Because I am leaving work early, and have been a tad busy, I submit the beginnings of a children's story I started about 3 years back. I had to stop because I was becoming insane with the use of 9 syllables in every line. Although it is my intention to go back to it, hopefully by next week. Of course, I am thinking of illustrating this as well. That should be fun.

The Lonely Spider: A Tale Woven Especially for You

A spider lonely? How could it be?
By reading this tale you just might see.
First, lets begin a long time ago,
So I can relay all that I know.

While walking along a path one day,
my ears heard the whisper “Want to play?”
“Of course,” I said turning around,
But search as I might, nothing was found.

How curious. I thought to myself.
Could it be an invisible elf?
“Hello” I said, “I will play with you.”
Please don’t hide. “What would you like to do?”

But there was no response, nothing said
I waited, listened and then just pled
“Answer now or off to home I’ll go.”
And then came a voice, afraid and low.

“I am here, down here, just by your knee.”
“You are where?” I said with utmost glee.
So look down I did and with surprise,
I found a spider before my eyes.

“You’re a spider, I can’t play with you.”
“Whatever could we possibly do?”
You can’t swim or run or even bat,
We’re different, its as simple as that.”

“Before you saw me, you would have played.”
“You said so yourself, and even stayed.”
“Why has that changed upon seeing me?
“Just be my friend,” the spider did plea.

And so I stood and looked in his eyes.
They were blotchy and then came his cries.
“We are different, but that could be good,
Please be my friend. Do you think you could?”

I love San Francisco. I adore its weather, its beauty and its plethora of comedic relief in the form of the hippy. However, there is one tidbit about this fair city that I can't freaking stand. And that is simply, the lack of public transportation etiquette. I lived in Boston for 31 years before moving, and there were "Rules of the T." No, they were not written down, nor was there a class taught about the basic ground rules. But you know what, we waited until the people got off the bus or train before entering. Yep, it is true. And you know why? Because it is really fucking hard to get off the train when a sea of people are coming aboard. Also, we used the word "excuse me" when say brushing against someone on our way off. Yep, crazy Bostonians. Here though, I don't get it. Basically when the door opens it is akin to a football being snapped. Offensive (people coming on) and Defensive (people getting off). I have pushed, clawed and hip checked people on my way out at times. Also, I have this thing about strange people touching me, even the slightest contact sort of makes my skin crawl. Especially if they are sweaty. Thus my Frodo like tendency to "find the solo seat." Today, the bus was crowded - luckily I found a seat between two people who did not look like they would give me Ebola. I sat down, happy. Until the next stop brought a wave of person. Crowds crushed in, and I got a bit sick in my stomach. This woman before me stopped and sort of straddled my legs, and I could not help to think that she was trying to get off as she kept leaning forward invading my personal space until finally I moved my legs out of her bowlegged masturbatory grip. Repulsed and counting to 20 slowly as to calm myself from screaming bloody murder, I was happy in the fact that it is March 30. As I have moved, I did not renew my Muni pass for April. My only trip on the bus being a night trip to the gym, and at night, I don't fear my leg being molested by 70 year old poontang. So getting up 15 minutes early in order to walk to work will be well worth the effort, and the escape from the sick touch fest that defines a morning commute.

This morning I overhead the following conversation between two boys ages 7 or 8.

Glasses Boy: Do you know that it takes 100 people to kill an elephant.
Other Boy: No.
Glasses Boy: Yeah, its true.
Other Boy: Really? I would think 1,000 people.
Glasses Boy: Maybe. Maybe with a boy elephant.
Other Boy: Yeah, definitely a boy elephant.

I sat there stunned. First, when did elephants become so popular with today's youth that tales of how many people it takes to slay them is appropriate morning conversation and why the heck does it take 900 more people to take down a boy elephant. What was the girl elephant PMSed and they threw her some dark chocolate or better yet did they call her fat and she crumbled to a heap in tears easily caught. Boys.

