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If you've been reading my nonsense for any amount of time, you know there is one blog that means more to me than all of my other beloved blogs.

And I have a lot of beloved blogs.

This is a place I go visit every single day without fail. Even if I've banned the internet for the day so I can get some writing done or even rarer, work on the consistently burgeoning piles of laundry around these parts, I always go check in over there at least a couple of times a day. 

And no, it's not U2's fan site.

Although, Bono does come in a close second. 

For the record, Bono is first in my heart, but second in my web site love.

And just so you know, I have total access to everything over at U2.com since I'm a paying member of their fan club. I have been for years.

And yes, I'm proud to be in a fan club. And no, I'm not 13. 

Anyway, the blog I'm speaking of is called Bye Bye Pie. 

I started reading June Gardens of Bye Bye Pie a few years back when June was nominated for best humor blog at the big time Luxe Awards. She didn't win that year. I think stupid Cake Wrecks won. And don't be all up in my comments saying, "HEY,  I LOVE Cake Wrecks!" 

Goody good for you. But as for me, I'm not feelin' the love. 

It's kind of like Avatar. I don't get blue people or cakes. 

How many wrecked cakes can one look at, before you go, "Okay, that was funny. But after the first 400, I'm kind of losing my luster for wrecked cakes."

I started reading June because she was hilarious, but there's an extra something at June's that you don't get at any other blogs. 

And that, sir, is the audience, June's readers. June will write a post and the conversation begins. And where we end up is usually, never even close to the original topic of June's blog that day. 

The commenters over at June's are a cast of characters themselves and over time, we've become this rowdy, eclectic (yes, we are eclectics), group of friends. 

Because the ones of us who converse throughout the day, we're a band of nutjobs. 

Really fun, witty nutjobs, but nutjobs all the same. 

Anyone is welcome to join us. Over at June's, we love and embrace animals, hypochondria, celebrities, books, coffee, good deeds, Barry Gibb, incredibly inappropriate jokes and spying on neighbors.  

Occasionally, June asks us to participate in her blog, like in her Pieces of Wisdom Wednesday where she asks us a question on Tuesday and then posts our advice on Weds. 

I know, right? You're asking yourself, what the hell have I been doing with my Wednesdays up till now? I'll tell you what you've been doing. Wasting them, that's what, if you're not over with us at The Pie. 

This Sunday, June asked us to take a photo of something we did during the day and send it in to her. 

And you know me. 

There will be no pictures of me making breakfast, because me and making anything would be hilarious in itself or playing Frisbee Golf with the fam, or any other normal activity that occupies a Sunday. 

Because first of all, I am not normal. 

Nor is my family. 

In short, my family is a group of ridiculously obsessed Disney fanatics. 

I hate that about them. 

Every weekend, if there's nothing going on, someone inevitably pipes up with the dreaded, "Why don't we go to Disneyyyyy?" And they all jump up and down, cackling and applauding and acting like Disney is a place to cherish instead of a Hellish black hole infested with germs, massive child meltdowns, wait times in which you can see yourself physically age and spandex loving foreigners who don't understand the concept of personal body space. 

I am not a Disney fan. I'd even go so far as to call myself a Disney hater. 

But even with all of my Disney hate, my family forces me to go all the dang time, with their whines of, "But it wouldn't be the same without youuuu." 

And actually, it wouldn't be the same. 

It would be better. 

Because I make the rules around this place. And the laws are, I will not wait in a line over 20 minutes, which pretty much rules out every Disney ride. I let my family of freaks stand in line for hours, while I go find myself some pretzels and cheese sauce and commence to people watching, which is the very best part of Disney. 

I will not go on any ride where there's even an infinitesimal chance I'll get wet. I also refuse to walk around in the heat getting sweaty. I will not stand in line next to someone who is so close to me, I can feel their body hair against my skin. I make my hubby switch places when the leg hair is rubbing against my calf. I will not do any shows or rides that are all scientifical. I went beyond my tolerated limit of science stuff while in school. I'm a grownup now, so no one can force me into situations with science . . .  or math for that matter. 

And my number one Disney rule is, I will in never go to the Magic Kingdom, a place that is so very, very un-magical. 

So, in other words, I'm a hell of a lot of fun. 

Yesterday, when my family suggested Disney, specifically Hollywood Studios, I thought, well at least I can get a good Bye Bye Pie picture. 

My other option was to put on a ball gown and feed my stupid ducks. 

So off we went to Hollywood Studios. The freaks all bouncing with excitement—me, just wanting a photo op. 

As soon as we got there, I started fretting about photo opportunities, while they headed over to the bakery for caramel apples and chocolate peanut butter cupcakes. 

I will begrudgingly admit, the food at Disney World is one of the reasons I keep going back. It's also one of the reasons I refuse to go to Magic Kingdom because if Flying Dumbos and Toon Town weren't hellish enough, the food over there is limited to chicken nuggets, hamburgers, hot dogs and cardboard fries. 

Animal Kingdom has jalapeno cheese stuffed pretzels. That's all I have to say about that. 

