dates and disaster

The motorcycle was broken. I picked up the carburetor from the bike shop last week, breaking up the knot of burly salesmen and making them nervous by thumbing through a sluts-on-wheels calendar while the mechanic brought the part up. Yesterday, my mom wiped the grease off her hands and handed me my helmet instead of offering to test drive the bike with me. "Go for a ride with your husband." I no longer bother reminding people that he's not my husband; it's like complaining that your relatives still call you "baby". 

It's been a few years since I've been on the back of the bike. Mike patted my leg as we pulled onto the main road, and for a moment I imagined him patting his Bakersfield girlfriend's leg and had the sudden urge to grab him by the collar and throw him off the bike. Tipped back my head and smelled the wind, instead; barbecued chicken, horses, fields of cows, winter, ocean. We pulled off at the beach and walked onto the sand to look for the resident seal and pup. The beach was eerily empty, and the moon sat above Alau island like it had been hung there.

We drove on, and pulled over up the road where people with cameras stood behind a white rope. The seal pup was resting its nose on a log, its mother having just left it for the first time in seven weeks. "There are only a hundred in the islands, this is the first live birth we've had in 12 years!" The naturalists were excited, but the lonely baby made me anxious to return home. We drove back over the roaring river as the sky went pink and starry.

Then I learned that two of my patrons had been washed away during the rains on Thanksgiving night.

Article here.

Their vehicle was found mangled in a river bed near our house, their bodies lost. The same flooded river that claimed their nephew 10 years ago - also on a Thanksgiving night.

I had an intrusive thought, imagining the onlookers back at the beach, documenting the return of the mama monk seal, their happy whispers turning to screams as they zoomed in on the human arm in her teeth. Oh god, I'm a ghoul, I thought.

Today I returned my mother to the airport. Drove away alone, feeling sad. The roads were wet, and the dark spots on the pavement looked like an enormous skull as I passed over them. A tree had fallen across the road into the left lane, just by the sea cliffs. I nervously drove under the trunk, into high winds that broke branches and bamboo. The waterfalls were raging, and a fog rolled in. It smelled like snow, and I unrolled the windows to listen for landslides, grateful for the moon through the scraps of fog. Frightening weather. I thought about my lost patrons and their grieving families. I hope they find them soon.

Thanksbirthday 09

Yesterday

Pulled aside for two cops who were winding their way to town to reinforce the taut cord of civility behind which holiday madness lurked with rolling eyes and frothy mouth. I met a bit of said madness outside the strip mall where I sat eating a manapua at lunch, poking idly at my phone while a homeless man tried out different pet names for me until I picked up my drink and trotted away with a wave.

At dusk I threw my shopping into the trunk and collapsed in a booth at Krispy Kreme to suck down a cup of decaf and play with the free internet until my mom's flight arrived. "You're missing an eye!" she yelped as I pulled up. An absurdly young teenage clerk at Checker talked us into buying two headlights instead of just the one. I could not say no; he hadn't given me that sad car-savvy-man-face when it took me five minutes scrabbling around to find the lever to pop the hood. He had cheered.

My mother spun stories into the darkness as we drove home along the cliffs; crashed ships and escaped bodies and metal plates. I need to keep writing them down before they slip away.

Today

Quiet pre-dawn house, whispers and kisses, pattering feet and burbling coffee pot. The man-person whisked fresh hollandaise, I cut tomatoes and basil, my mom made chocolate royal icing from scratch. We drank two bottles of wine and ate ourselves into couch-stupors before the turkey was even in the oven.







The turkey kept us poking at it for 6 hours before deciding it was ready. We curled on the boy's bed to wait. "Mmmm, my hands smell like sage," said my mom. Gavin sniffed them and made an appreciative squeak, snuggling up to her neck. "Granny," he said tenderly, "Your face smells like age, too."

We descended upon the big table like wolves with cutlery, Gavin throwing up toasts to the broccoli casserole every few minutes against the chorus of classical Christmas music. The feast was idyllic, except that the rolls showed up completely smashed. Jerks.



I wanted to get pictures of the pumpkin-rum- and chocolate-pecan pies, but by the time I remembered, they looked like someone ate them with their face.

Also, the official Birthday Outfit was in action. With wizard sleeves. Fancy.



The storms have swept back in, shaking the house with thunder and lulling the household to sleep with the sussurus of rain on the leaky roof. Let's go, then, holidays.

no bling

Favorite pastimes in New York include hanging out at the Palisades Mall, counting teens in hoodies with gold foil dollar signs while making alternating trips into the Lindt store for free samples. This year the boy will fit right in. Note the small child wedged between my knees, which is my standard productivity position.

  

 Ta da! *fanfare of tinkling pennies*

 

14 hour blackout!

It was a dark and rainy day. I hid at the back desk.

Then - rain, thunder, roaring ocean! The library patrons froze like rabbits as the power flickered and died. We chased the rabbits out into the rain and locked the place down. On the way home, a soggy cop dragged a tree off the road and gestured for our cars to follow him, driving through flash floods and waiting for the rest of our sissy vehicles to make it safely through the waters.

We gathered all the stinky decorative candles and hid from the lightning under the couch blanket and told stories of Before You Were Born until the boys fell asleep and left us to read by booklight. (That last sentence is for Cormac McCarthy, who hates punctuation as much as he hates unicorns and puppy dogs - except to eat.)

I dreamed of light.

New stash

Adam Rex is growing a mustache for charity - get over there and give the man money. Don't do it for the kids, do it for me. I want to see the mustache.

I don't have any money, but I grew my own mustache in solidarity.

I expect this is a fairly accurate depiction as to the outcome of Adam Rex's 'stash.

Halloween 2009

Another magical holiday comes to a close.

We arrived in town, pulled the kids from the car, jammed the baby's hat back on his head, and Mike dropped his pants and put on elf trousers in the parking lot behind the hotel laundry. Mr. Ferrell he was not; he had accidentally sewed the wrong parts of the legs together, had a mishap with the hat band, and didn't manage to get any buttons on the jacket, but it was dark and his bits were all covered, so we counted it a success. (Though he did almost get thrown out a window for seaming the pants with my special metallic gold quilting thread.)

Our friends arrived, and the children took off ahead of us as we walked into the subdivision. The entire town turned out; the school kids giving me the hairy eyeball for appearing without my librarian disguise and skirting warily around the man-elf. Leif was unconvinced about the trick-or-treat bit, but dug around in his bucket and temporarily forgot to rip the hat off and beat me around the face with it. The streets were crowded with princesses, super heroes, and adults with beer holsters. We followed the kids up the two streets and back down them again, finished too soon, and went home to roll in the candy. That's how it goes in a small town.

I went over the pictures to see if my lazy supposed-to-be-ironic Twilight vampire sparkles had shown up, and saw that Mike had taken a bunch of pictures of some tart in a wig. Realized it was me.

I suppose Sandra Lee is about as scary as sparkly vampires. Oh well.

Not as fun as a night at my mom's house, but better than the year in the California apartment going door-to-door to sex predators and drunk college kids. The first kid is the practice one anyway; we should get it right by the time the second one makes permanent memories.