30 Days of Blogging, Day 18: Top 5...Favorite Corners of the World

If you ask me what is my favorite place in the world--where do I feel the safest, the most reflective, at peace--in my brain I would say, "Duh, my couch with my cat and my beautiful TV." Out loud I would probably say something pretentious, like the Piazza Campo de Fiori in Rome on a warm autumn night. I mean, it's great, and I went there a couple times, but I think we know who the real winner is here.

Couch love rights are civil rights. 

Love is love.

I'm the type of person who really values their alone time. Don't get me wrong, I love being around smart, funny, amazing people--but when I'm tapped out, I need a significant amount of me time. I need a place where I can disappear or blend in to the scenery and watch how real people interact.

This is my top five favorite corners of the world. 

#5 A cafe in Athens

They had a pretty limited menu. Mostly just..stone.

Okay, maybe one pretentious answer. 

In fairness, there was never an intention of pretension when I found this cafe on a quiet street at the foot of the hill that leads up to the Acropolis. I was alone on my honeymoon, and I was hungry.

To my wife-of-the-moment's defense, she had contracted norovirus on our fantastic honeymoon cruise around the Mediterranean. After spending some time in the ship's medical clinic the day before she was told she had to be in quarantine for at least 24 hours--the day we were supposed to be in Athens. 

She insisted that I don't miss Athens because she was sick, and luckily years before she had spent a significant amount of time there, so she was able to direct me to the train that would take me to the Acropolis.

That morning I said goodbye to her and apprehensively set out into the city, armed with a few Grecian greetings, a city map and a Rick Steves travel book.

The hike up the hill to see the Acropolis was fucking hard. I knew it was going to be, and I was anxiety ridden about it the whole train ride to the center of the city. 

As I hiked up to the top of the hill I quietly cheered for myself for every ancient stop I conquered--and for not puking. 

I wandered around taking in the ruins, snapping selfies of myself standing far enough away to get the Parthenon in the background. Some dude offered to take a picture of me, and while it was kind, he just didn't know my angles!

After I strolled to the bottom I sat at the foot of the hill and watched tourists wander by, locals peddling their wares. and little old Greek ladies tearing at the heartstrings of Americans with beautiful lace table cloths. (I wish I had taken that table cloth when we divorced 5 month later)

I took a walk on the narrow streets, starving and having a hard time deciding which tasty smelling restaurant to eat. 

I chose the quietest one with an outdoor patio that faced the Acropolis. I order a lot of food. My waiter was the owner and he loved my appetite. He gave me a free order of baklava to take back to the boat. 

The city was busy with tourists and locals, but this tiny street was so quiet. I read a book I picked up from the airport, took in the scenery, and smiled at locals as they passed me by. 

I thought about the fight we had poolside two nights before. I made the mistake of asking when she wants to have children. She got mad I couldn't be in the moment and just enjoy what we have. I got mad that she got mad and couldn't just fantasize about having a family. I cried poolside on my honeymoon. I knew this was a bad sign. 

I enjoyed the peace and the feeling of independence--almost what it felt like to be single again. 

#4 My Secret Spot

What did you think I meant by Secret Spot?

I cannot disclose the actual location of my secret spot. I will tell you that it's somewhere near where I used to live in Castle Rock, and I'm so happy that it's not been bulldozed for more carbon-copy homes.

I was a chubby kid but I was actually pretty active. I was always going out on little adventures on my own my bike, looking for private places that nobody knows about to play pretend. 

My secret spot  was a hike off of a bike trail in the covenant community where we lived. I would hide my bike underneath a bridge and hike down a rocky hillside to a little glen nestled in the trees. A tiny little trickle-of a creek flowed down the rocks. The scene looked like an ideal setting for A Midsummer Night's Dream of dancing fairies.

I would dance up and down the rocks, sing, make up plays in my head. I showed a friend my secret place once. When I told her what I liked to do down there she teased me. I never told anyone else about it again. 

Some secrets should stay secrets.

#3 Kure Beach, NC

The last thing I want to see before I die.

I have many fond memories of spending the summer at Carolina Beach as a kid. Family fun in the sun and whatnot. Kure Beach is just a few steps down the road, and I spent the best few days of my life healing there.

Right after my divorce I retreated to North Carolina. My extended family on my mother's side live there. I had been planning to go with her there, but our break-up turned what was going to be a trip to show my new wife around the state where my family is descended from to a trip to lick my wounds. 

My Aunt Mandy, one of the greatest women I know and whom I adore, surprised me with a trip to the beach. It was the first week of May and still off-season. We got a condo on the beach for a steal. 

Every day I woke up, put on my swimsuit, grabbed a book I would never read, and flip-flopped down to the beach. My aunt and Uncle Matt would take turns rotating down to hang out with me and make sure I was wearing sunscreen. 

I loved that they still cared for my well-being the same way they did when I was 9 years old playing in the sand. 

I would stare at the water, occasionally force myself in and bounce in the waves, and collapse on my towel and remember what it felt like to feel good again.

The best part, however, were the locals. 

On Kure Beach, everyone is your friend. As folks would wander by they would strike up conversation. It would start with a hello and would quickly evolve into a conversation about our personal lives. 

I chatted with a gal who, on her days off, would come down to the beach with her husband to collect shark's teeth.

Another guy was taking a break from a construction job on a condo he was restoring.

The most interesting character was a dude who talked like The Dude. He was taking a walk before going to work and saw me bouncing up and down in the waves by myself. The beach was practically abandoned, and he loved how brave I was to go out into the water by myself, and how joyful I looked in the water. He looked exactly like Dr. Phil. He told me that he likes to go after midnight for a naked swim. He invited me to join him that night. I passed, but I appreciated the invite.

A friend told me that the friendliness of the people who lived there is fake--a cover to their menial lives. I don't agree. I miss the lack of rules and pretense--you don't have to be anybody but yourself.

I need to go back.

#2 Kerry Park, Seattle

Views should be free.

If someone comes to visit Seattle for the first time I always tell them to skip the Space Needle. What are you getting for the $22 it costs to go to the top of the Space Needle? A view--and you're not even getting the Space Needle in your pictures. 

Skip. It. 

Kerry Park is on the south slope of Queen Anne and has the most beautiful panoramic view of Seattle and the Puget sound, and--oh--the Space-freaking-Needle.

It's also a great place to take a seat on the bench and watch humanity roll by. 

Tourists snapping selfies, wedding parties getting their formal pictures, kids playing on the large scale art installment. If you're lucky you'll catch a flash mob or maybe eavesdrop on a sweet conversation between a new couple. 

Skip the stupid Needle.

#1 Oddfellow's Cafe

Yeah, I'm that guy.

Can you call yourself a writer if you don't have a cafe you can disappear into?

If it's a Sunday morning, I'm most likely walking into Oddfellow's Cafe on Capitol Hill and sweetly asking the adorable hip young man who is always hosting for a spot by a plug in the back. He never remembers my name, but he does remember me, and sometimes sneaks me to the top of the list. 

Tipping well matters, people.

I was introduced to Oddfellow's by my friend Jen shortly after I moved to Capitol Hill after my divorce. It was like being brought into the warm embrace of the city after spending my entire life in the suburbs. 

I sit in the back for hours. I always order the same thing--scrambled eggs and a biscuit with bacon on the side and house-made jam, and a drip coffee. For every refill I get on my coffee I add a dollar to the tip. My coffee refill record is 8, which lead to my hard rule--no more than 4. If my hands are shaking too hard to type, then I've had too much. 

For the amount of time I spend at Oddfellow's, I really don't spend nearly enough time writing than I do people watching. I like to write stories for the people sitting around me in my head while trying to avoid staring too long. 

Oddfellow's is my favorite place to disappear--my favorite corner of the world.

Your turn: what's your favorite corner of the world? 

