Light and Darkness

A tattered blanket at 2 a.m.

On with the Isolation Tank post, have I or someone close to me been arrested? Someone close has been arrested and in direct correlation to me. Those details will remain private. However, I will share a tale directly associated with my time spent in jail, although I was never arrested.

As we know, I've spent the majority of my life in a struggle with my mother. Our relationship has never been carefree. Even now, we watch words and strain to avoid hurting feelings. It's during teenage years that our relationship began its most tumultuous time.

We lived in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina in the enlisted family housing of the Marine Corps base. It was homecoming week for my high school including daily spirit day dress. On that day, it was the Sixties and I was dressed superbly as a hippie. I'm not sure of the exact reason we were fighting that time. Those details are fuzzy but everything set it off between us during those times. And the fighting wasn't specific to mom and me....Pop was involved too. Still dressed in my hippie clothes save shoes, I climbed out of my bedroom window and walked around housing after whatever fight it was.

Soul full of rage and despair and my face red with tears, I walked...and walked....and walked. I never left the housing area. I saw my mother's red Chrysler Lebaron drive the streets as she, no doubt, was looking for me. And knowing full well that Mom would find me there, I went to my friend's house.

Beth's mom, Elaine was a lighthouse for me. She listened to me when I needed an adult, a mother figure who eased my pain when I needed. She became my surrogate during those years; and time and time again, Elaine offered advice and safety during rough times. My mother was quite jealous of the relationship. She always managed to make me feel guilty for it. Mom hadn't gotten there yet so when I sat down to talk to Elaine, I felt I had a few moments to calm down before she would collect me.

Only a few moments. Very brief moments. Soon, my mother was standing at the door with her purse in her hand. I was sitting in one of Elaine's blue swivel side chairs as my mom stood at the door with a face swollen with rage. She had a look that was entirely too familiar. That look that preceded her beating me. The tension in her facial muscles. The grip off her fingers. I had but a brief pause to say aloud, "Go ahead! Go ahead and hit me!"

Within a second, my mother flew across the room and with the same expert swing of an epic battlefield warrior, she swung her heavy purse. It landed with precision against my face and without rest, like there was no concept of linear time, the purse struck again and again. I don't know how she was on top of me and striking me at the same time with that bulky bag. I remember Elaine and her husband were there trying to separate our forms. Beth was standing somewhere there, perhaps at the hall's entrance. She was crying, I think. I heard voices but don't remember what was being said.

Somehow, we were removed from our hostile embrace. Then I heard words that struck my heart like a poisoned arrow. Elaine yelled that my mother was right. I was doing all this for attention. My soul sank. Every adult in my life was or had abandoned me. I was lost. I was damaged. I knew this from my early childhood. And all I sought was someone to love me and value me and confirm that my place on this earth was justified.

I fled from the house to the front yard. It was probably after ten in the evening. I started yelling obscenities and calling out for the adults in the house to call the cops. Call the cops before I do something worse. Pacing back and forth in the yard, I yelled and cried and suffered. I picked up Beth's little brother's tricycle and threw it at my mother's car. I called out again for the cops. I wanted nothing more of that place and knew I had no other options. I waited.

The military police showed up along with emergency personnel. I approached the MP's car with my hands out and my wrists linked skin to skin. I wanted to be removed. With no resistance, I climbed into the back of the car. I leaned my head against window and seat. Exhausted, I cried with no sound.

I don't remember the walk from the car to the holding area. Blurred. I remember no words from anyone at that time. They sat me down in the cold cell in a cold chair at a cold table. My clothes were tattered. Those jeans that were roughed at the knee just perfectly for the hippie day was then slashed from the top of my thigh to below the knee. I sat there for hours. Alone. I was ignored. I was not offered solace. No one came to check on me for the longest time.

I sat there freezing. When someone did come to me, I told them I was cold. They left and returned with a blanket. Anyone who has an association with the military understands this particular blanket. It's wool and itchy. It's for warmth but used on top of a sheet or something of comfort. This one was dirty and smelled of fuel and trunks. It was half its size having been torn, and its remaining piece was tattered and worn. It was the only comfort I had that night. It was thrown at me but some unremembered person who left quickly after.

It was approximately four in the morning when an officer came in and sat at the table with me. It seemed surreal. It still does. He told me I had a few options. I could go home and forget it all happened. I could go to a local facility and be locked up. I could go to my friend's house and then talk to counseling that morning. All I had ever wanted was someone to help me with the problems I was having. I wanted relief from my home. From my family. From my own emotions. With hope, I chose the last.

