My Love O' the Dress Up

I love any excuse to dress up. I'm dressed as Lucy Ricardo as I type this post even though everyone else at work is a total BUMP ON THE LOG.

My love of the Dress Up goes way back to near-womb status and hasn't left. In junior high I trolled thrift shops for vintage prom dresses and old, tattered wedding dresses and hung them on my walls as decoration. I collected wigs from garage sales, and I spend many an hour dressing up in my treasures. My mother, who is a painter, has a a portrait of me in a curled, red bob topped with a tiara and in a sad, frayed wedding dress which fit me, a girl of 13, well; this always fascinated me. I meant my disguises to be for my own private pleasure, not as a model for my mother, and in the painting I look COMPLETELY bummed. I really wanted to get back to talking to myself and conjuring scenarios that begged for a barefoot, bewigged, homeless bride.

Mandy and I, up until this last year, competed in a Halloween drag lip-synch contest and we consistently left our competition in the dust. You wanna know how to piss off some amateur drag queens? Have women win the drag contest. Our first year we were the contemporary version of Lady Marmalade. I was Pink. Mandy was Mya. Two boys were Lil' Kim and Christina Aguilera. Our second year, we were all different aspects of Britney Spears; school girl, drag racer, the green goddess with the snake. I choreographed the tightest, most Britneyest moves EVER. Our sucka competition got served! The last great year, we were Chicago. Mandy was a Velma Kelly INCARNATE (she looked so much like her it was scary!) our boy toy that year was an impressive Roxy and I was Mama Morton.

This weekend, Husband and I went to Pechanga with a group of people and celebrated Halloween at a night club. Pechanga, which is a casino on a Native American Indian reservation out in Butt Fuck California, deserves it's very own post, it's own dissertation and analysis really, but I'm just gonna stick to the Halloween fun.

I went as Heidi, in drag apparently. My true intention -- and stick with me here -- was for me to go as Jamie Lee Curtis in Trading Places -- y'know where she's the hooker, Ofelia in Eddie Murphy's movie, but then there's the train scene? Where she dresses as a fraulein, but she keeps saying she's Inga, from Sweden? And they say, "But you have lederhosen." And she's all, "YA, Inga from SVE-DEN." So, yeah, I was her, Jamie Lee as Ofelia as Inga from Sweden. And I made Husband dress as Eddie Murphy as Billy Valentine as the African consulate in that same train scene. “Merry New Year!” (The crowd is silenced). So, yah, too obscure especially when the people we hung out with probably weren't even born when Trading Places was made. By the time we left our hotel room, I said, "Let's just tell people we're figurines from Disneyland's It's A Small World."

So, this club at Pechangas . . .let's just say that if you go to an all-adult Halloween venue at a night club, ladies' costumes are only about one thing: Smuttiness. Which I'm totally ok with, but the bombardment of the sexy versions of costumes eventually became hilarious. Husband and I leaned on a railing most of the evening and watched the crowd. He'd say, "What is that?" And I say, "That's a fire fighter. Can't you tell by the flames on her panties and the red pasties? Doesn't the helmet give it away?" He'd say, "Sure." And then we'd laugh and laugh. Then he'd say, "Ok, let me try. Is that an indian girl?" Pointing to a girl in a brown, micro mini dress and aviator glasses. And I'd say, "No, silly, that's a highway patrol officer. See the boots?" And we laugh and laugh again. This went on all night long. Supposedly there is not one costume you CAN'T make smutty-sexy. None. There were sexy nuns and sexy babies. Sexy Brownies and sexy dolls and sexy police officers and sexy pirates and sexy devils (big) and sexy gangsters and sexy -- whatever. Fill in the blank. I am not dressed as a sexy version of Lucy Ricardo, however. But I do find the rigid conservativeness of the 50's gear and the red wig rather hot. But no, I'm not wearing a 50's dress shortened to my upper thighs, nor white stockings with the I Love Lucy garter belts. Or the platform lucite heels though I may do a striptese to Babalu later . . .

This is what sexy costumes plus alcohol do: They make people dry hump each other on the dance floor and on the couches lining the club. From where we stood, Husband and I had a perfect view of this and we gawked as shamelessly as they grinded on each other. We yelled out, "DAMN!" at regular intervals. We'd tap each other and point out a new couple spotted at another location. It was off the chain there at Pechangas. And then as the evening wound down, we'd see certain characters bite the dust to their alcohol consumption. Like the sexy Strawberry Short Cake that passed out on the couch in front of us much to the disappointment of her grinding partner. We saw the sexy mechanic just plop down in a big drunken HUFF near the coat check. We saw the dude dressed as the pope throw up on the dance floor. Wow, these people know how to Par-tay up at Pechangas.

