"You're so beautiful..."

I wrote recently about my last trip to Penny, my Vietnamese waxing lady, and the taming of my eyebrows. She was encouraging me at the time to get a bikini wax, and I wanted to think about it more.

Well, I went for it.

Holy shit. It was a very strange and painful experience.

To begin with, at the salon I go to, the ladies sing out a greeting to you as you walk in the door and call out to ask you what you want. It's a fairly humbling experience to make a public proclamation of your desire for a bikini wax. I was prepared for this, but I was unprepared for the excitement it seemed to generate. Three ladies started shouting instructions to each other in Vietnamese, and my trusty Penny came forward to assure me: "Ten minutes. I get everything ready. Be good."

When she came back to get me, she gave a moment of privacy in the little waxing room with her version of instructions to take off my pants--she made a swish sound as she acted out the dropping of one's drawers. I giggled nervously.

Penny came back and said, "You lay down. I have look." Obediently, I laid back, feeling weirdly vulnerable as she eyed me critically under the bright lights. "Oh my God!" she cried in mock horror. "Out of control!" I couldn't help laughing out loud in amusement and embarrassment while protesting, "Stop that!"

I confided, "I'm really nervous."

"No worry," she answered. "Baby hurt much worse."

"I've never had a baby."

"Uh oh," Penny said. "No, no. Is okay. I make nice," and set to work.

There was no room for modesty. She put me into all sorts of strange contortions and focused very intently on the business at hand. After each rip she insisted on showing me each cloth strip and saying, "See? So nice now!" A couple of times I yelped in surprise and pain, "FUCK!" only to temper it with, "I'm so sorry, Penny!"

She patted my crotch and crooned, "Is normal. Is okay. Be good girl for me. Just for me." Then she bent down for the next round and began to sing softly, "You're so beautiful....to meeeee..." At this point I cracked up.

After what seemed like an eternity, we finished and she rubbed lotion all over me. This was a very strange experience. Then she instructed me to stand up and let her have a look at me. I stood carefully, feeling rather raw, and she knelt down on the floor directly in front of me and studied her work closely. "Mmmhmmm...mmmhmmm..." she mumbled, crawling on the floor and gazing up at me from all angles.

When I got the all clear, I gratefully reached for my pants and Penny said, "Next time, we go much deeper," and went downstairs to ring me up. This felt like a very strange way to end the experience, but I got dressed, went downstairs, and gave her a great tip.

"Next time much deeper!" she called after me as I went out the front door.

Mah 'hood.

I really love my neighborhood. Everyone complains about how far out it is, but it's pretty quiet and safe; it's close to the ocean, Golden Gate Park, and I can see the Golden Gate Bridge everyday (and I never tire of looking at it); plus, I can hear the foghorns at night.

I've also gotten to know lots of people in the neighborhood that make me smile.

There is the guy at my local wine shop who always remembers what I was serving when I bought my last bottle. "How did that Chardonnay pair up with those spicy Thai peanut noodles?" he'll ask as I come in the door.

There's the little Indian guy at the convenience store (I've mentioned several times before) who is always trying to get me to take the day off and go to the beach with him, meet him for coffee in the morning, or run away with him. Today he marveled that we were wearing the same color shirt and said for the thousandth time, "Have you had your coffee yet today? We can run across the street and grab a cup!" Upon my polite decline, he shook his head and said, "Some day we will go together."

There's the Chinese lady at my Walgreen's pharmacy who always rings up my purchases. This afternoon I had on a hat and sunglasses, and before getting my prescription, she asked for my last name. When I said, "Ashcraft," she laughed and said, "Oh! I didn't recognize you today! You're in disguise. Plus, you're earlier than usual!" This made me smile.

And then there is my elderly Chinese neighbor whom I watch every morning doing her Tai Chi moves in the backyard. This afternoon I was outside right next to my open window where I could hear my bird Cricket unceremoniously flinging her expensive bird pellets all over the floor. (To my ears, it sounds like quarters hitting the floor.) "I'm going to pick you up by your tail feathers and smack you around a bit," I threatened her, thinking that I was alone outside. My neighbor cautiously peered at me over the back fence. "Oh, sorry!" I cried, "Not you!"

Strangely...

I have a good feeling about this.

The news in brief

Funny conversation #5

[in the middle of a conversation about who "rolls hard" and who doesn't]

A: "I roll hard."

S: "No, you don't."

A: "Yes I do! I totally roll hard."

S: "Sweetie, you roll moderate at best."

A: "No, no. I roll hard. At least sometimes. I'll wake up and say, I think I'm going to roll hard today."

S: "You've never rolled hard in your life. You wouldn't even know where to begin."

A: "Fuck."

Hell's bells and cockleshells...

...I'm old.

On Facebook I just found the little girl, Tess, for whom I used to babysit when she was five. She's a woman now!

But now I have to tell a story about her.

I started babysitting for Charlie and Tess, who lived next door to me, when I was a mere 13 years old. Since I was still a kid myself, we had a lot of fun together. One of our favorite activities was making "sandwiches" out of each other using the giant couch cushions as buns, and small throw pillows, Easter grass, and whatever else we could find as condiments (pickles and lettuce, respectively).

One night I had taken my glasses off and was rubbing my eyes while Charlie and Tess wrestled on the couch. Tess's hand and slipped between the couch cushions and she found something. "What's this?" she asked.

Charlie saw what she'd picked up and yelled, "Tess! Put it back! Put it back!" She started giggling.

"Let me see," I said, reaching out my hand and putting my glasses back on. Tess held in her hand a bright purple vibrator. My hand immediately retreated and I said, "I think you should just put it back where you found it."

"I know what it is..." she teased mischievously.

"What is it?" I asked.

"An electric wee-wee," Tess announced. Charlie covered his face and moaned, "Tess, put it back!" She obediently replaced the vibrator between the couch cushions.

"Now go wash your hands," I instructed.

Funny conversation #4

A: "Am I a lost cause?"

K: "No, you're more like a used car."

Prescription

Today is lousy.

I got some bad news this morning and then had to go have what felt like a quart of blood drawn at the doctor. The Olympic torch is running through San Francisco today, and traffic is tied up downtown and on the Golden Gate Bridge with the protests and making everyone crabby. While coming home this afternoon, I saw two men get in a wreck on Geary Blvd. and jump out of their cars screaming at each other.

*sigh*

Walking home, I passed a little Russian flower shop that had just put bouquets of lilacs--my second favorite flower--out front. Their smell was irresistible to me, so I bought a giant bunch of them to cheer myself up. The man who sold them to me told me in a thick Russian accent, "Enjoy!" I thanked him and assured him I would, and he said, "Very beautiful smile." I grinned and thanked him, and stopped then stopped off at my usual convenience story.

"Beautiful!" cried the little Indian man behind the counter who always asks me to run away with him. "I have not seen you for a month! Where have you been? My day is so much better now!" He kissed my hand and asked, "Where did you get flowers? Not from a boyfriend!?" I laughed about this.

On my way down the street a half dozen people stopped me to admire and sniff my lilacs. I felt like Miss America parading around with this huge bunch of flowers cradled in my arms. (I should have practiced my wave.)

Now I am home and I cut up the bunch of flowers into three bouquets in my kitchen, living room, and bathroom. My house smells wonderful.

I feel better.

And to make myself feel even better I’ve accepted an invitation tonight to "Spontaneous Drinking Night" where I will join a bunch of people I’ve never met at a bar I’ve never been to for a couple of pints.

Suck it, Wednesday, April 9, 2008!

Smooth

When someone leans in to kiss you, it's probably (almost) never the right reaction to jump back in alarm and cry, "Oh, my God!"

Oh well. That's how I roll.

News from home

Last night when I called home I got some surprising news. My uncle Tom had an accident and is, at least for now, paralyzed. His legs and hands are immobile, and he is unable to speak.

I don't know all the details around the accident--how it happened, if other were involved--but I'm trying to figure out what my emotions are around this.

On one hand, this sounds like my worst nightmare and my heart goes out to anyone experiencing something like this. On the other hand, I've always thought he was a hypocritical bastard.

He's been a raging alcoholic and abusive to my aunt for years. He is a huge Bible-thumper, and was known around town for passing out in his underwear in various front yards with a bottle in one hand and a Bible in the other.

When I was a kid, he would pick me up and hold me too close and rub my back and legs and say, "Does that feel good?" and I would squirm out of his arms and go hide. (I was already very familiar with men like him.) When I was in high school he looked at pictures of me marching in a Christmas parade in a little booty outfit and said wistfully, "My God, look at those legs..."

My family started hinting that I should come home. I really have no desire to visit him--I haven't seen him in nearly ten years. I'm not even sure that I would go in for his funeral. Maybe that sounds callous. I thought about sending a card, but I mostly find myself just wanting to tell my aunt, "I'm so sorry for everything that you've been through." I probably shouldn't say that right now.

