Dead Man's Honda

“You know how in books and movies there’s that moment where the plot suddenly changes and you know the story is on a roll? Either something really bad happens, or there’s a handsome stranger who walks onto the scene, or someone changes—either for good or bad? Lately I feel as though a moment like that is supposed to happen but never does.” I said to Prima and Pixie in the car the other night. Maybe that is actually a really good thing, though.

Last year there was one of those plot-twisting moments—just days before Christmas—when something terrible happened. Shocking, and horrible. And for some unexplainable reason I decided the essential task in my life at that moment was to gather as many bathrobes as I could find in the picked-over, nearly closed stores and bring them home.

“What are those for?” Pixie asked.

“Well, they’re for you.”

“Why?”

“I thought you could use a robe.”

“But…there are like ten of them.”

“Wasn’t sure which one you’d want.”

“Right. Ok.”

“Yeah.”

I’ve refrained from doing anything drastic this year and I’ve actually found uses for the robes. I haven’t acquired anything I really do not need aside from the dog I got off the internet four months ago. I’ve stayed relatively straight at work.

Except for when the general counsel of the entire company (my boss’ boss’ boss) joked that he might need liposuction (he’s a large man) and I suggested, “maybe it’s a cyst?”

He looked both dumbfounded and appalled. Which can’t be an easy expression to make.

Stars have stopped showing up since there isn’t any work for them to do with the strike. John Malkovich is the only one we’ve seen in weeks—and he was sitting on a folding chair looking like a homeless person. But I’ve long since learned not to give homeless people on the Lot money since they aren’t actually homeless, so John Malkovich did not receive any alms.

I almost felt like giving alms to a co-worker who self-produced a pop album that sounds like Barney’s Greatest Hits put to the lyrics of obscene rap. Indescribable, really. Surely he will need donations after that….thing.

For my birthday my sister had the consideration to post the highlighted image to her blog even though she was going under the knife the very next day. I have to say I think it somewhat brings me into solidarity with the lovely but very wrinkled-up original Mousketeer Doreen who works just up the hal—we both peaked before junior high. Unfortunately, whoever filmed the things I was in as a kid did not give me the helium crack cocaine they gave the Mousketeers because I am sure I am only hoping in vain to be as happy, perky, and high-vocaled as she is when I’m in my sunset years.

So until I make some random purchase or crisis hits the fan or an event in the world tears at my soul or some mysterious handsome stranger waltzes onto the scene to reveal my destiny--- merry, merry, Christmas y’all.

I tried to finish the "lesson" but I really couldn't. My arm covered my face which covered my laughter...which covered the fact that I was choking. A felt puppet in my hand suddenly became speechless.

"Who remembers our story from last week?" I asked the room of rambunctious three year olds. Ten hands shot into the air.

"I do! I do!" They cried.

"Great! Now who remembers what Mary and Joseph did?" (They went to Bethlehem in the story the week before).

"I remember what Mary did!" Shouted Diego, a raspy-voiced, tow-headed boy with full cheeks and the most unabashed personality.

"Oh good, Diego--"

"MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB!!" He was standing with his arms straight in the air as he shouted this.

Yeees, Diego, yes she did buut...hmmm..

"What else did she have?" I asked the class, trying reign in my giggles. Their faces were dumbfounded after the lamb was not completely correct. Silence.

"Ok well in one story Mary has a lamb. And then in this other story, she also had a baby boy....and he--"

"MARY HAD A LITTLE MAN!" Diego yelled again.

Yes, Diego. Mary had a little lamb. And a little man.

I woke up on Sunday morning and decided that since my life has been nothing but a repetition of constant obligations and work, I was going to play hooky from church. I told Jesus I was spurning him for the morning—not because I don’t love him, but precisely because I do love him and that’s what people who love each other do. At least if you want your love life to be interesting.

I told Jesus that if he really wants my attention, and my devotion, and perhaps an obsession with him, he should probably spurn me, too. I think we just need time apart, I said. Maybe you need to be cruel to me. I think that whole “God will always love you no matter what” thing is what really gets him in to trouble. If people thought God might actually just say “fine! I’m outta here--- but you’ll miss me!” they might think twice about the whole, “catch you later”, “maybe another time”, approach to divinity. If God could leave you with the bated breath and neuroticism that a bi-polar lover can give you, I think a lot more people would be checking in to churches.

Just an idea, God, I told him. And by the way—the boy I tutor? He thinks your Son was mentally handicapped because Mary and Joseph came from the same family tree. I told him they weren’t brother and sister, but still, you might want to talk to my student about that one, I thought as I arrived at the church of the dog park.

I had to go to the dog park because Tweak woke me up attempting to fly through the large bay windows in the apartment I share with Prima whose nickname comes from the fact that she was a professional ballet dancer and not actually a dessert as the name seems to suggest.

“Where’d you get your dog? This thing is a spaz!” A man called from the far side of the park where people were stopping to ooh and ahh and drool all over Tweak even though his three pound fluffy self had hitch-kicked a dog twice his size to the ground and proceeded to gnaw off its nose.

“The Internet,” I said softly, afraid that some animal rights activists in the lot of people might start throwing slobber-covered balls at my back.

“Huh? Where? A Kennel?” The park went silent.

“No! Heavens no!” I said bracing myself for the slobber balls. “Online…the woman had one puppy” I coughed.

“You’re sh—ing me!” the man replied. I was about to assure him that no, indeed I was not sh—ing him (whatever that means) when I was interrupted by a small girl with big blue eyes and a brown bowl haircut.

“Well isn’t he a crazy little thing!” the girl said. I was about to tell her she was perhaps a crazy little thing when I noticed something: a delightful accent.

“I’m from heh (here),” she said when I asked where she got it. “But my motheh is from England. And my name is Elizabeth McCarthy and my gym teacheh calls me his little English Muffin because of the accent and those are my initials—E.M. And I’m seven.And we're going to England for Christmas-- and we might have a white one.” I was going to steal her from the park but instead I decided that I would speak to my children with a fake English accent their entire lives so that they would mimic me and turn out like little English Muffin here.

“We have a Bichon-Frise” she said to me as properly as anyone could imagine (Bishon Freesay) and quite unlike the way I normally hear the breed: Bich-on-Freeze, which to me sounds like an icy woman put on layaway. The breed is often mixed with a Poodle creating a title that sounds like an expletive sneezing: Bich-Poo. Why the animal rights activists would probably hang me by my toenails for adopting a dog from the Internet (the shelters and adoption groups here would not allow me a dog in my tiny apartment, unfortunately) but somehow they disregard that an entire breed is practically named a swear word— is beyond me.

“I didn’t know what it waaaaaas…” muttered a young woman who was definitely having a lovely time in her own mind from some illegal substance and the piercings cutting off oxygen to her brain. “It’s like you need to remove his batteries or something…” Kind of like your brain has been?

“I thought it was a guinea pig at first!” said another man who asked if his daughter could take a picture with my dog. You can take a picture with my dog if you show me that guinea pig the size of a three pound Maltese.

“He’s just so adorable!” another person coos. I thank them, but awkwardly so, since I don’t know the proper response. Does one say “Thank you" when you have nothing to do with the thing being complimented? I mean, it’s not my fluffy white genes pulsing through his body.

“You know my dog was like that when he was younger,” said a girl with the largest Yorkie I have ever seen.

Really? I said, imagining Tweak the size of a German Shepherd-- and swallowing me whole.

“Yeah…” she said and added something else I didn’t catch. What I do remember her saying though, was very strange:

“He really picked me, you know?” and looked at me with soft brown eyes in a way that seemed as if I HAD to know what she meant.

No, I thought to myself. Woman I have no CLUE what you mean and I really wonder if anyone does. Did you walk into a pet store and see the pup, then he saw you, raised his paw and said to the cashier—I’ll take THAT human, thankyouverymuch,?

I didn’t inquire further because I think, from all the lessons I’ve learned lately as well as that interchange--- everyone just wants to be picked.

Even if it’s only by a dog.

