Friday, July 31, 2009

My New Job!

I finally figured out what I'm good at. The job I was born to do.

It comes so easy, effortless really.
Bra strap model.
I don't know why I didn't think of it before.

It's perfect.

I'm good at it.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Call 911!

There was high surf in Newport Beach, CA. Sufficiently treacherous to kill a man at "The Wedge" after slamming him against the rocks.
I didn't know. (Since the digital crossover I can't figure out how to turn on my TV.)

My date and I strolled to the beach in Corona Del Mar, to climb "the rock". Waves crash against it. It's fun.

When we arrived, it was mayhem. I've never seen so many people.

It was difficult to reach the rock this time. Swirling tides made it challenging to reach without getting slammed by walls of water that circled around it. You had to time your approach.

After reaching our position on top, the surf became more violent. I screamed.

"I think we should go" I said.

"Don't be silly. We're fine." he replied.

Another wave crashed with such force, I shrieked. I noticed the escape route below dissolve into a churning cauldron of water.

A helicopter began to circle above.

Are they circling over US?" I queried.
"No. They're looking for a wayward swimmer." He replied.

I smiled and waved at the helicopter apparently communicating, "Help me Sweet Jesus".

A yellow rescue boat appeared.

Gazing at the beach below I noticed life guards rushing toward us.

"Oh My God" I said. "It's a three-pronged rescue. They've got us by air, land and sea. We must really be in trouble."

A lifeguard yelled, "Get down!!!" (I was shaking now.)

"JUMP NOW!!!!" he screamed... convincing me death was imminent. I did so as a wall of water came around knocking me to my knees onto the jagged rocks. "Please God," I thought, "Don't let my hair extensions get wet."
The senior lifeguard (in black shorts) said authoritatively, "We received four (4) 911 calls about you.

"Sensing there might be a "bill" in our future my date apologized. (Sometimes they charge you for 911 calls.)

We walked home, drenched. A man pulled his car to the side of the road and rolled down his window. "I was one of the people who called 911". I'm a retired police officer currently working for the Department of Home Land Security," he said. (I started laughing)
"You were about to be airlifted by helicopter," he said. (I had to turn my head)

I wanted to say, "Please don't call 911 again, not unless you're trying to kill me".

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Do I Love You or Hate You?

I instigate the push-pull in relationships. I'm the make-up/break-up Queen. I pull closer, then push away. It's important to recognize you have a problem:

"Hello, my name is Charmaine. I'm a push-puller". I also wear a push up bra. Is that relevant?

On the way to dinner my date swerved into Macy's. I was telling him the story about how Christmas ended when my father died.

My sisters and I received stockings that year. They contained (3) pairs of underwear. I stole one of my sisters panties and replaced it with one of mine. (She got the cute ones.) A fight broke out. We pulled at the underwear from opposite sides until it ripped. (Like rats fighting over a crumb.)
We girls faced different dangers after my fathers death. We weren't quite grown up. Like cakes pulled from the oven too soon. The outside was done, the inside needed more time.

Things happen. Some not so savory. Some men try to take advantage.

"Despite our differences, my sisters and I had one thing in common," I said to my date.

Then I choked up. I could feel the tears. He put his hand on my knee. I dropped the conversation.

What I was going to say was, "We learned we would never be protected again". I wanted to cry (not for me), because I'd wanted to protect my sisters. I believe, I failed.

At Macy's he bought me shoes and sunglasses. I fought him on this. I'm not good at "receiving" AND I hate to shop. People giving me things, makes me ansy.

On the way out he asked, "How old were you again when there stopped being a Santa?"

"19" I replied.

"Well, Santa's back" he said.
Go ahead, judge him. Even Senorita.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

The Ego Boost a.k.a. Did That Gorgeous HUNK Just Check Me Out?

It's the little things in life....

I was walking out of the grocery store and a gorgeous, I'm talking GORGEOUS hunk of a young man was walking in.

He was obviously a professional athlete, in a European way like say, a soccer player. An Adonis. I'm not a boy watcher but this was really something to see.

