Traveling, Dogs, Traveling Dogs, and Other Musings.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Aquatic Scrotum. Badass frog.
I am intrigued by the giant frog that lives in lake Titicaca in Peru. Partly because it is giant and breathes through it's skin, partly because it is called the 'aquatic scrotum.'
Picture from the National Wildlife Federation website
Monday, November 23, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Scratching Nuns are Not Polite
fiction (crappy)
She never wanted to be trapped in an elevator with a 300 pound man who (apparently) had just gotten through with a rigorous workout and who (apparently) didn't utilize the shower in the locker room afterward. She also never wanted to be stuck on an elevator with a pack of decrepit old nuns who has a propensity for itching random places on their warped little bodies. She especially never had the yearning to be stuck on an elevator with the creepy guy who lives in the apartment four doors down who smelled of old fish and had the muddled appearance of Alf and Blanch from The Golden Girls. But there she was. She eyed the lit up buttons with scorn. They taunted her. They indicated that soon they should be approaching floor number four when in fact they were stuck in a state of oblivion between floors one and two. She was convinced the fat guy caused them all to outweigh the maximum weight capacity that was legally required to be posted in every elevator ever created.
The fat man began to stretch. He lifted his sausage arms over his head, further revealing the large pools of sweat that had accumulated in his armpit region. His dingy purple headband dripped with perspiration, and she had to shuffle to the left to avoid it hitting her shoe. Fat Man moaned slightly as he attempted to touch his fingers to his toes, and she had to resist the urge to throw up at the sight of his half-naked ass bulging up from his too-tight running shorts.
The nuns were talking quietly to themselves, while itching loudly almost in perfect unison. She inadvertently overheard a little of their conversation, catching a few words here (popcorn, scaffolding, nunchucks) and a few words there (passion, Klingon, picnic). She didn't care to know too much about the secret lives of the chronically itchy nuns.
She never wanted to be trapped in an elevator with a 300 pound man who (apparently) had just gotten through with a rigorous workout and who (apparently) didn't utilize the shower in the locker room afterward. She also never wanted to be stuck on an elevator with a pack of decrepit old nuns who has a propensity for itching random places on their warped little bodies. She especially never had the yearning to be stuck on an elevator with the creepy guy who lives in the apartment four doors down who smelled of old fish and had the muddled appearance of Alf and Blanch from The Golden Girls. But there she was. She eyed the lit up buttons with scorn. They taunted her. They indicated that soon they should be approaching floor number four when in fact they were stuck in a state of oblivion between floors one and two. She was convinced the fat guy caused them all to outweigh the maximum weight capacity that was legally required to be posted in every elevator ever created.
The fat man began to stretch. He lifted his sausage arms over his head, further revealing the large pools of sweat that had accumulated in his armpit region. His dingy purple headband dripped with perspiration, and she had to shuffle to the left to avoid it hitting her shoe. Fat Man moaned slightly as he attempted to touch his fingers to his toes, and she had to resist the urge to throw up at the sight of his half-naked ass bulging up from his too-tight running shorts.
The nuns were talking quietly to themselves, while itching loudly almost in perfect unison. She inadvertently overheard a little of their conversation, catching a few words here (popcorn, scaffolding, nunchucks) and a few words there (passion, Klingon, picnic). She didn't care to know too much about the secret lives of the chronically itchy nuns.
Unlucky
"At least I'm not pigeon-toed" he told her in a fit of rage. She threw a basket of mini muffins at him in retaliation. He ducked, and fortunately the basket flew over his head. Unfortunately the muffins cascaded out of the basket and rained down upon him. They laughed together, momentarily forgetting. But then they remembered, he realized he had blueberry crumbs embedded in his hair, she remembered how embarassed she was about her inward facing feet. One by one a whisk, a potted plant, a "Volcanos Rock!" magnet, and a small tabby cat were hurdled across the room. One by one a whisk, the broken shards of a pot, a "Volcanos Rock!" magnet, and a very disoriented tabby cat were hurded back to where they originated. Fortunately for the cat it landed on it's feet, as would be expected. Unfortunately it found nowhere good to hide after it's second ascent, so it resorted to crouching by the toaster, which was shortly thereafter flung towards the muffined man, who wasn't so fortunate this time around.
Poison Berries
Cornelia didn't like raspberries. She always got an extra-big slice of the raspberry pie that Aunt Joy bought from the shabby fruit stand on highway 5 but she couldn't stand the taste of raspberries. I think she just liked being the one with the most. The most eye shadow, the most pairs of high heels, the most phone numbers of random guys named Clint met at dirty dive bars, the most raspberry pie. She's not fooling anyone, though. We all know she scribbles the numbers herself and throws them indiscriminately around her room, and her thick application of eye shadow merely makes her look like a three-dollar hooker.
I watch Cornelia sit at the table, eating the crust off her raspberry pie. Cal sits next to her, looking like an ant next to her elephant size. Cal is smaller and paler than everyone in his grade, he doesn't go outside much. I think maybe Cals having the hardest time because he just pokes his food around on his plate, not eating at all. We have all taken a hard blow these past few days. I mean, we all thought dad was in good health but one day it's bam and he's on the floor. He had a heart-attack, I guess he didn't take enough Bayer.
