Whoop-Dee-Doo Holiday Cheer

It's a Holiday...it's a Holiday....whoop-dee-doo.

I ride on this road every Christmas. It's called Hope. My heart longs to see a peaceful time with my relatives. My vision is filled with mushy love and laughter. Happy, happy, happy! But, I get lost and my detour takes me to Highway to Hell. I repeat to myself "I will remain calm, composed and full of joy". The last three words should probably be rearranged to "full of something else".

It begins. The first hours of hugging and kissing happen. It's all good. I look at my watch. Wow. It's been 4 hours and all is well. Curious.

I'm about to wash my hands. My sister reminds me that I may have some loose screws in my head. She casually informs me that the left handle is for hot water. Right-o. I shrug it off. It's beginning to look like Christmas.

This is hard to explain. It's about trying to describe a human being who pushes everyone's buttons except my husband's and that's mainly because he can't speak French. Smart man.. This human being  makes you want to guzzle down a bottle of Xanax with a martini.. Her name Mom. She loves you. The problem is her mouth. It's filled with painful daggers. Her words can slice you in half.

She chirps to my sister "I lost another 5lbs and I'm not even trying". She shoves a plate of cookies she's baked on the kitchen counter. "Should you be eating those? she says to both of us with a sparkle in her eyes.

My sister rolls her eyes. Mom can't sit. She immediately starts to wipe things down. She's like a defective slinky that never stops. She's gurgling sweet googoo gaga's to our dogs. "Oh my sweet pootie-pooh's ---grandma brought you some yummy treats". Her treats always makes all  3 dogs fart which makes my folks unhappy. "They're so stinky!" "Mom,  stop feeding them stuff!" It's like talking to a doorknob.

I take my dog out in the woods behind their backyard for a poop. Easy enough. I look back at my mom in horror. I dragged dog doo doo all over her perfect carpet with my shoe. "Crap!" I'm suddenly twelve again. Panic grabs my throat. I feel clammy. This reminds me of my sister's bigger fiasco with a dog she adopted 5 years ago. Her new dog Phoenix was not feeling so well while everyone slept peacefully at my parent's house. Phoenix became a giant pinata overnight. When he busted, he exploded on my mom's white carpet, sofa, curtains, lamps and the walls. It wasn't candy. My sister and my mom both cried over that one.

"Ah, mon Dieu!" she says with eyes big as beach balls. She looks like she is about to faint. Perfect. "Hey, remember when Phoenix...." I try to make my sister's dog look awful to make Nuke sweet in comparison. Not working. I clean the awful mess and think I may throw up on her germ free carpet. I wipe off my shoe and throw the smelly stuff it in their large outdoor garbage can.

"Ah non, you didn't throw the merde in the garbage can?" she says. I hate this part. My parents have very complicated garbage disposal rules. Most items have to be cleaned before you throw them out. Some items are put into a bag that have to be put into another bag and then put into thrash bin #1 inside or thrash bin #2 outside. I still don't get it.

More fun coming our way. Dad is about to cook. A simple sentence that's loaded like a gun. Apparently, my sister and I do not comprehend the art of buying kitchen tools. Every kitchen gadget we own are primitive tools that belong to cavemen according to dad. Our wheels are square.

Here it comes. It's the same thing every year. He's about to peel potatoes. This particular tool sends him into a fit of madness. It's a potato peeler. I look at my sister. Here we go 1, 2, 3..."Your peeler is a -+)*&^%$!" We both look at the ceiling. We're hoping Jesus will come and save us, but he's too busy with his own birthday plans.

This escalates into WWIII. His face is going through painful contortions. Every bad word invented resonates into the room. It's like he's in a boxing ring with Mohammed Ali except it's a dang potato peeler. Mom to Dad "Voyons...don't be upset" which is exactly what it does and dad disappears. The potato peeler won the first round. I'm looking for the girl with high heels who walks around the ring with a   number on her board.

"What happened? Where did he go?" my sister says.
Wow - I'm thinking about our family breaking a record. We made it without a scene for exactly 7 hours, 6 minutes and 2 seconds.

"He's sitting in his car" I say with some pride for breaking a new record. Sniff. Sniff. Fumes are coming out of my sister's nostrils. She is tomato red. I add with well intentioned cheer "He's upset. He feels that we don't want him around. Personally, I think it's the potato peeler".

She marches outside with flames in her hair. "GET OUT OF THE CAR! WE ARE GOING TO HAVE A NICE CHRISTMAS TOGETHER!!!!" Her speaker like lungs work and my dad comes back into the house mumbling. He's probably still cursing the evil potato peeler. Bad bad tool!

David is picking at his guitar with a far far away look in his eyes. He's grinning. His mind has checked out into a hotel in Brazil. The calmness has returned.  It's as though nothing has ever happened. I like to rationalize our behavior by saying "Well, you know the French! We may want to kill you one minute and the next it's all beautiful.". Keeps you on your toes. This small family of four equals a loud army of a hundred. We leave some heavy Pig-Pen dust behind us. Among the chaos, I find that I love them no matter what.  I'm lucky that they are still around to celebrate the holidays. May the New Year bring us lots of Kumbaya. We need it. Happy 2012.

Diane Sesler
Copyright 12/31/11

Pumpkins & Candy Corn Hair

Halloween. Always reminds me of candy corn. I don't like it. It brings back memories of a hairdo gone wrong.

I had a wild hair years ago and decided to get a new doo. That sounds normal. Unfortunately, I had a spontaneous moment and picked a salon at random. Really. This is why I have stories to tell. I don't always function well mentally.

"HI!" The too bubbly salon greeter shouts at me.

"I want a cut and color" I said with confidence.
"Do you have an appointment" Ms. Bubbly says. She's too excited. This is a sign I missed. There's not many clients in this joint.

One stylist is available. His name is probably Maurice, but I will call  him Sas Quatch. He is so hairy that hair is protruding from his shirt. He looks like he's wearing a faux carpet on his chest. I wonder why he doesn't use his talent on himself. He's a bit sweaty. All those are signs. They say follow your intuition. I didn't. 


