So Many Break-Dancers, So Little Time

Dates with The King are an adventure.

We went to Starbucks and to the Swap Meet to buy ridiculous sunglasses and hats. Why you ask? Oh, no reason.

We rented bikes and rode 15 miles along the boardwalk.

During the ride I wore these sunglasses. (I didn't want you to see me without make-up but it can't be helped.) He wore these. You can imagine the reactions.

We stopped in Huntington Beach for a margarita. The sound of drums beaconed from the pier above. Wee, break dancers, my favorite! The dancers selected members from the audiance to participate in the grand finale. One pointed at me, walked up, hand outstretched. I feigned shyness, "Oh no, not ME. No, really, I couldn't. (blink blink) ". Then I began to walk to the makeshift stage. "Not YOU, he said. "HIM" and grabbed The King. Most people become shy when the center of attention. Not The King. Not even close.

They loved him. "Did your wife make you wear those shorts?" They asked.

"She told you they were nice? She lied. She didn't want other women to look at you." they jested.

The King went toe to toe with them until one said, "This guy wants his own show". Of course women love The King. The thing I REALLY like about him is that men love him too. (Hopefully not in THAT way.)

I spoke too soon.

Audiance participants bent over. A break dancer leapt over the lot.

Break dancers are cute.

The King asked someone to take our picture. I love that he is unintimidated by anyone or anything.

For a couple of old farts that qualify for the Senior Citizen's discount, I think we're kinda cute. What would a normal person do after a long day?

Take a Merry-Go-Ride, of course. Duh.The view from the top.

We went to dinner and back to my place to watch a movie. I was snoring on the couch within an hour.

No matter what you say, The King is O.K. by me.

If you adore Kobe Bryant...we're through!

My date stated his theory: “Within 72 hours you will cause a fight resulting in our break up.” He said, “It’s your pattern”. I told him he was out of his mind.

72 hours later, I did it.

It’s ironic. We have so much fun. I have never behaved this way; storming off in huffs, causing arguments and getting jealous.

Why do I do it? Something nags from an insidious corner of my mind, “You’re not in charge.” (Iwanna be the boss.) But he holds all the cards. How does a person relinquish control when it’s the only thing they ever had? Control has kept me safe. If you've never been in danger, you can't possibly understand.

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If you saw us dancing, kissing and walking in public, you would hurl.

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In this case, our argument was about Kobe Bryant. How many people break up over Kobe Bryant?

(Sound of crickets)

When I am an irrational bitch he says “Don’t ever change or I’ll break up with you.” It's fall down funny. He's funny and he's right...I can't go 72 hours. Give me some loser and I can keep THAT going for years.

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We have a good thing, I think, “I have the greatest guy on earth” then Bam... he says, “Kobe is great” and it's game on, or game over...depending on your perspective.
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I say, “He’s a rapist”. He says, “That woman wanted money”. I think to myself, “That’s the way a civil law suit works, dummy".

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In a criminal case, rape-shield laws would have prevented her sexual past from becoming admissable. (It’s open season in a civil lawsuit.) But she walked away from that protection. Why would she do that? Legally, it was wrong wrong wrong! She was 19 and getting death threats. (Some from Kobe) She ended up with nothing. Had she pursued the criminal aspect first... she would be a millionaire.

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She had terrific attorneys. She must have told them to go to hell like a teenager who thought she knew everything.

What I said out loud to my date was, “you’ll change your tune when he rapes your daughter”.

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I didn't tell him how the legal system works. I was simply outraged at his adoration for Kobe. (In terms of our argument, I was wrong.) He said the plaintiff received money... and she did.) It was, however, a pittance. She asked for 75K, she likely ended up with 25K.

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I remember an argument in fifth (5th) grade over the pronunciation of the word, Wrought Iron. I fought to express, to my 12 year old opponent, that the proper pronunciation was "Roth Iron". (It's pronounced Rot Iron.) I was prepared to fight to the death.

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See, my mother is Irish. Words with a "T" come out as "TH". I REALLY thought the term was Roth Iron. (Damn immigrants.) When I learned I was wrong I approached the girl and said, "My mom is prettier then yours".

