SALON 2

I got my hair done again today, a stunning shade of dark chocolate with impudent streaks of red and purple. My stylist, Allison, is a very nice girl who is in her early 20s and she enjoys doing goofy shit with my hair. She is never fazed when I tell her what I am thinking I would like, even though it can be chemically daunting. She works quickly, doesn't talk my ear off, and is not offended when I would rather read a magazine or a book than talk.

I also listen.

Today's loose lips in clear, loud tones for all to hear:

• The lady with the long and very very very revoltingly-detailed story about why she needed a hysterectomy, and the surgical complications;
• The wedding party that discussed the penis and testicle size of the groom, the birth control method of the bride and her three bridesmaids, the merits of beach intercourse, and the groom's drunken grandmother;
• The salon owner, who snipped and sniped about the wedding party and their cheapness in tipping the assistants;
• The Midwest transplant women, who said she was going to claim lots of flood damage for her Michigan cabin, even though she had few items there;
• The salon owner, again, who complained bitterly that a local client of some notoriety blogged about how much she hated the salon owner's small dog being there in the shop that she urged people to go elsewhere;
  
• The salon owner's younger sister, bragging about a new boyfriend when the salon owner was in the back.

Listening > talking. I'm gonna keep saying it.

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CREEPS

The same summer as the rollerskating incident, I hung out a lot at Margaret's. She was almost two years older than me, had a brother a year younger than me, and a little sister about three years younger than that. Her mother, a busty tall redhead, was a long-divorced woman in her 30s, having had Margaret as a teenager. I found their family completely fascinating, the opposite of my mom-dad-brother-sister live-in-a-house deal. They moved from apartment to apartment, the kids were unsupervised and everyone smoked except for the littlest. I was awed at this total freedom Margaret had. To be able to smoke in front of her mom when I was 13? Stunning. They were all so much more loose than my family, not always in a bad way. They were so comfortable, not uptight, talked about everything. I was accepted as a member of their little tribe.

But, of course, you get a bunch of unsupervised teenagers together in a big apartment complex in the summer, and shit's gonna go down. That's what they do, teens, they do shit that goes down.

So one night we were all gathered in a ratty pack, various boys and girls, looking for something fun, a.k.a stupid, to do. We ended up in the storage area, where there were rows of chicken-wire cages holding peoples' various extra junk. I spotted a case of Budweiser, and pointed, soundlessly. All eyes saw, all eyebrows went up. Margaret's brother went over to the door of the locker, pulled on it -- padlocked. Fortunately, although not for the owner of the Budweisers, there was a more resourceful and criminally-minded soul in the group, who ran back to his apartment to procure a wire cutter. Ooh. Serious. Giggle. Beer. Shit!

A look-out was posted at the door while Junior Burglar worked on the chicken-wire. In a few minutes, he had made a total mess out of one side of the unit, scratching himself bloody in the process. Margaret's little sister was then enlisted to squeeze under the wire that had been cut and lifted. She did, flat on her little elementary belly, and rolled out 24 cans of beer, one by one to our waiting hands, finally pushing the cardboard case through, then herself out. SCORE!

The beer was placed back in the case, with two of the boys holding a side, as we got the hell outta Dodge and went over by some tall grass by the dumpsters to drink our evil-gotten brews. Margaret's sister was offered one for her help, but refused. We drank and laughed and drank, mainly high on the thrill of the steal, beer cans littering the ground.

It was then decided that we would all go swimming in the apartment complex pool in our clothes. It was supposed to be closed but the rule was never enforced. All the lights were off as we jumped in, one by one, howling and pushing. After a few minutes, we saw some men coming towards the pool from a different part of the complex. Shiiiit. Busted, we thought. Everyone got out of the pool and sat, sopping wet trying to dry off in the hot and humid night air. As the men grew closer, the sight of them got more curious. Instead of the expected Mad Adults, here were a bunch of guys, maybe in their 40s, beer guts, in robes and boxers, smoking More cigarettes. Three of them were carrying bottles of wine. Hmmm. HMMMM. We all fell silent.

