Motivational Stickers and Scrabble Tales

I just walked a few miles around the neighborhood. My daily exercise. I have to either walk for 45 minutes or do my 45-minute-long DVD workout of abdominal exercises and light weight lifting for my chest and arms, every day.

 

Rare exceptions. I painted my kitchen recently, all by myself, for example. I let myself off the exercising hook that day. And I’m glad, because I still hurt from climbing up on the counters to reach the parts above the cabinets. Ouch, whined the old lady.

 

On the phone to my little sister recently, I was expressing my fervent desire to someday once again wear my all-time favorite pair of jeans, a little size 5/6 dream from Abercrombie & Fitch* I bought used at the Buffalo Exchange on La Brea in Los Angeles.

 

Perfect amount of wear. Low-waisted, but not so low I need a Brazilian wax to wear them in a non-obscene manner. Moderately boot-cut, without looking like they floated in on the bell-bottomed ass of a seventies time machine commuter. Best pair of jeans ever.

 

 My sister told me that she uses stickers for exercise motivation. Like, if she works out, she gets to put a sticker on the calendar that day. I laughed at her. I asked her if she was eight years old. Mocked her shamelessly.

 

So she did what every younger sister who has been mocked does, she gave me the finger and mailed me a sheet of happy, sparkly flower stickers with a note that said, “Put one of these on your calendar whenever you work out!” Smiley face.

 

So I tried it. And I’ll be damned if it doesn’t work. I want my stupid little sticker every day. I want that calendar to look like a happy fucking garden full of flower stickers, the likes of which I’ve never seen. I want it to explode with the flowery sticker expression of my motivation; a cheerful, floral testament to my determination and moxie.

 

I want my daily sticker.

 

Damn it. She was right.

 

I even got my husband doing it.

 

I gave him some “Good job!” motivational-type stickers I bought for our son, and he puts one next to my flower sticker when he works out. His have different wild animals on them.

 

A couple that regresses back to childhood together stays together, isn’t that how the old saying goes? Ahem.

 

 

I listened to The Breeders old Pod album today as I walked. The perfect pop drums and incredible dynamics on that record still blow me away to this day.

 

I decided that it’s a good thing that I got pregnant and left Los Angeles, because I probably would have ended up as an orange, leathery, weird old lady you might see walking down Hollywood Boulevard, air drumming along with my iPod.

 

I can’t get used to the fact that nobody else can hear the music to which I’m listening. I want to share the music, the feeling it gives me, and I forget that I’m the only one feeling it. I want to dance and nod my head, but I would look bat-shit crazy.

 

We have a treadmill for inclement weather, but I prefer to walk outside if I can. I like to leave things behind. We do this our whole lives, if you really think about it, so it makes sense that it feels so natural.

 

You’ve left everything behind you thus far.

 

You heartless bastard.

 

I’m just kidding. That’s just how the concept of “past” works. We’re constantly moving ahead into the future. I don’t really think you’re a heartless bastard.

 

Unless I dated you at some point. Then I reserve the right. (Somebody’s gotta keep this cross warm, damn it.)

 

 

 

I have been playing online Scrabble lately. The program allows you to have a conversation during the game. It makes it even more fun.

 

I try to use the word I’m putting down in a sentence, just to see what pops out. My favorite Scrabble conversation has been with my friend Brittaney. She told me I could share, so… the Scrabble word that was played has been italicized for your pleasure:

 

 

 

Tawni F: Tawni held Brittaney’s silky hair back while she projectile vomited vodka into the bushes outside of the club.

 

Brittaney P: While she could care less about Brittaney’s clothes, she *did* want to keep that silky hair tidy.

 

Tawni F: The club’s bouncer called the police on the two dicey looking girls out front, puking in the bushes while talking about silky hair.

 

Brittaney P: “I’m as pretty as them!,” she slurred through vodka-induced tears. “I can be a cheerleader, too! I can be a pretty cheerleader! RAH!!”

 

Tawni F: Brittaney and Tawni spent the rest of the evening making cool CD mixes of their favorite songs while they made fun of cheerleaders, ate pizza and drank more vodka.

 

Brittaney P: The vodka was clearly a bad idea, as not an hour later, cries of “Don’t encage me!” were heard through the windows of Tawni’s dark attic.

 

Tawni F: Brittaney and Tawni had to bemoan their love of vodka as they surveyed the wrecked house and broken attic windows through which something large had escaped.

 

Brittaney P: That something was a robot. A *drunk* robot.

 

Tawni F: The drunk robot must have been very quiet as he escaped from the attic. Or maybe Brittaney and Tawni were just passed out from the vodka. Yeah, it was probably that.

 

Brittaney P: Or it was the pot. The girls had been taking hit after hit from the bong since 4:00 that day. A possible reason they missed the ado….

 

Tawni F: The girls decided to equip the cage in the attic with a security alarm so they wouldn’t doze through another robot escape.

 

Brittaney P: Brittaney had zero faith in their ability to construct said alarm in the state they were in.

 

Tawni F:  Tawni said “Faith? Wait… what?” and began to doze. The robots win again.

 

Brittaney P: And with that, Brittaney put her favorite Slayer album in the tape deck!

 

Tawni F:  The delightful sounds of Slayer woke Tawni up, so she and Brittaney began rocking on all fronts with the robot. Turns out, it was a ROCK robot!

 

Brittaney P: The vodka-induced hallucinations wore off. When Britt saw the ad for raspberry Stoli on tv she remarked to Tawn, “Aw hell no, I gots to wean myself off this shit!”

 

Tawni F:  Tawni was vying for Britt’s attention as she drooled at the raspberry Stoli ad. “I am not holding up your silky hair while you puke this time if you leave me for raspberry-flavored vodka!” she shrilled at her friend Brittaney. Brittaney and the rock robot covered their ears and winced at Tawni.

 

Brittaney P: Turns out, Britt was wincing because the rock robot had accidentally pinched her labia trying out one of its new “rock moves.”

 

Tawni F:  Tawni was no juror, so she tried not to judge Brittaney or the rock robot for the creepy “labia dance” they seemed to be performing for her entertainment.

 

Brittaney P: “Fava beans,” she exclaimed. “What are you, Silence of the Freaking Lambs, Rock Robot??”

 

Tawni F:  It took all of Tawni’s guile to escape the liver-hungry Rock Robot.

 

 

********

 

 

See? Isn’t that so much more fun than normal Scrabble? You get a bizarre story to go with your Scrabble game. Sweet.

 

 

 

I hope you’re having a beautiful week, my friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* Also known as “Ambercroombie and Flitch” if you are cool enough: http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/blisti/2009/03/youre-so-cool/#more-12593

Grocery Store Martyrs and Love Removal Machines (From MySpace)

 

 

I just dropped the boy off at preschool. He goes two days a week. It’s called a Mother’s Day Out program at the church. I usually call it “Oh My God Is It Tuesday Or Thursday Yet?”

 I live for those two little chunks of Me Time. I’ve tiled and grouted a kitchen sink backsplash in the last week. Next I’m going to paint another wall blue. Go me.

 

Today I stopped at the grocery store for a few things on the way home. A whiny fit-free shopping experience is the height of my pleasure these days.

(What? I can take my time and read ingredients and not spend the trip wrestling things from my toddler before he drops them on the floor? I am living in the lap of luxury. Lap of luxury, I tell you!)

When he was younger and I was more of a rookie, he once dropped an entire carton of eggs on the grocery store floor. I was looking at nuts. (Looking at nuts! AHHAHA. Heh. Ahem.) Reading the cans. I wanted unsalted. As usual, the healthier version of anything existing in the Midwest was proving elusive.

I heard the whump of the Styrofoam container hitting the ground, with the thick, wet crackle of eggs breaking. Shit.

“Uh-oh Mommy,” he said in his cute little elfin voice. “I dwopped the eggs!”

 

Yes. Mommy is painfully aware that you dwopped the eggs. Thanks.

 

I have worked in a grocery store and never understood people who just run away from spills, leaving them for other unsuspecting customers to roll their carts through. It spreads the mess everywhere and irritates the employee stuck cleaning it all up. 

