Life on my street

I was going to properly introduce my neighbor Melvin to you tonight. He’s an alcoholic, and he’s in love with me, and he’s kind of a character. But as I was avoiding the blank page by watching Breaking Bad and drinking watered down Chardonnay, I heard men shouting outside in angry, panicky voices. Loud voices aren’t unusual on my street; I usually ignore them. But something about the quality of tone caught my attention this time. I paused the TV and listened closer.

“Get down on the fucking ground! Get down on the fucking ground! I said get down or I will shoot you! I will shoot you!”

Definitely not the normal domestic brawl. I thought about running upstairs and looking out my bedroom window, but the urgency compelled me to open the front door and step out onto the porch, prepared to run back in if anything resembling a gunfight between the drug dealer down the street and anybody else seemed eminent.

I peered around the corner of the porch and saw one of the city bike cops, legs spread wide, handgun pointed at some people who were face-down on the street. I could see his bike standing near him, red blinkies blinking, and what looked like a pile of bikes around his feet.

“I said stay down!” he shouted and motioned toward the middle person on the ground, who looked like he had tried to stand up. The person said something and the cop responded, “You pulled a fucking gun on me. I will shoot you if you don’t stay down.”

The cop reached up to his collar and shouted into his radio, “I’m at the corner of _____ and ______. Suspect pointed a gun at me. Suspect pulled a gun.” He still had his gun trained on the them, arms straight out just like on TV. Maybe I heard fear in his voice along with anger and adrenaline. Or maybe I simply projected how I would feel, waiting there outnumbered in the dark, praying I wouldn’t have to shoot anybody or get shot myself.

I could see a patrol car had come up the street on the other side of the gate, half a block to my left. I live in a gated community – but not that kind. Back in the 90’s the city put locked gates two blocks apart on most of the streets in my neighborhood to prevent high-speed chases and drive-by shootings. It makes getting to my house a little confusing, but also keeps the drive-through traffic down.

Within a couple of minutes, the cruiser appeared at the other end of the block and turned down the street. Two officers got out, and the bike cop walked around to the other side of the suspects, his gun still pointed at them. I could see now that there were three people on the ground. They looked like young men.

The one in the middle said something to the bike cop, and he said, “Don’t you swear at me.” He moved closer with his gun.

The middle suspect said, “You swore at me first!”

Really? You pointed a gun at a cop and now you’re going to argue with him about who gets to swear at whom? I would already have peed my pants. Especially when one of the two cops who got out of the cruiser pulled out his gun and stood over them pointing it at them too.

By now I was standing on the steps watching. They were across the street, a couple of houses down. The cruiser was parked in front of the drug dealer’s house. He was probably cowering in the basement the whole time. Close as I was though, it was hard to hear what they were saying. Between the crickets chirping and the neighbor’s fucking air conditioner, I couldn’t hear much at all. FML.

The cop who didn’t have a gun out put handcuffs on the suspects, led the middle one to the car and put him in the back. They were all calm and businesslike. They had one of the other suspects sit up on the curb and let the third one sit up in the street while the bike cop searched a bike bag in the street. He pulled out what looked like a bottle of beer. It was a bottle filled with gold liquid, in any case. Ooops. It’s illegal to drink and cycle.

My next door neighbor Linda – the one I suspect wrote “bitch” on my windshield a couple of weeks ago because she didn’t like where I was parked in front of my own house -- turned on her porch light and came out. I glanced over but otherwise ignored her. That’s what bitches do.

Finally she asked what was going on and I told her what I knew. She said they’d been hearing gunshots more than usual the past couple of weeks. I agreed. She said she listened to the police scanner on her computer. I said I didn’t know you could do that. And I thought, Nothing would make me crazier than listening to a police scanner in addition to what I already observe around here.

Finally she said, “Aren’t we the nosy neighbors? I guess I’ll go in.”

I said, “Next time you write ‘bitch’ on my van, you’re the one who’s going to be talking to the men with the guns and flashing lights, asshole.”  I ignored her.

One by one, three other cruisers, each with two cops riding in them, pulled up. I was sure the drug dealer had gone over his back fence and was three miles away on foot by now. I saw Melvin’s brother’s pickup come down the cross street, slow down almost to a stop, and then turn the opposite way. I’m sure they were full of gin and juice and didn’t want to get involved. Besides the street was blocked with cruisers.

It’s been one of those weekends here on my street. Friday night I went to a play with some friends. When they dropped me off here, a young woman was knocking on my neighbor Art’s door. According to Melvin, since his wife left Art’s been kind of a player. He certainly does seem to entertain a lot of women. Melvyn says he can’t tell them apart; they all look alike.

This one was knocking. Knocking, knocking, knocking over and over and over. And she was talking while she was knocking. And pacing. Knocking, talking, pacing. Art wasn’t answering the door.

My friends were reluctant to leave me, but I said go ahead. The crazy girlfriend didn’t have anything to do with me. I came inside to change so I could go downtown and meet up with a friend for the second half of the night.

When I came out, the crazy girl was over on Melvin’s steps talking to him. He called out to me, “Where you goin’, baby? You goin’ back out?”

I said, “I’m just going downtown to hang out with a friend.”

”Can I go with you?” he asked.

“No, I said, and then I walked over to make sure he was OK. That young woman wasn’t acting normal.

“I still love you, baby. You know that, right?” he said. “Oh, this here is Shayna. She’s looking for Art.”

She came down the steps and said hi to me. I said hi briefly and then asked Melvin if everything was OK. I don’t trust crazy-acting girlfriends hanging around in the middle of the night – or any other time -- knocking and talking and pacing. She could be a bunny-boiler.

Melvin said, “We OK. You go on and meet your friend, baby. I love you.”

So I got in my van and left them talking on his porch. As it turned out, I was only gone for about 45 minute. When I got home, Shayna was back over at Art’s front porch, knocking and talking and pacing  over and over and over. I could see the glow of her cell phone, hear her voice rise and fall as she railed at Art inside and at somebody on the phone.

Melvin called to me, so I went up on his porch. He offered me his paper bag, but I declined. I said, “What the fuck is that crazy woman doing still knocking? Obviously Art isn’t home.”

Melvin said, “He was at the bar when I Ieft. Some guy came and picked him up, and he left his car here. I told that girl I didn’t want to call the police on her but I would.”

“Call them,” I said. “I don’t want to listen to that shit all night. I don’t want to listen to her another second.”

“If I call the police they’ll just say, ‘What you want now, Melvin? What kinda trouble you in now?’ They might not even come out.”

“Then call Art and tell him to come home and clean up his front porch. Go on. Call him right now,” I said. I can’t even describe how annoying the knocking and ranting was. The woman’s persistence would have been admirable if she hadn’t been so maddening.

“Baby, you missed the gunshots a little while ago. They came from back there.” He pointed back behind his next door neighbor’s house.

“I heard gunshots from back there a couple of weeks ago,” I said. “Art thought they were fireworks, but I’m sure they weren’t.”

“Long as they not shootin’ at me, baby, I’m not going to get involved. I’ll just sit here and drink my gin and juice. Thank you very much.” He was looking on his phone for Art’s number. He found it and hit the button. Over his speaker I could heard the voice mail pick up and tell us the voicemail box was full.

“I’ll bet that crazy bitch has been calling and leaving him messages all night and filled up his mailbox,” I said.

Eventually I talked Melvin into going over and talking to her again, but she refused to leave. She said, “I got just as much right to be here as he does. I have my mail delivered here. That means this my house too. He has my son’s TV. It’s not my TV, it belong to my son. I’d leave if it was my TV, but he’s not keeping my son’s TV.” She went on for a while about how her mail was delivered there so she had every right to be there on the porch annoying the hell out of me.

I said to Melvin, “If she’s still knocking when I’m ready to go to bed, I’m calling the police. I want that crazy bitch to go away now.”

“That’s OK, baby. You need your sleep. Say, could you do me a little favor and I’ll give you some money for gas? I’m about out of gin and juice….”

“No.”

“That’s OK. I still love you, baby.” I left him on the sidewalk and went inside.

