Locker Room Exploits

Locker Room Exploits
(I'll save you the suspense...it's not sexually driven in any way; unless you are particularly fond of looking for your twinkie under steaming rolls of searing flesh. Interested?In that case Read on.)

Some say death carries a distinct smell; appalling, inviting, repulsive all wrapped up into one warm waft. It wasn't until I walked into the locker room at the Y today that I remembered that reek. I remembered as a child, watching my grandfather slaughter a goat for Easter. The smell that circled the yard that very morning was the same I found in the locker room thousands of miles away in the middle of New Jersey.
The lady who loiters in the locker room at the Y whose odor trails not far behind, actually it exhumes from her body, from every pore in her body to every nasal receptor in mine, reminds me of that smell.
I walk into the locker room shortly after school, ready to pump some iron. Normal OCD routine: walk to the back of the locker room,towards the left, same locker, place my coat and clothes in there. I change and my yogurt and check my cell for text messages. When I am ready to go, I snap my I-pod on to my pants and feed the headphone wire under my shirt, curling around my ears like chandeliers. I walk towards the bathroom and notice both stalls were taken. As I decide to wash my hands in the meantime, my nose, bombarded by this wicked smell makes me search for the words to describe the rancid odor. I know I tell my students to show and not tell in their descriptive writing, but quite simply it smells like something died. It smells like something died and was then left in the steamroom for a few days to get nice and mushy, moist and putrid. I figure it is someone taking a super dump, (they'll have to flush soon) and just as I am going to go upstairs to use the potty, the lady using the handi-bathroom steps out. I enter after her and use the facilities, flushing before and after my usage. The entire time I am plagued by this foul stench that had practically all of a sudden grown the majestic proportions.
Of course I can't just run out, not with my pants around my ankles and my I-Pod now in hand. I step out of the stall and look around in the shower, in the wastebasket, maybe it's something else? I wash my hands again, removing my right headphone in order to try to distinguish the smell. I am rinsing the last suds off my palms when she exits. A shaggy mountain woman who I have dubbed Captain Stinkalot. I've told Cassandra about her, Doug too. Well it's her and she walks about in an oversized orange t-shirts (fat people should consider not wearing bright colors that draw attention to their backs-- a landing ground for small choppers) that recreate an image of a life-size orange about to attack me. She breathes heavily as she shuffles past me, a waterbed mattress in her ass swooshing and wooshing with every step. I hold my breath, but it's too late, the nasty smelling particles are already trapped in my nose. I grab a paper towel and make a run for the door, wiping my hands dry when I exit the locker room.
I try with all my might to maintain my posture, in fear that I will not be able to reclaim my bearings. Her smell and the resemblance to a refrigerator complete with spoiled milk and expired hamburger patties lingers in my nasal cavity even as I walk into the gym.
I finish my work out, an hour and ten minutes, my back damp and I can feel the sweat form tiny pools in the middle of my forehead. I return to the locker room to gather my belongings from my trusty corner locker. Upon entering I am greeted with a swift reminder of that last whiff of foulness, one that could have knocked me back into last Tuesday(which sucked by the way). She is lollygagging in the locker room reading a book, her legs stretched out before her, her ass a soggy bag full of soup, draping off the edge of a thin plank of wood under her ass. I want to poke it with my water bottle, see if all spills on the floor; fat and curd, and puss and blood, all flooding the locker room until they have to evacuate the entire building. I don't. Instead I walk to the sink, scrub my hands with soap and tepid water, drying them with a brittle paper towel. I inhale several times preparing myself for the remote walk to the back of the room. I curse my decision to choose a locker that far now. How could a smell persevere in such an intense way? I hold my breath, not caring if my bulging cheeks make it obvious. I grow red with despair, a non-swimmer's lungs at capacity for several seconds, then --"Bahh" exhale. My tongue tingles with a repulsive delight that creates a desire to suck it back in or expunge it onto the floor. My nose burns, my head buried in my coat and pants and scarf all hanging, like swings dangling from a tree limb. As intolerable as it is, I can not bring myself to tear my clothes off the hooks and shove then fiercely into the bag. I am clenched by the hands of routine and obsessive behavior. I imagine myself sprinting for the door, arms full of shoes, water bottle, towel, coat, scarf and I-pod. Any normal person would do that, but not me. You see I sit there carefully rolling my pants so as to not wrinkle them, cringing with every whiff of musty staleness that comes my way. I fold my socks and tuck them into my shoes, placing them in my bag first. I resume the drill--head in locker, deep long breaths, hold, ok, fold tuck, put away, until I am ready to go. Coat on, keys in one hand and one last breath before -what feels like-my evacuation. Like a soldier with my gear, I am ready to haul ass and get out of that hell hole. I suck in one last eupnea and at a quick, steady pace blow that locker room, taking with me the faint trace of unwashed chlorinated hair, a vomiter's breath, methol smoke and orange juice. My last few steps, a giant's strides, past the hamper and out into the hall way that smells of kiddies playing with dirty hands and a distant hint of rubber balls.