So he we all are, sitting around the table at some restaurant that has menus on the table that show neon colored drinks with umbrellas in them that come in glasses shaped like pineapples. Instead of a funeral where everyone wears black my father wanted to have a party. He didn't tell anyone this, we all just knew. Cornelia wore black just to spite him, he had severely grounded her two days before he died. Cornelia begged mom to let her off since dad was no longer around to enforce the restriction, but mom said dad's death didn't nullify the fact that she got a giant tattoo of a pink snarling Doberman one drunken night in the city. Cornelia tried to claim that the tattoo was enough of a punishment (who wouldn't want a giant tattoo of an atrocious pink dog on their forearm?) but mom wouldn't budge.
Cal looks at me, momentarily making eye contact before forcing his gaze down at his Americanized burrito again. I sometimes wonder if poor Cal will ever hit puberty, if maybe his body is void of any testosterone, and now with dad being gone I worry that us girls will prevent him from ever making that leap into manhood.
"Rudy was always a good man," I hear my Uncle Hank begin a toast, "a kind man, loving father and husband. And he never got mad when I complimented that horrendous style of his. I mean, socks with sandals, come on!" Uncle Hank knows good fashion, it is in his blood. Uncle Hank, in his past, dated beefy men who wore muscle tanks and always looked unwelcomingly greasy. Recently, however, he has settled with a nice accountant named Larry who, though quite beefy himself in an odd way, is dramatically different than anyone we've seen Hank with before.
Larry sat next to Hank, sipping his glass of red wine. He became introduced to the family about a month ago but seemed to melt right in, and I'm not afraid that if I touch him I will have trouble opening lids to jars for the following week.
I realize suddenly that Cornelia is staring at me with eyes slathered in too much eyeliner. "I said, are you going to finish that?" she says, pointing with her fork to my own slice of raspberry pie. I look over at her plate, noticing that while her crust is gone there is a gigantic pile of raspberry ooze covering her plate. "No, it's yours,' I reply and reach for the menu of neon colored drinks.
I watch Cornelia sit at the table, eating the crust off her raspberry pie. Cal sits next to her, looking like an ant next to her elephant size. Cal is smaller and paler than everyone in his grade, he doesn't go outside much. I think maybe Cals having the hardest time because he just pokes his food around on his plate, not eating at all. We have all taken a hard blow these past few days. I mean, we all thought dad was in good health but one day it's bam and he's on the floor. He had a heart-attack, I guess he didn't take enough Bayer.
So he we all are, sitting around the table at some restaurant that has menus on the table that show neon colored drinks with umbrellas in them that come in glasses shaped like pineapples. Instead of a funeral where everyone wears black my father wanted to have a party. He didn't tell anyone this, we all just knew. Cornelia wore black just to spite him, he had severely grounded her two days before he died. Cornelia begged mom to let her off since dad was no longer around to enforce the restriction, but mom said dad's death didn't nullify the fact that she got a giant tattoo of a pink snarling Doberman one drunken night in the city. Cornelia tried to claim that the tattoo was enough of a punishment (who wouldn't want a giant tattoo of an atrocious pink dog on their forearm?) but mom wouldn't budge.
Cal looks at me, momentarily making eye contact before forcing his gaze down at his Americanized burrito again. I sometimes wonder if poor Cal will ever hit puberty, if maybe his body is void of any testosterone, and now with dad being gone I worry that us girls will prevent him from ever making that leap into manhood.
"Rudy was always a good man," I hear my Uncle Hank begin a toast, "a kind man, loving father and husband. And he never got mad when I complimented that horrendous style of his. I mean, socks with sandals, come on!" Uncle Hank knows good fashion, it is in his blood. Uncle Hank, in his past, dated beefy men who wore muscle tanks and always looked unwelcomingly greasy. Recently, however, he has settled with a nice accountant named Larry who, though quite beefy himself in an odd way, is dramatically different than anyone we've seen Hank with before.
Larry sat next to Hank, sipping his glass of red wine. He became introduced to the family about a month ago but seemed to melt right in, and I'm not afraid that if I touch him I will have trouble opening lids to jars for the following week.
I realize suddenly that Cornelia is staring at me with eyes slathered in too much eyeliner. "I said, are you going to finish that?" she says, pointing with her fork to my own slice of raspberry pie. I look over at her plate, noticing that while her crust is gone there is a gigantic pile of raspberry ooze covering her plate. "No, it's yours,' I reply and reach for the menu of neon colored drinks.
I am not well balanced...I am a balancing act.
Read this. Write that. Fix this. Do that. Get up. Come here. Go there. No, not there! Feel like I'm failing. Dropping the balls, not juggling at all. Putting things in a list in order of importance. Stop. Sctratch that. Erase. Priotity number one: getting my priorities straight. Ducks in a row. I think someone shot all mine and hung them in windows in Chinatown.
I'm lookin' towards the sunny side. Or at least the ray of sun that comes down through the momentary hole in the clouds. Looking and hoping I don't get blinded by the brightness. Wishing I was blind when the rain pours down. Where'd I put my fucking raincoat?
Inspiration and self-doubt come hand in hand. Great idea! But it's been written all before. Same shit, different--Words--Syntax--Diction--Direction. I've lost my map and I have always been bad at differentiating North from South. West is where the water is but that's about all I know.
Try as I may. Try as I might. Sometimes I need a finger pointing me which way to go. Sometimes I need a finger, because I've lent all mine out to other people. They take them and run. HEY THAT'S MY THUMB!
Gotta: Spend a little more time paving my own road. : Learn to be blind to that which I do not want to see. : Stop worrying that 'my best' seems to still be not what it should be. : Have a little more fun. : ?
