2003-10-30 @ 9:35 p.m.
The Karmic conga line of well dones

And now I'm here on Diaryland. I've arrived! I'm famous! I'm...I'm, ok I'm delusional and coked up on sugar and caffeine. But gee, this is almost like my real writing career. Nobody knows me and I don't get paid. Whee!

But praise is always good. Sometimes if I'm lacking, which is, well...pretty much everyday, I'll jump over to my E-Bay account and gaze lovingly at what everyone has said about me..."The nicest gal I've met", "Great communicator" (ha!), "Honest!", "Terrific", "Superb!", "Perfect, perfect, perfect!", "Package arrived quickly" (heh, heh).

But I was thinking, maybe I should use some of this stuff in a personal ad. I mean I do have a 100% approval rating on E-Bay. I have over 65 people across America who think I'm awesome, why couldn't I translate that to hunk bait?

Well, because its E-Bay, Witty Kitty, they don't have to LIVE with you.

Whenever I fill out an application for a job or an apartment I always get stuck trying to come up with people to recommend me. Now that I'm on the East Coast, I can't really put my West Coast friends on the application, because nobody wants to make a long distance call, so I'm basically stuck with my shrink and Married Guy. And actually for this last rental, the landlord let me put my mother's name on it since she was sitting right there, and they saved a phone call. That's pretty sad when you can only get references from your mommy and your shrink. Kinda make you look like a L.O.S.E.R.

Also having your shrink as a reference is kind of tricky too. I had put my shrink on this last application, and under "relationship" I put "doctor". Whoops. So this crotchety old real estate agent calls him. And I forgot to warn shrinkie and I guess she asked about my mental condition.

He told her, of course, he couldn't talk about my "condition". But then she persisted and asked if I would "hurt" the owners, as in Texas Chainsaw Massacre during a full moon kind of thing. He said no, but that I was "very clean".

Tee hee. Well, except for the cat hairs and the dismembered body parts I keep in my freezer...of PREVIOUS LANDLORDS.

Bwoooo-haaa-haaa! (Dr. Evil laugh). But I got the house anyways and the Sopranos are still safe. Bwoooo-haaa-haaaa...so far!

So it was art class with the middle aged hippy ladies today. Sang "Kumbaya", lit incense, prayed to Our Lady of Menopause for a safe and happy journey through our 40's. The teacher wisely chose not to call me by my alter-ego name Brenda.

We still had to do that stupid menopausal ballet shit before we got to the painting part today though. Damn. I have virtually no rhythm whatsoever. If I dance, people think I'm having a seizure and call 911.

But today's theme was: Staccato or "Stir-KATO" as the teacher kept saying (Of course she's from Canada). She played African music to get our juices flowing. And I suddenly looked around and all the women were writhing around, shaking, rolling around on the floor, speaking tongues.

And then the teacher suggested adding sounds. I felt a little guilty because I was only tapping my foot while Twyla Tharp's worst nightmare was unfolding around me. So I picked up two drumsticks (wood not turkey), and started keeping beat with the music. Got a 4 beat going, and even an 8 beat in there (Yeah, I was a regular Keith Moon). And then the teacher said to make noise again and the woman next to me, a usually sedate 50 something psychologist, let out this DNA altering GRUNT (like one that might accompany the world's largest bowel movement). Scared the shit out of me. Later during the painting segment she went on to paint a very large piece of brown bark, and I just wonder if there is any correlation there.

I ended up prainting an African village with palm trees and monkies. My hands were still tingling from the percussion work (and it actually felt kinda cool).

And, once again, the participants were very kind about my painting. I am the only person in the class who doesn't paint abstract. I need to draw pictures. I just don't have the confidence to smear paint on a canvas for 45 minutes and have it come out looking like anything more than smeared paint. Of course, this is only week three of a six week class.

Maybe by week six I'll be leading the Karmic Conga Line and painting large abstracts that would make Jackson Pollock weep.

Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty