Joslynn coming in to play. Therefore I spent a good deal of time guarding the kitchen and growling at anybody who came in. By and by my sister came home from work. "Are you going to put that away?"I would whisper menacingly in her ear. I do believe that my family was sufficiently annoyed with me and were eager to get away.
A dear friend of mine has received phone calls that she did not want. I blame my selfishness and stupidity.
We tried to celebrate the solstice. Summer is here! Endless sunny days, carefree happiness, apparent bliss... I tried to make a pineapple upside down cake. Anyone who tasted it can tell you that I failed. I made popovers that tasted like nothing. Another failure. Even the electricity failed me. No light, no music, nothing to do. It was awful. Tensions were high and I don't think there was a single guest that wanted to be there. A "party" in my dictionary would probably not fit with the definition in Webster's. Last night was a perfect example.
Over this past week, I have discovered that animals do indeed drown in irrigation ditches. I found that I can accomplish more things in one day than I am accustomed to do in a week. I learned the power always goes out at the most inconvenient times. I have found that I indeed cannot cook, that I may never practice for my lessons, and that I can be a completely insensitive brat. I found out that I am less of a man than most people. I have felt a mother's wrath, a sister's love, and a loved one's absence. I have offended, angered, provoked, and saddened. I have grossly and immaturely let someone down. I have passively accepted the will of others with no consideration to my own values. I have said some things that I wish I could take back. I have silenced some thoughts that I wish I could bring forth.
It certainly wan an interesting week.

Life sucks and then you die

Today I had the pleasure of once again feeling my body dragged into Pioneer Comprehensive Medical for a series of tests and analizations that will further determine the fact that all my hormones are severely screwed up.
I sit in the dim little patient's room. It is supposively pleasant because it is painted royal purple using the statistics of Color Therapy; personally I think it a product of bad taste or even colorblindness. Dr. Terina comes in wearing a white suit with a slit much too high for a woman her age, sits down, crosses her legs, consults her clipboard, and asks me several extremely personal questions which I can't answer. Her watery blue eyes bore into my head and I stare at the floor.
"Your testosterone is a little low. Your thyroid is a little low. Your estrogen is a little low."
As Terina continues to explain all the deficiencies in me, my mother will casually cut in with:
"Yes. I would definitely say that Joslynn has mood swings. Actually, she's like that all the time. No, I'm pretty sure she's depressed. Now, will that cream make acne better or worse?"

I hate having my blood drawn. Certainly, I am diabetic, and I do poke my fingers four times a day with a lancett, but there is something terrible about the flobotamist inserting a long needle into your arm. The nausea, the poke, the thought that there is a foreign object under my skin and in my vein, and that it is taking something out. I faint every time.
I have to go back to that wretched clinic next month, two days before my birthday. Supposively I have a wheat sensitivity. What? No bread, no crackers, no high carb foods. Now I will starve to death but I will still gain weight because of the medication that my mother sneakily slips into my water.
Humans get viruses. They grow old, they wither, they get cancer, they have heart attacks, they die.
There certainly is a great deal to live for in the future.

The truth about Men

They are nasty, horrible, dim-witted, putrecent, evil slobs.
And that's all I've to say about that.

Jos's Ideal Playlist

Feel free to add as much as you like to this list. I realize that my not so eclectic taste is still developing, and I have not even scratechd the surface of all the good music out there. So add your favorite song-- if you dare.

NEW ADDITIONS:
1979: The Smashing Pumpkins
Snails: The Format
Flower Duet: Lombard
Shadow Boxer: Fiona Apple

Playlist

Mason Jennings: Ballad for my One True Love
Soft, simple, acoustic bliss. Unique and ingenuitive... but not so much that it disturbs the flow of the song.
Other noteworthy song: Train Leaving Gray

The Beatles: In my Life
I consider this song a masterpiece. It gave me a true glance into the lyrical depth Lennon & McCartney were capable of. Plus, you've got to love the "harpsichord" (electronic piano) solo in the middle. A timeless classic.

Death Cab For Cutie: I Will Follow You...
Not a typical Death Cab song. It is just Ben Gibbard on acoustic guitar, with his fragile tenor, simple delivery of words, and unexpected turning of phrases on a well-worn lyrical road. My love of this song comes with it's quiet determination and gentle lyrics. The way Ben personalizes the afterlife and draws in childhood Catholic school experiences is impressive, to say the least. It is sweet, touching, and filled with devotion. What more could anyone want?
More Death Cab tunes: Crooked Teeth and Lack of Color

Jose Gonzalez: Heartbeats
This song is genius. It has a soft, glowing aura of meshed rhythms and delicate guitar leads. Gonzalez's direction with the warm melody of "Heartbeats" is evidence of a wealth of romance, emotion, culture, and class. Whenever I hear it, I stop whatever I'm doing and just listen. There aren't many songs that can make you do that.

