Paradise Lost and Found

view from the laundry room window

How many prodigal-blogger posts does this make?  Whatever. 

I found an assload of drafts in here. Apparently, I wrote a bunch of shit while strapped to the roller coaster that is culture shock, after blithely setting off for paradise with nine suitcases and a dog. 

I almost deleted them. But this is how I felt at the time, and this was my path from there to here.

I wrote this three years ago.  I'd forgotten the post, but I remember that night so clearly.
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Paradise Lost and Found

It's March. 2012.  Seven months since the exalted move to Paradise and entering into wedded bliss with the proverbial Latin lover.  Who needs Calgon?  This chick probably spends her perfect days on the beach, being served cocktails in a coconut by her surf-instructor husband, listening to toucan calls and the spicy strains of salsa music while all her troubles are borne away on a sultry, floral-scented, tropical breeze.

Bitch probably has a pet monkey, too. 

Well, sort of. I don't live anywhere near the beach.  Or even a pool.  The esposo is a librarian whose swimming skills are about in line with my salsa skills. We are, however, surrounded by coffee fields and volcanos, and we do enjoy the occasional coconut with a straw.  Or box of cheap wine. The breeze, while often floral-scented, has not borne away life's troubles, but it does occasionally deliver volcanic ash or monstrous insects through the screenless windows. There are banana trees (which are not actually trees), palm trees, mango trees, papaya trees, avocado trees, and fifty-eleven-jillion types of flowers, birds, and butterflies. Sunshine. Always.

No pet monkey, though.  Sorry.

I live in paradise.  I wake up to sunshine, birdsong, and warm tile floors every single day.  Except sometimes I feel like I'm supposed to feel like I live in paradise, and I am secretly guilty if I'm not 100% ecstatically happy all the time.  Like I have to live up to living the dream, you know?

There really is no magical place that is paradise, though you can be coaxed into believing in it when you're vulnerable, when you're shivering under a Snuggie, alone in your vast expanse of king-sized bed, listening to the endless rain beat down on the new roof you just paid for in your soon-to-be-foreclosed house, and it's dark by 4pm.

You can sure as fuck believe in paradise then.

I moved to Costa Rica, but my kids didn't.  My friends aren't here. I feel isolated, emotionally and linguistically. I'm getting better at Spanish, but it's like communicating with your head wrapped in a thick, wet blanket. That shit's hard, people. I now have a husband to have and to hold till death do us part, but marriage doesn't magically transport your ass to the pages of Harlequin any more than taking a salsa class magically makes you Shakira. (Yeah, that shit didn't work. Turns out they don't actually put those footprints on the floor for you to follow.)  I traded in my big, empty bed for the challenge of managing marriage across two languages and two cultures, after a largely long-distance courtship.  And that, my friends, no es nada fácil. We could be a weekly sit-com, trust.  Yes, I walked away from my job -- how great is that?  Everyone's dream!  But I also walked away from my own pension and salary, stepping into the role of a housewife completely dependent on her husband in a machista part of the world.  And that kind of messes with your head.

The separation from my kids and friends ... ain't enough paradise to fix that. My insides try to rise up and choke me if I let myself go down to that cellar where the real feelings live; oily, snakey things, locked up tight, away from the daily business of life.  As a single mom, I got pretty good at compartmentalizing, at handling shit while appearing sane and competent, at keeping that padlock snicked shut. Tight.

Until I'm alone.

Because then no one has to know. 

So one night I'm cooking dinner (because I'm a housewife now, y'all) and my iPod pops up this lullaby I used to sing to the kids when they were babies, in that big rocking chair that got left on the porch of my now-foreclosed house.  It was fast, too -- James Taylor reached out and gut-punched me with a baby's song, hard, and the padlocked things slithered out, into my consciousness where they don't belong, except I'm not alone now, because I moved to paradise and new husband is sitting over there playing computer chess, and James Taylor is singing "and you can sing this song ... when I'm goonnnne," and now I'm the one who's gone, and freaking James Taylor slams me back into the rocking chair with that soft, chubby baby in terrycloth sleeper pajamas, except it's not real because now the baby has a goatee and a job and college and  bills and is doing it alone, without his mom, because she's in paradise peeling beets ...

... and then I'm in the laundry room of this tiny apartment, trying to get it under control because I need to be in control, but it won't stop, and I'm looking out at the coffee plants and banana trees (which aren't really trees) under the moon, with the mountains blocking the low stars, and this is paradise, where I'm not alone but I'm a different kind of lonely ... and then new husband is in the laundry room, probably hoping like hell it was nothing he did to make this gringa volverse loca in the laundry room (possibly wondering if this is an appropriate time to practice the "go nuts" phrase he just learned in English), and I try to tell him it's just that I miss the kids ... I just miss the kids ... only it's hard to speak clearly when you're crying and James Taylor is crooning his freaking baby's song, and I'm speaking in English because I can't think in Spanish when I'm crying, so it's harder to understand me, and we're doing that "¿Qué? ¿Cómo?  What?" thing, and I want to punch James Taylor but I secretly believe I deserve to feel this way because (you wouldn't be missing them so much if you hadn't LEFT THEM) really, who deserves to be happy in paradise?

And that's how it hits you. Like a fucked-up, run-on sentence that won't stop.

Anyway, I've been doing a lot of thinking about paradise and happiness and relationships and about how where you are affects how you are.  I'm having a pretty hard time, to be honest, living without my family and my friends.   I was prepared for the whole culture shock thing; I didn't Pollyanna that shit. I know the drill, I've done international moves before.  But not without my kids.  And in those places, there were other transplanted people who got it.  And who spoke my language. 

How can you feel sad when you're "living the dream"?  I feel like an ingrate. I mean, you quit your job, moved to a tropical country and found love to boot?  Bitch, shut the fuck up and get back to your fairy tale before I throw a mango at your ass.

Goddamn.

In Seattle, I had people whom I loved more than life, but I wasn't happy.  I had happy moments with my people, but I wasn't really happy in general.  I don't think most people know how deeply Seattle got in there, what it did to me. It was sucking the life out of me, sucking the me out of me. 

Here in Costa Rica, the sunshine restores me, I feel better, I feel more like me.  I feel happy in general.  I have someone who loves me.  I have my dog.  I have time to breathe. It's warm.  It's yellow and red and so many greens and nothing is grey or cold or damp.  I just miss my kids, my friends.  Sometimes almost to the point of panic if I can't keep it shut up tight, where it belongs.

Even in paradise, life is trade-offs, people. Always.

