The Omen and other chic flicks

There are some things that just innately mean something else. Little intuitive omens on butterfly wings. “It’s a girl thing” “a psychic thing” “a psycho thing”. For about ten years I always blew a kiss to my car ceiling (hanging headliner flapping in the breeze) when I passed a one eyed car. You had to do this, you see, it brought good luck. I did this faithfully, for years, until I passed about 9 one eyed cars on a lonely stretch of highway being chased by a tornado…limbs cracking overhead, trash flying by the windows…

I used to groan and moan and go arrrrrggggghhh, when a black cat crossed my path, a childhood superstition, and then I had a black cat, who took up residency at my front door and not wanting to condemn myself to forever purgatory, I just got over it.

But there are still things I chink over, get a little thrill over, or a little chill over. Believe in. (ooops , can’t help myself, but I do) …little omens passing by….sometimes smiling…sometimes haunting….

A ring around the moon …. mischief stewing…
A dog whaling, I mean pitifully whining, howling to the tune of a distant siren…. that’s not good
Yellow butterflies, anywhere….hope, dreams, peace…you can’t wreck this one, I still BELIEVE
Hearing “Our song”…this one is wretched. For part of your life it is awesome, for the rest it is trashed, you want to hurl things. Live things. Don’t ever pick an “our song”, eventually it screws up the music forever.
Stopped clocks….I never pay attention to the time unless it’s stopped. And then I obsess over the hands, until they’ve passed the same place a gazillion times and I realize it has absolutely NO MEANING
Found pennies…As broke as I am, I still won’t pick one up if its not heads up
Broken love beads…I hate when that happens. Time freeze frames. Until I restring them and it starts again.
Ducks flying blindly into the hood of my car…another NOT GOOD thing
Tea stains on the kitchen counter….tarot cards by accident
Flying dreams….you don’t even want to go there
The sound of magnolia leaves rustling….Nana’s watching
SLB’s marbles….the meaning changes in the rain
Palm itching…I can never remember what this means, but it means something
Red Bird out the window…..blessed
Foot itching…run baby, don’t walk
Blue eyes…Nadine has been here, waving her wand, reminding me to pay attention
Smoke alarms…well, we all know what that means
Bird accidentally in the house…..ewwwwwww, not good
Sensormatic alarms… oh God, I left my vitamins in my purse again, and I’m going to be persecuted, prosecuted for shoplifting
“Can I see your I.D.?” ….. they have a bet going on
Toll free number…I should have picked up the pennies. I owe these people money
When the Bird of Paradise blooms…..Don’t worry about a thing, it’s all good

I don’t do horoscopes and no Ouija boards live here, but still….

Riding with Roaches

Mine was teal green. And I can tell you right now that is not cool to drive, at 16, a car that rolled off the assembly line the same year you were born. Ask any 16 year old. But she was mine. For $750.00 ( 250 for the running engine and about 500 for the fact that sometime in the future, if she lived long enough, she would be collectible) And God, I loved her! And she must have loved me because she sure got me home from a lot of places I should have never gone....

We've all ridden with roaches. And I had a few in this little baby, too. The floorboards eventually rusted out from 3 summers at the beach, sandy little barefeet grinding through the carpet the first year, the liner the second year, and finally just toes dangling through the highway hatch the third. This was a WELCOME sign to all things big and small. Ants paraded in for drive-way feasts on leftover fries embedded in the seats. Roaches visited (not so much for the McDonalds, I don't think) as to lay in hiding, riding....waiting for the perfect moment to scurry up a skinney little leg.

And then there were the real roaches, the creeps, parked next to you on the seat.

I was seventeen when I met Todd Ringling. He wore John Lennon glasses and long dirty hair,

one of five brothers. Stairstep siblings with a lot in common: Ponytales, bell bottomed jeans, and a penchant for skinny blondes.

I met him on the first day of school, in the commons. He was lounging, back against the wall, blowing smoke rings to the sky. Slowly watching them rise and disappear.

I saw him again on the way to Peace Creek, bounding down the long dirt drive, in his beat up Cadillac with the eight track blasting Eric Clapton. I was walking. The mile or more from the highway where I had been dropped off. Walking with the masses who didn't own trucks big enough to plow through this swamp land or brave enough to drive into what would surely be the place of no return. (You see, we borrowed Peace Creek, from a farmer who no longer farmed. And odds were at any given time, blue lights would come bounding down that same dirt drive. ) Anyone who drove to the bonfire would be checking into the Hotel California if the blues showed up. The rest of us, well, we'd go flying in a thousand directions, with the wind, barefoot and wild through the swamp, laughing and stumbling, reaching the blacktop eventually. But in any case, there he was bumping down the dusty road, the first to reach the party.