A respite

It's been so nice to have my friend Tony here that I'm sorry to see tomorrow come. We always fall into a cozy pattern together with our weird little habits that probably ensure we'll be single forever, such as flossing while watching the news.

He washes the dishes and I wash his clothes. He makes me breakfast and I make him hot tea. He makes my bed and I read funny articles out loud to him. He falls asleep on the bus and I watch for the stops. I don't make fun of him for practicing his martial arts moves in the elevator, at the bus stop, and while waiting in lines, and he doesn't make fun of me for talking and singing in funny voices to my birds.

Today while sitting in a coffee shop on Fillmore and people-watching, we somehow got to talking about typing. Tony confessed that sometimes when he can't sleep at night he imagines how he would type out the things he is thinking, or how sometimes while bored on the bus instead of drumming his fingers randomly he'll press them into patterns of typing letters to make words. This shocked me, and I cried, "I do that, too! I thought I was the only one!"

While shopping for a gift for Alexis and Ilsa and their new baby Theo, he picked up a book of baby names. He said, "Let's see what our baby's name will be..." and flipped to a random page and poked his finger at a name. "Aya," he announced. "Aya is what you say in Chinese when you've messed something up."

"I thought that's what you say when you break a block," I said.

He frowned. "Huh?"

"You know, like in karate: 'aaaaaaYA!!!'"

He rolled his eyes at my lame attempt at a joke.

A visit with Antonio

My dear friend Tony is staying with me right now. I've written about him both when he was moving away and after visiting him in L.A.

Our visits are always few and far between, but when they happen they are wonderful. Last night we had a lovely, leisurely dinner at Fresca with his friends Andrea and Cindy who were also in town for a brief stay. We had drinks at Hotel Kabuki, and then we got a private karaoke room at Do Re Mi in Japantown. (Later I found out that Andrea said I seemed very sweet and polite and reserved upon meeting me, but that I had a rock star in me that became apparent when there was a microphone in my hand. This pleases me immensely.)

Tony was absolutely giddy with happiness last night, and kept saying to Cindy, Andrea, and I: "Three of my favorite people all in one of my favorite cities at once! This is unbelievable!" I was thrilled to see him so happy because he's had such a difficult last few months.

Anyway, he is staying at my house the next couple of nights, and I am camping out on the Aerobed in the living room. I love having him here despite the fact that I barely sleep when he is.

Tonight we made a quick trip to the grocery store, and he veered off down the aisle of paper products while asking, "Can you guess what I'm looking for?"

Puzzled, I said, "No. What?"

"Butt wipes," he answered (referring to the little disposable cloth wipes).

"Oh, I have those," I assured him.

"Sweet," he said, "I chafed today! Chafed!"

He needed to do some laundry tonight, and asked me if I had a t-shirt he could borrow to sleep in since his others were in the laundry. I said, "Sure," and rummaged around in my drawer and came up with a strange little beige t-shirt with rhinestones on it that I bought on a whim. I presented it to him in all seriousness, and he said, "Not going to happen." So I went to my closet and got a simple black v-neck t-shirt off a hanger and gave it to him, expecting him to express relief.

"Are you kidding me?" he cried. "Don't you have any boy shirts?"

"Why would I have boy shirts?" I asked.

"Because girls love boy shirts!"

I demanded, "What's wrong with this shirt? It's a black t-shirt!"

"It's a blouse," he groaned, "a lady shirt."

But he took it and went to take a shower. When he emerged from the bathroom wearing it he said, "Look what you've done to me."

I giggled and assured him, "Honey, it's fine. It just looks like you're getting ready for a night out in the Castro." He hated this.

Another reason I'm probably going to hell

I feel really guilty snickering about this, but I'm going to share it anyway. And just to be clear--I'm only snickering about the second half of this story.

A friend of my mom's passed away recently--one of her friends that she saw regularly at the American Legion. She's been very sad about it, as she considered him a good friend. He was also only 50 and had two children.

At any rate, apparantly today is a very nice day in my hometown. Such a nice day, in fact, that she and her ex-boyfriend Junior drove to the cemetery with some Budweisers. They drank one over his grave, and then they poured an entire beer over his grave. She said, "We just wanted him to know we were thinking of him."

I said, "So you poured one out for your homey?"

She said, "Huh?"

Comedy/Drama

(You can decide which is which.)

My lovely friend recounted to me her annoyance with her husband last night, and her description was too funny not to share. (I hope she doesn't mind anonymously sharing her marital strife!)

She described how he came home from work in a bad mood because he only had a few minutes before the game he wanted to watch started. She said:

"...[H]e wears the same shirt, underwear, etc. and sits in the same place on the couch and eats the SAME crackers, can we say OCD, any who, I got tired of folding laundry and me and [my daughter] came out and sat on the love seat, we didn't bother him at all. Well because we came out there and messed up his mojo, apparently he wasn't able to telepathically communicate to the team in Arizona the plays he wanted them to execute and of course they lost. He was bitching about it and I finally said, "You know what go fuck yourself and go to bed."

Interestingly, this is probably exactly what I would have said.

On another note...

It is really a shock to the system when someone that you thought you knew pretty well tells you he can't imagine you for any more than casual sex. Ouch. Fucking ouch. It's especially jolting when this secret of someone else's is one of your greatest interpersonal fears:



And you know what? I can't figure out if it's better or worse that I never even slept with this person and he said that.

Regardless, I reiterate: OUCH. My heart has been kicked around like a soccer ball in the past few months.

A dream of being embarrassed.

I dreamed that my mom was visiting, and we were walking along the marina here in San Francisco. For whatever reason, she was walking very, very slowly--just shuffling along a couple inches at a time--and eating celery. We were getting nowhere fast, and I was irritated and bored out of my skull.

I was walking behind her and trying to call a friend on my cell phone that I hadn't talked to in ages just to kill time. As my friend's voicemail came on, my exasperation with my mother's slowness got the best of me, and I said peevishly to her, "You walk like old people fuck. Get that celery out of your mouth."

Without thinking, I hung up the cell phone and then realized in horror that I'd just left this as my friend's voicemail message. I tried frantically to call back and apologize to her voicemail in a second message, but I couldn't get through.

[blank]

This destroys me.

Loyal

[Dusts off hands]

Eh. The whole boyfriend thing is really fucking overrated anyway.

Vivid dreams

The past couple of nights I've had the most intense dreams, and I wish I'd jotted yesterday's down before their clarity began to fade. I want to recall the smells and colors and sounds exactly, but I'm losing them.

I've been dreaming a great deal about various past, present, and future important relationships in my life.

One dream involved someone I love from my past. He was giving me a ride because I had been walking in the rain for miles. I gratefully climbed in the backseat and chattered away about what I had been up to. Eventually I worked my way up to what I really wanted to say, which was, "I see you all the time out getting ice cream and it's so cute I want to throw up. I notice that you're wearing your hair differently--I liked it better before. And when on earth did you start wearing camouflage pants?" In my head I scolded myself: he was doing me a favor and these things weren't important anymore anyway, so why couldn't I stop saying them?

Another dream involved someone I love from my present. I told him, "I guess I was wrong. I thought we knew each other better than that, and I thought you knew I didn't work that way. It seems I am mistaken."

Yet another dream involved a family member I love dearly, and I know he really misses me. In that dream I told him, "I'm probably never coming back."

Penny and Fun With Food Coloring

(Two completely unrelated subjects, incidentally.)

I don’t wear a lot of make-up or spend a lot of money on clothes, but one thing I DO do is get my eyebrows waxed. I always thought it seemed silly and pointless—that is, I thought this until I saw how lovely my eyebrows could look when cleaned up and shaped a bit. They’re not horrid in their natural state: I don’t have a unibrow and they’re not too caterpillar-like. But they look so much better when I get them waxed.

Penny has been doing my eyebrows for a couple of years now. She is a little Vietnamese lady at a small salon near my house, and she cracks me up. She always yells at me because, instead of getting them done every four weeks like I’m supposed to, I often end up waiting six weeks.

This time I had gone a full eight weeks and I knew she would let me have it. She did.

I stopped at the salon today on my way home from work, and as soon as I walked in she took one look at me and said scoldingly, “Oh, my God. I know why you here.” As she escorted me back to the waxing room, a large African American man with a lot of bling was getting a manicure, and he said, “Hey, Penny! You’re looking beautiful today!” She never even glanced at him and snapped, “You be quiet or I get my stick!”

As I lay down in the reclining chair, she shook her head and said of my eyebrows, “Is like garden!” I apologized profusely, saying, “I’m sorry, Penny! I’ve been busy and I haven’t had time to come in.”

She asked, “How long you not come back?”

Sheepishly I answered, “Eight weeks.”

Penny stirred her wax and said, “I make nice. Take long time.”

