Ah Ha! Thank you, mike for reminding me about the best thing that happened this weekend. I think patrick opie and I have finally named the damned band.

Have you been holding your breath? You can stop now, because I'm not letting that snakey poptart blow this one off like he did One American Haircut, which I thought was fantastic.

So we're standing in the kitchen and patrick is making these magic mashed potatos that are turning a pleasant shade of orange. He's explaining how sugar is the secret ingredient in everything 'and would-you-please-hand-me-that-giant-sugar-tub' when he turns on his heel to face me.

He points the wooden spoon in the air. "Oh yeah! How would you feel about being called 'Block that Kick'?"

I wiped a spot of mashed potato off my shoulder. "Margaret Hoolihan."

"What?"

"Block That Kick, (Margaret Hoolihan)."

And because this time the laughter wasn't mixed with "that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard", I'm going to hold on to it as long as I can. (See: 3 weeks, tops. )

Snide remarks about how it's stupid and way too long welcome. Nobody gonna break my stride. Nobody gonna hold me down.

Rose and Valoree, screaming from the gallery

(So, do you want to help me move this to a real location and hold my hand while I learn how you buy a domain name and get hosting and all that? Skills=limited. Gratitude=abundant.)

and now, a short list of things I love:

1: flat front panel, pleats all the way around in back.

2: Overcast and windy but dry.

3: Big safety pins being there when you really really need them.

4: "Wanna take a cemetery tour?" 11:00pm.

5: lightbooths

6: orange and vanilla ice cream cups with those stupid little wooden spoons.

7: being stubborn about absurdities.

8: brick showing through where the asphalt has chipped away.

9: "They're tearing up streets again, they're building a new hotel..."

10: black shoes, straps and buckles.

this is my congratulations, mixed with fingercrossing and eye winking in hopes for the best. I heart you lots, J. Also, best of luck to TS on her trip to the belly of the family. May evil aunts be filled with unexpected kindness or indigestion.

I had a dream last night that she (not TS, another she.) and I were running around a race track while each discussing how we felt about the situation. I explained my viewpoint. She explained hers. She was kind and I was forgiving but I still woke up with razor wire all under my collarbones. I feel like I've swallowed a headstone, a dozen roses, and a bathtub full of no.

In other news, the 'Real Way' of playing Trivial Pursuit is totally dumb, and everyone should convert to the better way, which just means when you get all the pies, you win. None of this go to the middle bullshit. Ben and I are winners.

And she's not afraid of anything

Mom: "I have tests today."

sonya: "What kind?"

Mom: "I have to collect all my urine all day. I have a little hat I have to..."

sonya "You pee in a hat?!"

Mom: "That's what they call it!"

sonya: "Hat!"

mom: "It looks like a funny little pilgrim hat."

sonya: "what color is it?"

mom: "White. A little white pilgrim hat. I had to pee in them all the time when I had my transplant, but I didn't have to save it in the fridge."

sonya: "AAAUUGGH. Gross mom."

mom: "I know. Super gross. I've got it all wrapped up in extra plastic bags and I moved everything away from it."

sonya: "Still. Very gross."

Part Two: Everyone loses something:

(The basement room. R is looking around, under covers, etc. G is tightening all the yarn ties on the quilt that covers the bed.)

R: Have you seen my keys?

G: What?

R: My keys. My car keys, have you seen them?

G: Your what?

R: KEYS. Have you seen my keys.

G sits quietly for a moment, mouthing ‘have you seen my keys’ to herself over and over. After a moment she looks up.

G: No. I haven’t seen them.

R: Let me know if you do, okay?

R exits and G does not respond.

G stands and faces the audience but is not necessarily addressing them. She sits crosslegged on the floor and continues to fidget as she speaks.