Sas Quatch has a nasal voice.  "Is that what you want?"
He's pointing at the pic I chose in a magazine. It's a hair brushed celebrity with a smart funky cut.
"Yep, and I want a different color for the fall...pretty auburn with a few light streaks here and there." 
I'm thinking this is going well.  I smile.


Sas disappears to blend the magical color that will sit on my head. I feel good. A new me is about to emerge. He's back. Goodness he sweats a lot.


I feel his big paws working on my hair. I'm expecting grunts but can't hear any. I'm looking at a magazine. Drop. What's up with that? Another drop. It splashes on my glossy mag. I give a side glance towards Sas and there's pearl size sweat all over his forehead. He keeps wiping himself. I feel myself gagging. He's dropping sweat bullets all over my paper. 


I'm having to concentrate so that I don't lose my lunch. Run. I can't. I have chemicals on my head. Relax. 


Sas is finished with the color and puts me under the dryer. I bathe in relief as sweaty pants moves away from me. I curse myself for thinking that I'm a cool spontaneous chick. Never again. 


I'm hoping that Sas Quatch Sweaty Pants will have to leave for a minor emergency. Nothing serious. May be just a tiny reaction from  the hair dye he put on my head. He's itchy like hell and can't do my hair anymore. Nope, he's back and his carpeted chest looks damp. I'm stuck.


He takes the foils out and washes my hair. What is usually a pleasant experience sends me into a panic attack. Oh, please, please, please don't get sweat on me. Drip. I dare to say in a loud voice "I have a neck issue and can't stay in this position very long." 


"Oh hon, it won't be much longer, you poor thing." Darn. I should of told him that I can only be in that position for a minute or else I go into convulsions. 


I reluctantly go back to his station. Gee, that's funny, my hair isn't dry yet but it sure looks  unusually bright. I'm holding the picture of the doo I want with high hopes of looking fresh and spunky.
He's snipping away and I have to dodge his sweat drops. I am in a numb zone so that I don't focus on his body issues. Oh wow....that piece of hair he just cut doesn't look right. I'm starting to look like I  have lice and someone without a hair licence got a hold of my head. It's choppy. 


Drying my hair is next. I'm in a shock. I stare at myself in the mirror in pure horror. Where am I in that reflection? There's no doubt in my mind. I look like a bright orange orangutan. If that's not enough, an orangutan with a bad hairdo that his unskilled buddy did while drinking too many beers.


I'm speechless. Sas Quatch is all smiles. "Looks great huh!". I stumble out of my chair in a daze and mumble "hat....need hat now".


I drive home sobbing. I know the local circus would hire me on the spot.  I run and hide inside my home. I immediately put a hat on. 


"How bad can it be?" said my friend on the phone. "I'm coming over" she declares.


I take the hat off. See. My friend explodes with laughter. She snorts. She holds her ribs. She can't speak. She's on the floor. I want to snap her little head off her shoulders.


"Oh wow, that is sooooo bad!" 
"Gee, thanks" I'm not happy.
"Holy cow" and then she says what I didn't want to hear. "You look like candy corn for Halloween". I look in the mirror and dang it she's right. I'm staring at bright orange hair with uneven streaks of white and yellow strands. It's not much better than looking like a orangutan.
"Perfect for Halloween" she says. She's proud of herself and I don't like her right now.


I have not eaten candy since the incident, but I do feel some kind of bonding with orangutans.


Happy Halloween

Your Silence Speaks To Me

Your silence speaks to me.
I'm closing the pages to the story of our friendship. I have been carrying your book for too long. It is heavy and has an unhappy ending. It will be burned.

I trusted you.
I believed you were my friend. Behind your smile sat the deep darkness of your heart. You chose cruelty as your best friend. While good souls helped us during the flood, you decided to take another path. You felt that kicking us while we were down was a sport. You stole what little we had left. My heart still aches at the thought of your sickening scheme. It makes me sad. It makes me angry. You disgust me.

I trusted you.
You preach that you love God. You made sure that I heard you speak about the bible. You were not silent about how holy you were. You are an hypocrite. You bathe in lies, but I can still smell your stench.

I trusted you.
I was naive. I saw a few signs, but dismissed them. I thought I knew you after so many years, but I was looking at a fake and ugly stone.  You once showed me a letter of a former friend. You owe her money. She said "how can you sleep at night knowing what you have done to me?". You said she was crazy, and that she gave you the money. I understand your former friend now. She was kicked by you too. Will you be showing this letter to your next victim?

I trusted you.
Your silence speaks to me.
How can a longtime friend  not reach out and try to speak with me about the money they stole from us?  I have waited. I wanted  you to tell me you were sorry. I wanted to hear that you never meant for this to happen. I wanted to hear "what can I do about what we have done to you?".
Nothing.
Silence.
Another stab to the heart

I don't trust you.
I am thankful. It took a long time for me to realize that what you did was a gift. I am happy  that your evil company will not be walking by my side. I don't want to be part of your world. You are unhappy, shallow, and insincere  Money and things mean more to you than a relationship with a friend. You put down your husband on how  materialistic he is. Now I know that you are two peas in the same pod. It is a perfect marriage. Perhaps you should hold a mirror to your face. It could make you stop blaming your mate. He is a pawn. Putting him down gives you the allure that you are a queen and that you sit high on your throne of deceit. You told me that he is a poor simpleton that needs you to survive.  I get it. You think you need him to make yourself look good. It's not working.

I will never trust you.
I will forgive you someday so that I may move on and not spend time thinking about what you did to us. But, I will never forget. I'm putting this chapter away from me today.

I hope spending our money was worth it and that you are enjoying all your lifeless things over our friendship.

It may be a good idea to truly read your bible today and not just talk about it.

Goodbye & Yippee Ying-Yang Day

I've got my happy pants on. Moving. That word takes a lot of space in our Pennington Bend Trailer.  Wer'e moving material things along with emotions  in a big fat bag. It's bursting out at the seams. The history is rich. Tears of sadness. Tears of happiness.  Yippee ying/yang day.

Goodbye trailer. You were great! You helped us keep a steady foot on shaky ground. You saw our tears, our fears, our confusion, our anger, and our laughter. You whispered to us to take it easy...that it would be all ok someday. You were right.

