The Lioness of Brooklyn: July 5, 1958- December 22, 2009.

K and I were, in retrospect, a fairly bad idea as a couple. I wanted someone to love, he wanted a white girl with money.

Fine, I suppose that's an oversimplification.

Either way, this isn't another post about the complete and utter failure that was our relationship, this is about a woman whom I never would have known were it not for K, and whom I am deeply saddened this world is losing.

Ikoola (not her given name) is a woman I was initially warned to fear. I was convinced she wouldn't (and for awhile after we met, that she didn't) like me. Her nephew lived in her home for about a year, and because I was dating him, she saw more of me than she probably ever wanted to, and she's a saint for only losing her cool with the arrangement once or twice.

When does your soul really leave your body? Can the argument be made that Koola's soul has moved on already, that it's just habit or instinct that's fueling the fight she's still giving?


Update:
Koola passed away a little after 6 this morning.

She and I haven't been too close for the past couple of years. When K and I broke up, not only was most of the family upset with me for inflicting so much pain on one of their own, but I needed to distance myself from them as a gesture to A that I was serious about our relationship. Given that Koola was diagnosed shortly before K and I broke up, in retrospect I should have kept in closer contact.

I didn't know this until Friday night, the last time I saw Koola, but she would tell her best friend about how much of an asshole K was to me. She would say to me "You know, we're stuck with him. You have a choice." Although I'd always been outspoken, independent, and confident, my relationship with K dissolved a lot of that for a long time, but Koola made me want to stand up for myself, because I knew if she were in my position, no way in hell would she tolerate half the shit he pulled. Eventually, I put my foot down. When she was upset with me for hurting him, her best friend told her: "You know, I know he's family and all, and that he's hurting. I get that. But you always said how much of an asshole he was to her. He's family, but you're a woman first. You're a woman first."

In addition to the breakup turmoil, I was terrified of Koola. She was a fiery Jamaican woman who knew precisely what to say to make you feel exactly how she wanted you to feel. K and I had a messy, ugly, drawn-out separation, and Koola was involved for a part of it. I felt if I picked up the phone to call too soon, I'd get a tongue-lashing, or worse, the steely cold monosyllabic conversation she could hand to people who had fallen out of her favor. This is a woman who, when times were good, would leave a singing happy birthday message on my voicemail, and who giggled and laughed the loudest at my rendition of the Chicken Noodle Soup dance- the result of a bet that the losing team of a particularly heated round of "Catchphrase" had to shake and wiggle out those ridiculous moves.

Kools was fiercely loyal to those she cared about; her animus was a lion and they occupied many inches of space in her life. She had a lion rug on the floor of her apartment, lion statues in her living room, lion figurines in her china cabinet. Not many people could pull off having such a powerful and intimidating symbol but if you knew Koola you knew it fit to a T.

When I failed my first driving test, Koola talked me through my embarrassment, bought me a bottle of juice, and then promptly released me onto Pennsylvania Blvd. near Starrett City in Brooklyn around lunchtime- one of the busiest times of day- to help me build skills and confidence. For the first time I glimpsed what it must have been like to grow up with her, as K and his siblings had. She balanced cutting criticism with urgent instruction, gave crystal-clear directions, and dished out praise
sparingly. She knew how to make you laugh, though, and that made all the difference.

She was the best friend people should aspire to be. Flawed, yes. She could be harsh and unsympathetic, but damned if it didn't make you stronger. When her best friend had 6 children and the father was still alive and in and out of the picture, she moved into their house to help her raise the kids. She was heavy-handed and probably not always fair, but she did the best she could to help keep food on the table and make sure the kids didn't feel the absence of a father as much as they might have. She didn't have biological children, but the way she loved her kids- and their kids, and the people who loved her kids- you couldn't tell the difference.

She would often take K's daughter, Little K, with her to birthday parties for her coworkers' children. One night when K and I picked them up from one in Bed Stuy, she told the story of an older girl who'd decided to pick on Little K. Now, Little K isn't just a name- the girl was tiny. Her father and Koola teased her for being "wingee"- a Bajan term for skinny- and once she snootily corrected me when I misquoted her weight at 36 lbs. She wiggled her neck, rolled her eyes, and put her hand condescendingly on her hip: "Excuse me. It's 36 and a half."
No no, pardon me Little K.

