THINGS WE ALMOST PUBLISHED!
This will be a regular installment of pictures, typos and blurbs that could've ended my career.
This pic in particular was part of a larger photo story and managed to slip past three sets of eyes before our perv production guy caught it!!!

Please note that I did not take this pic... but laughed my arse off when I saw it :-)

Training for the one legged hammy

My roommate and I are constantly playing games.
And no, this is not the 6-year-old I'm talking about....
-Dress-up
-Pretend
-Wrestling
-Reading stories out loud

Usually they take place just before I want to go to bed.
"Goodnight," I'll say.
"Wait!" he'll say.
"What?"
"Don't go to bed yet."
Then, before I know it, I am laughing my ass off.... heart rate soaring.... energy through the roof.
And when I say "laughing my ass off" I mean snorting, head thrown back, often times collapsing onto the bed, silent, bouncing, wheezing, 80-year-old-man laugh!
This is not conducive to falling asleep.
One night, laying sick in bed and feeling particularly bored, I called him into my room.
"Try that hat on," I said pointing to a vintage lace pillbox decorating my wall.
This set the man off into a costume parading frenzy!
Not only did he try on every hat on my wall, but every costume in his closet and mine.
He was squirreling away Halloween costumes that he had worn in high school.
I experienced everything from an afro wearing disco dude to a broad donning a green-bobbed wig (and various combos of said characters.)
And all of this from the comfort of my own bed :-)
Last night was a particularly fun game.
We called it being Rod Raymond.
For those of you who live in, or have lived in Duluth, you know the legend that is Rod. The man is a hard-bodied renaissance man who owns some sweet bars and restaurants in town, organizes music festivals and marathons and maintains one of the shaggiest, blondest mops in the city.
As part of his many ventures, he has recently put together a training guide for novice marathoners.
In it, Raymond demonstrates (in as little clothing as possible) the multitude of stretches, poses and strength training positions a runner might want to try .
So my roomie decides I ought to demonstrate many of the exercises since I didn't make it to the gym (and I had just inflated a fit-ball.)
So, with the fit-ball, about 24 inches of space in which to do the moves and limited range of motion (thanks to a recent bout of carpal-tunnel) I attempted to impersonate Raymond.
"Ok. Lay on the ground with you arms at your sides and your knees bend. Now wiggle like a snake. This ought to work your obliques," my roommate said with a giggle.
"Ok. Now lock your toes in back and bend forward. Further. Further. Go to Jerusalem! Perfect, that one is called prayer pose."
Of course I go along with it... laughing hysterically all the while.

Who's being entertained now bee-otch!

I'd say I did a pretty good job over all of "Being Rod Raymond." I think it was especially convincing that my hair looks a lot like Rod's right now.
Who knows what games my roomie and I will come up with next.
I have a feeling some of the hip-scarves from my belly-dancing days may have to make an appearance.

Oooo Saracuda!

So I went to a MN Roller Girls derby with my roomie on Sat. night. Seeing as how she is on exchange from Sweden I thought this might be an awesome opportunity to show her some good old fashioned fun. And by "good old fashioned fun" I mean snarky, fishnet wearing broads, slammin the shimmy out of each other, whilst they spun about the rink with athletic ability that would put any toothless hockey player to shame.
These bee-otches were tough. They were sexy. They were fun. They had pink and green and blue hair.
We went not knowing any of the rules, but left saying:
"Did you see the way that jammer cut through all the blockers when that pivot crashed?"
"Yeah! That was sweet-ass!"
The opportunity was there for us to have a rowdy, beer swillin, good time.... plenty of booze, plenty of boys. But we played it cool and took in the roller-action.
I got to thinking...
"Hmm... what would my roller girl name be?" ( All of the girls have feisty names like "Cupcake" and "Anna Bell Lecter")
"Hmm... I wonder when the next recruitment is?"
"Hmm... could I really kick some roller girl arse in a short skirt, cheeky knickers and a helmet?"
"Why yes. Yes I could."
Sooo.... if I end up in the Twin Cities area (which I very well might in the near future) I think I might try out to be a MN Roller Girl.
The gals were very athletic and despite all of the spills (and a couple all- out bawls) no one seemed to get hurt.
More than anything... the people surrounding the event seemed to be SOOOOOO cool. The skaters and their fans. (This bout - which was the season closer at the Roy Wilkins in St. Paul, their home venue- drew at least a couple thousand people. What other regional female sport draws that kind of spectatorship?)
There is a mildly demeaning tone to the outfits (the skirts are short- think A League of Their Own.) But the program explained that the ladies are taking on a persona... and just b/c they are wearing a skirt doesn't mean they aren't fierce competitors.
Also a lot of the proceeds from the events go to charities (Sat. it was a children's cancer fund). Seeing as how I don't quite have the funds for philanthropy right now, this could be a good alternative.
Not to mention a slammin' good time.
I mean Pabst Blue Ribbon is one of the sponsors for crying out loud!!
If you want to check out the sight I've put a link here:

www.mnrollergirls.com

I ran the idea past my Dad...
He raised his eyebrows and then said,
"What would your name be?"
me: "I don't know?"
Dad: "How about Saracuda?"