I can’t wait for trick or treating tonight. Husband will be Ricky Ricardo (duh!) and Maya is a mime and Mina is an angel – who wanted to wear angelic black lipstick to school today. Awesome.

Mina

We were walking along the sidewalk towards our favorite, quick Asian spot for dinner. As a family, the four of us tend to glide along in a pod either talking incessantly or encapsulated in a comfortable silence. During a silent moment, as we walked, Mina, who is tiny for a six year old, said, “I wish I had twelve hundred dollars.”

This is classic Mina. We often have no clue why she blurts out things like this, and yesterday my husband only responded by saying, “Me too.” In the past I have asked her, “Where did you hear that?” Or “Where did you learn that?” She usually says, “From my brain.”

I’ve realized that I haven’t written about Mina as much as Maya only because she is so quirky, near complicated. She is a child unlike one I’ve ever met, and I have a profound love for her because of it. I bought her a customized t-shirt a couple months ago that sums up how I feel about her personality. The shirt says, Deep.

It is easy to explain Maya. Maya is simply The Great Kid. She’s social and loving and bright-eyed. She’s beautiful and responsible. She laughs with her head back and from her gut, and that knocks me out.

I can’t seem to give an essence of Mina’s personality in a few sentences. Mina talks half as much as Maya, but seems to have a cult following amongst her peers. I think she used to communicate with our cat when she was two. She created deep art at three. She talks about death openly. She is not dark all the time or brooding, really. She seems to be inside her head a lot, but then mixes it up easily with us and other kids. She remembers the tiniest details from way back, like facts from a museum trip and she’ll rattle them off randomly, unexpectedly. She’ll freak her tiny little booty to music at the mall and will sing in front of a crowd of two hundred. If she doesn’t feel like doing something, I challenge you to get her to do it. She doesn’t like meat much, eats mainly vegetarian, but she craves pork. She will spontaneously hug people she doesn’t know when she gets a good vibe from them, but she doesn’t like being pushed into talking to them. She’d done Tae Kwon Do, like Maya, for a while now, but tells everyone she’s a gymnast. She has a sick tolerance for pain unless she needs a little attention. She is the perfect combo of Husband’s stubbornness and my weirdness and this makes her personality perplexing and unboxable.

Mina was born with the biggest head I’ve ever seen. Her black hair shot straight out of her head like static held in place and no gel on the planet could’ve kept it down. Because she had an issue with swollen right lymph nodes, her huge head would always tilt to the left. Like she had a crooked neck. It was so heartbreaking and cute that I fought the urge to hold her head up with my hand 24 hours a day. By the time she was nearly two, I did not think she could hear well. I expressed this to the pediatrician repeatedly. Mina was also not speaking much and when she did, the words were muted, like a deaf person. Husband and I would perform experiments by sneaking up behind her and we'd snap our fingers near her ears for a reaction. After repeated snaps she would finally turn around and look at us like we were the most annoying people ever. Our experiments went inconclusive. (Of course this gave Maya a new game and she would snappity snap near Mina’s head CONSTANTLY.) Mina responded to us just enough where we couldn’t tell if she was blowing us off or if she was indeed hard of hearing. When she had to take a hearing test before kindergarten, the nurse put on those huge 70’s head phones and whisked her away to the booth. And Mina couldn’t hear one beep. Not One Mother Fucking Beep. I nearly sprinted to the pediatrician’s office to tackle that bitch to tell her, I TOLD YOU. I TOLD YOU, but you said let’s wait and see, YOU FUCKING BITCH. I wanted to rip her own doctor ears off her head because she obviously didn’t use them anyway. And I cried and cried that night for not trusting my instincts more and pushing the issue, and because I let my poor little genius become deaf.

It turned out that massive amounts of fluid in her inner ears caused the hearing loss, and placing draining tubes inside her ears for six months cleared most of it up. Not 100%, but enough that her speech and vocabulary improved almost immediately. She still speaks with a limp. But she’s ambitious with her word usage. She’ll tell Maya she’s being “inappwopwiate.” Out of nowhere, she’ll say things like, “Mami, I wealized today that we are going to the park after school” or “The calcium in broccoli keeps your bones stwong.”

