A Miracle is Spots Turning to Squares

About eight years ago, I was disowned by my Dad.

Not that our relationship had been stellar throughout my lifetime. It had basically come to a head and, I can't speak for him, but I remember just completely being at a loss as to what to do anymore. It was like ramming dead horses into a brick wall at the point. I didn't feel like he had ever known me, much less like he had ever wanted to know me. There had been things said that made me feel he didn't feel I would or could be successful with my passions and that I should just go to business school and well, make my life a living hell so I could make a few bucks and die early. I never knew what was going on with me because he would never talk to me. The most we spoke was in the form of idle chit chat. A lot of it was awkward.

So I connected all ties with my paternal side of the family which means I also stopped speaking to my sister. I had good reason for this as well but I won't go into it. It isn't the point right now.

I never celebrate Father's Day because, well, I had pretty much let him go into some great beyond and accepted the loss. However, last week I was thinking about a lot of things. For instance, I was starting to get hit by the fact that I was finally doing all the things I wanted to do. I'd gotten my own art show. I'd been entering juried art shows in Denver at various galleries and actually getting into some of the shows. Furthermore, I've been evolving my work, the mark of any good artist, into more mediums and really expressing my life in more and more ways. I am getting my Vagus Nerve Stimulator for my Epilepsy which has been and well, continues to be a long road (though there is a destination in sight now) and this summer my Grandfather died.

I started thinking that no matter who my Dad was, surely he would want to know his child was doing okay. Even if we didn't renew our relationship. I was scared he would think I was bugging him for back child support again or wanting money or to tell him off because, in the past that's kind of how it went.

It was easier to find him than I thought.

I had a starting place in that we had received a letter from him from Phoenix several years ago. So I called information there. His number was listed in the suburb of Mesa. In the past few years I'd visited Mesa five or six times and knew he was possibly close by but wasn't ready to find him.

What I didn't know is that he'd been trying to find me for several years.

When he called back the next day, it was a different man who called. Sure it was the guy who I referred to above. But it wasn't my Father, it was my Dad. There's a difference. He was so happy I called and he said, "And on Father's Day weekend..." That's when I realized that it was indeed that time of year. How fortuitous. We spoke for quite awhile and he wanted to see my art, read my writing. He wanted to meet me. He told me about how he almost died and was laying in a hospital bed thinking about me. I could hear the changes in his voice and it made me so happy. Wounds that had been there since I was a small girl began to heal instantly. The Dad that played Janis Joplin and Pink Floyd tapes while we bumped along the country road by our old schoolhouse home was on the other end of the line telling me about the music he listened to. I couldn't believe it. Talking about music with my Dad! He even recommended an artist to me. Everyone go look up Sarah Brightman because my Dad says she has a beautiful voice. We talked about movies a bit too and how my Aunt Linda has a zillion of them. He and my Uncle have become quite close. He works for him and my Dad "has tried to take most of the stress out of my life." If you only knew what a 180 that is for him, you would know why I know miracles really exist.

I told him it isn't everyday things like this happen. I never thought it would. Truly in my head I thought he would die lonely and alone. Thus, I told him what a big person it took to change their life completely and own up to their mistakes and basically apologize for what amounts to a lot of things that affected a lot of my life. However, the words "I'm sorry" go a long, long way in this instance.

He has developed respect for me and an interest in me as a person. For the first time in my life, I truly feel like he means it when he says he loves me.

Maybe everyone takes theirs for granted but I never really had one, even when I was a kid.

But now I have a Dad.

I Wish I Had a Kite

It's times like the last few days when I wish I had a kite.

Surely, sending something decorative and beautiful kissed with a wish (though I'm having a bit of trouble believing in them right now) soaring up to meet the clouds could be a medicine for my soul.
I want to take a jar and my heart and soul inside of it, tightening the lid so they don't escape. I would place it on the grass next to me as I watched the big giant kite float about in the sky. Nothing would be inside me as I watched the kite and I could just...be.