After she ripped the first piece of wax off and I yelped in startled pain, she said unsympathetically, “Maybe next time you not wait so long. Not hurt so much.”

“Okay, okay!” I cried as she applied the next smear of hot wax. She insisted on showing me the cloth strips onto which my ripped out eyebrow hairs now clung. Frowning, Penny said, “Is like bush.”

Speaking of which, for the first time ever Penny tried to talk me into coming in for a bikini wax in the near future. I’m not too keen on waxing anywhere near the hoo-hoo, and told Penny I was afraid it would hurt too much. She nodded and said, “Depend. You want all off, hurt very, very much. Just little off, hurt much.” I told her I would think about it.

Our waxing session ended the way it usually does, with Penny admiring her work on my formerly scandalous eyebrows and me promising to come back in four weeks while giving her an excellent tip.

* * * * *

In other news, I got a bottle of red food coloring and have been having a great time with it.

Some people like to make marshmallow Peep dioramas. I lean more toward installation art. I had lots of leftover Peeps from the book club meeting held at my house Friday night, so I took them and created something I like to call “Peep Genocide” in my bathroom sink:











(As always, you can click on the pictures to go to my Flickr account and enlarge them.)

I realize it looks a little disturbing, what with the decapitated Peeps and all. My hands look like I recently murdered someone, and my bathroom sink may never be the same again.

Then I made beef stew with bright red dumplings:





Despite its strange appearance, it was quite tasty.

The dirtiest post...

I think that any good story begins with...

1) "When I left Cinnamon for the last time..."

OR

2) "So...did he go down on you?"

Man...we didn't even get to "Fat-Bottomed Girls"...

She looks like the real thing
She tastes like the real thing
My fake plastic love.
But I can't help the feeling
I could blow through the ceiling
If I just turn and run.
And it wears me out, it wears me out.
It wears me out, it wears me out.

And if I could be who you wanted
If I could be who you wanted...

A great day

On Wednesday, my Uncle Joe came to visit. He was only here for a brief time, but we had a great day. Joe is a photographer, and he owns D-Max Photography in my hometown. We went all over San Francisco taking pictures. He's posted a couple he took on his blog, and promises more in the days to come.

I don't need much of an excuse to take pictures, but it was fun to have someone who loves to do it even more than I do and who doesn't roll his eyes every time I get my camera out.

I love having people come to visit--it so rarely happens!--especially when they're so much fun. I promise a story or two about Joe in the near future. For now I am going to bed and will leave you with a picture he took at Baker Beach.

We lucked onto a guy who was hopping around all over the rocks in his jeans with no shirt on. From a distance Joe took a few shots of him hopping around with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. The guy disappeared behind the rocks for awhile, and we didn't think he was coming back out. Joe said, "Man, I wish I could get that guy to pose naked, but I don't want to be the one to ask him to take his clothes off." (He was concerned, you see, because we were at the notoriously gay and nude section of the beach.) I offered to ask the guy for him; he certainly seemed like he would agree from what I could tell.

Eventually he climbed back up on top of the rocks, and Joe motioned for him to take his pants off. He laughed and made a big show of stripping. This was the end result:



(Sadly, I couldn't make it any bigger without cutting out part of the picture, but you should be able to click on the photo and be taken to my Flickr account to see the bigger version. Be sure to click on "All Sizes" above the photo and select "large" to see the, um, details.)

We were fairly impressed!

Funny conversation #3

S: "I'm a prude."

A: "Oh, my God. No you're not."

S: "Yes I am! I'm totally a prude."

A: "You're not the raunchiest motherfucker I know, but you're no prude."

S: "That sounds like it should be a Prince song: 'The Raunchiest Motherfucker You Know.'"

Hell's bells...they're finding me already.

Today began the onslaught of San Francisco State University students tracking me down to ask about my course that starts in June. I don't know why I should be surprised--my past experience has shown that it's never too early and they consider no request too great.

They ask things like, "Professor Ashcraft, I'm sure you're very busy, by do you have the syllabus ready yet?" (No.); "How much reading is there going to be?" (A lot.); and--my favorite--"Can we work out something where I have a reduced work-load/attendance expectation in the course because I'm taking 1700 other class and working 40 jobs and training to climb Mt. Everest simultaneously and will just be way too busy to do everything..." (No.)

Delicious

I love when unexpected things happen. And I love when they're freakin' awesome! I wish I were at liberty to say more.

Funny conversation #2

S: [menacing look]

A: "Are you threatening me?"

S: "Are you Cornholio by any chance?"

"I hope you blink before I do."

A fight.

The scene I watched unfold on the bus this morning has stayed with me all day.

Scott and I were on the bus going to get brunch, and a fight broke out between several Latino teenage boys in the back of the bus. We weren't far away from them but we didn't see how it started because we were talking.

All of a sudden they all sprung into action and one boy in particular was screaming, "You fucked up, nigga!" repeatedly. One boy was shoved down into a seat and several others were all-out wailing on him. He had his arms up to protect his head and face as they punched and kicked him over and over. One jumped up on top of the seats and was stomping down on him as hard as he could.

The other passengers fled--some jumped off the bus, most ran up toward the front. I knew that I should probably move because there was no telling what one of them would pull out, but I stood transfixed. I was so startled by the fury and hate in these boys.

The bus driver never did anything. Eventually the boy being ganged up on got away and jumped off the bus. He took off running only to emerge next to the bus again a few blocks down the road. All the passengers groaned. The boys in the back screamed and spat at him until the next stop. Then they jumped off the bus and chased him awhile before getting back on.

They were jubilant. They grabbed their dicks and recounted their versions of the fight to each other. They shouted at teenagers on other buses we passed, "We fucked him up!" They imitated the various punches and kicks that had taken place while periodically spitting on the floor.

I learned later that it had been a fight between the Bloods and the Crips. It seemed strange to be in the presence of members of these gangs I've been hearing about for years.

Maybe it sounds really boring and psychology-y, but I kept wondering, "What made them this way? Had they been loved and cared for? Did someone comfort them when they were little and hurt themselves? Had they themselves been treated they way they were treating the boy they were beating on? What would it take to change them? Was it already too late?"

A memory.

I told this story a couple of days ago, and the memory of it was so vivid to me while I was telling it that I can't stop re-living it. I thought I'd document it here.

In the late winter/early spring of 1994, I was a junior in high school. I had recently turned 17 and was living with my father and preparing to take the standardized tests that would get me into college. I can remember it so well--Beck's "Loser" was everywhere on the radio and MTV and Nirvana's In Utero had recently come out. (I so often use music as benchmarks for when various things in my life were happening.)

That year, my high school basketball team had made it to the state championship, and hundreds of people from Bridgeport were making the two-hour drive down to Charleston to watch the game. I was riding with D. J. and his sister Lea Ann--both of whom were in the band with me--and their mother, Barbara. Before leaving the house that morning, I had cut up a bunch of vegetables as a snack to share: carrots, celery, cucumbers, cherry tomatoes.

They came to pick me up and we got on the road, heading south on I-79. It was a cold and frosty morning. There was no snow, but all the puddles and small streams were frozen. We chattered in the car and listened to the radio. Lea Ann and I sat in the back, and I remember looking ahead as we saw cars crossing the upcoming bridge start to fish-tail. Barbara said something along the lines of, "The bridge must be really slippery," and gently tapped the break to slow us down.

We thought we were okay, but once we got onto the bridge the rear end of our car started to swerve and slide. The guard-rail on the side of the bridge wasn't very tall, and we were heading sideways toward it. The outer edge of the bridge was on my side of the car. I can still remember seeing it come closer and closer, and I remember wondering if there was land or water below. We thought we were going over.

It really did seem to happen in slow motion.

Lea Ann and I fell together in the center of the back seat and clung to each other in terror. My face was buried in Lea Ann's hair. I can still remember the taste of it in my mouth. She whimpered, "Amie..." in my ear.

The car slammed off the guard-rail, and then shot back across the road, through the median, and into the oncoming traffic on the other side. We slammed into the guard-rail on the other side of the interstate and eventually came to rest in the center median.

Lea Ann and I let go of one another looked around in confusion. I remember thinking, "Thank God we didn't go over," followed by, "There's cucumbers everywhere..." The cucumbers I'd sliced were stuck all over the windows, seats, and ceiling of the car.

We slowly climbed out of the car, blinking, trying to process what had happened, and asking each other, "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"I am drowning
There is no sign of land
You are coming down with me
Hand in unlovable hand..."

A little squirt

Today as the 38 Geary bus was stopped for what seemed like forever on some corner in the 'Loin (Leavenworth? Larkin?) I gazed out the window. There was a large tattooed man hosing off the sidewalk in front of an apartment building. I was absently gazing at the dirt that the stream of water washed from the sidewalk when he squirted it directly at the bus window in front of my face. I laughed and he grinned.

Playful people make me happy.

