Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
While enrolled in kindergarten at Hollywood Beach School in Oxnard, California, I rode a bus that would pick me up on the corner of Island View and Glendale Avenue at 8:05 a.m. sharp. I woke up one morning with the sun shining a little brighter and hotter than it usually did at wake-up time, and realized I was late for school.
In a panic, I ran to my mother's bedroom door, which happened to be locked. Though I knocked several times, there was no answer. I picked up a pair of khaki pants off the floor that seemed extremely large, but identified as pants nonetheless, put on a green and blue striped polo shirt from the day before, shouted a hurried good-bye to Steve Martin (my trusty invisible friend), then ran down the street barely making the bus and tripping over the pants I had to hold up with both hands.
I spent the morning in Mrs. Brooks’ class wondering if my mother was alive, feeling extremely embarrassed about the pants and the multiple, yet unavoidable, accidental exposures of my red and white Mighty Mouse underpants. Mrs. Brooks took me in to the principal’s office who made a call to Sleeping Beauty who, minutes later, whisked me away in her speedy 1970 cherry-red Toyota Celica sport coupe. "Here I come to save the day!" If only underwear could talk.
I happily spent the rest of the day with her in silence. After exchanging the pants (which turned out to be my five-foot-five mother’s) for yellow terry cloth shorts, I played with Matchbox cars and a Tonka dump truck that matched my shorts in our sandy backyard, both knees conspicuously covered in cat shit. She sunbathed in her favorite black bikini, filling the backyard with her sweet coconut scented Hawaiian Tropics suntan lotion, and when it was time to go inside, she wincingly washed my knees off with the hose, as per what had become old family tradition. I giggled as usual, because poop was, and still is, very funny.
* * *
I learned that day how to carefully determine which clothes were mine and which were hers by holding them up to my body and looking into the mirror prior to putting them on my body. I learned to brush my hair before I went to school and, more importantly, to never tell a teacher, nor a principal, my mom had a thing she called a "hangover".
Side note: That night I dreamt the devil, a short and stubby cartoonish-looking red fellow with a beer belly, red cape, and matching red pitchfork, had jumped the fence with full intention on harming my mom. As she sunbathed in her black bikini, unaware of the imminent danger, I hit the devil in the head with my Tonka Dump truck, and he vanished in thin air. I killed the devil and, thankfully, my mom knew nothing of it.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
My mother didn’t become an early riser until years after I had moved out of the house at eighteen. I recall as a youngin' her more than occasional late night drinking binges would knock her out until late mornings, early afternoons, which would open doors to a curious world of investigation for small children. It also created a sense of total self-reliance in me that I would never be able to shake, which would later annoy the hell out of friends and many a chivalrous fellow attempting to win my affection.
One morning, whilst living in beautiful, sunny San Diego, my mother and her sister, Chris (who was staying with us at the time while my father was away on active duty), had enjoyed a few too many Michelob beers the night before, causing them to snooze past the legal breakfast hour, Pacific Standard Time. I, in an effort to get started on a productive day, climbed out of my crib in a charming pink one-piece footsie pajama (of which was filled from the ankle up with unknowingly trapped, yet very hopeful absconding turd balls), then proceeded to take Aunt Chris’ favorite bottled fragrance, Charlie, out of the bathroom cabinet, out the front door, then on to brighten up the neighborhood by “making all da plants smell weal pweddy.”
A helpful, caring neighbor (who apparently wasn’t a fan of Revlon’s most popular scent) used the very tips of his right hand fingers to guide me back to the front door of our home, likely plugging his nose with his left hand in order to protect himself from ingesting the stench of a wandering, perfume-wielding fugitive.
My mother learned to keep valuable liquids out of the reach of children, to latch the door chain before going to bed at night, and to cut the feet off of all one-piece footsie pajamas in order to provide liberation for refugee turds and their accompanying odors.
Side Note: I wouldn't suggest ever plugging "pink footsie pajamas" into google's image search.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Wanted to share a beautiful song written and performed by my gorgeous, super multi-talented, fellow aspie friend, Rudy Simone. In response to bullying (not just for those on the Autism spectrum, many others can relate), I so appreciate that it touches on this touchy subject that has and is affecting so many of us and our youth. It's nice to have an advocate that's been there.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
The world would be a much kinder place if friends and family would simply consult one's Amazon.com wishlist prior to purchasing a gift.
An animated exclamation such as "I just knew you'd love this!" has the potential to be a truly intelligent sentiment or an epitaph to an otherwise perfectly acceptable trinket (for someone who enjoys genuine rabbit fur on fake kittens).