Being emotionally exhausted, I can't decide whether or not to sleep. I don't want to but my body has to. There are repercussions for not sleeping. Severe ones. I have, in the last few days, gained my father back, thus repairing my heart in many ways, lost a chance at something wonderful and gotten insulted in hindsight, smashing the shit out of my heart in many other ways, which is a bit counter productive. I didn't get into the art show I really wanted to get into. It was really important to me and the man on the phone forgot to email me. When I called, he was very nonchalant about the whole thing, asking me to describe my work and said, "No, I don't see it i the show." It's a very prestigious gallery and they didn't even have a list of names so I had to rely on his guesstimate. On top of that my headphones broke when all I wanted to do was wallow in my music. Finally, today I found my iPod earbuds in my car after I fell out of the rolley chair at work and found out that one of my co-workers just decided to cross a shitload of my shifts off the calendar and take them for her own. Thanks. That's nice. Take money out of my fucking pocket, you bitch. You have two jobs. That's what I survive on when I'm not banking on people to maybe buy my art. Christ.

If this bitch takes my money, I can't buy a kite.

What is with people stealing from me? Ironically the only person who has given to me lately is the person who stole practically my entire life from me. It means a lot he is back but it is still stealing emotional energy from me.

Why won't the nurse for the epileptologist just return my call? I need to go through a consult with her so I can have a consult with my surgeon and get onto the table for my VNS implant. Please. Please. Someone just stop robbing me.

There is no wind anyway. So I can't fly a kite.

I don't know what to do.

Mexican Prank Calls

What does this number mean? 410-210-9898

I have had phone calls from this number on two separate occasions.

I pick up the phone and some man rapid fires a very long speech in Spanish and then hangs up. My inadequate skills with the Spanish language do not allow me to keep up with what he is saying. I catch the words "solo" and "aqui" which I know mean, respectively, "alone" and "here." He is speaking too rapidly for me to even attempt to understand him or his intentions, though, and I am left, saying, "Que? Que?" after his prattle is over. But no, he is gone.

I am, as I write this, going to call the number back. I don't know what state this man is calling from or why he is calling me. He says something different every time. Okay, hold on. I will, of course blather on about what I find out.

I'm back.

I dialed the number and this is what I get. In English. "All circuits are busy now. Please try back later."

What is going on?! Did one of my weirdo friends sign me up for some Mexican Prank Call of the Month service during a drunken stupor? Why did the message woman answer in English? What sort of circuits are these? People screaming in Spanish in the ears of poor, unsuspecting girls just trying to enjoy a nice cloudy evening? This is a business that does this? Is this like in Punch Drunk Love where they are running a porn service out of a mattress store? I never called a porn line, especially not one run in Spanish. Is Phillip Seymour Hoffman going to send his goons to beat the shit out of me because I called the number back and am now blogging about the phone calls I have received?

Wait a tic! How did they even get my number? It's a private cell phone number. When I bought my new phone, I also made sure to change numbers so I could start fresh.

Why is it that I, of all people, am the brunt of Mexican Prank Calls? Not just one but multiple Mexican Prank Calls. I would think it was Neil and Adam calling me from Mexico because I did give them a partially used phone card to take with them on their vacation in case their debauchery landed them in some trouble and they needed to call home, but a)they don't know enough Spanish to pull off this level of prattling and b)they are safely back in Colorful Colorado and not in some sort of 410 area code. I know this because I just saw them and they both have classes and/or jobs to go to, as hilarious as they think this would be to pull off. Also they probably would do it to our friend Anthony, who did not get his passport in time to join them in Mexico, and not me. On their end, I am the brunt of Borat and pimp imitations, respectively.

All I know, is they had better have said something really good. If I am getting Mexican Prank Calls, then I don't want some lame-o telling me he wants me to get out of his dreams and into his car. If you are going to do it, do it right. At least waste my time with something that would make me want to punch you with a brick and pull your mustache under your crotch. I would at least respect your creativity.

Then I would ask you how much you make because that's a pretty awesome job.

Tall Drink of Water

the trees near my house grow like wheat
sweeping the clouds
shopkeepers waving cumulus kids away
dropping seed pod penny candies
for sparrow children to gulp down gullets

neighborhood favorite featherheads.

my heart curls up on the ledge and
beats itself in time
with the thunder, dropping beats
for the rain to catch and carry away
aquatic vibrations through your faucet

please drink me up at 2 a.m. in the in between

clinging like tiny girl gymnasts to your lips
dripping from your tongue
and warming myself on that moist land i wonder
about when i dream of you on white sheets
turned on side, one foot out and waking only

at the sound of the sun hitting the ground.

you do what you do and you have no idea
you have done well
i want to take your hands and place them
in a bowl of my cool cleansing kisses
as you place your lips on my surface

drinking me all the way in.

