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2004-02-26 @ 1:13 p.m.
yeah baby, whip it to me...RESPECT

I nearly had a Motown Moment Monday afternoon when I walked into the Day Old Bread place up the street. I had never been there before. Didn't even really know it was there. I was just in search of something with sugar, and it was closer than the gas station. And it had donuts. Chocolate Donuts.

But as I swung open the door, I was nearly knocked over by a rousing version of Aretha Franklin's "R.E.S.P.E.C.T" over the loudspeakers.

Oh dear. Its so difficult for me to control my feet, when I hear that song. I just wanted to swing open that glass door, jump onto one of the nearby day old bread counters and start kicking day old loaves of whole wheat across the store.


Find out what it means to me


Take care, TCB

And then have the three middle aged guys waiting at the counter, grab nearby rolls and make like some tranny backup singers.


OOOooo. Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me....

And then in the meantime, have me doing great pelvic thrusts as I jump from counter to counter, and have all the overhead fluorescent lights suddenly turn all disco and blink bright purple and pink, and have all the store windows vibrating with the Motown beat.

All I want you to do (oo) for me

Is give it to me when you get home (re, re, re ,re)

Yeah baby (re, re, re ,re)

Whip it to me (respect, just a little bit)

When you get home, now (just a little bit)

And just as the camera crane is dollying down for my close up, the music swells, and...

"'Scuse me miss, do you have your bread punch card?"

"W-w-what? Um, no. What's that?"

"Well, everytime you spend a dollar, we stamp your card and after 20 loaves of bread, you get a free loaf."

"Oh, ok. Thanks. I guess."

Ok, it wasn't quite like that. I was actually just waiting in line with these three guys and some woman came up and asked the clerk if there was any sugarless pastries.

Sugarless pastries? The clerk had to break the bad news to there wasn't any sugarless pastries. After she walked away the African American gentleman in back of me couldn't hold back a chuckle. "Yeah, I wish". And then I said, "And while, we're at it, why not fat-free pastries too." And everyone burst out laughing.

Yes, I am the witty kitty....just not Aretha Franklin unfortunately.

So today I went to my new food pantry. I walked down there. It's only about a mile and a half. And the process was so much easier than my last place. At least they didn't make me bring my birth certificate or require me to chop off a body limb. Lutheran pantry rather than Catholic. Less suffering was involved. I was very relieved about that. The last place made me feel really poorly about being poor. This place greeted me with smiles and friendliness. Yay for Lutherans!

And the food was more to my liking. No rusted, dented, out of date cans. Instead I got a fresh loaf of whole wheat bread, hamburger (I'm not a huge fan of hamburger, but hey, its free and its the end of the month), Thomas English muffins, pasta, macaroni and cheese, grape jelly, tomato sauce, chili, some tomato soup (which I will probably give to my mom. I'm not a big fan of that), a fruit cup, apple cinnamon cereal, pork and beans, corn, tuna (which I just had for lunch).

I did wait to take the bus home. I was going to be a tough little Irish girl and walk the mile and a half home, but that grocery bag was a good 8-10 pounds.

I used my disability thing for the first time on the bus. Was a little embarrassed about it, but it saved me money. I just had to show my Medicare card and photo ID. I guess I better get used to this. I may be seeing the inside of a bus a lot more in the near future.


So I dropped Married Guy a line last night about submitting my artwork for the art show. He was very very happy for me. He even wished me Mazeltov! And that's pretty good coming from an Irish Catholic guy!

But I was sitting here thinking last night what it would be like if my mom wanted to come see my nude artwork at the local gallery. So here are possible samples of what might possibly tumble across her lips....

"Gee, that girl's one boob is smaller than the other one. What's wrong with her face? Her hair looks funny. Why did you paint that yellow? Where's her face? Oh, is that a guy? Where's his pecker? Oh, is that a boob? Oh, is that a girl? I think the picture is crooked in the frame. I think there is a scratch on the frame. Is that a fingerprint on the picture. Did you clean the glass before you submitted it? I can see a cat hair inside the glass. Is that a boob? Are you sure? Is THAT a girl? That sure looks like a pecker. Did you have to draw her pubic hair? Are you sure that's not a pecker? The shading doesn't look right. Why did you use yellow? What's wrong with the hair? It doesn't look right. Why didn't you blend this better? I really think I see a cat hair in there. And are you sure its not crooked in the frame. Did you measure it? You should have really measured it. Maybe the picture was drawn crooked. The proportions don't look right. Her arms are too skinny for the body. Was her butt really that big? Her elbow looks off kilter? Is that a guy?"

So, as you can see, whatever art career I could have ever had, was totally throttled by her constant picking and criticism, disguised as concern.

My other brother, who actually grew up to be a professional artist, used to draw horrific images of my mother with axes buried in her head as a young kid. And when the nuns at the Catholic school would see them, they'd get all fluttery and nervous and call my mother and ask her why her son was drawing violent pictures of her demise and she wouldn't have an answer. I guess to her, it just mattered if the picture was drawn well, and her name was spelled right. You know...

The Devil's Spawn.

And you wonder why I'm neurotic.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty