I love the beginning of the holiday season. When the air starts to change and everyone (O.K. maybe only me) gets excited about donating coats and buying underpants for the needy. When the focus is on the Thanksgiving menu; just before the focus becomes how many gifts can we get under the tree, how big can we make the tree look, how much money can I spend, how much shit can we have, which of these things will make me look the most successful on social media.
I think Thanksgiving may actually be my favorite holiday. There really aren't any rules-no awkward gift exchanges-it's all about breaking bread and that feeling, I think, of a sense of community. At least it is for me- because I haven't spent Thanksgiving with a single blood relative since I was a teenager. (And this makes me less likely to become a holiday season suicide statistic.) I love that the house is warm and dark, and there's food in every room. I love the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade--when all those singers we've never heard of lip sync badly into microphones swaying with the movement of the float they're on, slapping their unknown little faces like unplugged electric dicks.
And I love to feed people. (I also secretly love aprons. Not kidding.) Chocolate pecan pie? I do that. From. Scratch. Dressing? From. Scratch.--including but not limited to homemade croutons--Green bean casserole? Not a can of anything in sight. OK, I don't make those little fried onions but c'mon... I will admit that it does skeeve me out to rub all over a dead turkey. And it does always make me a little sad the first time I see the carcass unwrapped and headless in the sink. But I cook on anyway. Because to feed people is to love them. (GROSS! who am I?!) I zest lemons, I toast pistachios. I caramelize sugar, I make roux. And every year I make a fancy dressing to toss into a leafy green of some kind.--This year it was pear and red pepper vinaigrette with mesclun.--And every year it never makes it to the table. Because no one is looking for the salad on Thanksgiving.
But I have a dark confession to make. All of the bread in my house is store bought. Even 'special occasion everything is homemade' dinner bread. Baking bread has always illuded me. I have only recently mastered biscuit making, after many years and countless fails. I just felt biscuits weren't quite refined enough for my elegant holiday buffet. So there I stood shoving Sister Schubert's frozen yeast rolls into the toaster oven. I think my guests doubted the talents of this enigmatic freezer section Jewish nun baking genius. But after a couple of passes of the "appetite stimulant" around the table, we were all singing the praises of Mama Eunice. Or Sister Celeste. Or whatever it is her name turned out to be.
And the next day there was just enough wine and pie left over for my 'I-don't-leave-my-pajamas-on-Black-Friday-much-less-my-house-so-I'm-gonna-snuggle-under-this-blanket-&-watch-embarrassing-chick-flicks-all-day-then-pretend-I-missed-my-wife-when-she-gets-home-from-work' movie marathon.
Thanksgiving success!! Thanks Sister Schubert!
Monday, November 28, 2016
Monday, November 21, 2016
How That Music Used to Make Me Smile...
How awkward were the American Music Awards? Who decided Jay Pharoah and Gigi Hadid (and her Knots Landing hair) made a charismatic pair? Why was everyone in the crowd 11 years old? Where did they find all those overly enthusiastic audience gays? Why does Janelle Monae suddenly think she's Lynn Whitfield? I may never know the answers to these conundrums. But I do know this:
Uptown Funk already happened, Bruno Mars. Please don't pull a Carrie Underwood and sing the same song for the rest of your jheri curled career.
Oh Twenty One Pilots--to be young and self-important again. I'm so into your edgy image--it's clear you have a lot to say. Unfortch, your lyrics don't say it. I get it--you want your fans to be cutters, but instead you got white kids with dreads. That's a tough one.
Shawn Mendes gave me Jessie's Girl era Rick Springfield realness.
It's so strange how jarring it is when actual talent shows up on an awards show. Everyone is so shiny and pretty and immobile, and then along comes some asshole who didn't have time to brush his hair because he was busy being a person--or tuning his guitar. Or how Sting was like someone's grandpa who couldn't be bothered to put a shirt on for company. Because he doesn't have time to glue his eyelashes on, he's busy being Sting. (Although I'm convinced he was the first man to pull duck lips.)
Is it me or does the Weeknd seem gayer?
John Legend, I love that you rocked one of Blanche Devereaux's old track jackets. But please don't perform without the piano again. It embarrassed me.
WTF Ariana Grande??!! Good for you for learning to move less like a retarded giraffe, but was that your fucking grandma in the audience watching you flop all around in the sand with Nicki Minaj's vagina?
