retard. I mean retired.

For a year now I convincingly told myself that Facebook was a wonderful place to connect to my friends, old and new. So valuable! So awesome, this World Wide Web social place! I only know it's been a year because it's been a year since I quite writing; which was the only really valuable thing I've done on www since April 7, 2010.

It's over now. Whew. I can put it past. I'm done being a voyeur. I'm done being voyeured. If you really, really want to know what I'm doing and how my children are ... call me. P.S. I'm still taking texts.

Facebook is a life substitute. I want my 15 minutes, per 365 days back. How much is that? Hold on. That's 5,475 minutes. That's 92 hours. That's two weeks unpaid vacation for someone. Obviously I know I can't have it back. It's over now. I will make sure it doesn't sucker-punch me again though. Stupid.

Almost Amish

It's true, we don't have cable, satellite or even one of those wire deals with aluminum foil on top of the television. Truth. We do own a TV, it's flat and you can put a piece of round plastic in it and a movie will appear.

It's true, we don't have texting on our phones. We did, now we don't. I want to spend time with my family. What I don't want is to sit in a room for hours and never have eye contact with someone because they are typing to a person who lives across the U.S., a person they've never met. I don't want that.

"Oh my God, we're almost Amish," Danae said when I informed her we were stopping the text message feature. Oh. No. You. Didn't. The Amish don't drive an H3. The Amish don't have cell phones or flat TVs. They don't shop at Banana Republic, then occasionally stop at Starbucks for a 1000 calorie beverage. They don't do this. Amish. Pfff.

I'm not 80 yet, but I do remember a time when we talked, face-to-face. We took walks together, climbed trees and ran through cornfields. The Amish do these things. So I tell Danae to climb a tree, run until she can't breathe and then turn around and do it again, and then tell me how it felt to have her heart pumping real blood. Afterwards, I'll churn some butter and knead the bread. We'll have Daddy chop some wood for the electric range and before dark, we'll sit together and watch a good flick until God turns off the power - just like the Amish almost do.

The Dead Seal

Within a five foot square of Imperial Beach, I found a soft green piece of sea glass, an electric cordless beard shaver – without metal blades – an indistinguishable plastic toy-thing, and the approximately, two-week old carcass of a once brown Seal – eyes gone. I made phone calls. Seals are federally protected: dead or alive. (I’m new to this, bear with me.)

“It is the responsibility of the planet to take the seal,” the woman stated. She works with a local protect-the-seal group. I agree that it is. However, it seems the planet’s slacking off on its responsibilities and shouldn't the Seal be allowed a decent burial. Don’t we all deserve that much? Does anyone have a small boat, could you just drag its body out a little bit and let its life disperse with dignity?

The Seal waits on the rocks at the southernmost end of Sea Coast Dr. Two people and some rope, forget the boat. It had a life just as we do; it’s now gone, as ours will be too. I know all of you here feel a part of the ocean. Salt water runs through our veins too. Two people, tops.

Anniversary of me

Here I am: 48. It's a good number I think. Every year on my birthday, if I'm able, I give myself my favorite gift; I go to the ocean and I dip my toes for luck and best wishes. My family went along for the trip and it was good today. Although Caleb has been on the beach half-a-dozen times, this time he noticed sand. He let it run through his fingers, over and over. Instinctively he knew he'd not enjoy eating it, so he didn't taste. Since we were at Imperial Beach, I'm glad he didn't. California's neglected, illegitimate dirty child of sand, surfers and sewage. Tijuana sewage. Unacceptable for swimming more than half the days of the year. U.S. waters included. Mexico doesn't have the money to change their relic waste system. Mexico's neighbor spends money on wars. Seems kind of shitty.

By the way, those billions of tons of plastic that were driven out onto the beautiful ocean and dumped. It's broken down into a trillion pieces. It won't sink; it's floating onto the beach. It's floating into the mouths of ocean residents - you know, fish and mammals - dolphins, whales, those kinds of mouths.

Everything buried surfaces. Everything that lives and dies in the water hopes you are given equal treatment one day. Birthday wish: May the excrement of a six hundred and seventy three thousand fishes fly from the ocean depths, through the air onto the windows and sidewalks of your home, while you are mowing.

Happy birthday to me. Ohana ... Mahalo and Aloha.

stripped

I had my "numbers" done recently. That's where your birth month, day, and year are added, subtracted and some other mathematical procedures combine to give you a final number. This is your magical number. Your entire life can be summed up with this number. You should have no questions remaining once you know your number.