Butterfly Boucher: Another White Dash
I want to turn this up until my ears bleed.
Butterfly's music is fresh, vibrant, beautiful, powerful, passionate--and she rocks like only a girl can. Yeah!
Also: Life is Short, A Walk Outside

Leslie Feist: Mushaboom
Feist has an amazing, throaty, laid back voice. The lyrics to this song are beautiful and intuitive, while diverse instruments and a catchy chorus make you want to sing and dance every time you hear it. Indie has never been this good.
Other Feist songs: Tout Doucement and Gatekeeper

Josh Rouse: Saturday

Clever guitar playing, and a deep, laid back voice is the epitome of coolness-- and the essence of Josh Rouse.

Also look at: Streetlights, Sparrows Over Birmingham

The Cure: Just Like Heaven
I have an enduring love for this band, especially for lead singer Robert Smith. This is a favorite of their many great songs-- mostly for it's gorgeous lyrics, scintillating rhythms, and emotional expressiveness. A classic through and through.

Imogen Heap: Goodnight and Go
It has been said that Imogen's music is a perfect marriage between skillful songwriting, the human voice, and electronica. This song is an instantly exciting example, with little electronic mini-melodies that combine to make the whole. They come in waves, building and strengthening, then ebbing and dissipating. The central chorus is supremely beautiful, and may indeed bring on a few goosebumps. It's super trendy, but I love it. Good music to listen to on a night out.

The Killers: All These Things That I've Done
For a great band, you need a great singer. Brandon Flowers fits the bill perfectly. He's got charisma and a very unique vocal style. All the Killers look good, with their scruffy unfashionable glamour that all the best bands have. It also doesn't hurt the band if you have a great drummer. Ronnie Vanucci's infectious energy is the power and drive behind this song. It's a good one to listen to when you're on your last stretch while running.

Other Killer songs: Mr. Brightside, Under the Gun

My Top 10 Hit List

Because I have been trapped in my home with a horrible illness and very little fresh air, I am feeling a tad bit critical. At this point I feel like ripping down anything and anyone that annoys me in the slightest degree. Therefore I am making a list of the things in this world I hate most. Believe me, there'd be more if I had the endurance to keep the criticisms flowing. Luckily I have narrowed it down to 10. They begin with the least offensive and end with the very worst. Good luck and stay away from me until I am adequately healthy once again.


#10: Hairy armpits... on women.
Self explanatory: shave your pits, and the world will be a happier, healthier place. If not, then please put on a long-sleeved shirt.

#9: Hangnails.

Is there anything worse than trying to make your bed, and having your hangnail catch on the sheet? There is nothing quite as painful or annoying. Too bad I don't like steak... supposively eating more protein helps prevent these little suckers.

#8: Dr. Laura Schlessinger.

Every time I am trapped in the car with my mom behind the wheel, I am forced to listen to... "Shut up! You're pregnant! And your husband is... gay? You are the dumbest girl I have ever talked to. Call me back when you get a life." Click.

#7: Gheorghe Zamfir.

For sixteen years I have listened to this Pan-flute virtuoso murder such classics as John Denver's Annie's Song, Billy Joel's She's Always a Woman, and the crownig glory-- Yesterday, by The Beatles. Words cannot describe the shrill melodies that escape from this man's pipe.

Mr. Zamfir: you are hairy and old. Please announce your retirement and go back to Romania.

#6: Judge Judy.

Primetime T.V. watching for me on weekdays is at 3:00 p.m., right when Judy Sheindlin's infamous show begins. Why Fox still airs it is beyond my comprehension. Why I watch it is even more baffling. The court cases are ridiculous. Watching people trash talk each other over trivial matters is much more entertaining than it should be, though still not enjoyable.

Oh, and Judy, please don't write anymore children's books. You are corrupting them with your negativity and colorful language.

#5: Boogers and Books.

They don't mix. Have you ever checked out a book from your local public library, only to find little crusties on the edge of the pages? I have. A word to whoever blew snot all over my copy of Gone With the Wind: Don't blow or pick your nose while you read. I don't care if it itches, or you have a cold. Keep the fingers out!

Putrecent nose-pickers...

#4: Itchy tags.

Hail to the designer geniuses who invented the tagless T-shirt! At last someone understands that I would rather walk around in my bra than wear a shirt with an itchy, obnoxious, tag in the back.

#3: Orange skin.

It happens to the best of us. We just get so curious about that fake tanning lotion, or that tinted spray... "a beautiful bronze," quothe the bottle. Well, I look back on streaky, orange, oompa-loompa legs and beg to differ those adjectives.

#2: The mysterious missing sock.

It happens every time I wash my clothes. A single sock is eaten by the washing machine monster. And he always chooses the cute ones, that don't go with any other socks. I now have a whole drawer of single patterned socks without any friends.