 

(As that employee, when you hear the sickening crash of a product hitting the floor somewhere in the grocery store, you just pray for solid. Something dry. Or maybe you just think: “Not syrup, not syrup, not syrup, please not syrup…”)

 

So I rushed to the front of the store and spotted an employee, asked her if she could get me some paper towels. I was happy to clean it up myself.

 

She rolled her eyes, grabbed the roll of paper towels and huffed over to the egg mess with me. My son was trying to say hi and introduce himself in the rabidly friendly way he greets all strangers, much to my shy dismay. She completely ignored him.

 

“Hi, I’m Miles! What’s your name? I’m two!” he chirped, holding up two fingers in a desperate attempt to engage this new person who wouldn’t even look at him.

 

(This is a huge pet peeve of mine. If a two-year-old is saying hi to you, is it so fucking hard to say hi back, maybe even smile? I know that all children are going to eventually learn that the world isn’t always a friendly place, and everybody isn’t always happy, but how about not at two? How about you give the two-year-olds a few more years of bliss before you slap them in their innocent little faces with your jaded asshole demeanor, you grumpy bastards? Is that so much to ask?)

 

She continued to ignore my sweet kid, while acting completely stressed out, telling me that she was supposed to be on the way to her lunch break right now. Total bitchy guilt trip. Like she’s never dropped anything.

 

I told her to just give me the towels; I really didn’t mind cleaning it up.

 

“Go eat your lunch. I can clean it up. I don’t mind at all,” I said. 

 

She implied with a put-upon look and a dismissive hand gesture that I wouldn’t be able to do it right, and continued with the wiping and heavy sighing. She seemed to really be missing her cross and crown of thorns that day.

 

She made me wish I’d been the asshole who just left the mess on the floor and walked away.

 

 

As the employee, I was always the opposite with clumsy customers. I would say things to make them feel better, like “Oh, everybody drops things, it’s no big deal, happens all the time.” I’d also tell them we really appreciated that they told someone about the spill so we could clean it up quickly. I’m all about the positive reinforcement. 

 

My first instinct is always to make anyone uncomfortable feel better, so people who seem to enjoy the embarrassment or unhappiness of others completely freak me out. For this reason, in the face of poor treatment, I never react the way I later wish I had. My brain can’t even process it. The behavior is just that foreign to me. I’m bewildered. Dumbstruck.

 

My husband is the opposite. He’s lightning fast and super smooth. He’s very outgoing, with a drama degree and years of audition and improv experience. Quick-thinking. I completely covet this quality. 

 

It’s pretty amazing to watch as he processes the rude behavior, gets angry at them for acting like a jerk, and comes up with the best witty comeback possible, which he delivers perfectly every time. Oh, how I love to live through him.

 

There’s a Seinfeld where George Costanza comes up with what he thinks is the perfect response to a rude comment long after the moment is over, that response being: “Oh yeah? Well, the Jerk Store called, and they’re all out of YOU!” 

 

So sometimes I have this Costanza Moment, because, like George, I never think up the good response in time.

 

I seethe later, of course, once I am no longer in my shocked stupor, and it hits me that someone was mean to me. We’ll even mockingly quote the Jerk Store line in my honor. But my husband never has a Costanza Moment. It’s impressive.

 

 

Driving home from the grocery store, the Cult came on my iPod. I like the Cult. Their song Love Removal Machine came on and I remembered that one of the first bands I was in (The Glitter Kicks) covered it. I had forgotten.

 

We were an original band, but we worked up a cover song every once in a while for fun. 867-5309/Jenny by Tommy Tutone. Voices Carry by ‘Til Tuesday. Roxanne by the Police. The Wait by the Pretenders. There was talk of Fugazi’s Waiting Room, but that never came to fruition. Would have been cool.

 

We played Love Removal Machine for the first time live at a weird show we’d booked in which we were the only pop band in a line-up of metal bands.

 

Two really hard, loud metal bands played; then it was our turn. We were nervous.

 

The crowd was dressed in black, lots of long hair, and we were pretty sure our band would not receive a warm reception. We started the set, and were correct in that assumption. Then we pulled out Love Removal Machine. 

 

I watched angry faces light up in recognition. Yeahs were yelled. Fists were pumped. The crowd sang along with me. We had them, if only for a moment.

 

Because it wasn’t a movie, I didn’t get carried across the bar in a celebratory crowd surf, as the worlds of melody and metal came together in a loving musical hug or anything like that. I’m sure they still thought we were a flimsy pop rock band. But it seemed like the animosity was gone after that.

 

Whew. Thank you, ironically named Cult song.

 

 

I’m going to go work out now while I have the chance, maybe paint a wall or organize something. It’s an exciting life I lead, I know. Don’t be jealous. Don’t be a hater. Just go ahead and have a beautiful day anyhow, my friends.

 

 

Sleep Disorders, Spring Break, Spiders, Spooky Fish and Invisible Skin (from MySpace)

 

I wake up somewhere between five and six naturally. But lately, I have been sleeping exceptionally poorly.

My body has drifted into a ritual of going to sleep around ten p.m. and waking up around one a.m. I usually lie in the dark with a racing mind until sometime past four.

I have an ever-present stack of books next to my bed; I’ve never known it any other way. After an hour of desperately trying to lead my brain to a happy place that will allow it to drift back into the realm of unconscious, I usually give up and read a book until I feel sleepy again.

The distraction of crawling into someone else’s brain is the only one that ever truly gives me a break from my own. The real reason I love to read is revealed. The audience gasps.

The biggest suck is that the boy child wakes up between six and seven every day, like clockwork. No chance to play catch up. The sleep is lost to me forever, and the dark circles under my eyes aren’t temporary anymore.

I’m going to try melatonin. Has anyone tried it? Does it work for you?

I’m terrified of Ambien and Lunesta. I’ve heard they make people hallucinate and do weird things. And I do not need to take up the hobby of sleep eating at this point in my metabolic life. I’m depressingly excited to have finally lost enough pregnancy weight to squeeze back into what were my pre-baby “fat pants.”  

 

Speaking of pants, this morning I got out of bed and pulled on my pants, because I sleep naked. Always have. (Stop trying. You really want to make that into a sexy mental image, but you can’t get the aforementioned “fat pants” out of your head. It’s okay; you’re only human.)

I grabbed my shirt and stumbled into the kitchen to pour what Dolly Parton, that wonderful lady, would dub my cup of ambition.

My husband was putting on his jacket and getting ready to leave for work. He said, “Hello Topless,” in a lascivious voice.

Always prepared for the acquisition of new beads, I jokingly swung the shirt I was holding around over my head, and said “Wooooo!” in my best bimbo imitation.

Then my sternum bones popped. Crack!

My husband exclaimed, “Yeah! Spring Break!” and pointed at my chest mockingly. So much for my young slutty chick imitation.

Getting old really sucks sometimes. But at least we both had a good laugh over how disgusting my creaky old body has become. Ahhahahahaha, I’m all gross inside. It’s hilarious.

So you know, there’s that.

But it’s okay. We make fun of him too. He’s spending Spring Break in Texas with his best high school buddies this year.

So in his mocking, we imitate him like this:

“Wooooo! Spring Break! Show us your… two-for-one appetizer specials!”

(Because they’re a bunch of thirty-something guys, more interested in food than topless girls.)

(Get it?)

(I’m funny, damn it.)

 

The first time my bony chest plate popped, I was living in Los Angeles. I was dating a guitar player I’d met when our bands played a show together.

I had spent the night at his house. It was morning. Early stages of the relationship, so I still cared what he thought of me. Nobody’s going to cut a fart in front of the other or anything.

I stretched and it cracked loudly, like a giant knuckle over my heart.

I froze, and said to this guy, “Oh my god. That’s never happened before. I think my sternum just popped!”

“Eww. I think I’m gonna puke,” he replied, wrinkling his nose.

I’m so hot. 

Ever since then, it occasionally pops. I feel like my entire frame is out of adjustment, especially since I carried the gigantic nine-pound-plus child around in my guts for months.

Can chiropractors work on the front of a skeletal system? Or is that just called sexual harassment?

In other disturbing health news, I think I might have caught the spider that was biting my toes as I slept.

I don’t think the spider had, like, a hunger for human toes. I think I probably moved in my sleep while he was hanging out at the end of my bed after crawling up from underneath.

It bit me. That means it touched me. Yuck.