He had those big, bronze arms that make every woman wonder, "what would THOSE feel like"? He sauntered confidently across the parking lot in his tank top and loose fitting shorts. His brown wavy hair blew (in slow motion) in the breeze.

I thought he might be "checking me out". "He CAN'T be. No way in hell." I thought.

I was wearing sunglasses. I could pretend not to look. As I walked across the parking lot, putting a little extra "wiggle" in my step, I kept my head turned slightly to the right so I could continue to watch him out of the corner of my eye (despite the fact I was walking to the left.) As he walked into the store there was a glass window. If he looked out the window into the parking lot, he was checking me out.

He looked. (He smiled and blew me a kiss.) Okay I'm making that part up. I kept walking. He paused, watching me.

Then I walked straight into my car, thump.

The Perils of Getting Old

You go blind. I can't see a thing that is not, at least, 6 feet away.

I have reading glasses all over the house. You can never find them without your glasses.

Today I couldn't find my moisturizer.

I went to one of the little samples they give you at the make-up counter you keep in case of "emergency". I put the cream on my face.

It started turning red, burning and there were red bumps. (I look like I have leprosy.) Okay, I'm not really sure what leprosy looks like.

I found my glasses and read the microscopic print, "Foot Beauty Treatment. Do not leave on for more then 30 seconds".

Monday, July 20, 2009

Are All Artists Tortured?

The video above features a successful recording artist in England. (Come on, watch it.)

The video reminds me of when I danced. I was a ballerina for a while.

My body style was never right for it. But I worked hard to overcome my physical inadequacies. A few ballet companies later...

I attempted Jazz. THIS was where I belonged. By the time I found out, it was too late.

There was this guy in class. He was from the wrong side of the tracks, the Latin Ghetto.He had no training, just talent.

We took over the floor. We ran over the other dancers. We were unstoppable.

Sometimes the instructor would stop, "Class, see that? THAT'S what I'm talking about."

He went on to perform in countless MTV Videos. I was too old, I thought. Sometimes I wonder.

I remember the feeling of knowing I was good. I was shy. But when I danced, no one could stop me.

I had these muscular legs. (No one believes me now.) One day after class a man asked if I would model for a calendar that featured great legs.

I declined. Recently I realized that I've declined every opportunity. I was offered a job with Calvin Klein Industries when I was 21. It was the dream of a lifetime. It just landed in my lap.

I never did it. It was too easy. I didn't feel I deserved it.

Then I came across the video above. The singer lands in re-hab after each successful recording. An interviewer asked him, "Why does this happen? It's like you're trying to sabotage your own success".

The singer replied, "I dunno. I guess I don't think I deserve it".

Sunday, July 19, 2009

This American Life

It's a syndicated program on National Public Radio.

The topic is Pro Se. (People who defend themselves in court.) If the podcast link below works, prepare for a treat. The topic of the first segment is how easy it is to fake madness to avoid prison time. (I took notes.)

Then how impossible it is to prove you're normal.

I laughed until I cried. It's an indictment of Psychiatry.

DSM-IV-TR. It's the Psychiatrists manual. It lists every known mental disorder. The journalist in this hilarious piece reads it and diagnoses himself with 12 disorders including:

1. Disorder of Written of Expression (Poor Handwriting)
2. Arithmetic Learning Disorder (Cured if you get a calculator.)
3. Nightmare Disorder (When you dream people are chasing you.)

He didn't realize how unbelievably nuts he was. Listen to the link below, won't you? It's funny. Get through the first few minutes. It's worth it.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

My Orthopedic Surgeon

First of all I want to say, the man is gorgeous. After one meeting I fantasized about having his children. Of course, we would have to adopt them from Korea.

I never returned for my follow-up appointment. He recently began emailing me with doom and gloom messages. After inumerable attempts to respond, "password not recognized, password must contain a number, username not recongized... I sent the following message: "Screw you. If you want to tell me I'm dying, just call already."

I'm going to Ireland next month. Huh? Wha? Me stick around and DEAL with my problems?

I'm not afraid of anything except:

Driving a car on the wrong side of the road.

Someone is going to die.

