Da Goddess

Since I’m walking down Memory Lane this week, why not stop off and have a look at one of my favorite clips from The Young Ones: “Sick”.

Dear Son,

I love you very much, but right now you’re irritating the hell out of me.

I’ve had to ask you about forty times to stop rifling through your Legos. I’ve asked you to take out a piece or two at a time instead of digging through and making that damn plastic-y rustling noise that bugs the living shit outta me (you do this early in the morning, too, which has often caused me to consider putting you out in the backyard — if we had one — in the dog house — if we had one).

Then there’s the repeated jumping from the couch to the middle of the living room floor. First off, it causes the couch to slam back into the wall. Secondly, you land with a very loud thud, which sounds so wrong. Third, and most important, is the fact that you are making this jump over my camera gear, landing rather close to the only “thing” worth any money in this house other than the TV or computer. How many times must I ask you to stop?

Speaking of which…the “how many times must I ask you” part…at least thirty times today, I had to ask you to turn off the light in the kitchen, ask you to come get something, ask you to do something, ask you to…I dunno…just…to…stop or do or something.

It’s hot. My back has been acting up (probably the humidity). My tooth still kills me. Work for Miss A. was cancelled today and that means no money. And really, it’s the kind of been altogether a testy sort of week or so, mainly because of the heat, the pain, and the money situation. I don’t ask much from you and normally you don’t give me much to get ruffled over. You’re a kid. You’re a boy kid at that (and in general, you’re a pretty awesome kid). You do stuff and mostly it’s all stuff I can deal with or at least ignore. I get it. I don’t mind it for the most part. But this? Today? It’s just been too…fucking…much.

So cut it out, m’kay? Cuz I’m about two seconds away from losing my shit completely. And I really don’t want to have to sell you to the gypsies. Or, Heaven forbid, PAY them to take you off my hands.

Thank you,
The Management

So I totally tried to get around writing an actual entry for today’s PROMPT. That failed. And thus I am left to endeavor to create something wholly new and brilliant. That taskmaster, Deb, is so going to rue the day she got me hooked on her PROMPTuesday.

This week, we must use the words ancient, visionary, and coma in our writing. this better, Deb?) I think I can manage this one.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, lived an ancient dragon who was quite lonely. He was the last of the Prerhinobraxian dragons — you know, the ones with horns and stripes. Because he was so very unique, Simon (for that was his name) had a rather difficult time finding a good lady dragon with whom he could meet for the occasional village burning followed by a walk around the lake, and then, if she was so inclined, a little dragon nooky.

Alas, the one true lady dragon, Alicia, who was Simon’s oft desire was being held by a power-hungry bastard of a king in another far off realm. Now, being a captive was so difficult, so thoroughly depressing for Alicia that she lapsed into a coma. It was more an act of self-preservation than anything, because that’s what dragons do when faced with impossible periods of incarceration. Kind of like hibernation, but a little more drastic.

At first, Simon thought Alicia was just avoiding him. For the first ten years of her lack of response to his long distance supersonic dragon calls, he lamented that perhaps he’d failed to impress her sufficiently. This was followed by a few years of indiscreet visits to female dragons of poor repute. Finally, he decided he’d had enough of the empty couplings and opted for a more selective approach. Of course, because the other Prerhinobraxian dragons died off (or were murdered in cold blood by loathsome peasants looking to make names for themselves or for sheer sport), he was, indeed, quite forlorn.

Then, one day, Simon overheard a band of wandering minstrels (who narrowly missed becoming dinner) talking about the magnificent dragon held in the bastard of a king’s cave. Following the minstrels on their journey — which was more difficult than you might imagine for a dragon of any size, let alone Simon’s impressive proportions — our hopeful scaled and winged one made his way to the kingdom of the nasty ruler. Once there, just outside the castle, deep in the forest and up near the mountains, Simon tiptoed around the perimeter, hoping against hope he’d discover signs of the cave and his imprisoned beloved.