Hit me in the comments.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 14: You Could Lose Your Mind

The summer before fifth grade. I was very proud of this shirt. Rad dude. Rad.

I think I can attribute the majority of trouble I got myself into as a child to the bad influence of Nick at Nite. Shows like Leave it to Beaver, I Love Lucy, and The Little Rascals--riddled with rascally characters getting into all kinds of shenanigans. If you were going to take life advice from any Nick at Nite show, The Patty Duke Show was not one of them.

I changed schools twice in the fifth grade--the first time was at the start of the year when my mother decided the bullying situation at my current school was untenable, and the second was when we moved towns.

Second grade through fourth grade at Centennial Elementary in Littleton was at best a waking nightmare. My walks to and from school was like playing Super Mario Brothers--you never knew was was lurking around the corner wanting to throw things at your face. Things weren't any better in the school either. The kids were pretty bold when it came to their bullying, even going so far as attacking me in class--in front of the teacher. With little change and repercussion from the principal my mother pulled me out of Centennial at the end of fourth grade.

Peabody Elementary was full of promise. The staff and my teacher knew the situation I was coming from, and they were warm and welcoming. The kids didn't really pick on me so much as they ignored me.

One day a pair of girls in my class took me aside and said they wanted to talk to me. The reason that nobody really wanted to talk to me was because my clothes weren't really cool. Up until that point it never really occurred to me that clothes were supposed to be cool--I just wore what my mother bought me: jeans, corduroys, my Simpsons t-shirt, overalls--stuff kids wear. One of the girls offered to bring in clothes for me the next day, just so I could experience what wearing cool clothes would be like.

The next day she brought me a pair of black stirrup stretch pants, push-down tube socks, a cream colored turtle neck and a beautiful green long baggy sweater. They were the nicest clothes I'd ever put on. I went to the bathroom before our first recess to change. I stepped on to the playground and was met with all-around approval from the girls who dressed me up.

"See! This is how you should dress!" She was so proud of herself.

They invited me to participate in a swing race with them. We played together again after lunch.

For a day I felt like I belonged. Why only a day? Well, I brought myself down this time, with my big imagination and my big mouth.

As we sat together on the jungle gym I had an idea. How can I make my stock go up? Make up a fantastic, improbable lie, obviously!

I told the kids I wasn't going to be in class the next day because I had a doctor appointment, but my cousin is visiting and she was going to be allowed to sit in class for me. Oh and by the way, my cousin is from England! Oh, and she's British! Also,she's--wait for it--my twin!

Any of this sound familiar? That's because it's the plot to The Patty Duke Show. 

In summary, my genius plan was to show up at school the next day posing as my own English twin cousin. Sounds pretty cool, right? The kids clearly didn't watch nearly as much Nick at Nite as I did because they seemed to believe me, they even started telling other kids in the class. It occurred to me at the end of the day as I packed up my bag that my plot had many holes in it. If I was going to pull this off, I was going to have to tell my teacher.

I was the last to leave class and she was already at her desk grading papers.

Mrs. Fleming, was sweet but no-nonsense, with a darling pixie cut and she always wore red lipstick--I even still think of her when I wear red lipstick. I approached her at her desk and she looked up at me over her reading glasses.

I stumbled through my story--her stare was killing my confidence--but I walked away assuring myself that she believed me.

As I climbed into the car with my mom I became overcome with guilt. I told a pretty big lie. The absurdity of the lie didn't occur to me, just the fact that I lied. I was still doing time in my evening prayers asking for forgiveness for stealing a lip-gloss, I should be adding lying to my list of sins.

As I buckled myself in I told my mother, "I think I did something bad."

"What did you do?" She asked. Her voice sound strained--like I was about to drop a pretty big bomb.

I felt that I needed to diffuse what could potentially be a huge problem for me. If I acted like it's not that big a deal, then she would definitely find her chill.

"Well, it's not that big a deal. I told the kids in my class that I have an English twin cousin and that she's coming to school for me tomorrow. I told Mrs. Fleming too...but it's not that big of a deal! It's silly!"

The look on her face was not at all filled with amusement the way I hoped it would be. Her mouth was just stuck in a pursed "O" shape.

"Summer Jean, this is a very big deal. That's a huge lie, and it's not funny."

Yes it is, I thought to myself.

"Yes it is!", I said--out loud. Stupid.

"You are going to turn around and go back in there and tell your teacher the truth."

It wasn't rational, but I couldn't believe she wasn't on my side. I couldn't believe she was going to make me actually face my lie so boldly. I could feel my cheeks get hot and I began to cry.

"You can't make me go back in there!" If I cried maybe she'll take pity.

"We're not leaving until you go back in there and tell your teacher the truth." She put the van in park and turned off the engine.

I sat, slack-jawed, for what felt like minutes. I felt numb. I felt stupid. The absurdity of the lie was starting to wash over me. What a genuinely stupid lie.

I climbed out of the mini-van and started what felt like a death march towards the school. I could have done the honorable thing and just fess up. I could have done that. I didn't do that.

As I slowly paced down the polished school linoleum I kicked my brain into gear. Fessing up to lies is the worst. Why should I fess up to a lie when I could just come up with another lie? I can get through this relatively unscathed if I can come up with a really good cover for myself.

Mrs. Fleming was still sitting at her desk grading papers. I approached her desk and she peered up at me over her reading glasses once more.

"Yes, Summer?" Clearly I was encroaching on her time.

"Um, Mrs. Fleming? I just wanted to let you know--" Light-bulb."--that my cousin won't be able to make it tomorrow. She never made it out here. She's sick. She has pneumonia. She actually got sick on the plane. They had to turn it around and take her back to England. I don't know if she's going to make it. A-a-a-a-ny-way...she won't be here tomorrow. I'll be here though! My doctor appointment was canceled. See you tomorrow?"

I don't know what I expected. "Oh sure, no problem! Hope your cousin makes it! See you tomorrow!" Her face registered as utterly un-amused.

She just sighed. "Fine Summer. Good night."

I said good night and left her with her papers. Half of me thought she bought it. The other half knew she didn't, but it didn't matter. I had made myself look like an idiot at my new school--it was over before it could even begin.

The fun wasn't over. My mother demanded to know if I told her the truth, and in the spirit of maintaining an honest relationship with her, I told her that I lied again. She was aghast. She couldn't believe that I had lied again. We went home and I spent the rest of the night alone in my room.

The next day at school I spouted the same lie to the kids. Whether or not they bought it didn't matter. I was relegated to the same obscurity from which I came--not because I couldn't come up with an English twin cousin, but because my clothes looked poor.

Six months later we moved to Castle Rock. My parents were tired of renting in a bad neighborhood, and Castle Rock had better schools.

I wish I could say I learned my lesson. A couple days before I started school at Rock Ridge Elementary I sneak-watched Dirty Dancing. I was obsessed with the dancing in it and practiced in my bedroom wearing my mother's leotard.

On my second day of class I found out the two most popular girls took dance lessons. I boasted to them that I taught lessons, specializing in the dancing from Dirty Dancing. 

Lindsey, the most popular of the two, sneered through her braced teeth. "Our parents would never let us watch that, and I don't need lessons from you." I noted her response and quietly went about my business, once again relegating myself to friendless obscurity.

As I walked home from school that day I noticed another girl from my class walking the same path home as me. I asked if I could walk with her. She said yes, but this doesn't mean we're friends. She also pointed out that my cowboy boots looked ridiculous. They were my dad's boots and I loved them, even if they were too big for me.

That night my mother came into my room to say good night to me. I'll never forget that night, because the room was dark but still bright from the light of a full moon.

She asked me if I wanted to pray. I began to cry.

She wiped the tears from my cheeks. "Why are you crying baby?"

I felt bereft. "I just feel like I'm never going to have a friend. I'm never going to fit in. I don't know how to make friends."

