rubypearl

What to do when the Universe gives you an F

2013-05-07T15:56:00.001-07:00

"I want to be healed of being an asshole." I told Francis the Healer the first time I met him.
And then I laughed, and he did too, saying- "Okay."

Even though I drove out to his tiny office in the middle of nowhere because I have an autoimmune disease of the thyroid, even though I am sick and his waiting room is filled with people in wheelchairs, I blurted that out- and then realized that on my list of afflictions-being a jerk is the one I want to remove first.
Have you ever met someone that makes you feel like they just get it? This guy is like that.
They light up the room. You almost feel like they are transmitting an electrical charge to you when they look at you. When I was younger I called this phenomenon the "Jesus eyes." Something in their demeanor just pierces you.
Having met a few people who had "Jesus eyes" that turned out to be closer to David Koresh than Mother Teresa- I have always been wary of self appointed spiritual leaders.
But lately I've decided to be open minded-and as long as no one asks me to give away everything I own, put on an orange robe and join their cult-what can it hurt?
I'm beginning to think there might be a whole lot I don't know.

"Can you do that?" I asked him.
"No." He smiled, motioning for me to sit down. "I can't. But God can do anything."
He sat down in a chair behind me and placed one hand on my shoulder, telling me to breathe.
"Were you born like this? All happy and loving and shit?" I asked him, feeling his hand grow very warm on my back and staring straight ahead at a picture of an Indian guru named Sai Baba on the wall underneath a giant cross. The entire room was filled with symbols from different faiths -a statue of St. Francis sat next to a giant crystal, underneath a beautiful, rainbow colored illustration of Krishna cuddling a white bull- like an all you can eat religious buffet.
He laughed.
"Oh no! I used to get into fist fights all the time-I was a scrapper!" His hand continued to heat up on my back, I was sure he was searing the imprint of his fingers into my skin like a sunburn. "I had almost a hundred jobs. Then one day an angel came to me and said I was going to be a healer."

"Was that when you stopped being an asshole?"
"Well, sort of." He replied. "But it's a process. It took a long time. I had a woman come in here last week who was really mad about something-she was yelling-really upset. Ten years ago I would have given it right back to her, you know? Gotten caught up in it. But now I'm just like-I know, I know-" I can hear the smile in his voice and feel him nod behind me. "I told her-'Why don't you just sit down and get your healing, love?"
"Did she?" I asked.
"Yup."

"I want to help people." I said. "And I want to be kind."
"If you pray for that-you will receive it."
Then we were quiet. I didn't feel anything unusual-except for his spooky-hot hand on my back, and then I went home.
When I left, the volunteers that run the office told me to drink a lot of hot water for the rest of the day-which I ignored because I don't like following directions- and that the angels would come in my sleep and finish the work that Francis had started.
I thought maybe I'd have some cool angel dream-but the only one I remembered when I woke up the next morning had something to do with getting a job as a long distance truck driver hauling a semi full of housecats that had to be delivered by noon in Mexico City.
Once I felt dizzy afterwards, but that could have been low blood sugar. It feels peaceful sitting in the office of Francis the Healer-but nothing unusual or overwhelming ever happens.
I wonder if it's because I don't drink the hot water.

Maybe the act of driving 45 minutes and sitting in silence with a stranger to ask for patience and kindness and compassion is sending signals to my subconscious brain to rewire itself that way. (Did you know we can do that? Seriously-look it up.)
Or maybe prayer works because our synapses are connected to an energy field that simultaneously manifests both fate and free will in a pattern of such beautiful intricacy that we can only see glimpses of it when we are paying close attention.
Maybe science and religion are the same- rudimentary stories we tell ourselves-using words and symbols to point in the direction of what is ultimately unknowable as we try to satisfy the curiosity we feel as we stare into a night sky full of stars.

God, I love being right. Is there anything more satisfying than the moment the six year old inside you can thumb their nose at whoever is giving you a hard time and say, "See? I told you so!"

Human beings generally have an intense dislike for ambiguity. Certainty is safety-"I know that the tribe on the south side of the valley sucks because they came over here last week and took some of our cattle."
Forgetting that last year you did the same thing to those assholes north of the river.
But that was different-you had a really good reason.

Have you ever noticed that when someone you like tells you a story of being wronged by someone or something- it's easy to take their side?
"What a bitch!" We say. "I can't believe she did that to you!"
But when the bitch tells her side to people who like her- the story is completely different. Who's right?
It doesn't matter.
We carry our justifications around and they weigh us down like a dead body-preventing us from really knowing ourselves and each other- because when you can acknowledge your own flaws with love it opens your heart to understanding the mistakes that other people make too.
It's much easier to judge and categorize than feel compassion for someone who has hurt you. It's much easier to be angry and self righteous than allow yourself to feel sad, or rejected or screwed over or misunderstood. Our minds work hard to remember details of past fuckups on the part of the person who injured us, to establish a pattern and then describe it to others-so that maybe if everyone around us agrees "What a bitch! You're right!"
then maybe it won't hurt so much.
"I never liked her anyway." We can say.

Vindication is intoxicating, and having to admit you are wrong can feel like a price you have to pay. Some of us refuse to do it at all costs-as if it threatens the very existence of our identity.
I used to be like that. It sucked.
Then I grew up a little and made it a point to apologize-but grudgingly and only when I had to, or if the other person did it too. Each time this happened it felt like shaky ground, as though it cost me something dear, as though I was the only person in the world who had ever been wrong, as though I was giving away power and leaving myself diminished in some way.
The less I worry about being right and concentrate on dealing with the person in front of me with as much love as I can the happier I find myself.
No matter how many mistakes you make- no one gets a failing grade.
Life is not a test.
You don't have to be right all the time to graduate.

Who said we all have to be perfect to be awesome?
Frankly, I am tired of perfect people.

If that's all you want to bring to the party, just send me your LinkedIn profile instead. Then I don't have to change out of my sweatpants.

1. Most of the time there is no absolute "right" and "wrong"
2. When there is-and you find yourself in the latter category- so what?

What if you're wrong every day? Can you laugh at your silly self and keep on being a kickass person?
Yes, you can.

Caterpillars and Terrorists

2013-05-02T11:28:00.000-07:00

I’ve been driving to a shitty little office complex in Round Rock once a week to visit a man who calls himself “Francis the Healer.” Many other people make the same drive, taking off their shoes at the door they are ushered back to a waiting room full of chairs. We sit in silence, praying, until a volunteer calls out your name. You follow them back to another room where Francis, an ordinary looking, middle aged Irishman, shakes your hand.

He asks you what it is you want him to heal, you tell him, and then you sit down. He tells you to breathe deeply, then places his hands on your back and prays.

This is exactly the kind of thing I used to call bullshit on before I had a spiritual experience of my own. I looked at people who believed in God with a patronizing envy. If only I could be simple minded enough to have faith in something, I thought.

For fifteen years I read books, went to church, meditated- looking for the answers. Why are we here? Is there something beyond what science can prove? What happens to us after we die?
I glimpsed it during a sweat lodge, every time I took mushrooms, and for a few seconds while I was helping a young woman die-but these epiphanies always faded, the moments of what I can only call "Knowing" never fully explained what is at the root of a universal longing of mankind to find meaning in our existence-and I sank back into malaise and doubt again each time. I spent years feeling completely certain that there was no meaning to our existence beyond what science could prove.

It's easy to do. For one thing- these experiences are difficult to talk about and incorporate into daily life. There are no words to accurately describe them, and the ones we do have have been co-opted by all the goofy sounding hippies who wrote books about their "spiritual journeys" in the seventies, so you find yourself struggling to describe what can only be sort of circled around and hinted at- and you receive one of two reactions-

The people who pat your hand with sympathetic eyes- "I think that's so special that you had a spiritual experience, sweetie." (Thinking- Poor thing-she's lost her mind.)

And those who listen and nod with their eyes shining, who brim with enthusiasm as you struggle to express yourself, responding finally with- "I know."

When this happens-there is a moment when you look into each others eyes-a connection happens.
It could be described as-
"We are One."
Its a recognition of the observer inside of you that has been with us since birth silently recording, noticing and simply being behind the maelstrom of incessant, conscious thought that we drives us like whitewater rapids from one moment to the next-
it's what the Bag Vad Gita calls "the language beyond the mind."
It is the part of you that knows that there is no such thing as time,
the empty space that is both nothing and the essence of you,
the part of you that is immortal, with no beginning and no end.
The part of you that is God.

( Right now-half of you are smiling because you get it. Half of you think I have gone off the deep end.)

The difference lies in experience-if you haven't had it yet the words are meaningless, the concepts are intellectual constructs that exist as ideas separate from you.
If you have- you already know what I'm talking about-and you see the expression of it everywhere. You live and breathe this knowing.
It is you, and you are it.

The world that we live in is incredibly, well, worldy. We are preoccupied with wanting and buying and having to a level that borders on psychosis. We lull our conscious minds to sleep with television and technology and manufacture dramas and problems and crises to distract us from waking up. We are so afraid-of being judged, of being unloved, of being unworthy, of failure, of loss, of growing old, of dying, of being ugly, alone, overweight, embarrassed, proven wrong, of being diminished in some way-
and we spend so much time and energy trying to avoid these things that we lose sight of the true nature of who we are and what we came here to do. I know- I have done this my entire life- and I would have continued to slumber and react and hide if something wonderful hadn't happened to me.

First- I was given the gift of illness.
As my father slowly deteriorated into the madness and pain of liver failure, I developed a difficult to diagnose thyroid problem. I was so sick I thought I was dying too. I responded with panic- I threw money at it, going to specialists until my savings was exhausted. I got angry at everyone around me. I went crazy too-because I was faced with circumstances I desperately didn't want and couldn't control. In fact- the more I tried to escape my pain the more intense it became until finally, kicking and screaming, I surrendered to it.

2. I was given the gift of poverty.
If you have never been poor-you probably think it's something to be avoided at all costs- and I'm not contradicting that. There is nothing glorious or noble about not having enough. Poverty is terrifying. Money represents power, safety and status.
But- even though all of the fictional sit com families you see on TV are upper middle class or wealthy-most of the world lives on a knifes edge. The difference is that in this country we all walk around pretending to be successful. There is a shame to having financial trouble- which starts to become funny when you wake up and realize that money isn't real.

Let me say that again- money isn't real.

It's a concept we came up with to represent energy. Now you don't have to bring your goat to the mall to trade for your new tank top at Forever 21- we use this idea we invented as a stand in. It used to be coins, then paper, now it's a little card that records numbers in a computer. Same shit.
It's not you.
If you have a high number of fictional units to measure human energy-that's awesome.
If you have none-you're still you.
And that "you" is the same being of light, love and potential that you were yesterday before the stock market crashed.
I'm not saying we don't all need to work or that you shouldn't bother to ask for a raise. I'm telling you that it doesn't define your worth or value as a human being.
Losing everything is a gift because you can no longer use external constructs to define who you are.

"Having" is not "being," folks.

3. I was given the gift of being wrong.
In every Hollywood movie something predictable happens. The bad guys lose. Some terrible punishment happens to them-they fall off a cliff into an abyss, they are proven wrong before their community and slink off in humiliation while the "good" guys are vindicated, everyone rallying around them in celebration. This is justice, we are told.
So when you fail-especially if it's in some spectacular, public way- does that mean you're "bad"?
It can very much feel that way.
"This is happening to me because I'm a bad person" I used to think, lying alone in my FEMA trailer in the dark.
After my dad died I saw that we are all, each one of us, so loved. I realized that all of the things that seemed so deadly serious to me were actually silly and light and inconsequential.

I was given this-in a split second- and it irrevocably changed my life-
We are all One.
There is power, energy, a force-whatever you call it-that makes up the substance of every spinning particle in the universe and its very substance by definition is this thing we call 'love.' We are cherished and known completely by this consciousness-every being on the earth-because it is us.
We are never alone.
There are no mistakes.
There are only opportunities to learn about ourselves and speed up the process of waking up to the beauty and power of what we really are.
Despite the pain of being alive, even though the world is still full of horror and suffering, it is happening at an exponential rate. Human beings are beginning to realize their inherent unity-and the need to separate experiences into "good" or "bad" will fade out.
"But what about consequences, punishment, the Boston Marathon bombers?" you're thinking.
Yes, in the grand scheme of things- even though their actions are horrific and wrong and we have to protect our children from maniacs-even tragedy is part of a vast, intricate pattern of meaning that we are too small to understand, and even terrorists are loved by God.
Whether you call it -the Universe, Energy, Allah, Yahweh, Jesus, the Divine Mother-
that's how absolute this is.
No matter how fucked up you are, no matter what you do-God loves you.
When you really start to get that-how can you not respond by loving everyone else?
The question becomes one presented to us again and again by visionaries throughout history-
"Who am I to judge?"

Let me ask you a question.
If someone in your office leaves the paste out-do you eat it?
No? You haven't done that since kindergarten?
Why?
Is it because you are afraid of being punished? Is there a law against it?
No.
It's because- Why the fuck would you? You outgrew that.

And as we wake up, the human race is beginning to see that hurting others is the same as hurting ourselves.
We are waking up to our true nature-
the very substance of which is love.

But here is the thing that no one tells you about waking up-
it's a long, messy process riddled with doubt and confusion.
Even if you are lucky enough to be leveled by loss and tragedy-
even if you are actually presented with a burning bush or a spectacular message from the beyond-
sooner or later you will fall on your face.
You will still get angry
you may still snap at your kids or flip some asshole the bird on the Interstate
you may still struggle with low self esteem
you may even still dip into a misery so dark and deep you wish you were dead-
it's a process.

I still lose hope.
But each time this happens I find it comes back to me like a boomerang if I simply ask it to.
The dips become shallower, the holes I once fell into are easier to climb out of every time.
I think that this process of transformation will continue until I die.
I will wake up-
stay in that conscious space for a while
fall down
feel lost
doubt that it's real for a while
and then pick the thread back up again.
Each time it gets easier
because once the process has begun you can never go back.
The caterpillar doesn't know it's becoming a butterfly when it sleeps in the chrysalis- it only knows it's changing in a fundamental way that feels inevitable.
That doesn't mean it isn't real.

So I try to write about it-even thought I know it makes me sound crazy, and I seek out people like Francis the Healer-because what I see when I look into his eyes resonates with the butterfly taking shape in some mysterious place that exists inside of me and everyone else.
When my heart-which was broken open by suffering and loss and shame-begins to close in judgement of someone I gently remind myself to love.
Love everyone.
Forgive everyone.
Forgive yourself.
But most of all-
just love.

Waves of Awesome

2013-03-16T15:18:00.001-07:00

Apparently there is a lot more to publishing a book than me typing in the last word, throwing up my hands and yelling, "I'm done, yall! Hooray!"
That's annoying. Because I want everything that is good that is ever going to occur in my life to happen RIGHT NOW and then continue to emit waves of awesomeness I can just keep riding on forever. Sometimes I wonder if that is already happening and I am spoiled and ungrateful ( "Oh my God!" says the woman from the Sudan. "You have running water? Bitch -what are you complaining about?)
Other times I feel like Job, wandering around by myself in the desert wondering why God is such a big, fat jerk but then I remember that Job didn't have Cheetos or friends with unlimited cable and then I stop whining about it and get back to working on making life better.
Each time I lose the thread I panic and think I will never find it again.
And then I do.
I'm working on remembering that.

It's been Spring Break for two weeks now-which has been wonderful because Ruby and I like doing the same things-watching She-Ra, sewing, and eating mint chocolate chip ice cream-
and harrowing because I have the child who runs over and sticks her foot into the hole when I say "Stay away from that hole over there!"
This morning I was sitting on the porch drinking my coffee when she opened the trailer door waving two empty cigarette packs that she'd taken out of the trash and drew faces on with a Sharpie.

"I'm Mrs. Smokes!" She made one cigarette pack-doll say.
"I'm Dr. Cola!" Replied the pack who had a large, curly mustache. Then Dr. Cola started to make out with Mrs. Smokes and I got all uncomfortable, even though Ruby told me-

"It's okay they're married now" as she smushed the two cellophaned boxes together-
because I am so far away from who I was the day I found out I was pregnant-

"I'm going to hand carve all of her toys out of organic wood and teach her to weave and play the harp instead of watch TV-
so I told her to quit playing with the cigarette pack people and check on her circus mice.

One of them had ten babies last week. I let that happen deliberately- figuring that once they are big enough to discern their sex I will take all of the boy mice up to Petco in my pocket and sneak them back into the "Boy" cage-like shoplifting in reverse. It isn't a crime. I checked.

So she comes back out with 10 squirming baby mice in her hands and dumps them into my tank top before I can say anything because I'm still not awake yet and no one ever expects to have that happen- not really.

And I'm not wearing a bra so the mice are just crawling around in there. And I realize just how much I need a break from Spring Break when I think this thought-

"I just don't want to get up."

I just want to keep drinking my coffee, sitting on the porch outside my FEMA trailer in the morning sun-waving Hello to Jimmy the dwarf and the guy who walks around the park playing the accordion and the Raccoon Man and the punk rock girl and Johnny Cat -

"Hey God! You're a big, fat jerk!" I think as the tiny rodents crawl around in my boobs and my six year old dances around the trailer park forcing two cigarette packs to do unspeakable things to each other-
"How come it's taking so long for me to get my book published, damn it?"
and then I smile-
"This is awesome."

Beauty Tips for the Bereaved

2013-02-10T20:25:00.001-08:00

This week I sort of broke my own heart so that I can finish my book.
"I'm almost done!" I have been saying this for months, but now I'm really about to be finished and it's terrifying.
I think there is a part of us that is forever standing awkwardly in front of our high school locker hoping that we don't make a fool of ourselves in public. We are so afraid that someone is going to make fun of us that it keeps us from striving for greatness.
"Stuck up" was the worst thing another girl could call you in seventh grade. "Who does she think she is?" So to protect yourself you get smaller and stop taking risks with what you wear or what you say. I have learned to do this, unlearned it and had to find it again many times in my life.