I spent over a week with a painful, tingling, purplish-red circle on the end of my big toe.

I thought maybe I’d bumped it vigorously treadmill-ing or something until I got a few more bites on other toes. (If you think “treadmill injury” sounds hokey, you have not witnessed my level of Clumsy. Just trust me on this one.)

I washed all the bedding in hot water, but I do this weekly anyhow. (Just one of those shows about dust mites living in our eyebrows. That’s all it took to push me over the edge into OCD-land, in case you’re wondering.)

I sprayed Lysol all around the edges and under the bed. I am aware that the influenza virus wasn’t biting my toes, but it was the most toxic thing we had.

Still, another bite happened.

Then one day I walked quickly into our bedroom to grab something, and a large black fuzzy creature sprung out of my line of sight, under a magazine next to the bed.

The spider. The little fucker who has been biting me! I thought.

I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a yogurt container I’d washed in preparation for starting garden seedlings. It was now a spider containment device. Voila.

I caught the spider and identified it as Phidippus audax, also known as the Bold or Daring Jumping Spider. The most common biting spider in the United States.

It was as big around as a quarter. All the pictures I took of it don’t do it justice, so I found one online.

It looked exactly like this:

..

http://dermatology.cdlib.org/DOJvol3num2/centerfold/phidippus.html….

It had white dots on its back and cool iridescent green fangs, just like the picture. It’s not the first one of its kind I’ve found in our house.


We live out in the sticks, in a newly developed neighborhood. There are fields all around us and a golf course on another side, so we have a rabbit and mouse problem. We hear coyotes howling at night. Hawks circle overhead for the easy pickings. I occasionally look out my window and see owls sitting on our back fence.  

We even have grasshopper mice out here, the kind that howl like coyotes on helium. I’ve blogged about it before.

My husband snores, so we rarely sleep together. He was awakened on the couch a few times by the tiny high-pitched howls of what sounded like hundreds of grasshopper mice out back. Eerie. It gave him the willies.

Years ago, I watched an animal show about grasshopper mice. They hunt insects and howl; carnivorous mice. When they howl, I think it is quite possibly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve always remembered it.

I found a video of grasshopper mice howling online and he agreed that the howls he’d heard sounded similar.

So cute:

Can also be viewed at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LkY1vzt6xRA


I later visually identified them in our backyard. The white stomachs; the extra-long tails. Grasshopper mice. They are indigenous to this area, so I don’t know why I was surprised. I guess I was just shocked to have the mice I remembered from that animal program I watched years ago, right here in my backyard.

This has apparently degraded into an animal blog. Sorry. It happens. I’ll go ahead and embrace my biology geek in front of you now. If you accidentally thought I was cool, you might want to look away now. 

I have been an animal nerd most of my life, checking out all of the animal books I could find at the library when I was a kid, and poring over them for hours.

I’m still fascinated by the mind-blowing variety of creatures with which/whom we share the planet. So I’ll go ahead and share the cool fish footage I found.

Macropinna microstoma, commonly known as the “barreleye” or “spookfish:


….

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/unleashed/2009/02/barreleye-fish.html

Freaky, right? I think I would shit my scuba suit if one of those swam past me.

“Yes, students, scuba is an acronym for: self-contained underwater… bleeding asshole! What the fuck was THAT?”

Can you believe something like this exists?

What if there were humans who had transparent heads, allowing you to see their brains and inner head workings?

How is nature able to create invisible skin like this?

There is a glass-winged butterfly with wings you can see through as well. Did you know this?

Look:



I want clear wings you can see through. No fair. 

 

Okay, you’ve seen through enough of my geek for today.

My not-so-invisible nerd. 



I hope you have a fascinating week, my friends. 

The Hymen is a Lonely Hunter

There was blood everywhere.

The pillows piled haphazardly on the floor of his bedroom were covered with it.

I was fourteen, he was eighteen. My virginity was yesterday’s news.

Before you wince at the age difference, let me say that I looked much older. I was one of those little girls who bled at eleven, boobies soon to follow.

(The sixth grade girls had already formed bitchy little cliques. One snidely took me aside to recommend I buy my first bra, with a sniff of disdain. I was still eleven in my brain, so I had no idea I was actually a braless harlot, slutting up the hallways of our middle school. I’m glad they set me straight.)

As soon as I realized the power those two ridiculous mounds of blossoming chest flesh yielded over the opposite sex, my days of climbing trees and tomboy goings-on were over. I had new grown-up games to play. 

Like seducing my older sister’s boyfriend’s best friend.

He fought my Lolita stylings valiantly. It took an entire school year to get him to see things my way. Impressive restraint for one so young.

 

But he never really had a chance. I had chosen the one who would be my first.

 

The boy who was voted Best Looking by his class. His family had money; he drove a nice car and wore the latest clothes. He was casual; never flashy. Blonde hair, blue eyes. I held my breath every time he passed me in the halls.

 

And me. The weird girl who dyed her already goofy red hair funny colors and dressed in poor kid clothing. I was voted Best Dancer and Most Revolutionary by my class, which were both just polite ways of telling me I was a bit odd.  He was completely out of my league, but I was a determined young lady.

 

My sister let me tag along on outings, his best friend brought him, and there we were. Together again and again. Just as friends at first, slowly becoming more. I sort of wore him down with the idea of me.

 

It happened over my freshman year of high school, which was his senior year, culminating in bright red splashes on his floor pillows that summer.

 

I couldn’t believe all the blood. His room looked like an abattoir for the slaughter of my innocence.

 

Yet I could believe it, because it hurt so much. I tried to push him off, mid-thirty-seconds-of-heaven, but he was too heavy and preoccupied with deflowering me. It was over before I knew it anyway. 

 

The room was dark, with some sort of classic rock music playing, but I could still see all the blood. Black-red shadows within purple shadows on the pillows and blankets.

 

I was beyond embarrassed and excused myself to the bathroom to clean up. I fashioned a pad out of rolled up toilet paper and bled all the way home, excited to have relieved myself of the burden of my virginity.

 

We didn’t have sex again that summer. A few days later, I moved to Phoenix to see if living with my biological father might be less unpleasant than living with my mom and stepfather. My first sex moved to Colorado to attend UNC.

 

We talked on the phone for hours. We wrote twice-weekly letters. We got to know each other in the way we really should have before we were physically intimate. He invited me to fly to Colorado to go skiing with his family that Christmas break and I eagerly agreed.

 

Copper Mountain. We stayed at a beautiful lodge. He let me spend the money to fly from Phoenix to Colorado, and broke up with me there.

 

He had met a girl at college. Her name was Gina. His father was a millionaire, so he didn’t understand that I would rather not have spent my own money to fly in for a break up.

 

After asking me to follow him there to “talk,” he ended our relationship in his car. It took me a minute to realize he actually wanted to talk, that it wasn’t a creative ruse for make-out privacy away from his family. Oh. Oh no.

 

He played that Who song, Behind Blue Eyes, after solemnly telling me, “This sums up the way I feel perfectly.” I remember listening to the self-piteous lyrics about how no one knows what it’s like to be the bad man, to be the sad man, behind blue eyes, and thinking, Am I supposed to feel sorry for you, you fucking asshole? Really?  

 

I still get angry when I hear that song.

 

He tried to have sex with me in a hot tub a few hours before he dumped me. Luckily, someone walked into the previously empty recreational building, making it too risky.

 

I spent the rest of the trip hanging out with his little sister, who was, fortunately for me, an awesome girl. She made the trip almost fun, despite the fact that my heart was breaking and her brother was now avoiding me.

 

She snuck into his room while he was out skiing and got a picture of Gina from his suitcase to show me, trying to make me feel better about everything. It did. 

 

Gina was not attractive, and was nearly my physical opposite—dark hair, short, squatty, with a huge gap between her front teeth into which one might fit another tooth. She said Gina also had a lisp that she worked on correcting with speech therapists weekly. I was still crushed, but at least I didn’t lose the guy to a supermodel. It helped.

 

I got very depressed after that, and my straight A grades went to straight C marks. It triggered a downward spiral for me, from smart kid to rebellious degenerate. I stopped lifting weights, running and taking good care of myself, and started drinking, skipping classes, and sleeping around with anyone in the vicinity of a bottle of booze.