"Twin high-maintenance machines..."

Some odds and ends:

I have got to stop staying up all night. Fortunately, the insomnia's died down a bit recently, so most of my nights of going to bed at 5 or 6am of late have been because I was sitting up talking to my twin high-maintenance machine. This was not the case last night, but the end result is the same.

Today I got a birth announcement from my friend Alexis and her partner Ilsa. On March 1st, they had the most adorable baby boy, Theo, and they are thrilled.



I can't wait to talk to Alexis and see Theo in person, but I feel strange. I always feel odd when my friends become parents. I'm not sure I can completely explain why. I just find it so bizarre to witness such a change in someone's life. Knowing them pre-parent and then post-parent.

Less than a year ago, Alexis and I traveled to Poland together. We took ridiculous pictures of each other (a lot more of which got posted of her than of me, 'cause I'm sneaky like that).







And now she's someone's momma!

I don't know exactly where I'm going with this.

[and now for a complete non sequitur...]

Tonight when I was doing laundry I accidentally stepped on a slug en route from my apartment to the garage. I felt horrible. I stood and apologized to it for a full five minutes, feeling helpless that there was nothing I could do undo the harm my stupid feet had caused.

Most days I wish I were thicker-skinned.

"I could make you rue the day, but I could never make you stay."

She slept fitfully. She knew she needed to stop sleeping with the computer next to her, because it was so frequently incorporated into her dreams—dreams that were hard to separate from reality. Did I really email Beth and tell her what time I’d meet her, or did I just dream it? Occasionally she would realize she had missed paying a bill online because she dreamed she had done so and had thus put it completely out of her mind.

Just before waking, she had a vivid dream. In the dream her writing block was ending, and she was eagerly going to her online journal to flush out all sorts of ideas that were spinning through her brain. She felt creative and eager and itching to get the words out. Realizing just how long it had been since her last entry, she scrolled through the words she’d typed on the last several. One of them stopped her cold.

In one entry, she’d spilled out her most cherished, private thought in three little words. Right there for everyone to see. Worst of all: right there for the person who needed to see it least to see.

Oh, Jesus fuck! She panicked. How could I have forgotten I wrote this? It’s been here so long! God knows who all has read it… It was her custom to use all of her powers to encrypt such emotion. How had she allowed such an oversight to occur in the form of blatant, undisguised words?

Urgently she tried to delete them on the off chance that some of the damage could be undone. But suddenly her fingers felt heavy and clumsy and stuck to the keyboard. She couldn’t make them work right, couldn’t punch the right buttons to make the words that gave everything away disappear.

With a start she woke up. She lay for a moment letting the fog clear from her sleep-laden brain and reminded herself over and over that it was just a dream. She hadn’t given anything away. No one had seen those words. Her thoughts were still her own. She treaded unsteadily to the front door to step out and have a look at the world—at this late hour everyone else was well into their day.

Stepping down onto the cold concrete with bare feet, she tried to suppress her feelings of guilt for staying in bed so long. I was up late! And already in a sleep deficit! She considered the things she might try to get done today that might assuage the guilt. Otherwise she was feeling pretty good; maybe being somewhat productive would help harness that feeling and make it stay a little longer.

Turning her head to look down the path, she noted that the mail had been delivered. And then she saw it. Knowing what it was immediately, she jumped slightly. Her breath caught, and her pulse quickened. She didn’t know whether to run toward it or away from it. Maybe I should wait until tonight, she thought, or at least just a couple of hours. Instead she let out a deep sigh and, resigned, began to walk toward it.

But in my heart I blame it on me.

"I resolve to call her up a thousand times a day..."

I can't help but wonder.

Funny conversation

A: "That's the wackest shit I ever heard."

S: "'The wackest shit' you ever heard? Who are you at the moment, Bel, Biv, or Devoe?"

A: "Devoe, of course."

S: "Of course. I should have recognized by your vocal patterns and inflection."

Bits of news

My lameness at reporting events on myself is overwhelming. I do, however, have a couple bits of interesting news to share.

First, my friends Dave and Lynn made the NY Times.



Adventure in Tikiland

The both say they were misquoted, but their alleged words were so brilliant that I would totally claim them. I am also envious because this is much, much more interesting than my piddly SF Chronicle appearance.

Second, perhaps it's a good thing Nannette and I got out of Punta Cana without getting sick, as a flight from Punta Cana had to make an emergency landing because of ill passengers.



What I presume were gastrointestinal symptoms would be horrible on a plane. I'm thinking they had too much "sangria especial." That stuff was lethal.

For now I'm off to see Stephen Malkmus.

I am trying really hard not to freak out about this.

There is a chance that I may get back two years worth of federal taxes that I should not have had to pay from back when I was a grad student in Richmond.

The details of how/why are too boring to go into.

Granted, my salary was not even as high as it is now (and it's hard to imagine it being any lower), but still...it would be a very significant chunk of money.

If this happens, I'm going to do something exciting. Very exciting. Maybe I'll cruise around some fjords in Norway. Maybe I'll go back to Capri and try to make my dream of swimming in the Blue Grotto come true. Maybe I'll go see the Red Square in Moscow. Maybe I'll go to Thailand. Maybe I'll visit the souk in Marakesh. Maybe I'll finally see Machu Picchu.

I am getting dizzy. The possibilities are endless.

Funniest "let me leave you my inheritance" message EVER

--Forwarded Message Attachment--
From: annen_joubert@yahoo.de
Subject: INHERITANCE
Date: Tue, 26 Feb 2008 03:20:05 +0100

Dear Beloved,

Glory to God in heaven. My name is Mrs.Annen Joubert from South Africa. I am married to Mr. Abraham Benjamin Joubert, who is a farmer here in South Africa for many years before he died in 2004. We were married for eleven years without a child. He died after a briefillness that lasted for only four days.Before his death we were both born again Christians. Since his death I decided not to re-marry or geta child outside my matrimonial home which the Bible is against. When my late husband was alive he deposited a total sum of $10. Million (Ten Million, U.S.Dollars) with bank in Europe.

Presently, this money is still under the safe keeping of the Reserve Bank Recently, my Doctor told me that I would not last for the next Two months due to my cancer problems. Though what disturbs me most ismy or better still a Christian individual that will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct here in. I want a church or God fearing individual that will use this fund on, orphanages and widows propagating the word of God and give help to mankind. The Bible made usto understand that blessed is the hand that griveth.

I took this decision because I don't have any child that will inherit this money and my husband relatives are nota good Christians and I don't want my husband'shard earned money to be misused by unbelievers. I don't want a situation where this money will be used in an ungodly manner. Hence the reason for taking this bold decision.

I am not afraid of death hence I know where I am going. I know that I am going to be in the bosom of the Lord.Exodus 14 VS 14 says that the lord will fight my case and I shall holdmy peace. I don't need any telephone communication in this regard because of my health because of the presence of my husband's relatives around me always. I don't want them to know about this development.Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I stated here in

With God all things are possible. As soon as I receive your reply I'll forward your personal information to the bank in Europe so that they will contact you as the legal owner of this fund before transferring the fund into your nominated Bank Account in your country. I will also issue you a letter of a authority that will empower you as the original-beneficiary of this fund. I want you and the church to always pray for me because the lord is my shepherd.i will stop here becouse of my health Hoping to hear from you as soon as possible. Read Hebrews13:15v16 New Living Translation

Remain blessed in the name of the Lord.

Mrs.Annen Joubert.

"All I got inside is..."

Inside my head I am much more transient than I allow myself to be in real life. I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

The quotable Freddie Mercury

I'm not sure why these appeal to me at this moment. Maybe because it's raining. Maybe because it's Tuesday. Maybe because I hid my face in my hands so I wouldn't reveal what I was feeling. Maybe because...

"I am loved by thousands, but I feel like the loneliest man in the world."

"An interview? Oh, don't be ridiculous."

"I'm as gay as a daffodil, darling."

"I've made no effort to become a guitar hero because I can't play the fucking guitar!"

"We all have constant rows. We're like four cocks fighting. Ooh it's getting interesting this."

"Fuck today, it's tomorrow."

"I've stopped all that promiscuous lifestyle. I've stopped having sex and started growing tulips."

"I never thought of myself as the leader. The most important person, perhaps."

"Hello again, my beauties!...Is it happening? Is everybody okay? Wanna fool around?"

"I really do feel like being evil tonight."

Try and try...

Even if it lasts an hour.

Holy shit...is that a rapping sea monster?

I'm ready to switch cable providers.

Tales from the city #32 (Pablocito)

Last night (well, at this point it was two nights ago--Wednesday night. I digress...) I had a fairly exciting night. For many reasons.

My dear friend Nannette held her 40th birthday party at Asia SF. (What says "Happy Birthday" better than Asian men in drag? As one party attendee put it: "My penis is confused.") I have pictures and video from this event, but I should probably wait until I get, um, permission before displaying some of the things that took place.

Afterwards, I went with Scott and MJ to the Latin American Club, a bar in the Mission. I've been to the LAC before, but apparently I wasn't paying close enough attention the first time around. (Or something like that. Hush.) They have quite the collection of creepy pinatas, an impressive cluster of cuckoo clocks, multiple portraits of chihuahuas, and a giant white wooden rat displayed walls. We stayed until close. MJ said goodnight and Scott and I wandered to El Farolito, which is apparently a favorite 24 hour joint for cheap (and not bad) Mexican food.

I had recently complained that the men who hit on me were...well, freaks. Or crazy. Or drunk. Or all of the above. Inside the restaurant was a perfect example.

While waiting in line to order I met a drunk and nearly toothless man who beamed at me. I swear: one of his eyes was spinning in a circle. I briefly smiled at him and then glanced back at the menu, at which point he stepped over to me and said, "Muy bonita!"

It should be noted that the remainder of our interaction took place in Spanish. It also used every single bit of Spanish in my repertoire.

He asked me if I spoke Spanish and I told him, "Not much." He extended his hand and introduced himself as "Pablocito" and said he was from Guatamala. I ignored him while I placed my order and, because he was still there when I turned around, I told him my name, that I was from the United States, and un pacer de conocerlo (a pleasure to meet you).

Pablocito was VERY drunk, and it was difficult to make out what he was saying because, in addition to being in Spanish, he mumbled and slurred his words. He seemed terribly proud of his country, though, because he would frequently intersperse his sentences with cries of, "Guatamala!" and pound Scott and I on the shoulders enthusiastically.

He told me repeatedly how beautiful I was (and some other things that I'll leave to both of our imaginations)--it was around this point that I lied and introduced Scott to him as mi novio. He apologized to Scott profusely and then proceeded to do what he had been doing before: repeatedly asking my name, trying to touch my hands or face, and telling me I was beautiful. I pushed his hands away and told him, "We want to eat now, and you need to leave. Goodbye." (My "novio" was minimal help here. Just had to get that little dig in.) Finally, a police officer came and escorted Pablocito out. Scott complained that I was too polite, but my language skills are such that I only know how to make polite conversation and not how to tell someone to fuck off.

After the excitement died down, Scott said enviously, "At least someone wants to fuck you! Not even the crazies want me!" (There was a whole conversation that followed on this topic which should probably not be repeated.) But all in all it was an eventful evening.

Anyway, I have another story to tell about my cab ride tonight, but as I write this it's 4:33am and I should probably go to bed.

'Night.

On the drinking of milk

My rules for drinking milk have caused some confusion of late, and I thought I would clarify them.

I'm not weird or quirky or "interesting." I'm right.

1. Do not trust the expiration date on the container. Milk is funky at least 3 days prior to that date--probably more like 5 days. My nose can tell.

2. When opening milk you should hold it over the sink so that those little crusty, milky flakes that form around the lid don't end up in your glass, cereal bowl, etc.

3. Milk should only be drunk when it is very, very cold, which translates to drinking it within a minute or so of taking it out of the refrigerator. An exception can be made for the speed of cereal consumption, but it should still be done quickly.

4. The cloudy, milky residue and lip prints that are left on the side of the glass after taking a drink are gross. Therefore, every time you take a drink of milk you should turn the glass a couple of inches so you have a clean, residue-free side to drink from. If you run out of clean sides before the milk is gone, give it up. You're done.

5. Except for Oreo cookies, nothing should ever be dunked in milk. Even if it tastes good, the food chunks left floating in the milk are nauseating.

6. Milk should never, ever be drunk from a cereal bowl. Never EVER. Not only will you look like a Neanderthal doing so, but it violates the temperature and food chunk rules simultaneously.

You're welcome!

The quotable Emily Watson

Early this morning I woke up worrying: what do you do when the two people you used to tell everything to are no longer interested or no longer around? When writing and talking to them have become an integral part of the way you process things, how do you go about changing?

I started looking for anything to distract me. I came across a bunch of quotes about plans that I had bookmarked in my computer for unrecalled reasons at some point. There was a quote by Emily Watson, and then there was a link to more quotes by her. I found this sort of odd and thought, 'Are we quoting Emily Watson now?' Anyway, I wanted something--anything--so I started reading the quotes that were attributed to her. Most were unremarkable, but then I came across this one:

"The film "Punch-Drunk Love is how you see the world when you're in love. You don't see someone's psychological baggage necessarily, you see the person walking out of the light."

I thought this was the loveliest thing and it hit a nerve with me. It was also quite appropriate because I haven't seen this movie yet and a couple different people have emphasized that I need to quite recently.

I found another quote by Emily that was also lovely and personal to me. This one was about coming home and spending time with her husband in between movies:

"When I did get home this last time, we had all these plans to go out. And then we hardly stepped outside because the time together seemed too precious."

And then I started pricing plane tickets.

This will make you feel better about your life.

Wake up in the morning with $20 on your pillow and then spend the rest of the day hanging around in front of a psychic's house if you want to feel you've reached an all-time low.

Edit the sad parts

In times of crisis, repetition has always comforted me.

As an adult this has taken various forms, including cooking things that involved a great deal of chopping, beating, or kneading. [Actually, a close friend of mine discussed this tendency in one of his last blog entries: Still Life With Imbecile. Though he told me I was bat-shit crazy--a point that really cannot be argued--it was done rather affectionately.]

As a child, one way I fulfilled this need for comforting repetition was by pretending to sell hot dogs. It's still not clear to me why I did this because, for as long as I can remember, I've loathed hot dogs. But when I was upset and alone I would regularly gather up the raw hot-dog-making materials and pretend to sell them for hours.

The green waxy rhododendron leaves from the bush in our front yard made perfect buns. Broken sticks served as the actual "meat" (if any part of a hot dog can be called such). Freshly mown grass played the part of multiple toppings, including relish and sauerkraut. But my personal favorite were the onions. I would scrape white paint chips off our house that badly needed re-painting--and if I were ever to have been caught for this there would have been hell to pay--and break them up into bits for chopped onions. In my neighbor's yard a small dried up well with a lid made a perfect drive thru window.

I prided myself on the quality of my ingredients (each one hand gathered!), the value of my hot dogs (only pennies apiece!), and my unfailingly courteous service. Every once in awhile, though, a customer would get snippy with me. At my hot dog stand, the customer was not always right. When I was unable to reason with them I would take their order, throw it through the drive-thru window into their car, and tell them to go fuck themselves. Then I would brush the chopped onions off my hands while muttering, "Some people are never happy," and put on a big smile for the next customer pulling up for their order.

Sometimes I miss being little.

A recent conversation with my mother #84

Amie: "So, how was your Super Bowl party at the Legion?"

Mom: "It was really nice. We had a lot of fun."

Amie: "That's good. Did people like the desserts you brought?"

Mom: "Oh, yeah. There was hardly anything left to bring home. And we had a lot of food."

Amie: "What other kinds of food were there?"

Mom: "Well, there was a lot of deer meat. And pickled eggs. You know, the usual Super Bowl snacks."

* * * * *

In other news, this made me giggle:

One Semester of Spanish Love Song

"Filling jars full of silence you'll get nowhere."

I had a dream just before I woke up this morning that I want to remember.

In my dream, Nannette and I were on vacation again. We weren't in the Dominican Republic this time; it was more like a cruise ship and there were pools on multiple decks.

I was carrying this log around with me. It was about two feet long and pretty big around--like a log you'd split up into 3-4 pieces for firewood. It was big and obvious, and yet I tried really hard not to draw attention to the fact that I was carrying it around with me. I didn't want anyone to yell at me for having it, and I also didn't want them laughing and pointing, "Hey, look at that girl carrying the giant log around!"

It was so heavy. It made my arms tired. Its rough bark chafed my skin. My hands hurt from trying to grip it.

I took it everywhere we went: to the dining room, to the pool, in the water, to the bar. I was terrified that if I left it behind and tried to go and enjoy myself, someone would take it away.

Once I very reluctantly laid it in a lounge chair so that I could swim unencumbered, but that turned out terribly. I was so obsessed with keeping an eye on it and looking back at it and making sure that no one came near it that I couldn't have any fun at all.

I was terrified of being without it.

"On par with a night of heavy drinking."

"Nothing you'll miss."

*sigh*

Awwww....MAN!

I don't own a dog and I don't have any friends nearby who do, but I suddenly want to start buying Pedigree. The look in Echo's little doggy eyes when he gets passed over...my heart cannot take stuff like this.



Yes, yes. I know this is how they want me to react. It worked, okay?

Classic MUNI

This morning I somehow discovered I managed to let my iPod completely die, so I had to ride the bus downtown without my tunes to filter out the world.

I'm so glad. There were all kinds of things going down on the 38 today.

