OUT OF FOCUS

So when does your milk come in?

Since I am now six weeks away from spitting out my second and last child, hence my virtual absence, my balloon-like presence can be spotted three city blocks away.  

And it was.  

Yesterday.  

By a postman.

Our meeting went something like this:

(Walking nonchalantly down the street)

Postman: Kali?  Like the Goddess?

(I turn around)

Kali: Oh, Hey-seus!

Jesus:  You remembered!

(Smile and an unnecessary hug exchange)

Kali: Wow, its been awhile!  How have you been?

Jesus: Im still at the post office. (gaze falls on belly) I see you've been busy.

Kali: Yeah, it was unexpectedly expected...if that makes any sense.

Jesus:  Hey, you remember the spiritual talks we had?

Kali: When I was buying stamps.  Sure.

Jesus: And how there are no coincidences. Hey, did you ever do more research on your name?

Kali: Yeah,  A little bit. She wears like shrunken heads around her neck. 

Jesus: Right. We need to have another one of those spiritual talks.  Come by my window.

Kali:  I will.

Jesus:  (clear gaze on my breasts again) When does your milk come in?

Kali: I beg your pardon?

Jesus: When are you due?

Kali: Mid-December-

(Holding two imaginary melons in his hands at his chest)

Jesus: If you want more milk, I mean, really lots of milk, I have a secret for you.

(I self-consciously eyeball my breasts)

Jesus: Carrot juice!!

Kali:  Carrot juice?

Jesus:  If you want to see your breasts double in size by the time your milk comes in, drink lots of carrot juice.

Kali:  Thanks.  I'll keep that in mind.

Jesus:  Something about the carotene.  I remember my sister was drinking a lot of carrot juice and she said the milk would not stop flowing.  It was like a faucet.

Kali: I think I need to go to the bathroom-

Jesus:  OK, good to see you.  Stop by window.  Lets have one of those spiritual talks.

(start parting our ways)

Kali: OK.  Will do.

(A block away he still mimes at his chest the weight of two melons in his hands)

Jesus:  And don't forget!  Carrot juice! Mark my words!

So last night, I had a dream that I show up at his window and this is who stands behind the counter:

I told my OBGYN but she says that experiencing nightmares and night sweats are common among some mothers.  

Nothing a little late night carrot juice couldn't cure.

A License to Feel

At seven months pregnant, I have suddenly become public property and have encountered a unique set of individuals whom I have nicknamed The License to Feel-ers. 

Whether its strangers,neighbors, distant relatives or even close friends, they all do it-rub my protruding stomach as if Im a jeanie lamp.  Some of the License to Feelers go as far as breathing their hot morning coffee breath on my belly as if its an office intercom: 

"Well hello-baby-in-there-hello!"  "How's my baby"? (Your baby?  What custody battle do I not know about?  Even if Christ came down in a white robe and leather sandals, talking sweet nothings into my stomach, I would still pull away.  

After these brief public encounters, what I need besides a hot shower and a crude sandwich board that reads, "Don't Touch",  is a sociologist who can document this unnecessary human behavior via spy cam. It really is quite comical...

Which brings me to the second, more tolerable group of people I encounter, The Maternity Soothsayers, those who predict the sex and outcome of my future child.   The Maternity Soothsayers come in all shapes and sizes from a Haitian cabbie to a college-aged barista at an espresso bar. The cabby was happy to inform me that I was shaped like his wife after the birth of her fifth son.  What did she look like before the birth? That doesn't make me feel to good. 

At the barista's bar:

Kali: "Are you sure that's decaf?"

Barista: "Yes, Im totally sure".

Kali: "You're from a coddled generation.  Are you sure that's decaf?"

Barista: (giggling) "Of coarse Im totally sure. You totally look like my Mom when she had my brother-you're having a boy-you are so having a boy!"

Kali: "Your mother?" 

Wow, I thought. I looked old enough to have a coffee-addicted teenager?  How did I spend the nineties again?

Barista: "Well my mom had me at seventeen and she said she almost had an abortion-"

That made me feel better.

Kali:  "Glad the picketers were out that day-I men-for your sake."

Barista: "Ditto!! One decaf Americana!  Have a good day!". 

