Something's Missing

I turn 40 today. The biggie.. although, I am not approaching it in the way my old bag friends who are much older than me approached theirs. I am not complaining. I don't feel old, and relatively speaking, I think I have my crap in order, or so I'd like to think. From what I have learned, balance is key. Work hard, play hard.

It hasn't always been that way. I had to learn balance.

Around the time I turned 30, I was expressing what those in the therapy business call abnormal behavior, anxiety, self distruction, attachment issues, bipolar disorder, chronic pain, codependency, communication problems, conditioned stimulus, dementia, fear thoughts, hoarding, impulse control disorder, internal conflict, interpersonal conflict, negative reinforcement, obsessive compulsive disorder, pavlov classical conditioning, personality disorder, psychosis, radical behaviorism, self confidence issues, self esteem challenges, sleep disorder, and thinking disorder.

Happy to report that 10 years later, I am cured of all of the aforementioned illnesses, with the possible exception of dementia and maybe impulse control disorder.

But today is about reflection for me. And 10 years ago, albeit a free wheeling time in my life, had its challenges. And my partner in crime to help fuel that bad behavior was my buddy, McFet.

I recall a particular incident where I had just apologized to a Senator for perhaps inappropriately hand gesturing to show my disdain for his unpleasant response to my testimony in a hearing. It was a bad day for all involved.

After I walked out "of the principal's office", I called McFet.

Within five minutes, he was outside of the capitol waiting for me in his pickup truck to take me to have a little download, which meant a Chadonney over ice at a local bar.

While driving to said bar, we happened upon a van at a stop light. Behind the drivers seat was a clown. That happy clown with his bright nose and brighter outlook on life royally pissed me off.

I might have shocked the clown with similar gestures from earlier that day. I can't quite recall, since it's been 10 years.. (dementia).

McFet almost drove off the road as his spazzing laugh made it impossible to control a vehicle.

And during my 30th birthday party three days later, McFet surprised me with a clown. And if I am not mistaken, it might have been the same one in that van because he seemed apprehensive and scared of me when he showed up at the party.

These types of shenanigans continued throughout the decade. Let's see.. there was the time McFet got frustrated over who the hell knows and almost pulled a newly planted city tree out by it's roots.

Or when he was overly cautious driving home after dinner and wine at my house because of the cop parked a block away for 60 straight days. He thought it was a sting operation on him and him alone. I noticed while driving by couple of months later, there sat a nice looking dummy behind the drivers seat. Hat askew, blank plastic stare into oblivion.

And then there was the time we went camping and mountain biking up in Mendocino and caught two men in the bushes in a very intimate situation during one of our downhill rides. McFet lost control of his bike and bloddied up both knees right in front of them. He also blew out his front tire and had to hobble out of there on foot.

Today I should be celebrating all of our "accomplishments" with McFet over a healthy meal, a bottle of wine and a couple of hard laughs.

He would likely tell me that I need to slow down and start acting like an adult. I would probably respond with something snarky like, "yeah, if you're any role model, I'll be acting like an irresponsible teenager until I'm 70."

Springtime

My son, Yack, watched Bambi several weeks ago and has since become obsessed with the term, “twitterpated.” Of course, when Spring hits and Bambi shuns springtime love when he learns it from the wise owl, Yack wants to pause the movie and have a full discussion about what’s transpiring here.

And P.S. Yack is four years old.

This is how I explain the situation, knowing that I will have this same conversation in about two years when he asks where babies come from. Thanks, Disney. He’s four.
Did I mention that?

“Yack, twitterpated means when you are in love, when your heart beats fast, when you are excited about being with someone.”

He asks, “Are you and daddy twitterpated?”

Yeah, I guess so.

He then wants me to rewind. Seven times. I am drinking wine at the time so I comply. Frankly, I like that scene when spring starts to bubble up under Bambi's legs. It reminds me of what's to come.. the smells outside start to change. The days are longer. The farmers market is more robust. It’s the little things that bring me joy now. Flowers, the threat of allergies, the farmers market, wine and my kid asking me what it means to be twitterpated.

A couple of days pass. I am in the kitchen making breakfast frantically before work and Pants approaches me, gives me a little pinch on my backside and kisses my cheek – a morning ritual.

Yack giggles like Thumper, with his hands to his mouth. “You guys are twitterpated.”

Yes, son, I guess we are. How about that, Pants? We are twitterpated after 10 years. You annoy me when you breathe sometimes, when you lose your wallet on a weekly basis, and you never do laundry, you get mad when I steal your work socks, but we are still twitterpated.

It took our kid to remind us.

Then the twitterpated conversation took a different, almost uncomfortable turn. After his ninth viewing of Bambi (incessant video watching can't be that bad, no?), Yack came into my bedroom and declared that he was twitterpated too.

This should be interesting.

With who, I ask?

“With you, mommy.”

After my heart turned to warm milk chocolate, I thanked him but tried (and failed) to explain to him that being twitterpated meant that you were smitten, that you had feelings of excitement, anticipation, high hopes.

“Mommy, what are high hopes?”

Don’t worry about it, Yack, I am twitterpated with you too.

Yack waited for Pants to get home from work that night to tell him about his revelation – that he was, in fact, twitterpated with Daddy too.

Pants looked at me for answers.. I motioned to play along.

“Son, I am twitterpated with you too.”