I feel like I'm healing something, being here.  It's a process, but I feel it happening.  A location isn't really paradise, but it does make one hell of a difference.  There will always be stuff, but sunshine makes handling the stuff easier.  At least for me.  I'm that freaking Seattle crocus escaping the cold, snowy ground, basking my ass off in the sunshine.  Alive.  Sunshine is so fucking good.

Now if I can just find an agreeable monkey and teach it to ride on Batman, we'll be golden.

Of Grammar and Grandparents

Today is National Grammar Day.

This celebratory day is brought to you by the Society for the Promotion of Good Grammar. And lest you think this particular day was chosen willy-nilly, think again:

It's not only a date, it's an imperative. So march forth on March 4th!

Clever. I was thrilled to find that you can disregard certain grammar "rules". It's true. Feel free to:

1) end a sentence with a preposition.
2) begin a sentence with a conjunction.
3) use sentence fragments with discretion.

They have this to say about sentence fragments:

We’ve been told not to use them, but when we do it with a light hand, they can improve the flow of our writing, making it easier to understand.

This is a huge relief. I know what you're thinking. Please, Cowbell does that shit all the time. That's true. My blog writing does tend to be more casual, particularly when I'm getting my bitch on, but the truth is, I am a grammar freak. I even do proofreading and editing for cold, hard cash. In official writing, I would never write a sentence such as, "And I'm all about some ice cream," or "That's where I'm at," but it works here.

Anyway, knowing that I can righteously begin a sentence with "but" or end a sentence with "to" makes me happy. Yes, I do it anyway, but now I won't feel like my grandparents are shaking their heads disapprovingly from the clouds.

Thank you, SPOGG. I salute you.


So, my grandparents.

How I wish they'd lived to see National Grammar Day. My maternal grandmother entered the world in 1907, the only girl born to a farming family in Pennsylvania Dutch country. Her own grandmother took a look at this squalling, newborn girl-child and remarked to her daughter (my grandma's mother), "You may as well throw her in the river, May. A girl's just another mouth to feed on a farm."

Luckily, my great-grandmother ignored her mother's advice and did not throw my grandmother into the river. My grandma went to school, worked on the farm, helped to run the house and take care of her brothers, and eventually became a teacher. She later earned a master's degree in English, despite being "just a girl" from a generation in which women were lucky if they ended up with a high school diploma.

When I think of my younger years at Grandma's house, I think of books and the color blue. Grandma loved both. There was blue in every room, and at Christmas time, the house and tree were always wrapped in blue lights.

My grandma was 40 years old by the time she had my mom and uncle (he was born in January; my mom that December, 11 months later) so I didn't know her until she was in her 60s. She didn't run around and play baseball with us, and she wasn't much of a cookie baker either, although she kept a steady supply of those miniature, individual ice cream bowls in her freezer, each accompanied by a tiny wooden spoon. What Grandma did was read and tell stories. She also still taught, driving off to her classes in her blue Plymouth Duster, wearing a smart pantsuit, her beautiful white hair brushing her shoulders. Grandma was an artist as well, something she passed on to my mom, and which trickled down through me and my sister, to our own children, exploding full force in the Bohemian. I credit my artistic skills, somewhat diluted, and definitely dusty from neglect, to my grandmother.

We loved hearing Grandma's childhood stories, usually about some mischief involving her older brother, my great-uncle Ted. We especially loved hearing stories of when our own mother was a girl. I felt like I was being let in on a secret. She would also make up wonderful stories with animals and invented countries. The worst was when she'd insist we make up the ending ourselves! We wanted her ending, but she wanted us to think for ourselves.

Grandma wasn't one for gifting us with underwear or Barbie dolls at Christmas. She bought lots of books, and had even more in her house. Grandma read to us from the time we were babies, as did Mom. I did the same with my kids, and so did my sister. When people hear that I learned to read at four, and that my kids learned at three and four, they attribute it to "being smart", but I don't think so.  (Okay, we're smart, but that's not what was going on.) It has more to do with constant exposure to the written word, adults never assuming a child is too young to learn, and with making books and stories more exciting than toys.



My Grandpa George, whom Grandma would eventually marry, was a self-educated man. He was born in Chicago, but spent time in Norway as a child. His mother, who had come to the US from somewhere near Oslo, had two sons, Grandpa being the younger. She committed suicide, the story goes, by drinking a large amount of Lysol or some sort of lye-based cleaner. My grandfather was the one who discovered her body.

He was 10 years old.

Grandpa George had dropped out of school by the 8th grade, but he never neglected his education. He served in WWII, and did various apprenticeships, coming up through the ranks, becoming a journalist the hard way. By the time I came along, he wrote a regular newspaper column and had once run his own radio show. I can still hear him doing the sign-off in his booming bass, to make us laugh, "And that's the news ... by George!"

Grandpa had an enormous printing press in the basement, a cast iron beast that dwarfed me. Its weight was measured in tons and it made an unholy racket. It was an old-school press, where the ink is rolled across a huge platter and the type is actually metal letters, set in careful lines. The walls were lined with drawer upon thin drawer of movable type, higher than my head, containing the letters and words formed in my grandfather's mind.

Grandpa told stories as well, fantastical tales told with gusto in a resonant timbre, which had Grandma shaking her head, admonishing, "Now don't you go putting wild ideas in those girls' heads, George," which did nothing but encourage him.

Ever since I can remember, Grandpa would quiz us with vocabulary words before we could sit down to eat. "Where is your proboscis?" he'd ask. My sister pointed to her knee. "Well, my chickadee, that's no proboscis, but that bone is called your patella. Say it! Patella!" Giggling, we'd point to our eyes. "What?!" he'd roar, "One's proboscis is not made for ocular work! The eyes handle the ocular responsibilities of one's body!" (rolling his eyes around like a madman) "The proboscis is meant to inhale! To detect an arrrrroma!" (rolling the "r" until we shrieked)

And don't even think about mumbling around Grandpa. "Enunciate your words, young lady! We come from a long line of enunciators! I'll not have mumbling in this house!"

My grandparents, each in their own way, loved language. Whether written or spoken, it permeated their house without us even being aware of it. My mother and uncle each grew up to become language aficionados in their own ways, before passing it on, in turn, to my generation.



So yes, I am a grammar freak. It's in my genes. As a child, I could diagram a sentence down to the tiniest detail. I used to ask my teacher for the most complicated sentence she could come up with. I may not have been able to balance an equation like the math-whiz kids, but my sentence diagrams were the stuff of legend. I don't know if US schools even teach sentence diagramming these days. I used to keep lists of interesting vocabulary words, and yes, as a matter of fact, I did read the dictionary.

