Friday, July 24, 2009

Shleping with Scissors

Due to my inherent laziness, the majority of this blog post was written circa five weeks ago. The rest of the cracks I filled today with cement and eyebrow sweat. I figure, if I’m not prompt, the least I could do is make the great lakes proud.

Lake Superior approves this message.




The stratosphere growls like panthers on the prowl. It’s the sound similar to a mythical sea monster lingering overhead. Perhaps it is the birth of Poseidon’s bastard child or just the shits of the holy. Either way, the clouds darken in discomfort –their only salvation –a thickly weaved lingering (synonymous to the Preparation H wipe). It reminds me of my early theories for thunderstorms, or really, the lies my mother fed me. Not that her intensions were un-noble, but I realize the pre-pubescent inaccuracy I held likened that of Santa clause and the Easter bunny vacationing together in the tropics.
Yes, the fibs parents tell their children seem absurd to a young and childless homosapien (like me). However, I realize their necessity while observing a young victim to the thunderstorm’s paralysis. His name is Daniel, he is the youngest in a family of four children and he is red-eyed, trembling and producing mucus faster than milk pours from a cow’s udder. Or any breast featuring a nipple.
His mother consoles him by agreeing with his neurotic astuteness: that it is, in fact, too light out for a thunderstorm to occur. The howling haboob and isolating rains disagree.


He has an anxiety attack. I finish my cheeseburger.


The line moves slowly, as I wait behind the greedy-two-hotdog-grabbing-one-cheeseburger-hoarding-large-heapings-of-mac-n-cheese-snatching individuals who manage to devour all the side dishes and bins of freshly barbequed hot dog’s and hamburgers on the buffet-styled tables. WHAT!? Luckily, my mom scored me a cheeseburger off the Q (before it hit the tables) and handed it to me while I waited in line. Otherwise, I would’ve been licking cheese grease off the aluminum trays like a velociraptor licking a cow’s testacles (which would be a true accomplishment, considering the cow’s lack of testes).


Back to the kid. Thinking about his mental breakdown, reminds me of my childhood. I remember my tolerability for thunderstorms forged after my mother’s simple and very normal explanation of the natural process: “The thunder is just Jesus and his disciples bowling and the lightening are just flashes from the angel’s cameras.” ¿Perdónme? ¿cómo dice?
Say what, woman!? How did I believe that growing up? That fiction: Jesus and him posse kicking back, rolling some ten pounders at the pearly lanes and the angels were snapping shots of them to post on facebook? The disciples must have gotten annoyed when he always scored a 300. Wouldn’t that be boring, watching him bowl strike after strike after lightning? No one likes a showoff. (Thas why Judas done wha he done fo some chuck e. cheese tokens) Or maybe I’m thinking of Lenny from Of Mice and Men? Hey, who doesn’t like soft things…

I imagine Jesus using some of the modern Jewish vernacular when Judas showed up with his gang and planted a wet one on his cheek. “What did you have to shlep those lips all over my grill for? Imagine the Chutzpah, thinking yous could give me the kiss of death after I gave yous those socks for Christmas? And my ma gave you a basket of her canolie’s. What is yous too good for me?” (Ok so maybe that’s more like a half Jewish Tony Soprano with parental control censors than the Messiah) Same thing, Bada bing.

“Michelle a lot of people have come up to me and said you’re really great with kids,” my mother beamed on the car ride home. The air felt cold against my skin and only intensified the itchiness caused from earlier that night. Yes, helping at my church’s Vacation bible school is incredibly rewarding in many ways (never monetarily of course) but sometimes the cons out weigh the pros, who are outnumbered by the hoe’s (which is approximately six tits per square foot of any street corner in New Jersey). “What do you mean,” my mom said, reading my mind.

“What, ugh, nothing,” I said, shuffling in the drivers seat in an attempt to satisfy my upper thigh. Throughout the years, I have helped in many different areas: assisting the teacher in a class, teaching a class, performing as a robot named “crash” in some skits (which was incredibly fun until kids chased me around like I was Robert Pattinson trying to get into his hotel room), holding some poop machine infants like they had the bubonic plague, and sneaking freshly baked cookies from the registration table. But this past week was different. I was only supposed to man the registration table with my mother; testosterone the place up, essentially, while I handed kids their t-shirts and signed them in.