Two stories about my mother and her often wacky sense of perception. One day in the mid to late 80s, my mother and I were driving in our lovely AMC Concord. The cars of my youth were a baby blue pinto, a brown pinto, the AMC Concord, a red Hyundai and a grey Hyundai. As you can see, we were lovers of the cheap. Truthfully I am surprised that a Yugo was not purchased. My Dad's car at the moment is a Ford Focus, so yes, the madness continues. The first car he got for me was a 1984 Ford LTD. Nothing says cool like a 10 foot long car with a door length capable of tripping passerbys on the opposite side of the street. Anyway, as we progressed down the street my mother happily chirping away, out of no where runs a squirrel who was immediately greeted with the wheel of the tire, his fate obviously sealed. My mother, in this instant, turns to me unfazed and says "Did you see that? That squirrel had suicide in his eyes." Ah, my mom. I do love her.

The second story is a bit more personal as it involves a momentous occasion in a young girl's life, but I will share. One morning during my junior year, crippled with the joy of being a girl, I had run out of maxi pads. I went downstairs to inquire of my mother if she had any I could use. She stated, no, but that she had tampons. I was a bit hesitant, but she informed me that it was no big deal and got the box, and handed me the instructions. So upstairs I went and read how the tampons were created by a woman gynecologist, and how they were specially formulated to adjust accordingly to the unique shape of a woman. Thankfully I had finished health class so I knowingly nodded. Confident, I took a tampon, unwrapped its plastic wrapper, and took the string and flared the bottom so as to insert it with my finger as instructed. Always a nerd when it comes to directions. I then stood up, and as suggested, put my left foot up on the toilet, squatted a bit, took a deep breath and inserted. As I pushed up I felt a tear and a terrible pain hit my gut immediately so much so I let out a yelp. But within a few minutes I was fine, so I got dressed and met my mother in the kitchen. "How was it?" she asked. "Good, although I felt this sorta tear that really hurt." "Don't worry, it won't happen again. You'll be fine." It was then that I realized that I had taken my virginity in my bathroom at 7:45 a.m. with the assistance of my mother. And nope, no amount of therapy can help that.

If I were a male midget wrestler, my name would be the Wee Warrior. I would wear a metal studded black leather wrestling pant, with matching boots - the laces would gleam as they were dipped in titanium. I would date a tall and attractive woman who would refer to me as her human tripod. I would enter the ring to the sounds of Tiny Dancer, a testimate to my size as well as my most aerobic wrestling moves. My signature move would be the Tazmanian Twist, which would involve hurling myself off the top ropes onto my opponent, swirling and clawing my way around them like a demented devil all while screaming a high pitch wail of the banshee. Children would cry, women would swoon and men would envy, all if I were a male midget wrestler.

Drunk Bus Lady I Love You. I recently got a new mobile phone, with all the bells and whistles - polyphonic ring, color display, camera. Basically a complete waste of money as I hate talking on the phone and receive about 3.2 calls a year. However, it was free with rebates, so the purchase. If curious, it is the Sony Ericsson S710a, Stars Wars edition. And no, I did not know that when I purchased the phone - but honestly a ring tone that echos CP30's "the probability of getting hit by a meteor is approximately 1,578,042" is annoyingly cool (and anyone considering e-mailing me about that number being inaccurate - this is probably why you don't date). One day I was previewing the games, and low and behold the number one downloaded game was Tetris Deluxe. As a huge Tetris fan whose free time for an entire year consisted of nothing more than my Nintendo Game Boy, Tetris and dreams of interlocking blocks, I decided there would be no way in hell that this game would be purchased. EVER. Until the fateful day when I got locked out and had nothing to do for a good half hour. The download was made, and addiction renewed. Since I am older and a lot more susceptible to thumb cramps, I tend to relegate myself to play on the bus to the gym and the rare evening before bed. Last night I got the new high record of 42,895, Level 10, 193 lines with a 23% efficiency. Actually Star Trek guys, why don't you leave your number or something, I fear I might need it. This past Wednesday, play began when waiting for the bus, and discontinued as I situated myself to the rear single seats whose inhabitants would be leaving on the next stop. And yes, I do this every day. I have it to almost a science. Unfortunately, a single seat was not procured, and my arse planted itself in an empty three seater. Tetris resumed. The next stop brought Mr. and Mrs. Drunkard 2006 aboard, who as luck would have it sat right next to me. Tetris Me, Drunken Gal and Drunk Man, a happy trio. As they entered the bus with boisterous laughs, you noticed the smell immediately - a sublime mixture of whiskey, cigarettes and urine. Enraptured in my game with the only possibilities of standing and stopping or sitting and playing, like any addict, I made due. They pretty much ignored me and laughed the insane laughter of those drinking for 3 years straight, although there was an argument about how there was no way that the last beer in her fridge would be sipped. I believe the exact words were "Uh uh. I drink my beer, but need myself a beer in the morning. Damn, waking up without a morning fix. Uh uh." After that was settled, she focused her attention on me with the following "Damn girl, you got some Matrix shit happening there." "What you doing?". Stifling laughter, I ignored and continued play. Luckily for me, as we drove by the water she was mesmerized with the site of ships wherein she sang loudly "The Love Boat, Exciting and New. Come aboard, we have been expecting you." I exited for the gym the next stop and quite honestly sad to leave a woman who (a) needed a morning beer fix, (b) referenced Matrix to my Tetris playing and (3) sang the Love Boat Theme song, all without a care to the world (except the morning fix part). I do love riding the bus.