It started with an elderly man with a cane that got on at 25th Ave. He sat in the seat immediately behind me and started muttering and singing to himself in Russian. Soon he began saying to himself very softly something that sounded like, "Sweet. Sweet wheat."

I turned my head to the side so that I could better discern what he was saying, and he started saying it louder. Then he got up and hobbled over to the seat across the aisle from me. He perched on the edge of his seat and stared straight at me. I met his eyes and he stared back, murmuring to himself. Then he slowly looked me up and down, all the time repeating "Sweet. Sweet wheat."

Does "sweet wheat" mean something in Russian that I'm unaware of? Like "dirty whore"?

Anyway, he got off at Arguello and turned on the sidewalk and looked back at me, his lips still moving.

There were two men sitting together in the back of the bus. From what I could tell, it appeared that one was some type of care-giver and was escorting the other one (who was older and much more disheveled-looking) somewhere--maybe to some type of appointment. The escortee talked the whole time, and a large portion of what he wanted to talk about seemed to be Michael Jackson.

"Do you think that Michael Jackson really had sex with all those boys?"

"I had a book by Michael Jackson called Michael Jackson Was My Lover. Michael Jackson found out about it and bought up all the copies, so it's no longer on the market. But I had a copy and it was disgusting."

"Do you know that Michael Jackson bought up all the Beatles' songs?"

Most of the time I couldn't hear his companion's responses, but at one point I did hear him ask, "Why are you telling me these things?" The man replied, "I'm just making conversation." They got off together at Van Ness.

There was also what I believe was a Tibetan monk sitting a couple of seats in front of me. He'd gotten on at Park Presidio, and sat serenely in his seat. At one point a man came up to him, knelt on the floor, and bowed to him. They proceeded to begin a quiet conversation during which the man would periodically bow. At Powell, they got off the bus together.

Thank God I didn't miss these things.

Like nails in my feet

In the yard, dewy and shivering
with crickets, we lie naked,
face-up, face-down

I had horrible dreams. I was not alone, because when I woke up I had a message from my sister telling me she'd just woken from nightmares, too.

My dream was one of those where you know the person in the dream, but it's not actually someone you know or recognize in real life. (I always find those so strange.) But in this dream I loved this person very much, and he was trying to kill himself. I was trying desperately to stop him, but every time I turned around he would try again.

I knew it was only a matter of time. I begged him not to go. I couldn't take away the haunted look in his eyes.

At one point we were on top of a building. I caught him climbing up a wall so he could stand on top and jump off. I grabbed his legs and pulled with all of my strength, hoping to god that the weight of me would keep his feet on earth. He pulled and pulled against me. I knew that I would either stop him or go over, too, but there was no way I was letting go.

Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.

Addendum: For what it's worth, I believe I was both people in the dream. But most especially, I was the person not giving up.

Favors for friends (follow-up)

Waaayyy back in September I wrote of a friend who asked me to keep custody of her vibrator for her while her mom stayed for an extended visit. Well, this week her mom went home and, as of this evening, the vibrator that has been in the top of my closet for all these months is back with its rightful owner. I even gave her some new batteries as a gift in honor of the long-awaited reunion.

We were having dinner, and she took a sip of her drink thoughtfully and said, "My mom's coming back in March."

I said, "Does that mean it's coming to stay with me again?"

She shook her head and said, "No, I think I'll keep it at my house this time. If she finds it...so what?" I told her I thought she was making progress.

Anyway, she was really in a hurry to get home. I'm not sure why.

My potholders are out of control.

I've noticed a strange habit in recent months when I'm cooking. I keep leaving my potholders in random locations that surprise me later on. This happens because I'm highly distractable and often get side-tracked while I am cooking. I might check on something in the oven, run to answer the phone or door or check my email or whatever, and then deposit the potholder in my hand wherever I happen to be. I only have two of them (and they're both eggplant purple), but I'll find them on my bookshelves, on the bathroom sink, in the office on the desk. Once I was turning over in bed at night and encountered something strange under the covers. I felt around in the dark only to discover a potholder in bed with me.

Random quote that I appreciated for the day:

Tina Fey said that the word 'lovers' "really bums me out unless it's between the words 'meat' and 'pizza.'"

An impasse

I was just taking a survey--fairly mindlessly answering questions--when I came to one that seemed ridiculously hard to me. The questions was:

If you could only have one and not the other, which would you choose?

- To love someone
- To be loved by someone

I had to sit and think about this for a moment. I mean, they're both their own special brand of torture. On one hand, I thought to myself, loving someone could be considered a rather selfless act. It also means that you are capable of loving someone and that you find someone out there that you perceive to be extraordinary enough to love. On the other hand, being loved by someone is a wonderful thing and means that someone found you a deserving recipient of their love. I ended up choosing "to be loved by someone" because, though still potentially painful, I find it to be much less heart-breaking in the long run.

But then I had to choose how I would want a potential partner to answer the same question. That seemed even worse. That made me reconsider everything. Is loving someone actually a selfless act? Couldn't it also be viewed as a supreme act of selfishness? And what about the kind of person who would pick 'to be loved by someone.' Is that because it's the easier, more comfortable route? Would I want someone that would pick that? And what does it say about me that I picked that?

Shit. I think I'm going back to bed.

Huck and Chuck

Maybe GOP presidential hopeful Mike Huckabee did compare homosexuality to beastiality. Perhaps he did suggest we change the constitution so that it more closely matched the Bible. But Chuck Norris endorses him--er, that is, he tells America how it's going to be:

Pre- 31

Last year I posted a thoughtful birthday blog. I suppose this was fitting for the 30th birthday. But 31 is not such a big affair, so I'm freewheelin' a bit more this year.

There are a couple of things that have always happened on my birthday. One was that my grandmother always called and sang "Happy Birthday" to me over the phone. (I'm really going to miss that this year.) The other is that, at some point, my mom calls me and--whether I like it or not--allows me to relive the glory of my birth with her.

This year is a little different because I'll be out of town and incommunicado. Tonight I was at home doing my normal freaking out before any big trip, except this one had a tropical theme ("Where the fuck is my passport!?" and "These are the ugliest bathing suits ever made and Nannette better not judge them," and "I know I have a blue sarong and red flip flops around here somewhere..."). I was also treating myself to my favorite "white trash dinner." [This would be Kraft macaroni and cheese, baked beans, and canned peaches and I'll thank you not to laugh.]

My mom called during all of this excitement and, when I told her what I was eating, said, "I had a 50 cent turkey pot-pie for dinner!" Then she proceeded to tell me about an arm wrestling contest she had just been in where she defeated a beast of a man not once but TWICE. Apparently this man's masculinity was so denigrated that he proceeded to get up from the table without speaking and leave the American Legion in shame. She was very proud of herself and I congratulated her on her guns. I didn't know what else to do.

It was like being home again!

She called again later in the night after closing time at the Legion. As she was getting into her car in the parking lot we started to take our trip down memory lane to the day that I emerged from her loins, but we were interrupted. She was in the middle of fighting with her quasi-boyfriend. He stumbled toward her car yelling because she'd made him return her house keys, and she shouted, "I'm trying to talk to my baby girl!" He paused to say, "Tell her I said hi!" She passed along this information to me: "Junior says hi," [his name really is Junior], and they continued arguing.

Once she got away from all that and was driving home, we had my annual birthday conversation a few days early. She recounted how she went into labor with me during "The Blizzard of '77" and all of the trials and tribulations that went along with it, namely: my grandpa driving her to the hospital on top of a shower curtain so she wouldn't mess up his red crushed-velvet seats, his desperate phone call to the fire department in the middle of the night asking, "Can't you do anything about the roads? I've got a granddaughter coming!" and my mom's amazement that her best friend and my father showed up at the hospital in the same car ("Of course, I didn't know he was fucking her until later!").

It was a good talk.

Anyway, I'm leaving in a couple of hours and I'm going to try and catch a nap first. With any luck I'll finish packing before the Super Shuttle comes; luck is definitely needed, so please wish me it.

This is a picture of the princess singing because she is lost.

It’s probably not news to many that I love Found magazine. I love finding stuff, too.

Today as I was walking down Geary Blvd. I found a small stack of children’s drawings laying on the sidewalk up against someone’s garage door. I stooped to pick them up and examine them. It appears that on Oct. 17 these kids were asked to illustrate scenes from The Magic Flute. They are so sweet. Of course I kept them.



“The princess is meeting the prince for the very first time. They fell in love and are excited they met each other.”



(How lovely—the prince appreciates princesses with curves!)



“The prince fights the dragon.”



(Baby dragon?)



“The dragon is fighting the prince.”



(A much bigger dragon. And this dragon looks about like the dragon I would draw if faced with the same task.)



“This is a picture of the princess singing because she is lost.”




