Miranda Writes, Part 8

A little bit about my novel-in-progress, Miranda Writes:

Miranda Sutter is a vegan, a bartender, and a writer – not necessarily in that order. She knows that the next Great American Novel is rolling around inside her head, if she can just find the right inspiration… The solution? Consult with one very dead writer by the name of Ernest Hemingway. When a handsome stranger saves a choking woman, Miranda knows she’s found a hero she can base her book on, but when she begins stalking him to learn more about his life, she’s in for more than she bargained for. Along the way, she will have to deal with long-buried grief and fear, a crisis of faith, an unwelcome housemate, a clingy gothic poet, the hero’s ex-wife, and a very hairy dog. Her crazy antics are sure to land her in jail… or in love!

If you're new, read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5 part 6 and part 7 first.

Chapter Three

Wednesday, April 18 (continued)

Outside, I open the passenger door and coax Hank in then circle around to the driver's side and get in. Starting up Chad's rattletrap of a truck, I wonder how I've come to this -- borrowing a clunker and hijacking a dog to further my writing. Seriously, though, my car is simply too conspicuous for undercover work. An old Saab convertible with a vanity plate that reads, "SNAABBY" is going to draw attention and stick out in a person's mind, for sure.

As I drive to Magnuson Park, I realize I don't really have a plan at all. What am I going to do once I'm there? Sit in the truck and just stake out Foster's house? I decide to take Hank out and play with him in the park where I can casually observe the house instead. Though he needs a bath, Hank does seem friendly enough. He's rested his head in my lap as I drive. Maybe we can be friends after all.

I park across the street from Foster's place and find, to my delight, that there is a huge off-leash area in the park. Who would have known? Well, dog owners, probably, but I had no idea. Perfect. Hank and I make our way around the fencing and I throw the softball a few yards away. I survey the house while Hank chases the ball. The minivan is gone and in its place is a red Toyota 4Runner. Now, that's a manlier vehicle, isn't it? points out Papa. I wonder if Suzie is at work.

Because I am watching the house instead of Hank, he nearly topples me as he races back with the ball. "Hank!" I yell as he races past me. "Hank, give me the ball." He lowers his head and charges at me again, the ball still in his mouth. This time, I am quick enough to jump out of the way, but he circles around for another run at me. What in the world? This isn't fetching; it's bullfighting.

Whatever it is, it doesn't fly with me, that's for sure. I plant my feet and put my hands on my hips directly in Hank's path.

"Stop!" I command. Thankfully, he stops, eyeing me carefully, head slightly lowered.

"That's better. Now give me the ball," I coax, reaching for it. He tightens his clamp on the ball and starts pulling away. We're playing tug-of-war with the ball and Hank is clearly enjoying himself.

I dig my heels in, leaning back, but last night's dew has left the grass slick and in a moment I am on my ass, soaking my yoga pants in the cold lawn. Hank drops the ball at my feet and I swear he's laughing at me as I sit most ungracefully on the wet grass. Stupid dog.

Getting to my feet, I pick up the softball and chuck it as far as I can. Hank immediately races after it and I turn slightly so that I can get a better view of the house, where two children, a girl and a boy, are exiting the front door, wrapped in windbreakers. Foster follows them into the yard and wipes the mist off the swings with a towel he's carrying. I suck in my breath. Even in his athletic pants and sweatshirt, he's a damned fine specimen of a man.

I realize I'm staring as Hank's galloping gait nears and this time, I head him off before he can tackle me. Ha! I'm getting better at this. "Drop it!" Hank drops the ball. Hey, this is pretty easy, once a girl knows what she's doing. I throw the ball again and Hank shoots off after it.

Foster picks up the little girl and places her on one of the swings. She's adorable in her pink jacket and lavender sneakers. Dark, loose ringlets spill over her shoulders and take flight as Foster pushes the swing. She must be about five years old, the older of the two children. Squealing with delight, she cries, "Higher! Higher, Daddy!" Foster gives her one more big push, and she's flying, laughing the entire time.

