Reticulated Writer

Wordless Wednesday: Bacon Sunrise

2012-02-01T09:50:00.001-05:00

(via 9gag.com)

Weekend Update: Week 3

2012-01-30T02:07:00.000-05:00

Elvira told me it's pretty boring reading about the plays, movies and parties I go to on the weekends, and I trust her judgement completely. So instead of writing about the young woman who was feeling up my boobs in a smokey dive where I was playing pool (badly, as usual) and singing karaoke last night --yes, that bar-- I'm just going to share some internet stuff that caught my attention.

Weekend Wrap-Up

What made me giggle:

This is silly, but just do it. Just click on this guy's nose. I know, right? It's hard to resist doing it just one more time.

What made me hot:

If you're not sure what to get me for Valentine's Day, consider this your hint. Mmmmmmm. Bacon Lube.

What made me ~~cry~~ sob:

No words.

Somebody posted this photo and story on Facebook: "The night before the burial of her husband 2nd Lt. James Cathey of the United States Marine Corps, killed in Iraq, Katherine Cathey refused to leave the casket, asking to sleep next to his body for the last time. The Marines made a bed for her, tucking in the sheets below the flag. Before she fell asleep, she opened her laptop computer and played songs that reminded her of 'Cat,' and one of the Marines asked if she wanted them to continue standing watch as she slept.

'I think it would be kind of nice if you kept doing it,' she said.

'I think that's what he would have wanted.'"

*******

I am and always will be wild blue yonder all the way, but when it comes to a flag-draped coffin, we're all sisters under the military. I can't count the number of times I stood at my kitchen window holding my breath as I watched a dark blue sedan drive by, and then praying it wasn't going to pull into one of my neighbors' driveways either ... Well done, Marine. Bless your heart.

Working out the kinks

2012-01-27T15:01:00.001-05:00

I've been invited--along with a few hundred other people--to a fetish party. ~~No big deal. I've been to dozens of fetish parties. Former Girl Scout leaders are really popular at fetish parties because we know our knots....~~ Awww, fuck it. I admit it. I've never been to a fetish party. Not one. And now I feel like I'm sitting by myself at a long table in a crowded high school cafeteria reading my English lit textbook.

Believe it or not, I haven't decided if I'll go yet for three simple reasons. And if you'll please bear with me, I'd like to share them and get your advice.

1. I hate to admit this because fetishes are so hip, so trendy, even I'm invited to a fetish party. Not that I'm a complete innocent. I read Dan Savage and I also .... ummmm ... (~~maybe I shouldn't overshare~~.... ~~this isn't my secret sex blog, after all~~) I don't like to get too personal, so my former, private experiences aside, the problem is I don't think I have a fetish. There! I said it. Unless maybe chocolate could be considered a fetish, but I'm pretty sure it's not. So before I can RSVP in the affirmative, I think I should adopt a personal fetish ..... ..... ..... I'm thinking. .... ..... Writing is a process of discovery, so please be patient .... I've got it! I do have a fetish after all! Cookies! Cookies will be my fetish. Cookies can be a fetish, right? Even if everybody loves cookies? Anybody else have a cookie fetish? Anybody?

2. Next, I'm not sure what I'd wear to a fetish party because a) this mamma doesn't go out dressed in a tight corset and garter belt like ~~trailer trash ... a 'ho' ... a really needy middle-aged trailer trash 'ho~~' ... shudder ...I'm not 21. Those clothing items I save for someone who has earned his way into my inner boudoir. I don't waste that good shit on strangers. So if I'm not going to wear ~~underwear~~ lingerie, what would I wear? Rubber, I've heard, doesn't breath. I'd worry about excessive sweating. I'm not into kitties or bunnies. My feet are ticklish, and I can't ~~stand up~~ walk very far in 5" heels anyway. Duct tape? No. Unless I dress like cookie monster and risk a costly trademark violation, what the fuck would I wear to the fetish party?

Get your own, Elvira. You can't borrow mine.

3. Even if I did knock off numbers one and two of this list, number three is a serious impediment to my fetish party enjoyment: I don't have anybody I want to go with. And since I started this, I'll be specific. I not only don't give out my number, I don't date, so I don't have anyone to go with, and I sure as hell am not going alone. Sure, I could take any number of friends -- hell a whole group of friends, definitely some family, and probably even a couple of enemies -- but in my perfect world, an adventure like this -- the story I'd want to tell -- would be more fun if I went with someone with whom I intended to share my fetish -- that would be cookies, of course -- later. A romantic partner. In my ideal world, I suppose I would choose an adventure buddy (or two, hee) from my stable of ~~booty calls~~* gentleman friends, someone who would accompany me to the fetish party where I'm sure Miss Serendipity would prove a delicious and entertaining hostess. I mean, one wouldn't want to over-plan the first fetish party. Alas, I don't date .... although this is one of those times I almost wish I did. This puts a serious kink in the works.

OK, Dear Readers, these are my concerns. The invitation sits on my Facebook events page, awaiting my click. And I just can't decide. Should I go? What do you think? Tell me: would you go?

* Booty calls may apply at reticulatedsecretsexblog.org. Remember it's only $39.95 per month to join. A bargain you won't regret. Or if you're too cheap to join, you can email me, but I will certainly mock you.

Wordless Wednesday: Swan

2012-01-25T09:51:00.000-05:00

Weekend Update: Week 3

2012-01-22T23:58:00.001-05:00

I give up. I swear I would have posted this one Sunday night, just like I planned, but I got home from church (yes, there are churches that take people like me) and found that once again Time Warner wasn't servicing me. My internet and land line were down until late last night. Too late even for me. I see a pattern here. Either I'm just a cheater or the Blogverse is fucking with me. Or both.

Oh what a gray, moist Sunday it was too. As Martini and I walked out of church he said, "What is this ... this in the air? It appears to be ambiguous precipitation." Ambiguous precipitation. I love that. Over the course of a few days we really did run the gamut from heavy snow to freezing sleet and rain to thunder and lightning last night. It was a good day to just stay home and .... and what? What the hell did I used to do before the internet?

Not to bore the shit out of you because the day wasn't really worthy of a novel, but I got a hell of a lot more done than I normally would have. I started by throwing some laundry in the washer and then stretching out on my ~~Humvee~~ big bed to read The Help* on my Kindle. That, of course, led to a long, delicious nap. Who doesn't love a nap? After my nap I checked to see if I had internet yet, crocheted a pair of glittery hot pink booties for Coraline, did more laundry, tried to get on the internet, graded all the papers in my backpack and planned lessons for Tuesday, played the piano with no interruptions, reset my modem so I could get on the internet, talked to Elvira on my cell phone 5 times, tortured myself with a long, painful yoga workout, tried the internet again, ate enough chocolate to balance the calories I burned with the yoga, and knocked a few TV shows off my DVR.

Eventually I called Time Warner only to be told my modem wasn't connecting to the internet -- fortunately they don't charge me for telling me the fucking obvious -- and that Aaron would be glad to get someone out here as early as Wednesday. I said, "That's not acceptable." He said he'd be glad to keep an eye on the mumbledyshit and let me know if an appointment opened up on Monday. I said, "That's not acceptable, Aaron." He said he wanted more than anything to give me an appointment earlier than Wednesday, but he just didn't have anything available. I said, "That's not acceptable." He said sometimes people cancel but right now there's nothing before Wednesday. I said, "That's not acceptable. And give me credit for the three days or longer I won't have phone or internet." Really? Really. He did it and then he said, "Oh look! An all-day appointment just opened up for tomorrow. Do you want it?" Thanks, Aaron. I thought we might be able to find something that would require me to stay home all day and wait for your technician to call fifteen minutes before he comes out. It didn't matter. For some reason the problem resolved itself.

I also cleaned my sock drawer. I'm still don't remember why I saved all those baby teeth.

See? I did a lot. Maybe my internet should go down periodically just so I'd get more done at home. On to the update.

Ummmm.....red?

I attended "can night"** for a local professional production of RED, which won the 2010 Tony for best play. It's a story about abstract expressionist painter, Mark Rothko, and a fictitious assistant, Ken. I'm not sure what I missed that other people saw -- the two-man cast got a rousing standing ovation, although it could be that the lack of an intermission meant people were eager to stretch their legs. I know I was -- but I didn't like it. The performances were excellent, but the script left me sleepy. Such self-indulgent narcissism. If the guy didn't want to sell couch art, nobody was forcing him. Then again, no artist is guaranteed a living from his art. I didn't care a bit about either of the characters, even when Ken revealed a horrible story about his family. Just didn't care. Rothko didn't either. The beginning of the play summed it up for me: Ken shows up for his first day of work; Rothko asks him what he sees -- and then delivers several self-centered monologues before Ken can answer. Finally Ken says, "Red." I could have left the theater then. To be fair though, several of the people I went with loved it and were still moved the next day. You shouldn't avoid it because of my recommendation.

Wait! There was a dog in the movie?

I do not have the same complaints about The Artist, although the play and the movie share the similar theme of an artist who can't or won't keep up with changes brought about by commercialism. Maybe it's because Jean Dujardin is so fucking hot, but I don't think even his "oh my god one cookie with this man and I'd be set for life" sexiness alone would carry a movie that has no color -- not even red -- and no talking, just a soundtrack. I almost expected not to like it. There's a reason film-makers started adding speech and then color to movies, right? We like that shit. It's real. It keeps us interested. It allows for nuance and subtlety, as opposed to the manic over-acting and simplified, derivative plots of the silent movie era. The Artist, despite its lack of color and talk, delivered more subtlety and nuance than I've seen in any movie in a long time. It's a brilliant, heartbreaking tribute to the genre. I rarely give out A's -- ask my students --but this one gets an A. So does Jean Dujardin's mouth. I wonder if I can stalk him on Twitter.

"... the small of a woman's back,

the hanging curve ball ..."

I helped my good friend, sometimes cycling partner, and most excellent photographer the Architect with a nuts-and-beer reception for a photography exhibit he has hung this month. In other words, I poured the beer, collected money, and laughed at Architect's dirty puns. And I finally found a beer I can tolerate. I've tried hundreds of beers and I've never found one that didn't taste like raccoon piss in the back of my throat. Not the Schlitz my dad used to give me sips of from the time I was two, and not the expensive artisan beers my friends bring to my house. The Architect has been trying for years to find a beer I would drink more than a tablespoon of. I just don't like it .... until now. I finally found a beer I can swallow: Curve Ball Blonde Ale. I drank at least two full ounces of it and it didn't taste at all like raccoon piss. Not even squirrel piss. I can hardly believe I'm saying this, but it almost tasted good. It's like finding the holy grail. My only complaint is that they don't seem to brew a ginger ale. ***

Later I braved the winter storm to hang out at a local watering hole and play pool to celebrate a theatre sister's birthday. Even with my own stick, I'm a lousy pool player, but the upside of that is that games take longer and the night costs less overall. I'm apparently incorrigible about getting overly friendly with the natives though. It happens too often to be considered accidental any more, but I still apologize and act surprised. One of the natives actually seemed ~~disappointed~~ kind of pissed off when I refused to give out my phone number. It's not personal. Maybe if he'd helped me scrape half an inch of ice off my van windows when I left, but ..... no. I leave with the stick I came with.

Saturday night I went to a winter party where I ate lots of good food --I'm afraid I'm going to have to buy a tricycle just to carry my weight on the bike path this spring -- drank lots of good wine -- I wasn't driving -- and reconnected with many old friends I hadn't seen much of in the past few months. It felt good to be in a place where everybody knows my name, and my kids' names, and even my LtColEx's name. Where we share stories and history.

Weekend Wrap-Up

What made me laugh:

David Thorne at 27bslash6 always makes me laugh. Read some of his other pieces too. Kevin gave up way sooner than most people do.

What made me cry:

It's the heroes. They get me every damn time.

That's it for tonight. Have a great week!

* Just read it. There's a reason why so many people are reading this book, and it's not because of the movie. I'd be glad to write a review if anybody cared, but better you just read it.

** As part of their service to the community, the theater opens a dress rehearsal to the public and collects food instead of ticket money.

*** Either you got the pun or you didn't.

Do you know what's stuck to the bottom of your fridge?

2012-01-18T02:11:00.004-05:00

So I finished reading and commenting on papers about 12:15 tonight and I admit before I started I watched the last episode of Dexter on Showtime on Demand and wow! he's cooked his shit now (I won't spoil it if you haven't seen it) but he's so fucking hot this season with his big muscles and tight shirts, isn't it about time we saw him naked? Enough with the blood and the little kid already; let's balance Mr. Nice Guy Sociopath out with some sex. Mmmmkay? So anyway I justified the Dexter fix because I wanted to finish crocheting a hot pink bootie for Coraline before I started on the four stacks of papers I needed to read and comment on tonight so I can go out to the theatre tomorrow night. A couple of hours later I finally finished the papers and entered the grades into my Excel grade book. My kids are writing some really hard stuff this quarter--like about rape and suicide and football and the price of pot--so after I read their papers I was finally ready to relax and start the new season of Shame but first I headed to the kitchen and measured out exactly one serving--according to the package--of Lays classic potato chips into a bowl

One serving = 15 chips. The broken ones don't count.

and reached into the fridge to pull out the Black Box so I could pour myself a glass of wine. I pulled and I pulled and I pulled but the box wouldn't come out of the fridge. Shit. It was stuck tight to the bottom shelf so I finally gave an extra hard pull and ripped it away from the glass and of course you know there was some kind of brown, gunky mess all over the shelf which I couldn't ignore because elves don't clean that shit up in the night, so I started digging for whatever was back there turning putrid .... nope, not the lemons, although they were sitting in sticky brown gunk too .... not the celery ..... I threw those in the sink to wash later ..... kept digging through the milk licker and the baby romaine and the leftover eggnog from Christmas Eve and ah ha, here's the stinking culprit. A bag of spinach that probably wouldn't have gone bad if I'd eat fucking spinach instead of chips but who eats raw spinach with their wine after a long day of teaching and grading? I don't. I'd probably get thin or something and what would I have to complain about then? So of course the fucking gunk was all over the glass shelf and had crept down into the cracks and crevices and of course I'd gone to Kroger just yesterday so the shelf was full and everything had to be unloaded so I could wipe that nasty shit up even though it literally made me gag and then wash the lemons and celery and put it all back. And the Black Box box is now damaged and certainly not fit to serve to company so now I'll have to drink it all myself but thank god the actual wine is in a plastic bag so I can.

I would not serve this to anyone but myself.

All I wanted was 15 fucking Lays potato chips and a glass of wine after a long day of teaching and grading papers and driving a van that sounds like a giant, fucking electric Hitachi vibrator. Was that too much to ask?

Weekend Update: Week 2

2012-01-15T23:54:00.005-05:00

I can't get these weekend updates written on Sunday. Oh sure, it will look like I posted on Sunday because I'm going to ~~lie and cheat~~ tweak the date a bit, but I still have to make my confession here. Week 2: FAIL. Let me distract you with the cuteness of my granddaughter.

I stayed at Mamá's and all I got were these purple slippers. They weren't very tasty. In fact, they tasted like feet. I prefer booby.

Coraline spent the night Friday night--her first overnight with Mamá! I'll write more on that later in the week. For now I'll just say this time we got through it with only one fussy spell, about three cups of spit up, but no poopy diapers. And when I asked Elvira if she got laid, she said, Hell, yes, three times!* Oh, Elvira. You are your mother's daughter! I'm so proud.
Colorado was supposed to come for an overnight Saturday, but she got stuck at work. So instead I went to a last-minute party without her, where I filled up on homemade cheeseburger pizza**, homemade ice cream, cookies, cherry lambic, and karaoke. I gained three fucking pounds in one night. After hours of karaoke, we mellowed out the end of the evening by passing a three-foot-tall hooka. I may have been a little sleepy by the time I made my way through the cold to my van, but I woke up as soon as the engine fired up. In fact, I have no doubt the entire fucking neighborhood woke up because my muffler seems to have given up on this life. My van sounds like a B-52 eating up runway. My ears burned as I imagined the neighbors cursing me from their warm beds the whole long five minutes it took me to scrape a heavy layer of frost off my windows. Nothing shouts "trailer trash comin' down the street" like the sound of a blown out muffler. Nobody wants trailer trash in their neighborhood.

Sunday afternoon I took in a funny, charming play titled Heroes at a local community theater. It's a French play adapted by Tom Stoppard about three elderly men who live in an old soldiers home. I wasn't so sure a stone dog and three old guys sitting on a park bench talking would keep me awake, but I didn't close my eyes once. Probably because I slept through church .... no, I mean I didn't even get up and go. They have noise ordinances out there in the suburbs.

Sunday night I went back to the classy downtown art theater for My Week with Marilyn, a movie based on two of Colin Clark's "memoirs."*** I liked the old guys on the bench better. I think the movie was meant to be precious and sweet in a "how I lost my innocence" sort of way, but what I saw in Monroe's character was a typical addict fucking with other people's lives and then charming them out of their righteous anger. And the author, whether the story is true or not, came across as a big old fawning co-dependent who welcomed being used so he could stand in line and feel self-important about "saving" Marilyn Monroe. For a whole fucking week. Even by writing this possibly fictional memoir, he still appears to be trying to be some kind of hero in her story, years later. If there's any truth to it at all, it's that the people around Monroe were the ones who needed to be saved from the effects of her behavior--typical of alcoholics and addicts-- coupled with her cruel charisma--again, typical. The one bright spot was Kenneth Branagh playing Olivier, but he's fucking Kenneth Branagh playing Olivier. How could he fail? I'm much more looking forward to seeing the fearless Glenn Close in Albert Nobbs. By the time My Week with Marilyn was over, I was looking forward to grading a monster stack of papers.

Next I graded a monster stack of papers.

Weekend Wrap-Up

What made me laugh:

And what made me say "Hey, I did that shit once and I had the bruises to prove it!":

That's it for tonight. Have a great week!

* Comment deleted by the Reticulated Censor.
** Ground beef, onions, pickles, mustard and the usual tomato sauce and cheese. It was a mouth orgasm.
*** Some doubt has been cast as to their veracity. I have to say the movie seemed more like a young man's fantasy than reality, but who knows. He waited until after most of the characters were dead to publish his diaries.

Wednesday night, after karaoke

2012-01-12T02:59:00.008-05:00

Listen.

1:00 am

Main Street

Driving home from Wednesday night karaoke

and everybody was ON tonight.

Streets glassy with rain, shining wet,

clean

Stop lights, reflections stretch red … green … red

The RTA bus pulls up beside …

A lone woman rides

fluorescent lights shiver inside.

Long, green limousine.

The bar… earlier,

gin and tonic tall, with a lime.

Remember?

That man who sat at a table by himself,

turned to talk to me and wanted …

he wanted what we all want.

He asked me to please sing “Angel of the Morning,”

the Billie Davis version from the 60's, not Juice Newton.

He asked me to change the song I’d given to the DJ,

sing a song for him.

But I ….

I don’t do requests now --- closed for business.

Another night, I said.

He smiled and said, Yes, another night.

1:00 am.

Driving home from Wednesday night karaoke.

Jessica Williams playing Miles Davis on her piano and

I wonder why I don’t touch those black and white keys

like I used to.

Those jazz chords so close

so tight …. they clash and resolve.

They resolve….

I miss …. the jazz ... and you, but

the light turns green

rain mists the windshield …wipers on low,

legato.

I slide through the reflections of the night.

Main Street.

I could go anywhere and the name would be the same…

anyplace else, but I love this fucking city.

I could leave my fractured heart here on Main Street and run

and run…

But I won’t this time …. not tonight.

1:00 am.

Driving home.

Fucking Dave Chappelle showed up to sing karaoke

right after I left

again.

I don’t care.

The wipers

Coltrane

this city

this night

these shiny streets

red … green … red … green

home.

And Melvyn, the alcoholic who lives across the street,

sitting on his porch smoking, drinking gin and juice,

he shouts, How you doin’, baby?

I’m fine, I say.

I know you are, he says. You are so fine.

I love you, baby. You know I love you?

I know you do, Melvyn. I love you too.

Good night, baby.

Good night.

Wordless Wednesday: Lunch

2012-01-11T13:29:00.000-05:00

Weekend Update: Week 1

2012-01-08T23:58:00.000-05:00

Fail.

I had this idea to write a weekend update every Sunday night starting with the first week of the year, and I didn't get 'er done. Reticula, you ignorant slut. In my defense, Rock Dad came over to hook up my new Wii; then Elvira and Coraline stayed for a girls' night of ~~Dean~~ Supernatural and Desperate Housewives. They left late--remember trying to watch TV with a 5-month-old? It takes three hours to watch a 50-minute show, even with booby breaks. That's my excuse. Watch for more as the year progresses.

