Amnesia

April 14, 2009 - Leave a Response

I need to vent these three things:

1. My patchouli soap makes me smell like bootie. It seemed innocuous in the packaging but every morning I wander around hoping no one tries to determine the exact location of that faintly “unwashed” smell. And, I’m too cheap to throw it out.

2. At some point I accidently forgot that Every Single Guy (double meaning there) I know is a musician. Or refers to themselves as one, making the Performing Arts the single most over represented, and under appreciated career choice in this great state. Please, for the love of all that is decent and acceptable, stop pretending that your pipe dreams of being a rock star are in any way achievable (or even desired by anyone who has heard you play or sing anything, ever. ) and get a real job.

3. Someone that I work with appears to have amnesia, as well as the Master Key to the school house that the entire staff has been searching for, for roughly seven months. This someone also seems to forget that all of the Good Art Supplies went missing before I showed up to teach, and wants me to produce supplies that haven’t been in the Art Room for over three years. It amazes me on a daily basis, but today. Today it just irritated me. 

Now I tell you the reason for my venting: I set an alarm clock ambush for myself this morning, and then promptly forgot about it. That is until I had submarines, and Harry Potter and Johnnie Cochran all comin’ at me from different angles, and I spontaneously combusted in a nervous sweat all over my bedroom. It’s enough to make you cry. I think I did.

Don’t touch my guitar.

April 9, 2009 - Leave a Response

After surfing the net a bit, and reading a lifetime’s amount of blogs I’ve realized that we are all just a touch too serious, and philosophical. 

I’ve felt bad for a long time, thinking that my self absorbed me me ME, posts are boring, but then I reviewed how boring it is to read other people ranting about romance and broken relationships and things of that nature. Maybe I’m jaded and bitter. Maybe I’m easily bored.

Maybe…these things are all related…maybe I’m too self absorbed to care.

“Isn’t there a song about Paint it Black?”

April 8, 2009 - Leave a Response

“Yes, (me singing) ‘I see a red door and I want to paint it black.’ It’s on Guitar Hero.”

Student-“Is that a new song? It sounds like My Chemical Romance trying to sing.”

Me-“It sounds like me trying to sing like a late 70’s rock band.”

LZF

April 7, 2009 - Leave a Response

A post where I indulge in a little bit of racial profiling. 

My good friend Lisa and I have this little code phrase. The origination of the letters is somewhat obscure, and the application of the phrase somewhat more so. St. Patties day of last year, just after we’d seen Mini-Kiss live, we returned to my abode at 21:00 hours. At this point she told me that the letters LZF on a license plate made her think of me and impulsively declared that “anytime either of us see the letters on a license plate we should pray for each other” at this moment we both realized that I had LZF on my license plate so I jokingly stated that, “I guess you need a lot of prayer, huh Li?”

She left my house moments later only to promptly total her vehicle blocks away by turning it in a ditch, to awake in pristine condition in an amnesiac haze to our friend Taylor and the rest of his EMT buddies prying her out of the wreckage with the jaws of life.  Needless to say intentionally or otherwise LZF became a part of our vernacular.

Yesterday as I was driving on Hot Spring’s one “busy” multi-lane mixer I got a text from Lisa that said, “LZF, u ok?”

Immediately I looked around to ascertain that I was, in fact ok, not so much out of superstition, but just to see. Just like every morning when I wake up, “Yes, I am still here and breathing. Check. Good…now coffee.” 

Then out of nowhere my driver’s side window exploded. It sounded like a gunshot, and I was pretty sure I had been. I slowed down, and got off the bypass to check. Once I ascertained that I was in fact ok, I started searching through my phone for my glass guy’s number (yes, I have a glass guy, I’m prone), when a Black Dude pulled up kinda wide-eyed and freaked out lookin and asked, “Hey, you ok?” I said, “Yes. I’m fine, I swear. Thank you for your concern, but really I’m ok.” I’ll interpret the next series of emotions that crossed his face, “Damn, I always know’d white ladies was dangerous. Who tryin’ to bust a cap in her?! Who the hell did she piss off? I’m gettin the f-k outta here, for somebody show up to finish her off.”

Properly he assumed I’d been shot at. 

The next person that pulled up was Black Teacher Lady. She was immediately concerned. Said, “Girl, I heard that gun shot clear over from the Hot Springs High School. I know God be protectin you. Clearly, if He’s got your back, you’re ok-so I’ll keep movin.”

Properly she assumed that I’d survived a harrowing experience with nary a scratch because God isn’t done with me yet.

The last person to show up is Middle Aged White Lady in Gym Clothes, who stopped because of all the glass, and to make sure I wasn’t in shock. Firstly, if someone was going to drive through all that glass without her body standing over it then bully for them (I’d already busted the rest of it out with a hammer at that point). Secondly, I may be white, but I’ve had several other delightfully sickening life experiences before. This was kid stuff, and I wasn’t that weak. She made me call the cops, and file a report and wouldn’t leave until I did. It was cold, she was persistent, so I did. The cop and I kind of exchanged patronizing glances about her while I pretended to tell him important details of the incident, but instead was giving him the play-by-play of the glass flying everywhere, and then how I pulled out my emergency kit and busted the glass out with a hammer, and then could I go please, cuz my glass guy was waiting on me a few blocks away?

Then Lisa was excited that I had a story to tell, and we drank tea and chatted about all our “experiences” together where we were sure God had prevented us from imminent disaster, and also how much we actually hated Peoria, Illinois no matter what we told that lady the other day.