By the time I went to bed, she was gone – or at least not knocking. But she was back the next afternoon. I had ridden my bike over to Elvira’s and come home just in time to shower and change before I went to a party. I heard several people shouting out there in the street for a while, but I didn’t even look. When I went outside to leave, Melvin came down his porch steps to the street.

“Baby, you see all the police here a little bit ago?”

“No, I was getting ready to go. I didn’t even look out.”

“What? You didn’t see all that? You missed a good fight. That one (he motioned toward the drug dealer’s house) came out after they left and asked if they were looking for him. I said ‘they comin’ for you next!’ Where you goin’?”

“To a party.” I opened my van door and threw my purse in.

“Can I go with you?”

“No.”

“That’s OK. I love you anyway, baby. Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not. I love you too.”

*********

I never know what’s going to happen on this street. One day there will be a guy playing jazz trombone on my neighbor’s lawn or the gay couple across the street will be grilling steaks and they’ll invite the elderly woman who lives in the 4-plex with Melvin over. A group of kids might get together an impromptu game of football in the street or run foot races. Or the family at the end of the street will be digging in the garden they put in the vacant lot next to them.

Or one of a number of angry, persistent girlfriends might be shouting at Art or the drug dealer, usually the same words over and over, “You see what you did? You see what you did? You see what you did? You see what you did….” Or a couple of gunshots will pop from one of the other nearby streets. Or a bike cop will have three young men face-down in the middle of the street because one of them pointed a gun at him.

The suburbs were rarely this interesting. Except that one time a drunk driver ran into our neighbor's tree in the middle of the night.

Eventually tonight the cops took the cuffs off the two who hadn’t pulled a gun, but not until all 9 of them examined something that may or may not have been the gun with their flashlights and the lights of the first cruiser. They offered the bottle of gold liquid to the two suspects who were let go, but one of them said, “Not if it’s illegal. Just dump it out.” The cops laughed.

They were allowed to leave on foot, pushing the three bicycles, with the bike cop following them, shouting, “Get out of the middle of the street!” The other three cruisers raced off, maybe to another crime scene. Maybe just because they can. The one with the gunman in it backed out slowly and glided away.

They were remarkably calm, the cops, given one of their own had been threatened with a gun. I didn’t actually see a gun, but I know the bike cop believed he’d been threatened, and they all found something interesting that eventually was put into a paper bag and sealed.

Then when they were gone, and the street was quiet again except for the crickets and the sound of the freeway in the near distance, I came in and watched the last few minutes of Breaking Bad before I sat down to write this post.

Tomorrow night I’ll give Melvin a proper introduction.

A block in my throat

Did you miss me? I took a break for a few days.

I was surprised this past Sunday at church when a friend said, "You didn't post last night? Or did you and I missed it? Was Friday night the last time you posted?" I said, "I got home really late last night, and I decided to sleep for once. I wrote more than 31 days in a row though...." She said, "I like it even when you just say 'I don't have anything to say.'" And then she went on to tell me some of the stories she'd like to read. Her dad was a pilot during the Viet Nam war and she was in the Navy, so the military stories are familiar.

That's one block removed.

I was really flattered. I'm always flattered when people tell me they read here, and I'm often surprised. So if I don't say it often enough, thank you for reading, even if I do write about vaginas too often.
*****************

I went to a house-blessing Saturday night. I don't mean to beat the military thing to death, but it was pretty amazing to attend a party for a lesbian friend and her partner who is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force. No big deal, right? Wrong. Big fucking deal!

Can this really be our new normal? Don't ask because it doesn't matter? I'm sure most of the guests there didn't even give a thought to that aspect, but I had a secret smile in my heart the entire night. When they get married, I hope they ask me to officiate and sign the license. Surely we will get our shit together here in Ohio one of these days.
 ****************

One thing that happened at the blessing was that a Pagan woman blessed the house and some of the guests by smudging them with white sage. I'm a veteran of many smudges, although usually I'm the one blowing smoke.

So I stood on the porch while she wafted smoke over me. It's soothing and kind of smells like pot. She'd smudged several other people before me and hadn't said anything to them as she did it. But she stopped as she wafted smoke down the front of my body and said, "What aren't you saying?"