Mine is a seven. I read what a seven's traits are, and the previous mistakes made by my former self in that other life I had once, and who should avoid me, so on, and so forth. But for me the most striking part was when the author mentioned this, "You will only reach fame posthumously, if at all." What. Seriously? So basically for someone hoping for fame who received this news could pretty much just give up trying. Forver. But all seriousness aside, you now know with absolute certainty that if I'm not taking any of this seriously, then neither should you. Give me a break people.

So, I met Tabby. Tabby stripped my hair. My hair is absent of color. I like it. It goes with everything. And the bonus? I know someone from Ecuador. Do you know that in certain places in the world girls pour beer on their skin before going out to sun bathe, to make themselves a "golden" brown? I shit you not. They do. Why mess around with the coconuts when the beer is right there, chill and ready.

You know how certain people appeal to you and others do not? Those are the numbers. There are several ways of doing the math. You ask yourself a series of questions. Number one. How many times in the first five minutes of meeting so-and-so, did they smile at you? How many times in the first five minutes of meeting so-and-so did they roll their eyes at you when they didn't think you were watching them? Do you see the pattern? Then there's the other way: birth day, month, etc ... blah.

Anyway, Ecuador, beer ... yea, yea. I heard you can live cheaply and well near the equator and it stays consistently warm. All. Year. Long. Are you feeling it? Me too. I'm pretty sure we should all go to Ecuador and get tan. There are way less people than ... here. Before everyone rushes out to buy property, let me take a quick run down there and check things out. And let's keep it on the low-low. Wait for my call.

Oh! Yes, while I'm gone, could someone talk to a few experts about this whole pole-shifting fear and find out what will happen to the countries, say, on the equator. Should be safe, right? I'll call you.

Once on Maui

They told me many things: 600 curves, 54 one-lane bridges, three hours to drive 30 miles. Numbers crack me up. There can always be adjustments. I'm a good driver; I can drive 30 miles in less time than their supposed calculated stories. Three hours. Ridiculous.

The numbers were all correct. It does take hours and hours to drive the road to Hana. It's a little scary and a lot beautiful. Wild plumeria, bananas, coconuts and waterfalls with every turn. Depending on whether you are driver or passenger you can also see the drop-straight-down cliff that will take you to your maker if you don't keep your eyes straight ahead.

I took my three teenagers to Maui for Valentine's day. It seemed unreasonable to not take that road - it's what you do if you're on the island. I was the only licensed driver and knowing what I know now, I would never be a passenger on that road. My fate stays in my hands.

Teenagers love music, me too, but not that day. Everyone was required to stay completely silent. I have neurological short-wire issues and can only listen to one thing at a time, otherwise I must put on a stocking cap and try to block the second and third things. So we enjoyed the beauty of silence. The colors of peace are emerald, fuchsia and juicy mango orange. The smell of silence is earthy, like dirt and rainfall mixing together and then sliding over ancient rocks spiced with mildew and moss.

I didn't know I could drive two miles per hour, but I can! My kids were terrified and delighted in the same exact moment. This is the road. Forget the Autobahn. It's much harder to drive slow than fast - it takes guts my friend. When you arrive, you will find that if you stand in one spot and slowly turn, every single view, every degree is one of sea sprayed magic. You will feel alive.

I made a promise to some short Hawaiian guy in pink and blue tattered shorts (he said he was God and I would crash and burn to ash on the return trip if I did not follow his instructions) that I mustn't tell anyone what was really in Hana and my superpower is my ability to keep my word, so ... yea, just go to Hana.

nasal passage

Dear God,
I can't breathe. This is how my life is going for two days, continuously, every three minutes: I sneeze, sniffle, blow my nose, cough and then my eyes water. Sneeze. Sniffle. Blow ... got it?

My husband brought this germ home. He says, "Pablo gave it to me." Sounds fishy to me. He's never mentioned a Pablo. Throughout our home and in both vehicles we have hand sanitizer. We are supposed to sanitize. Continuously! Pablo's mist made its way into my sanctuary. The husband stayed in bed for two days. Then the poor little six-month-old baby got it. Baby went on antibiotics. Youngest daughter, now me. I cursed my symptom-free daughter and told her I couldn't wait for her to get it since she seemed to think we were such exaggerated, dramatic people she has to endure living with. I don't think it's a good parent who curses viruses on their children, but if you had seen her face, you would have done the same exact thing. Trust me.

There's nothing left to do in this situation but to take drugs. I know, I know. Here's a pill, there's a pill. Pill popper. I just can't see suffering. I'm pretty sure Jesus would have taken something too. Anyway ... Sudafed. AKA: pseudoephedrine, AKA: crack. It's almost midnight. I only took half of the recommended dose cause I'm ultra sensitive and I'm messed up.

