Dr. Seuss Gone Wild

PG 21. This is the product of an interactive facebook status invitation, a loooooong Wednesday at the office and the daring contributions of a bunch of frisky friends. Enjoy!

These are all things
that make me feel good:
Nutella, Flamenco,
and having nice boobs.

Beauty, flowers, love, dancing,...touch
All riches in Earth would not please me as much!
Mud fighting...naked,
apple pie...baked,
all hugs and kisses that would take to make it.

A Sp-Anish-fly maketh...
a Lucie to be touched!
I hope you wont fake(th),
For we all love you much
...and improv love making all over the couch.

Wathcing sunsets! The beautiful painted sky!
The watercolors of heavens! The artwork of the Most High!
Aziza says “sorry...can I make the pie?”
Friends, you are all poets! By trade or by heart!

Now Anish is sick,
yet he's still rhyming back
“Stop it, this ain't art!,
It makes me want to fart!”
Jo yells “Lucia, please give us a start!”

“Anish” goes Lucia “why, oh why all the fuzz?
I'd never have deemed you such a sour puss!
If farting, oh, sire, your art choice may be
then do it with rhythm, great gusto and glee!”

“Tempt me no further with your Seuss lust”
Anish replies in gassy brain trance
“Can't think straight...must rhyme!
Can't talk right...must mime!
Can't eat light...must dine!
Look what you did, I'm a nervous wreck,
a half green oger, a rhyming Shrek!”

Mike thinks “Oh, dear!I pray the end is near,
for Anish is rhyming about sounds from his rear!”
And granting the wishes of Mike, known as Cress
here finsih the story,
my friends y'all have earned
the laurels of glory
lets all put our rears and our brains to rest.

Won Battle, Lost War

On how Lucia got mauled by a Bengala tiger and considered shaving both her head and her cat (not pussy)


Mishka and Koyla's lives have been one of struggle. From their first steps under the vigilance of some mysterious Russian mother that fled in obscure circumstances, to a pilgrimage of chromatically insulting apartments, dubious mashed potatoes diet, and variegated foreign speaking surrogate tutors. They finally landed under the pupillage of this, your not very conventional Spaniard, and christened Diomedes and Camaron, after the gods of Colombian Vallenato and Spanish Flamenco respectively.

Yes, my two cats have had it tough. I perhaps may have forgotten about their existence once or twice...they perhaps have manifest their discontent by spraying on very strategically selected symbolic spots, like my Zen garden and my Dolce & Gabana leather bag. And hence, this silent passive aggressive battle has survived home changes and boyfriend changes and career changes to the point that just for the sake of constancy we can't help but to love each other.

Now perhaps you are acquainted with THE bath incident, which I deemed worth sharing for the potential moral applicable to life...or just for the 10 minutes of company time spent reading this, really. It all started with me ignoring the scratching frequency of Koyla a.k.a. Camaron a.k.a. the smart one (as opposed to the “not so bright” one of the pair). Using the universal technique of not acknowledging the problem, I let it fly till it was obvious that if I didn't fight the creepy crawlers issue I better start thinking about a new hair do myself...Full Metal Jacket style.

Inspired by old Spaniard maruja knowledge and a sudden Twinkie sugar rush, I grab the cat and a half gallon vinegar bottle, and off to the sink we went. The battle was fierce! Lucia stern on her determination of scrubbing every inch of the enemy, water and vinegar splashing all over the kitchen walls and ceiling, tiger roars and pitiful meows, oh lord! I shiver just at the memory of the gruesome fight!

40 minutes later, here emerges Lucia victorious! Wet and wounded as what it was later described as “attempted tiger rape” claw pattern, but mission accomplished. My usually proud Spaniard car barely standing shivering, his luscious cream fur turned into a wet pitiful rag showing his little skinny minnie trembling limbs...BUT bug free. Aha!

My cat has not been the same for the last week. His pride and aloofness gone, I am not sure if due to the traumatic experience or the cold he catch after the incident. I am somewhat feeling guilty; morale of the story being possibly “don't try to impose your sense of goodness”, but applicable too “go to Petsmart and spend some $50 bucks on tick & flea shampoo and spray” OR “shave your cat”...ha! I think I'm going for this last one next time...

POSTFACE: The cream colored cat lays down, silent, watching every move of his goofy looking hairless pack's alpha that subjected him to the senseless horrific torture last week “... she's being awfully nice to me...she thinks she won...HA, lost the water battle but not the war...” Koyla thinks “wait” smirks the cat “wait to find out what I have peed on now”.

On How I Rode a Tractor, Had My First Bud Light, and Perhaps Burped

That I am a beard away of being a guy is a comment I hear often expressed in many different ways; sometimes intended as a compliment, sometimes as a Sibilla-esque insult. The concept has been there since the very moment I started planning strategy with my color coded plastic Indians at the time when most little girls are pining for an anatomically absurd Barbie.

I don't mean, in any way, to abjure on my womanly ways! I DO still posses some intrinsically feminine qualities such as the ability to understand unspoken word and feel empathy; the capability of effective leadership without manifest power; the appreciation for moisturizer, paired socks and twizzed eye-brows; the fatal attraction for anything that involves the word “chocolate” and/or “designer”; a higher threshold for mental and physical strain than at least 40% of the total population (which coincidentally bear penises); and an incurable tendency to instinctively baby sit cute creatures, kids, and kids of the taller type too.

YET, on the other plate of this gender stereotype balancing:...my ability for awe-ness at the sight of a power tool, a fire arm or a bundle of pretty colored cables; my morbid fascination for all exploiting, speeding, bleeding, camouflage-wearing, punching or boob-revealing input; my absolute exasperation with any communication style that invokes anything but direct, practical information for the task at hand and not a word more; my longing for the adrenaline hit of board meeting jungles and aimless physical challenges; and above all, my clinical tendency to drive around for hours guesstimating cardinal points instead of asking for directions...

In the light of this, you may be able to better appreciate my total state of glee with the latest manly man experience facilitated by Dan. Yesterday, I mowed 2 acres of grass in a big red shinny tractor...and I loved it! I topped the festivities with my first bud light in the most awesome honky-tonk hidden in the heart of freaking Crestwood, from all places. And perhaps, and just PERHAPS, in the intimacy of my car and overtaken by testosterone rushing through my veins, I MAY have uttered my first unrestrained burp worth calling it a such.

So ladies and gentlemen, transgender, plurisexual, pantalovers or experimenters, whatever you may choose to be today: If moral at all to this, my alternative way of psychotherapy, is that life is way more fun when you don't box yourself. Listen, or listen to me not, but it was an image worth the laugh, wasn't it?