"What if I try this thing and I think what I'm doing is so great but really it's not and everyone is embarrassed for me except for that girl who hated me in junior high who is thrilled because now she can make fun of me for failing?"

A lot of times the people in our lives who criticize us don't even have to say anything-we do it for them. I can hear my ex-husband's voice in my head making jokes about me to his friends. "You think your ex is crazy let me tell you about mine..." He says, and they all laugh.
But of course-that's fiction. Maybe he has better things to talk about. Either way-
I shrink.

But-
not anymore.

This is what despair feels like-
now here is how I dragged myself out of it.

In order to tell that story I had to stop protecting myself from the voice of my ex or that mean girl in junior high and be honest about everything I have always kept hidden.
I'm publishing all of my secrets online-in a form that will be easy to download by every potential employer or Match.com date I will ever meet.
"What would happen if you stopped pretending and let the world see who you really are?" My Dad wrote to me in the last letter he sent to me before he died.

Everything in my life stopped to write this book. Every relationship I have has been ground in it's teeth-no matter how cold my feet are at this moment I have to publish it. There's no other choice now.
Also-a couple of months ago my dead father's ghost reminded me not to take myself so fucking seriously.

I think it's going to be like skydiving-the anticipation is horrible but once you jump you are free from fear.

This is the part of the story where I publish the first chapter of the most awesome book you have ever read and once you get to the end of this excerpt you will be in a state of panic, wandering around your living room wondering when I am going to publish the rest of it already because doing anything other than finishing that girl's book seems so boring and stupid now- you're welcome.

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                                                          Beauty Tips for the Bereaved

                                                                       Part One
                                                                        Pearline

It could have been any day. I chose a Tuesday. I had forgotten my lunch and the cafeteria was serving Sheppard's pie. I downed a bottle of Advil instead, just to see what would happen. After experiencing no ill effects, I decided to go for a walk. I left the high school grounds, searching for peace, something that would make the pain that was rising in me recede. Not finding it, I continued to walk, across town, through yards, over fences, across railroad tracks. I never felt tired, I never felt whole. By the time I walked through the front door I knew what I had to do. My mother was so angry she couldn’t speak for a minute.

"What is wrong with you?"
I shrugged. "I wish I knew."

“Go to your room.”

Once the door was shut I pulled out a Ziploc bag full of stolen codeine, a half empty bottle of stolen Jack Daniel's and a handful of Tylenol just to be thorough.
As I lifted the handful of pills to my mouth and swallowed them with burning gulps of whiskey an overwhelming sense of peace settled over me. I picked up an X-acto knife from my craft table and drew slow hot circles into my wrists, deeper each way around, watching the red blood bead and stream. It was so pretty; I wished that I could replicate that color in oil paint.
I felt a moment of deep sadness for my Granny Pearl, then let it go.
"See you soon" I had said the last time I hugged her goodbye.
Now I am alone.

The decision to commit suicide doesn't arise solely from a place of madness. It's deliberate. It's calculated. Perhaps you begin to notice that each second ticking by feels like a slow weight, your heartbeat sending signals of agony to your brain. It isn't just that you decide the future won't be any better, it's that the present has become so unbearable you cannot stand another second of it. You see no avenue of deliverance but death, so you take what is available to you.
People who have never experienced clinical depression are blind to this logic.

"If you are so depressed, why not run away? Why not hitchhike to Borneo and help some orphans or hop a greyhound and start a new life? Why choose to die?"

The explanation is simple. You can't escape your own chemical stew. You can't just walk away from your own mind, which is so very sad and sick. Sometimes the only way to stop the pain is the sleep of an overdose, a flying jump from a building, releasing your blood to fall into a puddle on the floor.

"You have to tell yourself a new story" My father had said on the phone a few days before. "This is your movie, kid. You decide if it's going to be a comedy or a tragedy."

"I guess I'm not a very strong person," I thought. "I'm sorry, Dad."

I stood up, clicked out the lamp and crawled into bed. I wasn't used to drinking so much so quickly and it filled me with euphoria.

"I should have written a note," I thought. "Something clever Dr. Tyler could have read aloud at the assembly."
I couldn't think of anything. I could barely keep my eyes open. My arms and legs were rubber. At the last minute I grabbed an orange felt tip pen and wrote-

"I should never have switched from scotch to martinis" and dropped both pen and note to the floor.
"There," I thought."It's not original, but Erica will get it."

I closed my eyes then, slipping one last time into my earliest memory. It had always come to me as a dream that dissipated, shy as smoke, with the smell of bacon and coffee coming under the crack in the door each morning.

I stand between my mother and father in an endless, moving field of West Texas grass, stretching my arms up to grasp their hands. I am little. As the sun sets in front of us it grows larger and brighter as it nears the horizon until it fills the whole sky. Suddenly it drops and lands in front of us with a heavy thud that I can feel in my teeth. With growing wonder, all three of us run toward it. It is unbearably bright. I shut my eyes but I can still see its orange light through my eyelids.

“It’s a dying star.” My father whispers to me as he holds me on one side and my mother on the other, shielding us from the light. Somehow I knew then that if I opened my eyes they would both disappear with the light, leaving me small and alone, the wind moving through grass as grey and empty as the sea.

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I killed my first rattlesnake when I was six years old. I was playing in our front yard when I heard the sound. In West Texas, even very small children know that sound, like seed husks in a dry bag. Venomous reptiles lie beneath rocks, curled up in old flowerpots, behind rusty sheet metal. They seek cool wet places to wait out the sun. Living creatures scatter into holes and crevices during the day to escape it, and you learn from the time you start walking not to venture into small, dark places. Sticking your hand underneath a pile of boards could mean a quick encounter with a nest of black widow spiders or a sleeping rattler. People and animals move slowly, the air so hot and bright it’s painful just to breathe it.

I had been sitting in the dry grass in front of the house braiding my dolls hair and waiting to hear the sound of my mother's tires crunching up the gravel road.

"Mommy is baking Teddy Bear Bread when she gets back," I whispered to my doll, who didn't respond. The cicadas buzzed at a chainsaw pitch, falling silent then catching their song again as they would all day from spring to fall. One of the dogs began to bark and soon all of them were jumping against the fence behind me and growling.

"That squirrel must be back," I thought.

Then suddenly the animal and insect symphonies cycled into a moment of perfect silence. I heard a rattle shaking somewhere near my left foot. I resisted the urge to jump up and run, took a deep breath and scanned the grass around me.

“You hear that sound you stop,” I remembered my father's voice. “Find out where it’s coming from and back away. If you can’t get away then look for a stick or a rake to use against it.”

In my Dad's opinion the best education you could give a child was Wilderness Survival Training. I could build three different types of shelter and peel a cactus for drinking water before I could read.

Scanning the high grass I saw it curled up around a water spigot that stuck straight out of the concrete foundation of the house. I could feel the snake looking at me, tense, its rattle moving too fast for me to see. I backed away slowly as I'd been told to do, my legs made of fear, and ran to tell my Dad.

I found him splitting firewood behind the still. As soon as he saw my face he began to move with the deliberate calm of authority in the presence of danger. I ran straight into him, struggling to get the words out through my sobs. He held my shoulders tight.

"Breathe," he said, staring into my eyes. "Be still and breathe."

After a few seconds passed I told him about the snake. He nodded once and stood up, pulling his long brown hair back into a ponytail. I watched him walk over to the shed and back with the garden hoe.
I shook my head as he handed me the long-handled rake.

"You're going to take care of this one." he said.

I backed up, preparing to run into the neighbors cornfield that stretched to my right across the dirt road. He caught my shoulders and kneeled in front of me, holding me in place. He continued to focus his eyes straight into mine.
"Listen to me," he said firmly. "You feel afraid."

I nodded. He let go of my shoulders so I could wipe a line of snot on each sleeve. We were still for a long minute in the sun, kneeling man in front of a small child; one of my braids had come loose and blew every which way in the wind. I could see a hawk draw a slow circle in the flat, cloudless sky.

"You're right to be afraid." he said again. "That snake is real. You have to be a warrior. I don't mean you always have to fight, but you have to conquer your fear. Move through it with open hands but hold your strength inside you like a fist."

I understood. I always did, even when everyone else raised their eyebrows. My dad always talked this way. I made a tight fist with my left hand as he had shown me to do when I was afraid, closing my eyes and gathering strength as I raised it in the air.

"Good Girl. Are you ready?"

I nodded "yes" grasped his hand and walked back to the water spigot.

The snake was still there. As it heard our approach the rattle began it's furious stacatto warning again. I froze.
"It's just a baby, kiddo!" he laughed, his eyes still serious."You can take of it. No problem."

He handed me the flat-bladed hoe and moved to stand directly behind me, his fingers curled around the handle above mine. I held my weapon tight, took a deep breath and raised it high in the sun, bringing it down hard as close to the snake as I could. At the last second I closed my eyes.

I felt blade click into spine and heard the bell of its contact with the stones underneath. When I opened my eyes I saw a baby rattlesnake leaking a thin stream of blood. Its belly was pale and soft and twisted up in a curlicue. It smelled like rotten garbage. Dizziness buzzed through my limbs like lightning. I began to laugh, my body on fire with adrenaline as I jumped up and down with my father.

"You did it!" he yelled, grinning as he caught me up in his arms and spun me in circles. "Don't tell your mother" he said as he put me down.
I stole another glance at the dead snake. All of a sudden I felt sorry for it.

“Let’s bury it” We dug a hole in that same garden where I had pressed seeds into the damp earth and watched them grow into flowers and sweet peas and mint that wafted through my window at night. I had planted gumdrops and Reese’s Pieces and spit slivers of my own fingernails into the earth hoping to see a tall vine bearing hard little crescents to chew on. I wondered if the snake would grow baby snake plants. In my mind’s eye I could see tiny rattles hanging like mustang grapes at the end of a long vine.

-----------------------------------------------
I woke up to the sound of my father singing in the kitchen. With my feet I searched the floor beside the bed for my bunny slippers and padded silently down the hall in the dark to find out what was going on. As I neared the yellow light of the kitchen I saw my father waving a knife and moving his lips to the Grateful Dead coming from the tape deck on the windowsill. His friend Rick stood over a body wrapped in garbage bags on the long kitchen table. I squinted, but couldn't make out who it was. Clenching a cigarette in his teeth, Rick gripped and pulled at the weight of a shoulder as my Dad sliced open the belly, lifting a handful of slick guts into the smoky air. The head turned towards me, eyed me briefly and lolled back into a shoulder. Blood filled up the sink and piles of glistening parts lay on the dirty linoleum. I started to cry.

“Hey kid, come over here! I'll teach you how to skin a deer” He waved me closer with his knife. I shook my head and backed out of the kitchen towards the porch, where I knew my mother would be smoking a Virginia Slim in the dark. Instead, through the screens I saw her standing in the cornfield looking up at the sky. I walked out and through the rows to stand next to her, breathing in the apple scent of her waist length hair.
" I wish he would just do that in the barn" she said and sat down on her knees next to me, cupping both of her hands around one of mine. "It's going to take me a whole day to get the kitchen clean again."
"Soon the corn will be higher than you and we will have to find another place to watch the moon." she brushed a curl of my hair behind my ear with her index finger.

When a periodic breeze rippled through the field its rustle drowned out the sing-song mating call of the toads that lived in the creek behind our house. It felt like hearing the landscape breathing in and out.

"My grandmother used to tell me a Cherokee story about a Rabbit who became so angry at his mother-in-law that he threw her up to the Moon and she stuck there. Can you see the Rabbit in the Moon?”
I stared up at the full moon, searching for the rabbit. My mother squeezed my hand absently, I knew that she was a thousand miles away. It had always been that way. Even when she smiled the sadness played out in her eyes, I felt it in my mother from the crib, even before I could speak.

"I see it," I lied.

I studied them, cataloguing every detail I could pick up from stray conversations, mapping the landscape of their history. I observed the inner workings of my parents with the same intense hyper focused attention I used to apart the clocks and toasters that my Dad brought home from his scavenging trips at the local dump. If there was something that didn't make sense I couldn't stop turning it around in my mind until I figured out the answer.

"What if I got eaten by a bear?" I wondered, rearranging my pillow and unable to sleep."How would my soul get out of its stomach to go to Heaven?"
and
"What, exactly, is gravy?"
and
"Do my parents love each other?"

They met in the cafeteria of the Tarrant County Junior College. My mother noticed a young man sitting at a round table passing out brochures to recruit volunteers to work at Our House, the drug treatment center he ran down the street.
"He had that long brown hair and beard- he looked just like Jesus," my mother told me later.
"I was doing dry runs on impregnating the whole world back then," my Dad said.
The man who would be my father handed her a pen, and she signed up.

Half of Fort Worth filled up the churches every Sunday morning, while the other side slept off another bender. My mother's people sinned, my father's lived and breathed the Word of God. Although her tiny body was stunted from polio, his mother beat him regularly from her wheelchair with her cane and promised a much worse punishment from the Devil if he didn’t behave. His father, who would die of rheumatoid arthritis when my Dad was a teenager, let his wife run the show as long as she turned a blind eye to his Saturday afternoon cockfights and the little flask he kept in his trouser pocket. As my dad rubbed liniment into the legs of his handicapped parents, his mother read from the Bible and spoke in tongues. Physically she suffered, trapped in her strange, twisted body. Spiritually she soared as she awaited the rapture.
"Be prepared at all times for the End of Days," she had told me the previous Christmas."It's coming, I tell you what. The Lord is going to judge us all."

When he turned sixteen my dad began to rebel against his mother and her oppressive religion. He skipped prayer meetings to smoke reefer with his friend Rick. The longer his hair grew, the lower his grades dropped and the more belligerent he became. He was already beyond her control, she just didn't know it yet.

"High school is a drag. I hated it." He told me on the last Christmas Eve I would spend with him for seven years "I don't know how you stand it."

When his school participated in a series of nationwide intelligence tests administered by the Navy, my dad filled out the answers to hundreds of questions every fall without ever being told what the tests were for. One day in the spring of his senior year the meanest teacher in school called him out of class.

“ His name was Odie Adar, if you can imagine. He had been a Marine. He was famous for sneaking up behind the boys with the longest hair and pulling it. He was a real bastard.”

Odie Adar told my dad to follow him to the parking lot. They got in his car. Odie drove him to a barber and forced him to get a crew cut. Back in his office, my dad sat fuming in his chair.

“ Why did you do that to me?”
“ You are wasting yourself.” The teacher said.
“ What you mean, man?”
"The results from all of those Navy tests finally came in. You scored in the 98th percentile. You're one of the smartest kids in this country."

My dad was embarrassed. He looked at the floor.

"What the Hell is wrong with you boy?" Odie Adar stood up and leaned across the desk towards my Dad
“ Keep your hair short and you can do anything you want. Anything.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------

Despite the pleas of Odie Adar, my dad grew his hair long again, and moved out. He drifted awhile, but when he pulled his VW van into downtown Austin and saw a naked man directing traffic in the middle of a four-way intersection he knew he was home.

He got a job as a park ranger at the Mount Bonnell nature preserve by the lake. One afternoon he picked up a book he saw laying face down in the mud and began to read. It was 1984 by George Orwell.

The story kicked off rockets of paranoia somewhere deep in his brain, it’s circuits already wired long ago for such a revelation. Everything clicked into place, and he went home and packed warm clothes, a little food, a sleeping bag and a map. His plan to survive the end of the world was to walk to Mexico.

"You don't speak Spanish" I will tell him years later as I hold his hand and wait for the Hospice nurse to arrive with his pain pills. He will cough, struggle for a long time to clear his throat and then continue.

"I thought it would be safer there, less infrastructure. I'd just finished reading 1984. Seemed like it would take Mexico a little longer to get organized enough to pull off a fascist police state"

He traveled for three days, avoiding the highway for country roads and following dry creek beds. On the third night it froze. His feet began to crunch on frosty grass; he could see his breath clouding in front of him as he walked. His pack was heavy and he was tired. He made his way to the interstate, intending to hitch a ride.
When a car pulled up he ran to it, dismayed to discover that it was a cop.

“ Shit,” he thought.” I’m going to jail.”

The policeman told him to get in so he did. They drove for a few miles in silence, finally pulling into an elementary school parking lot. It was the middle of the night. No one was around.

“ Come with me.”

My dad followed the cop; dread growing stronger with every step. He was led to the boy’s bathroom. The cop pulled the door open.
“Get in there.”

He did as he was told. He walked in, dropped his pack and turned around to face the policeman.
“Look,” the cop said,” This ain’t much, but it’s awful cold out there. You could die. Block the door and get some sleep.”

“ Thank you.” My dad bleated, eyes blinking back tears.
“ It’s nothing. I’ll drive by every hour or so. You won’t hear me, but you’ll know I’m here if you need me. Try to get out before the kids come in the morning.”

“ I will.” He slept curled up on the cement tiles, blocking the door with his body.
His enthusiasm was waning for walking to Mexico when he woke up in the morning so he decided to let fate decide.

“ I will get in the next car that stops,” he thought as he walked” If it’s heading North, I will go home to Fort Worth. If it’s South, I’ll keep heading to Mexico.”
An hour later, a car stopped for his outstretched thumb. It was going north.

Back in Fort Worth my dad sweet-talked his way into a job running a drug crisis center called Our House. Anyone in trouble could knock on the door of the rambling two story house and be taken in, no questions asked.

“ We never wrote down anyone’s name. The police were always hassling us about our records, but we wouldn’t do it. In three years, not once.” Try to stay off the grid if you can.

Everyone who came in had to deposit their drugs into a stolen mailbox that was bolted to the floor of the big front room. The police came once a month to take its contents, baggies of multi-colored pills and vials-always noting that somehow there was never any marijuana inside the mailbox.

“ People came by, they wanted to blow their brains out, they needed to hide from the cops, whatever. We listened to them, played music, made it safe for them. Then they went on their way.”

If my father had followed the advice of his guidance counselor and kept his hair short, I believe I would never have been born. My mother had just converted the entire Diamond Hill football team to the Church of Christ. They held prayer meetings before each game and she was on fire to save some more souls. A treatment center would be full of people who were spiritually lost, and they might be more receptive to hearing the Lord's message if they were coming down from a bad trip. She signed up to volunteer to save a few souls, but she followed my Dad back to Our House for stir fry because of his waist length honey brown hair.
My Dad had a way with the ladies.