G: I’m developing this distinct feeling of loss. Like I had pants pockets full of grain and jewels and phone numbers and plastic cowboys and somebody came along and cut holes in the bottom of them. Jewels and numbers and cowboys and grain all falling out the bottoms of my pantlegs while I was trying to think of something witty to say at the party. Perhaps from now on, I’ll just pin little sayings into the sleeves of my cardigan and pull them out like fortune cookies whenever the mood strikes me. ‘Have you seen her baby? It’s absolutely beautiful, not like most babies, who are born ugly as sin. It’s not their fault, though. "
‘He bought the house during the boom and must have invested wisely, because he’s the only one I know who was able to keep it.’
No, I suppose those wont work. I’ll have to think of something more applicable. "I saw a sweater just like that one while I was rooting through cardboard boxes in the alley last night!’ they’re most certain to take that as an insult, as they’re unlikely to be aware of the riches that lie in cardboard boxes left unattended. That’s where kittens come from, and sometimes where kittens have to go, if you picked up the stray after it was too late. Many a childhood afternoon wrapped in a coat of dad’s in front of the grocery store offering little tiny lives to strangers passing by. Please, somebody, take this little life for free. Take it home and let it love you. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m sitting in a cardboard box with the words ‘free to good heart’ written on the side. Sitting in this box and hoping it doesn’t rain.


Q enters the room and grabs boots and a jacket out of the closet.

Q: It’s raining.

G: What?

Ready? here we go.

1: You get your foot shot off in the warzone. Do you carry the bloody, saggy, severed foot across the battlefield or start thinking of colors for your prosthetic?

2: A team of you and all boys or of you and all girls?

3: Babies in tires VS Kittens in toilet paper barfight, who wins?

4: Death by Jellyfish or Death by wood chipper?

5: Doomed to a life of mullet or Doomed to a life of moustache? (forever.)

6: Ditch study hall and make out under the fire escape or ditch study hall and play Street Fighter 2 at Brian's because his mom works during the day?

7:"My cat's name is Mittens" or "The doctor said it would stop bleeding if I just kept my finger out of there."?

8: "You're so pretty when you're angry." or "I just woke up early to watch you sleep."

Go! Now!

Additionally:

If, by chance, you were cruising around Seatown this weekend and you may have heard someone shouting,

"I want a baby! I want a kitten! I want an antique carousel horse! I want an arcade version of Pac Man! I want a sugar daddy, dammit! I'm so-ho-ho fu-huh-huh-huh-huhking mi-i-i-i-i-i-ser-a-ble!"

she was kidding about everything except the Pac Man, (and occasionally the misery.)

(Patrickt. Please come home. Nobody gets it, and it's really, really funny.)

It's here in the smallest bones

This becomes a story about changing clothes. I'm sorry.

I'm preoccupied because my fingers continue to smell slightly of garlic cloves, even after I took the lemon out of my drink and ran it over my fingernails and threw it away. The High Performance King thought this was gross, but he was being particularly obscene in German, so I wasn't going to think twice about it. That was during dress number one. (Aqua and silver, 3/4 sleeves, polyester. Wait, there's a picture of me wearing this dress and being very, very drunk here.-'Daddy, baby needs a fix.'- Do you care about dresses? Of course not.)

Dress number two is the dress equivalent of a pink birthday cake. Josh was walking around the party carrying that ridiculously heavy pack of his as tricia and I took a thousand accidental pictures of ben smoking a cigarette while trying to make the light meter on my camera work. We left around midnight, but I was discontent. Tricia and J and I got a ride to their house where I changed into aforementioned Schmezzle Schmagger shirt and coveralls. I still have really fancy hair and am wearing party shoes, but I'm a little bit soft around the edges already, so I assume no one will notice. We walked up to the Summit Public House and proceeded to play the "If I were to get in a barfight, which one of these guys do you think I could take?" game. We chose a particularly scrawny new wave fellow, but he was fully capable of kicking my ass royal. The summit was sporting a tough crowd, so we switched to the "Who's my new boyfriend?" game.

Josh: "What about that one?"

Tricia: "too old, and kind of slimy looking. What about that one?"

Sonya: "He looks like he'd be mean to kids and pigeons. What about mister hat over there?"

Josh: "I think you just answered your own question when you called him mister hat."

Tricia: "What are your feelings concerning punk rock?"

Sonya: "Would *I* have to go punk rock?"

Josh: "Not necessarily. The one in the corner?"

Tricia: "Yup."

Sonya: "Sassy. Okay, yeah. Punk rock is my new boyfriend."

This incited an hour of Josh:'Go ask him out!' Sonya: "No Way!" Josh:" Go! Go Now! Do you want me to do it for you?" Sonya: "NO!" The bartender enjoyed it.

