relapse

"liar, liar, past on fire..."

it lies coiled, like a discarded extension cord, dusty, in the back of the garage; faulty, ready to shock upon contact.

balled under leaves tight, camouflaged by night.

its eye, half- covered, glitters neon, winking to a future of pain. Eve rises in your sex, staccato breath, aching for his fig leaf forbidden - you were born to peek underneath. you crunch forward, kicking leaves pendulum with your rhythmic stride.

crusted footsteps jar the forest's hush.

crunch. crunch. crunch.

eerie.

exciting.

evil.

you are hypnotized.

drum beats against your pig-skinned heart. the sheath barely seals in your past. an ill-fitting plastic wrap, rabid juices now froth and bubble down your chin.

"here, piggy, piggy, piggy..."

you've cleared a path now. the leaves have all been kicked away. no childhood jump into the pile, no frolic under a sprinkle of twirling crimson, rust and gold. you stop. and blink. you can no longer see in crystalline. your gaze tainted translucent.

[a cubic zirconian future.]

his bead flares emerald, flash forwarding you to that city of dreams. Oz. oh, you know there's nothing behind the curtain, but you just don't care.

the path is no longer dank, memorized mulch. it is now paved with shiny, yellow bricks...

and there's no turning back.

it is done.

he stares, you stare.

the serpent's hiss buzzes in your ears, louder, a divine chord progression building to an ecstatic burst.

you are almost there.

his tail twitches. your blood streams slows; expectant.

it is quick.

"hallelujah! at last!"

through your broken skin, hot poison surges electric. you arch in ecstasy, rubbered back, rapt. he slithers inside, outside, scaly strokes. the venom glitters through your veins, dancing, like tiny disco balls exploding.

already you want more.

you always want more.

it's never enough.

never enough to slaughter the chorus, to slice their voices into a blood-soaked silence.

[pieceofshitpieceofshitpieceofshit]

honey-combed slick, slathered in sticky sweet, you panic as he leisurely licks you dry. frantic as his quick flicks, you scramble to unzip this mistake, but the zipper's on the back and your hands won't reach. the fabric is itchy, you are breaking out in welts; furious flames of skin. once again, you are sewn into this sample sale; ill-fated costume.

a role you never wanted to play.

on 20mgofoxycodoneandagiantswig you get behind the wheel and drive. drive your sick husband with a broken back.

soon to be brokenhearted.

your heart? arrested. this siren screams silent, handcuffed to her hate.

no. you can't understand.

through this maze of madness you hamster round and round, lost. and not until the christmas snow gently whites, swaddling your sickness in a blanket of acceptance, can you stand still.

and listen.

[before the ax lands in jack nicholson's head.]

on christmas eve, tears dribble down your cheeks like falling stars, and you have only one wish. alone, you step into the arms of a stranger and trumpet with divine humility,

"i am henriette and i am an alcoholic."

you clutch onto the neck of someone once Eeyore'd with shame, and dare to look up and into now endless reservoirs of hope; serenity in stilled waters.

and you sigh,

"YOU are ever the green-eyed monster, not me.

for i will shed this skin again.

so dim your glittering eye,

dull your poisoned prong,

and slither away under night..."

[until tomorrow.]

carry me home.

the international house of ivanans.

growing up in toronto with a latvian-turned-brit-turned-canuck and a dane-turned-brit-turned-canuck was like living with a multinational militia during any holiday season. "mummy, why are there danish flags on the christmas tree?". "why are the jesuses covered in purple?". "daddy, the catholic incense smells funny!"

but, the pot melting traditions old, new and irreverent always stirred smoother when marinated with the golden goo.

[just add father.]

fermented fluid flowed free in the fatherland, until prohibition pulverized said pater into the final sands through the hourglass, leaving wee 3 capsized, washed up on the dry, river beds. panting.

paining.

yes, thanksgiving in particular was a bit of a mindfuck, a.d.

[after-daddy.]

we three kings of disorientation, clung to this exercise in turkey, more like throwing down a buffet with the secretary-general at the u.n., a marshaled meal, and less like any culinary ritual recognizing love and peace between nations, fictional or otherwise.

but, these were the first evenings i savored those underage sippos. my own wine glass, singing under the roll of my anticipatory finger. my teen heart thump. thump. thumping with delight at the halo humming above the good crystal. innocent, blonde gulps. crisp, dry streams, tearing the walls of my plump, pink throat. building the yearn.

for burn. for pain. for dark.

so venturing south of the 49th parallel into the hippie-dippie state, traditions didn't get any clearer. the land of wheatgrass, tofurky and buddhas like flamingos on every lawn. we were a different family of 3. hubby, beagle and hen. so we made our own rules, until they became like the plot of "inception", and hands tossed, i curled into sleep and saw everything blow up in our faces.

today, i went back into rehab.

with my husband, invited as an alumnus to a thanksgiving feast of food, fellowship and football.

it was not the thanksgiving streaming from your big screen.

not conquering caucasians bending, smiling; carcass, glistening with congestive heart failure. not chubby-cheeked children, gleefully tumbling on a dyson-steamed shag with shrieking, white smiles. nor consenting models prettily posing with goblettumblerstein, frosting with sexual tension.

dripping with your destiny.

[caution: thin ice.]

it was better.

the dude walking his black, pot-bellied pig along hollywood blvd. yes, people walk in l.a.! and with swine!

the homeless man sitting at the bus stop bench. a plate of charity resting on his lap. a drumstick, stuffing and cranberries red.

and the tears in s.'s eyes, shining with our past. last thanksgiving. 39 days.

[two. dead. birds.]

she squeals with ecstatic bursts as we wrangle her leash. wagging her freak flag, our aging hound waddles down our escalator drive, snorting and sniffing every pebble, every leaf. she is joy. but, she is old. with a mouth full of rot soon to be pulled.

[sigh.

i miss it.

i miss the ruby, rich syrup coating my tensions, winging my soul. the dazzling ego unleashed with every guzzled glass. i am the greatest actress! a wondrous wife! the bestest friend! i am smarterslickersexier than you. and you. and you.]

maggie slows at the end of wayside drive with an inaudible putt, putt, putt. her last puff of steam vanishes silently like the sunset dip and she stalls. she gazes up at me with a canine's compliance. gentle eyes. low wag. and the softest sigh.

[i miss hiding my bottles, tearing up evidentiary receipts and hours of ice packs, excedrin and gulleting puke. i miss my independence! my arrogant autonomy! LIFE. you. are. my. bitch!!!]

every morning i wake up and say two things.

