Obvious Karmic Punishment, Plus A Letter

The men working on a construction project next door blast nonstop vintage AC/DC, Aerosmith, Van Halen, etc. etc. from 9 am to 5 pm, and they are freaking running me out of my house. With every consecutive song I'm losing brain cells. It's clear I've done something to upset the Universe; the question is what? Dear God, WHAT. Well, since I'm on someone's shite list anyways, I may as well do this...

Dear Two Turntables,

I'm glad you pulled your daughter out of school after two days and without ever meeting her teacher or observing her class (something, you may recall, you were invited and encouraged to do). Since you clearly have a surplus of downtime, may I offer the following thinking points for when you are next on the treadmill or prepping for future physical enhancements to your face and breasts? Remember, these are only suggestions:

1) There was a time, was there not, when your own family did not speak English? Why, then, turn in disgust from those who are learning now?

2) Why purchase a flat iron for your daughter's lovely, naturally curled hair?

3) Why is your surname truncated to erase all traces of ethnicity?

4) What is the meaning of "self-hatred"?

5) What are the consequences of self-hatred?

6) And, finally, take a little bit of extra time to think on this because I'm sure it's eating at you: why, despite your outer trappings, are the Mexican/Filipina/African-American/Peruvian/Guatemalan mothers at our school so much more—there's no other way to put this—beautiful than you?

Oh, Two Turntables. Forgive me for being so blunt, but if I didn't say this here I might find myself unable to keep from blurting it out at the birthday party we will no doubt both be attending tomorrow. And that just wouldn't do.

Sincerely,

Your Nesting Ground Mistress

What, Exactly, Do you Meme?

A meme without questions? Isn't that sort of like Billy Idols' "Eyes Without a Face?" Whatever the case, the wily Wily Filipino has tagged me and I must..."Imagine the question that led to the answer, and then provide your own answer."

So here goes:

1. Reading aloud in third grade, I mispronounced the word "colonel," and was rewarded with much tittering and giggles. The ghost of mortification lingers so intensely that I still cannot bring myself to research what sort of inane pronunciation rule holds sway over that particular word.

2. I re-submit for everyone's approval: Britney Spears covering Pat Benatar's seminal "Hit Me With Your Best Shot."

3. Lea in the hallway singing, "To the left, to the left, everything you own in a box to the left." Twenty times.

4. Whimsy
.
5. Nope. Never.

6. Hot malasadas.

7. "I wanted to see you walking backwards to get the sensation of you coming home."

8. Oh, come on. Spam fried rice, of course.

9. Toss up between Port-a-Potty and the Easy Bake Oven.

10. I hadn't gone to the doctor yet, but I knew I was because random kids were reaching out of their strollers to grab my hand.

Messages Telepathically Transmitted to Various Folks at Lunch and in the Library

To the two women at Copenhagen Bakery who spent half an hour dissecting every minute of last week's Grey's Anatomy in voices loud enough to wake the dead: on a scale of 1 to 10, the extent to which you suck is 175.

To the married seniors sitting together in the library sharing a stack of magazines—everything from Vogue to Smart Computing—and then falling asleep holding hands: you are marvelous.

To the limping, no-longer-young man devouring the Postal Exam Study Guide: you are breaking my heart and best of luck.

To the tall, thin, sixtyish fellow in the cashmere v-neck and wild-wale cords listening to his iPod and grinning and nodding while perusing really fat books about various musicians: I know this seems like a crime-free environment, but I urge you to stop—I repeat stop—leaving your iPod and $300 earphones on the chair every time you get up to look for more books.

To the college-age female with three bottles of water and two Starbucks cups on her desk: you are wasting so much time unclipping your hair, playing with it, and then twisting it back up and re-clipping it, that you will never pass the exam which you are attempting to pass. yes, I am wasting time, too, but we're talking about you right now, young lady, not me.

It's Better for Everyone This Way

In one hour, I will be back here at Nesting Ground Headquarters fixing a snack for the kids.

In one hour, the spousal unit will be sitting in a conference room with eight other people. And one of them will be...ohmalord hold onto your winter cap and secure your scarf about your neck...Bono.

It's not that I don't adore the spousal unit, it's just that I would adore him so much more if I were also in the conference room.

Kidding. I'm kidding.

Because, really, what would I do if introduced to Bono? I think it would go down something like this:

Random Introducer: And Bono, this is Veronica.