Hoping this little obsession of his would find a more wholesome replacement, Yack and I stepped away from the electronics and went for a hike near our home. He was fascinated with the budding poppies, the smell of jasmine in the air, the cherry blossoms. Typically, he is itching to get back home and pop in that Bambi DVD so I relish in this moment of peace and agreement.

He stopped along the trail, picked a flower and handed it to me, declaring that it was springtime, and that meant he, along with the animals, and birds was twitterpated.

This might have been the best damn day of my life. I hugged my little man and reciprocated the expression.

Several days later, Yack woke up to an inviting sun. He couldn’t wait to get outside and play in the bright green grass amidst the maple tree that was starting to bud. I stood outside watching him kick a soccer ball with my fresh out of bed mop head, my creased morning face, donning flannel pj’s and Pants oversized slippers, and loudly slurping my excruciatingly hot tea… watching my boy. Twitterpated with life.

He then caught a glimpse of me watching him. He put a foot on the ball, smiled and declared, “Mommy, you’re sexy.”

And that’s when the springtime betrayed me like Benedict Arnold.

Misadventures of McFet

I had to say good bye to my best pal this month. Hardest dang thing I ever had to do. He died in his sleep on February 4th blindsiding me with a two by four. I don’t plan on feeling this way again anytime soon, so for those of you reading this, eat your veggies, don’t text and drive, avoid microwaving plastic containers, wear a helmet when you’re skiing, and blow out your candles before going to bed. I don’t want to lose anyone else.. at least for another five years. After that, you turkeys are on your own.

The fact that my bestie was 33 years older than me may have had something to do with the statistical viability that he would go first. We certainly talked about it. I just didn’t think it was going to happen so soon, and without warning. But really, who am I fooling? I would probably be saying the same thing 20 years from now if he were 92 and kicked the bucket in his sleep after some wine and an ambien.

Death, no matter what shape it takes, is something for which one cannot be fully prepared. And it was certainly the case with the ol’ guy. I have quickly learned that the two items in the recipe for feeling half way normal again after a loved one poops out are time and memories. Nothing else helps. So, since it will be awhile before I can’t think of him without wailing like a two year old, why not share some stuff the old man did to make me laugh?

I met Jerry McFetridge in 2001 on the heels of a nasty and painful breakup. I had a lot of useless and anxious time on my hands and needed a buddy. I found him… in a bar. We were both attending a birthday party of a mutual friend and we sparked up a conversation. He was hard of hearing and so I remember shouting (and accidentally spitting) at his head. He kept wiping my spittle off of his face and laughing, which is something I like to do, so I teased him about being deaf and we sat there with our drinks – mine, a draft beer, his, a Chardonnay over ice (which I also teased him about) and he quickly became my kindred spirit.

From that day forward, McFet and I spent nearly every damn day together. A couple of years after we met, I started dating Pants who would become my future husband. McFet had a front row seat of the courting process. I recall Pants asking me out to dinner or a movie or drinks and my response was always, “Sounds great. I’ll call McFet.” On the third date, it was getting obvious that I came as a package deal.

I am convinced Pants married me because of that deal.

Over the years, McFet and I have had some moments. He called me his dark cloud. I called him my acerbic spaz. Now, you have to understand something; McFet averted trouble by a nose hair, not on purpose, mind you. All of his "close calls" were by accident. Call it stubbornness, ignorance or subconsciously wanting a good story to tell the next day; the truth was he always seemed to get into the thick of it, with me by his side. Another thing before we get into the details: McFet wouldn’t listen, couldn’t hear, and ignored the subtle teachings of common sense that made for uncontrollable full body fits of laughter. His laugh required movement of every major muscle in the body, starting with his shoulders, down to his feet. Think of Elaine’s dance on Seinfeld and you would have a good visual of this guy’s guffaw. It was hereditary too so he came by it honestly. I see that grand mal laugh in his kids sometimes.

McFet was a prickly pear. Sharp, sacrastic, biting at times. But soft, sensitive and so loyal on the inside. If you needed anything – someone to tell you to wise up and act straight when you were an emotional mess, he was there. Someone to fix your flat bike tire only to have it poop out of you 12 miles in, he’d do it. Someone to meet you on a Saturday afternoon for a death hike, he’d reluctantly go after being called a pussy a few times, he would be huffin and puffin right behind you with his REI walking stick. Someone who would share a bottle of wine and a laugh over the most humiliating day you’ve had, because nine times out of ten, he had those days too. Or someone who would not only lend you his truck, but help you pile it high and deep and drive it to the dump several times.

Being Jerry’s friend meant you were never alone or lonely. His friendship encompassed the full spectrum, the total package, even blow ups, and boy, did we have our share of doozies.

I remember a particularly tense situation where we were having dinner, and probably too much wine. The subject of pension reform came up. In no time, that intellectual debate ended with him calling me a hypocrite and me telling him to shut his stinky pie hole. He stormed out of my house mad as hell.

Ten minutes later, I received the following email:

“U have always been against pension reform. Wasn't that the gist of the many conversations we've had on this sensitive subject. In fact you've castigated me soundly for my position on the basis that I've had both hands and feet in the public trough.”

To which I replied, “You’re a grade A asshole.”

To which he replied: “Does that mean you’re not feeding me dinner at six tomorrow night?”

Another truly notable instance: We decided that instead of hiring a floor guy, we would retile Pants’ kitchen while he was away on a guy’s only trip to Mexico (yeah, I let him go, but not without destroying his house). It appeared to be a relatively small project – about 750 square feet.