My second favorite thing about the whole show was all the girls losing their shit at the Justin Bieber show. Crying, shaking, some of them looked like they were in a catatonic state. I loved every minute of it. My wife had the nerve to roll her eyes and laugh at them, but she cried at a fucking UB40 concert. And not in 1988--it was like 3 months ago.
Lady Gaga once again tested my gag reflex. Affecting that country sanger drawl. Isn't she from Long Island or something? I haven't been that offended since Iggy Azalea tried to go full T.I. And besides, doesn't she know the only woman who can pull that off in country music is Keith Urban? P.S. You're guitar isn't plugged in.
My very favorite thing about the American Music Awards was Robert Downey Jr.
Thank you Nicki Minaj, Rick Ross, Future,and August Alsina for not even attempting a lip sync game. You all mostly just walked around with a mic to your mouths. And I appreciate that. No need to exhaust yourselves on my account. Oh, and DJ Khaled--shut...the...fuck...up. That is all.
And finally, the big finale. Adam Levine in a dad sweater. You really did it this time AMAs. But ain't that America?
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
And the calendar's cluttered with days that are numbered...
Every day is End of Days. I stood in the kitchen chopping vegetables a week before Prince died and said, "If something happens to Prince, put me on suicide watch." I've yet to be forgiven. And a few weeks ago when You Want It Darker was released, I sat listening to Songs From a Room and thought to myself, "What am I gonna do when Leonard Cohen dies?"... I mourned Leonard Cohen alone in a hotel bed. After dining alone in a town unknown to me, a stranger in a hotel bar. Fitting. I dare not even think the names of the songwriters still breathing that I worship every day. I've fallen radio silent. I know. The weight of the world affecting me more than I had anticipated.--Election fatigue, the 2016 deadpool, a cloud covered supermoon, Sophia Urista not even making it to the top 12 on The Voice.
When I was a kid I listened to my friends talk about kissing boys and holding hands. I always thought no one wanted to hold my hand because I gnawed on my cuticles, biting until they bled when I was nervous or bored. But there was a girl named Shannon who bit her nails down until they were gnarled up little strips. And she always had boyfriends. Even though she had a bad perm and claw bangs. So I thought maybe it wasn't about her hands at all, it was because she was skinny and blonde.--Because according to my mother, "not too many boys will be interested in a girl that looks like you, and no one is going to be perfect so you should probably just find a man who won't hit you." --Shannon had a normal name, and laughed a lot. She probably didn't spend as much time as I did sitting in a closet reading book after book. Or recording her own radio shows. Turns out not that many people are attracted to that, even as adults.
Much, much later I found myself in bed with someone I'd never expected. He was the cocktail waitress at my regular watering hole. I fucked him with my knee high combat boots on--though it was mostly missionary and with the lights out. When it was all said and done, I hinted for him to leave. But I'm a gentleman so I at least walked him to his car. There on the sidewalk as the sun came up he asked me for my phone number, said he wanted to spend real time with me, that I was a cool girl. And I, completely naked except for the boots and a pillow to cover my lady business, refused. I told him he didn't have to do that--to pretend he was interested when we'd already fucked. He protested. And I never really thought that much about it as he continued bringing me cocktails. Until I started taking stock in my thirties. And I realized that I could've given that kid a chance. And a lot of other kids really.
I'm not sure how last Wednesday's nausea and circulatory shock translates into any of this. Why I wanted to drink myself to death this weekend. (Spoiler alert: I didn't. I mean I drank until I couldn't feel my tongue, but I didn't die.) Why the only love letter I've ever written was to say goodbye. It's just train of thought maybe-word vomit. A breaking the silence.An exhale? Too Angela Bassett...
Grieving. End of Days.
"The false trumpet concealing madness will cause Byzantium to change its laws."
When I was a kid I listened to my friends talk about kissing boys and holding hands. I always thought no one wanted to hold my hand because I gnawed on my cuticles, biting until they bled when I was nervous or bored. But there was a girl named Shannon who bit her nails down until they were gnarled up little strips. And she always had boyfriends. Even though she had a bad perm and claw bangs. So I thought maybe it wasn't about her hands at all, it was because she was skinny and blonde.--Because according to my mother, "not too many boys will be interested in a girl that looks like you, and no one is going to be perfect so you should probably just find a man who won't hit you." --Shannon had a normal name, and laughed a lot. She probably didn't spend as much time as I did sitting in a closet reading book after book. Or recording her own radio shows. Turns out not that many people are attracted to that, even as adults.