However, circumstances differed. Yes, I still abducted cookies from the registration table (an amber alert worthy achievement), but this itchiness –like I had chiggers or non-restaurant style crabs –it stemmed from my allergic reactions to, oh, everything. I tend to react with a grand red gesture every time I am greeted with the outside world, skin to plant. My legs were moist with grass dew from the chlorophyll baptism I received during the games portion of the 8-9 year old group’s circulation; my ordained John the Baptist, a nine year old girl, with Down Syndrome, by the name of Marissa.

She followed up the ceremony by exfoliating my face with her mud stained hands and then decided that I needed a post baptismal shower: Her mud hands lathered my dry hair until I was purged and cleaned to her liking. She took the procedure very literally much like the New Testament disciple, and Seventh Day Adventist, Amelia Bedelia. Thanks Marissa, I sure love a good facial rogering (Perhaps, that colloquialism is a bit inappropriate in association to little children). Whoops.Not that I’m some pushover that let’s kids practice primitive embalming techniques akin to the mummifications of early Egypt on my body, but I do allow self-expression and, ugh, occupational practice?

Maybe, this is my karma for operating on my cousin when she baby-sat me all those years from the dark ages. This is my self-made bed, my twisted teeter-totter payback, the Old Testament’s Theory of Retribution, finally nailing me into my place of unrest. Man, I knew I shouldn’t have cut her hair without asking her. How was I , a skilled surgeon, supposed to explain to my uneducated patient, that I couldn’t drill holes in her head to let out the pockets of pressure –that would have indefinitely caused her brain to swell and explode-if I didn’t shave the obstruction of hair?! And then her terror when I pulled out my dad’s drill, that I retrieved from his tool-box in the garage, and held the trigger down so that it exuded a piercing buzz. Whoops.


Marissa turned into my project for the week. Not that she was some dirt in a Styrofoam container experiment, in which I hoped to procure a blue ribbon and some type of radioactive vegetable(from the Brassicaceae family, no doubt), but she was a person –she is a person I looked foward to seeing –that needed a friend to sit with her (Indian style) and not leave. And let’s just say, the natives named me "Squatting Dog" because my ass was permanently wet all week.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

The Spanish Inquisition

If ever some kind of freak event were to occur in my life, I would never have thought this – this infiltration of God’s creation gone wrong. Like Garden of Eden wrong, Cane and Able wrong, Moses beating the water out of the rock with two strikes, wrong (which in my opinion, was the first introduction of the piñata, and yet, somehow us hispanics get credited for the Jewish creation). Although, if we, in our graciousness, hand over the copy writes to the beloved Rodney-King-on-a-string party pleaser, then in exchange the Jews should give us the Challah bread. It only seems fair. And delicious.

“But in a larger sense” (as Abe Lincoln once stated in an address to onlookers at Gettysburg), the beasts –half horse, half fly, have invaded the home of the Canales family, shredding our dignity, destroying our sense of security, plummeting our hours of sleep per night/ per unit of R.E.M. cycle. Or really, just mine.

As of two days ago, I no longer know the meaning of peace. Only the threat of war lingers in the tensions of my household. Every air vent, every screened window, every empty Lysol can poses a threat to my sanity; which I lost with my dignity, which I lost from turning myself into a paranoid fly-swatting-Lysol-spraying ninja.

Let me preface this massacre. Two days ago, I walked up the stair case to grab something from my room. While traversing the last step, a rather large black dot flashed in my peripheral: a horsefly mating with the railing in a stationary position (which might be the equivalent to their “missionary”).

Now you can imagine, since I am terrified of lady bugs once their wings start flapping like 18th century Wickens, that the mere sighting of the large, nasty aesthetics –of the veracious, man biting horsefly –created a swamp thing jungle in my pants. Also, delicious.

Naturally, I ran away like a little girl and occupied the restroom, until I had finished my business and found a fly swatter. As I walked back down the hall to the staircase, I was startled to see the fly resting on the balcony railing. It had moved, surreptitiously, as if…as if it were stalking. Now, I’m a bit neurotic, a bit OCD, a bit ridiculous at times, but this –this bug/horse like creature, neighing at me with scorn and contempt –It made me squirm with paranoia.
Whack, Whack, “Damnit, I missed it”, until another whack, smashed the thing into a deadened residue. My victory was short-lived.

Another flying black beast charged at my face, as if it were public relations for a plastic surgeon.  A swing and a miss and a swing and a miss and a swing, all left me annoyed and exhausted. The creature perched upon a ledge of our cathedral ceiling mocked me.