To this day, I am far too easily amused by grammar humor, such as the title of Martha Brockenbrough's book, Things That Make Us [Sic]. How clever is that?

I loved the book Eats, Shoots, and Leaves. That title is a scream! It comes from a sign found at a zoo's panda exhibit, meant to convey the fact that shoots and leaves are the mainstays of the panda's diet. The addition of the commas, however, has the panda suddenly doing a dine and dash -- eating, then grabbing its rifle for a shooting rampage, and finally leaving the scene. Come on! That's funny stuff, now.

Is it really just me? Fine. Whatever.

Anyway, that's the story of why National Grammar Day has put me in mind of my grandparents, and why I think they'd get such a kick out of it. Happy National Grammar Day, everyone. Now I have to go call the Bohemian and indulge in some geeky grammar humor which she will, no doubt, appreciate. She comes by it honestly, too.

Love's Recovery

This post is a day late and a dollar short, which is perfect, considering the subject. Yesterday, February 15th, was Singles Awareness Day. It was also my former anniversary. I know, right? We didn't have rain on our wedding day, but really, one's former anniversary falling on Singles Awareness Day is even better. We were supposed to be married on Valentine's Day, but had to wait a day for the license. Every year people asked, "Why didn't you just get married on Valentine's Day?"

I think it worked out perfectly. Single's Awareness Day was just waiting to amuse me.

Lots of single folks bemoan the existence of Valentine's Day. The flowers, the chocolates, the jewelry, the surprise dinners, the chipped teeth from hidden rings in cakes and champagne. Even partnered people hate Valentine's Day. The pressure to think of something unique with which to prove your unflagging love. The unspoken competition to outdo your girlfriend's girlfriends' boyfriends. The whole thing seems a cunning conspiracy meant to torture partnered and single people alike, stamped with the Hallmark gold seal of approval.

Whatever. Valentine's Day does not find me tracing the tracks of my tears to the strains of old love songs. It does not find me lamenting lost relationships through the sad filter of a lone wine glass. Valentine's Day, these days, is just another day. If anything, it reminds me that I am strong, that I have choice, that there are many things worse than not having a partner. It reminds me that being alone does not have to mean being lonely. Singles Awareness Day falling on my former anniversary is just a deliciously ironic twist.

And you all know I love some twisted humor.

Back in the 80s, the ex and I -- soldiers both, in the service of Uncle Sam -- were dating. We met in communications school, after basic training, through a convoluted course of mistaken identities, which is another tale altogether. After a few months, our class came down on orders. His orders were for Germany; mine, Fort Huachuca, Arizona. Now those of you familiar with my sun addiction know that Arizona could've well been the best thing to ever happen to me. Being embroiled in the throes of young lust, however, we were devastated. So we made the only choice that kids who think they know everything could make: "Let's get married! Then we can apply for the Army married couples program and be together! Forever!" So we did.

My orders to Arizona were changed to Germany, and the course of my life was changed forever.

Three years later, the Bohemian was born, and not long after, Teen Demon made her raucous entry into the world. After a suitable time of recovery, the Male Offspring finished off the fruits of my labors. These are the positives I took away from 10 years of marriage, and the reason I can't regret the choice made on a long-ago February 15th.

The 11th year found me back in the States after discovering that the "forsaking all others" bit had fallen by the wayside along about the time I'd been laboring with Male Offspring. February 15th of that 11th year brought, not an anniversary, but a legal summons, informing me that the ex had changed his mind about our signed agreement. He now wanted full custody.

I came away with custody and a load of legal debt that took years to repay. The ex and I got past our differences, I went back to Europe, and we had a great co-parenting relationship for about eight years there. That was actually a best-of-both-worlds deal: the kids had both parents, and we each had a built-in babysitter for hot date nights or weekend trips. Those of you who know the rest of the story are aware that this, unfortunately, did not continue. The ex now lives 12 time zones away rather than across town, co-parenting has gone the way of the dodo, and he brings the follow-up wife, whom no one gets on with, along for his annual week with our kids.

All of this leading to the point that things change, and we get through. The Valentine's Day - February 15th combo has run the emotional gamut for me, over the years. From new love and happiness, to security, to devastation, to fury, to bitterness, to indifference, to wry humor. I came out the other side, and can laugh now, because time allows me to see that what I once believed was the worst thing that could happen to me, was, in actuality, the best. Once, I was devastated to the point of being unable to function. I couldn't comprehend how my heart could continue to beat, how my lungs could continue to draw breath, how my organs could continue to function minute by minute in the face of such unimaginable pain.

Seriously. I wondered how my body didn't just die.

But it didn't. These days, what seems unimaginable to me is the thought of not going through that, of not knowing myself. We made a damn good go of it; we were 18-year-old, foolish kids from different cultures, from opposite ends of the country, who'd known each other three months. We made it 10 years and three fantastic kids on that platform, far from friends and family, with minimal support. We had a good run, and the kids, the lasting proof of that erstwhile union, are already making a positive impact on society. But the marriage was not the right place for me to be.

So Valentine's Day and February 15th aren't much more than a blip on the calendar for me these days. A toast to choices made. No regrets.

Hindsight is a clear-sighted bitch, y'all.

Happy love yourself day.

There I am in younger days, star gazing
Painting picture-perfect maps
Of how my life and love would be,
Not counting the unmarked paths of misdirection,
My compass, faith in love's perfection,
I missed ten million miles of road I should have seen

Indigo Girls, Love's Recovery

Down on the Farm

I spent most of my early childhood in an Ohio suburb where my dad was a police officer. Before that, he was in the military, and we did tours in Georgia and Kansas, but I mostly remember Ohio. During my 8th grade year, my parents (basically Mom) decided we needed a change. We were moving to the country! We would get back to basics, grow our own food, drink well water and unpasteurized milk, and eschew grocery stores in favor of homegrown eggs and livestock. My sister and I would benefit from small-town life in countless ways. It was to be a great adventure.

Mom worked at the city government center, right next door to the police department, and she was a vivacious presence. Her coworkers and the boys in blue surprised her with a big going-away party. The gifts were of the living, breathing, shitting type, in the form of a real live goat, some chickens and a pig. We had to keep them in the suburbs until the move was finalized. Our neighbors were less than thrilled, and I'm sure we broke some city ordinances, but with Daddy being a cop and all, I guess they looked the other way.