I'm lookin' towards the sunny side. Or at least the ray of sun that comes down through the momentary hole in the clouds. Looking and hoping I don't get blinded by the brightness. Wishing I was blind when the rain pours down. Where'd I put my fucking raincoat?
Inspiration and self-doubt come hand in hand. Great idea! But it's been written all before. Same shit, different--Words--Syntax--Diction--Direction. I've lost my map and I have always been bad at differentiating North from South. West is where the water is but that's about all I know.
Try as I may. Try as I might. Sometimes I need a finger pointing me which way to go. Sometimes I need a finger, because I've lent all mine out to other people. They take them and run. HEY THAT'S MY THUMB!
Gotta: Spend a little more time paving my own road. : Learn to be blind to that which I do not want to see. : Stop worrying that 'my best' seems to still be not what it should be. : Have a little more fun. : ?
Friday, November 6, 2009
Coming Home
It had been eight years since she had been home. Eight years, two months, and sixteen days.
The air in Milwaukee felt moist and heavy, like she was breathing water. She was used to the dry air of the desert and the heavy air made her feel lazy—sluggish.
She walked up the steps to her mother’s house. She missed the funeral. She told everyone she had work that she couldn’t get out of but really she just couldn’t bring herself to go.
She had sat at the Jungle Inn just a few blocks from her childhood home, dressed in the black dress she bought at a half-off sale. Her sunglasses covered her dry eyes. After driving to the funeral parlor and sitting in the car for twenty minutes, she decided she couldn’t be around her family—couldn’t pretend to be sad when all she felt was—nothing.
Her mother had died a long death, the reason not quite known though the doctors did all they could to find out. And she hadn’t visited once, not since before her mother got sick. After that day in the Hotel Wisconsin, not after what her mother had done.
The air in Milwaukee felt moist and heavy, like she was breathing water. She was used to the dry air of the desert and the heavy air made her feel lazy—sluggish.
She walked up the steps to her mother’s house. She missed the funeral. She told everyone she had work that she couldn’t get out of but really she just couldn’t bring herself to go.
She had sat at the Jungle Inn just a few blocks from her childhood home, dressed in the black dress she bought at a half-off sale. Her sunglasses covered her dry eyes. After driving to the funeral parlor and sitting in the car for twenty minutes, she decided she couldn’t be around her family—couldn’t pretend to be sad when all she felt was—nothing.
Her mother had died a long death, the reason not quite known though the doctors did all they could to find out. And she hadn’t visited once, not since before her mother got sick. After that day in the Hotel Wisconsin, not after what her mother had done.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Hungary: Let it Lure You
If you peruse the travel websites, regularly look up the price of plane tickets 'just because,' or watch shows like incessantly, then you should probably consider Hungary as your next destination.
Situated in Eastern Europe, Hungary is full of fun things to do, amazing museums, and oddball activities.
At Statue Park in the outskirts of Budapest you can view the statues from the communist era.
Relax at the Szechenyi Baths
And take a stroll in the Buda Labyrinth
Andrew Zimmern's Bizarre World-- http://www.travelchannel.com/TV_Shows/Bizarre_World
Mememto (Statue) Park website-- http://www.szoborpark.hu/index.php?Lang=en
Travel Examiner-- http://www.examiner.com/x-17220-Oakland-Student-Travel-Examiner
Szechenyi Baths-- http://www.szechenyibath.com/
Buda Labyrinth-- http://www.labirintus.com/en
Situated in Eastern Europe, Hungary is full of fun things to do, amazing museums, and oddball activities.
At Statue Park in the outskirts of Budapest you can view the statues from the communist era.
Relax at the Szechenyi Baths
And take a stroll in the Buda Labyrinth
Andrew Zimmern's Bizarre World-- http://www.travelchannel.com/TV_Shows/Bizarre_World
Mememto (Statue) Park website-- http://www.szoborpark.hu/index.php?Lang=en
Travel Examiner-- http://www.examiner.com/x-17220-Oakland-Student-Travel-Examiner
Szechenyi Baths-- http://www.szechenyibath.com/
Buda Labyrinth-- http://www.labirintus.com/en
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Resin-ating
Come and look at my Etsy shop!
In August of 2009 I began playing around with resin. Soon after I started, I realized I couldn't stop. Now I have my own little work station, where I create pendants, magnets, light switch plates and more! Every item is unique, and are a blast to make. I have recently come to accept the fact that henceforth I will always have sticky hands.
Bittersweets
When I woke up this morning my mom was lying on the couch facedown in a pool of her own vomit—those noodles in the shapes of letters and numbers and I thought to myself ‘not again!” I halfway expected it to spell out some hidden message but all I saw was F-L-U-D-G-N-I-P, which I don’t think is even a word.
I rolled her over—she was still breathing but boy did she look like holy hell. Her hair was matted n’ tangled and there were bits of noodle stuck in it. Her lips were blue. Not baby-choking-on-a-balloon blue but water-reflecting-on-a-lake blue. I thought to myself that it was a good thing I bought those crinkly plastic covers for the couch last summer.
When I was young my mom was a real babe. She did some modeling for Coors posters. The kind of posters with blond girls in blue bikinis being splashed with beer while sitting on bright orange trucks. Those kindsa’ posters. But after the car accident eight years ago she begun drinkin a lot. She doesn’t really go outside much anymore, either. Says her face ain’t good enough to show around town anymore. The scars aren’t that noticeable but I guess when you usedta’ be on posters being splashed with beer long scars on the face are a big deal, no matter how subtle they are. The doctors patched her up pretty good but she doesn’t think so, so now she drinks all day long. She doesn’t even drink Coors, says it tastes bad which I think probably violates her old contract but she’s too drunk to care.
