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flea market finds and thieving husbands

i loved this pillow so much.  i saw it at the flea market where i got the booze bottles, and it had a small chewed up hole on one corner.  obviously someone’s dog thought it was charming too.  🙂  they sold it off for only a quarter, while the woman yelled at me that insulators are for receiving lightning so your house doesn’t burn up. OK!  i mean, she actually yelled at me.  i should have made her drop the price to a dime just for being rude.  but it was hot out, and her table was directly in the sun with no tent or awning, so i’m sure it was the heat that was making her bitchy…errr…enthusiastic.

i cut an Ikea shopping bag in two and made the halves into ‘purse pillows’ cause i thought they looked so cute together.  now she looks like a thoroughly distressed shopper who just missed the sale of the decade.  or discovered her husband left her and took her favorite Kate Spade purse on accident.

(by the by, the chair – though not well pictured – was also a steal.  found a set of them, old parlour chairs, at a Goodwill for only 6.00 each.  i plan to redo the fabric.  you can’t see how cute the shape is, but they are CHARMING!)

Minor Rebellion # 5: ‘children playing’

this kid doesn't look all that slow to me...

The end of summer is drawing near, and while the sky is a beautiful clear blue, I have selected a short sleeved sweatshirt top and shorts for my outfitting.  Despite what people think of Southern California, there is fog in the morning, bursts of rain in the fall, and an occassional blustery wind sweeping through from a blazing forest fire somewhere in the hills.  It’s best to be prepared for sudden chills at the beginning of fall.

Plus, the area I am playing in today is shady with trees and the sun hasn’t found its way in through the foliage cover.  But that is fine with me.  I’m feeling a little secretive today anyway.  My friend – Mary – has asked me over for a long last day of freedom before our new school year begins, and we have to start worrying about geography, vocabulary and math issues.  And so, having dined on egg-salad sandwiches and lemonade, we now find ourselves lumbering around the street a few blocks from Mary’s house.

The street is quiet.

Must be all the old people are still at work.

Mary and I sit on the sidewalk and talk about important, life changing issues, like that cute boy Paul Mayasich, whom I am almost in love with.  We find sticks to fling at the bushes and make kazoos out of blades of grass.  The thrilling days of summer wind to an end and we are solemn in our longing for more vacation time.  Suddenly I am struck with a lightning bolt of brilliance, convinced I have found a way to give us both that last boost of adrenaline we will desperately need to start another boring, confining and exhausting school year.

I lead Mary to the middle of the road and sit with her in the street.  It’s a residential street, not a busy highway.  There aren’t six lanes of traffic, or even a Tastee-Freeze at the corner.  It’s just a neighborhood block.  Still, cars come down the street, drivers eager to reach their homes after a long and annoying work day.  But before they arrive home for the night, they encounter us, sitting Indian style in the shade of the trees.

It takes them a minute to notice us…they weren’t really expecting anything out of the ordinary, and we are in the shade after all.  They slow down, of course, these aren’t homicidal maniacs here – just average working class folk, on their way home and irritated at two stupid children playing in the middle of the street.  But they slow down, instead of mowing us over, and honk their horns with a stern, scolding look that tells me they have children of their own.

Slowly, with great effort and much drama, Mary and I get up off the asphalt.  We look them dead in the eyes.  We let our jaws drop slack, and roll our eyes in the back of our heads.  We flail our arms and make strange gargling noises, heads lolling around like they are not at all attached in any way.  We lumber toward the cars with our outstretched arms, our intentions unclear, but perhaps an afternoon snack is on the agenda.