I'm not sure how I'm going to do these just yet, so I'll develop some kind of format as I go. Local readers, if you want to read something interesting about yourself here, you'd better help make my weekends rock. And then send me text or email reminders of the things we thought were funny or clever or bizarre because I do tend to forget a lot.*

So I missed writing this Sunday night, but so fucking what. I'm going to sit here with a glass of wine and a bowl of Lay's potato chips, write it and post-date it to Sunday night. By February, I won't even remember any of this. My weekend, in review.

Elvira, Coraline and I went shopping for stuff for their new apartment, my big Christmas gift to Elvira. Coraline was suffering her first cold, poor baby. She was so stuffed up Elvira couldn't get anything out with the nose-sucker. So she stuck her boob in Coraline's nose and sprayed milk up it. Pretty soon all the gunk drained out and Coraline's nose was clear for hours. Next time I get a cold, I know whose boob will go up my nose. It's kinda crazy, but I wish Elvira and I could be friends raising our babies together.
First bike ride of the year! Who would imagined the temps would creep up above 50 degrees in January, and I'd be able to get out and ride a few miles with our local, monthly courteous mass bike ride. I missed the last two because of plays so I was jonesin' to ride my bicycle. It was a beautiful night to get out and hit the streets of one of our historic neighborhoods with some friends I mostly only see on the bike rides. I was glad to see Kerry, the guy who originally invited me to join the group way back in June, right after I bought my bike. We met at a pre-opening menu-tasting for a local restaurant. I told him then I was too new to cycling to join a bike group. I'm glad he insisted and didn't let me get away with my insecurities.

In any case, the courteous mass ride is supposed to show people how cyclists can ride in big groups and obey traffic laws or something like that. I think maybe I broke the rules just a tiny bit this time when two guys turning left in a ~~rusty old tuna boat~~ classic 80's sedan met the last three of our group at a yellow light. I could see they were trying to turn into the far right lane instead of the appropriate left lane. So I slowed, but the guy ahead of me rode on. As I suspected, the car turned into my lane, and as they squealed through the light and careened very close to me, the passenger yelled, "Blah blah blah, you crazy sons of bitches." As courteously as I could, I ~~yelled back~~ suggested, "Go fuck yourself." For all I know, they took my advice because they roared off in a blaze of glory, leaving behind a noxious cloud of exhaust. I didn't call them assholes or get kicked off the ride .... this time. I only rode a total of seven miles, but it was wonderful to get out and wrap my legs around my bike.

The ride ended too soon, and my friend the Diplomat and I rode back to my house so I could change out of my sexy cold-weather cycling tights and eat a quick bowl turkey soup before we headed off to a local art movie theater to meet some friends and watch Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. I read the book decades ago, so I didn't remember the specifics, but it was typical of those 70's cold-war spy thrillers. The pace of the movie was slow, plodding almost, and there were dozens of long, loving close-ups of Gary Goldman's face as he delicately teased out the identity of the double-crossing double agent. By the time it was over, I had explored every pore on his face and counted every nose hair. About halfway through the movie I started to regret the bottle of water I drank on the bike ride, and the soup and milk for dinner, although I was glad I hadn't given in to a glass of wine from the concession in the lobby.** By the end of the movie, I had to pee so bad I had unbuttoned the top button of my jeans to relieve the pressure on my bladder. I have to recommend the movie simply because my back teeth were floating and I still refused to leave the theater for three minutes and risk missing anything. If you like spy movies at all, go see it. If you think Gary Oldman is sexy, you might be disappointed.
Without a plan for the rest of the evening, we said goodbye to some friends and joined up with some others who had been sitting behind us in the theater. (OK, to be fair, they were Diplomat's friends when we joined them, but I don't know a stranger, so they're my friends too now.) We found a rather empty bar with a pool table in the back and settled in to play pool and drink. We had to all share one stick because most of them didn't have tips, and the ones that did cried when we touched them. A couple of us wanted wine so the bartender ran out somewhere and brought back airplane bottles of Riesling for us. I don't think they get much call for wine. A group of four young men came back and took over the pool table for a while. They only played one game for some reason. I helped each of them with their shots throughout their game, and I suspect they learned so much they wanted to go home and let their brains rest. I'm sure they appreciated my help. Or maybe they left because they've got their own moms who tell them how to do every little fucking thing and they didn't need me doing it too. I couldn't really tell.

Want. Probably wouldn't help my game.

Saturday morning I met my friend Sunrise at the local market, which is now packed with people even in the winter when the farmer's market is closed. We drank tea in the sunroom and talked for 3 1/2 hours while a duo played jazz in the next room. The tea was loose, served in little reusable muslin bags. I brought both of ours home with me because I could hardly stand their fucking cuteness. And I get 10% off if I bring my own bag next time.

I got home just in time to rehearse with Chicken Grrrl for a last-minute special music gig at church. I haven't touched my guitar much in the past few months. My fingertips aren't even ugly any more. But we played through some songs we've done before and finally decided to sing "Let It Be." We got a new sound system a few weeks ago at the church, and this was the first time I'd sung or run Miss Gibson through it. It felt good to have strings under my fingers and a mic in my face, and Martini running sound back there in the booth. I need to keep my fingers on the strings even when I'm caught up in a play. I missed it.

I guess I'm back to Sunday night. Most teachers don't really get weekends off. Ask one. I had lessons to plan and papers to read Sunday afternoon. And napping. Tell me I'm not the only one who loves a nap.

If you've read this far, here are a couple of recommendations to start your ~~week~~ Tuesday.

This video made me laugh this week. (Have I ever mentioned how much I love a man in a kilt? I do love me a man in a kilt.)

And this made me cry. Because acts of heroism, especially the small ones, always make me cry. This is a letter to a boy who stuck up for his younger brother. Tell me it made you cry too.

That's it. Have a great week!

* Some of you already do this, and I'm grateful. Often my textbox gets full and when I go through to delete most of them, I see a text that says "circle jerk" or "licking a frog" or "cookies in my pants," and I just know I meant to write something about that, but ..... too late. Maybe I should just write found-text poetry.

** I know! How fucking cool is it that you can buy wine to take into the theater and drink through the movie? This is how the smart, sophisticated people live.

The year so far ....

2012-01-05T02:06:00.001-05:00

Day four of the new year. Just another mid-western winter day. Drake lived here for two-and-a-half weeks over the holidays, Montana for a week. I told Drake before he left Monday I expected to crash this week, and maybe to crash hard. I've been riding a high activity level for weeks now--Scrooge!, Christmas, lots of parties and impromptu outings, several enticing flirtations. But this week my house is quiet, school started, I gained five pounds of cookies on my ass, and it's fucking winter out there. The next auditions are almost a month away, my van still needs a new transmission, and there aren't as many parties on the calendar .... yet. Who wouldn't expect a crash after a long vacation from real life, right? I earned it.

It didn't happen. I don't think it's going to. Sometimes just allowing a crash to happen short circuits the thing. It's like the crash is only happy if it can surprise you and then fuck up your good mood. If it can't surprise you, it goes and pouts in the corner. This time though, I think I just found a little perspective, the kryptonite of the post-holiday crash.

It started when I wrote the looking-back post on New Year's Day. First, I looked at all the amazing things I did in the past year and I wanted to be me. I know that sounds incredibly proud and self-centered, but fuck it. I know I could have done more and better; I'm my worst critic. However, I really dig some of the things I did last year, and I love some of the people I met. I wish I could give them all cookies--and yes I mean that kind. And the people who didn't want to play with me--their loss. I didn't write about a lot of other things that made me happy throughout the year, so that list is even longer for me than what I posted here. Hard to believe, I know!

It wasn't all happy shit in that post though. Some of it was hard to put out there. I wrote some things that I felt uncomfortable about, vulnerable, mockable. I know at least one person reads here who would take joy in some of that shit. Maybe more than one. But I had an epiphany when I wrote that post--an epiphany about what is my shit and what belongs to someone else. I blamed myself for a long time for outcomes that I couldn't possibly have controlled, and now .... now, I just don't. I still feel sad. I still wish some things could be resolved over a game of pool in a smoky bar. But I no longer believe anything that happened was a result of my being crazy or of my misunderstanding the situation or even that it has anything to do with me. Not now. Regrets, yeah. Responsibility, nope. It's not my shit. Praise Jesus.

Other things have happened in the first four short days of 2012. My students could tell you I love lists, so here's a list just to move things along.

I learned a secret. A delicious, dirty secret that will just sit here with my smile until I have a reason to tell it. And I know I will one day tell it when it will have the biggest impact. Some secrets are like fine wine: they need to sit in a dark, dusty cellar until just the right time to pop the cork.
A sweet, yummy friend reminded me of my worth. No, he didn't give me worth; I already have that. He just reminded me that nobody can take it, and lots of people value what I have to offer the world. No there weren't cookies, but I anticipate more delicious, naughty flirtation in the future. Stay tuned.
Elvira, her beloved boyfriend Rock Dad, and my sweet granddaughter moved from the suburbs to the city, and they're much closer to me now. Only about ten minutes away. I'm so happy to have them closer, and she loves her new apartment. It's full of sunshine and hope and it overlooks a cemetery. It's perfect for her.
School started yesterday. Every section of English composition the department offered is full, including my classes. They always are. And yet, in my first class yesterday, 16 out of 25 students showed up. And in the another section, 17 of 25 showed up; of those, one left 40 minutes early and another showed up an hour late. I felt discouraged for a few minutes. And then I realized it's perfect really. I'll have more time for the students who really want to be there, and I won't have as many papers to grade. Win/win.
I bought Drake new tires for Christmas. I intended to pay a certain price and ended up paying much more. I was a little freaked out over how much they cost, in spite of how desperately he needed them. And then I wrote my new-year post and realized that young man saved me from buying a new washer and dryer. The cost of his tires was far less than that. Perspective. Always welcome here.
And I won a prize! No shit, I won a $250 Visa gift card on a Blogher giveaway. The day I entered several weeks ago, I posted on my FB that I had no idea why I wasted my time entering these things because I never win. And that's the one I won. Oh, Miss Serendipity, you're such a vixen.
I have some serious shit to deal with this month that I thought was over. Shit my $9/minute lawyer hasn't been able to fix in the past two years. I'm pissed and scared. But I will go back and find another angle. It's too important not to.

And finally, to bring this back full circle, I have to admit sometimes it's easy to feel like the sociopaths (and cannibals and dendrophiliacs) are winning the game of life. Sometimes it's easy to wish I could cut out my own tender heart and join them, become just as self-centered and cruel, and care just as little about other people. I could have felt that way after I ~~exposed my silly curb=stomped heart in public~~ posted my new-year post, but a FB friend posted a video on my wall while I was writing that post, and she added this comment: "I'm listening to this fabulous video and keep thinking of you. You're one of the whole-hearted."

I wrote until almost 4:00 am Monday night. (Yes, I back-dated that post so it would publish on January 1 instead of when I finished early the morning of January 2.) So I didn't listen to the video that night, but I had finished writing the post in bed on my laptop, so before I got up Monday morning, I listened to the video in the comfort of my big bed. And it was just what I needed to hear. I cried to think I might be whole-hearted instead of just broken. What a concept. It locked in what I hope will be my perspective for 2012.

I know I'll listen to this video several more times. For the past few months--OK, all my life--I've been terrified to be vulnerable. But I am compelled as a writer to dig into that terrible, iron-tasting vulnerability and push nuggets of it into the light of day. I'm telling you it's terrifying. I'd rather write about difficult issues like sex. Or .... OK, I really like writing about sex. But sharing recipes or mommy stories or even dildo stories is so much safer than some of the more personal posts I write here. And one of those personal posts may have--although I'll never know for sure--but it may have caused the trouble I wrote about with that guy.

But back to the video. It's 20 minutes long. You can listen to it if you want. It's compelling enough one of my FB friends picked it up and posted it twice so his friends wouldn't miss it. I relate to this woman, Brene Brown, in so many ways. She's a researcher/storyteller. I'm a storyteller/listener/researcher. She's self-deprecating. I'm self-deprecating. She talks about her journey toward the worth of vulnerability and empathy, the uncomfortableness of loving freely and openly and I am constantly on that journey myself. And we both have degrees in social work, and we both believe in connection, and we both understand how deeply shame can mold human behavior and feeling. She describes the struggle I face every day as a writer. This woman fucking spoke to me.

And she reminded me that no matter how much the sociopaths (and cannibals and dendrophiliacs) take from me, I don't want to be like those fuckers. They can't feel shame or guilt or sadness--oh, how blessed that would be some days. But they also can't feel the ecstasy of connecting with another person through intimacy--emotional, physical, sexual--they can't feel it. They can't fucking feel that. They are to be pitied.

So in 2012, I intend to be grateful for my shame, my vulnerability, my empathy, my capacity to love, no matter how much it hurts. And it will hurt. It will hurt immensely sometimes, but there will be moments of blinding joy and perfect connection, of flying and singing and dancing, and I will be there with an open heart to receive the gift.

Here's the video*. I hope you watch it.

* The link was from Ted. You can watch the original here.

2011: The Year in Review

2012-01-01T23:58:00.007-05:00

I rarely make New Year's resolutions. They must work for other people or they wouldn't continue to be so popular. But for me, writing resolutions reminds me of students who come into my office during the last week or two of class and ask what they need to do to pass the class. To at least get a C and pass the class. And then after I've given a discouraging list of what they've missed and why they can't possibly make it up, they promise they'll somehow make it all up anyway and impress me and get an A. It doesn't happen. I don't see many resolutions being kept either. In fact, I like resolutions even less than I like bucket lists.

What I find more useful is looking back over the past year and tallying up the things I've already done. I feel far more successful than if I make a list of the things I need to fix about myself. I've got a constant litany of that shit running on a perpetual hamster wheel in my head already. I admit, this post will be an example of extreme, self-centered navel-gazing. In other words, it's a blog post.

Before I get into it though, I want to say I'd love to read your lists too. What did you do or experience in the past year that made a difference in your life? Feel free to post in the comments or to post a link to your blog if you wrote about it there. What story did your year tell? Here's mine.

1. Of course the most exciting and enduring event of the year was the birth of my first granddaughter, Coraline. My face was a mere 10 inches from Elvira's vagina when that baby finally kicked her way out. Next to the birth of my own kids, it was the most amazing, life-affirming thing I've ever seen or done. I'm so grateful Elvira wanted me in the delivery room with her. Hell, I even felt privileged to change the first diaper. I can't wait to teach Coraline how to play the piano, dance the Macarena, and throw back tequila shots.

2. In January I had to have my faithful hound, Pippi, euthanized. I never managed to write about her last few days here, and I won't now. I'll just say, although she was alert and aware of her family around her, she had stopped eating and drinking; she was ready to go. She'd had bladder cancer for a long time, but I think she hung in there to get me through my divorce, the kids moving out, selling our family home, moving, and one last round of holidays before she had to cross over. I still catch myself wanting to call her when I drop food on the floor. I still miss her.

3. Although I was cast in my first play the last part of 2010, my involvement in the theatre community continued to grow through 2011. I performed in two plays: Octette Bridge Club, where I had my first big ensemble role, and Scrooge, my first musical. I also stage-managed for the first time for "Master Harold" ... and the boys. Even more important, I found myself fully embraced by a community of talented, hard-~~drinking~~ working, crazy-ass people who both fascinate and terrify me with their brilliance. I feel nothing but gratitude that I've been allowed to play with them at all. (Yes, of course I meant the pun.)

4. I bought a bike! I don't know if I mentioned it here, but I bought a new bike! I rode some hundreds of miles on the bike trails and city streets, learned I'd rather ride in 98-degree heat than in 68-degree moderation, and again met some new friends along the way. I even--although I said I never would--wore bike shorts. I look like an Eastern European sausage in them, but my lady parts appreciate the padding, and I feel like one of the cool kids. The only negative experience I had was that whole concussion business, but I'm not going to do that again.

5. I got serious about writing on this blog. The proof is right here. I wrote every day in November for NaBloPoMo, even if I had a living room full of people and I had to leave my own party to write. I'd type frantically trying to meet my midnight deadline, hit publish, and hear somebody with a smart phone say, "She's done. She posted." It was a challenge, but you helped me get through it. Thanks for your support.

6. I danced on a pole and in a moveable cage in a club. When I say I danced on the pole, I hope you don't imagine me .... like, humping it or anything. I don't hump. I have more class than that. I was performing some kind of lame gymnastic feat that simply left me with sore muscles in every part of my body and large bruises every place the pole touched. And I only allowed myself to be encouraged into the cage the night I wore jeans. Nobody needs to see Mom's panties from the dance floor. My only regret is that I didn't have on white go go boots. More on this issue in a later post.

7. Drake and I made some repairs that saved me some major bucks. Last winter we replaced all four brake pads and rotors on my van. They were shot to hell, so it took us hours to pound the rotors off with a sledge hammer and put everything back together. But we did it. And the other night we fixed my 16-year-old washing machine. I was ready to go out and buy a new washer/dryer set, but some handy Facebook friends talked me into looking inside the machine first to see if it could be fixed. Sure enough, Drake figured it out and fixed it with nothing but a drill and a screwdriver. The kid probably saved me $5000 or more this year. I asked him if he was ready to drop a new tranny in the van, but he's not so sure he wants to take that on.

8. I killed my first turkeys. They were delicious. I'm still enjoying turkey soup.

9. I flew an airplane.

10. I took a sex education class for adults at my church. Why? Mostly to support the program. And because I would have been talking about sex anyway. Might was well do it in a class. Talk, I mean.

11. I also participated in a mentor program for the junior high class at church. It's possible I got more out of it than my mentee did. We even performed together with another of the girls before she moved to Indianapolis last summer. It was the first time she sang in public and she was amazing.

12. I only played one big gig last year, but it was with Elvira's boyfriend and we played at a seminary. Metal meets folk.

13. I started reading tarot cards again. If you're interested, shoot me an email for prices and to make an appointment. Over the phone or in person. Either works. I have a couple of surprising stories from this last round of readings, but I still don't believe in that shit.

14. I don't teach in the summer, so the last few years I've taken on an independent study project. Usually it's something that has forced itself into my life either through my own personal experience or because so many people are telling me similar stories and I can't ignore the connections. In 2010, it was alcoholism and addiction. In 2011, it was topic that turned out to be linked: sociopaths. I'm not talking Dexter or Hannibal Lector; serial killers don't interest me. I'm talking about the sociopaths who are fucking up ordinary people's lives by trapping them in fucked up relationships and killing their souls. I heard so many stories over a period of months about the same kinds of behaviors and characteristics-- extreme self-centeredness, lying, grandiosity, lack of empathy, purposeful cruelty, unapologetic using of (alleged) loved ones--I couldn't help but dig into what the fuck was going on. How do these people get away with this shit? And at my advanced age, I finally put on the mantle of cynicism I should have donned when I put out my hand for my social work degree. I used to think people were basically the same on the inside, just molded in different ways by genetics and experience. I was so wrong. Anybody watch Grimm? The monsters are out there, and you probably even know a few of them. Sometimes there really is an "us" and a "them," and they understand us better than we understand them. I was going to write more about this subject, but it's a dark topic. Sociopaths get their only pleasure from manipulating other people and causing pain. I steer clear of them. And yet I'm still dealing with the fact that sometimes I think I'd rather be one of them than the empathic, vulnerable ~~sucker~~ woman I am.

15. I almost didn't write about this last one, but I can't tell the truth about this past year without including it. Although--see me flap in the breeze--I may delete it in the morning ... but as long as the situation remains unresolved......What the fuck. My only loyalty is to the truth and it's my story. Over the course of several months, I got involved with someone I eventually came to care deeply about. I had reasonable and significant concerns about certain issues, but I listened to his stories. I believed his intentions, where he wanted to go next in his life ... I believed his tears when he asked me not to give up on him ... and I chose to hang in there. In spite of the red flags, I loved spending time with him, finding small adventures, looking forward to new ones. I wish like hell I could write here about those things instead. I'm not sure what happened as things progressed--well, that's not true. I know exactly what happened and I don't think it really had that much to do with me--but somehow I found I'd suddenly been flung back into some crazy, lame version of junior high school and there the situation sits like a smelly, stagnant lagoon. The only thing that really concerns me--because this is somebody else's cesspool, not mine--is how severely I misjudged, not the situation, which I saw clearly, but his character and how he was capable of behaving. I wouldn't have predicted this outcome. So I have had to admit, I know now I can't necessarily trust my intuition and empathy like I thought I could. I fucked up.

I've come to the conclusion that my propensity to believe the best about people I care about isn't serving me well--and this isn't the first time. I'm not sure I can change, but for my own good, I believe I should. I need to learn how to give up on some people--and I should start with this one. I haven't yet, because I said I wouldn't (I hear that Who too, Horton!), but I have no choice. Yet even in this painful, ridiculous situation I feel more sympathy than anger. I know how hard it is to search for your true self after you've tried to please other people for so long, to try to metamorphose into a person you can like, or even love, when you have no experience loving yourself. Lots of us struggle to find our own acceptance. Sometimes it's easier ~~and safer~~ to become that which you claim to hate, and from my perspective, that's what happened. He became that which he claimed to hate. I suppose that can cause some pretty fucked up behavior.We've all seen Mean Girls and a dozen variations, right? I've sat on the edge of that myself, and I've seen others struggle too. It's not easy to answer the question: what am I willing to do to keep what feels secure in my life, even when I know it's choking my soul? Been there. It doesn't always have a happy ending like the movies. But I tried to resolve this situation, and I was rebuked. Damn it gets lonely up here on the high road.