It was that night, dancing in circles around the bonfire that he asked me out. It was that night that Million, my best guy friend, told me flat out "Don't go". "I'm tellin' ya right now, don't go".

The next Friday night I went.

Riding with roaches.

We were flying down the two lane road, kissing the dotted line at speeds that tested fate when he jerked the wheel to the right and sent us flying airborn into ....I'm dying now, I know it.....a cow field. YUP. An endless cowfield. The headlights bobbed into an enternity of wheat colored grass, the moonlight miles ahead. And he kept driving. And laughing. I'm pretty sure parts of the Cadillac were bouncing off. I could hear Million's voice, like a fly, buzzing at the back of my neck. "Don't go". And then the engine died.

"We're out of gas" he muttered. More to his feet than to me. Are you kidding me? I turn around peering towards the past, there is a highway back there somewhere, please, tell me it is still there. And I can see nothing. An eternity of wheat colored grass, in reverse.

That's when he grabbed me. The big first kiss. "Oh no, you little creep, I'm not falling for this" "Crank this puppy up and get me out of here or I'm....I'm....I'm walking"

I slammed the Caddy door. More parts donated to cowpaddy heaven. Take a deep breath girl. Start walking. 20 feet, 30 feet, 40 feet into the blackness. He'll crank it any second, turn around and pick me up, take me home.

Vrrrrroooooom. The purr of the engine cranking. Clunk. He shifted into gear. I sigh with relief. But I don't turn around. Won't give him the satisfaction.

And he didn't turn around either. I listened as the night gobbled up the humming of his motor. As he disappeared.

I can't see the highway from here. Things are biting my legs, touching my legs, crawling all over me. Where is the moon? That's the wrong way. Don't take your eyes off straight ahead. Walk. I hear things. Noises. I see things. Creepy things. orbs. No, it's lights. Flicking on and off like an SOS signal. Help! No, hide. I don't know what to do and then it's headlights, aimed right at me, gunning me down. I fall. My face touches the cold wet earth. I'm eating dirt now.And God knows what else. And there is heat. An engine. Idling beside me. Headlights glaring past me now, staring into the path of trodden grass Todd had paved.

"Get in". I fell into the seat.

Million slowly turned the van around, pushed play, and didn't say another word.

Volume two, track one, The Eagles Greatest Hits purred as we U turned.

Sometimes we have to walk. Away. Bang a U-turn in life. And sometimes, when we least expect it, going back, into the welcome arms of what was waiting for us along, (We just couldn't see it) is where we belong.

Caged

I barely recognized you...
there with dangling legs,
darting mud-puddle eyes
flickering like a broken reel of film.

I watched as
you shifted
hummed
Flitted back and forth....
A dragonfly caught in a mayonnaise jar.

God, how you wanted out.

Your wings beat furiously at
the invisible cage -
Raging at the capture.

I would have smiled
If I
hadn't forgotten to breathe

I just wanna go round and round

"There are four walls and you have to dance to each of them" the instructor said as she animatedly pointed to each wall. "The Budweiser sign, the bandstand, the barstools, and" (here she takes a deep breath and waves at the masses ....maybe five tired cowboys and a few 40-something majorettes in denim skirts) "and the audience!".

I knew I shouldn't have done this. Come here in my hippie clothes with my leathered charms and peace signs. But okay, we're here now. I'll try.

To dance in a line.

The concept is odd to me. We all lined up like little soldiers (except most of them had on costumes) Tight jeans cinched at the waist (guys and gals!) with a thick tooled studded belt of some kind and Pointed boots (Do you have to buy them two sizes larger than say your sneakers, just so there's room to fit all your toes in?) Anyway, there we are, the three of us lined up with them and the music starts. Our first lesson in line dancing.

The music starts, George Strait, I think, but I'm not sure because we had to count. And I hate counting! Don't count my beers, my cigarettes, my gray hairs, or my money. DO NOT COUNT! And now there is this incessant chanting on the "dance" floor. One and two and three and four and pause and one and two and one and two and .......

"No sweetie, we always start on our Left foot, the left foot always"

Are you kidding me? I always start feet just a flying and now I've got to count and remember to ALWAYS start on the left, and only the left foot, and keep track of which wall we are dancing to? 30 minutes later, I am disoriented from parading back and forth and sideways facing north, count to 8, facing east count to 8, facing south count to 8, facing west count to 8, and again....and again...on this endless game of follow the leader. And WHEN do we get to move our hips? Or our arms? My hands are going numb from just dangling off my shoulders. Could we at least do the hokie pokie?

