I’ll tell you right now why I don’t like going to the gym. Closed captioning. That’s the reason. When I’m on the treadmill or the stationery bike or the Stairmaster, I, like most of my exercising counterparts, like to pretend I’m at home on my couch watching television. But at the gym we are forced to watch tv with the sound turned off and read the closed captioning. However, I am near-sighted. I am so nearsighted that this feat is not possible. Blur blur blur [music notes]. Blur blur blur [laughter]. This is no way to watch Ellen, and certainly no way to soak in CNN or sports highlights. That is the reason I don’t like going to the gym. Closed captioning.

 

Also the clothes. The reason I don’t like going to the gym is the clothes. Apparently, according to experts, the appropriate clothing for a workout is stretchy, tight fitting and revealing. The reasons I have read include ease of movement and ability to monitor body alignment. This is counter-intuitive to my motivations for going to the gym in the first place (e.g. hiding my body from sight under baggy, loose-fitting clothing). What kind of reveal will I have if I keep saying “ta-da” every day while exposing my lumpy lady bumps? So, the reason I don’t like going to the gym is closed captioning and the clothing.

 

Then of course there are the snacks. When I participate in sweat-inducing, rolled-up-sleeves work, I like to think that there are a slab of ribs, some cold beer in cans, and a selection of dips and crackers waiting for me on a table somewhere nearby. A reward for my hard work; the carrot I have been mentally dangling in front of my mule brain to keep me going. Have you seen the snacks at the gym? Water with electrolytes and hi-protein bars. This is not going to keep me pumping. If I was painting your house or moving your couch and you offered me water with electrolytes and a hi-protein bar I might un-paint a wall or somehow find the energy from that energy bar to remove your couch from the premises. So, to recap, the reason I don’t like going to the gym is closed captioning, the clothes, and the snacks.

 

Oh, and have you heard the music? I don’t consider myself an expert on music, but I do know what I like. I guess I am an expert on what I like. My expert opinion of the music at the gym is that don’t like it. I will go out on a limb and guess that the thumping bass lines and driving club beats are intended to subconsciously become the rhythm of my workout, or to make me feel something like, “Hell yeah! I can do this!” However, what the music at the gym makes me feel is “Who likes this? Is it 1989? Was it public outcry over music at the gym that inspired Steve Jobs to introduce the iPod?” Now, again, the reason I don’t like going to the gym: closed captioning, the clothes, the snacks, and the music.

 

Music reminds of lighting. I don’t like going to the gym because of the lighting. The lighting in gyms is generally of the fluorescent variety. Unlike everyone else on earth, I look terrible under fluorescent lighting. That was a joke. Nobody looks good under fluorescent lighting. Even thin muscular people look drawn and pale. I tend to look red and blotchy, with defined edges. That’s not really what I am going for. Perhaps the gym is giving us a dose of reality to keep us going. I say no thanks. The reason I don’t like going to the gym is closed captioning, the clothes, the snacks, the music, and the lighting.

 

Let’s not forget perspective. I don’t like going to the gym because of perspective. I don’t mean perspective like, “Working out is so insignificant when there are people starving right here in our own country.” No, I mean perspective like when you place a quarter next to an object in a photo to illustrate actual size. Once, when I was in Florida, the biggest spider on the planet was resting in my hotel bathtub so I placed a quarter next to it and snapped a picture. Sometimes at the gym I am the spider, and very rarely I am the quarter. When I am the spider I feel vulnerable and defensive and awful. When I am the quarter I feel superior and cocky and awful. So, now, again, the reason I don’t like going to the gym is closed captioning, the clothes, the snacks, the music, the lighting, and perspective.

 

And ouch! The cost! The reason I don’t like going to the gym is the cost. There is no such thing as a gym where you pay as you go, because you wouldn’t pay and you wouldn’t go. Every single gym in the world can reach into your bank account with its sculpted and flexed arm and withdraw a monthly fee whether you go to the gym or not. I have belonged to at least five gyms over my adult life, and in general have considered the monthly fee similar to an ongoing fine for misdeeds. Or much like some might consider alimony a fair price for freedom, I might consider gym dues a fair price for sloth. However, that said, the reason I don’t like going to the gym is closed captioning, the clothes, the snacks, the music, the lighting, perspective, and the cost.