I hate to end this post on such a downer. Looking back through that list, I had an amazing fucking year. I am truly blessed--especially by the people in my life, the people who love me whether I deserve it or not. I'm so excited about the new friends I made and will take forward into 1012, and the plays, music, writing, parties, bike rides, even unimagined adventures I anticipate. (I did notice that oxymoronish bit there.)

Mostly though, I'm excited to find out what that wild card Miss Serendipity has planned for me. And let's not forget that the new year could hold lots of ....

16. Cookies!

May your new year bring you a glut of whatever you love. And peace.

New Year's Eve 2011

2011-12-31T19:44:00.000-05:00

I'm not going to drag my feet this year. I promised myself I'm going to be on time, even if I'm the first one there and my hosts are still getting dressed when I arrive. New Year's Eve is a variation of one of those anniversaries I wrote about before. I mean, who doesn't have New Year's Eve memories, right? Not really an anniversary, but a night that marks certain times in our lives like no other.

When I was a kid I remember staying home with my grandma and watching the glittery ball come down in exotic New York City--hell, any city was exotic to me. And the next morning I would get up and there would be confetti strewn from the back door through my parents' bedroom to their bed, where they were sleeping much later than usual. Obviously they'd been someplace exotic too, to come home with confetti in their clothes and hair.

As I got older, I went to parties of my own. Some of them I even remember. Then, when the kids were growing up, it was hard to get a babysitter so if LtColEx was in the country, we usually spent the night at home--no grandmas to watch the kids and no confetti. When the kids were older, we'd all go to a party at our church where we played games, sang karaoke, danced, and toasted the new year in with champagne and good friends.

Then came a few bad years--although it only takes one really. My marriage had already been flushed. I was just watching it go down the toilet. LtColEx informed me he had plans for the evening. He didn't tell me what he was doing, just that it wasn't with me. I wasn't about to ask, but I knew with whom. Elvira wanted to have a party so I told her she could. I couldn't go to the church party by myself and answer a bunch of questions with equivocations. Nobody else knew about the flushing....yet.

So a couple of Elvira's friends came over and they were playing pool or watching movies, eating popcorn and drinking fake champagne in the family room. I was sitting in front of the TV in the living room, not really seeing or hearing whatever was on the screen. I was feeling sorry for myself. Really sorry. I would still feel sorry for myself except for what happened about 10:30 that night.

The phone rang. It was one of my besties G. "Where the hell are you? We've been waiting for you to get to the church. It's boring here." I told her I'd let Elvira have a party and I was staying home. I could hear her relaying to her husband J. "If you're not coming here, then can we come there? We've got the girls with us." Their two daughters are a year older than Elvira and they grew up together.

I could have said no, but I didn't want to spend the rest of the night feeling sorry for myself and trying not to cry in case the girls walked into the room. LtColEx was going to be mad because I wouldn't be able to explain his absence. I told them to come on over. They were already in their car by the time I said yes.

So they got there, and their girls joined the other girls in the family room. I grabbed a bottle of wine for us ..... And waited for the question. Finally it came. "Where's LtColEx?" G asked. "He's out," I said. "Out? Where? What do you mean he's out?" I couldn't look at them. "I don't know where he is. I know who he's with, but I don't know where he went." ...... ........ ...... The girls were laughing in the other room. I was trying not to cry, but having little success. "That's why you didn't come to the church? You're here alone? Why didn't you tell us?" They were shocked. We'd all been friends for years. "I couldn't," I said. "And I can't really talk about it now." I still couldn't look at them. Tears were hitting the carpet. They got it. They both came and put their arms around me.

"I brought my guitar," J said. "Let's just play some music." I nodded. We played some music. We drank a bunch of wine and ate popcorn. And talked but not about that. The girls came in and out, laughing and cracking jokes. We all watched the ball come down at midnight with our arms around each other. And then they stayed for a couple hours longer, and we sang along to some music videos with the girls and drank some more wine and played some more music. When they left, I felt almost OK.

I don't believe in either heaven or hell, but if there are angels, they are the people who love us and who show up at just the right time, not even knowing they're needed. They got me through it, and I doubt I've ever been more grateful for two people in my life. It almost makes me believe in a benevolent, interfering deity.

But New Year's Eve has still been difficult--in my head. After all of those ~~years~~ decades of marriage, it's still .... I don't know. Awkward when the ball goes down and all the couples turn to each other and kiss and hug. Even though I have several parties to choose from this year, and lots of people who want to spend the evening with me now, I'll have trouble getting out the door. Again. I know it's silly. Silly and even ungrateful. And it's not that I want to be married. Emphatic no to that. It's just one of those nights when it's hard to be alone, and that mostly has to do with history, so I don't give in, but I struggle. Last year I didn't show up until almost 10:00, and people were getting concerned, which was then embarrassing. One guest shouted out, "Reticula's here. Now the party can start!" I felt like a dick. (And she probably said that to everybody.) I had a great time for the hours I was there. It still felt awkward at midnight, but I'm a good actor. It didn't show.

But I'm feeling it again this year--the reluctance. It's one of those things I don't want to give in to though. Really don't. I want to go to the parties I'm going to--hell, I wish I could hit all of them--and I always have fun once I get there. So I'll go heat up my curling iron and get dressed up and go out. And midnight will be awkward, but many moments are awkward. It won't be the most awkward moment of this week, that's for sure!

What did you do for New Year's Eve? Do you have a tradition? Has your tradition changed over the years?

Wordless Wednesday: Holy Milk

2011-12-28T13:39:00.000-05:00

Like it? Click it!

2011-12-28T13:17:00.002-05:00

Please direct your attention to the Facebook like button just to your right and down a wee bit. See it? Now click it. Click it hard. Mmmmm. Now wasn't that satisfying? Don't you just love a good click?

Oh, I know what you're thinking. Of course it wasn't a cookie, silly, but you never know where just a click of the button will lead you. It's like a promise. Just a tickle of a promise. A moist little lick of a promise. Just the barest scent on the breeze of a promise.

If nothing else, you will now get notices on your Facebook when I post a new missive of wisdom, and you might even get some little extras that don't quite make it to the blog. And you will make me very happy and next time I see you, you might get a cookie--if you're very very good*.

Now aren't you glad you clicked?

* Certain restrictions apply .... But you don't need to worry about the rules. Just do as I say and everything will be wonderful.

Cookies are so 2011

2011-12-26T22:56:00.015-05:00

I was in cookie mode much of December ..... oh, you had to go there, didn't you? .... I baked, gave away and, to the utter dismay of my ass, ate dozens of cookies this month. All of them were from new recipes--thank you, Pinterest. I also whipped up a couple of barks instead of making actual candy. It's fast, easy, and reliable. (Sorry, Grandma. It was too rainy to make divinity. Next year.)

I'm not including every recipe I tried. One, like the black raspberry galotte, made from the raspberries I picked while earning myself a nasty sunburn last summer, isn't ready to share yet. Why, you ask? It's simple, really. The galotte dripped as it cooked, in spite of the foil I put under the rack to catch drips. It dripped into the bottom of the oven and then as I was baking a boule (bread) soon after I took out the galotte, the juice caught on fire in the bottom of the oven. When I opened the oven door to deal with the fire, the parchment paper I was baking the boule on caught fire as well, making not one, but two fires in the oven. That's not a story about cookies though, so I'm not going to tell it. I will however share that I smacked the bread in anger right before I threw it away. One of my guests said, "It's just not Christmas if you don't spank the bread." Best quote of the day.

Here, as promised, are the recipes I tried this season, along with adaptations and notes,* because I rarely do it just like I'm told to.

A plate of cookies and bark ready to go to a community Christmas dinner put on by a local seafood restaurant.

Snickerdoodle Blondies

2 2/3 cups unbleached white flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

2 cups packed brown sugar

1 cup butter, at room temperature

2 eggs

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

2 tablespoons white sugar

2 teaspoons cinnamon

1. Preheat oven to 350F. Lightly grease a 9 x 13-inch pan.

2. In a large bowl, cream the butter and brown sugar for about 3 minutes. Add the eggs and vanilla; beat until smooth. Mix in baking powder and salt, then the flour until it’s blended in.

3. Spread evenly in the prepared pan, smoothing with a knife. Combine white sugar and cinnamon in a little bowl. Evenly sprinkle the mixture over the top of the batter.

4. Bake 25-30 minutes or until the surface springs back when gently pressed.

Note: This was the most popular "cookie" I made this year. They're fast and easy, and they taste amazing. I baked three pans of them and passed the recipe on to friends who also made them. While the taste is similar to a traditional snickerdoodle, a thick bar like this can't mimic a cookie. No, the recipe doesn't call for cream of tartar. If you want to keep with tradition, use cream of tartar and baking soda instead of baking powder.

Lemon Crinkle Cookies

1/2 cup butter, softened
1 cup granulated sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
1 egg
1 teaspoon lemon zest

1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon baking powder
⅛ teaspoon baking soda
1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
½ cup powdered sugar

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease baking sheet with non-stick cooking spray and set aside.
2. In a large bowl, cream butter and sugar together until light and fluffy. Whip in vanilla, egg, lemon zest, and juice.
3. Stir in all dry ingredients (except powdered sugar) slowly until just combined.
4. Pour powdered sugar on a large plate. Roll a heaping teaspoon of dough into a ball and roll in powdered sugar. Place on baking sheet and repeat with remaining dough.
5. Bake for 9-11 minutes or until bottoms begin to barely brown and cookies look matte (not melty or shiny). Remove from oven and cool cookies about 3 minutes before transferring to cooling rack.

Note: Proving those Mormon women can cook something besides Jello, these are my current favorite lemon cookie. Might as well just double the recipe. It's worth your time to use fresh lemon zest and juice. The dough will be too soft to roll into balls in your hands like a snickerdoodle. Just plop a spoonful into the powdered sugar and gently roll and coat it. Don't overbake. They will firm up as they sit on the hot cookie sheet and rest.


Lemon Crinkle cookies

Salted Chocolate Shortbread Cookies

1¼ cups all-purpose flour
1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder (I use dark)
½ teaspoon baking soda
1 stick plus 3 tablespoons (11 tablespoons) butter, at room temperature
2/3 cup light brown sugar
¼ cup granulated sugar
½ teaspoon fleur de sel or ¼ teaspoon fine sea salt, plus extra for sprinkling
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone mats.
2. Whisk together the flour, cocoa and baking soda in a small bowl; set aside.
3. Beat butter on medium speed until soft and creamy. Add both sugars, salt and vanilla extract; beat for 2 minutes.
4. With the mixer off, add the dry ingredients. Turn the mixer on and off low speed (pulse) for a second or two about 5 times so that the flour mixture gets incorporated. Then mix on low speed for about 30 seconds, just until the flour disappears into the dough (the dough will look crumbly).
5. Turn the dough out onto a piece of plastic wrap and divide it in two. Shape each half into a 9-inch log. Wrap the logs in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 3 hours. (The dough can be refrigerated up to 3 days or frozen for up to 2 months. If you’ve frozen the dough, you don’t need to defrost before baking – just slice the logs into cookies and bake 1 minute longer.)
6. With a sharp thin knife, slice the logs into ½-inch thick rounds. Arrange the rounds on the baking sheets, leaving about 1 inch between them. Sprinkle a small amount of extra salt on top of each.
7. Bake the cookies one sheet at a time for 11 minutes – they won’t look done, and won’t be firm, but that’s how they should be. Transfer the baking sheet to a cooling rack and let the cookies rest until they are only just warm, at which point you can serve them or let them reach room temperature. Store the cookies in an airtight container at room temperature.

Notes: Hard to believe I didn't lead with chocolate, isn't it? These are trendy as hell, what with the salt and all ( have no idea what the fuck fleur de sel is and I don't care), and they're so yummy, as long as you don't over-bake them--unless you like them crunchy. They really should be doughy when they come out for the best texture though. They continue to cook on the sheet after you remove them from the oven. If you want to see a prettier photo, go to the website. I didn't try to make mine rectangular. Life is too short.

Elvira said these look like poop. Or coal. So that's what she got in her stocking Christmas morning--poop and coal. Santa loves you, Elvira, but don't mock Mommer's cookies.

White-Chocolate Cherry Shortbread

½ cup maraschino cherries, drained and finely chopped
2 ½ cups all-purpose flour
½ cup sugar
1 cup cold butter
12 ounces white chocolate baking squares with cocoa butter, finely chopped
½ teaspoon almond extract
2 drops red food coloring (optional)
2 teaspoons shortening
White nonpareils and/or red edible glitter (optional)

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.
2. Spread cherries on paper towels and drain well.
3. In a large bowl, combine flour and sugar. Using a pastry blender or fork, cut in the butter until mixture resembles fine crumbs. Stir in drained cherries and 4 ounces (2/3 cup) of the chopped chocolate. Stir in almond extract and, if desired, food coloring. Knead mixture until it forms a smooth ball.
4. Shape dough into 3/4-inch balls. Place balls 2 inches apart on an ungreased cookie sheet. Using the bottom of a drinking glass dipped in sugar, flatten balls to 1½ -inch rounds.
5. Bake in preheated oven for 10 to 12 minutes or until centers are set. Cool for 1 minute on cookie sheet. Transfer cookies to a wire rack and let cool.
6. In a small saucepan, combine remaining 8 ounces white chocolate and the shortening. Cook and stir over low heat until melted. Dip half of each cookie into chocolate, allowing excess to drip off. If desired, roll dipped edge in nonpareils and/or edible glitter. Place cookies on waxed paper until chocolate is set. Makes about 60.

Note: This is my least favorite of the cookies I tried this season. In fact, I don't intend to keep this recipe. However, other people loved them, so try them and see. I'm not a fan of the white chocolate, so that's a strike already. I also had trouble making the dough come together. I finally added some cherry juice to bind it. If I were going to tweak these, I might try them with dark or bittersweet to see how I like that combination. Drake and I also decided we liked them better without the dip. They're not as pretty, but the dip detracted from the cherry flavor. They are pretty though, and provide color balance against chocolate cookies on a plate.

Cranberry Pistachio Dark Chocolate Bark

4.5 oz shelled salted pistachios, coarsely chopped
2.5 oz dried cranberries, coarsely chopped
7 oz dark chocolate bar (I used Hershey's Special Dark)

1. Place chocolate in a microwave-safe measuring cup; microwave on high 1 minute or until chocolate melts, stirring every 15 seconds.
2. Add nut mixture to melted chocolate, stirring until just combined. Spread mixture evenly on a jelly-roll pan or cookie sheet lined with foil; freeze 1 hour. Break into pieces.

Note: This "candy" is super easy. I doubled the recipe to fit an entire cookie sheet, so don't expect 7 ounces of chocolate to make a panful. The recipe doesn't specify what kind of cranberries to use, so I used unsweetened from the heath food store. Next time, I'll try Craisins. They're sweetened, but they also have a brighter flavor. I ran out of pistachios, so I chopped up some salted almonds for about 1/4 of the recipe. They tasted fine.

Candy Cane Bark

1 pound high-quality bittersweet chocolate, chopped
1 cup chopped/crushed candy canes, divided
½ cup chocolate wafer cookies (such as Nabisco Famous Chocolate Wafers), lightly crushed
1 ounce high-quality white chocolate, melted

1. Line a large baking sheet with foil.
2. Stir bittersweet chocolate in a medium metal bowl set over a saucepan of simmering water until melted. Or melt in a glass bowl or measuring cup in the microwave. Stir in ¾ cup chopped candy and the crushed cookies.
3. Spread over foil. Sprinkle ¼ cup candy over mixture. Drizzle with melted white chocolate. Chill in freezer until set, about 30 minutes. Break into shards.

Notes: This recipe originally came from a much more complicated dessert on the Bon Appetit website, where they call this candy cane brittle. I don't know what they're thinking, but it's not a brittle (think peanut brittle.) It's a simple bark. Crush the candy canes in a plastic bag so they don't go all over the place. Drake smashed them with a meat mallet. Or you could use your food processor. I didn't have plain chocolate cookies, so I used Girl Scout Thin Mints. I crushed them between sheets of waxed paper with a rolling pin, and then removed most of the frosting that stuck to the paper. If you want to be lazy, don't drizzle the white chocolate. It's purely aesthetic. I also ran out of bittersweet chocolate, so about I used about 1/4 dark chocolate. Either will work.

Candy Cane Bark

That's it. You are unlikely to set your kitchen on fire with these recipes, so go ahead and start making cookies for the new year. They're all relatively easy, and they make a nice variety together on a plate. I took some to a friend's birthday party, to our final performance of Scrooge!, and to a caroling party. I also gave some as gifts and donated a tray to a community dinner for a friend who can't bake, but wanted to give to the dinner. And then I served them at my own Christmas dinner.

Cookies. You know I love cookies, right? (Still waiting. Patient, I am.) Seriously, if I could make a living baking cookies, I would be all up in the cookies all day every day. Mmmm hmmmm.

* The website for the original recipe is linked in the title.

The Weight of Santa.....again

2011-12-26T00:41:00.002-05:00

Happy Holidays, no matter what you celebrate or don't celebrate. Whatever your reason for the season, I hope you ate lots of cookies. As for me, I cooked a big dinner today and ate way too much of it. I have a lot to say, but no energy to sit here and tap on this keyboard. So I will simply share again this post from two years ago--it seems like a lifetime ago that I wrote this, but the story still warms my heart.*

The Weight of Santa (from December, 2009)

Christmas is over. This year happened to be a pretty good one. I've enjoyed some wonderful Christmases and suffered though others that were almost unbearably painful. This year I passed the first one that found me living alone. It was different, but that's not what I'm thinking about tonight. Yesterday one of my Facebook friends wrote about wanting his son to believe in Santa Claus for one more year. I can understand that desire we have for our children to keep their innocence, their belief in a Christmas spirit who shares his generosity with other kids all over the world, asking only cookies and milk in return. And it reminded me of one of my "selfish mom" moments, when I....well, here's the story.

That Christmas LtColEx was on a remote tour to Korea. He'd been gone almost a year and a half--six months in Washington DC, followed immediately by a year-long stint in Korea to which his family wasn't invited. Drake was ten, Elvira was four, and by the time LtColEx came home, Elvira couldn't remember when he used to live with us. We didn't have email and phone calls were rare. I won't bore you with the details of how difficult that winter was--flu, record snowfalls that stranded us at home, spending all day together homeschooling with no relief at 5:30 and too little adult contact. I'll just say it's really hard to keep somebody's space open in your life for that long, and that's the reason 75% of marriages end after just a one-year remote tour.

KC-135

As Christmas neared, I did everything I could to make it special and, at the same time, normal for the kids. After they went to bed, I sewed a big, faux suede cape for Drake and painted wooden eggs to look like dragon eggs (one cracking open) for Elvira. They were going to go in her stocking and, knowing how much she would love them, I wished I could share the suspense with someone who would understand. It was lonely work being Santa that year, and, anyway it's a special feeling when you're chosen to share imminent surprises, right? I remember how mature I felt when I came out as a Santa disbeliever, and how much fun it was to be in on the secret and help play the Santa game with my four younger sibs.

Like I said, Drake was ten, so you would probably expect I could let him in on some of the Santa prep. And I would have, except he still believed in old St. Nick. If he had been most kids...hell, if he had been his sister....I would have suspected he was saying he believed just so he'd still get presents. A lot of kids think if they tell anybody they're on to us, they won't get any more Santa presents. But Drake wasn't like that. He's just never learned how to play those games. As far as I could tell, he'd never even questioned whether Santa existed or not.

And yet, how could he not have doubts? He had friends. Surely they talked. I thought he had to know. At his age, how could he not? Unless what they said about homeschoolers was really true, and we were hiding our kids from the real world, not letting them be "normal," whatever the hell that is. I was—fuck it, I'm just going to admit this--kind of embarrassed that he still believed some fat guy in a red suit slipped down our chimney and left filled stockings and Legos by the tree. And I really wanted to show him these cool eggs I was making and bring him in on the fun of playing Santa.

So one night a few days before Christmas as I was tucking him in I thought I was going to get my chance. He started the conversation. "Mom, Scott Murphy (a kid in his scout troop) said there isn't really a Santa. I told him he's wrong, but he said I should stop being a baby."

"Oh, yeah. What else did he say?" Finally somebody had let the kitty out.

"He said you and Dad are Santa and you're the ones who put the presents under the tree. I told him my dad can't put presents under our tree this year, and I know I'll still get some. And I told him Santa always eats the milk and cookies we put out for him. I don't know why he would say that. He's such a jerk sometimes." Not going well. Such indignation. "He's wrong, right, Mom? There really is a Santa Claus?"

