Once Upon A Kidnapping

The clicking of her heels on the front porch is faster paced than usual, and that woman is with her. The woman who went to Mexico to ditch her house, only she came back to California completely out of money and with four kids in tow; two of which are hers (or theirs, as it were) and the other two are his. Besides the days they were born, the 15 and 12 year old have never been on American soil, and neither of them speak a lick of English. Sally was trying to remedy this by making them watch subtitled episodes of Seinfeld like she had when she was learning the language, but there's no time for that now.

I open my door and Sally slams hers.

Oh god. I bet it's that asshole ex of hers. I knock and get an immediate exasperated answer. "Hi. No time to tell you. I'm--crazy right now. Later." And the door slams again.

It's Thursday, maybe she's late to see that doctor guy who tapes magnets to her neck. But something seems uncomfortable. More domestic, yet urgent. I go back to whatever I was doing.

Moments later she knocks but then busts through the door Kramer style. "Hi. Sorry. He was napped. I have to go. I'll tell you later."

"Napped?"

It's hard to understand her sometimes when she's frantic or upset.

"Napped! Napped! He was napped! In Mexico!"

"Napped?"

"Like kids, but he is adult."

"Her husband was kidnapped in Mexico?" Sally is already down the stairs, and she races off saying she'll talk to me later. Less than a minute passes and I hear the screech of her tires as she burns out of the parking lot.

When the wife returned to California with all the kids, the husband stayed behind. Some business venture he had found. He was going to be making all this money, and with him not being able to get work up here, his place was down there.

The wife's thinking was if she took his daughters with her to California, it would lure him back to the states.

Right. Daughters he's seen all of maybe 1/4 of their lives combined; daughters he's estranged from and really had no intention of parenting (or fathering, most likely.)

Well, she tried. Little good it did, it would seem. He's napped in Mexico, and Sally is riding her Mustang south of the border to...to...I'm not entirely sure.

I sat there and wondered if she thought to call the police, but then, the police in Mexico...right. And then I thought, wow, I probably just shouldn't get involved. And then I thought also that this could all be a setup. And I remembered all those times that Sally had sent her money to Nigerian Princes and Barristers and Kind Christian Orphans who need Cheques cashed immediately.

Four times now, it's happened.

And her bank account was phished.

The wife was rather calm, I noticed as she went into the apartment with Sally. And I know that I'd be going fucking nuts if David was held captive by some people in Mexico who just happen to be demanding the same amount of cash that the husband had left the wife with so that she could get an apartment in California since the bank has just issued the eviction notice on the house...

And then I wondered something else.

In that house there is a two year old, a five year old, a twelve year old who speaks no English and a 15 year old who speaks no English. The only people who know that they are there, besides me, are now racing down to Mexico in a Mustang of Maraschino Cherry Red to fight the kidnappers.

What if the wife never comes back?

And what if Sally never comes back either?

At what point...

Because it's like...

I don't want to get involved in this. I am staying out of this. This could be dangerous. This could be a setup. What if he's his own kidnapper? What if the calls are coming from within the house?

It's too early for this to be a "situation" yet. The house is full of food, the 15 year old is responsible enough to take care of them all, and legally it's all right for her to be in charge while the mother is away. I sure as hell don't want to show up and talk to them in English and have them grin at me with their big stupid smiles like the other day when they were here and I asked them where they were going. I sure as hell don't want to send my cop, who they've never seen before and will have no idea what to do if he comes in the gate, uniformed or not.

Tricky.

And it's almost noon and she's not back and I'm just wondering if I should have even knocked on her door this afternoon.

Why is it that I can rescue sunbeaten and neglected birds but I'm frozen now that there's a house full of kids and I dont know where their caretaker is or if she'll ever be back?

Silly Robot Jessie, trying to act all human again. Fucking fail.

ALL HAIL TO OUR GIANT DISCO BALL OVERLORD

HAIL!

Well, no...I can't take credit for the clever title, it was something that Cousin Debi tweeted. But what I can tell you is this:

This concert was different than both Pat Benatar and Air Supply. Pat Benatar was crowded, VERY crowded, and the fuzz had to come bust up a mosh pit. There were people wearing 80's clothes, and the bleach blonde leather skinned milfs went as far as the eye could see. Pat + Beaumont, you know it's like We Belong Together.

And Air Supply, well, that was more or less like a religious experience. When Russel Hitchcock first came on stage, we all knelt down before him, like we were the little children and he was the Jesus. He was touching people and cupping women's faces, and of course he fucking pointed at me, lest we forget, and lest we forget that high five that made Two Less Lonely People in the World. Air Supply was like, if there is a god, he sent them.

KC's concert was not very crowded though. Come on Beaumont, DISCO LEGEND! But no. There was room to walk around, but That's The Way (uh huh uh huh) I Like It. Also there were not as many cops. Except for this one who was protecting us in case there was a disco inferno...

I can't take credit for that line either. The guy next to me said it. This guy here...

A partial face to go with the crotch that you all know and love.

KC is 58 years old, he told us before inviting us to Get Down Tonight. And he quit smoking so he put on a lot of weight. "What the hell happened?" he asked us many many times. He told us he loved us, and said that to all of the teenie boppers who were forced to be there against their will, to know that he was their mother's N*Sync. This scared the children and caused many of them to boo and hiss because time was not kind to our KC. But KC is still the original Boogie Man, so KC, Keep It Comin' Love.

I know one girl who was not pleased to be there. Debi brought her teenlet and as much as I would try to explain to her that KC was a very important man, and was a legend among all disco legends, she would roll her eyes and go back to her Myspace on her Crackberry.

Well, we all dawned our Boogie Shoes anyway.

KC then addressed the audience again with a rather sexual soliloqui, saying something to the effect of "I'm your boogie man, and all you have to do is call me when you need me, yeah. Call me any time day or night and I will come do whatever you need, baby, all night long. Every which way you like it. Your boogie man wants to please you--" and stuff like that.

Now when Russel Hitchcock talked about holding on to your body and feeling every move you make together, and asked Beaumont if we wanted to fall in love, it was somehow less awkward. Okay, so KC is kind of a bit of an aging disco dude, but he still puts on a show...but I admit that it's clear that he gets tired very easily, but he still puts on a show. Or, well...from what I could see he can still put on a show, but I was incredibly distracted by his Sunshine Strippers.

Okay well maybe the pollitically correct term for them is actually "backup dancers," but let's not mince words here, those chicks were HOT. And just hypothetically speaking, if I was forced to shag any of the members of the Sunshine Band, it would have to be the cocoa chick with the fro.

She's a Brick House. And yes I know that's not a Sunshine song but they played it anyway, possibly because even they cant remember thier own songs.

Fucking hell, I got more pictures of them than KC! But, KC can still boogie down...though he does get very sweaty.

I was rather upset when he covered a John Mayer song, not because he covered it, but because he didn't even bring da funk. Gotta have the funk. But he was less sweaty during that song so maybe KC should stick with his John Mayer.

PS, mad props to his basist and guitarist. They were groovy, and they totally brought the funk.

And PS, you know it's a good show when the guitarist snaps a string. The guy was just great.

Personally, I loved the concert. I had fun. We all had fun, even the teenlet who eventually pocketed her Crackberry to listen to live renditions of Get Down Tonight and Boogie Shoes. Nobody can resist the magic of the giant disco ball ALL HAIL TO OUR GIANT DISCO BALL OVERLORD!

Oddly, we were asked before the concert not to make any audio or video recorings even though nothing like that had been said at any of the previous concerts, so I'm gonna break the law here and post what we stole with my Flip cam. If I'm sued, then oh well.

Prepare to shake shake shake...shake shake shake...shake your bootay, shake your bootay. It's mashup time.

So this concludes the Summer Concert Series...well, not really as there's a Wilson Philips concert next week but I'm not going to that so for me, this concludes the Summer Concert Series of 2009.

(KC and the Sunshine Band, Pat Benatar, and Air Supply)

PS they've already given us one name for the 2010 series, and that name is Eddie Money.

Won't you pack your bags and leave tonight? Because I've got Two Tickets To Paradise. And I Think I'm In Love.

Whoring By Proxy

The next thing I know, I'm lying on the wet cement hacking up phlegm. Sally's hair is piled up on her head like whipped cream, only if maybe they make whipped cream in cinnamon-brown sugar flavor.

She's like food in her cheesecake-tight bathing suit and pursing her maraschino cherry lips that are too red and fake sweet. Same color as the Mustang.

"You said you used to do this all the time," she says.

"It's been a while!" I say defensively. "And I think I'm still sick."

"You should eat more garlic."

"You should make more conopida."

She's annoyed but she's stopped swimming laps and is kind of moving her hands gracefully through the water which is just above her breasts. She must not be standing straight because the little tile on the other side of the pool says four feet.

"Is a shot," she tells me and pinches some skin on her arm. "You inject it and it melts the fat."

"Where does the fat go then?"

"It's expelled. You know, through your pee."

"Fat in your pee?" Something makes me think of the too-yellow chicken broth with bubbles of clear fat floating on the surface that Campbell's makes.

"Well is not exactly glamorous. But it helps you to lose those last few pounds."

"Seriously? Injecting yourself with chemicals? Doesn't that...you know, strike you as unnatural?"

"I don't care. It works. Studies were done on it."

"But it wasn't approved by the FDA."

"FDA, we don't have that shit in Romania. If it works, it works, and if it works I'm taking it. End of story."

On her bar back up in her apartment there are numerous open bottles of diet pills. Some I've seen retail for $100 on TV ads. The kind of stuff they keep under lock and key at Wal Mart along with the really expensive baby formula and the $40 skin cream.

On her neck are tiny little magnets placed by a man who calls himself a doctor. Flesh colored bandages conceal them, but if you look at her you can tell what they are. Tiny little magnets. She calls it acupressure and she has them on her ears too, and it really really works for real, but only if you follow the Atkins-like diet that the doctor gives you. And it only costs $15 every Tuesday and Thursday. Sometimes she'll go in on Saturdays too. But then it's $20, but then it's totally worth it. She loses eight pounds every time she does it just in the first week, but then if she slips up and eats something sugary or if she has even a little bit of bread, she gains it all back.

"I need saddlebags explained to me," she says.

"Saddlebag? Like what you attach to your saddle to carry your stuff? Or your motorcycle?"

"No, is to try to get rid of. On the website where I buy the injections, they say is for saddlebags to get rid of them."

"You mean like muffin top? Saddle bags like side fat, spare tire?"

"Oh that. Yeah I'm going to get rid of all of that." She grabs an ounce of fat on her hip and is disgusted with herself.

Only she didn't realize that you cant just buy syringes, you need prescriptions for those. I ask her if she would do me a huge favor, as I get back into the pool. I ask her if she will trick one of her mens into buying me a camera. I'm not willing to be a whore myself but I can do it through her. She's the one with the whipped cream hair and cheesecake bikini. Maraschino lips.

Chicken soup pee, but totally flawless hips.

"Man I don't even know if I can pay my rent this month," she sighs.

"Well promise him that if he buys you this camera, you'll send him some more pictures."

"He is kind of cheap though. Like this other guy I saw, last time I was with him he gave me $5,000, and I didn't even sleep with him. Imagine if I did, how much money I could have gotten I'm sure. This guy though, he does want to pay off my car. But right now I need him to pay my rent."

"Did you spend all your money on those injections?"

She nods. "No lovin' for him though. Maybe the oral but eew, nothing more. I'm not sure old guys have hard ones. I mean, you would slept with an old man?"

"Well...I suppose one day I will, but I'll be old and wrecked too. Right now though, like tomorrow, I think I'd be really freaked out by the saggy old man balls."

"Don't you talk about him that way! Do you want your camera or what?"

"Viagra?"

"Then he'll have his heart attack right on top of me. I don't know, I'm going to go with him on a drive through up Northern California. Maybe I can see what he says. Why don't you just ask your money guy for the camera, huh?"

"I'm not as good of a whore as you. I mean I have a guilty conscious and I'd be making arrangements to pay him back. You don't even sleep with these men and you still command their money out of them. You are gifted."

"Oh yes, gifted from God."

If the slipper fits you wear it, whore.

A Tired Mind

I can only hope that our loan does go through. Right now, I need to buy a $500 camera because we've been booked for a surprise party in poshy Rancho Mirage and I'm one camera short. Kelly Kelly Kelly has my Lumix. I have four more poppets in exchange.

I still call it a good trade.

Luckily I'm being offered two loaners that should do the job fine for David's candids, but with me spending every last dime I had this month on fixing my credit, not to mention not being able to spend any money on large purchases because my spending is being monitored, not to mention how laughable it would be if I even attempted to open a line of credit right now.

Well, I might have a camera, but I wont be laughing when the underwriter denies the fuck out of my loan.

Okay so yes we did owe the debts and it is the right thing to do in paying them. Just not all at once like we did, but at least that part is done. Just one more letter.

I am, however, pleased that when the lady called me--a stranger no less--she said she looked through my portfolio and was very pleased. So was the guy from the magazine who called.

Lucky for me I am getting better at my people skills, and I had a polite and flawless phone call with the lady. Maybe at some point I'll be able to win over Mica's mom, who I really like for some reason.

I skipped the library today though, I slept in too late since Steppy was here till 3 AM. David bought Stone's 13th anniversary ale, just one bottle, but it was pretty big and like 9% ABV, so after enjoying half of it he's like "Call that bastard over for chicken." It was 10:00 at night, but then Steppy never sleeps and he's like a homing pigeon so I'm thankful that at least I had someone to hang out with and talk to with David all inebriated.

You know that David is starting to get tipsy when he keeps saying "I am inebriated" over and over again and his vocabulary suddenly becomes rich with big important sounding words.

It was just one beer, and it kicked his ass to the curb. He was asleep by 11.

But me, I was nowhere near wanting to go to the library today. Thursdays are fine as well. And Wednesday is the Sunshine Band concert.

We turned in all of our books that were due this week yesterday, so it's not like I would have to go anyway today. It's just so hot out and I want summer to end, and I'm so up for the idea of knitting a bag to tote our library books back and forth in so I can ditch that stupid basket. I've kind of been wanting to pick up my needles again lately, and especially finish that shawl I wanted to make last year with the bats in it. Make hats because my little family loves my hats. Finish my manuscript and get a release date set for the book.