We found ourselves in line to check out at Home Depot and a really tall and scary looking dude cut right in front of us. I, of course, said, “back of the line, bub.”

The guy responded by pointing out the fact that I shouldn’t even be in Home Depot, that instead, I should be at home, barefoot in my kitchen cooking muffins for my husband.

McFet, who has an abnormally red face due to his Irish heritage, turned seven shades redder, walked up to the guy, eye level to his chest and said the following, “You better step off, buddy or I am going nuclear on your ass.”

The guy took one look at this 70 year old Irish firecracker and went to the back of the line.

McFet was also known as an illusionist. He had an impeccable way of convincing his friends and family that they didn’t need to hire a contractor or a plumber or a sprinkler installer or painter. All you need was $200 and a weekend. I learned that he was full of crap after painting my house took three and a half months and $3 grand.

In fact, he built his own house by hand without a general contractor - only a handful of workers and suckers he called friends (you're lookin' at her). It took him 10 years to do it and not without incident. He had exactly sixteen injuries ranging but not limited to a busted thumb, a cracked tooth, broken glasses, almost falling off of the roof in a wind storm, a near miss to the head by a sledge hammer, a split lip, glass stuck in his foot. But he finished. In fact, his last project was complete two weeks before he died – an outdoor shower.

McFet was otherwise known as a spaz. He had an unhealthy aversion to tying items down in his truck. Things that have fallen out include: a ladder, which had him cited (anonymously until now) in the Sacramento Bee after a near 12 car pile up; a couple of mountain bikes – mine was a disc break, full suspension Trek that looked like an accordion once the highway patrol pulled it off Interstate 80 (incidentally, McFet said he could fix it easily); some nice new bookshelves that he quickly returned to the store because they were “defective”, a rented Home Depot dolly, and a high chair he gave to his grandson.

McFet was also known as hard of hearing. One time, Pants had given him a little blue pill when he went to Italy two years ago in the hopes that the old guy might get lucky. He thought it was an ambien and took it on the plane.

When the book “Shit My Father Says” came out, he received it as a gift from one of his children and brought it over one night to read. We shared a bottle of wine and read it cover to cover. McFet said, “This a-hole sounds a lot like me.”

That got me thinking. Maybe I will start a book of Jerryisms. So, on the five nights a week he was with us, I began writing them down. Here are some of my favorites:

On the Republican presidential races:
"I just found out watching the Rep debate tonight that Ron Paul and I were drafted in the same year: 1962. None of the other warmongering morons running ever served."

I replied: "That's 10 years before I was born. I could give two shits."

He replied: "Age is relative when you're a warrior, fight on."

On the Vagina Monologues:
“when did this bubble up? I thought the woman’s movement was petering out?”

On Facebook:
"This is the true epitome of narcissism with you ex genners."

On a ZZ Top Concert:
"Now that would be a good concert. That will bring out the meth heads and the pot smokers. That will be a pretty good crowd. I’ll get us tickets."

On making it in the wine industry after having two not-so-successful years growing grapes:
"Say, you know how you make your first million dollars? Start with two."

On bringing a 2 month old baby into a bar for a final final:
“Oh come on, barkeep, it may be a bad idea, but it’s not against the law."

On turning 75 years old:
"A roast on my 75th birthday? Yeah, that sounds like a lot of fun. So does a trip to Italy, you a-hole."

On women:
"Come on, what do you want now, equal rights?"

On the threat of posting his quotes on my blog:
“Knock it off, Brown, that’s just candy mouth talk between us friends."

McFet told us on many occasions that the way he wanted to go was with a good heat on , gow eyed and grunt brained he would say. Go to bed and just not wake up.

I end with this: Jerry loved his family, especially his grandkids. He talked about them incessantly, wanted a better life for them than any of us could have. And he set out to do it in his signature crotchety way... he also loved his friends, telling stories upon stories about the good old days, which incidentally, he was still carrying out until his last day.

I hope that by sharing some of our stories as best buds, it will invoke the importance of friendships elsewhere. I hope we can gather together and be closer as a community because of people like McFet. May his memory, his humor, and intelligence live forever.

And may McFet's friends find peace in his memories down to the last one. He left life the way he left most social occasions, right in the middle of your conversation, with a pounding on the table, a grunt, and a “Catch you later, kid.”

Public Service Announcement: New Way To Combat Teen Pregnancy

Along with everything else we hear about combating teen pregnancy through education, proper contraception, abstinence, perhaps something like this might be added to the list.

I was fifteen and three-quarters years old and a Sophomore in high school. I was asked on a date by a 16 year old Junior with good looks and more importantly, a car. The family rule was I couldn’t date until I hit the sweet 16 mark, so I did what came naturally when faced with a quandary like this. I begged. I also bargained.

Let me go out with Stud Muffin and I will keep my room clean for a month.

I will get home by 11:00 and will call every hour.

I will fold laundry for two weeks.

I will walk on your back for 30 minutes every evening for 10 business days.

This last one seemed to work with my mother. But not without the two hour sermon from the parental units on “parameters and guidelines.” Here is a relatively small sample of those I actually remember:

The mother and the father have to meet him first. I can’t go “parking”. I have to have a destination.

Approved sights included: movies, high school sporting events, our living room with parents present – no thanks. Racquetball – yes, really. Bowling.