Anyway, they climbed into the car following the birthday party and Koola told the story. Apparently upon arrival each child was given a lei. Several of the little girls had wrapped theirs around their wrists as though they were purses, and Little K did the same. This older girl, around 10, and much bigger than Little K, for no discernible reason, tore Little K's from her wrist. Koola observed this from one of the tables with the adults and hung back to see how Little K would react and how the situation would play out. The older girl left Little K for awhile and the latter resumed playing, until the next time Koola looked up and the older girl had her index finger pointed too close to Little K's face and she jabbed it back and forth, emphasizing whatever point she thought she needed to make. Little K's lip quivered, she was near tears. Koola swooped in, as she was wont to do, and grabbed the older girl's finger, mid-jab.
"What did she do to you that you're in her face like that?" she asked in her terse way.
"Are you her mother?" the older girl had the gall to respond.
"What did she do to you?"
"Are you her mother?" the girl asked again, defiantly.
"That doesn't matter. She didn't do anything to you. I saw. I sat over there and watched everything."
The older girl starts to stammer. Koola still has a grip on her wrist. "I'm going to go tell my mother..."
Koola interrupts her. "If I see you so much as look in this girl's direction, much less touch any part of her, Ima pluck you in ya forehead. Go tell your mother." Koola let the girl go and she left Little K alone for the remainder of the evening.
The challenge was a smaller-scaled version of the battles she'd gotten into while she was younger, but she made it clear no one was to harm any of her kin in any way.



The woman was known in every circle for always being "right." Her nails were right, her toes were right, her dreads were always right. When she would twist them, or have them curled up for a certain style, she'd need help to cut out the black rubber bands holding the chunks of hair together. Koola had had her dreads for something like 25 years. She cut them once, so when free they reached just below her waist, and there was a lot of hair. When K and I had been together awhile, and when she'd seen me in her house enough to last a lifetime, she'd begun asking me to help her take those rubber bands out. As odd as it is, those were some of my favorite times- being able to help her out, and being a part of the classic "girl" experience: helping another with her hair. Additionally, Koola was very picky about who she let touch her hair- it was immaculately taken care of- and I was almost in awe as a little girl would be that she would ask me to assist her.

The last night I was ever in K's apartment I went to pick up a suitcase and a pair of shoes I'd left there. I took one last look around his room to make sure I'd left nothing behind and we walked downstairs. He had told me that Koola'd had to cut off her dreads because the chemo was making her lose her hair but I couldn't seem to wrap my head around what that would look like. When we were on the 1st floor, Koola and K's mother were at the dining room table. Kools sported a bright blonde short-coiffed wig that looked like Mary J. Blige, her favorite artist, would own. She also sported an icy glare for me. The wig was so perfect and I was so shocked (and so profoundly sad) that I had to turn away to hide the way my face was screwing up. That was the last time I actually saw her "well." And I regret that to no end now.




I could go on and on, but words are actually failing me. I really hope someday I'm the kind of mother she was: strong, wise, beautiful, intelligent, high-maintenance and expecting of great things from those she loved. Honest. Ambitious. She is who I want to be when I grow up.

It's true: she's no longer in pain. She's in a better place. And I'm happy she no longer has to fight, and she no longer has to be alone. As comforting as those thoughts are, I still wish I knew she was kissing her teeth and cutting her eyes in Brooklyn.



May you rest in peace, Ikoola.

The Picture of Grace

Three years ago, Mo and I got house tickets to opening night of Macbeth during Shakespeare in the Park. Liev Shriber was the eponymous king and rumor had it Mayor Bloomberg was going to be in the audience that night. Mo and I showed up early, hung out and talked to our former coworkers (she'd worked the park a few times before; I'd worked the previous year), and waited for the gates to open. An added bonus to the night was that we'd be able to attend the party held in the castle following the show- and anyone who's ever worked Shakespeare in the Park knows the party in the Castle is one of the main reasons for working.