But, best of all...drumroll here "I am running out of the camper right now to buy a huge load of 2-ply  I will not detoriate in your hands toilet paper". Oh yeah! Living the big life!

For You Tante Georgette

Your wings have brought me here
Outstretched 
Reaching the blue of infinity
Bird of beauty - you have taught me your song
Fly High
Let the wind whisper your story
As  your teardrops cover the earth
Like a soft kiss

A cool night
The ivory moon 
I sleep under a sycamore
Its leaves are blowing to the symphony of your life
There is no fear
Only your voice that wraps me in a starry blanket
And I dream of a stream
That transports all of your hopes
And as you reach the shore
Pebbles glow and spell your name

copyright Diane sesler 5/14/11

The Sisters Visit The Chamber of Torture

The yearly torture trip is due. It's time for the sisters to get a mammogram. The uncomfortable visualization in my head makes me wince. Boobie pancakes minus the syrup comes to mind. Fingernails on a chalkboard is a better alternative than this once a year exam.

As usual,  the waiting room's thermostat is set on the icicle position. An unfriendly nurse with upside down lips  hands me a paper thin robe. She gives me tiny white stick on's with a silver ball on the end of the disks to put on the tip of my breasts. I feel  like an old stripper without a pole.  I'm shivering into convulsion. My nipples are now frozen. You could play ring toss with them.

I bet an unhappy man invented the squish the tatas machine. He's 4' tall, wears a bad rug,  has tiny manicured hands, a long pointy nose and can never get a date. He lives with his mother. He's highly frustrated and invents painful contraptions. I bet I'm right on.Well... perhaps the nose is red and bulbous.and not pointy.

Ms. Ihate Myjob mechanically tells me to get close to the machine. She plops my right boob onto a plate like it's lunchmeat. I'm expecting her to add a sprig of parsley to garnish  the dish. Next comes the upper plate that will make me want to poke her in the eyes. The upper plate meets the lower plate and turns me into a fried egg sandwich. "Hold your breath" she barks. Ouch, ouch, ouch! I'm reminded of a Chinese acupuncturist who once said to me "You just big baby!". I feel like just big baby now.  Repeat with breast number two. Small tears are collecting at the corner of my eyes. The nurse says "we have to redo the right one". I want to curse obscenities at her..I bite my upper lips and grunt.

Mammograms save lives. They are essential, but do they have to be so frigging painful? I'm esctatic the exam is over for another year. I have the urge to stick my tongue out at the nurse, but refrain from being 12 again. Big baby is buying herself a hot cocoa. Wah wah wah.

One Year After The Flood

My name doesn’t matter. The river doesn’t care about identities. It took our homes and people became one. My story is everyone’s song. We ache. We have good days. We have bad days. Our emotions take unwanted roller coaster rides.


One year ago I sat comfortably in my bedroom sending an email to my sister about the weather. Today I sit in a 33’ trailer in our backyard staring at our empty home. The once manicured yellow roses are free to climb the back porch. An unplanned Grey Gardens creeps in naturally. I have lost interest in making our yard look perfect. It doesn’t matter. I’m an ant whose home was kicked by a bully into a pile of sand. The word permanency was taken away by the rain. I dream of a new home, I visualize a small unattended garden area with dandelions and weeds. It will be my memorial that not everything can be tamed in life. The control of our existence isn’t a neat scheduled agenda.

The flood became our teacher. It reiterated that “things” do not matter. Shopping is different. Do I really need this? I look at your house and think that it could all float away. I see it in an unrecognizable pile on the side of the road. Your grandma’s smile on a photograph is forever gone. This is my reality.

I learned that there are earth angels. Strangers will help you. Others will steal from you even when you are down on your luck. Friendship is important. You realize that spending time with friends is a great gift. Too many hours are wasted on polishing inert objects or watching other people’s reality shows. Time slips away. Don’t take anything for granted.

We lost our nest and didn’t have time to say goodbye. Grieving takes time. Some think that it’s over. Some have forgotten us. Some tell us to move on. It’s not their song. It’s not that I want you to cry for me. I just don’t want to be forgotten. I don’t want the dust to be swept under your carpet. It’s not over. People on my street are still not in their homes. Some people have no money. Some people are waiting for the buy-out. Some are gone. Some don’t want to leave, but many of us do not have the luxury of rebuilding. Some have moved into their new home, but have no furniture. It’s unlikely that any of us will ever hear “move that bus”.

Rebirth follows death. A new spring in inevitable. The garden of my soul will bloom again someday. We need your continuous support and kindness. We need you to acknowledge that some of us are still here and need your help. Don’t forget us.

Smelling Fishy in St Catharines, Ontario

Being a teenager wasn't easy. I was an awkward skinny bird with trainer bra boobs and of course my notorious big nose. My honker remains, but the skinny part channelled itself into another body. I was naive and insecure. What a perfect time for me to find a job. I applied everywhere.

One afternoon, my parents said that a Monsieur Sturgeon called me for a job interview. His name didn't ring a bell, but I was ecstatic. . My parents gave me the address to see him the following day.
This was my first interview and my nerves were raw. I tossed and turned all night.

In the morning I fussed with an outfit that would make me look good for the part. I hopped on a bus to this mysterious place. My heart was racing and my hands were sweating. I rehearsed over and over how I would walk in and what I would say. I would look straight into Mr. Sturgeon's eyes. I would lightly shake his hand, smile, and say "Good morning Mr. Sturgeon, my name is Diane and I.....

I pulled on the string for the bus to stop. I pulled myself together and looked up at the store. Funny how I didn't remember applying there at all. Oh well, I thought, just do it.

I opened the door. The smell was overwhelming and I had trouble not to gag. I stared at all the dead fish on ice. Weird, I said to myself...I just don't remember ever coming here.

The man with a bloody apron looked at me in my fancy outfit. "May I help you young lady?"
I looked at him straight in the eyes and said with confidence "Yes sir, I would like to talk to Mr. Sturgeon. I have an appointment with him".
I remember him tilting his head to the side and gawking at me. I thought there was something slightly wrong with him. "I am here for an interview" I said a bit louder.
I looked at his quizzical expression again and then at the fish case. "Ah non, non, non !@#$%^" I screamed. Anger filled every pore on my body. It was the first of April. My sweet parents played a Poisson D'Avril on me. How would I know that a sturgeon was a fish!