 

In my head I was getting back at him, forgetting him by losing myself in other boys. I was too young to realize that I was only hurting myself with the destructive behavior.

 

The second time I had sex was at a party. I was a sophomore now and drunk, of course.

 

I knew him from around school. The poor guy didn’t know he was my second time. I bled again because it had been nearly a year since the first and last time. He completely freaked out and felt bad, even though I reassured him that it meant nothing to me.

 

He avoided me at school after that. He stunk excessively of Polo cologne (he even kept a bottle in his locker for touch-ups) and had crunchy, over-gelled hair, so I wasn’t too torn up over the loss. Nobody was getting near enough to my heart to take a swipe at it again anyhow. Not even close.

 

At one party, somebody had a bottle of Southern Comfort that they were passing around. I am a lightweight in every way with every substance, and eventually learned to stick with beer and wine, but this was before I’d figured that out.

 

I chugged the So-Co, and the last thing I remember is leaving the house to go for a walk in a drunken haze. They said I came back to the party later, covered in blood, mud and puke, and it was a miracle that I even made it back.

 

My girlfriends undressed me and put my clothes in the washer and dryer, so that I would be able to go home to my parents after the party, leaving me passed out in a pile of dirty laundry.

 

A friend told me later she’d overheard a group of guys at the party talking about how I was “completely wasted in the garage and alone…” Heavy on the dot-dot-dot and nudge, nudge, implying that they were thinking about taking advantage of me.

 

There was a guy named Scott nearby that I had one class with in school. My friend said he stepped up and said, “If anyone touches Tawni, I will kick their ass,” and obviously meant it. They left me alone.

 

I thanked Scott in class after I heard about it, but I have always wished I could thank him again as an adult. I am so grateful for his bravery. I could have had one more date rape memory under my belt, one more reason to feel disappointed in human beings, and instead a teenaged boy showed enough strength of character to give me the best two things a person can give another: kindness and hope. I still send “I wish you a wonderful life” thoughts his way from time to time, just in case it matters.

 

Now that I have a son, I only pray that I raise the good, decent person who steps up and defends some lost girl’s honor like that. 

 

Years later, my first love was out of college, home from Colorado, and we ran into each other. Lisping Gina had not worked out. We went on a few dates and the connection was still there.

 

I slept with him again. I didn’t bleed this time. I guess I was finally empty.

 

He soon told me he was falling for me; that he wanted to take our relationship to the next level.

 

And I dumped him.

 

It wasn’t very nice of me, but I like to think he kind of had it coming. 

 

 

 

Open Letters, January 2009

 
 
 
Dear Truck Driving Lady,

You came roaring up the on-ramp and shot wildly across the four lanes of traffic, only to settle into the far left lane and slow down to 5 under the 65 MPH speed limit. I am still wondering why you did this. It was really weird. Was someone chasing you? Are you just really stupid?

Seriously, what was that all about?

In case you are wondering, I was driving one of the cars you narrowly avoided sideswiping, only because I noticed your erratic movement and anticipated your trajectory of vehicular insanity. I slowed from the 73 MPH I was doing in a middle lane and stayed back until you completed your pointlessly dangerous maneuver.

You’re welcome,

 

Tawni 

 
********

 
Dear Truck Driving Man,

Just because you throw garbage in the back of your truck while it is parked, thereby forcing the highway winds to suck it out as you speed along, piece by wretched, flapping-back-to-smack-my-car’s-windshield piece, it does not absolve you of the crime. You’re still littering.

Dickhead.
 

You’re trash,

 

Tawni

 
********

 
Dear Other Drivers,

Please pull up into the empty twenty feet of space you are leaving in front of your car as you sit, waiting for the light to turn green. You’re totally freaking me out.

It is not only weird to leave this big space in front of your car; it is inconsiderate to the cars further down the line behind you. They might not make the light once it turns green because you inexplicably decided you needed to keep a football field’s length between you and the next car.

More than being angry at you for being rude, I am perplexed to the point of bewilderment by your strange behavior.

If I am waiting next to you in the left turning lane as you sit in the straight lane, I sometimes stare at you, then at the large gap of space you aren’t pulling into, then back at you. Sometimes I hold up my hands in a questioning manner. This is my way of trying to say: “What the fuck?”

(I thought that I should probably explain that to you, since you are obviously oblivious to the most kindergartenly, bare basics of concepts, such as forming a line.)

The next time you leave a huge space in front of your car, I am going to get out of my own car, leap spastically into the giant space you are not pulling up into with your vehicle, and dance around like a maniac. I might also simulate swimming around in the large area in front of your car before I flip you off, and get back into my car before the light turns green.

My husband thinks I should pretend to parallel park a car into the space in front of your car. That’s pretty funny; I might go with that one. I haven’t yet decided. I’ll surprise you.
 

Curmudgeonly yours,

 

Tawni
 

********

Dear Spider,

Stop biting my fucking toes while I am sleeping. You’re really starting to piss me off. I’m tired of limping around like an old lady because my toes are hurting and tingling where you have bitten me. I am afraid to sleep in my own bed, you arachnid bastard.

I washed the bedding and sprayed Lysol around and under the bed, hoping to deter you from crawling on me as I sleep. I am neurotic enough to be afraid of exterminators and the carcinogenic Mist of Certain Death they bear, but I will be forced to call one and bomb the shit out of your stupid stinking spider world if you do not desist.

We have had many health issues since moving to Oklahoma, and your toe biting has further cemented my belief that this state is a festering boil on the ass of America. Please, I beg of you. Give me a fucking break.

I know you probably don’t understand what I’m saying, because you are a fucking spider, and your biggest daily dilemma is flies versus toes for dinner, but I’m going to say it one more time; you’d better choose the flies next time, or I will choose YOU. For bug spray death.

Stop it. My toes hurt. Asshole.
 

Charlotte dies at the end of the book,

 

Tawni  
 

********

Dear Gray Hairs,

You stayed away for 37 years. Why are you happening now? Why don’t you try to set some sort of “gray resistance” hair record and shoot for an even 40? I know I would be impressed. Everyone needs goals, right? See you in a few years?

Dare to dream,

Tawni
 

********

 
Dear Triple Paste Diaper Cream,

I lied.

I took advantage of your kindness. I saw the Money Back Guarantee written on the side of your stately tub, and I saw dollar signs.

 

You worked okay on my kid’s ass, but come on, not 30 dollars great. You cost $32.79 with tax. That is a lot of money to people who haven’t been able to buy groceries for two weeks straight and have been eating the odd cans of old food languishing in the back of the pantry.

In short: My son had garbanzo beans and a dusty can of pineapple for dinner last night. So thanks for the refund.

Apologetically,

Tawni
 

********

 

 
Dear Trashy Neighbors,

Thank you for inviting my son and me to your child’s birthday party. The water slide was really fun for the kids. Great idea.

I noticed all of the men drinking beers, so when you offered me a drink, assuming I’d drink kiddie punch with the other mothers, I chose beer. I hope you don’t think less of me for this, but I felt like you did.

As I drank the forbidden Female Beer, I felt the disapproving stares of the women. I hope you ladies didn’t mind my display of Fuck the Boys Club, but I don’t have much patience for gender stereotypes and the ensuing judgments of the holier-than-thou crowd.

Father of the birthday girl: When you said to me, “We should party sometime,” I had a hard time not laughing at you. Are we teenagers in the seventies or something? Is your daughter’s birthday party theme Dazed and Confused? Are we going to smoke a doob behind the bouncy house? Was it the beer thing that made you think I want to “party” with you? I mean really—who says things like that?

Mother of the birthday girl: Your husband is gross. And I am tired of listening to your arguments as to why I should spank my son, while my well-behaved child who has never been hit in his life is shoved around by your horribly-behaved, constantly-beaten children. Hey, here’s a little clue: It’s not working. Your children don’t respect you—they fucking hate you. By hitting them constantly, you’ve completely desensitized them to all discipline. In stoner terms, for your husband; you started with the discipline knob on 11, and you have nowhere to go but up (i.e. more violence). 

When your creepy husband leeringly told me I needed to “smack that ass” when I mentioned that my son doesn’t take naps, not only did I know that you two have discussed my non-spanking beliefs, but I was completely grossed out by the way your icky husband said “smack that ass.” Sexual innuendos and children do not mix. Learn it, live it.