Which brings me to my third and last group, The Chatty Informants, the yappers who are happy to share a friends personal pregnancy tragedy in the check out line of a suburban supermarket:

The Chatty Informant: (hands coupons to cashier without looking my way as if we were being watched) "When are you due?"

Kali: "Excuse me?"

The Chatty Informant:(swiping her credit card now-still not looking) "Your Baby?  Due?  When?"

Kali: "Couple of months.." 

The Chatty Informant: (signing the magnetic pad) "Know what your having?"

Kali: "Ugh...no".

Why am I even answering her?  She finally turns me way and I thought this was my moment to start applauding-like the Broadway actor you can hear backstage, who finally enters on stage revealing her identity.

The Chatty Informant: (all smiles now) Congratulations.

Kali: "...Thank you-"

The Chatty Informant: "My girlfriend just had twins and one died in ICU.  She was in her seventh month".

Kali: (Speechless)

The Chatty Informant: "Yeah, they thought he would pull through but his lungs were like the size of those really tiny lamb chops.  I had them once at a wedding."

Kali:  "I don't eat lamb".

The Chatty Informant: "The umbilical cord almost killed the other one.  She had to have an emergency C...anyway, I shouldn't be telling you this since your pregnant".

You think so, you dumb jackass?

The Chatty Informant: (pushing her oversized grocery cart) "Good luck!"

And that brings us to Reason Number 7,643 why I will never move to the suburbs.

(Funny cartoon by  Mark Stivers)  http://www.markstivers.com/

No, Your Honor, I do not brush my dog's teeth

ADD Symptom: The inability to lie.  And get away with it.

I recently got caught lying to my dog's veterinarian. The worse part about it was that there really was no reason for me to lie to him.  To his face.  A bold face lie.

And so the story goes...

I take my Wheaten Terrier to the vet last week for his yearly check up.  Because I consider his health of  the utmost importance, I take him to one of Manhattan's most noteworthy veterinarians, the most sought after by B-celebrities gracing the upper west side.

The door jingles our arrival and all smiles are upon us: the three receptionists seated behind the front counter, the pet owners all proud of their offspring.

Receptionist 1:  "Hi, how can I help you?

Kali: "Hi, Fozzy's got an appointment for his yearly check-up?"

Receptionist 1: "Great, have a seat and we'll call you when we're ready"

I turn away from the counter grabbing a dog bone from the treat jar, and take a seat on a futon next to a glammed-up Senior dripping in diamonds stroking h er puffed-out Bichon Frise.  I look  at her dog and its making me hungry. Bichon Frise  sounds like a thick French flaky dessert that would  probably taste  fantastic with a scoop of cappuccino  ice cream.

Senior: (talking to her Bichon) "Yes, Rugula, that's a big scary puppy, isn't he, Rugula..."

Kali: "He's really not that scary."

Senior: "What's her name?"

Kali: "His name's Fozzy."

Senior:  "Rugula, like the Jewish rolled-up cookie".

Kali:  "Yum. I guess your dog makes you hungry, too."

Senior: "Beg your pardon".

Kali: "No need. This is Fozzy, like the muppet."

Senior: "You should bathe him more often."

Kali: "We bathe together."

Senior:  How often do you bathe?

Kali:  "More often than the French. How often do you bathe?"

Senior:  "I beg your pardon?"

Receptionist 1:  "The  doctor is ready to see you, Fozzy"

Kali: (to Senior) "Stay clean." 

Fozzy and I are escorted into a small colorful private room.  Minutes later, Dr. Vet Extraordinaire, a handsome, wondering-why-you're-not-married-are-you-another-Clooney-handsome, walks into the room. 

He gives me a well-rehearsed Colgate smile. I turn my wedding ring around.

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire:  "Hi Guys, good to see you!"

Kali: "Good to see you!" 

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire:  "So you're here for Fozzy's yearly?  Fantastic. Lets get on the table."

Kali: "I really shouldn't.  Just kidding."

Ignoring my sexual innuendo, Dr. Vet Extraordinaire lifts a scruffy fifty pounds onto the table and runs his hands down his spine.

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire: (Fondling his privates.  Well, not His privates but Fozzy's)  "Everything feels good!"