It’s a two am layover in some airport in the middle of America. I stumble through the terminal with my eyes stinging from lack of sleep. A man with the most endearing southern voice beckons me over to his table by asking me about my flight—I have no idea what’s going on but I’m attracted to the voice. A week later I have a new credit card and gawd only knows who has my social security number.
****************
His frame is slung in a chair with a nonchalance I can tell is contrived. “Well if you came to work for us, the sky’s the limit. Of course, your stock options would be worth sh—t later, (pardon my French) as we’re this guys prostitute, basically, but you could always work your away to the head of the company.” Hmm…..
*****************
In the dimness of the quiet funeral parlor I see the casket at the front of room. My throat catches as I realize it’s open. I hold her tiny, 95 year old frame next to me. We walk to the white hulking box and she leans her small grey head over the top. My eyes mist as I stare at his face. Then:

“Oh my gawd, it doesn’t even look like him!” she cries out into the silence. I start choking at her side. “Karin, come look at him!”

Karin: “Oh my gawd Tande, you’re right! What did they do to him? It doesn’t even look like him!”

“I think it’s just the angle. It’s just the angle…” UB says, trying to calm the situation.

I don’t even know what to think.
******************
A day later and we are gathered by the graveside. Soft mist envelopes the mourners of the saintly man soon to be lowered into the ground. She still leans against me as the final words of blessing and farewell are spoken.

“Now you each have a rose. Please leave it beside the casket as a final goodbye and token of remembrance.”

Her wrinkly face stares up into mine and in the quiet interrupted only by soft rain and sniffling she says:

“I’m keeping mine.”
****************
We linger over a casual but delicious dinner in a restaurant nestled near a creek. The room is cozy and the waiters look like pirates. A flower rests beside my plate.

“But what about when you hook up with girls?” I hear myself say at an unintended amplified level that silences the entire room. His eyes widen. My mouth drops open in silent horror. Crickets chirp. One of those moments…..

Awkward.
****************
The concert seems like a cauldron of hurt and confusion as girls from six to sixty sing along with the painful lyrics. A lone fourteen year old boy sings louder,waves his arms,jumps higher, screams stronger and beats the heck out of any angst-ridden teenage girl in the audience.It’s a beautiful thing. And being with the two best girls and laughing our heads off makes it all that much better.
****************
I wake up with a start. I dreamt my dog was three times the size I thought he was going to be, eating everything in the apartment, and not potty trained. I lean over my bed and see paper towel, poop and toys strewn everywhere. Nope, not a dream. Crap.
****************
“Can you take on another student?” she asks as I guide the small, beautiful little girl to our work station. I nod, knowing I am burying myself alive. My “to do” list is getting longer than my 5’3.5” height.
****************
Occasionally that letter you wrote comes to mind and I want to scream but know it’s a waste of time. I threw it away— mostly unread.It's always all about you, anyway, not me. Why do people find the need, so often, to heal themselves at your expense?
****************
“Wann werden Sie kommen?” they write with a weblink to a dog licking a screen. Uhh…Sigh. Soon. I’m coming soon ….
****************
“You can’t wait. You have passion. You’re perfect. I can see it in you. You are what they want in D.C. You just have to show up and start networking…” her face leans into mine with an intensity I can feel in the back of my head. She speaks with a passion—knowledge in her being-- that comes from something specific and it’s not just her year in Iraq working in security.

“She was in one of the towers when it got hit,” my uncle says to me later. “45 of her co-workers were killed but she got out.” I nod. I knew it.
****************
“You are not here merely to make a living. You are here in order to enable the world to live more amply, with greater vision, with a finer spirit of hope and achievement. You are here to enrich the world, and you impoverish yourself if you forget the errand.” I read Woodrow Wilson’s words and throw my head back from conviction and frustration.

Haven’t forgotten the errand. Just realized that there are so many ways to run that errand that I find myself standing in an intersection with a blank shopping list…..
****************
“I know how he feels,” one of my student’s parents says to me on the phone when discussing his child’s new A.D.D. medication. “I mean I experimented with ADD meds when I was younger…”

Um. What? You’re not experimenting when you’re given a prescription!

Maybe I’m not the only one with a blank shopping list….

For all these snapshots I’m thankful…as well as for all of your kindness, concern and care...and much more….Happy Thanksgiving Y’all….

“You bought a what?”

“A Daewoo.”

“I’ve never heard of that kind of car. Where’d you get it?”

“From an old guy.”

“Was this one alive?”

“Yeah. He used to own a hypnotist business.”

“Huh…”

“Yeah.”

“Soo….why would you buy a car no one has ever heard of?”

“Probably…umm…..maybe I didn’t really have a choice….like I said…”

This conversation has happened about fifteen bajillion times since last week when Honda went kaput and Daewoo entered my life via an internet ad, a test drive at a juvenile delinquency camp, and a paperwork signing in Orange County around midnight.

I was in that newer car this weekend when Little D’s mom’s girlfriend called me two seconds after driving off to take Tweak for a walk.

“Oh I didn’t realize D is grounded from you guys. You have to bring her back.”

What? I turned to D after hanging up. “What’s this about babe?”

She sat there sullen and just shrugged. “I dunno….they’re drinking again…”

“What can I do? Tell me what I can do to help you.”

I say that because I have no clue. If I call CPS they may investigate; they may not. They might take her away. They might leave her but no doubt the call would be traced to me and I’d never get to see her again— her mother and K, her stepmother, would guarantee that. A social worker would visit frequently. Her life would probably not improve. And who knows what she would say if she were queried by authorities? I am one audience. Everyone else is another.

“She has behavioral issues. Problems. We can’t control them.” K says to me when I return D to the apartment.

“I’ve never had a problem with her. Never.” I say back to her.

“Well that’s because you’re you. When she comes back to us after being with you she hits us, says she hates us, tells us she wants us to die. So we take things away from her to control her behavior. We’ve taken everything from her--- we’ve taken clothes, toys, friends, books, her bed, her food, everything. And she doesn’t care. That stuff doesn’t matter to her. The only thing that matters to her is you....you guys. The only thing we have leverage with her is you guys. Going over there is the only thing we can take away that matters. So that’s what we have to do.”

On the outside I looked understanding. On the inside I was boiling. I know K is manipulative and controlling. I know she and D’s mother are frequently intoxicated and/or high. They blame the bruises on D on some unknown person at school--- calling school authorities to find out who is hitting their daughter.

Do you know who is hitting their daughter?

They are.

D says they’re too drunk to remember. So her stories get skewed because she can’t tell them it’s them….they wouldn’t believe her and more than likely would keep her from me and my sisters even more. So they say she has behavioral issues and that sh's a liar.

And I also know “the system” well enough to know that D may not be better off in the hands of the state.

So for a week I can not see D. And it’s not her fault.

“I didn’t recognize you since I couldn’t hear you coming for three miles and this car wasn’t lurching to drive over me,” said one of the guards at work when I drove onto the lot this morning. His funny comments didn’t make me feel any better. Dejectedly I set to work, trying to shove away the feeling that I am failing D just as much as everyone else is and has.

I stopped in the bathroom because Neon Bangs Woman stood there with an entire head of neon orange hair— glistening beneath the halogen lamps.

“Oh aren’t you festive!” I said smiling at her long, drawn face.

Wiping her hands on a paper towel she sighed and responded in a low, monotone, lisping voice:

“I did it to my dog too.”

Oh. gawd.

And with that I suddenly felt better. Because regardless of the object of our affection, we all fail each other sometimes. It doesn’t excuse it, of course, but at least I’m not alone.

“It’s a sign: your car is trying to kill you.”

So said my friend Kas after a leeetle problem on Tuesday.

Pshah, Kas, was my first thought. “My car looooves me. And I love it. We’re soul mates. It’s as messy as I am…..er…whatever.” Ok, so I have drastically inordinate emotional attachments to inanimate objects. But still—there’s a mutual affection there. I am sure of it. Or I was. Until Tuesday.

“No way. That thing is ridiculous,” was his response..

