I started school at Willard elementary. What I remember most about kindergarten was a boy named Tony. Yes, I was boy crazy even then. Tony was blonde with thin spiky hair and brown eyes. His mother dressed him in coordinating jogging suits. At 5 I was living with my grandmother who loved to curl my extremely thick hair with rollers and brush it straight back; this was an extremely popular hair style for women in their 50’s, but yes, I was rocking it at 5. In addition to my awesome hair I was decked out daily in a poofy garage sale vintage dress lacy socks and mary janes.
I believe my love affair with Tony started in gym class where we were learning how to square dance. The boys were instructed to pick out a partner and Tony picked me! I remember having a secret crush on Tony, but was astonished that he chose me to be his square dance partner.
Shortly after our do sa do, Tony found me on the playground and would declare he was going to kiss me. I would squeal and take off running from him. I would hide and he would seek until the bell rang. I can still remember the smile and look in his eyes as we would stair at each other from either side of the big tire panting as he planned his attack and I my escape.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
A Sock
A sock
I’m single. Been single so long that when I say just how long I receive a raised eyebrow and a look of suspicion. Of course I haven’t been dateless for all that time. There have been quite a few blokes that have come and gone. Funny thing about dating today; its like fireworks, there is an initial spark, you both shoot straight up in the air, and then there is an explosion, and it’s as if there was never anything there.
Then one day you’re doing laundry, in my case I was washing towels. I wash them once in a blue moon because I have so many, and why wash them until I have absolutely no towels left. So here I am standing at the dryer folding my towels fresh out of the dryer; because this is the only way I will actually put them away, and I come across this solo brown sock. Obviously the remnants of a previous relationship gone KABLAAM! I stare at this sock dangling in my hand and think for a minute whose sock is this?
I’m quickly calculating the last time I washed my towels and adding up the number of fireworks that occurred in my life during that time to arrive at the Vegas London twirler. The arrival of this sock could not be at a worse time; since I was still smoking from the dynamite invention cracker. I’m staring at this sock and come to the conclusion that there have been at least three firecrackers in my life since the last time I washed towels. 3!
Rather than dwelling on this number and what this pattern may be saying about me. I decide I must dispose of said sock immediately. Now what to do with it? I instantly hide the sock back in the dryer better to not be faced with it until I know what to do with it.
Do I fling it off the balcony on to the street?
No a bum may pick it up and start wearing it and then I’d see the bum everyday with the sock. No, no, not a good idea.
Do I throw it down the trash shoot?
No the door is broken and it may fly back up.
I could put it in a bag with my other trash.
No it’d be mingled with my trash forever haunting me.
Do I mail it back to the owner?
Ha. Nevermind.
Do I walk downtown and throw it in a public dumpster and run away before I see which bum picked it up?
No then I will be afraid of any bum in brown socks.
Do I walk down to the water and put a heavy rock in the sock and throw it out into the water?
Yes, Yes!!!! I think this just may work. No brown socks, No brown socks.
I’m single. Been single so long that when I say just how long I receive a raised eyebrow and a look of suspicion. Of course I haven’t been dateless for all that time. There have been quite a few blokes that have come and gone. Funny thing about dating today; its like fireworks, there is an initial spark, you both shoot straight up in the air, and then there is an explosion, and it’s as if there was never anything there.
Then one day you’re doing laundry, in my case I was washing towels. I wash them once in a blue moon because I have so many, and why wash them until I have absolutely no towels left. So here I am standing at the dryer folding my towels fresh out of the dryer; because this is the only way I will actually put them away, and I come across this solo brown sock. Obviously the remnants of a previous relationship gone KABLAAM! I stare at this sock dangling in my hand and think for a minute whose sock is this?
I’m quickly calculating the last time I washed my towels and adding up the number of fireworks that occurred in my life during that time to arrive at the Vegas London twirler. The arrival of this sock could not be at a worse time; since I was still smoking from the dynamite invention cracker. I’m staring at this sock and come to the conclusion that there have been at least three firecrackers in my life since the last time I washed towels. 3!
Rather than dwelling on this number and what this pattern may be saying about me. I decide I must dispose of said sock immediately. Now what to do with it? I instantly hide the sock back in the dryer better to not be faced with it until I know what to do with it.
Do I fling it off the balcony on to the street?
No a bum may pick it up and start wearing it and then I’d see the bum everyday with the sock. No, no, not a good idea.
Do I throw it down the trash shoot?
No the door is broken and it may fly back up.
I could put it in a bag with my other trash.
No it’d be mingled with my trash forever haunting me.
Do I mail it back to the owner?
Ha. Nevermind.
Do I walk downtown and throw it in a public dumpster and run away before I see which bum picked it up?
No then I will be afraid of any bum in brown socks.
Do I walk down to the water and put a heavy rock in the sock and throw it out into the water?
Yes, Yes!!!! I think this just may work. No brown socks, No brown socks.
Bailar??BAILAR!!
Bailar??BAILAR!!
