poison summer

Last night as I was sliding in my Saturn down Garden of the Gods Road in the snow, a song came on the radio that took me back:


The last time I went on the annual family vacation out East, I was a posh fifteen year old. I couldn't believe how completely unlawful it was that I should be forced to share this twenty-eight hour road trip with one dork, one brat, and two insanely illogical authoritarians. It was a complete injustice that I would have to put up with this totally inferior clan for no less than the seemingly impossible duration of TEN days! I had a Discman, a journal and a yearbook full of people telling me how awesome I was. The Discman to drown out the unbearable drones of Rush Limbaugh and Dr. Laura, the journal to record the abominable actions of the travesty that was my family and to express every detail of my maltreatment. And of course, the yearbook to make me feel a little closer to the ones who knew what it was like to be cool. My friends, the people who "get it".

There are parts of my self whom I wish to go back in time and kill. Or at least sternly reprimand. One of these selves is a fourth grader whose floral stretch pants and scrunchy socks were thought to be all the rage. The other is a sixth grader who thought her killer Down's Syndrome impression was second to none. Another is that surly fifteen year old in the back seat of the gray Plymouth Voyager on the way to Long Island to see Grandma.

I don't remember much about that family vacation. It probably went something like this:
Erin stop! Mom, Erin's touching me! Are we there yet? can we go to McDonalds (Teresa) Can I have some pretzles? Hiiiii Graaaandma. Your pants are too long, they're dragging on the ground. Let's go buy you some nice pants. Where are your bangs? You can't grow out your bangs, your forehead is too big! We're going to Mass. I hope you brought something nice to wear to Mass. Do you want to play with the American Girl dolls? I bought a new outfit for Molly and I bought her backpack and her bicycle too. No running on the hardwood floors you'll slip. Take your shoes off in the mudroom. You can play with your mom's old jump rope if you wish. There's also a Skip-It in there. Do you girls like Skip-It?

One thing I do remember very vividly in fact, was the one and only cool person I saw on that vacation. On the ferry to Fire Island. He had Airwalks on his feet, a boom box in his lap, jean shorts and shoulder length brown hair which whipped his face in the salty Atlantic wind. He was at least five years oder than me. Maybe in his mid-twenties. He must have been a camp counselor or something because there were millions of Puerto Rican children swarming about him. Tugging at his shirt, poking him then giggling and ducking out of the way. None of this madness phased him. He was completely relaxed as he closed his eyes and breathed deep and gave himself to whatever was coming out of that boom box.

Intrigued, I moved up a couple of seats to be across from him and to disassociate myself from the cheesy family who kept talking to me in direct violation of our understanding that we were to ignore each other in public. I wanted to see what was written on his "Hello My Name Is.." sticker. I wanted to see what color his eyes were. Most of all I wanted to hear what was coming out of that boom box that seemed to be taking him far far away. As I leaned in I recognized Don Henley's "Boys of Summer". Except at the time I thought it was "Poison Summer" and something about that misconstruction fit perfectly into the little hole I had taken along on the family vacation. "I can tell you/ My love for you will still be strong/ After the "Poison Summer" has gone..."

I fell in love with that guy on the ferry that day. Although I never did find out what his "Hello My Name Is" sticker said, or the color of his eyes, as he had them closed the whole while, there was still something about the way he tapped his foot and drummed the boom box. Something about his hair getting windblown and tangled in perfect conjunction with Don Henley's voice singing "I can see you/ Brown skin shining in the sun..." Something about a little smile on his face that told me he had no idea I was watching, no idea that anyone was watching. Something about the way he was able to put himself in another place just by closing his eyes and listening.

I wondered if he had a girlfriend. I wondered if he called her "Baby." I wondered if he lived in an apartment. I wondered if he was in college. I wondered if he would open his eyes so that we could get married. Whenever I hear "Boys of Summer" I think about that guy and my own "Poison Summer," cursed with spending ten days of quality time with my loathsome kinfolk, only my CDs and my Clearasil to comfort me. It has been almost ten years. Still, when I hear that song I close my eyes and become transported like that guy. I feel the wind on the ferry and I taste the salt in the air. I see his Airwalks tapping and his stringy hair dancing. And I laugh a little inside, because "Poison Summer" is not the name of the song. And looking back, that summer wasn't so bad.

metaphorical cake

This past week has been a series of ups and downs. Actually just varying degrees of down. Jonas got teeth, Brian got a speeding ticket, I had a full-on anxiety attack, and our bedroom door now has a hole in covered by a full length mirror that holds about as much validity as one you might find in a fun house. The world keeps spinning and I feel as though I'm being flung up against the wall by centripetal force and I'm searching desperately for something to grab onto. I'm looking for something solid to cling to so that I can stop spinning for a moment and relearn simple breathing. I have been distracted by pure things that I am quite unworthy of. My thoughts have been muddled with what if and if only and why why why.