She took my hands and told me to pray about it. I looked at the full moon and squeezed my eyes tight.

"Dear God, I don't have any friends. Please let me make a friend tomorrow."

My mother kissed me good night. I fell asleep crying that night, faithless in my prayer.

The next day as I sat alone on the playground a girl came up and started talking to me. Her name was Shiloy. I told her where I was from, where I lived in the neighborhood. She actually seemed interested in me. After school she walked me to the rain run-off tunnel that I walked through to get to my house. She said we should sit together at lunch the next day.

As I walked through the tunnel I heard the sparrows flapping around, building their spring nests. I smiled as I saw my house walking out of the dark tunnel. I ran the rest of the way home and breathlessly hugged my mother.

To be honest, 25 years later I still struggle with making friends and I still struggle with relating to people. I've stopped telling lies, and I always try to be myself. There's a gap that I struggle crossing--that gap that prevents me from connecting. Maybe it's fear, Maybe I'm a little bit broken.

That day though, I didn't feel broken. I didn't need a fantastic lie. I didn't need Patty Duke or Dirty Dancing.

As I hugged my mother, I looked up at her through tears in my eyes and said, "Jesus answered my prayer. I made a friend today."

30 Days of Blogging, Day 12: Roster Fosters Imposter

Ever heard of "Impostor's Syndrome"? Basically it means that no matter how much you are meant to be where you are, you just don't feel like you fit. It comes with an unrelenting dread that someday you will be exposed for what you are--a fraud.

Step 1: Assimilate. Step 2: Try not to appear so damn shifty-eyed.

I think you would hard-pressed not to find someone who, at some point in their life, has felt this way. For me, I feel it constantly. With my friends, my job, my hobbies--this never-ending feeling in my gut that someone is going to catch on and see what I really am. Now I think it's safe to say it comes from deep-seeded lack of self-confidence and a loss of proper positive enforcement in my formative years, but we're not talking about that right now. 

There's a difference between feeling like you don't belong and then actually not belonging--being an actual fraud. 

In my junior year of high school I started to really notice that I had feelings of--shall we say--a lesbionic nature. While on the surface I did have crushes on boys my age (who subsequently came out of the closet), I harbored deep sapphic feelings for my poetry teacher...and my creative writing teacher...and my Sci-Fi and Fantasy teacher...did I have a thing for English teachers?

Ooo, yeah girl...I'll iambic your pentameter...

I, as many kids my age in the 90's who lived in small conservative towns--or anywhere for that matter--struggled with these feelings. Having been raised a good Christian girl these feelings were a very bad sign. 

I would lay in my bed and pray to God to lay me down to sleep and to forgive me for that one time I stole a lipgloss, I would also pray that God would take it away--please, please, please, take these feelings away. 

Don't make me like them.

Don't make me struggle with this.

Don't let my family hate me. 

When the day came in my study hall our teacher passed around a sign-up form with extra-curricular groups to join, I spotted among the foreign language clubs what I hoped would be a promising beacon: Staying Straight.

My inner dialogue was the following, "Staying Straight? Amazing! They can help me with these feelings. They can help me, you know--stay straight! Sign me up!" Check the box, sign here, and promptly forget about it. 

Weeks later I was sitting in class and one of the office aids came in and dropped one of the dreaded pink slips with my teacher.--the pink slip that was usually a call to go to the principal's office for a "chat". If you ever eyeballed that kid and felt a sense of doom, you probably did something naughty. 

As for me, I felt that sense of doom because I ditched constantly, so it was no surprise when the teacher called my name. 

For me there should have been a box marked Indefinitely.

As I started my march to the principals office I noticed it wasn't an actual principal's pass, but a pass to see the school resource police officer in the student counseling center. That sense of dread was replaced with a sense of "Oh fuck, I'm dead." 

As I walked in the small conference room I saw him sitting at the table next to the school nurse and other kids I recognized from around school. Everyone in the room was warm and inviting--I assume it's what it feels like to walk into your own intervention.

I sat down next to a very pretty girl who was a year ahead of me. If you asked me to define which high school clique everyone fell into, I would say it was a diverse representation of my school--jock, preppy, skater, theatre nerd (me), uhh...nice kid, weird kids, fat kid, skinny kid, even kids with chicken pox--I'm really struggling to remember my school cabals.

The nurse--who we'll call Ms. J to protect the innocent--started by having us go around and introduce ourselves. She was lovely and warm, and clearly talented with created safe spaces.

She was creating a safe space because she made it clear that this was a group for kids in our school to talk about struggling with staying off of drugs and alchohol--staying straight. As in: on the straight and narrow. Clean. Off drugs.

Full disclosure, at the time the only addiction I struggled with was my Phantom of the Opera and Titanic soundtracks.

I don't really remember if I said anything other than my name in that meeting. I just listened. The kids talked about their struggles with actual drug and alcohol abuse, and wanting to stay clean. They shared deeply vulnerable stories about their personal lives and home lives. 

Ms. J told me that I had an open invitation every week to come back and talk, if I wanted to. As I left the meeting I resolved that I would never return, that this group isn't for me. 

Here's the thing:

I kept going back. 

You will never judge me as harshly as I judge myself.

Mostly, I would listen. I never really shared anything about myself. What I got out of sitting with these kids was a feeling of belonging and safety--nobody judged anyone. We were all capable of making mistakes and coming back from them. 

I never told any of my friends about this group--it was too precious to me. The secrets told and the lives they belonged to were just meant for that room and the people in it only. That is until...

The school resource police officer offered the group a chance to come talk to middle-schoolers at health day about our personal experiences with drug and alcohol abuse. Did I have to say yes? No. Should I have gone? Absolutely not. 

As I stood with my peers in front of kids marginally younger than me, it occurred to me that we would all be required to share some kind of personal story. I guess you could say this was the start of storytelling for me, with the only exception being that it was completely made up.

I told a bald-faced lie. I said that I struggled with alcohol abuse and I would steal alcohol from my parents and blame it on my brother.

The truth? Up until that point the only alcohol I'd ever had was communion wine and sips of my mother's white zinfandel. My parents really didn't keep alcohol in the house much at all--they just weren't big drinkers. One time Ms. J gave me a ride home after school and she insisted on coming in and meeting my mother. They sat and chatted and my inner monologue was praying to God that she didn't casually ask my mom about my alcoholism and that my mom didn't actually ask her how we're associated.

I continued to tell that story throughout the day, each time adding more details and drama, to be honest with some altruistic intent--hoping that maybe it would have an affect on someone. The kids who told their stories were wonderful and brave, and honestly had more of an affect on me than I've ever been able to express to them.

We were invited to do this again the following year. I stopped when I started seeing familiar faces, and to be honest the middle school resource police officer was kind of a creep--he was a little too interested in the specific details of the link between using and sexual promiscuity, and I don't know why he was so interested in hearing about the sex lives of teenagers. 

Alright OfficerMcCreepafeel, that's enough of THAT.

Everyone eventually all graduated and moved on--well I didn't graduate, I just dropped out and took my GED. Close enough. Don't ditch class, kids.

Years later I ran into the pretty girl when I was working at the music store. She looked the same--radiant and kind. We caught up and eventually she asked me how I was doing with my addiction. I confessed that I drink with my friends. She seemed relieved when I told her because she told me she had started using again--but she had it under control. 

In that moment I wished I had told her that we should get together and talk some time, or offered to go to a meeting with her--or even offered some kind of truth--that I didn't actually struggle with alcoholism and I just drank at parties on occasions with my friends, and that I was worried for her and that I was there for her if she needed it. 

Instead I shrugged and told her not to feel bad. We laughed it off. She told me not to tell Ms. J. I gave her my number to call me some time. I never heard from her. I wish I hadn't let her walk away.

I know the obvious moral of this story is: don't fucking lie. I regret not being honest with why I was there to begin with. I regret telling tall tales. 