Much, much later I found myself in bed with someone I'd never expected. He was the cocktail waitress at my regular watering hole. I fucked him with my knee high combat boots on--though it was mostly missionary and with the lights out. When it was all said and done, I hinted for him to leave. But I'm a gentleman so I at least walked him to his car. There on the sidewalk as the sun came up he asked me for my phone number, said he wanted to spend real time with me, that I was a cool girl. And I, completely naked except for the boots and a pillow to cover my lady business, refused. I told him he didn't have to do that--to pretend he was interested when we'd already fucked. He protested. And I never really thought that much about it as he continued bringing me cocktails. Until I started taking stock in my thirties. And I realized that I could've given that kid a chance. And a lot of other kids really.
I'm not sure how last Wednesday's nausea and circulatory shock translates into any of this. Why I wanted to drink myself to death this weekend. (Spoiler alert: I didn't. I mean I drank until I couldn't feel my tongue, but I didn't die.) Why the only love letter I've ever written was to say goodbye. It's just train of thought maybe-word vomit. A breaking the silence.
Grieving. End of Days.
"The false trumpet concealing madness will cause Byzantium to change its laws."
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
24 Things I Think About on a Regular Basis
1. Day to Night Barbie. She was amazing and well before her time--career woman who may or may not fill her brief case with trashy magazines. Likes a cocktail or two after work. Wears a pencil skirt and a sequined top at the same time, and pulls it all together with pink Candies. Every bit of yes.
2. Why would anyone wear knock off TOMS? They are hideous and not really that comfortable and the only reason to buy them is to show the world that you are a selfless saint who will compromise style to make sure less fortunate orphans or whatever have a pair of shoes. If you wear knock off TOMS, you are a horrible human being. The end.
3. Pears are the sexiest fruit.
4. Why does Just Fab think my name is Debbie? Reason 915 why I have yet to shop with them.
5. Why is all the food labeled "snack size" food you would never make an actual meal out of anyway? Is anyone really eating Baby Ruths for dinner? Full disclosure: I have, I am, and will probably continue to do so.
6. This conversation:
Joe: I don't see how you can eat that blue cheese. Blue cheese tastes like the way crayons smell.
Me days later eating blue cheese in a salad and thinking to myself "damn it! he's right!": So
now you've ruined blue cheese for me. I think it's only fair that you know I don't like brie
because it tastes like semen."
Joe: The only thing I've taken away from this conversation is that semen must be delicious.
7. Almost everyone I meet is just a different version of someone I already know.
8. And it is likely that I have imagined what you look like as a muppet and/or a Planet of the Apes character. I'm probably doing it right now.
9. But I also think it's pretty rare for someone to be truly ugly. I can usually pick out something attractive about anyone's face. Even if they are wearing knock off TOMS.
10. Beautiful women usually have the most disgusting feet.
11. Why is there always an unwrapped baguette in a grocery bag on television--as if everyone only buys and eats bread that has been laying in the open air and rubbed against every homeless person on the subway before it makes its way into the kitchen.
12. Why has every city had a Great Fire or Great Flood?
13. Running away from home.
14. Watching Anne of Green Gables in elementary school.
15. Why are contest winners always so awful?
16. If an unwanted kiss or grope is now considered sexual assault across the board, how many times have I been sexually assaulted?
17. And how many times have I been the assaulter?
18. Death and dead bodies don't bother me. I think about this on a regular basis because chances are if there is a fatal car accident, I pass by before the carnage is covered up. I've somehow been present at enough deaths for this to be a thing.
19. "Sweet Nothings" I guess I don't understand this olden times term as a concept. Every song that mentions sweet nothings is usually about people who are fucking (or holding hands since it's 1960) on a regular basis. If these whispers were "nothing" then they would be more appropriate in a song like "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow" because obviously this guy is saying shit all willy-nilly to get into someone's pants. And therefore it truly means "nothing". Otherwise, it's just two people in love actually being nice to each other.
20. Do my pets realize when I'm naked?
21. I have to stop reading Chuck Klosterman. I can't write when I read his work for fear that I will totally rip off everything he puts on paper. He writes almost exactly the way I speak. He validates and shares almost all of my opinions. Reading Klosterman is like sitting on a friend's couch in your pajamas. He makes you feel better by not giving any advice at all, but just by letting you be disgusting and letting you know that he's been through the exact same ridiculous bullshit. He's not especially profound, just there to get stoned and help you eat a whole pizza, and probably be really uncomfortable when you cry. And he's probably heard this from all the girls, so it's really just best if Chuck and I break up.