This seemed like my chance. I was afraid he'd really get teased if other kids knew he still believed at his age. Still.....I loved his innocence, his belief in heroes and people who do good just because they can.

"Would you want to know if there wasn't a Santa? Would you want to know if I was the one putting the presents under the tree this year?"

A pretty broad hint, I thought, but I didn't expect his reaction. He started crying. "No!" He could barely get the words out he was crying so hard. "I wouldn't want to know if Santa wasn't real because that would mean all those kids all over the world aren't really getting presents for Christmas. And I know a lot of them don't even have enough food to eat the rest of the year, so they need to get presents for Christmas." He was sobbing, in his own little super-hero world, worrying not about whether he'd stop getting presents from Santa, but whether all the other kids in the world would have a Christmas. Not really what I expected from a ten-year-old boy.

I lay down beside him and put my arms around him. "Don't be silly," I said. "Of course there's a Santa. How could there not be a Santa?"

He finally calmed down and said, "That's what I thought. Scott Murphy is just wrong and I feel sorry for him."

"I do too," I said. And that Christmas I played Santa all by myself for my two excited, elf-believing children. Elvira thought the dragon eggs were real and patiently waited for them to hatch. Drake flew around the house in his cape fighting bad guys. There were children all over the world who didn't celebrate Christmas, who didn't have enough to eat, much less presents under a shiny evergreen tree, but for one more year I kept that secret to myself. These are burdens our kids will share soon enough, and I've always been ashamed that I forgot for even an instant how short that time of innocence is.

The next year, Drake no longer believed in Santa Claus, and I wished, just like my FB friend, that he'd had one more year of believing Santa really existed. I wish I had one more year too.

* If reposting is something naughty bloggers do, don't tell me. I already struggle with the size of my tiny e-peen. I won't make a habit of reposting. Promise.

Christmas week rambling

2011-12-24T03:17:00.006-05:00

What a week! Am I right? I thought once Scrooge! was over I'd find some free time to zip in here and write something ~~rude~~ ~~dirty~~ ~~pornographic~~ profound, but instead ~~Santa's elves tied me up with strings of Christmas lights and spanked me with candy canes~~ I spent most of the week getting ready to celebrate the reason for the season: Christmas carols, presents, Christmas dinner, and cookies. Lots of cookies--baking, that is. But the next post is about cookies; this one is not.

Just so you'll believe that I'm not malingering, here is a brief synopsis of the week.

With less than a week to go, I finally got both kids here at the same time to decorate the tree. Lots of memories in those ornaments. They go back over 30 years. I love the ones with photos of the kids when they were little. I wish I'd made a photo ornament every year for each of them. On the top of the tree is the paper angel with a photo of me on the face that I made in kindergarten. It sat on top of my grandma's tree every year when I was growing up. I thought it had been thrown away after she died, but my aunt had it and gave it to me years later. Coraline tried to help by grabbing and stuffing everything she could reach into her mouth. Next year we'll have to put the ornaments only on the top half of the tree.

Fuck Martha Stewart. This is not her tree.

I wrote a few weeks ago here that we were going into hell week for Scrooge! and I felt like I needed a massage and a soak in a hot tub. Two days later another Scrooge! cast member gave me a gift certificate for a free massage from a licensed medical message therapist!* I know, right? Turns out her name wasn't Sven, ~~and she was a crazy fucking sadist~~ but she had a very firm touch (which I asked for). She found every single pressure point on my body and stabbed flaming, hot pencils into them. It hurt, but in a good away .... like when she stopped ~~torturing me~~ releasing my pressure points, I felt tremendous relief from the pain she was causing. After the hour was up, she told me my back had been so tense it felt like I had rocks and pebbles under my skin instead of muscles. I'm pretty sure she didn't mean I have a sexy hard body. She definitely worked out some kinks though. I'll be going back to her once I heal from this massage. I needed that.
For the past many years I've hosted a Yule ritual and dinner at my house. For several reasons I don't need to go into, this year I didn't. I was out singing Christmas carols at an outdoor mall last week as a fund-raiser for one of the local community theaters when a new friend asked me if I was holding my annual ritual. I explained that I didn't plan to celebrate this year. By the time I got home that night, she had sent me an invitation to attend a ritual and potluck at her new apartment*. I took my sorely relaxed muscles, a pot of vegetarian white chili, and a homemade focaccia and enjoyed a meaningful, intentional observance of the darkest day in spite of myself. And maybe let go of a few things I needed to drop.
After I left, I joined a bunch of theater friends for "shake off the post-play blues" karaoke. At one point we had nine people crammed around a table for four, but it was like loaves and fishes. As people showed up, somehow we found more room and more chairs in a crowded bar. It's hard for me to believe that a year ago I didn't even know most of the people at the table, or I didn't know them well*. Lots of photos showed up on Facebook that night. ....You are the dancing queen ....
As much fun as karaoke was though, the next day my voice was trashed. Not from singing, but from talking over the commotion in a loud bar for hours. Normally I'd just let it rest, but the music director for Scrooge! had asked me to sing with his choir on Christmas Eve. I couldn't resist the opportunity to sing with a pipe organ and a brass band*. Thursday was the only time I could rehearse with them, so rehearse I did, and I dragged the Diplomat along with me. The choir members seemed impressed that members of the Scrooge! cast had come to sing with them. I'm sure they were less than impressed after I croaked my way through the three songs we're performing. Or maybe they didn't even hear me over the brass band in front of us and the pipe organ behind us. I certainly couldn't hear me. In fact, I can only assume I was singing.
And yet after the choir rehearsal I hurried to a caroling party at the home of Steampunk Cindy and Grogilingus**, so I could ~~sing~~ rasp Christmas carols in the rain*. It's the first time I've carried an umbrella while I was caroling (where's the fucking snow?), but about a fourth of the party--fortified by mulled wine and sugar--braved the weather to entertain those neighbors we found at home. We rewarded ourselves with more sugar and more mulled wine when we were done. I'll go to the gym next week. Really I will.
I have not sung a note today. Like a big fucking diva, I'm saving my sweet soprano for tomorrow night's Christmas Eve service. I didn't even sing in the van on my way to and from Kroger, which was as crowded as a fucking tribble reunion on the Starship Enterprise, and about as much fun. While I waited in a very long line at the checkout, I ~~pulled a bottle of wine off the shelf and split it with the guy behind me and then stashed the empty bottle behind the magazine display~~ took out my new Kindle and read a Stephen King book. If King hasn't written a horror novel about shopping the two days before Christmas, he should. If you have to go out shopping tomorrow, I highly recommend ~~getting drunk before you leave home and carrying a flask for fortification, which is legal as long as you keep your blood alcohol level under .08 while you're driving~~ simply carrying along a book or magazine to read in case you have to wait in line. It's quite relaxing.
Tonight I'd hit the limit. Instead of accepting an invitation to go out with friends again, I stayed home and baked several dozen cookies and stirred up a couple of kinds of candy. More on that, including recipes, tomorrow. Drake has been home since last Friday, and this is the first night we've had a chance to just hang out. The turkey is thawing for Christmas dinner, and thanks to my shopping trip I have 5 pounds of butter and a gallon of whipping cream in my fridge, but I don't have any presents wrapped yet. Go ahead, Stephen King. Try to top the horror of going to bed the night before Christmas Eve without a single present wrapped. Even the Master of Horror himself can't beat that.

Tomorrow I promise I'll write about cookies--after I wrap the presents. I would trade cookies for present-wrapping. Any takers?

* Fuck November, the gratitude month. I have much to be grateful for in December.

** Yep, that's his nickname, and I didn't even give it to him. He tied a cherry stem into a knot in about 20 seconds flat at another party this past weekend, which made me want to experience multiple cookies with him .... except for his lovely wife who understandably wants those cookies for herself.

Wordless Wednesday: Santa Coraline

2011-12-21T01:30:00.001-05:00

Is that Cookie Monster under my skirt?

2011-12-20T01:46:00.002-05:00

Yesterday we danced and sang through our last performance of Scrooge! And now comes the inevitable post-play letdown. I'm going to miss the sweet hugs from the little girls in the cast, the crazy girl talk in the dressing room, the many cookie innuendos--both intended and not*--the outings after rehearsals and performances.** I could have done one more weekend of shows before I got tired of it, but that would have meant a matinee on Christmas day. Even Scrooge wouldn't approve of that.

It's such a privilege to perform in a play. Again I'm grateful for the new friends I made and for the friendships that deepened over the weeks. Again, I've come away with my heart full of ~~cookies~~ love for this amazing community that has taken me in over the past year. Oh, I sound so smoochy and mushy and moist, don't I? Bah! Humbug! I need to write about something that will lighten my heart. I need to......I know! I'll share a little behind the scenes secret, with photos .... of my ass.

Theater is all about magic. It's smoke and mirrors and tape and paint and screws. Sets are made out of paper or plywood and painted to look like real buildings and walls. Props may not be what they appear to be. For "Master Harold" ... and the boys, Harold had to throw a brandy bottle and break it. Of course the theater board wouldn't let him throw a real bottle, and stage bottles made of sugar "glass" are expensive, so we used a plastic bottle painted brown and a crash bucket (a lidded 5-gallon bucket half full of broken glass). The actor was supposed to throw the bottle through a doorway that led offstage. Somebody was supposed to catch the bottle while I made a glass-breaking sound with the crash bucket. It took several nights of experimentation to get it right. The first night the cork popped out and brown paint sprayed all over the floor and me. The next night, one of our fixes included white glue in the bottle, and the same thing happened only with glue. The night after that, I got a mouthful of kitty litter, white glue and brown paint when the bottle exploded in my face. The final night, the bottle simply dropped to the floor and imploded, like a giant hand had crushed it. But every night the audience heard that bottle break after the actor threw it into a wall.

It's a lot of illusion. The blood isn't real, nor is the booze in our cups. Sometimes our costumes are taped or pinned on; some we buy at Goodwill or a Halloween store or drag out of a grandmother's attic. We wear wigs and makeup to change our age or to make us look sick or crazy or dead. And some of us are wearing things under our costumes nobody in the audience would ever imagine. Fortunately for you, my dear readers, I snapped off a few photos backstage ~~of people's crotches~~ to show you what you're missing when you're sitting in front of the stage.

Here's what Scrooge wore under his nightgown--and under his business suit in the first few acts of the play. Marley seems to like what he sees.

I promised I wouldn't show his face, but he didn't trust me. Or he just likes to pull his gown up over his head. I'm not sure.

One of the problems actors, especially women, struggle with is finding a secure place to put the battery packs for their mics. I didn't have to worry about a mic for this show, because I'm ~~a loudmouth redhead~~ used to talking to the back of a big room full of college students. And I was singing soprano with two other women. When we hit the long, high B flat at the end of the curtain call, dogs from the outlying suburbs showed up howling at the door of the theater and had to be beaten off with sticks. I definitely didn't need a mic. But most of the other women did. Some hooked them to the back of their bras; others put them on their waistbands. But the most secure place to put one is ..... Why don't I just show you with photos.


Wearing to to the side

Packin' it vertical in the red-light distric

The audience never knew these proper Dickensian ladies were packing electronics in their crotches, unless they looked close enough and caught a glimpse of a red light winking from between modest thighs under a light-colored gown. They also didn't know what I was wearing under my plain, brown skirt.

One of my fellow lady cast members didn't want my crotch to feel left out, so she bought me something I could wear under my skirt, something that would make my crotch glow with good will and cookies!

Me want cookie!


This is the one and only photo of my ass you'll ever see. Ever. ***

I could give many more examples of the behind-the-scenes magic of the theater, but I don't want to give away too many secrets. I would hate to ~~think you're looking at the actors' crotches throughout the entire performance~~ ruin your next play by causing you to wonder what's real and what's not up there on the stage. Because the truth is, it's all real--both what goes on in front of the audience and what goes on behind the stage. We all see what we want to see, and we all want to believe in happy endings.

So my suggestion is this: If you want a happy ending, forget the Christmas pudding and the stuffed roast goose, and don't look too hard behind the curtain. Just eat cookies! Cookies!

* I have so many cookie stories from this show. And yet, here I am still waiting for my cookie. I'm sure I'll get it someday. Some people are just slower than others, and they have to take the long, rocky path to get where they're going. I can wait.
** Frankly, the eating out and partying afterwards is making me fat. No amount of singing and dancing will work off bar food several nights a week. And a few of my fellow cast members gifted me with cookies. Real cookies. The kind you bake and eat. I'll be forcing myself to the gym next week to work those off my ass.
*** There's no telling what I might do for a cookie though.

Occupy Scrooge

2011-12-17T17:17:00.000-05:00

Several people have complained about my sudden dearth of posts here. I'm a bad blogger. I admit it. I really suck. Scrooge! and the holidays (and the resulting parties and parties and parties) have taken over my life. I am working on several new posts that I'll finish and post ~~right after the show closes tomorrow~~ ... ~~next week when I'll have more time~~ probably after Christmas, but who knows? Dolores is an inconsistent muse, and she really does want me to post photos of my new underwear soon.

Since many of you reading here can't come and see me in Scrooge!, I want to direct your attention to a cool Scrooge-ish video produced by a theater friend. The cast is made up of other talented local theater friends who worked for food. Enjoy it. Occupy Scrooge.

The Secret Ingredient in Cookies

2011-12-12T22:53:00.000-05:00

This was a mistake?

The Weight of Keywords

2011-12-05T18:20:00.002-05:00

Blogger has a handy, but hardly accurate, little stat counter. Like most stat counters, it's only useful for trending: which posts are viewed most often, how many pages are viewed in a day, and how people find the site. One way to do the latter is through keyword searches, usually through Google. Let's say somebody searches for "lick a vagina cupcake" on Google, gets my blog as a list of potential sources of information on vagina cupcake-licking, and decides to click into my blog. I see on my stat counter that someone came to the post about decorating a vagina cupcake by using that keyword search.

A lot of the keywords are funny. For example, a surprising number of people want to know what to do with men's junk in bike shorts. People, this is a problem! In fact, so many men share this concern, I'm considering doing some research myself so I can write an informative post on how to tuck the junk.

I also get lots of searches for various dildos:

unusual dildos (x 100)
makeshift dildo walmart (I'd start in the produce section)
cold hot dildo metal (tell it to the brothers Grimm; I don't want to know)
dildo porn kilts (I love a man in a kilt, but this one has me stymied. I wouldn't want to reach up "there" and find a dildo)
dildos you can buy at walmart (use it to poke out your mind’s eye after you see those People of Walmart buying cheap Chinese dildos)
for a day dildo (just wash it before you bring it back to Rent-a-Dildo, mmm-kay?)

I also get lots of keyword phrases with the word "vagina" in them. I don't know why really, but here's a sample:

tucked up inside vaginas (this one seems incomplete to me. What is tucked up inside? An umbrella? A handkerchief? Extra quarters for the parking meter? I know it's not a cookie, but read on. It might be a cupcake.)
i wanna date a vagina (maybe I could start a dating site for vaginas to hook up)
lick vagina (x 100, this one. Again, maybe I need to post a tutorial---no, I'm sure a tutorial would be useful. From what I've ~~experienced~~ heard, some people could use instruction on how to give a chinchilla a cookie.)
is it advisable to lick d vagina (only after you aks d ownah firs')
how to keep my vagina rejuvinated? (hey! .... nevermind .... that was my keyword search)
i shoved a cupcake in my pussy (that was probably easier than getting it out again. Try a cookie next time.)
i'm celibate talent out of vagina (maybe an English teacher checking for plagiarism, this one. Sounds like syntax I might read in a student's paper.)
squid inside vagina story (someone was probably disappointed to find out Squildo is a dildo, not a squid)
squid dick missile (only assuming this one was aiming for a vagina?)

Another popular topic is the Sybian, which does not surprise me a bit. One searcher was obviously looking for another site with this one: "me trying out a sybian blog." (Wait! A whole blog on just trying a Sybian? Once you’ve tried it, isn’t the trying over? After that it’s just a “me sitting on a Sybian” blog, right? Hmmm. I wonder if they'd comp me one if I blogged about it.....).

And then there's the Silk 'n Sensipil and Epilady searches, like the one for "silk 'n nipples" and "epilady testicles." (I want to put a warning out there: don't get an Epilady close to the boys, men. It will rip them out by the roots. Trust me on this.)

And there are random searches like hippie farm sluts, gay nipple torture blogspot, when did men discover the clitoris (that’s like saying Columbus discovered America or the Christians found Jesus), date had an impressive penis (I didn't write about that. I would love to, but ~~I'm so much more discrete than that~~ I didn't.)

Lately I've seen a lot of searches that have to do with standing naked in front of a classroom. I want to poke out my mind's eye whenever this one comes up, and it's often--like daily often. Is this a fantasy or a nightmare for people? And about moms standing naked, often in front of windows. Again, fantasy or nightmare? For some reason "mom nude in front of window" ~~comes~~ shows up a lot, as does "naked middle aged mom." More on that in a minute.

In the past few weeks I've seen a bunch of searches about masturbation -- because I said I wouldn't talk about that -- like this one: why is masterbation never talked about (because I can’t talk when I'm uh huh...uh huh ..... ahhh….ahhhh. ….aaaaahhhhhhhhh. What did you say?). Or this one: alone again naturally masterbation reference (or maybe just alone again because you're masturbating again? Naturally. And you can't spell.)

Most of these keywords make me laugh, and then my muse, Dolores, and I have fun thinking up responses. Some of them aren't so funny. Like an uncomfortable number that are about masturbating with someone who "starts with an m and ends with an m." And see, that's when we who have given birth say, "Stop that right now or you'll go blind .... and you'll fucking deserve it!"

On some rare occasions, one will come up that's so disturbing I wouldn't speak it aloud to my closest friends. I definitely wouldn't put those words together in one post. Those most often have to do with young people, innocent people. Those really piss me off.

Today one showed up that made me so sick, I can't even look at my stats. It will roll away eventually. But the image the words brought to my mind won't go away. In fact, I've felt sick to my stomach all afternoon, since I saw that combination of words on my screen. A combination of words bad enough I would love to be able to find out who did that search and report it to a former friend and police detective who is a pervert hunter. Or find the piece of shit myself and .... well, listen I strive to be a nonviolent person. I do. But I can kill an animal for food. And there are perverts out there I could probably dispatch the same way. Yes, that's how bad this keyword search was. And I can't get it out of my mind. It's haunting me.

In case it's not apparent from what I've written here, I'm not shocked by much. I was a social worker in a former life, a counselor at a women's resource center. I counseled survivors of spousal abuse, rape, child sexual assault, incest. I've heard lots of stories, both then and since then. The depths of human depravity rarely surprise me. Obviously I'm not immune yet though, because I've struggled this afternoon to get this one away from me. It hit way too close to home.

I know an argument can be made that I get the keyword searches I get because of what I write about here sometimes. Fair enough. Although in my defense, I'd have to respond that what I write is not pornographic, nor is it particularly provocative, at least not in a way that's meant to cause the blood to rush to the lower regions. (Unless, however, you really are turned on by the idea of naked, middle-aged, g-ma teacher types like me, and then you should definitely let me know so I can ..... well, to be honest I'd think you were mocking me. Nevermind.)

In any case, my interest in sex has been with me as long as I can remember. I was the first-grader who spied on my parents and re-told my dad's dirty jokes at recess. I was the one who told all my girlfriends that a guy sticks his thing in a woman's [something we didn't have a name for] and pees in her when they have sex. I was the 8-year-old who sneaked off with her uncle's Playboy joke book to try to figure out how a grown, naked woman would fit into a martini glass. Sex is just fascinating to me, but I kind of dread the keywords I'm going to see now that I've put this combination of words in a post .... and yet I refuse to censor myself just yet. Some of them will inevitably be hilarious.

But I don't want perverts here -- and when I use that word I'm talking about the searches I won't copy here. I don't want pervs seeing my words. I doubt most of them stay more than a second, just long enough to see that this isn't a porn site, but I don't want them to dirty my blog. No, I can't do anything about it. Keyword searches are random information* that I'm sure some bloggers use to their benefit, but I'm just not that sophisticated, so to me, they're just interesting.

I'm going to go to Scrooge rehearsal tonight and forget all about that horrible little group of words I saw this afternoon. Eventually it will fade away, both from my stat counter and from my mind. Sooner rather than later, I hope.

In the meantime, I need to think some more about that Sybian blog. Hmmmm.

* Somewhat random. I could see what city that search comes from using a more powerful stat counter.

December 4 is National Cookie Day!

2011-12-04T23:56:00.002-05:00

I never know what people will text me these days.

So, dear readers, did any of you enjoy cookies today? Did the cookie baker in your life surprise you with a whole batch of hot, moist cookies? Better yet, did you have a cookie fest, invite your best friends and good neighbors?

One of my fellow Scrooge cast members (who is also an Octette sister) baked peanut butter cookies just for me today and brought them to our four-hour tech rehearsal. They were so yum.