As we sat on one of the benches outside of Gate 2, I noticed men in black suits with earbuds walking by in a sort of rhythm. I chalked it up to Bloomie's security detail. When I finally mentioned it to someone, they laughed at me. "Honey, that's Secret Service! Bill Clinton's supposed to be coming tonight."

Now, I love Bill Clinton. LOVE him. I've been an ardent fan and supporter of that man since I was 6 and he was playing saxophone on Arsenio Hall. He was cool, he was young, he was handsome- everything that George the First wasn't. And that's saying a lot, considering the "love affair" I had with George I. The elder Bush could do no wrong in my eyes. Of course, it helped that my eyes were those of a four-year-old who knew as much about the world of politics and the ramifications of the President's actions on his country as did Brendan Fraser in Encino Man.

Anyway, I love Bill. I've disagreed with him on a few things over the years (welfare reform, 1996, to name one), but ultimately I think he tries to do what's right (HUGE supporter of his Global Initiative) and during his presidency he had to deal with some of the most stubborn, hypocritical members of Congress ever, and no, I don't hold Monica Lewinsky against him.

All of that said, when I heard Bill was supposed to be in the audience, my jaw dropped to the concrete. I refused to let myself fully believe it, in case he didn't show. I didn't want to be crushed. Liev Shriber was playing one of the greatest roles on a summer stage and I was able to see the show not only for free but also with minimal hassle, owing to the fact that I know the theater managers and most of the box office staff. As we got closer to showtime, and when Bloomberg walked by with just a small cadre of security, open enough for someone to take him out with a blowdart to the neck, my heartrate quickened. Bill! Bill was going to be in the audience!

I'll spare you the details of how I spent the first half: staring at the back of a white-haired head that I was convinced was Bill's. I don't remember much of the hsow that night, which is a shame because Liev Shriber is an amazing actor and Macbeth is a pretty phenomenal show. No, I was focused solely on trying to figure out whether a mass of white hair indicated my favorite former president was in the audience. Come intermission, it was confirmed. I spent about five of the ten minutes working up the courage to go over and say something. He wasn't mobbed by fans and admirers, as I'd honestly expected him to be. Most either didn't notice, or were having bathroom emergencies. I told Mo I was going to go say hi, and she continued talking on her phone. To this day I'm still surprised she didn't hop up and come with me, but as she said later, she didn't really expect me to get to talk to him.

Shaking, I made my way down to the section he was sitting in, the section Mo and I used to oversee. I spoke with one of the ushers, a coworker-friend of mine I'd known for a couple of years at that point. Adrenaline was making me nauseous. A lump rose in my throat. Rebecca looked at me like I was insane, or prone to faint right there at her feet. She said some reassuring words, encouraged me to breathe, and I saw the man holding Bill's attention finish whatever he was saying. I moved closer, until I was standing right in front of him. He's so tall! A head full of brilliant white hair and with a face redder and ruddier than I'd seen or imagined, he smiled at me. In what was probably the smallest, meekest voice I'm capable of producing I simply said "Um, I miss you."

Bill looked confused for a moment. A fleeting glance of "F*&^*- do I know this girl? And if I do, why?" crossed his face. I wisely chose to rephrase. "I mean, I miss you as president. I-I miss you." And then it all came pouring out. "My mother and I? She's a Republican, which doesn't make sense because she was a single mother, but she and I we can't really talk about politics because she's crazy. And I miss you."

Ugggggh. My soul aligned with the universe to emit a noise that can be described as a groan of ultimate pain and embarrassment centered in the lower registers of my larynx.

Luckily, he just smiled at me through that unfortunate ramble, and when I was finished, TOUCHED MY HAIR and said in his perfect Arkansan accent, "Awww. Bless yeeww."

And then I died.

Actually, I had fixated on his tie, which was of a bright orange shade, and (quickly noting the Secret Service agent behind Bill) reached out to touch it. I smiled, blushed, said "Andilikeyourtie." He accepted the compliment and I shook his massive hand and we parted ways.