Maya has to work hard for good grades. I tricked her into becoming a voracious reader just by constantly introducing her to great stories. But she works hard to read well and smoothly. She works hard to get B’s and A’s, and doesn’t mind the work because she knows if she doesn’t work she will get D’s. There is no middle ground for Maya, and her work ethic impresses the shit out of me. Mina is lazy with school work. Fights me to do homework. Whines and manipulates. But when I finally get her to sit down, she’s done in a nanosecond. It’s all so easy for her. She’ll look at a word and work it out in her huge head and read it. For kicks, she’ll say, “Mami, how do you make a ‘B’?” And I’ll look at her and say, “Come on, dude.” And then we’ll laugh together like it was an idiot’s joke.

Mandy says, in the hands of other parents, Mina would stir up all kinds of shit. But this little girl has me in ways that no one else does and I constantly want to protect her quirkiness. I scramble to clear a path for her brilliance to come.

Meme-ified

Two days ago I didn't know what meme meant. But lately it's been meme-o-rama in Blog World and I've been quickly edumemecated on what it all means. Hollyrhea gives a most excellent explanation, and in my mind it means: Write some revealing shit in list form. And you do this because you just saw another blogger do it or you were invited to do so. I call that Biting Their 'Stilo, but meme it is! I did the 10 Random Things because it was a cool idea, but I didn't realize I was getting caught up in the memephenomena. And it's kinda embarrassing to reveal so much in list form, like getting-to-know-you vomit and I doubted anyone was really interested in my inventoried shit, but I love to read other people's lists like this cool one from maven haven. . . I think I just learned you need to be “tagged” to officially meme or do the meme or be the meme; meme out with your cock out! But fuck that. I tag myself. But this may be The End of the Meme for me -- I mean, like, after this self-tagged one . . .'cause it almost feels like a chain letter or those infuriating emails that try to convince you to forward it to 1,504 friends to receive ANY KIND OF FINANCIAL REWARD AT ALL IN THE NEXT YEAR. I delete those mothers immediately. I'd rather be penniless than get suckered into that shit.

Are you lubed and ready for ma meme chose yet? Here we go --- wwwhhheeeeee!

Seven Things I Can Do (uh oh, I just realized this is gonna be hard):
1. Take people for their word. Which means I am almost teflonic to passive aggressiveness. For example, if I'm somewhere with someone and they sigh and hem and hah, I'll say, "Hey, do you want to go?" And if they say (sighing), "Noooo, it's ok. We can stay." I'll say, "Cool," and not think about it again. If you want to go, fucking tell me because I ignore all things but your word. Works WONDERS. I highly recommend.
2. Daydream to the point of distraction.
3. Be goddamn creative. The bracelet, pictured left, was my last wild hair. I made a bunch o’ bangles earlier this year, 14 different styles.
4. I can then realize that when it takes six hours to make a bangle, maybe this isn't a good business venture. I couldn't seem to charge enough money. I was too embarrassed to ask for too much. So, apparently I can shut down a business pretty well. *sigh*
5. Still hit a 15-foot jump shot. If pushed into playing, I could surprise good, male players in a game of pick up. My husband, his brother and I once ran a court in Queens ALL DAY LONG. We shoulda hustled cash money.
6. Shove in all things important. I balance well, I work hard and I don't believe in sacrificing things that are important, to me or to my family.
7. Compose an email like nobody's business. Especially ones work related; ones that need to tell off vendors, bitingly and professionally, where I eventually get my way because I've either articulated myself well enough or confused the reader. I'm pretty bad-ass at this.

Seven Things I Can't Do
1. Link the books I am reading or the music I am listening to in my margins.
2. Cut my own hair which bums me out.
3. Go on roller coasters anymore or do anything requiring physical fearlessness.
4. Lie very well. I stutter and get shifty-eyed. I choke up and sweat.
5. Read enough. A lot does not equal enough.
6. Be too strict on the girls. I'm kinda soft. THEY DESERVE SPOILING.
7. Not express myself if something is bugging me. I'm of the Spit It Out Camp.

Seven Celeb Crushes
1. John Stewart - though maven haven said she could fit him in her pocket and I laughed very hard at that.
2. Ryan Phillippe
3. Justin Timberlake (SHUT UP)
4. Luke Wilson
5. Benicio del Toro
6. **updated** Ok, so Halle Berry's man which is this guy , Michael Ealey
7. Manu Ginobili

Seven Things I Find Attractive in a Mate
1. Confidence
2. Treats me like an intoxicating goddess
3. Doesn't let me walk all over him, but still adheres strictly to #2
4. Athleticism
5. Sense of responsibility
6. Honesty
7. Kindness
7.5 Strong forearms, gush.

