Your ink won’t shrink: think

Yesterday, while sitting at a cafe, I observed the young crowd gathered there. I was definitely the only one present, who had silver strands and laugh lines. Almost everyone, both men and women, had tattoos and/or piercings. And I’m not referring to just the ears. There was enough combined metal on people’s lips, tongues, eyebrows, nipples, and probably genitals – to set off the LAX security system. I’m not judging them; I actually appreciate the appeal of body modification. As long as I’m not the one being modified. Albeit, I have two tattoos, but they’re not in places that will bag or sag. At least I hope not.

Do twenty-somethings ever wonder, what their tattoos and piercings might look like in thirty years? Of course not; would you have? Part of the charm of being young, is that you can’t imagine ever aging. Getting old is for other losers, certainly not you. Right. You’ll be the only fifty year old on Earth, with perky breasts and a tusch that one could balance a teacup on. Unless you’re rich, and then you can afford to buy a new booty. I hate to break it to you kids, but eventually, everything heads South. Inevitably, some Generation Xers will wind up in a nursing home or assisted living facility. And instead of playing the piccolo for talent night, they can describe each of their tats; and how and why they got them. The quote: “Live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse,” sounds cool – if you’re James Dean. But for most of us mere mortals, that won’t be our final scenario.

Human beings are living longer, than any other previous period of time; and unless you have either a fatal accident or disease, your corpse won’t be a runner-up for Miss or Mr. America. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t get that terrific tat of Angie blowing Brad, but you might want to modify it, first.

“The Biggest Lama”

I need to vent, again. I never watch television, and use my tv only for movies. Occasionally, however, I do some channel surfing and am always appalled as for what passes for “entertainment.” I loathe the inane crap that caters to the mooing, mundane masses of morons. And I especially hate “reality” tv. I don’t know whose “reality” they’re espousing, but it sure ain’t mine; nor is it anyone else’s that I know of. But out of curiosity, I’ve sneaked a peek at several of these stupid shows; primarily, because I want to be informed when I write and rant about a subject like, for example, The Biggest Loser. The concept of this show is: take a bunch of blubbery boys and babes, and see who loses the most weight.

I’ve noticed that this show, as well as the others, barely skims the surface regarding anything spiritual. The emphasis, is usually on the physicality of being human – focusing exclusively on: how to look sexier, how to become sexier, and how to enhance your sexiness – once you’ve climbed to your sexual summit. While I also want to look as attractive, I’m beyond sick of this superficial and slick slant on sensuality.

Therefore, I want to create a show called The Biggest Lama. Unlike the above cited show, this one will delve deeply into the metaphysical realms. The show’s concept is simple: take some suburbanites and put them in a monastery for three months. Expose them to spiritual subjects like: meditation, prayer, karma and reincarnation. The goal of The Biggest Lama isn’t to become enticing, but to become enlightened. Even though there’s a competitive aspect, the rewards won’t be fame, fortune, and a Forbe’s feature article.

Each player’s prize, is the personal possession of cosmic consciousness, inner awareness, and compassion towards all sentient beings (including cockroaches and crazed crackheads). I know, most of you would want what’s behind “door number one,” or a runner’s-up shot at Carol Merrill: Monty Hall’s lovely assistant on Let’s Make A Deal; because you can’t show off your enlightenment, the same way that you can brag about your bimmer; or your buns of steel. The problem with enlightenment, is that there’s no social status attached to it. Ironically, achieving less attachment to material objects, counts more than money and what it can buy.

The odds of a show like this happening, are greater than the resurrection of Michael Jackson. In a nutshell, mainstream sponsors’ reactions would be: “No fucking way, we can’t sell anything!” And that’s the point, there’s no profit to be gained by anyone. Someday our society might become so evolved, that shows like “The Biggest Lama” are the rule, not the exception. But I doubt it. Unfortunately, until our collective consciousness changes, we’ll be stuck with “Project Runway” and “The Gossip Girls.” And in the meantime, I’ll keep on renting films that feed my soul, instead of starving it.

