Warning Labels are for Sissies

You have no idea where my fingers have been for excruciating amounts of time. Held fast to inanimate and sometimes should be animate objects for much longer than desired. No not by design, but by sheer stupidity; by such tunnel vision that all logic and thought of cause and effect are so gone, they are not even on the horizon. Nix, nein, nil.

In beauty college, yes I went to beauty college, (didn’t everyone) they taught us that super glue was originally developed for surgery, but found lacking: its adhesion destroyed by moisture, and it’s strength is severely tested by time. I stand here today to say, bunk! Sissies performed those test. I can vouch for the strength, toughness, and fastidious grip of superglue.

But friends, I think superglue is out done by nail glue, and do you know why? Of course you do you went to Beauty College too. But just incase, it is because nail glue has an additive not found in your common utility draw variety of superglue. Oh, no, nail glue includes an anti fungal.

An anti fungal. So tonight when I stuck my fingers, quite firmly, to my terracotta Halloween, glow in the dark, neon orange and black, Bat cut out candleholder. I. WAS. FUCKIN’. STUCK. But fear not, I will not get fungus. When my nail has become glued to the wrong side of the tip of my finger – and will not look right whether French tipped or nude, I will fear not, because I will not get fungus. When I glued my hand to the table, more than once, in the same day – because, shit I can – I only fretted just a little, but it had nothing to do with fungus. You try getting you palm unstuck from 26 year old formica.

So I have to ask, why do some things stick and other things do not – regardless of amount of pressure applied, porosity, and logic? Why is it that the no clog tips, clog until you just throw them away? Why is it that I can struggle for five minutes to unglue my thumb and index finger, but the nail won’t stick to nail? Why is it that some really cheap plastic tips just break in two when you try to glue them? And why when I accidentally drop just an itty bitty little drop on my new: jeans, jammies, or shirt - it 1) burns (I mean really smoking burns) 2) never comes out 3) and holds the originally color remarkably well. If it wasn’t for the stiff factor, and that hideous smell, I’d consider gluing all my news clothes. Hey they won’t get fungus.

Sith,
Cele

Bad Hair Day

The problem with being a DJ (besides the wages) is the fact everyone uses the same windsock so the microphones are breeding places for all sorts of creations gone wrong. I have no problem using copious amounts of Lysol before and after I take the mic, to keep me and others healthy, in fact I consider it my duty. A duty many do not appreciate…Bob. Yet, in 17.6 years at KCST I’ve never called in sick (called in sick being the operative words.) I’ve missed days because I started at work, broke a tooth and ended up with eight hours of staring up at my dentist ceiling while he probes with poinkie things that make me want to pummel the life out of him. But I have never called in – stayed at home – and suffered with microscopic creations gone wrong. Even when I missed that day last month for surgery, I scheduled it off (I emotionally still consider it my first day of work missed – despite scheduling it three weeks in advance.)

Why? Because I refuse to get sick, I also hate to not be able to breathe. So at the first sign of a bug, I begin dowsing myself with vitamin C and Airborne. I usually works. Usually. But there is now a part timer, who (if he wasn’t more cold infested on death’s doorstep than me would be in deep shit) made my microphone all squirmy with creations gone wrong and I can’t breathe.

This was made only worse by the fact that, as I was driving down the road today wanting to stuff a whole box of Kleenex up my left nostril to stop the flood (the small box not the large) I noted a long black hair growing out left side of my head somewhere between jowl and my chin. Now what do you think when you see a menopausal woman with a long whisker growing out of her 1) chin 2) upper lip 3) cheek?

You think, “Jesus Mother Mary of God, can’t she see that big hairy ass black rope growing out of her chin?”

Well let me answer you now, “No of course she can’t see the fucking big black hair growing out of her chin, because she is blind and needs reading glasses.” It’s true. I borrow my husband’s reading glasses to go tweeze (you learn in beauty college that “we don’t pluck, we tweeze.” Yeah, as if Queen Victoria ever tweezed.) So long ago I asked my boss (because we’re close friends like that) to let me know if EVER I had an ugly ass deformity growing out of my chin.

Needless to say he must need reading glasses too, because I spent an hour in a meeting with him today and he never mentioned it.

I use to keep tweezers in my truck for just an occasion as this. But I stepped on them. I mean who would have thought I’d need to replace them? Really who? There’s a pair next to my chair at home, two in my bathroom, one in my make up bag, one at my desk at work, so I should never run out. But argh, I have. So I guess really I could just stuff the box of Kleenex up my nose, and as long as I leave enough hanging out no one will notice the hair.

Sith,
Cele

Growth verses Teenage Mentality

I feel we all need to give back to not only Mother Earth as good stewards, but to our communities. Ducky is in total disagreement, which makes me wonder sometimes how we ever get along. But we do, maybe opposites do more than attract.

I am so off course.

Every other Monday evening I teach, err.. maybe that is the wrong word, advise, no that would mean they listen to instruction, okay I baby sit a bunch of teenage guys during an hour long radio program. The concept is sound. They come in 30 to 40 minutes prior to 7pm and put together their show, go on the air, and produce a 55-minute radio program. It is their show and adults beware. No topic is apparently taboo, despite station policy.

They delight in changing up their music, having no concept in genre, continuity, or well for that matter anything. So last night was a bumpy musical trip, to say the least, as we went from Hansen to Queen, to some head banging Christian group whose name has been seared from my gray matter, to Marvin Gaye and Matchbox 20 (which was totally hacked) while discussing the merits of text messaging as a form of upper intelligence communication. I would love to believe this means they are expanding their musical horizons, and knowledge, but I know better.

Much to my dismay during the whole pre Queen discussion, the ring leader choose to do what he assumes is Freddie Mercury’s persona. Why he felt it was accurate or right I’ve no idea. I was appalled. Male teenage mutants are in total disassociation with the rest of a world that does not revolve around football and high school. They’ve no idea that their preconceived notions could offend or hurt someone and are truly shocked when such a possibility is pointed out to them. Maybe I am too sensitive, but I don’t think so.

When he wasn’t doing a stereotypical Freddy Mercury impersonation, he was dissing on one of the groups mom’s for not letting her son on the internet or to My Space. He sees no recourse for his comments; my discussion surely did not phase him or make a difference in his future thought patterns. And while I believe he will grow up to be a nice, probably well mannered slop, I have to wonder how that transformation can possibly take place when I see the idiot he is at the moment.

As I grow older I look back with total shame at some things I’ve done in the past to one or two people. I’m a nice person, but there was a time when I was not. I’ve always been a crusader for the underdog. And yet I could find a person to verbally abuse. I had my “little lambs” under my wing, as my mother would say, but there would be someone I would pick on. You know someone who just didn’t quite fit in, just like me. Why, in the hell did I think that I could abuse another sweet person? Who the fuck am I? I use to get my ass kicked all over the play ground when I was a kid, people would taunt me, make fun of my name – Furby is a difficult last name to grow up with. And in my middle teens instead of sucking it in and making someone else’s life a better world because I could be a nice, loving, caring person, I was a total fucking bitch.

I’ve learned, I’ve never let go the harm I did to others. I know I have grown because of it, and I would like to get the opportunity to tell one specific person how incredibly sorry I am for my past behavior. I believe in reincarnation. We are all here for a reason, and I’m here – AGAIN - because I’ve have life lessons to fix. Okay, just one, anger, according to my numbers, but personally I think two. I needed to become a kinder, gentler being. And through that realization and discovery I know there is hope for the mutant teens out there who live in their own little galaxies. I just hope they find it before they damage the next Kip Kinkle.

Sith