They drove me back to Elaine's house. I remember Elaine standing at the door waiting. Mixed emotions. I hated her for what seemed like a betrayal, and I needed her to comfort me. I just wanted normalcy and love. She talked with me for a couple of hours before I crawled into bed beside Beth. Beth said some simple things to me that probably expressed everything about the hours before. Full of concern but unable to describe the confusion. Something simple like, "Are you ok?" And then I slept.

Hours later I woke, took a shower, and walked into a building with a lighter heart. I thought I was going to be saved. Instead I was institutionalized. I was fifteen.

Any Final Last Words?

My first college was a little liberal arts school in Jackson, Tennessee called Lambuth University. Stupidly I chose the school but I did have great times while attending and I met Carrie there so the trade off was so much more in favor for the school than I can ever express. Anyway.....I had a wee crush on a guy for a short period of time. He was a photographer and a bit of nerd...ok, he was a big nerd but some reason I thought he was cute.

I wanted to ask him out but if you've known me for any length of time, you know that I lack all confidence in my feminine powers or attractiveness. So any courage summoned from within to make any sort of a move, takes insane spontaneous bravado or a great deal of encouraging pep talk. In this case, it was my good friend Bob and a couple hours of chatting that pushed me forward.

Bob knew Steve's family for years. I took Bob as authority in dealing with Steve. I also had Bob as a good friend and big brother type while attending Lambuth. I don't know what sparked me to ask Bob his opinion of Steve on this particular night but I did. We sat and discussed my secret crush for a good number of hours. He revved me up, filling my head and heart with Herculean bravery. The adrenalin was mounting. I hesitated several times only to have Bob shake off the doubt. Finally, after my long, winded talk with Bob, I left to find Steve. Bob's final words echoed in my head, "The worse that could happen is that he says he's flattered."

It wouldn't kill me. So, he rejects me. It's not like I was wanting to marry him and have millions of babies with him. A little crush. A fond attraction to him. Just silly hope of dating him. That's all. I could do it. I would do it.

It took me a little bit to find him. He had a fraternity meeting but I found him after it had ended. We walked around the quad, and like the young goofy coed that I was, I revealed my young goofy crush. I remember the rosy cheeks of embarrassment. I remember the pulsing nervousness in my chest. I remember the rambling incoherency of my stumbling words. Then I paused.

And he spoke.

"I'm flattered."

I think if he had said anything else first, I would have been upset. I would have left him crestfallen. I would have teared up a little. Instead, I smiled a dorky little smile that was a plug to a larger guffaw that would have bellowed out of me at any moment. I couldn't wait to leave him to tell Bob. To share my moment of failure. My glorious moment of fantastically funny failure. It was the best rejection a girl could ask for.

Ah, The Stupid Enthusiasm of Our Youth

Moving on with my Naomi 101 list to sneaking out of my parent's house. My mother called it running away. I called it escaping the insanity known as home to breathe before submerging myself again into its murky waters.

I was actually a good girl regarding sneaking out. My father would have killed me if I had ever done that. Funny thing, I never had a curfew when I was a teenager. Neither did Jenn or Shawn. Though our parents were strict as hell, we were never told we had to be home by a certain time. I was even up front about going to parties as an under-aged teen to drink and do whatever I would do. My pop always said to call and let him know that if I got arrested. He said he would not bail me out but he did want to know if I was safe. AND...I was asked about driving arrangements (I usually just spent the night at the party.)

However, there was one time when I was in fourth or fifth grade. We lived in Havelock, North Carolina. I spent the night with this girl who was a few years older than me. We hung out in the neighborhood. At first, she thought I was older because I was tall and always presented myself as more mature than my counterparts. And when she found out my age, she still wanted to be my friend. How effing great was that?! To a kid, that's pretty damn awesom. I remember her being in middle school but don't recall her exact age. Anyway....I was thrilled about my older friend (I think her nickname was Peanut) and I would have followed her anywhere, and I did.

That particular night we climbed out of her bedroom window, which was no easy task. We lived in a trailer park and anyone having lived in one knows the trailer is hitched up on blocks and such. Her mother was still awake when we snuck out in our pajamas. And then we wandered around the park. We went by my home. The lights were on and I recall that exhilarating fear that at any moment, my dad would catch me and skin me with his huge Marine Corps knife. What a rush!