#1: Swass.

You're in a car with leather seats. It's hot outside... well over ninety degrees. Upon arriving to your destination, you exit the vehicle and- oh man- your butt is wet. Sick.

Squirrels!

Today I received the most interesting e-mail. It was so incredible, I decided to publicly post it.


Just a note...
It has been going around that it is your birthday, or it soon will be.... We want to commend you on being fabulous and humble at once. You are a divine young pecan and you look like sweet honey and yummy picnic scraps. I think we would all like to knaw on a bit of you right before our long winter's nap or just any nap. We hope you have been given much and have a desire to give back to the environment. We have a suggestion on how to do this:
Last year you starting drinking-and this year you are just a bit more "nutty"- so lay off the booze and send us some freaking nuts!
P.S. We prefer a sweet honey glaze on decedant cashew morsels just bite size-- not too hard, but definetly not squishy! Please put them out midday as we are not morning creatures and like to groom before making appearences -maybe you could sing the infamous "i want somebody" while we chew- your voice always soothes things as they go down, and please wear your little white coverup that ties in the front- we miss seeing it everyday... or maybe we just miss seeing you everyday.
P.P.S. what are you wearing
The Squirrels of Abbey Church
2nd Tree on left 4Th Branch UP
Maple Tree, OH

Itsy bitsy teeny weeny...

There are some aspects of a girl's life that are just plain unpleasant. There's childbirth, and menopause, and mood swings... but that's all natural. The real pain, as I have come to find, comes from the tediousness, and the frustration, and the fatigue from... swimming suit shopping!!
That's right folks. I forgot in my bitter little rant the wretched and much dreaded swimming suit. The fact that I must soon bare my lily white and jiggling thighs to the entire world has completely slipped my mind. That is, until today.

Standing in front of a cold dressing room mirror, I look at my image reflected in the glass. Somehow I have tricked myself into trying on a disgusting little suit with big ugly polka dots. It accentuates all the wrong parts of my body and makes my face look green. Or maybe that's just the lighting. This is the third store I've been to today. My feet hurt. I am dragged onward... next stop....
Malls and superstores. Huge signs announcing sale after sale after sale-- it all becomes a big whir of color and fluorescent lights and too strong perfume. Somehow I have managed to spend all my swimsuit fund on other things: lotion, a shirt, some shorts. I look at the miles of racks ahead of me full of elastic wastebands and bold colors and want to vomit. No more!
The day progresses. It grows hotter, and hotter. As I walk outside to my car, I can hear my hair sizzle and I begin to feel the skin melt off my face. Step after step... dragging, reluctant, we arrive at stop number seven. Nothing. There never is anything.
Swimming suit shoppers always settle for second best. Not even second best. Third, or fourth, or fifth... by the end of the day one is so tired, one loses all desire to find the perfect suit. This is wise thinking, because it doesn't exist. It is always too short, or too bulgy, or it has a neckline that plunges down to the bellybutton. Any way one wants one's swimming suit, one can be guaranteed that a frantic day of last minute shopping won't find it.
I knew it was time to leave when I was publicly examining my gluteus maximus in a hideous rainbow bikini bottom, and a young man came towards the mirror with several shirts in his arms, caught my eye, and quickly headed in the opposite direction. Upon further inspection I discovered that I had unknowingly wandered into the Men's dressing room. So much for being a 'shopper girl' and knowing my stuff. The truth is, I have no idea what I'm doing. The young man is a witness to that fact.
So I bought the rainbow suit. I justify my actions with the rationalization that it was on sale. Pay no heed that I look like a colorful monster or an overgrown care bear when it is on my body. Just take into account the sacrifices and the pain I had to endure to find the perfect, not so perfect swimming suit.

Your mom is a man!

I enjoy Sunday evening walks with my Koseli. It is our time away from the ever-present frantic atmosphere in our home. The moment one steps into a cool rainy twilight, and smells the lilac bushes and the wet dirt, one can envision many lovely things. This is when Koseli and I tell each other stories. We never pay much attention as to whether or not the stories are true, although they usually are-- at least halfway. Even with the absence of lighting bugs we can add a little mystery and romance to our conversations. The most common theme of our stories however is... "What-a-coincidence!" or, in other words, ironic situations that involve humor.
At least, we think they're funny.
This story is my personal favorite:

A certain young man who happens to be both of our acquaintance comes from a very prominent Californian family. We heard this story from his own lips, and he had it before from his little brother Cameron, who had it firsthand... So it must be perfectly straight. Now this man's family had a very kind Hispanic maid (her name was Magil, and she called herself Lil, but everyone knew her as Nancy) who would bring her son... Pablo... to the estate with her every day as she worked. Pablo was a quiet child-- however, this was on no account of shyness because he spoke not a word of English. At least, that was what the family thought. As time flew by they discovered many thieving characteristics in this young boy; especially when missing trinkets were found in his possession... usually hidden beforehand in the flowerpots. When confronted about his impulsive stealing problem, the frightened child combined the few English words he knew into a most startling sentence... "YOUR MOM IS A MAN!"He roared. And like a toad he hopped the fence of the garden and was gone.