I said, "Nothing. I'm fine. I've done this a lot." I had no idea what she was talking about.

She said, "No, your throat is blocked. You're going to have to get rid of whatever that is. You can't live with whatever that is stuck in your throat." Well, that sounded serious! I stayed calm though, feeling a metaphysical metaphor in the smoky air.

I said, "I guess I'm not surprised, but I can't do anything about that right now. Could you just finish smudging?" I could think of at least three situations in my life that might cause ..... something ..... words? feelings? my truth? ..... to be "stuck in my throat."

But it seemed kind of unbelievable that she could tell that by wafting sage smoke over me. I mean, really? What does that mean?

She went on with the smudging -- the fronts of my legs, bottoms of my feet, all up and down the back of me. And then she moved back in front of me and said, "You really can't go on with that block in your throat."

I said, "Well, smudge it some more and see if that helps." I didn't really think that would do anything, but I wasn't sure how to respond.

She smudged my neck, and then she moved closer and said, "OK, what do you need to say?"

Not me. Stolen from the internets.

I said, "I can't imagine how anything I could say right here, now, that would be helpful. If you're perceiving a block, it doesn't have anything to do with what's happening here tonight. But thank you."

She smiled and moved on to the next smudgee. She had done her best to help, but I wasn't sure what I could do about that perceived blockage. I got a glass of wine, which seemed like just the thing to wash down something stuck in my throat.

The next day, I ran into church 10 minutes late. I was leading the service and I'd said I'd be there an hour early. As I walked into the sanctuary, a friend who was sitting there said, "You need to breathe."

I said, "I am breathing. I'm just running late."

"I don't mean that," she said. "You're not breathing in enough air. You need to breathe." I laughed and got to work on the service. After the service she found me and said it again, that I wasn't breathing. Of course I was breathing or I'd be dead, but there it was again. Somebody telling me my throat was blocked. (Too bad we don't do communion at my church. I could have sipped some communion wine.) Anyway ....

I'm not sure what else I have to say about that. It's a little hard for me to believe two people saw something blocking my throat -- something metaphysical. Yes, I've been bottling a few things up, but don't we all do that?

Surely we all run into situations in which we have to just shut the fuck up because saying something, responding, entering into the conversation or conflict will just make things uncomfortable or worse. Right?

And we all sometimes find ourselves unwilling or unable to tell people how we feel about a situation or about something they did. It doesn't matter why.

My reasons are that too often when I've been honest -- the most honest -- people have walked away and stayed away. I don't mean I was necessarily angry or a raving lunatic. I mean when I've been honest about what I can accept or what I'd like to change in a relationship. It doesn't feel safe most of the time to complain. It doesn't seem worth the conflict or the explaining or the return anger (more on that in an upcoming post).

Don't we all pick and choose the swords we will fall on? The times we will say something and the times we'll just .... I don't know ... swallow hard?

If I'm holding something back it's usually because I think I'm taking ownership of my feelings. Is that a really 80's concept? Like using my "I" phrases?

Most of the time, I don't think it's up to me to try to change other people or to tell them how to act, even when I feel hurt or betrayed. I tend to believe I can't change anybody else's behavior, just my own. So I don't go there. The more pain I feel, the less likely I am to say anything at all.

There's another reason why: It rarely works out for the better when I do. So I just call it "owning my own shit," and I eventually swallow it and move on in whatever way seems most comfortable or causes less conflict. Or sometimes I just find a way to leave the situation or the relationship, be that temporarily or permanently.

At my age, you'd think I'd be better at this. Maybe it's partly those voices from childhood: "Little girls should be seen and not heard." "If you don't stop crying, I'll give you something to cry about." "Just deal with it. Nobody else cares." Programming.

So I haven't written in almost a week. I have a block in my throat, but I shouldn't let that affect my fingers. I rarely sing any more, but surely that block isn't made of songs. It's probably just allergies.

I'm not even sure what that means exactly, to have a block in my throat. Is it liked a plugged toilet? Do I need a metaphysical plunger to force the ..... ummmm ..... toilet paper and shit down and out? Do I need to run a snake through it? Or do I need some kind of emotional Drano to break it up and move it along? Is there danger of it overflowing and making a mess? That's never good.