I don't know if I regret going back.

Oh, and I definitely did not stay straight.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 11: Ink

Planning my next tattoo has been more excruciating than the actual ink-dipped needles piercing my skin. I've had a lot of ideas: an Oscar Wilde quote, a pug, a drawing of my favorite children's story--Ferdinand the Bull--but my next one will probably be this on my wrist:

I have a passion for not ending sentences.

I love to hear tattoo stories--what they mean to the individual, their history, the silly or sad story connected to them.

Tattoo #1

Did you know it's super hard to take a picture of the back of your own shoulder?

I did not wake up on the day I got my first tattoo with that plan in mind. I had recently turned 18 and I was going to go to Six Flags-Denver with  my recently graduated friends--they graduated, I did not. If my friends judged me for having to stay in high school for my second senior year I'll never know, but we were young, fun, and free--like a Better Than Ezra song. 

We packed in Jackie's car and headed north to Denver, but Megan declared we were taking a detour on the way to Six Flags--she was gonna get a tattoo. 

As we crowded around her in Bound by Design on Colfax I felt something stir in my prissy Christian insides. 

I'm gonna get a tattoo too.

DELICIOUS ALLITERATION

Since I was a theatre nerd I decided to get the comedy-tragedy persona masks. As I flipped through the book of tattoos my prissy Christian insides churned since a lot of the mask pictures were devilish, terrifying clowns. The tattoo artist grew impatient with my indecisiveness and pointed at the mask necklace that was hanging around my neck and recommended I go to the Kinkos down the block and photocopy it. As Sabbeth and I walked down the street a strange man followed us and catcalled as he threw coins at us--a white suburban girl's first catcall--lucky me!

The tattoo hurt. Of course it hurt. I gripped Sabbeth's hand. It cost $90, most of my first paycheck from King Soopers.

I hid my tattoo for months, until the guilt pushed me into telling my mother. She was disappointed in me. I thought it was a dumb thing to be disappointed in. 

Tattoo #2

 Starting to wonder if I should get my back checked for suspicious moles...

I was 19 and I wanted a cross tattoo. To be honest I was a little tired of my mother telling me that good Christian girls don't get tattoos, my body is a temple, blah, blah, blah. This was basically me getting back at my mother to show her that good Christian girls can have good Christian tattoos.

My friend Nate from the record store I worked at decided to go together to Bound By Design in the morning before we went to Lilith Fair--probably the most 90's thing I've ever done. I'm pretty sure I even wore daisy hair-clips and denim overalls with red Keds. 

Nate got his first tattoo--a tribal sun--and I got my second, courtesy of Big Mike. We sat on the lawn at Fiddler's Green with our and enjoyed the sweet feminist sounds of The Indigo Girls, Sheryl Crow, and Sarah McLaughlin. 

This is the only tattoo I have that I really don't like; not because of the cross, but because it's ugly, and I really wasn't sincere when I got it. 

Never get a revenge tattoo.

Tattoo #3

You guys would tell me if you saw anything suspicious, right? Guys?

I got this one for my 22nd birthday. I was really into peace signs and daisies. I probably still am. 

This was the last tattoo I got at Bound By Design, also by Big Mike. I went by myself, after work, still in my suit. I felt pretty square sitting around the facially pierced artists in my trousers and pearls. 

Shortly after I got this tattoo I lost my virginity.

The two events are unrelated.

Tattoo #4

I'm definitely going to be better about wearing sunscreen...

My partner and I had been planning getting some kind of matching tattoo together. We agreed they should have something to do with music and included a rainbow--'cuz we're gay.

I searched and searched. I never knew there were so could be so many variances of a treble clef. We agreed on similar designs--mine would be more spiky and edgy and on my other shoulder, hers more a tribute to her love of classical music and on the small of her back.

We crowded into a small room with our friend Jen at Laughing Buddha on Capitol Hill in Seattle. While the significance of sharing something so permanent and personal with my partner didn't escape me, I also loved that I got to be there to experience another person close to me getting their first tattoo.

Seven years after we split up, I catch it out of the corner of my eye on occasion. It remains an untainted, fond memory. 

Tattoo #5

Finally! An area of my body that isn't riddled with freckles.

On a holiday weekend with my girlfriend (who was constantly telling me not to call her girlfriend), we got drunk and decided we wanted to get tattoos. 

I wanted something to signify my pride in an 'S' pattern. She liked my design and got an extra star to denote the colors of the chakras.

We went to Lucky Devil on Capitol Hill and got our matching tattoos.

Shortly after I broke up with her; not because we got matching tattoos, but because she was a mean alcoholic. She said horrible things to me about my body. She criticized me a lot, in general. 

Due to my lack of backbone I continued to see her on and off for the next year--I even worked at her business part-time--until she showed up at my apartment in the middle of the night completely wasted and demanded I have sex with her. I told her no, more than once. She got angry and punched my wall. I told her I never wanted to see her again. 

Shortly after in a text conversation she was surprised that I was so angry. When I told her she had a drinking problem her response was "You have a drinking problem!"

I don't have a drinking problem

This is what I thought about for a long time every time I would look at these stars. I kind of hated her for stealing the joy from a rainbow of stars. It takes a lot of work to instill new significance to something that was robbed of happy memories.

Enjoy this piglet palette cleanser. Don't think of the shitty person. Look at the piglet.

I'll write about the significance of the semi-colon tattoo when I get it. In the meantime, hit me in the comments and tell me your tattoo story.

30 Days of Blogging, Day10: The Dead Naked Man

I missed my Saturday post. I'm so ashamed. There will, however, be 30 posts this month. It's gonna happen.

Littleton,Colorado is an interesting town in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Fairly normal--suburban; tons of malls, strip malls, outlet malls...malls in general; but with a rich frontier and settler's history and a long string of dark crimes.

Alfred Packer, infamous convicted cannibal.

Does this look like the face of a cannib--okay I see it.

Eugene Thompson, cocaine aficionado, went on cocaine fueled rampage with an uzi in the 80's and had his final standoff blocks from my elementary school.

Artist's rendering of Eugene Thompson's breakfast.

Columbine: You know this one.

No pictures of Columbine, just my favorite holiday lighting in the world--downtown Littleton. 

Think happy thoughts.

I could keep going, but I don't want to bum you out. For a sleepy suburb, Littleton has a dark history; so having this knowledge, why--why--would my friend Cecily and I go for a midnight walk in an abandoned Littleton park? Knowing what we know, we definitely should not have been surprised that on this midnight walk, we would stumble across what would appear to be a naked dead man.

Cecily and I grew up together in Castle Rock, Colorado. We met in the 5th grade when Cecily moved to Castle Rock from California. She had long blonde hair, wore the coolest clothes and read the Babysitter's Club, just like me--she even reminded me of Dawn from the Babysitter's Club, only not a complete bummer.

I think it's universally agreed that Dawn was the worst.

We would go through Middle School and High School together. Some of my fondest memories with Cecily were the random nights we would hop in her car with no particular destination, blasting the radio and quoting our favorite movies, mostly likely something from Monty Python. Cecily would eventually go on to college, but when she would come back to town in the summers we would hop in her go and go on our adventures.

There wasn't much to do in our hometown. There was really only one bar in town, and if we wanted to go out dancing we had to drive to Denver, which was 30 miles north of us. We'd usually settle for going to Cold Stone Creamery by the nearest mall and sitting on the steps outside and gossiping.

One particular warm summer evening Cecily and I were eating our Cold Stone, and we decided we wanted to go on an adventure and take pictures.

Now kids, back in my day, we didn't have fancy cordless telephones with magical film-less cameras; we had these devices that we put film in to take photographs that we would take to a very scientific lab called 24 Hour Photo. They would take this film and print it on paper, and low and behold 24 hours later: pictures! Those were darker days, but I digress.