Dani and I discussed weddings yesterday. We both find it to be incredibly rude and tacky when the bride and groom smear cake in each other's faces. As an ex-pastry chef who has baked hundreds of beautiful wedding cakes, Dani was somewhat familiar with this crude practice. Apparently, In the olden days when women had less of a choice in taking on life partners, this was a bride's subtle way of expressing her distaste with the groom she was reluctantly marrying. I can't say I blame her. If smashing cake in someone's face was the one way to express resentment during a time when a woman's words were to be sweet and limited, then I'm glad for those brides. I'm going to love you as it is now my duty, but I must first convey how much I hate the whole idea.

Today I realized that I have been smashing metaphorical wedding cake in Brain's face almost daily since the night the pink line appeared on the EPT. I cannot help resenting him. I remind him everyday how much I loathe his computer and his slurping and his whistling and his cat and the list goes on. I keep picking away at small things because I am denying the real problem. It all came to a head tonight when I was called out for this very problem. I am an asshole.

And there's Brian. On the couch watching Rambo. Escaping the confines of my ridicule. Eluding my nagging voice by seeking solace in machine guns and shouting. That makes me feel like a fucking doll, let me tell ya. He's wiping his face off again and I'm wondering when he will give up. Will there come a time when we can really just sit ourselves down with forks and plates and eat our cake like civilized people? Stay tuned...

the same old me

Jonas graduated to a big boy car seat today. As I wrestled with the unfamiliar straps and complicated buckles, a small lump formed in my throat. Wasn't it just the other day I was still in the delivery room going through the same ordeal with the foreign straps of the newborn car seat? An image of an angsty teenage Jonas peeling out of the driveway with no car seat at all popped in my head and I had to bite my lip and blink back the ridiculous tears. Time goes so fast. I'm just biding time with him.


I'm beginning to think that some sort of arrested development occurred in my brain somewhere between 4th and 5th grade. When I close my eyes and try to picture who it is that I think I am, the picture is one of me on the ferry to Fire Island with my dad. I'm almost 10 and I'm wearing a kitty sweatshirt I painted myself with craft paint and a stencil. I have about 40 friendship bracelets on each wrist. And bangs. Big thick ones. I want a hamster and pierced ears and a perm and I can't wait.
Brian's mom gave me banana clips in my stocking this Christmas. I couldn't help but smile at how great they would have looked almost 15 years ago with the perm I never got. You know, often when I see middle aged office ladies that still have feathered hair and shoulder pads I think to myself "What's her problem? Doesn't she know she's stuck in the early 90's?" I guess time just goes so fast that they don't notice the fashions rapidly changing around them. They are in their offices, stuck happily in their primes, probably not even giving a shit about the bright chunky jewelry that has replaced delicate gold heart shaped lockets and cheesy charm bracelets. They don't care that the girls are now straightening their hair, rather than teasing and perming.


I try to stick to the classics. I wear a lot of black because I'm just not hip enough to keep up. Every now and then if there's something that has seriously caught on, I'll jump on the wagon a little late and hang out toward the back, so no one notices just in case I want to jump back off. I do have some pretty big ass sunglasses. One thing you will never see me do is wear fuzzy boots over tight jeans. I'm not really a good candidate for that look anyway because A) I'm too short and fat for it and B) I'm not a movie star.


