serial killers & fudgescicles: random musings

No one cares if you lose 5lbs… not even 10. When you tell someone that you’ve “lost 10 lbs” they just sort of look at you, apologetically, thinking about all the times you’ve lost ten pounds. Even 20 pounds for me is ridiculously subtle because I’m an Amazon woman. Only other weight-obsessed people notice and are pissed off.

I had a great “photo shoot” with this gorgeous girl, Elaine from high school. I’m pleased with the outcome, even though the only people who commented on my Facebook album were Dr. Taylor and my mom… Edwin Serrano (the stereotypical short, angry kid who rides around on a scooter and relies on his artistic abilities to gain fame) complimented me on my lighting though, which must count for something. Now I KNOW I’m legit!

I dog-sat this weekend and came to the realization that I’m secretly afraid of animals. I mean, I love pets but there’s always an underlying fear that a dog is going to turn on me and bite my face off while I’m petting it. My mom is to blame for this, of course. I remember as a kid, having her scream at me while petting animals and freaking out. It’s now deeply embedded in my psyche like my fear of serial killers… (my mom used to tell me stories about the Night Stalker, Richard Ramirez who ripped out little old ladies’ eye balls when I was around 8. She claimed to have seen him outside her window and she told me that he killed people in yellow and blue houses… our house is bright blue.)

I had this CRAZY dream last night that I was a stand-up comedian, and I sucked. I also had a dream that I was grocery shopping in Russia with these two guys who were both madly in love with me. I was a midget in this last dream, and really, really hideous. (I watched this show on this midget who was getting married to the man of her dreams– maybe that’s why).

*section taken out* (secretive, eh?)

Jesus Christ, I need a fudgescicle.

Strutting down the speckled pavement

Strutting down the speckled pavement,
clad in Minnie-Mouse-onesy
having happy two year-old first walks—
little wobbly paws and fuzz,
moving along in a
clear California winternoon,
down the block while dad
captures the moment for the books
and the tail drags along the cracks.
Mom right here close,
mushing high-pitched
words into the sky.

But, deep down it’s blue
and “agoo” and
about to whisk me up—
the long palms and then
dad’s gone.
Dee Dee with the thoughtful look of
something that’s just sorta
there beneath the wear and tear
of a Minnie Mouse onesy
with pointy, little ears
that are always listening.

Mom’s going to die someday

Mom’s going to die
someday. While driving to school,
fiddling with cds and a sore throat
the thought suddenly chokes,
like the number of cars in front
of me, long-lines of cold
color. One call and all will
stop-short.

Childhood let’s us
float with Barbies
who don’t get grey hair
or lose mortgages to men in
dense offices. We fly
from markings on walls–
up and higher, until soon
we’re at the high school lot,
and mom’s nervous
in a passenger seat while snotty teen
whines, “I know, I know!”

Thoughts are postponed
and prepared until one day,
while 19 and soiled in traffic,
late to something (that’s really nothing,)
it dawns that there will come
a morning when we won’t be
able to push
button-number-two,
dialing away on the 405
and feel pacified.
There won’t be an answer
or help on how to drive;
where to steer.
I sob and pull to
the side.