"And now we'll take a little break and let all of you winded folks have a cool one before our next session"

Please, please, please will someone put a quarter in the juke box and please, please, please, let Mick Jagger's voice rumble through this barn?

Winded? We haven't been doing anything! We've been marching in a square, but I welcome a cold one. And decide I will sit the next session out. Squirming in my seat. Counting time.

It started somewhere near my toes. The music. I could feel it. And then I was in the chair, blonde hair flying, feet just a going, kicking up the dust under the old table. Rocking out in the audience. They were still counting and shuffling when the song ended. They never heard the music end. One and two and one and two and....
I was winded.

I'll try anything once. Maybe even twice. Sushi and raw oysters for example. I didn't feel the love for either one until the second time around. But line dancing? I'll leave it to the cowboys...

Rock on.

Happy Birthday Precious Child of Mine

20 years since I prayed you into my life. 20 years since fate placed you into my arms, 5 1/2 hours old, beautiful, meant to be. 20 years since you spent those first amazing days of your life in a doll crib, bundled up with Aunt Kimbies. 20 years of amazing me with your every step, your every word. I know there are many times you have uttered "but I'm not like you"...and I want you to know that the blessing here is not how much alike we are, but how different we are, and so....how much we have each learned from one another. You darling, are my tree-top angel..."Lift me up, Mommy...."

I swear I saw this today

I wonder what would make a grown man take his 30,000 brand new Ford pick up to the paint shop and have these words emblazoned on it? BIG BUTT BUBBA!

I could not have heard the world end

I don't know what compelled me to go here tonight. The charges were dropped. 10 days of maximum security later. It was just two boys, two best friends, fighting over a bicycle they built together. There were no black eyes, no broken knuckles. They were laughing before Jonah ate the mud. Before he had foot prints on the place your kidneys live. The officer was dismissed two years later. It made the papers. Something about manhandling women. On routine stops.

June 12, 2002

Jonah has a cold and has busied himself indoors all day, Nicholas joins him in the late afternoon and when he telephones me to check in, it's raining and I can hear the ga-boom, klink, zip of a computer game in the background. They are two lazy boys in the afternoon. The sun peeks out and he calls me at the office to let me know they are going "riding", pre-teenage verbage for cruising, roaming the neighborhood on two wheels, hanging. It's a Wednesday and Shiloh has left the office early, it's just me, and for some reason I have lead feet this week. I e-mailed Aunt Rachel that I was "blue, as Nana would say. The drizzling rain and 5:00 traffic didn't change that heavy feeling. I came home and Holly was wrapped up on the couch, lounging, beautiful, watching re-runs from her nest. Johnah hadn't checked in, but not to worry, it was early. I putzed around. Finally kicking off my shoes and socks (Pre-Menopausal, my feet are always hot anymore). She beckoned me closer..."Mom, FRIENDS is on, come on and watch it with me". I think in my few short months of watching TV, I had already seen this re-run and commented so, but settled in nonetheless, quietly comfortable, next to my gifted, talented, finally resting, child.

I think HE knocked on the door. I don't remember. Maybe we have a doorbell. I don't remember looking out the window behind me, but I must have, because I went flying out the kitchen door. (It's not our nature to open the front door, STRANGERS go to that door.) I remember not much of the conversation, except the words "Your son has been arrested for strong armed robbery" and seeing, somehow, through the rain, a pile of black metal at the officer's feet. My son's bicylcle, his gleaming white helmet. My first response was of relief, thank God, Jonah had not been hit by an automible, was not being helicoptered away, was alive. And then seconds later, disbelief. Shock. And then movement. Sound. From the front sidewalk, I was bellowing for Holly to bring me my shoes, and she did, and then bellowing louder for my socks (why i don't know) and then finally my purse. I was digging frantically through the debris that had collected in the old leather bag for money. i would need money. A checkbook. An I.D., cash, perhaps.

I was pacing, Up and down the rock driveway. The officer kept babbling. "Your son should be out playing football". The "victim" wasn't hurt badly. The "victim" called 911. Something about Jonahs rims. He wanted them back. He handed me two business cards. You can call the officers anytime; they will call you back. He wrote down a phone number.

They were taking my son away. He had been arrested. I later found out he had been thrown to the ground and handcuffed. I later found out a lot of things.