To this day, when conversations become dry and awkward, you just might hear me say, "Your mom is a man!" I believe that these simple words have the power to liven up even the dullest of topics and spark the interest of even the most boring talker.
I encourage you to give it a try. Go ahead, see what happens. You know you want to.

The Cruelty of Children

Children can be horrible little creatures; there is no use denying this fact.

Last night I talked to a first grader. We were talking about books- books from the library, bedtime stories, books in school- and suddenly, indescribabely, the conversation turned toward bullies.
"This kid in my class, he's a bully. He reads bully books." he randomly proclaimed.
"Bully books?" I questioned, "What are those?"
He responded promptly, "They teach you how to be mean, and push people around. There is this one book called Bullies are Made for Pushing People Around."
"Are you sure? Do you think anyone would write a book that teaches people how to be mean to each other?"
"Maybe," he replied, "the person who wrote it was a bully too."
The way this young boy rationalized the meanness of others set me to thinking. It was such a comforting thought! Why are bullies mean? Why do they push you sometimes, or call you names, or take your lunch money? It's nothing personal-- after all, they're just getting it from a book.
When I pulled into the driveway of this little boy's average South Jordan million dollar home earlier in the day, I felt anticipation and obvious fear, almost as though I was the one being faced with bully problems. Three squooshy faces were pressed against the living room window, eagerly anticipating my arrival. Why on Earth, I wondered, do these little ones like me so much? I'm not fun, I don't even know them... and what good are a couple of snot nosed kids to me anyway?
Last night, as I tended this first grader and his sisters however, I discovered something very important about children; they're worth it.
Babysitting jobs usually become a series of terrors and intense abuses, and last night was no exception. I was soaked with a hose, forced to give piggy back rides, and I very nearly had my finger bitten off. Despite all that, there were some moments of clarity that allowed me recognition as to why people all over the world sacrifice everything for their children.
As the weary night wore on, one fell asleep on the couch. I carried her to bed, tucked her under her pink blanket and bent down closer to look at her face, now devoid of the devilish mischief of the day. Her eyes opened and she placed her sticky little hand on my cheek. That was all, and that was enough. It was in that moment that I forgave her completely for the conniving tricks she'd pulled on me that day, and it seemed to me that as she slept angels had indeed landed on her eyelids.

Children are cruel. One minute you could be madder than anything at them, and the next they'll steal the heart right out of your chest. They know nothing, but, as with my conversation with the first grader about bullies, they seem to know so much more about the human psyche than any adult mind could ever hope to perceive. I heard once that children are designed with wide eyes and large foreheads because it appeals to the mothering instinct in adults. But last night, when I received a goonight kiss on each cheek, I was the one being cared for.

Maybe children aren't so horrid after all.

Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da, Life goes on...

Can it be? Summer is upon us!
The realization hit me full on today like a heat wave... for three fabulous months I am liberated from the shackles of school. For this brief interval, I can enjoy the suffocating heat that creates shimmering mirages, sizzling sidewalks, and the putrid odor of baking asphalt. I am sure that the next time you see me I will be sporting a magnificent tan-- or at least a fashionable sunburn. If I am lucky my skin will peel off onto my brother's pillow like it did last summer. What better way to get him back for sticking his finger in my toast?
Because I am basically unemployable, I will enjoy a very lax and lazy atmosphere in my home. I plan on spending many hours eating bon-bons and watching Days of our Lives. If the soap operas aren't dramatic or cheesy enough for me, all I have to do is discuss my sister's relationship with her boyfriend. With my newly acquired free time, my mother has already found several exhilarating tasks for me to do, stressing her desire to teach me ethical lessons in hard work and sacrifice. Example? This morning I was assigned the duty of moving enormous flower pots from the backyard to the front. This of course was no menial task, and the situation was much improved by the fact that I moved the wrong pot. Fifty pounds of dirt, not to mention the bricks at the bottom, were replaced and I started my job afresh- this time the right way-renewing my love of accidental run-ins with centipedes and worms. I enjoy looking at their slimy, googly eyes and many legs. After all, I have been told that we bear a definite physical resemblance.
In the next three months I am sure I will attend many fabulous parties. I will stay in contact with every person who signed my yearbook, and I will have a date every Saturday night. Guaranteed.
Yes indeed, Summer is here friends... With it comes broken hearts, skin cancer, and cataracts. Enjoy!