I went back up to where Mo was sitting, giddy as a child on Christmas, took out my phone, and dialed Keita. "I just met Bill Clinton!" I squealed into the phone. Typical Keita, he said "WHAT?" And I repeated, "I just met Bill Clinton! And he touched me!" At this point Mo, who was still on the phone, whips her head towards me and her jaw drops to the floor. She told her conversant she'd have to call back. I recounted detail after delicious detail and Mo then decided to go down and say hello. I can't remember if I went with her, but I think I did.

Bill was speaking with Meryl Streep. Monique very politely and gracefully INTERRUPTS MERYL STREEP, introduces herself to Bill, shakes his hand, and then we return to our seats.

Remember how I said I didn't watch the first half of Macbeth? I DEFINITELY didn't watch the second. My excessively awkward moment with Bill aside, that's one of the single greatest events of my life. He TOUCHED my HAIR!

of driving lessons and musical television

Eight long years overdue, I had my first official driving lesson tonight. It was, for the most part, 90 minutes of sheer terror with an occasional feeling of triumph. The instructor worked with me on parallel parking and three-point turns, but also decided to take me on the Grand Central Parkway and through the fifth circle of Hell, also known as the BQE.

Which reminds me: does anyone have a spare St. Christopher pendant? I might need it.

Anyway, I survived. I crashed into nothing, hit no one, and managed to do all of this in the darkness. Yeah. One down, nine and a road test to go. I have faith.

In other news, Glee is the newest addition to my television arsenal (beware of spoilers). Entourage I follow but I don't care all that much about the early episodes; Weeds is my crack; and the other shows I loved have gone off the air (Buffy, Angel, The West Wing, Dan and Keith on SportsCenter...). Cory Monteith is the newest celebrity crush (although he still can't really hold a candle to Demian Bichir) and the show is just so painfully awkward it helps me remember that I didn't completely hate high school. Almost. Some of the musical choices are actually pretty inspired (Bust Yo' Windows?!) and its satire of the hypocrisy of teenagers (and over-zealous faculty) is spot-on. I don't agree with critics who feel Mr. Shu's wife should be a more sympathetic character. Let her rot in the oblivion of her narcissism! There are actual people like that in the world and they happen to otherwise good citizens! Why baby an audience who's already laughing at the president of the Celibacy Club getting pregnant at 16 by her boyfriend's best friend? Or the social benefits of caning?

I suppose the point of all of this is to say that, given my lack of motivation and creativity to write, I miss that time in my life that consisted of after-school rehearsals and skin-welting corsets. I miss embodying the batshit crazy characters Daly saw somewhere in me. I miss Vikki's birdseed boobs and Jenny's eyepatches and transsexual therapist. Ah, the good ol' days.

College

My grandmother turns 70 next month and while I'm in Wisconsin/Minnesota we're throwing her a party. I asked her for some pictures so I can put together a sort of "retrospective" montage presentation of her life and she sent some doosies!

Let me first say my mother had some charming ensembles in the 80s.

Let me say next that hair was out of control in the 60s, as were games people played in their homes.

Continuing, I was perusing through old albums I keep online and found one from Spring 2005, the first semester of my junior year at Lang, when I lived in Chelsea next to some truly amazing male graduate students. Aside from the very bad decisions I made about pen tattoos while Aurelia and I were roommates, memories of 300 W. 20th St., Suite 4F had me giggling aloud. They kept me sane, fostered my preference for Stella Artois, and occasionally indulged my more naive insecurities.

Bitzy and I watched the 2004 election unravel over a couple of Heinies and lots of quiet simmering (from him. I've always been loud when angry). Simon was just... everything I've always wanted, and yet nothing I ever wanted? Yes. He was me, but male and more intelligent. And Canadian. Steve put chairs on his head and talked me through a shuddering suspicion that a close friend was using hard drugs again. JBrews and I sat in his room and talked American history and his love for de Tocqueville. Brian introduced me to Kaleena, and I got to help out with their wedding. They also took me out for Pommes Frites and laughs when I found out an old high school crush and the brother of a friend of mine was killed in a ridiculous car accident back in Moreno Valley. Scott, my dear Scott. He carried me down 8th Ave. when he stepped on both of my flip flops and broke them on the way to have lunch for Steve's birthday (and note, I am not now, nor was I then, light-weight, by any definition)...