Charmin “wipes” out competitors: no butts about it

There are very few products in life that I’m loyal to, and Charmin toilet tissue is one of them. Charmin is to toilet tissue, what Manolos are to the “Ladies Who lunch.” I fell in love with Charmin’s lush softness when I was a child. And then, when Mr. Whipple came on board – I was hopelessly hooked: a lifelong consumer. To prove my point, when the year 2000 rolled around – I’d stockpiled enough rolls of Charmin to last until Armageddon. So what if I lacked water and food? Those staples would be useless if I got the runs.

One might find it strange, that I chose to write about such a superficial subject, but consider this: how many times a day do you depend on this important potty product? Obviously, the answer will vary from person to person, culture to culture, and even gender to gender; obviously, women need to use more than men. Today, Westerners still depend more on toilet tissue than Easterners do. Apparently, in India, some regions still practice the tried and true (but tricky, sticky and icky) wiping your tusch with your left hand, and leaving the right hand clean. Talk about “one hand washing the other!” And if you’re fortunate enough to live in France, you can take advantage of a bidet; that’s my idea of the ultimate wet wipe.

I estimate that I’ve already used up, approximately a fourth of a forest’s worth of trees, to pamper my highly sensitive heinie. Unfortunately, I’m like “The Princess and the Pea,” (or, more appropriately: pee) in matters of personal hygiene. If I don’t use a soft tissue, I ain’t a “happy camper.” Frankly, that’s one of the challenges for me, when I go camping. I love to hike, but dread the moment when I’m forced to use leaves instead of tissue. Or almost as bad, the rough stuff that passes for tissue in a crowded campground.

I’ve never seen any sociological or scatological surveys or studies, but I have a fledgling theory that Jews have more tusch troubles than gentiles do. When my grandfather was in the hospital, for example, several of my relatives got into a heated discussion, about whose hemmies were worse. I actually thought that my Uncle Sy would pull down his pants, in order to prove to my Aunt Ethel that his was bigger than hers. Oy fucking vey. I was mortified for myself and the goyim sitting across the room, were transfixed by their audible anal argument.

My mother had colon-rectal cancer and fortunately, survived it. Although I sometimes kvetch about her for entertainment purposes, I’m happy that she’s still alive. Who else would push my buttons if she wasn’t? I’m a little nervous that I might also be subject to getting it, but so far so good. I know that it’s quirky, but I superstitiously hope that by my using Charmin, I’m protecting my booty. After all, it can’t hurt. Life is hard enough, without being hard on your heinie by using harsh paper.

Mr. Whipple, Charmin’s chief spokesman in 504 television commercials, died in 2007 (not of colon-rectal cancer). I still miss his enduring admonishment: “Please don’t squeeze the Charmin!” and then breaking down and hugging some. The actor, Dick Wilson, only worked 12 days a year and earned $300,000 for his toilet-tissue-talents. Even though I’m a lesbian, I’d squeeze almost anything to earn that kind of dough! Provided that I didn’t have to either suck or fuck it, as well; every woman has her price. And if I live to be a centenarian and keep on purchasing Charmin, I’ll probably have paid Procter & Gamble at least that amount of money. Or more. And someday, if I can afford to buy cashmere panties – I will. That’ll be the ultimate indulgence for my bodacious, bouncy buns.

“Forever 51″

I passed by one of those stupid stores yesterday: Forever 21. Since my creative “juices” are forever flowing, it gave me pause for thought. I don’t know about you, but for me, 21 was a miserable age. I didn’t like my appearance, didn’t have a clue about how to become a writer, and still listened to my mother’s advice.

Forever 21 is a feminine franchise, founded on the fallacious fantasy: “Wouldn’t it be groovy to always be stuck at the same age?” Apparently, the owners chose the number 21 because they thought that most women would give anything, to forever be trapped as a teenager. Not only is that cutsie concept degrading and demoralizing, to any female who survives and thrives past those two digits – it’s stupid, as well.

I went once to a Forever 21 store with a friend, when we were around forty. I was surprised and shocked, that they even allowed such decrepit old broads inside. I almost felt like they wanted to card us in reverse: “Sorry, ma’am – but you’re too old to shop here. Why don’t you try Macy’s?” We ignored the sullen and smirking salesgirls and actually had a grand old time, mocking and making fun of the teensy tanks, size 0 jeans, and plethora of “I wanna be a hooker!” outfits. We could barely contain ourselves from cracking jokes, at the store’s expense. But we both ended up buying something. My friend wound up with a long red scarf, and I scored with a cream colored cashmere sweater.

