Penis Box

it took all i had to restrain myself and not pull any pranks on the sacred holiday known as april fool's day. being a gunnison by birth i have an overabundance of enthusiasm when it comes to anything even slightly resembling a holiday or theme. why then, you ask, did i hold back on this particular day of fools? me, the one whose foot was lodged firmly in my little mouth at birth, causing some odd looks from the doctors and nurses. it was probably the only time in my life that the verbal diarrhea wasn't flowing from my mouth like montezuma's revenge.  my sister sarah is likeliest to blame, or perhaps the terrorists. anyhow, whomever is to blame, i was in an airport on april 1st and unfortunately had to restrain myself if i wanted to arrive on time to my youngest sister's wedding.  
but the return flight, now that was a different story. 
the ride to the oakland airport was typical of 'a day in the life of me.' my best friend lisa missed the exit due to my incessant rambling and geographical retardation. we somehow ended up on a bridge going to treasure island, the place where i returned my favorite brother when he went AWOL from the navy to compete in a surf contest in santa cruz. the hour plus cushion we had was quickly deflating. my brilliant daughter yelled from the backseat to flip a bitch on the bridge. i screamed YES and lisa, the always cautious driver, slammed on the brakes so i could jump out of the car on the bridge, run barefooted and braless through the pissed off commuters to move the orange cones. 
needless to say we ran sweaty and stressed to the southwest check-in line with only minutes till takeoff. chloe and i looked at each other with fear in our eyes. the line was insane, snaking around back and forth like the line for space-fucking mountain at disney land. i tried to breathe deeply and told her i'd watch our fifty seven bags while she used her cuteness and youngness to go have a talk with the guy standing at a desk labeled "special services."
as i expected, she returned smiling and said our plane had been delayed by twenty minutes.
"he said we'll totally make it." she said, giving me the thumbs up. i don't doubt at all that she caused the delay. 
after sucking up fifteen of our extra twenty minutes in the heinous line we finally arrived at the counter. we heaved our heavy bags up on the scale and flirted with the check in dude so he wouldn't notice that they were far over the 50 pound limit. since my other sister leslie is moving out of her house of sadness we had an extra box stuffed with clothes she had given to chloe and i. earlier, i had asked lisa to duct tape it for us before we left her house and had failed to notice that my devious friend had taken it upon herself to do a little decorating.  i watched the check in dude's eyes go wide as he bent down to take a closer look. i heard my daughter start to laugh and i looked down at the box that was covered with penises. lots of penises. in bright red sharpie were big ones, bent ones, circumcised and uncircumcised ones. big hairy balls bounced all around and one little sentence was written on the bottom of the box. it said, "i'm a proud republican!"  i looked up at the guy to see if our box was going to be confiscated. i guessed not as he was laughing so hard he was about to cry and he called out to other employees to come and have a look. a small, sweet looking asian woman in her crisp blue and white airline uniform came over. she looked down and squealed, covered her mouth with her hands and ran away. "oh she loves it," said check in guy, "she's a nasty one." i noticed that he was wearing pajamas and he told us it was pajama day at southwest. of course it was. he called someone else over, a dark black woman in bright pink jammies decorated with teddy bears and bunnies.  "lord-a-mercy!" she said, licking her luscious lips, "ima sit on dat." we discussed exactly which ones we would prefer to sit on and my daughter snapped a few pictures to send lisa. we glanced back at the growing line of scowling passengers who just might miss their flight due to lisa's antics. but we were having a blast.
"i hope we're not holding you up." i said to check in guy. he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and caught his breath. he looked at chloe and i like we were handing him the winning lottery ticket. "this has been the worst day ever." he said. "the monday after easter is always a nightmare, everyone is pissy and hungover after spending obligatory time with their families."  More employees filed past to enjoy the box they heard they absolutely must see. "this is the best thing that's happened to us all day, maybe even all year."
chloe and i felt our hearts growing inside our chests like the grinch after deciding to return the presents and roast beast to the whos down in who-ville.  "thank you," he said, "now RUN to your gate or you're gonna miss your plane." we held hands and ran like the wind. in slow motion we arrived at our gate where the entire plane was waiting for us. the captain himself greeted us by name. "good job girls," he said, "it's about time we had a little humor around here." 
 (i must give at least 95% of the credit to my lovely lisa for making this story possible. the other 5% will be split between my daughter and i who weren't too embarrassed to follow through.)