Every three minutes has now spread out to about every 15 minutes and that is so cool. My hair's a fright. I am in extremely mix-matched clothes and my family disappeared hours ago without telling me goodnight. My family's frightened. Thanks a-freaking-lot, frickin Pablo, ghost boy. Retard.

dope

I have one thing to say: Vicadin, Vicidan ... however it is spelled ... sucks. Your back aches, your sister says, "Here, this will help." You take it, and in 20 minutes you are transported to Magic MushroomLand. I like CindyLand better; it's kind of like CandyLand but less sweet, sort of tangy, but not bitter.

It's good though to try something once and fully determine that you won't try it again. I've always been more of a If-I-don't-like-it-once, I'll-try-it-twice sort of person, but now that I think about it that only pertains to foods, like octopus. I love octopus. Hate Vicodan. (Whatever. Spell check approves none of them.)

I'm losing it. Christmas is in two days and we are packing to move in six. The punch: we haven't found a place to rent. What the hell. Looks like we are going back to Oceanside into our original condo; which isn't all bad, it's 400 steps from the water. Yessssssssssssssss.

Merry Christmas.

Five months in Chula Vista.

Mia said, “Write like your life depends on it.” I’m not quite there, but my feet are sinking in the hot dirt - I can see tiny trails of dust stirring from my movement.

I’ve gotten fat since we moved from the water. I get fat when I’m unhappy. My heart’s crying for the ocean. I hear tears splattering against the inside of my chest. I want to run to the shore and put my toes into its perimeters. I want water kisses from the Pacific. Beautiful, blue, wet kisses. I’m afraid if I leave it this time I might possibly wither into death. I know what my oxygen’s are; my children and the ocean are a few. Oxygen keeps us alive.

On a completely unrelated note: I’ve begun to only trust the numbers … the words consistently lie. Show me the chemistry, an equation, that concludes that vinegar possesses the same bacteria-killing properties as chlorine bleach. I want to see the microscopic plate proving death by vinegar. Is rice fermentation the equivalent of a rotted apple? How many days must a fruit brown and assault our senses? Show me, add and subtract – prove the math.

I think about this stuff. I obsess really. Is this worry? I guess if you don’t stop thinking about something that makes you somewhat fearful, then you are worrying. It seems like such a simple concept, to stop worrying, doesn’t it? You just say, "Hey. No more of that thought pattern." The protection of the environment is killing me. I see headlines, "Environment survives, concerned being dies from worry, exhaustion and possible fruit infection. Funeral at the landfill, Wednesday at 2 p.m."

Our house is rented. We must move on. Chula Vista could never have become home, it's too far from the water.

Hey Jodie ...

While you are still their whole life, let the kids fill up your sad places. Just remember they will break your heart, maybe lie to you, but they will remember that you loved them and they will come back when they are done being kids. You can be the one person on the planet that they can count on to lean on.

We all need one person.


Happy Birthday. I'm glad you're on this planet; you are a beautiful person and I love you exactly the way you are.

Girlie Men

It’s late, I’m exhausted and even though I had a million thoughts today, I can’t think of a single thing to write about. I could write about how it was 7:11 this morning and it seemed too early to get started with the day. I forced my eyes shut and awoke again at 9:22 – much more reasonable. I made in-the-bed phone calls. I was comfortable and I had simple questions. People were suspicious of my sultry voice and asked what I was doing. My reply was nothing because I was doing nothing.

It might be better if I wrote about my phone conversation with my son where he again accused me of trying to make him gay – this has become a habitual statement - it just kills me. It cracks me up. It’s effing hilarious. I told him of a recent conversation with a 25-year-old Verizon manager with divine blue eyes who confided in me that as a child, and the youngest son, his sisters would decorate him in dresses. He didn’t really seem that distressed but now I wonder if he too is harboring secret anger and goddamn it, very soon his family is going to pay. (Strangers tell me things, and I’m not sure yet why they feel the necessity of sharing – it’s … kind of weird but I kind of like it.)

I reminded my son that I never put him in dresses and he said, “You dressed me as a girl.”

“Not true,” I replied.

“You did. You put me in Demi’s pink outfit!”

I reminded him that was an emergency situation involving a lack-of-toilet issue and a lack of backup clothing – he was six. For 16 years he has believed that because he had a human accident and had to wear a Tweety Bird, pink and white checkered outfit, with a darling little hood on it, for an hour tops, (I drove home immediately) that I tried to make him gay. Jesus. Where’s Bill Nye?