I’ve always thought that there’s nothing more pathetic, than a woman who doesn’t dress her age. While there’s nothing wrong with showing off a great, albeit older body, it’s unattractive to be competing with your 15 year old daughter for attention. Not all men want women who look like jailbait to date. And the men who only desire nubile nymphs to nail instead of mature women, deserve what they get: a “roll in the hay” with someone who isn’t even old enough to understand the term’s meaning. It’s not classy to be flaunting your assy, if you can remember the words to “The Pied Piper.” I don’t want to be 21, again. Not even if my breasts were firmer, my tusch was tauter, and my hair had no silver streaks. Not me. I’m proud of my age. I’d love to remain 51.

I hope that I’ll gracefully ease into old age, with minimal aches and pains. In the meantime, I plan on celebrating my beauty and who I am, here and now. And I can always indulge my pleasure in “pubescent” provocative lingerie, because it’s discretely hidden beneath my middle aged conservative clothing. No one will ever know, that my linen skirts and silk shirts hide a wild woman.

Moronic Monopolizing Monotonous Monologists

Today as I ate lunch, I also enjoyed another treat: I was seated next to a serial monologist. You never would’ve guessed that this man was sitting alone (and for good reason). Between buttery bites, I watched him as he conversationally captured each hapless victim walking past his table. He was like a human Venus Flytrap.

I can’t comprehend people like that. Don’t they understand that they’re alone, precisely because no one can stand their endless ranting, railing, and regurgitating?! Apparently, not. Finally, this man ensnared a woman to join him. Surprisingly, she couldn’t get a word in edgewise and quickly left him; “alone again naturally.” Fortunately, for me, he wrapped up his monologue (and his meal), and he left the cafe. I could hear a collective sigh of relief at his auditory absence.

Did you ever notice that monologists never talk about anything interesting? And that most of them tend to be male? I’m not saying this just because I’m a dyke. Women are usually more sensitive than men are, when it comes to public protocol in social situations. Unfortunately, in the Western world, men generally feel that they have both the right and entitlement to take up more space than women do. I’ve witnessed countless times when a man uses his brawn and/or brain(lessness) to intimidate people.

I think that these diarrhea-mouthed men are pathetic and pitiful. And I’d probably have more compassion for them if they’d get a conversational clue, and turn off their facile flooding faucet. It’s possible that a percentage of these monologists, might have Aspergers Syndrome: a form of autism that affects more men than women. According to the eminent Mayo Clinic, one of the main symptoms of Aspergers is: “engaging in one-sided conversations, long-winded conversations, without noticing if the listener is listening or trying to change the subject.” Oy. That clinical information’s interesting, but does nothing to assuage my annoyance.

In a monologist’s presence, I should just hum a few bars of “Eleanor Rigby”: “I look at all the lonely people.” But they still irritate me. Excessively. I can’t help it; I’m a writer and language, both written and spoken, is of paramount importance to me. I try to treat words with respect and reverence; and I wish that others would do the same. I don’t mean this as an insult to the deaf community, but on rare occasions when I can’t just leave and walk away (like on an plane), I’ve fleetingly wished for temporary deafness. Since even expensive earplugs don’t drown out monologists.

I’ve tried all of the low and high tech techniques, but like a baby’s crying (another one of my “favorite things”) nothing nullifies nasty noise. I wonder if highly evolved beings, like the Dalai Lama, can ignore monologists? It would be wonderful to be so conscious, that you could tune out talking transistors at will. Maybe even His Holiness carries a (third) iPod, (loaded with r ‘n’ r: requiems and rock) that he whips out during emergencies: like sitting next to Nadya Suleman and her brood of brats, during a non-stop flight from San Francisco to Sydney.

Although I’m clearly not a candidate for sainthood, I’ll make a valiant vow to be more patient around monologists. As long as they don’t engage me in a one-sided conversation, I’ll tolerate their trivial dribble. But the minute that they start spouting their stories, about why their life was better in Bisbee, or what a stud they used to be, or how they even recycle toilet paper tubes – I’m outta there. Silence may not be “golden,” but I prefer it over a “silver-tongued” torrential talker.