We drank whiskey through last call and walked back to T and J's. I flopped down on the couch and J slid to the floor, proclaiming "I'm not laying on the floor because I'm drunk. I'm laying on the floor because this is my house."

because talk like a pirate day lives on in my heart

I feel like several people at once. (Cast my demons into a herd of pigs that will throw themselves off a cliff. That was my favorite story.)

Stage Door Opening. Ho-ly-shit. It's fantastic. Go buy tickets right now. You love theatre. You do, you just might not know it because all you remember was your sister's school play from the Samuel French catalog that was a spinoff of the James Bond movies. Stupid farces are always the cheapest.

Alright see now, I was the only one wearing a cocktail dress for reasons I don't care to discuss. After lounging at The Dubliner and talking shop with an old school SM* and a new school SM (I'm just a school SM, by the way.) I invited benjamin to be my ready made night in shining helmet and walk me to my scooter on his way to his. This was only after I walked outside in said cocktail dress and an old scary fisherman with jagged fire shooting teeth bent down and made the "gimmie gimmie gonna eat em all up yeah" grabby hand motion. I was afriad. I will admit.
Ben walks me up the hill. I offered to let him carry me, being the damsel and all, but I realized that 1: that would be terrible for ben. and 2: this would probably incite more of the grabby hands motion on the parts of passersby, as it would have exposed a significant portion of my delicate laundry. He waits while I pull on the scooter pants** and jacket and goggles and helmet, kisses me on the cheek, I thank him for his kindness, cut out his heart and take it to the evil queen.***

So okay now. I'm at Denny and Westlake and an SUV of SWM pull up. The two in the front seat are talking to each other pleasantly, laughing and being pretty normal, when the back window unrolls and out comes a screeching

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEEE BABY! UNGH! YEAH!"

I look around, nobody else there, it was for me. I consider for under half a second and decide to feed him the fury... "OOOOOOOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEE! YOU ARE ONE FINE PIECE OF MEAT BABY! YOW!"

The sober guys in front think this is totally hilarious. I, also, find it to be pretty fucking funny, because the guy in the back is kind of going nuts now. Meowing and the like. Sober and Sober seem relieved that I didn't get all sexual harrasment on their asses, the light changes, we all drive away. I relish in the fact that Drunko McDrunkerface didn't even know I was wearing a smashing cocktail dress and lovely party shoes. I got home and peeled off the scooter pants and jacket and felt very much like a secret agent.

the end.


*(SM stands for stage manager, you ass slapping leather wearing maniac.)

**(scooter pants=pants big enough to fit over skirts and shoes that can be easily removed upon arrival at location)

***(everything except the part about the heart cutting out really happened.)

shamelessly stealing ideas from others, ahoy.

Take my Quiz. Take iiiitttt!

What would you do if I sang out of tune

And now, The Wonderful Paul

Hi, Sonya!
 
I've written you a poem!
 
(I also sent it to "poetry on the busses.")
 
 
I Am Writing This to Destroy You
 
On the 23 day I found your radio tumors inside me.
Their voices mingle with the Mars Climate Orbiter.
For the past year, I've wanted to sew your picture into my jacket and leave it at the Salvation Army.
Instead, I'm using rumored disasters to silence you.
You are lost in a suspected Indian earthquake.
Bees!  Bees!  Bees!  Bees!  Bees!  Bees!
I'll snap my fingers right in your face.
You just lost five minutes.
Sleep.

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

Mom calls at 10:28

Mom: "I have to come over for x-rays and a biopsy and a blood count and something else, I can't remember. I hope it isnt that weird bile pill on a string thing. Remember that? Ugh. They're going to do the count first at Virginia Mason, and then move me over to the U dub for everything else. We'll be over on the fourth. Can we stay with you? We'll pull that mattress out from under your bed."

sidenote: there's a futon mattress being stored under the futon frame with the real mattress on top of it. It took me 2 hours to manipulate that fucking thing under there, and there's no way in hell I'm ever moving it out again except to throw it away, and I haven't brought myself to terms with that yet. Every single time my parents come over, my mother insists that we should pull out that damn mattress so I can sleep on it instead of sleeping on the floor, and every time, I explain that 1: there is no way dad is strong enough to lift the bed from one side and hold it while I drag it out. 2: It's a huge pain in the ass, and dragging it out will make my back hurt significantly worse than sleeping on the damn floor, which I did for several years in high school due to a theory concerning spiderbites and vertigo that I don't care to explain.