"i am powerless. i am not on dialysis."

and then i swing my legs over the bed and put one foot in front of the other.

self-sufficiency snuffs the flame of gratitude.

i bend over and raise my furry sausage to my chest. with a singular sigh she melts into my arms and we walk. still collared, her leash scrapes behind us, ripping rhythmic along the asphalt. we pass our neighbors' tribute to neon, a flickering facade to rival the griswalds'. our deliberate stroll ignites the guards of hades; wild, frothy yapping; flinging their rabied selves against the bars.

but, we walk in silence.

step, by step. beat, by beat.

i carry her home and lay her upon a field, silver with post-apocalyptic ash; where green pokes friendly, and blooms burgeon bright.

she lay with me, when i could only lie.

now i walk for her, when she can no longer try.

i can walk again. i can live again. i can love again.

this is the thanksgiving of my dreams.

and there's not a turkey in sight.

just a hen.

no longer flickering, but blazing bright.

love and other drugs

last night, k. shot me up with heroin.

we cop in a shed of stereotypes, downtown, skid row. hooded black men, shifty-eyed asians and two surprisingly relaxed pink people.

apparently, my r.e.m. runs racist.

we score plastic baggies stuffed with black goo. black tar licorice babies, minus the sugar rush.

just the rush.

we lie on a hotel bed, a nice hotel. crown moulding. white linen. k. gently, generously injects me first. i feel nothing. as i tell him this, a hole begins to gape and widen on my thumb. my thumb is smiling. "ehhhhhhh....". so fonzie. i am hallucinating, but i am not high. this time he shoots straight, and my head lolls back as in my dope fantasia. mickey is conducting; the elephants are twirling. but even as i nod off, euphoria eludes. i have not even brushed the dragon's tail.

she meant well.

but, today's dental hygienist was clueless.

i got the distinct feeling that she was threatened by my 30 year war. she cataloged anecdote after anecdote over inattentive, irksome physicians! and how often she'd come to her poor husband's emotional rescue! cape flying, defiant, arms fisted, planted on her hips, "you're not listening to him!", she would proclaim, sucking fierce at the thin straw of insecurity plunged into her power shake.

"i've been very fortunate. i've had amazing relationships with my physicians.", i offered.

"like, the other day, i tore my rotator cuff..."

["ahem. is this thing on?"]

"and i was in so much pain, i had to go see my doctor. i don't like to, because i'm really a natural girl..."

["yeah, you're sooo natural. you with the bleach blonde hair and your peroxide pearls..."]

lock up your medicine cabinets, folks, the bitch is back.

"so he said it would heal, but that i needed pain killers. now, i don't like to take pain killers..."

["seriously. who are these people?"]

"but, he prescribed me something called tra-ma-sol..."

["that's tramaDOL, you sacrilegious dolt..."]

"well, i was supposed to take 2 tablets, but i thought, i better start with 1..."

[that's funny, i used to think, i'd better start with 3..."]

"WHELL. the next morning i woke up trembling and shaking and dizzy..."

["in a good way?"]

"i couldn't drive, i couldn't go to work, i was in bed until 4 pm THE. NEXT. DAY..."

[someone please bring back whiskey and the stick to bite on. it would be less painful.]

"and it was so sweet. my 24 year-old son kept coming in to check on me. he told me that people use this stuff recreationally! that i could get a lot of money for those pills!

["tramadol? yeeaaahhh, not so much."]

"so we just threw the rest away..."

[she died painfully. death by verbal diarrhea.]

and as motor mouth putted along, i u-turned back 14 months ago. pill popping with pez-dispensing glee in a pharmacy parking lot.

pop rocks dissolving. gobstopper crushing. i want candy.

3 crowns later, i was dethroned.

ears bleeding. jaw seizing. gums throbbing.

no painkillers prescribed.

no advil allowed.

yet, a curt compromise.

soma.

now, i was never a fan of the muscle relaxer. i didn't want to sleep. i wanted to make it last and last and last, like veruca salt's gum. right to the blueberry-popping end.

but, when i filled the bottle i thought,

"i could keep them all. i don't have to tell k. i don't have to tell l."

[fahuuuccckkkk.]

there's a line drawn in my sandbox, now. and playing alone isn't any fun.

so, i called my sponsor. and she concocted a blueprint of titanium design.

"you come here.

you give me the bottle.

and i will give you 3.

one for now. one for tonight. and one for tomorrow."

and i told my husband. who has a safe full of backlogged narcotics, including my favorite, the poor man's powdered heroin; her overshadowed sister: oxycodone. and he holds the key. both keys.

"so, this is our new normal...", i breathed, as i took my soma, and texted l.

"i took my pill at 5:38 pm. thank you, l.! i love you!"

and although warned of a strong effect, my tolerance still registers somewhere between keith richards and nikki sixx. and i floated to flatline. tiny native indians burn bonfires in the back of my mouth, whooping it up with a banshee wail.

but inside, a line has been crossed.

the thin line between love and hate.

yes, maybe, i'm starting to like myself after all.

tell me why i [don't] like mondays

at cedars, there will be blood.

but, there can be joy.

i think i would rather be cell mates with mitt romney, tossing and turning as he whispers sweet nothings down from his bunk; serving sick descriptions of the myriad ways he plans to slaughter big bird, then writhe in food-poisoned agony after being .38 special-ed to gnaw on the feathery muppet's carcass for lunch,

than take another trip to cedars.

this sleepy danvian strolled down the white light hallways, squinting through memories; knapsacked with past.

[btw, danvian is a term coined by an older actor with an ivanans infatuation. half danish, half latvian, this hybrid was chased around the homemade fudge laden lanes of niagara-on-the-lake, one theatrical summer. clutching a bottle of red, and cradling a game of scrabble with the intensity he hoped to unleash upon me, i nimbly nipped his fantasy with very loud, very frequent pinings over a certain teenage theatre stud. a 19-year old winterpeggian with an andy gibb mullet, who had just dramatically proclaimed,

"i love you, but i'm not in love with you.".

[ouch.]

so when this danvian's lasix kick started a spasming bladder, zooming her through the restroom door, sense memory revved loud and long.

those shiny tiles, the slanted mirror above the sink sent her heart into double beat. the ceramic shrine where she would gulp verboten tap water to swallow whatever xanaxtramodoloxycodone happened to be squatting in her purse that morning. evicted promptly by salacious saliva bubbling in her warm and wanton mouth. flecks of self-loathing flickered through her silver, tarnished eyes as she glanced up to wipe her mouth dry.

[sip. swallow. sigh.]

first. my favorite lab technician, k. and i curled into an hypodermic tete a tete, skipping over the right arm, veins now officially closed for business, transferring my lingering heroin fantasy over to a lonely, left limb. and in this infirm confessional, i poured, without steeping, my near-year of sobriety into her cup of good cheer. and like a good little nightingale, she chirped back about her son who blew underaged beer breath in michigan. where they threw the book at him.

the big book.