It is now five nights later. The rain continues to fall from the heavens, weeping steadily. Side by side Mother Nature and I sob uncontrollably, intermitttently, pausing occasionally to take a deep breath, regain our strength. Only to begin again. The sunshine fools us. Or makes fools of us.

I ache from my toes to the bleached, split, tangled ends of my hair. And yet it is not enough. On Friday, I mowed down the rock drive-way, daring the pebbles to pounce from the blades, fly by and pummel my legs. I plugged in the electric weed-eater and whiled and trimmed and edged like a maniac - taunting the wind and the rain and the mighty bolts of electricity to search me out by some giant magnetic force and strike me dead standing there. I would defy it. I would survive even that. I had to and I would prove it. My body oozed from every pore. Sweat. Tears. Pungent rain. I glared at the street. I waited. I begged and pleaded with the skies. I wished on stars. I prayed. I crossed my fingers. I whispered. I gasped. I SCREAMED. I turned the radio on and when I heard 30 year old lyrics... "Paronia strikes then. Stop, people, what's that sound? Everybody look what's goin' 'round!", I cranked up the radio so loud, I could not have heard the world end.

My child has not been tried for these charges, and yet he has been sentenced. My miracle child that I breathed life into one frantic breath at a time, has been snatched from my arms, my home, our lives. He has been kidnapped by the sytem and held hostage. Like my Father before me...I read, I know, I fear.

On Saturday, Joe made a cross for Oliver's grave. A big primitive cross. For my tiny little, precious Oliver, 4 pounds at 6 months. The angel of orphaned kitties. I spent hours and hours and hours painting dots, and swirls and tiny hearts over the entire cross. And then I painted over the dots and swirls and tiny hearts. Again and again and again. I painted Oliver's name ornately and then shadowed it and outlined and painted it again. Ang again. On Sunday when JP brought me home from visiting Jonah, I asked him to mount the cross to a spike so I could place it in the garden, suspended in the air above the grave. I didn't want the wood to rot. He did as I asked and then reproached me for erecting such a big cross. "It's a mighty big cross". I remembered an old man that used to walk the streets when I was a teenager, traveling miles and miles and miles, often in circles, toting a giant wooden cross. "He's a bum" everyone said. "He toted a mighty big cross" I thought to myself.

It's quiet here now. Our tiny house, piled full with still four cats, Holly and myself, is void of any sound except the clickety clatter of this keyboard. I have begged God many times for "peace and quiet". I thought I was so tired. I thought life was too hectic. I thought I was too frazzled and worn out. I was wrong.

I was resting and didn't know it.

One Million Seven

I drew maps today. Intricate little cross hatches on scraps of paper dotted with circles(lakes) rectangles (houses) dashes and arrows (This is the way we went) and X’s (it happened here). I can’t remember what flippant remark got me started on the neighborhood thing, but I grew up there (well actually I was already a teenager, but isn’t that when you really grow up?) and I was compelled to set everyone straight on the geography of my childhood . BECAUSE they absolutely cannot understand how all these little bungalows on these bumpy broken brick streets could be worth millions now.

Well, I can.

I, of course, can’t afford to go back and live in my memories, but anyone with a buck in their pocket that wasn’t brain fried from the 70’s and therefore CAN’T remember the magic of those roads, would be 40 something now and nostalgic for “that place”. So gotcha! Prices have skyrocketed and it’s a phenomena and the “address” to have….

But anyway, this is how I remember it…..

Flying down Grove Terrace, bumpity bumpity bump on the bicycle my Mom bought from The Sheriffs sale (stolen bikes spray painted, confiscated, and never claimed), blonde hair flying behind me leaving trails, flip flopped feet embedded into the spiked pedals…..Can’t wait to make it half way around the lake, past Paiger’s little friends house, to light this cigarette! Now I can! It takes two hands, one to flick the bic, and one to shield the wind, I’m going down hill, looking down, on a bumpity bumpity bump brick road!

The road burn was instant. The elbow and hip thing came later. The smell of my hair, scorched for a fleeting second hovered throughout the introduction. “Wow, you crashed, dude”. I stared at them. My eyes were running. Away. I’m 17, tanned, thin. Two beautiful guys are crouched next to met, splat, on the road. They’re older. 20 at least. I’m dying. “Hey, you need a light?” I laugh.

Best Friends.

30 years later they bulldoze Christians house to build three more. One million seven.