My mama felt so bad about herself that she didn’t even listen to my dad when he said he wanted her back, even after the accident when she had stitches up n’ down her face lookin like she was an old door patched up badly by a five-year-old learnin’ to sew.
My mama only ever really hangs out with Julisa, the maid, but half the time when I get home and Julisa’s over they’re both drunk as a bunch of Irishmen at a Saint Patrick’s day parade and fallin’ into paintings and knocking things over and definitely not cleaning. But my mom pays Julisa anyways.
After rolling my mama over I figured I should clean her off a little so I grabbed a roll of paper towels lyin’ nearby and the bottle of window cleaner because it was closer then the sink. I sprayed the paper towel, just a little, and wiped off my mama’s face. I figure if she can handle two pints of gin then she can handle a little window cleaner on her face.
I couldn’t clean her up too good cuz the bus was comin’ and I didn’t want to be late to class because I have already been late twelve times and Mr. Klarkston says that if I’m late again to Chemistry he’ll fail me.
***
So I did somethin’ stupid. I know I shouldn’ta done it but I did it anyway.
It all started at Slagner’s the Friday before last. I went there with Kristine but she got drunk real fast and ended up passin’ out in the rhododendron bush out back by the pool. I was sittin in the livingr oom just talking to Mark and Jess and Clayton and I guess I had a bit too much to drink too because next thing I know Clayton and I are up in Slagner’s parent’s room with the lights off. Clayton was on top of me and all I kept thinking’ about was why Slagner’s mom bought pillowcases with pastel roosters on them and how ugly they were.
I never woulda guessed that Clayton and I would end up there, under the heavy comforter, our heads lyin’ on ugly roosters pillows, rubbin and touchin and let me tell you it ain’t like nothing they show in the movies. And before that the extent of Clayton and my relationship was him doin’ my Chemistry homework.
Two nights later I ended up in the back seat of Carl Clyde’s Range rover.. This time it was a little more like the way the show it in the movies. It was after the football game and, although he’s not a starting player Carl is still on the football team and he is still pretty good-lookin, definitely better lookin than Clayton though probably not as smart. He told me we didn’t need to use any protection cuz he wasn’t gunna go far enough to need it but now that I think about it he was probably lying.
About a week later when we were in Chemistry class Clayton told me that during the night at Slagner’s the damn thing had broken but by then it was too late to do much about it. He looked real guilty and said sorry about two dozen times and, well, I don’t think I’ll have to worry about ever doing my homework in that class anymore.
***
I skipped school today. I just didn’t want to face anybody. I still can’t believe there’s somethin’ insida me. You’d think I would feel it, feel it crawlin around in there. But the only thing I feel is, well, I’m not too sure. It’s a life, but it’s one I don’t know that I want. I mean, who the hell am I to raise a kid? I smoked pot, I’ve gotten drunk, Hell, I screwed two guys within a week. Frankly I feel sorry for the fetus.
I got up to go pee earlier and my Mama was cookin boiling hotdogs. Her long hair was tied back in a messy ponytail. She had mismatched slippers on her feet and a stained robe was thrown over her shoulders, covering her 70s style shorts.
“What the fuck you doin here?” she asked me, a cigarette sticking out of her mouth.
“Well,” I told her, “I was about to go pee.”
“Aint you supposed to be at school?” she hiccupped, sticking a long fork into one of the hotdogs.
“Aint you supposed to be working, or cleanin the house, or taking care of your goddamn self? Jesus Mama you look like shit.” I said.
“You!” She screamed and honestly I flinched a little. My mama can be scary. “You shut the hell up!” She pointed her hotdog fork at me, waving it around. The juice fell on the floor and Jack-of-Hearts ran over to lick the mess.
“Jeez, sorry Mama I didn’t mean it.” I really didn’t want to upset her, I just didn’t like seein her like that, and it was hard not to tell her.
“It’s alright baby. You want a hotdog? This one’s for Jackie but I can make you another.” Mama smashed the hotdog into a stale piece of Wonder bread and threw it into the dog dish. Jack-of-Hearts ran up and smelled it, hesitantly, and began to eat.
“No, Mama, thanks though.” I said, watching Jack swallow hunks of the hotdog bread. Mama doesn’t buy dog food and poor jack can’t keep down the hotdog bread nine times out of ten. He just ends up throwin it up and then Mama ends up stepping in it but she don’t care.
***
I thought maybe today I was gunna get my rag cuz my I was gettin’ cramps real bad, but it turned out to just be gas from the burrito I had during lunch. Figures.
***
My Mama nearly burnt down the house today. She was tryin to warm the place up and since we don’t have any central heating she decided the easiest way would be to turn on all the burners on the stove. It was workin, It was working I guess cuz a little while later when she got up from watching her soap operas to get a glass of milk she decided to take off her sweater. I guess the arm of the sweater got a little too close to the flame and caught on fire.
My Mama started screaming and I ran out of the bathroom to see what the ruckus was and there was my mom, her head stuck in a sweater with a burning sleeve. Mama was flailing around, knocking the magnets off the fridge and spilling the milk on the counter. Poor Jack-of Hearts, our little terrier, was so scared he hid himself behind the couch.