Sometimes I look at photos I take and think "God, I completely ruined that shot." I don't claim to have any kind of talent, but I have to think I managed to capture the essence of that year, of how much those guys meant to me. I can't say that they're some of my best friends, but for those I still talk to, I'm happy I do. Each, in his own way, contributed to this experience that's been New York, and they'll be the ones I hold special places for. Each, in his own way, is a resplendent font of talent and intellect and humor that to this day I can't adequately articulate. If for whatever reason we lose contact in the future, I can only wish them the very best successes and contentment.

Also: "Two Gentlemen of Verona: the Musical" was the best show I've ever seen. I'm sad that they never recorded the '05 version, but Oscar did such a wonderful rendition of "Calla Lily Lady" that when I listen to Raul Julia's original, I can hear (and see) Oscar. Good enough.

"Two Gents" might even trump "The Last Days of Judas Iscariot", just because of its fun value. Those pictures reinforce the idea that 2005 was indeed the best year I've spent on this earth so far. They'll be on Facebook, directly.

Plans are in place (as I keep detailing here) to make 2010 just as good.

Happiness Is So Overrated

Well, no. I suppose it's not.

But really, being happy most of the time should be enough; happiness all the time would not only be very boring, but is unattainable, as far as I'm concerned.

However, unhappiness, while being unhealthy on a long-term level, tends to spur me to action!

I'm not in a position I want to be in right now- that's common knowledge. But what am I doing about it? Baking. I am baking a cake today. I'm also planning for this trip next summer. Like most people, I have ideas constantly about fun things to do, and like many people I often put them off or don't see them come to fruition because I have an overwhelming sense of responsibility. But what came to me in Idaho is this:

I AM ONLY TWENTY-FOUR.

The last nine months have been rough. Some times we've felt it harder than others, but we've tried to stay optimistic and not keep ourselves from having too much fun. We're just being creative about the fun now. Going to Idaho meant that I was free from a lot of what's been going on in NYC- not just at home, but in the city as a whole. Just knowing that our state government acts like a roomful of petulant toddlers is enough to add another level of tension to my everyday, simply because I'm anticipating the next big budget cut or service inconvenience. Then there are the actual budget cuts and service inconveniences. The rising of metrocard fares. The rising of sales taxes. The paycuts at work. Doing the job of more than one person at work, after said paycuts. Coming home to an alpha male temporarily displaced from his role as the alpha. All of these add up to tight shoulder muscles, daily headaches, and me feeling like I've hit thirty already.

So perhaps this road trip is my pre-quarter-life crisis. I've always been precocious- do I need to wait to hit twenty-five before I have the accompanying breakdown many experience? I'll just go ahead and get it out of the way now, thanks.

I'm loathe to talk too much about my plans, lest they fall through. But in the coming months I'll be applying to grad school at the University of the West Indies; hopefully I'll be working a second job as a hostess, just to supplement and stabilize the household income; I'll be taking driving lessons toward FINALLY getting my license.

Thanks to my amazing and supportive mother, I'm also looking at safe, dependable, affordable used cars for this trip. Her eyes in Oklahoma and prime location on a military base are bonuses for the "affordable" part and with a bit of luck I'll be able to get a vehicle sometime soon. Keep your fingers crossed.

Also, if you're not in New York, rest assured you're on my "visit" list for said road trip. Too many of you left too long ago and I miss your beautiful shiny faces. Feel free, in the comments section, to leave suggestions for stops along the way. I'll be arond the 48 contiguous and have a substantial list of things to see floating around my head, but more are always welcome.

For the moment, though, there's a cake to be baked and Mo is on her way to help this along.

Kisses and biscuits and a lovely weekend for all!