22. Who decided what would be acceptable to eat? What asshole said 'let me break open this rock and see if something slimy is in it that I could put on a saltine'--or pulled a potato out of the dirt under a pile of buffalo turds and thought it would be a good idea to put it in their mouth? (And see, I almost said mastodon instead of buffalo because I just read this Klosterman thing about mastodons.) And to be fair--I know I am not in any way unique with this thought. It's a conversation that happens on a daily basis I'm sure.
23. Choosing between Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling. It's one of the hardest 'what if' scenarios I've ever had to ponder. Ryan G. is smoldering and sexy and sensitive and likely to just push me up against a wall and have a go. But Ryan R. would buy me a beer and make me laugh, and he doesn't seem to realize how freakishly beautiful he is, so I wouldn't be self conscious about my Michelin Man physique.
24. Exactly four months from today I will be 40.
2. Why would anyone wear knock off TOMS? They are hideous and not really that comfortable and the only reason to buy them is to show the world that you are a selfless saint who will compromise style to make sure less fortunate orphans or whatever have a pair of shoes. If you wear knock off TOMS, you are a horrible human being. The end.
3. Pears are the sexiest fruit.
4. Why does Just Fab think my name is Debbie? Reason 915 why I have yet to shop with them.
5. Why is all the food labeled "snack size" food you would never make an actual meal out of anyway? Is anyone really eating Baby Ruths for dinner? Full disclosure: I have, I am, and will probably continue to do so.
6. This conversation:
Joe: I don't see how you can eat that blue cheese. Blue cheese tastes like the way crayons smell.
Me days later eating blue cheese in a salad and thinking to myself "damn it! he's right!": So
now you've ruined blue cheese for me. I think it's only fair that you know I don't like brie
because it tastes like semen."
Joe: The only thing I've taken away from this conversation is that semen must be delicious.
7. Almost everyone I meet is just a different version of someone I already know.
8. And it is likely that I have imagined what you look like as a muppet and/or a Planet of the Apes character. I'm probably doing it right now.
9. But I also think it's pretty rare for someone to be truly ugly. I can usually pick out something attractive about anyone's face. Even if they are wearing knock off TOMS.
10. Beautiful women usually have the most disgusting feet.
11. Why is there always an unwrapped baguette in a grocery bag on television--as if everyone only buys and eats bread that has been laying in the open air and rubbed against every homeless person on the subway before it makes its way into the kitchen.
12. Why has every city had a Great Fire or Great Flood?
13. Running away from home.
14. Watching Anne of Green Gables in elementary school.
15. Why are contest winners always so awful?
16. If an unwanted kiss or grope is now considered sexual assault across the board, how many times have I been sexually assaulted?
17. And how many times have I been the assaulter?
18. Death and dead bodies don't bother me. I think about this on a regular basis because chances are if there is a fatal car accident, I pass by before the carnage is covered up. I've somehow been present at enough deaths for this to be a thing.
19. "Sweet Nothings" I guess I don't understand this olden times term as a concept. Every song that mentions sweet nothings is usually about people who are fucking (or holding hands since it's 1960) on a regular basis. If these whispers were "nothing" then they would be more appropriate in a song like "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow" because obviously this guy is saying shit all willy-nilly to get into someone's pants. And therefore it truly means "nothing". Otherwise, it's just two people in love actually being nice to each other.
20. Do my pets realize when I'm naked?
21. I have to stop reading Chuck Klosterman. I can't write when I read his work for fear that I will totally rip off everything he puts on paper. He writes almost exactly the way I speak. He validates and shares almost all of my opinions. Reading Klosterman is like sitting on a friend's couch in your pajamas. He makes you feel better by not giving any advice at all, but just by letting you be disgusting and letting you know that he's been through the exact same ridiculous bullshit. He's not especially profound, just there to get stoned and help you eat a whole pizza, and probably be really uncomfortable when you cry. And he's probably heard this from all the girls, so it's really just best if Chuck and I break up.
22. Who decided what would be acceptable to eat? What asshole said 'let me break open this rock and see if something slimy is in it that I could put on a saltine'--or pulled a potato out of the dirt under a pile of buffalo turds and thought it would be a good idea to put it in their mouth? (And see, I almost said mastodon instead of buffalo because I just read this Klosterman thing about mastodons.) And to be fair--I know I am not in any way unique with this thought. It's a conversation that happens on a daily basis I'm sure.
