Facebook Rejection

Years ago, I told a friend that I would never go on Facebook.  If I wasn’t already talking to the people, I didn’t need to be interacting with them on Facebook.  I said I’d only be interested in contacting people from elementary school and my old babysitter — people from before adolescence. These people represent pivotal parts of my early development memory data.  Things got too complicated after adolescence.

I wanted to contact Margarita Fong, Yu Ching Wong and Suk Soo from P.S. 152 – and no, I didn’t go to school in China Town – I tell you that Suk Soo was rough.  She didn’t speak English well, but mess with her you’d see — she’d take on an attack stance and yell in her heavily accented voice, “You talk!  You talk!”  You’d run right outta there!  I would also like to contact Nina from kindergarten, Mary Lou, Zaida, David, and my fourth grade teacher Mrs. DePierro with the rotten teeth – though she’s gotta be dead now.

It was necessary for me to get immersed in social media to “market” Mean-Spirited Tales.  So here I am on Facebook.  I sent a couple of these people from the days of yore Facebook friend requests.  I haven’t heard back.  Except for my old babysitter and Mrs. DePierro, perchance they don’t recall me, as they were just babes themselves back then, and I’ve heard some people say they don’t remember anything before the age of ten.

That’s hard for me to believe since I have very early memories, though not as early as that guy who says he remembers coming out of his mother’s vagina – haha!  I remember not being able to walk and I remember someone changing my diaper — they put Johnson & Johnson’s Baby Powder on my butt.  Just after learning to walk, I waddled to my brother’s crib and snatched the pacifier out of his mouth.  I guess the crib was low and I had a high reach.

It might just be that the folks I’ve reached out to haven’t been fortunate enough to recall such nascent gems.  So I’ll just chalk the rejection off to “lack-of-memory-cognizance syndrome” and be done with it.

 

Georgia O’Keefe

 

You shouldn’t wear those earrings here.  At work.

Why?

They look like, clitorises, hanging from your ears, that’s why.

They’re Georgia O’Keefe.

She didn’t make earrings.

Okay Georgia O’Keefish.  A designer based one of her paintings on the design.  I bought them at a street fair.

Well, you just corroborated what I said — she didn’t make earrings.

These earrings just celebrate her – look, look at them.  Want to touch?

They just look… (fondling them).

They look…what?

These earrings are, very provocative.

I can’t help it if you’re getting turned on by my earrings — they’re just pretty peach colored flowers in a pointed oval shape with protruding petals in the middle.  What if they were painted another color, like black?

They’d look like black clitorises then.

Aw c’mon Barry even black women don’t have black pus – I mean black clitorises – well some are darker, but not like pitch black.

How do you know?  You can’t just go by yours.

Okay so now we’re talking about my vagina – at work.

You’re the one who started it.

No.  You are.  You said my earrings look like clitorises.  I’m just wearing pretty pink colored flowers.

Lopsided T**ties with Scabs on Them

Perhaps a series of images and sounds gathered in your subconscious during the day lead you to remember this bitch who visited your boyfriend in the hospital while you were there.  Aforementioned bitch walked right by you and said nothing.  Your recovering boyfriend was in the hospital bed on the phone.  He looked up briefly, scared as shit – he darted his eyes quickly down to the receiver.  He knew that you knew who she was.  Said bitch didn’t even bother to introduce herself.  So you said, “My name is Sandee AND YOU ARE?!”  She answered so innocently but you knew what the fuck her name was just as well as she knew yours.

Ahhkh, it’s a long story…  I had an issue with her not only because she was pretty.  She was a supposed ‘platonic’ friend of my boyfriend.  He had shown me a picture of her.  I said, “Hell no!  She’s just your friend?  Come on!”  Okay so while I’m not ridiculously jealous, I’m also not that evolved.  The issue wasn’t just her looks — it was some of the things he had told me about her.  She favored husbands and boyfriends of other women.  Her character was shady, besides that.

He tried to convince me that it was all good.  He had shared enough anecdotes, due to my prodding, that I was able to deduce that she was an unprincipled twat.  “Why would you want to be friends with somebody like that?  She’s the devil!”  I said.  How stupid me, yes.