Now, this dragon was a smart cookie and a bit of a visionary as well, so it didn’t take long for him to discover a unique formation just beyond the river stream. An unusual outcropping of rocks were so out of place that he knew this was where Alicia was detained. There was, however, a full complement of guards on duty. This rescue was going to take some serious planning, especially if Simon could not awaken his dear one. Sure, he could have gone with a flashy firestorm and wiped out the whole lot of royal pains, but Simon had a feeling the place was booby trapped or that, perhaps, reinforcements weren’t too far off.

And so it was that a fortnight of careful planning led to a spectacular rescue, the details of which I’ve been sworn to secrecy (just in case Simon ever needs to employ the same tactics again). Suffice it to say, he was successful in the rescue of Alicia and their story ended happily (tragically for the guards).

Oh, about that nasty king? The dragons were prolific in breeding their own little army and the king was defeated in a manner befitting his horrid demeanor.

Now, really, I must go. I have baby dragons in the pantry who are creating a big mess. You have no idea how much trouble they can get into if left unattended for too long.

Good God. This weekend is going to be fraught with all sorts of interesting and, probably, embarrassing recollections. Twenty-five years…it’s a long time. There are moments when high school seems like yesterday and others when it seems like a lifetime ago.

From my senior year of high school, I bring you: proof that I was once young and cute.

Not exactly the greatest photo of me, but I didn’t HATE it. Somewhere there are photos my friend Kevin took of me down at “Fake Lake” that were actually pretty cute. And I was so skinny! Of course, I didn’t think I was skinny. But I know better now. Anyway, so this photo here? The one and only time I wore that blouse. After the portraits were done, my mom washed it and the green color bled onto the white collar. Stupid blouse. By the way, that tan? Pretty much standard throughout high school for me.

My friend and I had the best time in yearbook class. He and I laughed so much. We’d take our cameras out and roam the halls. We’d dally, we’d loiter, we’d avoid actual work for as long as possible, but still somehow manage to get all our assignments done on time. And then he moved away. To Texas. Never to be heard from again. Another yearbook photographer took this shot of us as we goofed off. This image was the very last one in the yearbook on the page that said “Memories…Worth More Than Gold”. And then my other friend stuck a note on the page that said “Don’t sign on this page please” in hopes that Rene would come back in time to sign it himself. That was the plan, anyway. Twenty-five years later, all that remains on that page is the yellow sticky note.

Mr. Miller was a kick ass advisor. Our yearbook went from standard issue high school crap to award winning when he took over. We had some of the coolest pages around. Oh, and the theme? “Going for the Gold”. My idea. It won out over “you had to be there”, which I considered the lamest theme ever. Because, what if you weren’t? Wouldn’t that be a total slap in the face? So, yeah, I prevailed. Besides, it was 1984 and it was big time Olympics year (I actually attended the cycling road race event), so our theme was apt. And if not for Mr. Miller, it would have been the lame theme as decided by some of the more “popular” students on staff (who didn’t last all that long).

I was part of this leadership class in high school. Really! We organized different events, like the ASB convention (where Bella Abzug spoke and with whom I ate lunch). It was pretty cool. We also helped organize and promote a big Up With People performance at our school (and several other smaller performances around town). It sounds kind of dorky now, but it was fun back then. So, way in the back of the photo is Dino Ebalo. He was one of my favorite people during my senior year — funny, sweet, cute, and a really talented artist. He drew the cover for the ASB convention program. And then there was Tim. He and I have known each other since 4th grade. Somehow, in 8th grade, we decided we hated each other. Actually, it wasn’t so much hate as it was just a case of being at cross-purposes. We sat across from each other in class and glare. “My knee itches soooo bad” was code for “fuck you and the horse you rode in on”. Cute, huh? Here’s the weird thing, we were so much alike. Later on, as in years later, we finally sat down and talked about this and it was almost comical the extent to which our lives were so similar during that time. Go figure.

And finally, there’s one of the photos of Bella as she spoke to the delegates at the nominating convention. I still can’t believe we got her to appear at a high school event. Only four years later, she would be gone. She made quite an impression on me.

So, there you have it. A quick glimpse of my senior year. Missing are the photos of me ditching school, partying, getting grounded repeatedly, the ski trips, the boyfriends, other various friends, my jobs, the camping trips, and a million other things that made high school a blessing and a curse. Somewhere, buried deep in a box, are photos I’m sure are best left where they are. Somewhere, there are people who can tell stories about me best left untold. While I can keep the photos from showing up somewhere, the people…well, I’ll either have to deny everything or take out a contract on them.