The little boy is tugging on Foster's pant leg. "I wanna slide, Daddy!" He's probably three or four years old, with his dad's dark hair as well. Foster uses the towel to dry off the slide attached to the end of the swing set and helps the little guy up the ladder. "Catch me, Daddy! Catch meee!"

Foster positions himself at the end of the slide and catches his son as he reaches the bottom, scooping him up and lifting him high in the air. The little boy is giggling as his dad spins him around, still holding him high.

As he turns, Foster looks across the street. Straight at me. Straight at me staring straight at him. Oh, shit. He flashes me that make-a-girl-melt smile.

Before I have time to respond, something large and solid hits me in the thigh, knocking me over into the soggy grass. Looking up in surprise and indignation, I see it's Hank. He drops the ball on my chest. "Daddy, I'm cold. Can we go in?" drifts from Foster's yard.

Suddenly, I am convinced that Hank is not my perfect undercover partner. Besides that, I have to work the afternoon shift today. Chancing another glance at Foster's house, I watch as he escorts the children back inside. As the door closes, I can almost swear Foster's captivating face appears in the window to steal another glance at me. Maybe he recognizes me from McArthur & Schultz. Maybe he thinks I am a stalker. I will definitely have to be more careful if I am going to play Nancy Drew.

Hank and I get back into the car and head for the house. As we spill in the front door, I see Aiden is up and sitting in the living room with Chad. Without speaking, I drop Chad's keys, Hank's leash and the waterlogged softball onto the coffee table. Chad reports, "I didn't get a chance to look at your car…"

"Fine," I sigh.

Aiden quips, "Rough morning, Sis? You look a little upset."

Collecting myself, I respond, "No, I'm fine. Just a little wet."

Chad cheekily retorts, "Yeah, I have that effect on women." He's laughing, cracking himself up at his wittiness.

"Don't flatter yourself, Sweetheart. It was Hank that got me so wet, not you."

Heading up the stairs, I can clearly hear Chad whistle, "Damn, your sister's into some kinky shit, isn't she?" He's cracking up again. Clearly, there is no end to his cleverness.

* * *

PART 9 HERE

Orange You Glad I Didn't Say "Banana?"

This is the dawning of the Age of the Knock-Knock Joke
the Age of the Knock-Knock Joke

the Age of the Knock-Knock Joooooooke...

And so, it begins.

At the age of four, Pockets started making up his own knock-knock jokes. They were really good, too, like:

Knock-knock!

Who's there?

Moo!

Moo who?

It's me, A COW! *cracks self up*

I don't remember the knock-knock jokes that Pepper and GirlWonder used to tell at that age, but I'm pretty sure the punchlines involved the physical act of biting the "Who's there?" party. My girls were biters. They were pretty serious about it, too, achieving a lifetime forty percent return on attempts to draw blood.

Their middle school vampire-worshiping friends would be impressed!

Now, it's Curlytop's time. She hasn't quite picked up on the give-and-take line delivery yet, but she's getting the idea...

Knock-knock!

Who--

IT'S ME!

It's me, wh--

Oh, look! Grandma's here! *cracks self up*

Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/wafflechomper/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/artolog/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

What's YOUR favorite knock-knock joke?

Makeup Sex

Makeup sex (noun): cathartic copulation practiced by two consenting relationship-bound adults after a spat or argument, right? You fought. You’re sorry. You’re putting it all behind you with a little under-the-covers kiss and giggle.

I used to think of “makeup sex” that way, too. I got over it.

Now, “makeup sex” refers to the memorable and repeated experience of being screwed over by my cosmetics. It’s not the cosmetics companies’ fault. Sadly, I am an intelligent woman who, despite knowing her dermatological limits, continues to purchase and apply products to her skin, usually with horrifying results.

For me, like so many other girls, junior high was a period of dangerous experimentation. While my friends were exploring the limits of their recreational drug use and sexuality, I was living on the edge by applying glitter to my eyelids. “Ho-hum,” you say? “Yawn,” you declare? Let me tell you, I was living dangerously! As it turns out, I was allergic to whatever metallic garbage the glitter was made out of. My eyes were nearly swollen shut for a week.