Unapproved sights included: the backseat of any car. The front seat of any car if not moving for more than 10 minutes. The vineyards up Morse Road. The ally behind Longs and Millers Outpost. His house. His front yard. His backyard. His garage. His trampoline. His friends’ houses. Any house. Fast food restaurants just because they are unhealthy and may give you unwanted methane bubbles to build up in the lower intestines. Any and all bedrooms or other closed spaces, including bathrooms. The creek. The path next to the creek. The benches along the path next to the creek. The church parking lot. Any parking lot, especially the parking lot at the mall. Anywhere outside a 15 mile radius. The dugouts at the baseball field.

I also had to go easy on the eye makeup. That was important as I did not want to give Stud Muffin the wrong impression. Lastly, I had to be home by 11:00 p.m.

I second guessed why I wanted to go. How could one person remember all of those “parameters?” I was bound to slip. But I charged ahead.

The night Stud Muffin came to pick me up, I was filled with so much anxiety, I could barely light a match to heat my eye liner.

An entire two hours were wasted with me going through every piece of clothing in my closet, my mother's closet, my dirty clothes pile, and wringing my hands over the thought of my toads meeting SM. I was reluctant to inform them of my “parameters and guidelines” for them. I had a few I wanted to talk about, you know. But I didn't bring them up in fear that they would conduct themselves in direct contrast to my demands as I planned to do with theirs.

But I couldn’t leave well enough alone. As my mother and I sat at the kitchen table waiting for SM’s arrival, I politely asked her to dispose her cigarette. “It makes my clothes and hair stink.”

She exhaled a big puff of nicotine in my general direction before discarding it.

I kept mum on the rest of my demands..

As soon as I heard SM’s car pull up and his footsteps traipse up the front porch, my mother let out some methane of her own, mimicking a fog horn. I was convinced that the neighbors were sure to have heard this one. My dad at least heard it from the end of the hall. “Nice out, Cath.”

Good grief, so this is how it was going to be.

I opened the door to greet SM with a red facial glow that already added to my thick foundation. He gave me a look to suggest, "What did I just hear bellowing through the streets?"

Poor SM hesitantly entered the twilight zone known as my humble abode.

As SM and I walked into the kitchen, my mother was gone.

Sweet. This might just turn out alright after all even if SM thought that the sound came from me.

I asked him to wait there so I could get my parents, do the obligatory hello, how are you, and then flee like escapees.

When SM sat down at the kitchen table, his leg bumped up against my mother’s arm. I lowered my head slowly and met her eyeball to eyeball. She was in the duck and cover position under our kitchen table. Then, that horrible human being spoke:

“Oh my goodness, I am so embarrassed! You didn’t hear that, did you SM? Well, it certainly wasn’t my daughter. I am not going to throw her under the bus on that one, especially during her first date.”

At this point in time, I was desperately praying for a natural disaster to cause that table to plunge atop my mother’s head.

SM was a good sport. While laughing, he offered his hand to her under the table so she could crawl back out. She placed her hand in his like a princess. I was going to be sick.

So, there we were. The three of us. Sitting at the table. Me, mortified while SM and mother talked about the basketball game we were going to see that night.

When SM excused himself to use the restroom, I lept across the table, grabbed my mother’s shirt, balled it up in my fist and with gritted teeth, whispered, “if you don't start acting straight, I will kill you in your sleep.”

To which she replied with feigned sincerity, “I’m trying to behave, but I had an upset stomach. I am fine now, though.”

And just when I thought the worst was behind me, a loud police-alarm-type siren came piercing from the bathroom. I recognized that sound. It was a novelty item we picked up at one of those magic shops in San Francisco during one of our family nights out. It had a latch to fasten to a toilet seat. When someone moves the seat, it sets off that ear piercing alarm. I recall the precise moment when my mother decided to purchase it.

“I know just what to do with this thing.” Cut to her maniacal giggle..

Ah, hindsight. If only my narcissistic teenage brain was quick enough to ask a follow up question or two that evening.

SM darted out of the bathroom quickly and back into the kitchen. Before he could ask what just happened, my mother apologized. “I keep forgetting to take that thing off.”

At this point in the date, if one could call it a date, I felt for the first time a sense of connection with SM for we both donned the same bright crimson shade on our horrified faces. And when it couldn’t get worse, it got worse.

Enter stage right, my father. My six foot 4 inch 260 pound father. His boots along the long hardwood floor sounded like Fe Fi Fo Fum. Making a run for it was out of the question. If SM didn’t meet my dad, I wasn’t leaving the house.

And there he was, my overbearing father blocking sunlight. He stood there, like a giant, hands on his hips. We gazed up at the giant with fear in our wide eyes like trapped mice under a broom.

Finally, after peering at us for some time, he reached for Sam’s shoulder with a sturdy death grip which made SM jump.

The giant spoke: “SM, it’s a pleasure to meet you. The only way it won’t be a pleasure is if you don’t bring my daughter home by 11 p.m. If you happen to bring my daughter home a minute after 11 p.m., I will proceed to remove your testicles with a dull knife.” The difference between my dad and others, is that I have seen that dull knife. He keeps it on the tool shelf in the garage.

Sam squeaked “Yes, sir,” and we were out of there.

Unfortunately, I can’t remember much about the actual date other than SM dropping me off at 10:30 and speeding off before I could lean my head into his car window to bid him adieu and hope for a good night kiss.

And no, I never dated SM again. After the story got around about my parents, I didn’t really date all that much until I got my drivers’ license and even then my dates would have to come over and meet my folks.