April Fool is Poisson D'avril in French. Poisson means fish. When I was a kid, I spent hours drawing and cutting out fish shapes. The idea is to stick a fish on an unsuspected person. I never knew why we did this really...we just did. I think King Charles XIV of France got bored in 1564. Mr. King decided that the year should start on January 1st instead of the end of March. Since Charles didn't have a cell phone, the news were slow to travel to the rural areas of France. It created a big brouhaha. Some refused to accept the change and celebrated the New Year at the end of March. So, pranksters would stick a paper fish on the people's back who celebrated the New Year at the wrong time. I still don't get it.

What I do get is that it turns my family into devious maniacs. It's who can outdo who with playing a joke on April 1st.....hummm that reminds me...today is March 30th.

Thanks King Charles XIV.

20 Fingers, Strawberry Field and an Elf

I don't have enough fingers to show you how many jobs I've had. If I did, I could be a paid circus freak. I'd be the weird woman behind the curtain with 20 fingers per hand.

Strawberry picking was my first deal. I rode my bike to strawberry field. Lesson #1 was what happens when one practices gluttony. Pick one, eat one, pick one, eat one. I spent the  night  hugging a toilet.  I graduated to peaches. Wisdom wasn't my friend. Eat one, pick one. Same picture with added doses of non-stop scratching from peach fuzz.

At 16, I  worked at a gas station/car wash. I watched folks pump gas and go through the car wash. The glass booth  I sat in was secured by an hermetic pressure tight door. My boss left for a lunch break.  I heard a car horn blasting away in the car wash. I left my glass palace to investigate. An old Italian lady slammed her foot on the gas pedal and rear ended the car in front of her. Things got worse. The large cleaning brushes were malfunctioning and denting her car.The frantic woman came out of her car screaming  as brushes and water spray slapped her. Pure panic ran through my body.  I ran back to my booth. People at the pumps were yelling at me to turn their pumps on. I unlocked my pressure tight door, slipped and fell. My middle finger didn't follow me to the ground. It caught in the door. I fainted. I heard  banging on my window. People were staring at me like a snake in an aquarium. I went to the hospital. The so called pressure releasing needle they jammed into my nail  looked like Seattle's Space Needle building. Then, I got fired. A bad day.

My friend Kathy, who slept with her eyes open, had a mom who owned a diner. I was hired.  A place where truckers are in a big hurry to eat and go. I couldn't even bake beans out of a can.. Big boy asked for a to go milkshake.In the brightest part of my mind which was dimly lit, I decided to skip a step. Why not make the shake directly into the to go container? Brilliant for a minute. Big boy said something. I spun around. My motion caused commotion.  The spinning blades pierced through the wax coated cup. A chocolate tornado went flying through the air.  It landed all over lucky truckers who sat at the counter. Unhappy big men were shouting unhealthy words at me. I burst into tears. I locked myself in the bathroom. I wouldn't come out. Say goodbye to job no #3.

Jobs came and went. I was an elf to a drunk Santa. I then worked for a man with a fictitious name. He used to have fits and roll on the floor. He ate gallons of chocolate which made him twitch. Mr. Churchwell (but not really) disappeared overnight with his entire family.  I worked for a vet who's name was  Dr. Fish....and then there was this job where I measured flour and put it into bags in a dark windowless attic. Sigh.

 I went to tattoo school in Canada. Not where you learn how to tattoo a butterfly on someone's butt. This was a place where chicks had tattooed arms the size of my thighs. They were there to learn a trade. I learned how to type,  play cards, and hear stories of doing yoga in the nude while smoking a cigaret.

It's all good. Swimming through chaos made me stronger.  I thank my past. It made me grow to a better place. It gave me a voice.

This reminds me of Mr. Sturgeon, but that's another story.

Happy Valentine, A Big Nose And A Spoon

Love, love, love.  Many bad dates before my prince.

I met this specimen at a bar. I didn't look at the red flag. We had a date.  I could say "it was dark and didn't really see him well", but it was alcohol. I opened the door. There he was. His shirt was unbuttoned to his navel. I stared at a huge medallion on his chest. Couldn't back pedal on that one. Off we went to a movie. He had seen it. He was too excited about it. He loudly informed me what was about to happen....sigh. Another character asked me out. I was having a good time. That is until he said he didn't bring any money to pay the tab.C'mon.

My big nose. When younger, I was embarrassed by my honker. This date thought he was cute. He quoted  "Say, is that a banana you're eating or is that your nose?". Charming.  Another one showed up with an unwrapped liquor box. It was filled with Dial and Ivory soap. Uhhhh?  But, my favorite is the guy who showed up with a giant stuffed gorilla. My dad said "would you like a shrimp cocktail?. "No sir" he said "I'm not thirsty".

My sister had a guy show up with his newly painted green car. I love you Lise was done in permanent white paint. Permanency scared her. She said goodbye. My friend Leigh joined an online dating service.. Men have a different dictionary than hers for the words toned and athletic. Being specific would help. Beer belly toned....Toned legs, but nothing else....Athletic Fisherman. She said lots of  men are holding babies, dogs, or a fish. They are all Southern gentlemen. Fishy.

Being single isn't easy. There's a lot of coco puffs out there. But, I believe that there's someone out there for each of us if you want a mate. My heart didn't sing when I first met David. He had a mullet, a water bed, a spoon, a fork, and one bowl. He was a friend first...then, my heart began to sing the love song. Funny, how things come around full circle. We lost 99% of our stuff in the flood. So, now I appreciate having less...2 spoons, 2 forks and...David was right all along.

I love you my sweet David. You bring me comfort, love, laughter, strength, and so much more. You are my Happy Valentine.

Olives, A Toy Horse and Friends

Pathetic. My arm feels like I've been hurling javelins instead of playing darts last night. I'm shuffling around drinking coffee. I'm thinking about the colorful characters in my life. People who wear cosy pj's to a late movie at their neighborhood theater. This friend orders popcorn, Bloody Mary's, and brings her own olive jar. Need I say more.