Gin - My Evil Nemesis Part II. Since Stair Crawl Vomit Fest Circa 1994, I avoided gin with the gusto of a scorned woman. Occasionally we'd meet at parties, I see him, then run the other way or enjoy myself a little too much with a vodka cranberry or jack and coke. Yep, gin was snubbed and this continued with near a thought in my head until moving to San Francisco in November 2004. It seems that my one good friend in the town, Grant, was a lover of the gin and tonic. Not one to dwell on past relationship disasters, I stayed the path of the righteous - tequila, whiskey, vodka and beer (oh my!). However, one evening at Grant's apartment, with no other liquor to be consumed, I had my first gin and tonic after a 10 year absence. It was good, not the same of course, but old familiar feelings were there. I perhaps enjoyed his company three or five times after that, with nary an ill feeling. Friends again! But just friends. There would be no more consumption to drunkenness - I learned my lesson, or so I thought. This brings me last Friday, St. Patrick's Day. I had to work, but that evening I went out for my St. Patty's Day meal, chicken tikki masala. Personally I feel the eating of a boiled dinner or the wearing of green on St. Patty's is pretty much amateur hour. You are not to eat and wear green, you are to be blurry eyed on whiskey and beer. My first drink of the evening was a Heineken. In hindsight, this was my first misstep. As a girl of Irish descent, and one who likes the cocktail, there is a mantra set in stone - liquor beer, never fear; beer, liquor never sicker. And on a day like St. Patty's where drinks would be consumed like virgins at a sacrifice, I should have had liquor to begin. I blame the Polish in me. So, after dinner and my one beer there was a journey to a bar - 2 shots of jameson, 3 beers (bud) and then to a party that was touted as a St. Patty's Day Homewarming Birthday Bash. And yes, it was as gay as it sounds, almost as much the two guys swallowing each other's tonsils on the couch to the left of where I sat in distain drinking beer - 1 redtail, 3 pabst - while touting the day as worst St. Patty's eva. Contemplating how it was that I could even see straight on this day of debauchery when the hour was approaching 1:00 a.m., relief was found in the form of Grant wanting to leave. So off to the Irish bar Finnegan's Wake. Finally among my own - the drunk, slurring and incapable of cohesive thought, home. I had another shot of Jameson and 2 more beers. For those keeping tabs: 3 shots Jameson and 7 beers. Then last call came, and not one to stop the madness of the snake master's day - nightcap! I sat on Grant's couch waiting for my drink where I was offered the choice of brandy or tanqueray. For those not alcoholically inclined, Tanqueray is gin. Since I am neither 65 nor a man, I choose the gin without any worry in my head, for we were friends once again. Two gins and tonics and drunkenly conversed out, I headed home. This is where my recollection is a tad bit foggy. I took a taxi home, entered the apartment, and from evidence gathered in the morning (clothes strewn, facial wash out), went to the bathroom. Then upstairs not sure if there was any stair clutching, because like all drunks with a foggy memory, it is best not to question the person who loves you and show them how close to rock bottom you truly are, but I was told drunkest ever. And truth be told, I was sort of disappointed there was no sash, beer case crown and ceremony the next day, but this woe I will suffer. What I do remember, is the visit to the bathroom, and I fondly remember the tikki chicken masala. Oh, how I remember it, especially the next day when my pillow was a lovely yellowy orange. And who do I blame for all of this? Gin. Oh sure, you could say 7 beers, 3 shots of Jameson, but I am not one who pukes the joys of an evening had, I am one to just float away to sleep in a haze so this leaves Gin. Evil, vile, son of a bitch, Gin. I equate this entire experience to the Revenge Fuck. Gin fucked me over, and fucked me over good. He gave me a taste of the normal, and then tricked me into bed again. And once again I laid strewn on the bathroom floor, my head on the cool porcelain, my insides being roller coastered 100 mph through my mouth. So the lesson learned is quite simple, never be friends with an old flame. It only leads to misery.