Seven Things I Hope to Do Before I Die
1. Finish this list
2. Raise two world changers. They will change the world if they just remain compassionate and thoughtful
3. Grow old gracefully - kinda panicky on this one.
4. Have a cult following
5. Wear gigantic hats whenever I feel like it
6. Learn to sew
7. Fix my busted Spanish
7.5 OF COURSE PUBLISH A BOOK OR SEVEN -- geesh.

Seven Things I Say Often
1. Bananas. As in, That's bananas. I was saying this long before Gwen was all spelling it out for us on the radio.
2. Mu Fucka. As in, Listen here mu fucka. Or, he's a handsome mu fucka. Or (to the dogs), come here lil mu fuckas.
3. Retarded nice. "The spa was retarded nice."
4. Mama. I call many people this apparently. Hey mama, lil mama, mami, mamita. I swoon if Husband calls me Mami . . .
5. Do you have to go potty? Between the girls and the pugs, I say this approximately 75 times a day.
6. Holy shit
7. I love you. I do say this a lot. I can't say it enough. They deserve to hear it every other sentence.

self portrait tuesday

Self Documentary #4 - Life With the Sisters Pug

They worship you



and adore you




and make you laugh




no matter what.



Thanks Lupe & Carmen, you crazy little buggers.

How to Go to a Salsa Club; A Guide for Veteran Lady Dancers

Wear whatever you want. Because going to the salsa club -- after having gone to salsa clubs for twenty years -- is only about dancing. Every time you go out however, it does cross your mind to wear an outfit exactly like this fringed beauty pictured to the left. It's not practical though, and most likely not very flattering no matter how fabulous it seems. But, wear whatever you like and keep in mind these things: Sweat shows up severely on brightly-colored cotton blends, even on light colored jeans and it shows in the most inappropriate places. Whipping and thrashing hair can be an issue as in slapping dance partners in the face, slapping yourself in the face, and most grossly, collecting sweat and subsequently catapulting drops on spectators. Shoes, as gorgeous as they can be, should not be the highlight of the outfit because you will pay dearly later for trying to be too cute in strappy, death-defying albeit FANTASTIC sandals unless you are a veteran dancer that has worn four-inch heels since puberty. Please note, there are many veteran dancers in this category. Jeans are popular to wear at clubs now, but some latin clubs will not allow jeans like the time you took your very trendy LA boss to the Copacabana fifteen years ago while on a business trip and even though you warned her that they may not let jeans pass as suitable salsa attire, she was appalled when they did in fact refuse her. She was more appalled that there was a metal detector at the entrance. You convinced the bouncer, in shoddy Spanish and not without insulting your boss, to let her in. And you explained to your boss that you WANT to go to the clubs with metal detectors.

After much consideration, wear black pants, a black clingy top with no sleeves and sensibly heeled boots. Do not wear too much make up as you will sweat it off on a messy shroud of a cocktail napkin. Curled hair may be a waste of time for the same reason. A slick ponytail is good or leave your hair down because whipping and thrashing can be sexy and you don't want to look too much like a school marm for the possibility that no one will ask you to dance, which would suck. A cute purse is cool, but more practically, consider one that can camouflage well after you fling it in a corner as you dance song after song and thus cannot babysit it. The purse must be compact, but able to hold essentials including a retractable hand fan you bought at the swap meet for $3.99 that has a cheap Japanese waterfall scene adorning the front. The fan is accidentally elegant and hip, but most importantly it is essential for cooling down between dances so you don't look like you've just completed a triathlon though the way you dance expends as many calories. Consider finding a line of triathlon-like salsa outfits, then decide against this.

Go with friends or meet friends at the club. Go alone even because all you really want to do is just dance. Upon arrival, go directly to the bar and order your usual. Don't stray (unless completely coerced by friends) because the trendy drinks have enough sugar to spike your insulin and put you in a bad mood. A well-made mojito is completely called for now and again. Order a diet coke and dark rum, preferably anejo rum. This tastes smooth and wicked and gets you to the ledge of uninhibitedness.