Later backstage a couple of other readers, my sister and I had a good giggle when one of the male cast members said he ate a sandwich but he had his cookie first. Just like a man to have his cookie first, we said, but he didn't get it. Not my fault he doesn't read my blog.

I hope you all enjoyed cookies today, whether you knew it was a day of celebration or not. As for me, I'm looking forward to a grueling week of rehearsals and opening night Friday night. I'm looking forward to getting my van back, because it broke down Friday night after rehearsal and I'm relying on the kindness of a friend who's been driving me around. And I'm looking forward to the start of the holiday season: parties, shopping for my kids, planning Yule and Christmas dinners.

What about you, any good cookie stories*? Hee. Looking forward to anything fun in the next few weeks?

* C'mon now! You know I'd tell you!

Stuck

2011-12-03T23:49:00.002-05:00

I'm entering the last month of the year feeling too busy and at the same time, stuck. It's easy to just let big scary projects float--like buying a house and a new car--while I pursue my adventures and have fun playing with my friends. My mom used to say I was always afraid I was going to miss something. I don't think she meant it as a compliment, but it's true, I suppose. I want the full experience, all of it.

And yet there's this stuck feeling .... maybe it's just winter coming on, the pull of the dark. I don't have time to stop; I don't want to slow down, but sometimes I'm dragged into resting for a bit.

It's one of those nights when I wish I had a massage therapist named Sven on retainer--one who makes house calls--or a hot tub on my back porch or even better, both. I'm tired and most of my muscles hurt for some reason.

Diplomat thinks the enigmatic bartender from last night's after-rehearsal adventure poisoned us, but I can't imagine he would. Although when I was paying my tab, he did pour a couple of different shots of something for himself, me, Diplomat, and an Ethiopian with perfect English. One tasted like vile rot-gut and the other was sweet like nectar. Not sure what was in either drink, but the effect was .... unusual. Maybe I just need to stop flirting with bartenders ... .... Nah. Not going to happen.

Tomorrow we start tech week for Scrooge, or hell week as it's also called, and Friday we open for a two-weekend run. It's going to be intense. And then when it's over, Christmas will be on top of us, and then shortly after that, winter quarter starts.

I don't know how I can feel stuck when so much is going on, but I do. I just wish I was stuck on Sven's massage table with a big vat of bubbling water waiting nearby for me to fall asleep in it.

This is what I'm listening to tonight, Waking Life by Schuyler Fisk. I'm going to learn it once I've got some free music time.

Snippets from Elvira

2011-12-02T15:14:00.000-05:00

Today I offer you a few snippets from my Facebook message box, courtesy of my daughter Elvira.

1. In case you were wondering, it's not a good idea to try to exfoliate your face with duct tape. It didn't work. I thought it would but it just gave me a lingering burning sensation.

2. I've been reading Coraline the original Grimm fairy tales…They're really not as fucked up as people make them out to be. Poe is waaaaay worse.*

3. Lol, at work they won't let me pick up ice buckets. Really? I guess they don't understand that it's way more strain on those muscles for me to poop than lift something. Especially since the doctor put me on extra iron. Sorry I'm telling you about poop.

4. I gotta learn how to do that. We could turn your parlor into a fortune telling studio and have a mother/daughter thing. I have the look for a fortune teller. I could wear a lot of sparkly scarves and earrings .... I'll throw bones on a table and speak in an accent. And wear blind looking contacts. It'll be fucking awesome…We could advertise. We could put a sweet looking sign outside your house! I'll paint it! THIS IS THE BEST IDEA EVER!**

5. I'm excited to do things like go to the zoo and walk around the woods. Things that aren't that exciting to me anymore will probably be way more exciting with a little kid who's never seen or done all that stuff. And I hear that children say unintentionally offensive things in public. I'm excited for that too.***

6. I'd rather chance arsenic than yoga.

P.S. Elvira doesn't know I'm doing this. If she gets upset, I'll just remind her about those stitches I had to get when she was born. Works every time.

* In my defense, I read Poe to Elvira when she was six, not when she was four months old.

** In response to my recent tarot posts.

*** Oh, do I have stories about that! And one of them is about the color of poop.

Anniversaries

2011-12-01T16:45:00.002-05:00

Do you ever have one of those weeks when you feel kind of .... off, for no particular reason? Maybe you feel a little anxious or eager or sad but you don't know why? They're like ghost feelings; they don't seem to go with what's going on in your life. I've been having a week like that. Not in a big way .... just fleeting wisps of feelings, a dream, fragments of conversations remembered or the memory of a hug. Misplaced nostalgia. An emotional phantom limb.

It's been there since Thanksgiving and getting stronger, although not intrusive. And then the other night I was engaged in one of those late-night, wine-soaked conversations with a good friend, and I found myself talking about .... well, what doesn't matter, but I thought, "Why am I talking about this now? I don't want to whack on this dead horse any more." So I drank another glass of wine and changed the subject. And then it struck me: an anniversary was coming up on December 1, today. Bleh.

I remember the first time I became aware of intrusive anniversary feelings. I was 24, my dad was 46, and he dropped dead of a heart attack one day at work. It was sudden; I didn't know he'd been sick and drinking lots of Alka Seltzer, his cure for everything. Nobody had mentioned he wasn't feeling well.

But I'd had a dream three weeks before. He died in the dream. It was awful, and I didn't know how I was going to bear it. I woke fully believing he was going to die. I wanted to call him and tell him to be careful. LtColEx talked me out of it. He said there was nothing wrong with my dad, and he'd just think I was crazy if I called him about a dream. He was right. So I didn't call, even though the dream still haunted me. My little dreams had come true before, but that didn't mean this one would. There was no reason to think Dad was going to die. It was ridiculous.

In fact, when a good friend of my parents called me at 1:00 pm that day, the conversation went like this.

Me: Hello.

Lila: Reticula, it's Lila.

Me: Hi, Lila. This is a surprise. What's going on?

Lila: I need to give you some bad news. It's your dad. He's had a heart attack.

Me: Oh, no! How is he? Is he at the hospital?

Lila: No, he .... honey, he didn't make it. He's gone.

Me: Oh, I get it. Not a nice joke. Put him on the phone. (My dad liked to play pranks, and it was lunchtime in Iowa. Surely the dream had simply foretold a joke.)

Lila: I can't. He's....he's really gone. It's not a joke.

Me: (getting angry) Tell Dad this isn't funny any more. I want to talk to him now.

Lila: You can't. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You need to make arrangements to get home as soon as you can, and then you need to call your mom later. She needs you.

Me: Lila, I'm really not laughing. Tell Dad I want to talk to him. Now.

Lila: Is LtColEx there with you? Maybe I should talk to him.

Me: You're serious! Dad's really dead? He's dead?

Lila: Yes, honey. I'm sorry.

Me: OK, I'll call Mom in a little while. Thank you.

He was laying carpet with his best friend from high school when he died, which was just how he would have wanted to go, but not yet. God, not yet. He still had two kids at home. I was the oldest of five. It was the most traumatic event I'd experienced, and still is one of them. I grew up that late winter, a lot and fast. It was February 28.

The next year, my grandma died, the tiny woman in this photo. I was pregnant with Drake, and I flew home for her funeral. She had cancer, but she wouldn't let me come home while she was in the hospital. She said to wait until she got better and was back home. We buried her on February 28. My grandfather had died years before, not long before I was born. He died on February 28.

The next year as February dragged underway, I noticed I was feeling really fucking crazy. That's the only way to describe it. I was anxious, weepy, even scared. I had no reason to be. I couldn't seem to shake it, and it was getting worse as the month progressed. Finally, in the course of talking with my mom, my sister, and my brother, I realized we were all feeling that way. We were all going crazy. And then I understood what was happening: we were waiting for one of us to die.

It seems pretty obvious now, but I was young, and I didn't remember experiencing something like that before. Knowing what it was helped intellectually, but emotionally I was still braced for the call. Every time LtColEx left on a flight, I fretted--and that wasn't normal. I hated to hear the phone ring, and I jumped out of my skin if somebody came to the door; I was sure it would be two Air Force officers in their class A's, coming to give me bad news. Nothing bad happened.

The next year the craziness was there again, but not as intense. And the year after. Eventually February was only miserable because it's a miserable month, not because I was waiting for someone to die.

I've felt the phantom dread before on the anniversary of a bad accident and another time of extreme trauma--those were to be expected. But I've also felt them over much smaller events. I don't feel crazy this week, so I can only assume there are degrees of anniversary feelings. In the "literature," they're linked to post-traumatic stress disorder, but I'm not talking about PTSD now. I'm just talking about feeling a little bit out of balance, about a place or a person from the past popping up unexpectedly in my mind or in a conversation, about feeling nostalgia and regret at the mention of a certain movie or hearing a certain song or .... well, if you've ever experienced it, you understand.

I'm not sure why I've never noticed anniversary feelings about a happy event. Maybe I do, but those feelings aren't disturbing so I just accept them like a happy little gift from the Karma Fairy. Or maybe they're more obvious, like excitement about Christmas or the Crayola-scented feeling of dread and anticipation late in August when school always ~~started~~ starts. Those are so obvious, I'm not sure they count. The anniversary feelings, the phantom emotions, I'm talking about usually creep in over something that was traumatic or left unresolved.

Eh. I'm glad life is busy and I really don't have time to dwell. After today I expect the clock will chime the next hour, and the phantom will fade away quickly, dragging his chains behind him. I wish I weren't so sensitive to these time markers, especially this time. This should not warrant even one anniversary feeling.

I must have a an especially vivid calendar in my subconscious, because I wouldn't have noticed this one if not for how I've been feeling .... and the dream. And talking too much over one-too-many glasses of wine. If things had been different in this particular story, I probably wouldn't even have called it an anniversary. It would have been silly.

Tell me I'm not the only one this happens to. Do you ever notice you're feeling out of whack with your life? Can you trace it to an anniversary--a beginning or an ending, a special event? Does it help to know this is a phantom in your heart, not something that's happening now? Or do you indulge in a little grief for what might have been? Tell me some anniversary stories to take my mind off mine, and I'll tell you a different story tomorrow.

Nov 30: Has it been a month already?

2011-11-30T23:59:00.007-05:00

Today is the last day of NaBloPoMo. For those of you who don't know, those letters stand for National Blog Posting Month. The challenge is write and post a blog post every day during the month of November. It started out as a spoof of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), but a lot of bloggers really dug it, so now it's a real thing run by Blogher. The folks at Blogher gave away lots of prizes--I didn't win a fucking thing--gave daily writing prompts (I didn't use them), and gave us lots of support and encouragement.

And I did it! In spite of working on two overlapping shows at a local community theater, grading stacks of research papers, cuddling a new granddaughter, Thanksgiving, and that awful day when Google decided to shut down my blog for several hours with no explanation whatsoever, I posted every single day in November. Yay!

One thing I've re-learned from doing this is that I can be obsessive about writing if I write a lot. If I had six more hours in every day, I would write them away. I spend a lot of time thinking about what I'm going to write about when I get to the computer or have a chance to sit down with a paper and pen. I put off doing things like laundry and emptying the dishwasher so I can write. I stay up way too late because I want to keep working on a post. I've written a lot this month that I haven't even posted. I take notes when I'm out with friends and ~~threaten~~ promise to write about them on my blog. Some people stop in mid-sentence around me these days because they're afraid I'll ~~embarrass them here~~ make them a celebrity.

The most surprising thing I learned is that people will read here every day. I was anxious about writing so often because I thought readers would start skipping posts and then more and more and more .... and then pretty soon the only people coming would be the ones who googled unusual dildos or naked mommies or riding a Sybian to church.*

I'm always shocked when somebody mentions in real life something I wrote on my blog, and then I'm like a little kid. "You read my blog? Really? You really read my blog? Like every word or do you just skim? What are your favorite posts? Do you think I talk about vaginas too much? Do you know where I can get a cookie? Will you give me a cookie.......?" Yeah, I've turned into a ~~cookie~~ blog monster.

Several people have asked if I will continue to do this at least through December. I'd like to, but I'm not sure I can keep it up. I have lots of ideas I want to write about, but some of those posts will take a while to crank out. It's harder to get to the meatier posts when I have to meet a deadline every day. On the other hand, if I have to write one out every day, I can't put off writing about the things that are important to me. I can't get lazy.

And yet I have other work I need to do here in this space. I need to do a big redesign and maybe even transport my blog to another home. That takes time, and I'm struggling deciding on a design. I am thinking about this guy for my mascot though. He's juicy and he looks like he can dance. I don't know about you, but I'm imagining a hula skirt down there, and I'm sure he's wearing it regimental. Not a kilt, but it will do.

My melons can't compete.

When I started writing here regularly last summer, I was writing through some losses, trying to fill a void. I'd been writing for other reasons, to someone else, and I lost that audience. This blog became my refuge, a place where I could deal with some of the briar patches in my life, a place where I could hide among the words. In some ways I'm still hiding here, but it's a healthy place to hide for now. I'm making valuable connections here.

So, will I continue to write every day? I'm going to try. That's the best I can promise right now.

Thanks for reading this month. I really do appreciate every comment and email I get. See you in December!

* Oh, yes, it is time for another keyword post. I had no idea what a huge problem men have with where to put their junk in the bike shorts. No idea.

Nov 29: Intimacy... and what is that in your penis?

2011-11-29T23:56:00.002-05:00

I meant to write tonight about intimacy and security and being a good friend, about getting what we need versus taking care of other people vs being simply an item on a menu. I thought I knew what I was going to say, but this topic is coming at me from several directions--even in one day, from several directions. A good friend is waiting in my living room to continue the talk we started a couple of hours ago, and as we talk, what I want to say changes. So I can't write about it yet. I thought I could, but I don't have all the information yet. But I will say that Miss Serendipity and my unintentional muse, Dolores, have together ganged up on me, and obviously this topic will not rest until I write about it. Miss Serendipity keeps throwing people in front of me, and Dolores won't let me sleep for thinking about what I need to say, how I need to integrate these stories.

You don't want this in your penis.

The danger for me is that I wrote about this topic once, and it ~~knocked me into a brick wall~~ didn't end so well. The same thing could happen this time, so I'm stepping into the pool very carefully this time. I don't want to lose anybody over what I ~~want~~ need to say about intimacy and what we do to find it, to get it, to keep it. And about security, and what we'll give up to keep it. And also about being a good friend or even a good partner, and letting go.

For tonight, while I wrestle with these issues and try to come up with something at least cogent, but maybe even ~~profound~~ vaguely meaningful, I will simply leave you with this article, about a man who will probably never take an eel bath again.*

* I'm simply searching for balance. The nipple on the foot story made many of my women readers squirm. Guys, it's your turn to squirm.

Nov 28: You've got a nipple where?

2011-11-28T23:59:00.009-05:00

I'm cutting it very close to the deadline with the blog posts this week. Next year I'll know to have a few in reserve. The response to yesterday's tarot post has been greater than I expected, so I've spent a good part of today scheduling readings and even doing one this evening after theater rehearsal. I'm not only flattered--because I did, after all, admit that I'm a charlatan and I don't believe in this shit--that people are willing to put their faith in me and my 78 cards for a half hour or an hour, I'm also happy for my vagina.

Yes, this will help to pay for my surgery. As you know, because I wrote about it here, my poor, rusted-out vagina is up on blocks in my front yard. It needs rejuvenating and it needs it now. Everything I make from my tarot reading will go not to my children's and my grandchild's Christmas, but to the reparation of my lady parts. Think how really fucking charitable you would feel if you could put your donations toward such a good cause. (Subliminal suggestion: click the Paypal donate button.....)

But speaking of repairs, did you know nipples can grow in places other than chests? I did not. First the vaginas, now the nipples. I leave you tonight with this story about a young woman who has a nipple on her foot. On her foot!

It makes the mind reel, doesn't it? What would that feel like? Does it link straight to the lady parts like a chest nipple does? In other words, if someone plays with it, does she get horny? Does it get hard in the cold? Is it legal for this young woman to go barefoot? If her shoe falls off would we call it a wardrobe malfunction and censor her foot on TV? Don't you want to play with it? I do. Well, really. Who can resist a nipple?

If you had a nipple on your foot would you have it removed?

Coda: If any of my readers has a foot fetish, can you tell us if the addition of a nipple to a foot is a turn-on? Thank you.

Nov 27: What's in your cards?

2011-11-27T23:58:00.015-05:00

A few weeks ago my friend the Hot Italian and I rented a booth at a church bazaar and did tarot readings: 10 minutes for $10. We do readings for each other once in a blue moon, but neither of us had read for other people in a while. We each did five readings, which paid for our booth and for printing business cards and gift certificates. Not a financial success, but we surprised a few people with our razor-sharp insights and uncanny ability to tell the future just by analyzing pictures on cards .... I lied. We can't really tell the future. The future changes depending on what you do. But people are always surprised at what we can tell them about themselves from the cards.

It was interesting watching people's responses as they stopped by our table. Some said, "I'm already pretty sure I know what my future will be. I don't need that." One of us would say, "We don't predict the future." And then we'd get the condescending smile and nod. Some people admitted the cards made them a little nervous. Maybe that's not ridiculous. They're afraid of what we'll know about them from reading the cards. They're afraid we'll throw out the dreaded Death card, not realizing that death is just the end of one thing and the beginning of another.

But the ones who did stop and pay their $10 got their money's worth, I think. All of them left feeling more grounded, with better understanding of whatever situation they were asking about, or with the knowledge of certain choices to be made. One probably didn't get as much out of it as he could, because he wanted to do all the talking and tell the cards what he wanted them to say. That's OK. It was his reading. I gave him the message, which he may or may not ever hear.

If you're as cynical about things like tarot cards as I am, I'm surprised you've read this far. I really don't believe in such things, and yet there's something about what happens when I read for someone that I can't explain. It's like when I have dreams sometimes that come true. I don't want to believe it happens, because it freaks me out, and yet I can't deny it does. Some things defy explanation. Miss Serendipity certainly defies explanation, and yet she is my constant companion.

I once read an article in Reader's Digest, which I consider a pretty conservative magazine, about a freelance writer who wanted to debunk the tarot. So she learned to read, and found that she could see things in the cards that she couldn't have known. So she went further. She started giving readings over the phone, and again, she told people things she couldn't have known. Much as she wanted to prove that tarot readers were charlatans, she couldn't do it. She ended up on the dark side, much as I did.

Shortly after I read that article, somebody gifted me with a deck of tarot cards. Soon after that, one of my good friends called and asked if I wanted to take a tarot class with her at a local pagan store. I said I might as well. Miss Serendipity was going to keep hounding me if I didn't. So we signed up for the 4-class session.

I found out I was pretty good at it. In our reading swaps with other students, I saw things in the cards I couldn't have known about them. Things about their families, situations they were struggling with. I see a lot anyway--it makes some people uncomfortable--but the cards somehow focused my attention on the details.

8 of cups

A couple of memorable things happened in that class. One night as the teacher, Vickie, was going through the traditional meanings of the cards, she told us about the 8 of cups. She gave the textbook meaning: movement away from some emotional issue, disappointment in love, a man who has lost something he loved .... Then, because tarot is more intuitive than learned, she asked if any of had ideas about what the card might mean. A few people said a few things.

She was just about to move on when I said, "It doesn't look like a man to me. I think it's a woman named Mary and she thought you loved her enough to call her back when she turned away. She's moving slowly because she's waiting for you to make the next move."
Vickie looked shocked. "How did you know that?" she asked.
I didn't know how I knew it. It seemed like a smart-ass remark, and I wasn't sure why I said it. "I don't know," I said. "You asked what the card said and that's what it said to me."
"You couldn't have known about my friend Mary though," she said. "We had a fight and I've been waiting for her to call me to make up."
"Maybe you'd better call her," I said.
Vickie seemed a little shaken. "Yes, I hadn't thought of that, but you're right," she said.

Eh, I don't know. Could be coincidence. Our last class was September 11, 2001. LtColEx was stranded in Albuquerque. I'd been home with the kids all day feeling the slow boil of suppressed panic. My friend and I decided we'd go to the class anyway. I did several readings that night. In every one, the Tower came up. It didn't matter how well I shuffled. It didn't matter if someone else shuffled. The Tower came up every time. Again, could be coincidence. There are only 78 cards.

That same night, Vickie brought her friend, the Psychic. Vickie believed in a lot of metaphysical stuff. She didn't seem very discerning to me. As for her friend's psychic abilities, like I said, shit happens that I don't understand so maybe she's got something going on. But I'm always wary of people who claim big abilities--I suppose much as I am telling you about my abilities now. Whatever. I'm a fucking hypocrite.

Anyway, Vickie wanted her impressive psychic friend to see me read. So I read, like a trained pony. And the psychic friend watched intently. I read her cards and she didn't say anything as I did it. Disconcerting, but the whole day was a nightmare. Some hokey fucking psychic couldn't throw me after the mayhem I'd watched on TV that morning.