I grabbed the closest liquid to me which happened to be an old bowl of noodle soup and I just chucked it at Mama and it did the trick. The fire went out and Mama got her head unstuck from the sweater.
“What the hell’d you do that for?” she asked sourly.
And I said “you was on fire.”
She said “wasn’t that bad.” And then she burped and I could tell she was drunk but that didn’t surprise me.
“You smell like burnt hair and vodka.” I said and went to my room, Jack-of-Hearts trailing after me. I didn’t have the nerve or heart to tell my Mama that I’d just seen the pink double line on the pee-stick and that I was basically screwed in more ways than one.
***
I told Kristine that I’m pregnant. She told me I’m a retard and to not joke about that kind of shit and then I showed her the pee stick and that sure shut her up.
“Planned parenthood has a vacuum that’ll suck the thing right outa you,” she said.
I told her I didn’t know what I was gunna do yet cuz I don’t like the idea of killing an innocent baby but every time I think of a little person growing inside of me it makes me sick. I’m just glad babies don’t pop out of people’s backs like those Surinam toads from South America The eggs get laid in the toad’s back and a little while later the little puss-bubble lookin things pop open and baby frogs crawl out. I think I would just die if that’s how it happened with people. Just die.
I haven’t told Clayton or Carl yet, that’s for sure.
To be honest the whole idea of babies is disturbing. Carl is cute but is dumber than the boy in fifth grade who thought that earthworms were baby snakes, and I have somewhat of a small head and Clayton, though being the smartest people I know, has somewhat of a large body—so I’m sure if it was his kid it would come out lookin’ like one of them pinheads in that Freaks movie that one guy ruined his career over. So I’d either have a cute-as shit dumb-ass baby or an ugly-as-shit smart-ass baby and frankly none of those sounds too good.
***
After school I went to the supermarket to get some juice and just for the hell of it I walked down the baby-goods aisle. Everything was new an shiny. There were fourteen different types of diapers. Some had baby polar bears on em and some had puppies or kittens or quite little robots. But I think it’s all bullshit. Ain’t no smilin’ princess face on the front of a diaper gunna mask the smell of baby shit. I want to smack the smile off those pretty princess faces.
I got bought a magazine with a happy lookin pregnant woman on the front. It showed her sittin on a big swollen couch that had big exotic leaves on the throw pillows. She was sittin next to a man who looked like he had walked right off the set of a Gillette commercial and a well groomed collie. I’d be happy too. Instead I got two possible daddies and a bulimic terrier.
When I got home my mama and Julisa were watching old country music videos, singing into an empty gin bottle as if it were a microphone. Julisa always wears short skirts that show off her plump legs. My mama’s eyeliner was smeared on her face but I didn’t tell her. I just grabbed Jack-of-Hearts and went into my room. I can still hear them out in the living room, but now they’ve switched to singin show tunes. My mama would make a terrible grandma.
***
It’s been three weeks since I found out. I tried talking to Kristine about it, whether or not I should go through with it, but she’s too wrapped up in her own drama. Apparently Jason, the dick she’s been ridin in the last two weeks, may or may not have hooked up with Julie, the school whore, after the dance last week. Frankly I don’t give a fuck. She started blabbing on and on about it and eventually I just hung up on her. Sometimes it seems like we’re only friends cuz we had homeroom together and were assigned to sit next to one another.
Seems these days Jack-of-Hearts is the only one I can talk to, and he’s not real good at giving advice.
Earlier today my Mama fell on her face after downing a bottle of wine. She hit her mouth on the side of the couch and knocked out some teeth. I wasn’t home. Thankfully. These days I stay pretty much in my room. It’s too risky to be out and about in the rest of the house, what with Mama always fallin out of her chairs and droppin things and generally being drunk. The house smells like old spaghetti and sour milk. Except my room. I use incense I get for ten cents down at the supermarket.
***
I’m gunna drive down south to visit my dad—I figure maybe he’ll know what to do. I know I’m cutting’ it close and that pretty soon I’ll have the damn thing out of default. It’s just gunna be me and frogbaby, that’s what I’m callin it now. Weirdly enough, I’m startin to get used to the thing.
When I woke up this morning my mom was lying on the couch facedown in a pool of her own vomit—those noodles in the shapes of letters and numbers and I thought to myself ‘not again!” I halfway expected it to spell out some hidden message but all I saw was F-L-U-D-G-N-I-P, which I don’t think is even a word.
I rolled her over—she was still breathing but boy did she look like holy hell. Her hair was matted n’ tangled and there were bits of noodle stuck in it. Her lips were blue. Not baby-choking-on-a-balloon blue but water-reflecting-on-a-lake blue. I thought to myself that it was a good thing I bought those crinkly plastic covers for the couch last summer.
When I was young my mom was a real babe. She did some modeling for Coors posters. The kind of posters with blond girls in blue bikinis being splashed with beer while sitting on bright orange trucks. Those kindsa’ posters. But after the car accident eight years ago she begun drinkin a lot. She doesn’t really go outside much anymore, either. Says her face ain’t good enough to show around town anymore. The scars aren’t that noticeable but I guess when you usedta’ be on posters being splashed with beer long scars on the face are a big deal, no matter how subtle they are. The doctors patched her up pretty good but she doesn’t think so, so now she drinks all day long. She doesn’t even drink Coors, says it tastes bad which I think probably violates her old contract but she’s too drunk to care.