I, being eighth-grader in the throes of a junior high romance that was sure to result in marriage and happily-ever-after, was having none of it. I would not leave my boyfriend or my friends. I would not live with a bunch of hicks. I was not going, and that was final.

We moved that summer, to about 30 acres outside a small town in southern Ohio, population just under 6,000. I was shocked to discover that this was considered the big time by local standards. Why, we were the county seat! We had the fair. Land sakes, we had the stockyards right next to the high school, with livestock auctions every Thursday right outside our classrooms. We had a stoplight in the center of town, after all, along with a McDonalds out State Route 62, and even a Dairy Queen out route 124 past Pea Ridge Road. We had 17 churches, y'all. By local standards, we had landed smack dab in the midst of a bustling metropolis.

Mom, having read all the back issues of Mother Earth News, was determined to jump right into farm life. She painted our mailbox with bright colors, proudly proclaiming the presence of Rainbow Ridge Farm. Turns out our definition of "farm" and the local definition were two different things, but we wouldn't realize that for some time. Other meanings of the rainbow emblazoned across that mailbox are still not realized to this day, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

Mom's first project was the chickens. We would have our own eggs, raise our own meat, and sell the extra for fun and profit. Mom figured she needed a twist on the usual old chicken & egg operation, something clever to make us stand out. A hook. She ordered exotic chickens. A lot of them. These were chickens with names like Tophat Special, Black Cochin, Blue Andalusian, and Phoenix. They sported glorious flowing feathers, worn as hats or boots, and came in wild assortments of colors. These were some fancypants birds. Mom also got some Bantams, cocky miniature gents, strutting imperiously around the yard. Who wouldn't be proud to add birds like these to their flock?

Almost as an afterthought, Mom invested in some of the more traditional (read: boring) chickens, Leghorns and the like. (Pronounced "Leg'erns", not as in "Fog-horn Leg-horn". They'll know you're not born 'n' raised if you say "Leg-horn". I found that out.) These hens would show themselves to be the steady layers, and also ended up as pets for my sister. Sis spent many an hour communing with her winged yet flightless friends, a pair of Rhode Island Reds named Oh Tame One and Two Tame One, a Buff Orpington hen inexplicably dubbed Mr. Man, and the queen of the flock, a Barred Plymouth Rock called Clara Clucker. Clara was also somewhat of a hussy, judging by the missing feathers on her head, where the rooster often grabbed hold for some obnoxious courting.

Chicken as pet, of course, was not the norm in farm country, but then, we weren't your typical farm family, even down to Mom's method of poultry raising. Well, these were fancy birds! They couldn't be left to fend for themselves in a cold, dark barn. Mom installed one of those plastic, blue baby pools in our dining room, complete with heat lamp, where the chicks began their lives. Turns out there wasn't much call for fancy poultry on most farms, so we ended up with a good sized flock of the oddest looking chickens around. We had plenty of eggs, though.

No matter, a chicken's a chicken, whether plain or fine, and chickens are for eating or laying. Mom donned her coveralls, boiled a giant pot of water, and armed with instructions from one of her farming books, set out to get us a chicken dinner. First there was the question of how to kill the bird. The axe method didn't appeal to Mom, so she decided on the swing method. Grasping the bird around the neck, she swung him round and round and round, the idea of course, being to break the neck. Mom, spent, finally dropped the lifeless bird to the ground. Before she could catch her breath and dunk him in the scalding pot to loosen the feathers for plucking, that bird raised itself up and ran straight away, Mom hot on its trail. At that point, I couldn't watch any more, but much later that night, a scrawny, stringy meal, flanked by potatoes and carrots, appeared on our dinner table. I refused, but Mom didn't put in all that work for nothing; she insisted everyone give it a try. She assured us this free-range bird would be so much tastier than those awful, store-bought, chemical-filled carcasses that we'd never go back to freezer fare. We all took a bite, chewed ... and chewed and chewed. Mom tried to keep a cheery smile pasted on, but she mercifully gave up, leading the charge to scrape the remaining bits into the trash. It was back to plump birds encased in plastic, fresh from the meat aisle after that.

Chickens were not the only farm fowl in those days. We had three geese: Uncle Ed and his harem. I'm not sure what the original purpose of the geese was. I think Mom had the idea to introduce goose eggs to the local palate. (She also thought to introduce goat milk to dairy country, but that's another story.) It is possible that Mom's idea was to have a Christmas goose on the table, but if so, the chicken dinner incident clearly took care of that. Regardless of their intended purpose, the geese soon found their niche. They were guard geese. Seriously people, if you need a guard animal, consider a goose. They will beat out any dog. Our geese would patrol the perimeter of what we considered the "yard", which was basically the part we actually mowed with the mower. If a car turned down our quarter mile gravel lane (that's "driveway" to you city folk) they would come a-honkin' and a-flappin' to accost the intruder. Geese can have a five-foot wingspan, and they're strong. When they're running up to you, pumping their necks and honking and flapping their wings, trust me, you think twice (or twicet) before messing with them.

I loved the geese. Sis was a chicken gal, but something about their sharp pointy faces, beady eyes, and jerking strut kept me from getting too warm and fuzzy with the chickens. The geese though, were round and plump with nice eyes. They, like most of our other "livestock", became pets. I thought them adorable. They would sit in my lap and make quieter versions of their honking sound. I'd pet them and carry them, and they'd follow me and Sis on our rounds. They were loyal and their comical antics made me laugh. They were also the source of that Midwestern phrase that still slips out, unbidden, from time to time, especially on snowy days: "Damn, that's slicker'n goose shit!" Goose shit, of course, being some of the slickest stuff around.



Future installments to follow: the school bus, the great goat debacle, donkeys and peppermint candy, Pig, the Buck Stove, and FFA.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode IV

Episode IV: Roto-Rooted

I am not at work this morning. Oh, I'm still connected to my work files and email, via the wonders of modern technology, lest you think I'm here with my stockinged feet up, quaffing caffeine and stalking you.

I'm home because I'm expecting a visit from the Roto-Rooter man. No, you freaks, the plumbing and sewage company. If it were any other type of Roto-Rooting, I sure as hell wouldn't be sitting at my keyboard.

The drains are backing up again. Since this just happened in October, and seeing as we have since installed a high tech "hair catcher" that sits atop the bathtub drain, I'm thinking my problem may be worse than Teen Demon's prodigious hair donations. I suspect every homeowner's nightmare: tree roots.