Sense: Part Two (installment #14)

Sense: Part II I write. Most often it goes unread, only a lucky few get to skim. This is a piece I've been working on for some time now--not sure if it will be a short story or much longer. It's a work in progress. Suggestions and constructive criticism are welcome. Working title- Sense Installment # 14 (continued from Feb.16th)

“Oh my god girl,” she says in a high pitched 'girly' voice that reminds me of Donna's on 90210, “you totally frenched him.”
My first instinct is to lie, “No I didn’t.”
Litsa is over now, “What!” she shouts, “we saw tongue. We know you frenched.”
I smirk, ok, ok, it’s obvious we did. I don’t stop to wonder why my impulse was to lie. I tell them about his soft lips, at a whisper because he’s over by the soda telling Alex and Pete and Louca and Harry about it too. Harry is gay. We all know it, but he’s still a closet homo. He talks to us about music and make up and the way pants fit around ankles. Harry asks what it was like, not because he cares about the taste of a girl’s lips, but because it was George describing it. In gym he would watch Pete play basketball. He watched Alex work on cars. And he liked to listen to George talk about girls. I bet he imagined himself pressed up against George’s tomato lips too.
My mind spins back and my tongue can't catch up describing every breath, every pucker.
We try to act nonchalant. George and I know that won’t be topped. There is no urge to continue, but Christy and Harry, they whine and say, “But no, we have to go around the circle at least twice.” We try to appease the fat kid and the fruit tart. We all sit down hesitantly, not paying as much attention, carrying our own private side conversations. Christy has the bottle. If she could, she’d set up a magnet to Litsa. The bottle leaves her hand and spins on the floor. We all look down waiting to see what Christy will think of for this one. She has powers. The dyslexia is a trick. She’s reading Aramaic, some archaic spell or curse. It lands on Litsa. She says Litsa has no choice, it’s going to be a dare. We roll our eyes holding back the groan, knowing what to expect.
“Kiss Peter,” she states, bluntly and directly, “in front of all of us.” She gets a thrill from this voyeur thing. It all started with her sister and the murderous Santa having sex I bet.
Litsa is so nervous, she is pulling at the sleeves of her shirt covering her pink nails. Pete is waiting for her to move into the middle of the circle. Christy places her hand on Litsa's back and pats her sevral times before pushing her in, “Go, do your dare.”

i like my body when it is with your- e.e.cummings

What beauty in the simplicity of this language. The form is so effortless, as are many of cummings poems, but the language--how erotic and purely voltaic. What makes me love cummings' poetry is his raw honesty in depicting the beautiful, the delicate, the uncensored, the true.

e.e. cummings - i like my body when it is with your

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

Ten things that make me happy...

Ten things that make me happy (in no particular order)

1. Good times, good friends, and alcohol freely flowing.
2. Fridays (especially on a long weekend. Love Presidents' Day. Lincoln you rock my world!)
3. Kids who get excited about "The Odyssey". They know where it's at!
4. Jolly fat people who enjoy eating as much as I do. They make me smile.
5. Paper towels in bathrooms instead of hand dryers.
6. Snow days. They are such a pleasant surprise. I love hearing V's voice calling to tell me we have no school. It's a dream come true.
7. Stonyfield organic yogurt. If you've never tried, you must. Savor the itty bitty freeze dried blueberries submerged in the bottom of a cup of plain yogurt. Yum:o)
8. My I-Pod. Keeps the bad vibes out. Especially when the nasty hags talk in the faculty room. Blast me some Yanni boi.
9. My ass, especially when V and Leonow are checking it out. Aou! Yes baby!
10. Tea, so peaceful and relaxing. It brings me back to me.