But knitting and writing are such fall activities. It's just too hot to click needles or keyboards. Even with the air on, my butt still sticks to this leather. But god I love my new couches. Sticking buns or not.

Every time I get weary I want to lay down on the couch though, all throughout the day I've been momentarily falling over and resting my eyes, but then I always get up and do something. Get the laundry or harass the birds. Napping is such a waste of time, that is to say that I cant bring myself to want to waste any of my time on it.

Then again look at the things I do waste it on.

Just now I wanted to lay down but I stopped myself to research the venue that the party will be at.

OMG, posh doesn't begin to describe it. It's beautiful.

Glad I stayed up for that.

Sexing It Up With Adverbs

The reviews I do for Eden Fantasy's aren't all for silicone penises and offset motors encased in hard plastic. Occasionally they're for fun things, like, that other kind of fun that people have. Laughter.

Oh and this isn't an ad, and I'm not getting paid at all to do this post as I am an on site reviewer and not a paid partner (ie I do it for the free butt plugs, no need to pay me.) This isn't my review, which I later have to write on the site. I'm just sharing this because I chose this assignment knowing it would create good fun interactive blog fodder.

So I got this book of adult mad libs, and it's called He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not.

Okay, I'm not sure when the last time you did a mad lib was, but me it was forever ago. This particular book is what I can kind of see being played at a bridal shower if maybe your friends were the cast of Sex And The City. They're all about Valentine's day and dating, kinda lame, but you can spice things up with the right adverb here and there.

So David and I cracked it open the second it came in the mail, lit some candles in the bedroom, and got to work brainstorming nouns, verbs, adjectives, and the coveted "part of the body." Oh la la.

Some highlights from our games:

• First, he surprise you with a douche bag under the light of the blimp.
• He had a black makeover from his head to his vagina.
• If he loves to thrust give him a rubber fist.
• As a last resort, buy yourself the sexiest hair net you can find and surprise him by opening the beef jerky wearing only that!
• Moan about your sore junk and place a bottle of massage semen by the bed side.
• You and your sweetheart are off to the coin op for a raunchy weekend getaway. When you check in to your rustic bed-and-maple syrup, you discover that there is no hot maple syrup in the bathroom and the bed is extremely sticky.

And the winner of the evening, that we woke up laughing about. I swear these were our first words to each other this morning and our last words to each other before falling asleep.

Bake a batch of chocolate dildos and drop them off for the firemen at the nearest Jew station.

Okay, it was late. It sounded fucking funny as hell at the time.

Let's play mad libs, shall we?

In the comments today I'm going to ask that you give me 8 adjectives, 1 part of the body (plural,) 1 plural noun, 4 nouns, and 2 adverbs. Just to start off. I'll fill in the blanks and return your ever so mad libs to you in the comments. As pages fill up, based on participation in the maddening of these libs, I just might request more adverbs and nouns. Let's see how many of these we can do. I have six pages left.

Come on, let's play! Leave whatever you can, and come back for more.

Mental Masturbation

I have all these ideas right now, but I'm stuck spinning my wheels. And it's not like the time I actually got my wheel stuck in the mud, more like the time I drove over a big rock in my Toyota Tercel and the wheels couldn't quite make contact with the ground. Like I'm teetering on the edge of something, but luckily the edge is still dull at this point.

I love finding treasures. Like when I was taking a picture of this imperfect dandelion today, I didn't notice the wee little bug in the frame as well. And even for being out of focus I was surprised that you could still see his legs and antenna.

When Bombshell showed up she was wearing those platform sandals, and--okay so she's a stripper, not America's Next Top Model. They ended up working out for what I wanted. For the character. After all, I thrive on unconventionalism myself.

A story could form and I won't exactly know how to execute it, but I'll know what I vaguely want to see play out.

Not quite a graphic novel since I can't draw for beans, but a novel that is brought to life. Not love and drama like I've done before, but going along the lines of pyromaniacs, prostitutes, girls girls girls, dead firefighters, run amok, crime scenes, blood, and filth.

Soup of the day: Whiskey.

Platform flip flopped strippers in a quaint little cemetery. Only she's not a stripper, because that's not what the story is about. Just the picture.

And that gosh dern thigh shadow that I didn't even see that detracted from my vision.

No cum guzzling though. Or a title for sure yet.

But then if I sit down and write about it, well...I shouldn't, because there's just sooooo much going on in my life right now and I can't sit down an hammer it all out. My plot lines and story directions are all invaded with creditors and lead windows, and pulling all my stuff in the deathwagon down the sidewalk to my flat.

Priming walls, scrubbing linoleum floors on my hands and knees, vacuuming the ceiling fan.

Signing paperwork.

New neighbors.

Sally has brought pastries and baked goods over every night this week. The guilt is eating me alive, but her carrot cake is so delicious. Sally too is my character extraordinaire, only she wrote herself. Her story is half written and I need to take it back to Starbucks for further exploration.

What happened was it got bigger, and I wasn't mentally prepared for it.

Not that my writing is really any good, and my books, are they any good? Oh probably not. I mean people like them but if they're any good I don't really know or care. I write them because it's what I want to do, and I just happen to have the time and dedication to make them happen for real. And I'm doing it exactly the way I want to do it, without an agent, without a big publisher, without millions.

But not without minions.

I love Bombshell because she heard the words "photo shoot" and wore her stripper clothes, even though I was imagining a black lace shawl and crunchy red leaves. I love Steppy because he's kinda lost but he keeps returning here like a homing pigeon, eating spaghetti-pizza sandwiches. I love Sally because she freaked out that the guy she has sex with in the park tilts his head back to eat popcorn, and this alone is why she can never marry him. It's true. She was really wigged about it.

I love David because he watches videos of eagles that drag little baby goats by the leg over cliffs and drop them, which are narrated by a man speaking Portuguese.

And I love the mental masturbation I get from writing about all of it.

It has to go somewhere. And I have nowhere to put it until I move and I know more about my permanent living situation, where I'll call home in six months. It matters.

So like, welcome to my blog.

I Don't Like My Face

I take these pictures yesterday for the Bombshell and her cousin who are like best friends. We did two locations, and one outfit change, and I thought that a number of the pictures turned out really really well. But then I'm biased and I have this thing where I try to find the beauty in everyone and capture their personalities as well as their unique features.

All well and good until someone has features that they themselves don't like and they tell you not to upload the pictures where those features are featured.

I was given permission to use the girls' pictures for my portfolio, but I would have to upload them and mark them as "friends only" first, and then get their say on what photos I was allowed to show off. Let me tell you, they axed so many pictures that were not only just fine in my opinion, but were the colored versions of the black and white photo they thought was super cute.

I had this other client, an older woman, and she was quite upset about her pictures. This was an important client, so I wont say who it was but if you've been following along you'll figure it out. Anyway, she was very upset and it turned out that her main complaint was that her clothes (that she picked out and insisted on) were all wrong, that she should have listened to me about that necklace being really big and honking and not quite right for photos, and I had taken the pictures "too close" and she wanted them from farther back and maybe with a softer lens.

She didn't like her face.

Needless to say, the pictures were just fine, but the camera doesn't lie. I'm sorry that you don't like the way you look but unfortunately it's a camera, not a scalpel or a time machine. I think you look great but--

Well, let's just say that the entity that was paying for her photo shoot made her cancel the second gig she scheduled with me to take "better pictures." Like pictures that don't really look like her or something.

It's hard to please people. But at least they end up being pleased at some point. .

Look at Cousin Kayla for example:

I personally think she's a pretty girl. But this, out of like 10 other headshots I did for her, was one of the only ones to survive, along with the black and white version.

Okay, I have a boner for black and white but it's really funny to see how impressed people are sometimes by the magic button in Picasa that takes all that yicky color away.

Hell, I impress myself with it. I'm not going to lie.

I was warned that if Kayla actually smiles then her eyes will go squinty so she was purposely trying not to smile.

They were an interesting pair to photograph because they're so opposite of each other. I'm not outright saying that Kayla is a big girl, no, it's just that Bombshell is so gosh darn little. She was lifted up onto that tree branch like a little child, by the way, she did not climb. All 89 pounds of her. I think it worked out though as far as the "friendship photos" went.

(That's a pretty cheesy one I know but I had them jump off of a picnic table and I had to use the pictures for something. I'm not really an expert at editing anyway, nor do I claim to be.)

I did a lot of one on one pictures with Bombshell because I think she has a really neat look to her. Clothes fit her well and she kind of knows how to model to an extent. I really like her green eyes.

These were all taken at a park in Yucaipa, but before we went there I wanted to act out this vision I have had for a long time. Not only to see the vision play out, but to give my portfolio one or two edgier photos along with all those rock stars I shoot. And so we drove to Mountain View.

My vision was something like a "girl amongst the graves" sort of story; a story with pictures. And maybe some point with words. Actually I attempted to write a story like this but became frustrated with it part of the way through, and so it sits in a word document in the form of about 20,000 collected words.

It's something I intend to pick up again someday and fix however I can. And when the weather is right and I have more time and maybe a knit black shawl, I'll take Bombshell back to the cemetery with me.

Here she is being a living dead girl:

Possibly a cover? Only if I made my main character undead or something, which I'm not really good at. Even my vampire novel doesn't have actual vampires in it, just kids in black who suck each other's mouth sores. I like the art that's going on in that picture though, it turned out how I wanted. I didn't put it in the portfolio though.

But truth be told, I still like her as a living girl, too.

My Cup Is Completely Full, It's Just Twice The Size It Needs To Be

We done it.

My Verizon bill- paid

David's Verizon bill- paid

Progressive's last bill- paid

Capital One- bitches, sue me (ha ha you can't neener neener neener and up yours)

Medical bill- paid

Well it's not quite a hop-skip-andajump to the loan lady yet, I still need a letter faxed over from that medical place, something from Verizon, and Progressive is allowing me to print my paid in full letter on the 28th. Then we will fo sho be hopping and skipping and jumping and greeting her with surprise nut tramples.

We love her so much. We never want to leave her unless of course she pisses us off or something, but she has been awesome. I am willing to give out her name and contact info to anyone who wants it.

Now is all of my hard work going to pay off? Oh god jesus Buddha Allah I hope it does. I'll pray to anyone's god if it gets me my loan.

What our credit report looks like now is old medical bills, that dastardly Capital One that perhaps I'll be asked to fix, a paid off Mazda and a handful of accounts that we just gave the ol' one-two punch. Outside of that, we have five years of rent paid in a timely manner (which they DO look at FYI,) a couple of years worth of job stability, and we've never signed up for something we couldn't pay. Except for, again, that dastardly Capital One card I got in high school. But if the Underwriter can see past the slights, which I swear to god I will sacrifice a lamb on some mountaintop somewhere if it means that she will, I'll have my golden ticket.

The golden ticket of course being the fantasticness of the loan approval letter, which I can then take to the realtor and get a tour of the chocolate factory...or more like that yellow doll house I've been staring wide eyed at for weeks now.

I wouldn't want to live in a chocolate factory, it's probably not as fun as it sounds, and not as cute as my doll house.

I got there though. I did all this hard work, and while waiting for my oil to be changed at Wal Mart I walked over to Tarbell Realtors to see if anyone was inside because I'm all about jumping guns. If I can just trick someone into opening the front door of the doll house for me, even if we don't end up buying it, I'd be a happy man. But it appeared that the building was still under construction on the inside, such was the case with several other buildings within this new downtown marketplace, so I had to put the gun back in its hot little holster and go to the frozen yogurt shop. Which was win by the way.

This place, I think it's called Frugos but I'm quite dyslexic so if it's really like Fruguros or Frulogos or something I apologize, but the point is this place is all self serve, the yogurt, the sprinkles, even the cereals like Captain Crunch, Cocoa and Fruity Pebbles and Cinnamon Toast Crunch (which are badass toppings if you ask me) and you pay for it all by the ounce. 39 cents an ounce to be exact. But they had peanut butter frozen yogurt and big brownie chunks and the boys topped theirs with sour gummy worms because kids do weird shit like that.

Should Wade and I have eaten frozen yogurt? Well, we'll pay for it in a few hours, I'll put it that way.

We also looked at guinea pigs at Petco as that's ultimately what the boys want for their birthdays. They want to name them Rolly and Foodie and they want to feed them cucumbers. I'll allow it. Better than yet another toy that will end up broken or lost. Also at Petco I found a kitten in a cage that needs to be adopted and I scratched her face for like five minutes. She was really really affectionate.

I'm about ready to buy this house though, me and David. Or just David and I'll kind of be like a really hot room mate that makes good sandwiches.

I hope I didn't have to sit through that damn class for nothing.

I really want it to all work out.

I should ask the neighbor to do the voodoo.

We worked our ASSES off for this.

I'm getting the house, then I'm going back to Petco to rescue the kitten. It's what Buddha would do.

Not One Of Their Flock

For an hour I watched the little birds on their perch. They would huddle together and mumble, and then the blue one would tentatively walk closer to the mirror toy at the end of the perch, peek into it, and then scramble back to their huddle.

Again, this went on for an hour. Maybe longer.

I've done nothing but care for them. I took them out of their place in the sun, cleaned their water dish and gave them millet which they had obviously never been offered before. I don't squeeze them or clip their wings, and yet Ayla and Jondolar, the parakeets I rescued a few weeks ago, hate me with a fiery passion.

They're not scared of me, this I know. I can put my hand in the cage to get their dishes, I can even pull the bottom tray out to clean it without them flipping the fuck out. But I've noticed something that they do. Something that makes me think of high school.

Ayla and Jondolar--or Apple and Pizza if you ask the kids--will be singing merrily in their cage. Oh how they love the sound of the faucet or sizzling bacon or Paul McCartney. They'll sing sing sing their heads off, and then I'll walk up to their cage to watch them, and they'll suddenly stop singing.

They'll then mutter to each other in low tones back and forth, and then just turn and stare at me until I leave. Then they'll go back to singing.

Birds are intelligent creatures, but are they capable of such a human emotion as hatred? Is it hatred? Or are they just making fun of me? And are birds capable of mockery?

Sticks and stones or whatever, but I rescued them from certain doom. I gave them air conditioning and millet. And extra shiny things and bells. But if I carefully try to put my finger on one of their perches to say "hi I'm one of you and I want to be your friend," that's when the unstoppable violent biting starts.