Sonya: "Mom, it's fine. I'll sleep on the floor. We've already had this discussion. I slept on the floor for 3 months after Tracy moved out, and you and dad didnt say a thing. Then I had the most comfortable bed in the world, and you took it to the dump and spent a hundred and fifty dollars on a bed that gave me leg spasms. I'm still really not over that."

Mom; "No we did not. Did we? I guess we did, but I'm sure we thought it was in your best interest."

Sonya: "You didn't even ask me if I was uncomfortable in the old one. If you hadn't thrown it out, I'd still be sleeping on it today. It was the best bed ever. Additionally, I was already 18 and moving out in 7 months. I go to school one day, I come home after my show that night, and theres a new fucking bed, old bed nowhere to be seen. I was furious. You spent 150 bucks. Everyone was unhappy. It didn't make any sense."

Mom: "Well you just wait till you have kids young lady. We thought we were doing the right thing."

Sonya: "but you'd done very few things like that in my life. As soon as I reported I was moving out, you started doing all kinds of weird shit. You threw away my bed and expected me to keep the shitty one. You stole my picture album, cut out all the pictures of my friends into weird shapes, pasted them into a Lisa Frank book with pink unicorns on it an put little captions over their heads. You started insisting that I eat dinner at the table, which we hadnt done since I was five. The only other time in my life you did anything like that was signing me up for girl scouts, and when I started crying, you yelled 'You're gonna go, and you're gonna like it!' and slammed my door."

Mom:"....I did not do that. Did I?"

Sonya:" Oh yes. Yes you did."

Mom: "Man, you hated girl scouts."

Sonya: "I got kicked out for slapping the leaders daughter, remember?"

Mom: "That I remember."

we are holding hands under the table. You are trying desperately hard to listen to my mother talk about something the dog did last week as I am tapping out 'be bop a lula she's my baby, be bop a lula I don' mean maybe, be bop a lula she-he-he's my baby love my baby love my baby love' on your shoe and pulling on your trousers at the knee to make the hem dance.
It's a family game. Dad loved to come up behind me and put his arm around my shoulder during conversations with old ladies at church. He'd pinch my arm with his thumb without tensing his fingers, so Mrs. Maglumphy wouldn't know I was in terrible pain and resisting the urge to scream "Dammit Dad, will you fucking stop that shit?" as she asked me about how school was going and do I have a college picked out and so on. I'd grit my teeth and smile at dad, and he'd laugh a little and give my arm an extra squeeze indicating 'Just you try it, kid. You've got no way to prove it and no one will believe you.' I'm telling you, my dad should have been in the mafia.
You've pressed my hand flat in your palm, and you're pressing my fingers like guitar strings. I can feel the calouses in your fingers. Cylindrical and rough from fat classical guitar strings. I'm proud of myself for being able to keep up. The first note, your fingers in an arch over my pinkie, middle and third fingers...D. Second note, first, middle, and pinkie....C. You're taking it easy on me. You press my hand into what might be an E, but might also be an A minor, I can never remember. Now dad's talking about his plan to buy a wood splitter and make a million dollars. (I'm mister plow, that's my name, that name again is mister plow) You're agreeing with enthusiasm and singing barely audibly under your breath with the notes you play 'lovely Rita, meter maid, nothing can come between us'

PS

Paul's a genius.

when you got that spiderbite on your hand

If you happened to be driving down Fremont yesterday night, and you happened to see a girl standing in the rain tearing her left shoe and sock off and searching through them like mad, sorry if I disturbed you. To those of you who insisted there was nothing in my shoe, I'll have you know that I woke up this morning with a bite the size of a small island nation on my ankle. It hurt like hell.

Happy birthday Bill,Brendan, and coffee delivery guy. Presents of various assortments for everyone.

Sorry Charlies, 11:30pm Saturday. transcribed from notebook.

I am going to try to explain this to you.