Accompanied by Kas I dashed home on that fateful day to check on Tweak who is no longer the Christmas-tree-ornament-sized pet but has become a rambunctious, heavy-weight champion in the form of a now two-pound pup. He has a bit of separation anxiety—if I am away for too long, he freaks the frick OUT and decides to do back flips from the shoe boxes in the hallway which can't be healthy for his size. And despite his name, I am not going to give him a whiff of meth in any form.

After calming Tweak down, we jumped back into Honda and sped off on the freeway.
We were clipping along at a 70mph pace when the hood quivered slightly.

“You know they make hoods on cars with a space so that if it were ever to flip up for some reason you could still see through enough to get to the side of the road….” I said to Kas who didn’t know that and nodded with appropriate interest.

“That’s so inter----“ he started to say.

SMuuuuuAAAAAAAAAAAAACK.

HOLY MUTHER LOVING FR---

I couldn’t even complete my profanity-laced thought because the hood of my car was bonded to the spider veins of glass holding the windshield together.

As I tried to get over on the freeway I noticed my rear view mirror was gone.

“Oh geez..” Kas said as he picked the rear view mirror up off of the ground. The hood apparently bent over the roof of the car and cracked the mirror mount clean off of the ceiling.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, I can see…” I said as I yanked the car to a precarious position on the side of the freeway. We both laughed as we climbed out of the passenger side door.

Once we surveyed the strange sight, we pulled the V-shaped hood off of the windshield, smashed down the hood and tied it with a black plastic trash bag (cars swooping around us in the process).

“This is just ridiculous. Freaking hilarious. I’m glad you were with me because no one would believe me otherwise,” I laughed, flipping on some hick bluegrass music to accompany the completely thrashed look of my car.

“No one would believe you? LOOK AT YOUR CAR, WOMAN!”

It’s true--- Honda's shattered look can't be missed. She is good for a laugh-- but maybe she is trying to kill me...and I'm kinda offended.

And acting on that slighted feeling, I bought another car from an old man I found at a juvenile detention center.

That story later….

I am curled up in my car which is lodged into the small garage at the back of our apartment complex. From the dim street lights I can see a reflection in my driver’s side mirror outside the window. I am staring at two shadows against the pale wall, I think as I stare at the image. My eyes blur and then recover. Nope. I’m staring at two palm trees swaying in the night breeze --- their black silhouettes outlined against a gray ceiling of a sky. My mind flickers back and forth between a variety of subjects….

I think about how I am supposed to be in Germany right now. I think about whether or not it’s possible to be true to yourself, God, and others all at the same time. All of the time. I think about my friend Sally, her bright, almond eyes, and how she must be feeling about what is going on in her homeland of Burma. Are her parents even alive these days? Have they fled as refugees too? I think about how I can’t get into my apartment. Honda creaks and makes a popping noise and I think about how Tweak, my new little dog, and I were stranded on the highway five nights before when Honda made a sound like that and died. My mind flips to the man who came with his tow truck and how he kept asking me why my wood was flying up in the air.

What the…? I kept thinking as he waved his right arm around and finally pulled the tow truck over and pointed to my car dragging along on the back.

“How long you wood been flying up like tha’?” he asks with a strong accent and then a speech impediment to boot.

“My wood? What?”

“Yeah no, your wood—when I was driving my car like tha’ I had my wood flying up in my face all of the times and then it was up so much once it flipped in my face and…”

Oh. My. gawd….

“And then the shield it broke.” He said excitedly.

The shield. As in windshield. Wood. He meant Hood. I said over to myself as my cell phone dangled in my hand with one of my good friends from childhood on the other end.

“How long you ha’ that wood?” He asked again.

“Well it came with the car…” I answered.

Two hours later and he not only had my phone number (he is going to take me to an auction to find a better car though he said mine had a fantastic style ---oddly enough----even if I beat the shit out of it) but he also nearly roped me into being a musical partner with him. Apparently he is a professional violinist tow truck driver. Immigrating sucks, I gathered.

Sitting in the dark of my car I check the clock again. Both sisters are gone. One has my key. I’m stuck and Tweak is howling from the kitchen. And by howling I mean squeaking. Like a chew toy. I have a dog that could easily pass as an ornament on a Christmas tree…..things happen when you have a small apartment and certain compulsions. They just do. I count off the misfortunes of the last week on my left hand:

One broken down car.

One lost key.

One re-made key. Made by the man taking apart the car door.

One lost passport.

One canceled trip.

One briefly stressing urgent request at work right before the one trip that was canceled.

One uncomfortable email from a bi-polar individual.

One email from my brother saying he spent the night in a crack house after he lost his Eurail pass and somehow woke up in Amsterdam.

Fabulous.

Suddenly realizing I’m being ridiculous just sitting there, I get up, lock the car door, stuff my keys in my pocket and head to the front of the apartment. From there I manage to climb onto the roof, tip toe past the section above our neighbor the prostitute’s apt so whoever is in there won’t freak out, I shimmy onto the high fence, and then use our surfboards to walk myself down backwards until I can jump to the cement patio below. After assessing the situation I finally figure out how to unscrew the window, pry it open and climb through.

Aw crap. I think to myself. That was way too easy.

And why is it that being locked out of one’s house is easier, by far, than any of the questions I mused about whilst in the car?

Little D sits beside me in my generous sister’s car as I rush to Anna’s house to pick up keys to the church. A glaring Indian summer sunset seeps through the front window and blinds D as she squirms and talks about her day. Two seconds later my phone rings and I pick it up because it’s my grandmother.

“Is this L?” I hear an unfamiliar voice say.

“Yes,” I answer back, assuming it’s a nurse at my grandmother’s care facility.

“Here’s your granddaughter,” the woman says softly while the phone crackles from movement on the other end. My grandmother gets on and briefly says hello.

“Now listen to this dolly,” my grandmother says sweetly and I hear more crackling whilst she shoves the phone up against a radio. For the next thirty minutes my phone is blaring with semi-discernable music from my grandmother’s radio. Little D gives me a quizzical look and I just shake my head. When we pull up in front of Anna’s I turn to D:

“Hold on to this please,” I say and press the speaker phone button.

“What IS this? No way…I’m coming in.”

“No you’re not. Stay here and if my grandmother gets on the line, tell her I just went to the door to get a friend.”

“Hello there!” shouts Anna’s late eighty-something husband as he swings open the door. His six foot three inch frame fills the doorway as he tells me about the front porch light that hadn’t been working for fifteen years until he fixed it yesterday and turned it on to welcome me. Anna comes to the door with a clutch of keys the size of my head.

Oh crap. I think. How will I ever….

“I’m coming with you,” she offers matter-of-factly. She is in her eighties as well but continues to work more than forty hour weeks at the church, disciple gazillions of people, and organizes more events than even I can keep track of.

I lost my keys at church Sunday morning and I thought if anyone could help me find them, it would be Anna. Ok I didn’t think of that—my sister did but whatever.

After scouring the church and being dragged into the middle of some poor pastor’s meeting by a Russian woman I have never seen before in my life (and told to just ASK the man if he’d seen some keys…umm…WHILE he was speaking), Little D, Anna and I left with absolutely no luck.

“My mom is getting’ drunk with my other mom and their smokin’ a LOT of mary jane,” Little D offers to Anna who turns to look at me with a surprisingly unsurprised expression.

“Oh dear,” she says.

“Yep…that’s why I’m hangin’ out with L. Otherwise my mom will yell when she gets drunk drunk and their takin’ shots so I know she’ll be drunk drunk soon.”

“Well thank you for your help,” I say to Anna when I return her to her house. My grandmother calls again.

“You know, when I called before, they kept saying I should add more numbers to the numbers you gave me….” She says over and over. “Do you have any idea what numbers I should add? Any ones that I want? I’m glad you could listen to my TV….”

“Radio, Pammy. That was your radio. And thank you for sharing with me!” She keeps talking for twenty more minutes and Little D dozes off in the front seat.

And then my mind starts to wander. I’ve been asked several times lately “L, where have you been?” by a variety of people. It’s not just my blog that is absent. It’s me. It’s keys. Its pieces of my life I can’t seem to find at the moment. Pieces of my mind as well.