I used cameras before it stopped being cool to use cameras and then started being cool to use cameras again.

A couple of weeks before I was in Ketring Park in Littleton with my family for a 4th of July picnic. Next to this park is a stunning Memorial rose garden. I suggested to Cecily we drive up to the park, wander around, take pictures, and then walk around Ketring Pond to the playground. She was nervous about going to parks late at night, not because she didn't feel safe, but because she thought we'd get in trouble.

This is the part where I should have listened to her.

I poo-pooed her fears, saying they're public parks and we'll be fine. Worse case scenario someone will just tell us to clear out and we'll be fine; so we left Cold Stone and made the drive over to Ketring Park.

At this point it was well past 11:00 pm and pitch dark. All we had was the light of the moon. It was a warm summer evening. We were young and carefree--like a Better Than Ezra song. We wandered around the rose garden taking flash photos and picking roses. We played around the gazebo, taking silly glamour shots of ourselves and attempting selfies, which were not called selfies back then.They were just called pictures.

I was born and have ever remaind in the most humble walks of life--SELFIIIIIIE!!!!

After we got bored of the rose garden I suggested we make our way to the pond and walk to the playground. Cecily--once again the ringing voice of reason--said it's probably not a good idea and she felt a little creeped out. Again, I told her there's nothing to be creeped out about, it's Littleton after all. Nobody's died in random, horrible murders in Littleton.

We started our stroll around the pond.

It was such a stunning night. Warm with a bright full moon hanging over our heads, the smell of flowers, grass, the algae in the water; I was enjoying the amazing moment with my oldest friend, but my oldest friend was freaking out. We were almost to the park, which was very well lit, but she was so scared that something bad was going to happen. I acquiesced and we starting walking back to my mom's car; I did not, however, go quietly. I kept going on about how it's just a boring suburb, nothing bad is going to happen, she's just being a wuss, we would have had so much fun at the playground, blah blah blah...

As I continued to tease my friend, I noticed something in the grass to the left of the walking trail. My eyes hadn't adjusted yet to the dark after being exposed to the lights at the playground. I stopped ribbing Cecily and started walking towards this large, white shape.

As I got closer it started taking form. At first I thought it was a blanket--then a folded up chair or stroller--but as I got just a few feet away my eyes completely adjusted, and there, lying in the green summer grass, was the white, pasty body of a completely naked man--and he was completely lifeless.

At this point time slows down. The words "Oh my God" came out in slow motion and my eyes moved from the lifeless body in the grass to my friend, who was no longer there. Time caught up with me as I looked down the path to see my friend half a football field away from me, running for her life.

She even left the cartoon trail of dust.

It's amazing what your body is capable of when it registers fear. I am not--and have never been--a runner; but in that moment my body performed running feats I have never been able to repeat.

I heard myself scream, "DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE ME!!!", and ran after Cecily. Not only was I able to catch up with her, but I grabbed her hand and dragged her behind me...probably.

We got in my mothers car and peeled my mother's station wagon out of the parking lot like we were being chased by a chainsaw wielding murderer.

As we drove away we repeatedly screamed at each other "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!"

I asked her if she saw the same thing I did. She said, "Dead naked guy in the grass?" and I confirmed: "Dead naked guy in the grass!"

Our screaming went on for several miles before we decided we need to figure out what to do with this information. Our first idea was to leave it and pretend like it never happened, but after years of watching Law & Order, all I could think about was someone might have seen us peeling out of the park. We could be implicated in his murder! We could go to jail! We could get the chair! I'll die before I get laid!

We queried if we should pull into a gas station and call anonymously from a pay phone, but--duh--they could trace where it came from and gas stations had cameras! Then implicated, jail, electric chair, die a virgin.

I asked why are we so afraid of calling the police and just saying, "Hey we were walking around the pond and found a dead naked guy" and Cecily said, "Because we weren't supposed to be there! We were breaking the rules!" Such a Girl Scout.

An aside: we were actually Scouts together too, but clearly I was a terrible scout because I so flagrantly break rules and talk my friends into breaking them too.

I'm a huge proponent of introducing racketeering into the Girl Scouts.

We decided to stop and just fess up to being in the park and finding the dead naked man. I lead the call with, "My friend and I were walking around Kreting Pond about a half hour ago--now I know we probably weren't supposed to be there, so that's our mistake and we fully accept responsibility for that --" The 911 operator sighed and asked what actually happened "--Well as we were walking we found what appeared to be a dead naked person."

I had to repeat that back to her a couple of times, and she asked me exactly what we saw. Then she asked if we stopped to take his pulse.

Bitch please.

She said that police were dispatched to the park and asked us to meet them back there to show them where we found the alleged body. We drove back to the park, the whole time Cecily I told you so-ing me...I deserved that.

We got back to the park where there were several squad cars with their lights on. We met a female officer--who was totally hot in her uniform--she said they didn't find any body. What they did find, around the area we explained over the phone, was a guy hanging out in the grass, who lived in a house on the other side of the bushes.

I asked if he was dressed and she said yep, he was wearing a black hoodie. We told her that he was definitely NOT wearing a black hoodie, He was, in fact, not wearing anything at all, and he was not moving.

She said they looked all around and found nobody, just the guy hanging out in the grass. She said maybe he had his shirt off and we mistook him for naked.

I wanted to argue with her and tell her that you cannot mistake a naked man. There was a very clear and present wiener.

Idea for a new adult film: Clear and Present Weiner...

Cecily was already done with this conversation and walked back to the car, so I said goodnight and apologized if we wasted their time. The cop was surprisingly nice about it, saying it's what they were there for, even if we weren't sure. Her niceness made her even hotter.

 I followed Cecily back to the car and we left the park and drove back to Castle Rock.

On the long drive home we theorized what the hell just happened. Was this guy laying in the grass, posing as a naked dead person to mess with people? Was there an actual dead naked man and the sweatshirted guy moved his body? Was he naked at all and were we seeing things?

In the end we concluded maybe he went for a dip in the pond and fell asleep in the grass.

The next day we went to the one hour photo to develop our pictures, hoping that maybe our dead naked man popped up somewhere in the film, which sadly he didn't. He fell into legend in our stories for us to retell when we see each other from time to time.

I think about the dead naked man now and then. I wonder if he tells stories to his friends of the warm summer night he was relaxing in the in the cool grass, and some screaming women discovered him and called the cops on him.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 9: I'm a Real Bad Guy

My little brother Nick. What a jerk, right?

After going back and reading through a lot of my old notes and stories I found a common theme: in the majority of my stories (meaning all of them) I tend to cast myself as the victim. Stories of humiliation, how I've been done wrong, all told through a filter of pathos and humor. I'm the lovable loser. Truth be told, I'm not always the lovable loser:

I have been the bad guy.

When I was four years old I was sitting with my mother while she folded laundry. She said to me, "Guess what Summer?", and my answer was:"We're having company?" I loved having company over, I was always begging my parents to invite fun people over for me to entertain. (Keep note of how I often like to make situations about me)

We were not having company over.

She touched her tummy and a smile spread across her face, "We're not having company baby, I'm pregnant!"

I literally had no idea what that meant.

She explained to me that she had a baby growing in her tummy and that in October I might have a baby brother or sister.

To be honest I did not hear the brother part; my brain very deliberately blocked that word out. Up until that point I'd been living with an older brother who I really have no other descriptive other than he was a real dick. He was mean, he teased me, he excluded me; I had to assume the link was that all brothers are bastards and sisters were the promise-land of siblings.

Again, to be honest, I was a little apprehensive about losing my "baby" status. My mother literally said to me, "You're not the baby anymore, you gotta be a big sister!" This did not land well with me. I enjoyed being the baby; babies get attention. This would greatly diminish the attention that I so richly deserved. The trade-off, however, was that I was going to have a little sister who will play with me, and I would teach her how to play house and dress-up and draw and all the things a big sister should do; most importantly, I would never make her feel left out.