“ I was always trying to make it with her but nothing ever happened.” He will tell me one day, reaching his shaking hand out to hold mine. I will be sitting on the edge of a hospital bed trying to memorize him, capture as much of him as I can to carry with me. ”I remember her sitting across from me one night by a campfire, she looked like Joan Baez-waist length black hair, those cheekbones she got from the Cherokee side-you got those." He will gesture, as if to touch them, but he is too weak.

"I think it's the only trait I got from her" I will tell him, as I place my hand on top of his thin grey hair "That and the writing."

"That's because you are both excellent liars" he will smile, then begin to cough again.

When she found out she was pregnant, despite my fathers objection to involving the Man in his love life, they got married and moved to a one room cottage in the country. Tired of struggling with the police and weary of fixing people only to see them come back broken, he would work a vegetable garden instead. His uncle owned the land and agreed to let them live there for a while as long as he didn't have to pay for any repairs.
My Dad was sitting on the front porch on his last day at Our House watching the sun go down when a woman jumped in front of a bus across the street from him. It swerved and missed her. She continued to stand there, waiting for the next one.

“ Oh Shit.” he thought and called out casually “Ma’m? I just made a big pot of coffee in here and it’s too much for me. I wonder if you’d come over here and help me drink it.”

She turned slowly and focused on him saying nothing.
“ Do you take cream and sugar?” He yelled.

She nodded, made her way onto the porch and sat down. When she reached for the coffee cup he saw the blood running down her fingertips, pooling into the cracks of the wood.

When I think about my dad trying to exorcise such terrible despair from the strangers who blew into his life, I wonder if it prepared him for what would come. When his daughter would begin an education in madness and he would begin his in grief. And nothing he could think up to say would make any difference at all.

-----------------------------------------------------

The Mating Habits of the Southwestern Middle Aged North American Divorced Male

2013-01-08T09:30:00.003-08:00

Due to drastic changes in habitat, diet, tribal customs and migratory habits; the mating rituals of the Western Middle-aged, Upper-Middle Class Divorced Male have changed dramatically in recent decades.

Quick to adapt to abrupt shifts in their environment, the American male has been challenged by a sudden, confusing epidemic of role reversal among its sexually mature breeding population. When the female mysteriously decided to begin making trips out into the world to bring home grubs of her own, she also began to expect him to spend an equal amount of time in the nest taking care of their young

"Since when did this become my job?" he thinks, as he listens to the incessant, high pitched chirping day and night day and night, knowing his father would have been down at the pub watching the game after a long day of digging for worms.

Instead of waiting meekly at home for the male to return, the female demands to be an equal partner, pecking him with merciless violence until he agrees to stay in the nest every Friday night so she can go to her Book Club. She is fearless now, she can fly off at any moment and still survive. It terrifies him.

Still, behind its tough, emotionless exterior-the American male is one of the most sensitive, loyal, and idealistic of Mother Natures creatures. He cheerfully adapts to whatever circumstances his environment throws at him. When he is laid off from from the anthill due to cutbacks in larvae production, he swallows his pride and stays home with the young while the female goes out to happy hour with her boss.
The male accepts his new, diminished role; allowing the female to direct how the nest is built, his manner of dress, his schedule, and the correct way to fold all of the tiny, useless matching purple towels in the guest bathroom. In exchange-he receives sporadic sexual access and experiences a deeper bond with his offspring, since he is now required to spend more time and resources ensuring their survival than before. Therefore, when the female comes home, announces she is leaving him for her boss, kicks him out of the nest and limits his access to the kids-he is just that more bitter when he has to bring half of the worms he scavenged to the nest every two weeks and give them to his former mate.

"Oh hey Roger" he says awkwardly. "Is Joanna here?" and waits at the door as his wifes old boss turns around to look for her in the back of the nest. She hops out wrapped in a little towel and cocks her head at him, feathers still wet from her bath.

"For God's sake Joanna" he chirps in a low tone of voice "The kids are right over there watching that chrysalis open. Put some clothes on."

And she raises all of her feathers and screeches and flaps her wings in his face so he takes off, You get to deal with that now, he mentally tells Roger. Good Luck, buddy!

And when he finally gets back to his tiny, barely furnished nest on the edge of the forest-the only place he can afford to live now-he thinks "I am never making that mistake again. From now on I'm a free bird."

Which is why we are now seeing an explosion in population numbers of Permanently Single Upper Middle Class, Middle Aged North American Males- which has led to an equally large number of Cynical, Lonely Middle-Aged North American Females. The balance has been disrupted, the old rules don't apply anymore and the creatures have become confused-unsure of what they want and afraid-sending pictures of their genitals to the opposite sex via text message.

Presented with an ever increasing number of options for mates online, both male and female become highly critical and easily dissatisfied. They pair bond within weeks and lose interest in each other just as quickly. Their selection of available partners is suddenly not constrained by proximity. There is no scarcity of females to compete over. Without even leaving their nests they can carry on three different virtual courtship rituals at once via text while the chicks watch The Butterfly Channel in the other room.

Courtship feeding, a universal behavior observed in populations in every habitat since the divorced male was discovered by Joanna Kramer in 1979, have also been disrupted by the change in habitat. Instead of currying favor with his potential mate by presenting her with offerings of food, sweets or long pieces of glittering string to feather her nest-he will sit passively when she reaches into her purse at the end of the meal-a universal gesture the female developed to communicate that she is capable of obtaining her own delicious meal of insects and grubs. Instead of pushing her credit card away and insisting that she accept his gesture -"Here, let me take care of this. I am capable of providing you with extra nourishment during the winter- if you will allow me to fertilize your egg later after a few glasses wine."-he allows her to split the bill- which confuses her.

"What is this all about?" she wonders "These motherfuckers used to swoop in from all over the forest and fight over which one got to hand me a cutworm. What happened?"

The male, reluctant to invest any resources into a female again, is emboldened by the sudden realization that-even though they are still capable of producing offspring-the North American female enjoys less power than her younger counterparts after she has already hatched a few chicks from a previous mate. It requires just a fraction of the effort he was required to spend before to get invited back to her nest.

He doesn't even have to go out to the telephone wire every night and risk being rejected. He doesn't have to work at receiving his prize at all, in fact.

Although it's not readily apparent to the untrained observer, the male is also suffering from the sudden disruption of the rules. Mating without challenge, initiating contact without risk and receiving sexual access without exerting any effort further atrophies his already diminished masculinity. What we obtain through risk and struggle is valued ten times over that which is handed to us casually.

Because there is no scarcity of mates, they all begin to seem alike. They are easy to meet and easier to discard in search for the next one- a process that becomes more similar to commerce than romance as both males and females sip tiny glasses of wine while they check their phones surreptitiously at dinner, always looking for a better deal.

White Woman seeks Stock Car Driver for a Ride out of the Apocalypse

2012-11-19T17:35:00.001-08:00

I can hear a Bob Wills song as we pull into the wide gravel parking lot.

"Get it off of me!" I try to pull it off me but its claws are stuck like burrs in my dress "It's doing that creepy kneading/nursing thing. It makes me uncomfortable."

"Here Mabel" she croons, and deposits it into the backseat.

"Why is the cat in the car again?" I have just now thought to ask.

"Long story" she says. I've found it's best not to ask too many questions so I just nod and we go inside. The band is good but no one is dancing. We get our drinks and sit down.

"Can I ask you a question?" Coco pops a cherry into her mouth and points a tiny hot pink sword at me. I nod to the beat of the music. My sunglasses are still on. So what?
"When did you stop dancing?"
I frown. "I don't know. What the fuck happened to me man?"
"Go ask one of those cowboys over there" she nudges me.

I want to-
They will say no and you will feel stupid, no one wants to dance with you

"Fuck this. I used to be the who jumped out and danced by myself until everyone else joined in" I grab a cowboy, he does not say No.
I am twirled around until I am spinning, breathless, laughing, beautiful by the time the song ends. Then I ask another, and another-borrowing the old men from their wives and sweet talking the young ones into giving it a try.
As the bar closes we walk past two guys with dreadlocks sitting in plastic lawn chairs by the fence. One of them nods towards us in greeting and passes a joint to his buddy.

As we put on our seatbelts I hear him through the open window -
"Look. She got a cat in the car."
"No, man" his friend says "It is not possible."
"Yah tis! Look!" he stands a little pointing.
"White women" he slaps his knee "They crazy, man!"

-----------------------------------------------------

I just found out that this Nascar race for rich people called Formula One is being held just outside of Austin this week. Apparently people have been talking about this since the track was built for it, which was a while ago, but since I don't watch TV and I only dimly pay attention to your Facebook posts I didn't know about it until 100,000 people with vaguely European accents and sporty leather jackets arrived in town.

Question- "Why is it taking me an hour to travel three blocks down Lamar street?
Answer- "A whole bunch of people from Monaco need to pick up one of the many products carried by Whole Foods Market that contain acai berries for their hangovers."
Oh.
Okay.

Coco called to warn me on Wednesday. I was sick in bed, passing in and out of a feverish delirium.
"You better get over here" she warned. "I've stocked up on food and water. They say the city is going to run out."
"I'm sick." I told her "I can't move."
"I have cable"
That was all she had to say.
I don't watch TV anymore because I have other stuff I like to do but when I am sick it becomes addictive, like sucking on a crack rock made out of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire.

The next day during the Terminator marathon she kept looking at her phone.
"Everyone is posting on Facebook that it's like a war zone out there!" she says.

I am going to OWN these people when the Apocalypse comes, I think.

"OMG traffic sucks, yall! It's a war zone!" posts Tiffany Rasberry in her status update bar as she "checks in" at 6th and Lamar.

I will be like a God to you, Tiffany. I realize suddenly. When it is a real war zone out there I will show you how to make a Molotov cocktail and lead all 57 of our mutual Facebook friends out of a ruined city like La Femme Nikita. In return your family will pay tribute to me as your leader for several generations to come.

The only thing I know about Nascar is that they wear a lot of vests that zip up the front and all of my relatives, who are also fond of vests, seem to really enjoy it. The only thing I know about Formula One is that a fleet of dilettantes follow it around like the white people with dreadlocks do with that band Phish and someone said the engines are made like fighter jets with shark fins. Which makes me imagine them as the Jetsons, zipping around the globe in their personal aviation devices to watch cars drive around a track fast enough to break the sound barrier, and I decide that I would go to that party if I was invited.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

I have been writing since 9 this morning. It's two thirty in the morning now. I am finishing my book.

I'm 37 years old. I am a single mother who lives in a trailer. I don't know where the rent is going to come from, but I am finishing my book.

I may, or may not, have gone crazy; either way I am finishing my book.

Because I know something.

At midnight I go down Congress to the Continental Club and get a tequila shot. A swing band is playing so I make all the cowboys dance with me for an hour before I go back home to write. A young man with a cheerful smile and jaunty newsboy cap named Dash tells me as we dance that he is one of those guys that run out to the car and change out the tires real quick during the Formula One races.

"That's your whole job?" I ask "And you fly around the world all year doing it?"

He nods.

How do these people get all these cool jobs?

Later he stands outside with me for a smoke.

"Tell me some crazy story about going around the world with a circus like that" I command.

"Nah, I got a crazy story for you" he says, grinning at me.

( Leprachaun I always think, then feel bad. Is that racism? Can I say the thing about 'Me Lucky Charms?' Or is that ethnocentric? I don't know)

"Tell me Lucky!" I cheer.

"When I was twenty two I got into an accident doing wheelies on me motorbike and broke me back. The doctors said I wouldn't walk again and look a' me now!" He twirls a little, like an adorable chimneysweep.

"Wow" I say, and we catch each others eyes. "You knew from the minute they told you that they were wrong? You knew you would recover."

"I never doubted it for a second" he says in recognition.

"Now you're country dancing with a pretty girl in Austin, Texas" I tell him, and he laughs.

"I just knew it. I knew I would walk again." he repeats.

"Yes" I smile as I leave him to go home and write "I know what you mean."

Chocolate and Cuckoo Clocks

2012-11-07T18:13:00.000-08:00

My mother and I stare into the open box on the bed.

"Is that-"
"Yes." I say.
"She shipped his ashes in a coffee maker." my Mom states.
"Yes" I grin "Yes she did."

To be accurate- my stepmother shipped some of my dad's ashes in a French press barely held shut by scotch tape, but quite a lot of him had sifted out of the poorly sealed lid and collected in the bottom of the box by the time it got here. She threw in some Christmas tinsel to make it festive.
I stick my head out of the doorway into the room full of people where his memorial is being held and hiss
"Coco, come in here. Right now."

My aunts wander in with her just to see what's going on.

"Really?" Aunt Sherry booms when she sees it-big voice, big heart, big laugh. She turns to her sister. "Teensy do you still know any of those Jacksboro highway boys we used to run around with?"

Teensy is punching one fist into the other open palm.
"I do" she looks me dead in the eye. "Let me tell you something Sunny-If you want me to I can send someone up there to break her kneecaps. I'm not joking."
I put my hand on her back in appreciation, feeling the current of volatile brilliance that seems to run through her body. Aunt Sherry is a thunderstorm, Aunt Teensy is a live electrical wire shooting sparks in the street.

"Look there's some other stuff here at the bottom."
My Mom is digging in the tinsel. She pulls out a black velcro Batman wallet dusted with light grey ashes-the kind an adolescent boy would buy for 4.99 at Target. She blows on it without thinking.
"Oops" she looks quickly at me, to see if her casual treatment of my Dad has upset me.
"It's fine. He thinks this is hilarious" I tell her.

"You can bet your ass she didn't leave any cash in that wallet" says Sherry drily.
"That's not even his wallet!" Teensy is pacing, stopping to point an accusatory finger at the wallet every now and then "His wallet was leather-Remember Sherry? It smelled like that fucking patchouli he wore."
We open it and find a silver dollar, his bus pass and a coupon for a free haircut at Shavers.

There is also a card featuring a ghostly unicorn grazing on some grass while being caressed by a maiden under a full moon. The large, flowery script inside it reads-

Dear Sunny,
Your father wanted you to have this fine coffee maker after he died. It was brought here all the way from France. I went ahead and threw some ashes in there with a piece of scotch tape. You're welcome.
It was always important to him that you have coffee to drink in the morning, and although he wanted to give you more- a cup, or some sugar-this was all he could do. I hope it helps.
Namaste,
Patricia

Not really.

Every few minutes one of us will start laughing again and then we all go off.
What my stepmother intended to be felt as "Fuck You" has ended up being a gift.

"I could not make up better shit to write about!" Someone is playing Frank Zappa in the big room so I begin to dance a little as I pour his ashes onto a paper plate and scrape them into a pile with a credit card. "She is so awesome." I can't get over it.

My cousin Jenny brings in some ziploc baggies so we can divvy up his ashes before the impromptu ceremony about to be held in her backyard.
Everyone is catching each others eyes in the mirror as we work.

It's this look-

We are sharing this thing that is happening right now
We all love him
We are all so sad
but even though we mourn his death, we celebrate his life more.
We're only crying for ourselves.
We are laughing and dancing for him.

Or maybe that was just what I was thinking.

"Don't let them wear black and sad-sack it around in some church when I go" he told me once "I want everyone to dance on my grave."

"So" I use the card to form a row of lines across the plate like we used to do with the cocaine. "Rick wanted to take him on a fishing trip Who else?"

"Can I have some to make a cactus terrarium with?" Teensy asks.
"Sure"
I see my mother frowning at the lines on the plate, figuring out the joke.
"Sunny stop that-it isn't funny," she says, trying not to smile.

I ignore her. "My Dad wants you to stop bugging me. He said to tell you to lighten up."

My mother shoots a glance at Coco.
"How long do you think we'll be hearing that?" she asks drily.
Coco sighs. "A long time, Dee."

After the sun sets we form a circle around a candle in the backyard. Someone is playing 'Brokedown Palace' on their iPhone.
We pass around the French press, which actually turns out to be exactly what we need to pass the container in the dark because it has a handle, each of us sprinkling some ashes around the flame.

The glass coffeemaker passes from Teensy
"Remember the time he caught that poisonous snake with his bare hands and threw it in a bucket?"

-to her husband Rick
"I love you brother"

-to my cousin Jenny
"When I was small he talked to me like what I had to say was important"

-to my Mother, who once carried his child
"Thank you"

-to Aunt Sherry, who turned to me smiling with tears running down her face
"I loved your father. You look just like him"

-to her husband,
"He was my best friend"

-to me
"You can go on now Dad. I'm okay."

and finally to Ruby, who has been skipping around the candle inside our circle.

"Goodbye, Max!" she says, blowing the ashes off her fingers like a kiss, extinguishing the candle and leaving us holding hands in the dark.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Blessings, Patricia

2012-11-03T15:25:00.000-07:00

I got dis-invited from the "Evite" to my father's memorial service last week.

"What kind of Ass Clown sends and Evite out for a funeral?" Coco asked.

"The kind of woman who sends an email like this-" I said, clicking on my laptop and swiveling it so she can read the only communication I have had from my stepmother since May.

"Max was so hurt and angry about the fight he and Sunny had three months ago that he gave away most of the "stuff" he promised her to friends who have actually helped him over the years and gave the car to his friend Dennis. A friend came and helped me clean out the apartment today.
Something inside him died when they had that fight. He said he loves her but didn't ever want to see her again, and didn't want her to have the money he promised her because she hurt him so badly. He never really recovered from that horrendous trip to Austin, that was when he started to decline.
I will send some of his ashes,
Blessings,
Patricia"

She also signs off sometimes with "Namaste"

as in- "I'm not going to answer any of your frantic calls and let you talk to your dad on his deathbed but I WILL let other people say goodbye like his friend Billy, the hobo your Dad bought psychadelic mushrooms from who lives under the I-5 bridge,
Namaste,
Patricia"

Or
"While I was giving you a hair cut you only agreed to in order to please your dying father because he actually thinks we've made up I decided to ignore the very clear and repeatedly stated instruction you gave me to only trim your waist length hair an inch and went ahead and cut it just under your ear before you could say anything. Oops!
Namaste,
Patricia"

No, the last two weren't real emails. But those things did happen. And not only is that kind of "Look at me, I'm so spiritual- even as I'm merrily tiptoeing around trying to hurt people" bullshit annoy me, but she has completely ruined that cool feeling I used to get watching the Dalai Lama say "namaste" as he bows to refugees.