The main guy, who looked like Porky Pig in a smoking jacket, came over and sat down by us. He started making small talk: "Hey, looks like you guys are up for some fun tonight, huh? Cool." His squinty eyes disappeared further as a slow icky smile went across his fat ruddy face. He started offering cigarettes to us all, which we took. He smiled again, as he lit them for us, one by one. More bottles of wine appeared, shared by the men, and swigs offered to us all. I saw Little Sister take a gulp of red wine.

Two of The Men decide a swim is in order. They both strip naked. WHOA. WHOA. WHOA. They laugh and call us to come in. No one does. But everyone keeps drinking and smoking, and Porky's smile gets wider and slimier. Porky offers us weed to come back to his apartment and "party." My heart is starting to beat faster, TROUBLE ALERT. When Porky strips down right in front of us, that's it. No more. To his protestations, one by one we get up, still wet, stumble out of the pool gate and run like hell up the hill to the other side of the complex.

Creeps.

Gratefully escaped.

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DUDE 5

The whole little BMX bike and backpack look weren't working for you, Mr. Mid-30's Guy.

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THEDRIVEROFSEVILLE

Driving go stop go stop go stop
Dirty white Seville in front of me
Dreamcatcher hanging from the rearview
Weaving lurching stopping stopped
Two yellow ribbon decals on the bumper
Half torn off, half faded away

Underneath the license plate
In small lowercase letters
It says “who are you”
And I smile
Well, who are you
Who are you

He’s eating a hot dog
He’s got wild hair
He wants to bring them home safely
And hold on to his wishes
He drives with his knees
And likes to conserve water

I’m drinking a coffee
My hair is blowing in the wind
I don’t believe there’s safety
And I fed-ex my dreams
I drive with one hand
And am made of mostly water

He drives to the right
I drive to the left
The smell of that hot dog
Drifts back through my car
He’s driving down the highway
I'm singing, who who, who who.

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HA 5

I had no idea why the grandpa dropping off his little grandson at camp was giving me a dirty look, until I realized I had "Closer" by NIN blaring out of my car windows. HA HA! WHOOPS!

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NERDS 2

After some thought, I have come to the conclusion that at points in my life, I have been a bit of a nerd. Yes, you read that right, ME COOL COOL ME, yes I think it is possible that there were stretches where I was not altogether totally in with the in crowd. I have my reasons. For one, I am a damn genius. Right here, right now, check it out, OH YES. I don’t know any really truly cool geniuses. They are all nerds underneath, even with the right clothes on and good hair and the perfect amount of aloofness. Secondly, I like reading books about grammar and neurological abnormalities and dogs. And I still can occasionally blush, stammer, and wallflower. I reluctantly accept that I have a chunk of nerd to me. Alright. OK. Huh.

I see discrete differences, however, in the distinctions between a nerd, a dork, and a geek, outlined below for your reading ease:

• Nerd: the top-end of the Nerd Spectrum Disorder, the nerd, as noted in Paragraph 1, has some number of uncoolnesses to him or her. All nerds have a book problem. They are the ones who coined and use the awful phrase, “So many books, so little time.” Most will wear glasses, or fake out with contacts, but will get a little panicky if, like the guy in that episode of The Twilight Zone (which I think was Burgess Meredith which is a really nerdy name), they lose or break their glasses which prevents them from being able to read books and dense periodicals. Nerds may be very very cool in places, but always have that touch of fail to them. Nerds can be movers and shakers, or immobile and shaky. It’s a good time to be a nerd, because of the high-tech industry and cultural acceptance of nerds like Jimmy Kimmel and Sarah Silverman, Barbara Walters, and Barack Obama.

• Dork: next step down, the Dork is more hopeless than the Nerd. The Dork is lacking the cover mechanisms of the Nerd; he or she has no taste in clothes, may not even notice what is in fashion or out, probably drives a ’91 Civic, shamelessly carries gaming magazines around in public, and usually looks a bit like a deer in the headlights. The Dork has that sort of stunned, glazed look like someone just beaned him in the head with a tetherball, with the tetherball cord wrapping around his body directly afterwards. The sound for this would be: DORK!whipwhipwhipwhipwhipwhipwhip. Hence the name, “Dork.” Dorks are bright folks, generally, and can be quite funny and wonderful, but the cool factor…nah. Famous Dorks: David Letterman, Ellen Degeneres, Abraham Lincoln.