My last house, a rental, came complete with a cheap and petulant property manager: a small, elderly, British dame named Doreen. Doreen was, to borrow a phrase from my father, "Tighter than a crab's ass ... and that's waterproof."
The homeowners had moved to Georgia, on a mission to translate the Bible into Georgian or something. Yes, I mean the U.S. Georgia. My rent covered the owners' mortgage in Georgia, the monthly payment to Doreen's property management company, and left them some profit to play with. Bitterness over that arrangement is what got me into my current situation, having thought that I, too, could finally catch a break by getting in on the formerly-profitable Seattle housing market.

We all know how that turned out.

Anyway, one time our drains clogged up. Doreen came by, all a-flutter, and said, with a pinched face, "Well, you have two teenage girls in the house; they can't be flushing those feminine products down the drains! Children use too much toilet paper! Now they don't know any better, but as the tenant, you are responsible for the cost of clearing drains due to negligence!"

First of all, unless you've drilled peep-holes into the walls, Doreen, you have no idea what we're flushing down the drain. We lived in a country where you could barely flush toilet paper down the drains before moving here; we're not stupid enough to flush tampons.

Second of all, you're a bitch.

Anyway, this being beyond Jay's abilities, she called out the plumbing crew. She imperiously informed me that they would run a camera down the drain - at extra expense - because "the owner" wanted to know the cause of the blockage. She had apparently briefed the plumber on our irresponsible flushing habits, because he told her, "Well, your problem is bigger than a clog, ma'am. It's not bathroom products after all," [Ha!] "You've got tree roots! Got nothing to do with the tenants -- you need to start regular root maintenance. I can schedule you out for every 6 months." He then pronounced, "Good thing you had us run that camera down there, ma'am!", with a sidelong wink to me.

By the look on Doreen's face, you'd have thought the plumber gave that stick up her ass an extra good twist.

Anyway, Doreen grudgingly paid the bill, the guys cut out the roots, and we were flushing freely once more. She informed me that the plumbers would be coming by annually to clear the roots. "Didn't he say every six months?" I asked. "This visit cost enough," she replied. "I've spoken with the owner, and annual service will be fine. Those plumbers always try to sell you more than you need. The owner isn't made of money, you know!"

Fast Forward: Christmas Eve, 2004: Cowbell is draining boiling water off the potatoes in preparation to mash them up into yummy deliciousness. The water doesn't go anywhere. I foolishly flip the disposal switch. Boiling potato-water erupts. Somehow I don't get burned.

I won't detail the rest of the story, mainly because I enjoy low blood pressure. It was a sad and sordid tale, starting with me borrowing a plumbing snake from my boss on Christmas Eve, and ending with a porta-potty in the front yard for two weeks during 20-degree weather, bulldozers in the back, a large scale pipe replacement and intensive sewage cleanup. Guess what, it wasn't the potatoes, too much food in the drain, or wayward feminine products, much too Doreen's surprise. It was the tree roots. Seems the annual maintenance schedule wasn't quite enough to keep those pesky tubers out, and the entire pipe collapsed.

The owner ended up with a bill for about $10,000. This included a new sewer pipe, the porta-potty rental, replacing carpet and walls on our lower level, and paying for COIT to clean up, sanitize, and dry the place. Yes, the sewage pipe backed up into our ground floor. Nasty doesn't even begin to cover it. At one point during this whole Charlie-Fox, Doreen came by to check the progress. She handed me a Glade plug-in air freshener. "I thought this might help," she announced. I stood there staring at the thing, wondering how that was possibly going to make a dent in the situation.

I bet she billed the owners for it.

The bill did not cover our ruined Christmas dinner, or the fact that a dear friend visiting from the East Coast could not bring herself to stay in our house, so I didn't see as much of her as I'd have liked. It didn't cover my frostbitten ass, or the humiliation of using a porta-potty in my FRONT YARD. One of the neighbors actually waved to me as I was heading in there one time. I only paid 1/3 of my rent that month, which twisted the stick up Doreen's ass even harder, but after reading my all legal-like letter, she sucked it up. "Well," she huffed, "I certainly don't know how the owner will take this ... the bill was so expensive, he's really going to need that rent money,"

Not my problem. Hope he has enough left over to pay your fee.

Anyway, that experience was pretty much imprinted on my brain, so tree roots were the first thing that entered my mind this morning. Oh what I wouldn't give for a simple grease clog, or a load of flushed tampons.

The Roto-Rooter people refused to give me a ballpark estimate over the phone, but they cheerily informed me that their Free Estimate was absolutely free of charge! (Yeah, I know what "free" means, lady)

This guy better get here soon. I've got to pay a visit to my friend John, and it's not going to be a quickie.

----------------------------

UPDATE:

So I pretty much hate Roto-Rooter. First off, the lady on the phone this morning told me twice, very specifically, that they charge by the job, not by the hour. Okay, fine. Second, I'm in the wrong business, folks. Should've been a plumber. The guy, once he gets here, tells me his rates are $170 for the first half hour. They charge in 15-minute increments after that. When I relayed Phone Lady's info, he looked puzzled and said maybe she was new. Right. Whatever, asshat, you think I don't recognize your company's sneaky sales tactics? Please.

He estimated it would be between "$211 at the low end, to about $350 on the high end. Before tax," That's assuming it's not a bigger problem than he can ascertain before getting in there with his snake. He was nice enough to go get his bigass wrench and take the cap off of the clean-out access in the yard for me, once I told him that his price is not an option for a single mom before Christmas. He also gave me some DIY tips. Y'all know how I love DIY projects! Why let him have all the fun? So anyway, I'm getting ready to play with my snake now. I've only got a 25-footer, with no cutting blades on the end, but who knows, maybe it will be a giant hairball after all. Or maybe someone's been secretly flushing tampons. If only.

Oh, by the way, I went to coffee shop and bought a chai latte. The real reason for the latte was so I could surreptitiously utilize the latrine.

----------------------------
UPDATE II:

The bad news: it looks like roots are involved. I pulled up a small but very nasty mass of TP and what I thought might be a tangle of hair. Whoo, was I happy to see that disgusting mess. Upon closer inspection, however, it was actually a tangle of very fine, dark, baby roots. Crap. The good news: it looks like they're only about five or six feet into the pipe. Worse news: my snake is too puny to handle it. It bent in several places.

I'm headed to Lowe's now, to get a more substantial snake, one that can actually handle my needs.

Also, if you ever go to a coffee shop, specifically to use the restroom, but you buy something to make it look like you're not just there to use the restroom, don't buy something with caffeine. I have to pee already.