We wandered a bit more and decided to go swimming in the neighbor's pool, across the street from Peanut's home. He was out of town, according to my cohort, and her family was given permission to use the pool at any time since they were watching his place. Why not take advantage of the offer, she suggested. Admittedly, I probably had a little girl crush on her and would have skinned red African ants for her to make her a nice coat, had she asked. I had no problem saying yes. When she suggested we do it nude, I hesitated. I really didn't want to but I didn't want to disappoint my friend. We all know I said yes.

Crossed the street to the pool, stripped off our nightclothes, and jumped in. We played school. Familiar with the swimming game? You take turns swimming between each other's legs while underwater and with ever-increasing space between the legs.. Kindergarten is the hardest for the swimmer because the legs are barely parted. Senior year is hardest on the person standing up because the legs are split dramatically. Naked pubescent girls. Right.

Well, we were having a gay ol' time when another neighbor caught us. He was the twenty-something that lived next door to the out of town pool owner. Peanut obviously knew him because he flirted like mad with her. I thought it creepy back then but know as an adult, it's much creepier. Eck! He caught us and held our clothes for ransom. In exchange for our pajamas, he told us that we had to jump up as high as we could from the water. My friend had no problems complying. She jumped. She laughed. She got out and claimed her clothes. I hesitated. I was scared. I was very scared. And instinctively I knew he wasn't really concerned with me....I say this now hoping it was true then...so I jumped very quickly and ducked back in the water.

For some reason, I think at Peanut's agreement to a suggestion from the perv, we dressed in his trailer. I was wet and embarrassed and frightened. I remember she disappeared to the front of the trailer without me for a short time. I just wanted to leave. When she did return, we walked across the street, climbed back thru the window, and went to bed.

I don't recall many other times with Peanut. And I never really snuck out again after that. Scared shitless by a trailer park hick trying to fuck a young teen. Ehhhh. Gives me shivers.

"Put 'em up, put 'em up!"

Folks, are you getting tired of these? It is taking much longer than I thought it. Neglect of my poor Vagabond. I do have to say that I have to skim over a few of these topics because I'm trying to not paint a horrible picture of certain people in my life anymore. Namely my family. We've come a long way in the last few years and I don't want to go into the ugly, ugly details on some of these things, namely this topic. Question: Have I been in a fist fight? Unfortunately, yes. Not proud moments in my life. Let's just say that my brother and I hugged it out and we're good now.

If the question asked if I had been in verbal altercations, I could list a number of heated arguements I've had with strangers. Once, I stepped in-between a man who was acosting an elderly woman at a pet store. My friend, her children, Em and I had gone to Petco in Memphis when Emmy was three or four years old. A man walked into the store with his two dogs and his woman. We were standing at a display when a large rottweiler violently slid across the floor into an endcap. Of course, we looked up to see what was happening. I mean, what the hell. A few moments later, this woman who was in her 60s was telling the man that he couldn't kick his dog like that. She said that she was going to call the ASPCA to report him. One moment he was denying that he had done any harm to the dog, the next he was explaining that he disciplined his animals that way. Both of their tones got louder when the man started yelling at the woman that she would never had said anything if he was white. More yelling. More accusations. My group walked away because we didn't know what the hell was going on and the only thing we had witnessed was the dog sliding into the endcap.

Now, don't take this as my being passive. I was hot already listening to this conversation but did not want to interfer. The woman never said anything racial. It was never a topic until the man brought it up. She had witnessed the man kick the dog, evidently. We had seen the man come in with his group. I recall seeing the woman with her party near him. Yes, I was angry at the man's accusations because they were a ridiculous arguement and had no basis on what the woman was angry about, and she even tried to say so. But I stayed out of it for the time being.

When my group was finished in the store, we headed to the check-out counters. The man was standing in line. His second dog was also a rottweiler and was still a puppy that he had placed in the cart. His woman was standing beside him. The larger dog, which weighed a good 100 pounds or so, was there beside him also. Because the line was smaller, we got into that line. He looked at me, I commented that his dogs were beautiful and asked if they were friendly, and he said no. We moved. With three young children who like to pet dogs in tow, we moved.

The man paid for his items and left. I was second in line and the elderly woman was two people behind me. She was talking to her party about the incident when the man returned. He walked up to the woman and started apologizing. Wow, I thought. Great gesture. Making peace. Misunderstandings. etc etc etc. He then said something about how he was sorry but reiterated that the woman would have never said anything if he was white. The woman, of course, reacted with "that's not true. You kicked your dog. You can't do that. That's animal cruelty....blah blah." Then the man started yelling and he physically put himself up on the woman. His chest was against the woman as a threat and a dare to continue.

At this point, I yelled "EXCUSE ME!." No response so I yelled it again. When I got his attention, I started yelling at him that race had no issue, animal abuse, etc. This man left the woman and came went around the people and tried to nose up against me. He was almost a foot shorter than me. I remember looking down at him in absolute silence and thinking "what an asshole." I stood there glaring at him and said nothing while he ranted and called me a rascist. Then he walked out.

When we left, there was a truck double parked by the door. The dogs were in the back and the man yelled out the window at me. "BITCH!" Then he sped away.

I could not let that man physically intimidate another person, let alone a senior citizen. I would have physically fought the fucker if it came to that. Luckily, the ass was all mouth and had nothing more to say when a 5'9" woman stared down into his angry face. Perhaps I should have more fear but when other people are in trouble, I get a bit defensive. I only want to protect and am willing to physically fight if need be. I don't like the feeling because I grew up with physical violence. I use a lot of effort to fight the anger inside, which only wants to get out physically....perhaps I need to take a boxing class or something. But violence? Eh, yuck!

Painfully Updated Status: Been Fired

When first posting the list on January 9, 2008, I had never been fired. I've been legally working since I was seventeen years old. I'll be thirty-six in November. That's almost nineteen years of not having been fired....until this past July.

In this most recent job hunt, it is painful to state that I've been fired. Ego? Perhaps. It's also a bit shaky to the little confidence that I have. And I just don't know how to spin it to serve me.

For example, I'm applying for two city jobs; and the job application has the termination question on the very front page right after asking for demographics. Place on the application appears to represent matter of importance. Yes?

What do you think? Ever been fired? What do you say? I know there is life after a termination but where?

Dumped. Springer Style

This is going to be a short one because it's actually a difficult one to talk about. One would think that I would have been shy and reluctant to talk about kissing a girl. Nope. That was easy. Talk about being dumped? I clam up. I'm Naomi for you. Quite enigmatic.

I have been dumped but not in those spectacular Jerry Springer/Maury Povich ways. Usually the guys sort of just fade out of my life; and quite honestly, I would have preferred the flamboyantly over-done method because the men that I've dated confused me when they just stopped being there. One day I'm in a relationship with them and the next day....they stop existing in my life. It's really quite embarrasing because I've already analyzed what that could mean, and the reasons aren't pretty.

So, for the future guy in my life....if you decide to dump me, do call Jerry. I favor the subtle way that discussions occur on there. Instead of unanswered, unresolved issues that I have to try to make peace with for some time after, I get a free trip, compensation for being on the show, and scheduled air time to kick your ass and the ass of the drag queen, who you've brought with you to show me the reason you're dumping me....who is waiting offstage dressed in a wedding dress until the doorbell ring and who you will marry after I throw wedding cake on her. Oh yeah, I get it on video for prosperity!

I think that's the appropriate way to dump someone. Definite closure.

"Love is a many splintered thing"

Another anecdote for the title before I continue onto the meat of this post....

My first real job was as a cook in a restaurant in Millington, Tennessee. Mama Lanni's. The owner of the establishment was Pat and he was quirky to say the least (quirky, i.e. drunk). He liked to sing but his songs were usually bitter renditions of real melodies. And they were never full songs, just a line from the chorus.

His children worked at different times in the restaurant. His ex-wife came by often enough that we knew her; and usually following her visits Pat would sing...."Love is a many splintered thing" instead of the correct "love is a many-splendored thing" from the movie of the same name.

It was funny then. It was sad then. But at eighteen and not really knowing love completely, it was not as apropros as it is now.

Next on my list, is having been in love or is still in love....but, of course.

I love my child. Without definition, I love this person so very much. She is what I believe God/Goddess looks like. In her good and in her bad, she is life and hope and determination. She is and I'm extremely glad she is.

But, I'm sure that's not what was implied by the list. I was in love with Fred for a very long time. First love, no matter how disillusioned is still love.

I still love Angus. God help me, but I do. I think I've accepted that he's gone. My heart bleeds a bit realizing that but if he's happy, I can't argue. sigh.....