I can't wait to see my neighbours that were kind to me when I was a little girl. They were magical, funny and mysterious people. It's dark over there, overcast and forlorn yet tremendously green. A strange smell lurks in the air, like the smell of decay.

I can't wait to smell that heady odor along the rocky cliffs overlooking that strange, sad ocean. No sand, no waves...just dirt and rocks reaching out for what seems like miles, where the murky ocean lapps forward spilling over the round stones that pepper the shore.
Below is one of my favorite Irish singers: I used to listen to this song. I was in a year-long law suit. All I wanted was out. It was so hard. I didn't tell anyone. I did it alone. I didn't need anyone. I won. But really, I lost in the end. But like I always say, the fights not over until you stop getting up.

Gay Man Dan

My first blueberry. I guess I need to give up my life long dream of becoming a hand model after slamming it in the car door.
A neighbour has been asking me out. But he's gay.

When he moved in he was masculine. He carried a canoe to the beach, shirtless. He asked me out to dinner.
I said, "no". I was SHY. (This was before I started dating half the state of California.) If a decent looking man even spoke to me, I started babbling and turned beet red.

The next day he strolled past and scowled, "You're stuck up."
Huh, wha? I'm the most insecure person alive.
Fast forward. He sold his canoe, became slimmer, streaked his hair and began wearing metro-sexual clothing. His voice went up an octave.

He has an edge. There is something dark lurking beneath the surface. A slight anger...something. Anger is just fear. I know. I just flipped out on the King again.

But fear can keep you alive. With regard to The King, it looks like I'm the crazy girl. I've never been the crazy girl before. (We're not speaking.) It's my fault. I Pick fights. But there is some survival mechanism at work. Maybe it's the hormones. Maybe it's what happens when you let someone in and you've never done it before.
I've always been in charge of my relationships. I never really cared. I don't want to be the crazy girl. I'd rather be red.
Look at me, I'm crazy. But look at him. He walked into a tree and nearly bled to death. Would you rather be a moron, or crazy?

Friday, July 17, 2009

Jesus Loves You

I was driving to the store. I got stuck behind the gardeners truck.

On the back of his truck he had a sign, "Jesus Loves You".

Not a small sign, it was HUGE.

I thought, "Jesus Christ". (It's not an official prayer)

Then I thought, 'Jesus Loves me, good to know'. Now why don't you stop leaving leaves, dirt and debris in my garbage cans mother fucker? And stop with the leaf blower already. Get a rake.

When I got home, I slammed my hand in my car door. Yep, God gets you back for being a heretic. I tried to pull my hand out. I couldn't do it. I scrambled for my keys, tried to unlock the door.

It's no big deal. I have a purple hand, that's all.

Ow ow all I have to say.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Child Abuse

I just want to confess for the record. I did it. I'm guilty. Put me in the cell adjacent to Michael Jackson. Woops. I forgot he's dead.

I always forget these things.

My crime? I told my 10 year old nephew about the time I met Chuck Norris.

I told him "Chuck" was short and a total pansy.

Now my little nephew is literally devastated.

He calls me all the time. "Auntie Charmaine, Chuck Norris is NOT a pansy" he says.

He called me tonight. "Chuck is NOT a pansy" he said.

"Well he's short", I replied.

(Click) Did a child just hang up on me?

Flipping Out

Is that a word? I know it's a colloquialism, but is it a word?

I flip out, sometimes, on dates with The King.

I've never done it before.
It is reminiscent of the behavior of my crazy sister. It's not quite the same thing (she'll stab you.) a

But I think I understand her more.
She flips out, I flip out, because we're overwhelmed by emotion. We're in love with men who maintain distance and give us no authority or control. It's like hanging from the edge of a cliff. (Nobody want's to do that.)
We have no manipulation skills, we kick, scream and fight instead. It's all we know how to do.

I don't have arguments with other men. Okay, if I do at least I'm in charge. I'll brake my own hand to assert my authority.

I was talking to my cousin yesterday. She said I should see a therapist for a session or two.

When friends or family tell you, "you're a lunatic" do you HAVE to listen? .