Terror Bat (Erik Loves Terror Bat So He Can HAVE Terror Bat!)

"Vamanos," Chris said, carrying a blue laundry hamper, as I unlocked the front of my building and he, Ryan and I headed up the stairway to the second floor to lucky apartment number 7. Apartment number 7: my residence. Apartment number 7: the location of Terror Bat.

Earlier that evening, I had finally arrived home, ready for bed. It had been a hard week. I finally got my art samples and application in to secure a spot for a covered booth at the Arts Picnic this summer. I set up a display at Chase Bank for Rozene's Festival of Art Festival samples, arguing with one if the tellers over whether or not you could put thumb tacks into stone pillars. I was "against." I think there were other things like my head almost exploding with stress concerning various things like jam bands being played at high volume at work and getting pissy responses when I asked my coworker to turn the radio down or to quit being loud because i couldn't hear the people on the phone or the customers asking me for synthetic urine. These were just the little things. And just Friday. So the rest of the week, which I won't eve go into, was just this vice grip on my patience and by Friday you could put a fork in me because I was done.

Back to me finally going home after a nice dinner of pan seared Tilapia soft tacos on corn tortillas and a cup of delicious coffee and ice cold water. Man, I like having coffee again. Even if it's just in small amounts. After that, I stopped at the corner of historical downtown and had my cards read by this amazing lady and end up talking to her for awhile and am beginning to relax. She has these dogs and they aren't annoying and always has popcorn around, which she puts fresh herbed butter on it. Possibly lavender? I'm not sure. Either way, it's always comforting to chat with her. It's about a block from home and when I finally left, I walked to my car amongst drunken booze hounds fondling each other and drooling margaritas on the sidewalk and I am glad I am not them. I remember when I was younger how much more cool it seemed. Now they just seem like runny, gross paintings of hustlers and whores, really. They don't seem to care about anything except holding each other up and getting a paw full of flesh while they're at it, mistaking it for affection.

Once I get home I'm too tired to do anything but fall into bed. I have my shawl around me and I'm about to reach over and turn out the light when: what I first think what was a bird came nonchalantly flap flap flapping into my bedroom, circling once and then landing on my curtain rod, right above the end of my bed.

I believe, "WHAT THE FUCK?" came out of my mouth as I jumped up into a huddled squatting position, looking at my cats who seemed mildly interested, almost as though a blob of potato salad had been thrown at the wall. Nothing too exciting to them. They stared for a moment and then apparently decided there was a better time to be had curled up in the clawfoot bathtub; that, in fact, this bat was nowhere, man. I yelled at them, "Come kill it!" This was, however, before I had determined it was a bat. I still thought it was a fat bird. It is spring, you know. So, I was on the phone with my Mom telling her there was a bird in my room because I thought she would think it was funny when I noticed the bird was hanging upside down.

I screeched, "It's a bat! It's a fucking bat! I have to call...I don't know, like someone. It can't be here! I gotta go!"

Next, I dial Ryan. He answers a mild-mannered hello and I continue in screech mode, "There is a BAT in my bedroom!"

Ryan, I can see his face sort of go blank as he says, "No there isn't."

I say, "There sure as FUCK is."

So now Ryan is getting a little bit more weirded out, which is ironic because he loves Spiderman and Spiderman got his powers from a radioactive spider. Ryan, is, however, practical and he started rattling off crap he was going to gather and told me to come pick him up. He asked if I had a net. I said, no, but I would make some calls.

On the way over to pick Ryan up, I called Chris who well, has this great focus. He's also very dependable if you can break him away from his hardcore blinder induced routine. Which a Terror Bat will do. It turns out Chris does not have a net. He asks if I have a hamper. I do not. I also do not have time to explain to Chris about how sometimes my house and I go to battle and currently the house is winning. He tells me to call him if we don't get the bat because "he thinks he could take the bat."

Will do.

When I pick Ryan up, he has added a fire extinguisher to the mix. This excites me as I wonder what this will do to the bat. However, I do not want the bat flying around. I do not want bat hell to break loose. I also do not want the bat to fly up into the top of my closet where it could possibly just make a home and be a Terror Bat guano sprinkler and we could not get at it. There's this tiny attic-like spot with a tiny entrance in the top of my closet where I store a bean bag chair. I do not want Terror Bat discovering that potential Bat Cave and taking a clever gadget-building butler up there and building a crime fighting division and stinking things up. I will burn that closet down.