After we finished up our grub, we were standing in one of the busy thoroughfares deciding where we should go for the best photo opportunity when this fabulous woman with an amazing plume of a hat came out of nowhere, put down a wooden crate right beside me and stood on that crate.

Now, here's the thing about me.

I'm a magnet for anyone looking for a show volunteer.

I do not raise my hand to be in these shows. I do not wave my arms, frantically shouting, "Pick ME! Pick ME!" I do not show the slightest interest whatsoever. In fact, most of the time I try to hide. But inevitably I am found and dragged up on stage to do humiliating things.

Perfect example, my recent dance off in Mexico.   Which by the way? I have to tell you all, that Mexican post is my very favorite title of all times—"Don't Cry For Me Mexico. The Truth Is I've Never Been A Very Good Dancer." I just crack myself the freak up over that one.

Anyway, I've been brought up stage at a dinner show to do The Chicken Dance, with a very hot German dude in leather lederhosen, I might add. I've been magicians' assistants. I've been called up onstage by comics. I've helped in feeding the alligators whole roaster chickens at the zoo. I am consistently picked to light the candles or bring up the offering at my church, which if these Godly people had any clue of the amount of cussing that went on in my car as we sped to church, late again, they would NOT be picking me. I've been pulled up on stage by an Elvis impersonator who sang to me. And to my everlasting horror, I have been plucked from the audience while chaperoning a school field trip to milk a cow.

Sadly, I have never been hand picked by Bono to dance with him during a U2 concert. I am still waiting for that glorious, glorious moment.

Anyway, so as I'm standing there scouting the area for a great photo op, the lady on the box announces she likes everything about me. She announces this to the entire street. She then asks me my name and to step forward and the next thing I know, I am once again, the involuntary prop in a show. And so I turned to my hubby and hissed, "This is it! Take the pictures!"

And so the tall lady on the box proceeded to tell the world that her assistant P.J. has never had a date before and she wanted P.J. to ask me out. With her Cyrano De Bergerac prompts, P.J. proceeded to make a grand spectacle as he went about asking me out on a date. Don't you love the way I am NOT posing for the camera?

P.J. was coerced into serenading me with his ukelele.

And then he had to ask me out, which he claimed he could only do from a safe distance away from me, in order not to lose his nerve. 

I wasn't sure what the protocol was when a ukelele playing dude in plaid shorts and knee socks asks you out while being coached by a lady in a plumed hat standing on a wooden crate, in front of everyone at Hollywood studios including your husband, so I was all, what the hell and I said yes.

And as the crowd cheered, the lady on the crate told him he had to seal the deal with a kiss to my hand.

This took some bravery on P.J.'s part and a running start.

There was a great deal of trepidation as the lady on the crate and the audience cheered him on.

He was mightily scared, even after I told him I didn't have cooties. 

It was tough for him. He tried.

And tried.

And tried

And finally after many attempts, he went in for the kill and landed a big, squishy wet one on my hand.

The audience loved it, my girls were only slightly mortified and I had my photo op in the bag.

After that, I didn't care what we did, as long as it didn't involve sweaty foreigners pressing against me.

We saw a couple of shows and then headed over to American Idol, one of my favorite stops.

Where the camera men kept coming over to my daughters and putting the camera right in their faces which my girls totally loved. They would then flash their images on the big screen. I tried to snap their images every time they popped up, but my stupid iphone was taking too long and I only managed to get this one blurry shot of them up on the big screen.

After our Idol fest and a quick picture with a Betty White bust

We walked by The Brown Derby which is as impossible to get into as it is to get up on stage during a U2 concert. It is, on the average, a three month wait. But because we're kind of dumb, we strolled in to check anyway and also to use their classy bathroom.

And as we walked up to the hostess stand, the hostess stood there menus in hand with three of them being kid's menus and said, "Kwan, party of five?"

And we were all, "Oh hell yeah, we're the Kwans!"

We really didn't say that because we do have a tiny bit of moral fiber. But my husband said, "We're not the Kwans, but we do have five people and no one in our party is young enough to crumble food on the floor or scream throughout the dinner. And you can put those kids' menus away because we all order adult entrees and several appetizers, and a nice bottle of wine, along with a very generous tip. So, what do you say?"

And the hostess sized us up and said, "One minute."

She went off and conferred with some suits in the corner, pointing at us and the next thing we knew we were being ushered to a big, round plush booth! And we were all JACKPOT!

We had a lovely meal with good wine for the grownups.

And light up drinks for the daughters.

And of course, we had to show off our classiness

Our dinner was a huge, classy success.

We then took this blurry picture while strolling after our dinner. Another rule of mine: If it's walkable, we will not take a form of sweaty transport. So, we walk a lot. And we walked over to Epcot.

Because in my Hubby's eyes, life is not life without adventures and fireworks. And he will never miss an opportunity to ooh and ahh over fireworks. 

We have oohed and aahed so many times at Epcot's firework show, my girls know the words to the song and are not afraid to sing them. 

Loudly and with great drama and hand motions.

I'm actually shocked to say this, but I had a good time yesterday. A fireworks kind of good time.