Tales from the Crypt

So the last post got me to thinking about sick and twisted family traditions. Our little family did not develop this particular brand of humor by accident.

My family of origin was rife with twisted humor. My mom, seen here with me and baby sister back in days of yore, was prone to punnery and word play, while my dad leaned more toward dry, sarcastic wit and scatological humor. It was my dad and I who often teamed up for jokes and hijinks. My mom and sister were, by default, often the victims of our depravity.

My parents moved us out to the country my freshman year of high school. That's a photo of my dad from that time. The one perched on his shoulder is Clara Clucker, my sister's Plymouth Rock hen.

We lived on about 25 acres, outside city limits. And by "city", I mean fewer than 6,000 people, townies and country folks combined. Our house was set about a quarter mile off the unpaved road. Country folks don't have driveways; they have lanes. Probably 2/3 of our land was woods, which started at the bottom of the hill behind our house.

Neighbors were widely spaced. The nearest ones may have been within shouting distance, meaning they might have heard an all out, blood-curdling scream if the windows were open, if the wind favored you, and if their TV wasn't turned up too loud. There were no streetlights, so dark meant dark. Satan's asshole dark. A car crunching down the gravel road was a rare enough occurrence to bring us to the front windows.

Daddy brought home a VCR one day, probably my freshman or sophomore year. This was a big deal in the early 80s. The newest technology! He also brought home a ColecoVision video game system, on which I spent many a happy hour with Donkey Kong and Mario. Anyway, with the VCR came the concept of family movie night. My dad and I loved scary movies. Mom and Sis, not so much. In fact, not at all.

Like the night we watched the original Halloween. Remember that scene where the young couple is in bed together, and the boyfriend leaves to go get her some milk or beer or something? (my sister and I were shocked to see the nekked breasts of the girlfriend character revealed, right there in our living room! The VCR was the best invention ever.) Anyway, in the scene, the "boyfriend" comes back covered in a sheet, wearing his glasses on top of the sheet. The girlfriend thinks it's cute, but of course it turns out to be the murderer, and she meets her demise in grisly fashion. It was scary as hell.

After the movie, Mom went to brush her teeth. A terrified scream pierced our tender eardrums, and my mom came flying back down the hall from her bedroom. Daddy had pinned a sheet up on the wall, and, in a stroke of genius, pinned up a pair of those black glasses with the nose and mustache attached as well.

Then he unscrewed the light bulb in their room. Genius.

The moon was out, so there was just enough light for her to come face to face with a ghostly sheet, complete with glasses. When the light didn't work and the realization kicked in that my dad, the prime suspect, was still out in the living room, and therefore, not under the sheet ... well, that was all she wrote. Mom had a major freak out.

Mom was not amused, but my sister and I sure were. I'm pretty sure part of Sis's laughter was relief at not being the intended victim this time, but still. My dad was well pleased with himself.

At some point during those years, Salem's Lot, a Stephen King thriller involving vampires, was made into a mini-series to be shown on TV. Daddy and I couldn't wait. Mom and Sis reluctantly agreed to watch.

That's me and my sister, over there to the left, long before any depravity had started. Well, actually, maybe some depravity had taken root; this photo was taken not long after I'd decided to cut my sister's hair. My mom was not happy, as she'd already scheduled the photo session. I thought Sis looked great, and was quite pleased with myself, as you can see in the pic.

Don't we look sweet as sugar, with our little nautical theme going on there? By the time high school rolled around, a lot of the sugar had worn off. Along with the nautical themes.


Anyway, Salem's Lot was showing! A mini-series was a big deal before Tivo, Netflix and 500 cable channels. Hell, before DVDs. Everyone in town was going to watch it. The fact that there really wasn't that much to do in our town made it an even bigger deal.

Salem's Lot was seriously scary. It had these horribly heinous vampires who would show up even in my nightmares, so you can imagine my sister's. In fact, looking at the fangs and yellow eyes of this guy to the right, I'm gaining a clearer understanding of why that beastly devil-rat from the last post currently making the rounds in my house freaks me out so much. There's an uncanny resemblance.

The Salem's Lot vampire may be lodged more deeply in my subconscious than I realized.

I don't remember a whole lot about the plot in Salem's Lot, but I do remember there was this floating little boy vampire who terrified my sister. He would appear at the window of the sleeping movie-child, and scratch ... scratch ... scratch against the screen, enticing the child to invite him in. The little boy vampire scared the crap out of my sister. He pretty much scared the crap out of me as well, but my mind was already formulating a plan.

That night after everyone was asleep, I carefully removed the screen from my window and picked up a long stick I'd placed there before bedtime. The stick was long enough that I could lean out and scratch ... scratch ... scratch against the screen of my sister's window, her room being just down the hall from mine.

I guess she wasn't sleeping too well that night, because it didn't take long for the scream to come, a scream like the undead loosed from the confines of hell. Timing was critical. I waited until she ran out into the hall, an extra beat for good measure, then ran out of my room, asking, "What happened?! What's the matter?"

My sister stopped cold. If I, the chief suspect, was in the house, in the hallway ... then who was outside scratching on her window?!? Sis continued to protest when mom told her it must've been a bad dream.  No! She really did hear something outside, she did! She wasn't crazy!

The folks checked Sis's room, but thankfully did not check outside, where the incriminating stick still lay. Daddy didn't say a word. The raised eyebrows and barely visible smile said enough.

Years later, I told Sis and Mom the real story -- Daddy and I were practically howling. Mom and Sis ... not so much.

Wherever You Go, There You Are.

I started this essay at the time of year when people were buying neckties and fishing poles for their dads. I got my dad a gift certificate. He's not much into ties or fishing poles, and the t-shirt thing has been done to death.

Daddy is notoriously thrifty. That's the polite way to put it. He puts it like this; I'm tighter than a crab's ass. And that's waterproof.  He never fails to amuse himself. I got an email from him this morning that I assume was a thank you for the gift card. It said,

Things your parents failed to tell you #47: A $2.00 card is cheaper than a $30 gift certificate.

I am and shall remain,
Yu Ben Phartine

He sometimes signs off as Ben Dover or adds "Esquire" to his name. For years I believed he'd belonged to a fraternity called I Phelta Thi.

My dad is a typical dad in a lot of ways. He is the king of scatological humor. I mean, this goes way beyond Pull My Finger or firing a pretend fart gun. My dad's fart gun had a pretend holster. He'd load it with a couple of rounds, click off the safety, take careful aim over the opposite forearm, and fire the appropriate number of bursts. According to how many rounds he had loaded. Police Academy training, right there. If my dad said, I think I feel a song coming on, you'd better duck and cover.