My mama felt so bad about herself that she didn’t even listen to my dad when he said he wanted her back, even after the accident when she had stitches up n’ down her face lookin like she was an old door patched up badly by a five-year-old learnin’ to sew.
My mama only ever really hangs out with Julisa, the maid, but half the time when I get home and Julisa’s over they’re both drunk as a bunch of Irishmen at a Saint Patrick’s day parade and fallin’ into paintings and knocking things over and definitely not cleaning. But my mom pays Julisa anyways.
After rolling my mama over I figured I should clean her off a little so I grabbed a roll of paper towels lyin’ nearby and the bottle of window cleaner because it was closer then the sink. I sprayed the paper towel, just a little, and wiped off my mama’s face. I figure if she can handle two pints of gin then she can handle a little window cleaner on her face.
I couldn’t clean her up too good cuz the bus was comin’ and I didn’t want to be late to class because I have already been late twelve times and Mr. Klarkston says that if I’m late again to Chemistry he’ll fail me.
***
So I did somethin’ stupid. I know I shouldn’ta done it but I did it anyway.
It all started at Slagner’s the Friday before last. I went there with Kristine but she got drunk real fast and ended up passin’ out in the rhododendron bush out back by the pool. I was sittin in the livingr oom just talking to Mark and Jess and Clayton and I guess I had a bit too much to drink too because next thing I know Clayton and I are up in Slagner’s parent’s room with the lights off. Clayton was on top of me and all I kept thinking’ about was why Slagner’s mom bought pillowcases with pastel roosters on them and how ugly they were.
I never woulda guessed that Clayton and I would end up there, under the heavy comforter, our heads lyin’ on ugly roosters pillows, rubbin and touchin and let me tell you it ain’t like nothing they show in the movies. And before that the extent of Clayton and my relationship was him doin’ my Chemistry homework.
Two nights later I ended up in the back seat of Carl Clyde’s Range rover.. This time it was a little more like the way the show it in the movies. It was after the football game and, although he’s not a starting player Carl is still on the football team and he is still pretty good-lookin, definitely better lookin than Clayton though probably not as smart. He told me we didn’t need to use any protection cuz he wasn’t gunna go far enough to need it but now that I think about it he was probably lying.
About a week later when we were in Chemistry class Clayton told me that during the night at Slagner’s the damn thing had broken but by then it was too late to do much about it. He looked real guilty and said sorry about two dozen times and, well, I don’t think I’ll have to worry about ever doing my homework in that class anymore.
***
I skipped school today. I just didn’t want to face anybody. I still can’t believe there’s somethin’ insida me. You’d think I would feel it, feel it crawlin around in there. But the only thing I feel is, well, I’m not too sure. It’s a life, but it’s one I don’t know that I want. I mean, who the hell am I to raise a kid? I smoked pot, I’ve gotten drunk, Hell, I screwed two guys within a week. Frankly I feel sorry for the fetus.
I got up to go pee earlier and my Mama was cookin boiling hotdogs. Her long hair was tied back in a messy ponytail. She had mismatched slippers on her feet and a stained robe was thrown over her shoulders, covering her 70s style shorts.
“What the fuck you doin here?” she asked me, a cigarette sticking out of her mouth.
“Well,” I told her, “I was about to go pee.”
“Aint you supposed to be at school?” she hiccupped, sticking a long fork into one of the hotdogs.
“Aint you supposed to be working, or cleanin the house, or taking care of your goddamn self? Jesus Mama you look like shit.” I said.
“You!” She screamed and honestly I flinched a little. My mama can be scary. “You shut the hell up!” She pointed her hotdog fork at me, waving it around. The juice fell on the floor and Jack-of-Hearts ran over to lick the mess.
“Jeez, sorry Mama I didn’t mean it.” I really didn’t want to upset her, I just didn’t like seein her like that, and it was hard not to tell her.
“It’s alright baby. You want a hotdog? This one’s for Jackie but I can make you another.” Mama smashed the hotdog into a stale piece of Wonder bread and threw it into the dog dish. Jack-of-Hearts ran up and smelled it, hesitantly, and began to eat.
“No, Mama, thanks though.” I said, watching Jack swallow hunks of the hotdog bread. Mama doesn’t buy dog food and poor jack can’t keep down the hotdog bread nine times out of ten. He just ends up throwin it up and then Mama ends up stepping in it but she don’t care.
***
I thought maybe today I was gunna get my rag cuz my I was gettin’ cramps real bad, but it turned out to just be gas from the burrito I had during lunch. Figures.
***
My Mama nearly burnt down the house today. She was tryin to warm the place up and since we don’t have any central heating she decided the easiest way would be to turn on all the burners on the stove. It was workin, It was working I guess cuz a little while later when she got up from watching her soap operas to get a glass of milk she decided to take off her sweater. I guess the arm of the sweater got a little too close to the flame and caught on fire.
My Mama started screaming and I ran out of the bathroom to see what the ruckus was and there was my mom, her head stuck in a sweater with a burning sleeve. Mama was flailing around, knocking the magnets off the fridge and spilling the milk on the counter. Poor Jack-of Hearts, our little terrier, was so scared he hid himself behind the couch.
I grabbed the closest liquid to me which happened to be an old bowl of noodle soup and I just chucked it at Mama and it did the trick. The fire went out and Mama got her head unstuck from the sweater.
“What the hell’d you do that for?” she asked sourly.
And I said “you was on fire.”
She said “wasn’t that bad.” And then she burped and I could tell she was drunk but that didn’t surprise me.