One time, they strategically placed a fake pile of doggie doo on the kitchen floor and told me to pick up after myself before I leave. That left SM #2 in stitches and a subsequent bonding with my folks.

These guys may have been one hit wonders with me, but they certainly made themselves right at home with my parents. I remember returning home from college one summer and seeing SM #1 and my parents sharing a moment in the backyard over iced tea. They looked to be enjoying themselves. I left them alone and went to my room to unpack.

Encontrar Valor

Speaking Spanish has always been a struggle – a brain teasing, headache ensuing struggle. And it appeared as though the more I practiced, the worse I became. I now know what the problem was – there were two, actually. First, I never took advantage of the times when I had zero responsibility as a young woman to hightail it to South America and waterboard myself with the language. Second, I got a late start.

I was in the seventh grade when I was informed that a foreign language was a requirement to get out of middle school. I wanted French. My mother demanded Spanish.

“When the hell are you ever going to speak French in California? Knowing how to speak Spanish is almost a prerequisite to live here, so suck it up.”

So suck it up I did, and I found that I actually liked it. I wasn’t particularly great at conjugating verbs or twirling my “rr’s” but man, did I enjoy the beauty of the language’s sound, the effortless way it rolled off the tongue – not my tongue – and the smooth accents that dangled in the mouth – certainly not my mouth. That didn’t stop me from practicing in the mirror, pretending I was a Spanish speaking news anchor. I knew I sounded like a wounded animal, but just like hearing your favorite song on the radio and transforming yourself into Cindy Lauper, I fantasized.

My pipe dreams of being an ambassador or translator quickly dissipated over the summer months when I went back to my native tongue. I thought about practicing so I wouldn’t “lose it”, but with who? My monolingual mother? And practicing took valuable time away from my eight straight hours of MTV viewing.

Going back to school – starting eighth grade Spanish– was like starting over. I struggled to remember what I was taught, struggled to maintain a B. But that wasn’t the point. Not for me, anyway. It was to be coherent. Making the grades was certainly the point for my mother, though. In fact, getting into college was her whole reason for my existence and foreign language credit was an item on her elaborate recipe.

When I reached high school, I tried to give up, but the ol’ ball and chain parental unit insisted I stick with it.

“Spanish will look great on a college application.”

Not if I can’t speak it, Mother.

How was it going to look that I took six years of Spanish and couldn’t talk my way to the bathroom in an emergency?!? This gave me pause: why could I sit down at a piano, open sheet music, read it and play after only a couple of tries, but place me in the front of a class full of Spanish speakers and my brain would be stuck in neutral?

It’s the difference of seven years. I began playing piano when I was five. I started taking Spanish when I was twelve. The frontal lobe that soaks up a new language like a sponge becomes more like a smelly old dish towel after the age of say, eight. I might be making this up, but I am pretty sure I am in the ballpark here.

As it turned out, the longer I took Spanish, the more I sounded as if I were a tortured cat. I developed this insatiable talent for butchering its words so badly, that my teacher, Seniora Henriquez typically responded with combined expressions of wincing and inquiry.

There are a couple of Spanish phrases I will never forget, however. Those are not your typical, “donde esta el bano” or “cuantos anos tienes”. I have committed the following to memory: “hay muchas aplicaciones” and “el protector del asiento inodoro”, which translate to mean “there are many applications” and “a toilet seat protector”, respectively.

I recall my biggest stress factor in my Junior year of high school wasn’t making curfew or boyfriends, it was being called on to speak in front of my Spanish class. I remember getting a progress report mid-semester and discovering that I was barely holding onto a C. This would be the end of my life if my mother ever found out.

Then she found out.

My mother scheduled a face to face meeting with Seniora Henriquez and learned that I wasn’t applying myself, that I had lost my confidence. I questioned how I had any to lose in the first place. Seniora informed my mother that I had one last chance to pull my grade up by doing well on the final: to show the class how to do or make something.

How about show the class how to flip the bird? That required zero Spanish.

“Just study harder, then you will have nothing to worry about.” This was my father’s brilliant advice over dinner.

My mother’s advice was to give me the stinkeye each night until I miraculously got a B.

I began to think of everything that could go wrong with an assignment like this, which led to a true panic attack that lasted until four days before the presentation was due.

My mother finally broke her silence and asked what I had planned for my final, and if that plan would bring my grade up. I politely informed her that I would be failing Spanish that year and that perhaps she should set her sights on a solid community college education for her daughter. She could save a lot of money that way.

“You have got to hit this out of the ballpark and I have just the plan. This is going to require some open minded thinking on your part.”

Oh, boy.

The “how to” assignment was derived from a concept that originated during one of our family outings in San Francisco, circa 1984. I was around twelve years old.

My family regularly took the train into the City on weekends for dinner and a little fun. We came from modest means so we typically ate clam chowder on the wharf and used our limited funds on whoopie cushions and fake snot at the cheap novelty stores. We would also walk. We would walk and walk and walk until our feet were the size of bread loaves or our complaints coincided with the last train out of there.

On one particularly whiny evening, my mother and her best friend, Lynnie decided to use the public restroom together while my father, brother and I sat on a bench and waited for the night to be over. As a side, Lynnie was an exact physical replica of Laverne from the Laverne and Shirley Show, which at the time I watched obsessively.

Ten minutes passed, and I had waited long enough. I was past ready to get my preteen butt back home. Just as I headed for the bathroom to check on them, my mother and Lynnie paraded out the door wearing toilet seat protectors on their heads.