A new friend, which I shall call Rose has firecracker eyes. She pops with personality. Her high energy makes a 2 year old boy look lethargic. She was born screaming without the butt slap.  Her rich roller coaster stories makes my head swell. Too many tales. The flood brought us together. A neighbor you would normally just wave at becomes a connection. She's in therapy. I'm in therapy. We should all be in therapy. She finds things that were in the flood and makes art.  Recovering lost pieces...recovering sanity..Missing pieces of a puzzle that needs to be put back together.

We knock on her condo door she rents. Hammer is there.  He had a scary brush with death during the flood. He's presently our friendly neighborhood squatter. My favorite home on the river will be bulldozed. That's where  Hammer lives for now. He's taking care of his good friend's house.

Hammer smiles and hugs us. He's a bit tipsy and red in the face. He's telling me something about brishish combia. "I'm sorry...what?" I say to him. "You know...brishish combia....lake Louise" he says holding on to the wall. "Oh BC...yes yes...very pretty' I say back at him. I'm being twirled from room to room with stories about all the furniture.  Through the laughter, there's sadness, but also strength .. a healthy sign. The more my new friend talks, the more I see her big soft marshmallow heart.

Eagle man walks into the condo. I call him that because he once saved an eagle. Admirable. That's all I know. I see mystery Eagle man every Tuesday at the Bored meetings. That's it.

Hammer announces that "the rrriver is showww  beautiful...let's go shee it".  I ask "Is this really a good idea?" No one pays attention to me.

Rose is digging through her closet in search of warm clothes. David gets a tight short white leather jacket with red stars and dangling fringes on his arms. He's ready to sing Rolling on the River. I have lots of layers...a  Grey Garden kind of look.

It's crazy cold outside. Rose is loud.  Lights come on. I see a few shades part open. I'm thinking these kind of neighbors have never experienced such action in their life.  Hammer is zigzagging  behind us in the parking lot.  Rose brings us to a spot to see the the river. Hammer has disappeared ...probably fell in a bush.  More lights come on.  The word police flashes in my head. "No, really officer we are looking for the river."

"There!" says loud Rose pointing in front of her "Shee it?" Rose is now also slurring with enthusiasm. My loopy head is swirling. More lights come on. I look at cowboy David. All he needs is one of those wooden horse toy to complete his outfit. We squint hard to see the river. It's like we're staring into the black abyss.

Rose is trampling back to the condo and trips over something in a neighbor's yard. More lights. We somehow make it back to the condo. Hammer is sitting on the kitchen floor eating something chocolaty out of a cup. He looks 12 with chocolate all around his mouth.

I look at Hammer on the floor and a grinning David in fringes. Time to call it a night. There will be more Hammer, Rose and Eagle man time in our future.  We all been through a lot this year.  We all carry a nutty bag. That's who we are said Rose.  I like that. I salute them and their great spirit. I salute myself as well. Namaste

copyright Diane Sesler 1/24/11

In Search Of A Healing Space and Giggly Wendy

...and so the search for a home begins. The buyout from the city is higher than was our expectations. A Yippee-Yuck situation. Yippee for the  moolah. Yuck for having to find a new home. Pennington Bend is still home in my heart.

We have an agent. A awkward woman with fits of giggles at odd times. She kissed me goodbye on the cheek the first time she met us. Me no likey. It takes me years to get close to people. A laughing kissing agent is not part of my policy. The view of the lake of the first house she took us to was breathtaking. It pretty well went spiraling down after that. May be this chickee poo agent is smarter than I think. She laughs all the way to the bank.

We learn as we go. For example - The description explains that the home has a water view....Beware. "Where is the water?" I ask. The only water I can see in this pink pesto bismol home is in their toilet. "Oh, I believe it's through the yard, the trees, the woods, and over the valley" our giggly agent says. She randomly points to a drain that is situated in the middle of a basement floor. I'm assuming she thinks that flood survivors are now fond of drains. I see her point. David announces that he could bulldoze the trees down for a view. My eyes roll.

The next house takes my breath away. Not in a good way. There's a hideous smell  I instantly recognize. Mold! The house is a nightmarish neon orange Santa Fe gone wrong.  Black mold is on the walls and ceiling. I ask David if he wants to start a mushroom growing business. I hear background giggles from our cheerful agent. "You're funny." she says to me. She is making a design with her finger on a dusty table. She clearly needs medication.

Hours of driving and looking at the way people live sends me into cranky mode. I have tourettes syndrome urges to say french swear words at our agent. "Tete de fromage en merde!" There. I feel better.

We finally get it. Pay $100,000-150,000 and get a water view. It's 100 miles from Nashville and  your neighbors are expert moonshine makers. $200,000 and get a water view if David stands on a 12' ladder while I'm on top of his shoulders. "I see it babe, I see it! It's over there where the rich people live." Go up a $100,000 and you may get a front door that's not off its hinges as a bonus. $400,000 starts to be a happier dollar sign, but you do see some pretty scary stuff like the moldy cheese home.

We tell our agent we have had enough for the day. She vigorously shakes David's hand goodbye. I fly to the passenger side of the car and wave buh-bye. She looks pouty. I feel triumphant and clever at escaping  her kisses.

Lots of giggles from moi.

Poopsicle & The Art Of Cursing

Nanook of the North is in my backyard. Either that or a drunken sailor dressed like an Eskimo. That's my babe...my David. A gentle lamb gone wild on steroids. We had a warm and satisfying breakfast. The big plans of playing board games or drawing up more house plans went down the sh...ter - literally.

"What's that smell? Did Nuke fart again?" I said. Our search, which took 30 seconds due to living in a small metal container, made our eyes pop out. "Holy..." you know what. The investigation led David outside. Inspector David comes back with a full report.

David (hands on hips) -  "It's frozen solid." Perplexity all over my face.

Diane (clueless eyes) - "huh?"

David (clearly not happy) - "The poop tank is frozen solid."