Bono: Hi, Veronica. It's nice to meet you.

Ver: rmphferderhow.

Bono: Excuse me?

Ver: [whisper] Nice to meet you, too. Mr. Bono, Sir.

Bono: [Looks around the conference room trying to find a way to politely escape from Crazy Lady] Nice group of people.

Ver: [still whispering] Nice group. Group is nice. People are nice. Grouping people is nice. Group. Nice.

Bono: Okay, then...

Ver: [mumbling, cheeks flushing like pomegranates] iahrkdslrkems? Shanks.

Bono: Come again?

Ver: Can you take a picture with me? For my, um...for my blog? It could be good publicity because, you know, like fourteen people read my blog. And if you think about it, there's a statistical chance of, oh gosh I don't know, one in five thousand, that one of those fourteen people doesn't know who you are, and then when they see you with me on my blog they might go and buy one of your albums or something and, you know, everyone could use a little pocket change, right? Your wife makes clothes with hemp, doesn't she? Hemp is neat. I like your shoes.

Bono: [turns on heel and departs]

Ver: Good-bye Mr. Bono, Sir. Good-bye.

Something like that.

Is This Snooping? Plus Something About Hamburgers

Vida likes to write and draw, so when I'm out running errands, I will often grab a little notebook for her. Not only does this prevent her from grabbing sheet after sheet from my printer, it also gives her a satisfying sense of ownership, as in this is my notebook. I gave her one today, and she immediately sat down to write. Then she left it open on the table, and I couldn't help it: I had to take a picture. It's probably only because I'm her mother, but this cracks me up:



It's technically snooping, though, isn't it? I swear I never read the diary she keeps under her pillow; I don't even touch it. I thought this was sorta fair game, though.

****

Doesn't it drive you crazy when someone orders a hamburger with tons of stuff on it, and then while they're eating it all the stuff (of course) starts to dribble out and onto their hands and then they start to lick their hands every few seconds? What if you and a friend happen to walk into a burger joint and your friend happens to know the accused hand-licker, and your friend says, "Oh, Ver, I'd like you to meet Joe-I-Put-Too-Much-Stuff-On-My-Hamburger Jones," and because your mother raised you right, you hold out your hand for some mutual shaking action? And then later on you read a blog that complains about Secret Hand Lickers and you realize you may have fallen prey to one. Wouldn't that be unfortunate?

Take it easy on the condiments, everyone. There's not like a shortage or anything.

Message(s) In a Bloggle

Dear Lady with the Fancy Pedicure at Pilates,

Please stop talking so loudly to your trainer. If you are unable to do that, please stop telling her how "clear" you are. How open, how honest, how free of negativity. Please stop telling her that it has taken you years to get to this place and how it was "really, really hard, you know?" And most of all, don't ever say loudly enough for anyone else to hear that if your lover were to take an axe and cut you open, he would find nothing but peace within you.

Love,

The Woman Whose Workout You Totally Screwed Up

***

Dear Checkperson at Safeway,

Please stop referring to me as "Mrs. Mendoza." You're close, but not really. Please stop saying, "Well, hello, Mrs. Mendoza!" and "You have a good day now, Mrs. Mendoza!" and "Where are the kids today, Mrs. Mendoza?" I appreciate friendly neighborhood customer service as well as the next, um, Mrs. Mendoza, but only if you get my name right. I am writing this message in a bloggle because I am too embarrassed to correct your mistake. And it's all your fault because you keep calling me Mrs. Mendoza with so much volume, force, and confidence. If you had just said it once, and tentatively at that, I could have gently told you my actual name.

Love,

Mrs. Mendoza

***

Dear Fancy Ladies at the Burlingame Street Fair,

Wow. You're fancy.

Love,

The Woman With A Denim Jacket Tied Around Her Waist

***

Dear NASA,

First of all, I'm sorry for your loss. Second, why not try eBay?

Love,

Your Fan at Nesting Ground

An Open Letter

Dear Searchers,

I must formally apologize if you are one of the four hundred billion people who have googled "sideswept bangs," only to end up at the blog of a woman who is trying—with varying degrees of success—to avoid them (and by "them" I mean, um, sideswept bangs) at all costs.

Yours,

Veronica "Unfettered Forehead" Montes
or
Veronica "Ponytail" Montes
or
Veronica "Wavy Hair" Montes