I love my Hristos. He is probably the second person I've met that I felt is a soul mate. Whatever lives we've been through together, they helped us become great friends. Sadly, I haven't been a good friend with the lack of communication from me. I miss him.

I have another man I've been in love with for a long time. I don't wish to discuss it because I did once, a  proclamation to him, and it changed the course of our relationship. A mistake I still wish I could forget.

So yes....been in love....still in love. And love is very splintery.

Bi-lengua

Jumping back into blogging (I really do hate words that use blog in it. It takes longer to say but I much prefer online journal to freaking 'blog' but I digress.) and starting with my little list.

Sooooo....want the juicy details of my kissing another girl? No, I'm not using that lame "Well, I've kissed my mother and my daughter before." There have been more than a peck on the cheek or familial bonding. No, my friends. I'm talking girl on girl action here. That's right! I said it and I've done it.

I'm not going into details because frankly, I've never gone into details about my male paramours. Privacy, you know. But I will describe a little about my sexuality here. That's fair enough.

Throughout my life, I've wondered which way I swing. I know I love love love love LOVE men, but there have been women that I've been sexually attracted to. Does this make me bisexual? I don't think so. On a physically sexual standpoint, I would say definitely yes. Emotional love and the spend the rest of your life committment? Straight all the way. That's where my confusion comes into play. The gay or bi people I've known describe their preference as how they fall in love. To me, that defines whether your gay, straight, or bi. How you sexually get off doesn't. I could be deceiving myself. I'm not denying that. That's why my questions about my sexuality persist.

But I don't fall in love with women. The only girlfriend I would want would be a female friend that loves great sex but understands that I'm not going to introduce her to anyone as my love. I don't want a relationship as generally defined as such with a woman. When I look at a man, he thrills me. The attraction is all there. The warm gooey feeling and wanting to know him and all the schoolgirl crushness envelops me as well as the need to have him inside. When I look at a woman, the idea of sex with her thrills me. Unadulterated. Orgasm inducing. Sweat and satisfaction. Nothing about staying up late cuddling each other and talking about our future together. Nope.

So, what am I? How does that define me? In prison, Sally can be my bitch. On a desert island, I'll (as my mom and her Filipina friends say) slap pancakes with Mary Jane. I'll love Agnes as a friend and say I love you and mean it. But there is no Two Moms for Emma in my thinking.

Drunken Embarrassment

I'm going to combine a couple of these together: Been Drunk (Um? Yes.) and Made Out with a Stranger (Double yes.) to be specific. I've thought I've told this story before but I tell is frequently because it's funny as hell that I may just think that I've repeated it here.

I was in Millington TN still and worked at the infamous Mama Lanni's (at least infamous in Millington TN) circles). My friends, Nicola and Heather, and I accompanied each other to many places especially the Enlisted Club on the base. They were always with boyfriends. Me? Loser loner girl that never turned a head.

ANYWAY....

We went to the club to watch a band, a cover band that did the 80s metal hair bands justice. The girls' men were in the Navy and were hanging out with this guy named Vincent. This will be the only time that he will be called Vincent on this space of mine (Incidentally, I did mention him one other time but never went into detail. I'll give the link at the end.) Vincent was wearing this purple shirt and during the course of that drunken night, I told him that I liked said shirt.

As mentioned, I got drunk. We were rocking to the band that were not that great. Fast beat. Screaming the lyrics. Jumping around. Arms around pals. Beer mug in one hand. The other around the shoulders or such of Purple Shirt. And then I saw the look.

The exchange of glances between the lead singer and Purple Shirt. We were standing right in front the stage. The crowd was behind us jumping and dancing and having a gay ol' time; and I saw it. Without words or payment, Lead Singer slowed the crowd down. He called for a ballad for all the couples to get close. In my head, I rolled my eyes. In my spirit, I groaned. I was stuck. Purple Shirt and I turned to face each other. Locked bodies suddenly stuck in a slow song...a slow song that turned into kissing.

Now, touching me whilst I'm drunk is a scary thing. Like some hypnotized slave, my body betrays me. It wants to get very intimate. It craves sex and it doesn't care from whom it takes it. Like some succubus unleashed, I desire...and he felt soooo good. His tongue. His hands. His hot breath pounding on my throat, in time with the bass. I wanted to use him.

With drunkenness comes time incoherency. At the end of the night, when the club was closing, Nicola, Heather and I stood before a cab saying goodbye to the guys. A last kiss and into the car. The hyper-sexual dream state ended at the closing of the door. The girls gave me shit about Purple Shirt. I was disgusted with myself because I wasn't attracted to him. I was glad to be going home.