“You’ve NOT Got a Friend”

Recently, I read that Bill Gates left Facebook because he had over 10,000 strangers wanting to be his friend. Give me a fucking break! This is exactly why I won’t join any social networking sites: I loathe the psycho/cyber-babble of “instant friendship.” What a crock. The only internet networking site that I belong to, is BlogCatalog. And I joined just to publicly promote my blog; not to “make friends.”

I’m not anti-social and I treasure the friends that I have. But they’re real people: flesh and blood folks. And unlike cyber-buds, we have a shared history; I’ve actually met them face to face instead of on a Facebook page. This crazy, pop culture concept of “friendship” is ridiculous. The people who wanted to be “friends” with Bill, were hoping that he’d leave them a few mil: because they were “so close.” Some inbred farmer in Arkansas was probably thinking: “What chutzpah! I was his first Facebook friend, and he didn’t even send me a birthday card.” (Or a Rolls Royce). It’s pathetic that people need the superficiality of cyber-status, in order to satisfy themselves. “Get a life,” but your own – not someone else’s.

“True friendship consists not in the multitude of friends, but in their worth and choice,” said Samuel Johnson. Dr. Johnson wrote those wise words in the seventeen hundreds and they still hold true, today. I’m certain that if Sam was alive today, he would’ve abhorred “instant friends.” I’ll bet that he wouldn’t have given up his parchment paper and his goose quill pen, for the latest, “loaded” laptop, either.

It’s no new news, that we’ve lived in an “instant society” for decades: instant coffee, instant potatoes, instant soups and cereals, and instant sex. And let’s not forget instant fame, a la Joe the Plumber and Susan Boyle. I’m not knocking convenience, but I draw my line at “instant friends.” I don’t need, care for, or want cyber buds. Frankly, I’m thrilled that I only have three “friends” on BlogCatalog. I can’t help but feel a slight smugness, that they all chose me – not me them. And I was flattered by their offer of “friendship,” because I actually admire and enjoy their blogs.

During the initial first few months of my joining, I deleted a bevy of budding “buddies” because of their obvious and opportunistic interest in our fledgling “friendship. “It was abundantly clear, that not only did my blog have nothing in common with theirs, but that they ostensibly wanted to advertise their blog by becoming my “friend.” Although it was obvious that my blog was lesbian-oriented, most of my potential “pals” were foreign twenty-something men. Go figure. Perhaps they simply clicked on every blog that they visited, and made everyone their “friend.” Or maybe they thought that it was cool and hip to have a dyke “friend.” Sorry, Abdul and Mo(hammad); I hate to dash your dyke hopes, dudes – but I’m disinterested in your “friendship.” You can consider me a pyrriah, because I don’t and won’t automatically add every new “friend” to my “friends list.”

It also mystified me, that these guys had mostly boring techie blogs. I don’t even care if they were hot butches (well, maybe just a tad) but I’m a creative comedy writer, not a support space for your cyber-spiels. The one lone white guy who stood out, was an East Coast Jew. Since I dislike Jewish men even more than I dislike cheap chocolate, I deleted him with extra glee. It also irked me that he was a self-professed, weight loss “guru.” One has only to read my series of posts on Sensa, to know my hatred of blubber blab ads.

I was the last of my circle of (real) friends to get an answering machine years ago, and despite two “invitations” to join Facebook, I’m stalwartly and stubbornly refusing to relinquish my position. Until someone can prove to me that becoming a cyber-sociological “Stepford Wife,” is as necessary for survival as food, air, water, (and kinky sex) are – I won’t give in. I don’t care if I’m the only one on the planet, who lacks a Facebook and/or MySpace profile. I’ll continue to make and maintain my “friends” the old fashioned way: in person.

Preserved Pop Star’s “Pop”sicle” Perseveres

Although it appears that Michael Jackson’s brainless body was buried, I’m still skeptical. It’s difficult to believe, that someone with that big of an ego (which fortunately, has also died) – wouldn’t be cryogenically frozen. As he’d originally planned. So let’s play make believe here, the way that Jackson did (living as Peter Pan at Neverland). The following fairy tale is set far in the future, when Michael Jackson is finally revived from his icy “sleeping beauty” slumber.