October 10th 1985 rolled around and so did my little brother. Yeah, brother. When I asked my mom why she didn't have a little sister for me she of course gave me the following terrible excuses:

"I didn't have a choice."

"I'm happy to have a healthy baby."

"I'm happy to have another little boy."

This was a betrayal, not only to me, but our gender. She already made one male hell-spawn, why is she happily adding to the pool?

In the first couple years of my little brother's life I earnestly tried to be a good big sister. I would offer to hold him and feed him, which was often met with being smeared with vomit. Once, I offered to change his diaper for her; I laid him down in the middle of the hallway and opened his diaper to discover what can only be best described as the green excrement of the churning bowels of Satan. I half-assed closed his diaper and abandoned him--just left him there in the hall. Seconds later I heard my mother shout, "Why is Nicholas rolling in poop in the middle of the hallway?!"

I'm not winning any good guy contests here.

Naturally my brothers formed an unholy alliance against me. This sounds paranoid but this is something they both would say to me on a regular basis: "We're brothers, we're supposed to team up against you." It was like that cartoon of the giant bulldog that mugged around with his scrappy little terrier friend that was like, "Get her! Give her hell!" I was constantly getting double-teamed, and not in the good way like I fantasize about as a consenting adult.

Don't judge me.

It didn't help that he was always getting into my stuff. He would use my shampoo as bubble bath. He and his friends would go into my room and steal my CD's or scatter my bras and underwear around the house. He would use my tampons for weird science experiments. He would steal my lipstick and use it for coloring.

Every time I would go to my mother and say, "Nicholas did *fill in the blank*!" She would always blame me for leaving things out, leaving my bedroom door open, having things, existing; it was always my fault.

I would even take punishment on his behalf. The worst one was when my mom found hot glue dried onto the carpet and she insisted it was me. I did not do it. This is something I am still--very--bitter about. I plead to her and insisted it was Nick's fault, that I didn't do it. She insisted I did and I got a spanking with a belt for it. After that, the bitter seed that was planted for my little brother grew into a full grown oak; hard, aged, and gnarly.

I hated my little brother. He often would deliberately try to get a rise out of me. I would do the thing where I would stand up to intimidate him and he would scream, "Summer don't hit me!" and my mother would send me to my room.

Hated him. 

The day I finally found my power was my lowest moment. I was 17 and Nick was 12. I had come home and found him and his friend leafing through my CD collection in my bedroom; two major infractions. I told his friend to leave and I immediately lit into him.

"How many times have I told you to stay out of my room?! Don't touch my CD's??" The usual tantrum.

This time it was different. He wasn't making up excuses. He was just half smirking and he said to me, "I don't have to listen to you." That was it. I had no power. I had no power over my space, my things; I couldn't intimidate him and I never had anyone to back me up. All I could do was muster up the meanest thing I could think of.

"You are worthless. You are fucking worthless."

I said it with such hate and bile. It was effective. I could see it spread across his face; it hurt. I had finally been able to deliver a hit and it stuck. He screwed up his face and told me that he's not worthless, but I had taken my power back, so I kept delivering the hit.

"Yes you are. You are nothing. You are worthless. You do nothing for this family but drain us. I hate you. You are worthless."

After that our fights after would go the same way: he would do something to piss me off and in the meanest most dismissive way I would call him worthless. Every single time it hurt him and every single time it inflated my sense of power over him. I finally had a weapon; I could hurt him.

When he was 18 he met a truly awful girl at a card shop where he liked to hang out. I was constantly haranguing him for bringing her around; she was literally dirty, trashy, and mean to him. I had moved in with my mother for a short time after my father started going on the road for his job and she and Nick would come over for dinner. Once I caught her in my room sitting on the edge of my bed rifling through my night stand with my vibrator on her lap.

Some lines should never be uncrossed. She danced across this one.

I interrogated Nick. "Why are you with this girl? She's awful, she's dirty, and she's a thief. You could do so much better!"

The look on his face is so firmly planted in my brain. "Why the fuck do you care? I'm worthless? I'm a piece of shit! You hate me! I'm nothing! I'm nothing!"

He was beyond incredulous that someone who would say such hateful things to him would even care. He believed he didn't deserve better because, for years, the one person who should have forgiven him for doing stupid things like playing with my lipstick and borrowing my CD's was slowly chipping away at his self-worth in repayment.

I wish I could say that in that moment I redeemed myself and became the good guy--that I took his hand and told him that I only said those things out of anger. That I was, at the very least, sorry.

I didn't. I just let the moment land and he left me. We didn't speak for almost 2 years, shortly after I moved here to Seattle.

He had come out of the closet and had a boyfriend, Linn. He called me out of the blue one day and just wanted to catch up. We spoke as grown-ups. He told me about his hobbies, his art, the house he and Linn were moving into together. I told him about my new life in Seattle.

At the end as we were saying our goodbyes I told him it was so great to just talk to him like that. He told me it helped that he wasn't there to annoy me. I burst into tears. That last fight we had stayed with me and I carried deep sorrow for not telling him how sorry I was for implanting that thought in his head--the thought that he was worthless.

I told him that I said a lot of hateful things out of anger. That he isn't worthless and I never believed he was.

He was very quiet, and I thought I could hear him sniffling, like he was crying. He said thank you, like it really meant something to him; like it was something he needed to hear for a very long time. It was something I needed to do for a very long time.

A little over three years ago I stood up with my 6'4" little brother on his wedding day. He wore a beautiful purple wedding dress as he married his partner of many years. I marveled at the wonderful people in his life; the family he's built. My heart swelled with pride for my beautiful little brother.

After the ceremony I looked to the back of the venue to see my mother sneak out with her new husband. They didn't want to stay. She would later tell me that it was all too much for her.

In that moment I no longer felt like the bad guy.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 8: Life of Crime

Look at this thug.

Drema and I were inseparable. The moment we were free from school we would race from our homes and find each other. We would dress up, play house in the bushes and practice kissing, and when we could scrounge up change, we would wander down to the Albertson's down the street to buy Tootsie Pops. We even shared chicken pox, we were so close.

Drema was also the first girl I ever loved.

We were also children of mothers who were very devout Christians.

We were Catholic until I was about 8. One Sunday morning my mother said we're going to be Baptist now and when we go to church I needed to stop crossing myself. I would sneak in the occasional cross while everyone's eyes were closed during prayer, thought--the early days of my rebellion. "Tell me I can't cross myself? Well screw you! Cross! May God be with you, and also with you motherfucker!"

I didn't say motherfucker when I was 8.

Religion and church was important to my mother. Everything we did went through God, and everything we had came through God. He was the Brita filter of our lives. All decisions went through God as well, but bad decisions...those came from the big D himself: El Diablo, Lucifer, The Devil...SATAN.

In the mornings and afternoons, when my mother drove me to and from school, we listened to the Focus on the Family radio program. Dr. James Dobson often used the phrase, Satan getting a foothold. "Don't let Satan get a foothold!"--as if some imaginary little red-bodied monster with a bifurcated tail was obnoxiously clinging to our ankles trying to drag us into hell.

Drema was a little more dangerous than me. She was usually the instigator in our adventures. Like the time we wanted to turn her apartment building's laundry room into a haunted house; it was her idea to dribble red nail polish all over as a great substitute for blood. She of course handed it off to me to do the dribbling, and when we got in trouble she pointed at me and said I did it. I was rarely angry when she did this--Drema was a little scared of her mother, because as devout as my mother was, her mother made my mother look like a lightweight Christmas/Easter Christian.