And one after the other, each driver looks at us with wide, unbelieving eyes.  You might think they are just shaking their heads, rolling their eyes because we are stupid kids being stupid kids.  Personally, I think they are fear stricken and headed home in terror, because they have quietly wet themselves in the car.  Another successful Zombie attack to write down in my diary…

accidental happiness…stardate 9.3.2010

gorgeous walk this morning!  i am such a FALL person.  (ok, true i used to have better balance and awareness of my surroundings, and now i trip and stumble all the time.  but i’m actually talking about AUTUMN)

the sky was beautiful, it wasn’t twenty-seven-thousand degrees like it has been all summer, and it was windy.windy.windy.   yummm, fall is coming!  interesting that the severe humidity we had this summer made lichen grow on many of the trees.  now most of the trees on my walk are covered in fur, like they decided that fuzzy green bathrobes were the look this season.  even my favorite little guy Poncho is sporting the look a little.  this was the third hottest summer in my city, and the humidity made my walks impossible more often than i wished.  but today made up for it.  leaves scattered on the ground, confetti after a park party the squirrels must have thrown.  they are always getting into mischief.  and i saw a bird gliding in the air, sort of thumbing his nose at the world, that he had the day off from work and could just meander around in the clouds, casually cruising the sky.  of course, birds don’t really have thumbs.  i’m not sure if it was a crow or a hawk, it was so high up in the air i thought it must be a hawk, being as huge as it was.  but i couldn’t see great from where i was.  either way, a welcome start to what i hope will be a good day.

saving my life…

This is the intro and first chapter to the autobiography I am writing:…

I didn’t intend to have this illness, this MEN-ITIS that I’ve had all my life. When I was a girl people called me boy crazy, which made me laugh. When I was a teen people called me fickle, which was probably – well, certainly true. When I was in my twenties people called me a tease, which was mean. But sometimes accurate, because though I didn’t intend to, I did in fact send out mixed messages. I was trying to be good, trying to behave. I was going to be a virgin when I got married. But what can I say? I love men.

Men are fabulous and fascinating, dark and dirty, intoxicating, impossible, and sometimes just plain idiots. And I love them. They have brought me laughter and pain, they have delighted and devastated me, but through all of the ups and downs of loving men, one thing I can say for sure – they have kept me alive.

Oh for sure, some of them have tried to kill me. Or at least threatened to do so. So it hasn’t all been hearts and kittens in my dealings with the opposite sex. But because of my predilection for falling in love, I have been able to withstand a strange, wobbly, sometimes bizarre life, and come out fairly balanced.

Some people survive their difficult experiences with the help of religion. Some with alcohol. People use sports and gambling, sex and drugs, and sometimes overcoming issues to overcome their issues. Everyone needs something. My vice of choice has been love. Not lots of love, as in I’m a porn star. Or too much love, as in sex-addict. Just falling-in-love, which though up until now has not produced my better half, has nonetheless undeniably saved my life.


Chapter 1 ~ My First Kiss

If my life had been a reality show, and people could have decided which early childhood experience would set me on the path of infatuation and adoration of the male being, I imagine most of the votes would go toward:

A. My First Kiss. I suppose some viewers might choose B: May 18, which is my birthday. These would be New-Agers, who know that being born in May makes me a Taurus (sensual) and being born on the 18th of May makes me the horniest of all people (look it up). Still others might choose C: born in the year 1969. After all, the sixties were all about love. Free love, group love, experimental love, all kinds of love (and don’t pretend you didn’t notice the significance of my particular year of birth). But the correct answer, and the one with 90% of the votes I’m sure, would have been A. My first Kiss.

My first kiss was incredible; the stuff movies are made of. Magical, romantic and thoroughly imaginative. I don’t profess to have a great memory. I do, in fact, have a dissociative disorder – meaning that when I got into situations, experiences or environments that overwhelmed me as a kid, or perhaps involved emotions I couldn’t understand or process, well I just removed that information. I’d grab up the situation at hand and tuck it into a corner of my mind. Or sweep it under the bed of my brain, hide it in the bottom of my drawer of thoughts, or sometimes just toss it into the bin of bad ideas. This is incredibly helpful when you are a small person and living in a chaotic household. Not so helpful when you are older and are trying to remember various details in life. Some times of my life I just don’t remember. Things I’ve done, people I knew and may have hurt, or facts I should know just can’t be recalled and seem to be erased from my memory bank.