Oblivion

April 1, 2009 - One Response

I have gone much of my life being preoccupied. In my own little corner-my own little chair, if you will. It’s been a coping mechanism, of sorts.

 

It ALWAYS, everytime, without fail, surprises me when I notice other people who are further in oblivion than I am. My lord, how could ANYONE be more self-absorbed than me? Like, really? One of my fellow teachers failed to notice the hour long wait it took us to get to school today, due to a head-on collision that resulted in victims being air-evaced out. How. COuld. ANYONE not notice that?

Yesterday I dug out as many really really bad kid pictures as I could for a game we are playing for a friend’s 30th on Friday. I was shocked to notice that they weren’t that bad. I look downright clueless in most of them, and also more than a little dweebie. But the seething ugliness that I felt in childhood? it just wasn’t there. I was kind of a little cute even. Weird.

In Other Words

March 30, 2009 - Leave a Response

I have finally decided on a nome de plume.

Drum roll please…(no drumroll? it’s ok, I understand, no hard feelings)

Raquel Racontuer. Now that I’ve written it down it seems kind of pretentious.

But it’s kind of an alliteration, and that’s nice, right? _ _ _No? Well, what about how it kind of means something? _ _ _Not good either? Ok what if I pretend that the big word is meant to portray the questionable morality behind what only appears to be a children’s book? Oh, yeah-I guess it is a dumb name. I tried.

 

Story #1 is titled Lilly White Princess Gets a Job. Right now I’m trying to decide whether or not to make it stick figures, or real live illustrations. I may need some bones thrown my way (no gentlemen-not that kind of bone, not today.) once I get the text more concrete.

p.s. anybody have any job leads for me Lilly White?

Recently.

January 4, 2009 - Leave a Response

In more recent times, like just now-or even way back five minutes ago, I’ve discovered that I find my very own posts boring. This will be discouraging to my future career as a B-list novelist.

Its a fact. Its actual. Everything is satisfactual.

January 4, 2009 - Leave a Response

 

The other day a friend of mine  and I were talking about what his “cultural” name was. He seemed hesitant to say, and after squeezing it out so fast not even Superman would have heard it, he told me that he doesn’t like the name because, and I quote, “It makes me seem like a FOB, and FOB’s stink-like literally they smell.”

Well, frankly I had to ask what on earth a FOB was before deciding to refrain from mentioning that the concept of anyone, much less Asian immigrants, arriving here by boat is simply archaic. Outdated in every sense of the word. Not only that-what’s wrong with being a FOB? who wouldn’t smell after living on a boat for months? Has he smelled anybody at the gym recently? Hell, I’m from Arkansas-who am I to judge?

And then it hit me. I’m not exactly in line for the privilege of shouting from the rooftops that I’m not as important and cultured as I try to pass myself off. I mean, my proudest moment is not that my mother started wearing shoes to grocery shop when it occurred to her that a grown ass woman probably should not be pushing a baby in a stroller, barefoot through the store.

And Religiously I’ve got nothin’ to brag about either. I grew up in what is often considered a less desirable kind of church-not super popular now-a-days in a society that openly mocks and humiliates even more tolerant and sophisticated Christians. My daddy was a hippy that one day woke up from what I can only assume was another night of binge drinking, to realize his need for Jesus. He found the first Jesus Freak he could, grabbed him by the collar and said, “You one of those Jesus people? I need to get saved!” 

So here I am, running in circles with people that would do Christian Lander’s most snide blog entries proud, trying not to attract too much attention to how hillbilly I really am. Why is it so hard to believe that my friend might feel the same way? Perhaps his cultural confusion doesn’t seem quite as embarrassing to me, because I see nothing wrong with it. It does make you wonder though, at what point did somebody start feeling special enough to be the judge?

Sometimes ya got somethin’ ta say.

October 6, 2008 - Leave a Response

 

 

I uh, commissioned a friend of mine’s “Shaman” to handmake me a pair of moccasins. This man, though he may be strange and tiny braided, makes the most beautiful moccasins. I have been waiting about two years to ask him to make me a pair. Then one day, his appearance and my $100 showed up at the same time and I commissioned them.

Friday night came, and I went to pick them up (all little-girl-at-Christmas excited about it too) and when i walked into the gallery-they were white. White leather my friends. I had a very hard time not seizing right there, but I’m a grown up so I happily put them on and scooted around in my $100 walmart sack looking Moccasins, and then lied ever so graciously about how fabulous they were. Then I hightailed it out-because I didn’t know how to politely say, “These are the ugliest, most humiliating things I have ever seen in my life. I look like a Grandma-Majorette-Nurse, and those three things are three things I have never in my life wanted to be, much less look like. I demand new ones, in brown like normal people! Take this scurf back!”

I’ve been thinking about what Sarah said

June 24, 2008 - One Response

She said that in her Development of Human Psychology class (I think that’s what it was called), she learned that women tend to think they are less good looking than they really are, and men tend to think they are much better looking than they really are. I think this is probably somewhat true. I think I am not that good looking, and some guys thinks I am hot, and some don’t. I don’t think I am empirically good looking, but the point is-I know lots of guys that think they look better than they do. Plus, I know lots of girls that want these guys that aren’t quite as good looking as they carry themselves.

No big deal. Usually, I can’t stand good looking guys because they are such douche bags, or perhaps just incredibly vain. Typically in the past I’ve gone for some fairly gnarly looking fellas, so it stands to reason that I have deigned myself a female that is “impervious to good looks”…..