Also: When you hit your 3-year-old daughter in the head like that, I want to steal her away from you forever. She’s a sweet little kid and I hope she puts you in a nursing home that smells like cat piss someday for all of the times you’ve smacked her around.

In short: I think you are fucking carnie freaks and I am never coming to another birthday party or play date at your house again.

Honestly,

Tawni 

P.S. You sent me a link to your family blog and I do read it, but only to make fun of your atrocious spelling and grammar blunders. And when you listed “shoot my first buck” as one of your New Year’s Resolutions, I nearly peed myself laughing.
 

 
********
 

Dear Son,

When you and I were driving in the car to preschool this morning and you correctly identified the band playing as Superdrag, my heart swelled with pride.

When you told me to turn up the Subways and then sang along to their song Rock and Roll Queen without missing a lyric, my pride-swelled heart nearly exploded.

You just turned 3 yesterday, little dude, and you’re already a rocker. You are going to be so much cooler than your nerdy mom ever dreamed of being. If you want a drum set or a guitar, you got it, kiddo. I support you. 

Also, as long as we’re talking, if you could stop dramatically screaming “IT’S A RED LIGHT!! RED MEANS STOP!! STOP, MOMMY! STOP!!” at every red light, I would really appreciate that. It’s a bit unsettling.

Love you,

 

Mommy
 

 

Something Shimmering and White

 

It was one of those transitional periods on the Timeline of Me. I was unhappily exploring the post-divorce state of flux through which 60% of all married people must statistically travel. Unoriginally as the thousands of country music songs on the subject might imply, I was using alcohol as my navigational system.

Having failed at what trendy writers would flippantly dub my starter marriage, I was looking for something; the next good thing. I didn’t really know what it was yet, so I hoped I’d know it when I found it, and wouldn’t be too drunk to say hello.

There was a party house in our smaller college town that my friends and I often called home. It was one of those lovely, interesting-but-crumbling Victorians with high ceilings and windows full of old glass that seemed thicker at the bottom, like time had melted over the view of the past.

The homeowner was an older musician with a free spirit and a lot of weed. There was a steady river of alcohol moving through the house, along with the streams of young, searching girls, trying to find themselves by getting lost. In simpler words; I fit in perfectly.

On this night, a large group of us had watched a touring band play their music at a local bar. The band came back to the party house with us to drink and be merry. Cigarettes were smoked, music was turned up, neighbors were tolerant. I found myself sitting in a corner with the guitar player of the band, drinking beer and effortlessly talking. We were clicking as intellectually as slobbering drunks might click, and he seemed like a really nice guy.

While we chatted, we got on the subject of music. He asked me if I liked a band called The Church, and agreed when I enthusiastically told him that their song Under the Milky Way was one of the top ten songs ever. It is a wistful, moody, gorgeous song that I still love to this day.

This was mentioned in passing, one topic in a series of many, and we didn’t dwell. Conversation moved onward, and soon, he did too. Someone joined our discussion, and under the guise of getting another beer, the guitar player I’d been talking with left the party. His sudden disappearance registered briefly, but I kept drinking, and like most coherent thoughts, the event was washed away in the tide of alcohol.

The party wound down. The owner of the house had extra beds, and being in no shape to drive, I was offered one. I gratefully accepted and stumbled to the spare room.

I had just settled under the covers to pass out when I heard a knock at the door. I sleepily asked who was there as the guitar player from earlier poked his head in the room. He was holding an acoustic guitar and asked to come in. I said that would be okay, and he walked in, sitting down on the edge of my bed. I sat up against my pillow, the wall behind me nobly bearing my beer-relaxed muscles and hothouse flower demeanor.

It was one of those very moonlit nights when the world feels like daytime soaked in honey, and I could see his face clearly. He noticed my curious glance at the acoustic guitar and explained that after we talked, he had gone to the band van and learned a song for me. I somewhat numbly took in what he was saying, not really comprehending what was happening. He stopped talking and started playing the guitar softly.

“Sometimes when this place gets kind of empty, sound of their breath fades with the light, I think about the loveless fascination, under the Milky Way tonight,” he sang quietly.

It was the song I had mentioned earlier; the pretty song I loved by The Church—now a lullaby for a lonely, drunken girl. The lyrics couldn’t have been more appropriate for me at that place in time; feeling small, meaningless and alone as one does standing under an endless night sky, wishing I knew what I was looking for, like the chorus repeated.

The subtle performance was a heart-wrenching and earnest aural hug. It didn’t feel like a flashy musician’s attempt to dazzle his way into my pants, it felt like an offering; like a little, hopeful flicker of candle light to hold inside when I was feeling dark.

After he finished, I slurred that it was absolutely beautiful. He smiled, tucked me back under the covers and told me to sleep well. He then left the room without attempting so much as a goodnight kiss, preserving the moment as something I would always remember fondly, rather than becoming just another groping stranger I would try to forget.

The next day we all woke up hung-over and rumpled to have coffee, with the friendly morning banter of people bonded through vices of the night before. Before the guitar player got in the band van to drive to the next town on tour, he handed me a CD of his band’s music. We hugged in silence, and they drove away.

I later opened the CD to find he’d written a message. It said, “You have the most amazing aura I’ve ever seen.” It made me cry, because at that point in my young, dysfunctional life, I couldn’t believe someone would say something so sweet to me without ulterior motive; with nothing to gain.

He had achieved the nearly impossible; he’d made a sad, insecure girl feel special and appreciated as a human being. This stranger I’d known one night had managed to do something more romantic, thoughtful and selfless than the guy I was drinking to forget had ever done in the years we were together.

I have kept the CD as a reminder of the worthiness of my soul all these years, occasionally pulling it out during moves to open, read, and carefully pack into my nostalgic belongings. I never spoke to the guitar player who gave it to me again, but when I think about that night, I smile, and sincerely hope he has had a wonderful life.

 

 

*The video for Under the Milky Way, by The Church can be viewed at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZNhR-PrTAFE

Take Me Down to Parentheses City (Or: College Football, Beer and Cheerleader Sex)

My husband David and I left our son with his beloved grandparents yesterday, and made the road trip to Norman, Oklahoma to watch OU play Texas Tech. The husband graduated from OU, so Boomer Sooner! is oft-chanted around these parts.

We got to walk around his old college stomping grounds. He was awash in nostalgia but kept his promise to not tell me about every sandwich he ate with whom at this place and that, like he does since we moved from Los Angeles.

(We now reside in his home town, and because he grew up here, he has memories. Oh, so many memories. After about six months of, “And that used to be a field,” I found myself sarcastically thinking, “Okay, Grandpa Dave. A lot has changed and you did a lot of different things here way back when. I get it.” It has become a personal joke of ours—he starts talking about some experience from twenty-plus years before, and this is my cue to mock him with some sort of, “And then you ate a sandwich right there, under that tree, with your old friends Dick Tickle and Randy McNuttlicker,” type of comment.) (He doesn’t regret marrying a smart-ass. Not at all.) (No, really.) 

The campus was swarming with people carrying beers; anticipation and cigarette smoke filled the air. This was a huge game, as undefeated Texas Tech was number two, and beating them would no doubt raise number five OU in the college football rankings. A victory would be very, very good.

It was really crowded, and after receiving about five shoulder bumps from strangers, I made it clear to David that I would really like to have one of those bottles of tranquilizer everyone seemed to be holding, please. I’m high-strung (you say neurotic, I say tomato… juice with vodka, damn it) and a bit jumpy, so I don’t do well in large gatherings.

To satisfy my thirst for liquid courage, we stopped at Brothers, a bar my husband frequented in college. It was a dark little place with drawing paper on every table, artwork crafted by past students attached to the yellowed ceiling tiles. The one above us was drawn by some military fellows and featured Gumby riding a missile with a poem about getting that bad guy Khadafi. (If I were a journalistic type living in that city, I would love to write an article about how the artwork in that place documents our culture since the bar’s inception, maybe with accompanying photos of the ceiling tiles in a timeline format. Wouldn’t that be cool? But I digress.)