But the whole point of this ramble was to tell you, that June has posted photos of all of us today and since my photo is totally random, I knew you, Internet, would be all, "Why is Joann getting her hand kissed by a dude in knee socks while a tall lady on a box stands over them, watching? This is what she does with her Sundays?"

I figured I needed to explain my life. Something I'm used to doing.

Head on over to the Pie and join the conversation if you're looking for some fun.

By the way, I'm Original Joann over there because one my best writer friends, regular Joann, hangs out there, too.

Vacation Tales are coming this week. Look for them.

No download again today. I'm kind of messing around with my iTunes right now, but my opinionated music insistence will be back shortly. 

I am interrupting my scintillating tales of vacation for some breaking celebrity news. 
It seems Justin Bieber is single and ready to mingle. 

Huh. I didn't even realize he knew how to mingle yet. Last time I had the misfortune of
exposing my tender eardrums to one of his songs, he was still hitting those high girly notes.  I thought he was still in the stage of passing the standardized prepubescent love note of, "Do  you like me? Check the box. Yes or No."
I guess this big announcement means he broke up with the love of his life, his big round roller  brush and blow dryer.
And since we're going to delve into the world of celebrity, why not talk about a few other self- inflated folks while we're at it. 
I've been really trying to catch up on my TV watching, but alas I have been a dismal failure.  And I hate that because TV makes the world go round. I've got no stories. No  cocktail fodder. Nothing. I haven't even watched the season finale of Glee yet. I need to  because my kids love to torture me with, "Oh Mom, I accidentally erased Glee from the DVR.  Sorry." And as soon as I start to have a temper tantrum over how NO ONE EVER THINKS  ABOUT MOM'S NEEDS, they yell, "Psyche!" and point at me falling over laughing as I stand  there heaving with outrage.
They are horrid children.
I did snap on the telly while packing for my trip and had it tuned to the esteemed, high-brow,  "Bethany Gets Married."
I only got through about 2 minutes of it though, because my Hubby walked into the room. He  stopped in his tracks and froze with this wild-eyed look and yelled, "Please, I beg you! Make it  stop! Whatever it is! Make it stop!"
Bethany's harpy voice had the same effect on him as that woman who claimed a few  years back that Mary Hart of Entertainment Tonight was causing her to have seizures. 
I muted the sound as I packed until the next show which was something about 2 celebrity  photographers who used to be married but now aren't, but they still take pictures of windbag  celebrities together. I really could care less about either of them and their unified love of  skinny jeans, except for the fact that they were about to photograph Lindsay Lohan and she was  something like 48 hours late and they were still all set up to shoot, waiting for her drugged out,  worthless ass. 
And I had to watch it because I am constantly befuddled, (a great word) as to why there is such  a fixation over this girl. 

The only thing she's got going for her, these days, is her leggings line. And sorry, I am a leggings
girl, but I am not going to spend 500 bucks on a pair of footless tights that I can get at Express— 2 for $22.00. It's a tiny bit of lycra for Heaven's sake. I'm guessing the leggings line isn't going to  keep her in methamphetamines. 
And then there's her "acting." She seems to think yelling throughout her movies is the mark of  a great actress. In my opinion, "Freaky Friday" was the last time she nailed a role. And since  she was about 10 at the time, it was probably due to the fact that she was only into the  primary child star drugs still—a few lines of coke here and there and some diet pills. 
The only thing I like about Lindsay Lohan is her fabulous train wreck lifestyle. I crave that  kind of deliciousness. Like the time she tweeted that Al Gore was going to help her. 
Help her what? She never said. But, Lindsay I've got a little tip for you. If you're counting on  Al Gore to help you, you might want to look to a different politician and do NOT glance  John Edwards' way. Al seems to have piled a whole heaping bit of trouble on his well  endowed lap, even if he is the father of the Internet. Who knows, he just might be the father  of other things or people we weren't aware of. 
Billy Dog Clinton has been keeping his nose and other parts clean lately. Might want to check  with him, if you're still looking for help for whatever it is. Maybe President Clinton can help  you sell your leggings. 
And speaking of things that really bewilder and befuddle me—who was the blind and deaf  person in charge who declared Cameron Diaz a good actress? That one is as baffling to me as  why senior citizens insist on eating by 6:00. What else do the oldsters have to do? What is the  big deal with 6:00? Is it some sort of old people secret deadline where they'll break a hip if they  don't eat by the moment the clock chimes 6 times? 
I just don't get it. Same goes for Cameron. 
And then there's Bret Michaels. Oh, how I love that man! Can there be any more of a comeback  kid? 
I want to clarify my love for this man, since so many of you wrote and said, "Eeewww." I don't
love him in a Bono-esque way. I love him in a "Go Bret. It's your birthday" kind of way.
Meaning, I'm in his corner, cheering him on.