But not the kiss. The first kiss I remember. I’ll always remember.

I’m five years old and a sort of free spirited child. My older sister Angie has a thing for this boy Dan, and while Dan’s okay it’s his brother Monty that I have my baby blues set on. Lucky for me Angie and Dan are sort of sweethearts, which means every day we get to play together and the chance of me running into his brother is greater because of it. Dan is about my sister’s age – just two years older than I am – but Monty is twice my age. I’m already five years old, and he is the sexy older boy at a whopping ten. Oh, the allure of dangerous men!

We all live in the same large apartment complex, with its identical little homes all promising conformity, their outer brick skins suggesting protection and safety as well. Untended mounds of dirt and pits of unfinished construction work sit in the sun like abandoned toys. There are fabulous areas to roam and play at this apartment. There is a playground with swing sets, bars, wide open spaces and a merry go round. There are tennis courts that seem marvelously mature and forbidden, and a swimming pool always full of scantily clad beings and hyperactive children. I love the smell of the pool, with all the suntan lotions and sun-kissed bodies. The big fashion statement right now is crocheted bikinis with little peek-a-boo cutouts in the butt or on the breast. The girl in the red bikini has a little heart shaped hole on her butt, where her tanned skin pokes out, winking scandalously at all the boys. Some of the girls have butterflies or suns that are carved out of the fabric, and I wonder how the material stays together around it. Shouldn’t it come unraveled right around the empty hole? And what would everyone do when that happened, when her little boobies are suddenly flying in front of everyone, or her one ass cheek is hanging in the wind with a tiny tan heart on a bare white bottom. The radio sings Afternoon Delight while all the boys in sight dream of little freed boobies, and the warm noisy atmosphere tastes like summer.

 But today I am not at the pool, I am at the playground, where all of us kids like to hang around and work on burning off our sugar high from breakfasts of Cocoa Puffs, Count Chocula or Fruity Pebbles. There is also the delightful Cap’n Crunch with Cruchberries, which leaves a strange ripped up feeling on the roof of my mouth, but tastes like heaven. I will discover later in life that I am allergic to strawberries, and wonder if it was the juice from the delicious berries that caused this uncomfortable flayed feeling after a delicious bowl. But for now, I revel in the sweetness and ignore my mouth of ribboned flesh.

We are playing around with something. Monty and I are over at the jungle gym (or monkey-bars, I don’t know where you live so I’m not sure what you called them growing up). He is being a show off on the bars, and I laugh, eyes wide and full of admiration for his reckless abandon and masculine strength. I pretend to be busy with other things, but I can’t help watching him out of the corner of my eye; he’s so cute. My grandmother would probably say his dark hair is too long and shaggy, but in 1974 he is very much current with the styles of the day. Anyway, Gramma always appreciated a good head of hair on a man, so I think she’d find a way to forgive him. Is Monty calling me over to talk to him? Or is it just that I can’t ignore the pull of the male essence? Perhaps it is the light breeze blowing on my skin and the sound of the leaves on the trees rustling, banging up against one another in a little frenzy of leaf ecstasy that makes me stare at him so intently. Something draws me to Monty, and I find myself standing in front of him, while he continues to show off for me, now hanging upside down in a gravity defying, high wire, trapeze artist kind of way. And then suddenly, he is pulling me to him and planting a big fat kiss on my lips while he dangles upside down.

Very romantic. Very sexy. Very Spiderman, super-hero kind of moment, and if you don’t get the reference there’s another fun thing for you to look up besides the astrological significance of my birthday. Now with all of that involved in my very first kiss – the amazing energy, the age difference, the creative positioning and the playfulness behind it all – how can I help it? How can I resist? With a first kiss like that, it is virtually impossible for me to escape a life of incorrigible boy chasing and villainous man admiration. This kiss has changed my life forever, and set my feet on a particular path, and like the prince waking Sleeping Beauty with a soft press of lips, so has this boy whispered the secret of life into the mouth of a small and wounded little girl.