Not one to learn a lesson easily, I spent a week’s worth of allowance on mascara in electric blue, teal and lavender. (God, forgive me – it was the Eighties.) The very first application of circus-caliber color to my lashes served as such an irritant to the rims of my eyes that I developed a raging infection, causing my eyes to actually glue themselves shut with bacteria-ridden, seeping goop.

I didn’t wear mascara again until I was 25, when a friend recommended her favorite brand of “hypoallergenic” mascara. I forked over forty bucks, and repeated my junior high medical misadventure. I’ve since concluded the use of the term “hypoallergenic” is actually just a little joke that advertisers like to play on people with sensitive skin.

For most of my adult life, I simply didn’t wear makeup. It wasn’t worth the hassle – or the medical bills. Time was taking its toll, though, and the smooth skin of my youth was being unkindly replaced by a drier complexion that, I knew, was just waiting to cultivate wrinkles. Fortunately, the miracle of alpha hydroxyl creams filled the beauty aisles at my favorite department store. Unfortunately, I was foolish enough to apply some to my face. Instantly, my face broke out in deep red splotches. Five minutes later, the hives started popping up. Within ten minutes, I was contacting the nearest burn treatment center and reconstructive plastic surgeons.

My highest level of makeup masochism came about a year ago, when a momentary lapse in judgment allowed me to purchase and apply a product I’d read about in a fashion magazine: lip plumper. The packaging promised “naturally fuller lips,” and it delivered, but the “plumping” effect was actually due to the blisters that immediately formed over every surface of my lips, and lasted a little longer than intended (about a week and a half).

My husband and I were in the car, en route to a family function, when I first applied it. “I wonder how it works?” I mused out loud as I stroked the clear liquid over my kisser with the sponge wand applicator. “I mean, how does it—HOLY CRAP!”

“What? What is it? What’s wrong?” my startled husband asked, as I used a Taco Bell napkin to try to wipe the battery acid off my lips. (That didn’t work, by the way – I only succeeded in rubbing it farther into my lip tissue, which, by that time, resembled raw hamburger.)

I tried to tell him my lips were on fire, but by that time, my medical status had progressed from burning to shock-induced numbness and it came out, “Muh wiffs uh on fiiiiiiiiuh!” My husband shook his head and kept driving.

I consider it a mark of true professionalism and experience that he doesn’t even bother with the “What were you thinking?” or the “You know you can’t wear makeup” and instead just drives me to the nearest emergency room.

Just when I was coming to terms with the reality that I may have to live my life in a bubble, I found the most amazing thing: Physicians Formula cosmetics.* Finally, a “hypoallergenic” label that isn’t a sick joke! All of their products are fragrance-free and gentle, even on my freakishly sensitive skin. As a bonus, they are absurdly affordable and I have yet to develop hives, blisters, seepage or partial blindness from any of their products… If that’s not an endorsement, I don’t know what is.


The above essay originally appeared on LipstickDaily.com. Unfortunately, the LD mamas, Kate and Elaine, have decided to shut down the site for the time being. With their blessing, I republished this treasure here, on TheGonzoMama.com. I wish Kate and Elaine all the love and merlot in the world, and I hope they'll put LipstickDaily back online sometime!

* Dear FCC: I have never received product or compensation from Physicians Formula cosmetics.** I just like to plug a good product when I find one.

**Dear Physicians Formula: I wouldn't necessarily OBJECT to compensation or free product... Just sayin'.


Photo credits:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/434pics/ / CC BY 2.0
http://www.flickr.com/photos/ashleyrosex/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
Physicians Formula website

Bad Gratitude Monday: Thanks for the Global Warming, Mr. Gore!

Last Monday, due to the holiday, both the school and the daycare were closed. Fortunately, the weather was glorious and most of the snow had melted. I took Curlytop and Snugglebug to the Japanese garden for a little run-around-a-lot-because-Mommy-wants-us-to-take-a-nap time.