They're adults, and they were neglected for however long so it's not like they were ever trained I assume, so it is unlikely that they'll ever hang out on my shoulder or even just sit on top of their cage and enjoy the world within the yellow walls. But if I could just get them to not be bitches to me and mock me like ungrateful little bastards, that'd do.

I've left them to their vices for the most part. Their vices being A. me being nowhere in sight, B. making out, and C. fresh bowls of seed to throw all over the place. I'm not taking this lying down people, I will get these little cocksuckers to eat their veggies.

Here's my experiment. Not my idea, I got this from a few parakeet forums, but here goes.

I've removed their bowl of seeds, which is their bread, their staple. I have replaced it with the same bowl filled with fresh broccoli, cauliflower, and a millet spray. Now, I'm not totally heartless and trying to kill them, they'll get their bowl of seed back this evening and they'll have it through morning, but then I'm going to take it away again and offer the veggies again. Bella actually used to eat shoelaced apple peels like there was no tomorrow so I'm going to offer that as well.

See, birds are like kids. They have no money or way to buy food on their own so they depend on you to provide for them. If you're confused as to why your kid eats nothing but corn dogs and Twinkies, it's because you keep buying them. If they aren't there, they cant eat them.

Don't get me wrong, it's not a bad thing that they're eating seed or anything and it's not like I intend to rid it from their diet, it's just that seed is like eating nothing but bread for people. They need to try other things too.

I don't hate them though, I still give a crap about the little knucklehea--oh my god, now I remember. *sidetracking* I said something that made David laugh and try to shush me yesterday morning when the cops and firefighters were all gathered around at that guy's apartment and I couldn't remember what it was. All I said was "Would you knuckleheads keep it down? David, tell the knuckleheads to keep it down."

That was really funny at four o'clock in the morning apparently.

Ya had to be there.

Anyway, I give a crap about my little knucklehead birds, which is why I am refusing to give them back. Their owner is upset that I took them, and unfortunately forbade me from doing anything with the spaniels that were abandoned at the house. However, the wife did return and is living at the house somewhat caring for the dogs about as much as she did before, and there are a bunch of kids there to play with them because she brought some kids back from Mexico that aren't hers. They don't speak any English and I had to look after them one day. Oh yes, that was fantastic. David was able to communicate with them because apparently he knows Spanish, or enough Spanish I should say, but I'd be like "Where are you going?" and they would give me big cheesy smiles and nod and then keep walking.

I was paid in popsicles.

Regardless, there's nothing I can do about the dogs--yet. The man is insisting that the dogs stay at the house even though he's not back from Mexico yet and he might not come back according to Sally, but the wife is still holding on to hope. And I'm holding on to the birds.

Today the birds are now taking turns trying to see behind the mirror toy, which is impossible from their position in their cage, but they're still trying.

Are they smart enough to team against me? Or are they just a couple of dumb caged birds?

As I Wake At Four O'Clock

I'm dreaming that the teenager who lives with her mom by us is pounding on the door of her apartment to get back in. "Mom! Mom! Let me in!" she's saying. Then her voice sort of melts and becomes a man's, and I feel David move. My eyes open the rest of the way and the pounding and knocking is still happening, and it's loud.

"Beaumont PD!"

Here we go again.

We both get up and go to the window and see that they're at one of the ground floor apartments in the building next to ours. One officer jumps the wall to the back porch and simply goes in through the sliding glass door. It's 4 AM.

"Who lives there?" I ask David, and the girl with the baby upstairs comes down and converses briefly with the officers, then goes back to her apartment. "Is it that bald guy and the Asian lady?"

"No that's next door. The mean old drunk lives there."

The mean old drunk is a lot like the sea captain you'd imagine when I mention the words "sea captain." Not unlike the Skipper, you know, a plump old man with white hair and he grumbles an angry "GET OVER HERE!" when David is coming home late at night and he happens to be on the porch with his half gone long neck bottle.

David just ups the pace and ignores the mean old drunk. He's just a mean old drunk, after all.

Three cops are kind of standing around when the one who rushed into the building comes out with a pot and he starts washing it. Wasn't there a beeping sound a few minutes ago? When did it stop? The cop must have stopped it. And why is the PD on the scene?

Oh. Smoke. Fire. First responders. Oh.

Where's the old man though?

"Is he dead or something?"

"The cops are too jovial for a guy to be dead," David says.

"Good use of words for 4 AM."

We hear the air brakes and see the lights flashing on our awning over our bedroom window, and just a moment later the firemen come walking up with their big yellow floppy clothes and enter through the now unlocked front door. They come back out helping the mean old drunk to a chair that a policeman brought out for him to sit in, and they help him into it.

The Buddha heart. Where you try to look inside each person and find that little spark of good like the Buddha teaches. In that moment he's less of a mean old drunk and just an old man who has been inhaling smoke for however long that pot was burning for. Two firemen and a police officer are crouched down in front of him asking him questions we assume, but we cant hear what they're saying. The men are all treating him kindly and speaking to him in a nice way, and the fucker gets up to try to yell-grumble some kind of point and a little tipsy he falls back into his chair and slumps. Those men are lucky that the dude didn't yell-vomit on them, though it might have made for a better story.

It's 4 AM and a pot was left burning on the stove by a mean old drunk who was so deep in his intoxicated sleep that he couldn't smell the smoke or hear the fire alarm or hear the police pounding on the door. Hell, everyone heard the police pounding on the door. Everyone heard the fire alarm. Little faces are poking out of windows and pajama'd people are standing on their balconies.

And then the firefighters bust out this huge gas powered fan that's more or less like a caged airplane propeller. The rest of the faces show up in the windows because everybody is awake NOW thanks to that thing.

The mean old drunk is grumbling his mean old drunk talk at the helpful helpers and he must be an ex Navy guy or something because he's now shouting "SIR NO SIR!"

Somebody's grandpa. We rarely see anyone visit him.

The fan gets turned off and put away and they decide to take the old man to the hospital, and he's too stumbly to fight them, but I could imagine one of those slow motion drunk punches where they take their badly aimed swing and then gravity takes over and they start falling fist first toward the ground. That doesn't happen. He's just an old man after all.

And we go back to bed.

But some cop makes his siren go "wooooooooooooooop" and I'm like "That is unnecessary, officer!"

It totally was.

Wake Me Up When September Ends

"You look sunburned," I say to Mica's mom, because I'm not a chicken anymore and I'll initiate conversations now. She tells me that she walks to the library from Three Rings Ranch and she made the mistake of trying out this organic sunscreen that ended up being way too greasy.

It's crowded and there are 30+ toddlers stamping windsocks with painted up potatoes, and I've got my eyes on the prize, and the prize has red and black trim. From the window of the second story of the library, I look at the Coldwell Banker sign in the patch of dry grass between the street and the sidewalk. There's uncharacteristic chain link all around it, and David would say that's because this little beauty, this century old craftsman home, is in The Barrios.

Looking out another window I see the little yellow doll house with its asphalt single roof and its leaded windows. Made back when people wanted their houses to have character and they didn't cost a dime a dozen to make. You can just tell that there's a breakfast nook.

I want my yes or no from the underwriter already. I want it to be fall so I can crunch the leaves in the yards of these houses I like and know more about them. I want to walk to the library, maybe even plan something out with Mica's mom to where I can meet her on Elm and we can walk together from there. I can pull Wade in the deathwagon. I can have time to do it because Ty will be at school all day.

School. Makes me think of school supplies. I can drop $50 easily on crayons and markers and notebooks because I have a school supply fetish. I've talked about my notebook and journal obsession before, but it's deeper than that. Its paperclips and binders and dividers and pencil sharpeners and 12 cent bottles of glue too.

Out of my fucking way, holographic folders for 10 cents! They're MINE!

I want for it not to be 110 degrees, and for the pool not to have 30 people in it at all times. Ty wants a guinea pig for his birthday, well I want to see him feed it and pet it before he goes to school with his backpack on and his baseball cap is all curved over his face.

I hate summer, it sucks my creativity. I cant write. I don't knit. I only get out to take pictures on the weekends, if that. I do less and less with my time and I start to lack the motivation to even just sit there and read or something. Which is why I get out. Plus this summer has sucked due to all the colds I've gone through, it's like, why? It's summer, why am I sick? And then there are times when I get sick in winter too and it makes no sense then either since winter is just an extension of fall and a short bridge to spring here, where it's like 60 degrees every day and the hills are all green with fresh new grass from that inch of rain a while back.

I could manage eight city blocks pulling a deathwagon in 60 degree weather.

I've gone back to not being afraid anymore.

Sitting at Starbucks to get work done doesn't even have the same charm to it in this weather, this damn summer with all its ice cream licks and coconut smells from everybody's sunscreen. Makes me sick. When teenagers come in from the cold wearing their big dramatic polar bear jackets and their Ugh boots, shaking off their umbrellas and unwrapping their scarves, they're somewhat more tolerable and easier to observe and write about in a blog than when they're just standing around with their too big sunglasses and lime green zebra printed shirts. Their too skinny jeans. Their patches. Their just so conformity.

Oh because plugging your face with stainless steel isn't nearly as shocking as it once was, and it's because everybody buys their personalities at Hot Topic. True rebels don't need to wear their rebellion on their sleeves because the moment they open their mouths the fire will come out.

I like it better when they're shivering and wearing their big dramatic jackets and drinking their Grande steamed whatever because without all the Operation Ivy patches they're ironically conforming with, they're just kids at Starbucks.

I want to just zoom through the rest of this summer heat, have a happy birthday kids, and we're looking at those leaded windows from the inside and deciding if it's worth it to repair all those cracks, and talk about estimation for replacing plumbing and electrical systems with my brother the contractor. Replacing the asphalt shingles with cement ones. Make it get all cold again, so maybe I could walk to the library or if Preschool ends up happening, Starbucks. I'd finish writing another book, get back on track, and burn off the calories I'd be drinking.

Climbing walls that are still all hot from the sun even though it's night to get warm little sunfruits is one thing, but knitting scarves, wearing scarves, putting away that devil fan that I swear gives me auditory hallucinations, and writing scathing blog entries about kids in too big of jackets at Starbucks trumps all that swimming I should be doing.

Apricot Ninjas

The Noise Nazi down below has not even been home for quite a long time now. Like, what would you say David? Days?

"Um...like a week."

(I did that because he was reading this as I wrote it.)

It's unfair in a way that we're being asked to move, but here's the fun part.

While spying on my new apartment the other night, because I'm borderline psycho like that, I discovered something wonderful. Something I'm probably not deserving of.

An apricot tree. Full of goldenie orange-creamsicle little apricots. And I do mean little, as they're about half the size of the ones at the store. But they're pretty though, birthday cake pretty and all dangly and warm.

The tree is located behind a brick wall that is technically on our property, but behind another brick wall with a gate over by the dumpster. It's not like the gate is locked or anything, in fact I dont even know what it's for. It's just like a walled off area with a bunch of dead couches and weeds in it. There's no point in keeping it, let alone keeping us out of it. But in it grows the tree which is why I was like ALL GLORY TO THE APRICOT TREE.

"DAVID DAVID DAVID DAVID DAVID DAVID DAVID DAVID DAVID!"

"Mruh?" (he was sick on the couch.)

"FREE APRICOTS!"

"Where?"

"It's...in this area. Like...at least I don't think it's tresspassing for us to go there."

It was enough to get him up off the couch. He wanted to see. And so I led him to the tree, and he said for me to stay out of there because the weeds would cut up my legs, so I walked around out in front of the complex at 10:00 at night while he picked the forbidden fruits from the locked away tree. Cars were whizzing past me. I'm wearing a short skirt, pacing along the corner of some aparment complex.

You know what's creepier than that though is nightwalkers. God I can't stand nightwalkers. You jog in the early morning, or be one of those hardcore peeps who wear sweaters and run in the 110 degree heat (PS why do people do that?) but no nightwalking allowed. It's just so unnatural. So when the nightwalker lady was nightwalking by and she gave me this look like "eew hooker" I was like "eew nightwalker" and I might have perhaps thrown a rotten apricot in her general direction after she walked by and turned the corner and I couldn't see her anymore.

I still haven't used my mace yet.

Anyway, our bag filled up so my very pretty friend is going to ninja with us tonight to grab the rest of the fruits that are growing atop the tree. There's a wall we can climb on, and by we I mean them because I dont actually intend to climb any walls or steal any fruit. I'm wearing my best and shortest dress. I'm going to be harassing nightwalkers while the boys are being ninjas in the trees.

I love being 11 years old.

It's Like That Movie Willow

The woman on the right with the peace necklace who is mid laugh when the shutter closes is none other than Sincerely Jessie P. Terwilliger. Middle and bright eyed and slightly sunburned is The Real Bombshell, a girl I've known since early elementary school. Though we count it back to about third grade, we both recall an awkward moment on the slide when we were in kindergarten.

Now the lady on the left, that's Bombshell's mom.

PS all three of us are standing.

Her mom stands a proud 4'7, and Bombshell stands an even prouder 4'11. When I finally got back in touch with Bombshell a few years ago, before she was Bombshell, her mom says "Look at you! You've grown up!"

And I said, "And you haven't grown an inch."

Tru dat.

Bombshell would tell me her stripper stories, and one afternoon without internets I was bored and I started to compile them into a larger story. And then I finished the story. And then I edited the story. And then I published the story.

And then on her 26th birthday, I gave her that story.

I wouldn't say that shes well, she's struggling and floundering, and yeah she might go back to stripping the poor dear. But she's still great. Highlights from the two hours I spent with her.

• Beat the shit out of a dude at a bar because he put his hands on her. She punched him repeatedly in the face until the girlfriend walked up.
  
• When the girlfriend walked up, she quote "grabbed Goldilocks by the hair and ripped."
• Her schooling is going fairly well but she feels like lots of what she is taking is bullshit.
• Her "sweet" boyfriend turned out to be a hardcore criminal/con artist.
  
• Still on the waiting list to be a coroner explorer, but she shows her face a lot and they seem to like her there.
• She went to Missouri to make money on some scheme and it fell through, but at least she got a vacation.
  
• Her birthday party's theme was "cock and balls" and there were inflatable penises, penis cup lids that you had to suck on to drink from, penis shot glasses, and something I'm told is called "penis beer pong." I didn't stay long enough to witness that.
  

I'm doing an actual photo shoot of her soon. And I really enjoy her new hair.