23. Choosing between Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling. It's one of the hardest 'what if' scenarios I've ever had to ponder. Ryan G. is smoldering and sexy and sensitive and likely to just push me up against a wall and have a go. But Ryan R. would buy me a beer and make me laugh, and he doesn't seem to realize how freakishly beautiful he is, so I wouldn't be self conscious about my Michelin Man physique.
24. Exactly four months from today I will be 40.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
I'm a Lincoln monologue...
So
mutha
fuckin
uninspired.
I don't even have the words for dumb blondes in ill-fitting denim jumpsuits.
the pillow too cool to want out of bed-
my body too heavy-
the ground too wet.
And you
too phone addicted for conversation.
And me
all décolletage,
and blunt bangs before botox.
unfinished books
unread mail
unfiltered cigarettes
pressure points
pressure gauges
pressure cookers
I have no insults for your inadvertent normcore,
no patience for your incoherent intonation.
fabric walls
Velcro
ergonomics
flu shots and pot lucks
I can't even muster up a hard on for my side piece.
I can't even bring myself to judge.
I.
can't.
even.
bored by my own stories
bored by my own songs
bored by my own breath
so
mutha
fuckin...
mutha
fuckin
uninspired.
I don't even have the words for dumb blondes in ill-fitting denim jumpsuits.
the pillow too cool to want out of bed-
my body too heavy-
the ground too wet.
And you
too phone addicted for conversation.
And me
all décolletage,
and blunt bangs before botox.
unfinished books
unread mail
unfiltered cigarettes
pressure points
pressure gauges
pressure cookers
I have no insults for your inadvertent normcore,
no patience for your incoherent intonation.
fabric walls
Velcro
ergonomics
flu shots and pot lucks
I can't even muster up a hard on for my side piece.
I can't even bring myself to judge.
I.
can't.
even.
bored by my own stories
bored by my own songs
bored by my own breath
so
mutha
fuckin...
Friday, September 9, 2016
Motion in the ocean! Ooo Ahhh...
Road Trip 2016. Part Quatre.
We left Salem and drove toward Maine--straight into a nor'easter. OK, it probably wasn't actually a nor'easter. But the sky was black, the lightning was fierce, and the rain came hard-and then harder. So I creeped off of an exit in New Hampshire and into the parking lot of a not new 7-Eleven connected to a crappy car lot behind a chain link fence. I'm not sure what I was expecting--Jessica Fletcher tending her flowers?--I just feel like New England should be all duck shoes and chinos with sensible haircuts. But there I was eating gas station pickles looking at giant pickups and windowless Pontiacs. And the same ol' rednecks I could see at home. I guess I know now how bro-country got so popular. It's not just a regional problem.
When we finally reached Maine I wanted to tell everyone that I'd survived a "wicked pissah!!" But almost immediately upon arrival I learned that a wicked pissah is not a storm. It's a good time of sorts-and I had not had one of those. But just like I knew it would, the Pine Tree State stole my heart. Aside from a liquor war with NH, a racist Governor, and the homophobic LL Bean, it's exactly where I'd like to be someday.
I lost myself in ridiculous book stores. I wondered how there could be zero garbage in the streets when there were zero garbage cans to be found anywhere (side note: there is also no place to buy gum). I reveled in an art scene with nary a millennial hipster in sight--though a man-bun did serve me the most beautiful cup of coffee I've ever had. I touched a piece of the Berlin wall (because what Jew wants to actually go to Germany?) I fell in love with the roadside motels of Orchard Beach. Further north I wandered into local bars with neon Budweiser signs and faux wood paneled walls. Toothless lady bartenders eyed my bag and stared at my nails. Craggy old regulars offered me shots.
I went into the smallest place I could find to experience a lobster roll for the first time. I took a seat on a torn vinyl stool at the bar. A latte-skinned woman glistening with sweat called me babe and slid it to me in a plastic basket. It was the classic. No frills. A buttered English roll overflowing with hunks of lobster meat. Just a touch of dressing. I'm not usually a lobster girl but I do as the Romans do--and it was perfect. My wife on the other hand, skeptical of her surroundings, decided to hold out for something else. Somewhere along the way we ended up in a slick, trendy distillery where an unimpressed girl with an ironic 60s librarian haircut served up wifey's lunch. Fuck around in a foodie town and find yourself picking pork rinds and pickled radishes out of your 'lobster roll'.
The last day there I went full tourist. Whale watching and swimming with dolphins, their babies no bigger than my house cat-so close I could hear their little baby blow holes. I watched an adorable seal brutally mutilate and eat some poor sea creature, and let that be my consolation for not seeing any puffins. And though I was warned by highway signs to be on the lookout for them, I did not see a single moose. Maybe next time...