Maybe I'll just marry one of the last two guys that asked. (Exhales)

Dancing on the high-wire is not where it's at. It's too dangerous. One false move and...splat. I can't afford multiple injuries, I don't have insurance.
What I learned from The King was how to shoot at someone that outdrew me. I give up. He wins. (If winning nothing constitutes an actual victory.)

Next. Or as The King would say, "Check please".

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Ug. I'm posting too much I just had to say..

It's a video clip of Sting. He's singing a song from one of my favorite films, The Professional.

The film is about a hit man who meets a young girl. It's bittersweet. It's about love and the ways it can surprise you and make you want to get a silencer for your gun.

I'm just sayin...if you're "out there" and don't have a silencer for your gun yet you're retarded.
If you really want to go out on a limb, rent a French flick called "Ponnette". I'll give you a hundred bucks if you don't cry. I really will. My email is This is a challenge. You don't cry, I give you money.
How hard is that?


There really IS something wrong with my mother.

I think she has Alzheimer’s. It’s just happening. (Or she’s faking) She’s losing her memory, which looks good to me. I wish I could.

See, my mother was not a good mother. She was pretty nasty. Okay, she bordered on evil. No one sees this. Strangers like her. She can be charming. Her children don’t like to correct her in public because…we actually WANT to pretend she’s normal.

But my sisters and I remember. She began calling me a whore when I was 14.

I can still see her on the phone pretending she was calling an orphanage saying, “Yes, you can pick up Charmaine, Erin and Briana tomorrow”. I was five (5) years old.

My little sisters were grabbing her legs and sobbing. I ran to an alternate phone and returned exclaiming,” She’s lying. She lying."

We all have angst growing up. I get that. BUT…my little sister is in therapy to learn how to deal with our mom.

My other sister tried to kill herself. She called me first. (I was long gone .) My baby sister had to deal with the blood, razor blades and ambulance.

I’m not talking minor problems…they were major.

Put the oxygen mask on yourself" then help the children. That's what I did.


Dating sucks.

I’m not going to do it anymore. Men are hurting me. Where did the heroes go? What happened to men anyway? It’s like they disappeared.

You’re not going to read my blog anymore cuz reading about my microscopic vegetables is not interesting.

But it is funny.

I looked at my blueberry plant. I have one (1) ripe blueberry. Are you kidding me? ONE?

Are there any farmers out there? I need help.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

What's Love Got to Do With It? Got to do with it, got to do with it?

Is there an echo in here? Hello? hello....hello....hello

I thought I was "in love" a couple of times.
They took my money, my stuff, wrecked my car...things like that.
Bill was my first love. I lived with him for 10 years. He wanted to marry. I didn't. But I stayed. I enjoyed the benefits of marriage with none of the obligations. (Men do that to women all the time.)
I wasted our mutual time. I was young and foolish.
When I left my sister came to help pack. We visited his company. We sat in the boardroom. There was a legal pad on the table. One of the employees grabbed it. But I saw it. It contained travel arrangements to the Bahamas for two (2). I thought, wow, he's making one last "play" to keep me.
The arrangements were for him and his X-wife. He was departing the day after I left.
Everyone in the room knew. Except me.
He was making a play for her. She had no interest but she took her free trip then she dumped him.
Then he called me. The argument was so heated someone at my house said, "Maybe Charmaine needs counseling". I didn't. I just needed to Kill Bill.
He declared bankruptcy. He forgot to declare the credit cards we mutually held leaving me holding the bag for 10's of thousands of dollars. Not to mention destroying my credit. He stole my baby grand, then he stole the money I was awarded when the movers damaged it.
I know the evil men do.
Below is me walking away. I'm prepared at all times.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Things Change FAST in My World!