Quickly, I asked if the phone was clicking on his end because my end was. He said he heard clicking too, and I told him to hang up immediately because the government was listening in. He laughed, paused, and said, “Seriously?”

I laughed and said, “No! Gay!” (I didn’t, but I wanted to in the worst possible way.)

The only thing I can establish about this day is that if in the future, I, or someone cruel and trippy like myself, solicit you to wear something pink and Disney related – I REPEAT - IF IT IS GENDER SPECIFIC CLOTHING, DO NOT PUT IT ON UNLESS YOU WANT TO CHANGE YOUR SEXUAL PREFERENCES. I have religious and scientific evidence that you will be traumatized and possibly permanently skewed. (Sorry about the pink clothes buddy; nobody knows, it’s our secret – shhh.)

Hairy

My eyebrows have gotten out of control.

I have one of those super-duper magnifying mirrors, and a few weeks ago I decided that my brows were looking like a forgotten autumn garden. I wanted them to grow just a little more; I wanted more of a crop. So, I let them go. It’s not going so well. Correction, I thought it was going well until I looked into that blasted mirror this afternoon.

Without the mirror I definitely had the whole Frida Kahlo deal happening, and it was a little disturbing to be honest with you, but you gotta see these things through. Close up, in that mirror: Abe Lincoln. Carl Malden. Dear God, help me, I have Albert Einstein eyebrows. I ran for a tape measure for the utmost mathematical accuracy. I had a hair hanging over my eye, attached to my skin that measured a smidgen over one-half inch. I’m a woman for Christ’s sake how is this possible? Okay, okay! There were several. More than a couple. What’s happening? Am I alone here? Anybody out there?

I am all alone. I am me - Long Brows. I recommend the magnification of one’s face; just don’t take it personally when it’s all over with. Be thankful that you saw it before somebody else. The bastards can be cruel.

I need a professional facial hair person. I drove to a cosmetic surgeon’s office; it was 1:24 this afternoon. (I noticed their sign after a dentist’s appointment awhile back, in the beautiful, tall, tiled building with warning signs posted that say, “Watch for falling tile.” I’m not kidding.) The damn door was locked, lights off. I don’t understand what’s happening. I have questions. I need answers. First, somebody tell me why a new, ten-story building was tiled with eight by eight squares using bad glue. Who does that?

I need a professional facial hair person, everything else will fall into place. Where will it fall? Nobody's quite sure yet; they've left the building. Shit's falling; shit's growing. What's one to do?

Nice after 10 a.m.

November 30, 2009

The whole thing with disconnecting the Internet from your house - is tough! I am accomplishing what I wanted: I am focused and we are moving forward, working and learning. Twice this week the whole family was sitting together in the living room just talking. No shit. So, there is definitely that positive side to the situation. However, today I feel like whining about the shitty side.

My mom called at 9:10 a.m. “Are you sleeping?”

“No, I’m in the garage doing laundry,” I replied. Doing laundry in the garage is weird to me. It’s a warm weather thing, I know – it doesn’t change the weirdness for me.

We proceeded to talk; me being passionate that I am, rose above an acceptable range of emotion and was a little hurt that my niece didn’t call me to ask for a personal favor. Hurt, because I would do anything for my nieces and nephews. I was there while they grew; I know these kids; I love these kids. It felt like they didn’t know it, and I was a little disappointed. Have I let them down? I try to remember every birthday and I give them random “Good night, I love you” texts. Have I been careless with them? If so, I am sorry. Sorry.

Is it me? Or have others been careless with me? I think we’ve all participated.

I couldn’t give mom the response she wanted, and I don’t like to let my mom down, but at this stage I have to stand my ground. It’s not about love. I love her.

The conversation didn’t go well, but it didn’t get out of control either. I had commented early in the conversation that I wait until after 10 a.m. to call people because they tend to me nicer. Near the end of the call, mom gracefully asked what time it was in California. I said, “I’ve got 45 minutes to go.”

She said, “I’ll call you back.” We said goodbye. I think this story ended perfectly well, thank you very much.

Oh God

You have not known beautiful weather unless you have spent a winter in southern California. The moment you walk out the door and the sunshine hits your face and bare toes; you breathe deeply and think, yes God, thank you for this one.

Don't forget every morning is the chance to start all over again. (Not my words.)

Sunshine is my drug. Dip me in an ocean a couple of times and you have a happy woman, bitch free.

Peace.