I'm just not sure. I'll probably just keep writing. I have a lot of big changes in the works that I'd rather focus on right now, and I just accepted a part in a play. Maybe time will erode that blockage until there's nothing left. 

Have you ever had a blocked throat? What did you do? Advice is always welcome, even if I don't like it or take it.

Snippets from Elvira

Today I offer you a few snippets from my Facebook message box, courtesy of my daughter Elvira.

1. In case you were wondering, it's not a good idea to try to exfoliate your face with duct tape. It didn't work. I thought it would but it just gave me a lingering burning sensation.

2. I've been reading Coraline the original Grimm fairy tales…They're really not as fucked up as people make them out to be. Poe is waaaaay worse.*

3. Lol, at work they won't let me pick up ice buckets. Really? I guess they don't understand that it's way more strain on those muscles for me to poop than lift something. Especially since the doctor put me on extra iron. Sorry I'm telling you about poop.

4. I gotta learn how to do that. We could turn your parlor into a fortune telling studio and  have a mother/daughter thing. I have the look for a fortune teller. I could wear a lot of sparkly scarves and earrings .... I'll throw bones on a table and speak in an accent. And wear blind looking contacts. It'll be fucking awesome…We could advertise. We could put a sweet looking sign outside your house! I'll paint it! THIS IS THE BEST IDEA EVER!**

5. I'm excited to do things like go to the zoo and walk around the woods. Things that aren't that exciting to me anymore will probably be way more exciting with a little kid who's never seen or done all that stuff. And I hear that children say unintentionally offensive things in public. I'm excited for that too.***

6. I'd rather chance arsenic than yoga.

P.S. Elvira doesn't know I'm doing this. If she gets upset, I'll just remind her about those stitches I had to get when she was born. Works every time.

* In my defense, I read Poe to Elvira when she was six, not when she was four months old.

** In response to my recent tarot posts.

*** Oh, do I have stories about that! And one of them is about the color of poop.

Snippet from the Club

My son, an old friend of his and I were standing at the bar at the club. Abby had been laughing about the time she woke up on the couch in my family room, and I was yelling at Drake. She thought it was because she had snuck in early in the morning and crashed there, but then realized I was mad because he hadn't put a blanket over her. Then we segued to another sleepover conversation.

Abby: OMG, and remember that time we were sleeping in Chris's parents' basement and you were on the couch and I was on the floor.
Me: You slept on the couch and made Abby sleep on the floor?
Drake: Why should I sleep on the floor?
Abby: And I was trying to sleep and that girl was trying to get with you?
Drake:  Please don't remind me. She looked like the remains of last night's pizza.
Abby: But she was trying so hard!
Me: She had to try? Why didn't you tap that?
Abby: I was trying so hard to either sleep or not laugh out loud. It was terribly frustrating. You should have just done it.
Drake:  Wasn't going to happen. I couldn't look at her.
Abby: It went on for hours. Why didn't you just do it and get it over with so I could sleep? Pretty rude to make me sleep on the floor and then keep me up all night fending off advances.
Drake:  I just wasn't into her and she wouldn't leave me alone.
Abby: You should have just tapped that.
Drake:  Nope. I checked with the batter but he waved me off.
Abby and Me: Ooooohhhhh.
Drake: Are we done?

Full Moon Musing

I celebrated another full moon tonight with an amazing group of women. We happened to land in the same ritzy neighborhood as last time, so we walked to the same bridge overlooking a busy city street to find the moon rising over the treetops, orange as a wheel of Wisconsin cheddar cheese. Before we left the house, one of the women, Mary*, suggested we moon the moon tonight. I'm not sure why. Maybe singing and howling didn't seem like enough. I said I'd do it. Somebody else said we'd be arrested by the bored and eager for anything at all to happen diligent and highly responsive Oakwood police. I, as the second youngest in the group, replied that pulling our pants up when we saw flashing lights and lying our asses off to the nice officers would probably cover said asses. Who would believe this group of nine women, with at least one member in her 80's, would pull their pants down and stick their butts out over a busy street in a neighborhood where none of the houses sell for under seven figures? Mooning sounded like a fine idea to me. I hadn't done it in decades.