And that sealed the deal!

Anybody have any suggestions on how to prevent jammed and broken fingers? I suppose as a writer have to think about protecting my ass (sets) as well!

I am the proud warrior (pose)

Ok, let's face it.
I've been going through some rough crap lately.... none of which I will get into here.
None the less... it is evident. I have been the queen of the "ignore" button on my cell phone for weeks now.
As one friend put it,
"Fleener. You should record your outgoing message saying ' Hi. You've reached Fleener's phone. I don't feel like talking to you, or anyone, right now. But I'll call you back when I do.'"

Touche!

Anywho, I have been sick to top it all off. There has been a bonfire in my throat for the last week and there is not enough tissue in the house to remedy the faucet that has attached itself to my face.
So when I decided to go to yoga class last Wednesday, I prided myself on the self-boot-strap-yanking it took to get me there.
"Are you sure you want to go?" asked my workout buddy. "Downward dog (an upside down pose) might prove to be a little too much for that runnny nose of yours."
But it wasn't the runny nose I was worried about.
I feared that I would reach some relaxed, meditative state and just start blubbering (which my workout buddy also noted would be better to do in yoga than toot.)
I have been trying so hard to hold it together....but there is no place for your "game face" in yoga.
It's all out there in the open.... you finally think about your thoughts (if you know what I mean) and you listen to your body. (By the by, my body is telling me that those high heels I like to wear are kickin' my butt. My feet hurt like WHOA when I really pay attention to them.)
So I'm going through the poses and salutations and stretches and I find that I am not actually the wreck I thought I was. I was especially flexible and strong and balanced.
We moved on to the proud warrior pose, which is supposed to create a sense of stability and solidness.
I pointed one leg and toe towards the lake (my gym overlook s Lake Superior) stretched my arms out wide, breathed deep and leaned into it.

I. felt. like. a. brick. wall.
Like nothing could shake me.
I peered out across my open palm, out the window, across the lake and into the horizon.

"BOO YAH!" my body said to me.

Clearly not the emotion I had anticipated. But a welcome one indeed.
The feeling was so distinct, that when I start to slump towards that ignore button, I think of warrior pose and press the green one instead.

Cheesy post? Why yes.
But true none the less.

Ode to JP

Where to start?
How about the beginning.....
I didn't know it when I met her, that she'd become one of the most fashionable women I know, and one of my best friends.
I didn't know it because she was wearing a reversible orange and black gym shirt with her named scribbled across a built in name tag... this name, well signature actually, still looks the same — a J cleverly laid on a music staff with some insane scribbling across it ment to represent the rest of her name.
I used to write her notes simply addressed to the symbol of a music note:
to: music note
heart symbol: little flower picture
This is clearly not as effective via the web, I just haven't mastered my keyboard enough to recreate a quarter note and a wee flower.
Anywho...
We were sly... we were undetected.... and any juicy junior high gossip we wanted to partake in was incognito!
Pretty sure I still have one or two of those notes tucked away in what used to be my room at my folks' house.
Many things have changed since then... the "music note\ flower thing" being one of them.
Many things have not.
me: "Wait, didn't you wear those pants in the eighth grade?"
JP: "What do you want me to do?" she'd say. " I stopped growing in the fourth grade and these pants are just fine."
That's another thing about her that hasn't changed. Her size and her taste in "bottom wear."
The girl has never worn jeans.
Sparkly things... what started as a bizzaro obsession with hair accessories (packed neatly into a towering rubbermaid shelfy thing on wheels, mind you) has now matured into a hand bag, shoe, jewelry obsession... all things that catch the light and dance. And an occasional hair thing I guess.
Another thing.... her hair.
I have been cutting it off straight across the bottom with a plain kitchen scissors for years now.
Out on the back porch, hill-billy style, bare foot, long black hairs floating into the breeze....
Man! To be the bird that gets to make its nest our of that shiny shit!
I am painting a rather homely picture of a friend, who as I mentioned before, has fierce style.
Picture this:
jet black hair, down to her arse
a widow's peak that gives she soft round face a "don't eff with me twist" (she hates this part...but it is lovely)
a petite gal, but you wouldn't know it cause she walks like the king of the jungle... or maybe it's the heels.
a cultural cocktail of Irish and Vietnamese.... or is it Native American, or Mexican, or Italian, or Czech, or....
one would never know by looking at her.
a distinctly square smile.... hard to describe, you would know what I meant if you saw it
and the loveliest toes in town (next to her mother's of course.)
She is loyal. One time when we were young, I started smoochin' on one of her best friends.
"If you hurt him, I'll kick your ass," she said.
DEAD SERIOUS
Music is her religion of choice, and she pursues it with aggression.
She is a force that I hope to reckon with the rest of my life.

