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 13: Lazy Days Are Here Again

This post is gonna be meme HEAVY. Ugh, do I have to cite my sources? Being ethical is the worst.

Tonight I wanted to write a story about the time in 5th grade when I lied about being my own twin. I'm going to write that story, however, I am currently snuggled in my beddy-by in my jimmy-jams under my blankey-wankey, and guess what?

I. Don't. Feel like it. 

Pout.

I'm tired and sleepy and cranky and I just wanna watch Mr. Robot. 

No you're not. Stop it.

I know that to be a good writer, you have to write. A lot.

Can't I just say I'm a writer? Do I have to actually do it?

Tonight I'm giving myself a night off-ish.

I will. I will treat myself. Thank you. Hey Retta? Call me.

In the mean time hit me in the comments and tell me all the wonderful things you have planned for this weekend. 

Mmm, weekend so good...

Lazy Summer OUT.

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, 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 7: Eat This Blog

It's been a hard day in the world. I don't have a lot to write, and I'm not feeling particularly prolific today, so this is going to be a short and fluffy post. Hit me in the comments. You'll win a participation metal.

To preface this post, you'll need to watch the video at this link to completion (and for the love of God someone teach me how to embed a video from Twitter to Blogger).

Don't forget to speak loudly so I can hear you. I'll pay you in hard candies.

I'll wait.

All good?

Don't tell me we're good if we're not good.

Did you watch it?

Okay, I trust you.

Here we go:

DON'T. TOUCH. MY. FOOD.

Unless you have received a clear invitation from me to delicately taste a petit sampling of my delicious dish which I have agonized and second-guessed to unhealthy extremes since the waiter whisked away with my order--do not touch my food.

Unless you and I have entered into a verbal contract that we are meant to be sharing this dish--do not touch my food.

Unless I have had to flee due to tend to some kind of medical emergency or matter of national security and I didn't have the forethought to have my food packaged up to go--do not touch my food.

Do you think Liz would share her Mac and Cheetos?

What, am I some kind of greedy food monster? A selfish-Sally who never learned the concept of sharing? Maybe a little--but mostly it's due to a bizarre neurosis when it comes to my eating habits.

Now I'd place bets that there are a lot of folks who have odd little eating habits. In order to make this a safe space to share, I will share with you some of mine:

1) Did I mention I struggle with sharing?

2) I make a plan for how I will consume my food before I eat it. For example, if I have, say, a piece of chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas on my plate, there is a predetermined order in how this is going to go down. Scoop of potatoes, each bite gently pressed into the peas then enjoyed. Chicken, while delicious, is given attention last since it is not a delicious starch. The order is always: vegetables, starch, protein.

Look at this work of art, waiting to be consumed from right to left--the way God intended.

3) I eat one thing at a time. With the exception of dipping potatoes into peas, I enjoy one thing at a time, carving a path to the item I've decided to save for last. It was once pointed out to me by a close friend that this is freaking odd. I still struggle with that concept. Why not take your time and enjoy each component of your plate without cross-contaminating? This, I was told, was not normal eating behavior, and that the correct way to eat is to graze throughout the plate; a bite of this, a couple bites of that. That stressed me out; however, due to my epic admonishment I began to develop a bit of of a shame complex when eating in front of other people. Eating with friends requires a constant inner monologue that usually goes as follows--don't eat one thing at a time...okay you took a bite of this, take a break--don't go back to soon!!!--okay go to the chicken--you're doing a good job--do I look stressed out?--oh God, they know--I'm a freak!

Is it paranoia or narcissism? Why can't it be both?

4) I struggle with guilt every time I eat. I'm in a constant state of self-judging. As a person who has struggled with both my weight and bullying, I am always in a state of fear that people are judging me, even when I'm hungry. There's always a fear that if someone sees what I'm eating that they will observe and judge not only what I eat, but how I eat. Don't eat too fast--you'll look like a pig and they'll see you and then they'll know you're an actual pig--don't eat too much--don't order too rich food--be sure to leave something on your plate so you don't look greedy.

Time to move and change my name. Again.

My relationship with food is steeped in neurosis and in a constant state of evolving.

I'm figuring it out.

Your turn. What's your thing? Hit me in the comments.

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.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 2: Mac and Cheetos and the Spiral of Shame

There must be a million reviews of Burger King's newest contribution to garbage food fusion cuisine, but none of those reviews will be as deeply steeped in shame as this one.

Where were you when I was pulling into the drive-thru?

Did you know that no matter what time you leave on a Friday before 4th of July weekend your drive home will be inexplicably long? Like, "I should consider stopping for sustenance" long? Just as I had this thought I was rolling by a Burger King.

This is where the shame spiral begins.

I was just going to get a soda.

Maybe a soda and some fries.

Maybe a soda, some fries, and a Junior Whopper.

Maybe a soda, scratch the fries, onion rings instead, and a Whopper with cheese and bacon, and...do they have milkshakes?

Maybe a chocolate milkshake, onion rings, a double Whopper with cheese and bacon and...OHMYGOD MAC AND CHEETOS?!?!

No caption needed. 

Scratch the milkshake, onion rings and Whopper: shit's about to get real here. 

I ordered one order of the Mac and Cheetos, which comes with 5 pieces. And a soda. And a Whopper, for a palette cleanser. 

I noticed a slight embarrassed tone as I said, "Mac and Cheetos"; as if when ordering them requires a certain amount of remorse or you won't get your food. 

I asked the gal at the window if she'd tried them. She nodded and half-shrugged with a look on her face that said, "They made me try it, and I'm not supposed to say it's terrible, but I also hate lying, so this is all I'm able to muster up without losing my job."

It was a drive-by Meh-ing

I couldn't wait to get home to try one, so I the pulled the box out as soon as I pulled way. 

I love that it comes in it's own little purse. You don't want it to touch anything like clothes, fabric, or skin.

It's not a product slogan, it's a warning.

At first glance, they look like the puffy variety of Cheetos, which took me back to many hazy-roomed nights in my early twenties waxing poetic of how much more delicious the puffy Cheetos are because of how good they feel with cotton mouth. Yes, that's a conversation I had. 

At second glance, they started to remind of the nuggets I scoop after Popeye every morning. I tried not to dwell on their cat-poop similarities too long, because I really wanted to try this crap.

Does it matter that product development at Burger King is run by cats?

They smell nothing like Cheetos, and more like Goldfish Crackers or Cheez-Its. When I bit into it, it was a bit stale, like it had been sitting under a heat lamp for quite some time. The mac and cheese on the inside was like (and probably actually was) Kraft Mac and Cheese.

Is this what I look like on the inside now?

Pretty salty, Kind of creamy. Kind of crunchy. Savory. Might be really good with beer--oh man. Oh no.

I wasn't supposed to like them. I was supposed to try them to be ironic in the incorrect sense of the word. They weren't supposed to be crunchy, creamy, salty little fried nuggets of pasta that I want all the time. 

Further down the shame spiral I go. 

Shut. Up.

Overall, they're fine. They're a shameful, yummy embarrassing to order and eat in public treat and it's a good thing there's only one Burger King in the Seattle metropolitan area. 

I'd go further into the pitfalls of eating fast food while I'm struggling with depression and trying to eat food that's better for my body, but why be a bummer about something that's, let's be honest, is kind of whimsical and delightful?

This bitch...