I used to listen to his "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" on full blast with the top down on my convertible  in the days when my hipbones jutted out of my skin and the day could be settled a good one with a  fine song and the wind in my hair as I drove with no destination in mind— just a cheesy rock song on the radio, the sky above me and the miles unfurling underneath my speeding tires. 
It was a given Bret would win Celebrity Apprentice. I mean if Donald had awarded it to the other  person, (I have no idea who that was, since I've never seen a minute of that show), it would have  been like Betty White getting mugged and pistol whipped. There are just some things that are  forbidden in the order of the universe and even Bad-Ass, Bad-Haired Donald knows that. 
To me, the crowing moment of Bret's comeback was when he strolled out on the stage at the  American Idol finale singing his song so sweetly with his cowboy hat and bandanna, obviously  hiding the fact that his brain had just been cut open a few weeks before in an effort to save his life. 
I only wish the very best in this life to that man. He deserves it. 
Just a few more celebs and I promise I'll let you go. I swear, sometimes I feel like I'm the Martha  of Blog World. Martha was our childhood next-door-neighbor for years and when Martha  commenced to yapping, NOTHING would stop her motor mouth. My mom got to the point  where if she had to go outside, she'd station one of us at the picture window. If Martha showed up,  we knew to give my mom 2 minutes, no more, no less and then open the door and yell out to my  mom that she had a long distance phone call. 
And since those were the days long distance calls were about 850 shmackers a minute, everybody knew it didn't matter what you were in the midst of, you had to RUN to the phone to talk as fast as  you could to the long distancer shelling out the big bucks.
The next one, very briefly is Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston. Back together again!
2 things: Do you think Sarah Palin has snuck a peek at that Playgirl? Man, I know I'd be  thumbing through that kind of hot mess. That boy is just absolute gorgeousness even if he  is a total lunkhead. 

And, how awesome would it be to sit at that Thanksgiving table this year? If Sarah wants to raise
funds for her Presidential campaign, which you know is coming, she should raffle off a seat at her  turkey table. You'd be talking hundreds of thousands of dollars there. 
And now, on to Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem who ran off and got married this week.




I love Javier. I HATE that weasel faced Penelope. 
I can't even understand her. How can you attempt to be an actress on the American screen when  you can't even champion the language? She mangles her English like I mangle Trigonometry, but  at least I don't claim to be a rocket scientist. And I know, I know, she's won an Oscar. But she won  an Oscar playing a Spanish chick. So, not too much of a stretch there. She sounds just like Charro  to me and last I checked Charro wasn't known for her acting skills, just her hoochie coochie. 
But her horrible speaking skills and weasel face aren't even the real reason I have the ultimate  contempt for her. No, my hatred is mired in the fact that she's a man thief. A mangled English  man thief. 
In fact, I think she came to America, not so much to botch up the language in American movies,  but to find herself a hot celebrity. Tom Cruise was a happily married man, well, at least pretending  to be a happily married man when Penelope Cruz started whispering sweet mangled nothings in  his ear and the next thing you know Nicole is better off. 
I mean, she's got Keith Urban now and a baby named Sunday. You can't ask for much more  than that. 
Then Weasel Face moves on to Matthew Mcconaughey who was happily playing naked  bongoes and being "just friends" with sweet Sandra Bullock. But as soon as the Spanish  weasel came sniffing around, poor little Sandra is left to find a new friend. 
I didn't really hate Mangle Mouth so much in those days. I just found her annoying, like a  Spanish speaking gnat buzzing around my ears. 
But then rumors started to fly around her and this man. 




And that, my friends, was when my rockem sockem robot boxing gloves came on. 
Supposedly the rumors were not true. She was just seen holding hands with Bono. And  everyone knows, that Bono is a hand holder. He just is. I'm sure when I meet him and that day  will come, as God is my witness, he will hold my hand. He'll have to. I won't be able to stand up  without assistance. 
Bono was probably holding her hand all innocently while she was thinking all the while, "Ah  jhes, I weell steeel jhees rhooock staaair fohm heese weef." 
But that didn't happen. Because Bono is too good for those kind of shenanigans. 
So, even though I like Javier, I'm glad he's legally got Weasel Face now. Hopefully, he can keep  her from her thieving ways. 
If not, we'll just have to ship her off to Shutter Island with Angelina Jolie. 
Which leads me to my last but best piece of celebrity news:
Bono is healed! Can I get a Hallelujah from the crowd!
The band has a video up on their U2.com fan site. It's a hand-held simple film where each of them  just gabs for a few seconds, apologizing to the US fans and proclaiming they're coming back.  First Larry, then Adam and then the Edge who says their band has the best singer in the world. 

Duh.

And then it pans over to Bono. 
But not before Larry grabs the camera and cryptically says no one is indispensable. I'm telling  you. Larry pushed him off the stage in a fit of pent up jealous rage. 
And Bono looks great. A bit on the thin side, but still great. He says he's been rebuilt by  German engineering. (I've always though of Bono as a bionic man.) And, that he's ready to  sing his way back into my heart. He didn't say that out loud, but I caught what he was thinking. 