There were also collages all over the walls featuring thousands of tiny photographed drunken twenty-something faces. My husband pointed to an area by some booths and said, “The picture of my friend and I is over there somewhere,” and I showed amazing restraint, refraining from making my tired sandwich-eating joke. We briefly contemplated walking over to ask the people in the crowded booths if we could look for my husband in the pictures, but decided not to be those people. He went to the bar and bought a shirt instead.

Here we are at Brothers:

I’m already drunk in this picture. The smirk is your first clue.

 

Two beers and some fries later, I was feeling really good. The booze eased me directly into going-with-the-flow mode and my social anxiety was gone. Thank you, beer, for your years of service. I don’t know what I’d do without you (besides sweat and startle constantly in public with crazed eyes, searching for an escape route or potential weapon, I mean).

We meandered through the other drunks. I only occasionally worried about my child when I saw little boys in the crowd to remind me of him. If you have one, think back on the first few times you’ve left your kid for an entire day and night, and you will understand. (Those of you without children, just know that having a child means you will never have your brain to yourself again for more than little half-hour chunks at a time. Their well-being and present place in the world consumes you. Forever. It’s pretty heavy.)

We found the Billy Simms statue on campus that stands where my husband’s college rental party house once stood and took his picture next to it. (At least it didn’t used to be a fucking field, right? Yawn.) The statue is so gigantic it dwarfed my 6′5″ husband.

See how it dwarfs him? Dwarfs, I tell you:

Dwarfs. I really just wanted to say it one more time.

 

David’s cell phone rang and it was one of his buddies, also in town for the game. He’d come with a friend who was in the same fraternity, a few years after himself, who had moved into his neighborhood. They actually met through their kids, who have become preschool buddies. Isn’t that cute? He invited us to join them at the “Sig Ep Tailgate Party,” so off we went.

The party was actually on campus under a tent near the Sig Ep house. I wasn’t Greek in college and have no idea what Sig Ep is short for, so I’m just going to keep calling it that, okay? (Sigma Epsilon?) (Signaling Epilepsy?) (Significant Episiotomy?) There was food, beer and every type of liquor imaginable. People were doing shots. They offered shots to me and I laughed out loud. I am of the Shots Are For Young, Childless People mindset, but thanks.

My husband’s friend pointed out the vegetarian chili to me, but just coming off the carbo-bloat of two beers and some fries, I declined. I did help myself to a beer from the beer trough, however. (Yes, beer trough. The big metal containers intended for providing water to livestock. We had them on our farm. I always get a kick out of seeing them used in other ways.) (Any “beer for my horses” jokes at this point will get you punched in the face, by the way. Fair warning.) (Sorry, that was rude. Ignore me. I’m just touchy about being trapped in the home state of Toby Keith.)

I had two beers and trotted my teeny little bladder over to the nearby Sig Ep house to pee twice. It felt just like college, sans date rape. I later regretted the decision to skip food for more alcohol, as I have the tolerance of an Amish eight-year-old, but soon it was time to head for the stadium. We bundled up in the warm things we’d brought and started our walk.

I walked behind my husband and the neighbor; his lifelong friend had an arm around me as we followed them. It was very sweet. I adore every one of his friends. If you can judge a person by their friends, I choose my mate wisely. My husband has kept the same group of guy buddies from childhood, and I think it is the most amazing, precious thing. I honestly don’t remember what we talked about, but spirits were high and we were giggling like buzzed teenagers when we parted for our separate seating areas.

David decided to use the restroom once we got in the stadium. I berated him for not using the line-free Sig Ep bathroom before we walked and he whined about “maximizing his pee removal” by waiting until the very last minute to go. Sigh. He got in line and I waited against a cement pillar by the entrance.

His bathroom journey allowed me fifteen minutes alone to be hit on by a guy in a brown fringed leather jacket.

“Do they pay you to stand here and look pretty during the games?” he asked.

“Are you calling me a WHORE?” I spat in reply, right before I punched him in the trachea. He fell to the ground, coughing and clutching at his throat.  

Okay, that last part didn’t happen. But he did hit me up with that cheesy line. My actual reaction was to repay him for his cheesiness with the frozen smile of polite terror that I seem to have perfected in this lifetime, and he walked away. It’s a living.

The husband came back and I told him Bon Jovi just tried to pick me up. He laughed at me and my good fortune. We headed to our seats, which were only eight rows up from the field. Cool. We watched the players come running onto the field. The crowd absolutely roared. And I’m not just using fun words to describe noise; it was insanely loud in the stadium last night.

The OU coach, Bob Stoops, issued a challenge by stating to the press that he didn’t think OU fans could be loud enough to affect this game. That was a really smart move on his part. The “Oh no he didn’t just say that” factor can really motivate the masses sometimes. Nothing makes us want to do something like being told we can’t; it’s human nature. (This is why playing hard to get totally works. Give it a try sometime and watch them fall under your spell.)  

It was amazing, the energy in the place. All those people cheering for the same thing. Oh, if we humans could only unite over other issues facing us the way we do over sports. But I don’t care if it was “just” football, I have to say it, I had goosebumps all night long. It was so exciting to be a part of it.

The team coming onto the field:

Do you feel it?

 

Then the ass-kicking began. Poor previously undefeated Texas Tech didn’t stand a chance. The raucous crowd of nearly 86,000 was obviously getting to them psychologically. They played “Jump Around” and we jumped around. They said “Make some noise!” and we did. I gave myself a headache, screaming so long and hard. (You are allowed to giggle whenever I type “long and hard” by the way. It’s okay. We’re all friends here.) 

There was a Texas Tech player, a big guy with tattoos on his arms and major face paint, who was taunting the OU fans at one point and trying to get his own team ready for battle. The OU fans purposefully drowned him out with shouting and yelling. “Shut up, Braveheart,” I commented dryly to my husband. The angry player soon pulled the helmet over his colorful head and gave up.

We saw Brian Bosworth walking along the sidelines. My husband did a loud Will Ferrell as Harry Carey voice, “Hey! I just saw the BOZ,” and all of the males in the vicinity turned and laughed at him. He’s a bit of a ham, the husband.

The BOZ:

That’s the back of Brian Bosworth’s head, between the long-haired girl and the dude in yellow. He walked with arrogant purpose. Cocky. It made me dislike him instantly.

 

We also saw the stoner kid from American Idol, (Jason Castro, I want to call him? I’ll Google it.) (Okay I Googled, and I guess he’s from Texas, so maybe that’s why he was here? We thought he might be hanging out with David Cook.) He was standing on the sidelines and they put him on the big screen for a second. We found him in real life on the sideline, walking with a girl. They were holding hands. She wore a brown messenger bag. Probably not full of weed or anything. Nope.

I am often fascinated by the little worlds within worlds; the subcultures of which we are unaware unless we are immersed in them. The cheerleaders got my attention this time. I found myself watching them between plays, wondering if the boys were dating the girls, or maybe dating the boys, and studying their interactions with each other.

One cheerleader seemed sad, and she was the only one without the big fake clown smile plastered on constantly. She already had multiple worry lines furrowed across her forehead, even though she looked to be about fourteen. I named her Sad Cheerleader in my head and wanted to hug her. I wondered what could make such an adorable person so miserable. Maybe the cute jeans she wanted only came in a humongous size two? Did she get assigned the wrong cheerleader boy to lift her and throw her about? Maybe the one she had a crush on was tossing another girl into the air?

I watched Insecure Cheerleader, a blond who wasn’t quite as anorectic as the others; she self-consciously flipped the waistband of her pants down to minimize her belly as she was being lifted into the air. She fidgeted with her waistband constantly. I thought “Wow, I would think you’d have bigger things to worry about as you are being chucked into the atmosphere,” But then I realized that the maneuver was probably like brushing her teeth, she’s done it so much.

There were two cheerleaders that I am sure were sleeping together, Flirty Cheerleader and Straight Boy Cheerleader. They kept bumping into each other and other such grade school grab-assery. It was entertaining to watch. I decided that cheerleaders probably have fantastic sex, what with all the gymnastic training and flexibility.

The Game Day guys from ESPN were at the game, and we saw them filming on the sidelines. We also got on television, if you were watching early in the game, when the cameras scanned the crowd. Luckily we record every game, so we found the exact moment and took pictures of the television to send to our relatives. I’ll post those at the end of this blog. I’m wearing my new black parka. Try to contain yourselves. I’ve wanted a parka for around nine years now, and finally realized this dream in time for the OU game. I know, I know. Congratulations are in order. Right after you check out my sweet parka goodness.