God, didn’t anyone remember we danced here? We painted the bathtub in psychedelic colors with Saturday night hands and turned it into an aquatic rescue unit. People would wait in line to sit on the toilet and watch the fish swim. We painted the glass panels of the French doors psychedelic too, embedding little peep holes into the glow in the dark menagerie…..The better to see who had rambled up the rod iron stair case onto the balcony. It was never the cops. Not in our world. Where Terry would sit on the third story roof and play the harp with the sky. Where we would all sit, blue jeaned legs dangling through the railing, toasting the angels that came out to listen.

And then, like little soldiers, we would straighten up our eyes. “Must be the stiff wind” that made them that way. And pile down the steps to the real house. The big house. One million seven.

And we would dance in their kitchen. And toast to their stories. And give them gray hair. And they loved us. And we loved them.

And they’re gone now.

And the house with the first swimming pool in town is gone. And the 47 cats that lived under it are gone. And my name, carved in a door frame, next to 32 others is gone.

And Christian is gone.

One million seven.
And worth every dime.

Untitled

This is the list, the pros and cons, the
love and hates....I want to write it
down so that I remember
to not
forget....

I hate that you took me to visit your
hell and wallow there and I shared it with you,
open armed,
hugged you tight
held you up by the collar...
And you never ever asked
where i had come from...

I hate that you made me hate her,
before I would have,
And you made her hate me,
before she would have
And that you mistakenly thought
a cat fight
was affection for you

I hate that you preached and suffered
and rambled on and on about how you
made vows and wanted to keep them
and you never ever
acknowledged
they were already
long ago
destroyed
And pretending they were anything less
is a mockery
of what they were meant
to be.

I hate that you threatened me with
mainpulative words
"if you walk out that door,
don't ever come back"
when I was just squemish and
scared
and by the way, right.

I hate that we held hands and rescued each other,
running barefoot to the wet edge of the earth
scavengers
hunting for treasures
and there in the seaweed,
tangled on the shore...
you just dug up more trash

i loved your smile...when you
really smiled...when you weren't
learning HOW to smile again.
Before you painted it there.
Pasted it there,
Showed your teeth.

I loved your blue eyes
before you lied
to yourself, to me, to
your make-beleive world

I loved your skin.
Because I could.
BecauseI wanted to.

I loved your raspy, too many cigarettes,
voice...soft on my neck....
Singing sweet serenades in the
kitchen, the car, the driveway

And I hated the way you played DJ and threw in the
other songs to see if I noticed...
to see if I could smell it, see it,
hear it, feel it when it crept in.

You're not so f_ _ _ _ n french

Turn the Radio On

I forget. That I’m an old soul. That my bikini days and summer blonde magic are memories. Thank God. So in my naiveness, my “I can’t see to look in the mirror, anyway” blindness, I haven’t noticed that I’m not 18 or 29 or 32 anymore. I don’t mind blowing out a zillion birthday candles, as long as they don’t light my hair on fire. I have never suffered through a birthday. I don’t even understand that. I’ve had good days and bad days, good years and bad years, but birthdays? They don’t mean anything, except by the grace of God, you just had another one. And you might need to renew your auto registration.

And so it goes, that today, my body is crumpled. Not from osteo, backaches, heartaches, palpitations or anxiety. From forgetting that I’m getting old. Or older, to say the least. So last night, with three beers in my belly, 20 dollars in my pocket, contacts in these rheumy brown eyes with blue rings, we went out dancing…. My neighbors and I….

And we rocked and we rolled and we dipped and we shimmied and we shook and we twisted and we bumped and we grinded (I think everyone else was line dancing, I can’t really remember) and we closed the bar down (I’m sure they were glad to see us go! This motley crew flicking our bics on the darkened dance floor) and we moved the party here, dancing on the leopard skin rug in the couchless living room ….until it was so late that if you were 18, you would have made mistakes…..

Pardon me, while I have a relapse.

More please

Razor ribs. Skinny little white chic. Spaghetti legs. Anorexic. Skeleton head. Terms of endearment. You’re kidding me, right? I don’t stick my finger down my throat after steak and potatoes (God, I cherish a take- home from Outback….a friend with the talent to light the easy-light gas grill I paid a fortune for!) I don’t weigh my food on digi scales, skip seconds, run on the treadmill, or even weigh myself! And we have an eating disorder? I’m ranting tonight because my sib got cat -called! Someone with the inability to recognize a family trait, a metabolism mechanism, a true- blue thin blonde, went out of their way to hack into our world and TRY to make it look like there is something WRONG with being a skinny little blonde! Hell, we were born that way! I don’t get it.