And I am ready. Who knows, maybe among other excitement that next year will hold, U2 tickets  will fall into my lap for a 4th time. Karma does seem to smile down on my stalkerish devotion.
Welcome Back Bono. The world can smile again. It is a beautiful day. 
Today's Definite Download:  "Kite" by U2. For Bono and Bret and lastly me. 
I've been kind of foundering in a puddle of self-doubt lately, an unpublished writer's greatest  shackles. I don't want to go into any detail. This is just me, stepping away from the funny for a  second to ask if you have a whisper of a prayer in your heart, can you reserve it for me? I know  there are huge heartbreaking things in the world that need the call of an angel much more, but I'm  just having a bit of a tough time lately and it is stealing away the bravery I have tried so hard to  hold onto with all my might I know it will come back to me. I know. But right now I'm just  shivering in the corner, letting my angst get the best of me. 
Kite, because I've got to let my kite go and trust that this life will take me up to the clear blue sky. 
Something is about to give I can feel it coming I think I know what it is I'm not afraid to die I'm not afraid to live And when I'm flat on my back I hope to feel like I did
Cause hardness, it sets in You need some protection The thinner the skin . . . 
Who's to say where the wind will take you Who's to say what it is will break you I don't know which way the wind will blow . . . 
Did I waste it? Not so much I couldn't taste it Life should be fragrant Roof top to the basement . . . 