Since being threatened with homelessness by my boyfriend for not updating, I pledge on this day renewed diligence. So . . . . Gin - My Evil Nemesis Part I. Back in the early 1990s, I first encountered the liquor with the moniker gin. Like all alcohols before it (and since it), I greedily ingested same with vigor. In fact, gin and I engaged in a love affair of sorts - mainly because a good friend, Jess, and I had created "The Canadian Bomb" - which was gin and Schweppes Ginger Ale with a touch of Chambord. We would sit drinking this tasty concoction and regaling pride upon ourselves for our cocktail generating genius. At the bar, like the true dorks, we would ask for the "The Bomb". It was a failed attempt to bring recognition to our creation, and like many of these ventures - it failed stupendously. Bartenders basically looked at us with scorn asking for the ingredients. Also at the same time, I tried to bring renewed interest in the word "higgledy piggledy" which means in an utter disorder or confusion, but that is another story. So, gin and I were friends, good friends. Many a laugh was had under its influence. And like all relationships built on lies, we came to a disastrous end. One evening at the Piano Factory in Jess's apartment, my love and I were engaged. I sipped, and he gently warmed my insides. I am unsure of the total of the beverages consumed - Jess was known for her doubles. But as the evening progressed, I felt the change. Something had happened. It occurred suddenly on the couch, when I could not focus and felt violently ill. I left the apartment at 10:00 p.m. and arrived at my door at 10:30. It should be known at this point, I lived exactly 2 floors up. The details are distorted but this is what I know is true - I clutched the stairs crawling up all the way murmuring repeatedly to God to help me and that such pollutants would never touch my lips again (since he didn't, I revoked the offer). When finally stumbling into my apartment, the only location proved helpful was the floor of my bathroom. You can imagine the rest. Tomorrow - Gin is My Nemesis Part II - St. Patty's 2006.

After watching last night's season premiere of America's Next Top Model, I had a few ideas in which I would like to share:

With her departure from the runway of Victoria's Secret and her TV talk show doing well, I think that our dear Tyra "Fierce" Banks has in fact decided to go the Oprah route. Not in terms of wild and all encompassing success, but rather - Fat Oprah. Did anyone else notice the size of her upper arms last night? Or the junk in her trunk? And let us not forget the repeated stories of starving herself in order to become a Top Model. I think it is time the food beast in Tyra is unleashed. No more modeling contracts, just her, a bucket of KFC and an appearance on Celebrity Fit Club in 2010.

Why can't we have more America's Tops anythings. For instance, would you tune in to watch the following - America's Next Top Crack Whore, hosted by Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown? Ah yeah fear not, I am right on the couch beside you. Can you imagine this genius of combination, maybe the ladies from Flavor Flav's House of Love can get involved, because this has all the makings for television history. For this week's challenge, our 13 crack whores are sent to a crack den wherein they must score crack. The catch, no cash!

Whitney: "Hi Girls."
Girls: "Hello Ms. Houston."
Bobby: "On today's challenge, you will be driven to a crack den."
Girls: "uh huh."
Whitney: "You must score crack. The catch being you will have no cash, just the clothes on your back."
Bobby: (snickering) "Not for long."

Oh the fun!

And finally, I am very much looking forward to more of the Jade and Furonda Exercises in Narcissism and High Self Esteem Workshops.