And her goggie. His name is Hero.

Jessie is going to take the goggie home with her. Jessie loves the goggie.

Flattened

There is a wall that goes through the edge of the lawn that divides our property from the city sidewalk, and agapanthus grows along it. It's not one of the common lawns where kids will just be running all over it, it's more private and secluded. The big window faces the other way on this unit so the afternoon sun wont melt us any longer.

But I'll miss my sunsets and my view of the big pine trees and the ability to see the plumes of smoke that rise up, letting me know just which part of the Inland Empire is on fire today.

Of course if I buy that doll house over by the library I wont have that either. And PS there is a second doll house for sale on the next corner. Sha-wing!

My lime green bathroom was fun, fun like putting on a pop cd and trying to uke along to it...and by that I mean in both situations people beg me to stop. But it will never happen again. And I apologize for it. But if my yellow and green and cocoa colored walls follow me to my doll house, don't act all surprised. You knew it would come. It's just too much win. I could never say goodbye, and though I will be staring at Navajo White walls for a few months in my flat, to the yellow walls it's more like "see ya later."

They're like Frosty the Snow Man. They'll be back some day.

Drinne brought up a few good points, as that is Drinne's nature, and one of them is the fact that the Noise Nazi is probably going to get another set of noisy upstairs neighbors in Over 9000, and she is probably the type of people I have indeed been seeing a lot of lately moving here into Purply Red Tree Apartments.

Remember Alonzo and the loan officer?

"So you make six thousand dollars a month, right Alonzo?"

"Yeahuh."

"And you have $40,000 in your bank account?"

"Fo sho."

"All right then, here are the keys to your dream house."

"That's what I'm talkin' about."

Is the Noise Nazi one of those homeowners who once upon a time had The American Dream and who now dwells below a family that just happens to walk around past 10? I offer no apologies for existing.

You're essentially sharing a house with eight other families who all own their own heavy footfalls and wall bumps and door slams. Noise happens. Management knows this, especially since Anna and I agree that I'm not being obnoxious, and that it's way different than blasting music or fighting and yelling and breaking dishes and such.

Is the way they're bending over backwards for us a little suspicious? Is there something bigger here? I cant say for sure, I mean, a lot of people are moving into apartments these days, and yet the rent didn't go up like it does annually because "we don't want to lose any more of our residents."

They kept saying to me "We don't want to lose you as a resident."

"We don't want to have to give you more warnings."

"We don't want this to go to court."

"We don't want to lose you as a resident."

Does this have anything to do with fact that I got the last manager fired because of the A/C drama a while back?

Spying on my new little flat I see a U-Haul and the people are moving stuff into the flat next to what will be ours. There were two vacant flats, by the way, a rare thing as the people in those flats end up living there for a lifetime usually. Hopefully that wont be us.

I'm sorry but yes we are taking this deal, and probably only because of the split rent issue that will allow us to pay off those last two items, only because I'm trying to get my loan situated right away so I can be out of here for good.

The family moving boxes into the next unit is a youngish black couple, of course I don't know who actually lives there because you know sometimes people have their friends helping them move. Like I will. Though I'm not sure Sally will want to help much, she's kind of mad. On the other hand she does understand that it's what's best for us, and I told her that even though we wont be neighbors we can still be friends. She says she's going to spit in the face of whoever moves in to my apartment next. That's my Sally.

It's nice to figure that a U-Haul can be easily parked only a few feet away from the front door of my flat, where as at this apartment we'd be carrying shit down stairs around the corner and out to the parking lot. Getting stuff from here to there though will involve boys and my death wagon, you remember, that one that almost took that 10 year old out and the helicopter mom went all psycho on me. It not only exterminates bratty overprotected kids on contact but it's useful for transferring silverware and books.

It's like a dress rehearsal for when we buy a house, and it gives us a chance to freecycle and throw away what we don't need. A chance to minimalize.

A chance to grill some god damned steak on our front lawn without a bunch of kids putting their basketballs on our grill. Unless our neighbors are bitches, but I didn't see any kids so I don't think it's that big of an issue. I don't think anyway. They looked like nice people. Not the kind of people who would mess with your steak by throwing grass on it. Not the kind of people who would accidentally blow up their meth lab, which apparently happened unbeknownst to me a few buildings over last summer.

But not the kind of people who would bribe you to stay with big, moist, delicious, chewy brownies either.

Le frown.

If I Go There Will Be Trouble, And If I Don't It Will Be Double

This was my letter to Purply Red Tree Management:

Hi Anna, this is Jessie from Apartment # Over 9000. I have a few questions that I would like answered in regards to the proposal you made this afternoon of having us move due to noise complaints.

I'd like to first reiterate that we vehemently disagree that we are responsible for noise after 9 PM in our apartment, as our children are in bed by 7:30 and I (Jessie) am alone until midnight when David gets home. We are not making any abnormal or obnoxious noise, as I hear scrapes and bumps from my neighbors on occasion but I do not complain about this because it's called being human (as humans tend to make noise by living) and complaining about it would be insane and excessive in my opinion. However, once again, I feel that we are not creating any sort of nuisance after 9 PM as stated on the warning.

My questions regarding this situation are as follows:

-What, if anything will it cost us to move? We do not have a lot of extra money right at this moment due to paying off some of our old creditors, and even if we have to pay part of the deposit in order to make this move we simply cannot afford it at this time. I explained to you that our blinds will all need to be replaced, and that I will have to paint, but our apartment is in good repair otherwise. Will we be needing to pay any sort of deposit on the new apartment?

-Our apartment at Over 9000 has new carpet and newly resurfaced countertops. Will we find similar conditions of the carpet and countertops in the new apartment?

-If we accept this proposal and move to the new apartment to appease the complaints, will the complaints be stricken from our record? I feel that the complaint I received this morning was unfounded and I do not want it on my record, and in regards to the verbal warning we received a few months ago I did explain that it was due to us moving our things and arranging our bedrooms after we were asked to switch rooms with our kids to appease the neighbor who shares that wall. This notice states that this is the second notice, and I would like to have this removed. If this is not possible, will we get a "clean slate" so to speak at the new apartment? Or will a reprimand there count as a third?

-As we discussed, David and I may be purchasing a home in the very near future, possibly within the next six months. Should I sign a six month lease for the new apartment, and we end up leaving before the lease is up, what are the penalties and consequences for this?

-Most importantly, due to the fact that we have, to my knowledge, been here longer than anyone in the 9000 building (will be five years in December of 2009) is it possible to have the person who is complaining move? We do have seniority, and we have lived here for four years before anyone ever filed a complaint against us to our knowledge, and as I said in the beginning of this correspondence I disagree with the complaint that was filed.

If at all possible we would like to continue to reside at Over 9000 for as long as possible, especially since we may be moving soon anyway, however I am open to the possibility of moving if it is beneficial to myself and David in regards to our residency continuing at Purply Red Tree Property, and only for this reason. We would prefer to be respected as residents who have paid their rent on time for nearly five years with absolutely no blemishes against our record in that time and not be forced to move from the home which we have made our own and claimed as our permanent residence during this time.

Please respond with as much detail as possible so that David and I can make an informed decision in regards to this proposal.

Thank you and have a wonderful day.

Sincerely,

Jessie Terwilliger

Apartment # Over 9000

Furthermore, I told Anna, my landlord, that if there ever is any noise coming from my apartment, that I prefer the neighbor call the police. That way they'll "get their police report" (get told to quit complaining because cops don't come out for "oh my neighbor is walking around in her house") and I will get to oggle me some yew-ne-forms. What seems to be the problem, officer?

Most importantly of course is police don't come out if your neighbor is walking around upstairs. That's the key thing here, like the main...important...thing.

Too bad they cant ride their Segways up my stairs.

But if I lived in a flat...

Sally marched into the office first thing in the morning and told them "Look, I already tolded you about the stairs. The railsing rattles and shakes, no matter how much you are quiet on them walking. You're blaming her for something that is not her fault, because that noise is me too. We all are doing it. She should not be punished."

The desk lady smiles at her. "You just don't want to lose your neighbor."

"That is true too, but it is not fair for her to be blamed for this."

Sally later tells David how she battled on the front lines for us, and tells him "You walk your ass like a ballerina up those stairs. Soft like a cat, do you hear me? Like you are making love to them."

She's the best.

The reply from management never came because something happened at some other property that took all day and they couldn't get me all the answers I needed, so I went in.

Let's get down to business.

What I'm getting here is a blow job from the management, plain and simple.

• All right, okay, you win. You don't have to paint. But you DO have to prime.
• Let's say for the sake of argument I leave Apartment # Over 9000 with $100 worth of damage/cleaning. I will then receive a check in the mail for the remaining $200 of my deposit, which will immediately have to be given back to the management, plus that hundred I owe will then be due. What this means is no I do not have to come up with money for a deposit, and it will be another six weeks or so before I'll even have to scrape together that hundred bucks, which I would rightfully owe anyway, and PS they're going to try to shrink that hundred dollars as much as possible by treating me as if I've lived here for five years and not 4.7.
• All lease breaking is being waved as they're switching me to month to month for this procedure, which will also help when I give my notice when we buy a house, since I also will not be breaking any leases.
• On August 1st I am only paying half of my rent, with the other half due in the middle of the month when I move to Apartment # At Least 100, plus they're giving me three days free due to moving and being between apartments.
• They'll upgrade the carpet if need be, as well as the counters, plus they're adding CFL lights throughout the unit.
• They'll forgive me of one of my noise complaints, the other will still be on file but the new apartment gives me a clean slate.
• They're not sure, but they're going to see about getting me the move in special they're advertising in the Pennysaver of $100 off for the first six months.

*zip*

Thanks management, you're the best. I owe you one.

If I go there will be trouble- the trouble of moving, changing addresses with the school, having to change addresses again in a few months, losing our good neighbor next door...

And if I don't it will be double- we live above an insane person who has the power to file more and more complaints on us, which we could solve by moving away from this person, or accept and get thrown out eventually.

We can accept this blow job for what it is, accept all the other perks of it like better parking and having one of those cool flats that I've always been jealous of with a yard and some grass and all that, or we can stay our happy asses up here and let the lady keep making complaints about us.

"What it comes down to is you guys stay up late, and she goes to bed early. You're not good candidates for the second floor, because as we agree that you aren't making any excessive or obnoxious noise, it's just that by existing you are bothering your neighbor. So, the offer is on the table here, we really want to help you guys, and have you guys help us."

One advantage here is not having to come up with the whole rent all at once this month. That helps because we have those last two creditors to pay...

It's sneaky, but if it means we'll be ready to go see the loan lady man sooner...it might be a good idea.

I'm waiting on a few more answers on technical questions, which I'll get over the weekend, and then I can give our answer.

Should I Stay Or Should I Go?

Mr. & Mrs. David Terwilliger,

Apartment # Over 9000

Date: 7/15/09

It has come to our attention that you or your children or your guest are currently in violation of your residential rental agreement, and/or community policies and recreation facility rules in the following areas:

Loud Noise

-Night time noise after 9 PM

See us or your bitch asses are outta here and you'll have to move to Baloneytown down the street.

Sincerely,

Purply Red Tree Apartment Management

(letter has been paraphrased and shit's been switched around.)

I got this on my door, and I lol'd. My kids are in bed and asleep by 7:30 every night, and unless I have a guest it's just me until midnight, and my guests are usually quiet if not silent. And me? When I'm here alone? Unless the soft clacking of the keyboard is bothering someone, or my toilet farts are echoing louder than I had realized, aint no noise comin' from this place after dark. And it's funny that after almost five years of living here we're suddenly being accused of it.

I went down there and told them "yous wrong, bitches!"

I told them exactly what I told you, about how my kids are asleep and there's no god damned noise coming from me. Listed reasons A, B, and C, this, that and the other.

I was wondering if they'd delicately say something like, "the neighbors can hear you having s-e-x in your b-e-d-r-o-o-m" or something but they didn't. The complaint was running around noises like kids being little shits. Hey, I'm the first to admit that my kids are loud and noisy little shits during the day, but that's why I put them to bed early. I cant listen to that all day. I said, "With Mustang Sally as my witness, let it be known that whoever complained is full of shit."

"Well...there is one possible solution..."

I've been offered a flat.

Same rent, same size, but it's a house instead of an apartment. It has a yard, it has its own parking, it has a sidewalk and a lamp post.

So does the house we're buying, presumably.

"Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell, I didn't want to say nothing too soon," I say to my landlord, "but we're in the process of getting a loan to buy a house. We might be gone in a few months...and yet I find your offer intriguing. What say you about the paint on my walls and the fact that the blinds are destroyed?"

"Blinds forgiven, and we will provide you with the paint."

No more walking around a building and up a flight of stairs just to take home the groceries. And we'll be able to see our car.

"Can I let you know by Friday?"

No more hot plates of Romanian food and delicious, delicious pie. No more free internets. Unless there's some over there anyway. Or I could just cough up the money and pay for it myself like the rest of you fools. I've never had my own internets before, what must it be like?

Sally however is not happy at all. She's not allowing this is and she's storming their office in the morning. "I say 'listen you assholes, she is not the ones making the noise, the people down below me, their kids are always climbing the stairs at night. They're the ones making noise. You will not make Jessie and David move, they are my friends, and they make no noise. Whoever said this is lying.' And if that doesn't work, I'll show management that dirty text message the maintenance guy sended me one night. You're not going anywhere."

"Well the maintenance guy really seems to like you obviously. Text him and just be sweet and kitten like how you do, all 'do me a favor pretty please?'"

"No, because then he has a choice. I'll get the answer out of him. You see."

That bitch did it. That bitch totally did it. She showed me the text. Just after I constructed a wordy letter to management asking in detail about deposits, lease breaking, why we're being asked to move even though we've been here longer than anyone, etc; a letter that David read and called "lawyer good," Mustang Sally does her magic. And it's not even a full moon. There it was on the screen, "Who complained against Jessie? You have to tell me."

Lend me some sugar, I am your neighbor.

"I don't even get it. What noise could we possibly be making?"

She looks at me with her fakie blue contact eyes and mimes a ukulele. "Dinga dinga dinga dinga dinga dinga dinga dinga dinga dinga dinga dinga ding..."

Dinga sounds so cute in a Romanian accent.

"I've been sick, I haven't even played that in a few weeks."