Sense Part Two (installment #13)

Sense: Part II I write. Most often it goes unread, only a lucky few get to skim. This is a piece I've been working on for some time now--not sure if it will be a short story or much longer. It's a work in progress. Suggestions and constructive criticism are welcome.
Working title- Sense Installment # 13 (continued from Feb.1st)

He doesn’t pull away so we continue to kiss. I am surprised at how easy it is to breathe. My fear was I would loose my breath and need to stop for a few gulps of air, but his lips are soft and firm, sweet but salty from our saliva, mixed up and rolled into one big mess of spit and cola aftertaste and his cherry chapstick and my mint, and we’re kissing and sinking in each other’s mouths. I feel ballsy and thrilled and upset and wet and before I can be anything else it’s over. It’s over and my first kiss is not in a locked bedroom with Pete as I envisioned it. It’s not overlooking a sunset at the beach, or on the doorstep of my house after a marvelous date. It’s not with Peter at all. It’s with his best friend George in front of all our friends, in Peter’s living room.
I wipe my mouth, my thumb and pointer finger forming a “U” around my saturated lips. I look up and smile at George, he does the same and everyone claps. Christy shouts, “Woo Hoo”, at the top of her shrill voice. She is excited it wasn’t Pete. I slash her an evil eye as stand up and walk towards the bathroom. My knees wobble like one of those huge blow up clown punching bags. The ones you punch, flop down and pop back up for another hit. Erica runs toward me, her hands covering her mouth. She is pretty, her thick black hair covers her face. The acne scars a memory of her outbreaks. She is wearing the black sweater today with Levis. Casual.

Valentine's Day-- I Poop On You!

Valentine's Day sucks sweaty goat balls. Media hype to tell someone you love them? Bull. That's what every other day of the year is for. Why I gotta do it all in one day? You want someone to know you love 'em? Give them a random hug in the middle of the day on Wedneday. Buy them a bag of hersey kisses just because. Bring home some flowers when it's cold and gloomy out. Write them a note and leave it on the bathroom sink. Have dinner ready when they come home late from work. Give them a back rub when you're just as tired as they are. Love baby...all year round.

Delightfully white trash Part II

(I asked for the small cake!)

Bright lights. Mirrors on the walls, pickles and pastrami. Who knew those four things could be united under one roof; but they are at Harold's Deli. I don't think I was quit prepared for the adventure Harold had to offer; not on a sleepy Friday evening. Sarah and Cathy craved dessert and we found ourselves in the parking lot of Harold's. I've eaten before, but have never been.
Nothing could have prepared me for the sights. Earlier in the evening we contemplated entertainment-- a movie perhaps. This was better than that. Better than a side show, better than a peep show. This was Edison embodied into one bright, flashy, pickley place.
The Mexican greeted us and proceeded to sit us in the far corner.
"Scared we're going to cause a ruckus and you're putting us in the corner?" I asked jokingly.
He smiled exposing a gold canine, recently polished. Doubt he understood me.
I was at once overcome by my surroundings. My senses were on overdrive. Did I smell first? Look around? Listen? Touch? Eat? I was at an impasse. Even looking at our table I was overcome with the voluminous items...the silverware was unusually big in my hand, the napkin--felt much like a baby's cloth diaper, thick and absorbent; even when we ordered coffee and tea, the mugs were bulky and heavy. I couldn't drink from it because the brim was so thick, I had to use a spoon.
The sights distracted me from any conversation going on before me. I was in awe of the lady walking out wearing a furcoat. What an odd place to find a fur coat wearer.
Our waitress, a no-nonsense woman with cornrows took our order and brought out a monster slab of carrot cake within minutes. The dessert resembled a centerpiece.
The guy sitting alone, wearing an orange cap struck up a conversation with the lesbians at the table over. They wore matching white turtlenecks and khaki vests. One claimed, "This is the only decent place around to get good food." Orange cap boy agreed and proclaimed, "I love the pastrami here. It's the best. Hot. Good." They spoke for several minutes about the quality of food. I became bemused by the commotion of the room. The toothless bearded man kept rolling his tongue out with every bite. He wasn't being fresh, I think he was just trying to process his food. A Yankees cap decorated his head. In fact, 3/4 of the patrons opted for the baseball cap, flannel shirt, facial hair look. The table of six next to us included four hats--"Factory Racing", "Nascar", "Yankees" and "GM". I felt good to be in NJ.
I remembered my summer adventure in Keyport and realized-- this is where all the trash must come when it gets cold out--Harold's deli.
I couldn't focus. My mind, like that of an autistic kid was going bonkers with the lights, the sounds, the shapes, the smells. It was so out of any ordinary routine that my brain was a fire ball.
I devoted all my attention back to the carrotcake and the game of K.M.F. (kill, marry, fuck) going on between Cath and Sarah. We licked cream cheese icing off our forks and devised evil triads of people to arrange in the above mentioned categories of K.M.F. It was all fun and games until Sarah hit me with a whopper-- three guys at the table over...the toothless bearded guy, a bald guy and a faceless guy with his back towards us. I took my chances-killed the toothless Yankee fan, f-ed the bald guy and married the faceless dude. My turn to get her back, I proposed the fat lady in the orange shirt with a mustache so thick we initially thought it to be a chocolate milk mustache, the greasey busboy with the gold canine, or the guy across the room in the toupee and a tight white shirt(sleeves cuffed around his biceps). As always, Sarah was as cool as a cucumber and responded with a giggle, "Marry the fat chick, fuck the busboy and kill the guy with the toupee." Creamcheese icing erupted out of my mouth and into my napkin. My eyes teared up and I had the hold back my laughter. My cheeks ached. It felt good to laugh and act like teenagers again, making fun of others and their differences.
To top it off on our way out some guy approached us and said, "Congratulations." I waited in earnest for a cheap pick-up line to follow that would put the cherry on the top of my cupcake of a night. Cathy asked, "Why?" He replied as no man should ever, "You're pregnant aren't you? I saw you rubbing your belly earlier." My mouth dropped and a shakey gasp came out. I don't even think I made eye contact with Sarah. I didn't even have a come back! He was dead serious! And Cathy, the saint that she is, said she ate too much carrotcake. The guys shrugged and walked away trailing off a barely audible sorry. Two things bother me about this scenario. 1-That this guy was dumb enough to say something that would up being tactless to a stranger. and 2- He must have been watching her while she was rubbing her full stomach. The weird thing is, we didn't notice anyone staring. Ooohhh. Creepy. Viva La Edison.