So we walked to the bridge and sang some moon songs and howled, and then Mary laughed and said it was time to moon the moon. I started to unbutton my pants....but nobody else even reached for their waistbands. Several people just kept talking about something that had nothing to do with exhibitionism.

I said, "OK, let's do it. Pull 'em down." We looked at the traffic whizzing by under the bridge and at the headlights playing down the streets on either side, and then Mary claimed she was just kidding. I said, "Forget it. We came here to moon, so I'm going to moon....as soon as that car passes over the bridge." (I'm crazy, but I'm not insane. Don't believe what you've heard.)

So the car passed close by us and as soon as the tail lights cleared the bridge, I pulled down my capris and mooned the man in the moon....and the busy street below. For a moon to be a full moon you have to hold it for at least three seconds. I did. As I was buttoning up, Mary made a motion to my left and claimed she'd done it, but I know she didn't hold it long enough. I don't think her pants cleared her cheeks. I really don't. And I also don't think anybody in a car below the bridge saw my white middle-aged ass shining in the light of the full moon either. Nor did I get arrested, more's the pity. That would have made a much better story.

As I was leaving, the friend who shared her lovely house with us tonight was laughing about how her kids--all grown--treat her like she's too old to make decisions for herself....unless they want her to babysit. I don't think she's hit 60 yet, so she's hardly in automatic dementia range. As I was driving home, I tried to think whether my kids ever treat me that way, whether we ever suffered from role reversals. And I thought of several conversations where, yes, I could say they thought I needed their advice or even protection.

For example, my daughter interrogated me about expressed interest in somebody I'd been dating for several months. She wanted to meet him and I explained that he wouldn't want to meet my kids. It went something like this:
Daughter: I want to meet this guy you've been dating.
Me: He doesn't want to meet you.
Daughter: Why not? I want to meet him.
Me: I don't know. I'm just sure he wouldn't be comfortable meeting you. I guess it might imply....something.
Daughter: Has my brother met him?
Me: No.
Daughter: Does he hate kids?
Me: You're not really kids, but no, of course not. He has kids too.
Daughter: Have you met them?
Me: No, they don't live here.
Pitbull Daughter: Do you expect to meet them?
Me: No, I don't think he'd be comfortable....
Daughter: Hmmm. How long have you been dating this guy? 
Me: You know....a few months.
Daughter: What do your friends think of him?
Me: We don't really hang around with....you know. A few of them have met him a couple of times. But we know some of the same people....
Daughter: What are his friends like?
Me: Would you like to set up a hanging light bulb? Burn me with a cigarette? Waterboard?
Daughter: Just answer the question.
Me: I haven't met them.
Daughter: You haven't met his friends? Why?
Me: He doesn't want...I don't know....
Daughter:  You don't know?
Me: Stop it! He's a nice guy and I like him. Why do you care if he comes to Thanksgiving dinner? When we go out, we just go out together, OK?  Alone. I really like him.
Daughter:  No, not OK. What would you say if I'd been dating somebody for....how many months? Five? Six? and he refused to meet you? What would you say?
Me: Not the same.....but OK, your dad and I would probably put away our swords and poison-tipped arrows for a day and arrange a meeting with or without anybody's permission. But I'm not your daughter and you're not.....
Daughter: And I'm not dating, but you are. Someone you're seeing that much of should meet your kids and your friends.
Me: Not your decision.
Daughter: Are you having sex with this man? 
Me: (letting a long silence pass) You didn't really ask me that. 
Daughter: I thought so. You better think about this, Missy.
Me: I do. And you did make a valid point. Now let's talk about something else, huh? Like if Dean from Supernatural showed  up on the porch and needed help catching a monster, I get first dibs on taking him upstairs because you're pregnant and I'm not.... 
Daughter: We're not done with this conversation.
Me: You're not my mother.

