Soul, curled up, retreat
Brittle shell hides swaying womb
Orange, sand-blessed time.
Lovers cling, shadows
retreat, red velvet couches
Anger, sex, lying.
Outer space farm-land
Purple lambs eat white star cake
Wearing red lipstick
Huddled in masses
a grip, shoulder pain gasps blood
wrenched from your lover
slipping through smoky windows
the concept of sin
Stand alone, sweet soul
Evil corruption buys cash,
Poor with dignity
You mean UGH, ROOMMATES? Don’t you?
The one word you or your college student should fear when they get the information from their chosen school is “TRIPLE.” It’s what happened to me when I applied to college, many, many years before Naviance even existed. We applied by mail, we knew the admissions department’s response by the thickness or the thinness of the envelope. Things were different way back then…..as my daughter likes to say “when the dinosaur’s roamed.”
When I was admitted to college I was unfortunate to be assigned to a triple, 3 girls, one small room. Another phrase for that would be “hell on earth.” I was the big city girl, the two others were from teeny, tiny towns, population probably at the 400 mark. I was doomed right from the start.
I was waiting to be let into the dorm, I was the first one in line. It didn’t occur to me that I wouldn’t have my choice of beds, why wouldn’t I? I waited, for the official starting time. Rejoice! I could pick the bed I wanted. I went to my assigned room and once there saw someone’s coat and belongings lounging on the single bed. Apparently not every one was as rule conscious as I was. Apparently, since I was the first in line, one of the girls, apparently, had sneaked into the dorm the night before and laid claim to the single bed. I was absolutely stunned, confused and thought that was unfair; I was also very naive.
The two roommates bonded in an instant, two small town girls with nothing on their minds but boys, boys and well, boys. I found myself sitting outside in the hallway a lot when the two girls were….ummm…entertaining, their individual boyfriends of the week, on their separate beds, together. The hallway floor and my soft blue and white one piece, zip-up robe became friends. The RA (Resident Assistant) couldn’t really do too much about it although she did offer me a seat on her bed once in a rare while.
As soon as I could, I asked for a transfer but it took months. Finally, I had a new roommate that was great but then, after a while, she left. The rest of the short semester I had a single. I loved it, every single, second of it. Call me antisocial, it felt like heaven.
Last night, after watching Master Chef on Hulu, I dreamt that I had sex with Gordon Ramsey (or was about to). Really, I don’t know why but he was all loving and tentative and whispering sweet things into my neck and not yelling at me at all. Let’s set the record straight, the Gordon Ramsey of Hell’s Kitchen would not be invited to my bed, lips, house, town, ever. Master Chef, Gordon Ramsey, was sweet and nurturing, tentative and very thoughtful. I was kind of disappointed when I woke up (no offense to my real life husband).
I have become more and more addicted to the Food shows on television. It started out just with the Food Network but I have branched out with Bravo, Discovery and The Cooking Channel or Food Channel, whatever it is called. I would like to star in Food 101, a show for us real people who have trouble making meatballs but we love to eat; except for odd things like goat and escargot and sushi, and rabbit. I can still remember the time I tried a tiny piece of goat and gagged. I enjoy lobster in a restaurant but cannot kill one. The one time my husband bought lobster, I went upstairs. I refused to watch him drop the poor lobster in boiling water and I thought that if I didn’t see it I could eat it. Couldn’t do it, the kitchen smelled like the beach and I ate a cream cheese and jelly sandwich, quite happily, upstairs in our bedroom, alone.
As many of you know, I have a love-hate relationship with Adam Richman host of Man vs. Food and some other show with Pig Out in the title. I would share a SMALL sandwich with him but he will not be in my dreams. Top Chef, with Padma Lakshmi and Tom Colicchio is another kind of fantasy. In this fantasy, I become Padma, I am Padma. I want to look like her, dress like her, basically I want to become her.
I am tired of cupcakes, I can’t stand the sight of another one so Cupcake Wars, which was a slight favorite at one point in my life is gone from my viewing schedule. All those 9,ooo pretty, silly cupcakes; I know I’m exaggerating but it’s getting annoying. The trend is really just about over, stop the cupcakes, turn off the oven, man up and eat a damn slice of cake or two.