Kali:  "I think Im up for my yearly?"

He looks at me like I insulted his mother.

Kali: "Im just kidding...you know, you were fondl-"

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire: (Cutting me off) "Let's look at those choppers, huh?" he says lifting my dog's gums.  "Kali, how often do you brush you teeth?"

Kali: " Twice a day? Why?"

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire:  "And how often do you brush Fozzy's teeth?"

Kali:  "Ugh...same?"

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire: "Are you asking me or telling me?"

Kali: "Telling you?"

Dr. "OK, then you're not telling me the truth-"

Kali: "Huh?"

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire: "That' not the truth. You don't brush them twice a week.  How often?"

Kali:  "Ugh...OK, maybe more like ever other day?"

Dr.  Vet Extraordinaire: "OK, see again. You're not telling me the truth and this is becoming uncomfortable for all of us, including Fozzy."

Kali: "Well-"

Dr. Vet Extraordinaire: "OK, this is what I think is happening.  You're brushing your teeth twice a day.  You're brush his teeth maybe once every two weeks, if that.  I can tell because of the plaque build up.

Kali:  "I give him marrow bones?"

Dr.  Vet Extraordinaire:  "Do you eat pork chops?"

Kali: "No-"

Dr Vet Extraordinaire: "Well, I do and I still brush my teeth.  Do you see what Im getting at?"

I felt like a reprimanded small child.

Kali: "Yes."

Dr Vet Extraordinaire: "You don't need to lie. Just brush his teeth."

Kali:  "I just thought you might sue me for neglect or something...I mean, no one ever told me to brush his teeth."

Dr Vet Extraordinaire: "Here's a new toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste"

I look down at the tube.

Kali: "It says Chicken Flavor-"

Dr Vet Extraordinaire: "What are you a vegetarian?

I leave with brush and paste in hand. My personal hygiene insulted.

Book Burning of the Week: Julie & Julia

This is the book I chose to burn in my kitchen sink once I got to page 76 and 77.

It was after a meal of short ribs and cous cous which Im sure the author would have been incapable of cooking.

So Kali, why the attitude?  Why burn the book?

I was really enjoying it until the author started interjecting her nonsensical political views that seemed so out of context.

It reminded me of the year Janeane Garofalo ruined an evening for me at the Aspen Comedy Festival. I had paid a cover charge to spend my evening being entertained by a line-up of stand up comics and up walks the disheveled Garofolo, notes in hand.  Out of nowhere I was ambushed by her pathetic, mood killing, political rhetoric pouring from her mouth. I felt the instantaneous acid reflux of my evening's dinner creep up my throat.  

Thats the same feeling I got on page 76 and 77 of this book.  

The author paints herself as a good samaritan writing about her experience working for the LMDC but lacks a certain humanity as she passes judgement on family members who chose to mourn in "The Family Room".  I don't need the author's opinion on whether or not she herself could stomach the realization of families praying to the bone fragments of loved ones.   

Your impassivity is nauseating. Omit the bullshit and stick to the Bouillabaisse. That's why I payed the 1.99 on Amazon for a copy of your book.

The political vomit continues on page 77 as she starts ripping on the LMDC senior staff's assumed political ideology. Coincidentally, I happen to read these last pages last Friday, Sept 11th.  Perhaps if it was any other day I would have restrained my book burning and recycled it for my Wheatan Terrier's morning walk.

(Below are pages 76 and 77 if you so choose to read.  Click on them to make them larger)  

9/11

This morning I was expecting to wake up to clear blue skies and strong cool winds, just like every previous 9/11 Remembrance Day in the past eight years. Reason?  God wouldn't give us anything less than a beautiful day.  But instead, rain streaked my kitchen window as I sat watching the reading of the names of the deceased by family members and volunteers.   But I didn't so much mind the somber weather after one family member announced "this was not rain but his son's tears falling". 

 As they read to the letter D, I, on my third Kleenex, started thinking about the eight additional years that I have lived, the same eight years stolen from all those innocent people. I look at the young teenage girl reading her Dad's name and giving a tearful, "we miss you so much" and it angers me he hasn't been able to see her off to school in the last eight years. 