Part of me wonders what happened to that girl in those photos. Part of me knows she still exists deep down inside of me. And there’s a part of me glad she doesn’t surface very often.

This weekend is gonna be a trip.

I don’t know about you, but I can only take so much Spongebob in one weekend. So, last night, after LD and I returned from a play, I put the kibosh on further viewing. Somehow or another, that led LD to turn into Michigan J. Frog.

Don’t ask. I don’t get it either. Must’ve been a reaction to his theatrical overdose.

(By the way, he wants to write a play now.)

Sigh. Cartoons. I’m hoping we’ll get a reprieve here shortly when Ferris Bueller starts. I think it’s time LD sees it.

P.S. See How They Run is very good. If you’re in San Diego, Having seen rehearsals and such, I was excited to see how it came together and, I gotta say, it’s very funny. Very.

Today is my mom’s safijhwe-fourth birthday.

Mere words can’t express what she means to me. But, yeah, she’s one of my heroes.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

I may be scarce the next several days. I have a lot of editing to complete before next weekend and the big reunion. Plus, I’m working on some projects for friends to earn a little money. Hey, whatever it takes, right? I gotta tell ya, though, when I go through these photos, I feel a huge surge of pride knowing these young men and women are who represent us here and abroad. We are, indeed, in good hands.

This week’s Photo Friday, Favorite Spot, is quite simply: anywhere they are, but especially at the park.

Here’s another family from the same shoot at the beach. I couldn’t have asked for nicer families nor better weather. I know the last photo is far from perfect, but the mom will know exactly why I chose this one to share. It was just one of “those” moments.

We have some interesting conversations around here. This was from the other day in the car.

Basically went a little something like…

Me: “I don’t know if I should tell you this story (about a fighter pilot friend’s call sign) because it’ll only lead to questions and answers I’m not sure you’re ready for.”

Him: “Maybe we should wait until I reach puberty.”

Me: “I thought you said you were already getting hair…”

Him: “Hair?”

Me: “Yeah…hair…”

Him: “Hair?”

Me: “Hair…down there.”

Him: “Down where?”

Me: “I thought you told me you were getting fuzzy nuts”

Him: “Oh yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh. I remember now. Yeah. Totally.”

Me: “Dude, you’ve reached puberty.”

Him: “So, can I hear the story now?”

Me: “I’m still trying to decide. Cuz, really, it’ll lead to questions about sex and, while I want to be open and honest about that, I think some of this might be a bit more than you need to know.”

Him: “Yeah. I’m still working on the fuzzy nuts part myself.”

We were waiting for our photographic subjects to arrive at the beach, LD and I. We’d already spent quite a bit of time down on the rocks watching crab wars and dodging waves, and it was time to go back up by the street so we could be found. Chatting happily as we’re wont to do, catching up (and it’s been over a week since I’d seen my little “it’s ONLY a week at Boy Scout camp, Mom!” camper) on all sorts of things. I then told him, “I decided not to cut my hair after all.” He’s been opposed to it since I said I wanted it cut months ago, to the point where he almost cried one day.

“Really? You’re keeping your hair? Woo hoo!”

“Chill, baby. It’s just hair. And why do you like it longer anyway?”

“It’s how I identify you,” he says so…oddly. I mean, c’mon, if I were a zebra and he were looking at stripes to help pick his mom out of a crowd, I’d get that, but I’m not a zebra, nor an okapi, or anything other than a homo sapien. Obviously I need to cut back on his Discovery Channel, TLC, and Animal Planet viewing habits. And no more zoo trips for him!

I stared at him for a few very long seconds. “It’s how you identify me? What? That’s so weird! I love it!”

“You know what I mean. It’s one of those traits…it’s part of who you are.”

“So you don’t think my hair makes my ass look big?” I asked.

“You don’t have a big ass,” he replies. Then he laughs a little because he said “ass”.

“That laugh better be because you said ‘ass’ and not because you’re lying yours off!”

“No, really. Your butt’s fine.”

He’s going to make some woman a very good husband someday.