My dad would do a bad version of Steve Martin's Wild and Crazy Guy routine, trying to get a laugh out of Mom. If he was feeling especially romantic, he'd dance up behind her while she was doing dishes, singing I'm in the nude, for loooove ... simply because you're near me… He looked like he was trying to waltz and do The Robot simultaneously.

Daddy would play checkers or crazy eights with us when we were kids. For money. We didn't really get allowance, so our money was pretty much amassed from the washer and under the couch cushions. I have never beat my dad at checkers. He'd collect his winnings with Mom admonishing him, "Michael, don't you dare take their money! They're kids, you don't need their money! For Pete's sake!"

Daddy would shrug, That's why it's called "gambling". Is there a second chance in the real world? He’d turn to us, Did I force you to bet your money? Your mother thinks I'm taking your money unfairly. Did you make a bet fair and square?  We had, of course. If they're gonna gamble, they'd better be sure they can live with the consequences, he'd finish, scraping up our paltry collection of coins.

We didn't realize he was teaching us anything at the time.

My dad is known in our family for dispensing Pearls of Wisdom. Some of his oft-used sentiments are well-known gems, like you know what Assume does, don't you? Makes and ASS out of U and ME.  Others are his own special brand. He doesn't sugar coat anything. After all, if you roll a turd in sugar, it's still a piece of shit. You never knew when Pearls of Wisdom were going to fall from Daddy's mouth. It was pretty much a daily thing.

My dad was not impressed by excuses. There was a Pearl for that. Whenever we got in trouble, we'd offer up our excuses like currency, and invariably the words, "But I thought ..." would come out of our mouths. You thought? Doesn't look like you thought. You know what Thought did, don't you? Thought he had to fart and shit his pants.

Well. There you have it.

We were also encouraged to keep your nose clean. And we knew good and well that when your mother's happy, everybody's happy. We also knew that everybody deserves a fair shake, and that wherever you go, there you are. We were glad we listened when he advised, don't eat any yellow snow.  Above all, we learned not be slackers and that if you do a half-assed job, you'll do it over until you get it right.  We learned it was better to just do it right the first time.

My dad was not one for kisses or I love yous when we were kids. He believed in showing love, not saying it. He still believes that. He has been showing us since the day he met my mom. I can't say he's taken care of us since before I was born, because he didn't know any of us existed at that time. My dad was in high school when I was born. He would not meet my mom for another four years.

Daddy was 21 when he and Mom got married. I actually have vague memories of it. Mom was so beautiful and happy in the pictures, and Daddy looked like a handsome, boyish, college kid. Which he was. I can barely remember the small apartment my mom, little sister and I lived in before that. Mom worked in a dentist's office during the day, and put in hours as a bar waitress some evenings. My uncle sent her $50 a month from his Navy pay.

I do remember the first Christmas after Mom and Daddy met. I'd never seen so many toys. My sister and I believed in Santa that year.

When Daddy asked Mom to marry him, she said no. Said he was too young to take on the responsibilities of a wife and two kids before his own life had even started. I'd imagine Mom was very cautious, having already been through divorce by the time she was 23.

But mom was quite the catch, in her red and white 60s-style sheath dress and knee-high, white go-go boots. He wasn't about to let her go that easily. (Years later, when Mom would tell the story, Daddy would throw a lascivious glance her way, growling, Your mother looked like just like a Christmas candy cane! He’d add the wiggling eyebrows and the Steve Martin dance, to our delight.)

My dad tacked a vinyl record up on her front door, with a note. Here's part of the song:

You know I've seen a lot of what the world can do
And it's breakin' my heart in two
Because I never wanna see you a sad girl
Don't be a bad girl

But if you wanna leave, take good care
I hope you make a lot of nice friends out there
But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware
Beware

Ooh, baby, baby, it's a wild world
It's hard to get by just upon a smile
Ooh, baby, baby, it's a wild world
I'll always remember you like a child, girl

from Wild World, Cat Stevens

I don't know what the note said, but Mom married him.

My dad was a history major in college; he's the biggest history buff I know. He used to randomly quiz us on historical facts. I couldn't stand not knowing one of his facts, and would secretly go look it up if I missed one. He'd planned on becoming a history teacher, but the Army offered an officer's salary, medical coverage, and family housing. He signed up during Vietnam. We went to Fort Benning and Fort Riley, and the war ended right before his number was due to head across the pond to 'Nam. He would've gone though. Daddy's a firm believer in you signs on the line, you does your time.

My dad signed on the line for us as well. He adopted me and my sister. And that was that. He's still doing his time with us.

As a kid, I knew I was half-adopted but it didn't seem that way. Friends would say, "Oh, so you mean he's your step-dad," and I'd say, no, he was my real dad. I couldn't figure out why they thought that. For years I thought my biological father was my step-dad. I remember in high school, I asked a friend what it was like, being adopted. She gave me a weird look and said, "I don't know, didn't your dad adopt you?" Light bulb moment. I realized that I had never considered myself "adopted", even though I knew the whole story. I also realized what a dumb question that was.

My dad is of the Rugged Individualist school of thought. He's politically conservative. He pulled himself up by the proverbial bootstraps, by God, and so can anyone else. He doesn't get people who complain about "not liking their jobs". A job is what you do to put food on the table. You want fun? Get a hobby. Nobody ever gave me a handout, now did they? Nobody ever asked me if I liked my job, did they?

It's maddening, sometimes. Try discussing institutionalized racism, or how education and health care for all would advance society as a whole, or how other countries that are doing those things are already overtaking us, or questioning why such a small percentage of fat cats hold such a large percentage of the country's wealth. What are you, some kind of Socialist? You think people should get a free handout from the government? Guess that's what living out on the Left Coast does for you – har har har!

My dad firmly believes in the whole Land of Opportunity deal. He asserts that with hard work and determination, any able-bodied person, regardless of gender, religion, race, or orientation can do the same damn thing. If you can't, you're not trying hard enough. Either that, or you're spending your hard-earned money on wine, women, and song. Despite his history buffery, he’ll summarily dismiss history’s effect on today’s disparities. Try discussing why, over the course of that history, some folks were a lot farther back from the starting line, or how the founding fathers consciously constructed our institutions for the benefit of white Christian males only, and you won't get far. The idea that while past generations of some families were busy building up a future, past generations of other families were on a plantation, building someone else's future, doesn't hold much sway with him.