The Game Day guys, filming:

Yeah, um, dude in the blue stocking cap? Vincent Gallo called. He wants his sneer back. Thanks.

 

The game was an absolute blow-out, in case you don’t follow college football—Oklahoma 65, Texas Tech 21. Just brutal. Afterwards, Coach Stoops walked over to the student section and bowed, then gave them a game ball. He was quoted in the paper as saying, “That’s the way fans should be. I’ve always envisioned a loud and raucous crowd to influence a game, and they sure did tonight.” 

The scoreboard from hell, or heaven, depending on your allegiance:

 ‘Nuff said.

 

We got home around 1:30 a.m. so my husband is taking a nap right now along with my son. We had a really great time, so I wanted to share my latest “sports from a female perspective” story. I haven’t done this since the PGA tournament last year, so it was high time. (Somewhere out there, Jason Castro’s ears just perked up and he doesn’t know why. “High time? Wait… what? Get your messenger bag, babe.”) I hope you had a wonderful weekend as well, my friends.

I’m the average-looking redhead in the really incredible parka with the faux fur hood. My husband is next to me in white. He refused to stop watching the game to ham it up for the camera. He also asked me to clarify that he does not weigh 275 pounds as it appears, he is merely wearing four layers of clothing for warmth.

 

Note: the lady to the left of me. She was sitting a row down from me, but hopped up to wave her arms in front of me for the camera. That smile on my face is the carefully disguised rage of a woman whose shining moment is in danger of being usurped. Do not usurp my shining moment, bitch!  

 

Don’t you wish your parka was hot like mine?

 

Hey, look at my mom, the Attention Whore! Isn’t she funny?

Nap Negligibility, Favorite Phonics and Library Love Letters

My husband is off golfing, and I put the boy down for his daily nap.

This is a real issue for us. My son does not like to sleep. He screams and throws a fit about every nap, every bedtime, every day.

He gets it from his father. No, really. My husband still remembers how much he hated bedtime as a child, the feeling that he “might be missing something” being the dominating reason for his dread. It seems our son has inherited this loathing of all things restful.

Lucky me.

My son spends the time he’s supposed to be napping singing songs and playing in his room. Sometimes he sings the songs in all meows, like a kitty. (He gets that from me.)

He likes to try on the clothes in his dresser, so I had to put all of his clothes inside the closet, where a lock prevents him from getting to them, rendering the dresser an empty, cumbersome box on top of which we keep diaper wipes and supplies.

Rather than the silence of sleep, I hear him acting out little scenes with the stuffed animals on his bed that are the only toys left in his room. Our living room looks like a used toy store post-hurricane because we have to keep them all out there, or he would never sleep.

In his room, we have a blackout curtain on his window that makes the room dark, and an air purifier with a loud motor we run for white noise, so car alarms and ringing phones won’t wake him if he actually manages to fall asleep. He rarely does. But just in case, he is safely encased in a womb-like, soundproof chamber of our desperate creation.

I’ve tried lying down with him- many, many times I have tried. He welcomes the company, the distraction, the playmate, and spends the entire time chatting with me and poking my eyes, petting my hair and crawling all over me. Which is wonderful snuggle time for an affectionate mommy who loves the touchy-feely stuff, but doesn’t get the kid the sleep his body needs.

Basically, he only falls asleep when he is bored into it, so having anyone else in the room negates all chances. For this reason, his preschool teachers have had only sporadic luck getting him to nap with all of the other kids in his class twice a week. He is the only kid they can’t consistently get to sleep, which makes me feel embarrassed, yet somewhat relieved. Even the experienced professionals can’t do it, so maybe I don’t stink at lulling a toddler into unconsciousness as much as I think. Maybe I really do have the child who fights sleep harder than anyone ever.

Recently, a new, terrifying development has arisen. One that involves my son releasing himself from the diapers that bind during naptime. He has discovered that it is a funny new trick to very quietly pull off his clothes and diaper, so that he is stark raving naked amongst the pile of bedding and stuffed animals on his bed.

Last week, he took the poo from his discarded diaper and smeared it all over the wall above his bed. While I understand that he may be able to get a government grant to pursue this artistic statement in the future, I am really more concerned with the fact that I will have to repaint his bedroom in the present. Like I have time for that.

He removed the diaper and peed on the rug like an untrained dog the other day, and I found him sleeping in the corner of his room on blankets he had dragged there, adding to the canine similarities. (He also likes to chase balls, and tries to escape out the front door anytime we have visitors. I just wish I could teach him to sit.)

It isn’t like I stick him in the room and don’t check on him when he’s supposed to be napping, either. I listen to the baby monitor and crack the door to peek at him constantly. I go in and make him get back in bed; tuck him in for the seventh time. Around the ninth time, I start to take slightly evil pleasure in catching him out of bed. I quickly open the door while barking out a sharp, sudden, “What are you doing?!” that makes him jump in fear and run shrieking to his bed.

You know… simple pleasures.

Today I was lying in my own bed drowning in the latest respiratory virus gifted upon our household by his preschool, desperately needing and hoping for a nap. I had the baby monitor nearby as usual so I could listen to him in his room.

I suddenly heard him singing a little song, a happy little song, all about his penis.

Uh-oh.

I jumped out of bed and raced to his room, knowing that if the penis is being featured in a song, it is probably also being featured in the bedroom. Visions of diaper-less boys peeing all over the place—or worse—danced neurotically in my head.

He was lying under the covers, completely naked, diaper and clothing on the floor next to the bed. He gave me a really big smile as he continued singing to his penis. I’m sure the penis was much more appreciative of the new tune than I was.

Miles is growing up so quickly, and I do the “knuckle check” quite often these days. A friend of mine with a few kids warned me that they get their knuckles around three. One day, squishy, chubby little baby hands with the cute dimples; the next day bumpy grown-up knuckles in their place. Overnight. I’m on constant knuckle watch.

This is the same friend who pinpointed the exact moment they lose the wonderful Baby Head Smell, so that I could really appreciate it before it was gone. I did. Best smell in the world. I still smell his head all of the time, but now it has taken on that earthy “sweat and dirt” combination scent of which all mothers of boys are familiar.

In the learning arena, Miles has now learned all of the basic sounds made by the letters of the alphabet.

My cousin Nia very successfully homeschools her five children, and sent me links to two great educational websites. I have now incorporated computer time into our daily activities. The phonics-friendly website I have been using for this so far is http://www.starfall.com and it is amazing.

I put Miles on my lap and we run through the alphabet sounds and do the activities together, read the short online books that sound out everything aurally and visually (via animated highlighting) for the student. There are cute animations and songs to keep his interest. I think that in addition to being a nice first foray into the world of computers for him, it is going to be a very helpful tool for taking him from learning the sounds the letters make to actually sounding out words and reading, an important step about which I was uncertain. I can’t thank my cousin enough for the links and will be exploring the other website more very soon.

I believe in phonics because I was taught them as a child, have always loved reading, and read at a freakishly fast rate. This can be annoying, because I will finish a library book in a day, much to the incredulity of my husband, leaving me bored with nothing to read very quickly. I’ve spent a few check-outs explaining to the irritated library employee that no, I am not being greedy, I promise I will be reading every single book in this stack rising up to my chin, so please let me check them all out. Under-ten book limits are no friend of mine.

I recently applied for library card online, Google Mapped locations, and made my first trip to a Tulsa library. Hardesty Regional. It was huge and gorgeous inside, with a newly built theater, a coffee shop and a beautifully decorated children’s zone with a colorful jungle theme and animals prowling the walls. To get to the story-time area, one must walk through the center of a gigantic tree they’ve created. It was like walking into a magical world. I wanted fairy wings on my back so that I could flutter into the tree properly to the oversized mushroom-chair I was certain awaited me inside. (Stop laughing, you already knew I was a big dork.) And I can’t wait to start taking the kiddo there.

I later told my husband that one of my top favorite things in the world, one of my Zen moments, easily on par with the inner peace I derive from planting flowers and gardening, is walking into the adult fiction area of a library. I realized that an oxymoronic calm exhilaration had washed over me while I was looking through the books and making selections. All of the stories, the possibilities for adventures lived through the eyes of others, were waiting there for me, ready to be plucked from the shelf like delicious literary fruit for my starving brain. I love that feeling. He said he gets the same feeling from playing golf—a centering, grounding feeling—so he understood perfectly.