Foam Night

Another conversation, this one with my son, after a night out at a club he and his friends frequent. It was foam night and I was feeling just a little crazy because of something upsetting and deal-breaking that had happened earlier in the night. The kids had been begging me to go out to the club with them on techno-goth night, so I grabbed my friend The Diplomat and we headed over there after we'd closed down the place where we'd been dancing. I think the kids thought it would be funny if  I danced on the pole or in the big hanging cage, but I had no intention....and then there was foam. Lots of foam. It was intoxicating....the foam was intoxicating. My son, his girlfriend, his ex-girlfriend, and another female friend were determined to show me such a good time I'd want to come back again and again, even though I'm pretty sure that, other than The Diplomat, I was the oldest person in the place by decades a few years....except for another attractive older man, a stranger, who danced into our little group after we went inside to boogie in the fog and the flashing lights. And here's how the conversation went with my son the next day.

Son: I don't have to ask if you had fun last night.
Me: I did. It was just what I needed. Crazy fun.
Son: Yeah, I noticed you attracted some attention.
Me: I didn't embarrass you, did I?
Son: Me? No, of course not. You can't embarrass me, remember? I just had to...you know, keep an eye on you.
Me: Keep an eye on me? When have you ever had to keep an eye on me, baby boy?
Son: When we were all dancing a strange guy came up and started dancing with you.
Me: Yes. Yes, he did. And he was pretty cute too, huh?
Son: I didn't notice.
Me: Wait.....is that why you stopped dancing and just stood off to the side with your arms crossed?
Son: Somebody had to keep an eye on things.
Me: I was dancing with the guy....dancing! I wasn't going to take him home and....
Son: ....No! No need to explain! I don't want to know what you were going to do with him.
Me: I wasn't going to do anything with him...yet. I was dancing with him. Or he was dancing with me. I was flattered and I kind of needed the ego boost.
Son: Yes, and not everybody who comes into that place is a nice guy.
Me: He seemed pretty nice to me. I mean, nice to dance with.
Son: Yes, and I was making sure he stayed nice.
Me: Oh my god. I can't believe you said that.
Son: If things had gotten ugly you would have thanked me.
Me: If things had gotten ugly I could have taken care of myself.
Son: Just sayin'.
Me:  Don't ever do that again.
Son: Can't promise that.
Me: You box blocked me.
Son: Don't want to hear it.

And finally, if you've read this far, you probably need another drink a conversation in the kitchen with my son's girlfriend and my daughter a couple of weeks ago as I was putting the finishing touches on my son's birthday dinner.

Son's Girlfriend: What happened with that guy the other night? The one you were dancing with at the Celtic festival? Did you leave with him?
Me: Which one?
Son's Girlfriend: The last one. Not the one in the hat. The one in the kilt who wasn't wearing a shirt. The one you were slow dancing with....
Daughter: Was he cute?
Me: He was adorable. Great guns. I would have really gone for him 30 years ago.
Daughter: (to Son's Girlfriend) Was he really all that? Or is she exaggerating?
Me: I'm right here.
Son's Girlfriend: Yeah, he really was gorgeous. So, did you tap that?
Me: Tap that? No! Of course not. He was a child. Did he even have on a wrist band?
Son's Girlfriend: He was drinking a beer. You didn't tap that? He was all over you!
Me: Yes, he was and don't you think that's weird? He grabbed my ass about a dozen times. I should have slapped him. A guy his age? He's your age. You're all children. And he was drinking a beer, but I ask again, did he have on a wristband?
Girlfriend: I didn't notice if he had on a wristband, but you should have taken him home with you. He wanted you.
Me: I'm not a pedophile! But he did call three times and he left the cutest message....
Daughter: You gave him your number?!? You never give out your number! Mommers!
Me: I know. I didn't mean to. He asked me to put my number in his phone and...he was very persistent... and I thought I transposed the last two digits but for some reason I put in the right number. It was definitely accidental. I didn't answer the phone when he called.
Son's Girlfriend:  Why not? You really should have tapped that. He was so hot.
Me: He was hot, and he was a baby. A hot little boy child. I can't think of any reason why he was even dancing with me. I think it might even be kind of embarrassing that I danced with him. Maybe he was a ho. 
Son's Girlfriend: A ho? Why would you think that? You were pretty hot that night too.
Daughter: Mom is a MILF.
Me: I hate that term. I'm not a MILF. That's disgusting. I'm just a mom. And I don't "tap" kids who are younger than my first-born. And I wouldn't tap a guy who thinks having his own apartment is enough to impress me. I told him my standards are higher than that....
Daughter: You didn't have to marry him. Just do him. Get your cookie and then you're done with him. Get your cookie first and send him on his way.
Son's Girlfriend: What did he say in the message?
Me: He said I should call him back and we should get together .... tonight if possible. And then he thought he'd hung up and I could hear him say in the background, "Oh shit. I really sounded like a dork."
Son's Girlfriend: Awww. That's so cute. Why didn't you call him back?
Me: You're kidding, right? I'm really not a pedophile and I don't need you children to focus so much on my sex life....or my lack of a sex life.
Daughter: Mom, next time some young stud goes after you, just do it. Don't overthink  it.
Me: I'm pretty sure he was a ho. Nothing else about it makes sense. I can't believe you want me to tap a ho.