Ryan also informs me that his plan is to hit the bat, knock it out and then throw it outside.

I look at him and say, "That's it? That's not going to work. You're just going to piss it off or you're going to stain my wall with bat stain."

Finally, I realize, I am going to be no good, as much as I like to think I am a badass. I can be but not with bats or snakes. Or large oversized goldfish. Or super large insects, especially Junebugs (oh so gross). Thus, I realize it's time to call Chris in.

I tell Ryan this and I think his manhood is a little insulted. But I inform him he's just going to yell at me and we'll be here all night. Which, it turns out later, is kind of what he wanted. He was so bored he was kind of excited about the bat and was hoping for a good two hour Scooby-Doo adventure.

When Chris gets there with his hamper, there is this slow motion moment where I am imagining the Bionic Man theme as he leaps up onto my bed in his soccer shoes and, without a flinch traps Terror Bat. I hear a little squeak, Chris tells me to throw the painter's cloth over the hamper, he tells Ryan to secure the edges and hold onto the sides because there are those little holes in hampers and then we all, in slow motion, Reservoir Dog style, it seems, take the hamper outside.

Chris said, "He's weirded out, man"

I chimed in, "Ditto."

When we got outside, I saw a side of Chris I have never seen. He had turned off the uber blinder focus guy and he was carefully turning the hamper onto the dewy grass and he shook out the painter's cloth. He looked into the grass and then up into the trees.

"There he goes. He's gone," he said, softly.

Ryan received a high five and I, a hug. Then off into the night with his light blue hamper, same as he ever was. Layers, like an onion.

You never know certain things about yourself or the people you know until you meet the Terror Bat.

My Friend Neil and Adam Ate These in Mexico and Made Them For Me!

See, this isn't an exact recipe and you can certainly tweak it how you want. That's sort of how it goes, I guess. Here's what was going on when I arrived at Neil's house, expecting some blackened hot dogs and ruffled chips (I didn't care, I was hungry and even asked if I needed to stop and get some potato salad).

When I got there, Neil's lady friend, Hallie, who I think is fabulous, had her entorouge (sp?) mashing up guacamole, Neil's housemate, Chris had a friend Javier who was just finishing up some cactus salsa, which delighted me because I'd not run into anyone my age who would eat cactus unless under my duress. This salsa was wonderful. These guys work at their other housemate's (not present) restaurant, The Wing Shack and had procured a stash of hot sauce from said establishment. There was queso, made by one of Hallie's gals. I helped Neil wrap the hot dogs with bacon (pay attention, this is a key point--which I will repeat, lucky you) but we later agreed he should have wrapped them with the pre-cooked bacon you can buy in packages. Although I think it turned out fine. I"m not sure what he was worried about and frankly, I don't think they have pre-cooked bacon in Mexico, or at least where Adam and Neil went. Then I carmelized some rings of onions. As Neil went to grill the dogs, we got out the mayonnaise and the sour cream. Yes, I said mayonnaise. So, following is how you basically put together a Mexican Hot Dog:

Bun

Mayo and Sour Cream (I skipped the sour cream but the mayo is a must...that's how they make them...unless you are the Cadillac of Stephanies. Then skip this step and stick to sour cream)

Carmelized Onions

Bacon Wrapped Grilled Hot Dog with the yummy grilled hot dog black crap

Guacamole

Queso

Salsa (I highly recommend making a homemade salsa such as the cactus one. i have a recipe for pumpkin seed salsa that would have done well also. I DON"T reccomend crappy run of the mill salsa as this is not a run of the mill hot dog)

If you have the stomach and mouth lining, try the hot sauce. Apparently, you can't do this unless it is HOT sauce. I can't do this. I enjoy tasting my food and not burning my lips off.

Note: I heard the term "stacking" being thrown about. I think this refers to eating two of these guys in one go. This brings you mucho respect from other guys, I guess. Or people around you.

Enjoy. Seriously, I'm a hot dog buff. I know a lot about them, have once owned a PBS video on the making of them and I collect Weinermobiles. This is what happens when someone nicknames you Weiner. Plus I just really enjoy them and have fond memories of them. This is just one more.