 

Lastly, there’s prep time. I don’t like going to the gym because of prep time. If you read cooking magazines you’ll notice next to every recipe the editors provide a prep time, which is the amount of time estimated to prepare the delicious meal. This is fair warning that your Chicken Javier, while mouth-watering, will take two hours out of your life that you will never get back. Personal trainers, gym employees, health magazines and supportive friends offer gym prep times that have no basis in reality. When your trim, rock-hard friend claims she allots an hour for her daily trip to the gym, she is either lying, does not perspire, wears gym clothes all day long (see above regarding this topic) or is time-management-challenged. The finding, changing, driving, parking, actually working out, showering, re-changing, putting-on-of-a-face, self-congratulatory-post-workout-activity all take at least three hours. This is a scientific fact. (Note: data pending.) I will be mouth-watering, but I will be more time-intensive than Chicken Javier. So, finally, I don’t like going to the gym because of closed captioning, the clothes, the snacks, the music, the lighting,  perspective, the cost, and prep time.

 

I have also been mulling over the reasons I no longer enjoy going out to dance clubs. There was a time when a night flailing on the lighted floor was something I looked forward to all week. After much introspection, I have discovered some parallels that might ring true with others. So, please re-read the above, replacing “gym” with “dance club.” (Note: the following can also be substituted for clarity: MTV/silent movies for Ellen/CNN, martinis/olives for electrolytes/hi-protein bars, strobes/spotlights for flourescents.)

    

(Madame Luke is still alive, kicking, screaming and writing. She would like to mention that she does appreciate the magazines at the gym.

or
WHY AM I SO BUSY ALL THE TIME, NOW THAT I HAVE NOTHING TO DO...

The one-year anniversary of my self-imposed unemployment is fast approaching.  In one week I will celebrate the first of this annual event, in what I imagine to be many to come (I browse the jobs listings only casually, in case there is an opening for Slightly Motivated Curmudgeon or Opinion-Spouting Know-it-All).  In preparing for the big day, I am tempted to look back and ponder.  Actually, that’s not true.  In reality I’m tempted to forget I ever had a real job and have always spent my life in its current iteration, but after receiving my latest notice from COBRA regarding my health insurance benefits possibly expiring, I am tossed into the memoir game.

 

THE PLAN

 

I recall the giddiness of Summer 2008.  I vaguely feel the last remnants of anticipation, traces of motivation and the sweet aftertaste of delusions of grandeur as I stood on the verge of freedom.  I quit my job, a job I liked, was qualified for and at which I excelled.  I gave up “all that” to focus on more important things.  I was going to write great works, raise incredible children and improve my health and well-being.  I was going to concentrate on ME. 

 

Let me tell you something:  there is much less pressure when someone else is concentrating on ME.

 

THE REALITY

 

In the last year I have written…a bit.  In the last year I have spent endless hours with my incredible children, although taking any credit for the raising of or feeding/caring of them would be remiss.  I have gained and lost twenty pounds (I’d say “the same twenty pounds” but I suspect they are different pounds, since they seem to prefer residing in new places each time they re-appear – “An ankle!  We’ve never liked in a fat ankle before!”), and have torn a major tendon in my knee and had surgery on my right shoulder, so health and well-being is questionable.  I have concentrated – on internet social networking and losing all of my previous cooking skills.

 

BREAK IT DOWN

 

The Writing:

I don’t want to sound all couch-potato-y or slacker-like, so let me point out that I did actually meet a handful of deadlines, attain a few goals and kick some butt on a few writing fronts.  I showered, dressed and put my face on every single day, and often wore jewelry, the true sign of Not Wasting My Time.   The very day that I gave notice at my office, I also submitted a play for a staged reading in San Francisco.  “Ha!” I thought, “Today is clearly the first day of the rest of my life.  Surely this is how Sam Shepard started his illustrious (and overwhelmingly industrious) career.”  Over the next two months I apparently got a haircut, attended a bingo party and went to Laguna Seca for the MotoGP race, according to my detailed calendar.     However, my play was accepted, and by December was successfully staged (fabulous! wunderbar!), while I also brought a casserole to a block party, attended a same-sex wedding (no casserole required) and MC’d both a Halloween Carnival and Winter Holiday Parade.  January brought Punk Rock Bowling and March saw production of my “Big Love: The Bigfoot Musical” – a ten minute folk operetta.  Who’s the unemployed loser now!?   In addition to these completed projects, I also wrote two songs, the first scene of seven plays and the first paragraph of eleven essays, all of which are in turn hilarious, poignant, thought-provoking, insightful and barbed – some all at the same time.  I can’t wait to see how they turn out.  I wonder how that might happen.  (I also took a stab at short story writing, to no avail.  To tell you the truth it was kind of soppy, and I applaud the panel of reader-judges who rejected its inclusion in the project to which I was submitting.  Good call!)  I named my future memoir and anxiously await events to memoir-ize.

