Friday, July 30, 2010

Where In The Heck Is The Hussy? Season 2. Part 372

Oops, she's done it again.

Are you sick of it yet?

Here There Where?

I'm getting tired too.

Well, I would have driven anywhere (not quite to Bend, Oregon- where she lives) to see her.

Because she's my blood, even though she has straight blond hair.

Because she has the sweetest voice.

And the sweetest eyes.

And since we're on the topic of eyes.

He's related to me too. Can't you see the resemblance? Our abilities to eat french fries lie deep in the gene pool.

But he is definitely my brother's son. Definitely.

He gets his brains from him.

It just wasn't enough time, though, to get to know them more. And I regret that 20 hours of daylight hours didn't seem to fill in the 363 days I go without seeing them. And I am sad.

But we had things to do and people to see and about 2,000 other people to get nearly nude with and swim in a wave pool of urine at this place. But 3 boys turning 6 get their way. And my germiphobia had its way with me. I haven't been able to scrub it all off. Two days too many.

But then we had to get home so I could get on one of these things:

With her. The beautiful lady on the left.

We were going to surprise this guy. Who happens to be her brother. Who happens to have written this book. Which is about a night out on the town in N.Y.C. Which is the place he lives. Which is the place where they grew up. Which is where we went to celebrate with him.

The party was at this place. Which is where she was born. And the walls, despite being freshly painted, have the stories of famous people dripping from them. They are adorned with Paris Review art. Medora said they were missing the book shelves, which once stacked George's identity tightly together.

She had stories of the place...water balloons off the roof, watching naked women jump out of cakes from the top of the spiral staircase, hiding under tables with feet like lion paws, learning how to play piano in this corner, sitting on the window seats watching tankers float by on the East River, playing on the rock patio at the end of the culdesac.

But the night wasn't about her or about her father. It was about Taylor, who wrote a book and maneuvered around his guests, signing books, with the ease handed down to him from his father. It appeared meant to be.

Me? I chatted with James Lipton. Me and him. He had stories of puppet shows in the apartment when Medora and Taylor were young. He considers them his own children because he didn't have any of his own and as I listened I had a hard time not staring at the large gap of skin between his upper lip and his mustache. And I couldn't help but wonder if he paid someone for his grooming or whether that was something he accomplished on his own. I mainly had a hard time focusing on any other feature because that was what my eye looked straight at. The dood is short. And he has a humpback and he shuffles around like a character out of a Disney movie. But he's famous. And he's talked to the likes of Brad, and Angie, and Johnny Depp and now me. He didn't ask me any questions though. And I regret that I didn't have a chance to tell him that I'm a traveling Hussy.

I regret, too, that I never had a chance to meet George. I was told he made everyone feel appreciated and special. This is the room where he typed away his legacy. His shrine was taken down but I could see him sitting there. He was genetically engineered for greatness. I am hoping that that kind of expectation rubbed off on me, just by being in the space.

In a moment before boarding the plane, when I had a chance to sit (feels like a month ago) I noticed a series of poems written on rattan mats.

I particularly loved this one and as it's approaching August I thought it fitting:


a slice of light shifted places
with a sliver of darkness
clouds unwrapped a storm
in the unwalled meadows of air.

I fear a storm within me brewing.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Where In The Heck Is The Hussy? Season 2. Part 4

Every year around this time I grow resentment out of my ear hairs and a little bit out of my extra bushy eye brows too. But it's only because I have to pull myself up to the crawl space and dig out the sleeping pads, sleeping bags, tent, crate of plates, spoons, plates, water jugs, Coleman lanterns, tarps. I do laundry, make sure we have towels, swim suits, life jackets, sandals, sneakers, frisbees, footballs, baseball gloves. I make sure we have bug spray, sunscreen, hand sanitizer, Dr. Bronner's, matches, sponges, the Swiss Army knife. I cook my world famous meatballs, home made spaghetti sauce, world famous salsa, and world famous chocolate chip cookies. I pack breakfasts, lunches, snacks, drinks- for dogs too. I pack bikes, helmets, tire pump. I clean house for house sitter.