The other show that I have turned people on to is Cake Boss. I want to BE a part of their family. No, seriously, I mean it. I love Buddy, his mother, his sisters, his wife, his guys in the kitchen, his bakery. Not only do I want to go there and buy one of everything but I would like to be invited to dinner every Sunday. Seriously. What a lovely man and a great family, sigh. I would NEVER fantasize about Buddy, because he would be like a brother to me, the brother I always wanted.
I was addicted to The Ace of Cakes but as much as I wanted to party at their place (because it always looks like a lot of fun at Duff’s bakery) I got bored with the introduction to the show, the cackling laugh, the same ‘ol, same ‘ol (just my opinion, ladies and gentlemen) and basically tired of the same, fantasy cakes: an airplane, a dog, baseball stadium, fire-crackers and way too much celebrity time. I think I really liked this show when it first started. Would I hang out with Duff and Mary Ellen? Anytime. Watch the show again? Not so much.
Some of you may be thinking that I watch too much television. You’re probably right although most are DVD’d. I spend a good amount of time in bed with a chronic illness so these shows, to me, are upbeat and entertaining, not to mention I love to eat. I’m a foodie, I am just not a great cook (okay, not even a good cook). I make a mean Banana Bread though, but make sure you don’t tell Bobby Flay.
Come here John Edwards and your little baby too! Wait. How’s this instead? Come here John Edwards and bring your sex video tape too. Does it sound like the Wicked Witch of the West running after Dorothy and little Toto? Great, it’s supposed to. Herewith are the makings of a very dirty, dramatic soap opera filled with love triangles, babies out-of-wedlock, political conniving, incurable diseases and a sex tape…..which are unfortunately and undeniably true. Allegedly.
I have to begin by declaring that I never liked John Edwards. I got bad vibes from him right from the start. It was something about his slick hair and apple-polished face. I was never a fan and can’t really say why except for something in the guy turned me off, he had a disingenuous feel about him; I didn’t trust him, nothing more, nothing less. Later this personal assessment was proven; this asshole decided to run on the Presidential ticket right about the time that his (as we thought then) precious wife was diagnosed with terminable cancer. Is it fair to judge his political expertise on that? No? Sorry, I did. The second he didn’t drop out of the Presidential race because his wife had cancer, he was lost to me. Gone. Done. No Do- overs. I did not want a man to run this country who wouldn’t want to be with his dying wife. Priorities. Oh, Poor Elizabeth, I tsked. Poor, poor Elizabeth. I truly felt sorry for this remarkable woman whose personal courage resonated in every part of me. Until….
I read that Elizabeth Edwards and her dear hubby John, both used her illness as STRATEGY for his campaign. “Let’s use your cancer diagnosis, we’ll get the sympathy vote.”( I’m paraphrasing.) What the hell? They used the “C” word, cancer, to work for them in his campaign? That’s low , in my opinion, not to mention tacky and heartless. It’s enough that I never liked him but now her too? She was pushing for this strategy? Oh no, tell me she didn’t!
This might be too much for my sensitive soul to take. I am running on emotional disgust fumes. Don’t like liars. Don’t like manipulators. On the other hand, I generally don’t like snitches but actually, in this case, I do. The snitches aka best friend and campaign manager, told the public, the truth. (Do I have to say allegedly again?)
I forgave Bill Clinton, I decided his private life was his business. I wasn’t thrilled when Monica Lewinsky found foster care in his office but I did not write him off. After all, that is one intense family and I know there is more to it than meets the eye. It was not my business (not that this is) and Bill was in office already when his state of “affairs” become more complicated.
John Edwards is now a new baby daddy. I can even, somewhat remotely, forgive a mistake BUT NOT this MANY and not with INTENT and MANIPULATION. He blamed his “fertility” on his friend and supposedly wanted to dupe the public with a fake diaper DNA test. I don’t even know how you can do that! Who thought up THIS storyline?
Supposedly, disgustingly, disturbingly, John Edwards told his lover that once his wife died they would get married and have their own family and that the Dave Matthews band would play at their wedding. Is that even believable? Really, you can’t get lower than that. Just hearing that makes me crazy and I can’t get rid of the image in my head and I have tried really hard!
John, you blew it, big time. Elizabeth, I still feel sorry for you that you have cancer but I would feel that way for anyone struggling with that horrid disease. I read that when Elizabeth Edwards heard about the love child that Johnny had with his lover “it made her throw up.” After reading about your escapades and writing about them, I know the feeling all too well. Both of you make me want to throw up.