I want to tell you about this boy I know. 
We'll call him J. 
J's a great kid. A sixth grader with an impish grin, so full of the joy and mischief that dwells inside all 12-year-old boys. 
He is also calm, quiet and soft-spoken when he does speak, not one of those boys who climb the walls every split second of the day, unable to contain their overflowing boy energy.
I met J earlier on in the school year when I was asked to become a mentor to a struggling student. 
The students in this novel program were hand selected by their teachers. They are all bright kids  with great potential who are bordering on the edge of pass or fail.
But, it's so much more than those two finite concepts of polar opposites. 
It is for some of them, a struggle so vast and formidable that it goes far beyond the price of a grade.
J is one of those kids. 
My job in the mentorship was not really about tutoring. My job was to be there, to listen and support, to cheer and understand. 
I thought I knew what was expected of me. 
Turns out, I didn't know anything. 
We began the year with high hopes and goals. 
We worked on homework and projects together. At first, with me, he was somber and shy. But, I'm not a solemn girl. There is too much light in the world, for the heaviness that comes with austerity. So, it wasn't too long before I teased out that wily grin made up of snips and snails and dirt and the talk of cars and the first 12-year-old boy realizations of girls in the world. 
Our work was often a struggle. J did not have access to a computer at home. He had no newspapers for his current events homework. He had no construction paper for projects. He had no crayons or markers. He had trouble staying organized because his folders were old, manila file folders, crinkled and torn. His backpack was one meant for a small child and it had seen better days with its broken strap and holes in the bottom that were growing ever larger with the heavy load of 6th grade work not meant for such a small backpack.
But, even worse, J had trouble keeping up with his reading homework because there was no quiet place in his home. A home "filled with too much drama," in J's quiet words. 
Along the way, we replaced his supplies and I encouraged him to find a quiet place. 
He came in one day, full of excitement. He had talked to his mom and explained to her how important his reading goals were to him. She'd allowed him to sit in the family car, the only place peaceful enough to concentrate. A respite from the drama and the duties and obligations put upon this boy, obligations meant more for a man of the house than a 6th grade boy. 
And along the way, a papery thin ribbon of trust developed between the two of us. 
I could see him settling in to our roles. His smile came easier. I no longer had to dig the talk from  him. There was still a guard up, but with every passing day, he let me see more and more of the real  J. 
We were making progress. The teachers were so excited. So many of them would tell me how sweet he was, what potential he had, how there was an uncontainable light in his eyes that spoke of hope and real possibilities of accomplishment. 
And then the light went out. 
Just like that.
We had Spring Break. I went up to the mountains of Colorado with my children and my husband, a family whose love and support and care I have always taken for granted. 
J didn't really talk about what he did on Spring Break. But, something happened. Something changed in him. The mark was as distinct as if he had tattooed the inky words on his body. "I give up."
He showed up on our mentoring day with no backpack. The new backpack the school had supplied for him. The new backpack he was over the moon to receive, taking great pride in putting all his new folders and pens in certain order. It was gone. 
He mumbled something about his uncle, a high school student who lives with him, had mistaken it for his backpack and taken it to school and lost it. 
His explanation was weak at best. He didn't even try to make the story believable. 
He hadn't completed any work for the week. He'd gotten zeroes on everything. And there was no promise in his eyes, only a dismissive shrug of the shoulder. When I tried to help him on his current events homework, he only glanced around the room, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere else but in the library with me. 
It was frustrating because that J I knew, was not there anymore. 
The mentor teacher had J as one of her students and she'd noticed the difference, too. You couldn't help it. It was as if an eclipse had covered the sun. 
She encouraged me to put down the pencil and paper and just talk to him during our next mentoring session. 
And so, I did. 
And at first, he only listened his eyes still darting around the room, so disinterested in what I had to say. 
So, I just talked and talked about everything and anything. About my world and my life. And perhaps, he just wanted to stop the flow of blabbering coming from my mouth, but suddenly he began to talk and the words just came and came and came as if it was all to heavy for him to carry anymore. As if perhaps, for the first time in his life, someone cared what he had to say. 
He spoke of his mother who dropped out of school when she had J at 15 years old. He spoke of  her brushes with the law and jail times. He spoke of his younger brothers and sisters who lived  with his stepfather, away from him, so that his mother could concentrate on her tech school degree. When I teased him, asking him if it was a relief to be the only one with his mom without all those  pesky little kids around, he only shook his head and said he missed them very much. He spoke of  the never-ending flow of relatives who lived with them. And he spoke of the gangs, a constant blight of a presence in the impoverished Latino communities of our area. He vowed to me he would never get caught up in all of that even though most of the men in his family were or had been in gangs. 
He knew the rules of the gangs implicitly, schooling me on initiations and the only way to get out of  a gang. It's called getting beaten out and trust me, you don't want to know the details. I will tell you  it involves lead pipes. 
The details shocked me, not so much because of their violence and ungodliness, but because a 12- year-old boy knew all these things. 12-year-old boys are supposed to know about video games and baseball and crappy music and muscle cars. Not murder and drugs and arrest records and the best  places to illegally drag race. 
And as our time together unwound, J told me that if he is successful, he will be the first one in his  entire family to graduate from high school. 
I pinpointed that as the place to begin a dream. 
He returned the next week, a shade of the old J back in place, a shadow of light back in his eyes.
Yesterday, our mentor teacher emailed me ahead of time to ask me to bring in my digital camera. I was going to help J with his geometry project. It entailed taking pictures of J next to certain shapes we found. 
No problem, I thought. We snap a few pictures of some circles and a few Isosceles triangles and we've got this thing in the bag.
Sometimes, I'm wrong on the thing in the bag. Oftentimes, I don't even have the right bag. 
The circle and the triangle were the first objects on our list.  
After that, Geometry kicked my ass. 
We had to find parallel lines with a non-perpendicular transversal. We had to find a license plate that was a palindrome. We had to find bilateral and rotational symmetry. We had to find a tetrahedron and an octahedron. 
I almost cried.
Now if you, Internet, know of these things that I speak of, Hippy, Hip, Hap, Hooray for you. 
But, see, when I took Geometry, the boy I was madly in love with, who didn't yet love me back, sat right next to me. He passed me notes. He played footsies with me under the desk. He would take my hand and draw silly faces all over it. And I could not concentrate on concentric circles and Pi. I could only focus on the warmth of his hand holding mine. His soft brown eyes always teasing me. The silent plea in my brain that thundered out all other thoughts, whispering, "Please walk me to my next class. Please."
That boy didn't love me back that year. He only teased me and broke my heart as he swept through legions of girlfriends. 
I kept my love for that boy steady in my heart throughout all my high school years, even though both of us found vast and varied romances along the way. 
That boy took me to prom and it wasn't until after the drama of high school that he discovered he loved me back. And he loved me with all his heart, until I took that heart and soundly broke it, which is a story for another day. 
For today, I will only say that the only awful grade in all of my academic years belonged to Geometry because true love always wins over parallelograms and right angles. 
And so, I was of no use to J in our geometry hunt. And of course, J just shrugged his shoulders when I asked him what this strange language meant. 
Luckily, I found a mom walking around with an Iphone. Thank God for technology. 
And J and I laughed as we ran through the school, snapping pictures. Me teasing him not to look so mean and as his 12-year-old boy smile erupted, I would snap away. Pictures of J and Geometry. 
It was a good day. 
As I was leaving, the mentor teacher took me aside to tell me that J will not be going on into the 7th grade. His failing grades could not merit a promotion.
I am defeated. I don't know what this will mean for J. I don't know if he will have the resolve to pick himself up, dust off the cloud of failure and begin again. 
There is so much adversity in his young world, I don't know if this is the one thing that will shove him backwards into a life of no promise. 
It is not only J that failed. I have failed him. And that, I feel, is far worse. 
My job in these final days with him now changes. I will be the cheerleader, the tough talker, the one who dusts him off, the one who hopes and prays for a resurrection of sorts, a second chance. 
And if he decides he'll take it, I vow here in this space and time, to be by his side, bad Geometry skills and all. 
Today's Dooo Itttt Download: I haven't spoken of American Idol at all this season because truthfully, American Idol has been lame. 
There have been very few bright spots and for me, the bright spots have belonged to Crystal, the dreds girl who has a gritty, powerhouse voice and a grace like no other contestant. And Lee, who from the get-go, I pointed out and said, "That boy, I like." 
Lee has grown from this meek, unconfident singer into a rock n roll dude with a righteous swagger. 
There have been very few shining moments this year. 
Until last night. 
With three left, the judges choose a song that they think will fit a contestant. 
Simon chose Leonard Cohen's, "Hallelujah" for Lee. 
And anyone who knows me, knows that is in my top 10 of favorite songs. In fact, I'm too lazy busy studying up on Geometry to look it up, but I think I've already suggested this song in my downloads earlier on in my blog. 
Lee stood out there with his guitar and filled himself with the heavenly words of that beautiful song. He let Hallelujah carry him away as a choir of gospel singers marched in, joining him and his guitar on that stage. He isn't a singer with a huge voice or an amazing range, but he took that song and filled it with such a passion, the crowd was on its feet and for the first time this year, I got a little goose pimply. I do believe, he won the crown with that song. 
Here's a link if you want to get all goose pimply. 
"Hallelujah" for J. I'm sorry. But, if you'll let me, we can try again. 
I did my best, it wasn't much. I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you And even though It all went wrong I'll stand before the Lord of Song With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Everyone has a doctrine of truths they call their own. Things they live by, deep-seated beliefs they hold dear to their heart.