• Geek: the lowest level of diagnosis here, the Geek, is unredeemable in total lack of cool. There is just nothing to be done with the Geek, other than to just let him or her go and try to rule the world, or sit in a basement obsessing over model trains or binary code or butterfly specimens or the ramifications of untreated household mold on the human respiratory system. Now, one could argue that the Geek, by not only not caring but having zero awareness for such things as fashion, culture, or common social interaction, is the coolest of the cool, the Ultimate Punk. What makes the Geek the Geek is the likelihood that they will have several of these factors in place: halitosis, greasy self-cut hair, food on chin, donkey bray laugh, afraid of kittens, spittle in corner of mouth, over- or undertalkative, claims to never watch TV or is a writer for TV Guide, picks everything off their food until is it oatmeal-like, would like to vacation in Williamsburg every year, falls when walking. Some well-know Geeks are Bill Gates, Ralph Nader, and Brad Pitt.

Alright. I lied. I am not really a genius, just a Subgenius. Was that cool of me to admit, or am I a dork now?

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MOM 2

I swear to god, she didn't take a breath in-between words for like a good 15 minutes. I went to the bathroom and everything, too.

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THEVERYBESTTHING

Palms only slightly open, only slightly ready
fists unclenched for only a second
the skin, pink and firm
head line entwined with heart line
life line fading, breaking
palms only slightly open, only slightly ready

For the very best thing to drop into them
caught! clasping by instinct, fingers grasping
held in hands
what
is
this?
cautiously peering, wondering, touching, looking
laying right there, palms wide open

How did it get here?
where did it come from?
surely it was meant for someone else?
is it real?
strong, solid, yet floats with a touch
does this exist?
does this happen?
the very best thing?

Palms sweating, heart beating
fingers shaking, hands turning
the very best thing
over and over, peering, wondering, touching, looking
feeling
knowing

but

Surely it was meant for someone else
the very best thing
fingers releasing, hands dropping
palms folding, fists clenching
head line entwined with heart line
life line crossed.

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GUITAR

I first tried to play guitar when I was three, on a trip to visit my cousins in Indiana. One of them had a nylon-string acoustic and I was so excited by this I spent a literal day trying to play it; didn't want to eat, didn't want to go out and play, no nap either. I sat there on a big fluffy chair and tried and tried and tried. as everyone went about their business. My teeny fingers got teeny blisters, then bled, and I still tried until it hurt too much to play. I finally sadly figured this instrument, as completely cool as it was, was simply too hard to learn.

Then when I was 14, my friends and I were preparing for the junior high talent show. An idiot I knew named Shaun got up with his guitar and passably played and sang some tune which I now do not recall. What I do recall is thinking, "If THAT dumbass can play guitar, then I KNOW I can." I begged my dad for an acoustic guitar, got a Beatles songbook, toughed out the blisters, and before you know it, I could play "Yellow Submarine."

So thank you, Idiot Shaun, for being an inspirational force in my life. You never know.

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ROADTRIP

It's summer. Summer always makes me want to get in a car and just GO. There is really nothing better than having some decent chunk of time, a tank of gas and a map, and no agenda. Just start driving. ROADTRIP!

I am, I should make clear, NOT talking about roadtrips with children. Or at least roadtrips with my particular children. They start out to be good-intentioned adventures and quickly degrade into backseat bickering, fast-food spillage, a desperate hunt for a clean bathroom because one of them has to GO RIGHT NOW, and hauling them around to places that at least one of them absolutely hates. Those sorts of roadtrips are exhausting affairs and must be worked up to every few years.

No, the best kind of roadtrip is taken with just two: two great friends or one harmonious couple. A convertible is the preferred vehicle to have, but not totally necessary. There is just something fabulous about saying "Where do you want to go?" and answering "I HAVE NO IDEA!" and giggling as you hit the interstate. You see the country from a whole different perspective when you are not traveling for any purpose other than to maybe see some new stuff and spend some time together. Your eyes open up to the small details, and the pressures of daily life fade away. You pull over and find somewhere to eat when you are hungry, find a motel to sleep at when you are tired. If some weird little shop looks cool you can check it out, you can even pull over and watch some local Little Leaguers battle it out in some tiny town. You can dip your toes in a clear cool river, watch a movie in some big city you've never been in before, and eat some really fabulous triple-berry pie in a diner run by the Amish. You can just keep riding down the road, listening to music, and talk and talk.