[my favorite book after my thesaurus.]

next. the new nurse, k. and i were soon bonding tighter than the serotonin reuptake inhibitor in your antidepressant. and yours. and yours. as we shared gory tales of the cranium, my tongue listed potential medications for my migraine sistah, rattling louder than the narcotics i no longer gobble. topomax, nortriptyline, neurontin. but, my frenemie fiorinol, light of my [un]life, remained banished to the prison of my own making; uninvited to the party.

"so, why haven't you?", i chastised.

"i should. but, you know, women just don't talk about this.", she mumbled.

my brows knitted into a mystified mountain as i gleefully crowed,

"well, honey, i do!".

the calvary descended. bring on the resident.

i've malignant patience for exotic arrogance, the swaddle-tongued, eager beaver attempting to unfurl "mycophenolate mofetil" before i've had my second cup of coffee. this bitchy pet peeve is right up there with sweeping away food court debris as i attempt to gorge over a guilty pleasure without gagging.

yes, with puffy patronization and clipped articulation, she parroted her textbook, suggesting i stay EX-TRA HY-DRA-TED the next time i barf!

[gag me with a medical student.]

but, with unrolling eyes, i saw the storm clouds disperse. and calmness feathered down. and i sat. quietly. fists uncurled, elephant ears,

and listened.

[and then there were four.]

enter my attending physician, dr. k.. the one i've come to breathy blows with. the one who suggested this glassy-eyed conductor "power through" her side effects, not realizing she'd already derailed.

but, monday, he told me to "let us do the worrying" about my antibody results.

and for the first time, i heard it.

it's a wonderful world of whackamole, with a pulse zipping from 63 to 100 within the course of a day. the girl with an unmedicated bp so low you couldn't limbo under it, has a fast pulse.

[dehydration? prednisone? teasing tachycardia?]

in the midst of a month of migraines, my overstuffed wagon glided away into the may night, and our marital knot unslipped into separate threads; the one choking us into "'til death do you part"...

so when my creatinine landed, like the plane about to bring my husband home, we taxied to a quiet joy.

"it's almost like it's not real...", he whispered.

[down from 1.2 to 0.9]

monday, i floated with a nun's eerie ecstasy, walking on wonder.

if there's a trick to life, it's a slight of hand.

our magic lives not in a number.

but, it's a pretty good place to start.

you don't bring me flowers anymore

can a kettle be romantic?

it was my grand prize, the holy grail of gifts offered to me upon the disheveled sheets of a hotel bed in san bernardino, california.

silver, shiny, surprising.

[happy birthday.]

we are the couple with a patented armband. it slips over our sleeves, radiating satellite signals of emotion; throbbing 'round the world to the beat of our open hearts.

yeah, i couldn't hide it.

"you bought me a kettle?", i drooped, dismayed.

"but, you like tea.", confucius say.

[sigh.]

here's the irony. i am your least romantic friend. i do not think your child's crayon scribbles are adorable, weddings with bubbles/doves/rice or any variation thereof is cheesy, and february the 14th, that flimsy, fabricated franchise, is for suckers.

ah, but it's the bud that gets me every time.

[non-alcoholic.]

heady blossoms of succulent, sensual sweetness; my nostrils toking on memories, my heart vaulting through time.

[ache.]

for this certified city child; downtown dweller, with a bedroom view of the world's tallest free-standing structure as it elevatored up into the sky, nature was but a panoramic picture of [high] park, not cognitive crunchings underfoot. only in a small and slow land across the ocean, did natural infatuation flower.

in bedstefar's rose garden i crushed to most traditional bloom, the rose, and have been blushing ever since. idyllic summers, bliss. windy beaches, black licorice and cycling trails of escape. child-wide innocence, pre-aids, pre-internet. squashed siblings united on the home front, n. and i'd bullet down the hallway; our apartment's gaza strip, dodging parental anarchy that never ceased fire. danish summers were a respite from our father's battle, the war he never surrendered. this 70's show was a true merchant/ivory film come to life, minus the corsets i was never able to fill anyway.

over the years, my floral favorite split-screened with the lilac. fruity, flirty flower. one whiff of its syrupy scent and i am drifting, twitching back into pubescent angst; melting overwintered, toronto days when gray slush still hulked curbside, but throaty breaths hinted at winter's retreat; spring's burgeoning blitz. crawling out of your skin; snowsuit, onto melting glaciers of yearn.

he lies tractioned head to toe, smarting submissive. he describes his pain level to the physiotherapist as a 6 out of 10. her heart twitches. she, sense memoried. so well versed in the rhythm of the pain scale, a "9" would roll off her tongue as trippingly as iambic pentameter to the elizabethan actor, landing a delicious, drugged reward for her high score.

now chauffeur to her loaded lad, her heart twitches again at the bulge in his pants' pocket.

his painkillers.

[rattle, rattle, rattle....]

with an echoing ruckus smothering marley's entrance, as dickens' ghost clanged up from hell's holding cell, every drag of his leg rattles a delicious, distracting din. every hobble prattles his pills pavlovian, inflaming her cold coals of sobriety. while marley's torment spread equator fat, her purgatory's packaged in a pill, just a slight of hand away.

["it would be so easy..."]

but, then. paradise lost.

now, dead-weight dragging new baggage he wishes the airline lost, his pockets rattle 'n roll with oxycodone; norco-singing, endlessly repeating the seductive moans and groans of last summer's sin-soaked chart topper.

["so, call me, maybe..."]

so, if caring for the hooked-up, laid-up man taking 6 painful minutes to sit up in bed is poetic justice, then sign me up for the slam.

i've got a beret, pages of rehabus vomitus, and an audience of one held captive by bed.

[isn't it romantic?]

i dreamed a dream. years of hints, as subtle as celebratory plate crashing at a greek wedding. loud, longing admiration for every bundle prettying up the house. soft, squirrely sighs as i'd arrange and rearrange. and a pencil-pointed declaration of how. much. i. love. flowers. but, eventually, like an exhaustive evening of uninspired erotic exertions, i ceased huffing and puffing and chose to walk over the finish line.

and gave up.

so you could have blown me over with a baby's breath, when suddenly presented with a fistful of sweetheart roses; deep pink, tear-stained mauve. fresh from bedstefar's fabled garden, the rosy bunch buzzed with silence, leaving me weak at the bees' knees.

i blushed.

and my first thought was,

"but, i stole pills from you.".

you are the thorn in his side that can never be expelled; wily weed.

[wildflower.]

romance is not a well-tended garden; sterilized manicure. not trudging a pedestrian landscape of brick paths, automatic sprinkles and feng shui fountains.

romance is the steadfast slog of a man, through the surging swells of sickness. surviving mattress-turning nights, black-eyed peeves and a timer set every two hours to chart your intoxicated depth of breath.

romance is the cushion of his arms as you pillow the rare wetness upon his classic-cut cheeks. damp-pressed, your gray, failing form is cradled like the child you have become. and he holds your head still against narcotic waves lolling it feral; free.

romance is dodging words like darts; sharp, scarring. fleet of foot he'd sidestep your wild swings, as you belligerently battled his punching bag to a pulp with your poisoned spit.

it's a rope of words that can never be untangled, just noosed tight until there's silence.

our romance is now revenge against a monster; spearing passionate surrender.

and peace.