 

 

 

The Children:

Three children x lunches for an entire school year = Super Mom.  

This in itself must qualify me for some special place in mother-dom, or at least a barstool and a bottomless martini glass.  None of my children ate a single school lunch, no matter how hard I tried to convince them that for one day, one special hung-over or crampy or post-surgery day they could eat a shrink-wrapped hamburger or personal pizza provided by the kind people of the City of Santa Cruz.  They preferred my personal touches – bread and butter, seven Cheeze-Its, tap water in a thermos, formerly firm grapes.  Maybe they deserve the award for this.  Way to subsist!

Health and Well-Being:

I bought a lot of vitamins over the last twelve months.  I belonged to a gym.  I roller-skated.  I thought a lot about what I ate (I’m actually thinking about eating RIGHT NOW! Which is a totally different sentence than:  I’m actually thinking about eating right NOW.)  I have the fantastic good fortune to be involved in a sport that spouts body self-acceptance and empowerment as two of its basic tenets.  Huzzah!  Also, the more I practice this sport, the tighter my pants get.  Roller derby gives me giant thighs and a big bubble butt.  This works for me, and I’m not complaining.  It also gave me numerous aches, pains, tears, lesions and mystery bruises.  The toughest part is knowing when to go to the doctor, because honestly – it always hurts.  I suppose I could have a standing appointment after every week of practice, or have a monthly MRI, but that might take the fun out of it.  Bob, my x-ray technologist, and I are working on a future art exhibit once we get every part of my body zapped.  We are almost there! 

 

Concentrating on Me:

I have spent a lot of time with me lately - thinking about me, looking at me, talking to me.  I really thought I knew me, what with being me for the last forty-five years.  “This is boring,” I thought, “I’ve heard all of these stories already, and half of them aren’t true,” because I know me is a liar.  But then I realized something new about myself, and it was eye-opening, in a “Hmmm…that should have been obvious” kind of way.  I’ve been trying really hard for the last year to participate in a competitive sport.  In order to participate in a competitive sport, it helps to have a competitive personality.  I was under the impression that I had a competitive personality and would thrive in the woman-warrior versus woman-warrior culture of derby.  It was embarrassingly recent that I realized that my competitive spirit lies primarily in the realm of the intellect, and its verbal outlet.  “You use your mouth like a gun,” my father used to tell me, as far back as middle school.   It’s true.  My super-power is not physical dominance, intimidation or restraining methods.  My superpower is the Verbal Shrink Ray:  I will make you feel puny and insignificant using ten words or less.  This is a fantastic perk in the world of debate teams, playwrights and general smart-assery, but on the roller derby track it leaves me a little behind the curve.  When confronted with a fellow rolling behemoth in hot pants trying to knock me on my keister, my initial response is not the “fight” from “fight or flight.”  My involuntary response is “breathe fire” from the dragon section of my Chinese zodiac.  I’m more likely to lean in real close, helmet to helmet, and whisper through my mouth guard, “Your feral attempt at domination demeans us both, as does your witless nom de guerre.”   This could explain the numerous injuries (see above) and my lateral promotion to league announcer for the rest of the season. 

 

QUANTIFY IT!