He told me that while they never had sex, she actually did show him her twat.  “She has big titties.  Why didn’t she show you those?  That’s weird,” I said.  “Hey but you know that’s, kinda cool,” I said after reflecting for a moment.  “Funny,” I continued.  “Yeah,” he said, nodding.  “She showed you her pussy – ha!  Like how?”  I said.  “She just lifted her skirt and pulled her panties to the side.”  “Wowww…”

He also told me that she liked metal, and if you’ve seen my last few posts or my ‘About’ page, you’ll see that I’m a death metal enthusiast.  “Hm,” I said when he told me.  She liked metal and uniquely flashed her vagina, while a common woman would have gone for the obvious titty-flash.  This brought another dimension to the situation, to their relationship.  I wondered about who this person might be.  So I fleshed her out to be maybe a little more than just a common twat.  But then I thought, maybe she showed him her vagina because she had lopsided titties with scabs on them.

Vagina poem

 

‘twas the last century when I visited one of my dearest friends, Alisha.  Her mother had redecorated.  Though this was long ago in the 1900s, in my mind’s eye, I recall a baroque style with fringes, tassels and tapestry prints; the colors were pinks, mauves, soft burgundys and creams.  The glass lamps were pale pink hues and there was a chaise lounge.  Ooo la la, Paree!  I wanted to stay there forever.  The room had enveloped me.

I went home and wrote a poem about it, a very bad poem (well maybe not that bad).  Another dear friend, Chickie La Loca gave me the incentive to dig it out from a dusty old box of files.  Here it is:

Your room looks like the inside of a vagina

Mauves so warm you

could slip inside an

enveloping leisure

under an overhead

soft tone lamp shaped

like a shell.

Stretch out on the cream

chaise lounge

and breath in a deep

breath so deep;

let it out when

you feel like it,

in a burgundy mist chair…

A Correction for My “Kabuki Sandee” Post of 4/20/12

Correction:  My sister is MOROCCAN Debbie, not EGYPTIAN Debbie.  She called to remind me.  Something did seem off about “Egyptian Debbie.”  My mind’s foggy.  I don’t sleep, so I don’t remember properly.  How could I forget she’s Moroccan Debbie?  Sorry sis for confusing these North African regions and the origin of your make-up stylings.  I was on the right continent though.  She would never forget that I’m Kabuki Sandee.

People often ask why the area under my eyes is red.  “What’s that there?”  They say pointing.  “Oh, it’s just some ‘ol rouge,” I tell them.  It’s embarrassing but what am I supposed to do?  I like rouge high on my face – never did really learn how to put make-up on.  Rouge is all I wear, usually.  I fell in love with it a very long time ago.  My cousin Cheryl used to make my face up when I spent the night at her house.  “Ohhhh, look at Sandee.  Now what is that you have on there?”  My Auntie Lillian said.  I was six.  “Cheryl put mascara, eye-liner, lipstick, blue eye shadow and some marouge on me,” I said.  My hair was in cluster curls and I felt like Shirley Temple — Shirley Temple–black (tee hee!).  They thought it was so cute that I’d said that.  I found out later that you say rouge, not marouge.  My little cousin once called a roach a roacher.

I bet I messed up a lot of words when I just learned how to talk.  I remember when I was two and had my diaper changed on the sofa.  I can’t recall who changed my diaper but whoever it was used powder.  I also remember the same year that I waddled to my baby brother’s crib and snatched the bobo out of his mouth and he cried.  I don’t remember saying anything during these two incidents, so I can’t tell you how I might have butchered up any words.  These are very early memories and a lot of people don’t remember anything at all even from when they were six or seven.  (Why is it that I remember being two but can’t remember Debbie being Moroccan Debbie?)  It may seem odd that I remember being two, but my ex told me about a man who claims remembering coming out of his mother’s vagina.  My ex is on the serious side and he said it with a straight face.  I laughed so hard that I started to choke.  I wish I had been there to hear it when the man said it.  I wrote a poem called “Your Room Looks Like the Inside of a Vagina.”  If I find it, maybe I’ll post it on my blog so you can tell me what you think.