So she sucks, but I knew that already. She had no way of knowing this when she sent that email intending to inflict as much pain as she possibly could-- but it can't hurt me- because

1. My Dad keeps coming back and telling me things( like-that email is bullshit)
2. Me and his old hippie friends have planned our own party for him that includes what he loved the most-someone playing Grateful Dead songs on the acoustic guitar, reefer, and Dr. Pepper.

She is having veggie trays and tepid New Age flute music and telling people to donate to her favorite charity for orphaned animals or something instead of to a college fund for his granddaughter- which is what he told her to do.

He is totally going to come hang out at my funeral and not lame, bullshit one.
She can keep the ipad and family photos because he is always with me.

Then he reminds me that he is infinite now and is totally capable of attending both funerals simultaneously.
But he thinks it's funny because we have the same sense of humor.
And also because we made up before he died- and besides he is here with me now.

Also, I know he is not visiting her because when you have a dead person spirit hanging around you it's impossible to be a total cunt, because they are all like---
"Hey look at that! Everything is so shiny and beautiful and full of love! Wake up! The world is awesome!"

I'm not saying I'm never a cunt anymore, especially when he goes off to run his ghost errands or whatever it is he does when he's not riding shotgun with me.

(It's actually not 'I will always be with you' but more like 'I will sporadically be with you at random times' because no one wants their dead father around all the time. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.)

So even though everything seems just a little shinier now that I believe in an Afterlife and all that, I still find my self thinking-
"Oh no-what is this motherfucker trying to do up here" when someone is stopped sideways blocking traffic on four lanes because they just have to turn right now to get their Oreo flavored "Blizzard"--
instead of laying on the horn or beaming my impatience and hatred at them passive aggressively I just look out the window and breathe it out into the cosmos.
Or whatever.

I am also not as upset that my stepmother is trying to make me think I killed my father with pure meanness because-
1. If I was capable of doing that my mother would have dropped dead years ago.
2. Instead of getting money to go back to school my Dad came back and told me how to write the ending of my book-which I would gladly pay 20,000 dollars for.

And to add to my inheritance- for two weeks it was like this-
ME--"Coco! Can I borrow this sweater?"
HER--"No, it's new. You'll spill coffee on it."
ME--"But my Dad just died. You have to."
SIGHS-"Fine. Here."

And now it goes like this-
ME---"Can I borrow these jeans?"
HER- "No, you'll lose them.'
ME--"My Dad says you have to. No-wait-he says you're meant to."
SIGHS---"Here. Ask your dad to find my keys."
ME--"My Dad is not your slave, Coco."

Namaste Patricia!

For real

2012-10-30T06:59:00.002-07:00

My father came back from the dead to give me some career advice the other night. But that's a story for another time.

I woke up the next morning and realized I have lost nothing. I have bird songs. I have my hands that I can teach to make music or bread or a soft knitted cap for my child.

Somewhere right now

rhinos are charging towards each other

sperm are congratulating themselves on hitting the jackpot

babies are opening their eyes

teenagers are bored

plants are eating sunlight

billions of trees are calmly giving us the oxygen we take into our bodies with every breath

seeds are sprouting among the earthworms busy eating the earth

anthills are being stepped on by curious children

People are telling each other their stories around the world using machines that magically transmit a photograph of a cat wearing an orange rind on its head, among other things, through the air on invisible waves.

someone is eating the best sandwich they have ever had in their entire life

as a million dying breaths are released to become one with the clouds.

I am.

I wonder who does the laundry at Castle Greyskull?

2012-10-23T20:53:00.001-07:00

"I look like Skeletron" I tell Coco. I am applying coverup to the dark, puffy circles under my eyes that I woke up with this morning. I haven't felt this unattractive when I look in the mirror since high school. I have lost something- too much weight, too much hair, too many brain cells, my common sense - I don't know. I dig around in my purse but Maybelline doesn't make a coverup for Grief.

"Do you mean Skeletor?" she asks.

"The one that lived in a castle shaped like a skull who rode a panther." I tell her. Now I am sifting through one of the many piles of clothes dispersed randomly through the tiny camping trailer I moved into two months ago. I am looking for a bra. Any bra. The black one, the strapless, the uncomfortable sexy one- it doesn't matter. I don't even care if it's clean. That's what the French invented perfume for.

To a Normal Person the equation goes like this-

Give away 90% of what you own
Move into a structure that is so tiny it can be towed behind an average sized truck =
It will be easier to keep your living space tidy.

But, even though I now own only two glasses, several plastic Hello Kitty plates, and a coffee cup; the sink is still full of unwashed dishes. And because everything is in miniature, even though the actual heap of dishes is much smaller, it looks exactly the same in the new doll-sized sink as it did in the normal sized sink back in my normal sized apartment.
So the piles of laundry that collect in corners and on top of surfaces throughout the trailer like drifts of sand pushed back and forth by the tide produce an even more disorienting and chaotic effect because the trailer is so small. I live this way, like an animal, until the day before Ruby comes home. Depending on my level of ambition on that day either everything gets washed and neatly put away or frantically stashed out of sight anywhere I can find. Which is why I found my glasses stored next to the Ziploc bags and aluminum foil in the EasyBake oven I have never used because I don't know how to turn on the propane. And why I am digging through clothes piled in the teacup sized bathtub right now looking for a bra.

I don't find it. I do find-
a juicebox
a giant 600$ switchblade my Dad gave me inscribed with it's name- "The Infidel"
the car charger for my old flip phone
and a half dozen palm sized videotapes from when Ruby was a baby.
Mental note- Clean out the bath tub before Ruby comes home from her dads house.

I had multiple reasons for moving from the beautiful, historic two bedroom stone house I loved into a home that has its own title, registration and wheels just like a vehicle but it's enough to say that it's because everything sucked.
The guy who sold it to me bought it from FEMA after the New Orleans thing. All of the FEMA trailers look exactly the same down to the upholstery so whenever I am watching anything about the aftermath of Katrina there are scenes that take place in my living room/kitchen/bedroom.
It comforts me to think of whoever found shelter in this trailer before I got here. The weekend after the hurricane my ex-husband Jeff and I were watching Saturday Night Live when a bulletin interrupted the monologue.
Refugees from Katrina are arriving in Austin by bus in one hour due to overflow in Houston. To volunteer report immediately at the front entrance of the Austin Convention Center.

We drove down there, speeding the whole way- because when something like that happens you watch it on TV and think "I am such an asshole! Why didn't I become a nurse and work for the Red Cross?" All you want to do is help, and all you can do is sit there.

The Convention Center has very high ceilings, and the mountain made of clothes, shoes, blankets and toys people had driven down there and donated reached the very top. It was the size of a two story house. Underneath it volunteers were running from one task to the next, hyperfocused, everyone doing what was needed intuitively without any supervision at all.
The bus pulled up then and people began to line up calmly in front of the pile of clothes. They had survived the storm, the flood, and losing everything they had only to endure days of being stranded inside the Superdome without enough food or water. When the Army or whatever finally came to get them they probably relaxed a little on the bus to Houston thinking about clean clothes, clean beds, and maybe a little medical attention. Then in Houston they were told they had to get back on the bus and drive another four hours to some other city in Texas that much further from home. They were tired.

No one told me what to do so I decided to do this job because I am a small person and I'm not afraid of heights-
1.Stand at the front of the line and ask the person in front of me what they need.
2. Go get it for them on top of that big mountain of crap

They waited their turn patiently. I think now that they were all in shock.
A very large woman was first. She was wearing a Snoopy T-shirt that billowed down just past her knees and one flip flop. Her hands were empty. It occurred to me that she had been wearing that T-shirt since the flood and, in addition to the flip flop, that might literally be all she had left.
"What do you need?" I asked her.
"Size 22 underpants and a Diet Coke." she said quietly.
"Is that it?" I asked. If i had just watched my neighbors get swallowed by a flood of black, crocodile infested waters then got stuck in some Mad-Max football stadium with no AC for four days I'd be asking for a back rub, a pepperoni pizza and a handful of Vicodin.
But she just nodded. So I climbed all over the mountain until I found underpants( size 22) and pulled a Diet Coke from a nearby cooler and sent her to the medical station.
"Are you sure you don't want another pair of flip flops?" I called out, but she just shrugged and limped on over there on the one remaining shoe.
It was like that all night, until Jeff and I finally succumbed to exhaustion as the sun was coming up. As each new person reached the front of the line I asked them
"What do you need?"
Thinking-
Whatever you tell me you need I'm going to fucking get it for you. No matter what. Those people could have told me they needed a live ferret, a pipe bomb and an autographed Jimi Hendrix guitar and no power on this earth could have prevented me from bringing those items back to them.

After the first few came and went I began to notice a similarity of expression, something in the eyes. Guarded-
"So much has hurt me that now I am afraid that everything and everyone will."

Underneath that was that thing in their eyes.
See me.

I am not this disheveled, dirty, poor black woman in a Snoopy T shirt acting crazy about a flip flop
I am a mother, I am a sister,
or
I am a Jazz fanatic, I am an amazing cook, I sing in the church choir,
or
I braid my daughters hair every morning
I take care of my elderly neighbor
I grow the best roses on the block

I am not this thing that has happened to me.

But all they ever asked me for were clean clothes and directions to the cots lined up by the hundreds in the big room. Despite the noise from hundreds of people running all over the place shouting across the room for more blankets and a forklift that beeped into the room dropping loads of heavy boxes- I watched each one of them instantly fall into a deep sleep the minute they reached their cot.
Towards the end I grasped the hand of an elderly white lady who asked me to help her get to her cot. She told me the story of how she met her husband as we walked. The house she had lived in with him for thirty years was underwater, their wedding photos were drifting out to sea, but all she wanted to tell me about was the day they moved in.
"It was our wedding day. He didn't want to carry me over the threshold but I made him. He was so stubborn then" she shook her head then smiled and looked me in the eye.
"I used to be so beautiful." she said, and fell asleep.

I have seen a similar sadness play out in my own eyes over the last several months when I looked into the mirror to apply coverup so that no one would know I had been crying. I've watched people and things and ideas about who I am that I thought I couldn't live without disappear until I stopped trying to save anything but just stepped back and watched it go.
While my Dad was fighting to get a liver
I was watching my hair go down the drain.
While I lay in the ER having a seizure that made me go blind
I thought of my Dad lying in the new bed that Hospice brought him to die in.
He got more sick as each day passed.
So did I.
I was looking for a job
knowing he was coughing up blood.
I sat in a courtroom losing most of the custodial rights over my daughter
He threw up his pain medicine alone in his apartment.
I got rid of all of my really cool stuff and moved into a trailer
while someone came from the Salvation Army and took everything he owned.
Everywhere I went, everything I did, the awareness of his suffering never completely left my mind.
And this thought-
I can't save my Dad.
The five year old in you thinks that is your job. You should be able to save your parents by loving them enough, being good enough or smart enough to make them okay.
I should be doing something. I should write to the Liver Board up there. I should find an obscure treatment from a foreign country and raise the money online to fly him over there. I should go up there again and make sure he really knows I love him and he's not alone. I should call him every day. I should call ten times a day.
Will it be today?
Is he dying right now?

It was like a giant black hole of pain sucking everything out and away from me towards the Pacific Northwest. Then he died.
Now it's gone.
What is left with me are the best parts of him.
Whenever I experienced any kind of defeat my Dad would always say
"What an adventure you're having! Now go do something else."

Now that he has died, the last thing I was trying not to lose has been lost and I can feel myself cut loose from it like when ET gets really sick and then Elliot gets sick too and their blood pressure drops at the same time because they love each other so much-
If you go down I go down
but then all of a sudden ET dies and all of Elliot's shit goes back to normal and he's okay.
Except that my Dad didn't wake up right after that and demand that me and my friends steal a science van so we can take him to the park to meet his friends. If he had I probably would have done it.

How come my Dad didn't come back with some dirt bikes and backpack full of Vitamin Water and take me on a magical flying bicycle ride through the sky?

(Here is a secret that no one tells you about losing everything-
You have nothing to lose anymore. And you're still here.
That is a sort of thrilling freedom once you get used to it.
You should try it)
So one of the people who came in on those buses that night ended up living in a trailer in Austin for a while then passed it along to this hippie who passed it to me when I needed it. I think I am just as grateful as they must have been.

I was certain it would be easier to stay organized- giving me less stress and more time to spend with my daughter.
The rent is 325$ a month.

So, while the Travel Trailer so organized and adorable it could be featured in "Dwell" magazine hasn't materialized yet, I am enjoying the second benefit.
I haven't unpacked any of my shoes except for a pair of flip flops, but I have found time to completely bedazzle the front door.

How come I can't live in a castle shaped like a giant skull and ride a panther to work? I thought, staring at the mess with what can only be described as "calm resignation".
I wonder about things like that a lot.

How come my friend Joanne can work a full time job, keep her house clean, go to something called "pilates" three times a week and hand carve tiny, decorative pumpkins for her Halloween themed bathroom display and I can't make it to the Post Office for weeks?

How come everyone else is still married?

How come the Japanese haven't perfected the design of a friendly humanoid robot that could be sent in my place to parent-teacher conferences? Shouldn't I be able to buy those at Target by now? What gives?

It's more of a mild curiosity than actually wanting whatever it is I'm puzzling over. Because if I really, really wanted to have the option of transport by panther or build a skull house it's certainly within my grasp.

How to Become Skeletor
1. Move to a country that has lax animal protection laws. Perhaps to a region where indigenous hunters still consider panthers a source of food. No one will hassle you about leash laws.
2. Employ, enslave or sweet talk said indigenous population to help you build your skull shaped castle.

Building a fortress isn't cheap though. Also, saddles for panthers have to be custom ordered. That sounds expensive too. I would probably have to work really hard and save up some money for that plan. But if that was my only goal in life and I was willing to devote the next 25 years to seeing it to fruition- it's doable.

I don't live at Castle Greyskull with a giant cat because I don't want to badly enough.
Same goes for the decorative pumpkins and being married.
I would like to have every option continuously available to me at all times like a 24 hour buffet should I suddenly decide this is what I have always wanted.
But having everything is the same as having nothing.
Maybe that's what it's about, figuring out what you want badly enough to forgo everything else to attain it-even your very own panther.

It's Your Movie

2012-10-22T13:45:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon I got a text from my mother telling me that my Dad wasn't expected to make it through the night. I had just gotten home from a meeting with a new friend, a woman I didn't know who had called me to talk about the book I wrote about my dad three years ago . I knew I was going to be crazy about her when halfway through a sentence she started coughing, took a big gulp from a glass of water that had been left behind by the young couple who had been previously occupying our table and announced "I'm drinking someone else's water. Fuck it."

If you don't understand why that simple action qualifies her for instant membership to a club I call "People who don't make me want to gnaw on my own wrists until I bleed to death just so I can get out of the mind numbing conversation I am wasting precious minutes of my life nodding and smiling along to" there is no way to explain it to you. The clubhouse is closed. Go watch Regis and Kathy or whatever it is that you people do.

She is an editor who wants to publish my book. I don't know her, and the call came out of nowhere. A friend sent her my manuscript last year and for some reason she called last week to set a meeting. As if that isn't awesome enough- she's funny and brilliant and cool in the way that the senior girls were cool when you were a freshman.

To find someone whose judgment you trust to edit your book is rare. It's like handing over your baby to a person holding a scalpel.

"I will do whatever you tell me," I told her."I am the beta, you are the alpha. Just tell me what to do and I'll do it."

As I drove home I had this weird feeling I couldn't identify and it bothered me.

Then I realized it was happiness.

Not "Relief"

or

"A Respite from Despair"

or

"Fuck it"

-which is what I had gotten used to accepting as happiness- it was the feeling I used to have every day.

I have had a very hard year.

I stopped and got a Thundercloud sandwich because apparently being happy makes me hungry. I took one bite and thought "This is the best Italian Club sandwich I have ever eaten in my entire life."

Thank you Jesus for this kickass sandwich.

Then my Mom sent me that text. She did that instead of calling because I'm not really speaking to her right now. Mothers and daughters go through these things, but my immediate family is batshit crazy, which makes it much worse than the disagreements of Normal People. I include myself in that designation-but sometimes my Crazy doesn't blend well with her Crazy and it's best for everyone to take a break. After some time passes I will wake up one morning and think "It's been a long time since I had someone write up an Excel spreadsheet detailing every fuckup I've perpetrated upon the world since birth" and then we make up.

I looked down at my sandwich, realized I wasn't hungry anymore and thought "DAMN IT! That's how I know there isn't a God. If Jesus had my back he would have let me finish my delicious sandwich before getting that text." You think things like that when crazy shit is happening to you. Nothing makes sense.

I tried to call his wife- no answer. I began to panic. Was I supposed to fly up there RIGHT NOW in case he regained consciousness for a few minutes? The alternative was just to stand paralyzed in the middle of the room.

My best friend Coco usually tells me what to do in times of crisis. Some people have a Higher Power- I have Coco.

But she was camping in Wimberley.

I paced around for about an hour. Was he dying right at this moment? Should I be getting on a plane right now?

I suddenly wished I hadn't gotten rid of the husband.

"This is the time when you need a man to tell you what to do." I thought.

(Shut. Up. Feminists. It's biological.)

Because when bad things happen I almost NEVER know what to do and there is nothing men like more than bossing women around. It's Win-Win.

I texted a few of my Match.com dates but their advice was useless.
(Hey Ladies- don't do that. In case you were wondering, it doesn't go over well.)

There should be a hotline divorcees can call when they need a man to tell them what to do. Not just in a crisis, but things like

Is this a good price for that car?

or

Which handgun should I buy?