“Look, you idiot,” my friend Rubo writes me. “I TOLD you listen to my four steps to get your life where it should be and getting a dog is not one of them. So get your mind out of your Melrose Place/90210/Grey’s Anatomy bullcrap life you’ve got going on there in Hollywood and tape my four steps to your dog’s ass and get on track!”

Um. Ok. If only it were so simple.

Even last week I posted a blog but within the same day removed it because I am a horrible person sometimes who should just keep her mouth shut.

I removed the blog because I ranted about what a bigot Dr. Dobson of Focus on the Family is and then promptly proved to myself that I am no better. I went OFF on him and people who think like him….and then about two hours later had an “accident” with Honda which was pretty much criminal and well….I did NOT respond to the situation in the way that I should have. The entire rest of the afternoon I kept reminding myself to shut up when I want to criticize people because no doubt I am equally, if not more fully, flawed. I was also deeply in fear of the police. Anyway.

In fact, I’m HORRIBLY flawed and that’s also where I’ve been. In Flawland. My older sister has been a perfect saint to me (as most of my siblings generally are) and that’s saying something considering I’m a heinous roommate (I tend to disassociate from the stacks of “papers” that begin to climb to the ceiling) and yet I still do really crappy things to her. Like, really crappy. And yes, I still use the word crappy. Like I use the word Frick. I make up my own cuss words. Some people would say cuss is something no one outside of Georgia in the 1920’s should use, but I grew up where it the word was still operable.

“Did you just say frick?” Some guy asked me at another guys’ apartment Sat. night while I was attempting to play a game.

Why yes. I did. Because in addition to being in “I lost a lot of things” land, and “Flawland”, I’ve also been in “Making up Reality and Creating More Confusion Land”.

Rather than explaining that zone of my own strange universe, I will simply say that blogging hasn’t been as prolific (though I do get a chance to peruse all of yours now and again even if I don’t always comment—so sorry) because my life here, in the now, in it’s strange zones and lands, has been taking up a lot of weird time.

And soon you’ll all meet Tweak. My dog. And yes, I named him after crystal meth. Ok not entirely....but sorta....

“Oooohhhh…..congratulations A,” says Paz in her thick latin accent and painted eyebrows walking up beside A, my fellow researcher at work as he discussed his school issues with me. I love her sweet face and gentle rolling words and most of all I love that quite often I am certain she’s drunk.

“Congratulations on what?” A asks kindly.

“Congratulations you starting law school!” she smiles boldly and I want to hug her and nuzzle my face in her poofy brown hair. She’s what everyone would want for a humorous, loving, grandmother. Perhaps an intoxicated grandmother, but whatever.

“Umm….I am…umm….actually in the middle of law school. I’m almost finished.” A stumbles around trying to keep from sounding rude.

“Oh. Congratulations you in middle of law school!!" she says with a huge smile. She pats him on the back and says "Ah. Judge A." He smiles and contains a laugh.

"Yes...Judge A....doing something so good…there are lots of things to celebrate,” she continues. I smile at her optimism.

“You gonna have to study for the bar aaaallll during Christmas, right?” she says later.

“Well it’s a good thing I’m Jewish.” A responds.

“Oooh…so you hav’ a big somethin' tomorrow?”

“Yes it’s our New Year.”

“And what you do—get rid of all your junk?”

“That’s Passover.”

“So what you do? Have some food?”

“Yes…we eat LOTS of food…”

“That's good. And then what comes after that?”

“Well next Friday we have Yom Kippur when we fast.”

“And what holiday is after that?”

“Next is Hanukkah.”

“Hanukkah,” she says and nods slowly. “And what you do for that? What’s that about?”

“Well it’s not really from the Torah but it’s the celebration of the miracle--”

“Of Jesus.” she interrupts decisively--- smiling and nodding.

A and I nearly choked from hidden giggles. I admit-- I fell over.

It ended about four hours after this video..
090307_19141(2).3g2
2:14 – Linds and I leave Los Angeles in Linds’ car with the air conditioning blasting, bags packed for Tahoe, and enjoyable music drifting in the background.

2:33 – Linds and I observe her temperature gauge flying above EXTREMELY FREAKING HOT.

2:37 – “Should we pull over?” I ask timidly, knowing Linds likes to keep a tight schedule.

2:38 – “Naahh…it should be fine…”

2:39 – Jerk. Jerk. Clunk.

Car is not fine.

2:41 – I glare at a truck driver who honks at us while we look under her hood. Radiator fluid everywhere. “Yeah….” She says, “that’s not right.”

“Well let’s just go back and get my car,” I suggest. We both look at each other—my car has no air conditioning and it’s approximately 216 degrees outside. “But it’s a dry heat” means nothing in this kind of weather.

Since Linds’ car is jerking on the road and sputtering as though it might fully rupture at any minute, I also suggest that we take a surface street back to Pasadena. “Here, look, that’s Foothill. It goes back to where we want to go,” I offer.

Linds looks at me. “All Foothills are not the same,” she says with a laugh.

“Well it’s headed South, which is where we need to go so let’s try it…”

3:15 – Freeway is missing.

3:30 – Freeway found.

3:40 – Car dies in an intersection. We receive death threats.

4:00 – “Hi, um Dad? Yeah we’re going to be a little late….”

4:10 – We stop at 7 – 11 for Slurpees—a necessary component for any long-distance, high-heat, no-air driving expedition.

4:45 – Traffic decides to take a break and hold still on the shimmering hot black freeway.

4:50 – We vaguely hear a song above the roar of the wind once the traffic moves again—but we belt it out anyway.

6:30 – We get to Bako and jump in my dad’s car with Lil Bro and head North.

7:30 – The four of us stop for food at a Jack in the Box with a line that doesn’t move for twenty minutes. And there are only fourteen, extremely unusual people in that line. The line remains a mystery.

7:50 – We stock up on snacks at the gas station. Beef jerky and soda for dinner? Why not?

8:20 – Dad loses cell phone in a parking lot.

2:00 am – We arrive in Tahoe.

We think.

2:15 – “What the H?! This is a dead end road….” Dad to Lil Bro as we continue spinning the wheels in the woods. We pass a hitchhiker fifteen times. I’m sure he hated us.

6:30 am – Lucas, my three year old nephew bounds into the bedroom and onto our heads with a “c’mon everybody! Time to play wif trains!”

Who can deny that red-headed doll?

Not me. Trains it is.

Return Trip:

9:30 am Monday – Departure from Tahoe.

11:30 am – First Coffee break.

1:30 – Second Coffee break.

And so on….until…..

5:30 pm – Linds and I pack back up into my car (from my parents’ house where we loaded into my dad’s car) to return to Los Angeles.

6:15 – Honda sputters and dies mid-flight whilst heading through a barren wilderness.

6:30 – “I think it’s the oil. Let’s have D bring us some when she drives down to L.A. in a few hours.”

“A few hours?” Linds says to me, incredulous.

“Ok let’s call her now. But let’s also look around for a gas station.”

D promises to be there shortly with plenty of oil.

“What kind of oil?” She asks.

“Hmm….what kind do you think?” I respond.

Silence.

“Ask dad what he uses in his car.” I venture.

Dad gets the oil.

7:00 pm – Linds and I are on a desolate road about a mile from our car.

“I don’t see anything that suggests a gas station.”

“But I do have to pee.”

7:10 – Linds nearly gets caught on the side of the road when a red truck bumbles its way juuuuust past her half-bare bootay.

7:15 – “Two cars in one weekend? Seriously?” We say to each other while we make up songs about how sucky this trip has been.

7:30 – World’s most Beautiful Steel Bridge. Watch the video. “At least we have that, right Linds?” I say.

8:15pm – “Dad said to be really careful with the oil…here are some directions.”

I don’t like directions. I shrug them off and pour in the oil.

No luck.

8:20- “How about if I jump it?” D offers sweetly.

Doesn’t work.

8:30 – “I’ll call AAA,” Linds says.

9:15 – “We don’t have enough trucks available tonight to tow it all the way back to L.A., but we can tow it to a lil shop in town,” the heavily liquered, but nice, truck driver offers. “Or you can wait three hours for another truck.”