Like a bad accident, I tried not to look, but couldn’t seem to avert my eyes.

"Why, mom?"

"Why not, honey?"

They walked past us and began prancing down the wharf.

“What the hell are they doing, Dad?”

“How the hell should I know? And don’t cuss.”

Passersby stopped and stared with speculation. Some even asked what they were.

"Why, they are hats. They are also vests. Look."

Lynnie pulled the protector over her head and waved her Vanna White hand in front of her new collar.

“…and best of all, they’re free.”

The good, intoxicated people of San Francisco enjoyed their gumption. Some even went looking for a restroom so they too could have their very own toilet seat protector.

I, however, did not share in their jubilation. I, however, wanted to die.

But in a moment of uncharacteristic clarity, my father offered up the following:

“Pretend like you don’t know them, like they are some random crazy women, other kids’ mothers, and sit back and watch people’s reactions. It’s rather funny if you disassociate yourself from them. How do you think I have been able to stay married to your mother for so long?”

And so the night progressed with San Francisco providing a stage for my mother and her best friend. And a show I watched from a far.

“So, how many people in your Spanish class, Amy?”

Oh, we are so not doing this, Mother.

Oh, but we did.

We planned to grab, or as my mother put it, "pilfer” at least fifty toilet seat protectors from the Denny’s down the street from our house

“You may need extras in case this trend catches on.”

You're always one step ahead, Mother.

I spent the remaining three days translating my oration into Spanish and committing the terms for “toilet seat” and “protector” to memory. This was motivation at its core.

My presentation was called “101 ways to use a toilet seat protector”, or “Ciento y uno formas para usar un protector del asiento inodoro”. This little nugget of a project landed me an A and a better command of the language.

It also landed me in the principal’s office when 50 high schoolers were strolling around campus with ass gasgets on their heads.

Explaining to the Principal that I didn't swipe them from the high school bathrooms, but from Denny's with my mother three nights prior was a difficult and uncomfortable conversation to have. Hey, at least I didn't have to do it in Espanol.

Tails of Dogtown

Even my dogs are weird.

I had one named Motagus. Pronounced Mo’ Tay Gus. My dad named him and then proceeded to throw him against a fence when he pooped in the house. It only happened once. My mother threatened to leave her animal abuser husband if it happened again, which created an unwaivering fear my dad had for that dog whenever he happened to be lingering about.

From then on, my dad was relegated to poop patrol, nightly feedings and telling “Gus” what a good boy he turned out to be, this for the sake of saving the marriage. Gus knew he had a pass for life after the “incident” and one could argue, took advantage of the situation . He ate my stuffed animals – gutted them, actually –he climbed on the bed, couches, ate scraps off of the dining room table. Even ate my mother’s beloved bull scrotum purse (see A Really Stupid Gift, June 18, 2011.) He was punished with a good old fashioned rub behind the ears and an “atta boy”.

Gus had a bad habit of approaching company without them knowing, and stelthly placing his unit on their crossed legs, their dangling feet. This didn’t bode well when my mother ran for city council and had her supporters over for coffee meetings. Gus would sneak under the kitchen table and sit frozen against a campaign manager or fundraiser’s foot, panting, hoping not to get caught. Invariably he did which caused my mother to uncomfortably explain that Gus was “fixed” too late in life and she's really sorry for the inconvenience.

I remember when Gus was fixed because I couldn’t write about him anymore in class. I was seven. I had just finished an essay about his large body parts. This is the actual class assignment:

Gus died happy and of old age. We missed him for his peculiar dog ways, for molesting our guests and for teaching my dad that hitting and throwing living things were not okay.

Then we had Misty, the Border Collie who would rather play ball than eat. My brother and I would test her to see if she would ever give up by throwing her beloved tennis ball for hours. We went for half days sometimes – summer was boring in Livermore; it was either test our dog’s athletic prowess or watch Huey Lewis and the News MTV video reruns until our brains throbbed with pain.

After her paws were bloody and worn and the tennis ball was but a fuzzy piece of rubber the size of a nickel, my mother would yell from the kitchen window for us to quit torturing the dog.

Misty developed bad hips but she would drag those hips to chase what we threw at her. The last straw was when I threw one of my brother’s “action figures” (read: dolls) for Misty to retrieve. She returned it while dragging the second half of her body back to us for another toss.

Then there was Max. I bought his pure bread highness for more money than I had shortly after I graduated from college and moved into my own place. He was a black pug with a sinus problem. He kept me up most nights with his snoring and he wasn’t altogether potty trained. He crapped in my roommate’s closet several times. I was grateful for this because my roommate was a little messy and didn’t find the poop until it was dried and pushed aside by her big clown shoes. Another blessing – my roommate had skiis for feet. Her bigfoot shoes covered Max’s doodies quite well until they were hard enough and thus, didn’t leave any smelly remnants behind on the carpet of our rented house where the security deposit was vitally important for when the house got too stinky and we had to move.

Come to think of it, I don’t rightly believe Max liked my roommate all that well because he never seemed to soil my room and I recall a few times where he took the opportunity to climb up on her bed and pee on her freshly clean sheets. Perhaps the warmth of the sheets made him want to pee, similar to the adverse effects of warm bath water.

I learned a lesson from Gus that I applied to Max. As soon as he was old enough, I made an appointment to get him fixed - whacked, as it were. I happened to impulsively mention this to my father in one of our “how’ve ya been?” conversations.