It’s the year 4545, and people are “still alive.” But humanity, however, has undergone many major mutations and transformations. When Jackson is revived and brought back to life, he’ll face some eensy challenges that he never expected: like no music. Unbelievable but true. We’ve “come a long way, baby,” and people no longer want or need external music. Because we have a micro musical chip, implanted the first day of our birth. Basically, we have an inner iPod. Our cerebral “playlists” have endless possibilities, without having to pay Apple a dime. We literally have the power now, to play anything that we want by simply thinking of the song. Long gone are the idolization of idiotic singers and/or musicians. Concerts are only a distant memory, that children read about in school. “Mom, is it true that people used to stand in line for tickets?” “Yes, honey – and sometimes they’d even sleep on the cement overnight, to get the best seats!”

We don’t even have television, anymore – so stupid shows like American Idol and Britain’s Got Talent, can’t create overnight singing sensations, like Susan Boyle. Cable – kaput, films – finito, and even your beloved internet has bit the dust. We have all of the communication “tools,” inside of our brains. We’re our own entertainment complex. And here’s the biggie: no one needs speech. All of our talking is telepathically transmitted. If Jewish mothers were alive, they could quietly kvetch – without driving their kids crazy. But hallelujah! They’re also extinct; no “oy,” oh joy. You don’t have to study a foreign language, since you can automatically speak French – without ever taking a class in it. So, for example, when you travel to Africa – you’re fluent in Zulu. Translators are also nonexistent, since we don’t need them – nor do we have embassies, anymore; we’re all unified – one tribe.

Over the past few thousand years, humans have grown to hate nasty noise. In 2738, the strongest “sound law” was passed, forever banning unnatural noise from annoying, irritating, and affecting our lives. The “sounds of silence” have become a welcome way of life. The only sounds that are permitted, are the natural noises of nature. Even in the midst of mid-day Manhattan, all that you hear are the twitters of birds and the trees blowing. Additionally, we’ve also evolved beyond transportation. Just envision a place and you’re there – without either passports or plans. “No plane, no pain.” We’re like Dorothy, sans the sparkling red shoes; “we’re home,” instantly.

Unfortunately, Mr. Jackson wasn’t counting on any of this. He naively thought that when he was frozen in 2009 – that his talents would be still be treasured by the world. Sorry, Michael – your decades of moonwalking are over. We can travel far beyond our solar system; and the moon is now a colonized, senior citizens’ retirement community. Guess what, Michael? It’ll take more than your repetitious, creepy caterwauling to captivate us. Your Thriller has lost its thrill, after your “big chill.” Actually, all that we want – is for you to shut the fuck up! Your arrogant attitude won’t be tolerated by our civilization. You can’t impress us anymore; you’re barely a blip, in the ourstory of humankind. We’re beyond money, beyond power, and even beyond Starbucks. We’ve grown to value what you can give from your heart and spirit; that’s both our creed and currency. There’s no wars, because there’s nothing left to fight for; we’re all equal. John Lennon’s seminal song,”Imagine,” is no longer fiction but fact: “And there’s no religion, too.”

We’re all evolved, now. We’re all the Dalai Lama, the Mother Theresa, the Jesus, the Buddha, Gods and Goddesses. You won’t be memorialized nor mocked. We’ll try to retrain you into becoming one of us: not a “music man,” but a manly mensch. But you’ve gotta lose the lone white glove, and your perverted predilection for preying on prepubescent boys. We believe that there’s hope for you. We’ll do everything possible to make you “see the light.” And if, for some reason you’re unable or unwilling to change – we’ll just freeze you, again; like a hunk of human hamburger. Then perhaps, when you reawaken for your “second crooning” – things will be “back to normal,” and you can reclaim your past glories and glitter.

But don’t count on it, Michael. And you won’t be able to return to Hollywood via a time tunnel; it won’t work. That technology was phased out in 3006. We had so many hippies trying to vacation at Woodstock in ‘69, that the space system crashed. We can’t seem to eradicate the hippies; they refuse to trash their tie-dyed tees. They’re kinda like cockroaches, which, despite our advanced knowledge – won’t perish! You’ll probably have to start from scratch again. You’ll be the “Jackson One,” not “Five.” Unless your stalwart siblings were willing to follow, in your frozen footsteps. You’ll be stripped of your superficial status symbols and synthetic soundtracks; and also, your nubby nose. Fortunately, (for you) however, Paris Hilton has also been defrosted (although she looks and behaves the same, whether in the flesh or freeze died) – and together, you can conquer a “brave new world.” Without fans, fanfare, fantasy, or fame.