Enjoy!

Scrabbulous

Hey! It's one of those nights where I just don't sleep. It's not that I really mind them because I get writing done and I usually find something amusing in my attempts to entertain myself.

I should point out that these nights usually occur after I have driven myself NUTS with activity and doing things. These past two weeks would definitely qualify. I almost had a mental breakdown (not literally, folks, it's cool) yesterday, trying to cram eleventy billion things in the universe into the span of about eight hours. I finally had to start eliminating things that just weren't physically possible if the festival was going to happen and I was going to remain free from women's prison on several counts of homicide. I don't think women's prison is as sexy as guys think and I'm just not into butch chicks who want to trade cigarettes for sex, so I'm glad I just did what I could. I might point out, that I am also not into trading men things for sex either. One of my neighbors who was drunk once demanded that I life up my shirt when my friend and I were rough housing. I don't know him that well but I used to wait on him several years ago at a small restaurant and he kept saying stuff about never knowing his waitress was "like this." Ummmm. Your waitress? Okay. So, to cap, I don't trade women cigarettes in prison or out of prison for sexual favors and I don't lift my shirt for drunken neighbors or the male type.

Believe it or not I am getting to my point, which is, after leaving a bunch of annoying comments on my friends' pages, I was trolling around from Internet site to site looking at stupid shit because I knew if I got up and started reading I would just stare at the same page for seven hours. Just because I"m up doesn't mean I'm at a level of comprehension I am at during the day when I've had sleep. At this time, I was looking for some internet radio stations to listen to, which is sort of hard to sort through all the shit, and found what was possibly the most ridiculous piece of bizarro ever. It is www.freesoothingmusic.com. When you see it in the google list, you think..."Ahhh...that sounds nice, maybe it will help lull me to sleep."

Not only is it hideous music but some of the titles include the following:

Just Came Home? Cheer Up!"
"Memories of Those Lonely Days"
"We Say Wow Wow"
"Sadness"

And the "soothing" hits just keep coming!

There were some different links to click on such as: Sleeping Music, Dinner Music, etc. However, these are not additional playlists. If you click on them, they are just google links to sites where you can buy motorcycles and soothing crap like that. Possibly the funniest part or the most fucked up part was a little scrolling box saying these soothing sounds were just the start of this wonderful site! Soon to come were other genres, too like rap! And southern fried rock! They take requests, too and if it is available on the internet (cross your fingers) they will try and add it! Don't get your hopes up, though. I can never download music from the Internet. Nobody does that. That's like saying you can upload photos and post them on your friend's Myspace. Whatever. I'm just going to get on my hoverboard and zip on over to Michael J. Fox's house.

From there, I thought, maybe I would like to play an Internet game. I'm not into role playing....games. I hate solitaire because it's boring and I'm not good at cards anyway, except my brother is trying to long distance train me at Texas Hold 'Em and that's going alright. I found this Scrabble site, though, and was stoked because I love this wooden tiled game and generally whoop ass at it. Apparently, these people take it up a thousand notches and have quit their jobs to play Scrabble online day and night. I played one or two good games but they have you on this timer and this freaks me out. Scrabble is not a timed game. Bobby Fisher? We don't care where he went. At one point, I was playing some Australian who was giving me another reason to want to release the snakes again (the reasons just keep stacking up, man). This nerdalicious jerk went by the handle of scrabblesid and I had like 24 seconds left and I was trying to get my word together in time so I could earn some more seconds and points. scrabblesid chooses this point to become talkative in the little chat thinger and is thanking me profusely for giving him the highest score of his lifetime! Well, you have to answer or these dorks get pissed and ban you from the tables (gasp) so I am like, "you're welcome, whatever, blah blah" and he JUST KEEPS thanking me, emphasizing his thanks, trying, I think not to sound like a jerk but sounding like one and being a poor sport who is coming off like some sporto who just thanked me for the best blow job he ever had. I was thinking, in my head, "Quit sucking your own cock, asshole, I have 10 seconds to get the word hug up on the board!" I almost won against this chick with a really bad ranking but I lost by five points because she came up with a real humdinger that I really thought she made up. However, the site doesn't let you do that, so apparently it was a word. Although, I thought worl was a word. I guess not. I swear it is, but I am going to look it up. I swear they go against some regular Scrabble rules. So I call Shenaningans on this site on some accounts.