If you have never been on a proper roadtrip, I hope that you do sometime. It's pretty damn cool.

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PARADE

It's true. My enthusiasm for watching parades is at an all-time low. Maybe it is because I no longer care about the candy being thrown from slow-moving convertibles by local government candidates. I skipped ours today, instead catching up on the much-needed sleep that I so frequently whine about.

The one I never missed was the one by our home in Denver. We lived for 7 years or so in a tall 2-story brown brick mock Tudor right around the corner from Observatory Park, near the University of Denver campus. The schedule and events to the parade were always exactly the same: begin at 10AM, with the VA band playing the Star Spangled Banner, the neighborhood association selling Otter Pops and sodas, and the Lining Up Of The Participants. The only participants of this popular parade were children on bikes, skates, scooters, motorized Barbie cars, wagons, babies in strollers, and dogs. Adults were there to watch over the shaky new bikers, push the strollers, and yank the dogs back into line if they got feisty. Everyone decorated their wheels and themselves in patriotic gear, and everyone got a ribbon. The parade route was exactly one city block long, and the children would ride in a long oval around until everyone decided they had had enough in the hot 90+-degree sun.

When we moved there, that first year, I had one new biker and a dog in the parade. A year later, I had a more-confident biker, and a baby in a stroller, and a dog. Five years after that, I had an impudently-overconfident biker, a petulant preschooler in sunglasses pulled in a wagon, a baby in a stroller, a dog, and another dog, who was a friend of my dog. Then we moved out of the neighborhood. July 4th came around again and we all missed the neighborhood parade. I suppose we could've gone anyway as refugee suburban participants, but we didn't.

But I neglected to mention the VERY BEST part of the whole thing. After the parade, and the intake of Otter Pops, everyone waited until they heard IT. A siren. The Denver Fire Pumper Truck, blaring away, lights flashing, would pull up alongside the playground of the park, connect to the water, and threw what seemed like zillions of gallons of ice cold water high high high into the sky, raining down on us all, soaking everything to sopping wet, making everyone scream and run. You have never seen so many happy kids and grown-ups and shaking-fur dogs leaping about in all your life. Someone would get hit with a huge plop of heavy water and screech, grinning like a big fool, while others tried to outrun the sprays, usually failing.

After a good 15 minutes or so of this, the fire truck would reel everything in again and return to the fire house, with a grateful round of applause given by the bedraggled folks. I would round up the kids, walk back to the house, stripping off the wet clothes on the back porch. We'd make a picnic lunch, sit outside to dry off. The dog, thrilled at her water adventure, would sleep the rest of the day.

Happy Independence Day, readers.

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ROLLERSKATES

Who doesn't like the idea of being able to glide around on wheels? It is a grand thought, to be able to skate around all day long like a graceful ice princess while you do the dishes and such. The closest I have seen to anyone achieving this is the whole Heelies thing. I know that even if they do make them for adults, I would clomp around in them rather than sleekly skim around my kitchen, and the whole effortless thing would just be a total loss. There are reasons that I think this way.

I got my first pair of rollerskates when I was about four, I think, those blue and orange and yellow plastic Fisher-Price ones, which I quickly grew out of. My mother had bought some ancient metal skates at a rummage sale -- the kind you adjusted with a key! -- so those were next. They always fell off my feet with a great clatter as I attempted to master them skating around in circles on the concrete floor of the basement. I was determined to be free of the effort of walking.

Then came the roller disco era. Now, I hated disco, of course I did, but this was what I was handed so I had to deal. I got a pair of light brown Adidas-looking shoe skates with yellow wheels, considered quite hip at the time. My friend Margaret was dating a guy named Art, and his band was going to play the Waukesha roller rink, and I was going to go, hoping of course there would be a cute guy in the band to fall in love with.