And Paul Bunyan gets in the car and drives us to the campsite.

Nah, that's not exactly correct. But pretty close.

And all of that, all of that for dirty feet and nasty toenails.

And loaders to trip over.

And dirty soggy towels.

And wet clutter.

And beer, which only makes a certain person have to pee in the night more often, which only wakes up everyone in the tent when the zipper zips, which only makes for one crabby mommy and not to mention the fact that your campsite smells like a urinal.

And wet stinky dogs.

And dogs that are unnaturally freaky.

And sometimes obnoxiously loud children, mostly boys who like to hold their penises and pee right next to where you're sitting and then they put their sticks in it and swing them in the air and then put them in the fire only to burn their legs and eye balls and hair.

And sometimes an obstinate daughter who won't let me take a picture of her.

And so then I have to sneak photos and subsequently have many of her beautiful back and the gorgeous views.

And then there are the loons that howl in the night, their wails reverberating off shorelines.

And the pack of ravens caw, caw, cawing at 6 a.m.

And of course Mom has to pack those tiny boxes of Kellog's sugar cereal because she had them as a little girl when she went camping, and then an hour later after eating POPS or Cocoa Puffs or Honey Smacks (which actually used to be called SUGAR Smacks) everyone is still hungry and needing more CRAP to eat.

And, of course, no one wants a banana or an apple.

But you already know what I'm going to say...right? Because you've read this all before. You already know that I can find the positive in the soggy? The gold mine of reconnection. The gold medal of doing nothing.

When the clamoring is actually okay.

And the massaging of greasy heads is acceptable.

Except maybe not the feet.

But the general love in the air, swarming around heads like bugs on shit, is palpable.

But you can see that I don't think camping is all that bad. I really do love it. I especially love my little dust pan and broom, specifically engineered for sweeping sand out of my tent, which would have inevitably ended up in my sleeping bag.

Especially because I get to spend time with her as she supports me in my bid for a positive attitude.

Especially because I get to witness shit like this.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Where In The Heck Is The Hussy? Season 2. Part 3

We're packin' up again.

But while we're gone, I thought I'd give you a piece of home.


Tuesday, July 13, 2010

A Few Rationalizations

I watched my mother drive over the curb as she pulled away from the Mobil station at Exit 20 off I-87 in Lake George, N.Y. yesterday, with my three kids in the back.

And since then I have been listening to bull frogs, reading magazines in the hammock, and picking my nose. It's been a wonderful thing and I think I'll do it until Thursday at 2 p.m. when I have to go pick them back up. I might have to throw some weeding in there, but we'll see.

However, all this quiet time has my mind meandering in and out of self pity. You see, I'm herxing. I'm a herxer. I'm having a Herxeimer Reaction. Which supposedly is all good. It's a sign that my antibiotics are working and that I'm killing all those f-ing spirochetes swimming around in my brain. Besides my friend dizziness, I'm feeling a tingling sensation in the back of my head starting to introduce herself. And the feeling puts me back to a night I spent with the Goddess Who Is Gone, who wasn't at the time gone, but almost gone.

We were at the dark and smoky bar The Green Room. It wasn't smoky, but it would have been if there wasn't the no smoking law in restaurants. I wasn't looking that sexy, but I would have been if I wasn't sitting next to the Goddess, who sat right under the hanging spotlight over the bar. It highlighted the golden waves in her hair and her thin wrists and the way she held her martini glass like it was an extension of her hand. As she was talking in her enrapturing manner, I sat drinking my beer looking slumpy, but listening so very intently to her stories. She told of a visit to N.Y.C. to see her friend Michael where she competed in and won a competition involving a banana and her mouth and some embellishment. Ironically, she had just left her husband for a woman. She had turned her life upside down for love and blow job competitions.