I Just Wanna Write A Song About A Boy and a Girl**

I haven't been very inspired in the past couple of years, and thus have not been writing as creatively (or prolifically) as I once did. Below are some of my fvorites from 2007- present, representing a place I'm trying to get back to. Perhaps a dash of Faulkner, a pinch of Jane Lazarre, a healthy helping of Tori Amos, and a drop of country music, mixed well and allowed to rise, will help.


musings on a voracious wildfire
10.23.2007

you're consuming all of me. charring my soil and throwing sand as though it's yours to throw. anger at profound betrayal of your people, the bitterness of stolen land being inhabited for so long with plastic people fuels your furor and forges you on.

in your wake you leave skeletons of imprints formerly laid as you taunt the people to resist. what began as a novelty, as something we took time out of our day to watch with leisure, has turned into a nightmare. my memories are on that land you're foraging. my memories are of that land and in that land and are that land. and you, in all your glorious reds and oranges and golds, are rendering those memories rubble.

if only you generated rebirth. my tall eucalyptus, weighted down with images of warm afternoons spent romping behind the blanket-curtain of mike's room, pictures of nate and me swimming in oceanside, and dozens of other candids that surface in salt-watery recollections, is reduced to embers that shine long and luscious from the oil in every thread of my being. if you encouraged reincarnation i'd come back as a skyward palm, untouchable but for those with enough skill to conquer my steep exterior, my fronds blessed and holy. or an orange grove, the scrumptious fruits fertilized by your mourning ash and made more delicious through your pain.

alas, you are only destruction. until the cold waters of the pacific tame your passion and rage, you will exert your wrath on everything and anything in sight. your smoke signals have been seen and duly noted by the gods. end your fight; there is no honor in devastation.



not easy.being green.
11.6.2007

the sounds of sleep coming from that mouth include but are not limited to a faint whistle, the grinding of teeth, and the slightest "pop!" like the sound of the bubbles bursting in the room of the fizzy lifting drink. fiz zy lif ting drink. little pops, the snap and crackle of good dreaming, of a leftover desire after spending it all on raspberry cookies and a little bit of sweat.

egos aside, this was pretty decent.
egos aside, i can't get you out of my head.

egos aside.

ears feel like the bendy rottweiler ears you used to fold back, but are soft and plump to the lips and nibbly to the teeth. nibbly is what you'd do if you had the day to spend doing nothing else. you'd nibbly. i'd eat sugar straight from the packets just to keep going just to connect just to have that time, whenever that time can be gotten. fleeting fleeces of pieces of self and service that come with the sweetness no one else gets. it's easy to trip down that canyon path, with just a little goat to lead me.



you can rely on me honey (or can you?)
11.18.2007

WHAT kind of fuckry is this?, you ask. wedged between rocks and walls and no one to hear you scream your repentance. the sun is still rising behind those glitter-lined clouds and you don't know who to call first.

While waiting in the purgatory of planned parenthood you pick through a contender's piece for the biannual literary magazine:

*Keys to a lesson learned/ the (your) boys of summer

What you don't expect will almost always happen- when you know something- or you know better- you'll be surprised almost every time. So how are we supposed to learn from mistakes, from com-plex situations and those experiences that burned us before?

In the name of self-preservation you forget-forcefully- what it is when you kiss. You forget the feeling of fingers falling through the softness of your hair, of his eyes all over you when you walk through the room.

...

And then sister raises a great calamity in your thoughts: You Can Do That ALL YOU WANT! but You Know When You Close Your Eyes At Night And Burrow In The Dark Cavern Of Blankets On Your Bed That When It Comes Down To It You Can Still Smell Him On Your Skin And Pillows, Feel His Fingertips On The Nape Of Your Neck, The Shivers They Send Down Your Spine And Really, All Over Your Body, Quivering You To The Very Core Of Your Nervous System Until You're VIRTUALLY SEIZING WITH TEMPTATION.

...

In that faulty, fault-less, name of self-preservation.

Pretty soon you miss him when he leaves. This will never do. You need water, someone to nourish and replenish you when you're gasping for it. Otherwise, all it takes is one case of arson and your whole being is enflamed, charred and nearly useless thanks to the scorching heat. Save your fires for the depths of hell, for desert incinerators, for that passionate instigator, wind. Leave me, let me become mud.






**Lyrics from "Say Hey (I Love You)", as performed by Michael Franti (featuring Cherine Anderson); from the album All Rebel Rockers; written by Michael Franti.