“You smell like burnt hair and vodka.” I said and went to my room, Jack-of-Hearts trailing after me. I didn’t have the nerve or heart to tell my Mama that I’d just seen the pink double line on the pee-stick and that I was basically screwed in more ways than one.
***
I told Kristine that I’m pregnant. She told me I’m a retard and to not joke about that kind of shit and then I showed her the pee stick and that sure shut her up.
“Planned parenthood has a vacuum that’ll suck the thing right outa you,” she said.
I told her I didn’t know what I was gunna do yet cuz I don’t like the idea of killing an innocent baby but every time I think of a little person growing inside of me it makes me sick. I’m just glad babies don’t pop out of people’s backs like those Surinam toads from South America The eggs get laid in the toad’s back and a little while later the little puss-bubble lookin things pop open and baby frogs crawl out. I think I would just die if that’s how it happened with people. Just die.
I haven’t told Clayton or Carl yet, that’s for sure.
To be honest the whole idea of babies is disturbing. Carl is cute but is dumber than the boy in fifth grade who thought that earthworms were baby snakes, and I have somewhat of a small head and Clayton, though being the smartest people I know, has somewhat of a large body—so I’m sure if it was his kid it would come out lookin’ like one of them pinheads in that Freaks movie that one guy ruined his career over. So I’d either have a cute-as shit dumb-ass baby or an ugly-as-shit smart-ass baby and frankly none of those sounds too good.
***
After school I went to the supermarket to get some juice and just for the hell of it I walked down the baby-goods aisle. Everything was new an shiny. There were fourteen different types of diapers. Some had baby polar bears on em and some had puppies or kittens or quite little robots. But I think it’s all bullshit. Ain’t no smilin’ princess face on the front of a diaper gunna mask the smell of baby shit. I want to smack the smile off those pretty princess faces.
I got bought a magazine with a happy lookin pregnant woman on the front. It showed her sittin on a big swollen couch that had big exotic leaves on the throw pillows. She was sittin next to a man who looked like he had walked right off the set of a Gillette commercial and a well groomed collie. I’d be happy too. Instead I got two possible daddies and a bulimic terrier.
When I got home my mama and Julisa were watching old country music videos, singing into an empty gin bottle as if it were a microphone. Julisa always wears short skirts that show off her plump legs. My mama’s eyeliner was smeared on her face but I didn’t tell her. I just grabbed Jack-of-Hearts and went into my room. I can still hear them out in the living room, but now they’ve switched to singin show tunes. My mama would make a terrible grandma.
***
It’s been three weeks since I found out. I tried talking to Kristine about it, whether or not I should go through with it, but she’s too wrapped up in her own drama. Apparently Jason, the dick she’s been ridin in the last two weeks, may or may not have hooked up with Julie, the school whore, after the dance last week. Frankly I don’t give a fuck. She started blabbing on and on about it and eventually I just hung up on her. Sometimes it seems like we’re only friends cuz we had homeroom together and were assigned to sit next to one another.
Seems these days Jack-of-Hearts is the only one I can talk to, and he’s not real good at giving advice.
Earlier today my Mama fell on her face after downing a bottle of wine. She hit her mouth on the side of the couch and knocked out some teeth. I wasn’t home. Thankfully. These days I stay pretty much in my room. It’s too risky to be out and about in the rest of the house, what with Mama always fallin out of her chairs and droppin things and generally being drunk. The house smells like old spaghetti and sour milk. Except my room. I use incense I get for ten cents down at the supermarket.
***
I’m gunna drive down south to visit my dad—I figure maybe he’ll know what to do. I know I’m cutting’ it close and that pretty soon I’ll have the damn thing out of default. It’s just gunna be me and frogbaby, that’s what I’m callin it now. Weirdly enough, I’m startin to get used to the thing.
Playground Blues
Nelly Greenwood showed me her pink shiny sandals on the playground today at recess. She said, “look at my shiny pink sandals.” And I said, “Those sure are shiny.” And then she said, “I bet you wish you had pink shiny sandals instead of those ugly brown sandals.”
I looked down at my ugly brown sandals and she was right. They are ugly. And brown. And they are falling apart and there are stringy bits around the edges of the Velcro straps.
Nelly’s sandals have buckles. And on the back by her ankle they have tiny bows. I wish I had tiny bows on my sandals.
Nelly danced on her tippy toes showing her shiny sandals to everyone on the playground. They matched her pink shirt and her sparkly shirt that had a heart on it. My shirt is black and says ‘Home of the Gerbils” on it with a picture of a gerbil with a baseball bat on it. It has holes under the armpits.
Nelly has a lot of sparkly things. So do her friends. Jessica Klement has a sparkly backpack and Jasmine Yodders has a sparkly pencil case. My mom says that I don’t need sparkly things. She says my things work just fine the way they are and that I shouldn’t ask for things I don’t need.
Sometimes when I go to the store I just look at all the sparkly things and touch them and sometimes little pieces of the sparkles come off on my fingers and so I put them into my pockets. Sometimes the sparkles get lost in my pockets because they’re so small but sometimes I’m able to find them and I put them into my retainer container that I keep under my bed. Most of them get lost in my pockets. I bet my pockets are the sparklyist of everyone’s’.