“We’ll go to the shop in town.”

9:30 – The “town” consists of a bar, a gas station, and tow truck company.

9:31 – “If we have to wait here for three hours we’re spending some serious time at that bar,” we all decide.

9:50 – We decide to just leave my car at the tow shop and head south in D’s car.

10:00pm – I realize we left more than my car at the tow shop.

10:01pm – “You left your purse in a car in the middle of nowhere? With cash and cards in it?”

Yep I sure did. Don’t tell me, I know-- I’m a genius.

11:15pm – After dropping D and Linds in Pasadena I head back out on the freeway for BFE where my car is located to retrieve my purse. I get on the phone with AAA.

11:20 – “Hi, I wanted to see if there was a tow truck available now that it’s later…I am driving back to my car and…”

“Oh, I see your call. So you’re located on the freeway near Fort Tetaaawn, right?”

“Uh. No. I WAS on a freeway near….” I sighed. Who cares if he had the name so completely wrong it was humorous? I just wanted to get my car to Pasadena.

“But your car is currently not stuck on a freeway?”

“No, I called et 8:30pm, AAA had a car tow my car to a town nearby…” Did he really think I was STILL on the freeway three hours later?

“Now where is your car located exactly?”

I gave him the towing company’s name, #1 Tow or whatever it was, and the address.

“Now what is that exactly?”

“The address of the tow truck company….it’s what you asked requested…”

“But what is it exactly?”

“That’s the address of #1 Tow,” I said louder into the phone. Was he kidding?

“And that’s the tow company’s name?”

Oh. My. Gawd.

“YES…that’s the two company’s name and address.”

“And your car is there?”

“Yes.”

“So is it like a parking lot?”

“It’s their towing lot, yes. Lots of vehicles will be there.”

“But what is it exactly?”

I didn’t say anything. I was trying not to laugh heartily into the receiver. Was he on something?

11:45 – I decide to turn around and head back to my apartment. The towing company said they’d put my purse back in my car (the driver had taken it to the office so that it wouldn’t be stolen in the night) and send it with the car when it was towed to Pasadena in the morning. Whew.

7:15 AM – Groggily I drive Lindsey to the repair shop and borrow my brother-in-law’s car to get to work.

8:30 – “Hi Eileen?” I say to an assistant who could call a pass in for me in order to get onto the lot.

“What’d you do THIS time?” she says back with a chuckle.

“Well my pass is in my purse which is in my car which is in another town broken down….and I need a temporary one for the day.”

“Ok, I can do that—you have some other form of photo ID to retrieve the pass, right?”

“Uhh….no…not really. Everything is in my purse…which is…”

And so it went. But I did get on the lot—thanks to Billy, my favorite guard.

When I walked into the bathroom today I saw Neon Bangs Woman (who, I’ve mentioned before, stopped dying her bangs different colors of neon and went back to a half-bleachy brown-blond, much to my disappointment) standing in a bathroom stall with the door open. Just staring at the opposite wall.

Ok interesting. Was my first thought.

My second thought fluttered out of my mouth as I ducked into the stall next to hers:

“Oh the bangs are back!” I cried after seeing a shock of bright pink hair on top of her head.

“What bangs?” She answered back with her nasal-y, lisping voice.

WHAT BANGS?! They’re neon woman, NEON. And pink. Your hair? It’s PINK.

“Um. Yours.”

“Oh. Well that’s because I dyed the whole head pink but the rest of it fell out.”

Apparently I had ducked into the bathroom stall too quickly.

“What?! Your hair fell out?”

“All but the top. I mean it wasth a real mess—I had to put the vacuum sthweeper to my head to clean it up--- it wasth falling out all over the place.” She let out a long, tired sigh. I wanted to hug her through the wall. But instead I bit my lip in sheer amusement.

I loved that her solution to the problem of over-processed neon was simply: “Oh my hair is falling out. I should suck up what’s left with a vacuum. A vacuum to my head,”.

“Well the top looks really bright!” I said back, trying to remember if I saw a bald head on the rest of her.

I heard her wash her hands before she sighed again and called back to me:

“It’s fading but oh well….next time I’ll get it right.”

Next time?

Her fur tickled my face and I laughed and batted it out of the way before my dog then managed to jump around my entire head and chew my hair off from the back.

I kept thinking, “This is crazy, Buttercup,” (what possessed me to name a pet I would have long after my third grade obsession with the movie, Princess Bride, is still a mystery to me) but she (who is no longer living) just kept chewing on my hair and pulling it roughly.

It was then that my eyes batted open and I realized a dog was not chewing my hair from behind but that a fan was.

It’s a tiny little fan I purchased to help ventilate the space near the ceiling of the bedroom I call my bed. I rested it on the edge of my mattress and for the first time in days I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air.

I just woke up gasping because my hair was tangled up inside the fan and causing a lump at the base of my skull.

Lovely.

I ripped my hair out and then rolled over to go back to sleep with the fan now buzzing because my hair inside of it was making a wheeeeee noise. Stupid fan, I thought as I drifted back to sleep.

It just isn’t always as it seems.

A few days later I am speaking with the brand new, very good-looking researcher on our team when my other male, playful co-worker turns to him and says, “Watch out for L, she was telling me the other day to bend over and squeeze my butt in the office and right then someone walked by.” My jaw drops open. I don’t even know where to begin to protest because he is right--- I did say that--- but how to explain?

I’ve taught ballet and Pilates for years so when people ask me how to stretch certain muscles, I’m generally helpful. Which is what I was doing when I did tell S to bend over and squeeze his butt…..

It just isn’t always as it seems.

At the end of the day on Wednesday I eagerly dashed out of work to go meet my brother and his new girlfriend. I headed toward my car in the parking structure. Coming toward me, though, was a homeless man and immediately the pity mechanism inside me started blaring and a familiar anxiety about whether to give him money or not welled up inside me--- I prefer to give money, but it seems like such limited assistance and probably has more to do with my guilt than with actually making a person better off. As my eyes followed him I saw a car nearly hit him as it turned and I gasped in anger at someone being so careless as to nearly hit a homeless person.

Then something clicked.

I’m on the Studio lot, I thought to myself. A gated, highly secure Studio lot. There aren’t any homeless people here.

That was an actor.

And probably a very well paid one.

It just isn’t always as it seems.

I twiddle with my fingers at dinner as my ex laughs at one of his friends’ comments. He is visiting from out of town, I haven’t seen him in a year, we are at a dim pub and I’m annoyed. My ex has made a deliberate effort to only refer to me obliquely throughout the entire evening. He is distant almost to the point of rudeness.

This sucks, I think to myself. He must dislike me at this point…..

When later I tell him how it makes me feel even though I understand our breakup, he responds with more kindness and emotion and profession of L than I ever expected. He feels this way despite the fact that he’s leaving for the other coast for law school and despite my faith and his discomfort with it. I keep twitching and looking around me thinking:

Uuuhhh……what just happened?

It just isn’t always as it seems.

“Hi Aunt L. I love you and I wanna come down der and sleep in dat bed like we did and have some treats and play and maybe go see the animolsey’s (animals) at da zoo and stay wif you and play and have so much fun tomorrow…I come tomorrow and I want to come see you now….” A message from my three year old nephew blares on my phone and it melts my heart. I take it around to about six co-workers and let them listen to his sweet voice before I call my sister back.

“He actually came over to me and said “Mommy, here’s something: how ‘bout I go to the aunties house tonight and spend the night in dat big bed and have some treats wif dem instead of dis weekend?”

“Wait, he really said “here’s something’ Lis??” I ask incredulous at my orange-headed nephew’s brilliance.

“Yeah he was all ready to go today…” she laughed back to me.

“Oh we can’t WAIT for him to come Lis! We’re so excited!” I respond.

Lucas, my nephew, gets back on the phone.

“I was so funny cause I want to come toniiiiighhht….” He laughs into the phone and proceeds to tell me a long story about the tile project his father is working on in their home.

“I love you, Lucas, and I’m so excited to see you soon, baby.”

“I love you too Auntie—watch this!” Lucas says back before he drops the phone and runs off to play.