It seems worth mentioning that, when interpreting the progression of the story, this is the order of pictures that my brain understood. That is, the prince and princess meet, everything goes to shit, and she ends up wandering through the woods lost. I suppose the reverse is most likely the one that was originally intended. Oh well.

What else is in the teaches of Peaches?

Aside from "Fuck the pain away"? I think that's all I got from that lesson...

In completely other news, this may be the greatest thing in the history of mankind:

Church Sign Generator

My needs today are simple.

I'd really like to have a sugar bowl. Or a teapot.

Fuck it. I'm putting it here.

(These things that we understand.)

I went to a birthday party last night for a dear friend. I really needed last night.

The truth is, I've been mentally stuck for the last couple of months. Stuck in a bad, bad way. I churned my way through anxiety, confusion, doubt, fear, disappointment, grief, and apathy...that horrible apathy. Long story short: I wasn't getting any better--only worse, in fact--so I elected to go back on antidepressants. It remains to be seen how this will go, but for now all I feel is relief. Relief and exhaustion.

It's funny how you don't realize how far away you were until you're making your way back.

I'd only confided this recent turn of events to a couple of people, but last night more than one person came up to me at the party and said, "Wow. You really seem like yourself again. I was kind of wondering there for awhile..." I was both pleased and embarrassed by these comments. Embarrassed because you think you mask things well, and it's a little mortifying to realize that you were spotted huddled in a dark corner, rocking yourself in fear behind your smile.

Something else interesting from last night: I took a ride on the back of my friend's scooter. I was a little nervous beforehand, because it's strange to put yourself so completely in someone else's hands. She gave me a little tutorial about balance and leaning. She said, "If you start to lose your balance, squeeze me with your knees. And when we're going up a hill, lean forward into me." So that's how we rode: exhilarated by the cold, leaning and moving together into the turns and up the hills.

in-SOM-nee-uh

I am starting to worry that I am doomed to exist in the hours when everyone else is asleep. Seriously, how do you people do this...this SLEEP thing?

Just searching for the right occasion

I just heard the meanest and most hilarious insult ever: "Your hair smells like the carpet of the hallway of a building where old Russian people live."

The sweetest update

My mail-slot was a source of surprises today. First was a Food & Wine magazine that doesn't belong to me; second was a paper towel that looked like someone had wiped a spaghetti-covered mouth on it (had my mail lady just had lunch?); third was a card from Eugene.

This is the same Eugene I wrote about in my blog a few days before Christmas--the man who was my grandmother's boyfriend for so many years, and the one to whom I sent the Christmas card.

It's so sweet, and want to share it! He sent a "Happy New Year" card, a picture of him with my grandmother in 2004, and a three page letter. Here is what the letter said in it's original form (mistakes and all, and with a couple of footnotes I added to aid your understanding):

Dear Amie,

i was so Pleased to receive your card and the note

Your grandmother and i met on a bus trip in 1994

The ensuing years we became close close friend.

I've had some thoughts wondering about how i would be remembered by her family

I received a card from Chriss*, signed love from Juanita's family--Chris and the Boys. I'm pleased to now I've not been forgotten. i need to do a better job of keeping in touch. I have talked to Jim** a few times.

Have you always went by Ashcraft?*** Or has someone put a ring on your left hand?

Your grandmother sent me so many cards. Many flattered me. I have saved the most of them. Will i get them read again--maybe some.

i have a note that i wrote****--says Amie 2005 moving to Calif--has Drs. degree--philosophy--think she's going to teach.

Maybe sometime you will write me about your California Venture.

i don't remember your features, perhaps you will send a picture.

I'm sending my address and phone number.

i think i have Chris's ph number. Have to write her or call.

I also received a card from Willa Jean*****. Your grandmother and W.J. were such good friends. Was pleased to know she was with her at her passing. I had been to the V.A. the P.M. before her passing and stopped at the home.

i don't know if she knew i was there.

Once again thank you for the kind words, about Grandmother and i

Eugene

I remember her saying she insisted on being caled Grandmother.

You may not choose to write or call that will be okay.



My footnotes:

*Chris - my aunt, my grandmother's daughter

**Jim - my uncle, one of my grandmother's sons

***Ashcraft - my last name is different from my father's (and the rest of that side of the family's last name), and this is puzzling to him. I know he was in the dark on this topic partly because my grandmother was still so scandalized that my mother and father never got married that she refused to tell him that information.

****I have a note that I wrote - Eugene and my grandmother used to take notes on what the other person told them, especially when it came to details involving family and friends, so they could remember what had been discussed. The note that he refers to is apparently one that he wrote during a discussion where he learned I was moving to CA.

*****Willa Jean - my grandmother's best friend

And just because they are so sweet, I'm including these, too. Note how he signed the card:




Here is the picture he included with his caption below:



Mar 4-04 E.E. and Juanita
waiting room at Ruby
I had beard then


This made my day. It appears I have a new pen pal. I love old-fashioned letters.

A surprising discovery

I recently got a new cell phone and, after much harassment from a couple of friends who are avid texters (is that a word?), had text messaging enabled on it.

I'd never been a fan of texting before, but I admit that on New Year's Eve I was a little drunk on this new ability. At least 60 texts were exchanged that night--largely while I waited an hour for the 38 Geary--with friends all over the country. It was fun.

I'm a little over it now, but I still participate. It doesn't help that I'm extraordinarily slow at texting. This is mostly due to the fact that I steadfastly refuse to send texts that say stuff like, "Where R U?" I type it all out, because typing in such a short-handed fashion makes me feel like some kind of caveman banging rocks together.

Anyway, a good friend of mine loves to send me random texts when he's out drinking. He'll say things like, "There's a lot me [sic] pretty men here, I'm fearing for my virginity." or "The cure for a lonely heart is only 2 tall beers and a cigarette away." He likes to tell me whenever he's somewhere that's playing my song ("Amie" by Pure Prairie League--what!? You don't know it? Get on that!) Last night he said, "The southern cross is angry." I got this one as I was in the process of transitioning from one location to another and didn't have time to respond. But when I got home and looked up "southern cross" to try and figure out what in the holy hell he was talking about, I found that it refers to a constellation, Crux.



This is the disturbing part: I can't see the southern cross. Apparently, if you're in the northern hemisphere you have to be south of 30 degrees latitudes to see it. (This makes sense for him because he lives in FL.)



Now, I know that you can't see all the constellations at all times of the year, but it honestly never occurred to me that, no matter what time of year it is, your geographic location only allows you to see a fixed range of the sky. How did this not occur to me? I'm sort of upset.

Of course, this is quite likely not what he meant at all.

Oh, the places you'll go...

It seems that this is the third calendar year that I’ll keep this online journal of sorts. I will confess to having difficulty in writing in it lately because of a perceived need to censor my words and, truthfully, I’m still working on that. Even my usual cryptic tricks don’t seem sufficient at the moment.

Being a new year and all, I feel I should comment on resolutions and goals and all that. But I actually stopped making resolutions a couple years ago, and I’m still quite happy with that decision. I stopped because I felt like setting these goals for myself once a year—no matter what area of my life they were in—was just not often enough. I prefer to try to harness that hopefulness and carry it with me year-round. I want to be constantly setting, striving for, revising, and evaluating my goals.

I want to always be a work in progress.

One thing that makes me happy going into 2008 is that I’m getting something I’ve really wanted for a long time. Some of you may know how much I lament how disappointing birthdays are as an adult. Some of you also know how much I’ve fantasized about taking a trip for my birthday—particularly a tropical trip—and have even received emails in the past from me begging you to go to Puerto Rico or Aruba or Fiji with me (depending on which coast I was living on when I sent the message that year).

Well, this year it’s happening.

I’m pleased to report that I’ve lit a serious fire under Nannette’s already-desiring-travel ass. We took a road trip recently and got our palettes wet. We had an adventure, we discovered that we travel really well together, we bonded even more, and we laughed a lot. Ever since that trip she’s sent me a couple of emails a week with airfare specials or hotel packages she’s come across while dreaming of traveling at work. First we were seriously considering Hawaii, but couldn’t quite get the price we wanted. Then we were thinking Costa Rica. Last week she sent an email with “Munich?” in the subject line.

This is what I like: thinking big. Giant, bold brush-strokes all over this canvas. I don’t give a fuck if it’s still dripping wet—I’m putting it up on my wall.

What I really love is that it has generally always been me begging people to go places or suggesting trips or weekend getaways. It’s wonderful to be on the opposite end. And you know what I said to every suggestion? “Yes.” Munich in winter at 25 degrees? Sure! Hot springs in Reykjavik? Of course! The Dominican Republic? Hell, yes!

I’ll go anywhere. Seriously. And I’ll have a fan-fucking-tastic time.

"...or did they die in a dry hump fire..."

"...years before we were born?"

75% recovery of health + the approach of 2008 =

Changes, purges, experimentation, and attempts to do things outside of my comfort zone.