["a sort of homecoming."]

the U2 classic bemoans the exhaustive irish civil war; religious wronged.

but, in our home, there is a truce. more than a truce.

[cease eternal tarry, starless nights.]

it is dawn.

"and your heart beats so slow
through the rain and fallen snow,
across the fields of mourning
light's in the distance.

oh, don't sorrow, no don't weep
for tonight, at last,
i am coming home
i am coming home."

the kettle's on the stove.

she's flowering, prettied with pink.

and romance is in the air.

champagne supernova

it was our theme song.

the zeitgeist that fueled our candy red tercel with sweet dreams for the future, heralding us all the way down route 66. 

"slowly walking down the hall, faster than a cannonball..."

[that and $1.15 a gallon for gas.]

like oasis, we lived and breathed infectious energy back in '95, until we choked. it's not that the city doesn't live up to its moniker. it's just angels vanish in the smog, when you live and breathe it too long.

so i arrived for my weekly visitation with my fur daughter. 

wagging tail. check. bum sniff. check. "where-have-you-been?" squeal. check.

but, it was checkmate for my not-so-sexy-looking, not-yet-ex.

"are you ok?".

"my back really hurts.".

a man who may very well have a fractured disc (mri pending), stood before me, all dressed up with no place to pipe.

for the last 12 years, k. has been playing pipes at a birthday party for "peaches". this is not a code word. i don't think k. even knows her name. but i don't think "peaches" will be online surfing, accidentally stumbling upon my blog. "peaches" is 94. her daughter, l., hit on k. at a cemetery after he played a funeral, introduced herself, explained how much her "mother" adores the bagpipes, and k. being k., has played at "peaches" birthday party ever since.

but k. being k., who, for all intents and purposes, bit down on a stick for a week after having a kidney ripped from his guts, had not taken a pain pill. and looked it.

"do you want me to drive you?".

i'm not sure what was more surprising. me agreeing to drive him to simi valley, thereby sacrificing my floor exercise routine with maggie, or k. agreeing that he needed help. either way, it was a milestone moment in the ivanans-mcintyre household.

yum. the irony was delicious. i would have licked my fingers, but i was too busy adjusting my chauffeur cap and gloves.

there we were. the mirror image of the way we were. in the role of barbra, i drove, with a crystal clear view of kevin's past; defogged. petal to the metal, this legal eagle flew, under the speed limit now. no bugs to smear my vista, no drugs to steal my soul. i glanced over at k. in the role of robert, bob to his friends, and in my mind's eye i gently pushed back a lock of hair as he slept. i leaned over to turn on the radio, 

"someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide..."

his silence directly proportional to his pain level, i was soon privy to buzzy musings about l.'s devotion to her mother, her hard-knock-life and the party that usually included subway sandwiches, faithful friends and care workers, all topped by a champagne cake.

[hmmm.]

you know, these are things you just don't think about until you get sober. 

and soon enough all i was thinking about staying sober.

l. was definitely one of the reasons why, if someone had asked me a year ago at a party, "can i get you something to drink?", i would have rapidly, and most assuredly responded, "yes, PLEASE. a big FAT vodka soda with extra lime."

but this was a party that didn't even serve alcohol. god. no wonder they had a champagne cake.

l. was a lovely hostess. a gracious hostess. and i guess l. was trying to make up for the fact that "peaches" doesn't talk at all. 

l. was very concerned that her minor leg operation become the topic of conversation. the physio she was enduring! the horrible ignorance of doctors! all before the front door clicked shut. never mind the double-transplanted woman standing before her whom, "she'd heard so much about, and was finally meeting!". meanwhile, the double-transplanted woman felt her protective, albeit separated, wifely fur-coat hackle sharply, vibrate in high c.; screaming for the quiet soldier beside her. her man in uniform; suited up, doped up, quietly grinning and bearing-backing his load as only k. can. 

but, it takes one to know one, right?

this kindergarden certified chatty-cathy, ("henriette shows great intelligence, but is a little chatterbox.") thawed to l.'s siberian insecurities; initially isolating, but upon exploration, a vast, uncharted resource. l. was lovely, if not subtle, delegating marching orders to every member of the party, while constantly reminding us there were more a-listers on call.

but, at long last, the pipes called.

"your husband! he's so talented! you must be so proud!"

they clamored around the little red-haired girl, while k., with mastered flexibility, snapped photos with his right hand, cradled his pipes under his left shoulder, and balanced the entire act with the smooth, comedic timing of a highly-rated neilsen sitcom. and with the deft deflection of the token quirky/overweight/gay/politically incorrect character, she quipped, "what was the third thing you did at k.'s wedding?", completely blanking as to the trifecta of talents he had perfected at his sister's wedding.

"sing!", k. called over his shoulder, on his way back out to strike up.

"oh, yes! k. sang, took pictures and played the pipes at his sister's wedding!", she proclaimed, hands clasped in front of her chest.

[i will not insert a joke about low self-esteem. i will not insert a joke about low self-esteem. i will not...]

and just to button up that "veryspecialblossom" episode, l. hovered over us, breezily reminiscing as to the time and place she met k.. then her sharp denoument, the moment she realized he had a wife.

"...then you pulled a business card out of your wallet, and i saw this stunning woman on it, and when you said she was your wife, i thought, geez, what a beautiful, perfect couple..."

and it just hung there. 

the truth. the truth that only we knew. and we smothered it quick with a blanket of soft chuckles, sidelong glances and awkward kicks towards a dying fire.

and through it all sat "peaches". through the party, the piping, the pursuit of perfection.

she reminded me of a mall santa with her chubby, jolly presence, so pretty in pink, silently soaking up each moment; distractingly dense with peace and joy.

and she reminded me of bedstemor. sunny, simple, smiling bedstemor, who was "just" a homemaker, and "just" a mom, but when she smiled, everyone felt it in their cheekbones. 

their ability to unearth joy from grim rot.

["how to eat fried worms", indeed.]

bedstemor with a cancer-riddled spine; morphine-coated throat, straining only for my self-preservation, self-respect.

and "peaches", a decade without breath for words or walk. but, for not one second does she need them.

there we sat. side by side. slices of cake passed overhead. my polite decline either unheard or ignored. and so it landed. and i stared. my favorite. the slice with grainy, neon-pink flower. innocuous rose. symbolic sin. just one bite. one sip. one pill. maybe not today, tomorrow, but suddenly, shockingly, you are begging, crying, dumpster-diving; shoving anyone who stands in the way into the current that is taking you down...

it was a simple gesture. surgically precise and quick. in and out. 

i blinked. and blinked again.

in the silent seconds k. had ravaged his fluffy slice, i had daydreamed about the room, frozen stare; smile. and in a curt, covert action, worthy of insertion into an opening sequence of a daniel-craig-bond-flick, k. had sliced my piece in half, manoeuvred it onto his plate, and wolfed a reasonable portion thereof, before squishing the remainder to look like he was appropriately stuffed and sated with sugary sweetness.

it was the door slam heard around the world.

or for those not up on their ibsen, my world got a little bit brighter.