I know I do. I was thinking about some of them the other day and of course whenever I feel the need
to share my secrets, I think of you, you World Wide Web.

So for today, My Truths:

I believe that Caesar Millan is Doctor Doolittle in disguise. Have you SEEN how all dogs respond to him? I'm pretty sure even Kujo would lie at his feet whining submissively. I'm thinking those clucking sounds of Caesar's, those chh-chh, snap-to-it noises, are really the secret universal code to all dogs that Ceasar is their God. What I would give to have Caesar come to my house for an intervention, because that's what we need about now— not obedience lessons— a freakin' full-on intervention.

I believe that the "singer" Kesha is an abomination. This chick has a top 20 song called "Blah,
Blah, Blah". Seriously, that's what it's called. I won't even dignify this site with the lyrics, lyrics
that make Miley Cyrus's songs sound like Bob Dylan anthems. Truly some of the most awful shit
I've ever heard.  She was on American Idol last week and her singing abilities are as painful as the equivalent of pouring battery acid in my eardrums.

And speaking of The Obnoxious One, I believe that Miley Cyrus as a mentor on American Idol is like having Madonna teach acting class. Why?
I believe I may never see my hipbones again. 
I believe children are born without the ability to roll up the bag of open cereal, close the box of crackers, wrap up the loaf of bread or put the cap back on the milk. They seem to suddenly acquire this ability when they become the ones responsible for purchasing the said food products. 
I believe there should be a Senior Citizen Mingle at Costco every week—an hour where the store is only open to the oldsters, where they can dine on free samples and clog up all the aisles as they hover like vultures over the lady who is cooking the self-rising pizzas in her toaster oven, crowding that little food station in their quest for FREE PIZZA! FREE PIZZA! BY GOLLY! That way, I will not have to wade around traffic jams of blue-haired folks noshing cafeteria style on the free samples because they have NOTHING else to do with their day. I DO have other things to do with my day, too many of them and therefore I find this Costco phenomenon highly annoying. Every night I get on my knees and pray, "Dear God, please do not allow me to become a Costco Senior Citizen vulture, please."
I believe that Funfetti cake batter should be drunk like good wine. 
And speaking of wine, I believe that the drinking of Charles Krug Reserve Generations Wine might just be considered a sin. It's that decadent. Might want to hold that confessional door open, Padre.
And speaking of wine again, I believe that Healdsburg, California, a little town nestled in the midst of the wine country would be the perfect place to live . . . sooner than later.
I believe that I should be able to text my teen during school to say, "Where are my new brown wrap-around, to-die-for, heels? I know you wore them last night, so give it up—NOW, PUNK! And you're grounded for life if there is even a semblance of a scratch on them." Because, that sir, is an emergency. 
I believe that Oprah should never retire. Not that I watch her. I'd like to. I just forget. I forget about TV a lot. I just want to maximize my chances of hooking up with Bono and she's like BFF's with him. It's why I write letters begging her, complaining to her about my dismal world. She does nice things for people whose burdens are too heavy. I've told her, my dogs are crapping everywhere, my laundry defeats me on a daily basis, my kids are non-bread-wrapping Dung Beetles and my husband smacks entirely too much when he eats. But, unfortunately, she has not seen the plight of my ways . . . yet. I just need time, Oprah! Please, I'm begging you! DON'T RETIRE! I haven't worn you down yet.

Here is yet, another Face In The Hole creation made by my darling friend Mary. And for the record, I do not have boobs like that nor once again, do I have half a head. I have an entire head, just not on Face In The Hole.

I believe that Modern Family and Glee just might make me a TV watcher again.

I believe that tormenting one's children is not a right, but an obligation. Take for instance the time we were picking the Odawg up from high school. She was a freshman, so it was very, very important what the other trying-to-be-cool teens thought of her. That's why Julia hung a naked Barbie out the window as we pulled up to a teeming mass of straight-legged-jeaned kids and yelled, "Oliviaaaaa, your new Barbie came today!!"Oh, that was a good, belly-laughing kind of day. Not for Olivia, of course, but that's what makes it even sweeter.

I believe I'm sad Kanye West had to show his ass on national television and dump on sweet Taylor Swift. It was a different thing altogether when he was on live telethons spouting off, "George Bush hates black people." Then, he was just a lovable ass. I miss his dumb ass and his music.