Not Your Average Biopic

"Little Miss Sunshine" is one of my favorite movies because of the comedic subtext beneath all of the stressed-out lower middle class misery on its surface. I simultaneously love and shrink from the fact that I relate to it so well. I'm pretty sure whomever wrote the movie encountered my family and I at some point between the years 1995 and 2001 because the resemblance is uncanny; I was Olive, down to those horrendous cowboy boots and the protruding tummy (except my boots were a grayish green) and that infernal awkwardness of pre-adolescence. I suppose the movie was written specifically to remind people (in the lower middle class, at least) of their own families, but it's just so eerie to watch; even down to the way Toni Collette walks, she is my mother, circa 1997-2000.



Greg Kinnear's character embodies everything I detest about Type-A personalities stuck in the lower middle class: the awful khaki shorts, the polo shirt (tucked in, of course), the phone holster on the belt, and the sneakers. Everything but the phone holster brings to mind what my ex-stepfather thought was "dressing up" and consequently makes me cringe. Grandpa, Steve Carrell's character, and the brother Duane- the one with the mural of Neitszche on the wall, who takes a vow of silence and writes things on his notepad (the sole manner he uses to communicate with his family) like: I hate everyone- are my favorites, probably because their quirk doesn't remind me of a significantly dark time of my childhood.

And the bus, that dreadful bus. Though it was never the family car, we had a "bus" of our own, known to my mother and I as "The Gold Ghost." A 1972 Plymouth Valiant, the car was roughly the size of a boat and, true to its nickname, a delightfully awful shade of brownish-gold. Not long after my mom bought it, the brakes went out. Not temporarily, either. We'd careen down the freeway, or local roads, and she'd have to take her foot off the gas about a mile before the exit we needed, or as soon as the next stop sign was in view, in order to stop the car. One night, while generously chauffering my best friend and I to the movies, she pulled The Gold Ghost right next to the two guys driving the Ford Taurus station wagon alongside us and facilitated communication between the four of us youths. You wanna talk teenage vehicular humiliation? Your dad's Geo has nothing on The Ghost (or my mom, for that matter).

The ending rings disingenuous, possibly because the laughing "we're in this together" attitude never seemed to accompany the embarrassing situations we got ourselves into, but I suppose for the purposes of Hollywood it was necessary.

Unreal ending or not, the film's genius is multi-layered. The dialogue holds, the characters work for themselves and with each other, and most importantly, the subtext is coveyed through subtle details. Toni Collete's limp and lifeless hair. Her button-down, slightly rumpled, sleeveless blouses. Kinnear's phone holster and "power casual" outfit. The bucket of chicken for dinner. Olive seems to think her family is par for the course, that she will be the next Little Miss Sunshine, until she gets to the Redondo Suites and sees the mini-abominations and atrocities all around her. It isn't until she's thrown into that pool that she realizes she's thrashing about in the deep end with nary a shadow of a floatie. What keeps her from drowning, though, is that she owns her family's mediocrity and lets it explode with gleeful abandon. She's got her dance routine, she's been practicing for weeks, and though her hair isn't sprayed to infinite poof, and she doesn't parade a two-piece bathing suit in a room full of adults, her confidence is unshaken. She owns their shortcomings. She owns Grandpa's heroin addiction. She owns her family, who dances to the beat of it own drum and each individual to their own drummers, cast aside because they don't fit into the molds of what society says they should. She owns what they're too afraid to own themselves and in the end, you're a little hopeful that they'll stop stressing about having to keep up with their neighbors and quit running from the stigma of being what society labels "losers" and just embrace who they are and what they're about and all of the delightful stories they'll get from this time of their lives.

Eventually, like the fact that my mother got rid of The Gold Ghost and moved on to a recent-model Saturn, their situation, outlooks, and lives will get better.

Burnt Fingers and Big Ideas

My mother raised me as a gypsy of sorts. I don't think this was intentional; she had itchy feet, and so we changed more than just houses in the same town- we ended up halfway across the country in places and towns I'd never have conceived. Granted, Tucson isn't exactly exotic; but when I'd spent the better part of childhood in the Midwest and reading about the Victorian houses peppered across New England, Tucson was the equivalent of Mars.