Neleen was a devoutly, deeply, crazy Christian. When I would go over to Drema's apartment she was always kneeling in prayer. She had a thick Texas accent, and when Drema would leave to play with me, she would place her hand on both of our heads and pray for us. When we got back she would pray over us again and interrogate us to find out if we made good decisions that was reflective of God's glory. All that being said, if the heat was ever coming down on Drema, I didn't mind taking it in her place, because the consequences were always so much worse for her than they would be for me.

One Cinco de Mayo afternoon, Drema and I were dressed up in giant ruffly dresses that belonged to her Mother--we loved strolling the neighborhood in our dress-up outfits. We wandered down the block to the Albertson's for our usual Tootsie Pop, but that day we took a diversion down the makeup aisle.

We didn't ever buy anything--we were 9 and we didn't have money. We would just faun over the products and say what we would buy that day if we did have money. This day, however, Drema picked up a tube of bubble gum flavored roller-ball lip gloss. We both wanted it so bad. We kept passing it back and forth, admiring the clear tube of gloss and the little pink bubbles on the bottle. Drema then took it back from me, pulled open the front of my dress and stuffed the lip gloss inside of it.

I immediately knew what we were doing was wrong; my older brother got in trouble for it constantly, having recently stolen Garbage Pail Kids cards from the 7-Eleven down the street. Stealing was bad. "Thou shalt not steal." We heard it in Sunday school. It was in a cross-stitch on our walls.

I heard myself ask, "Isn't this stealing?"--like I didn't know. Drema looked at me incredulously, as if I was some kind of idiot who didn't realize this was the plan all along, and said "Yes." The excitement of what was happening replaced my Christian guilt and she instructed me to walk out like nothing was wrong. As we rounded the corner we looked at each other and squealed, delighted that we got away with our first act of larceny.

Our celebration was cut short when I saw Drema's face fill with fear as our mothers drove up to us in my Mother's minivan. My mom had been looking for me; we were going to drive out to the reservoir and go for a walk with the family. I jumped into the front seat and looked at Drema as we drove away knowing I had incriminating evidence stuffed down my dress.

When we got to the reservoir I knew I had to ditch the lip gloss, but I had nowhere to throw it, so I tossed it under the passenger's seat when my mom wasn't looking--I then immediately forgot about it.

Two weeks later my mother called me into the kitchen. She was sitting at the table looking deadly serious. I sat down and she gently placed the lip gloss, still in it's package, on the table between us.

"Where did this come from?" She was so cool, like the good cop detective.

It took me literally seconds to fess up. I didn't so much fess up as I just exploded with truth.

"I STOLE IT!" I sobbed and threw my face into my arms on the table.

My mom very calmly put her hand on my hand and said, "This is a sin Summer. This is a sin that God never forgives."

So that was it for me. Nine years old and my afterlife had already been decided.

My mother told me that I would be grounded for two weeks, the first week of which I would be spending in my room by myself. She grilled me if I acted alone, and in the spirit of honesty I told her that Drema and I took it together. We marched directly over to Drema's house and sat down with Nelleen for my confession.

I will never forget to the look on Drema's face. Betrayed fury. Nelleen and Mom prayed over us; they prayed we would learn from our sin and that we would not continue to stray down Satan's path. When we left Drema hugged me and said she would never forgive me.

I spent that first week of solitude mourning the loss of my friend. Not only was I grounded for two weeks, we were grounded from each other for a month.

Every single night as I would lay myself down to sleep I would pray that God would forgive me for stealing and that Drema would be my friend again. I prayed and prayed, every time shedding tears of contrition for my God and my friend.

Exactly one month later Drema showed up on my doorstep and asked me to go roller skating. Years after that I would still pray that God would forgive me for stealing that tube of lipgloss. I'm not sure if God has yet forgiven me. Time will tell.

I started writing this story focused on God, religion and how religion fucks us up in our most vulnerable years. While I was writing I of course reminisced about Drema.

We hadn't spoken since just before I married my ex-wife, and before then we hadn't seen or spoken to each other since we were 10. We caught up while I listened to her 5 children in the background scream and I told her I was getting married. When I told her that I was marrying a woman her disappointment was clear--I didn't turn out the way she expected and, in fairness, she didn't turn out the way I expected. We never spoke again after that.

8 years later I decided to Google her name, and the first item that returned was her obituary.

Drema died 2 years ago. Cancer. I don't know how long she was sick, and I don't know a lot of the details of her life.

 I just know the following: that she had five children, she was 33, she died in the town she was born in, and I'm so glad we stole that stupid lipgloss.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 6: Of Monsters and Me

The other night as I spent time with a bottle of wine I pondered the idea of monsters. About an hour in I typed in the middle of the screen: "What if I am the real monster?" After staring at that statement on the screen I laughed for 5 minutes straight and ordered a pizza and forgot to write. 

In the traditional sense of monsters, like the ones who lurk under children's beds, I have only truly been afraid of one "monster": Skeletor. What isn't terrifying about a flesh-less, talking skull with a beefcake, ripped body whose soul mission is to kill He-Man and She-Ra? Those chicks were hot.

Wait, weren't they brother and sister? What's with all the sexual tension?

Outside of my "Masters of the Universe" fear, my monsters have always been very grounded in reality. Now when I say reality I use it in the very loosest sense of the word. I wasn't terrified of fantastical monsters: I was, and still kind of am, terrified of the monsters I build up in my head.

I blame two things: the evening news and Unsolved Mysteries. And my parents. 3 things. I blame 3 things. Rescue 911, Unsolved Mysteries, my parents, and my brother. 4 things. I blame 4 things.

When it came to Unsolved Mysteries, I wasn't afraid of the things that happened; I wasn't afraid of aliens, or being kidnapped, or murdered. I was afraid of Robert Stack. Did that man realize how terrifying he is?

Don't tell me seeing this dude step out of an alley wouldn't make you pee your pants.

I recall a very vivid nightmare when I was 10 that my father and brother were trying to murder me, and I ran into my room where it had been transformed into a steamy ally and Robert Stack walked out in a fedora and trench coat and straight up stabbed me. That was the crazy shit going on in my head when I was 10.

My other monster was, and still is, disease. I was an early adopter of hypochondria. My first case was HIV. I would have been probably 7 or 8 when I first recalled hearing about HIV on the news, which my dad insisted we watched every day, so I'll be sending him my therapy bills. I of course didn't know how to get it and didn't know the symptoms, but I was pretty sure I had it from that one time I didn't wash my hands.

Every single time I had a cold it was a countdown to the end of my life. I would lay in bed at night terrified to fall asleep because I was afraid I wouldn't wake up, which lead to my very real condition of insomnia. I once read a book about a girl who found out she had leukemia after a nasty nose bleed; I got a nose bleed (from picking my damn nose too much) and I sat up all night until the sun came up. I almost choked on rice one night at dinner and I didn't eat for a week. I think my parents didn't really take exception to this, since they wanted me to lose weight.

I'm one neuroses from my goal weight!

My hypochondria isn't as bad as it used to be. My most recent episode was when I thought I had M.E.R.S. (Middle Eastern Respiratory Syndrome) a few years ago, because I got the flu and I was working with interns who traveled to work in Seattle from all around the world. My brain rationalized this and as I insisted to the doctor that I absolutely had the MERS. Between her trying to catch her breath from laughter she told me it was impossible, there are no cases in the US and I just have boring old flu. Didn't she know how special I am?

All these little monsters: diseases, spiders, Robert Stack--those have been manageable. I've never really been afraid of the real monsters in the world, not until recently.

I have a new feeling I've never experienced before: a jumpiness, and feeling of being unsure of the people around me. Every time I log on to social media or watch the new, a feeling powerlessness creeps over me, followed by a deep, profound anger. Pulse. Alton Sterling. 250 dead in Baghdad. I'm so angry I can't find tears to shed because they're being burned out of me. When I think of the possible solutions I get even angrier because I know there are mighty people with a lot of money that fight the best solutions. Those are the real monsters. The ones who can make things better but won't. 