Well Nelly just kept on dancing on her tippy toes and saying “why are your sandals so ugly?” and she said it in such a snooty voice and I just stood there watching her sandals sparkle in the sun. Well Nelly tippy toe danced over to me and she was so close I could tell that she had salami for lunch. She looked at me good and hard and said “why don’t you just go put yourself into the trash bin because that’s where you and your sandals belong!” and so I shoved Nelly real hard and she tripped over the tanbark and fell and hit her head on the swing set.
Now Nelly has a pink bump on her face to match her shiny sandals.
I looked down at my ugly brown sandals and she was right. They are ugly. And brown. And they are falling apart and there are stringy bits around the edges of the Velcro straps.
Nelly’s sandals have buckles. And on the back by her ankle they have tiny bows. I wish I had tiny bows on my sandals.
Nelly danced on her tippy toes showing her shiny sandals to everyone on the playground. They matched her pink shirt and her sparkly shirt that had a heart on it. My shirt is black and says ‘Home of the Gerbils” on it with a picture of a gerbil with a baseball bat on it. It has holes under the armpits.
Nelly has a lot of sparkly things. So do her friends. Jessica Klement has a sparkly backpack and Jasmine Yodders has a sparkly pencil case. My mom says that I don’t need sparkly things. She says my things work just fine the way they are and that I shouldn’t ask for things I don’t need.
Sometimes when I go to the store I just look at all the sparkly things and touch them and sometimes little pieces of the sparkles come off on my fingers and so I put them into my pockets. Sometimes the sparkles get lost in my pockets because they’re so small but sometimes I’m able to find them and I put them into my retainer container that I keep under my bed. Most of them get lost in my pockets. I bet my pockets are the sparklyist of everyone’s’.
Well Nelly just kept on dancing on her tippy toes and saying “why are your sandals so ugly?” and she said it in such a snooty voice and I just stood there watching her sandals sparkle in the sun. Well Nelly tippy toe danced over to me and she was so close I could tell that she had salami for lunch. She looked at me good and hard and said “why don’t you just go put yourself into the trash bin because that’s where you and your sandals belong!” and so I shoved Nelly real hard and she tripped over the tanbark and fell and hit her head on the swing set.
Now Nelly has a pink bump on her face to match her shiny sandals.
Sluggy
Joe sat in a forest, under the shade of immensely tall redwoods. A banana slug slowly slithered by his feet, which were stretched out in front of him.
“Slug,” said Joe, “do you ever wonder why we’re here?”
The slug kept on slithering, methodically, with purpose.
“I mean,” continued Joe, “why we, as beings, are here on this particular planet at this particular time. What’s it all mean?”
Joe scrunched his eyebrows together, and looked upward, towards the sky as if hoping to see the answer floating by in the sky. After a minute he leaned back, supported by his crooked arms. He stared at the branches of the trees above him, noticing how they seemed to meld together, making an infinite web of wood.
The slug inched its way onto a rotten stump of a long-gone tree.
“You know, slug, I wish I just knew that there was a purpose. I don’t need to know what it is, I just want to know if there is one.”
The slug wound its way up the stump, stopping occasionally, appearing to smell the large tumor-like fungus growing out of the decaying wood.
Joe picked up a twig, rolling between his fingers, pulling pieces of it apart and tossing them idly on the ground.
Joe’s kakhi pants were dirty at the cuffs where they brushed the ground. Glancing at his watch, Joe noticed that it was getting late, the sun was setting, the rays drifting down through the momentary breaks in the canopy, illuminating the stump and the slug and the fungus.
“These trees, for instance,” said Joe, still talking to the slug, who appeared to be bored with the conversation, “these tree’s have purpose!” Joe stood up, gesturing wildly with his hands at the tree. “These trees provide life for other creatures. They provide beauty, and grace and firewood!”
At this Joe slumped to the ground and began to weep, loudly, awkwardly.
The two men looked through the small glass window—clipboards in hand, jotting down notes—at the man in the padded cell.
“Yup,” said the bald one, “he’s gone off the deep end.”
“Slug,” said Joe, “do you ever wonder why we’re here?”
The slug kept on slithering, methodically, with purpose.
“I mean,” continued Joe, “why we, as beings, are here on this particular planet at this particular time. What’s it all mean?”
Joe scrunched his eyebrows together, and looked upward, towards the sky as if hoping to see the answer floating by in the sky. After a minute he leaned back, supported by his crooked arms. He stared at the branches of the trees above him, noticing how they seemed to meld together, making an infinite web of wood.
The slug inched its way onto a rotten stump of a long-gone tree.
“You know, slug, I wish I just knew that there was a purpose. I don’t need to know what it is, I just want to know if there is one.”
The slug wound its way up the stump, stopping occasionally, appearing to smell the large tumor-like fungus growing out of the decaying wood.
Joe picked up a twig, rolling between his fingers, pulling pieces of it apart and tossing them idly on the ground.
Joe’s kakhi pants were dirty at the cuffs where they brushed the ground. Glancing at his watch, Joe noticed that it was getting late, the sun was setting, the rays drifting down through the momentary breaks in the canopy, illuminating the stump and the slug and the fungus.
“These trees, for instance,” said Joe, still talking to the slug, who appeared to be bored with the conversation, “these tree’s have purpose!” Joe stood up, gesturing wildly with his hands at the tree. “These trees provide life for other creatures. They provide beauty, and grace and firewood!”
At this Joe slumped to the ground and began to weep, loudly, awkwardly.
The two men looked through the small glass window—clipboards in hand, jotting down notes—at the man in the padded cell.
“Yup,” said the bald one, “he’s gone off the deep end.”
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