Brown is the new Black
Less is the new More
Old is the new Young
Skin is the new Coat
Modest is the new Vain
and I am the same old Me

constipated in cleveland

in a town where everyone is rooting for the browns, i feel as though i'm the only one not giving a shit. literally. it may be tmi but i haven't pooped in five days! maybe it's the lack of activity. or maybe these gray skies. seriously, does the sun ever shine in cleveland? i feel like this town sucks the happiness right out of everyone. all the people here are pissed off. maybe they're all constipated like me. and they all have mustaches. what's up with that? they just look mean. all the ladies in the stores are so bitchy and they all smoke.

the browns lost yesterday and the only reason i'm upset is because i predicted that if they won, i would take a shit and be relieved of this stifling misery. and if they lost, six more weeks of constipation for me. i knew it. so far my prediction is right.

i miss colorado and its blue skies and its perky, polypropylene-wearing people. i miss my drunk neighbor clunking around in his boots. i miss the option of going snowboarding, even though i can't actually find anyone to watch my kid. i just miss having that option. i miss pikes peak, even though i've never been to the top. i just miss looking at it. i miss my jogging stroller. but mostly the sky. i've taken for granted the luxury of looking up and seeing blue. or any legitimate color for that matter. anything but gray. and i miss colorado's people. its running, riding, skiing, recycling, granola-eating, rock-climbing, polite, healthy, attractive, smiling, new life-going, customer service-oriented, intelligent, beautiful people!

so here are the things i like about cleveland:
westside market
running in the woods
lake erie
all food
downtown
the fact that the sun comes out for a few brief moments at the end of the day to set over the lake giving me something to look forward to the next day
jonas making his grandparents smile
brick streets
the big brick houses near the lake
the art museum (the one exhibit that i saw)
brian's mom's fascination with giant discount stores filled with junk
westside market
westside market
westside market

there. i named a bunch of good things about cleveland. now maybe karma will smile down upon me and give my clogged intestines a f***ing break!

my cartwheel

Mrs. Thayer had big frizzy hair and too much blush. Her butt was so big it spilled over either side of the piano bench. We had to drive 30 miles to get to her house and then I had to sit in her dank basement doing homework while Teresa went into the piano studio for her lesson. A toddler Erin would run around the room and my mom would balance her checkbook while tapping her snow boots. Then it was my turn. I hated being alone in there with her. I hated those basement windows that were way at the top of the wall and when you looked out all you'd see was the dirt in the window well and the bottom of the neighbor's house. The glass of water with its disgusting lipstick prints stood beside the metronome atop the piano. They stood there together looking down on me, mocking me as my fingers slipped off sharps and stumbled too quickly through the tougher measures. Then Mrs. Thayer would make me do them over, telling me to focus on the time signature this time and listen to the ticking metronome. She would lean in squinting, crowding my space, invading my bubble so that I could smell each particle of her potent old lady perfume. Begonias and Lilacs. Or whatever flower it is that old ladies like so much... She would shove her swollen hand with all its rings into my middle C position and show me how it was to be done. There was no clock in there so I never knew how much time was left. Sometimes as she was blabbing away about ritardendo or decrecendo, her hand would rise like a maestro and I would strain with all my might to catch a glimpse of the hands on her tiny gold wristwatch. It was just my luck that the thing didn't have any numbers, so if I ever did get a look at the hands I never got an actual time. Just a vague idea that left me more frustrated than anything.

One day Mrs. Thayer left the room for a moment. I don't remember why. Maybe it was to answer a phone call. Maybe to refill her lipstick-smeared water glass. Maybe to take a pee. I really don't remember. All I know is that I, a daring nine year old, was briefly left alone in the piano studio and an urge so strong I couldn't resist came over me. Risk slithered down my spine as I made the decision to do it. My cartwheel.

I did a cartwheel in Mrs. Thayer's piano studio. As soon as I completed my covert little stunt, I scurried back to the piano bench and resumed my studious piano-playing demeanor. No sooner had I smoothed my hair back down and straightened my blouse then Mrs. Thayer opened the door. “Are you ready to try again?” she asked. With adrenaline still rushing through my body, charging to my fingertips, I played a perfect “Allouette” . I finished my lesson with a tiny smirk in my soul. I left Mrs. Thayer's that day with a smug satisfaction. The same smug satisfaction I still feel when I get away with something. Since that cartwheel, there have been few things that I've actually gotten away with. I didn't get away with drinking beer on campus. I didn't get away with driving with expired tags on the Air Force Academy. I didn't get away with parking too close to a fire hydrant in Denver. I didn't get away with unprotected premarital sex.