I wish my biggest fear was still Robert Stack. 

30 Days of Blogging, Day 5: For All the Cats I've Loved Before

This morning at 4:00 am I could hear him in his litter box, violently kicking litter around. I heard what sounded like fistfuls of litter hitting the bathroom floor. He does this on occasion in the middle of the night; I assume to punish me for being asleep and not paying attention to him. That's what I get.

I shout his name and make "TSSS!" noises to no avail. I eventually get up to go to the bathroom myself, stepping on kitty litter. I grab the tiny broom and stand-up dust pan I've started leaving next to his box and begin to sweep by night light. He starts to twirl between my legs, purring and rubbing up against them, but then he realizes I'm not on the bed and runs to claim the warm spot I've left for him. I call him a dick, but I've grown to love this dick.

I had no plans to adopt a cat back in December when my friend Lisa and I were visiting Portland for Christmas. We had heard there was a cat cafe and simply went there to check it out. I didn't want a cat. I hadn't had a cat for years, and due to that had developed a slight allergy and a strong dislike for their aloofness.

I'm on to your game. It only makes me love you more.

He was the first I noticed as we sat down with our drinks. He was running and playing with other cats, climbing the shelves as high as he could around the room. I noticed he had one eye, and for some reason it spoke to my heart. He was so spring-stepped and spry, the loss of an eye didn't slow him down. I tried to coax him to me by rubbing my fingers together and he was predictably aloof, but it didn't deter my interest. We left but returned the next day where I, completely out of character, decided to adopt him. I would have to return the following week to collect him, and after spending the week setting up everything he would need I drove down to Portland after work and returned home the same night with a very nervous kitty.

Since then it's been my goal to give Popeye a great home. He started his life as a wandering rover on the mean streets of Portland. He was found with an injured eye and taken to a shelter where they removed it, which is how he earned the name Popeye. I also want to give him a life better than the cats I grew up with.

You see: I come from a house where cats went to die.

Insert record scratch noise here.

Let me make it clear that it was not on purpose. We weren't a cat murdering cult. There were extenuating environmental circumstances that made it difficult for a cat to survive in our home.

I reminisced on these cats and thought deeply of how I loved them (most of them), even for the short time they were with me. I started writing about them and ended up writing tiny eulogies for them.

To my first cat Angel:

Composite sketch; not an exact rendering

I don't remember you very clearly. I was 4 and you were our first cat when we moved to Colorado Springs. You were white and that is why I called you Angel. Was that racist? I don't know. My parents did not get you fixed, and they also let you be an outdoor cat. One day you came home pregnant and you produced only one surviving offspring. Your offspring survived. You, to my recollection, did not survive the neighbors dog. Rest in peace, Angel.

To Angel's offspring Ginger:

Artist rendering of Ginger; note the excessive make-up that denotes female "looseness".

Ginger, my mother gave you that name. I did not. Why she gave you a stripper name we'll never know; we were a good Catholic family. Ginger, we tried hard to keep you as an indoors cat, but you were tricky. Waiting for me or my brothers to linger in the door too long to make your escape. You taught me where babies come from Ginger. Know why? Because every time you came home, you came home pregnant. The pet store at the mall counted on us to keep an inventory of kittens because you could not keep your cat legs together. Then, shortly after giving birth to your last litter, you left us. Big Michelle, my friend who lived down the street said she found you after seeing you get run over by a truck. She then made up a very dramatic story that her cocker-spaniel attacked the truck driver and killed him for running you over. I found solace in this truck drivers canine murder, even if it was a lie. From your final litter, we did keep one kitten. Rest in peace Ginger.

To Ginger's offspring, Saint Thomas:

Artist rendering of Saint Thomas; not a completely inaccurate rendering.

Saint Thomas, you were with us the longest. It appears your mother shacked up with a Russian Blue cat, because you were just that. Handsome and small for your breed, you were my cat. Born when I was 6, shortly after the birth of my little brother, you tolerated my Elmira-vice-grip as I would pick you up and drag you around, occasionally dressing you up in my doll's clothes. I think the best description of you would be tolerant. You even tolerated two dogs, and another cat. You loved being outside, to your detriment, because you got in a fight with a skunk and your ears were left with Swiss-cheese like holes. You were the neighborhood tom-cat, constantly chasing the ladies. We eventually had to end your love-streak because you were spraying our neighbors windows. That was gross, St. Thomas. You were with us the longest, for 8 whole years. When you turned eight the doctor said he had to remove your teeth because they were rotten. Shortly after, we learned you had contracted feline leukemia, and I found you one Saturday morning on a pile of laundry. Rigor Mortis had long set in and your mouth was stretched open as if you had died screaming. It was horrifying. My poor Tom-Cat. You were buried beneath my mother's roses, where I assume you still rest. Rest in peace St. Thomas.

To Miss Kitty:

Close enough.

I literally can't remember where you came from, but you were tiny and adorable when you came to us when I was 13. Always wanting to cuddle, you slept on my head every night. We only had you for a year, and you contracted St. Thomas' feline leukemia. My father took you to the vet to see what could be done while we ran errands to Costco. I found out standing in the middle of Costco that my dad told the vets to go ahead and put you down since nothing could be done. I never got to say goodbye, and I cried next to giant boxes of cereal. Rest in peace Miss Kitty.

To Sox and Tiberius:

I'm not even trying anymore...

After the drama and death of back to back cat deaths, my father declared no more cats. Then we acquired a mouse problem, and dad said we could adopt two cats from the vet. Sox, you looked like Sox the White House cat. Even at 14 I was an adamant liberal. Tiberius, my brother named you after James Tiberius Kirk. Sox, you bailed on us and went to live with another family. Fuck you, Sox. Tiberius stuck around with us for a long time. Much like Miss Kitty you slept on my head every night, and you were fat and lazy which made you look just like Garfield. One night I let you out, and you never came home. My dad assumed it was coyotes, since at this point we lived in the country. I became embittered and built a callous around my heart from the loss of yet another cat, but it doesn't make your loss any less tragic. Rest in peace Tiberius.

To Ivy:

Theirs was not a poetic encounter.

I never wanted you. My mother found you. You were a white Persian that was among a litter of full grown Persian cats left on the step of the town vet. You purred so loudly that you would wake me from a dead sleep. You never used the cat box and peed and pooped exclusively under my bed.  I think you sensed I didn't like you, even though I was always cordial. One night after coming home from a high school play rehearsal I spied you in the neighbors yard under a street light. Quite unexpectedly large owl swooped down and took you away. Your screams echo in my memory. The following day on a walk with my mother we found only inner remains and tufts of white fluffy hair all over. You didn't deserve to go like that. Rest in peace Ivy.

To Hugo:

He was a dapper fellow.

You were given to me by my brother, because he couldn't afford to keep you. You were named Hugo, after Hugo Boss, because the pattern in your fur looked like a suit...I guess? I didn't see it. Like my last two cats you slept on my head, played with my feet under the covers, and were generally a sweet and an cuddly cat who tolerated my need for squeezes and snuggling. Your fur became matted so we took you to the groomer to get shaved. This was in 1999. I took a picture of you and sent it to my friend and titled it "Shaved Pussy". It was the first shaved pussy photo I ever sent. Whether it was the last remains to be seen. One day you never came home, I assume due to coyote, owl, or shame. Rest in peace Hugo.

Eight cats, all who lived far too short lives. I dedicate this to them and I make the following promise: I will keep Popeye indoors at all times, especially since I live on the 6th floor and have not yet informed my apartment manager that I have a cat (please don't tell on me). I will keep him healthy. I will play with him. I will not put doll clothes on him. I will ensure his safety from all coyotes, owls, skunks, and embarrassing photos.

Baby's first selfie.

Most importantly, I will love him.