There is a stuffed swordfish over the call window and miniature cereal boxes sitting atop the pie case. The tables in the restaurant side are classic greasy spoon booths, but 2 tables away you are in the piano bar.
An ancient man plays a baby grand like water flowing over rocks. A man in his sixties is singing opera in Italian. It's open mic. 2 tables over and the lights go dim, but on our side, the booth and restaurant side, it's diner bright.
There is a feeling like this is one of those dreams that starts out great and threatens to turn bad but never quite does. It just continues being a kind of correct only the dream can fabricate.
Now there's a girl singing a beautiful and jaunty version of That's Amore, and the old man pours out a life of experience over the keys.

I'm overwhelmed. I want to preserve this thing. "When I have a brand new hairdo..." I want a piece of my DNA to be left on a fragment of time. I want to be able to come back to this emotion, to this light, to that old man playing the piano and the girl in the corner smoking cigarettes and the guy with the date who's way way too young for him and they both know it and the waitress who's older than my mom and the juice you can only get out of the bar spicket. I want to come back to meticulously peeling this lable and tugging at my socks and borrowing this jacket that smells like my friend who has gone to find his pen. I want to grab hold of this moment and kiss it with my tounge. "Who enjoys being a guy, loving a giiiiiiirrrrrllllll like meeeeeee..."

On the wall, there are charcoal pictures of a fish wearing a sailor hat crying behind a rock where a mermaid brushes her hair.

All I'm ever trying to do is draw you a picture.

Friday night, dusk. This is an evening composed of pressing pause before hitting stop. I'm surrounded by empty jewel cases, or cases with the wrong disc in them. I'm doing my best to not even look at the records, because I know they'll be totally impossible to hear. There are a few instances where I can't resist the urge.

The really sad thing is that I don't have the dedication to the idea that a mix tape means anything. I'm not saying I never did. I did. Very much so, just not anymore. If I want to tell you you're an asshole, I'm not going to make you a tape of Ween's 'Baby Bitch' or Fairy Tale of New York (but a tape with these songs and many others about what a terrible person I was has been given to me. Sure, I'll make you a copy.) I just want to take everything worth listening to and trying to orchestrate it pleasantly.

Alisha and I are supposed to go to a party at Patrick's around eleven. I've already taken a shower and put on my party shoes but I can't bring myself to get dressed. I continue to sit on the floor in a T-shirt with the words "Schmezzle Inn....Schmagger Out" printed on it, a black half slip, an apron with floral print (I was also doing the dishes. Sure don't wanna get dishwater on my schmezzle schmagger shirt.) and baby blue shoes. I'm astoundingly comfortable.

I finish the first tape. Great. Alright. I play the first song. Shit.

so the sound quality is terrible. Almost unlistenable. I remember that I had recorded over something else on this one, fast forward to the next. Bad, still, but better than the first. -I need to buy some decent stereo equipment, but am totally terrified of trying to do it alone, as I see all electronics salespeople as spokesmen for my personal financial disaster.-

The phone rings, I buzz Alisha in. I pull on a dress while she sifts through cases with the toe of her shoe.

"Makin a tape?"

"Five tapes. They sound terrible and I had to make up names for several of the songs because I couldnt find the cases."

"Yeah? Oh well. ...That's kind of great, actually."

Things suddenly don't approve of:

Weblogs with the words Blog, Babble, Ramblings, or Musings in the title.

A Family Affair being recast and rewritten and put on the air. Think of something new, dammit!

Maple Vinagrette. It ruined my lunch.

The financial businesswomen who, while signing in, made mention of the sticker I was wearing like a badass tattoo and forgot to take off this morning.

She looked at my palm and she made a magic sign

If you were wondering, the icicle turned out to be coated in neosporin,and consequently both eased my need to poke colleigate administrators in the eyes with their stay-put pens and turned my throwing shoes back into walking shoes.

I just had the 3rd most traumatic experience of my life trying to register for classes. I sat outside and cried a lot. And now I'm sitting at the reception desk and pretending not to cry a lot. (I swear, I'm not this sensitive about everything. Some things are just really really scary for me.*)

*see: Banks, Buffets, Lines with no particular specification, Crowded street festivals where everyone walks really slow, Places where I have to do something important but no one will answer my questions.