This reminds me of the word  I heard from the Knapp family at one of our Bored meetings "Poopsicle". A similar mess they had to deal with in Alaska. How does one deal with Poopsicle? It's not like we live in a shack in the Tundra. This is Nashville for goodness sake. We don't have the how do you fix a frozen poop tank for dummies' book. David is putting a heater near the source. It's a shitty situation.

Again, I say thank you geezus  for bloody Mary's.

I Want To Ride My Bicycle

Fragile. Wobbly...like a restaurant table with a pretty tablecloth. It looks good. You sit down. It's unbalanced and makes everything shake. Annoying. That's how it is. Sunshine on the outside and some scattered showers on the inside. It's been 8 months since the big rain cleaned us out.

I'm back from Savannah. I felt like a horse with blinders clip-clopping through the holidays. I pretended I had a home and helped my sister decorate. I laughed hard. I cried hard. The holidays has always been a trigger point for me. I now wish I could complain about putting up and putting down Christmas decorations. Figures. Now,  I want my own Christmas tree,my silly ornaments, or my own champagne glasses for New Years. I want to belong. I feel like I'm on a twilight show episode.

Today, I took a long walk down Pennington Bend with my dog Nuke. The winter landscape is showing signs of the May flood. I saw buckets, lamps, a shoe....people's history hanging tightly in bushes. I felt a lump in my throat. I looked at rebuilt homes with folks back in them. Looks cozy. More lumps in my throat.  I'm happy for them. I'm sad for us.

It's not that easy. We owe money. We spent a lot of money renovating this house. We are caught in the middle of nowhere. We are not poor. We are not rich. This makes us invisible. We see the incredible generosity of every day people as well as famous folks giving money to flood survivor non-profit organizations. We look at this money like a kid who looks at candy. The problem is that we are simply looking at it. It never touches the palm of our hands. Don't get me wrong. We have had friends, family, and churches give us gift cards. This was a blessing. Thank you.

 I found myself begging. I went to Red Cross, and told them I had no bed. They gave us $500. You see my former bed was way more than that amount. So, now I'm an ingrate as well as a beggar. I never wanted to be either one. I'm tired of begging. I'm tired of the paperwork. I'm tired of the people who don't do a good job at helping us.

So, what I'm I saying...what is the point of my lamentation? I don't know. Humor is my savior, but I don't feel my usual sparkle.  I don't want you to feel sorry for us. I'm just unsure of where I belong. The New Year is rich with opportunities. We will be on our yellow brick road eventually. I just have to tame my inner cowardly lion in order to reach freedom.

Quote by Linda Brakeall "Life is like riding a bike. It is impossible to maintain your balance while standing still".

Let's get rolling.

Copyright Diane Sesler 1/6/2011

Jingle Hell, Jingle Hell & HAM It Up!

…and so the Fairy Tale Christmas begins. The lovely once a year holiday family reunion is about to begin. The perfection of it all. You see it on commercials. Everyone smiles. Everybody is so damn happy to get a pink nutcracker, a banana peeler, ostrich feather earrings, or a hockey playing fruitcake puck. In my head, I’m in harmony with everyone. I’d like to buy the world a coke.

If you want to achieve harmony, do not buy a HAM. I did. Big mistake. I’m 509 miles away from my family.  I have managed to start World War III. My HAM has turned into a ticking time bomb. I’m in possession of a suicidal package.

“Hey sis, I’ll buy a ham and bring it with me for Christmas.” “That sounds lovely said sister no 2.” We are in perfect HAMony.

All is well for a split second.

Maman Jovette calls sister Lise. Maman Jovette and Papa Raymond tell Lise that Uncle Germain has ordered a HAM. Puzzled sister No. 2 says that Sister No. 1 Diane has already bought a HAM.

Maman Jovette start screeching because there should never be 2 HAMs competing on the same Holiday table. Deep confusion settles in as to what can oncle Germain bring now? There’s not much else to buy in the world besides HAM. Maman tells Lise that oncle Germain is now upset. Uncle Germain is suddenly psychic because we haven’t told him about my HAM yet.

Papa Raymond dares to say “Well, he can cancel his HAM order.” Maman Jovette declares “Noooooo, that’s what he wants to bring…the HAM, the HAM, the HAM. Lise, I told you they were bringing a HAM! You should have told Diane not to buy a HAM.

Lise says “Noooooooooooo, I told you Diane was bringing a ^7%$#(! HAM.” This makes Lise hang up on Maman Jovette. This HAM has incredible power over our family. The Tragedy of HAMlet.

I tell David who just rolls his eyes. I look at the HAM in the fridge. It looks innocent, but I know it’s dangerous. I decide to pass it on to another unsuspecting and less fortunate family.

I want a perfect Christmas dang it, and I will do whatever it takes.

Fa la la la la.

Copyright Diane Sesler 12/10/2010

Human Trapped Salami

The body isn't cooperating. The mind is young, but the mirror is rude. Makes me pouty. Temptation is everywhere. Stores filled with rows of be young again creams look like I could shake a rattle again.  I can erace time, so I buy a miracle. I already feel better.

I'm on a roll. I decide to buy a slimming undergarment. I may be bulging at the seams, but this product promises me a "lifting sexy curvy hour glass figure". I definitely want that. I'm almost hopping like Dorothy to the yellow brick road changing room. I look at the garment. It's puzzling how I can squeeze into it. It looks like one of my arms can fit into it. The other parts of me may have more difficulty, but they are willing to go for the ride. One leg goes in and the other. The product sits tightly on my thighs as my brain wonders how in the hell can it go past that point. Breathe and relax. I start grunting, and I'm aware that my face is turning red. This is turning into a work out. I give it all I got, and finally pull the "thing" up to its final destination.

It's so tight, I'm doing some shallow breathing. I put my outfit on top of it to see the miracle. It  looks good, but my face doesn't say the same thing. I look like I'm having a panic attack. The pressure is intense. My head feels like it may pop off my champagne bottled up body. I decide it's not worth it.