I believe the demise of the band Toad and The Wet Sprocket was due to their putrid name. I believe Hoobastank will suffer the same fate. 
I believe my family will never say the word Fragile in its proper pronunciation again. I believe we will always say it like this:

I believe Kate Gosselin will never understand how much the world hates her. I believe she needs to go back to her jacked-up spiked what-the-hell-is-that do', her Chico clothes, her tyrannical mothering where she harped on her kids and maligned the boys and made them sit on their potty seats for hours until they made a doody while she let the cameras film their humiliation for national TV and molded Maddie into a little asshole exactly in her image. Be gone Harpie, out of our sight. The world has had all they can take of your shrieky 15 minutes. 

I believe that any woman who wears leggings as pants should be shown their reflection in a funhouse mirror. They should have their eyelids taped open and be forced to stare at their own crotch for days. A tortuous reminder of what they have exposed the rest of us to, because NO ONE WANTS TO SEE CROTCH. Get that through your head, Rihanna! They then need to be tied up and beaten to death by Stacey and Clinton with Louboutin stilettos.


I believe that Michael Buble's songwriters must reside in a nursing home.

I believe that it pains me physically to shop in Walmart. Between the sullen, fluorescent-red-haired Walmart greeting lady to the corral of broken-down carts that limp along, every last one of them, no matter how many times you make your kids go back and get another one, they're each and every one of them freakin' BROKEN,  to the shoppers whose cart driving abilities are demonstrative of their challenged IQ's to the cashiers who must get paid commission for the hours they can keep you there at their register as they scan your items in sloooowwww-motion—I leave there, close to stroke-out level every time.

I believe that if someone has more than 10 bumper stickers on their car that do not involve multiple children's honor rolls, they should probably not be operating a vehicle, but instead should be occupying a room in the nearest mental health facility, either that or shopping at Walmart.

I believe that Michael Vick should have been stripped naked, slathered in raw meat blood, tied to a post and left in the vengeful presence of the pit bulls he so brutally tortured.

I believe that I will never camp. Ever.
I believe that one of the finest moments in TV history was the final scene of Newhart when Bob wakes up in bed next to his wife Emily from his first TV series, declaring that he'd had this strange dream which of course, was his whole second series. Confusing and not worth explaining to those who don't know it. Pure genius to those who understand.  
I believe that I am hysterical over the fact that my middle girl said to me as we drove down the road yesterday, "I'm just one of those people you can see as a celebrity."
I believe that I'm tickled pink that my girls are confident in their beauty, their charm, their power, their talents. Yeah, I did that and nothing makes me more content. 
I believe that men cannot multi-task. Don't believe me? Give a man a baby to care for and watch how everything else slip into the abyss of neglect. 
I believe by the time our children are adults, talking will be obsolete. All communication will be done through texting and tweeting. 
I believe Joan Didion's "The Year Of Magical Thinking" is a book of such resonating splendor and poignancy that I will never, ever forget what lies in those pages and how deeply it impacted me and stripped me raw. A book of astounding heartbreak and discovery, it leads you down the path of grief Joan walked after losing her husband and only child both unexpectedly, in the same year. One of the best reads of my life. 
I believe that Sara Blakely, inventor of Spanx should have a monument in her honor with the inscription, "In dedication to Sarah who made 40-something women all over the world break free from their wardrobe of peasant blouses and shapeless shifts. And for that, the female race bows down to you." 
I believe that Johnny Depp is the best actor of our time and as an added bonus, he gives me premature hot flashes every time his swarthy, hot man self appears on the screen. And I just might attempt to make out with the movie screen one of these days, when he's up there doing that stellar acting of his.

I believe that the human race would be a happier one if we all had cruiser bicycles with tinkly bells and  wicker baskets stuffed with wildflowers and we all spared an hour of our day every day to just ride, ride like we did as kids without a care in the world, the weight of life lifted as we abandoned ourselves to the carefree. I also believe that the blowing of bubbles would also have the same effect.

I am Joann and I hold these truths to be self-evident. Got any of your own?

Today's Doo Ittt Download: I believe that under my alternative and punk and rock n roll girl exterior, I think the most beautiful song of all time is Henry Mancini's version of  "Moon River". Hands down. Extraordinary. It is silk against your skin. It is a wish for days gone by. It is the splendor of a blue-skied summer day. The simple verses and the wistful melody, the doleful harmonica and gorgeous violin,  Just. Utter. Perfection.

Two drifters, off to see the world
There’s such a lot of world to see
We’re after that same rainbow’s end, waitin’ ’round the bend
My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me

POSTSCRIPT: It was pointed out to me that this post was entirely too long. And it was. It probably still is. I have eliminated some of my beliefs from this post, but that doesn't mean they are gone from my heart. Grilled cheese and tomato soup ALWAYS make things a little better. 

I also wanted to clarify something I wrote about the book, "The Year Of Magical Thinking". Joan Didion's daughter died shortly AFTER the book was written. Throughout the book her daughter suffers through pneumonia, septic shock which then renders her into a coma. She fights a losing battle of illness throughout the book. Joan's story details her grief of the sudden loss of her husband and the shock, sorrow and worry she goes through with this unexpected critical illness of her daughter that eventually leads to her death. I was attempting to explain my love for the book while trying to remain brief. I guess those kind of freakish, awful events in one person's life can never be explained in a sentence. Thanks for the clarification, Reader.