The evening of the roller gig, Margaret and I tarted ourselves up at her mom's apartment: big wide bell low-rise jeans, peasanty-type shirts, light blue eye shadow and globs of Great Lash mascara, Love's Musky Jasmine perfume, and assorted cheap jewelry we had shoplifted from the local drugstore. We met Art and the band in the parking lot behind the rink as it was just starting to get dark. Now, Art was quite the '70s looker, he was skinny with long straight blonde hair and looked like Shaun Cassidy with somewhat of an acne issue. I think he was an older man, something like 17. I had my eyes on the drummer with dark curly hair and the Qiana shirt open to mid-bare-chest. I believe some weed and cans of Pabst were about.

Margaret and I helped the band bring in their equipment while kids started to filter into the rink. I felt pretty damn special, although Margaret was the queen because Art was the lead singer. I kept checking out the drummer, and the bassist, a quiet tall blue-eyed boy, seemed to be checking out me. As the band started, we stood over to the side and watched and danced, as girls were to do. The band was not too good, I thought, but no matter -- this was still cool. The kids and teens and a few adults went around and around the rink with the disco ball reflecting bursts of light over everyone.

When the band finished their first set, we all put on our skates -- me in my cool new shoe skates -- and got on the rink. My years of constricted practice in the basement had at least gotten me to the point where I didn't fall down very much, and I could get going pretty damn fast. The problem was, which I didn't realize at first, was that when I pushed to start going faster, I would throw my left leg out hard. The rink was jammed, and as I kept pushing and dodging people, I began to realize I was knocking people over with that kicked-out leg. Oooooopsie. I was altered enough to think this incredibly funny. BAM! Down went a kid. BAM! Down went a teen couple holding hands. BAM! Another little kid. HAHAHAH!

When it was time for the band to start their second set, I left the rink, clomping on the carpet. I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. I looked up. A very unhappy, very big man with a rink t-shirt was looking down at me. By his side was an angry mom-looking woman and a pouting boy. The man spoke.

"You've been deliberately knocking down children out there!"

I was immediately on the defense. "No! That is not true! I didn't do anything! It's crowded!"

"You are going to have to leave for the night, miss."

"WHAT??? NO! NO! I am with the band, I need to go over there!"

"OUT. NOW."

Shit! He was not kidding, and I was feeling like I had better not press the point. I tried to see over the crowds of skaters to try to get Margaret's attention, but no luck. The rink guy stood over me as I took off my skates and put on my wobbly Famolare sandals, and escorted my humilated ass out the front door to the parking lot. SHIT!

I immediately went to the back where we had been, and pounded on the door. It was locked and the band was loud enough that no one was going to hear me. Nothing to do but wait. I sat down on the asphalt, pulled a Newport out of my purse and lit it with my red Bic, and angrily smoked away, the puffs drifting into the orange glow of the parking lot street lamps.

After what seemed to be hours, the back door opened and the band started bringing out their equipment. I snared Art and asked him where Margaret was. As it turned out, while I was clocking people on the rink, he and Margaret were having a blow-out fight by the concession area. He got all red-faced telling me this, and didn't look quite as handsome as I thought he was before. I got the gist that she had run out the front door, so I ran all away around the building again to try to find her before it got much later and I would be stuck walking back to her place alone in the dark on my stupid heels. Lucky for me, she hadn't gone far; she was down a little further in the strip mall where the rink was, leaning against the dry cleaning shop, smoking and crying. She saw me and hugged me and said "Where the hell did you go?" and cried harder. When I told her I got kicked out and why, she started laughing, and laughed so hard her original tears became mixed with hysterical giggle tears. I laughed with her, and we started walking to her place, while she told me some very long story of Art's flirting with a blonde girl.

Margaret promptly got over Art, found a new boyfriend within a week, and I never saw him, the curly-headed drummer, or the tall bassist again. We did go to the rink a few more times, and I tried my best to contain my left leg. I think I saw the Rink Guy scowl at me.

I still have the shoe skates. They are covered in spiderwebs and smell like I don't even know what, but I still have them.

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CAR 2

If you have one of those decals with the cartoon boy pissing on either a Ford or Chevrolet logo, I assume that you are a complete and total idiot.