After I finished reading--Tower card and all--she said, "You don't need the cards to do that, do you?" Now I had no idea what she meant by "do that," but I said no, I didn't. Because I've always been empathic and intuitive to a fault. I see things people don't want me to see. I see their entire stories, and sometimes when I tell them back .... Well, some people don't like the way their stories look out in the open, all in hard black and white words. So I see things, but I don't necessarily think there's anything metaphysical ..... just shit I can't explain.
"You see a lot more than you tell people, right?" she asked.
"Sure," I said.
"You let me know when you're ready to develop your powers. I'll guide you," she said, and she gave me her card.
I laughed. Powers, my ass. And then I said, "Thanks, but I don't really believe in that shit."
She smiled. I never called her, of course.

Because I really don't believe in this shit--except that when I read for people something really does happen, and I can't explain it.

A few months after I took that class, a friend who lives on the eastern seaboard emailed me and asked if I'd read for her over the phone. I said I'd give it a try. She was going through a rough time and wanted to see if the cards gave any advice. And she'd been in an abusive marriage, trapped in fundamentalism, for a number of years before I knew her. She wanted to take back those things she'd been interested in before that time, and tarot was one of them.

Without going into the details, because that wouldn't be ethical, once again I told her things I didn't know. I saw things that made sense, given what I already knew, but one card showed something hidden. When I asked her about it, described what it was telling me, she admitted there was a large part of her life she had been hiding. It was there on the card. She was so impressed by her reading, she eventually started reading professionally and she writes one of my favorite tarot blogs. She's never done a reading for me, but I have no doubt she far surpasses my skills.

And yet I'm not sure if it's a skill or something else. It's more than learning meanings of cards from a book. That might help, but each card means something different depending on way the cards are laid out, where it's placed, its relationship to other cards, the situation the reading is about. So it's a skill, but it's more than that. It's also the shit I don't believe in.

So I'm careful. I observe my own set of ethics. I don't read other people's cards unless they ask me to. And even if someone has asked me to read, I don't read unless the person is involved. There are a few people who have asked me to read their cards, but for some reason won't or can't follow up. Even though I'd still like to see how their readings would turn out, I wouldn't read with the intention of seeing anything about them.

I also don't tell the future. I can say what might happen if things continue along this path. I can say what might happen if these actions are taken. I can even say one action would be wiser than another. But the future changes and can be changed. A warning taken can change outcome.

Last winter the Hot Italian and I read for each other in her office one Saturday. I told her she was going to find out a secret about someone. Recently she did, and it was a big one--possibly life-changing.

She told me something about a relationship that would develop, but it involved the knight of cups. He's a romantic, fun, outgoing, passionate kind of guy .... except when he's not. Except when he's emotionally fractured, whiny, deceitful, and self-centered. As she read him, he wasn't going to turn out to be a guy I could depend on. I didn't want to see that. I saw him in relation to other cards in the reading, and I said I thought he had potential; it could go either way with him. The funny thing is, we weren't even talking about a real man at the time ... but it turned out that knight came in and out of my life over the next few months.

She stopped by with some homemade bread Thanksgiving Day and reminded me of those readings. She said that knight of cups turned out just like she suspected he would. I said I still saw the things I wanted to see in him. I guess the point is, the only way to know if the cards work is in retrospect.

Got any cookies in that cup?

I would love to still believe in that knight of cups, but I believe in him about as much as I believe in tarot cards and dreams. Still, if I've ever promised you a reading, I'm in business. Email me. If I haven't promised you a reading, I'll still do it. Email me. I've also done workshops for women's groups that are fun--or so I'm told. It makes for a great party. Even if you don't believe in that shit, what have you got to lose?

Nov 26: Yes, Virginia, you can be a virgin again...and again...and again....

2011-11-26T16:29:00.001-05:00

My vagina used to look like this.

Knowing a good deal makes me hot, ~~a lowdown, dirty rotten spammer~~ one of my thoughtful readers sent me a coupon she thought I might be interested in. Or so she said. I, being a creature of low self-esteem and poor body image, saw beyond the superficial message she sent, which went something like, "here, just thought I'd pass this on because I got two and I can't use them both," to the real reason she sent it. She's really saying, "Honey, my vagina is already tight as a your mama's Spanx because I send it to the clinic on a regular schedule, so I don't need this. But when I saw it, you're the first person I thought of because everybody knows it and nobody wants to tell you: your vagina needs to be rejuvenated. You're always the last person to know these things and it's time somebody told you. You need vaginal rejuvenation." She's right. I didn't know. They've never covered this one on Desperate Housewives. But now I wonder: Has Bre had vaginal rejuvenation?

I should have suspected something, I suppose. Lots of my friends get massages, sit in salt rooms, go to yoga retreats and gardening conferences and blogging conventions. These things are important for maintaining physical and mental health. But I didn't know a woman also needed to get her vagina rejuvenated. I feel like a freak now. How many people have noticed and not wanted to tell me? Would ~~men in kilts~~ people stand in line to bake me batches of cookies if I'd just maintained my vagina's health better? Would I be having a cookie right now if I had reinvigorated my vagina like other women do?

It's not the first time I let an issue go because I didn't realize I needed to hire a man to perform periodic maintenance. For example, I didn't realize I needed to have my transmission fluid changed every 30,000 miles. So a couple of months ago when I needed to have it changed for reasons I won't go into, the Goodyear shop refused to change it, because I'd driven 135,000 miles without doing it. I didn't rejuvenate my transmission fluid soon enough so the Goodyear men refused to do it at all. Not even for $185!

So if that can happen, is it possible it's too late to have my vagina rejuvenated? With my transmission I now notice a little slippage when I change gears, usually between 2nd and 3rd. Same with my vagina? Is it possible my vagina has relaxed into complacency, probably because I didn't know I needed to have my g-spot amplified? My hymen has been in tatters for decades, that I do know. I feel so stupid. Other women obviously sport designer labias while I'm still walking around with the same tired, rundown, gynormous labias I've always had. I'm not sure what else is missing ~~under my hood~~ in my panties because the page for other cosmetic procedures is under construction. Just like my vagina should be!

I need to go from this.....

And to think a couple of months ago I was worried about pubic hair.

OK, people, I need to fix this problem fast. Sure Dr. Jason is reported to be a "kind, caring and understanding" semi-celebrity of a pussy rejuvenator. He even says things like, "As a sexual biological organism, women are superior to men." Thank you, Dr. Jason. Please help me stay sexually superior ~~because that's really working for me~~. I bet you've never left a woman wanting a cookie. But at what point would Dr. Jason--like the Goodyear guys--say, "Sorry. There's nothing I can do for you. You've driven your vagina into the ground. If only you'd come to me sooner ..... "?

I need to do something now! My vagina, and probably my other lady parts too, need immediate rejuvenation. This isn't something I can do alone, so I hope I can depend on you, my reticulated blog community, for assistance, because this shit is expensive and I'll need to go on a trip to New York as soon as possible.*

And thus from the wreckage of my ravaged vagina is born the Rejuvenate Reticula's Vagina Foundation. (Say that last sentence three times fast and then follow the directions below.)

Here's what you can do to help my vagina. Call this toll-free number:

1-myn-ewv-agina to donate with a credit card. ~~Elvira and I~~ Operators will be standing by. Or you can click on the Paypal button on the right sidebar over there to donate safely through Paypal. Or when you see me out some night, just slip me some cash, whatever you've got on you. Everything helps. Thank you.

Still not persuaded? Listen, this will be a life-changing procedure. Far more profound than learning to work a pole or vocalizing an orgasm on stage or even killing a turkey. You will want to read about this! You will want photos! You will want me to enjoy my new rejuvenated cookie-maker! You will want photos.

Your kids will forgive you if they have to miss one tiny Christmas. Look how happy the Cratchits were in spite of their meager existence. Aren't you always saying Christmas is too commercial? Haven't you threatened again and again to make all your gifts by hand or re-gift all those ugly sweaters your Aunt Lois knitted? This is your chance to finally do some good on Christmas. And unlike gifts to Heifer International, you will see immediate ~~cookies!~~ results when you send your donations to the Rejuvenate Reticula's Vagina Foundation. No waiting for the calf or the chick to grow up. Dr. Jason and I guarantee results in just weeks.

Please donate generously. My vagina needs you. My labia needs you. My g-spot needs you. We can't bake cookies without you. Thank you.

... to this.

* While I'm in New York, it would be crazy not to catch a couple of Broadway shows, so please keep that in mind when you give with your heart.

Disclaimer: I am not mocking women who really need the procedures done at this clinic for health reasons. I'm sure many of the surgeries Dr. Jason performs really do change women's lives for the better. This post is for entertainment purposes only.

Nov 25: Thor Stories

2011-11-25T23:57:00.013-05:00


Only the bones left

I'm so bummed I forgot to take a photo of my bird after she came out of the roaster yesterday. Too much going on at that time of the dinner prep. By the time the bird is resting, I'm mashing potatoes, scooping out stuffing, overseeing the queens as they make the gravy,* directing the other hot food to the table ..... I just forgot to take photos for my blog. Here's what it looks like now, after we ate the meat and then I boiled the carcass to make soup. Just bones and skin. She was a good bird.

And I'm cutting it late again tonight with the blogging. Drake and Dakota are in town and staying here. They'll probably be back soon to try to drag me to the club for blacklight night. Elvira, Coraline and I walked around downtown this evening for the tree illumination at courthouse square with thousands of other people. I love carrying Coraline in the sling. Brings back lots of good memories of carrying her mommy in the sling 20 years ago. So I've been busy with my kids today, and I can't apologize for that.

But I did promise stories in last night's blog post, sometime after we finished off a box of wine. I'm not sure they will be as funny here as they were last night, and as I look at my notes, I realize I might as well call these the Thor stories. (They made me stop taking notes, but I couldn't read my handwriting after a while anyway.)

1. Thor: I don't think it's fair that women can have cookies one right after another, but men have to wait.

Me: I can't believe you're complaining about cookies. You're a man. You always get your cookie. Do you want to know how long it's been since I had a cookie?

Thor: No. I'm just saying it's not fair I can't have another one right away. I have to wait a while, maybe make a sandwich and eat it, watch a little TV....

Me: I don't want to hear it. You're a man. You always get your cookie.

Thor: No, I don't. I don't always. Really I don't.

Me: I don't believe you. Men always get their cookies. It's women who are cookie deprived.

Thor: No, I don't. Sometimes I'd rather make batches of cookies than get any for myself at all.

Me: (Silence. Where do I find a man who makes cookies in batches?) Sigh.

2. Thor: You need to drink some moonshine. That will give you a buzz.

Me: I don't drink moonshine. I drank that stuff in high school sometimes. It's wicked.

Thor: That's the whole point. You need to drink some.

Me: Nobody should drink that shit. It can make you go blind.

Thor: That's why you shouldn't pour it in your eyes.

Me: (Silence.) .... (No, really I laughed.)

3. Drake was retelling one of my bad-mommy stories. Yeah, I have a couple. In this story, when Drake was about 12, he came in the house and told me he'd hurt his wrist really bad. I suspected he was malingering because he didn't want to weed the flower bed like I'd told him to. Later that evening his wrist had swelled up so he showed it to LtColEx, who said he'd take him to the emergency room. I said no, I would take him to the emergency room. Turned out it was broken. Bad mommy. Let the mocking begin.

Me: Hey, I threw a bag of frozen peas at him before I went out to weed the flowers myself.

Thor: Frozen peas? You threw frozen peas at Drake for a broken wrist?

Me: Yes, what's wrong with putting frozen peas on something to reduce swelling? (Thor is a firefighter/EMT. I expected some kind of medical lecture about how to treat a broken bone. Which, in my defense, I didn't know about when I threw the peas at him.)

Thor: I put frozen peas on my vasectomy. My vasectomy.

Me (Silence. Because, OK, Thor, that's fine that you put frozen peas on your wee ouchie, but it's not like the bag of peas come with a warning label: For human consumption or treatment of ball sack swelling only! Do not apply to sore wrists or other body parts other than the swollen scrotum or serious injury may occur.)

It's possible you had to be there.

* A Thanksgiving tradition: the gravy must be made by at least one gay man, or better yet, two. Three and the process tends to get a little dramatic.

Nov 24: Post Thanksgiving Brief

2011-11-24T23:18:00.000-05:00

I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving day. I would write a long, introspective, profound even post, but I'm still enjoying the post-Thanksgiving party here at my house. So I'll just offer this teaser of tomorrow's post, which will include something about moonshine, frozen peas, vasectomies, and cookies. Cookies!

I hope you all had a day to be grateful for. I did. Friends and family. Yummy food. Love and laughter. Maybe some karaoke or Guitar Hero to come.

Give thanks for this one precious life.

Thanksgiving baking!

Nov 23: Pies!

2011-11-23T16:03:00.001-05:00

Jack in the pie

Not sure what to serve for dessert tomorrow? Need something to take to somebody else's dinner? No, I'm not suggesting a bottle of Jack (at least take Maker's Mark), but here are the recipes for the two pies I'm making for Thanksgiving dinner. I'll serve both with fresh whipped cream. (I don't allow Cool Whip in my house, not even to put on cookies.) I'm also making a gluten-free dark chocolate brownie, but I haven't tried the recipe before, so I can't recommend it yet.

Both of these pie recipes are super-duper easy. I'll post photos later tonight.

Fresh Pumpkin Pie

Preheat oven to 425

Ingredients:

1 ¾ cup fresh pumpkin, pureed or mashed (or a 16-oz can if you're a cheater)

12 oz can evaporated milk

¾ cup sugar (can use Splenda or honey)

2 eggs, slightly beaten

1 tsp cinnamon

½-1 tsp ground ginger

¼ tsp ground nutmeg

2 ½ tbsp pumpkin pie spice

1 unbaked 9” pie shell

Combine all ingredients except shell. Stir until mixed. Place cookie sheet on oven rack, then empty pie shell on sheet. Carefully add filling.