Just catch up.

We joke a lot about Daddy's thriftiness, or as we call it, his crab’s ass tendencies. He pays cash for everything. He and mom are both on a strict "allowance". It's something like $25 a week. If Mom wants books or sewing supplies or a new skirt, she has to save up. She has taken "loans" from their bank accounts, but swears each time she'll never do it again. "I swear, honey, he's going to start charging me interest! He IS tighter than a crab's ass!" (Me: "And that's waterproof!") He lives by the same rules with his own allowance, though.

He and Mom paid off a 30-year mortgage in eight years on a cop's salary and, for part of that time, Mom's nurse's salary. Mom was diagnosed with MS not long after they had the house built, and was unable to continue working. That was a huge blow to her. I don't remember the timing, but Daddy had to take a medical retirement from the police department after that. (A fire truck ran into his cruiser as he was reaching to answer the radio, and buggered up his back.)

We realized, during that time, how wise his tightwad approach to finances really was. The mortgage is paid. They've got money in the bank. They've got health care. They've got Daddy's police pension, Mom's "disability" checks (until she hits 65, anyway), and he went to work part time at Toys R Us in order to put in time toward Social Security, so they'd have that as well. Plus, he couldn't deal with not working. He promised Mom he'd quit as soon as he had enough quarters worked for Social Security. That was two years ago, I think. I asked him how he could stand working part time with a bunch of teenagers and self-important "managers" after being on the police force for so many years. Well, you do what you gotta do, don't you? Plus, I get a discount.

During his years on the police department, Daddy was all about some Justice for All. He wrote tickets to judges, priests, the mayor, he didn't care who you were. The only person he ever let out of a ticket was a woman who had to go to the bathroom so badly she was nearly in tears. When you gotta go, you gotta go, he quipped, shaking his head and grinning.

We, however were in the same boat with the judges and priests. Don't try to use my name to get out of a ticket. He told me when I started driving. Wives get a free pass on tickets. Snot-nosed kids don't. Try to use my name, I'll say I don't know you. Don't speed.

My parents have not always been happy with my decisions in life. Some of those decisions, like getting married so young, caused huge rifts that I wasn't sure would ever be repaired. If I'd listened to my parents around those decisions, I'd be in a hell of a different place than I am now, that's for goddamn sure. I wish my kids could get that shit NOW, instead of decades from now. But that's not the way it works, is it? My parents wished the same thing, but I thought I knew better. I didn't.

I have earned my dad's grudging respect, which means a lot to me. He and I had a long conversation a few months ago -- not a common occurrence. He's a man of few words. (Another running joke) But that day, for some reason, after discussing jobs, baseball cards, the offspring, and whether professional "wrastlin" qualifies as a sport, the conversation took a serious turn. He's not one for mushy sentiments or empty praise, but that day he practically waxed poetic. He told me,

Well, one thing I gotta say about you -- you do what you gotta do for your kids. You've done the best you can with your life, and you're doing okay. You could do better with remembering to send your mother a card on her birthday, but I get my ass reamed for mentioning that, so you didn't hear it from me.

You're not stupid with your money, you don't seem to take a lot of bullshit, and your kids are good citizens. Hell, they might even be rich, they play their cards right.

You've shown some smarts and some responsibility, and done it without a whole lot of help. You got rid of your husband when he turned into an asshole playboy, even though you should've taken him for more money.

You seem to be good at your job and you're not a whiner. I'd lend you money, and that's not because you're family. Family don't mean shit when it comes to lending money. And next time, remember: You can marry rich as easy as you can marry poor.

And wherever you go, there you are.

My dad my not have been the most mushy guy growing up, but he took me and Sis and the neighborhood kids over to the old Fraternal Order of Police lodge and played baseball with us. That was fun. A lot of fun. He laughed a lot, and made us all laugh too. He passed on a sense of responsibility and honor to us, along with a scathing dry humor. He may not be politically correct, and some of his views and comments may grate my core, but you know where he stands. He says what he means and means what he says.

I remember asking my mom about the whole dad thing when I was still little; must've been shortly after they got married. I still didn't get the terminology. Mom told me, "Anybody can be a father, honey, but it takes someone really special to be a Daddy." She pretty much nailed it with that one.

The Tattoo Didn't Exactly Work Out So Well.

You can tell I don't exactly have any hot dates for the weekend. So, I'm farting around on the Internets today, when I see this Official Seal deal over at Sling's Domain. Hey, that looks fun. I've got nothing better to do -- let's make a seal!

I wasn't actually going to make a seal, for real, until I saw that little sunshine emblem. I have a tattoo that IS this sun. (Twilight Zone theme song, fade in) Well, it was supposed to look like this sun, anyway.

I still have the sketchbook where I drew it for the tattoo artist, a sexyass Hungarian flesh artist with long black hair and an intoxicating sort-of-smile. Sensual doesn't even begin to cover it. Puts me in mind of Johnny Depp, actually. We had this weird chemistry thing going on the whole time I lived there. Story for another day. Anyway, Smoldering Tattoo Guy does a beautiful job with the tattoo -- I mean I was practically ready to sign up for some sort of piercing -- when I decided that I couldn't see it well enough. I thought it needed something else.

STG: This? No. Perfect.

Me: But it's not really showing up. I think it needs an outline.

STG: No. No outline. Trust me. I know what is good for you.
(half-smile. suggestive, sidelong look.)

now at this point, I should've shut the hell up and let him tell me what
was good for me.

Me: That, I'm sure of. Don't you think it should be brighter... maybe more ink?

STG: No. No ink. This is the summer skin, brown skin. Wait some months. The ink must living with your skin. If you don't like it, you come back to me, I'm gonna fix it, make what you want. Trust me.

But I didn't. (Fool!) I insisted on an outline. Just a little skinny one. To "define" it. Why oh why, did I not listen? The man knew his inks. I insisted. He outlined it.

My sun turned into a spider. Fuck!

I tried the whole "living with it" thing, but the outline pretty much ruined that. So I went back. He didn't say a word. Just half-smiled. Covered the spider with his whole hand. Shook his head.

He suggested making it into something completely different. But noooo, I didn't want anything bigger. I asked him to add some sun-colors to the tips of the rays, so it might look less like an arachnid. Maybe bleed the yellow outside the goddamn outline. He wasn't so sure. "How can it be any worse?" I asked.

It's now a spider with painted nails.

Anyway, I guess I made an Official Seal. Since the tattoo didn't exactly work out. Amazing what memories come up whilst a-farting around on the Internets.