"Well is nothing else then. Except for your coughing. Is bullshit."

Is bullshit. But I still might move.

I don't want to.

But it is a pretty sweet deal.

Covered parking 10 feet from my front door.

But it seems like a hassle. We'll hopefully be moving soon anyway, we've paid everyone we owe except for Capital One who obviously doesn't want our money by the way they're handling this, and a medical bill for $100 that we had intended to pay, and called to get the payment information on, only for them to call David up yesterday and threaten to write "refusal to pay" on our credit.

lolwut?

You cant fucking do that, we never said we refused to pay. And you cant threaten us OR lie to us, it's against the official rules. And they're refusing to send us a letter saying that if we pay it they'll change the account to state that we paid in full, because they don't send out letters without payment. Right, well over here we don't send out payments without letters. Their excuse is "people who ask for these letters usually want something." Ja, we want for your shit to be stricken from the record, ya dig? Fidiots. Do me a favor and drink your quiet juice Jimmy, I'll handle things from here.

The loan lady said we could move, there's no weird or ill effects that it will have on the underwriter's decision, but Sally doesn't want us to and I really don't want to have to deal with change of address twice in only a few months. Sally says the only noise we make after 9:00 is David coming up the stairs when he comes home, and if that's it, it's bullshit. We've been here almost five years, so why are we the ones who have to move? I've been here longer than the other seven people in this building, and they should make the complainers move. Bribe them with new countertops like they did for me.

Oh I got my answer by the way. I know who complained. My buddies below, who claim we run around and stomp all night long.

She's been here, what, three months? I'm not moving an inch.

But...covered parking spot. Lawn. House.

This indecision's bugging me (esta undecision me molesta.) Come on and let me know (me tienes que desir,) should I cool it or should I blow (me debo ir o quedarme?)

Tell me, do you like The Clash?

Should I stay or should I go now?
yo me frio o lo sophlo?
If I go there will be trouble
Si me voi - va ver peligro
And if I stay it will be double
Si me quedo es doble
So you gotta let me know
Me tienes que decir
Should I stay or should I go?
yo me frio o lo sophlo?

Putting a poll in the side bar. Please vote on this decision.

How We Touched And Went Our Separate Ways

You know who I haven't heard from is Pico. AKA the guy who got naked on my couch on my birthday. Nothing quite brings you out of a fog from your ex boyfriend dying 13 days prior than a naked and drunk Marine on your couch at 3:00 in the morning.

Try it some time.

Once a few months ago he told me he loved me, but also he was drunk. He denied this later when sober but then said it again at yet another later date. And then he said he was going to come home from the military and apply for CHP. And then asked me for shrooms, which I have no connection to at all. And then he wasn't going to do CHP because it would be like going back into the military. And that I'm a good wife but I need to shut up and let the men talk sometimes.

In not so many words.

I assume he's possibly binge drinking and possibly shooting heroine right now, but then I don't know for sure. He sent me a text when he arrived back in Yucaipa that said "I'm home." Do I send him a text message and poke him with a proverbial stick to know if he's alive and if he would perhaps like to abuse my free pizza privileges one evening, or do I leave him alone with his vices?

I know where he lives. Should I storm over there and rescue him from himself?

Ironically, he's Kristie's neighbor.

I could two for one this shit.

Or leave it be.

Erase them from my goldfish memory.

I'm reminded that Saturday is The Real Bombshell's birthday, and that I have yet to give her a copy of the book that I wrote about her. Well, the pencil gray sketches of what her story should finally turn to if it weren't for all the crappiness The Real Bombshell goes through. If only she had a real Graham. Then maybe she wouldn't be torn over whether or not she should go back to stripping after swearing it off because she cant afford school any longer. Or food.

Do what you have to do. But don't accept what mediocrity brings, try to change it.

I'll bring her the book and tell her how much I love her. Friends since third grade, the girl who cried when they pulled me out of school to go to a foster home after my dad died. That long ago. Though she's not the strawberry jam girl anymore, she hasn't grown an inch. I've grown 24 at least since then.

The pretty boy promises me home made chicken soup for my undying cough and the neighbor is making me eat garlic. Conopida, that cauliflower/mayo/garlic spread she makes for bread, this meaty stew stuff with garlic mashed potatoes that tastes like earth and goodness and what Transylvania must smell like. And pecan bars. I love her pecan bars. I think they also have garlic in them, I'm not sure, but it wouldn't surprise me.

The neighbor doesn't speak this language so good, but she takes better care of me than my family sometimes.

I'm asked if I like mushrooms in my soup. Egads, no.

I keep track of these people because, you know what? I like them. And yet I haven't spoken to my sister Cis since this picture was taken two years ago. She denied my friend request on Myspace because I'm pretty sure she didn't know who I was.

Um, I look just like you.

You know who appeared again though was Lil, the pretty lady with blue Spanish eyes that works at Stater's, the one I signed a book for on the edge of my shopping cart. She's always telling me I'm losing weight and she hugs me, right there in the middle of the bread aisle whether I like it or not. She just got back from surgery and she hugged me and got all personal.

Still weird.

Those who wont take "don't violate my personal space" as an answer. Still weird. But what the hell can I do about it? People like Lil take what they want.

When a man pulls you by the hip in for a hug and the holstered gun has become somewhat of an accessory like so much costume jewelry, and you're comfortable enough to cross those barriers into dare I fucking say it affection, you wonder, you stop and think if you really could ever be the type of person who would walk into the room to rescue someone from their Xanax overdose or rampant alcoholism, or order someone an ice cream at a restaurant to seal up an old gap.

Or make chicken soup.

Or make pecan squares that may or may not contain garlic.

Or say aw hell I love you too. Get in the truck.

I probably would except that hopping fences is considered trespassing if you weren't invited to be there. Which is why I poke sticks with thank you cards and vague text messages.

Signed copies of Bombshell.

And I am offered a pile of lemon cough drops and thirty six packets of vitamin boosters.

For the ones who have stuck around, good. For the ones that haven't, good too. For the ones I'm not sure about, I think I'll always be wondering. If I was a praying man I might be doing that, but I mostly cant be bothered. Please try not to take so much Xanax, I think I'd only rescue a few certain people.

Alonzo, Who Makes Miserable Even Worse

It sucks to be sick for such a long time, and yet it's like, it's just a cold. I have nothing to complain about.

But it sucks.

A summer cold conjured its self up the moment I read another person's blog where she mentioned that she caught a summer cold. I swear to god. The second I read that I felt the funny tingle in my sinuses. And I wondered for days if it was possible to psych yourself into a cold. And just when I thought I was better, I went swimming with the neighbor one night and the water just wasn't getting warmer. You know how your body adjusts to the temp and it's comfortable after a while? To me the water was just cold and it stayed that way. A few days later I had the flu.

Basically for the past month or longer, I've not been well. My cough wont go away and my boogers are all gobby, but then for the past several days, including when I was camping, I've been all dizzy and just feeling generally shitty. This lead to me not going on any hikes or even far walks, which I had intended to do. We'd been planning this for a while and I really wanted to enjoy it, but I couldn't. And it sucks, for real.

Of course I have nothing to really complain about.

But it sucks.

We went to Mongolian BBQ, my favorite place to eat ever, and yet we never go because it's far and it's in a pretty bad area. Del Rosa, if you're keeping track. But it's $7 a person and it's all you can eat and the kids just eat the free rice and soup and eggrolls and bread, and sometimes I just need some good old fashioned long noodles and lamb to feel better. But it's really hard to feel better when they've got the air conditioning turned off and it's hotter inside than it is outside...and it's 98 degrees outside.

I know that times are tough and cutting corners to maximize profits is something a lot of businesses are doing, and you can take away my loose leaf jasmine tea like you did and replace it with generic crap that you bought at Stater's, but you cant expect me to enjoy my long noodles when it's sweltering inside this little building, and you've even removed the blades from all the ceiling fans. Maybe that's the point though, so I wont go back for seconds, which I didn't, and neither did anyone else. But then when David tripled up the amount of food on his one and only trip so he wouldn't have to go back a bunch of times and sit in the heat even longer, and the chef put it on three different plates, the waitress accused him of taking "too much" food and that she would charge us for two extra people.

Bullshit. It's all you can eat. And David can eat all you've got. He's lost 80 pounds since we've been married but he will always and forever eat like a fat kid. Cater to his narrow ass.

It pissed me off so much because here I am all sickie and I cant enjoy my dinner because it's too damn hot. I don't particularly enjoy driving that far to be in a bad neighborhood just to get some decent grub, and because this place sucked and they took away my air conditioning and jasmine tea, I'll never go back. I'll be sickie and miserable somewhere else.

Let's all make life a living hell.

Except for you, Alonzo, that was not an invitation for you to start.

Let me tell you about Alonzo.

On Saturday we had to attend this Homebuyer's Education Course out in San Bernardino. This was not an elective thing, this is something you have to go participate in if you intend on using any of these downpayment assistance programs for buying a house. We intend on doing this, so we had to go obviously, even though I'm all sick and miserable but August is coming up on us fast and we just had to do it. We weren't told what to expect, and when we arrived at the small building in the middle of a very run down San Bernardino neighborhood near Mt. Vernon and Baseline we were only given a book and told to take our seats. Flipping through the pages, the book revealed worksheets of sorts and places for you to plan our budget. The book being 150 pages long, I knew they weren't kidding when they said this was a 9-5 gig. Only things were not as they first seemed.

The class, or group or whatever, was made up of not poverty stricken types, but folks kind of like us. A broad mix of the trashy and the well intended poor. People who pay their rent and can afford a small mortgage. And Alonzo.

Alonzo is a black man, tall, moderately handsome, dew rag, saggy pants and boxers hanging out. One thing about Alonzo was clear though, and that was the fact that he was very interested in getting any kind of deal or discount on his home possible, as we were able to piece together by the third time he interrupted the speakers.

Our first speaker was a kind woman with a softly accented voice from Tarbel Realty. She talked for several minutes about why Tarbel is the best realty company out there, and explained why she's a great real estate agent, etc. She vaguely explained how a real estate agent's job works and what she does for us and what we needed to be doing, though a lot of times we asked a question to her and she would say "I don't know for sure, as that is not my area of expertise." What she didn't know could fill an open house, let me tell you. I did, however, ask her what she thought about my Steamrolling realtor who complained about doing double work and who didn't want to take us to look at any houses, and she confirmed that the whole situation was bullshit and even though we weren't planning on putting in any offers, we still should have gone out once or twice as early as June, that a good realtor will not turn us away because our price range means lower commissions, and that right now we should be seeing numerous houses.

Alonzo though, he says, "Hold up, hold up...you get a commission from my house then?"

"Yes, but we work for free this whole time. When the house sells, the money comes out of the seller's pocket."

"But technically that's my money that's payin' you."

"Right, but it means less take home for the seller, do you see what I'm saying?"

"Okay so what about this then...what if I go to real estate school, get my realtor's license, and then sell myself a house. Then I don't got to pay no commission to nobody?"

"Um...I suppose so?"

"A'ight then."

But we haven't heard the last from Alonzo.

After the realtor gives her whole speech, the loan officer man comes in and he's all energetic and pumped thankfully because he's not going to deliver a boring presentation like the realtor lady did, sweet as she was. He starts off by explaining why the market is the way it is, and why there are all of these foreclosures right now. And to demonstrate this, for some ungodly reason he picks Alonzo to act out a typical loan situation from 2005.

"Okay so Alonzo," the loan man says to him with a big disingenuous smile, nodding like an idiot as he speaks, "I'm going to confirm a few things with you here, but we don't actually need to verify anything so just answer these questions for me...you say you make six thousand dollars a month?"

"Yeahuh"

"And you say you have $40,000 in your bank account right now?"

"Fo' sho."

"All right then, we'll go ahead and approve your loan and get you that dream house."

"That's what I'm talkin' about." They pounded fists.

The loan man was full of answers, FULL of answers, and told me that no our credit score wont necessarily drop because we paid off the car and that it will have more benefits because it shows that we pay shit off and it lowers our debt to income ratio, and this and that. Good times.

But Alonzo...

"Hold up, hold up. So if I put myself through real estate school AND loan officer school, I could just write my own loan and get my house for me without all this commissions and fees and stuff like that?"

"I suppose you could, but, okay for example, if my car is broken why would I work on it myself? I have more important things to do with my time, so I take it to a mechanic."

"But I cant afford to take my car to no mechanic!" he says in defense. He continues to argue about doing all the work himself to save a bit of money, and the rest of us are grumbling and rolling our eyes. By this time we HATE Alonzo. He's making us late for lunch. He's asking stupid questions. Can we please move on?

After lunch, the man from Farmer's insurance came in to explain about why his company is the best and why their rates are low and how we can get all kinds of discounts. Alonzo's ears perked up, but he didn't start in until the man explained about paying house insurance for 30 years, the length of your mortgage of course, and how great it is.

"Hold up, hold up. Let's say I pay my insurance to you, fifty dollars a month for thirty years and I aint never have to make a claim or nothin'. When do I get all that money I gave you back?"

"Well...you don't, because...that's not how insurance works."

"But I been paying you all this time for a service I aint never used. You've got people all over the nation paying you, so I think you can afford to give some of that back to the people."

"Um, yeah...like we do when your house burns down or it's destroyed by an earthquake?"

"Yeah but what if it doesn't?"

"What if it does?"

"What if it doesn't?"

Hello, we'd like to get out of here.

And then the alarm lady came. She was alarming, to say the least. She was a small grandmotherly woman with a small voice and a big bag of equipment. Her company's alarms are the best because they're hard wired and you cant just rip them off the wall. Motion detectors, all these sensors, with service plans starting at just $33 a month and $99 for installation.

In case you haven't noticed, this entire thing was just a big advertisement. But we had to do it to get the little certificate saying that we did it.

Alonzo is interested in cameras so he can watch his house while he's at the office, for example. Alonzo doesn't strike me as the office type, and kind of seemed like he just wandered in to the class from the street, but I could be wrong. The man is just there to get a discount. And all of us fucking hate him, including the program director and all the speakers.

There's always one in every group.

But we're told that this security company does do camera installs. "How wonderful would it be for those of you parents who have kids coming home by themselves to get a text message saying that Sweetie Pie deactivated the alarm at 3:30, and you can switch on a camera where he or she is supposed to be doing their homework, and you know that they're safe and sound?" the alarm lady says.