Bake in preheated 425 degree oven for 15 minutes. Lower oven temperature to 350 degrees and continue baking 50-60 minutes or until pie is set in center.

~~~~~~
And this one, which is deliciously decadent. Don't blame me if your fillings fall out. Thanksgiving is not the day to stick to your low-carb diet anyway, is it? Nah, I didn't think so.

Bourbon Chocolate Pecan Pie

3 oz bourbon (I’m using Jack this year. I’ve used brandy or spiced rum before)
1 ½ cup chopped pecans
3 eggs
1 c light Karo corn syrup
¾ c semi-sweet chocolate chips (I use dark.)
1 c sugar
1 stick butter, melted
1 tsp vanilla
Pinch of salt
1 unbaked 9” pie shell

Soak pecans in bourbon for at least 4 hours. Mix all ingredients together and pour into unbaked shell. Bake at 350 degrees about 1 hour.

Wish you were here!

Nov 22: A Pumpkin Gave Its Life for this Post

2011-11-22T23:54:00.007-05:00

I'm really behind this year. Of course, I say that every year the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. It's my favorite holiday because I can cook an obscene amount of food and invite as many people as my house will hold, and we can indulge in friendship and good food all day and into the night. Of course we turn around and do it again a few weeks later for Christmas, but there's such a big difference between a day of gratitude and a day of gluttitude.*

This year our dinner feels even more special than usual. I butchered turkeys this year for the first time, and I know my bird had an ideal life on the farm before she gave her life for our dinner (and leftovers and carcass soup). I'll be using eggs from the farm, and raw milk from my herd share, and pumpkins from a pumpkin farm stand run by one of Elvira's friends from high school.

I always make my pumpkin pies from scratch, with fresh pumpkins. I remember the first year I wanted to do it. LtColEx and I had been married maybe a year or two, so I was 19 or 20. I asked my grandma to show me how to make the pumpkin puree for fresh pies. And to my surprise, she refused. "No," she said. "I will not cook a pumpkin with you."

What? This is my grandmother who taught me how to knit, crochet, garden, pluck chickens, make pie crust and cinnamon rolls, and fresh whipped cream. This is the grandmother who flew all the way to Sacramento from Iowa holding a paper bag full of fresh dill from her garden so she could teach me how to make dill pickles while she visited. She got a lot of funny looks when she got off the plane holding a paper bag with green herbs flopping out of the top. She knew how to do everything herself, and I wanted to know too.

"Why not? Don't you know how?"
"Of course I know how. I did it for years. And then they started selling it cans and I swore I'd never do it again. I don't want to mess with stringy, slimy pumpkin when I can buy it in a can."
"You're serious? You won't even tell me how to do it?"
"No, buy it in a can and be happy with it." And that was that.

Except that I went to the library and found a book that showed me how to do it. And I've done it every year since, because once you've eaten a fresh pumpkin pie, canned pumpkin is no longer palatable. And a pie from the grocery store is simply a plastic substitution.

It's really not that hard. My grandma didn't have a food processor, and she probably only had access to field pumpkins, the kind you make jack-o-lanterns with. Although I've used both, I try to buy sugar pumpkins that aren't as wet and stringy.

So if you want to make your own real pumpkin pies, here's how you do it. Heat the oven to 425 degrees. Then prepare the pumpkin. First cut it in half and slip the seeds out of the pulp. You can just drag them out with your fingers into a colander. Wash and then put them aside.

Scrape out the pulp and cut the pumpkin into slices and then pieces. Put the pieces into a big pot, cover with water and boil them until they're soft through. They'll look like this.

Dump the pieces into a colander and let them drain and cool for 20 minutes or so.

In the meantime, pour some olive oil on a baking sheet. Add the pumpkin seeds and spread them around so they're mostly in one layer. Bake the seeds for 10 minutes or so. Check them. If they're getting brown, stir them around and cook another couple of minutes. If they're already too brown, take them out. Give them a stir, and then season them with whatever you like. I just use salt, but you can sprinkle on garlic salt, rosemary, cayenne, whatever flavor you want. If you're going to put them in a covered container, let them cool completely.

Now back to the pumpkin puree. When the chunks are cool enough to handle, scrape the meat off each one with a tablespoon into a bowl. If your pumpkin is soft enough, you can just mush it up and use it that way. If you used a stringier pumpkin or didn't cook it as long, run it through the food processor to puree the lumps out of it. A few lumps don't hurt though and actually give better flavor.

That's it! Store the puree in the refrigerator in a sealed bowl if you're going to use it within a week. If not, freeze it in baggies in whatever size your recipe calls for.

Try it! I'll bet you won't eat canned pumpkin again. I'll take some photos of the pies tomorrow or Thursday, but it's the taste that makes the difference.

Tonight I'm straining a last batch of milk licker. I probably won't make any more of that. All my grocery shopping is done, so I don't have to brave another store tomorrow. I bought what I could at the commissary yesterday; Elvira and I finished up today at a local chain store.

I thought I might buy a Honey-Baked ham like I have in years past. I even had a $5.00 coupon. But when I asked the girl there how much an 8-pound ham was, and she told me $58.76, I decided I could do better. As I was looking through the spiral-cut hams at the store today, I saw one that was marked $4.51. I looked again. I had Elvira check it. Yep, in a case of hams that cost $1.79/pound, $15-18 apiece, I'd found one that must have been marked wrong. I fully expected to be charged the right price when I checked out, but nope. Our big ham only cost $4.51. I really love a bargain.

So it's almost midnight and I have cleaning to do yet. I'm starting to get excited .... OK, I'm already excited. I can't wait to say those magic words: Let's eat!

Go make your own pumpkin puree. Do it now.

* We keep it a secret, but all English teachers make up words sometimes. That's really how words are added to the English language.

Nov 21: In Which Google Strips Me

2011-11-22T01:09:00.004-05:00

Reticulated Writer

Note: This is a post I wrote earlier tonight. Blogher was down for maintenance tonight while Google was fucking with me, so I opened a new, temporary blog and posted in time to make the NaBloPoMo deadline here: http://reticulatedmoon.blogspot.com .

I’d love to write a post on my blog today, but late this afternoon, without any warning, Google shut me down. My blog is gone, and anyone who goes there gets a message that it’s been deleted. My Picassa account is closed and the message says my photos have been deleted. Same with my gmail account and my Google reader. All gone, just like that.

Do you back up your posts? Because I hadn’t. I just happily posted away on my blog and thought, Someday I ought to copy these into individual Word files. If you haven’t done that, what the hell are you waiting for? Do it! I was lucky. For some reason I could still get into my Google reader long enough to copy and paste all of my posts from there to a Word document …. except for ones I’d truncated and the photos that were linked to Picassa. Those are gone.

I’ve emailed Google from the page I’m redirected to any time I try to get into any of my Google goodies, but as I expected I haven’t received a response. I feel like Dorothy when she tried to get into the Emerald City. The door is closed and locked and I don’t have the power to get back inside.

No, worse than that, I feel violated. My words, my stories, they’re a part of me. They’re unique to my life and my voice. My words make a connection with my readers, with real people. They make people cry and laugh and think about things they’ve never thought about before. Like steampunk dildos and vagina cupcakes and sociopaths and what constitutes child abuse. They create connections between my life and the lives of other people, both friends and strangers. Sometimes I know because readers leave comments or send me emails or even tell me in person that they were touched or shocked or laughed until coffee came out of their noses. But they also connect me with people I don’t know. My words, my stories, aren’t on a leash that I hold in my hand. They’re out in the world living their own lives.

For example, someone who is a new friend, someone I hope to get to know better, sent me a message the other day and said her mother was coming into town from North Carolina, and would I come to breakfast with them, her treat. She said she’s been sharing my blog posts with her mom, and her mom wants to meet me because what I wrote connected with her experiences. That was about the highest compliment a writer can get! Hellz yeah, I’ll go eat breakfast.

Well, now that’s gone, that link between me and those readers. My blog, reticulatedwriter.blogspot.com is gone. One of my readers emailed me and said she feels like she’s watching a book-burning, and there’s nothing she can do about it. Yes, I feel that way too. Words aren’t tangible, I know, but I feel like something has been stripped from me. I’m confused and angry and bereft. And I don’t believe for one minute a giant like Google is going to give one shit about a little blogger like me, a little reticulated writer, and make any effort to give me back my stories.

This is not the post I expected to write today. But it’s the one Google gave me in return for my words, my stories, my connection to readers I know and readers I haven't met yet. I’ve been stripped. Just waiting now for the cavity search.

Nov 20: All you need is a screw and....

2011-11-20T09:00:00.001-05:00

I spent the day with my good friend Colorado yesterday while her husband did some much-needed repairs on my van. It was definitely worth driving 70 miles for both the company and the new engine mounts, transmission fluid and oil change, and even a new windshield wiper.

We were enjoying a lovely day--lunch, shopping, gossiping, drinking homemade lattes--until we decided to start dinner. The first thing we needed to do was open a bottle of wine. I'm sure I don't have to even say that--first the wine, then the cooking. Colorado set the wine on the counter along with two coffee cups, opened a drawer and said, "I don't think we have a corkscrew."

The day screeched to a halt. How can any rational human being not have a corkscrew? We searched the kitchen, the dining room cabinets, even the office for a corkscrew. I looked through my purse. She found her multi-tool, but it was multi-worthless. Not one fucking corkscrew in the house.

Me: Do you know your neighbors? I'll go knock on doors until I find one.
Colorado: Don't know them. They're all really old.
Me: Even Jesus drank wine and think how old he'd be! (I'm not sure I really said that. I might have just thought of it now. But if I didn't, I should have.)
Colorado: We can't ask the neighbors.
Me: We can push the cork down into the bottle. I seem to remember something about hammering a nail into it first though.
Colorado: Probably to release the air pressure.
Me: Yeah. Or maybe I tried opening a bottle with a hammer and nail once and just ended up pushing the cork into the bottle because the cork broke.
Colorado: Not helping.
Me: Let's google it. Surely somebody else has run into this serious dilemma.

We googled. The first likely idea we found was a video of a guy using a wooden spoon handle to push the cork in. He wrapped a towel around the bottle, gave a little push on the cork with the end of the spoon, and the cork splashed in with very little spillage.

Colorado: Let's try that!
Me: Hellz yeah. He didn't even need a hammer and nail, and he made it look really easy. (We head into the kitchen. Colorado grabs a towel and looks around....)
Colorado: Fuck. I don't have a wooden spoon.
Me: Seriously? First a corkscrew and now this? Who doesn't have a wooden spoon? What do you use when hubby's been naughty. Surely not this wire whisk. (Again, I might not have really said that last part, but I should have.)
Colorado: All of these utensils have fat handles. They won't work.
Me: (Searching for anything that looks like a wooden spoon handle....) Here's a Sharpie! It's about the same size.

We examined the bottle. The cork was a long one and there was only about 1/4" gap between it and the wine.

Colorado: That bottle is really full.
Me: (I put the bottle into the sink, wrap the towel around the top .... decide, fuck it, the bottle's in the sink, and I need to see what I'm doing. I push.) GRUUUUNNNNT. (I make that sound. Nothing happens.) It's not working. There's no place to push it.
Colorado: Push harder.
Me: (I push harder. The Sharpie makes a dent in the cork, but the cork doesn't budge.) Fuck that. Let's google again.

We headed back into the office and opened an article on five ways to open a wine bottle without a corkscrew. The first video showed a guy putting the bottom of the bottle into a shoe, then hitting the shoe against a wall until the cork popped out. Less wine spilled than you might imagine when the cork shot out. ~~And yet it was still too much.~~ At the end of the video, they let us in on the secret. Almost five minutes had elapsed.

Me: That's going to take too long. I want to drink today. Find another one.

The third time we hit gold. We found the process I'm going to describe to you complete with photos, just in case you're ever ~~stranded in the wilds of a major US city with a lovely bottle of wine to drink and no fucking corkscrew~~ at a friend's house and she doesn't have a corkscrew.

1. Collect your tools. You'll need a screw ~~don't we all?!~~ at least long enough to go most of the way through the length of the cork, a screwdriver, and a claw hammer. (I knew we'd need a hammer. Didn't I say we'd need a hammer? Can't touch this!)
2. Pull the protective foil cover off the top of the bottle.
3. Using the screwdriver, screw the screw into the cork, leaving about 1/2 inch sticking up. (Did I really just write screw the screw? What a cool phrase! Screw the screw. Obviously I don't screw often enough if I'm so easily amused.)

Screw the screw. Hee.

4a. Using the claw end of the hammer, pry the cork out of the bottle.

It's hammer time.

4b.This last step, I will admit was a little tricky. The hammer doesn't pry the cork straight up. Because our cork was so long, part of it came up out of the bottle neck, but then the the hammer no longer had the lip of the bottle to torque against so it pulled the screw sideways. We had to improvise.

Colorado: Why don't I hold it and you pull straight up on the hammer.
Me: I thought of that, but I'm afraid the cork will come out suddenly, and I'll hit myself in the forehead with the hammer. In fact, I'm certain that's what I'd do. I don't want to bleed into the wine.
Colorado: Do you want to hold it while I pull?
Me: Suuuuurrre.....Just make sure you don't hit me in the head. If somebody gets hit in the head with a hammer, I'm know it will be me.

Colorado: Here, just hold the bottle on the floor. I won't hit your head.

I got down on the floor and held my head as far from the action as I could. Colorado got a good grip on the hammer head and pulled straight up. The cork popped out softly. (What? You were hoping that whole thing was leading up to a trip to the emergency room? For shame!)

Did you get your cookie, bottle of wine?

And that is how you open a bottle of wine without a corkscrew. This lesson won't help you if you don't have a screw, screwdriver and hammer, but you can always ~~put the bottle of wine in a shoe and beat it against something like a wall or a tree~~ run to the nearest store and buy a corkscrew. I know I'm going to carry one in my purse from now on. Much lighter than a hammer.

Nov 19: Following Up

2011-11-19T07:00:00.002-05:00

Now that I've finished the saga of my guilt trip to Iowa, I want to say thank you to everybody who has commented, here and on Facebook, for the emails of support and the ones telling your stories, for the hugs in real life. It is risky to write about things that hurt or confuse or even piss me off, things that make me feel terribly vulnerable when I see them on paper or on the screen. Some of you have told me difficult stories this past week too. I appreciate that you've shared them with me.

Every time I write a naked-me post like the last three, I hesitate for a long time before I hit the publish button. One reason Plato didn't like the written word is because written words are so final. As soon as they are published, something changes and so, according to him, truth changes constantly. In other words, he thought we couldn't really write truth. Or at least that's the way I understand him.* So when I write, I write what's true for me, at that time, and that's the best I can do. But I always have to live with the fact that what seems like truth to me, might not really be truth--whatever the fuck that is.

If the stars are lined up perfectly though, some people--or maybe only one person--will read what I wrote and resonate with what I've said. What I've said with words somehow gives light to what's inside of them--to their feelings, experiences, desires, disappointments, failures, funnybones. That's the greatest gift a writer can receive, the giving back of that connection with readers. It's also the thing I can't control. I can control the words, the turn of the phrase, but I can't control the response of any one reader.

That's why I'm always afraid to hit publish on the posts that dig the deepest, the stories that still have blood drying on them. I'm afraid maybe readers will misunderstand; afraid I've misrepresented something vital; afraid I'll tell too much; afraid I'll come across as someone I'm not--stupid, foolish, really crazy, a gynormous bitch. But most of all I'm afraid someone will get mad at me, because my stories--our stories--never happen in the vacuum of my own being. They happen because of those connections with other people and become their stories too.

It has happened that someone didn't like what I wrote in a post, one of those in which I put my heart out here and scratched the story right on it with a rusty nail, and the consequences for me were quite painful.** At least I think that's what happened. There's always the possibility of a faulty cause argument fallacy when someone leaves you guessing. I didn't mean to, but I fucked up ... maybe. The funny thing is, although that post was only up on my blog for two days before I deleted it, more people contacted me about that one than any other before or since to tell me they'd sat and cried because I put into words their experiences too, and they hadn't ever been able to put it in words. Even though I didn't know their particular stories, they felt like I'd heard them. Words have power. Stories have power and fuck Plato, they tell the truth too. All writers should approach their words with caution though. It would be so much easier to only write about bacon lube, vagina cupcakes, and pole-dancing.

And yet one reason I continue to do this is because of the readers who write back to me or tell me in person that they've cried or laughed (both is best), that they've shared something I wrote with someone else, opened up to a loved one and talked about things that were hidden in their hearts and bones, waiting to come to light. It's a miraculous gift, because sitting here at my keyboard is sometimes a lonely business. When I hit publish, there's nobody here but me and Dolores and the sound of trains in the night. And Dolores has usually fallen asleep while I looked for typos. So when I publish, it's just me, and sometimes I feel quite naked.

This is for those of you who feel a connection with what I write here, and with me and with each other: I just want to say thank you. Thank you for reading and thank you for giving me a reason to write. I love your comments and your emails. Your words matter to me too.

* And of course there's a whole paradox about my having read what Plato said, or what somebody wrote that he said, so how could it be true, but I won't get into that.

** Nobody else was hurt in the making of that post, as far as I know. In fact, I think the outcome was positive for everyone except me, and that's definitely my problem.

Nov 18: Dreaming the Truth

2011-11-18T17:24:00.003-05:00

This is the final installment of my Iowa posts. If you haven't read this one, what I'm about to say won't make much sense.

When I got back from Iowa, I hit life running straight into the second week of school, Drake and Montana's move, a busy social life. When I wasn't otherwise distracted, I thought sometimes about that unconscious toddler who was once me; it would hit me in the shower or as I was falling asleep. I thought maybe I finally needed to find a therapist and sort out how my behavior has been affected by the abuse and how I could finally fix myself. Fix myself. I've been trying to be perfect my entire life. The truth is, it just made me feel tired to think about trying to fix myself. What a huge job. Mostly I stayed very busy, which is how I always handle blows to the heart.

The Sunday two weeks to the day after I drove back home, I spent a restless night. I kept half-way waking up, hearing an angry woman shouting at someone. She was swearing and saying things like, "Shut the fuck up, you cunt!" And, "You're going to be sorry, you fucking bitch, if you don't just shut up and do what I told you." Now, there have been a few instances of people fighting out in the street in my neighborhood. Rare, but it's happened. It could have been a real person outside yelling, but probably not all night.

Toward morning, the yelling got louder--"I said shut up, you fucking cunt, or you're going to be really sorry"-- and finally woke me up ... in a dream. I was upstairs in the house I grew up in, and I realized the shouting I'd been hearing all night was coming from downstairs, and I knew I needed to take care of something. As I ran down the stairs to see what was going on, I realized it was my mom shouting.

I found her in my parents' bedroom. She was lying on the bed on her side facing the door. A baby girl about 3 months old was lying on her back in the middle of the bed, not crying. Both of them still. But I knew what had been going on all night. I picked up the baby and checked her to make sure she was OK. She was content in my arms.

Then I said to my mom, "This stops now. It's finished. It won't happen again."

She tried to make excuses, but I don't remember them now. I said, "No, you aren't listening. I said this ends now. You won't hurt her again. I'm taking her with me. It ends."

She tried again to explain, but I cut her off. "I'm leaving now. Just know it won't happen again. That's all you need to know." And I walked out with the baby. In the dream, I felt nothing but calm and resolve.

I woke up as soon as the dream ended though, and I didn't feel calm. Or at least I didn't think I should feel calm. I thought it had been a nightmare ....... But for some reason, I not only didn't feel any dream trauma, I felt .... I guess strong is the only word that will describe it. And I felt like something had ended. I felt like I had taken back something that was mine all along, something powerful and elemental.

And that is the end of my story. It ended with a dream, which is such a Newhart way to end a story, I can hardly stand it. But I can't write life; I just write about life. And this story ended with a dream.

Coda: I want to make clear that I get along fine with my mom. She's my mom, and I love her. We aren't especially close, but we also aren't estranged in any way. We talk on the phone every four or five weeks, and we never fight. She doesn't tell me how to live my life, not since I left home at 17. We have fun when we're together every couple of years when I go to Iowa. So I don't mean this story to be an indictment of her. It's simply a telling of my story.

Nov 17: Going Home

2011-11-17T12:04:00.002-05:00

The morning after the wedding , Sunday, I was up early to get back on the road less than 48 hours since I'd arrived. It takes a few hours to drive 675 miles, and I was going to lose an hour crossing time zones. And it was past time for me to leave.

Yes, you read it right, and, no, it's not Photoshopped. Free cookies with a fill-up.

I drove into town one last time for some corn gas. Usually I wash the gravel dust off my van at the car wash up the street from the liquor store, but not this time. I was running ~~again~~ this time, and I had a long drive ahead. I just wanted I-80 east under my wheels with my speedometer at at least 80. I didn't even scoop the loop one last time.

Now that the grocery store, dime stores, florist, hardware store, and bars are gone, uptown is a ghost town anyway. The chain grocery and discount stores that were built out on the highway where the high school was have taken most of the traffic from the square. Kids can't afford to drive around for hours like we used to, and they aren't allowed to park and socialize on the square, I've been told.

So even scooping the loop has lost its appeal. Although there are still some stores uptown, they don't draw a lot of business. The courthouse mostly keeps watch over an empty square, except when people gather for ice cream socials or the Fourth of July parade or the spill-over from the swap meet. But why should I care if the town's center is dying? Everything changes--even hometowns.

The courthouse sits in the middle of the square.

The drive home was long, but not endless. Suzy called to check in. She knew I was upset from the night before, and she's still afraid I won't ever come back. I've made that threat before, but I always make a guilt trip eventually, even if my visits are years apart and never very long. As I wrote in my last post, Elvira called and we talked a long time while she nursed and rocked Coraline. She cried with me over the past, even though it's not her past. Having a baby creates a sharp, harsh change in a woman's perspective about childhood stories and trauma. They become so personal.

From the time I left the wedding the night before, I'd felt a strong urge -- a need -- to go home. It's not the first time that's happened. I have this schizo multiple personality feeling of both belonging when I'm in Iowa and of being a foreigner who was never meant to live there. I grew up with that feeling. So I've always been attracted to going there, seeing my family --and I do love them very much; mess with one of them and see what happens-- maybe running into people I grew up with, but yet knowing I don't really fit in and they don't really know me any more. It's only home in the historical sense, and my real home is ..... I'm not sure. In the past, it was wherever I lived at the time, wherever the Air Force had deposited us.

This time, when I imagined the home I was running back to, I kept picturing my old house, the big rambling green tri-level with the purple door in the suburbs that I sold last summer, only two weeks after the realtor's sign went up. The one I lived in for 17 years, where I raised my family ... where my family broke up. The home of the past.

This isn't home any more.

I had to keep jarring myself back to the present, but it takes longer than a year for a new house to become a home. At least it does for me, and I have plenty of experience with moving. The house I live in now is 110 years old and it's lovely. I live here with great gratitude. But my intention has never been to stay here permanently. This house transitioned me out of the suburbs and into the city; it's part of my re-visioning and reworking of myself .... yet when I felt like running home, I wanted to run home. I just had to do a mental adjustment and remember that here is home now, and this is my choice.


Home.

I pulled into the city early in the evening. I made good time. I called and let people know I was safe. I got up Monday and went to school and taught. Elvira and Coraline came over that evening, and we spent the night all snuggled up on the couch, watching Supernatural. (Mmmmm. Dean.) But as I drove through my neighborhood each day, I still felt fragmented, not at home. I can fit in almost anyplace, but moving into the city has been an adjustment. It can be depressing: the poverty, the hopelessness, the rough, bumpy streets, the gates every two blocks that prevented high-speed chases and drive-by shootings in the 90's--and maybe still do. It's an adventure living here, but it's not home yet.

So when I needed to go to the bank and get groceries and wash the thick layer of gravel dust off my van, I found myself on the highway back to the suburb where I lived for 20 years. I went to my old car wash, and as the robot sprayed the rainbow of soapy water over my van, and I watched it run in filthy rivers over the windows, I felt like I was being washed too. I drove through my old bank, near my old house, and the teller called me by name as if she remembered me. She didn't, but it felt normal. I felt like me.