12 months

112 skating practices

45 doctor appointments

5 haircuts

3 trips to Chicago

1 trip to Vegas

$0 income

365 days feeling pretty darned awesome

365 days feeling pretty darned desperate

365 days feeling pretty darned conflicted

mmmmm…writer-y

oxoxoxoxox

Madame Luke

or

 Fooled Me Twice For I Have Sinned…

Since becoming increasingly bored with the 2,813 songs on my iPod, I have found myself cruising the “dial” on my car radio once again.  As I run my endless errands around town, or drive the miles between my hometown and that of my parents’, I can conveniently flick the scan button on my steering wheel to browse the AM and the FM stratosphere, tuning in on whatever and whomever is in close enough range for my Pioneer to attract.  Most of the time I am not fully focused on the music, but looking for a palatable background for my inner monologue.  After a few weeks of excruciatingly un-scientific research (and no written documentation – it’s all up here, baby), I am prepared to make the following conclusive statements:

 

1. Christian Rock is Wily.  It takes approximately twenty-seven seconds longer to realize you are listening to Christian Rock than to realize you are listening to plain old suck.  Then you push the scan button because the devil made buttons on steering wheels.  Just for this.
2. Mexican Music Radio is 1992.  You remember 1992, don’t you?  It was nice and you liked it, so when you hit the Mexican Music Radio stations you forget to keep going.  You leave it.  After a few minutes, maybe after a new song starts, you think, “Wow, this is Mexican Music Radio, it’s not my thing,” and you move along, but really only out of habit.
3. Mexican Talk Radio is heroin.  You will stop on any Mexican Talk Radio, or Mexican Radio Commercial without even hesitating.  I don’t know if you can possibly hesitate to stop, because that doesn’t make sense, but there it is.  When you realize you are listening to the Spanish language during this last ten miles, you chuckle and think about all the things you believe you’ve just heard him say.  And how handsome he probably is.  But you press on.
4. Country Music is now, finally, outweighed by Mexican Music.  And that’s okay, because you can understand the words to Country Music and they make you feel bad and stupid and embarrassed to be of the same general gene pool.  At least with the Mexican Music you can imagine they are not singing about a truck and a brand of beer or belt buckle. 
5. Right Wing Talk Radio will fool you for seven seconds.  And then you remember that the other kind of Talk Radio went under.
6. Hip Hop Radio glorifies violence, since even the songs that are ant-violence have to rely on the proliferation of violence to be relevant.  And the love songs sound really corny.  So maybe these guys should just be spoken word artists.
7. If I Hear One More Dramatic Rock Song I Will Crash My Car Just To Kill My Radio.
8. NPR is flavorless. 
9. BBC is the new black.

I've designed a product to stop teenagers from borrowing your car:

So essentially she can make the choice while driving around town: pick her nose...or not.

(Okay, yes, this is the most crass post I've put out there in a long while, but have you LIVED WITH or SMELLED a teenager lately?

oxoxoxox
Kim

For those of us women-of-a-certain-age, I’m pleased to announce a new product on the market to battle mid-life crisis.  What?  Mid-life what?  I can hear you saying, “Kim, you’re much too clever to succumb to a banality such as MLC.”  Well, before you toss me right into the Erma Bombeck pile (a pile into which I’d humbly hunker down, by the way), let me do some ‘splainin’.

Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I am of-a-certain-age, or more accurately, approaching-a-certain-age.  Let’s also say, for the same argument, that I am female and don’t have the need to replicate the penis of my dreams with a Porsche Carrera.  Let’s also go out on a limb and assume I don’t need to get my groove back with a cabana boy.  What’s a girl to do?  I’ve got two words for you, and they are not Enchanted April.

See Candy Hooligan.  See Heather Headlocklear.  They go fast.  See Brawley Parton, Blonde Claude Van Damme and Raven Von Kaos try to stop them.  Hear Rogue Assasin and Robin Yo Life, barking orders from the bench.  They are all on skates, turning left, wearing helmets and pads and sweating like…like hard working kick ass women.  This is roller derby.  Welcome to my mid-life; crisis averted.