A woman a few rows behind Alonzo who says she works at Cal State San Bernardino says "That'd be great for those of us who have teenagers and we want to see which bedroom they headin' to."

Alarm lady would like to make it clear that they will not install cameras in bedrooms, that is company policy. Just no. Alarm lady pats her chest softly and gets a little choked up when she tells us that an alarm is not only a good investment to protect our belongings, but also, *pat pat pat sniffle* our children.

"Hold up, hold up," Alonzo cuts in. "Would you be able to have the cameras hidden so the kids cant see them or nothing?"

"I...suppose..."

"A'ight then, so...if you don't install cameras in bedrooms, could I buy extra cameras from you and install them myself?"

I'll leave it at that.

We all got our certificates, including the big fat guy next to us who slept through the whole eight hours, the couple behind us who wanted to, quote, "lynch that nigger in the front row if he asks one more god damned question," and Alonzo himself.

"Please call me when you move into your homes," says the alarm lady, "and I do believe that all of you will own homes very soon. Bless you all."

David Died On The Mountain

You probably don't know this, or maybe you suspected it, or maybe you didn't even bother to care, but I've been gone for two days. My blog stayed updated thanks to Blogger's scheduled posting feature, and the comments stayed moderated thanks to Stacey. Thanks for not burning the internets down while I was gone.

Friday afternoon was when I drove the boys up the mountain to the campsite that my sister and brother in law picked. The boys would be spending the first night up there without us because we had to do a Home Buyer Education Class on Saturday, which was...I'll save it for another post, but believe me it was...really something. Anyway, on the way back down the mountain, there was a huge pinecone in the middle of the road, I mean huge, like a foot long, probably a foot around, and there was no way to avoid it because it was on a turn and there was a car on the other side of the road, so I stupidly tried to drive over it.

Pinecone was a Pwn-Cone.

Fucker got stuck under my car and I dragged it the whole way down the mountain.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

The whole way.

Later on I was so lonely and bored without the kids here, Steppy escorted me around town to exciting places like Starbucks and Best Buy. It was exciting, to say the least. David and I were planning to like go out and be adults since we didn't have the kids with us, but he didn't get off till 11, and do you know what happened? The headlight on the Mazda went out, so the three of us went to Wal Mart to buy the headlight and fix it, only for Steppy to jiggle the thing and for it to work.

Pretty sure the Pwn-Cone I hit had something to do with it.

And then? We parked at David's work and watched the truck do a bin exchange. Steppy kept saying "oh snap" from the back seat every time the truck did something.

This is what we do at 1:00 in the morning on a Friday Night/Saturday Morning.

Lamewads.

I promise you, this post gets epic. Don't judge me yet.

Fast Forward to after the class, and up the mountain to Barton Flats...

Me Mazda (chicka chicka yeah)

Clearly the mountains are my favorite region, and this spot was less than an hour away from home.

The whole point in going up there was so that David could man out and build a fire. You see, he read the US Army Survival Manual and he's been watching Discovery Channel at my sister's, so he was convinced that using only a few sticks and some bark and his shoe lace, he could create fire.

Not so much.

This was fail, though I do give him credit for trying. His second attempt was using the lens of the binoculars, which produced smoke and smoldering but no actual flame.

David died on the mountain.

Well, at least we had cell phone service up there. Let's look at some more highlights. Kiddos!

Wildlife...



Marine Blue



Scrub Jay...





Eco-Friendly Hummer



Golden Hairstreak (rare)



Gray Hairstreak



I don't know what kind of bird this is but he says "Cheeeeeeeeeeeeese burger...Cheeeeeeeeeese burger..." He is called a Cheeseburger Sparrow.



Branded Skipper



Wildlife in the mountains is exciting. Sometimes a little too exciting, which I'll discuss in a minute so hold that thought. Let's talk about entertainment.

Gambling for animal crackers



Setting pinecones ablaze



Telling campfire stories, which my brother in law ALWAYS starts with "Once there was the opossum."



Not following the directions on the Jiffy Pop which expressly state that you should not cook it over a campfire...



And there's something you must know about up there, and that is the fact that the whole place is covered in beetles that have eyebrows. Real no foolin' eyebrows.

We liked to torture them with my electrified tennis racket and then shove them into the flames. You dont understand, these things are everywhere and they'll fuck your shit up. One hit me and it was like, more than a pinprick. Like someone threw a rock at me. It was not nice.

Then me and David went to the bathroom together...because we were sharing a flashlight...and we also occasionally dont give a shit if the other is pooping...anyway, in the sink in the bathroom there was the mother of all beetle cockroach things. It was at least three inches long, and it made a weird sound when poked, like "rerrerererererererererererererereeerr." Creepy. We got the electric tennis racket and tried to get it but it was unkillable. We ran and got my brother in law and he was screaming just as loud. We eventually brought it back to the campsite and watched the sucker burn in the fire pit, and we are all better for destroying the demon bug.

I'd not have elected to kill it but it was in the sink. And it went rerererererererererererererer.

That's not the big dramatic wildlife issue though.

You know what is?

Last night just before going to bed we heard coyotes like right on the other side of our tent. We were right on the edge of the campgrounds, right out in the open wilderness, and hearing those guys howl like that sent us into our tents like pussies. And David was panicking because he couldn't get the tent to close, and it was just horrifying. They stopped howling for a while, and we were all in bed when they started up howling again.

My brother in law, in a very serious and concerned tone says, "What was that?"

It cracked us up.

Oh but that's not scary.

You know what is?

First light this morning my sister says from outside our tent, "Jessie, David, there's a bear in the dumpster!"

Wha?

*zip*

*ziiiiip*

"Oh my god! There's a bear in the dumpster!"

The dumpster by the way is right across from our site, about 30 feet away from our Mazda. In this picture you see our chairs, and in the background you see the dumpster with a bear in it.

Naturally I sent David to get the camera from the trunk. PS sorry for the poorish quality of the bear photos, but it's pretty fucking terrifying to be 20 feet away from a wild animal that will fuck your shit up worse than those eyebrowed bastard beetles.

I told one guy on the way to the bathroom, which is like 50 feet from the bear here, and suddenly a group of people showed up to video tape it. One motherfucker started clapping and whistling at it and telling it shoo. Yeah, while shooing it in our general direction. Bears are cute but they'll fuck your shit up.

Eventually a Prius drove by and scared him off. He went running through the woods by our site...

He's in the same general area that I was in when I took this picture of myself just the day before...

And of course the funny part here is that we asked the ranger when we got there if there were bears because Ty was concerned that there might be and he was afraid of them, and we were told "Oh no, bears dont come around here." Except for when they do, of course.

Keep an eye out behind you...

Help Heather

I have the type of neighbor who will make something garlicky because I said I wasn't feeling well, and that neighbor will also insist that I eat everything in the bowl until I can see the bottom of it. Who will do typical things with me like swimming, but say atypical things in her accent that make me laugh like "It's a full moon tonight, I should cast my spells!" And yet, to her, Jesus is Lord.

I have a best friend who occasionally sends me flowers, not to be romantic but because he gets a discount at the flower shops for being a cop because he's a nice fellow. He will come and sit and talk with me till three in the morning about just stuff. If I am uncomfortable he will do everything he can to make me happy and even safe. He'll draw me things and grill me things, and all he's asking in return is my companionship.

I have this husband who giggles, actually giggles, at everything I think is funny. He's kind of less squishy these days but he's warm and sweet like a cinnamon roll and he brings me hotwings just to say I love you (which is the best way to do so.) He gets up with the kids when they have nightmares, he can walk around a store with me looking at stuff for hours, and when he's home he wants to spend all his time right here. I've even seen him nudge me a meatball from his plate with his nose like in the dog movie.

I have a family who--well, it's hard to group them considering how different they all are. Some I can take or leave, some I can just leave period, and then there are those parts of it that I wouldn't give up for the world. My sister is cool and everything except when she tells me that a store is going out of business and that I should go there because all the nice clothes have been sold already and all that's left are the ugly clothes like I wear. Points at my dress that numerous random strangers have complimented and says, "ugly like that."

And I have these blog readers, these "internet friends" who leave me comments and try to guide me this way or that like the little navigational system in an expensive type car. And I love you. And I thank you, so so much for your help.

But one of my fans is in trouble.

And PS I only refer to you as a fan if you've read my books, which Heather has. Heather, by the way, is one of my 13 year old girl fans, the one who wrote the book report on Bombshell, and she wrote to me for advice. I advised her as best as I could, but perhaps you guys could chime in as well and help Heather out as well. So here goes...

My parents decided to move and WOW I realized I hate moving. It's...not fun.

I'm going to go to a new school starting August 12th =(. I'm really nervouse. Going to a new school, meeting new people, starting over, I hate the thought. I'm relly scared and nervouse and have no idea what to do. In the First month of being in a new school, i'm going to be freaking out. I don't know there history. I don't know the way they run things. I'm...I'm...Scared! As you can tell =).

I have been asking myself millions of questions like...
: Will the students like me?
: Will I fit in?
: Will I be able to meet any new people?
And MANY more questions like that.
Any of your words of wisdom?

I wrote back and said...

Well, I would say be quiet and observant for a while, but not too creepy quiet and avoid being the girl with the staring problem. Be friendly, but not overtly friendly, but always be kind. Assume that they don't notice you, even if they do. Just act very natural as if you've been there for years, and you should get by fine until you find a group of friends.

And if you end up eating lunch by yourself, act like you're fine with it and you couldn't care less. If you look all rejected and alone, like hunched over and keeping your eyes on your sandwich, you'll probably appear like you do this all the time. If anyone asks just politely and cooly say "Oh I haven't met anyone here yet." Don't try to push too hard, and you'll do fine.

Let me know how it goes, I've switched schools a lot myself. Let me know if you need anything, and good luck!
JT

But perhaps you guys could weigh in on the situation? Help Heather out?

When Something Is So Beautiful

My friend is Kim, and you might remember her as KZ, but now she is Kim Mendez. She is a million different things; cake decorator, donut fryer, tired mom, wife, worker bee. And artist. Above all, she's my friend.

We've read each other's blogs for years now, and as she's watched my family pull ourselves up by the boot straps, I'm watching her slowly sink into this mud. Not quicksand mind you, just mud. Mud is gross and all, but it rinses off.

I read her life when it was buttercream roses on tiered wedding cakes, and when it was so miserable for her to be away from "her love," who was not her husband, but rather a man she met online. And I read her life when she uprooted and traveled across the nation, from Florida to Washington, to finally be with her love, who we learned was named Wally.

And we learned that life is not always buttercream roses.

I read her life now as she's got this bittersweet cocoa life in the Pacific Northwest where the balmy summers are replaced by drizzle and fog and her regular work schedule is replaced by sporadic hours at temp jobs or grueling hours frying donuts and fighting unions when, with 20+ years experience, she should be on one of those Food Network specials where they make those stunning and elaborate cakes winning tens of thousands of dollars.

Kim once sent me a box of yarn back when I was first into knitting. In it I found some half finished projects, including a sweater sized for a newborn with a paper by it with hashmarks that counted rows for a project called "Tony's Sweater." Tony is almost an adult now, living on his own after getting into trouble. Half finished blankets for Dani, who grew up and tried her mother's patience the weekend she went to the mental hospital but then redeemed herself by taking up the violin. Then only to start getting into trouble again.

No, Kim isn't dead as you might have thought by reading all this sap. Kim has just created something beautiful and I needed to share it with you.

In her hardest of times, somewhere between selling her laptop to the pawn shop last winter to having to borrow money for a holiday meal and donating so much plasma that she pretty much ran herself dry while still juggling two or sometimes three jobs, Kim said she was an artist. I immediately commissioned Kim for a painting, I said I didn't care how much it cost, I would even pay for the supplies if I had to. I love having hand made things, things that I can look at and remember who made it. And art? I'm kitschy like that, to want a piece of art painted for me by one of my friends.

I told her she could execute it however she wanted, but that I wanted a sunflower. My living room is decorated with sunflowers, for one thing, and the reason that sunflowers worked their way into being a theme in the main room of my home is that sunflowers stand for youth and childishness. Not in the bad sense of childishness, but the happiness that comes with having so few cares in the world that you could literally stop to pick a clutch of them and skip away to wherever. I dont know if other people see that when they look at sunflowers, but even to this day I send another online friend of mine, who has I'm pretty sure ceased blogging, pictures of sunflower's on her infant son who died of SIDS's birthday every year. And then again four months later on his so called "angel day."

I totally lost my childhood, it's all fucked up and in shambles and I deny and block out a good part of it. And every once in a while it comes back to haunt me in the most painful of ways. David's seemingly happy childhood was diluted and dysfunctional as well, and yet he doesnt mourn the loss of it the same way I do. He moves on. I will probably forever be stuck pining for it, and forever kicking myself over what a fucking bummer it is not to have parents or a real family. A real brother, instead of all of these people I hug and like to pretend with.

Sunflowers grow all along the highways here, in cherry orchards, by those roadside memorials you see. And I don't get all sappy and romantic over them every time I see them or anything, you know I don't really get emotional like that, but when I asked Kim to paint me a sunflower and she presented me with this...

I couldn't even begin to find the words. I don't even really have them now. I didn't ask for a portrait, but I received one. It's quite literal, really. In sunflowers, I sometimes find myself.

Always in the last place you look.

The little butterfly, he's called a Bernardino Blue. She scoured my Flickrstream she said for pictures of me where I wasnt making funny faces, which I guess were hard to find, and she must have seen the little guy. What Kim might not know is that the particular butterfly she painted is on the cover of my next book A Powdery Tattoo, and is actually mentioned in the book in a key part. The same butterfly that sat atop David's finger and let me photograph it.

I am more or less having a hard time actually accepting that someone painted a picture of me.

The title of the painting is "A Sunflower's Flame."

Kim does have a lot of talent and a lot more paintings that she sells, and yes, she obviously does commission work that will knock your socks off. Except before I was able to post this, she deleted all of her art websites, and so I am unable to link you to where you would need to go.

Perhaps Kim will direct you herself in the comments. Kim, please do so.

Douchebaggery

I decided to look up Kristie's home address and mail her an actual thank you card after all. She has no online presence, or at least nothing that comes up by googling her name, so snail mail was my only option. I didn't make it a big deal though, I just said

The waitress told us after you left. Thanks. Hope all is well.