PJC, strange but true

Yesterday I was up at the c.o.d. (crack o dawn) sitting in a creepy little low-ceilinged, wood paneled room with every other redneck smoker who got caught in the speed-trap in Marion, NC. If you blink you will miss it and "it" isn't much. The big, brightly colored wooden sign reads, "Welcome to Marion, a friendly, progressive city."  Sure, it's cute in a 70's kind of way but there's not much going on. I'd wager that making out and ingesting anything one can get his or her hands (or nose as the case may be) on are the top two forms of entertainment.  The "historic" downtown area has a plethora of "loves me, loves me not" type businesses. Half of them are open and have bizarre sounding names that have nothing to do with what's inside. The other half have worse names and are abandoned, the for sale OR rent sign reminiscent of hooker offering $5 blow-jobs for the last two hours on her corner. 
But when it comes to raising money in this pit-stop of a place, I must admit, they've got it down.  It goes something like this:


1. Set speed traps and post meanest, most un-feeling cops behind trees, shacks etc.
2. Relentlessly pull over anyone who you didn't grow up with, especially those who look 
    vulnerable
3. Issue citation, stop at nothing, not even baby's head hanging out of vagina is cause to 
    be sympathetic. She was speeding after all, or at least you think so and it's her word 
    against yours
4. Have all your "lawyer" "friends" send out scary letters describing in great detail the 
    horrors of going to court without counsel. Obviously charge double.
5. For those illiterate/lazy or hung-over enough not to be smart and use "lawyer"
    make court small, hot, late, stinky and very early in the morning in order to charge
    very large amount of money for any and everything


Lather. Rinse. Repeat and suddenly Marion, NC, if you look at it in just the right light, looks a bit more friendly and progressive than you had once imagined. You crack your window and sniff the air...it smells like something familiar, something you remember from your past...Oh! It's MONEY. And as we all know, money is pretty damn sexy no matter how you slice it.


But I, genius/queen o the shortbussers that I am, found a crazy-ass (only in NC!) loop-hole.
A loop-hole so good the "lawyers" highly advise you NOT to use it. "We can't tell you why, but believe us, it's NOT a good choice. After all, WE are the "lawyers" right?"
It's called PJC (Prayer for Judgement Continued) and when I Googled it I was in awe. Surely this couldn't be real. I double checked that I wasn't on the Sesame Street website (one of these things...doesn't belong) but no, there it was, PJC. A plea that may be used by a family or individual who hasn't had a violation in the last 3 years. I read and read and only got more confused. Did it wipe you clean? Did you have to pray in court? Were there still fees involved?
It's finally my turn and by good karma or an act of God, the court is comprised of women. All of them from the court reporter to the judge. I stand at the front of the room, alone, the asthmatic breaths of the rednecks behind me strangely comforting. 
"Whatchu wanna do?" Asks the curvaceous bleach-blonde DA. I am momentarily blinded by her Sparkle City Pink lipstick but recover and say, "What are my options?"
She rambles off pleading guilty and paying the (large) fines, going to traffic school (large fines PLUS the fee of school PLUS having to come back to Marion and hang out for hours with my new compatriots.  She pauses and looks me in the eye...(wait for it wait for it).
The fact that I am not rambling on and negating my choices is only because I haven't had coffee yet.  Because really, who wants to be sitting in court, dying to take a crap? Not me.
She sighs, cocks her head slightly and says, "There is the PJC...." I smile and say, "I think I'll take that."  I realize that no one in their right mind would say yes to a thing they had never heard of or sounded so stupid it couldn't be right.
But all of a sudden she's whispering to the judge and they wave me to the lady who writes something on a green piece of paper.  She hands it to me and I thank her a little to profusely. I turn to the judge and the DA, I smile like Miss Fucking America and do my little lightbulb unscrewing hand motion. I mouth the words, "thank you."
And I'm out.
I still had to pay but it was $120 not $250. 
And yes, I also had to pray. "Dear God/Mary/Jesus/Buddha/All those other Guys," Thank you for my PJC. I don't know exactly what it is and I'm pretty sure it's a complete crock but still, if you wanna pretend, I will too."  Amen. 

so sayeth the lord

Baked Blessings

Of course it erupted during the holidays, those oh so stressful times when there's never enough money, always too much alcohol and the emergence of every family issue that ever happened, is currently happening or ever will happen.