Find Your Spot at the edge of the dance floor where you think the regular dancers will hang out. Try to stand there confidently, like it's no big deal for you to be standing there by yourself. Try to exude, subtly, that you understand the complexity of latin jazz. Slightly bob your head and tap the "clave" rhythm with one finger on the edge of your glass. Survey the scene and drink your anejo and diet as quickly as possible. Don't let others notice how fast you are downing this. Casually drag your non dancing friends to this spot though they have no idea what they're getting themselves into standing there. They will recede into the voyeurs eventually and simply encourage you to do Your Thing. After your drink, put a stick of gum in your mouth. For some reason the combination of alcohol and a vigorous workout can make your breath smell like dried dog shit.

Because you don't go to the clubs frequently any more, try to remember who the good dancers are, but more importantly just try to recognize which dancers have an innate sense of rhythm. This is key. These are the dancers with whom you want to dance. Do not discriminate by age or height. Some of your favorite dance partners have been one-hundred year old cubanos that are 4'2". But these men wear tan and white wing tips and are easy to spot so look for the dancers that may be unrecognizably good.

Your first dance of the night is the most important. This will set the tone for the rest of the night. If the good dancers see that you can dance, you will dance all night long. If you start off with a stiff beginner, this could be a blow to your dance card. But there is a way to salvage this. Immediately, when you recognize your first partner is not so good, do not follow his lead so much for the sole purpose of showcasing your own skills. Break away from this partner and dance solo for a minute or so. This is not something you'd do with a good dancer, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Initially, do not turn down an offer to dance. Any guy brave enough to ask you deserves a shot. They may even surprise you with their ability. Even the guy in his fifties dressed in all black including a spandex top -- an outfit eerily similar to your own -- who sports a south-american gheri curl and a snazzy silver western belt. If a dance is boring or bad, stick it out politely without sighing or rolling your eyes like you'd like to do. If a dance is jerky and dangerous in that he's trying new salsa stunt moves that he learned on the internet or from a video called Mambo Dips Part 4! and you fear you will go down during the dance, walk away mid-song leaving him stranded on the dance floor. He will know exactly why you did so and no discussion will need to follow. When an "Intermediate" dancer is trying new moves on you (without the threat of bodily harm), be a good sport. Do not mind that he is moving solely to steps and not to the music. When he messes up something, laugh it off and tell him to try it again. When you ask him where he is from, do not be surprised when he answers Iran/Russia/Israel/Korea/Montana. Tell him he is doing fine. Do not be mad that he thinks a salsa outfit equals high-waisted tight pants and a see-through shirt. Try not to be infuriated that he has doused his hands in cologne. Veteran dancers do that too even if that's your pet-est of dancing pet peeves. Fight the urge to smell your hands in disgust every five minutes.

If there is a great dancer that you would like to dance with, ASK HIM even if this is breaking typical etiquette. You should not give that much of a shit as a veteran dancer. This window to ask him may be small if he is a popular dancer. The best times to ask are right before a song begins or after his girlfriend has started dancing with someone else. His girlfriend is the one that actually wears the fringed dress pictured above. After this dance, no matter how great it is, do not ask him to dance again. He can ask you next time.

You understand, with your experience, that going out dancing is no longer about looking like a stuck-up sour puss, but only about enjoying the music and having fun. And getting a good workout. When you see the LA bimbo/supermodels at the salsa club who can't dance and teeter on their heels because of their blimp-sized titties, make fun of them in your mind. Feel better about yourself when you realize they have no clue how to move to your music. Be embarrassed for them. But smile at them because you don't want to come across as the threatened, hating type. When two of them brave the dance floor to do their lame pseudo-lesbian erotica for a reaction, dance your good-sized ass their way and show them how it should be moved and shaken. Shake it. Fiercely. And smile, laugh even. Show off, and pretend to do the bump with the girls or shimmy in their direction, and make your dance partner laugh at that. The young, sadly skeletal supermodels will be clueless as they writhe stiffly, uncomfortably.

The second you don't have the desire to dance again, leave. This tends to be after exactly two hours of straight dancing. Fish your purse from the dark corner. Grab your jacket and jet. Do not say goodbye to any dancers. This will give off a different message than the I'm Here to Dance Only message you've been promoting. Don't confuse the dancers.

Get your car out of valet. Check your change and count your CD's. Hydrate with electrolyte fluid during the drive home; wrap a towel around your neck. Daydream about the next time you'll be able to steal away from your family-filled, career-run, responsibility-laden life to dance again. Promise yourself you'll still go dancing when you're an arthritic and withered old bag.