“Oh crap,” you are saying to yourself, or perhaps the person next to you, “another aging punk-riot-grrl-volvo-mom waxing poetic about roller derby and inner anger issues.”  I hope not.  “Ugh,” your second instinct kicks in, “another essay about the legitimacy of the “new” derby vs. the WWF leanings of the 1970’s teams we vaguely remember.”  I guarantee not.  (Suffice to say it’s real this time around; there’s no choreographer on the roster; there are medics.) No, this is about me, and that’s what makes it special.  Why I like derby, not why you should like derby.   I have easy answers, and they’re not about hitting other girls.  Let’s break it down, outline style:

 Roller Derby is the perfect sport for Kim because it encompasses three of the five top motivating factors for any activity, hobby or pastime she’s been able to focus on for more than nine days, without the aid of chemical stimulants.  (This would be my thesis.)

I. Drag Queens
    A. “larger than life”
    B.  fabulous names
    C.  pantyhose with shorts

II. Perspiring (aka sweating)
    A. denotes exerting effort, on purpose
    B. sports for post-punk rockers
        1. bowling
        2. beer bowling
        3. roller derby

III. Collective Unconscious
    A. tap dancing
    B. “the wave”
    C. The Chicago Bulls “Three-Peat”
    (don’t worry, I’ll explain these)

I’ll skip the whole “skated when I was a kid” thing.  Really, who cares.  We all did.  Or didn’t.  Or wish we had, or hated someone who tried, or collected spoons instead.  Feh.  Let’s just get to the drag queens, shall we?  Assuming everyone understands my thesis…

Drag queens are awesome, metaphorically and (usually) literally.  I have a special place in my heart for drag queens, maybe because I have now and then been mistaken for one, or because during the early 1980’s in the new wave and punk rock scenes of my formative years, drag queens were the protective overlords of a sometimes scary world.  Skinheads getting you down?  Run to China White or Vaginal Davis.  They’ll make it better.  Being larger than life allowed them to cross barriers of ignorance, bias and pure lunkheadedness with grace, aplomb and humor (1+1+1 = Fabulous!)   In a world where Elizabeth Taylor, Carol Channing and Phyllis Diller can’t exist and thrive anymore, Elizabeth Sailor, Feral Channing and Syphilis Killer can.  Which brings me to the names…ah, the names. 

As demonstrated above, no queen in her right mind would be seen (heard? called?) without a moniker that both nods to the glamour and glitz of a spotlight faded, and hints at a shady underbelly for the denizens with entree to the dark side (and, as a bonus, proves what a clever little bitch you really are).  Talulah Bunkbed and Zsa Zsa LaHore are one duct-tape-party away from being derby names.  Like most derby ladies, I have a list of potential names that stretches for pages.  I briefly considered the name Mid-Life Isis until research revealed Isis as the “perfect wife and mother.”  Um…not the bar I want to set, and really, not very threatening on the track:  “Oh, no!  Here comes that perfect wife and mother! Don’t get nurtured!!” (And, for the record, our league is one of a handful that does not allow skaters to adopt a name until they have reached a predetermined level of skating finesse, commitment and community involvement.  I’ll be there any day now.)

Last but definitely not least in this drag queen category is the wearing of pantyhose with short shorts.  This is one of my favorite combinations, first attempted in the late 1970’s during roller boogie and new wave days, and then abandoned under the peer pressure of everything after that.  But I’ll make this confession right now – I was always one of those “bike shorts under the skirts” girls.  You know who you are, and you KNOW you are also pantyhose with short shorts girls, way deep down inside.  Think about it:  anything that might jiggle is being held in check; many of the minor “surface-of-the-moon” areas of the leg are being smoothed out; skin color variations are being blended into one long Mattel matte masterpiece of perfection, and all coming out of a pair of shorts, the resulting effect  enough to send Jack Tripper into wild fits of Chrissy and/or Janet delight. Now put on a pair of knee socks (no, they do not by law have to be striped) and you will feel the Charlene Tilton glee you so richly deserve. ‘Nuff said.

Perspiration is a sticky subject.  I’m a sweaty girl, I’ll admit it.  When I work at something, I sweat.  I always have.  I spent most of my life looking for solutions to the problem, seeking relief from the pit stains, the wet upper lip, the drips down my back.  I avoided certain types or colors of clothes, especially during the summer in Los Angeles and Chicago.  Eeew.  But the fact of the matter is, when taking part in hard-ass activity that is supposed to make you sweat, the feeling is really very different, and not a lot of people look at you sideways. It feels good, because from what I hear, that’s what sweating is for.  Weird.  So right now, typing and sweating = gross.  Tonight at practice skating, falling and sweating = great.  Sweating is like vacuuming; instant visible results.  “I’m working hard.  See how hard I’m working?  Wow, check out my hardworking body!  I am rocking this.”    And I’m doing it on purpose.  I’m not going to be embarrassed or hide in the corner and keep my arms down at my side, because I got all stinky on purpose.  Woot!