[my champagne supernova.]

whenever that song shocks onto the waves, we bolt into the past, and k. invariably comments, in a way that only a wife, ex-or-not, can find endearing, how the song reminds him of the time when we moved to l.a. 

[initially a fantastic explosion, that ejects most of its mass.] 

after the smoke and mirrors are packed away, what lies beneath is the truth.

and sometimes the truth is a half-eaten piece of cake; words don't matter.

champagne stops flowing and supernovas burn out.

"but you and i will never die, the world's still spinning 'round, we don't know why..."

love never dies.

[happy birthday, "peaches".]

chivalry is not dead (and we like it)

when your migraine's being an asshole, you pull out all the stops.

[while squirming face down on a bed of nails, pining for the day when you could jam a fist full of candy-coated narcotics into your mouth, you pat yourself on your stiff-as-a-board shoulders, and rethink the situation.]

you call your neurologist.

you are hysterical. but with your dramatic, trembling admission of defeat, he refuses you entrance into the theatre of anxiety and self-pity. he focuses the narrative on perseverance and patience, roping you off from the world of apple-tossing naysayers and lifts you back up into the balcony. into the best seat in the house.

[with a little more nortriptyline.]

you get mauled by a thai woman.

with balletic grace, he reaches for your water bottle. nimbly, he fills and caps it, pirouetting it back upon the desk. then springing, not one, but two, of the fortifying, complimentary bananas into your purse. his eyes twinkle with gallantry. your lips twitch with surprise.

[and your feet float right out the door.]

you wink at your shiny, new galpal "gravy".

gliding over to your ride, the massage's blissful hum's grown louder; the din burns, buzzes inside your brain like a bees' nest poked wide. an apologetic call from behind; the prefacing, "why can't we be friends?" tone in his voice.

"i am not following you. i am walking to the volkswagen in front of you."

your heart softens, if not your head. and you squawk an equally repentant laugh. and your mouths; minds open to a conversation about the mom and pop thai massage place and the virtues of eastern medicine.

and you think, it must be hard for a man to be chivalrous in these times. in these times of kardashian ass, big 'n rich sass and dumbmancan'tcook-tv-trash.

[in these times of the toddakincrash('nburn)]

three amigos rode in to glendale today. and rode away leaving me with a warm, fuzzy feeling.

no battle of the sexes.

or battle of the exes.

[lay down your sword.]

simply no battle at all.

"Baby, have you got enough gas?"

i never had that quintessential teenage experience.

getting the keys to your own car at 16.

it used to be a bit of a running gag in our home. k. would rovingly reminisce, with lascivious longing, like winding down the back roads to an abandoned cabin for a stealth rendezvous, about his '84 powder blue, ford escort with the singular am stereo inherited from his mother.

no, i never peered through my curtains to a heart-pounding vehicular assault; waxed to a shimmering sheen, blossomed with a stunning, silver bow, perfectly poised with entitlement in my driveway.

"when i was 16, i had kidney failure and my dad was dead!"

cue: rolling of k's eyes. appropriate mugging of h's face.

oh, how we used to howl with laughter.

[weird. no-one's laughing now.]

when i was 16, this leathery lass had ridden the ttc (toronto transit commission) hard; 8 years into jockeyed submission. she was my bitch. her smells and bells so familiar, i strapped on steel-toed boots and kicked away my theatre school debt by mopping up the "bright lights, big city" placentas left dripping overnight on the stairwells by the buy-and-sells; the ne'er do wells.

with trine the tercel, we sizzled, trailblazing across famed route 66. then down a slow burn into infamy i collapsed, crumbling into a chalky glow, burned by the blistering heat within the golden state; myself. i couldn't see the beauteous salve sitting next to me all along.

for the next 15 years, k. and i shared one car, the someone-please-make-them-retro-chic, station wagon. how we ended up driving such a provincial set of wheels is testament to my elastic stubbornness, and maybe finally dumping her, minutely lessens the chances of me ever falling off one.

so there she stood.

fire-engine blazing red.

and there i stood.

squinting through my muddled, post-meditation, pounding haze of pain.

but not the 4 am shot bulleting through my brain; searing me awake. not inhuman sounds shattering dreams of a migraine-free life. and not the ice-cube sink[ing], cold-pool plunge into another dead-woman-walking, nightmare day.

nope.

not even that would kill my engine.

there she revved. and i flushed. with scarlet fever.

and she.

flushed back with canuck-flag waving red.

danish lego-clicking red.

yankee doodle danvian red.

and i was dripping. soaking my back, steamy infatuation; smearing the los angeles asphalt slick.

[slippery when wet.]

and i hopped. and clapped. and clapped some more.

my. very. first. car.

giant forces of goodness, generosity and grace conceived her birth. and i am but a sperm, gratefully, humbly; swimming upstream.

so, of course, her name had to begin with a "g".

yes, i know. nothing with wheels follows a hearse.

[but, she's so pretty!]

i'm not going to lie.

sobriety is a bitch when you're jesused, four on the floor in pain without narcotics.

it's a bitch when you go 11 weeks with only 4 migraines and, wham!, the new drug isn't working.

and it's a bitch when you aren't parking your new car next to your husband's.

but this is the truth about my 10 months and 5 days.

i have a body that was never so free. i have a mind that was never this clear. and a heart that was never so open.

every day in sobriety is a gift.

and all the rest is...

[meet] 

"gravy".

i am bustin'!!!!!! [i think "the kid" just peed a little...]

ladybug sings the blues

i had an uninvited guest last night.

during a very unsober 3 am moment.

rigid and wide-eyed, frantically backhanding my nostrils as they dripped with ferocious farm animal intensity; snorting and snotting, huffing and puffing, blanket-mouth stuffing.

[10 months doesn't guarantee you shit.]

but there, through the mist of my tears; unxanaxed panic attack, like the literal parting of the red sea...

red wings, with delicately painted black dots.

she appeared boldly, in a flash of cherry-red through a sad, squinty blur.

blink once. twice.

she was tenacious. weaving through the spokes of my gargantuan white noise machine; the fan's soothing symphonic now whirring in discord with my heartfelt histrionics, our cacophony awakening glendale's undead.

but nothing. not the howling winds of fan; of hen would keep this steadfast mofo away.

up and down. up and down. up and down.

unburdened by her beautiful, lacquered layer, steadfast she wiggled those black, shiny legs, sheltering her soft underbelly; her toughest meat. her heart.

i was mesmerized.