For an extra fee he would listen to you describe in detail the fight you're having with that bitch in the office next door as many times as you felt like talking about it. He would always take your side.

"I can't believe she said that to you!" Fake Husband would say.

"I know, right?" you would reply, and then get over it and go about your day. Because that's really all we ever need anyway.

But there is no Fake Husband hotline yet so I just sat down and waited for whatever was going to happen next to happen.

Question- How do I live through this?

Answer- "You live through it."

Oh. Okay.

Then there was a knock on the door and my mother came in.

"He's gone." she said, and hugged me tight.

As I stood there I thought two things-

I never really thought he would die. Not really.

and

I would give anything to talk to him one more time.

And I looked at my mother and realized that someday I would be wishing the same thing about her. Only when that happens she won't be there to give me a hug, and decided to go ahead and forgive her because I really don't know when that will be.

I can count the people who I define as "family" on one hand and only two of them are related to me by blood. So many friends I love but only a few would I fight and die for. Sometimes the lines blur, but here is how you differentiate-
when you call someone up and tell them your dad has died the only response from family is "Where are you?"

Because they are going to come to wherever you are no matter what like my Mom did and bring flowers or food or pot or read you some Irish poetry. The details don't matter. They are with you.

Other responses and expressions of support are awesome in a different way-but that is the line between the people you would give a kidney to and those you just really, really like.

So my Mom is back on the list.
Maybe I can get her to make me an Excel spreadsheet of the list.

This morning I felt fine- then I remembered I will never get to talk to him again. I'm used to having someone I can call when I have insomnia. He stayed up all night drawing and playing music.
When you are awake at four AM it feels like the Apocalypse. I remember standing in my dark living room staring out of the window at the dark, quiet street just sort of barely lit up by this orange streetlight and thinking I could not be more lonely if I was the last person on earth.

But I could always call my dad. And he would always pick up. I would pace around my apartment talking to him until the sun came up. There were no interruptions, no incessant texts, no children to take care of or people to meet. Just me and my dad talking about politics and religion and psychology and science. On one of those nights he spent 3 hours explaining black holes until I finally (I mean really) understood them. Another night he explained the mystery of string theory- a scientific loophole for the existence of God because impossibly tiny things whiz around by the billions inside of everything, jumping in and out of dimensions and confounding the shit out of all the nerds up at MIT.

"I'll be a particle right now but later on I'll be a wave if I feel like it," says Higgs Boson "Or not. Fuck off. I'll do what I want."

That's my explanation for particle physics. It is both accurate and all you really need to know.
You're welcome.

Whenever I felt small or afraid I called my Dad. By the time I hung up I remembered-Oh that's right. I forgot. I'm awesome.

It continues to surprise me how sad I feel. I keep wanting to call and talk to him about it. It's not as if I didn't know this was coming. He's been hanging on by a thread for a long time. That's the thing about loving someone who has a chronic terminal illness- you get the full package. You don't just mourn them when they are suddenly gone. You go through a long Pre-Grieving process, which you think will make you better prepared when the time comes but it doesn't. As though each tear that falls over the years as you watch their slow decline towards death is some kind of deposit-a payment plan towards the balance that you owe.

When I heard about someone's parent dropping dead suddenly of a stroke or getting hit by a bus I felt bad for them. I figured it was harder for them than it would be for me because I was given years to process the event beforehand and they weren't.

But when the other shoe finally dropped I realized that it's not like that at all. It's more like preparing for a parachute jump, no matter how many times you go through the drills you don't understand what it's really going to be like until you jump.

On a minute by minute basis I didn't know what to do last night.

"This sucks." I thought.

I sat down.

"Sitting down sucks," I thought.

So I stood up. That sucked too. I looked around. I didn't want to be at home.

"My house sucks," I thought. I knew Coco would make me go to her apartment because people don't want you to be alone when someone dies. Which is good because you go a little crazy.

But when I thought of being at her house it felt like suck too. I tried to be positive and look for what didn't feel bad and came up with two things.

Cigarettes

Texting

I like text messaging. It's instant. It's fun to go back and forth with clever people while you are doing something boring.

I like to write things down.

When you write about what happens to you it becomes real. You turn it inside-out like a pair of socks, take it out of you and present it back to the other members of your tribe as a story. We tell each other stories because we are trying to figure out what all of this means.

"This is who I am"
is what you really mean every time you post something on Facebook.

Then the members of your tribe respond to the tiny bit of your story that will fit into the box Facebook allots you by "Commenting" on what you've shared.

Or they "Like" you.

Which is what we all want really.

I've written things down since fifth grade, first in a Calvin and Hobbes journal my mother gave me and later online in a blog. It isn't real and I don't know how I feel about it until I see it printed on a screen.

I don't write anymore.

"That's why you text like a teenager" Coco told me."It's the only way you get to write."

So I smoked cigarettes inside- an indulgence only fully appreciated by smokers- and typed out the truth of the moment I found myself in-

"My Dad died."

Realizing as I did so that it is the absolute permanence of that statement that is at the root of the profound sorrow it inspires. We experience very few changes that don't have at least the faint possibility of a second chance, of being remade,undone or put back together someday. We see everyone marry and divorce and marry again. You can always make up with a lost friend, switch careers, move across the country and back again, dye your hair blond then decide the next day you prefer being a brunette, go to a womens college and announce to your family that youre gay then decide to marry a man after grad school, announce that you're an "alcoholic" then decide you have a "thyroid problem", give up veganism for steak, repair your destroyed credit rating, recieve a pardon for that life sentence for double homicide and ditch Jesus for Muhammed or Buhhda or whatever it is that those B'Hai people worship. There is always the girl who recovered from being shot in the head that went on the win a Nobel Prize, malignant tumors that miraculously shrink, the kidnapped child that comes home, hurricanes that veer back into the sea at the last minute- but no one comes back after death.

We live in a world of possibilities. One time I saw this episode of ER where this guy had his arm completely sliced off by a helicopter blade and they sewed it back on and after a while he could wiggle his fingers and hold his Starbucks cup like it never happened. That happens all the time. They can really take a needle and thread or some gorilla glue or whatever it is that they use and reattach a severed limb.

Unless your arm gets eaten by a bear. Even Dr. Kovac can't help you then. So I guess what I am trying to say is-

Sometimes bear attacks have permanent consequences

and

Death is also always permanent.

Which is why it is hard for us to understand and so unbearably sad.
We are such tiny creatures in such a big universe.
How could we possibly think we can grasp something like eternity?
It's impossible.

Coco's boyfriend dropped dead of a heart attack last year. He was 35. No one even knew he had a heart condition. In the morning they were having brunch, in the afternoon he was brain dead in a coma.

"I kept getting mad at him for not coming back and giving me a sign from the afterlife. You know a dove or super-real dream. I wasn't asking for anything as ambitious as seeing his ghost. But some kind of contact, something." she sighed.

"That's like the most extreme version possible of being mad at the guy you're seeing for not texting you back quickly enough" I said.

"Yeah," she laughed. "Um-dude? WHERE DID YOU GO?"

That's the question isn't it?

Where did you go?

I didn't even know where my delicious sandwich went last night so Coco took me to our favorite French restaurant for onion soup and asparagus.

My Dad and I went to a Halloween party there two years ago. He wore a giant Tibetan hat made out of goat fur with a pair of Rubys fairy wings. He liked to be ridiculous as often as possible.

While we were eating I told Coco about the meeting with Ms Awesome the Publishing Lady earlier in the day. I had forgotten all about it.

"Does it seem strange to you that as your dad was leaving his body you were talking to the person who is finally going to publish the book you wrote about him?" Coco asked.

It is true that there are often uncanny coincidences of timing in this life. Some attribute that to Jesus merrily arranging things behind the scene. Some think there is no connection at all except the one your brain makes as it tries desperately to ascribe meaning to your existence. I'm somewhere in between.

I don't think my Dads ghost arranged a meeting for me with a book publisher. But I do think that there are hidden clues and parachutes to be found if you look for them that are hard to explain by coincidence. Like the mystery of where all those particles go when they disappear from orbit- we don't know everything.

Paying attention to coincidences as though they could be road signs to where I am supposed to go feels like moving along with Life instead of fighting upstream against it.

For months I have been looking for these signs and not finding them. Actually the only ones I could see said "Give Up" and "It's Clearly Only Going to Get Worse." I have watched my life fall down like a house of cards this year- each event compounding the loss and despair of the one that preceded it until I was wandering alone in the dark unable to find a way out.
When you have a hard time for a few months it's explainable. When it drags on for a year or two you begin to think it's your fault. Everyone starts to act like there is something wrong with you. You are a bad person who makes bad choices and things will never be right no matter how hard you try. Even random events like illness and death are somehow your fault. This state of mind develops gradually over time but by the time you realize you are trapped in that cycle it is almost impossible to get out. It becomes a self reinforcing loop. Only a dramatic event can wake you up and shake you back into your true self. My Dad called this kind of event a "pattern interrupter."

When he found out he had a tumor growing on his liver in May-in addition to the end stage Hepatitis C- I knew he only had a few months left. In a way, I lost him then. When the liver stops doing its job efficiently ammonia builds up in your body and damages your brain. It changes you, producing an irritable stupor you can't quite wake up from. I could no longer call my Dad and ask him what to do. There was suddenly no Hotline available to me in the middle of the night if I needed advice on how to fix my refrigerator. There was no one there to pick me up when I fell.

That's what fathers are there for, the good ones anyway. They sternly push you to climb out by yourself on the high part of the monkeybars that you're not totally comfortable standing on. You can do this because you know that they are standing somewhere over there to catch you if you fall.

So I have been wandering around for months without a compass, asking myself
"What the fuck am I supposed to do now?"

Today I am suprised that he is still gone. But, for reasons I don't understand, I can hear his voice more clearly than before. No one I love has ever died. People say stuff in movies like "I will always be with you." I get mildly annoyed when they say that. I think
"No you won't! Dumbass. That is a stupid thing to say. What the fuck are you talking about?"

But I guess now I know what they mean by that.
He really is kind of with me.

All I ever wanted to do was write and I stopped doing that because I became afraid. Fear will paralyze you. When I get scared or don't know what to do I just STOP.
But I can see him in that stupid goat hat laughing at me from wherever he is and telling me to get up and go live my life.

"This is your movie," he would say "Do you want to write it as a comedy or a tragedy? Because it's your choice kid."

Jesus took my mayonnaise ( May 2011)

2012-10-14T22:10:00.000-07:00

You how it is when you haven't eaten anything except those little white, powdered donuts from 7-11 and chocolate milk for three days and you realize that if you don't eat some real food you're going to get scurvy and start to lose teeth and you're single so there is no one who vowed to love you "during sickness and health even if some of your teeth fall out, even the front ones, until death do you part"

So you go to the refrigerator expecting to see 2 limes and about 40 bottles of condiments-12.00 salad dressing from Whole Foods, that ghetto ranch dressing you love, four different kinds of mustard, some Serracho sauce your old roommate left behind, some Zing Zang, hash oil and that's it-except you know there is some shit in the crisper from when you got ambitious a month ago and bought salad stuff thinking -

"I am going to be one of those people who eat salad. Also-I will start doing yoga in the mornings and drinking coconut water." But then a few hours after placing the lettuce, cucumbers and carrots into the crisper you thought-

"Not today though. Tomorrow. Today I will drink a bottle of wine and spend the evening looking at old photographs of me and my ex husband while I weep uncontrollably until I pass out on the bathroom floor. Yup. That sounds better."

You are proud of yourself that you remember not to look in the crisper. You vow to never open that drawer. Like a crypt, it will remain sealed forever, the contents too horrific to contemplate.
Eventually your mother will come over and do it for you anyway. She will be frustrated, perhaps even furious (How can you LIVE this way? What is WRONG with you?) but she will take care of the crisper. You know this-as surely as the sun will rise.

So you are surprised that when you open up the fridge to Not-Look at the crisper and search for treats you find that it has some real food in it. You check the dates. Not expired. Juiceboxes, lunch meat and cheese, those disgusting little yogurt squeeze things kids love, tiny elfin-sized pickles, all kinds of good stuff.

"Someone snuck into my house and put groceries in my fridge" you think. It's like the end of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas when he sneaks back into the Who houses and puts the roast beast back in their refrigerators.
Come to think of it-the Grinch displayed all of the classic signs of being an addict. He stole stuff, was grumpy, self-isolated while his codependent dog enabled him, then he found jesus and his heart grew really big and he "made amends" to the assisted living facility of mildly retarded people called "Whoville".

Since it's a kids cartoon they couldn't directly infer that he was taking all of the presents and snacks from Whoville to pawn up at the North Pole so he could buy a crack rock from the Abomidable Snowman. Get it? Snow Man? Fuck you Disney. I see right through your subtext.

The Grinch's dog needs to go to Alanon though. I think it does go actually, in the directors cut.

So-someone made Christmas happen in the fridge. It was probably your mother.She sneaks over here and does shit. You know she's been here when your cigarette lighter is missing from the table it always sits on outside.
You are thankful. But-you look around-could she not have done the dishes when she was here? Because the sink is full and soon you will have to fill up a rubbermaid tub with all of the dishes and put it in your truck then drive around with all of your moldy dishes in the bed of the truck for 2 weeks because every time you see an apartment dumpster you are too lazy to hop out and throw it inside. That's only happened twice this year. But it looks like another midnight trip to the Shady Oaks apartment complex dumpster is on the horizon.

You could do the dishes. But instead you decide to stay focused on your original goal of eating a healthy lunch. And now there are even the ingredients for a sandwich right in front of you.

So you are happy. Until you realize there is no mayonnaise.
The mayonnaise is gone. The jar is missing.
Who finished the mayonnaise and threw the jar away?
Was it the wizard who magicked the food into the fridge?

Suddenly it occurs to you that maybe assuming the food was the gesture of someone benevolent-like your mother or Jesus-it could have been the work of the devil, or an appliance demon. Maybe the same one who mildewed the towels in the washer last weekend.
Maybe this is some kind of trick-like in ancient myths where you have to go past a banquet table full of delicious treats and not eat even one bite or you will stay in the land of the dead forever. Was that Dante? Or that Greek story about Persephone getting rescued by her boyfriend? Or Land of the Lost?
You have been standing in front of the refrigerator for ten minutes thinking about Greek myths and becoming slowly filled with rage about the mayonnaise.
"Who did this to me?" you think.
It doesn't occur to you until later that it was probably you and you just dont remember, since last week you woke up on the lawn covered in a tiny,doll sized strawberry shortcake blanket next to an empty bottle of tequila and your cell phone.

There is no Groupon for the Apocalypse

2011-10-26T17:51:00.002-07:00

Imagine you are the hiring manager at a company that I didn't want to work at anyway and you google an applicant's name looking for topless Mardi Gras booze cruise photos from Facebook cause that's how HR rolls now and you stumbled across this completely hilarious blog written by the girl from the interview who described herself as an "organized team player" who is "focused and professional at all times."

And since the hiring manager only reads People magazine in the break room while waiting for her gluten-free "food" to heat up in the microwave she has never heard the term "creative nonfiction" so as soon as she scans this particular blog--
the only media she's seen that doesn't have an interview with the hot guy from that teen vampire movie or photos of some vapid, useless actress displaying her new offspring----
she is horrified, dropping the applicants resume in the trash and red flagging her in the secret HR database that lists anyone who mentions Jesus on their application and men who want flexible hours so they can spend time with their newborns.

So sometimes I take it down. I drop out, but I always come back, because like diabetes-narcissism is a treatable but incurable lifelong condition. Which is why Facebook will never die.

In hindsight-using my business name in my blog might have been an unfortunate choice. But that was three years ago-when my book was languishing on the desk of a famous literary agent who told me that if I built a "media platform" and rewrote my manuscript as a young adult novel he would represent me.

"Famous writers can say whatever they want," I thought.

Which is true.
But regular people can not.
Just try sharing a charming anecdote from your youth with the admin waiting for the fax machine -

"After I got kicked out of business school I went off my mood stabilizers and stabbed a hobo down by the docks. It was cool though, I burned the body in my mother's chiminea and sold dime bags of his ashes to the guys in my frat. I guarantee you have never been high like that. Unless you ate the brownies I brought to last years Team Building Exercise."

You will be emptying the contents of your desk into a cardboard box within an hour. They won't even let you go look for your Eat,Pray,Love coffee mug. Even though you totally saw the new temp take it yesterday.

But-if you write a memoir about that same experience-Ellen DeGeneres will call you a literary genius while having a cup of tea with you on live TV.

This phenomenon only occurs when your confessions are printed on actual paper books.
( Books are the rectangles full of paper that line the walls of the store where you go for 6-8 hours a day to sit by yourself at a table for four and scowl at anyone who speaks above a whisper while they are in line at the tiny in-store Starbucks because you need absolute quiet to use the free wi-fi to work on your "graphic design" or "marketing" business.)

If you write about anything personal online it falls into the same category as sexy talk in chatrooms and girls who strip on webcams.

Not. Legitimate.

Since I never had a secret yet chaste love affair with a hot adolescent vampire or dropped out of Wizard school to defeat Voldemort I couldn't rewrite my book as a young adult memoir. And I was too scared to make any of that up, because Oprah will call you out and she's mean. Look at what happened to James Frey.

Now it's too late, and my mother has decided to just avoid Googling my writing.

"I don't understand why you have to use so many cuss words," she told me the other day. "How would you feel if Ruby's teacher at church school read this?"

"I would feel freaked out," I told her "Because it's creepy to internet stalk your students parent and shouldn't she be putting stickers on things or cutting herself to relieve the pain or whatever it is that people who have to spend eight hours a day with twenty preschoolers do in their spare time?"

So it goes up, and down, and up again. I'm probably not really fooling anyone anyway. Because even all dressed up, you can never really hide that kind of crazy.

We've been watching this TV show about the zombie apocalypse. I love zombies and I love the Apocalypse-and now there is a tv show about both-which means instead of being sad when my zombie movie ends I can look forward to an hour of shuffling and face eating every week.