Not soon after meeting him, the discussion of my eighteenth birthday comes up (tsk tsk, Naomi). We were at work when the girls and I decide on a party at Nicola's house. Just some friends. I explicitly say at least a few trillion times, that I do NOT want Purple Shirt there. Do not. Not. I'm given an agreement that he won't be. Yeah, right!

In the course of planning the party, which has now developed into a bigger party because my birthday falls the day before the Marine Corps' birthday (celebrated religiously in my household when I was a kid...Marine dad) and on a long weekend because Veteran's Day was that weekend as well. We invite a Marine friend of mine that had gone to my high school in North Carolina and was stationed in Millington. Was excited. Then they tell me...Purple Shirt was coming.

Bitches! Yeah, they think it's funny. I don't.

Night of the party. As a joke, Heather gave me a package of glow in the dark condoms because I was a virgin. And before anyone arrives, I had her promise me to keep me safe. I had her swear that matter how I plead, she would keep me away from Purple Shirt. She swore.

Everyone and their brother showed up. Purple Shirt showed up. Was casual with him. We had a lot of alcohol. I had a lot to drink. I don't know when it happened but I suddenly found myself under the bar in the kitchen making out with Purple Shirt. He felt fantastic. Teeth. Lips. Tongues. Hands. Rubbing. Yum. It was delicious.

Then Heather found us. She separated him from me and dragged me into the living room. She forced me onto the couch and I remember her telling him to go away. I begged her. She told me 'no.' I reasoned with her. She told me 'no.' I told her that I would be careful because I had condoms. She laughed and told me 'no.' I did something to convince her to leave me alone.

And when she left, he came back to me. On the couch, we were at it again. Hot with frenetic motion. We were still fully clothed but the grinding was fabulous. Heather found us again. She separated us again. She dragged me into the den where most of the party had gathered. She sat me on the couch. Purple Shirt sat on the floor across from me. I beckoned him to me. He started crawling towards me and I think I to him. We got separated again.  I was forced to the couch once more but this time by my Marine friend. I motioned for Purple Shirt to come to me. He started but in one quick movement, the Marine looked at him and told him to stay away from me. After his stern warning, he looked at me and told me to go to bed. I was pissed. He sat down and forced me to stay on the couch until I fell asleep. I did, completely unsatisfied.

I woke up the next morning. I thanked Heather. Repeatedly.

"Lady, I love my cigar too, but I take it out once in a while."

I don't know if I have an anecdote for 'smoked a cigar' other than I have smoked a few cigars in my adulthood. I probably smoked more of them with my friend Niambi when I lived in Memphis than I have any other time because she liked them too. I believe she told me that she smoked them more when she drank.

I guess there was the fad a few years back where everyone and their gynecologists' fishes smoked cigars. The magazines. The clubs. The celebrities. The President and the intern. So fashionable that it made me never want to do it again. Eh. Peer pressure.

I do think of one of my favorite movies when I think of cigars. I think there is a trend here which shouldn't be surprising. I've loved movies and books and windows to other existences since I was a babe and they made me do and believe some stupid things. Remind me to tell you about cartoons and rubbing alcohol. But I digress.

Gigi.

Anyone else love that movie other than my sister and me. "Sank hev-ven for leettle gurls." There's a scene where Gigi is learning how to be a courtesan from her great-aunt. She's clumsy and awkward and in that stage before Gaston realizes he wants to scoop her up and eat her on a thin slice of a baguette. Gigi takes a cigar between her thumb and fingers. She follows her aunt's lead and pretends to smell the subtle hints of flavor. Then she rolls it with disastrous results besides her ear and stupidly gives a face that denotes embarrassment and apology. Of course, after the big "Gigi's the shit" sung by our princely Gaston, those weeks and weeks of lessons where Gigi sucks as a girl pay off and she pulls the cigar trick off with grace and comehitherness.

Boy, those pushers of the tobacco industry sure know what they're doing. Hooking in young, innocent, naive children into a life of addiction, smelly clothes and lung-hacking coughs. I wanted to be just like the beautiful people in the movies; and cigars, though very bad for you, boys and girls, make me smile because they (and little edible fowl like cornish hens) remind me of sitting with Jenn watching that movie repeatedly.

By the way....anyone know who said the quote in my title and where?