My love affair with the US postal service

If it was your birthday, or maybe you moved, would you rather I mailed you:

A: a snowglobe.
or
B: a mix tape
or
C: a decopage collage
or
D: Pictures of people you don't know with little captions written under them.
or
E: a deck of cards, a seashell, a bottle cap, and a list.

You really should pick. Particularly if I already have your address.

(I can see you craning your neck)

I jabbed an antiseptic icicle in the wound of the year. Mother and springtime say all the hurt's gotta drain out sometime. All the ill turns into strong to get ready for the frost. I am knitting all the keys that used to open things into a suit of armor, held together entirely with bailing twine and unanswered telphone calls. I will wear it all the damn time. You will see me on the street, brass reflecting sunlight, skeleton keys over skeleton and you will think I am tough shit.

Sometimes I think another winter drowning in the bathtub, pages stained with cigarette smoke, chin touching the waterline as the record skips off the side B center ring would be better than a healthy hole in my throat.


(I bump my head against the windshield.)

Say 'I like you very much'

* Walking around the lake. Natty and I run into a man on a bike walking a dog next to a woman. Natty sees: A man on a bike walking a dog next to a woman. I see: A woman making the 'You're too close to me and I'm kind of afraid' backing off motion. Man making the 'Let me get close to you. I'm going to get close to you.' motion. Dog: nervous dog motion. That is all about that.

* At the ice cream counter, a man in his sixties shovels out the pralines and cream and the reeses peanut butter double scoops. I feel terrible about this and I can't explain why. I want him to have a pipe and a bathrobe and not be here at all, but maybe this is what he wants to be doing. I feel sick.

* This morning, riding home from sleeping on the couch after watching steve martin as the monkey boy. The sun is just at the point where you are blinded at the creast of every hill, and there are a lot of hills here.

Eyelash Code

I shut my eyes tight and placed my fingers over the dots that tell me where J and F are. asdf jkl; Ready? Go. I let go all the "Hey, listen, I know it's been a long time and all Hey, I hope you're doing well and I just thought I'd write and Hey, You can be such an asshole without even trying and Hey, do you wanna get some coffee sometime so we can talk about and Hey and Hey and Hey" and instead, I put out the simple plan.

"Hey you,

You wanna talk now?

From me."

And maybe You doesn't want to talk anymore. That's okay with me. It'll make several parties and weddings and other social occasions terribly awkward for both of us, but we've each made the effort at different times, and perhaps we both have failed.

Five Reasons I've loved You: a dedication to the annonymous fancy


A
1: We were in the same grade, but you went to the alternative school.

2: You rode your BMX racer all over town, even in winter.

3: You wore a leather jacket with a Black Sabbath patch.

4: You hated smelling like cigarettes.

5: You may honestly have been made out of 13 year old magic.

B
1: You remember the first television you saw in a window at Sears downtown.

2: You never pretended to steal my nose or pull quarters out of my ears, but you swore you'd been alive for the extinction of the dinosaurs.

3: You put chewing tobacco on my beestings.

4: You'd turn the Flintstones on when dad and I came over, and no matter how much Dad protested that you should go on watching your own program, you would insist that you'd been watching the damn Flintstones all day.

5: After they amputated your leg, you hopped down the rocky riverbank of the Snake to go fishing, first day of season.

C
1: You're 24, and you think the word Poop is totally hilarious (but you never throw it down at an inappropraite time.)

2: You once leaned over and whispered to me, "I really want to sit in that cake. Seriously."

3: You worked on a farm in the middle of nowhere.

4: You dance like a rockstar.

5: You know the code word for "my boss is standing right here, so I have to pretend this is a business related call".

The Cut


The Hole



The Horror. (Okay, It's not too horrible considering I did it in an alley, right?)

Her bus comes at 8:30.

I like to call her Little Black Dress woman. I know I've seen her in other things, but my first thought about her was "I bet she is always looking for a better version of that dress."