So, I guess I have reached that age. That age where my children think I'm too old to take care of myself. That age where they think their advice overrides all my years of taking care of myself and them. But as I drove, I thought....hmmm. If I did get busted for mooning the moon and the traffic over Dorothy Lane, who would I call to bail me out? I guess it would be....one of my kids. Wow. That really puts things into perspective, doesn't it? I may have to see what I can do about making that happen the next time a full moon rolls across the sky.

*Name changed to protect the guilty.

Romance: The Ping

 

First, I can't stand Will Ferrell. I avoid his movies unless I'm subjected to undue pressure. I don't even know why I watched this silly, sappy clip once I saw his face. However, if Maggie Gyllenhaal came into the room and sat on my lap while I was playing my guitar, I'd put aside my guitar and let her have her way. I would not shove it to the floor like they did, but he's obviously not playing a Gibson so who cares?

I'm a romantic, in a black leather, bare feet, and white wine kind of way, and I'm a sucker for a man playing a guitar (or dancing me around the living room or maybe even singing to the radio in the car....), and I'm a sucker for those little moments that make something inside me go ping. Oh, I do love that feeling. ping It's kind of addictive, that feeling. I have to admit the irony that most of those ping moments can't even be defined as momentous. In fact, when those moments happen, an onlooker probably wouldn't discern that anything special happened at all. Oh, sometimes a stranger will make a comment to me about how happy I look, because I really do wear everything I feel on my face, but that's what shows, not the thing that happened.

Do you know what I mean by those ping moments? The ones that could even be called mundane, except that you feel like the stars lined up and the Universe said, "hey, I think I'll give her a little gift for no reason at all," and you just know you're in the right place at the right time and you wouldn't want to be anyplace else because everything is fucking perfect? Those times when you're just walking along the street holding hands with someone, or you put your heads together and laugh until one of you has to run and pee, or you're singing and the melody and the harmony come in so tight and sweet you get a shiver, or you take a bite of something you've never tasted before off his fork and it's so yummy you don't want to swallow it, or you're just sitting on the porch swinging and talking softly, or he says something funny and you squirt wine through your nose, or maybe you both cry at the end of a movie and then you laugh because his shirt is wet with your tears, or you lock eyes just before his lips touch yours, or you watch him drive away and know you'll see him again soon but you watch until he's out of sight just in case.... I'm really addicted to these crazy, ordinary, unexpected pings. If I could call anything a spiritual moment, these would be the moments.* If I could bottle them up like milk licker, I would do it.

For me today though, it's a trip to the mall to get my glasses fixed and a long, fast bike ride so I can justify stopping at DQ later this afternoon. And then maybe a cheap movie with my son and his girlfriend later tonight. Probably no romantic pings, but by the end of the day, I will have had some just right moments, and you won't find me complaining about that one bit. So tell me: what makes you ping?


*All pings aren't romantic. But for the title of this post to work, that's the kind I'm talking about. Besides they're some of the most unexpected and best, aren't they?