But

I do occasionally get away with a free bag of kitty litter because it's on the bottom of the shopping cart. Right now I'm getting away with not having a full-time job. I hope to get away with the payments I've missed on my student loans. But if not, I'll just do another cartwheel when no one's looking. And that will be just as good.

some thoughts on University Park

On two occasions, completely independent of one another, I have been called a German Shepherd. The first time was by a boy whose name I can't recall in my fourth grade class. The second time was by a girl in my 7th grade class, shortly after the movie "All Dogs Go To Heaven 2" came out. This was years later and at a different school in a different state! That simply can't be a coincidence. I've been carrying around this "German Shepherd Complex" ever since. Whenever I happen to be around someone who has one I get nervous. I start sweating and shaking and searching for excuses to get away. It's as if I think the dog owner will pause mid-conversation and say "Hey! I just noticed you kinda look like my dog!" Needless to say, when I am ready for a dog, it will be a Lab or a Husky or a St. Bernard or a Shi Tzu (because I like the name). Jonas fell asleep in my lap just as Brian got home from work. Now I can go running without the jog stroller. I like running at night because nobody else is out. Everyone is at home, finishing dinner. Scraping the last few bites of steak and potatoes into the bowls of their eager German Shepherds. Last night I ran through University Park. I admired all the lovely things I will never have: A gigantic house on top of a hill with a door that I am not allowed to paint because of the Covenant. A sixteen-car garage that I could live in comfortably with my family, and store everything I own and use as a painting studio. A sprinkler system that I would of course only run at night. Grass. Sod (I never liked sod anyway. It's too pretty, like a wig for the earth, just weird). A pension. A sunburn. A souvenir. A reason to do "yardwork." It's uncomfortable, sometimes, to look at other people’s things. Especially things that are so far out of reach. The University Park residents probably worked very hard to afford those waterfalls. Yet I have seen them groan at the prospect of replacing the brake cable on their grandsons' Huffys. Maybe I’m just prejudiced. It hurts sometimes, to see people who have everything. Especially when I know that all Brian wants is an education and a little space to build some bicycles. Sometimes when I’m running, a moment, carrying a thought, containing a solution, passes quickly by. And I wish I could decipher it with Galileo’s insight. I wish I could process it with Sylvia’s words. I wish I could sing it with Aretha’s conviction. I wish I could paint it with Pollock’s nerve. I wish I could summit it with Shea’s lungs and legs. Wish I could top it out with Peter’s strength. Wish I could strum it with Sarah’s guts. Lap it up with the reckless abandon of a German Shepherd. Maybe it was an answer. A simple one, like "You are right here." And I am just grateful that the night is cold because I can see my breath. And this proves I am living.

early morning ramblings

I've been thinking about the grand scheme of things lately. Mainly because I like the word "scheme". Almost as much as Brian enjoys "neurotransmitters". So anyway, in the grand scheme of things, it's hard to tell what's important. How do you not fuck up the Present without fucking up the Future? Why do I always have to choose between these two tenses. I like Past because it's over and there's nothing I can do about it. My brain is full of lame chiches right now because the other night we were talking about forks in the road. Once forks are in your head, you start recognizing them all over the place. What if I do this instead of that? What if I go here instead of there? What if I choose black instead of white? (I stick to gray). And you could drive yourself insane with "what-iffing".
Maybe mental health isn't a choice for everyone, but for me it is. I try to make decisions about the way I feel. I could choose to get upset over something trite and then feel crappy or I could choose not to let silly things bother me and be happy. I could choose to feel ugly or I could just avoid the pro shop mirror and like myself all day. I could choose to let myself sink into criticisms and let them drown me, or I could use them as tools to improve myself. This is much harder than it seems.
I have a new expensive mouthwash that claims to kill the bacteria on the way back of your tongue, ending bad breath forever. I think it works ok, but it makes my throat hurt all day. I've been chewing lots of gum lately. Did you know that chewing gum causes gas? It's because you swallow all those tiny bubbles. It seems unfair that I should be forced to choose between bad breath and gas. Two most unattractive qualities. When I asked Brian what he'd choose, he said he'd rather have gas, because at least asses are supposed to stink, and nobody is going to be kissing it anyway. I guess this makes sense...
I've been so distracted lately. I guess because it's easier than being focused. Last night I contemplated immortality as though I had a choice in the matter. I just feel like I need a few more lives to get it right. Then I contemplated death because I do have a choice in the matter and that was just too much to think about while changing a diaper.
Sometimes I get overwhelmed and my brain spins, pen spits, hand slips, heart shits and I'm right back where I started. Considering the grand scheme of things again as though I have a crystal ball...