Me Pops was mortified.

In the days that followed said conversation, the old man left me thirteen voice mail messages. Let me clarify. They started off addressed for me. When I refused to return the calls, they were aimed at Max. The messages went something like this:

Beep: “Amy, how could you do that to such a spunky, smart sweet dog? He won’t be the same.”

Beep: “Amy, it’s dad again. How could you make my granddog a nutless wonder?”

Beep: “Amy, if you know what’s good for you, don’t take this dog’s manhood away. Remember what happened to Gus?”

Yeah, he leg humped our guests.

Beep: “Max, this is your grandfather speaking. If you can hear me, run for your life. Just find an opportunity when your mother opens the door for pizza and skedaddle out the front door.”

Beep: “This damn answering machine must have cut me off. Max, I will be waiting for you at the end of the street. Ruuuunnn.”

Beep: “Max, did you get my last message? Bark if you did. Or crap on the kitchen floor in protest. Don’t let her do this to you.”

If those messages didn’t seal the deal, nothing would. So I took the bastard in at the first available appointment. And when we pulled up to the vet’s parking lot, in true form, he peed all over the passenger’s seat. The only solice I had was that my roommate usually rode shotgun. I would keep this little secret from her.

As I signed the papers and payed the astronomical fee to have these little gems plucked – can’t you just tie a rubber band around them and wait for them to fall off? – I asked the receptionist if anyone has ever kept the testicles once they are removed from the dog.

Apparently, all the time. She responded as if I were asking for routine flea medication. She made me fill out some additional paperwork and said they would be available by the time I picked Max up.

“Perfect, I’ll take ‘em.”

Is it bad to admit that I was more excited to pick up the specimen than the dog?

The little meatballs appeared in a jar full of formaldehyde with a label that read, “Specimen: testicles. Patient: Max.”

This was the coolest thing I have ever owned, and that included the full suspension mountain bike on which I splurged impulsively the same year I bought Max.

I stared at the nuggets for the longest time. Not excessively long, though, that would be weird.

Max was sedated, and pleasantly calm in his pet taxi which allowed me more time to examine these little octopi.

“Interesting, huh?”

My roommate thought I had lost my mind especially since I used them as a centerpiece on our kitchen table. Not for long, though, I had other plans for Max’s peanuts.

Christmas, 1997, I found a little box in which the balls fit perfectly. I tied a bow and headed to my folks for dinner and gift exchanges. Hardly able to contain myself through dinner, I rushed through the meal to proclaim that it was gift giving time. And I was destined to go last, which almost became the death of me. My patience was wearing thin while I sat there through unwrapped china plates, new baseball gloves, scented massage lotion. Borrrrriiinng!

And as if time stood still, I asked Dad to reach under the tree for that last little gift.

“Especially for you, dad, from the heart.”

He tore the box open and held it to the light. He squinted to read the label. The next verbal exchange is not for public consumption. After his bombastic verbal vomiting, my Pops broke out in song,

Pug nuts roasting on an open fire.

Thanks, Jim

I am thankful for many “things” that I have in my life. Some of these things are actual things – my house. My job. My Southern Living Big Book of BBQ. My bathtub.

Most of these things are people. Putting aside for a minute (and it goes without saying), that I am thankful for my husband, Pants, our beautiful boy Yack and all of the family and friends I couldn’t live without, I focus on one individual who made me look at my life and those around me in a whole new way.

His name was Jim.

I met Jim in the lot where I parked my car for work. Jim lived in an abandoned garage about 10 feet from where my car resided for eight to ten hours a day, five days a week.

Jim bugged me. But I was successful in ignoring him for several months. He was dirty and he smelled bad. He always asked me what my name was, asked for money, food. This daily barrage forced me to be thankful that I had a job. If only Jim could get one too and leave me alone.

And then on a dreary winter morning, Jim inched his way into my cold narcissistic heart.

He did this by being funny.

“So what’s your name, darlin’? I keep seeing you every day, don’t you think we oughta be on a first name basis by now? Maybe you could muster up a 'hello' or a 'piss off'?”

What would typically be an averting of my eyes, I decided to look at him. Jim had a kind but worn face. I sized him up and figured he wasn’t a threat. I answered his question by giving him a five dollar bill and a smile. Perhaps this was my non verbal way of letting the homeless man know that I wanted to be left to my own selfish daily routine.

“Thanks, darlin’. I’m Jim. I figure your name is darlin’.”

Jim extended his hand.

I smiled nervously and walked away.

The next day, Jim was waiting for me as I pulled into the parking lot. It was a Monday and I know this because I had just spent all weekend snowboarding the powdery slopes up in Tahoe. You could do things like that when you had a job.

Since it snowed all weekend, my car was a dusty mess. You had to squint to see its true cherry red color.

“Hey darlin’, this car is a mess. Where have you been?”

I didn’t answer. I just reached into my purse to pull out whatever money I had left over from the beer soaked weekend.

“I don’t want your handouts. I want to earn them. Let me clean your car.”

And so goes the first conversation I had with Jim:

Me: What are you talking about? How are you going to do that, Jim? You don’t have access to a hose.. or soap, obviously.

Jim: She speaks. She stings when she speaks. Just because my appearance doesn’t lend you to believe I have access to soap, doesn’t mean I can’t get it. Look, trust me on this, when you get back from work, this car will be shiny new.

Me: If you have this car cleaned by the time I come back this evening, I will pay you $20. In fact, take the $20 now because you made me laugh on a Monday, which is a hard thing to do.. I won’t even ask for it back if it’s not clean.