I have lived in Tulsa for a few years now and sadly, the last library I visited was the one around the Sunset and La Brea area in Los Angeles, across the street from the awesome Bossa Nova Cuban food restaurant. In addition to missing those fried plantains, I realized I’ve really missed the library.

I hope you are having a wonderful week full of naps and good books, my friends.

My Los Angeles Neighbors

 A few years ago, before we moved to the Midwest, my husband and I lived in a decrepit apartment building just off Hollywood Boulevard. We were mere blocks away from Grauman’s Chinese Theater and a music school.

Because of the location, our building was filled with mostly transsexuals and musicians. Aspiring women and aspiring rock stars. It was an always interesting and sometimes annoying combination.

The transsexuals were often coming home from a hard night’s work in the elevator as I left for the 5 a.m. to noon grocery store shift that paid my bills. They made the elevator reek of cheap perfume and cigarettes, and would leave partially finished beers sitting on the stained carpet. Yet despite these bothersome habits, I much preferred the pretty ladies with great legs and large feet to my musician neighbors.

Perplexing to those who know that I am a musician myself? Probably. Let me explain by quoting a passage from my Musician’s Handbook for you.

“Musician Manners 101:

First Rule: You DO NOT have band practice where you live, if you live in an apartment building or a house that is in close proximity to neighbors. Firstly: it is rude. Secondly: they will call the cops on you.”

Duh, right? This seems obvious to me.

The entire time I lived in Los Angeles, I played music in bands. There are many places that allow a band to rent a practice room by the hour, usually in the $15 to $30 range. (The cheapest places were in North Hollywood, but there was a costly place just down the street from me, in West Hollywood, that we’d use in a pinch.)

When you split the rental fee amongst band members, it is quite bearable. A small price to pay to rock freely and loudly as you’d like. Many of these places even have a drum set already waiting in each practice room, amplifiers available for the guitar players and a P.A. system complete with microphones for vocals. I thought it was a great deal and enjoyed the “not having to lug a bunch of musical gear around” factor. Just show up, play your music, pay and leave. Painless.

For some reason, maybe because they knew they were a majority, the musicians in our apartment building played loud, amplified guitars and sang constantly in their tiny apartments. The building was old, the walls were thin. It was like being at a rock show if someone a wall over, under or above decided to play. Pretty much any time of day, there was somebody being really loud somewhere nearby. It sucked.

The people below us often played wanky guitar licks with fuzzy, obnoxious distortion and would have sing-along parties late into the night. These parties usually ended with the couple who lived there having one of their late-night drunken, screaming, slamming doors, 20-something fights. With a 4 a.m. daily wake-up call for my aforementioned job, you can imagine that these parties thrilled me pieces.

Pieces of angry, exhausted, 30-something rage.

Once, when my husband went downstairs to ask them to turn the amplifier down, he was rebuffed with, “But dude, I just got a new amp.”

Oh… sorry. Well in that case, pleeeease turn it UP and play that Coldplay song you’ve been playing over and over again for the last hour at least sixty more times. Sorry we bothered you… dude.

This brings me to another problem I had with my fellow musicians/apartment dwellers: their musical taste. If you’re going to play other people’s music constantly, can I at least CHOOSE the songs? The guy below us had a nineties mayonnaise alterna-drivel boner that nearly beiged me to death, and the guy whose balcony was directly across from our balcony loved to butcher cheesy eighties songs.

I sang in an eighties cover band for awhile. It was a blast, I made good money, but I’ve heard those songs played the way they were supposed to be played- by excellent musicians. This guy did not even come close.

The cheesy eighties songs guy was what prompted me to write this, actually. I was reminded of him when Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” came on our car radio this morning. My husband and I both immediately said, “I wonder where that guy’s getting stoned and singing off-key now?”

We used to hear him smoking up through the screen of our balcony. The tap-tap-tap as he cleaned out his pipe on the edge of the ashtray. The scratchy click! of the lighter. Next, the smell would come wafting across the way. The Official Smell of the Unmotivated. The Smell of Rock Concerts Past. The Smell of You’re Not Going to Sleep until I’m Done, Neighbors. We learned his routine and knew that if we heard the pot smoking, off-key singing accompanying a poorly played guitar would soon follow.

“Time After Time” was a favorite of this guy, but not his long-suffering neighbors. He didn’t even come close to hitting the right notes, and often we’d sing along loudly across the balcony air in his direction, trying to alert him to this fact. “If you’re lost you can look and you will find me! Time after time!” we’d scream together across the way. Sometimes we tried to harmonize with him.

My husband went over to tell him to knock it off many times, the last time being when the guy finally snapped at him: “Go ahead! Call the police! I don’t care,” probably because the police would be an improvement over the 6′5″ neighbor with “no verbal filter” as my husband will sometimes apologetically explain. (He’s a say-what-he-means, no bullshit sort of guy. I deeply love this about him.)

My husband replied, “Okay, I will… and I’ll be sure to mention that I smell pot every time you open your door as well.”

So he called the police. He also mentioned the interesting smell. After making us deal with his caterwauling for a year, the guy moved out within two weeks. We never saw him again.

 

The Oddest Thing I Have Ever Seen

The Oddest Thing I Have Ever Seen

The weather is beautiful in Los Angeles. Most days hover around the lower seventies with a bit of a breeze and a touch of the sun. Flowers stay alive year round with no harsh winter to freeze them; the landscapes are green and lush.

The street leading to my apartment building was no exception. As I walked in L.A. (despite the musical warnings of Missing Persons) I was often amazed by the interesting flora. I’d never seen such plants and trees during my youth in the Midwest, so they all seemed tropical and exotic to a girl used to maples and marigolds.

The human specimens with whom I shared the sidewalks seemed exotic as well. Sometimes a poisonous, hostile variety would pass me and I’d tightly grip my human weed killer with the brand name of ”Mace” printed across the bottle. I never had to use it, but I occasionally pulled it out and shook it a few times, if only to match my shaken-up demeanor.

I was walking home from work on such a day. The sun was shining as usual and I was in good spirits. Then I noticed the angry young man on the sidewalk ahead.

He was wearing headphones and rapping along loudly to music, or perhaps there was nothing playing at all. He looked crazy and ready to kill someone, but I don’t think the music had anything to do with it. I’d seen this guy before and every time I saw him he looked furious. Furious at the pretty sky. Furious at the happy sun. Furious at the sidewalk. Furious at the world.

He shouted and cursed as I tried to stay a good distance behind him. I dared not pass him on the sidewalk, as he was wildly gesturing and swinging his arms while he yelled venomous things. I was actually nervous that he might notice me twenty feet behind him on the sidewalk and slowed to a snail’s pace to keep my distance.

It was then that I witnessed the oddest thing I have ever seen to date.

In the middle of the yelling and unhappiness, arms still flailing, eyes still hating, he reached a beautiful flower bed that I admired every day. I always noticed the colorful flowers and excellent landscaping in front of this particular apartment complex. It was well-done and well-kept.

Except that today, there was a weed. A glorious weed. It was the epitome of all weeds: the dandelion. This particular dandelion had sprouted a two-foot-high stalk with a white, puffy ball of seeds, as dandelions are wont to do. It was a text book example of a weed, defiantly out-of-place in a cutely cultivated setting, and it seemed to give the human version of itself pause.

He stopped stomping down the sidewalk and reflected on the dandelion for a moment. For three seconds, the mean words ceased flowing from his twisted mouth, and his arms grew slack, hanging limply down his sides.

He contemplated his cantankerous competition ever-so-briefly, then suddenly ripped the stalk from the dandelion plant. Like a weed assassin making a hit, he blew the dandelion seeds off of the stalk as hard as he could, and dropped it to the ground.

I can honestly say that it was the only time I’ve ever seen someone blow the seeds off a dandelion in a hateful, violent way. The moment was absolutely mind-boggling and amazing in its uniqueness. I stood quietly on the sidewalk behind him, laughing on the inside, stunned silent on the outside.

He then continued his shouting and raging down the path through my Hollywood neighborhood as if nothing had ever happened.