For once in my life, I had my camera with me and planned on posing the girls for some sweet pics in the garden. They, on the other hand, had other ideas. Every time I got the perfect shot lined up, they took off running. As a result, I got a lot of pics of the backs of their heads and bodies.

When we got home, I uploaded our pics to Facebook with a toddler on each knee, and let them describe what was going on the photo. Instead of my boring commentary, I used the girls' words for the captions. Here are some of my favorites:

Snugglebug: Look! I silly, climbin' on a rock!

Curlytop: Snugglebug wearin' shoes, Mommy!

Snugglebug: I go on there, Curlytop. I go, one, two, three... I go on there!

Curlytop: A biddge [bridge]!

Snugglebug: I's running!

Curlytop: Is a car! It not Mommy's car...

Me: A car? Is that what you see?

Curlytop: Yes, Mommy. A car. It not you car, okay?

Curlytop: A yock [rock]. Is a big yock. A real big yock.

Curlytop: Heeeheeheehehah! Look, Mommy! Boots [pointing to Facebook ad for Uggs in sidebar]!

Me: *sigh*

Curlytop: I lookin' at songun [something] on the ground...

Today, we woke up to this:

What a difference a week makes.

This Monday, I'm grateful for:

• The warm weather that allowed us to play comfortably in the fresh air last week
• The snow we have this week, which is essential for our agriculture
• Friends and family

What are YOU grateful for today?

Shave and a Haircut...

... two bits TOO BAD.

There I am, in all my makeup-free, split-end glory. I'm very aware of the fact that I need to get it cut before we go to Japan next month, but I'm sort of stalling. For no good reason, in fact.

It's not that I don't want my hair cut. It's not that Mr. Wright wouldn't watch the babes while I got it cut. It's certainly not that it doesn't need to be cut, for crying out loud.

It's just... Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that no one does it just right. I have yet to find my stylist soulmate, and I always walk out of the salon, cringing. 

Also? I don't know how I want it cut. That's a dangerous mental territory to be stranded in when you walk through the salon door, because someone will inevitably talk you into a cut that will cause you to walk out of the salon, cringing.

Plus? I want to do something different. Something a bit reckless and carefree. Something that says, I'm an individual, just like the 500 other trendy women in my county who have this cut! Something that doesn't require hot rollers, a curling iron, a blow dryer, hairspray, gel, mousse, pomade or spritz. Preferably something shower-optional, since sometimes I don't get a shower until afternoon nap time. You know, something I can sleep in and wake up looking glorious and ready to greet the Jehovah's Witnesses at the door! Something I can just fluff with my fingers and know I look HAWT. Hassle-free. Gorgeous and sophisticated.

Or maybe long, blonde waves... Can we make that out of the black, brittle, flat, limp, shoulder-length mop on my head? Could I please have Scarlett Johansson's hair transplanted onto my head?

What do you suggest, readers?

Photo from xrayvision.today.com

Forecast Calls for Snow: Goodbye, Lovey

It’s not unusual for a child to have a treasured blanket or stuffed animal, and three-year-old Snugglebug is no exception. Her “lovey” of choice is a small round pillow, decorated like a soccer ball, left behind when Princess went to college.

It’s filled with tiny micro-beads and makes a beautiful “SWOOSH” sound when it moves. Snugglebug’s lovey is completely pliable, molding to the curve of her neck or into the bend of her elbow. At times, it doubles as a helmet, its sand-like beads forming a mushroom cap over her precious head.

Up and down stairs, behind the sofa, into the bathroom, to the dinner table… Snugglebug takes that pillow with her everywhere. Rather, she did – until last night.

Snugglebug isn’t a terribly sound sleeper. Most nights, she wakes, creeps down the stairs, and crawls into bed with Mr. Wright and me. It’s not a surprise to find Snugglebug in our bed when I wake up.

It is, however, a surprise to find that a blizzard has descended upon my bedroom while I slept.

As close as I can figure, the pillow sprung a leak at some point last night. When Snugglebug made her nightly pilgrimage to our room, she brought her lovey along, leaving behind a trail of white plastic pellets, fine as grains of salt.