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STARBUCKS 9

Lack of sleep. This is what I blame Today’s Fail Moment upon, lack of any sort of restful sleep whatsoever. I did usual things about the house this morning, then decided as I got sleepier and sleepier that the pot of coffee I made was ineffectual and I should just go rest for a minute. The next thing I knew, there’s the damn phone ringing, conspiring against Me and Rest. I look at the Caller ID, CRAP! The dentist! Before I even picked up and answered I glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes late for teenager’s appointment. I answer. “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! We will be there in ten minutes!” They are nice there, and did not chastise me, at least to my knowledge.

I flung myself out of bed, and ran down to the Teen Basement Lair, yelling BLAH BLAH BLAH DENTIST BLAH BLAH HURRY UP BLAH BLAH RIGHT NOW! He yelled back, “WELL, I HAVE TO TAKE A SHOWER!” I made some growling noises and went “BLAH BLAH NO TIME BLAH BLAH GO!” He argued to himself while I ran and threw on some clothes, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and did the 30 Second Makeup Slam. I scowled at myself in the mirror, prodded Teen to HURRY THE F UP and ran to the car, deftly hooking my purse on my shoulder in one fluid movement out the door.

After a short sprint down the curvy road at an illegal speed, we arrive, sheepish and apologetic, and Teen shuffles back to get his teeth polished and scraped. I grab the latest issue of People and settle in for a few minutes of celebritying. I note that Heather Locklear is much prettier and has a much better body than I do, as she always has, but has more facial wrinkles. I don’t have any crows’ feet yet. Perhaps when the acne clears up I shall obtain them at last.

Teen is done soon enough and I decide that since my Amateur Coffee was a bust, that I should now drive over to get a Professional Coffee at Starbucks. Teen pilfers my wallet yet again for my last few measly dollars as I park the car again, and he walks over to get some incredibly-smelly sandwich from Quizno’s. This particular Quizno’s is owned by an Indian family, and Teen is very amused how their small children are always there, bickering bitterly back and forth in Hindu.

I go into the Atrium Starbucks, order my usual summer Iced Venti Latte, and a Fruit and Cheese Plate. I could be pretty happy, with just coffee and fruit and cheese and good bread, that would be enough for me in this life, I think. Maybe some icy cold water. And a single delicious square of exquisite dark chocolate. Yes. That would be fine.

Still tired and nonfunctional, I go to put the straw in my coffee and it flurps out of the hole in a great wet mess. Goddammit, I think at it, and grab up a pile of tan recycled paper Starbucks napkins to clean up the mess. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an elderly woman, sitting alone in one of the cushy chairs. She is well-dressed in a hot-pink sweater which looks pretty with her bright silver-white hair, styled longish and very nicely. She sips on an iced tea quietly. I finish cleaning up, and head back out into the car to eat my food. Sometimes I don’t feel like being around people very much.

I sit in the car, taking tiny bites of the tiny pieces of cut up cheese and apples, and listen to a pleasantly-morose song by Radiohead. Again, my attention is caught by hair – this time, a young woman’s bright-apricot-colored ponytail that glows in the sunshine. She crosses the parking lot, headed towards Starbucks. She is very pretty, and reminds me of Angie Everhart, the model – very tall and thin, with a confident walk. She has on a tight white tank top and cargo pants the exact shade of Ghiradelli cocoa powder. She opens the heavy glass door and through the window I see the elderly woman jump to her feet. She flings her arms wide open with no hesitation; there is joy on her face. The redhead embraces her warmly, and I now see the connection: the young woman is her granddaughter. There is something about this moment, seen from my car seat, that makes me smile. Perhaps it has been a long time since the older woman has seen her granddaughter, and for her it is like drinking in the most wonderful sight imaginable. I felt happy for them both.

Teen comes shuffling back to the car with his purchase, I finish my little lunch, and I drive back home, to write this.

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DEATH 2

If you were watching, say, "Dancing With The Stars," and you died in the middle of it, wouldn't you be so damn mad that that was the last thing in the world you ever saw?

Choose your activities wisely. You never know when an errant stroke or incredibly incredibly incredibly aggressive cancer might strike. And if you die while watching "The View," you are going STRAIGHT TO HELL. Keep this in mind.

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