JT

And I included my business card. Do I actually want her to call me? I don't know, perhaps. But I left my card for a few reasons. One is that it's still really cool to give out business cards that say Jessie Terwilliger: Author. And someone around here must have found me out because my name has been added to wikipedia articles, some of which are also using my photos on the articles. I personally however do not have my own wikipedia article.

The other reason is--and I don't mean to insult Kristie by insinuating that she would do this--people tend to talk in Yucaipa, and by that I mean gossip. I hate being spotted shopping at the Yucaipa Stater's because on the off chance that I see someone I know, which isn't that off of a chance, they'll say something like "You never moved either?" or "Wow you're still here?"

No you assholes, I moved 10 miles down the road. It's not far but it's out. It's not here. It's a whole different county even. What does Beaumont have that Yucaipa doesn't? Free Air Supply and Pat Benatar concerts, that's what. And Segway cops. And Best Buy.

This might be nothing really, but one of my concerns is that since nobody on that side of the hill has heard from Jessie and David in a while, and I've been spotted eating lunch with my sister in Yucaipa, then perhaps there is no more Jessie and David. That's only a possibility in their minds because of all the doubt there was amongst the masses that David would stick around since he was so young.

It's stupid, it's retarded, I know. But so are people in Yucaipa sometimes. Not all of them, but...it's like the other girl I used to know years ago who I saw recently who kept trying to talk to me even though I was cold and unreceptive to her conversation starters. Wild rumors tend to spread like Wild Fires around here, and I know this because I've been the butt end of those rumors more times than I'd like to count.

I just wanted her to see my funny sounding married name and my Official Title and my Beaumont address. Just to clarify that I am doing well.

I only care about this to an extent, though. And it's totally for the wrong reasons. I don't want the people of my home town to assume that I'm divorced and wrecked somehow because I need anyone's approval. I just like being better than everyone else. I am a total asshole, but it's true just the same. It's not because I have very much to brag about, considering I'm so unknown and low key and that Beaumont address is one for an apartment (at least it's not a space number,) but it's the fact that even the little bit of brag rights I do have are better than what a lot of people still over there can claim. So many of them are crack heads with a bunch of crack babies and all this stuff, at least the ones I've run into anyway.

I'm marginally better, but that's always been my goal. Not to be spectacular and show up to the 10 year reunion and wow everyone, but to be just enough above Fine and Dandy that I can just not show up to my reunion because meh, I could care less. I've moved on.

Clearly I haven't in some ways, but it's true just the same.

God, I'm such a douchebag. Rate this post One Star for douchebaggery.

Dear Kristie-O Of Yucaipa,

Sorry to make this public Kristie but I'm not just going to show up to your house to say this, so I'll hope that you either google around or one of the people we both know reads here and maybe they'll relay the link to you or whatever.

At Jose's in Yucaipa today you sat at the table next to my sister, my kids, and I. I didn't look at you or anything because I was not really sure if you were friend or foe, and on that thought comes the question of why you would be foe anyway. Kristie, the last time I spoke to you it was about four or five years ago and I invited you over for dinner. For some reason you never showed up, and when I called your house your boyfriend answered and said that you never wanted to speak to me again. I thought you were joking. You weren't joking. And you refused to explain to me what I did in that short few hours between inviting you to dinner and you not showing, and swore our other friends to secrecy regarding the situation.

So regarding whatever happened, I would not like to apologize because I find blanket apologies for "whatever I did to upset you" dishonest, but if I had something to go on I'd probably either apologize or explain myself. Whichever works for the best.

Today though a huge sundae arrived on the table for my boys, and I assumed it was the dessert part of their kids meals. I had no idea that you had sent it until after you left and the waitress told me. Perhaps that was your plan all along, but thank you kindly just the same, as the kids did enjoy it. I'm not entirely sure if it was an olive branch of sorts or just ice cream for the kids. Or maybe it was even a ha ha f-u like when Bill Gates left the waiter a hundred dollar tip because the waiter was one of the kids who picked on him in high school. I don't even know if that story is true, or if that's what you were going for, but if so it was ingenious.

Thank you for stopping on your way out to say hello. Nice to see that you're still running around and all that. I'm still running around as well, I just tend to stay out of Yucaipa as much as possible with the exception of rare days like today. That's only because Beaumont doesn't have a Jose's. God bless their six foot burrito.

Feel free to contact me, as I am extremely googleable. If not, well then thanks for the ice cream. Hope your family is well.

Yours truly,

Jessie Stuart Terwilliger, 2nd chair trombone, first class upperclassman, runner up best friend when it was convenient because Sara was out of town or sick or busy or being a total bitch that day.

Put Away Those Lighters

Cousin Debi and I made it out to the Pat Benatar concert.

Yes Cousin Debi is a bit more Asian than I am, but then again, she's not really my cousin. She's my half sister's husband's step sister's husband's sister, which basically makes us cousins. For practicality sake.

Anyway so we went to this concert, now, we weren't able to get as close as I had at the High Five Slapping Air Supply concert, and certainly not as close as I got to Christopher Cross last year who had nobody at his rail, but I was able to get a few good pictures.

Something you should know about concerts these days is because everyone is quitting smoking, and tonight's venue was actually smoke free, the rock stars no longer want to see lighters swaying through the air. This is 2009. Hold up your cell phones, y'all.

And yes, that is a person holding up a lighter that's all out of focus. That's the point. Kind of the old vs. the new sort of thing. Pat requested that we hold up our phones and turn on the backlights. It was still light out so it didn't have the effect we were going for, but it's certainly a sign of the times, is it not?

So Debi didn't want to bum rush the crowd to get to the front, and PS the crowd as she noted was full of lots of leather skinned bleach blonde cougars, LOTS of them. And you know what they did not like was us stepping on their blankets. Dude, you're 20 feet from the stage...DO NOT PUT BLANKETS ON THE GROUND! I mean hell, we left our pizza pie on the ground and we did not expect to come back to it without a shoe print in it. It actually survived, surprisingly, but the point is that these bitchy ladies needed to knock off their shit.

Pat Benatar though? Can keep doing whatever shit she wants.

Ms. Benatar











That's her and Spider. They're celebrating 30 years of rock and roll, as the first album was released in 79. I hope you feel old. And PS Spider is a bad ass on the guitar.



They made a big deal about drinking "Beaumont's tap water" from plastic red cups, and said that our water tastes so good. No Pat Benatar do not drink the water here, even I do not drink the water here, the water here is le yuck. Whatever guys, hit the highway.

And yes, there is video. Another mashup, but fucking awesome. The music was great, the performance was great, the whole dang concert was great. Go see Pat, she's still got it.

The video is seven minutes long but that's because after the mashup of song pieces there is one whole song at the end that I require you all to sing along with today. Like the time I made you do the Fleetwood Mac song. Do this one. When you hear it, you'll know. Report your results below.

Debt Is A Battlefield

My car has been paid off by someone who I wish not to name, so let's just say that Jesus did it. Not as in Christ, but as in like a guy who steals hubcaps from cars.

I still owe the money for it and all, just not to the bank at the alarming interest rate I was taking up the ass. We've been paying for that car on time every month since November and we've made no progress on actually paying for any of it. Plus now instead of paying some asshole at a bank, we're paying some asshole that we actually like. You know, Jesus or whatever. Hey-sus.

Only then to find out that paying your car off early makes your credit score go down because you're no longer using your credit to mark those payments. It does however lower our debt to income ratio. I'm afraid to talk to Lady Man yet, I still need a few more letters.

Capital One.

Capital One said okay to my offer, and split it into two payments. They said to make the first payment by the third, and I said not unless I get a letter from you guys that unambiguously states that this here's the deal, kay?

Glad I didn't send them a red cent.

Their letter, addressed to Jesse, arrived on the very day that payment was due and it was for the full amount to be paid that day, not split up with the second payment being due on the 3rd of next month as we discussed on the phone.

I still haven't gotten ahold of any of these assholes to ask them what their problem is.

And why is it that the letter was postmarked five days after I made my call to them? If I had sent them a payment that was postmarked five days late--well, you know exactly what I mean.

Verizon, however, quit being bitches and I got some information out of them, and that will be paid. I'm hoping that the few points our score will drop by paying off the car will just sort of cancel its self out with all this other good stuff we're doing.

I'm not happy that I have to keep calling Capital One and the girl I'm dealing with is not answering and not returning my calls, and this time I'm going to offer them even less money. Frankly my offer before was just what the card was worth plus a little interest as an "I'm not a complete asshole" show of faith. Now I'm going to tell them it's the card's worth and nothing more, or they can suck the crap out of my sweet ass. I might even tell them that I'm filing for bankruptcy, that will get their attention. It's a mean scare tactic I know, but these bastards haven't heard from me since 2004 and they'll be off of my credit in 2011 or 2012 anyway. I've got the cards here.

What I'm really excited about though is Ms. Benatar tonight, my friends. I know, right? Russell Hitchcock all points at me and high fives me, and also Graham Russell was looking right at me and playing and making all these rockstar faces while rocking out on his guitar but my shutter wasn't fast enough and all the pictures blurred.

Pat Benatar is coming to town and yes, I am making an effort to be there mostly because I like to have random shots of celebrities show up in my portfolio on my photography business site. "Daw, look at the puppy. And the little girl. And look--wait--was that Pat Fucking Benatar? Wow, this chick has done some serious business with serious people."

Me and Debi are going to get a pie from the pie man and head on over because We Belong. Cousin Debi is such a Heartbreaker, and I'm probably going to hell but then Hell Is For Children so I think I'm safe. If you happen to see me at the concert I don't recommend that you try to start shit with me because I'm a real tough cookie with a long history, but whatever, Hit Me With Your Best Shot. Fire away.

I'd invite you for pie with us but it's a Little Too Late.

But I Never Want To Leave You.

Let's Stay Together.

God I'm so Out-A-Touch.

(This was much easier with the Air Supply songs)

A Memory From My Forgotten Childhood

Watching the Michael Jackson memorial today, I remembered something. Partially.

I said a few posts back that I was never an MJ fan really, and that's mostly true even though as I'm hearing his songs everywhere I'm recalling times when I've heard them, like watching the "Black Or White" video with my dad.

A song came on during the memorial, "Will You Be There." It was on the Free Willy soundtrack, and as I know that this isn't exactly one of the better works of filmography of our time, it was my favorite movie when I was nine years old.

When I was nine years old, my dad was dead and I wasn't entirely sure why. One day some police officers came and took me from my house because nobody was taking care of me, and after some shuffling around I ended up living in a little mountain town called Poppet Flats. I lived with an elderly couple. I was quiet and disturbed and I liked to write short stories.

I'm unsure of the exact time frame, in fact I remember very little about my younger years. I've suppressed a lot. I remember bits and pieces at a time, and usually the spark comes from some clue that I see or hear. And sometimes it doesn't do enough to fully jog my memory.

But hearing the song "Will You Be There" made something flash in my mind, and I cried because it was like finding a puzzle piece that you lost but it not being the right one, and you have no idea where it goes. Is it water or sky?

And I cried because Michael Jackson was important to me at one time of my life, if only briefly.

I'm sitting on my new bed in my new house with my new family. There is a blanket over my head and the lights are all off. The song "Will You Be There" is on repeat in my little cheap CD player that my new family bought me. I hummed and sang along with it, and I remember it being hours before anyone even found me doing that. I remember that I was very sad. And it was my foster father who finally came in my room and asked me what I was doing.

Only I cant really remember why I was under that blanket being all alone like that with the music.

I mean, I can make some educated guesses now as an adult, knowing how traumatized I was and knowing what I had just gone through, but I cant actually remember. For all I know, my foster sister could have said something bitchy to me.

It only matters because I feel like a douchebag all the time when I struggle to express emotions.

It sucks to not know if the trees are in the water's reflection or if that's sky behind them.

In Our Darkest Hour
In My Deepest Despair
Will You Still Care?
Will You Be There?
In My Trials
And My Tribulations
Through Our Doubts
And Frustrations
In My Violence
In My Turbulence
Through My Fear
And My Confessions
In My Anguish And My Pain
Through My Joy And My Sorrow
In The Promise Of Another Tomorrow
I'll Never Let You Part
For You're Always In My Heart.

Bumpin' Up And Down In My Little Red Wagon

40,001 people in this picture and not a looker amongst the bunch. Shame.

The people of Beaumont are stupid and defensive. I've told you this numerous times. Like,

• McDonald's gets your order wrong so they throw your money back at you and tell you to leave
• Nobody actually stops at stop signs, and when they do they either all wave at each other to go for five minutes while nobody goes, or everyone goes at once and just tries to slink past each other in the intersection
• Everyone is trying to rip you off, no if's, and's, or but's
• Some drunk will park diagonally across both available spots and then laugh at you and sit there as you wait for them to pull out
• Bikes don't share the road with cars even though the entire town is covered in bike lanes
• Cars don't share the road with bikes even though the entire town is covered in thoroughfares (I still love that word)
• Councilman Roger Berg punched a lesbian who was protesting Prop 8 and people actually thought his actions were justified
• That same Councilman threatens to have the state run recycling center shut down because the guy who works there makes moisture adjustments when the recyclables are wet and full of cigarette butts
  

As I was leaving the fireworks/Air Supply concert the other night, I was pulling my little red wagon behind me which contained our blanket, chairs, small cooler, and tripod. I was going up a slight hill so I turned around to see if any of my stuff was going to fall off.

Angry Helicopter Mom Lady yells at me, "What is the matter with you? You know that's really dangerous? You almost took him out with that thing!"

She's clutching the shoulders of a 10-12 year old blonde kid who seems less than phased by whatever she's referring to.

I say "Yeah sorry," and continue to pull my wagon. David catches up to me, and I go, "some lady just yelled at me."

"I know. I saw what happened."

"Well could you please fill me in because I have no idea what the hell I just apologized for."

"The kid walked in front of the wagon, like the part between the front wheel and the handle you're pulling. He almost got his foot ran over."

"What the hell? The kid was like 10! And if he'd gotten his foot run over that's hardly 'taking him out.'"

"Seriously the kid wasn't watching where he was going, that's all."

"She said my wagon was dangerous. Like I'm out here Tokyo Drifting into crowds of orphaned three year olds. 'Oh god she hit a bus full of nuns! She must be stopped!'"