Which brings me to…Not A Lot Of Sports For The Former Punk.  I know a lot of old punks.  Maybe I am an old punk.  There’s a very short list of sports that these people, male and female, take part in.  The list is: bowling and beer bowling.  The difference between the two is subtle.   During legitimate bowling, beer is consumed when thirsty or in a celebratory manner.  During beer bowling, beer is consumed for every strike, spare, split, or gutter ball.  You will find most beer bowlers are in a constant state of training. Roller derby, in my opinion, is a viable option to add to this list.  Alas, there is no “beer derby.”

Now on to the collective unconscious.  “What the hell does Jungian theory have to do with roller derby?” is what you are thinking.  Or perhaps, “What is Jungian theory?” or even “Jung?  Huh?”  Simple explanation of Jungian theory:  The steam engine was invented on opposite sides of the planet at approximately the same time in history.  A sameness in thinking.  My childhood experience with a different version of Jungian expression was group tap dancing – thirty people performing difficult routines beyond the skill level of many of us, flawlessly, perfectly synchronized, feet taking over thought.  Theater performances can have experiences similar to this. Sports teams experience this.  Musicians and mountain climbers experience this.  A group sameness in thinking.  Sometimes it’s mental, sometimes it surpasses the mental and is purely physical, as a group.  It is an amazing feeling.  I’ll bet you weren’t expecting that, were you?  All deep and woo woo.

So let’s talk about the wave.  I love the wave.  It’s not that old, the first usually credited to a hockey game in 1980.  It’s another “group think” phenomena that fascinates me, but is especially dear to my heart because one is forced to rely on complete strangers who feel like idiots to NOT B ne who stands up.  What if you really are the only one who waves at the wrong time.  What if you are the only one who says “whoo!” when you wave.  What if you forget you have soda and popcorn in your lap when you stand up.  There are so many ways to be vulnerable, and so many partially sober people take the chance.  Love the wave.  Embrace the wave.   It will make you human.  The sold-out crowds at the derby bouts in our town have finally, with heroic leadership, conquered the wave. 

And conquering, and collective unconscious and the wave all lead me to the Chicago Bulls 1991,’92,’93 NBA Championships, or to put it in the vernacular of the day, the Three-Peat.  I lived in Chicago during this basketball dynasty and have to tell you that I wasn’t a big fan, despite sharing a birthday with Michael Jordan or having a brother-in-law with an eery white-guy-version-spitting-image of Scotty Pippin.  However, when there’s a home team that rocks, ANY home team that rocks the way that those Bulls rocked, everyone becomes a fan.  There was a feeling in every neighborhood in Chicago
during the play-offs that the world was a good place, and Chicago was a great place, and your neighbors – all three million of them – were super cool individuals.  The roller derby league in my town is the only public sports team that has events open to the public.  To quote our most recent inside joke, “we’re kind of a big deal.”  We sell out the 1,300-seat Civic Auditorium for every home bout.  Fans make signs, wear t-shirts, display stickers on their cars.  The All-Star skaters sign autographs after every event and at community outreach gatherings.  Having this team, this league, in this town is uniting people from all sorts of backgrounds and it’s wonderful.  After we win (or in one case, lose) a bout, it’s not fourteen skaters who won.  It’s 1,300 people who won.  Just like in Chicago it was three million people who won.  And I remember how fun that was, even as more of a spectator to it all.  (See, the longer this piece goes on, the cornier it gets.  Roll over, Mrs. Bombeck.) 

In conclusion, from drag queens to perspiring to Carl Jung, roller derby is for me.  And I don’t give a hoot if it’s for you.  I’ll skate, get hurt, get better, wear my pantyhose and shorts and somehow feel that I’m part of a bigger whole, and it’s okay if you aren’t there doing the wave.  You’ll have to guess which cleverly-named giantess is me.  As for the other two motivating factors that need to be present to hold my attention, it just dawned on me that derby’s got those as well:  an audience and theme music.  So, see you on the flat track.  Or not.  Suit yourself.