The "it" I refer to was a lip shanker. A big, blistery sore that slowly (very VERY slowly) healed in a cosmic joke sort of way where the "better" it got, the more scabby and disgusting it looked.

Being a white girl with blonde hair and Snow White rosebud lips didn't help at all and the scab, which I swear turned almost black and was situated just to the left of the center of my bottom lip, looked like I had Superglued on an old, extra dried up raisin. It stuck out from my lip as if to say, "Hey, get me off of here, I have other plans." But short of biting the damn thing off (gross yes, but it softens after brushing, lip licking etc. allowing a slight, band-aid removing maneuver to render you instantly more socially acceptable). The major problem was that actually doing this immediately caused a brand new shiny open wound. And what are wounds supposed to do? If you said heal then you're correct. And what exactly does healing involve? That's right, a scab!

Usually a bigger, better, crustier version, one that might be thinking, Try biting me off this time, bitch!

How many times did I go through this process you ask? One or two? Try three to five.

Lame, I know, but c'mon, it's the HOLIDAY SEASON and people have parties and get-togethers, there are presents to buy and groceries to stock up on, there are dogs that suddenly need to go to the vet.

Due to short and long term memory loss, I kept forgetting it was there and no matter how many "You look fines" I got from my family (well, most of them, my youngest son had a habit of staring intently at my scab then saying something like, "Sorry, it's just so gross I can't really hear what you're saying"). Oh the mouths of babes. I truly had no desire to be in public.

This handicap started somewhere around early December, when sister #2 came to visit and we spent our time together as we always do, drinking, gossiping, crying and fighting. This time had the extra element of her current relationship issues which we discussed in great detail, necessary but very stressful for both of us. When I waved good-bye to her at the tiny airport,watching her walk away from me, missing her already, I felt the first tinglings of my new lip friend.

Ice, Abreva, blow-drying and nail polish remover (damn internet!) did nothing to stop its intensity and 5+ scab/sore cycles later I sat on the couch in the dim light, completely relating to hibernating bears, housebound morbidly obese women and cave-hiding terrorists. But I was learning to accept my ogreous looks and though there was no way to hide it, not clothing or hats or lipstick or glasses, it was becoming a part of me.

I snuggled deeper into the couch then perked up like a dog when I heard the ding of the oven timer. "Hey G, go get the cookies, will ya?"

He's the nicest kid I've ever had (or ever met for that matter) so when he didn't respond I was a bit dismayed. But he was ahead of me and had already de-ovened and plated the freshly baked, warm, soft chocolate chip lovelies.

Now he was back on his own couch, lovingly cradling the cookies in his lap. "You want one?" He asked with a sly grin, knowing I'd tackle him and eat them all if he didn't share.

He hucked one to (at) me. He was a good 16-18 feet away and while he's quite coordinated, it would have taken some skill and concentration, especially in the low, light for him to nail a target the size of a dime. But he was spot on. The spot being my lip scab of course, the fifth one that was hanging on like a leech, the one I was forcing myself not to bite off, to let heal naturally, even if it took a fucking year. The cookie

didn't just hit my lip, which would have been quite painful, it SLICED it off. It was a round razor blade, flying at top speed, its only mission to extricate my scab as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Gabe and I looked at each other, with eyes equally wide. He started to laugh and I was gonna join him till I felt the gush of wet, warm blood spurt Monty Python-like from my wound. It ran down my lip, down and under my chin and settling into my cleavage. The amount and intensity of blood that came from that tiny area was incredible. I went to the bathroom, bloody cookie in hand, and looked into the mirror where I beheld my bloody teeth, lip, face, neck, chin and chest. Not sure exactly what to do for a lip, I treated it like any other bleed and applied pressure, then ice. The ice I fished from my drink and had the added benefit of the antibacterial agent known as Gin.

The next day I awoke and shuffled to the bathroom to gaze upon the beginnings of scab #6. I was shocked to see that my lip looked completely normal. I chalked it up to time and checked it every hour but still, no scab...in fact, no wound, no scar, my GOD! How can this be? I allowed myself exactly 17 minutes to ruminate on the wonders of the world, how and why things happen the way they do and why we are here after all. Of course it all applied to my lip incident. At minute 18 I broke out my sad and lonely scarlet colored lipstick and lavishly applied it. Sighing deeply I had no choice but to accept it for what it was. A miracle, plain and true. A chocolate chip cookie miracle.