Oh this doesn't end there.

Helicopter Mom is now tattling on me to a really cute cop on a Segway.

"HER!" she says and points at me and my wagon of doom, which has blood spilling out from it and bones and shit stuck in the wheels. And swastikas and devil signs painted all over it. And black candles burning all around the edges. And knives sticking out of it. And baby heads on spikes. And a bumper sticker that says "this juvenile delinquent is fucking your honor student" and "Obama/Biden 08."

I don't know the fella but he sure is handsome. He looks at me, confused as he's listening to her go on about how I almost killed her son.

"Ma'am, did you hit this kid with your wagon?" he asks me.

"No?"

David steps in, and the cop does kind of a head nod of recognition at him. David explains that the kid is a fucktard who walked in front of my wagon, and that the mom is batshit...only he didn't even have to say the last part. The cop tells the kid to be more careful and to watch where he's going and he just as quickly dismisses the lady. He does not have time for this kind of bullshit. He then zooms away.

Kicker time...

Lady's husband? Catches up to her. So does their unleashed pit bull.

Lady's husband? Also got tired from carrying all their stuff (which she was not helping with at all) and abandoned a large bag of trash in front of someone's car.

Somebody needs a wagon. And an Obama sticker.

Sweet land of liberty.

Air Supply In A Nutshell

I have a family member who tells this story of a time when she was at a Chris Isaak concert, and it was a small venue like the one I was at here in Beaumont last night with Air Supply...well, actually last night's venue was big because there was a couple thousand people there but only about 50 people crowding the railing of the stage. Anyway, she said that while he was singing Wicked Games, he made eye contact with her, leaned down, and lovingly sang the song right to her.

No IIIIIIIIIIII dont want to fall in love...

Granted I'm not insane, I know that Russel was touching a lot of people and posing for lots of pictures. Why he stopped and pointed at me is most likely because at the time I was dead center, and I was holding up a big Serious Business camera. He might not have done the gun fingers at me if I was using a smaller camera.

But then...his eyes aren't quite focused on my camera, even though his fingers are clearly pointed straight at me. The reason for this? I use the LCD screen to take my pictures, therefore my camera is lower than my face.

He really was looking at me.

And I want them to tell that story at my funeral.

Here is the video. It's a mashup of all the vids, courtesy of David our filmographer. Also I highly recommend that if you ever get a chance to see an Air Supply concert you drop your cool kid act and go see them. And I highly recommend that you spend the money for the closest tickets possible because he cups women's faces and squares their chins and slaps high fives. Oh yes, he slapped me a high five and I will never forget it.

We still on for Wednesday at Pat Benatar, Debi? There's a free pizza in it for you.

Now That He's Found Me

I swear to god, while performing "Even The Nights Are Better," Russel Hitchcock of Air Supply pointed straight fucking at me and said "now that I've found you"

As in me.

Look.

I'm pretty sure that's his public and yet subtle way of asking me to have his baby, but sorry Mr. Hitchcock, I'm all out of love. :(

PS, who got a high five from him? Who did? Does anyone here know who got a high five from Air Supply? I DID, FUCKERS!

I dont care what you took pictures of today. I WIN. I dont care if you got pictures of your child being born, I WIN. I just WIN this round folks. That's all there is to it.

And as he was singing "The One That You Love," he was walking around and touching people. Graham Russel stayed on the stage though due to extension cords not being that long for guitars. But he was still awesome.

There is video, but I cant process it tonight as it's 20 till midnight, so allow me to share some other stunning photos.

Where I was...



Well Jesus Christ, superstar!!!



There is music that sounds from the streets



There are lights in the clouds



The one that you love



Spider mum



Mr. Hitchcock



Would you hit that shit internet? Or would you make love out of nothing at all with that shit?



From sea to shining sea...



For spacious skies



daisy



Crab Nebula



Count every beautiful thing we can see



Air Supply people. Air freaking Supply.

PS bonus points if your comment references Air Supply lyrics

The Third

You'd think that with me going to see Air Supply tomorrow I'd have all their songs stuck in my head, but you know what I actually have stuck? A mixture between Rush's "Fly By Night" and a bunch of Michael Jackson songs.

How MJ got in there is weird, as I recall his music but I never actually listened to it. And I don't have a television so it's not exactly like it's being blasted at me. My radio station isn't playing his stuff, and nobody on Youtube that I follow is really mentioning it.

You know what it could be is the newsfeeds I am subscribed to that pop up in my Google Reader. I'm only subscribed to the Inland Empire edition of the Press Enterprise, and for some reason he keeps getting mentioned. And for some reason that is prompting me to sing "You Are Not Alone," which I didn't even know that I knew the words to.

The 3rd of July is so anticlimactic. At least with Christmas eve you might get to open one present early, or like how me and David exchange our stockings that night so the kids can have all the attention the next morning.

The 3rd of July? What, "Oh please mummy, may I light just one illegal firework? I'll be ever so careful."

Not here at least. Fireworks are permabanned in Riverside county, and though there are parts of So Cal that allow the so called "safe and sane" ones, I've never lived in one of those cities AND safe and sane = stupid and shitty.

Remember when Rosies would spin around for like 12 minutes?

Now it's like fffffffvvvvvvvvvvvvch. That's it. And it only does one color.

And with the amount of gunshots that can be heard in Beaumont on New Years, you can only guess how many fidiots drinking on their roof are going to be lighting roman candles at pine trees.

Fuck you Coors, for being so inexpensive that the general population can afford to consume you at an alarming rate.

I've not much to say on this the 3rd of July, a day that is hotter than balls. When I return late tomorrow night there will be hundreds of fireworks pictures to sort through and most importantly, Air Supply video.

Is More Freedom Here.

"I never thought I'd say this," Sally says to me, bikini clad and exhausted from a two hour phone conversation with the lady who left the dogs, "but everything was easier under communism."

The lady, she tells me, never finished fifth grade.

"In communism it would not matter. She could have her house, nobody could take from her what she has. Everyone has same amount of butter, eggs, sugar, all that. Everyone has the one car, you cant have more or less than me."

The lady, she tells me, was brought to Mexico when she was 12 to be married off to a man who was ten years older than her.

"You have what you have, and that is it."

Her son, she tells me, is 15. The lady, she tells me, is 28.

"I don't see how communism is the answer Sally, people should have the right to better themselves."

"People should have all the same," she counters. Sally, Mustang Sally who drives that hot red Ford all over the thoroughfare, who had to ask me what "recall notice" meant. "That way nobody goes without."

"But at the end of the day, if you don't have enough sugar and butter, the government doesn't care, that's what's wrong about it--they're looking out for the best interest of everyone, not the best interest of you."

"But if you are communist, you get what you need, and you don't have to know that there is more to have. If your butter does not last you it's because you screwed up. That's enough butter to last for however long they say. If you need more then you need to learn to manage butter better."

Sally the filthy commie.

"I remember when the tourists from other countries like France and the other parts of Europe that did not have communism would drive through our town, and us kids would go out to the streets, no English or anything except for 'gummy!' 'Gummy!' we'd shout at the cars, and they would throw candy from the windows at us. We were barefoot and filthy like gypsies, and then what we did was we sold the candy. And we'd take things from the house and sell them, just whatever, just buy it. You need rug? You need rug, you know? And tourists would buy. I also would go to the...how do you say it? Like...where the fruit is? The trees, we would steal from--oschid?"

"Orchard?"

"Yes that. I would steal cherries from trees on the orchards, they were not our orchards, because this was communism and all the land belonged to the government. But then I would turn around and sell them at the Army base and go ride their horses. Until I turned about 14 and the mens were looking at me in that way, is when my dad told me no more to go over there."

"You've lead quite a life Sally," I tell her. "And I'm sorry that your friend is in such a fucked up situation."

"Ha!" she goes. "That not even half. Her husband has five other kids from another lady in Oregon. I pay the money for the phone number on the internet through one of those people finding websites, and I give it to him for Christmas so he could call them, only for now they to call him all the time and 'dad I need money for this,' and 'gimme money to pay for that.' Is like I did him no favors."

"It's kind of sad that you can just have a bunch of kids and just leave them and then go make more with someone else."

"In Romania, we would not have that. Divorce over here? People have no morals, they just wham-bam-thank you ma'am and then get divorced just as fast. In my country we throw rocks at them who get divorced. You want to get divorced? Aw hell no, you stay with that man, you chosed him. You think you're gay? Come over here, I'll slap the gay right out of you. *whack whack* you still like boys? That's what I thought. Boy go with girl, girl go with boy. We have none of that over there. You go with a girl, even if I have to sit there and watch you do it, you go with a girl. That's how it is."

We're swimming laps and I have a cough, so I'm not really all that into it. I'm sitting on the steps and the water is too cold. I say, "Jesus Christ on a cracker this water is cold!"

"That's another thing, in my country you would have none of this of your not believing in God like how you do. I was like you when I was little, I say to everyone, 'where did the God come from?' I come from long line of priests, and nobody could answer me that. 'where did God come from?' One day my dad say to me, 'everybody have to have a boss, everybody have to have someone to answer to, is just how it is. God is your boss, you are afraid of him,' and that worked for me, I never questioned the existence of God again."

"That doesn't even make sense Sally, that doesn't even answer your question...it doesn't even REMOTELY answer your question!"

"But it worked for me. I have a boss now, one person I'm afraid of. Keeps me in line. I go to church when I want to though, not when I'm told I need to go. In my country, I wouldn't have that choice. I even go to Mexican church here, hold hands with strangers in a circle I don't know. Is more freedom here."

"You going to get your citizenship in December?"

"Hell yes, I'm not going back to that bullshit over there. I like America."

Uncloistering

After doing this whole library thing for a week I've fallen into the routine of it. They say it takes 30 days to fall into a habit, so I'm just excited to have gotten to the routine part. It helps to have it all written down in neat little paper boxes in my planner. It helps to look at it and know where I'll be next Tuesday at 10.

I've seen the familiar faces, the Asian dad who brings his daughters to the Beaumont library activities who I also saw at the Banning library at the puppet show production of "Frog and Toad are Friends." The moms who are actually, surprisingly, talking to me. Mica's mom who talked to me last week about Easy Bake Ovens complimented my "support organic farmers" shirt, and the lady with the newborn totally actually talked to me for a while. The older mom lady who has black children even though she is a WASP like me offered more quips of conversation at the silly putty table like she did last week.

Miss Laura remembered my name because we went to a new story time activity last week and we were the only ones that showed up. She called me Mrs. Terwilliger and everything.

It's socializing, not to the point where it's like that stroller clique that stood outside the kindergarten classroom comparing stretch marks and diagnosing each other's kids with autism. It's good for me. It's good for the kids, of course, because Wade probably wont go to Preschool this year since there isn't one and he's getting the whole socialization thing, but I need that socialization too. I've noticed that when I stay inside too long and only venture out to the grocery store every once in a while, I get all cloistered and paranoid. I'm still paranoid, but not as cloistered. I can hold real conversations with adults, and that for me is hard enough.

I remember when I started telling people in the beginning that I was a housewife. That's when people started dumbing down words around me and asking me if David ever "babysits" the kids so I can get out of the house. That's also when I started reading more and trying to improve my writing skills and when I started trying to finish a manuscript. I wanted a better title for me. And when it turned out that I'm not so bad at the photography thing, I bought a better camera so I could use it to make money AND give myself yet another title. I read a lot and write a lot to exercise my brain so that it wont go to mush and all I really will care about is mops and laundry soap. I hold intellectual conversations with my friends when I can because I just need it. I need something deeper than Febreeze and Fisher-Price.

Driving Ty to school every day did help just to get me out of the house, but I never became a part of the clique nor did I make any friends, or even conversations. I just stood there till the bell rang. I could have just given up and put him on the bus, but I don't trust those bus drivers too much and plus I needed out of the house. This library abuse I'm doing, however, seems to be working fine for the kids and for me. Ty is less destructive because he's using his brain to read and Wade is learning how to use glue sticks and I am sort of conversing with people. It's win win.

And then there's OMG, Mrs. Steppy. She is cloistered and she talks about mops and brownies. I hate to see women pull into themselves and cloister like that. I hate to see when their reality is only what's in front of them and what they're told their reality is. Like sitting in front of a computer or two kids with a vat of Play-Doh 24/7 and then given something that they must believe in every Sunday or else they'll be punished by things nobody has actually seen or been able to prove. I mean, sure they choose to believe it, but what else is their option when they've learned nothing else and have had no challenges to their so called beliefs.

If your beliefs are challenged and you still believe, that's one thing. In fact that's a great thing.

But knowing little more than what your cloistering has allowed for you--

Furthermore, how much do some of these cloistered folks just enjoy life the way it is, and don't really give a shit to learn anything new? Maybe that's what makes them sheep.

And as sheepish as OMG is, and how happy she probably is with the way her existence is just so, I'll be the one to at least extend a hand to her and invite her to the library for story time. Come on, it's fun. Yes there is Play-Doh, but it's Miss Nancy's Play-Doh. There's people there. New people to talk to. And you're surrounded by books. I know all you need is your Book of Mormon, but there are things to be read in other books too. You'll get out of the house. Your kids will interact with other kids.

No OMG, the counters are clean enough. You have a cell phone, he can find you. It's free so it's not all exclusive and snooty like the Gymboree and shit. It's good for you, come with me. We can get tacos later.

I lean down a little to offer my hand to OMG, and I say, "It's really fun..." Wiggling my fingers for her to take I say, "Shall we go now?"

And she doesn't take my hand. OMG says "I read to them here though."

And I say "But these stories are new, and besides, unless you homeschool them they'll be out the door at some point."

She doesn't have to say it. On her face she's saying that yes, she does intend to homeschool them, and it's not because she thinks it will be a better education for them, but because she cant bare to see them leave. To leave with strangers.

"I was the same way," I tell her. "It made me sick to think about taking Ty to Preschool, not because he was growing up but because he would be experiencing something new with new people, new strangers. But I got over it for his sake and I'm glad I did. He enjoyed it. Besides, it's just the library. You have to stay there to supervise them."

My freckled hand reaches again for OMG. "It's really fun..."

"I don't really want to. But oh my god, you're so nice for inviting me."

Crafts at the Banning library this afternoon, 4th of July themed. I'll be there at least.