I love any kind of post apocalyptic movie. The one about the giant meteor, the one about glaciers attacking New York City, the supervirus,the Terminator; if people say things like "There is no government anymore!" while shaking someones shoulders then it's the movie I want to see.
That is because I actually believe it's going to happen.

I won't say why because it's depressing and we all already know all of that shit anyway. Plus people think you're crazy when they find out you are preparing for the end of civilization.

"What did you do today?"
"I met a friend for lunch and went to the Sprint Store. You?"
"I watched a youtube video about how to hot wire a car and read a book about how to recognize edible plants in Texas."
"Oh."
And then they change the subject.

Which is fine because the more people who wander aimlessly around empty Starbucks parking lots panicking over their dead iphones chirping "There is no App for this!" until they finally starve to death the less people there will be competing with me for scarce and valuable resources.

Because I am the kind of girl that would appreciate a hunting rifle and a spare bottle of Cipro as a Christmas gift-I have thought through multiple End of days scenarios.

What would I need to survive if I had to walk out of the city today?

I ask myself this- then take mental inventory of the house, or the car if I'm driving.

--air freshener shaped like a tree hanging from the rearview mirror(will mask your scent from predators)
--18 empty cigarette packs(kindling)
--a watermelon jolly rancher(temporary cure for hypoglycemia)
--nail scissors(weapon)
So I'm good.

The only person who shares my enthusiasm for Apocalypse Preparation that doesn't wear a cammo jumpsuit and spit tobacco on the ground is my Dad. He's had thirty more years to think about it than I have. He's like Macgyver.

So when I'm up at four AM curious about the best way to make a homemade generator out of a car engine and the pipes on the back of the fridge I have someone to call.It's our favorite thing to talk about.
"Whatever you have in your head is a tool you don't have to carry in your pack." he says.

End of the World movies are my favorite because I can critique the characters survival skills and feel superior. I do this in a loud voice because I am mad at them for being so stupid.
"Never leave your weapon in the back seat!" I will yell, pointing at the screen, half off the couch.
Pedro will just nod and give me that little smile that says "that's nice, now shut the fuck up"
He is very patient, even though I've told him that I'm on the fence about taking him with me when it turns into Mad Max.
"If you want to stay with me you need to learn how to take down a deer. And skin it"I told him.

"I'm not really into killing things" he replied.

"Just wait until the cash registers at McDonalds become self-aware like Skynet and all you've had to eat in three days is peeled cactus.That deer is going to start looking delicious."

"You do it." he sighed.

"Don't be the weakest link in the group. I'll have to take you out."

"What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"You know what I mean."

I can think of multiple reasons why it's smart to be accompanied by a man when fleeing a ruined city, so I will probably let him tag along, if only to rub my shoulders after a long day of reloading my assault rifle and taking sniper shots at the Undead.
Gender role reversal can be charming. By 2012 it will be even more common and accepted.
I will spray bullets into the crowd.
You will make a delicious risotto by the campfire.

Here are some things to consider when the fragile Industrial Food Chain falls apart and it turns into Mad Max-

1. There is no dental care available after the Apocalypse. I never see anyone brushing their teeth or offering to share their floss with the other refugees. It's a good idea to have some in your pack anyway. You can double it up for a clothesline or use it as a minty alternative to traditional ligature wire.

2. Instead of wandering around, find an abandoned building and make it your fortress. A hidden place no one ever goes, like the library. It will probably have thick stone walls, minimal windows and one easily defend-able entrance because the librarians have been worrying about people trying to get in and burn The Catcher in the Rye for decades.
Or you can take refuge in a church. The new, mall sized mega churches would be an excellent place to base your headquarters-there is plenty of wine and a large supply of nutritious wafers to feed your family.

Also, there will never be a better time to start a new religion. Grow a beard, loot the Gap for a white linen shirt on the way, and walk into the chapel like you own the place. Anyone who is still sitting in the pews instead of out scavenging Power Bars and Gatorade is already expecting you. Plus they are weak from kneeling and lack of food. Now is your chance to influence countless future generations.

Anything goes. I would say keep all of the old Testament, and the New, but write your own Bible 2.0 revision. Be creative. If the Mormons can have magic space underwear then you can make it a mortal sin to take up an entire lane with your bicycle instead of just using the god damn bike lane. Or draw on mythical characters you are already familiar with-the way early Christians incorporated existing pagan holidays into their calenders to make it seem familiar to the masses.

"On the third day Squidward ate an apple that God was saving for his mid-morning snack so God smote the entire Island of Lost, even the polar bears, and that's why he put it in the New Ten Commandments that anyone who swipes my lunch from the dorm fridge or steals my Eat,Pray,Love coffee mug will surely burn in Hell forever, Amen."

( Yes, I will have a working dorm fridge-because I learned how to build a generator out of car parts and a refrigerator, remember?)

Which brings me to my next point-

3. Don't come to my house when the world ends. You can't come with me.

There is no snack machine in Hell.

2011-08-30T06:54:00.003-07:00

I can't listen to you talk about that anymore" Chilidog told me yesterday "You're KILLING me. What the fuck happened to you? I saw on Facebook you joined the PTA? On purpose? This is like the pod people. You have to rein it in."

"You're thinking of 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers." I told her."The one where Nicole Kidman finds Jesus and she's so obnoxious that it can be felt from space so a bunch of benevolent aliens come down and use a magic space pod to make her shut the fuck up."
She nodded.
"Yes" she said, and sighed loudly. "That is the one."

I was sitting with her while she waited for a Lady doctor appointment eating a Chick-Fil-A kids meal. I'd brought it to her because, although the lobby at Planned Parenthood is reminiscent of the third world-
odd assortment of non-matching chairs,
cracked linoleum,
poorly lit by dim fluorescent lighting,
woman calling out names in a defeated voice too apathetic to belong to the living-
it does not have snacks. So although you have to wait for three hours to get a pap smear ( Thanks for that budget cut Rick Perry!) there is no old woman shuffling up and down the aisle trying to sell you a gordita like there is at the bank in Mexico City.

Even though the gordita lady is always aggressive-sometimes flying into a rage if you tried to say "No, gracias. I am full"-and hurling a live rooster at your face that she pulls from her purse--you long for her as you are sitting in a hard chair reading the same free copy of "Parents" magazine over and over again.

Now you have memorized
The checklist for back-to-school.
don't forget the Trapper Keeper
The easy way to kill head lice.
Buy a black market chimpanzee. It will obsessively pick out all of the tiny white treats. Your child will enjoy a relaxing monkey head massage. Everyone wins.
Is it normal to lose interest in sex after you have a baby?

No, it's not normal. Not at all.
Take this helpful quiz to find out if
a) He is cheating on you
b) You are too fat now
c) The baby ruined your marriage

We here at "Parents" kind of already thinks it's choice a)
Good Luck!

"Parents" magazine is only reading material at the doctors office that no one ever steals. Unless you want to read your MD's thesis, which they usually have had kinkos print and bind for you should you suddenly need to understand exactly why a young med student would decide to devote his life to the care and upkeep of vaginas.
Look for your doctor's thesis under the pile of "Parents" magazine that lady is using for a pillow in the corner. She's been waiting for her STD check since Monday.
You're never getting out of here.

Since only whores frequent Planned Parenthood there is a slight chance you're actually in Hell. Rick Perry sent you there with his powerful night-night prayers that fly out of his mouth in the form of tiny, pure, white doves straight up through the heavens into God's giant ear.
Look -Whores,
I've actually been to a church lately. As soon as I turned all the crosses in the building upsaid down so they wouldn't burn me I asked the priest about it.

"Hey- How can I avoid spending eternity In Hell?"

And the priest said-
"Stop trying to put the bottle of Christ's blood into your purse. I can see you. I'm right here."

Also he said-

"Jesus told all of you whores that he wants everyone to make as many babies as fast as you can. The world doesn't have enough people! If you don't multiply there won't be anyone to populate the mall. Abercrombie and Fitch will go bankrupt. And that's Gods favorite store."

It says that in the Bible sluts- maybe if you spent more time reading both the Scriptures and the instructions printed on that box of condoms you would be eating a Snickers bar and enjoying a refreshing can of Dr. Pepper at a church Lock-In right now instead of averting your eyes from the teenagers stuffing their pockets with rubbers from the giant metal bucket of condoms by the door.

Celebrating National Act Like a Lady Month" early

2011-06-24T18:34:00.000-07:00

You know how it is when you're smoking in your truck listening to Led Zeppelin outside of your daughters swim lesson at some crazy swim school your mother enrolled her in at some country club? And all of the other mothers are giving you dirty looks through the window because you'd rather watch your child swim while listening to 'Black Dog' with a smoke than inside the "Parents Room" listening to tan people in Keds talking about Karly's breaststroke and scented candle parties?
And while you're trying to figure out what kind of secret, suburban orgy "Candle Party" is code for several of the tan mothers walk out with their kids and one of them looks at you as she passes by and does that little fake cough that nonsmokers do when they want to make us feel bad?
And you think-"Guess what Spay Tan? Even though I was raised in the South-so I could write a thesis on the subtle, complex nuances of passive aggressive gestures-I didn't inherit the "Passive" just the "Aggressive."
So you say-
"That sounds like a tuberculosis cough. Are you sure you should be here with all these children? It's really contagious." and blow a little smoke her way.

And she gives you this tight little smile and says she's bothered by the smoke.
Then she looks into the back of your truck and raises her eyebrows at the bag of Doritos, shovel, one child's shoe and a half of a cucumber you stole from your neighbors garden.
So you give her that look-the one that says-

I'm not like you. Look at my crazy eyes.
So you say

"Maybe you should shut up and get into your SUV more quickly then. You know what else makes you cough like that? Late stage syphilis."

And she almost runs to the car but then she leans over after she's buckled in and shouts through the open window-

"I can't believe you said the F word in front of my children!"

And even though you have to shout because Robert Plant is singing really loud about Ringwraiths riding around places-you do shout-because she deserves an apology-

"Shit! You're right! So sorry!"
And then you turn it up really loud as a public service because this neighborhood needs Led Zeppelin.

Then when you are driving home you see a text from a Match.com date that you saw *exactly* twice last year that reads-

Come over. I have booze and weed.

Wow, you think,that sounds tempting. Then we can do whippets behind the gym while I give you an HJ. Oh, and you can play me a really long, painful song on your guitar.

Why on earth would that guy think that's appropriate?

Then you remember that the second time you met him it was for for french fries and then you guys made out in the Whataburger parking lot.

So. Okay.
But still.

Then the next message that rolled across the screen was from another Match.com bachelor. It said-

"I feel stab-y tonight"

That's not a red flag.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

So while it seems like most people lurch around all crazy after their divorce, wildly celebrating National Drinking Months, Whore Week, and Spontaneous Public Weeping Day--I guess the party is over now.

I wonder what July will be?

I really want to file an extension on National Drinking Month-
but instead I will take my mothers advice and make July "Act Like A Lady" month-

"Do you even own a hairbrush? Have you completely stopped shaving your legs? Are you drunk?"

In July-we will all floss, remember to shave the necessary areas and brush our hair.
In July I will not forget to change clothes for three days straight. I will put sheets on the bed instead of just throwing a blanket over the mattress. I will stop chewing my nails down to the quick. I will fold the laundry and put leftovers in tupperware immediately.I will not pluck my eyebrows while I'm high. I will not try to text while I'm in a bubble bath-high. I will stop having cuss fights with trophy wives in strip mall parking lots.
And-sadly-in July there will be no dry humping in the Whataburger parking lot.

Dr. Seed, 68 and ready to go

2011-06-17T15:02:00.002-07:00

Tomorrow morning my Match.com subscription finally expires. I am tired of dating/ it's a time suck/ men are bossy and they don't like my art truck. Jesus approves of this decision because he sent me a tiny miracle, a little gift that floated down from heaven like a dove-something I want more than anything in the world-a note form a crazy person. Enjoy.

Hello Pretty Lady!

I read your profile. I liked you as a person in it very much.

I am MOVING TO TEXAS near you.

I have been on for a while. I cannot find a woman like you and your profile in real life. I have so much to offer a woman, but most women are unable to see this, for some reason.

I love people. I would love to love a woman and to be loved by a woman, forever.

I want to get married and have a child. I gladly will accept a woman's prior child, in addition to creating our own child together.

I am a strong, vigorous, healthy cardiothoracic surgeon. I have yet to reach the apex of my professional career. I expect to be working full time 20 more years. I want to get married and have a child.

I will provide you with qualities in a man that you appreciate and enjoy, with me by your side. We will create a fun filled, loving relationship together and match each other's wishes and intimate desires.

Let’s not waste time. Let’s contact each other now and see what happens.

You seem like a very interesting woman to me. Your pictures show how sexy you are.

Have a great day!

So I wrote back-

Dear Dr. S,

I am a fertile, 37 year old woman. I desire to have many more children as quickly as possible. Time waits for no one! And the number of childbearing years ahead of me are dwindling. My eggs are becoming old and feeble. I need a strong, capable family man to support me and my children.

It seems as though we share this desire to have a child together. Am I right?

I already own one child. It would be very important that you can accept my other child and not reject it because it's not your own seed. Can you do this? I think you can.

How about religion? I am Wiccan-which is why I could immediately see just from looking at your picture that you and I would produce strong healthy offspring as well as be very compatible sexually.

I know this because Wiccans brew strong teas that enable us to see clearly into the future. You and I are destined to live and breathe as one being, in and out, merging into one ManWoman that wears shorts and exercises outdoors and makes viable infants for at least another 4-5 years. I also like to travel.

Please write back immediately. Please. I am just going to be here waiting for you to write back. Write back okay? I love you, S

He was really excited about my claims of fertility-

Dear "S":

Thanks for your interesting note.

I definitely want to have a child of my own with the woman that I marry. This is one reason why I need a woman who is less than about 40 years old. At 40, a woman's fertility plummets like a Niagra waterfall to 10-20%. By 43, her percentage fertility is in a single, low digit, someimes near 1%. This is why we see celebrities and career dominated women having in vitro fertilization and/or hormonal assitance to become pregnant. Due to my age, such forms of assistance may be necessary in my situation as well. Nobody knows until sexual intercourse is done and tests are done, if necessary.

I have nothing in common with a person my age. I work with people your age and younger. I have yet to enjoy the vigor of a young marriage and a vibrant, active family.

As my note to you stated, I can accept and I will accept a child from another relationship that my marital partner has had. Naturally, I would need to see the child and see how it all works.

I have never heard of Wiccan. After you mentioned it, I looked it up on the Internet, so I have some idea about Wiccanism now. Please tell me more about it and you.

What made you decide to get a tattoo?

Do you use Skype?
Love, Dr. S.

This guy is starting to seem really hot, right? so I wrote-

Greetings Sexy Dr. S!

I am proficient at Skype. However some crackheads broke into my apartment last week and stole my web cam. They also took my cat- so I am looking for a black cat to replace it if you come across one.

Wiccanism is a very old form of yoga that was practiced back in Jesus' time all the way up until the French Revolution-when it died out after they beheaded Anne Boleyn for telling people to eat cake. Remember that? People lost interest in it after that.

But now that no one really beheads anymore it's been enjoying a resurgence-largely due to the efforts of such celebrities as Rosie O'Donnell and Kathie Lee Gifford. It is more than putting magic spells on men to procure their precious essences-it's a way of life.
Like meditation.
Or The Secret.
I am most fertile on the first three days of the month. Do you travel during that time? I hope not.

Where did you buy those shorts? They are cute. I would like for you to buy some of these shorts for me please. Then we can match.

Here is my real email address. i will not be on this site much longer because I have to save money to buy another cat. Look forward to hearing from you.
PLEASE WRITE BACK SOON.
S

So Now he just wants to Skype. And I lied about that to impress him-I really dont know how to use Skype. Is it an "app" or whatever for the computer? Hate technology. But I can't let this one get away.

To. Be. Continued.

2011-06-15T18:57:00.001-07:00

Overheard at Justines-

"...that was the year I got kicked off the pole vaulting team for doing too much coke."

and-

"then it was all 'whales fucking iceburgs' and 'squirrels with tails' -I just couldn't take it anymore."

2011-05-31T21:13:00.000-07:00

I did not have a Thyroid Storm.
I did get really, really sick and sleep 22 hours a day for five days straight.
Yesterday I felt better so I logged onto Match.com because my subscription is expiring and I needed more Crazy Looking Profile Pics for a folder I have in my computer called "Awesome"
In addition to the usual-

face tattoos
orange prison jumpsuit
werewolf
corn rows on a white guy
Opie
The Gun Show-

I also found RENfr1999- dressed as a knight and raising a real sword above his helmet for his "profile pic"

Creepingpanther999 is seated on a bare mattress lying on a cement floor for his "pic" He says-
"Hi, My name is Gary and i'm 38 years old. I'm very laid-back and easygoing.I live and share a place with My Uncle. I have no kids and have never been married. Have own car and job."
So I wrote- 'Gary, Do you like to travel?'
Gary hasn't made it back to the Public Library yet to use the computer. Awaiting response.

Here is a compelling self-description from a bearded young man named SMETIMESBROKE from Louisiana striking an alluring pose on his All Terrain Vehicle--

IM A HARD WORKING MAN THAT HAS NO TIME FOR GAMES, CHEATERS OR LIARS. LOOKING TO MAKE A FRIEND OR SOMETHING MORE. IM LOOKING FOR SOMEONE THATS LAID BACK AND DOWN TO EARTH THAT KNOWS HOW TO BE NICE AND LISTEN TO SOMEONES PROBLEMS. I GOT A GREAT JOB AND I LOVE THE OUTDOORS BUT IM NOT A PARTY ANIMAL BUT I LIKE A BEER AND I DONT RUN THE BARS EVERYDAY BUT I DO LIKE TO GO AND SHOOT POOL .

I'm not altering these in any way.
Wow.
So I wrote- "SMETIMESBROKE -GUESS WHAT? YOUR CAPS LOCK IS ON."
Also-guys? Spell check. I am clearly no pro at using it myself but if you've paid 30 dollars and it's for the purpose of finding your Soulmate- take the extra five for presentation.