And sometimes things are exactly as they seem.

- I accidentally swear at my boss via an email I didn't intend her to receive 'cause I sure didn't know she was CC'd on there.


"Dear Boss, My apologies for that email. I was just diagnosed this morning with a severe case of uncontrollable swearing. I promise to conduct myself in a more professional manner in the future.

Best regards and #*&*#!, L."

Oops.

- I haven't responded to all of your kind blogoversary wishes.
- I have six spider bites....one of which is spreading the poison in a lumpy red line up my leg....ew....
- I have a project at work that I don't know how to do, exactly.
- One of my dearest friends is coming to visit and I'm going to cook for their arrival. I should mention: I suck when it comes to cooking. If I'm not blowing myself up, I'm just basically ruining the meal and whatever pan is cooking it.
- I have to take a brief reprieve from blogging....

Tripping down the stairs of our parking complex on the studio lot this morning I heard someone speaking above me.

“You know, they really go out of their way to make you feel like a space pod,” a man’s voice said loudly.

Uh. What?

It has been a year of sharing things like that. Today Dead Man’s Honda checks off one year of sometimes mindless but fairly consistent banter from yours truly.





When I started this blog I didn’t really understand the blogosphere—I just wanted to share a few stories with my friends in a much easier format than calling them individually and saying “so listen to this…”.

Shortly thereafter I delightfully discovered new friends from all over the world united by common passions, stories, oddities or just a virtual digital hand waving out into the dynamic void of internet. The conversation started amongst people I knew and then soon I was enveloped into a world of voices speaking out about a rainbow of topics--- from dispatches in developing countries to the adventures of being a stay-at-home dad. Even if that last one was someone I already knew. But the point is--- it’s a beautiful yet strange thing to be a part of a community you never actually see faceto face.

A year ago today I had recently finished graduate school, started a brand new, exciting job at a big Hollywood Studio. I was dating the World’s Perfect Boyfriend who eventually became the World’s Perfect But Long Distance Ex by default of his brilliant mind taking him to every corner of the world. I had not seen very many celebrities when I started here. Now several have been to my desk, and no, I did not tie them up and gag them and stuff them underneath it.

I had not taught Sunday school since I had been burned by a church several years before when I was the director of Children’s Ministries. Now I have a year of INSANE two year olds and their famous, fabulous, totally quirky parents under my belt. A year ago I was simply friends with a beautiful pair of elderly individuals. Now I can say I am friends with a horde of elderly individuals who sit around every other Thursday night and talk about their cats and bunions and the fiery prophets. A year ago I was much more naive about the truthfulness of others. I wouldn’t say I’m jaded now but I would certainly hope I am wiser. A year ago I immediately wrote with surprise about Amazon Mullet Woman and Neon Bangs woman and today they are simply common sights in my daily life. A year ago Little D was in the same drudging life she’s in now. She was just shorter. A year ago I definitely knew less about a lot of things. A year ago I loved fewer people and knew fewer stories of people than I do now.

And I think that’s how it should be.

To commemorate this day I have added a little somethin' reaaaaally niiiiice (hear: National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation Randy Quaid’s character) and will get back to normal blogging and tags and such….eventually:

At this moment I can breathe a sigh of relief. It passed. And I don’t have a litter of puppies, short cropped hair, pants with no legs, a dozen bathrobes, several online purchases with no purpose or furniture I certainly won’t use and can not fit into my apartment.

Success.

But I can’t say that my latest “episode” passed without considerable discomfort, preoccupation, aggravating lack of fulfillment on my part or without great annoyance to all of my acquaintances. Such is life with compulsions.

If I insert the word “dog” or “puppy” into my gmail search box, it vomits up about several hundred emails.

Why? Because for more than a week straight I have been fixated upon, obsessed with, totally consumed by and in slavery to the idea of getting a puppy. A dog. A dog small enough to fit into my apartment and so it must look like a puppy--- if such a thing exists.

Oh they do exist. They are called, “designer puppies” instead of “runt muts” “truly sick dogs who will never grow to a healthy size” or “mixed dogs with heads much larger than they would be had the genetic experiment called breeding not gone horribly wrong”. These dogs have strange names—like “Poo” inserted into every other syllable. A Malti-poo-chi-poo.

A what?!

That’d be a Maltese mixed with a poodle shoved inside of a Chihuahua. And it poos. They all do.

“Well if you want a dog THAT small,” said one email from a friend “it won’t require much besides throwing it in your purse and getting on with things. Except it will probably pee all over your ipod, keys, cell phone and shit but other than you’re golden.”

Another email read:

“Please, for the love, do not get a dog. You do not need one. This will pass.”

I had to remind myself it would pass when I laid in bed at night, trying to pray or fall asleep, and instead of an Amen my mind would wander off to doggy-land much to my own annoyance.

“Every time I think of this dog I must have, I get sick to my stomach. I don’t want it. But I’m obsessed with getting it,” I told people.

On a day when Jacob and I went to look at a pup for sale, advertised as a “Teacup Peek-a-poo”, I ground my car to a halt in front of a sunny yellow house in Sierra Madre. The man showing us the dog said, “Oh let me go get her,” and went inside. I expected him to return with a tiny ball of fuzz in his arms. Two seconds later a white dog the size of a motor scooter burst through the door and ran full speed at Jacob and me. Our eyes widened and I backed up at the toothy beast that was no where near being teacup size.

“Holy crap!” Jacob said, half running from the dog. It turned to me and jumped as high as my shoulder.

“Uhh….wow….this is bigger than I expected….”

“Well they are really hard dogs to find,” the owner said softly. “My wife just can’t have it anymore….”

What really happened, I assume, is that the dog outgrew the woman’s purse, then the foot of her bed broke off from its weight, then it couldn’t get placed in the back seat of her car and before they knew it, their alleged little “poo” dog was the size of a bull mastiff and definitely not willing to get dressed up in all the little outfits available for the fun individuals who think it is normal to put clothes—- and ugly clothes at that-- on dogs.

I don’t even approve of people who provide these animals. These “breeders” primarily exist in the Midwest, it seems. Is that because they are far from animal rights groups? I don’t think so. I think it’s because these breeders need enough room to raise their children and the dogs in the same pens.

“See how well we welp our pups? They grow up with our children!” Their advertising reads. My face grimaced at the sight of the children and the dogs in a farm pen.

Is that worse for the kids or the dogs? Or do they just start to seem like the same thing?

“Only 250 dollars for shipping,” the websites say. My compulsive self nods and heads for the “purchase” button on the adorable pictures of puppies when I think of something:

What if they send me one of their kids instead of the dog?

“Oops! Sorry about that. We told you we welp them together--- isn’t a child just as fun as a dog? You can dress up children just like dogs.” I imagine their response. I sigh and force my hand away from the purchase button. I’m not ready to have a child at this point. And who wants to risk it?

The problem with compulsions is that they come on with intensity and then when they’ve done their damage, they leave. And when they leave you are left with things you never really wanted.

“Why do you have all these bathrobes with tags on them?” Someone asks me. I try to brush it off.

“Umm…a shower….for….did you want a sandwich? I could make you one.”

It was a bad, bad, night, that night I got the bathrobes. It was two days before Christmas and something mind-bogglingly awful had happened.

And at Christmastime bathrobes are hard to find. So the only two I finally found after hours of eager searching through stores are absolutely hideous. I am afraid if I donate them to Goodwill or elsewhere someone will actually get those bathrobes and then they will cry. So I keep them in a wad on my dresser—a reminder that I should refrain from going out of doors whenever I get an “episode”. I should stay home and keep myself away from the computer.

“You know you could rent a dog,” A says to me at work as he leans over the top of my desk with his lanky six-foot frame.

“That’s not a good idea, see, because I really don’t want a dog.”

“But you’ve been obsessed with this for days.”

“I know…and it makes me sick. I don’t want a pet. I don’t need a pet. But something inside me needs this pet and keeps whining at me about it.”

Just a small hint to those of you still searching for social skills--- saying things like that at work is just not a good idea. It elicits open-mouthed stares and offers for free medication.