Slowpoke

Sometimes toons express how I feel better than words.

F--- Tuesdays and everything that comes with them.

Ten thing I hate (in no particular order)
1) People with snide attitudes. Like secretaries who sit in front of a screen all day then have the audacity to tell me that my students must not know the rules since I have been catching cell phone and I-pod perpetrators in my class. Ass-hole!
2) Allergy shots. Especially when reacting to one and practically not being able to swallow. Not fun.
3) People who cut you off then decide the speed limit should be 10 mph. More assholes.
4) Nasty ass, just-out-of-juvie students who sit in the back of the class and suck in their phlegm then proceed to clear their throat by pushing the phlegm out through their mouth. Tissues, we use them to blow our noses.
5) People who make and burn microwave popcorn in the facultyroom. Stinks up everywhere. Makes me never want to eat popcorn again.
6) Guys who wear short shorts to the gym. Honestly, seeing crusty nutsacks just ain't making me motivated to much more than falling to the floor and banging my head with a dumbbell.
7) My alarm at 6:05am, unless it's Cheap Trick "I want you to want me"
8) MRI machines. Even the "open" ones. They are still I------I yah far from your face. Lies.
9) Dead squirrel floating around in a lidless garbage can in my backyard.
10) Lack of snow days this year. It's only February. Let it snow already.

Blogspot? Myspace? Blogspot? Myspace?

All the rave has been myspace. I have been fighting it for some time now. I didn't see blogspot as a sell-out at all. It's different. More sophisticated. No kids, not too much personal info. But now...now, all my friends have gone myspace and I am left here in the cold, all alone, with no one to comment. Depending on how much time I have on my hands this weekend, and if my sister will lend me a hand, I may have to cave in and do it. I should form a resistance...an underground resistance called "OXI to Myspace" (pronounced "Ohe"--means No in Greek).
I am the beginning of the resistance and I will call myself " Che Haroulla. Catchy no?

Sense Part Two (installment #12)

Sense: Part II I write. Most often it goes unread, only a lucky few get to skim. This is a piece I've been working on for some time now--not sure if it will be a short story or much longer. It's a work in progress. Suggestions and constructive criticism are welcome.
Working title- Sense Installment # 12 (continued from Jan.22nd)

Last week, George pulled Louca'’s gym shorts while we were running around the basketball field. We saw his tighty whiteys and Louca almost started crying.
At this moment, I don'’t care. Everyone'’s eyes are on us. I feel like I am shooting the scene of some terrible 80s teen movie. The first kiss. I envision something terrible happening, bumping heads, or missing his face, sneezing, sticking my tongue out way too soon, not breathing properly, a fly...before I have time to prepare a plan B in case one of these scenarios occurs, my lips are up against his, a tired head resting on a pillow. His lips, they'’re sweet like cherry chapstick. His tongue surfaces in my mouth. His tongue--it'’s fleshy and wet and feels like a Swedish fish after being in your mouth for a minute. I let my tongue tumble with his, in my mouth, in his, wrestling. I hear someone ask,
"“Are they frenching?" The audience dances around us probing us with their eyes.
"Do you see tongue?"” A girl'’s voice asks.
"I saw tongue! They'’re frenching," there is an unusual awe in the air. Astonishment.
A feat desirable to others, but miles away for most. Until now. Right in front of their noses. The closest they've ever come.