I’m almost sorry that I didn’t witness what must have happened next – a joyful, ecstatic dance marked by animated shaking of the punctured pillow and a silent storm of weightless, dust-fine, white “snow.” She made it snow on the floor! In Mommy’s shoes! On top of our Chocolate Lab, Rufus! On Daddy’s nightstand! For her grand finale, Snugglebug emptied the collapsing belly of the ball on top of Mommy and Daddy while they slept. Then, exhausted, she collapsed into a happy heap atop a mountain of “snow” at the foot of the bed, where she drifted off to sleep.

With newspaper headlines broadcasting incidents of “man-caused disasters,” as well as recent natural disasters, I wouldn’t be surprised if CNN calls me to learn more about this “toddler-caused natural disaster.” Imagine… a blizzard in my very own bedroom!

Mr. Wright muttered, as he switched on the Shop Vac, “There must be a million of these pellets.” I disagree. I’m pretty sure there were at least a trillion. That’s “trillion,” with a “T.”

I had a friend whose son claimed a satin nightgown as his lovey. The boy’s obsession didn’t pose much of a problem until he started preschool, at which point carrying around a size 12 nightgown became a little ridiculous. My friend cut the nightie into handkerchief-sized pieces and tucked one into her son’s jacket pocket each day.

Another mom I knew took a photo of her daughter’s favorite stuffed animal, made several prints, and laminated them for a portable, instant lovey connection after the girl’s old friend finally fell to pieces.

Yet another parent – a smart dad – bought six copies of a teddy bear when he noticed his son had a strong preference for a particular lovey. The dad put one in the car, one at Grandma’s house, one in the diaper bag, and three in the closet in case a lovey emergency arose. When a lovey goes missing or becomes damaged, seconds count. This dad was clever enough to have back-ups.

Countless parents have stitched or patched lovies time and again. While I’m thinking of stuffing the skin of the dearly departed with buckwheat hulls or some other non-snowy material, I’m holding out hope that the dramatic death scene provided an adequate farewell. Maybe Snugglebug is growing up. Perhaps she’s matured past the point of needing a lovey to get through the day or to sleep.

Of course, Mama has her coffee to get her through the day and her Southern Comfort when she needs a little help getting to sleep. Some of us never give up our lovies, I suppose – the lovies just change as we get older.

Have any of your children’s “lovies” bit the dust (so to speak!) in a funny or dramatic manner? Tell me all about it!


Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/pdbreen/ / CC BY 2.0

Table for One, Please...

Remember when I urged all of you mamas to break into spontaneous conversation about parenthood with any fellow mama you might bump into?

I did that today. With Mr. Wright out of town and the kidlings safely deposited in institutions of glorious education, I slipped into a new-ish Pan Asian restaurant for lunch. Alone.

I actually rather enjoy dining alone, once I get past the hostess who, invariably, says, "Just one?" I often answer - in song, "Not JUST one... I'm ONE! SINGULAR SENSATION! Every little move I make!" It tends to be an embarrassing spectacle for everyone involved, except, of course, me.

Anyway, the staff at the restaurant actually had to pull a larger table apart to make a small table for lonely little me. About five minutes after I was seated, a waiter approached and said, "I'm bringing you some neighbors. You don't mind?" I was so engrossed in my book, I barely noticed as he pulled the adjacent table a little further away, putting a bit more distance between my table and its separated twin.

Guess who sat down? Two ladies! Two MAMA-ladies! They asked what I was having, and ordered the same thing. We talked about kids' sports, about adoption, about mama stuff. We all finished at about the same time, and I was pleasantly surprised when one of the mamas wrote down her name and email address, and asked me to keep in touch. She said, "Isn't it great when you go in for lunch, and come out with a new friend?"

Amen, Sister.

Thank you, Pan-Asian-Lunch-Place-Mamas... You made my day!


Have you met someone who made you smile recently? Tell me about it!