Finally, I had it whacked faster than one of the victims in The God Father.
Now something I have learned from this experience: Two horseflies are coincidence. But, three, four, five, six and seven are a plague upon the house, like the Capulet’s, or the Egyptians who enslaved the Israelites.

That night, my family had executed a total of seven flying monsters. And of course, I overanalyzed it: Dissecting all the possible biblical or superstitious symbolism. Seven is a number that holds both good and bad meaning. There’s the superstition of seven years of bad luck whence breaking a mirror. Biblically, there were the seven days of creation, the product of forgiveness forged from multiplying the integer seven by seventy, the seven seals of Revelation and then there was the woman who bled for seven years (although, I’m not completely sure what Jesus was trying to accomplish with that one –primitive Tampax soliciting?). No, wait, she bled for 12 years. Tough break.

The following night, I stared at the television gingerly, watching the Bachelorette with a bottle of Lysol in one hand and a green latticed fly swatter in the other. My bottom occupied only a small circumference of the edge of the couch. My toes arched like talons in anticipation of premature arthritis. It was a haphazard attempt to conduct a sense of normalcy in my life, trying to follow the ol’ once you fall off the horse, get back on again adage (literally). Even when Jillian finally saw through Wes’ facade as a decent human being, and kicked him off the show –finally! –I couldn’t relish any satisfaction.

No, I had turned into a pesticidal warrior akin to Attila the Hun (minus the raping and looting of Eastern Europe), and my muscle’s tensed, eager for the next serial killing. Four flies had been bludgeoned to the death, earlier that day, and another two roamed the house at their leisure. I dubbed them “Sheep flies” to the slaughter. I think I even punched one in the face: Bare knuckle glory, which didn’t last long when I realized I had touched the nasty thing. I must have washed my hands four or five times, until I felt worthy of the cleanliness laws in the book of “Leviticus”.

Regardless of the fate of “God’s Creation” at the destruction of my hand, there is justification for casting out evil in any form. And this was a demonic force greater than the 1095 A.D Christian crusades to the holy land, Catholic priest’s masturbatory mal-practices or Subway’s meat distributor (Ew).

The crisis indefinitely caused havoc –a catalyst to the Spanish Inquisition Numero Dos. A proponent that turned the bathroom into a weapon: a self-induced gas chamber. At one point, my mother locked herself in with a fly, for a long period of time, until the stubborn insect lapsed from the toxic Lysol sprays. I had knocked on the door to offer my support, but she shushed me. And after a few final squirts of Lysol, I heard her utter,"Die" in a malicious whisper.

Of course today, there have been no signs of the intruders, even though now we have actual Raid fly spray that I bought along with some fly strip traps. Essentially, the Canales’ are prepared to crop dust the hell out of any creature that may return, chanting –to the rhythm of some early human’s mating rituals –“Lion’s and Tigers and Horseflies, will die!”

Friday, July 3, 2009

A Message from the U.V.A

What is with the human neurosis that we possess universally conceived “exceptions” for our significant other and a person of the opposite sex? Meaning, we find few circumstances that seem okay for our boyfriends to frolic with another woman –when they are not in a group setting –or vise versa, so long as that woman upholds the following standards:
a. Obesity
b. Homosexuality
c. Raunchy junk


Essentially, if they’re fat, gay or have contracted genital warts within the past six months, all is fair play. Under these circumstances only, do we find such interaction acceptable and under any other condition the jealousy demon would unleash via steam through our ear canals and turn us into the color-scheme of the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade.


In contrast, if said woman were
a. Gorgeous
b. Charming
c. Someone we would want to date if we were lesbians


We squirm, tense up a little and pull out the big guns (for some maybe literally). Nobody wants her man gardening with a flashy new hoe. No of course not, we want him to use the old, reliable one, with the dirt still on it, the one he committed to when he first started gardening, with the…ugh, not sure where I was going with that metaphor (I guess it’s not really a case builder)…yeah…so if we feel intimidated, essentially, we don’t like it.


Or maybe that’s just me.








---The U.V.A (United Vaginal Alliance) is a non- profit organization seeking to empower women worldwide with forth right action against the animalistic and carnal nature of the Manwhore; a group that sponsors advocacy and awareness against the idea that women are “sluts”, and men are just, “men”. Not acceptable. (Likewise, women cheating on their men or going after married or committed men, are no better).