Or the Mother, well into her sixties now, choking on her son's name saying that it "feels like only yesterday".  The pain must be unimaginable for these families. Her son should be alive right now.

*******

I was lucky enough to have gotten married two weeks before 9/11 and our guests stayed at The World Trade Center Marriot that had been destroyed the day of the attacks.  I have the most beautiful memory of us on top of Tribeca Rooftop, my veil blowing in the wind with the Twin Towers as a back drop. 

I was lucky enough to have a husband that went to serve in Afghanistan in 2002 to fight for our country.

I was lucky enough to have adopted a dog a year later that has given me unconditional love ever since.

I was lucky enough to have given birth in 2004 to a baby girl and now expecting another child.

Point?  I am grateful.

I wish the 3,000 victims who died on 9/11 could have the same thing.  I wish they could walk down aisles, hug their loved ones good bye before a long trip, hold their baby that weighs 6 lbs. and 7 ounces and ruffle the head of an always-happy-to-see-you dog as he knocks you to the ground with kisses.

Eight years later, I don't know what's being felt around the country, let alone, the world.  Nor do I care.  

Im just grateful that in this incredible city, we haven't forgotten. 

God bless all those who died and their families. 

Jackass of the Year; Stuart Russell from Parramatta, Australia

ADD Symptom: The desire to threaten someone without thinking of the dire consequences involved.

So now that this pregnancy has sunk in, now that the summer is just about over, and now that I have used up all my Get Out Of Jail Free Cards, I can go back to dealing with all the drama that ensues in life on a daily basis.   

The latest and greatest drama comes from some Aussie-put-a-shrimp-on-the-babie clown who has stolen my domain name KaliKaragias.  Herein lies the truth:

Below is a screen shot image of the info that is displayed on Go Daddy's site when I search for my Domain Name, Kali Karagias.

Here's how it happened.  

One sunny Sunday afternoon, March 8th to be exact, I was happily celebrating my mother's birthday when all of a sudden Go Daddy sent me an email notifying me that my domain name would be expiring on the 10th. Well, with all the bells and whistles that comes with a birthday party, I clearly forgot.  But there's one person that had it marked in his greasy little calendar:

And that's Jackass of the Year; Stuart Russell from Parramatta, Australia.   

Aside from drinking brewskies in his two-bit home town of Parramatta, Stuart Russell spends his days stalking me.  Strange? A bit I would say considering he lives 10,000 miles away and has plenty of tatoo'd Maori warriors to choose from that are only a tenth of the distance. 

Here's a guy I bet Gooey Stuey get along with famously:

But for some reason Stuart Little decides to snag my Domain Name and what can Little Stu possibly do with my Domain Name? I suppose he can start an anonymous website starring his sister whom he has captured on film, scantily clothed.  

Or perhaps Gooey Stuey is going through some "life changes" and once the operation is finalized he would like to use my name for his new female persona.

One only wonders.  

In the mean time, since my emails have gone unanswered and there's no sign of Stuey responding, I have boycotted anything and everything from Australia.  

Please join me in the fun.

Here are five popular Australian goods that the beloved US imports:

1. Meat Products: 

If I want real beef, I'll support my local rancher in Nebraska.  Stuart Little is all the Mad Cow I need.

2. Wine:

It's called Napa Valley.  Keep your swill to yourselves.

3. Iron & Steel: 

I'm sure I can get a hold of a tile iron here if Stuart Little's next attempt is to steal my blog.

4. Medical Equipment:

If I need an MRI, I'll ask the Chinese for one.

5. Medicinal, Dental & Pharmaceutical Preparations

Next time I go on Wellbutrin, I'd rather buy it from some kid who's brewing home made crank in his Step Dad's garage.

Go ahead. Give Stuey a shout out at stuartrade74@gmail.com.

Send him some porn.  I'm sure he'll like that. 

Back from a three month hiatus

Its almost been a full three months since I last posted and yes I have a very good excuse for cutting class:

I am pregnant.  With Dan Smith's baby.  No, Im not really.  Well I am but not with Dan Smith's baby. With my spouse's.  It's a good thing.

At almost five months pregnant, and very much like an irritable senior citizen, I can now shove my way into priority seating on the bus.