One minute he's "out"and the next minute he's "in".
That's him.
I've had men love me and fill my house with flowers. No one has ever helped ME. (Helping was MY job.) I didn't mind.
Yet he:
1. Fixed my computer.
2. Re-piped (is that a word?) my garden plumbing so I can turn the water on/off from my deck.
3. Asked me to "make a wish". (I closed my eyes.) He presented me with a gift card that read: "Wish Granted".
4. He washed my car.
5. Had his son re-string and clean my guitar. (faints)
6. He bought me a ceiling fan.
7. Fixed my barbecue. I barbequed steaks, they were terrible. He pretended they weren't.
8. He brought boxes of produce and gave them to three (3) of my neighbours. (Helping me win influence in the community.)
I've always been brave. He shows me how to be braver.
He tells me how he feels. He's not afraid of anything. He's a strong man. I respect him.
This is my first green onion. We need the microscope again. An "electron" microscope because it can detect items as miniscule as atoms.
Come's FUNNY. (Not the Madonna-esque black bra, the green onion, silly.)
A child only a mother could love. Can you see my baby green onion? (It's in my hand.)

Friday, July 10, 2009

The King Bites the Dust!

Listen to Cassini’s Ave Marie sung by Inessa Galante.

I apologize for the flowers. Look away from the monitor. I mean it. Turn your head to the side. Do not, I repeat do NOT look at the tulips. They are evil.

Turn off the lights. (Classical music is best appreciated in the dark.) This music can communicate suffering like no other medium. You can feel it. If not, you might be dead. Or dumb.

But I don’t like to judge.

Last night? I did nothing other then:

Try to figure out why “The King” disappeared on me. We spent the 4th of July weekend together. He gave me a tour of his company. Did the security cameras reveal that I am actually an international terrorist? (It happens.)

He installed a motion detector light outside my house. (Thank you King.) It flicks on 30 times a night flooding the darkness with streams of light transforming my tiny abode into a 21st century replica of Auschwitz. (All I need are sirens and a machine gun.)

I returned his call on Wed. (We had plans). He didn't pick up. I'm tired of trying to figure out this Prima Donna. I went out with someone else instead. My date and I went to the place I was meant to go with The King. It was packed with teeny boppers (people under the age of 23.) We both said, simultaneously, "hell no".

We had dinner instead. My date said, "You KNOW I'm the one you really want." Then he said, "Kiss me". Then he said, "You're spending the night with me".

That's where I drew the line. "Nope, not gonna happen" I replied. "You have a big brain Charmaine" he said. "It's too bad you use it on such small things".

"You mean like on YOU?" I said. Then I drove home.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Stood Up, Again!

I had a lovely date tonight. (The King stood me up.) But you know me, I'm not one to wait around. (If he wants to hurt me, he's gonna have to try harder.)

My replacement date was recently in a mountain biking accident. He was horribly injured. I stood him up for lunch on Monday. He couldn't drive and was literally starving. (I didn't know.) I was with the man (King) who was well on his way to becoming my hero. Yet he stood me up tonight (hello Karma).

The man I had dinner with called after I returned home to make sure I'd arrived safely.

(I love that.)

He commented on my abnormal behavior. (I wasn't my jovial self.)

My date was covered with bruises. He'd been to the hospital and was feeling low. I could relate.

My injuries were on the inside.

Monday, July 6, 2009

First Harvest

Don't laugh. This is the FIRST radish harvested from my garden. Can you see it?

How about now? I realize a microscope might be helpful.
I'm establishing a small radish stand at the local Farmer's Market. How people will respond to under-developed, insect ridden mealy radishes with birth defects is one of my questions.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Am I Gay?

I thought that might get your attention.

Hell, my mother has been asking me since I was 25 and refused to marry.

"I don't want to", I said. So? (She gave me a copy of "Taming of the Shrew". )

Maybe I saw how much love hurt her.

Above is a song by K.D. Lang. She makes a good looking man. Tall, dark and handsome.

If she WERE a man...

But I really like men.

Women bore me with their weakness. (Not YOU, them.) You know the ones. Their manipulations send me into a coma. I'm just feeling inadequate. I didn't inheret the manipulation gene.

PS: Did I ever tell you that my grandfather played the accordian? He was an immigrant from Norway. He showed me how to rub a balloon on my shirt (creating friction) so he could stick it on the ceiling. (Endlessly fascinating when you're 9).

Ten years after he died we found out he had a whole other family. He had abandoned them before marrying my grandmother. No one knew.

What was I saying about women again?