Instructions to take it off should be given to the customer before she enters the dressing room.  I can't get out of it. I'm going through my second workout in the dressing room. It hurts. I look like a salami in pain. Beads of sweat is trickling down my face. I'm almost in tears. Panic sets in again as I'm wondering what to do. Should I call a salesperson? That's embarrassing. I have a vision of them tossing me in the middle of their store. I'm their blue light special of the day. Ladies and gentlemen...Today we have our very own Houdini Salami to entertain you. I sit in the dressing room trying to cope with my fate.

After doing emergency slow me down breathing exercises with extreme concentration, I come out of my casing. I'm exhausted. The looking young again adventure isn't appealing anymore. As I walk out I imagine eyeballs are staring at me. I'm the beast with the loud grunts who finally came out of the dressing room.

copyright diane sesler 11/16/2010

Family Oddities: A Missing Thumb, Vincent Fan Gogh, & Other Tales

Uncle Ivanhoe had a glass eye.  I stared at him for hours.  I prayed it wouldn't pop out and roll off somewhere. I had an aunt with a strange upper lip and big eyes. I stared at her too. She was rich and gave all her money to a dancing company. It made people dancing in toutou's happy, but not our family.

Grandpa had half of his thumb missing on one hand. He said he lost it slicing meat for a customer. He said "the man got some extra meat that day". Buying meat was never to be the same again. He really lost his thumb in a broom factory where he met my grandma who played with spiders. On dad's first date with mom, grandma offered him a coke. He drank it.  He saw something at the bottom of the bottle. There was a cigarette butt stuck in a wad of gum. My dad is petrified of spiders. Grandma gave him a cute little box. She filled it with spiders. Profound sweetness.

Grandma's cousin was a Friar.  The Catholic Church made Friar Andre into a Saint. When grandpa was young, his teeth were not growing. Friar Andre gave him  Holy Water. It overworked. Granpa grew two rows of teeth and had to have a row removed. When grandpa was in the hospital, they gave him his neighbor's teeth by mistake.  He went through a case of Listerine in a day. I'd be toothless for a year. My dad's cousin, Yvon, sneezed while in line at the grocery store. His teeth went flying away from him. Excuse me, may I reach over and get my teeth? Time to find a new grocery store.

Then, there's uncle Marcel who lived in a retirement building. He was eating lunch. The fan above his head became wobbly and out of control. The fan fell down and one of the blades chopped part of my uncle's ear off. He became uncle Fan Gogh.

That's family. There's more nuts in the bag.

copyright Diane Sesler 11/4/10

Bless His Heart - I Can Wear Diamond Studded Pants

Our whole life changed when Guru Maharaji sent me an email last night.

Isn't life wonderful? The timing is perfect. ServPro wants us in court for the mold they never cleaned up. Wearing the same shirt and pants for a year was becoming a reality . That was until luck knocked on our door all the way from South Africa. I will now be able to wear diamond studded pants. Oh yeah!

Guru Maharaji from Johannesburg is a very nice man.  I searched for him on the internet to say thank you. I guess I'll have to do a bit more digging. Memory fails me, but that's not unusual. I apparently knew Xavier Diaz who is now dead. I don't remember him, but I thank him for leaving us $4,500,000 in his will. The email said "that the money is to support his missionary activities...to help the poor and needy". He obviously  sympathized about our living in a trailer + our dilemna with ServPro.  Even the Guru is moved to emotion when he wrote "May his soul rest in pace". When you give away that much money, pace is a better place than peace. Mr. Diaz deserves to be in that pace.

Call me crazy, but my mind is racing. We will spend thousands of dollars in court and not care. I will have a loud gurgling laugh in court while wearing diamond studded pants. I will buy and up my trailer space to 40'6". Thank you Xavier.

Bless his little heart. Is it cocktail time yet?

10/15/10

Goo Paste, Electrodes, Needles & Getting Sued

I'm sleepy. I feel like a rotisserie chicken. I've been touched, poked, and turned around all night. I'm done. The sleep study is over.

The room I was in was not decorated by Nate Berkus. A badly painted African picture was displayed in front of my bed. A  brown poo colored elephant and giraffe stared at me all night. The bathroom was puky green and reeked of sick ghosts. A bucket with oodles of needles and tubes sat on the counter. I was the pushpin doll.

Mr. Small, who is a big man, was my nurse. Small man was very chatty cathy. He brought me dinner. I felt like jumping in a dumpster in search of something better. Ouch! Tiny big man couldn't find a good vein. David walked in with Greek food. Praise the husband night.

Before slumberland comes, icky goo was squirted on my head for the electrodes to stay into place. David was a happy camper. He loves it when I look ridiculous. He snapped a few pictures.

The night was uneventful. I think the elephant and giraffe spoke to me once. The vampire nurse woke me up every 2 hours to draw blood.

Morning comes with more bad food. I've been warned about a test that is painful. This doc takes your blood pressure except it's so tight, it makes you  look like Marty Feldman. Look him up...pun intended.

I'm have "All-In-One, Rinse-Free Shampoo and Conditioner Cap" on my head. This magic cap is supposed to take the gummy like substance off my hair. It's not. I feel like I rolled in chewing gum. The shower head in the trailer trickles out like clean pee. It took me a good hour to clean this mess. I still look like I partied too long under a bridge.

The mailman is here. I see his eyes staring at my head. Whatever. He hands me a certified letter. There's a loud Jesus sermon coming out of his truck. It's a sign - I know it. Well goodie, yahoo, and woohoooo! We are being sued by low life scumbags who never did their job right after the flood. I hope the thing-a-mawdoo disease I wished on the catalytic converter thiefs happens to them too. Hey,  I'm not Mother Theresa.

No home -  no furniture - living in a trailer - goo in my hair - no money and getting sued. Time for a cocktail.

Copyright Diane Sesler 9/29/10

The Art Of Shaving In A Trailer

1.     Inform people you live with that you are shaving. Failure to do so may result in trailer shaking just by walking around.

2.     Keep toilet paper strips ready & alcohol nearby

3.     Stretch. Especially important if shaving in a 24" X 38" bathtub.

4.     Adjust water temperature. This is simple. It's either scalding hot or freezing. No in between settings.

5.     Chewing gum not advisable. To many things to concentrate on.

6.     Breathe. Focus on one point in the bathtub for equilibrium.

7.     Do one leg at a time.

8.     Shift to other leg without banging into wall. Good luck.

9.     When finished reward yourself with soothing aloe vera gel for afflicted areas. I suggest buying economical gallon size bottles.