We left Salem and drove toward Maine--straight into a nor'easter. OK, it probably wasn't actually a nor'easter. But the sky was black, the lightning was fierce, and the rain came hard-and then harder. So I creeped off of an exit in New Hampshire and into the parking lot of a not new 7-Eleven connected to a crappy car lot behind a chain link fence. I'm not sure what I was expecting--Jessica Fletcher tending her flowers?--I just feel like New England should be all duck shoes and chinos with sensible haircuts. But there I was eating gas station pickles looking at giant pickups and windowless Pontiacs. And the same ol' rednecks I could see at home. I guess I know now how bro-country got so popular. It's not just a regional problem.
When we finally reached Maine I wanted to tell everyone that I'd survived a "wicked pissah!!" But almost immediately upon arrival I learned that a wicked pissah is not a storm. It's a good time of sorts-and I had not had one of those. But just like I knew it would, the Pine Tree State stole my heart. Aside from a liquor war with NH, a racist Governor, and the homophobic LL Bean, it's exactly where I'd like to be someday.
I lost myself in ridiculous book stores. I wondered how there could be zero garbage in the streets when there were zero garbage cans to be found anywhere (side note: there is also no place to buy gum). I reveled in an art scene with nary a millennial hipster in sight--though a man-bun did serve me the most beautiful cup of coffee I've ever had. I touched a piece of the Berlin wall (because what Jew wants to actually go to Germany?) I fell in love with the roadside motels of Orchard Beach. Further north I wandered into local bars with neon Budweiser signs and faux wood paneled walls. Toothless lady bartenders eyed my bag and stared at my nails. Craggy old regulars offered me shots.
I went into the smallest place I could find to experience a lobster roll for the first time. I took a seat on a torn vinyl stool at the bar. A latte-skinned woman glistening with sweat called me babe and slid it to me in a plastic basket. It was the classic. No frills. A buttered English roll overflowing with hunks of lobster meat. Just a touch of dressing. I'm not usually a lobster girl but I do as the Romans do--and it was perfect. My wife on the other hand, skeptical of her surroundings, decided to hold out for something else. Somewhere along the way we ended up in a slick, trendy distillery where an unimpressed girl with an ironic 60s librarian haircut served up wifey's lunch. Fuck around in a foodie town and find yourself picking pork rinds and pickled radishes out of your 'lobster roll'.
The last day there I went full tourist. Whale watching and swimming with dolphins, their babies no bigger than my house cat-so close I could hear their little baby blow holes. I watched an adorable seal brutally mutilate and eat some poor sea creature, and let that be my consolation for not seeing any puffins. And though I was warned by highway signs to be on the lookout for them, I did not see a single moose. Maybe next time...
Friday, September 2, 2016
#FBF
I first noticed my imminent adulthood in an abandoned hospital bathroom. I had a cousin who contracted spinal meningitis as a toddler and my parents funded the majority of his recovery. During this time I spent most of my weekends with my grandmother at the children's hospital while my parents were away. I stayed bored and often found myself exploring places I probably shouldn't have been. One day I took what was left of my amputated kin along for the ride. I pushed his wheelchair into a wing of the hospital that had been closed for years. The walls were a sickly green, decorated with mosaics haphazardly glued by special needs children years ago. The halls smelled of stale sickness, and every step I took brought a tinny echo back to me. Our voices seemed like screams in the vacant halls. And even though it would be a while before I saw a place like this in the movies, I still felt a fear that something wicked could jump from any shadow. I realized I had to use the bathroom and just left him and his wheelchair outside of the avocado green bathroom door. It was there that I looked down and saw the most vile thing that could've ever happened in that wing. There they were, two, maybe three of them--course and black against the pale baby skin of my pubic bone. I couldn't stop looking at them. I knew what it meant but didn't know what it meant next. I didn't want to touch them for fear they would fall out, and I couldn't tell anyone because--well, because. I know I stood in that old bathroom for 20 minutes while my invalid cousin sat outside the door--legless, probably terrified or in excruciating pain. When I finally got myself together and came out, I told him I was shitting. He giggled all the way back to his room. When we were asked what we were doing for so long, he looked at me and said we had gone to the fountain outside. He thought he was keeping a grown up secret--that I had cursed, or maybe that I had shit. But what he didn't know is that he was helping me hold on to my childhood.
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