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.