She carries a big handbag. One of those bags you get as a special gift with any 45 dollar drakkar noir purchase. She holds the bag on her left side which leaves her right hand free to swing. Apparently, she has to really swing her arms to get any kind of speed, but since one arm has the bag and all, she swings the other arm for both of them. It looks like she's a fast pitch softball player warming up for that big underhanded circle they use to hurtle the ball at each other. She isn't really walking much faster than anyone else, but she's exerting twice the effort, and she looks ridiculous. I know it's unfair, but except for the part where she swings her arm, I think I kind of hate her, and I really can't explain why.

I wrote it in half time just to say thanks

I called Josh from the drugstore.

"Hey, what are you doing right now?"

"Sitting around, staring at the cieling. What's up?"

"I want to cut my hair, but I don't want to do it inside. Will you help?"


We meet at Josh's and move into the alley across the street. There's a ledge with deep gutter on one side and the uneven brick alley on the other. Josh props the mirror up on his crossed legs and I straddle the ledge across from him. I wrap an old beach towell around my neck like an aviators scarf and wipe off the scissors on the corner.

We talk about the mexican man who's english vocabulary was entirely devoted to being sexy. We talk about the things 13 year old boys love to throw out the window. We talk about synapse development in teens and how fat content is affecting childhood. He adjusts the mirror on request and doesnt even flinch when I grab a significant handfull of hair and liberate it from my head. I let it fall like confetti over the grate.

"That was a big chunk. I don't think you should try to match it on the other side."

"Yeah? Lemme see. ............... Y-e-a-h. Alright. Oh well."

This is one of my favorite things about Josh. He's immensely calming in situations where others would cause catastrophic freak outs. He is "Hey Sjet? You shouldn't hold the knife like that because if you slip you'll.........okay. Just like that, yeah. Alright. Hang on, I'll get some gauze.", but he is also the one who tells me to push all my hair through the grate in order to protect myself from VooDoo.

Um, yes. Just this. Kids are big on punctuality these days.

I like it when it's new to someone else. And it is pretty sweet, except when you really really have to pee, and you still have to be polite.

So here's the thing. I hesitate to tell people about much of my childhood because I have a deep personal fear that they'll think I'm a self-obsessed hypochondriac. I don't think I was, but what if I might have been? (I'm still fucking paranoid.) So I'm going to tell you something and you can pretend like I'm making it all up as a bit of fiction, even though every bit of it happened. I will also be building an all foam and bubble bath suit for my delicate ego.

Ahem.

When I was in Junior High, I fell down all the time. It would go a little something like this. Watching Nickelodeon, 'You Can't Do That On Television' would come on, and I would jump up to turn down the volume, because for some reason, I wasn't supposed to watch Alanis Morrisette get slimed with green goop when she said "I don't know". Anyhow, I would stand up, and all the muscles in my legs would relax, and I would face plant into the gold shag carpet. Alanis would get slimed. Mom would come in and say "I told you, I don't like that program. What are you doing on the floor? Have you seen my keys? " and then walk out of the room. Eventually, she noticed that I was on the floor a lot, and we went to the doctor. He said I had a mild case of catelepsy, which is a relative of narcolepsy, and take this bottle of pills and be damned careful when you stand up. Now give me a million dollars because I'm a specialist.

So I took the pills and tried not to think about it and tried to use it to get out of gym but failed. Puberty came and went, the synapses in my brain became incased in synapsey fat, things were going okay. Or so we think. About 2 years later, middle of my junior year of high school, I was taking notes in AP history about Vietnam. I was writing something about hookers on mopeds bombing soldiers in bicycles when BAM! my face hit the desk. The history teacher/football coach (arent they all?) stopped his lecture, the gum chewing hair twirler stopped in mid twirl, the guy who spent every period drawing battlefields looked up from his missile diagram. Everything stopped. I had fallen asleep in mid blink.

I know that everyone falls asleep in school. Fine. I thought I must just be exhausted, considering that I had a job, was assistant directing a show for the local theater, went to school full time and spent any spare time driving out of state to visit my psycotic hippie boyfriend. Exhaustion. Sure. I mean, I don't really *feel* tired, but...hmm.

It progressively got worse.

If you're in the advanced class in an Idaho high school, you go to all of your classes with the same people, since there is only one 'advanced' schedule. So I discussed it with my colleagues and it was decided that someone I knew would sit behind me and grab on to the back of my sweater if I started to go under. This worked for about 2 weeks. The school called my parents. Mom sent me to school with a bag of carrots and some No-doz. She figured I couldnt go to sleep hopped up on caffeine pills and crunching. She figured wrong. I was phenomenal! It was amazing! I was named the nap champ.