Top ways to use pregnancy to one's advantage:

1. Get automatic bulkhead seating on an aircraft or threaten to sue.

2. Eyeball these lazy Millennial Kids on the subway subliminally informing them of their near death if they do not relinquish their seat.

3. Get grocery clerks to carry my basket full of food as I patiently browse the aisles.

4. Get in heated political discussions with friends and not fear the loss of friendship.  "It's my brain fogginess" they claim.

5. Blame my attention-deficit on the baby.

Will be blogging soon...just enjoying the VIP treatment.

Time Management Without Wellbutrin for ADHD? A bust.

I began this blog back in March 2007 as an experiment to see if, in fact, a daily dose of Wellbutrin,  could help me perform a task consecutively for one year.

Well, March 2008 I had confirmed my hypothesis: 

Taking Wellbutrin will keep you blogging for one consecutive year and give you the focus that you need to accomplish your goals. 

August of 2008, just three months ago, I started tapering off the drug, and being off it completely now for four weeks, the mental perplexity has begun once again. 

Its hard to put in words for those who have never experienced chaotic, short-circuited and uncontrollable brain activity.  The child-like giddiness is back and the hyper-desire to tackle anything and everything is with me 24/7.  As I reluctantly set out to "achieve everything on my daily To Do List"   I find that on my desk still lies:

1. A pile of cooking resumes that were supposed to be mailed out a month ago.

2. Phone calls to Health Insurance companies that should have been made weeks ago.

3. An overflowing IN BOX that was once empty...

But here's the unique juncture:

This is one of the many unnecessary tasks I find myself performing while I stare at my long-awaited To Do List:

1. Attempting to open up a free checking account for my Wheatan after reading about Trouble, Leona Helmsley's Maltese, who was left a plush inheritance of 12 million dollars.

It went something like this:

INT. BANK- DAY 

KALI

Good morning. 

BANK TELLER 

Good Morning, welcome to Citibank. How can I help you? 

KALI 

I'd like open up a free checking for my dog, please. 

BANK TELLER 

Your dog? 

KALI 

Yes. 

BANK TELLER 

(la-de-da laughter)

We don't open accounts for pets.  

KALI 

(mocking her la-de-la laughter)

Leona Helmsley left a will for her dog. I'd like a free checking for mine. 

BANK TELLER 

We don't- 

KALI 

I'd like to see a manager, please- 

BANK TELLER 

I'm sorry, what is your name? 

KALI 

Kali. Kali Karagias. 

BANK TELLER 

Sounds like a super hero? 

KALI 

That was racist-

(insert awkwardness here)

BANK TELLER

One moment. 

TELLER WALKS AWAY AS KALI PETS HER DOG LOVINGLY. MANAGER ENTERS APPROACHING KALI.

MANAGER 

Hi, you must be Ms. Car-a-GEE-iz? 

KALI 

Not really but OK. 

MANAGER 

Evelyn informed me that you would like to open up an account for your dog but unfortunately we don't offer services for pets. 

KALI 

So your racist? 

MANAGER 

Beg your pardon? 

KALI 

You won't do it because my dog's black. 

MANAGER 

It has nothing-

KALI 

Leona's Maltese was white and got millions and I can't open up a free checking? Its because he's black, isn't it? 

MANAGER

Ma'am, I'm black.  Why would I be racist towards your dog?

KALI

Its so typical for a man like yourself to be sexually harassing a piece of ass like myself. I'd like to see the manager, please.

MANAGER

I am the manager.

KALI

No, you're just filling a quota.

MANAGER

Ma'am, if you are going to get belligerent, Im going to have to ask you to leave.  With your dog.

KALI

I'm sorry but the comedic timing was perfect- 

(insert another awkward pause here)

Can I get the balance on my savings?

************

It's NOT uncommon for someone with uncontrollable ADHD to go to that place and place one's foot in one's very large mouth.

Its lack of impulse control and forgetting the obvious that is the biggest struggle.  

Which brings me to this probing thought:

If ADHD and Asperger's Syndrome are both neurobehavioral disorders than can they be congruous in any way?  

I was so reluctant to even ask this question due to the stigma ADHD has had for so long, the stigma that it JUST DOESN'T EXIST.  I am grateful to see that the disease has received some validity by a major media companies like Forbes in the last couple of years. The article, Brain Studies Show ADHD is Real Disease, is worth the read.