And when you die, again - we won’t be spending 1.4 mill on a tribute to you. You’ll be cremated, just like everyone else – and shot into deep space; where your voice will be buried and blend in, with the other super stars.

Bad Ad Blab, on Ab Flab Sag – Gag

“They’re baaack!” Those fat-phobic, flab-fanatic folks at Sensa are at it again, with their new, weight loss ads. Apparently, Dr. Hirsch (Sensa’s “flab-mad scientist”) either didn’t read my post, entitled: “Sensa You’re Densa, Show Some Mensa,” or care. Perhaps they were slightly offended. I don’t know why?! I simply made a few, gentle suggestions for improving their asinine ads. Maybe they’re just thin-skinned, when it comes to fat folds.

I honestly didn’t think that they could “improve” upon, the gross-out factor of their previous ads. How wrong I was. I discovered their new ads, yesterday. I’d just eaten dinner (wish that I’d waited), and went online to check my e-mail. Fortunately, I hadn’t seen their old ads for a while, and was unprepared for the visual assault of their latest campaign. Once more, in glaring garish color – were expanding and contracting stomachs, necks, and my absolute fav: a sexy, swinging saggy slab of underarm fat. WHOO HOO!!! Subtle and sweet. Guess you made your pudgy point, with that one Dr. Hirsch. Although it’s clear to me (and anyone else who isn’t brain dead), that no amount of dieting will get rid of that “tissue issue.” We’re talkin’ major lipo, baby.

If one wants to motivate people to lose weight, I don’t think that offending them first, is a wise idea. Especially, if you want their moolah. Wouldn’t it make more sense, Sensa – to show before and after pics – without the breezy blubber? Call me critical, but I don’t understand their fixation on grody graphics. Maybe their advertising department has a thing for flings of fluctuating fat. I also feel sorry for anyone foolish enough to believe, that a dietary aid can diminish their disgusting gut; without the hard work that it takes, to achieve a hard body.

If they’d only hired me, none of this would’ve happened. As their media consultant, I’d have ixnayed the obnoxious ads and started from scratch. By the time that I’d finished with my repairs, no one would be frowning. In fact, they’d be laughing so hard that they’d pee in their pants. My funny ads would feature quirky quotes on weight loss. And they’d concentrate on images that enhance, not degrade people. But would they sell Sensa? Probably not, but they’d be so entertaining that I’d win a Clio for creative copywriting. And Dr. Hirsch might even reward me, with an expensive and rich in calories dinner. We could schmooze over steak, lobster, and garlic butter with sour cream mash potatoes. We’d finish off our feast with some chocolate mousse, and then waddle off into the Splendad Sensa sunset – to plan our fatastic, future campaigns.

Kumbaya BM (Bernie Madoff)

VERSE ONE:

Kumbaya BM, kumbaya

Kumbaya BM, kumbaya

Kumbaya BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE TWO:

You’re a schmuck BM, kumbaya

You’re outta luck BM, kumbaya

Your tight tusch they’ll fuck BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE THREE:

They’re in pain BM, kumbaya

Their loss your gain BM, kumbaya

You’re insane BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE FOUR:

You’re in jail BM, kumbaya

They got your tail BM, kumbaya

You sure did fail BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE FIVE:

You’re a disgrace BM, kumbaya

To the Jewish “race” BM, kumbaya

Hide your face BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE SIX:

You’ll rot in Hell BM, kumbaya

May your hemmies swell BM, kumbaya

We won’t kvell BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE SEVEN:

You stole their gelt BM, kumbaya

Kept your wife svelte BM, kumbaya

May her facelift melt BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

VERSE EIGHT:

Where’d it go BM? kumbaya

All that dough BM, kumbaya

You’re their foe BM, kumbaya

Oy veyyy, kumbaya

Shit Happens (my poopy path to enlightenment)

Supposedly, one of the greatest accomplishments that a mere mortal can achieve, is spiritual enlightenment. Becoming enlightened is like the metaphysical equivalent, of winning the largest lottery in history; but with no taxes taken out of it. Some people believe, that you work towards this lofty goal, similar to working out at a gym – in order to get those six pack abs (I think that five of my beers have been stolen). I believe, however, that enlightenment can occur at any moment, like: buying tampons at Wal-Mart, getting your teeth cleaned, or even changing your cat’s litter box. And I have the personal poop, (or scoop) on it.