["fuck you!"]

anger, fear and judgment pelts down on me like acid rain, stinging my skin, leaving comforting welts. beautiful bruises. this is the skin i remember. this is where i belong.

sick. diseased. useless.

unlike storms that break and clear sky, i collect on the ground, in filthy, muddied pools.

tremors trip my fall. i sweat. i shake. and shake some more.

in the inch deep water, i choke mud. it's cold, freezing. i shiver deep and long. fever.

i turn my head to the side and gasp.

there is no air. no fair.

["you were a fucking terrible wife!"]

i was.

i was.

[maybe it's not an excuse, but it's an explanation.]

in canada, if you find a ladybug overwintering in your garage it brings good luck.

it has been the longest winter.

with such black, navy blue nights, the stars frosted the sky silver when they went to sleep; blinding cold light.

with such icy, thin air, your insides scraped raw on the quickest of inhales; you barely breathed for almost five years.

with such black hearts; black iced, can a spring warm enough ever be sprung?

and then i saw her.

my plucky little friend.

crawling around next to the sleepily spilled coffee grounds.

then i remembered.

"ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,
your house is on fire,
and your children are gone..."

my fears paralyze, choke; i hang with regret.

but after all the mud has been thrown, you are muddied; bloodied and no-one can see.

i cannot roll around in the mud anymore.

it may be good for my skin,

but it's just not good for my soul.

and we all have one.

[even ms. ladybug.]

beverly hills [black tar babies]

they gently prance up and down the one way lanes, leggy in leather, buttery soft; not a leatherette chap in sight. their thick manes sway, thoroughbred blonde, not desperately dyed. they strut by me, strident, their back draft a harsh whiff of f’eau entitlement as i hike my discount jeans over my distended belly; baby. designer blinders adjusted to the blistering glare of the sun-bleached bubble in which they form and reside.

dodging bmws and bentleys, i flew out of cedars last week, solo, sliding my frequent flier card back into my pocket, poetically fingering the hobo-esque holes, musing on the rapidly expanding "bazooka" bubble in my chest.

creatinine spike from 1.0 to 1.2.

more immunosuppressives. more side effects.

weaning me off my miracle migraine drug, because of mental, physical apathy and hair loss.

oh, and getting the titties squeezed in a routine mammogram.

wind wires of self-pity into the explosives shackled to my chest, where they implode like an animation sketch upon the desert floor, ripping a hole of such fervent loathing it ejaculates through to the other side, singeing; dripping hot, black drops of tar.

[i...hate...you...for...being...healthy...oh...god...YES!...]

so now i limp down rodeo, sticky and beat, covered in tar. and sad.

yeah. i felt sad. leaving cedars, alone; dishonorable discharge, for the drillioneth time.

[it’s a word.]

so, i pulled out my phone, and held it like a baby's bottle, like a bottle of pills, like ah frosty goblet, and willed it to love me.

ring. please ring.

[drip. drip. drip.]

and i looked at my raised hand, dripping the tarry black that killed my father; could kill me and began to...

stuff my big, fat face with useless calories...

flap my trap and wag my throbbing index from armchair therapy... 

inject my face into warped distortion...

puff the magic drag throughout all logic and life...

slather my children with the spoils of their youth...

keep the jones' in my rear view mirror and ignore the Apple dump in my backyard...

starve myself into skinny oblivion...

pump up my ego with facebook friend collecting and fallacy...

slip slide away plastic until callouses form over my fingers...

fuck my brain into a black out like the faces i don't see...

pump up my bloodstream with the thickest of jams...

ride the clothes horse into bankruptcy...

cross my chest with silent contempt and extend a tarry, middle finger towards the sky...

as i pulled into the parking lot, he leaned through my open window. a little man with gray hair. no taller than a jockey. a sparkling lot attendant giving this whipped, beaten filly the once over.

["whoa, henny!"]

"do you know this parking lot charges $2.00 every 15 minutes?"

beat. beat. beat. my heart dropped.

i glanced at the car's clock, digitally morphing onwards. the thought of turning around and heading back out into beverly hills' nonsensical maze of materialism was almost enough to make me publicly dig through my empty pockets.

almost.

and then he twinkled.

"if you turn around, make a right, and then right again into another lot you will get one hour of free parking."

random acts of kind eyes.

that can whip you back into shape without a single touch.

[how did he know? how did he know i am still a girl? a girl on the verge of a woman.]

i don't know a lot about s.

i know he had almost 2 and a half months of sobriety when i landed in rehab. i know he'd been in and out of rehab as many times as his years. 28. and i know i've been rooting for him since the day i heard him speak.

"i love my parents. i would kill for my parents. i would kill myself for my parents. but i can't stay clean for them."

and with that, i was in.

the bulletin points? heroin. 3 weeks icu. 8 years in jail or rehab.

[everybody's got a story.]

but today, s. has one year.

for the last 2 months, i've seen him twice a week in op therapy. and i've watched a desperate, black tar baby, drool and slurp into becoming a man.

my heart pinwheels for s., for the dog, the car, the girl, for the light in his eyes that shines surprising triumph; sparkling pride.

and with a sexy, low-slung mumble, he popped the burgeoning, candied bubble in my chest. the cauldron bubbling over with fear, that separates me; us from the truth.

"...self-esteem through esteemable acts".

s. gets it.

the parking lot attendant gets it.

and when he speaks. when he gives rides. when he listens to my shares, i feel understood.

[we are a team of horses, battered, but unbroken.]

and slowly, my tar drips back onto the streets.

[of beverly hills.]

where it belongs.

something to talk about

on monday i found out b. was stabbed to death in a drug deal.

http://www.hennybird.blogspot.com/2011/11/big-b.html

b. was beautiful. men in west hollywood were obsessed with him. even i had to force focus away from his fierce features, a jaw line so sharp it shred many a heart and when he stuck out his hand before we shared a ride, mine to cedars, and his to court...

"hi, i'm henriette."

"b."

[damn.]

...was the only word this early bird could croak.

but b. was more beautiful on the inside. sorry, untruly trite. he didn't; couldn't speak for the first few weeks, but when his words began to fall, like a toddler's first steps, you leaned forward with waiting arms to catch their fall. he ferociously fixated on ideas and churned them inside his blender of a brain, serving them up like protein shakes; thick, near indigestible, but loaded with value. a trainer, perfection in his pursuit, but like a greek statue, crumbling; not from weighted pressure of time, but a brain atrophying from disease.

his defiance in group was skin-crawlingly, rubber-neckingly addictive. you could not look away. with quiet fury, he'd huff and puff in-house authority right up against the wall, pinning them with stunning truth. and i'd stand in the mosh pit beside him, fist-pumping, head-banging, shrieking myself hoarse into awed silence.