.

In last month's, Business Week, there is an inspirational article regarding the success of Bit Torrent'Bram Cohen and his ability to function with Asperger's Syndrome.

I went to a wake last Tuesday and I thought it would be nice to lighten up the mood of the funeral home so when I walked in and saw the coffin from across the room, I asked the deceased's husband, "Is that the open buffet?" 

Is that ADHD, Asperger's or Tourette's?

Sea Legs, Instant Coffee & A Pot Smoking Vet

Since a career in politics is not in my near future, I would like to share yet another intimate story starring Marijuana as the protagonist.

One uneventful high school day, my friend Jenny leaned across the aisle in homeroom and in a loud whisper asked, "Hey, do you wanna go somewhere special after school?"  Among my high school clique, special meant finding the right pharmacy to shoplift from or locating the key to a liqueur cabinet teh belonged to Bethany Brennan's rich, jet-setting parents. What would far surpass any five-finger-discounted tube of mascara or Sweet Amaretto?  A free supply of Mary Jane.  Weed.  Reefer.

It was a retirement complex for seniors surrounded by large pine trees and shrubs that gave the small apartment the privacy it coveted. Jenny and I would pad lock our getaway wheels against a small tree in front of an unobstructed path, just in case the cops came.

His name was Jersey, a slow-moving, 74-year-old, pot-smoking World War II vet with a fondness for only the finest Cannabis Sativa money can buy, paired with a couple of rowdy high school girls which Jenny and I happily filled that category.

He called us Goils with his  North Jersey-slightly-diluted-Brooklyn accent "Would you Goils like to get high? Are you Goils listening to me!?" he would always shout, his loss of hearing from the early days of World War II Battleships. Jenny and I would yell back 'Yes!' and minutes later Jersey would reappear, slightly hunched over holding with a solidly carved, wooden box filled with what Jenny and I coined "the finest grass God had to offer". 

We sat in a circular fashion around his well-worn wooden kitchen table in an apartment furbished with 70's decor and hanging spider plants; plants that seems to come to life after we reached our expected state of smoke euphoria. My back was always closest to the kitchen since it was my duty to make the Nescafe Instant coffee, ironically the same coffee my Mother would drink every morning.  If only she new I was here. Jersey would pan-fry us Sea Legs while reminiscing of his days as a young sailor on the Battleship. "Sea Legs and Instant Coffee, the poifect meal" he would preach to us, a  meal we only stomach when the munchies were called to duty. 

Occasionally, Jersey would drop these heavy navy blue photo albums on the table filled with pictures of his WW II paraphernalia and attempt to engage us in war tales.  Young and ignorant, we would break into contagious fits of laughter not from his stories but from the shadows casted on the walls by the spider plants.  

"Look, thats Alfred Hitchcock-no seriously-the profile!" Jenny would point to the shadow above my head.

"That's not Hitchcock", I would counter, "That's-wait. Jersey, I think that's your shadow!" we would burst into a stoner giggle. 

"You Goils neva listen to me!" he would slam the album shut.

These high late-day luncheons became a secret ritual, riding our bikes there every Wednesday. More Sea Legs.  More Shadows.  Jersey was lonely and loved our company until he went on a long drinking binge.  He wouldn't even have the strength to answer the door. We would just knock and call, "Jersey, its the goils!  Can we come in?" And then we'd wait. We'd wait and moments later the door would open.  We would come in.  The place would reek of week old liquor and his eyes were so glazed over he could barely remember us.  We would offer our help.  Did he need food?  Help dressing?  Where's your pot, Jersey? Help cooking?  He would tell us his binges would last five to seven days and then he would be back to normal.

One Wednesday, Jersey's daughter answered the door. Who would have thought that Jersey had a daughter. To us, she was just another road block, another authoritative adult; tall, plain, in her thirties and questioned us at the door.

"Why are you here to see my father?" she questioned.

I was scrambling in my head for a good lie.  Ugh...ugh... Jenny was more of the honest one answering, "He gets us high.  Is he here?"

"No, I came to pick up some of his things," the tall daughter said.

"Is he dead?" Jenny asked.  "Shut up!" I elbowed her.  "She's just kidding."