Anyway, I've been in New York for 6 years as of roughly a week from now, and it's time for new surroundings. A shortcoming of mine (there are many more) is never planting very deep roots, because I know I'll be tired of the scenery before too long, and I am thus always looking for the next place. My recent trip to Coeur D'Alene has exponentially sensitized my feet to the tickly feeling on their soles and I'm convinced I must be gittin' along here soon.

So, my idea:

My best friend graduates from law school in St. Louis next May (at least, I'm hoping it's May). My cousin Derek will be graduating high school in Spirit Lake, Idaho, in June. I have family and friends all around and everywhere in between. I'm going to ROAD TRIP across this great country of ours!

Now, after Katrina, I seriously considered going to New Orleans to help with the recovery work. Unfortunately, the structured and controlling way in which my mind sometimes works prevented me from believing I could take a leave of absence from my studies and make this happen. The other part of that idea was that I would stay in Thibodaux with my friend Mary and her husband and help them with their infant twins. Well. Let's just say I never made it to Louisiana and I instead graduated a semester early. Do I regret not just picking up and going to N.O.? At least once a month, surely.

I'm sure at this point you're noting a small logistical problem with my plan. No, I do not yet have my driver's license. However, I will be working on that within the next few months. The only major obstacle after that is procuring a vehicle in which it is safe enough to travel yet which is inexpensive to the point where I will not have to make payments on it. I hope those types of vehicles still exist.

I've always wanted to drive across the country! I have tons of music that will form a splendid soundtrack, which is handy as (for better or worse) I see most of my daily life as one continuous cable show with assorted musical accompaniment (Think Weeds season 3 finale, where Nancy is riding the segue away from her soon-to-be-burning home in Agrestic, sipping from her large iced coffee and smiling blandly). I'm absolutely dying to listen to Skynard as I drive through the deep south, to blast Zepplin while I take the county roads through what is left of rural Wisconsin, to watch the sunset over the desert while I listen to any of the Eagles songs that sound like every Eagles song. And, most importantly, to do all of this with the windows rolled down, because that is the only real way to take a road trip (unless, of course, it's raining).

The remainder of 2009 will be a killer in terms of having a lack of funds and the bustle of excitement but I am completely determined to do this. I need change in my life and I need something jump-started. (This is about as jump-started as I get: I don't make large financial decisions without a plan and a budget). Maybe I'll learn something about myself besides that I have an intense love for small town bars and old men in overalls.

I want to see the crossroads where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil, to take the path Sherman took from Atlanta to the coast, to quench the impish cravings that have been gnawing at my soul with a steady and strengthening ferocity for more than a year now.

It is time.

a soundtrack to almost everything i think

my love affair with different types of music began when i was very young and has blossomed fruitfully and branched off from its root in so many ways. i've got a decent mix of faithful albums i'll turn to and singles by bands whose other music i either don't really like or just haven't tried yet.

clothes never mattered to me all that much. i love food, but i can't spend all of my money on it. i love music. maybe not in the way that rob, dick, and harry in "high fidelity" do, but i have a love affair with it. i don't stalk it and learn everything about it ever; music and i banter back and forth at the bar, maybe swill some wine over dinner and cuddle during the movie. we go home and roll around in the sheets all night, barely stopping for breath, and then wake up and go for a nice jog. and when we're sad, we cry.

music, like my best friend, is there whenever i need it and loves me for who i am, and sometimes for who i am not.

my current obsession with "weeds" has introduced me to some songs i probably never would have found otherwise. some of my current favorites:

"Keepsake" by State Radio
"Messages" by Xavier Rudd
"Your Rocky Spine" by Great Lake Swimmers
"Ballerina" by Leona Naess

Check 'em out. Beautiful.

Top 10s

Just to qualify: I love lists. Someday, I'm sure I'll pull a VH1 and compile all of my declarations that certain things are in my "Top 10 list of" and make it 1000 items long. Until then, I leave you with this:

Top 10 List of Things I Will Never Do:

Dress to match my husband and our child/ren and take family birthday photos with them.

Vomit!