Yesterday in class we were tasked to complete the sentences:

1. A spider in an old man's beard is as _____________.

What I wrote in response came out of me like a demon on crack -- I COULD NOT HELP MYSELF. I even said aloud I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M WRITING THIS and then laughed and laughed until I CRIED myself into a Baby Jane impersonation, mascara down to my cheekbones and up to my eye brows. All I needed was a handicapped sister to torture.

Then laughter caught on like a contagion and the entire class cracked up over something they had not yet heard. Our prof was laughing but saying, too, "I can hear the phone calls now from one of your parents threatening to sue me..."

Then Angie, sitting next to me, peeked at my notebook and was so startled by what I'd written that the SHOCK OF IT shook through her body, her eyes wide, and a gasp inhaled. She said "You don't want zippy's answer read aloud" to the prof which only made the others more curious.

"Can we read it?" one asked, eyebrows arched, but the prof nipped that one in the bud.

WHEW.

Your turn to respond:

Sentence 1: A spider in an old man's beard is as _________.
(my answer: unprintable)

Sentence 2: The oars extended from the boat like ________.
(my answer: they were arms stretched out from heaven. blech. hurl. puke.)

Sentence 3: Nothing would be the same now that ________.
(my answer: Grandma had recovered.)

Sentence 4: The rhino (or whino, you choose) took to being comatose like _______.
(my answer: my Aunt Cynthia on a Saturday night.)

Sentence 5: She held her life in her hands like __________.
(my answer: a token she'd thought she'd already spent.)

Mother Theresa's dirty socks hung from the chandelier. The Pope had wanted her to leave India, return to Rome and live out her life with his Holy Eminence. She tried, how she tried. She took three months and gave them to him, bathing his pasty, round body with warm water and hand-made soap that reminded her of the Lepers she'd left behind, covered in filth, betrayed by God. When she had enough of the Vatican Sheen and turned to leave, John Paul said to her with a heart heavy with sadness, "How will I remember you?" Theresa replied, "I used to paint my toenails sky blue so even when I was looking down I'd feel like I was looking up. But for you," she said, "I've dressed your chandelier with a gift I brought all the way from Calcutta."

saturday conversation in zippy's world:


him: I dreamed we were trying to have sex in an ambulance. Well, I was trying to have sex but you weren't having any of it.

me: Was I comatose?

him: I don't think so.

me: Injured? bleeding? embarrassed?

him: You were just non-responsive. I kept thinking "Man, nothing's working!"

me: Was I dead?

him: I don't think so....


(and then we had good, saturday morning sex. go figure.)

There's been a lot of illness and death in my world these last several weeks, none of it directly pertaining to me. Dear friends have lost their loved ones or have their spouses facing an uncertain future with various bodily intrusions. One friend lost a well-respected student after she had a seizure in the bath and drowned. An inconceivable loss. Her mother, my friend has said, would not let go the girl's coffin. Her hand remained on its panel through the duration of the service and as it rested at the funeral home until someone finally transported it to its final destination, leaving the mother with an empty palm grasping forever toward her daughter, gone.

Perhaps God's had a spring cleaning and sent several souls back to earth to be born again into a lifetime of lessons, learned and denied. There must be a lot of restless wings in heaven in need of angels to help them fly.

hmmmm.... to blog or not to blog.....

all day long I've been working on a story about a pig. a story about a pig that began as a story about a pig but now is a story wherein the pig is a metaphor for the family problems.

issues.

it's coming down to the last month of the semester. my big decision now is what to take during the summer. mr zippy wants to head out west for a week with the 'rents. that kills any math option I might have, but I could take two classes with the week in the west in between. hmmm...

BIG SHOUT OUT TO MARY ANN AND PAT -- 31 years together and still going strong. YOU GO GIRLS!!!!

I was published in the school's stapled craphole. WEEE! According to my dept. advisor, this particular issue is a higher quality craphole than its norm, so I feel privileged, but still happy it's a lesser poem of mine in it than, say, something I really really like.

conversation in zippy's world:

him: I have some sort of good news to tell you.

me: ?

him: I got a five digit bonus.

me: WOO HOO!

him: but it's going to take five years to get it.

me: HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

him: I'm serious.

me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

My neck R-E-A-L-L-Y hurts me today, and, no, it's not from having raped mr. zippy last night.

I feel about 60 w/ this sort of pain. So, what will it feel like when I'm 60?

A dozen years ago, if anyone had asked, I would have told them I didn't expect to ever see 60. I fully expected to die by 30. That's what the hospital told me when they released me from the Navy and sent me on my way. "Go home, lead a quiet life, be content with what you have, for you probably won't live past thirty."

I did not go home that day. Instead, I went directly to the nearest bar, had three vodka martinis and wrote a letter to my mother on a cocktail napkin. Apologizing for the slur in my script, but knowing she'd understand with a wink, I scribbled out how queer it felt to be sitting in a uniform that was no longer mine, on the edge between that which was and that which might be, and not a clue how to move toward safety.

Then I took a cab, which is how I arrived, and found my way to the nearest hotel, where I slept it off. I awoke to a morning that had no bugler, that had no perfect corners to fold, no crisp lines to starch into my threads, no boondockers to buff with cotton torn from tampons, no senior enlisted checking my gig line, no officer checking my salute. Just the rise and shine of the Florida day beating down through my open window. I'd slept in my uniform, and found housekeeping staring at me through the unveiled glass, and moving away quickly as I blinked my way into cognizance, the clang of her cart full of toiletries and towels signalling her pace down the balcony to the next room awaiting her with emptiness.

Today's my wedding anniversary. For years we've argued over the actual anniversary.

Him: Are you sure it's the 2nd?

Me: Well, we know it's not the 1st.

Him: But I thought it was the 3rd?

Me: That's only because I convinced you it was the third. It's not the third.

Him: So when it is?

Me: The second.

Him: Are you sure?



We thought about getting married on the 1st of April, but didn't think anyone would believe us.

So then we decided to get married on the 5th anniversary of our first date, and that would have been the 3rd of April, but that would have meant losing a day of our honeymoon private island rental and we weren't prepared to do that. So, the 2nd of April it is.

That was five years ago.

Him: We've been together ten years?

Me: I know.

Him: Feels like twenty-five.

Me: Except the dog would be dead by now.

Him: Oh yeah.

For this anniversary, so far I've given mr. zippy fence posts and installation (so his back might last another ten years of making whoopie!), he's bought cedar slats and a power saw. Next weekend we'll borrow a nail gun and make ourselves feel really old. He gave me an iron heart he brought back from Sundance. Came with a nail to drive it into a tree just like Jesus (it's one of those nails), as the thing is simply too heavy to hang on any of our walls without creating a gaping hole in the drywall. hmmmm WWJD?

And we've given ourselves multiple orgasms for the whole house... well, not for the dog... she's never had sex, although she thought she wanted to once after watching us ... ok, that was weird.

All in all, having an anniversary to celebrate with someone is a way cool thing. Whether it's hearts and chocolates and yotz or fence posts and iron symbols of your solid communion. Now, let's see if we get through the Ritz-Carlton tonight without any gaffs.

Here's something lame to pass the minutes... as if you needed one more thing to do today...

How British are you? Apparently, I'm 80%. I guess I got the bridges wrong...

http://darrenlondon.tripod.com/britquiz1.htm