Jim: Ma’am, I am an honest human being. I want to do right by my country. See?”

Jim then pulls out a credit card from his Velcro wallet. He explains that he can’t use it anymore, but he did and that’s what counts. He’s a good American. That credit card is his reminder.

Me: “Have a resourceful day, Jim. And P.S. My name is Amy.”

Jim: “Hells bells. Amy. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Amy.”

We part ways after we shake hands.

And I don’t wash my hands when I get into work. I cease to see Jim as dirty.

That evening walking back to my car, I figured I lost $20 to Jim and still had a dirty car. I made a mental note to hit up the carwash on my way home and perhaps give Jim a verbal lesson in over promising.

I saw the car before I saw Jim. It was spotless. Not a smudge in sight, as if I had taken it in to get it detailed. Unbelievable. As I circled the vehicle slowly, careful not to touch it, I began wondering how Jim did all of this. How did he get the water? The soap? Towels? Did he spit shine this thing? Pee on it?

I saw Jim sitting on the curb, arms behind him, watching me with a smirk on his face.

Me: “How, Jim? How did you do this? It’s beautiful.”

Jim: “I told you I would be resourceful, darlin’, er, Amy.”

I prodded Jim further to tell me how he managed to clean my car in the middle of a public parking lot but figured that his resistance in telling me was probably for my benefit. Being a coconspirator in some code violation or misdemeanor theft probably wouldn’t be too good for the rep. So, I didn’t push it further.

Our subsequent days together, Jim and me, were filled with banter, story telling, some cash exchanges – one way, of course and hugs. Big bear hugs. I remember looking forward to having my moments with Jim when my work days started and ended. He even walked me to work a couple of times but stopped a few blocks short in fear of my being seen with him. He instinctively made the decision to skedaddle before he felt I had to ask him to, saving us both the humiliation of that happening. Funny thing, though, I wouldn’t have been embarrassed having been seen with Jim, more protective of him. He was my friend.

About a year later, the abandoned garage where Jim resided was torn down and in its place went an upscale restaurant. I boycotted it for a few months until I tried their fried zucchini chips. I rationalized that the restaurant owners had little clue that they took a friend away from me.

Jim was gone. No goodbyes. Nothing left behind.

When I was downtown, I made it a point to look in places where I thought Jim might be. A couple of times after a nice dinner out with Pants, I would order and extra pizza and have Pants drive me to the church steps. I would get out of the car and ask those cold homeless people huddled together in sleeping bags if anyone had seen Jim.

Invariably, they all told me that he had stepped out, that he would be back shortly and yes, they will make sure my uneaten pizza will get to him.

Several months later, I was in the passenger’s seat of my coworker’s white pristine 5series BMW. We were en route to pick up some expensive fish and a new light for her tank at work. As we rounded the corner, I happened to look over at the bus stop and saw Jim amidst his peers.

“Stop the car.”

My friend asked why. I answered her by pushing the automatic window button and yelling out the car, “Jiiiiimmmmmmmm.”

He popped his head up among his crowd, saw that it was me, and came running.

“Amy, where have you been? Ha, I should answer that question. I had to leave. That restaurant was built and replaced my house. I have missed you. Still parking in the same lot? Heyyyy, nice car, and who’s this you’re with?”

Jim had his head inside the car window and was ogling all over my very pristine coworker and her very pristine car.

Coworker: “Um, Amy, what’s this about?”

Me: “This is my friend, Jim.”

While we were chatting, Jim’s friends all gathered around the parked car to get a look and by look, I mean touch. Their hands were all over the hood. And they were heckling Jim by asking if we were his girlfriends. I affirmed that we were.

Then Jim started to take off his shirt.

Coworker got nervous.

Jim said that he wanted to show me something. “I still wear the gift you gave me.”

I didn’t recall giving anything to Jim except for my loose change and dollar bills from my wallet.

Jim took off the six shirts he was wearing, one at a time, until he got to the very last one. It took awhile and coworker was getting impatient. He finally removed his remaining shirt and grabbed the pin that he had fastened to one of them. It read, “I’m broke.”

I am a lot of things, but mean spirited isn’t one of them, at least not since I have met Jim. I let him down gently by indicating that I didn’t get him that pin, and that I tended to disagree with it.

Me: “You’re not broke, Jim. I think you’re a very rich man. You have given me many wonderful things. I am forever indebted to you.”

Jim: “Well, when I make my first million, I am going to come find you and marry you.”

Coworker: “Can we go now?”

That was the second to the last time I saw Jim.

Five years ago, I was walking out of my hairdresser’s shop and I saw a shell of a man that resembled Jim. I yelled his name as if I was asking a question.

Jim turned around and belligerently asked, “who wants to know?”

It’s Amy.

Jim’s eyes were filled with yellow. He slurred his expletive laced words and stumbled down the street. His pants, holey and worn, were held up by a rope. He reeked of garbage and cheap booze. He told me to go eff myself. I got into my car and cried.

I think about Jim a lot, especially during holidays. He inspired me to spend my spare time at a homeless shelter where I help those without jobs put together resumes and 30 second, “tell me about yourself” pitches. I am not supposed to ask them about their past, what got them to this place, and I certainly cannot pretend that I know how to get them out. I am simply there to show compassion and be a friend. After all, I learned these special skills from Jim. I might as well put them to good use. It's the least I could do.