I'm starting small, but I'm thinking big.

I'd take it again just for five minutes.

I miss the way Christmas felt when I was a little kid.

I remember feeling like I was glowing for days beforehand--like electricity was actually shooting out of all of my nerve endings. The sense of anticipation was glorious.

I can remember leaving reminders all over so that no one would forget what I wanted. I'd leave the JCPenney catalog open in conspicuous places (e.g., on top of the toilet, under my grandpa's pillow) with items circled emphatically. I'd make personalized copies of my Christmas list for everyone I knew so there was no danger of someone NOT being aware of what I wanted for Christmas. When I knew someone was within earshot, I'd sigh dramatically and murmur with longing, "Oh, how I *wish* I had a Fresh 'n Fancy..."

I was such a drama queen.

On Christmas Eve I always left milk and cookies out for Santa, and at my insistence we had a tradition of leaving the Christmas tree lights on all night long. I'd always talk to my grandpa on the phone just before going to bed. He'd ask, "Have you seen him yet? Have you been watching?" I'd cry, "No, not yet! I'm watching! I'm watching!" He'd tell me he heard some sleigh bells off in the distance or that he thought he saw the red glow of Rudolph's nose from afar. I'd squeal, giddy with excitement. As we said goodnight, he'd advise me to listen closely to see if anything landed on my rooftop, or to investigate for reindeer tracks in the snow the next morning.

Early on Christmas morning, while it was still dark, I'd sneak out of bed and tiptoe to the doorway of the living room to size up the situation. Then I'd examine the empty glass and plate from where Santa had eaten the milk and cookies. I was so weird--I'd touch the lip prints and everything, thinking, "These lips have been to the North Pole! These lips have been around flying reindeer!"

Then I'd wake up my brothers and get them to wake everyone else up--it was much easier to blame the little guy even though I was the one who couldn't wait.

Merry Christmas.

On why I am sending a Christmas card to Eugene.

I’ve always been a sender of Christmas cards. Even when I couldn’t afford much else, I always sent cards to old and new friends, immediate and extended family—even the racist ones in Warren, Michigan and the ones with the Hank Williams Jr. impersonator in San Antonio, Texas. Last Christmas I didn’t manage to get any sent out, and it’s not looking like I will this Christmas, either. But there is one that I will be sending. This one will be to Eugene, an elderly dairy farmer in western Pennsylvania.

Eugene was my grandmother Juanita’s boyfriend for years. After my grandfather died in 1993, she spent a year or so in intense grief. And then she got going. She volunteered at the hospital where she’d worked as a nurse for so many years, she joined women’s groups and senior citizens’ groups. She signed up for senior citizen bus trips to places like Branson, Missouri, and it was on one such trip that she met Eugene.

They quickly became a pair. They’d sign up for the same trips, he invited her to join his family for holiday dinners, they began driving the 2 ½ hours to visit each other regularly, they bought each other little presents, like boxes of tissues and hot water bottle cozies, and they talked on the phone several times a week.

These phone conversations made me crazy, actually. Both of them were hard of hearing, but especially Eugene. He’d call her at 7am shortly after she got up and, when I spent the night at her house—though I was sleeping at the other end of the house—her end of the conversation woke me up.

“Good morning, how are you?” she'd begin happily.

“I said, ‘How are you?’” she’d repeat louder.

“I said, ‘How ARE you?!’” she’d cry, and then, “Okay, I’ll wait while you put your hearing aid in.”

[After a moment’s pause…]

“I asked, ‘HOW ARE YOU!?!?’….Oh, nevermind.”

It pretty much went on like this the entire phone call.

Though she occasionally spent the night at his house, she told me all the time, “We’re not sleeping together, you know.” I always told her this was her private business and that she didn’t have to justify anything to me. “But we aren’t!” she would insist. “I promised your grandpa I would never sleep with anyone else, even after he died, and it wouldn’t be right.” During one of these conversations when she assured me that they slept in separate bedrooms and did not have sex, I suggested, “Maybe you SHOULD.” She was rather shocked.

Actually, my aunt and I used to tease her about sex a lot, because she was so shy and embarrassed. We’d give her a glass of champagne, and after half a glass she was giddy and her tongue was loose. She’d say, “When I’m sitting on the couch, Eugene likes to get down on the floor on his knees in front of me and hold my hands and kiss them. He’s older than me and can’t move very well, but he certainly seems to like to get down there on his knees! I can’t figure out why…” We’d laugh and remind her that she’d had six children and wasn’t exactly virginal, and that she could probably figure out why he liked to do this. She'd gasp in horror and say, “Oh! You girls are TERRIBLE!”

Once she confessed to us that she hadn’t even known what a blowjob was until she’d been married for eleven years. We cried, “What!?!” and collapsed with laughter as she blushed fiercely.

Though she apparently never allowed him more than kisses on her hands and a chaste peck on the lips, Eugene was my grandmother’s boyfriend for about thirteen years. She insisted that she didn’t want to get married again because she had cleaned up after a man most of her life, but he brought her a lot of happiness during the time they spent together.

When she got sick and started staying in the hospital with increasing frequency, she refused to allow him to see her because she was embarrassed by how she looked. He would still call her all the time and write her passionate love letters. He would tell her he missed her and that he didn’t know what he would do if anything happened to her, and then he would cry.

In March I returned to West Virginia to attend my grandmother’s funeral, and this was the last time I saw Eugene. My family was gathered in the front rows of chairs as the funeral was about to start, and my aunt noticed that Eugene had come in and had taken a seat near the back. She went back to get him and led him by the arm to join us in the front. He was a frail little man in a shabby jacket, and he had big fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “You sit here with us,” my aunt told him, “you’re part of the family, too.” Everyone hugged him or grabbed his hand and squeezed it, and this was about the time when my own tears refused to stop flowing.

I don’t know how Eugene is doing right now, or what he’s been doing since then, but he will get the one Christmas card I send out this year. I want him to know he’s in my thoughts and how grateful I am for all the love he showed my grandmother when she thought that part of her life was over.

[I say, “How can you live so high in the mountains?”
“It’s cool in the shade of the woodshed,
Baby, say, can I stay awhile?”
She said, “No. How dare you live up
So high in the mountains.”
“I got chased by a hundred snakes in the morning
Got away from a hundred snakes in the night.
Sing, how can you live up so…”]

My favorite quotes from the last few days.

"I don’t want to go home. Home is stupid. Plus we still have 2 ½ hours of music to listen to."

"Has anyone grabbed your boobs today?"

"I need you."

"Are you hungry like the sloth?"

"I think the auditions for Juliette and the Licks consist of one question: Can you rock hard and, like, all the time?"

"That reminds me: I have a funny story about Chevron."

"I found the other two Sweet Tarts. So I wasn’t holding out on you."

"When someone says 'Fuck me' someone else says 'ok.'"

Perpetual wandering;
I am writing in the dark.

On being cared for

During the last week and a half, I have been cared for by people in ways for which I cannot even begin to thank them.

Letters and messages and phone calls of encouragement from friends I haven’t seen in years and friends I just saw the evening before;

Long talks with two old friends about everything from ceramic squirrels and how to find them to travel to life to crack juice and number one fans;

A road trip with a dear friend who spent 22 hours in a car with me and offered an ear, boob jokes, unfailingly wise advice, personal anecdotes, and the encouragement of honest self-reflection;

A friend who spent three nights in a row with me, made me laugh, ate the food I didn’t want, gave me music, and, on one particular night, put up with my “I think tonight is a night to do shots” drunken ass during which I told bizarre stories, blended phrases that didn’t belong together, and inexplicably misheard everything as “cocks”; and

Gifts from someone who has known me my entire left that are intended to inspire me, make me smile, and keep me warm.

Thank you, my lovelies. My gratitude is deep, and my memory is long.

My god, the irony is overwhelming.

One of my favorite things about Facebook is an application you can add called an "Honesty Box." You can send anonymous messages to your friends, and the only thing they know is whether it came from a male or female. I love this little feature.

Yesterday someone left a lovely little message in my honesty box and it really made my day. (A day that needed making, believe me.) After I read that message, I noticed another message left for me on Nov. 5 that I didn't remember. The message said: "Amie, you are lovely and wonderful. It's going to be okay. Hang in there, sweetheart." I thought, "Wow! Who sent that? I wonder how they knew what I needed to hear?"

So I replied to that message to tell whoever sent it that it really meant a lot to me. And then I was startled when a new message immediately popped up in my honesty box.

I got my own reply.

I had completely forgotten that I had sent that message to myself when I was having a really bad day. I even wrote a blog on here that day entitled "The sending of anonymous messages of encouragement to myself."

At first I laughed and felt like an idiot. And then I thought..."Jesus. The comforting words that I needed to hear came from myself..."

Goddammit. I suppose I should probably learn from this.