My fifteen minutes of enlightenment happened in 1997. I schlepped from Seattle to Santa Fe, to participate in a five day women’s spiritual retreat. The retreat was based on Native American principles of spirituality, and held in Cochiti Canyon, New Mexico. The specific details of this retreat are irrelevant to my story, so I’ll “cut to the crap.” Although our activities varied daily in the morning, the whole group ate breakfast together. Another daily event was in the evening, when we gathered in the tipi to share our insights – gleaned during the day.

On the third day of the retreat, after eating my breakfast – I made my way to a serene stream, to enjoy my morning constitutional. Like any animal, I’m a creature of habit, and had picked a perfect and peaceful place to placidly poop. Or so I thought. I vividly recall, gazing up at the sky, and praying for the Great Spirit to help guide me. And as I fervently prayed, I also pooped at the same time (I’ve always been a multitasker). “Please give me a message Grandmother Sun,” I beseechingly whispered – imploring the heavens for help.

I intuitively sensed, as I continued to crap (I’d eaten a big bowl of prunes), that a transformational truth – was going to happen. I was ready for revelation; I was eager to shed my skin, like a human snake; and emerge as an enlightened being. I could almost feel my old, mundane life slipping away. I’d not only have to buy new clothes, to fit my new life – I might even have to give up chocolate and coffee. And maybe even kinky sex. Oy! Who ever said that enlightenment was easy? But no price was too high to pay, for the privilege of personal liberation from pain.

As I finished pooping, I gratefully thanked God/dess for their gifts. And then, with tears trickling down my cheeks – I lowered my eyes from the sky and looked down at my feet. Oh, shit! My brand new and expensive Birkenstock sandals, were copiously covered with my crap. As well as my feet. I’d literally, stepped in my own shit. But instead of being upset, I howled with laughter. I’d asked for a magical message, and this was it. Perhaps it wasn’t quite the elevating encounter that I’d hoped for, but it was perfect. If there’s anything on this planet, that’s more humbling (and humiliating) than my enlightening, excretory experience – I don’t know what it would be. Perhaps, losing a $5,000 bet that that McCain would win, instead of Obama.

Do you know how hard it is, to clean crap out of the crevices of Birks? I spent more time washing my sandals with water, than it took for me to become enlightened. Unfortunately, unlike me – my sandals never fully recovered from their odiferous olfactory ordeal . (Long after their accident, dogs were still drawn to them; apparently, due to their stench. I once caught a Mastiff, attempting to dump and defile them with doggie defecation. Nu? With my mazal it couldn’t have been a Yorkie? Talk about adding insult to injury!) So that night, when we all sat around the fire and shared our stories – I told mine, with a slight trepidation. While the other women had enjoyed calm (and clean) encounters with eagles and beagles and bears (oh my!), my authentic and anal tale – was equally as engaging. And far more entertaining, I might add. By the time that everyone had finished laughing, and peeing in their pants (that made me feel so at home), it was time to sleep. We were all pooped out - especially, me. Unsurprisingly, I dreamed of being deluged with dreck.

Does my story have a happy, or crappy ending? It’s difficult to discern. I wish that I could claim, that I’ve never again stepped in my own shit – but I can’t. Fortunately, however, I’ve only done it metaphorically, not literally. One might ask, was my enlightening experience completely kosher, or just a capricious and creative, cosmic crappy caper? (try saying that, ten times in a row). I say, does it really matter? I learned from my divinely dirty directive, that not only should I look before I leap, but more importantly – to peek before I poop. Not to denigrate or disrespect the 14th Dalai Lama, but I’ve noticed that he frequently wears flip-flops. Maybe he’s sworn to secrecy, but it’s possible that even His Holiness – has had his own, shitty spiritual lessons. I haven’t given up on my quest to attain a higher state of consciousness, (nor stopped eating prunes) but during my next attempt, however, I’ll certainly wear an old pair of shoes!