Biting the Marigold

I'm stealing Marigoldie's idea to list random things about myself. She actually wrote a fantastically honest and really well-written list of 100 things, but I'm afraid once I list 100 things about myself, I'll have to close up shop because I won't have anything left to write about.

But here are 10 mad things about me, oh lucky readers!

1. I have an urge to eat flowers when I smell them, at the very least crush them against my lips. Roses especially. I want to put them entirely in my mouth, maybe take a little nibble. I want to strip off the petals and use them like stridex pads on my face and then place them on my eyelids while I nap.

2. If I were born a boy, my mother would have named me D'Artagnan, a bitch to say in spanish. But I love the name and I had brought it up during my own pregnancies. HELL NO, was what Husband said, but would there have been a cooler name than Dart Rivera?

3. When I was eleven, my mother helped kiln and lay the tile for Judy Chicago's Dinner Party. This was an art exhibit in the form of a gorgeous, full-sized dinner setting paying tribute to over a thousand famous and important women in history. Because this is where I hung out that entire summer, in a Venice warehouse with about a hundred women artists, they were cool enough to let me embroider a caterpillar on the Mary Wollstonecraft runner that went under her plate. During that summer, I remember knocking over blueprints and getting yelled at by Judy Chicago herself (whoops) and I remember the fantastic smell of baking clay and glaze, and I remember plates beautifully shaped like huge vaginas, but mostly I remember staring at the embroidered image of Mary Wollstonecraft dying in child birth as I nervously tried hard not to fuck up my caterpillar. I also remember learning, at eleven, that women are brilliant creatures.

4. I like tea cups with saucers. And this is completely unfounded in any memory or inspiration. I don't know why I like them. I love them mismatched and lovely, fragile and chipped a little. I want to buy every one I see and I want to make pedestals for them and shine halogen lights on them. And name them things like Precious.

5. When I was eight years old, I found a .38 handgun in my grandfather's night stand. I picked it up and as my heart pounded I held the gun to my temple. That thought still makes my face flush, and I wonder why a child would do that. But, to be honest, when I was young my mother often held two fingers to her head and said, "Ppkkwww" telling me it would be so much easier that way.

6. A week before my grandmother died when I was fifteen, I had a dream that I rode a raccoon across a wheat field and then watched her till a dirt garden. She looked like she was pregnant in the dream. She died of pancreatic cancer that apparently bloated her disproportionately. Her death was a surprise to me because she had told no one about the cancer, but I appreciated that she let me know in the dream. We had that kind of relationship.

7. Once when I was nine, I lost my wallet at the bus stop that held my house key and my library card that stated my name and address. By the time I made it home, my house had been robbed of our TV, stereo, all other valuables including my grandmother's gold wedding band that I was to inherit. To this day, my mother doesn't know this robbery was because I lost my wallet. I felt having the ring stolen was punishment enough.

8. Sometimes I'm afraid my husband and daughters will die, and that's a private panic that I don't share usually. I heard a psychologist once say that this is about convincing ourselves that we deserve this much love and happiness. But what I fear more is that I'll die too soon and this is worse, I feel, because I don't want my girls to suffer that kind of grief.

9. I am obsessed with March Madness, the men’s college basketball playoffs. I am enamored by the level of heart with which these kids play. I am amazed by how many games are won at the buzzer. This sends my heart a soarin'. During March is when I wish I had attended college so I can be a raging lunatic fan for a particular alma mater, but then I'm glad I didn't go to college because as it stands I can band-wagon jump from team to team.

10. When I was a kid I loved the Guinness Book of World Records. I decided I would take on the Catch the Coins Off the Elbow Record which, in 1977, was thirty-six coins. I lined up pennies on my forearm and practiced and practiced. Most of my time I picked up pennies that had exploded off my arm when I didn't catch them in my ten year old hand, but one afternoon when channel 11 played The Planet of the Apes as the 3 o'clock movie, I caught all 36 mother fucking pennies. I was like, Holy Shit, I need a camera. I looked down at the Guinness Book of World Records to figure out how to record my record, and the words "silver dollar" caught my eye. The record was for 36 silver dollars not pennies. My window to be a record holder closed. Now the record is something crazy like 400 pennies or some shit.

self portrait tuesday

This is my Self Documentary #3.

Portrait of Myself Through My Girls' Artwork.








Hooray!