One evening a girlfriend and I decided to head out for drinks. We headed to the local dive bar that we usually gathered at with our co-workers. It was a Saturday night in the middle of nowhere. We wanted to be out and about, but didn’t want to make the 45 minute trek to Orange County. The bar was very empty and after a couple of drinks we gave in and started heading back home in defeat.
As we headed for the freeway we passed a parking lot full of cars at 11:00 pm. We’d seen this full lot before and always wondered what it was. Since I was driving I flipped a U-ey and headed for the lot. As we made our way in we passed several police cars and saw police all around the place. Instead of being deterred this spurred us on. As we got closer we could hear the Mexican music coming from inside the club. My friend satisfied to know that it was a Mexican night club was ready to head home, but I pressed on saying come on where’s your sense of adventure.
We parked and entered the club. Instantly upon entering the club I felt as though I had been transplanted into Mexico. The girl working the register spoke to me in all Spanish. The receipt was in all Spanish as well. After, being searched and frisked by the police man (not bouncer police man) we entered the club. The bar was right up front so I ordered us two Vodka Crans. The bartender looked at me like I was crazy and had no idea what it was I was talking about. After some time she returned with two Vodka crans with cherries as garnish. Before, the drinks had arrived my friend had been accosted by two gentleman wanting to dance. Bailar?! Bailar! They shouted over the music. My friend kept turning them down, but they kept standing there insisting. I came over with the drinks and told them maybe later. They moved on after a bit and we were able to get the full view of the Hacienda in full swing.
There was a live band and the dance floor was packed. Tables and tables sat empty just occupied by purses and drinks that their occupants had left behind on the way to the dance floor. It was a simply amazing sight to behold. Couple after couple swung and stepped in time to the beat. This wasn’t your regular bump and grind that you see at the usual clubs we’d been to. As we walked around the club we caught stares from the few people not on the dance floor. Clearly we were out of place. Not long after we’d circled the club the two gentlemen from before came back to ask us to bailar. I shook my head no and said I don’t know how. They spoke to us entirely in Spanish. My friend knowing more Spanish than me was able to keep up with the conversation. I on the other hand was at a loss. As I was standing there listening to them. I kept thinking. This is what it would be like to move to another country where I didn’t know the language.
What would have otherwise been a very lame Saturday night became an unforgettable trip to Mexico right in my own backyard. Who knew that out in the middle of Norco existed such a secret hopping hideaway.
I guess we never know what is just around the bend…http://entertainment.enterto.com/rss_index_singlegirl.html
One evening a girlfriend and I decided to head out for drinks. We headed to the local dive bar that we usually gathered at with our co-workers. It was a Saturday night in the middle of nowhere. We wanted to be out and about, but didn’t want to make the 45 minute trek to Orange County. The bar was very empty and after a couple of drinks we gave in and started heading back home in defeat.
As we headed for the freeway we passed a parking lot full of cars at 11:00 pm. We’d seen this full lot before and always wondered what it was. Since I was driving I flipped a U-ey and headed for the lot. As we made our way in we passed several police cars and saw police all around the place. Instead of being deterred this spurred us on. As we got closer we could hear the Mexican music coming from inside the club. My friend satisfied to know that it was a Mexican night club was ready to head home, but I pressed on saying come on where’s your sense of adventure.
We parked and entered the club. Instantly upon entering the club I felt as though I had been transplanted into Mexico. The girl working the register spoke to me in all Spanish. The receipt was in all Spanish as well. After, being searched and frisked by the police man (not bouncer police man) we entered the club. The bar was right up front so I ordered us two Vodka Crans. The bartender looked at me like I was crazy and had no idea what it was I was talking about. After some time she returned with two Vodka crans with cherries as garnish. Before, the drinks had arrived my friend had been accosted by two gentleman wanting to dance. Bailar?! Bailar! They shouted over the music. My friend kept turning them down, but they kept standing there insisting. I came over with the drinks and told them maybe later. They moved on after a bit and we were able to get the full view of the Hacienda in full swing.
There was a live band and the dance floor was packed. Tables and tables sat empty just occupied by purses and drinks that their occupants had left behind on the way to the dance floor. It was a simply amazing sight to behold. Couple after couple swung and stepped in time to the beat. This wasn’t your regular bump and grind that you see at the usual clubs we’d been to. As we walked around the club we caught stares from the few people not on the dance floor. Clearly we were out of place. Not long after we’d circled the club the two gentlemen from before came back to ask us to bailar. I shook my head no and said I don’t know how. They spoke to us entirely in Spanish. My friend knowing more Spanish than me was able to keep up with the conversation. I on the other hand was at a loss. As I was standing there listening to them. I kept thinking. This is what it would be like to move to another country where I didn’t know the language.
What would have otherwise been a very lame Saturday night became an unforgettable trip to Mexico right in my own backyard. Who knew that out in the middle of Norco existed such a secret hopping hideaway.
I guess we never know what is just around the bend…http://entertainment.enterto.com/rss_index_singlegirl.html
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