But since I am as self-aware as I am compulsive I have the wherewithal to refuse and to resist the urges that come up from the back of my head in these times. And having this issue as part of my personality actually helps me in my job--- being obsessed with things is key to being a good researcher. Which I am. It is not, however, what most people would call or admit to being, “normal”.

I do, though, have the awareness to know where these episodes are coming from. I know exactly why a dog suddenly burst onto the scene as my latest obsession. I know why I bought all those bathrobes. I know why I cut my hair off a few times. I know why I had to eliminate the legs from my jeans. I know why I have furniture I do not use. I know why I must master the urge to purchase everything listed under "C" on ebay. And I do master it. I resist. I am strong enough at times to withstand myself.

But like all the stories we don’t tell--- the ones in the background…the humming, stress-inducing, painful or anxiety-giving stories droning inside of us--- the “why” remains untold. I can tell you that I am a compulsive obsess-a-holic.

I just won’t tell you why.

Something happens to you when you realize that today you shouldn’t have a face. Or part of your arm shouldn’t be there either if the world according science always works the way it should. And that’s just the thing though: the world never seems to work the way it should. It’s the “should” and “does” difference, tension, that makes us crumple up sometimes and just feel like giving up or that startles us into complete mouth-gaping silence. But sometimes that difference between what should and actually does happen is a joyful good thing. And sometimes, it’s just plain crazy.

On the good front, I received salve-words from a dear friend who gave them when he really should not have had time to do it. Healing words are hard to come by, you know.

Also on the good front, I received a meme from
Des, which proves not only that she still likes me in spite of the danger I put her in but that she doesn’t look like she has any intention of kicking me out of our shared abode.

People In the Sun gave me this other meme as well, which was incredibly kind of him, but I am not quite sure what it means. If you have a blog that has the power of schmooze, does it mean that you walk around with your face puckered up or do you just know how to kiss people’s behinds? Either way, it’s a very cool little sticker thing that I am grateful to receive even if I suck at playing along at these meme award games. I like too many people and their blogs to choose!

And back to the crazy:

Something I discovered last week and Monday: I am Superman’s long lost sister and there is a wrinkle in the universe over which Murphy’s Law has complete authority and it has my name on it.

Last Thursday I was on the phone with my big buff little brother whilst going through the Chevron Car wash around 10pm. Though Honda died while the machines were blowing water all around it like crazy, she turned back on when it was time to drive out and go through the Hurricane Hugo-strength dryer. As my bent hood began to shake with the intensity of the blower, Honda shuddered and stopped. I tried the ignition. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. I tried pumping the gas like crazy (fumes!) but nothing.

“Uh, Liam. I’m stuck in a gigantic blower, I’ll have to call you back.”

After the sixty seconds that was my turn in the dryer, there was a brief pause before the car behind me (which was exiting the wash) would need to run its car through the dryer. I jumped out and tried pushing the car. No dice.

I should mention: I was wearing a skirt. A skirt that was not behaving as it should and kept riding up as I tried pushing an entire car out of the….

And then the dryer turned on again.

Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap.

I jumped back into the car. My car was again shaking and then I couldn’t get the door to open. I pushed and pushed against the wind—the driver behind me dashed out of his car into the sprays of the wash that started behind him (and uh, those things MOVE) and ran toward my car. An attendant, who finally noticed there was a backup of vehicles clogging the machinery, ran through the wind and wash and helped the other driver push my car out. Before my car was out of the wash, the other driver had lost his sun glasses and cell phone in the man-made typhoon, poor fellow. Both were retrieved but that’s how intense those blowers are.

Fortunately the gas station attendant jumped my car and all was good. Except he connected his wires wrong on his battery so when I thrust the clips on the other battery knob there was QUITE the spark. I was fine, despite the voltage, which is yet another reason why I just might very well be invincible.

I say that because just on Monday night another Murphy Moment occurred.

I decided, randomly, that it was going to be a barbeque night. So Little D and I went to the store, bought supplies, returned home and set to work over our leeetle charcoal barbeque.

Charcoals take for. Ev. ER to finally turn white.

So while Little D and Des and Linds went for a run I decided to speed up the process. I took the lighter fluid, which I had already used on the now-lit coals, and began to squirt more over the charcoals. This kind of lighter fluid is somewhat gel-like, rather thick, and allegedly environmentally friendly, which is why I bought it. It also ignites with the passion of a nitroglycerine plant.

As I squirted the fluid over the coals the stream of gel caught on fire, burnt itself up into the bottle and KABAAAM!! the bottle seemed to sneeze an explosion. It collapsed then re-inflated in less than thirty seconds. In my startled state of shock I stared, wide-eyed, at the bottle that was now burning out of the top.

It’s. Going. To. Blow.

Omygosh, Omygosh, Omygosh, I kept saying over and over as I held that thing and wracked my brain for ideas to get it out. A whole bottle of lighter fluid? On fire? Easily put out? Not with water…not with sand…..not that I had any sand or water around me anyway…..

So I did what anyone would do in that instance.

I blew on it. Like a birthday cake.

And I kid you not---

The bottle of lighter fluid went out. Just like that.

“Oh Lord you are good to me….I mean….you would still be good even if I didn’t have a face or arm right now or if I had just blown up the apartment, yes, yes, I realize that, but in my type of definition of good for TODAY this moment…miracle-like-things….you’re good in that way…at the moment…ya know…if you don’t mind me putting it into those terms and I know you don’t...” I sputtered out under my breath like Mikey in Goonies when he wheezes his thoughts to One Eyed Willy.

I then set the bottle to the side. Far away. Isolated on the cement patio. And marveled at its melted, bent, collapsed side, its still fluid-filled cavity, and my perfectly intact state of being.

Can't…move…my....

Two weeks after nigh night was found in the sock drawer of Jacob's nine year old sister (if the cleaning people weren't going to think my clothes belonged to the father's girlfriend, could they at LEAST have thought my stuff belonged to the fourteen year old daughter? I mean, c'mon, the NINE YEAR OLD?!) and two weeks after my seismic ear infection , I decided it was time to get back into shape.

"We definitely need to start taking classes again," Desiree whispered to me at the ballet last week whilst we watched our former colleagues prance around half naked revealing their ripped, lithe bodies. I nodded.

So that Monday after work I ran home, changed and dashed out the door to class.

"Seriously? Just like that? Don't you need to work up to it or prepare or…" Desiree and Lindsey both said to me when I told them where I was going and would they like to come with?

Ha—work up to it? How hard can it be? We did this our entire lives, I thought to myself. There's got to be something said for muscle memory.

Or not.

My legs were shaking so hard I thought they just might detach themselves from my quaking torso. I glanced at the clock.

Ten minutes.

You're fricking kidding me, I thought. I'm having a heart attack after ten minutes? Through pain-filled eyes I glanced at the instructor who looked, surprisingly, like the love child of Dane Cook and Ralph Fienes. I had a death grip on the barre --- half from shock over the masculinity of the teacher and half from sheer physical desperation.

"Aaaannnd….arabesque…" the instructor said as sweat poured down my back, which is saying something because I really don't sweat that much. Ever. Obediently I lifted my leg only to feel a razor sharp pain shoot from the tip of my left toe, up my back to settle on the crown of my head.

Holy freaking @#(#*)(!$

And just like that I had a version of swearing turrets for the rest of the class.

I looked behind me to see that yes, indeed, my leg was still up in the air but I could no longer feel it. I couldn't feel anything. What had just happened?

When the music ended I stretched forward (ok, I collapsed. Fine.) and slammed my head against the barre. The instructor shot a confused look in my direction— I had a mark on my forehead now and though my lines were all correct, my body wobbled like a prepubescent weakling. The effeminate male in front of me who thought I had encroached on his view of the arse of the man behind me and disrupted his concentration with my clumsiness, glared.

Oh bite me, buddy. Then: L, I thought, your body isn't responding but just concentrate…concentrate…

My concentration cracked at the sight of the greatest character of the day:

Never Danced In His Life But Loving It Man.