Some of these bachelors are refreshingly honest. Like Hot6969man-
who writes-

I am a people pleaser, I like doing things for others, I am Selfness, and will put others needss above my own, I am very sexual and looking for the same (however I currently do not have anyone to be sexual with...:( I am looking for someone who is Passionate, affectionate, loves to cuddleSomeone who Loves to Travel and loves have sex with her man... I would love to find someone who works hard and apprciates a Hard working Guy. I am Down to earth and well rounded but also very lonely I am generally attracted to girls younger than me, but only because I do not look my age, or so I am told... and I tent to be a kid at heart a lot of the time...

Then there was SERVNT4CHRISTGOD- He is smiling in exactly *none* of his photos. He doesn't say-but I am certain his job is either Executioner's Assistant (Raymond-you fashion the next noose. I'm going for a coffee break) or Student Loan Collections.
He says -

I serve and fear God.
I hate trouble.
I have strict family values.
I admire a lady who knows how to respect me.
I hate untideness.
I am meticuluos by nature and I want same in a woman.
I love very soft women.
I need a hard working woman that can keep her home at the same time.

Actually that sounds like me. We might be compatible. With my background in fashion I could probably tie a noose that is both aesthetically pleasing and effective. Form AND function.

But the man who wins Most Eligible Bachelor #1 for June is STRONGMUSLIMHUSBND.
His tag line says-
"I am an active & hot man with strong relationship.I like my friends.I think to select my friend.I live in seconds."

Then at the top Match.com helpfully points out that we are "both into swimming and politics"

SMH says-
I AM LOOKING FOR A BIG CHANGE IN THE WORLD.I THINK TO WORLD PEACE,UNIQUE WORLD.FOR SAVING THE EARTH WE MUST DEMOCRATIZED ALL THE WORLD.BECAUSE OF HUGE UMBALANCING IN THE WORLDS EARTH IS DESTROYING.THE ICES ARE DISSAPEARING.TEMPERATURE IS INCREASING BECAUSE HUMANRIGHTS DOES NOT EXSIST AND ON THE OTHER HAND GOD CREATED THE WORLD ON THE HUMAN RIGHTS BASIS.IT IS OUR DUTY TO IMPROVE HUMAN KNOWLEDGE FOR KNOWING HIS RIGHTS FOR SAVING THE EARTH.I AM WRITNG A BOOK ABOUT MY LIFE THAT IS RELATED TO THIS MATTER .BECAUSE I HADNOT MY PRIMILARY RIGHTS.I WANT TO PUBLIC IT IN WESTERN COUNTRIES,THOSE PEOPLE THAT ARE RESPONSIBLE...

I'm also writing a book about my life. That's at least three things we have in common.
My first thought was-"Does he have a good agent?"
then-
"I wonder if he would refer me to his Strong Muslim Literary Agent?"

Honorable mention goes to HOMEFAMILY4U999-

"To put it frankly, I am a Mormon seeking an eternal companion."

Whoa there Cowboy. How about just meeting for a drink?
Oh, right. I forgot.

The Terror Which Is Thyroid Storm

2011-05-29T20:18:00.003-07:00

All I could think about, as I lay there possibly slipping into a coma, was my ex husband's reaction-

"Juan is going to feel so bad when I go into this coma. What if I am having a stroke? I should find a pen and paper so I can write a note for people to post on Facebook about how his shitty attitude jacked my stress so high that I had a heart attack. Maybe I will just have them print out all of his dick emails to me and use them at the funeral for programs."

But I couldn't get up.

It was like my brain was in a cloud. I had to type really slowly-like making more spelling mistakes and forgetting where the keys were.
It was hard to breathe and my chest hurt. Waves of heat went through my body but my hands were icy cold.
(Stop your occasional social smoking.
Why don't you shut up)

I was lucid enough to send emails, then I felt like I was going to pass out so I laid down. The room was blurry. It sucked.

( No-I wasn't drunk, even though May is not quite over)

I thought about calling the Picky Bastard and making him bring me something since he only lives two minutes away from me. People always offer to bring you something when you're sick. They never mean it. It's just something you say.

"Can I bring you something?" they always say.
"Yes. Can you bring me a whole rotisserie chicken and some tampons?'
"Well, I have to get back to work actually..."
No one really means that. No one actually wants to go hang out with someone who is sick. It's a drag.

I decided not to call Picky Bastard. Because I knew the first words out of his mouth would be-
"This is what happens when you drink Dr. Pepper! I told you!"

So I called my Mom who had also been doing her own version of my Online Freakout Research. My symptoms matched this thing called an "Apathetic Thyroid Storm."How cool does that sound? So cool, like a comic book character.
I could see a Dust Bowl family in the middle of Kansas looking up in the sky as a massive black cloud came rolling in.

"Look ma!" yelled one of ten or twelve little barefoot hayseed children."There's a Thyroid Storm a comin!"

And the hatchet faced, tired looking mother wipes her hands on her apron and says "Jimmy Jon get your brothers and sisters into the root cellar. I'm gonna go git yer Pa out of the chicken coop."
Because all the people who live in Kansas or trailer parks know that if you don't get into the storm cellar you'll get taken up into the Twister with the Wicked Witch who rides by on her bicycle laughing at you and deposited in Munchkinland where everything is in color. Which is fine-because they get sick of living in black and white-but the County Fair is next week and it would be a Damn shame to miss out on the pie eating contest.

"Are you high?" my Mom asked.

"What is this? Junior high school? No, I'm not high. You're going to feel really bad about asking me that when I slip into a coma."

Then she sent me an article from Web.MD that I'd missed in my own Paranoid Internet Research that described a whole bunch of symptoms that I totally had. There was an ominous warning in big letters at the bottom.

"Friends or family members of anyone experiencing these symptoms should call the individual and ask them if they are high on drugs. Then if they say No make them go to an emergency department immediately even if they hate the ER and are healthy enough to sit at the computer and obsessively write on their blog. It could be a THYROID STORM."

"I'm not going to the E.R." I told her."I'm going to lie down and slowly try to text people before I die so that everyone at the funeral can talk about how I knew it was coming because I was psychic. Even if each text takes ten minutes because I can't see the keys."

"I don't understand you sometimes." she said."You're going to the doctor tomorrow. If you absolutely won't let me come over there I'll leave my phone on tonight. Call me if you go into a coma."

"Thanks Mom."

I hate the E.R.

Hate. It.

I would ride out the Thyroid Storm. It made me think of George Clooney who toughed it out on that fishing boat in the "Perfect Storm"
He didn't go to the ER, he just steered his boat right through the storms yelling at Marky-Mark to tie up ropes on the starboard bow or whatever
and look-they made a movie about that.
I hoped that Zoey Deschanel would play me in "Thyroid Storm"

There are two different kinds of these episodes-the regular, boring kind of Thyroid Storm with a super high fever that lots of people get and another, more rare one called Apathetic Thyroid Storm that doesn't have the fever.
I was happy that my symptoms matched the Apathetic one. It seemed to have more cachet-the storm that Andy Warhol's disaffected entourage might have. Or the Beat Poets.
Anyone can have a regular Thyroid Storm. But I went to art school. It made sense that I would get the Apathetic one.

"Yeah, whatever man," I could see myself in a black turleneck drinking rye and soda with a bunch of Nihilists, sweating through my chest pains and dizzy but sexy anyway-like Zoey Deschanel -because my liquid eyeliner was still artfully applied.

I really hate the emergency room. It's cold and you have to wait for four hours for them to run a million stupid tests and then finally come back and say "We can't find anything wrong with you Nutbag. Maybe you should go home and take a Tylenol PM."

"Okay-I'm not having a "Thyroid Storm" Then you feel stupid. Especially if you make someone go with you.

One time I was having one of those seizures I had last year and no one was around to take me to the hospital so I called all of my Match.com dates until my favorite one picked up.

"Hey, I am blind all of sudden. Can you take me to the ER?"

He came right over and took me. He even waited for me to get seen by the doctor before he split. We'd only been hanging out a week or so. His heroic rescue made me think I was in love with him for about three hours until the Hydrocodone wore off.

So that ER trip was fun. Because I turned it into a "date"

"I Cut off my left arm" you tell them at the front desk.
"Don't worry." yawns the nurse " I'll get an orderly to clean up all that blood. Just go have a seat in the waiting area until your name is called and fill out that form. You missed line 4- your entire family history."

Then you have to sit there for eight hours watching them wheel in old ladies that got here WAY after you did just because they have "chest pains". It sucks.

"I'm not going to the ER to check whether I have some crazy coma death-storm because it's boring and I never get the cute doctor. I will just write about it."

"That sounds like the DTs," said Trixie when I painstakingly texted-I'M DYING!
"Maybe its because your little Drinking Month is over. Sleep it off."

"But I looked it up! On Web MD! I could go into a coma tonight!" Its kind of hard to convey panic in a text. Just use a lot of exclamation points I guess. Which is hard to do when your hands are shaking and you can't keep it still enough to punch the right keys. Why are the keys so God Damn small? If I'm going to be having thyroid Storms with any frequency I am going to get an Iphone.

But I could feel Trixie sighing in her message.
"Get off the fucking internet and go. to. bed."

Your mother could turn stones into doves and levitate

2011-05-29T16:39:00.002-07:00

I suddenly feel really weird this afternoon. Like weak and and my chest hurts, hot then cold-just WEIRD- but the worst symptom is that my back-where the kidneys are-hurts like crazy.

So-besides drinking about forty gallons of water I looked it up on Web.MD.
I should put one of those controls parents use to disable sexy websites to block my computer from accessing Web.MD.Because it is telling me that-

I am either having a mild heart attack-
Dizziness
trouble breathing
shooting pain in the arm(that only started about 30 seconds after I read it though)
and a weak heart pumps less blood to the kidneys

or I have -

Kidney Failure

Just like I told those bitches last week at Family Dinner and then they laughed at me.
Now one of you jerks is going to be a blood type match and have to donate me a kidney.
I will trade it for a dress.
And you can't say No. because I will post it on Facebook if you do and then everyone will know you did that.

I have all the symptoms of that-
kidney pain
hot and cold
Feeling confused, anxious and restless, or sleepy. ( This might explain EVERYTHING)

I just want to tell everyone what my advanced directives are. And what my ideal funeral will be like.
It's hard for a grieving family to make these kinds of choices.
You're welcome.

If I'm only dying in the ICU or critically ill then Daisy is going to go into my Facebook and post a list of items that people should send to me so I can feel better and make a dramatic comeback.
No, don't send flowers. Everyone does that. Flowers will not help me come out of that coma like a pickled appendix in a jar will.
Stop being so selfish and lazy.

I'M DYING. Step it up.

Send me-
1. Taxidermied big game animals
2. Human teeth(I don't care how you get them. just do it- I'M DYING)
3.Preserved medical stuff in jars like eyes and intestines
4.Fake love letters. Long ones about how you'll never get over me. With poetry. From women or men. I'm not picky.

Every ex-boyfriend I have ever had since high school has to come into the room, get down on one knee and propose. They will be easy to find. Just check the local bars or the AA meetings.
Then they have to stay in the room, assembled in a circle around my bed so I can finally figure out who is the most attractive one-because it's hard to remember accurately and compare/contrast until they are all together. The winner will be chosen to change the channel on the Tv while we watch "Law and Order". The losers will be sent home, weeping, with a subscription to Match.com.

If I do end up dying suddenly-

Make sure my Mom doesn't throw away all of my cool stuff. She is already trying to do that. Every time she comes over I find something I like in the trash.
"How did this get thrown away Mom?" I will say.
She shrugs.
"I don't know. It must have fallen. But look how pretty that plant looks where that ugly thing used to be.
Make her keep it all for Ruby. She will say she doesn't have room in the garage. That is bullshit.
EVERYTHING gets saved. Even the piles of unopened mail and melted snickers bars under the bed.

At my funeral I want-

fire eaters

a marching band that only plays "Boom Boom Pow" over and over again.

a Celine Dion cake from Wal-Mart
a dozen ferrets dressed up like ballerinas should be allowed to run free in the church underneath the pews.

Please hire either Ice Cube or Luachris-whoever is cheaper of course-to officiate the eulogy entirely in Gangsta Rap.

Jeffs new girlfriend can have my Grandmother's sapphire ring if she will throw herself on my coffin weeping and screaming "NO! She was too young to go!" she gets the matching bracelet if she faints or has to be dragged away and medicated.

Sugar Weasel the clown will read from "The Prophet" by Kahlil Gabron.

My dad can pass out like gift bags full of Vicodin, commemorative coffee cups with my face on them and mini Dr. Peppers.

My body should either be
1.cremated, the ashes put in a Folger's coffee can and buried somewhere in my ex husbands backyard without telling him where.
2. Preserved like a mummy and sold to a traveling circus sideshow.
3. Immolated on an Indian funeral pyre next to the Ganges. Everyone has to fly there at their own expense so they can all gather around me and sing the "I'm on a Boat" song. Don't let any of my creepy Match.com stalkers jump on the fire like an Indian bride because then we would be stuck together in heaven and it would be an eternity sitting in the clouds with a harp and a phone made out of cloud like in cartoons sighing and thinking- "God Damn it will you STOP calling me?"

I'm just kidding. We all know I'm going to Hell.

Last Wishes For Ruby When She Grows Up and Says "Tell me about my mother"

Burn all of my journals from high school. They make me look like an asshole.

Everyone I know should write her a letter about me. She can open it when she's eighteen. Be creative-here are some examples.

1. Your mother single handedly saved all of the people aboard a Carnival Cruise ship that got lost and ended up too close to Sudan by using a combination of karate and charm to out wit the sea pirates that had hijacked the ship right before everyone was about to be pushed off the boat into shark infested waters.

2. Prince Harry proposed to your mother first but she turned him down because he wasn't funny enough. Plus he kissed weird-that thing where they put their entire mouth around yours like they are eating your face and dart their tongue in and out like a lizard on a hot day and then you pull away and say "Prince Harry. I have a ring of saliva on the second half of my face." So that was a NO. Get on match.com Prince Harry. I know you love to travel.

3. Your mother won the Guinness Book of Records award for both speed -texting and sending/receiving the most texts of any person in North America over thirteen for two years in a row. After that she became a Champion Speed Eater-specializing in wet hot dogs. Although very popular with the crowds she never surpassed the record of that Japanese kid so she retired at age thirty to have you.

Or whatever. I'm not trying to micromanage you.

Fuck you HEB

2011-05-27T18:48:00.000-07:00

So you know when you go to the store in your white curlers that make you look like white trash? And you think "I already look like Buckwheat so why should I change out of my super short jean skirt I wear to clean the house and that white tank top with the sweat stains? Cause I spent twenty minutes fixing my hairdo for my kids party tomorrow so my hair would look good to meet my ex husbands new 27 year old girlfriend for the first time in nine months so Fuck You HEB? I'm going to rock this white trash thing."

And then you drag your toddler there because you promised to make her a chocolate cake from scratch with pink rose all over it-which you can sculpt out of fondant because when you went to a 40,000 dollar a year art school in Manhattan you thought-"Wow-I could be doing installations with Matthew Barney and Damien Hirst!

- OR -

I could just quietly move to Texas, quit painting and hang with my student loans while I sculpt freakishly realistic ballerinas and roses out of colored sugar for toddlers who aren't going to notice and their parents who don't give a shit?

You know that feeling?

Then you drag your child into the store and she's freaking out because she didn't get a nap so she won't sit in the cart-but she won't walk either- and you think "when does the logic part of her brain develop?" and people stare at you because you are not only wearing a short jean skirt and trailer park curlers but you have to wear your dark prescription sunglasses since you lost your 'real' glasses and your child is screaming and you can feel their stress being jacked up as they stare at you thinking-"Jesus get that out of the store Buckwheat?"

But you don't because you think "I am going to make that God Damn cake because you love your daughter dearly-its her first ballerina recital party- and you NEED to show up the 27 year old girlfriend even though she isn't as hot as you are and she works at Petco and-How can you be so petty?

"I WILL make that cake."you think
- Fuck you HEB. I went to art school." So even though your child keeps sitting down in the aisle and blocking people's carts you go ahead and get the cake mix and the powdered sugar anyway? Even though she is now screaming "I hope you get hit by a car!" while you calmly tell her she's going to get put in jail if she doesn't STAND THE FUCK UP and go with you to the check out line?

Then you catch a glimpse of yourself in the 2 way theft-mirror and you look like a haggard woman who either blows truckers for cases of Mountain dew or wrestles gators for fun and so you go ahead and put the Lil Debbies snack cakes and the Tab and the cans of 'store bought' icing in the cart because-

Fuck You HEB.

At the check out counter you look at your phone because even though you arent dating anymore you are still going to make friends with those Match.com men you have accrued and you see that at precisely the time your toddler was screaming that she would NEVER get in the cart and you were yelling I LOVE YOU BUT YOU ARE KILLING ME! GET IN THE CART! your phone DIALED ONE OF THEM ON ITS OWN- one of them who doesn't know you that well.

"Oh well," you thought."Good thing I'm not 'dating' anymore." But that still kind of sucks.

And why does your phone keep fucking up your life anyway? The phone hates you, your toddler wishes you would get hit by a car and you can't even distract yourself by going on dates because you've decided you're too crazy for the men anyway.

Then you see a guy walk by and you think "That guy is REALLY hot." but a few seconds later you realize he is one of those mildly retarded people they hire at HEB to bag groceries and you think "What is WRONG with me?" and vow to get some 'real' glasses-

_ finally you realize that this trip to the store has gone so far south it's not salvagable unless you do something funny so you tell your screaming toddler to -

"Hush up now Pearline cuz Momma's gotta get home and feed yer brother. He's probly sittin in the yard by now eatin dirt cuz your Granny can't watch him right no more since she got on disability." as loud as you can so the woman with the Louis Vuitton purse behind you can stare a little bit more obviously at your curlers.

Then you open your Lil Debbie snack cakes (called Zebra Cakes by the way) and take a huge bite, giving the rest to your daughter who Thank God stops her screaming fit just in time to check out.