And I was in awe. And she went on. And I drank more beer. Lately, I've been recalling her description of what if felt like to have an orgasm (sorry if this is too much information for people...stop reading now and hang a left to your nearest safe blog) with her new girlfriend. I still remember how she held her hands up in the air to help me visualize the feeling. She said how it started in her spine and slowly moved up the back of her neck and then at climax the tingling sensation exited her body at the back of her head. She lost words to describe it and became speechless.

I've never experienced that kind of orgasm, but now when I'm using visualization to get rid of the dead and dying spirochetes in my head, I think of the Goddess Who is Gone lying on her back with her custom-made red leather strap-on on and I picture those fuckers exiting my body in an out of this world, orgasmic way. All for the sake of love.

But I've also when wondering WHY? Why this happened to me? I think it's a normal reaction when someone gets sick. I have to find something I can take away from all this later. I'm looking for an answer. Most people turn to God. But I've got no formal training in that. I've only got four leaf clovers and my innate sense of trying rationalize everything.

Here are some of my attempts at rationalization:
1. I've worked for a family the last couple of months as a doula. He is a Buddhist. So they, very naturally, asked each and every carpenter ant who marched across their floors during an infestation to, "please, kindly leave." I tried not to let them see me squash them as they came down my path. But it made me think about all the insects I've killed in my lifetime and how as a little girl I would be woken up by the buzzing in my ear of the mosquitoes in my room. And how I would get up to shut my door to trap them and turn on the light to see them and then how I would smash them so hard against the wall that it would leave a blood splatter any crime scene investigator would be excited about. I would leave the dead carcasses there so the mosquitoes at the screen buzzing to come in might smell their dead brothers. Or, as of late, I've thought about the number of leeches I've killed in the pond and how I don't stop to apologize to any of them before slipping them into my salt water death bath. Or how I've actually considered making a high-end fertilizer to sell from their dead and decaying bodies. All of this done, without once showing remorse or regret, which the Buddhist's think might save your soul if you happen to take one, under foot, by accident. I am doomed.

2. This happened to me because I would have been really really sad if it happened to anyone else in my family. That's including my dogs.

3. This happened to me because I need to learn that beer is not that good for you and that I need to start really taking care of my body (thinking about what I put into it) and being healthy (exercising a little more) I (hmpf) approach 40.

4. This happened to me because once when I was in 5th grade I stole some notecards and pens from the supply closet.

5. Mostly though, I think this happened to me so that I can learn, once again (albeit a little hard), that I can't control the world even though I think I can.

However, I still have my palm, which was read in the summer of 1992 by that salty mystical lady on the boardwalk in Seaside Heights, her cave of an office and which says "I will be healthy."

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Where In The Heck Is The Hussy? Season 2. Part 2

Yeah, this was me. Way back when. Holy crap. That was 15 years ago. I'm with my mother (the woman on the left) and my aunt (the woman on the right). We're at the beach. Seaside Heights, N.J. I just graduated college. I was wicked cool.

But that's only because I went out on a date with him. Hot Hunk of a life guard. Mark. It wasn't really a date. We just went out to a club and had a few drinks and then made out on some slide at a park near the beach. And that's all that happened. I swear to the god I don't believe in. I promise you mom. That was it.

But every time I go here:

To spend a few days with these hoodlums.

I'm reminded of those few days on the beach I spent trying to get Mark's "eye".

As he sat on the lifeguard stand, or went running up and down the beach doing a drill, or taking the row boat out to save someone who got pulled too far out by the undertow.

I remember trying to look sexy.

Comfortable in my own skin.


And sometimes it just happens....

...that you meet someone you make a connection with.

And even if it's only for a short time (or a long one),

that you're with them,

you realize, after the fact, that they were there for a reason.

That they were there to show you something.

Or teach you something.

About yourself.

That you didn't already know.

And then years later...even 15 years later (or more),

you might recall

how that person made you feel...

like you were the hottest chick on the beach.