He literally looked like he learned to dance...yesterday. Not because his technique was lacking—but because his moves were indiscernible. Well…I guess if you had to discern something you could guess he had just been electrocuted in tights while standing in a puddle of water.

I loved him immediately. I loved him more than even the woman who looked like she showed up for the French Maid Strip Tease Class but apparently settled for the open ballet class. She had tiny shorts on underneath a puffy little skirt and a bright hot-pink tank top with a black bow-tie right across the breasts. Sassy.

New Dancer Man (as I will call him) was tall, in his forties, loved his tights and wheezed dramatically after every combination as if he had just finished the entire second act of Swan Lake. I envied his spirit— he flew across the stage, barreling into people, flailing his arms, tossing his head-- to do moves never before seen in the land of the living with such gusto that he could have been on god only knows what, and with such flair that I want him to replace John Travolta in Hairspray.

I watched the dimples in the instructor's cheeks deepen as he watched New Dancer Man but he never cracked a smile. I had to bend over and pretend to stretch to keep from beaming with sheer delight at that spectacle. Right as I was on the verge of asking New Dancer Man if I could take him home to entertain me and make me happy, the instructor poked my stomach.

"Tighten right there….the center…"

Good lord. First class with this guy and he had already discovered my dancing nemesis: The nebulous "Center".

The Center, for those that don't dance, is apparently the key to looking in control for the entirety of your dancing career. However, it is not really defined in any physical way or capable of being attached to any muscle group. The Center has the terror-inspiring aura about it as the Harry Potter Lord Voldemort: Powerful yet rarely seen.

"You're doing very well with everything but…." The head mistress of SAB tapped her clipboard in the dim room while my twelve year old self stood and squirmed under her gaze. "Buuut….you're a little…hmmm…."

Dumb? Too thin? Not thin enough? Ugly? Not right? Abnoxious? Say something!

"Discombobulated."

Woah. Ok.

Totally would never have guessed THAT word would come out of her mouth.

This discombobulation has something to do with not having The Center and a little trick I did in those days when I was too lazy to learn the combinations. Whenever I didn't know what step came next I would wobble around like I was adjusting myself and wait until another student moved to tell me what to do. I honestly thought it was a fool-proof strategy for ever having to pay attention in class.

Definitely not fool proof. Instead of thinking I was dull she thought I was….discombobulated. Worse. And as far as I got in training professionally, I don't think I ever found The Center.

I did, however, find the next day that you can be so sore that your vestigial organs ache and you take a leftover vicadin and then can't remember where you are when you wake up the next morning. Yes, you can be THAT sore.

Within the circle that was our high school Bible study group, I heard the wiry blonde girl request prayer for her father’s cancer that had just recently returned. Her voice held no hint of dramatic intonations typical of the other girls’ angst-filled prayer requests. There was no self-pity in her story. She simply relayed the facts and then listened intently to others. I was surprised— and impressed.

Fast forward eleven years and that tiny beautiful blonde girl who eventually lost her father to cancer is not only my sister via marriage to my brother, but also a friend and someone whose pervasive thoughtfulness and self-sacrifice is something I wish to emulate. Especially after this weekend.

Desiree and I missed our plane, had to fly out the next day, then arrived too early, and were partly hazy as to where we were exactly when Landon and Amy arrived at the airport to pick us up. Amy put together an entire relay. We could barely get ourselves San Francisco.

“There’s coffee and muffins and bananas in that bag for you guys,” Amy said as we fell into the backseat of their car. Desiree and I looked at each other with amazement.

No. Freaking. Way. She baked, too.

In honor and memory of her father and his years of battling cancer, Amy arranged a team of volunteers to participate in the San Francisco Relay For Life held by the American Cancer Society. No only was she one of the Society’s largest fundraisers, she also made t-shirts and a poster for our
team, put together thoughtful gift bags and prizes for participants, provided lunch and snacks for all who joined, decorated everything in color-coordinated ribbons, bags, napkins, etc. (yeah she’s going to be one of THOSE moms. My kids will be lucky if I remember to put shoes on them.) My jaw dropped at the amount of time, work and thoughtfulness she poured into this event to honor her father.

Desiree and I were teary-eyed at her remarkable display of love, courage, and consideration.

And I’d really, really like it if they could keep that adorable bundle of beauty in this picture.

And um…I really, really, burnt my face.

And check out this touching story of a friends'journey to San Fran for different, but also great reasons.

Despite the hives, the hair issue and the crazy wedding coordinator, the photos from Lindsey's wedding turned out quite beautifully. Click HERE for a brief slide show of highlights from the day. Jan and Tey Garcia were not only wonderful photographers, by the end of the day they felt like family. I'm sure they, however, felt exhausted. ;)

Lying on the floor of the expansive bathroom I whimpered and held my ear.

This is not my night.

“Jacob,” I finally said to my charge when I stumbled out to the living room “I need to go to urgent care. Something is not right with my ear. And where the HECK is my stuff? What’d the cleaning people do--- eat it?”

In addition to having a mansion with a tiered backyard and a stone stairway that leads down to a fence with no gate (huh?), Mr. Kinda Crazy has a remarkably, annoyingly thorough cleaning team. After searching every crevice of the house, holding the side of my head in massive pain, I gave up.



An hour later the doctor shoved a thing in my ear to look at it and it actually felt better:

“Oh wow, yeah, that’s bad. You’ve got a really bad inner and outer ear infection. Has it been hurting for a few days?”

“No. It just hit me about two hours ago. I was completely fine before.”

I thought something had crawled in there and died. I wanted to ask him to look again and see if maybe some sort of jack-hammering elf was in my ear but I refrained.

Since I didn’t have any clothes or bath products or nigh night (my...uh...blanket) at the house now, I had to go to my apartment and pick up clothes for the next day.

“Oh you poor thing,” Des said when she saw me still whimpering and holding my ear. “Here—have a fruit roll-up. I opened them all but just to see what colors they were," she said with a sweet smile.

You are going to have lucky, lucky, kids, I thought.

Back at the house I was still in pain, still missing clothes, and had forgotten to get a top to go with the jeans I picked up at my apartment. So today I'm wearing the camisole I slept in. Special.

“You know they could prescribe you some weed for that,” Jacob said when I explained that my ear was still throbbing.

“He just gave me Vicadin,” I told him as I climbed up to the top kitchen cupboards to see if maybe, just maybe, the cleaning people thought “hey, let’s stick this blankey and these clothes in with the pots and pans.”

“I have an insane pain tolerance level,” Jacob said. “Ok ready? Watch this.”

And then he started beating the heck out of his leg.

“What are you doing?” I managed to choke out laughing.

“I can’t feel my leg any longer, but there is absolutely NO pain.”

Forty five minutes later we were still looking for my missing stuff and wound up in the garage.

“I’ve never, ever, opened this cabinet,” Jacob said intensely while holding the door of a large, wooden cupboard. “What if it’s TOTALLY filled with weed? Ok ready?”

He sounded extremely excited. I shook my head.

“It’s totally arrangeable for me to get you some pot for your pain by….tomorrow.Yeah. Totally arrangeable.”

Wow. Thank you. You’re so helpful, Jacob.

“Maybe we could get you a spiritual license for it.”

Amen.

“Would you quit with the weed?!” I finally laughed out at him. “I can’t find nigh night!”

“What’s nigh night?”

Crap.

How to explain my little blankey to a fifteen year old. Or to the cleaning crew when I call them today for that matter?

Hiii...sooo...on the bed there was this thing that looks like a silky cleaning rag...but it's not...yeah...it's for....it's for...ehh....can you tell me where you put it?

To be honest I was more concerned about nigh night than I was about my clothes.

“You’re HOW old?” Jacob said when I told him what it was.

“Oh shut up.” I answered, disgruntled as I looked inside the massive hollow coffee table.

After finding a few more Emmy’s ("how many of these does your dad HAVE?") and other awards stashed around in various nooks and crannies. We gave up and I came to a very disheartening conclusion:

My grandma was wrong. I do have fashion sense. So much so that the cleaning crew took my clothes over the mass amounts of money and valuable awards lying around the house. And they're probably using nigh night to clean someone's toilet right now.

It’s tough to be me.