"Can I have that Dora movie?" she asks.

"Nope. Caint get that with the food stamps." you say, eyeing Louis Vuitton.

And you split.

And after night night time-since tonight is not a White Wine night even though it's May since you have your daughter you eat the whole can of "store bought " icing and watch Harold and Maude for the 800th time?

"I have had this movie for two weeks. I now have 40 dollars in late fees at Vulcan Video. Why didn't I just buy it for 8.99 on Amazon? Then I could invite that retarded guy over here and he would watch it with me every night because clearly--

1. He won't notcie how weird I am.

2) Like me, he is probably a goldfish in a bowl-swimming around each day -going wow! This looks new! Haven't seen this before! Wow! which makes him highly compatible with me. Except that he has an excuse and I don't.

3) He really WAS hot. Sorry.

You don't know that feeling?
No, I thought not.

So What?

2011-05-27T18:42:00.001-07:00

" I think I'm having kidney failure." I told my friend Trixie last night. "My back hurts."
"Maybe that will go away once your little "Drinking Month" bullshit is over." she said.
"No. That's your liver." Don't malign National Alcoholic Month.
" Maybe it's because you sit at the computer all Goddamn day writing that blog." Daisy said as she refilled my wine glass.
We were sitting on my porch last night celebrating what is called "Family Dinner"-an event that happens every Wednesday at my house. There are regulars, but it's an open invitation so anyone could show up. Which is nice, because everyone loves a spontaneous plan. And if too many people come we just run up to the store and get more food.
The best part of Family Dinner is the equation only parents know-which is that every additional child that is in your house decreases the attention you must give your own child by ten percent. So-instead of Ruby forcing all the adults in the house to come play dollies with her like she does when she is the only kid at the party-she becomes part of the pack of children running in and out of the house like wild dogs. Which means more time for the grown ups to sit on the porch and gossip. Or counsel each other out of obsessive hypochondria. Or force the married women to analyze the single girls text messages from boys we like.
We only do that when the men don't come. When men are at Family dinner we act normal and talk about politics.
Last night just Daisy and Trixie showed up with their children.
So did another girl. Who I'm not writing about because she asked me not to-
because even though I will spill all of my secrets-I have discretion with other people's stories. So now I don't write about her. Which-I am just saying-must really suck for her. Because I am funny.
We made frozen pizza and drank some pink wine that Daisy brought. They didn't have pink wine when I went to Napa, so I thought it would be sweeter-like distillation of cotton candy. Was not. But I drank a glass anyway. It's still May.

The children were in the yard catching fireflies after I kicked them out of the house so the kitten could get a break from a dozen tiny hands mauling and squeezing her all at once.

"My God, it will be a miracle if that cat survives into adulthood." Trixie said, as she uncurled her daughters fingers from the cat's throat.

"Look," I said. "Lots of cats suffer from depression because they have no purpose. Just like retired people. That cat is lucky. It has a job-to buy me several precious hours on Facebook every day."

"That is so wrong." said Daisy. She works at Aveda-so she's against animal testing and forced animal employment.

"You tell me when they tighten up the animal slave labor laws and this cat will start getting minimum wage and fifteen minute smoke breaks every three hours. For now-it serves a purpose."

- By the way, I am not the only one who has hired a house pet to help me out. The Nazis did it too. Since I figured out last week that I am Hitler reincarnated someone sent me this link. No, I won't embed the link. I forgot how. No, don't send me instructions on how to imbed the link. I don't care. Just copy and paste it and shut up.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/time/20110526/wl_time/httpnewsfeedtimecom20110525hownaziscientststriedtocreateanarmyoftalkingdogsxidrssfullworldyahoo

Also-they were teaching the dogs to talk at Hitler's dog university-called "Animal Talking School". I am not making this up. Don't be so lazy, just copy and paste it.

If the kitten could talk I think it would say-"Please tell the children to let me down so I can hide under the couch or I will scratch the shit out of them on the face."

While we sat on the porch talking about men we like and women we don't like who are bitches the children fought in the yard over beetle distribution. I had to stand up and yell-

"Stop fighting or I will call the police and the beetles will all go to jail! And I will make you go in the house and stare at the wall!"

"Jesus, it's like Lord of the Flies over there." Daisy watched the children whining and trying to grab the bugs out of each others hands.

"Should we get up?" she asked.

"Nah." I poured her more wine."Not unless one of them gets injured."

"Oh my God! I almost forgot! The Aveda Fairy came for you!" she ran to her car and came back with a paper bag filled with hair products. I clutched them tightly to my chest, it was like Christmas.

"Thank you so much!" Because she gave me a similar bag last month.

"What did you do with all that shit I just gave you?" she asked when I called to see if she had any more.

"None of my dates smoke.So every time I went out I had to spray a bunch of that Aveda stuff in my hair and chew gum so I wouldn't get busted. I ran out."

"I thought you were quitting."

"I am. It's a PROCESS."

But now my precious fluids will last. Because since I'm not dating I don't have to pretend that I never smoke.

Suddenly I heard a wail.
"Is that mine?" I asked. It was.
Ruby ran over to me crying.
"LOOK AT MY FOOT!" she yelled.
I looked. Didn't see anything.
"Yeah-what?"
She turned it over a little.
"NO! Look at the FUCKING bottom! I have a booboo!"
"Sweetie that's not a nice word." I kissed her booboo and she ran off.

A few minutes later "Naughty by Nature" came on, blasting straight into the yard because I like to make sure my neighbors can hear my music.

Ruby suddenly started booty dancing, singing every word in perfect pitch.

"YOU DOWN WIT O.P.P?" she yelled."YEAH YOU KNOW ME!"

"I thought she was over gansta rap." said Daisy.

"She is. It used to be 'Ludachris this' and 'Ludachris that but now she's into Black Sabbath. You know-the early years."

"Of course." nodded trixie.
And Ruby danced into the yard to catch more fireflies.

So, maybe Juan is right on that one. But he's still a jerk.

How to Stalk A Woman

2011-05-27T06:35:00.000-07:00

Ever since my "serial dating" phase is over I am feeling a little bad that-out of all the strangers I met for coffee I never had a real stalker.
Why not me?
I'm totally worth being stalked.

Then I thought-maybe there are lots of men who want to stalk but don't know how. A few of these things have already happened on my dates but no one has really followed through on all of them.

So even though I'm out of the game I will provide some tips as a public service.You're welcome.

How to Effectively Stalk A Woman You've Just Met

1. On the first date bring her a stuffed teddy bear holding a little heart. We all know you're not just going to do this once so stock up on these during the after-Valentines day sale at Walgreens each year. Be prepared.

2.As soon as you can start talking about anal sex. Even before the first kiss-she will be delighted to know that you like it.

3. Before the second date show her how much you like her by lifting her photo off Facebook and making it your profile picture. Then send her a link. Signed "Me"

4. If she doesn't respond to your texts within an hour she could be hurt or dead! It's okay to show up at her house and make sure she's okay. Knock on the bedroom window-especially if it's really late at night. If this appears to make her grumpy don't worry. Just ruffle her hair. She'll get over it the next day when you-

5. Send her a picture of your penis snapped on your cell phone.

6. Surprise her by having a pizza delivered with a little love note inside. Better yet-dress up like the Domino's guy and deliver it yourself. When she opens the door yell-Surprise!

7. Look up her parent's number and call them when you need to talk about your "relationship". They've known her a long time. They can help you understand her. See if her Mom can send you some of her baby pictures so you can start a collage board in your bedroom.

8. If none of these ideas seem to work-don't give up!~ Women are mysterious, unpredictable creatures. Maybe you didn't tell her how much you cared about her and she feels insecure. So, no matter what,

9. NEVER, EVER STOP CALLING.

Good luck boys!

That's wonderful Harold! Now go and love some more.

2011-05-26T07:44:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this post in Word because my Internet is down. It feels weird. The house feels strangely empty when I can't stop whatever I'm doing every five minutes and see what everyone is up to on Facebook. Or check my email.

This morning's unfortunate communication blackout isn't by choice but I think it's probably healthy to take breaks every now and then from technology. I haven't been texting as much this past week. Maybe I am still bitter that my phone may or may not be receiving all of the messages that come in. More people have complained about that. Irritated, they finally call me.

"Why aren't you answering my texts?" Coco said. "I needed to know if you wanted to go with me to this thing. You didn't answer so I just bought you a ticket. Now you're going."

She does this a lot. I think it's because I am sort of famous for canceling plans at the last minute.

"There's this amazing thing I want you to go to." she said a few weeks ago.

"What is it?" I am wary. She enjoys a lot of things that are suspect to me. Like hummus and interpretive dance.

"I can't tell you. But you will love it. Besides I already bought you the 30 dollar ticket so you have to go."

So then I have to call someone else up and cancel with them, because she paid thirty dollars so it must be important, and I'm slightly annoyed but mostly just love her for dragging me into adventures outside of my normal comfort zone.

The last time this happened I walked into a big theater-literally no idea what we were about to see.

I couldn't decide whether it would be worse to discover I was trapped for two hours watching a play or a dance performance. Or-God Forbid- a musical. I really don't like standing up for any period of time watching people jump around or sing. I get tired. I
This time Coco bought me a ticket to go on a mystery trip for three days to what she will only describe as a "grown up summer camp for artists" It's out in the country. And I'm supposed to bring bug spray. That's all I know.

Tents? Cabins with bunk beds? Arts and crafts? Ghost stories by a fire?
No idea.

I think I'm looking forward to the Grown Up Summer Camp next weekend. Although I trust Coco's judgment on these things, it could very well be a bunch of hippies in tents by the side of a dirt road doing past life regression while they heat up cans of garbanzo beans by the fire. They probably don't even know what Facebook is because they are too busy painting their bodies with henna and perfecting their hackey-sack game to find out about "computers".

I can easily imagine being the only white person there who doesn't have dreadlocks, isn't wearing a hand-blown glass mushroom necklace and doesn't weave items out of hemp. They will probably make me sit in a drum circle while I am waiting for my turn in the sweat lodge.

Also- Patchouli. I don't even have to explain that one.

"I'm doing the Master Cleanse," one of them will say as she drinks from a giant cup of lemon water and cayenne, right after taking a huge drag on her clove cigarette, "It really flushes out the toxins."

And because Summer Camp is in the first week of June I won't be able to blunt the edge of my pain with a bottle of Patron while I say-

"I know man. But none of that is going to matter in 2012 when the world ends."

Because hippies, like all other magical creatures, believe in a lot of bullshit. Healing crystals, conspiracy theories, interest rates set by the Fed, ancient Mayan Armageddon prophecies, Nostradamus, whatever.

I grew up with them. So I have no patience with that shit.

My mom used to be one. She and my dad had matching waist length hair the day they got married. They "lived off the land" in a shack outside the city-growing their own vegetables, killing deer for meat and cooking it over a wood stove because they had no heat or electricity.
By choice.
With an infant.

My mother got tired of it first. She left my Dad out there to play Grateful Dead songs on his guitar by himself while she rented an apartment that had a real stove. There wasn't even a tree growing up through the bathroom floor like there was at my Dad's shack.

"Do you know how hard it is to get a shitty diaper clean with cold water on a washboard?" And that was the end of that.

She has become increasingly pragmatic with age. Unlike me ("Sure Hobo-I'll go to the ATM and withdraw my last 20 dollars so you can go home and feed your son! It's awesome that you have a job that starts tomorrow! ") my mother is the opposite. She has what is called "Common Sense" and her bullshit detector is always turned up to the High setting.

We saw something about that Mayan prophecy the other day on PBS.

"Historical anthropologists still don't understand how the Mayans were able to calculate their calendar so accurately," the narrator said." Many people believe the prophecies written in their big Mayan freak out books that say we're all going to die in 2012."
The picture on the screen showed people running through the streets, hair on fire, balls of flame falling from the smoke filled sky.

I just kind of sat there,
"Is that true?" I thought. " Coco and I were going to go to Fiji next May for Drinking Month."

My mom got up, laughing, as she refilled her glass of "sweet tea".

" Why are you always making me watch this crap? Why can't we just watch Dateline like normal people?"

"Mom. You like educational programs. Besides I hate commercials." I bit my nail harder- with a new, slight sense of foreboding. What if they are right?

"I don't get into this post-apocalyptic stuff like you and your zombie movies." She turned the channel. "What do the Mayans know anyway? Clearly they couldn't have been that smart because look how they ended up. Do you know any 'Mayans'? Is the city of "Maya" a great travel destination? No. They're all gone. So how smart can their calendar be? Maybe they should have used that calendar to predict when the Spanish were going to come kill them all."

"I think that was the Aztecs, Mom."

"Whatever." she handed me some "sweet tea" and switched the channel to "Dateline."

Similarly, at a somewhat critical juncture in my life several years ago when I was trying to decide how to approach a difficult problem I was having with someone, my mother was the voice of reason in the room.

"I'm trying to be the Buddha about this." I said, closing my eyes and touching my index finger to my thumb as I breathed in and out.

"Well, that's stupid." she said as she took a long drag off her cigarette. "Look at the Dalai Lama. Tibet is fucked now. He lives in India."

Good point.

Drawbacks to dating your house-

It can't open the jar of pickles for you. So they just stay closed until you can lure a male into the house to do that for you because you don't have man hands-thank God.

Not only can your house not open the pickles-it cannot fix its own screen door, show you how to use the three remotes when you forget(every day) or take out the recycling-which has become prodigious in May.

Your house is not sexy. Unless you are one of those girls that are turned on by stone walls and antique baseboards -and then,well--God help you girlfriend. There is probably a porn site for you somewhere-a naughty version of "This Old House" People are into everything these days.
Not for me to judge.

Your house cannot laugh at your jokes. Or tell any new ones. Not much conversation at all. You can't tell if it's being passive agressive or just pensive.
And, while it's nice to sit in silence-maybe read together-sometimes you need feedback-
like when you ask "Why did that bitch at work steal my 'Eat, Pray, Love' coffee cup? I left it by the water cooler and now it's on her desk. Who the fuck does she think she is?"

Since your house doesn't ever helpfully say things like-"When was the last time you shaved your legs? I feel like I am making out with a man. Get away from me and go take care of that."-You forget to. And don't notice it until you're already out wearing a short skirt.

Your house cannot share your appreciation for Andrew Bird.

Fucking Truck

2011-05-25T09:19:00.000-07:00

I think I am done being crazy.

It was only a week. But spectacular-like fireworks of Crazy-not the ones you buy from carnies on the side of the road and light in your backyard but the ones that the city pays for that fill up the whole sky and light up the skyscrapers. Where you go-damn-I can't ignore THAT.

Or watching a train wreck as it is happening but you can't stop it even though you are the one driving the train.

Just like July 4th celebrations, though, everything comes to an end.

My marriage-last May 28th

This silly, transient romance I had for a little while.

The subsequent Crazy.

National Alcoholic Month (2 more days)

Biggie Smalls and Tupac

America's fascination with the Space Program(be honest-you don't give a shit about that)

The only thing that is never-ending, will never die, even after the Rapture(actually ESPECIALLY after the Rapture) is Wal-Mart. It never even closes. 24/7 year round. It will continue long after you and I are dead. When computers and cell phones become self aware and take over the earth, after exterminating us, they will go to Wal-Mart for their hot pink scented pine cones and flannel Dr. Pepper print pajama bottoms.
I hate wal Mart but I do like going there late at night because it feels like a post-apocolyptic zombie movie.

And _although I am horrified by that Crazy of last week-I feel okay about it now.
Clearly not meant to be.
I like being alone.
And I am in love with my house.

Ruby this week--

R- "I saw a fairy just now."
Me- "What was she doing?"
R- "She was doing her taxes."
Me- "Mommy needs to do that too. Can the fairy help me."
R-"No. She's already forgetted how."
Me-"That's unfortunate. Can you say 'extension'?
R- " Stop talking to me. I'm tasting the wind."

This morning she saw a bird sitting on a chair next to the freeway who had big big boobies.

As we passed a cemetery she asked me to take her there instead of to school.

R-"I want you to show me where your Grandma is buried."
Me- "Why?"
R-"Because then I will dig, dig and dig until I find her and drag her out and make her come back to life with my fairy wand."
Me-"That might just turn her into a zombie"
R-"That's ok. Zombies are slow. But they do eat brains."

Maybe that would work. What do I know?

This morning when "Juan" dropped her off he asked her to go inside so we could "talk"
She totally didn't, squeezing that poor cat by the neck and arguing about why she should get to participate in the conversation.
"Go inside." I said.
"No."
"I will take the kitty away for ten minutes."
She just sat there.

Juan got really annoyed.
"If this was my house she would already be in time out."
"Hey guess what? This isn't your house." I said. Smug bastard.

We finally got her to sit on the porch and I just walked him to the car so we could talk.
"I'm allergic to that cat by the way" he sneezed."I have allergy attacks every time we leave here."
"Maybe you should quit smoking if you have asthma. Then quit complaining about everything. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"

"No. Last night she wouldn't stop saying 'Fucking Truck" over and over again. I assume that's you?"

"No, it's not me. Because now that you're not the boss of me anymore I made my truck into an art car. I would never say 'Fucking truck'. I love my truck." That is true by the way."Besides when I fuck up and something slips out it's usually 'God damn it" like when I stub my toe or lose my credit card. And she never says that. Maybe it's your girlfriend."

He is so annoyed at me now.
"Nice parenting."
"Oh right I forgot. You are perfect. Even when you are sucking a dick, they say this is perfect!"

"Okay I'm going now."
"Bye!" I waved sweetly.

It is getting better though. We are switching days up so I can go out of town, and I'm watching her when she's out of school so he doesn't get fired. Which is nice.
But any interaction that is not through text or email disintegrates into hostility.
Most of the time it's pretty funny. At least to me. I try not to laugh because that infuriates him and his face turns red. Which makes me laugh harder-like at funerals sometimes when its so tense and serious that you start laughing and the more you try to stop the more you laugh and you try to hide it but your shoulders still shake and people turn around and narrow their eyes at you but you still cant stop?

Yeah. It's like that.