I rode out most of high school that way. Any time I was confronted with a quiet situation, I would fall asleep. There was significant forehead bruising. I still graduated, and did reasonably well, considering.

So I moved to the land of barista's and coffee grounds and became an addict like the rest of this sickening city. 1 cup of coffee with milk and sugar, prior to 1pm, every day, every week, all year round. It's a good plan. I haven't fallen asleep at this job more than twice, and I take half as many naps as I did last winter. Everyone named Patrick is proud of me.

Until I went to the middle of fucking nowhere to be trapped in a house where everything is made of Jell-O or Cream-of-(insert chicken, mushroom, beef, carrot, whatever)-soup. It's my first day there, I feel fine, 2pm rolls around, mom and I are discussing dress patterns when I nod off and smack my eye on the edge of the table.

Mom screams, I scream, Lynn yells "What in God's Almighty Kingdom is going on in there?". Mom grabs my head to inspect my eye, "Honey! What happened?"

"I don't know. I just fell asleep."

"Does this happen all the time? Are you alright? Are you on drugs?"

"For goodness sakes, mother. No. I'm fine. I don't know why....wait. Wait. Thaaaaat's right. Can you ask lynn to drive me to town? I need to get a cup of coffee."

"Oh sonya. You know that's not good for you."

"neither is hitting my head on the table."

when I decide to stay here


Southern Idaho is a contradiction. It's a valley of plenty, with heavy fruit dropping off the trees as you drive by at 15 miles per hour (the speed limit is 20 all over town, no one goes over 17.), it's a city park with an old swimming pool across the street from the drugstore with the hard candy still in jars along one wall, and the druggist in his white smock and small spectacles. It's also a desert wasteland of unemployment, small minds, meth labs in decrepit houses surrounded by malnourished angry dogs.
Small planes fly over small towns and all the residents go inside for the air raid of DDT. The spray has been known to cause birth defects, but the livestock will die within a week from the mosquito bites if something isnt done.

The sunsets are amazing. They are shredded bridesmaid dresses thrown into the canal. They are Jell-o of every flavor mixed with whipcream covering the table at the potluck. They are packaging peanuts and melted crayons on a tremendous cake platter. The sunsets are magnificent because of the great plumes of smoke being released by the constant wildfires. There are no trees on the surrounding hills, so the sun sets on all sides. The mosquitos could have sucked all the blood out of my body in the time it took me to take it all in. I went inside and covered the bumps with toothpaste

Mom and I are staying at my aunt lynn and uncle hurcamurs house. We used to come every summer for two or three weeks at a time until I was old enough to get a job. Every detail of the house is familiar and stagnant. The brown ceramic owls perched on the driftwood have always been there. The velvet painting of the watermill over the gold floral couch has always been there. The house feels like a captured moment of my youth. Lynn puts her short gray hair up in curlers twice a week. Hurcamur smells like stetson and motor oil, and says "Well Hello!" when he hears the front door open. Mom sleeps in the blue room, I sleep in the end room in the bed with the light and the afghan bedspread that my toes get stuck in. Hurcamur snores and it sounds like frogs on the windowsill.

All I wanna do is to thank you...

Yesterday I was rescued from my rainy trot in a soggy cotton sweater when a nicey-pants named Cynthia honked, pulled over, and gave me a ride. I'm not endorsing this behavior: I've certainly never taken any other rides offered by strangers. You might think my ability to shun such rides is due to smarts, but I think it really comes from riding around with my Uncle Newel when I was a child. Uncle Newel used to enjoy pulling up to hitchhikers and asking them "Tired of walking?" When they said "yes" he'd say "Try running!" and pull away in a bitchin' Camaro screech of wheels.

This is, mind you, the same uncle who has scars on his belly from the schrapnel of the exploded PVC pipe gun he made as a child.

Faux Sonya

*All right, all right: my Uncle Newel did not actually own a Camaro, bitchin' or otherwise. He was, however, an entomology professor at Eastern New Mexico University and the first time I ate tacos was at his house.