Bugs

It is November 18, 2009

Some crazy little Mexican doctor thinks my temperament is too high, he thinks I should be regulated. I’ve been too emotional for everyone’s comfort – even my own. The only people not raising a cry from me are Jodie (we just don’t talk) and … that’s it. So I can not react to hurt and pain only if I avoid someone? That’s insane.

So if I’m included in this discomfort, then it only makes sense to take a damn pill. So there you have my opinion of it, the damn pill. Said it twice. Do I want to be in pain, crying, dejected, or do I go it real? I can't make out the difference. So I’ll take the pill. What makes a person cry? Constantly? A high temperament apparently, whatever the hell that means.

Someone who had visited the town once asked how I survived Muscatine … with the projectile-vomiting people at Holiday Inn or that sickening smell that continuously blows from Kent? Or the millions of fucking bugs! And I read these things, and I figured something out (Yes, Something wants out.) I went from millions of fucking bugs to millions of fucking people. I can’t handle anything in the millions! What an enormous realization! I need a fucking mountain.

(Stay off my punctuation. I hear things differently.)

the pen salesman

After much long, arduous thought, I now know that I should have married that pen salesman. Finding the exact pen takes years. The ink must flow from its well in a precise rhythm. The circumference must fit neatly between my woman's thumb and index finger. And for anyone who understands what I'm talking about: it must slide across the paper at a precise speed: slow, steady, soft. You think I'm joking. I assure you, I am not.

I can't find any damn pens this morning. Something is shaking my bones. I went to bed at midnight, woke at 1:30, and rose at 5:19. I'm all juiced up with strong coffee, ready to take on the bills, the blown-off writing moment, the emails to people I'm not really sure care to hear from me that much. Or-gan-iz-ation. Ready. I can't find a pen, not even a bad one.

If I had only married that pen salesman. He would buy me boxes from his company at low, unheard of prices. I would wait in the fat brown chair in the living room; he would walk in with a box; he would spill the pens on the floor, smile and say, "Honey. I'm home." I would drop to my knees, and I would inspect them carefully making sure I didn't get a second.

Maybe then I would be a real writer ... if I owned a thousand good pens.

I've never met a pen salesman. But I'm thinking that would have been good.

if i die before i wake

There's a little you don't know about me ... I worry that I'm a speck, an etcetera. I don't believe I have a set day to leave the planet. I have to stay out of the middle of the road. I believe I came from the ocean and I keep returning; I cry sometimes, afraid I can't stay. The first thing I do in the morning is take a deep breath of the sea and it feels like the most oxygen I've ever had. Ever. You should know that my kids are everything. They are sweet purple grapes and freshly mowed grass; big smiles and twinkly eyes; hot buttermilk biscuits and sleepy-morning Sundays. My heart filled up from little kid hugs and "I-love-you-mommy-kisses" I'm so proud of each of them - I hope we will be great friends, always.

I'm terribly lonely and it seldom goes away. I cry sometimes, afraid it won't go away. I miss my kids. They are my friends. I wish my mom was happier. I love my husband and I worry because he drifts when he's driving. I want to be a better swimmer. Wild ginger is my favorite scent. I survived the road to Hana. If I could do it over, I wouldn't have had knee surgery. I like anesthesia. I wish I could live forever and just have good naps. I was a fast runner in elementary school. I like to be Arizona-desert hot and then jump into an ice-cold pool.

I hate driving. I want to be driven.

Head Ache

I'm currently in the presence of a two-day headache. Let's see what it brings forth.

Never mind. Fuck it.

Tijuana time

This will not be profound. Well, I guess I've already established that with my previous entries.

One pickle jar, small; one empty bleach bottle; a half empty oil container; a very unfashionable charcoal-colored coat, size ... I'm not looking that closely. These are not items that I put on today's shopping list. These are items that I picked up from entangled brush and weeds near the Mexico border as a contributing hand at today's Surfrider.org's "No B.S." clean up project in the Tijuana River Valley. I was late. I was militant. There were no porta-potties. I had issues. I had to leave early. I helped some. I made a dent, a difference.

I'm off to show my grandson penguins. At four months old he is now aware. I am in love with this fuzzy warm little baby. He's on my lap now. He is eating my hand and curling his pink toes.

Trash-picking in TJ has pumped me up. Burger King at Interstate 5 N, let me use their restroom. All things are cleaning up around San Diego. The freeway will be nuts as always. I wish everyone drove slow. This is why I walk - it's slow.

Penguins are slow. Time means everything to me.

Oral Opening

So, I went to the dentist yesterday.
She smiled.
She hurt me.

Sadists are mean.
They smile alot with their gleaming white teeth.