10. May want to wear pants on shaving days or just wear pants for the rest of your life so you don't have to shave. You could move to Europe.

Copyright Diane Sesler 9/24/10

Sleep Apnea: A Whole Lot Of Sexy

What was I thinking? I'm in  a Vanderbilt sleep study. I will be hooked up with lots of wires.  They will take samples of my blood every 2 hours for 24 hours. I'm  helping the world of snorers. It felt good at the time. Now that the appointment is here, my mind is looking for excuses.

I was surprised when I was asked to be part of  this study because I snore. That should tell you that I can sound like the Chattanooga ChooChoo. Not pretty. I made light of my situation until I was told that I have 100 disturbances per hour which can deprive air to the brain. That would explain many things David says. Isn't he sweet.

Snoring is not exactly flattering. The choices to help sleep apnea are disturbing. Ugly.  One is a contraption that looks like my plane is about to crash and my mask pops out. I look and sound like Darth Vader.  I could opt for device number 2.  A lovely item  that makes my lower jaw protrude outward.  May be nice if you live with a  Kayapo man who wears a disc in his lower lip. This does not make me feel sexy. Here's my lovely Ralph Lauren sleep gown  with a plastic head chapeau with tubes. Fantastic. I can also get surgery to enlarge my throat. What? Does that sound safe to you. I guess I could shove more food into it. Always a rainbow in every situation.

Good times

El Crap-o

And here's the crap The Dog Screamer

.

El Fact-o

El Fact-o

Opening the door for the first time after the flood. The game Fact or Crap was all over the house.  I mean everywhere! The words Fact or Crap on the floor - on the walls & that's a Fact....it was Crap!

The Dog Screamer

Enters Nuke the dog. An impressive muscular beast with a walnut size brain. A klutzy live wind-up energizer dog who will run full blast into you. Bruises – I have many. My body looks like a war map. This is our 100 pound Doberman who chews on rocks as a hobby. Grown UPS men fall off our porch when I open the door.

Problem: He is the leader. I am untrained.

Situation: High pitch yelping that puts Daryl Hannah in Splash to shame. This happens when he's excited which means 50% of the time. This is enough for neighbors to leave unfriendly notes in our mailbox. Foaming around his gummy bear mouth follows. His cartoon eyes would go around in circles if they could.

My response: Deep deep concentration on keeping calm and gently tell him to hush and sit. This never works. Ever. I hear my mother in the back of my head. "The Dog Whisperer wouldn't do that....what you should do...". Nuke runs full steam into me.  Extreme pain.

I LOSE it! Arggghhhhh #$%^&*! Je vais te tue!  I am The Dog Screamer. I start foaming at the mouth running (limping really) around the yard flapping my arms up and down. I'm screaming commands. I realize Nuke isn't around. He's gone looking for mega rocks. I'm in need of a water bowl sized cocktail.

I dream of the Dog Whisperer being next to me on my dock. I bark at him several times and then calmly shove him into the river. Nuke is in the background grinning.

Buddha In - Buddha Out

I pray. I ring Jesus, Mary, and other Saints'doorbell often. Praying happens often when pain shows its ugly face. I don't think They mind. My Gods & Saints are an understanding bunch. That's a good thing, since my being nice isn't always stable.

I have done the I love me & you retreats, meditating, visualizations, tai chi, Reiki, buddha shrines, countless help me books. A deep sense of peace enters my body as I breathe in and out. I'm there spiritually with all the birds, flowers, and the world. I want to hug a tree, but...

Some creepaloids stole our catalytic converter off our Toyota while we were sleeping. My Buddha switch went off. The "I love you, you love me, we're just a happy family" took a dive into a stinky slimy dumpster. I wanted to kick Barney in the shin. Purple anger. I'm hoping that the thieves' thing-a-mawdoo gets a rare uncommon rash and falls off. Sending love their way is not happening. A second robbery happens. A box full of dog treats and soap to be delivered by UPS never makes it. I want to stuff the crook's mouth with an entire bag of dog bones and soap followed by a cool glass of antifreeze. I want to snap their little head off their shoulder. I'm censoring my other PG-18+ thoughts.

Time to go ring some Saint's doorbell.

Earth Friendly Underpants & Other Weird Contraption

Go green with your underpants. I have learned that there's boocoos of underwear out there made out of bamboo. They're a little stiff at first, and you may start to see Pandas hanging around your yard. There's also an Australian company who sells knickerbockers made out of bananas. No comment. Take it a step further and wear a solar power bra made by Triumph International. It generates enough energy to power an iPod. I say put the sisters to work. Theyr'e just sitting there anyway.

Go green - Go bare

Enough already about underwear

Underwear, The Unabomber & Too Much Information

I have succumbed to the world of Facebook. I said it was a big fat waste of my time. I lied. I have entered a world made of glass. The people I know live in my private fish bowl. It all begins with friend no. 1. Ok, that's fun. Then, you dare to ask another to accept you. Is it a big whoopie doo if they reject you? It multiplies. It grows like kudzu. You now have friends you don't really know. It's also super convenient. I never have to see you anymore, but I know all about you. I'm watching you. I may not of seen or talked with you for 10 years. It doesn't matter. I now know that you like to munch on edamame beans and that you dress up like Liberace. It's addictive. I feel like I'm smoking again. I wonder what so and so is doing or saying about so and so. My very own trashy magazine.

I don't have to go out again except for groceries to stay alive. I can type in my underwear. Oh, don't wince people. Trailer people know what I'm talking about. It starts innocently with walking barefoot in your camper. Then, one day you suddenly realize that you stay in your underwear 60% of the time (or more)while living in your sardine can. It's a common phenomenon. David and I eat cereal that way, and have serious conversations in our underwear. This is where Facebook comes in handy. I can now officially stay in my underwear 24/7 unless going out on a errand. I might just start ordering groceries online and everything else except for clothes. I won't need them anymore.

Is this how the Unibomber got started?