"i don't understand you."

"pardon?"

"have you ever slammed meth?"

"no."

"are you an addict?"

"no."

"SO HOW CAN YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"

he had a point. and a good one.

but every calm breath retaliated by the good doctor would only stoke b.'s fire, and in the end, he felt how we all feel after years of fighting something we don't understand.

fuck. you.

[slam.]

day 29 in rehab. throttled by a humbling trifecta of new and sobering experiences: 1) an early morning group (punishment enough for this night owl), 2) slaughter by a migraine (grasping at sober days like sand through my fingers), and 3) no narcotics for the first time in my life (fantasizing pharmacy, ski mask and a gun), i announced i HAD to miss group. my catastrophe, surprisingly, did not notch on rehab's whipping stick as a legitimate reason to miss group, and so i dragged my sleepy, selfish ass upstairs.

"migraine", i mumbled, as i slipped cross-legged into the circle, clearly out of my mind in pain, and my comrades in armor nodded in sympathy.

but it was b., in one of his loveliest moments, who reached out and stroked my back, surprising me with his lucidity; his love.

i don't ask questions that start with why, because if i did, my heart would never stop breaking.

i love drugs and alcohol. i love them.

i love them so much i did anything in those desperate, dark 3, 4, 5 am boarded-up discotheque, pre-dawn hours. when running out of vodka meant pouring from any bottle that had the word alcohol along the side. because your brain tells you it's clear. and it burns. and it kept me dancing away into the night.

i have to stop fighting them. i am powerless.

when we fight drugs,alcohol,our weight,our spouses,our clothes,our jobs,our houses,our cars,our toys,our facebook,our children,our health,our bank accounts,our...

we choke on the chatter, noise, chaos in our heads...

[something to talk about.]

and you can't hear it.

the peace within.

it took me 45 minutes to get out of bed today.
like a slippery bar of soap, i can't get a grip on these side effects,
immunosuppression,
aging,
detoxing?
if i fight it,
i'll never grab the soap.

i'll never be

clean,

raw,

dewormed, dewaxed and ready to listen.

so tonight i curl, surreal, in my old cabin in his hills, but not alone.

on one side i curl fur, matching sigh for sigh, with the sweetest hound's breath.

and on the other, a ghostly presence, fingers that linger still on my spine, gently pressing me onward, forward. no longer fighting.

with b.

finally surrendered.

moves like jagger

he began with a sleepy mumble.

"your nephew has arrived. his name is matthew tyler leighton."

huh.

turns out the near lethal combination of 2 bud lights at a golf tournament, chased by an all-nighter of wrinkled worry for my sun-stroked, early-bird-catches-the-worm, father-in-law, had quaintly fogged the order.

he was in fact, tyler. matthew. leighton.

and the world would never be the same.

like his grandpa, he was never a sleeper.

from his first breath, he has not wanted to miss a step, miss a beat.

i was auntie "etta" to the gerber-faced boy, with a symbiotic bond so tight, atomic experiences forced disposal of a certain sweater.

["i don't feel so good... bllaaarrrggghhhh...."]

nice, kid. nice. you know i don't have kids, right?

[sigh.]

ah, his golden mullet, those golden hockey curls. his parents so slow to relinquish, but who could blame them? for never did tyler bend with inclination towards a hockey stick. and thank god. for to hide his light under a mask would be a penalty of incalculable minutes.

[yes, this canuck had to throw in a hockey metaphor.]

there have been MOMENTS.

there was a moment when i overheard tyler telling his mother that we MADE him get up REALLY EARLY when he was vacationing in l.a.. the same vacation i would roll over every morning and beg him for another half hour of sleep...

yup. that was a moment.

there was a moment when, SUDDENLY, he didn't like grape juice with his medication.

and after 2 hours of trying to get him to take it, i wasn't sure if i liked HIM all that much.

yup. that was a moment.

and there was a moment when he locked our bathroom door, from the inside, just because he could.

enough said.

but my nephew is a STAR.

because this 3 year-old rising star would take my sparkles, dusting everyone who walked in his path, daring them not to be infatuated by his joie de vivre...

because he took a bunch of bullies and "mini-popped" them upside the head, winnipeg's singular sensation; superstar. with peace and love, he did not give in, but gave back with gift of song...

because every day, in the twelve days of christmas, in tiny, wrapped treasures, he'd ask, "are you going to a meeting, auntie hen?". giving me poke over push over prod.  loving me until i could love myself again...

and on his 14th birthday, his light does not flicker. he already burns strong, firm and fierce.

on the night i took my 9 month chip, i came home to a quiet piece of cyber mail. not a shiny, loud facebook shriek, but soft and sincere.

the measure of a man in the making.

my dear tyler,
      i hate camping, but i would get sand all up in my lady gaga heels  [thatistillhavescarsfromwalking0.8milestothatIHOPinglendale] for you today. no matter what, i will always be your aunt. you have been sewn into my heart from the second i heard about you. and nothing, no person, no event, no single force of nature will ever rip you out.

it's no coincidence you covered "moves like jagger".

like mick, you dance sky-scrapingly tall. unique. free.

no-one can touch you.

don't let them.

but, better than mick, you are my rock star.

happy birthday.

i love you,
auntie hen
xoxo

9 months [keep it in the family]

"the last time i was here, i scored ativan at a sober party".

and although i'd waited all day to pull out my punch line, it wasn't until i pulled away in my sporty loaner, that a rush of relief revved through my veins. like ripping off a band aid, suddenly there was air soaring through my wound, stinging and raw; masochistically marvellous.

[although, since i wound up in rehab 2 weeks later, altogether not much of a zinger...]

it was a party exploding with fourth of july patriotism and skepticism, but, for her, around every corner a stank, pungent with pain. the screen door she tore through, blindsided by self. her pot-calling-the-"ketel one"-black ironic observations. and unsecret pilling and swilling; her self-fulfilling, genetically spilling prophecy. each corner betrayed another detail, another button on a suit collaring her up to the neck; to a stranglehold noose.

my sober skin fits like o.j.'s glove. the staged one.

my skin is thin, brittle. it catches easily, tugging, unravelling as it revolves; evolves between two worlds.

["O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! Oh, brave new world
That has such people in't!]

life is a bitch without my rose-(wine)-colored glasses, as i now ride the tempestuous, salty seas, shotgun.

[captain gawd's got the wheel now, and he's one hell of a sailor...]

in the uncomfortable i do not know how to sit. for long. and my default is no longer an option.

and so i drove. and in loosening my necktie, came desperate breath; desperate fresh.

injected, i flushed, and sat with a sigh.

and listened.