IN OUR WORLD, you don’t point, it’s rude. You don’t judge, you never know when you will wear those shoes. You don’t cry wolf when you don’t know where the wolf if camping. Why would anyone , I mean anyone above the age of adolescence , a grown stranger at that, go off on my precious sister because of her weight, or in THEIR WORLD, lack of it?

This much I know is true. When you are skinny, you just are. It is as hard to gain weight as it is to lose weight. Because you are what you are. Our knees will get wrinkles sooner. Our laugh lines will be louder. Our bikinis will fit longer, but our fannies will disappear. At some point in our lives, the juniors department will probably be inappropriate, but we’ll have to shop there anywhere. We have to wear A-OK bras and they don’t make a lot of them. We don’t tan in our wrinkles. Skin stretches and we’re not that tall. We can’t wear pantyhose, they droop.

But we can dance until the sun comes up. Laugh until the hiccups or tears take over. Be your best friend. So WHY? WHY on earth would someone trapse into OUR WORLD and trash us ? Because at 37, Paiger can still wear a belly ring and it shows, isn’t hidden behind some midlife fold? Because she’s just a whisp of a thing, flitting around, being the yellow butterfly, touching a zillion lives?

Shame on you, silly little stranger, barging in and being a bully.

Peace, love, and pass the dumplin's please

Those Fateful Blue Eyes...

It happens sometimes. I’m parked in sweaty -bumper- to -vibrating -bumper traffic and the license tag in front of me reads….3J9 SEA….and my feet are scooped out from under me, and I’m getting road rash from the rush of crushed shells swirling under me as I try to stop myself from giving into the …

Undertow.

One tiny word embedded in a bent up license tag and I’ve left the five o’clock traffic and I’m drifting into a never forever land where the seaweed is wadded up in my hair, and the sticky yicky surface under my toes is an oriental rug of dancing jellyfish, and I’m bouncing madly in a sea I have no control over. My elbows bounce over thousand year old conchs and I flip and swallow water and spew at the sky like a hump back whale. I’m floating now…..

And then we move.

The Toyota in front of me shifts lanes abruptly.
I pound the brakes. And we are frozen again.

Bored, I hit the scan button on the radio. Search for the traffic report. The digital monitor blurs past a dozen channels. No news is good news. It stops.. Flashes.

Jethro Tull is on the radio.

This is news? The traffic report? I’m standing in a dirt driveway, skint knees and peasant blouse, leaning on a BF flyer, smoking a cigarette. “ Don’t mind me crashing at all. Nice to meet you”. I’m 17 again, and in the tainted sunlight of the bumper in front of me, I see Chris smiling. And I hear him saying “Nice to meet you, too”. I’m watching him, his face on the tailgate, distorted by the slowly rolling UPS truck in the lane next to me.

The light changes and he disappears.

It happens sometimes. I’m in the damndest places and I feel it. It’s not deja vue, it’s not a memory, it’s an umbilical cord…..tethering me back to where I belong, where I came from…it’s a cord cut short in an instant . A moment suspended by circumstance, left standing at the alter, waiting…for ressurrection or reincarnation or as a just reminder that life goes on…

I saw her that day at the corner store. My dear missed Nadine. Clicking her tiny high heels in front of me, faster than I could ever keep up. Flicking her ashes in the wind. Eating black eyed peas on New Year’s day. Reminding me over a static filled phone line that she would call me when she needed me. I saw her that day in your fateful blue eyes. I hope it’s not too much of a burden.

Morning after eyes

Or, in otherwords, I got contacts!

I can do this. I mean, what could be so difficult about poking your finger in your eye? Well, nothing, really. Except I can't see the microscopic lens on my fingertip, which is WHY I am doing this in the first place, and so when I drop it I can't find it. Or when I squash it into something that resembles an invisible taco shell, I don't know it until it feels like I just rubbed mashed potatoes or a wad of gum into my eye socket!

Ah, the glory of finally, being able to see. But, they're in and I have flitted around all day long basking in my new "mono vision". Incessantly grappling at my lovebeads, searching for my frames....GONE! Because I don't need them! Tooling around in the car going "nanny nanny boo boo" at all the big bad traffic because hey! I can see the highway AND THE speedometer at the same time! Check this out, floating in the pool and getting a suntan (burn) over the frame marks! This is so cool! Oh, but, wait. If I ever want to go to sleep, I have to take them out? Last night I came this close to using tweezers....Tonight, I might just try the vacuum!