She is my oldest friend... and it is her birthday.

I love you .<

Walgreens Revisited

Went again on Friday... this time for throat losenges.... for me.
damn.

Walgreens Whoopie!

I am the only one in my entire house who is not sick right now.
I have barricaded myself in my room, hooked myself up to an o.j. i.v. and have been sucking on those Airborn tablets like it's my job! (I realize you are supposed to dissolve those things in water, but I just don't have that kind of time!)
Since three out of the four sickies don't have cars (yes, one is 6... your point?) I have been running a 24 hour shuttle to and from Walgreens... every hour, on the hour.
Yesterday's trip was extra fun. Many a character in that silly 24-hour pharmacy.
And while it was fun, it was also extremely dangerous.... why you ask?
Because we had to wait 30 min. for a prescription to be filled and there is nothing more threatening to my pocket book than idle time in a Walgreens.
I started my journey in the cosmetics aisle... naturally.
I had narrowed it down to three bottles of what was really the same color polish. Creamy nude, shiny nude or pinky nude? What to buy.... What to buy?
My pondering was suddenly interrupted by an old couple who wanted to look at the more bold colors of my nail polish display.
The old lady reached down and picked out a pink reserved soley for Barbie's convertible.
"How about this one?" she asked her hubby as she held the magenta bottle to her mouth.
Her lips, and teeth, were smeared with a similar color.
"Nice, but maybe a little darker," he suggested with confident lipstick/ nail polish coordination knowledge. (Say, What?!?!?)
She reached for what she thought was a shade darker (it was actually the same color).
"How's about this one?" she asked.
"Perfect," he said.
And they shuffled on.
I also shuffled on, settling on "sand dollar" polish.
Next aisle to be explored, hair stuff.
I was in the market for curl enhancing hair goo, which I spent a good 10 mins. trying to pick out.
Do I want defined curls or springy curls? Soft curls or voluminous curls?
After much consideration I opted for bouncy, shiny curls... a sophisticated version of JBF hair.
Another little old lady entered my isle hollering for the Aqua Net.
Yikes!
I quickly exited that row.
My roomie caught up with me and told me that it would be another 15-20 mins. before his Rx was filled.
We decided to pass some time together... and where better to do that than in the condom/lube aisle?
What was once a isolated section of Trojan basics and safe KY is now a smorgasbord of colors, consistencies, textures, temperatures , sizes, shapes and flavors! And located right off the main-line aisle...
We pondered over some and giggled over others. We broke into hysterics over the econo-sized lube with a hand pump that was big enough to be sold at Sam's Club.
We also laughed at the "Magnum" sized condoms, which my roommate claimed were his rubber of choice.
"What's that?" he asked pointing to a pink box.
"That's the sponge," I said.
"An actual sponge?" he looked at the box wondering why sex and cleaning products were mingling.
"No, not a sponge, THE sponge. A vaginal sponge," I said. "It sucks up all the little spermies."
"BLHAGRAHBLAHBARFUGHAP," said my roomie.
We were just about to examine the new line of pleasure products "for her" when a little voice peeped, "Excuse me."
We were having so much fun that we had blocked off the rest of the aisle. The poor woman had the misfortune of needing hair color from the same row as our lube buffet.
"We... uh.. we where... uh.... (giggle, giggle) just leaving," we said and exited.
Now hear this, it is one thing to maturely go to the condom section, pick out your goods, by a little of the slippy stuff to slap on there and go about your business. It is quite another to stand there and balk at the goods.... which is what we were doing, hence the giggling.
Next, on to the toy aisle... about 5 mins. and counting before pick up time.
As we were approaching the toys we saw a little girl squatting down like a crab in the middle of the empty row.... looking very strange.... very suspicious.
FFFFFFFFFFFFFFPPPPPPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTT!
came tearing from the 10-year-olds arse.
We did a double take.
She froze in terror.
We held our breaths( for scent preservation and laughter prevention.)
She turned red, as red as the galoshes on her feet.
She scrambled up frantically and pulled a yellow whoopie cushion from under her rear.
I.lost.it.
"It wasn't me," she yammered. "It was this, this, this ..... thing."
She held the whoopie cushion at an accusatory length, looking at it as if it had actually expelled its bowls all over the Walgreens floor.
"This, this, thing," she said again.
"Sure it was," said my roomie with a smile on his face.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" I said, doubling over with laughter.
She made one final attempt at redemption before she raced out of the toy section....
"This........ thing," she said.
Thankfully, it was time for the sweet, sweet, codine-laced cough syrup to be delivered.
I took the last few moments to learn more about Dr. Scholls, rectal thermometers and belly-button fragrance, compliments of Ms. Jessica Simpson's new cosmetic line.
I escaped the trip with only $12 worth of merchandise... and a side ache from laughter.
Too bad I'm allergic to codine.... I would've made my roomie repay me in spoonfuls.