..."what kind of horse shit is this? in NA we say, "isn't a hug better than a drug?" i say, "NO!". and we all nodded and laughed.

she is a. she spoke in a singular statement about her sexual abuse. without a drop of self-pity to lather up her reveal. about the mother who betrayed her. how she's always had a hard time with women. how even if your tone is similar to her mother's...

how she's never liked being hugged.

approaching this apple-faced doll, i warmed to the joy she must have found in sobriety. laugh lines puckered her from eyebrow to chin. inching forward, i silently pleaded for my tone to spill in a soothing cadence in sync with my unstoppable droplets of tears.

that i would sound nothing like her mother.

her sobriety a triumph over dense, unspeakable pain. but in her sharing, she passed hope to someone as broken as she once was. i couldn't help myself. i threw my arms around this over-baked goodie. she felt like comfort food, doughy and divine, and her promise wafted delicately; deliciously into my soul.

"thank. you. for. story. your. journey. is. amazing." i managed between snorts.

and oh! a. clucked. leaned in. and hugged me right back.

tell me there's no such thing as miracles.

that's one.

and here's another.

9 months.

[ya gotta see the baby...]

yankee doodle danvian

i used to beat up little girls.

it was my first drug of choice.

how sexy is that?

yes, the little red haired girl would randomly prey on floral, frocked princesses; boldly, coldly pronouncing them targets for her simmering tidal rage.

"i'm going to fight you."

pummeling the stunned innocents with magnificent fury; unleashing the caged riot of parental anarchy burning her heart; her home to the ground.

unfortunately, generation z, bullying is not new to me.

this is my alcoholism.

[start me up.]

some progress rapidfirequick, and others, like a fine wino, progress into ocd, list-making obsession. then codeine addiction. and then obsess over the perfect fiorinol/chardonnay cocktail. and then they dissolve, delightfully into the sugar rush of the self-centered lollipop. obsessively, compulsively, fatally.

one lick, and you can't stop.

you are not weak.

you are not morally deficient.

you just can't slam on the brakes.

because you are smart.

you can whisper yourself out of a 51/50 at cedars-sinai. with breath so still you don't even know if you're alive. and you walk a quiet line between life and death, unmoving; uncaring. and the only sounds tethering you to terra firma are the ambien and xanax prescriptions rattling you away into discharge.

[90 mph.]

you are really smart.

you with your beady, greedy little eyes. with your scaly, skin-shedding ways. and that flickering fork of a tongue. with your poisonous prong, your cedars' social worker is obliterated, her cute, clueless attempts to sign off on your alcoholism, are backhanded; swatted away like a pesky insect. next. with relentless arrogance, you convince the chief psychiatrist to amend that ridiculous drug and alcohol abstinence agreement.

["honestly, henriette, we've just never had anyone challenge this". next.]

[120 mph.]

and you glide [un]happily back under your rock, swilling beer and crushing xanax into your cracked molars while photographing your morphing kankles in various stages of edema for your blog.

you are listed for a kidney.

you are dialysed.

next.

but you really are fucking smart.

you can talk your way into an oxycodone prescription at the pain center. months after your donor abandoned his script of tylenol 3s into the ceramic ocean. you talk your way onto so many prescription pads, with your slick, pick up and "deliver me" system, escobar took notes from you.

"but it's for the "pain" in my scarsideeffectsheadheartyourfaultgodsfaulteveryoneelsesbutminefault..."

[160 mph.]

and you are insane.

wheeling, out of control.

donutting in the parking lot. manically laughing, tears pooling into your lap.

shifting over and over; gears stuck. fingers clenched so tight; so dry they would snap off, stick by stick were you able to unpeel this frozen fist.

but in a whiteout, you can't see a thing. and your heart is frozen.

"how did i get here?!" should be a game show.

and we could all win prizes.

kinda like a reality show version of orwell's room 101. if you survive, you get a parting gift.

once in a while, this unemployeddisabledseparatedalcoholic will be sitting in a meeting and suddenly, i've been tossed into a box of tarantulas. they are everywhere. hissing, nipping, crawling. i open my eyes to glittering dark beads, peering. odorous pus, oozing. limbs strapping, entrapping me. coarse, angry fur rubbing me raw; bloody.

if i beat them off with a stick, i'll only get bit.

 so the only way out is to jesus myself; four on the floor.

[and that's when i shift it into 1st and surrender.]

and be still.

i had this epiphanous moment the other day.

a woman shared about her childhood. about the chaos she grew up in. how she never knew how to feel. how she was always putting on an act.

["jazz hands".]

she actually did the fosse move.

and i thought back to my grade 3 project.

"what do you want to be when you grow up?"

and i wondered if i'd ever really wanted to be an actress. or if i had just scribbled down an answer to a question? a god in the image that an 8 year-old girl worshipped every friday night. actress-singer-dancer, marie osmond.

["i'm a little bit country..."]

good god...

because now that i'm eightandahalf months sober, the breath of relief i sigh when realizing i never have to act again, fills me with air so clean i vibrate. icy shock, defibrillation.

["clear!"]

the little red haired girl played two roles for too long. overprotective daughter. ferociously battling, baring teeth; all, for her embattled father; unknown peer. resentful child. "where's mummy?". longing for a mother who was responsibly absent. architect by default, building brick by agonizing brick, a house built for 4, in the end, fit only for 3.

sure. i have minutes when i want to flip back my fortysomething, silverstreaked, thin-wisped strands, run my fingers through my topomax-induced breakage, adjust my $5, l.a. county fair D and G knockoff sunglasses, load up, put pedal to the metal and plow through my feelings and into a 7-11 or some other franchise. and anyone who tells me they've got this thing called alcoholism licked, never mind "life", is a total douche.

[ahem. THIS is not serenity.]

so after throwing another charge on the card, my train left separation station and slowed in its tracks, dread in my tread, as i neared this week's rental.

C 45, C 46, C 47...

[say it isn't so...]

what i know from cars is nothing. but what i know from the 80's is everything.

there she stood, nay, screamed from her slot. beckoning to me from the annals of 1981. coated in the neon electric blue that swathed the eyelid of every lead singer of every r&b video ever to rotate on mtv. the seats, like slipping into madonna's "lucky star" fishnet top: cheap black polyester, with charlie-red sheen and bright red stitching. when i check for po-po, there's some kind of dolphin fin sculpture/wind deflection device on the back and the multiple, totally tubular, headlights/tail lights light up reminiscent of the bling of my barbie's 'vette.

[i have yet to pinpoint a demographic for this car.]

where, oh, where is my beige corolla? the bland beauty i revved to delicately navigate the los angeles labyrinth. dodging bullet trains, planes and automobiles, i hunched, skimming under the radar; skimming only the foam of driving delights...

[hmmm...the dodge "avenger"...]

so maybe my sponsor was on to something when she snorted, "you're supposed to learn something from this...!"

and maybe you're rolling you're eyes at the aa speak...

but there's no denying god has a sense of humor.

and maybe i do too...

[shut up and drive.]