Is Kobe Bryant a legitimate reason to break up?

Anyone care to comment?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MR5xv3pt7KI

All I can say is I would have protected that little girl. I would have shot Kobe. Unlike most of us, no one had her back. She was alone. She caved. She was 19. Try to remember what 19 felt like.

I would have strolled in Kobe's direction, my dead father at my side, invisibly cocking his shot gun and together...we would have shot that loser.

We'll always have Paris

Pool Boy texted. He's in Barcelona.

"Hey Char" he said. I'll be in Paris when you are in Ireland. Meet me in Paris. I'll take you out on the town.

I would like nothing more then to have dinner with Pool Boy, in Paris. He's a gentleman. We might walk the streets after dinner and gaze at the stars. Hurting women does not interest him. He's strong. He doesn't need to make a lady cry, not like "The King" did. Maybe we'd take a BATEAUX along the river Sienne. Then I'd go home.

Paris is the perfect place to mend a broken heart.

Pool Boy isn't looking for anything. He's just trying to make a connection and be a good man.

I didn't know. Not until now. Still, give me a moment to shake off "The King". (Drops to one knee) It's okay. You're not used to brutal honesty. People are so rarely honest these days.
http://www.youtube.com/user/sarabareilles?blend=2&ob=4

Le Farm Report

Ladies and Gentlemen welcome to Monday's Le Farm Report, a copywritten feature of this blog.
Pa said if a 5-foot termater plant produces jest one termater...I did something wrong.
I gots me a green bell pepper. I did something right.

I don't care what they learned ya in school... but lettuce IS a tree.
An rights on over yonder we have some green termaters, like in the movie, "Fried Green Termators". And thats me, Farmer Char, bringing you this live report from the rural backwoods of Corona Del Mar, California. Come back later ya'll, won't you?

How much truth is too much?

One minute you have everything: A decent job, the ability to travel the world. Nothing elaborate. You feel like an imposter. At other times you can’t believe how hard it is to hold on to something so small.

The next minute, you have nothing.

It’s amazing really.

It doesn’t “happen” to you. You choose it.

Something cracks inside. You realize how angry you are at every mediocre person that tried to take advantage or stab you in the back. The number of hours I spent defending myself in my career was astounding. I fought endless guttersnipes and smiling Christians.

You revisit the past, all the way back to the cardiologist that killed your father and got away with it.

Then you’re sitting in your living room. You don’t know if you can pay the rent this month. You only know you can’t take another heartbreak.

You start drinking too much, acting like a fool.

But it’s the anger that surprises you. I didn’t know I was so angry.

Do you respect me less because I didn’t play the game to the end?

I want honor above success.

Then, just when you think you're at your wits end, you watch a video of Karl Rove rappin...and all is right with the world.

(See below).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ln5RD9BhcCo

Euro-trash

I’m European.

Yes, I am.

I am too. I can prove it.

I just received my European Union Passport.

What does it mean? I can fulfill my dream of becoming an international spy. But I forgot to change my name. Why am I so stupid?

When you have a European Passport you can work immediately. You don’t have to wait for a work Visa; you’re just “in”. You’re one of “the gang” everyone loves you; you’re a supa star. Uh…

The application process was a literal nightmare. I could NOT have done it without my baby sis (an attorney). She filled out the application and sent me a letter detailing where to sign and which items to get notarized. But I STILL screwed up.

As a result, she developed a healthy relationship with the Consulate General of Ireland.

They called, “Ach sure be Jesus, what is wrong with your fecking bloody stupid sister? She such a feckin moron, we don’t want her. Tell her to sod off and go to Germany.”

Job Alternatives

Receiver. Kiss receiver, that is. I’m good.

Rock Climber? Nah. Too risky.
Boobie bouquet model. (I’ll bet you never heard of THAT one.)
Okay, then. How about eyeball model?
Come on. Work with me people.

Farmer?
Can you see my blueberry? You don’t know joy until you grow blueberries. Can you see it?
How about now?

It’s difficult to pick one thing when you have so many talents.