(Madame Luke grew up in a small town with two roller skating rinks, an Olympic-size ice rink, a quarter-mile paved race track, and a dirt track, and has therefore been turning left since she was a wee child.  After lengthy stays in Los Angeles and Chicago she currently lives in a smaller town with lofty ideals.)

As I ride my bike while eating an apple, both essential elements of my New Healthy Lifestyle Regime, I suddenly choke on a large bit of healthiness and start coughing uncontrollably, wobbling dangerously in and out of the bike lane, tears streaming down my cheeks as I gasp desperately in search of an inhale, my vision blurred as I become lightheaded, slapped unexpectedly by that damned Australian Willow because I forgot to duck, and in the final moment before what I consider to be my imminent death I recall all of the Crunchy Taco Supremes that I’ve scarfed behind the wheel of my Land Rover, with nary a thought of death or choking since there are both a Diet Pepsi and a driver’s side airbag ready for immediate deployment, and I wonder…is this irony or a karmic sucker punch?

oxoxoxackackack
Kim

p.s. I survive.

FREQUENTLY ASKED AND/OR SHOUTED QUESTIONS, ADMONISHMENTS, AND/OR ACCUSATIONS:  A TEENAGE PRIMER FOR PARENTS

“I didn’t ask to be born!”
You’re right.  You’re grandmother asked you to be born.  You should take this up with her.

“I wish I were never born!”
This would have caused major discomfort on the part of your mother.  A woman’s body is only capable of sustaining life internally for the first nine months.  Truly, it was time.

“Why are you treating me like a child?”
You are wearing a Dr. Seuss hat and shoes with over-sized toes.  I thought it was what you wanted. 

“Why don’t you trust me?”
Why don’t you trust me? (repeat ad-infinitum until one party gives in.)

“You’re not the boss of me!”
No, I’m not.  Stan Appleton is the boss of you, which reminds me, he called earlier and said your Thursday shift starts at 4:00 instead of 4:30.  Don’t be late and don’t wear the Dr. Seuss hat again.

“My life sucks!”
Well, yeah. 

“This is bullshit!”
This is actually pretty honest and straightforward.  Bullshit generally refers to lying or connivery.  Well…I guess the whole “why don’t you trust me” thing was kind of bullshit.  Maybe you got me there.

“I hate you!”
Hate is such a strong word.  Maybe you mean you strongly dislike the manner in which I…whoa! Hey! Pretty strong kid, now, aren’t ya?  Okay, hate it is, then.  Hey…I can’t see from inside this hat.  Hello?  Did you leave?  I still love you!

FREQUENTLY ASKED AND/OR SHOUTED QUESTIONS AND/OR ACCUSATIONS:  A DIVORCE PRIMER

“Do you still love me?”
Well, drawing on my fourth grade standard of “would I cry if you died?” I would have to say, yes. 

“Did you ever love me?”
Yes.  I would always have cried if you died, again, fourth grade talking here.

“Why are you treating me like a child?”
You are leaving me for the babysitter.  I thought it was what you wanted.

“Will you ever trust me again?”
No.

“You’re not the boss of me!”
No, I’m not.  My attorney, James Halfernen, is the boss of you, which reminds me, he called earlier and said the restraining order starts today at 4:00 instead of 4:30. 

“My life sucks!”
Ha ha ha ha!

“This is bullshit!”
You shouldn’t swear in front of the children.  Oops! That’s your girlfriend.

“I hate you!”
I hate you! (repeat ad infinitum until one party dies and the other cries.)

oxoxoxox
Kim (loves her teen and not getting a divorce)

Not to sound old or anything, but I can't believe how much has changed since the last time I posted here on my own comfy little space in the interwebnet.  It has just taken me fifteen minutes to figure out how to "blog now!" as the highlighted box states, which really sounds more like something you'd recommend to a good friend after a long night of drinking.  "Really, blog now and you'll feel better.  There, behind the Buick, by those Hurley shorts"  I'm used to banging my head against the silicon ceiling, but unfortunately all the cleverness and kicky observations I've been waiting to write about have now turned into stream of consciousness blog-shopping paranoia.  "Should I quit xanga?  Where would I go?  What about all this brilliance I've...shat here.  What will become of it?"  So now I'm just emotionally spent. 