Then I went to the grocery store where I bought food I couldn't find in the Fairway in my hometown or at the smaller, meaner grocery store with iron bars in the windows nearer to where I live. No, I went to the big, new, deluxe suburban grocery store that even sells furniture. It's clean and nice and kind of Stepford-like, but it's what I needed. I bought sliced rare roast beef, bourbon-glazed ham, baby Swiss, roasted tomatoes and red peppers, and enormous blue cheese-stuffed olives at the deli; fresh salmon fillet and swordfish loin (did you know swordfish is not endangered?) at the meat case; tiny pepino melons, organic carrots with fresh green tops, blueberry lavender salad dressing for some organic field greens, Dove raspberry and dark chocolate swirls and coconut M&Ms and a big box of Junior Mints; the Martha Stewart Halloween magazine and two others with pages just as glossy. As I walked down the aisles I was tempted to stop and shout, "I'm back! Did you miss me?" But that would be ridiculous. I felt like myself for the first time in .... I'm not sure how long, but at least five days. No, I'm not that suburban housewife any more, but she's still there in my backbone.

That grocery store wasn't home either though. Nor was the car wash or the bank. Hell, I never felt like an old hippie like me fit into that suburban life. But they represented a part of me that I needed to remember because sometimes I don't recognize myself, and going "home" this time changed who I thought I was. I needed to get in touch with the homeschool mom, the officer's wife, the Girl Scout leader, the church lady, the magazine writer ... the woman I was when I knew who I was. People I meet for the first time now will never know that part of me, no matter how well they get to know me, but I'm still that person inside. Transitioning is good and fun and I'm enjoying the adventure, but just for an afternoon, I needed to find my foundation again. I needed to remember who brought me to my current party. There was security and structure in being that suburban mother and wife. I came home needing to find security anywhere I could find it.

Yes, I promised an end to yesterday's story of the past, a resolution of sorts. And I have that. First I had to get home and remember who I became after I left Iowa all those years ago. I needed so much to get home and find something close to normal -- even though I know I can't really run away; it's all too complicated--family, love, mistakes, hurt. betrayal. But a story has an arc, a necessary course of action, a pace of its own. One last post tomorrow and then I'll get back to writing about sex and humor .... and sex.

Dean, I hope you like cookies.

Nov 16: In Which I'm a Victim of My Hair Color

2011-11-16T15:28:00.000-05:00

Even then I carried around a pencil and pad of paper.

A few weeks ago I wrote about my trip to Iowa where I officiated at my sister's wedding. Something happened while I was there that I've struggled to write about, and yet I do want to write about it. I want to tell the story. I need to find my way into it though, so bear with me.

Recently I watched a video of a Texas judge beating his 16-year-old daughter with a belt. The video is over seven minutes long, and I watched every second of it. I'm not going to post it here; it's far more disturbing than killing turkeys and most people can't watch the whole thing. I was crying about a minute into it, but I kept watching because, even though that girl is now in her 20's, I needed to give witness to what happened to her. It's so rare that abuse is witnessed. It usually happens inside homes, where strangers can't see. Or it happens and nobody wants to see; they refuse to see. I watched the video because that girl needed for people to see what happened to her. I can give witness. I can take watching it.

And I also need to tell my story, because I need to see it here, in the open. I just need to tell it. It's long and it's not funny. I've given this warning before: if you came for funny and sexy, skip this one. I'll post something funny soon enough. Here goes.

We had some time to kill after my sister's wedding, before she and her groom arrived at the country club. They stopped at a bar for a drink or two, so we had lots of time to kill. After I helped set out the food, I was talking with relatives I grew up with but have rarely seen once I grew up and left home. My mom's side of the family was sitting together at one long table: my cousins and some of their kids; my mom's middle brother and my aunt, my mom and her husband. I was standing there talking to them when the following conversation came up. The characters are my cousin L, who is my age, her sister D, who is two years older, and another cousin K, who is 9 years older than L and me. L, D, and I were close growing up, although they lived in another town 20 miles away. We haven't kept in touch much as adults though, until Facebook. (My thoughts and explanations are in italics.)

Me: Remember that time you guys went into that old man's house to see his new TV? I was so scared for you.

D: Yes, I remember. You got us into so much trouble.

Me: Me? I got you into trouble? We were only allowed to walk up the block. Nobody said anything about going into some pervert's house to see his new TV.

L: Oh, I don't think he was a pervert. He didn't do anything to us.

Me: No, that's because I ran back to Grandma's house screaming, "He took them in his house! He took them in his house!" and got your mom and Grandma to come and save you. (My aunt suffers from dementia now. She just sat and smiled through the entire conversation. I wish I knew what she would have said...)

D: You just wanted to get us into trouble, and you did. A lot of trouble.

Me: No, I didn't. I would never want to get you guys in trouble. I was terrified he was going to hurt you. I waited and you didn't come out. That's when I panicked and ran down the hill. I saved you guys!

D: Saved us! Saved us from what? An old man with a new TV?

Me: Why would an adult man who didn't even know us ask three little girls into his house to see his TV? What were we? Seven and nine? We weren't friend material!

D: You got us into so much trouble. I was so mad at you!

Me: I saved you! How do you know what he would have done? Why did you go in there?

L: I was probably thinking how exciting it was to see a new TV. It was probably color. I wouldn't have thought he'd hurt us.

D: That's because he wouldn't have hurt us. That's ridiculous. Nobody was going to get hurt, but we got in a lot of trouble because of you.

Me: No, I saved you. I was terrified he was going to do something to you guys. And don't you think that was pretty weird? Really? Grown men don't invite little girls into their houses. I would still be suspicious.

D: I don't know what you're talking about. We were never in danger. You just wanted to tattle.

Me: (It must be nice to live in a world where strange men don't hurt little girls. Obviously I was never that naive. And I'm certainly not as an adult.) I never tattled. That was the only time, and I thought I was saving you. For all you know, I did.

D: We were never in danger. That's ridiculous. And we all know how you were.

Me: What do you mean, how I was? (This made no sense to me. In my world, getting in trouble meant you got hit, more than once. I never tried to get anybody in trouble. I've always known how to keep a secret.)

D: How you were. We all knew what you were like.

What I was like at age one

And now our other cousin, K, the daughter of my mom's oldest brother, chimed in.

K: Yes, we did know how you were. You were awful. Always holding your breath until you passed out so you could get your own way. You'd cry and then you'd hold your breath until you passed out. You did it to all of us.

Me: I've heard those stories, but you have to know now that babies don't do things like that on purpose.

K: (laughing) Oh, yes, you did. You did it because you always had to get your own way.

Me: No, I didn't. Babies don't do that.... (This isn't funny any more.)

K: You did. I would be allowed to walk you up the block, to the corner across the street from the park. And then when I'd say we had to turn around and go home, you'd start crying and then you'd hold your breath until you passed out.

Me: (Wait a minute. You walked me up to where the fucking park was just across the street, let me see it and then said we couldn't go there? How old was I? I had to be younger than two because Mom and Dad got married just after I turned two, and Mom and I moved out of Grandma's house...) You walked me up to the park and then we turned around?

K: Yes, and then you would cry and have a fit and hold your breath until you passed out. You did that to me every time.

Me: (No shit! I'd cry now if somebody walked me up to a fun place and then said we had to turn around.) I couldn't have been doing it to you. Babies don't....

K: Oh, yes, you were doing it on purpose. And I tried everything to make you stop. I shook you and shook you and shook you. And I threw cold water in your face...

Me: You what?

K: I shook you and shook you as hard as I could. And threw cold water in your face. Over and over. Nothing worked. You still did it. You wouldn't quit.

Me: Wait! I was a toddler and you shook me....shook me as hard as you could?

K: Of course. You needed to be taught a lesson. We all did it. (laughing) You had such a temper. You always thought you had to have your own way.

Me: I was a toddler! (And you walked me to where I could see the park and then turned around, for fuck's sake. And that was the same corner where the man took L and D into his house. Maybe it's no wonder I was scared something would happen to them.) I wasn't doing it to....

K: Yes, you were. You always thought you had to have your own way. You had that red hair...

Me: What does red hair have to do with....?

K: You had that red hair and the temper to go with it. If you didn't get your own way, you had a fit. You were so stubborn, nothing we did made you stop.

Me: (So maybe I wasn't doing it on purpose if hurting me in various ways didn't make me stop!) So you shook me as hard as you could? You threw cold water in my face? You did that to me?

(It's hard to explain how I felt as this conversation progressed. The idea of somebody shaking a baby, a toddler, and throwing cold water in her face...any kind of abuse makes me feel like I've turned into hard, cold, sharp steel. A person who hurts children is less than a turkey to me. I could cut a bitch. And I have a degree in social work. I would take a child out of a home where this was happening. No question. But this time I was the baby who'd been abused, and at least one of my abusers was sitting there laughing about it and telling me it was all my fault. And my impression is that everybody else was laughing too. L, whose 2-month-old grandson was just feet away from her. I know she would never do that to him, but my impression was that they were enjoying hearing about how it happened to me.)

K: Of course we did. You couldn't be allowed to do that to us. We did what we had to do to make you stop.

Me: (Looking down at my mom beside me.) Is that true? Did you shake me and throw cold water in my face?

My mom laughed and told a story I'd already heard before. She said when she asked our family doctor about it, he said I was just trying to get attention and she should let me fall and hit my head. He said I'd stop doing it if I hit my head often enough and it hurt bad enough.

Mom: So I let you fall and hit your head a few times, but it raised up such a big lump on your head I thought that wasn't a good idea. Then I started catching you, laying you down and leaving so nobody would be there when you came to.

Me: Did it work? Did I stop?

Mom: Nope, you just kept doing it to me. Eventually I guess you outgrew it. We never did figure out why you did that to us.

Me: Mom, I didn't do it to you. I was a baby.

(I didn't outgrow it. I learned to control it. My throat still closes up completely when I cry sometimes. I just have enough control now to relax and breath. I didn't tell them that. They were all laughing.... I felt like I was in one of those movie nightmare sequences where the people's heads are getting bigger and smaller, and they look like fun-house mirror reflections. I expected an insane clown to run through the room with a bloody knife. It was surreal that they were talking about that level of abuse and they were laughing....and laughing that they'd done it to me. And that it was my fault.That they'd done it to any baby would have shocked me, but that they'd done it to me.... In my mind, I had an image of my granddaughter Coraline, born just six weeks before and the baby I was being just like her--only with that awful red hair....I wanted to protect that child--that little red-headed bastard child--they were talking about, and yet she was me and it wasn't happening now....But the laughing was and the saying I deserved it, that it was my fault, was happening now. But of course I do take the blame for anything that happens, so maybe .... I needed to escape...)

Can't trust a redhead. We're all crazy from birth.

K: See what I mean? Always have to have your way. We. know. how. you. are.

Me: (No, you don't. You don't fucking know me at all and none of you ever did. And I don't know you either.) I did some research once and did you know when babies pass out when they cry it can be a symptom of iron-deficiency anemia.....?

(I would have said something about how they started feeding me mashed potatoes and gravy from the table when I was 2 weeks old, and how they only put whole milk and dark Karo corn syrup in my bottles instead of formula because I wasn't sleeping through the night by the time I was 2 weeks old.... All of them seemed to be laughing harder and harder and looking at each other as if they knew something I didn't. And for years, they did. They did know I was a bastard, and I didn't. Now they knew "how I was." And there was my aunt, looking at me and smiling so sweetly. I don't think she understood what was going on, but I can't imagine she would have laughed.)

K: You. weren't. sick. Nobody said anything about anemia. Even the doctor said it. You just had to get your own way. You always had to get your own way. You and that red hair of yours.

Me: (I stood there with my red hair, in my little black dress and my sister's borrowed shoes, and I felt....broken. They all knew how I was. They'd always known. But I tried to defend that child who had been me once more.) Babies don't do that! Babies don't pass out to get their own way. I didn't choose that.

I felt trapped in the nightmare, so I finally just turned my back on all of them. My sister Suzy was sitting at the next table behind me, so she was to my right when I turned. I put my hand on her shoulder to make sure she was real.

"Looks like you need another drink," I said. I couldn't tell if her plastic cup was empty or full. It didn't matter.

"I'm about ready for one, but I can go down and get it."

"No, I need to go down anyway. I'll get it for you," I said.

"Wait. Let me give you some money...." She reached for her purse. It would take too long.

"No! I'll get it. Just let me get it." And I ran downstairs to the bar.

Nobody else was down there, just the two bartenders. "I need a Smirnoff and tonic. Take your time making it."

I've been a bartender. I wouldn't have asked questions and neither did they. The older guy just poured the cocktail, set it in front of me and took my money.

I sat on the bar stool and looked out at the golf course where my best friend and I once road double across the greens on the back of a guy's motorcycle, holding lit sparklers out on each side. I tried to figure out how I could sneak out, go back out to Mom's, load my van and hit the road--without hurting my baby sister's feelings and causing a scene at her wedding. I needed to run ..... but I couldn't. I was both the minister and the big sister who drove 675 miles and hadn't been home for over two years. I had to stay and act like nothing had happened--now or then. Piece of wedding cake. I'm a pro at hiding behind a smiling face. And I did. I laughed and danced and partied for hours after that. Hours.

I picked up Suzy's drink, tried a smile on the bartenders, and turned toward the stairs in time to see a pair familiar long legs coming down the stairs. My first best friend, Steve, all 6'4" of him. I screamed and ran to him and he picked me way up in his arms, about four feet off the ground. Finally I said, "Better put me down. I think my panties are showing."

I already wrote about that, so I won't again. But I've rarely been so glad to see anybody in my life. He'll never know it, but when he lifted me off the floor and hugged me, I could feel myself again and I knew I could make it until the next morning when I could leave.

There's a lot more I could write about this and maybe I will as I sort it out. About how another family member did cause a scene late in the evening, and by the end of it screamed (among other things) "Get the fuck out of here. Just leave like you always do," in front of my baby sister's children. I'm still not sure what that was about, but I don't care. I also consider that kind of behavior in front of children to be abusive, and I'm not about looking the other way and pretending it's OK.

And I could say more about how I couldn't hold it together any longer as Suzy and I drove back to Mom's house after the party. I told her about the conversation earlier and she, I think, cried with me. She said, "I never understood why you called yourself the red-headed bastard stepchild. We all just thought of you as our big sister, no different from us. I get it now. I get it." And how she was afraid when I left I would never come back.

About how Elvira called my cell while I was still on I-80, cruise control set on 80 mph. She had talked to Suzy already and knew something had happened so I told her. And then I wished I hadn't, because she was 600 miles away holding Coraline and crying too. And how both of us couldn't imagine .... Let's just say nobody better ever hurt that baby girl.

And eventually I may say more about how suddenly so many puzzle pieces that explain my relationships fell into place. About how I've let people lead me to the corner across the street from the park, and then blamed myself when I was disappointed and unhappy that I didn't get to go play. About how I always manage to blame myself for other people's fucked up behavior. It helps to know where that came from.

Something else happened two weeks later. Something amazing. I'm going to write about that tomorrow though. What I have to say about the effects of my family's attempts to fix me could fill a book. And this is a blog, not a book.

But I have one more thing to say about what I learned that night. I can't blame my 10-year-old cousin for doing what she did back then. She was fairly well neglected herself, and I know stories about that too. She didn't have good parenting models. And apparently it was a free-for-all when it came disciplining baby me. I've pretty much dealt with my mom, and her parenting practices, over the years by doing the opposite. Hard as it was to listen to what they did to me, I could forgive them in that time and place. (And I don't really even know how my other cousins, L and D, or my uncle reacted to it. My impression of everybody laughing could be entirely wrong.)

What I can't forgive is that they still laughed about it in the year 2011. That they still thought it was a baby's fault and that their methods were a reasonable response to a child who loses consciousness when she cries. The emotional damage aside, they could have done severe physical damage or even killed me. It's not OK to shake a baby or throw cold water in her face or abandon her when she's unconscious. It's wrong. I live almost exclusively in the gray areas of life, but this time it's all black and white. It was really fucking wrong.

And that's what I can't forgive yet.

Me with my grandma. I don't remember her ever hitting me.

Nov 15: Lube: It's What's for Dinner

2011-11-15T18:48:00.002-05:00

I was working on a difficult, serious post today, when I was distracted by lubrication. Flavored lube, to be precise. Meaty-, smoky-flavored lube. And that reminded me of the time I was standing in line at the commissary, and Elvira called me on my cell. She was pissed. I'm sure the people in front and behind me could hear our conversation without even trying. It went something like this.

(myspacestuff.com)

Elvira: I'm so fucking mad. You won't believe what happened at my party last night.

Me: I can't believe your father let you have a party at his house.

Elvira: We didn't bother him. He wasn't there.

Me: Mmmmm hmmmm. Even better.

Elvira: It doesn't matter! Mommers! You won't believe what this asshole Jake did! I'm going to kill him the next time I see him!

Me: Do I know this Jake?

Elvira: No, he's (somebody-else-I-don't-know)'s friend. I think he's a drug dealer.

Me: A pharmaceutical rep. That's nice. (I smile reassuringly at the military-type people around me.)

Elvira: Where are you?

Me: The commissary.

Elvira: Oh. Anyway, that fuckhead Jake is a thief. I can't believe he stole from me at my own fucking party.

Me: He stole from you? Did you tell your dad? Did you call the police?

Elvira: No, I didn't call the police on my own party. ~~Weren't you ever young?~~ That would be stupid. Who steals from someone at her own party?

Me: Jake, if I have to guess. What did he steal?

Elvira: Guess.

Me: Beer.

Elvira: No, you can't steal beer at a party. Guess again. What's one thing you would never touch in someone else's bedroom?

Me: Jake was in your bedroom?

Elvira: Mommers, focus! What's the one thing you wouldn't touch in someone's bedroom if you were at a party there?

Me: Ummmm. Underwear?

Elvira: No. Guess again.

Me: Kitty Smalls? She bites.

Elvira: No, it's a thing.

Me: I don't know. Just tell me

Elvira: No, you guess.

Me: Your sheets? He didn't steal your sheets, did he?

Elvira: No, I'll give you a clue. It's something I told you I bought last week and it cost $10!

Me: (whispering while still trying to be heard) Strawberry-flavored lube?

Elvira: Yes, he stole my fucking strawberry lube!

Me: He stole strawberry lube? Why? Did he eat it? Was he wanking in the bathroom? But then why would he take it with him?

Elvira: Mom! I don't know what he did with it! It doesn't matter. He stole the lube and he stole a full box of cereal from the pantry and left it sitting in the driveway. Dadders found it out there when he came home today.

Me: A drug dealer named Jake took an unopened box of cereal from the house and left it in the driveway and drove away with your strawberry lube? That's what you called to tell me?

Elvira: Wouldn't you be pissed if somebody stole your $10 strawberry lube?

Me: I don't have $10 strawberry lube. (By now I've given up on whispering. I'll never see these people again.)

Elvira: If you had strawberry lube. And you should get some. Now. If you don't like it, you can give it to me.

Me: No, I don't need it. I know how to make it from scratch. I have jars of it in the basement...

Elvira: This is serious. I'm going to track him down and get it back.

Me: Would you really want to touch it now?

Elvira: That's just my point. Who would touch somebody else's lube? Would you? If you were at a party would you touch the host's lube?

Me: Well......

Elvira: I mean if you weren't going to have sex with her.

Me: Then, no. Not unless I was invited to perhaps smell or taste the lube and then I'd prefer if it were unopened.

Elvira: That's another thing! About 1/3 of it was gone!
Me: That's shocking. I mean that he took an open bottle of lube.
Elvira: I knew what you meant. So you wouldn't touch it?

Me: No.

Elvira: Thank you. I'm going to kill him.

Me: Make him pay for it. Just like I need to pay for my groceries. Bye now. I love you.

Elvira: Love you too, Mommers. Mommers?

Me: What? I need to check out.

Elvira: Will you buy me more strawberry lube?

Me: No. If you're old enough to lube, you're old enough to buy it yourself.

I guarantee she'll say I told the story wrong. But I don't care. I don't desire the strawberry lube (although I could be persuaded by the right person).

What I desire, now that a friend from north of the border wrote to offer me a ~~dinner invitation~~ snack suggestion is bacon lube. Yes, it's the "world's first bacon-flavored personal lubricant and massage oil." Bacon lube. Baconnnnn llluuuuube. It even sounds slippery.

Why is the pig nose on the woman, I wonder? (baconlube.com)

I've never even met this guy and yet he knows me too well. My three favorite food groups are meat, fat and chocolate. And my favorite thing to do is .... umm .... satisfy my appetite ~~for cookies~~. Bacon lube sounds like the best thing ever! I wonder if I could persuade anybody to try this with me? I do love a man with a hearty appetite (although I've known a man who chose bacon over sex.*). Would you buy it? Would you try it? (It's kosher, if that's important to you.) Yummy bacon lube? It sounds so whimsical, doesn't it?

OK, I'm going to get down and dirty and honest here for a second. I do love bacon. I do. But to me humans smell and taste much better than bacon, artificially flavored strawberry or even smooth, dark chocolate. So as fun as this smoky product looks, and as fun as it might be to try it once, I'll take my man naked, just the way nature made him. And if he wants bacon, he can cook me breakfast. Later.

* A Maple Leaf Foods study showed that 43% of Canadians would choose bacon over sex. I haven't verified their results.

Nov 14: First the Gin and Pool, Then the Audition

2011-11-14T13:02:00.003-05:00

As I sit here in my office waiting for students to bring me their final portfolios, I’m preparing for an audition early this evening, studying my lines and music for Scrooge because we’re supposed to be off-book this week, and writing my NaBloPoMo blog post just in case I don’t get home in time tonight to write it. That’s a long first sentence, but it’s not as long as I expect this day will be. I’ll leave here late this afternoon with two bags full of portfolios, each potentially holding three revised papers to grade. I probably won’t look at any of them today because….

Did I mention I have an audition?!?! I love auditions. Sometimes I don’t even care if I get a part, I just love going in, seeing who else is there, and cold-reading from a script with random other actors. It’s so much fun.

The audition tonight is one I hope does lead to a part though. One of my Octette Bridge Club sisters and I have been eagerly waiting for this play to come up on the schedule. She’s beat me out for two parts in the past year, so I’m glad this time we’re auditioning for different characters—although I wish we could play sisters again.

The play is Dearly Beloved, a story about a disastrous wedding that takes place in a small town in Texas. At the heart are three middle-aged sisters who used to travel as a gospel group called The Sermonettes. I really want to play the oldest sister, Honey, who is described as “50 going on 30.” I mean I really want to play Honey. There are two parts I yearn for this season, Honey and Grace Hoylard in Bus Stop, which doesn’t go into production until spring. You could say they’re on my theatre bucket list. *

We have Scrooge rehearsals every weeknight at 7:00 now, so I had to contact a friend at the theater that's doing Dearly Beloved, who contacted the director, who said he would read me early at 6:00. I’ve never done that before, asked for a special time to read. I plan to talk in my Texas accent all day so I don’t accidentally slip into the cockney accent from Scrooge. I also have to sing some gospel. I’ll probably do “Amazing Grace.” What else?

I have another reason for wanting to work on Dearly Beloved. I’ve done two plays this fall at the theater where we’re doing Scrooge now, and Bus Stop is also at that theater, so I’d like to get back over to the theater where we did Octette and ~~work~~ play there again for a few weeks. I love the people there too, and they have a beautiful new facility. And finally, it’s back in the suburb where I lived for so many years. It’s still home.

I’m a little nervous about this audition because I want Honey--I really want her--and because of that Texas accent, and because I'll be reading by myself. So there’s one final thing I’m going to do to prepare for my audition.

The pool table that will go in my next house, not the one at the tavern.

Catty corner across the street from the theater is a little tavern. It’s a dive, but they’ve got two pool tables in the back and you never know what might come up on the jukebox. It’s the kind of place where the patrons still smoke, in spite of the state anti-smoking law. (I could do without that, but it’s that kind of place.) And the bartender always remembers me and what I drink. I used to go there sometimes before Octette rehearsals to hang out and play pool. I still have my pool cue in the back of my van, just in case I land in an impromptu game.

I've met a few interesting characters at that tavern, but I don’t intend to make any instant friends tonight. I’m just going to wander over there and shoot a couple of games of practice pool to prepare me for the audition …. to get my red-neck on. I don’t suppose it will hurt to go into this audition smelling like gin and cigarette smoke. I’m pretty sure that’s what Honey would do. More about her if I get the part.

* I surely do hope I didn’t jinx myself by writing about wanting this part. I worry about that whole jinxing thing, because I’ve got an evil fairy godmother who likes to fuck with me if she thinks I want something too much.