"He won't be back for a couple of weeks.  He's back in rehab."  Door closes.

An hour later, Jenny and I found ourselves still sitting under the same tree we chained our bikes too while contemplating our next move.  "That's a shame."  "Yep." "Well maybe its the perfect time to stop smoking?"  She looks at me like I had grown an extra head. "Well maybe its the perfect time to break in?" Peer pressure won me over.

Dressed like a pair of bank robbers, we showed up the following night.  Time was limited since we were "in drama rehearsal" and my mom would be picking us up in front of the high school at nine, we critically mapped out our strategy outside of Jersey's side window.  Jenny would take the bedroom and bathroom.  I would take the kitchen and den. I being the shorter of the two, was boosted into the window head first onto the kitchen faucet, an unprofessional landing for a wannabe thief.  My heart was pounding even though this had been our second break in-the first was at high school senior Kyle McQueen's house when he and his family traveled to Florida. We just wanted to see the interior of Kyle's bedroom. 

Jenny emerged from the bedroom holding the familiar solidly carved, wooden box.  My heart was still pounding as we opened the resin-stained box.  Nada.  No wonder Jersey was in rehab, I thought. Rumor had it, Sally Shillings brother had run out of heroine and had to go to rehab to detox.  Would I be next? Still curious and stupid, we rummaged through sock drawers, kitchen cabinet and even a freezer filled with Sea Legs.  "Maybe Jersey knew we would break in eventually and created a secret hideout?" Jenny entertained.  "Let's keep looking."  

"I wanna go home" I said leaving my brother's black knitted cap behind.  "Drama rehearsal, remember?"

"You're no fun," Jen added. "Let's go".

After two weeks passed, all is forgotten, we would come back and find the temperamental Jersey at his front door, once again, nodding us in with a stoned smile, pan frying Sea Legs as I mixed the instant coffee and reprimand us like his children when another wave on contagious laughter would hit right in the middle of his story of ,"...did you ever hear of a place called Poill Harbah....Goilz are you listening to me!?".

Our second year into high late-day luncheons and growing up just enough to realize Jersey's time might be limited, we started listening to his war tales aboard the USS Arkansas. 

The Lobotomization of a Brat Kid and it's Mother

A.D.D Symptom:  Having the uncontrollable desire to slaps people's children.

Today's post was intended as an explanation to my disappearance the last month and two days but when I rarely find myself seated, like I am today, in an Upper West Side health club cafe, I can't help but comment on...

All the retards. 

That's right. I said it.  The retards.  Ooh, she said retard-she's so un-PC. Borderline Racist.  Why is Kali so angry?" 

The anger stems from watching some overfed bitch-of-a-mother ignoring her spoiled-also-overfed-brat-of-a-son juggle the health club fruit, drop it, slam it back in a basket and watch his defunct mother smile down at him as if her precious five year old just spelled the word deplorable.  At first glance, some may say this mutinous monster may be ADD symptomatic, I say this mutinous monster is simply 

a product of people who should not procreate. 

The impudent child has a devil counterpart; equally as fat, equally as ugly.  After a brief game of Bachi Ball with club fruit they did not pay for, the terrible eight-eyed twosome begin singing in a tone only tolerable in a Thailand prison:

"Thwinkle, thwinkle, little thtar!  How I wonder what you are! UP ABOVE THE WORLD THO HIGH, LIKE A DIAMOND IN THE THKY...thwinkle, thwinkle litlle thtar, how I wonder what uuuuuu..oooo..RRRRRRR..!!"

As a mother myself, I should be able to cock my head to the side, smile and sigh, "Oh, look, how cute, their both wearing glasses so they could see their ass from their elbow!"  as the little urchins sprint laps around cafe tables sadly avoiding a slip-and-fall at every turn.

But I cannot.

I feel nothing but disgust for the whole prehistoric clan because to me, there are the people:

These are the people who should be animal-tested on.

These are the people who should only be let out on a day-pass.

These are the people who should have been lobotomized in the fifties.

These are the people who should be financially raped by Bernie Madoff.

Or are these the people that are related to Bernie Madoff. I could bet my life savings that those four-eyed monsters are the bruised fruit of his loins.