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/damaradeaella/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Is it Really a New Year? ‘Cause I’ve Been Here Before…

Some of the players: Sunshine, The Gonzo Mama, Mr. Wright and Lulu

In college, I relished nothing more than heading out for a night of “whatever,” and seeing where the universe led me. That, my friends, was years and years ago. These days, I like to have a plan, and I had one for New Year’s Eve.

It was a simple, moderately uneventful one. With all of the kids safely delivered to my in-laws’ home, Mr. Wright and I planned to attend the farewell performance of our favorite Seattle Eighties cover band. You may know the band. They were the house band at Doc Maynard’s for years. In any event, when Mr. Wright and I met, our shared love for this particular band launched us into nine years of cover band groupiehood. We followed the band all over the state, Safety Dancing in our favorite Eighties clothing.

We can dance if we want to. We can leave our friends behind...

Clearly, we had to attend their very last show ever. We’d made arrangements to stay with our friend, Dr. Love, who lives a few blocks from the venue. Our plan also included dinner nearby, but I somehow forgot not only my tights, but also my makeup bag. A trip to the department store provided eighty dollars worth of makeup and hosiery; and we were only forty-five minutes late when met up with our friends, Dr. Love, Sunshine, Big Papa and Lulu.

Somehow, I thought we were all on the same page. I thought the plan was to go to the show, dance our rumps off, watch the Space Needle light up with fireworks, dance some more, and go home.

How silly of me.

After dancing our rumps only partially off, some of our tribe began planning a Belltown invasion. We slipped out the back door of the Armory to watch the fireworks at midnight. Following the obligatory “oooohs” and “aaaaahs,” I found our group had grown from six to nine Bacchanalians, and we were Belltown-bound.

I resisted. “I need to get a t-shirt!” I cried. They were out of shirts. “A tank top? A poster? A bumper sticker? I have to have a memento!” The merchandise vendor shook his head. “We’re out of everything but these refrigerator magnets,” he said.

Seriously... just a another few minutes... I. Just. Need. A t-shirt!

Of course, my refrigerator is aluminum.

Unable to stall our departure any longer, I gave in to the group of friends tugging on my arm and found myself in the middle of a night of “whatever.”

We ran into old friends and made new ones in Belltown before Sunshine announced that she’d obtained the lowdown on a not-to-be-missed party in SoDo. It was 2:00 a.m. I tried to muster some enthusiasm as we caravanned to the shindig, but what I really wanted was a blanket and pillow. “Sure. I’m up for ‘whatever,’” I lied.

This particular “whatever” carried a cover charge of ten bucks per person. We dutifully shelled out multiple bills, with the promise of great music and a big dance floor. The music was there. The dance floor was there. Unfortunately, there were other, less-than-legal party favors, as well. Not our scene. We left immediately. I was secretly happy because, frankly, I could not wait to get to sleep. Our core crew headed to Dr. Love’s, where everyone had parked.

We didn’t arrive alone. In fact, about a dozen other people came through the door in short order. Goodbye, sleep; hello, “whatever.”

I spent half an hour talking to Pinstripe Pete, a nice guy who used to own a clothing store but now works at a vitamin outlet. I made friends with Blondie, who has a sad and overwhelming suspicion that she will never have children. She is, after all, 35 years old and yet to marry. I talked to Big Papa and Lulu – who are considering adoption – about our experience adopting through the state. I kept my distance from Dirty Girl, a questionable character who showed up with The Gallery Owner, a strange little man I’d met before but never really cared for. I talked conservative politics with a moustacheless Rhett Butler lookalike (Timothy Dalton in “Scarlett,” not Clark Gable) – a rare discussion in Seattle, to be sure.

Meet my hetero-lifemate, Lulu

At 6:00 a.m., I surrendered, curling up on the sofa with a blanket and letting 2010 happen around me as I drifted off to sleep with this resolution firm in my mind: I will never, ever, ever try to relive my college days.

Forget “whatever.” I’d like a structured, boring 2010, please.

What’s your wish for the new year? Tell me all about it!

Photos by Lulu and Big Papa