But I will share one thing with you that made me excruciatingly happy.  Too happy, really, for what it is.

It's a Cupcake Courier.  That's right - it couries...carries cupcakes.  36 of them, in triple-stacked, frosting-protected, June-Cleaver-Martha-Friggin-Stewart style. 

And you know what?  I was so excited when I turned the corner in Target that I squealed.  I squealed! 

I love the cupcake.  The perfect cake-to-frosting ratio; the single-serving-no-knife-no-cutting-pieces of it; the self-contained cake-within-a-cup of it (Want the flower?  The end piece?  The middle?  Okay!)

And now, when I am called upon to provide cupcake pleasure (or muffin almost-pleasure) to children and adults alike, I will do so in style (note handy dandy handle).  No more wrangling squished overcrowded treats on rusty baking sheets.  Ha! 

More soon.  Coming attractions:  I joined the roller derby league, quit my job, have vertigo and a new band, also photos. 

Love always,
Kim

 At the risk of flashing my virtual birth certificate, I am going to wax poetic momentarily about sports in the seventies.   They were scrappy, sloppy, sponsored by spark plug and hair product companies, and had stars that literally looked like you and me.  And believe me, you and me (…I)  weren’t all that hot.  (I’m not including Joe Namath in this list.  He was hot even without the pantyhose.  If you don’t know what I mean, I know how old you are.)  I remember roller derby.  Not Raquel Welch and James Caan roller Derby, but locally televised regional derby with banked tracks and tough people.  I also remember dirt track racing.  (The track of my youth was paved, and was only recently sold and turned into a…strip mall.  Our local track is dirt – and thriving, thank you very much.) 

I am so excited to tell you that I witnessed first hand the opening night of our very own local Santa Cruz Roller Girls’ victory match over the Silicon Valley Roller Girls last night inside our Civic Auditorium, a flat former basketball court, where our county symphony currently performs.  I screamed, I yelled, I boo-ed.  I took part in a pitiful crowd wave (we live by the beach, people, get it together).  I was happy happy happy.

Here is a working list of roller derby names I have started, and will add to at will:

Bessie Mae Mucho
Bi Furious
The Mad Cow
Ida Throttleya
Gina Lola-Midget-a
Alexis of Evil
DeDe Dementia
The Sick Shiksa
Vickie Vortex

and the current favorite (drum roll.....)

Corpus Christie (with a skulls over the i's)

 

If this is creativity, I’ll take scotch...

I
have ideas. I have kids. I love my kids. I love my ideas. I have very
little patience. My ideas don't make noise unless I create it. My kids
make noise even when I ask, at varying levels of civility, to hush,
wait, play quietly or shut the hell up while mommy is functioning
artistically. Then again, my kids are creative and I have blatantly
ripped off my daughter as she plays piano, recording her secretly so I
can steal her idea for one of my songs later. She's nine, she'll never
know. Well, she will, but her concept of intellectual property is not
as developed as mine yet. I need peace and quiet. A lot. My kids hate
peace and quiet. A lot. They consider it a punishment. I'm not certain
that we would each share 29 points of compatibility. For instance, I
have been married and they have not. I can enjoy eating, saying and
spelling cous cous. They only enjoy one of these. Today I'm thinking
that not only am I pro-choice, but maybe choice should be retro-active,
perhaps to age 25, according to my mom. I think maybe Bill Cosby even
said something along the lines of "Look kid, I brought you into this
world, I can take you out." Well, it doesn't sound like Bill Cosby,
does it. Maybe he was trying to function artistically at the time and
his kids were trying to play Kerplunk.

Kim

one loud child, cleverly disguised as a charming gentleman.  do not be deceived.  he will not buy you a glass of wine nor will he discuss literature, drama or "old Paris" with you.  he will only yell "poop" and run away.

funny thing about this one, adopting the collective history of approximately 70% of his classmates, he now tells me he was born in Chicago and then moved here (to the central coast of California) where he had to learn English, since he only spoke Spanish as a baby.