She traded it all for a silver kiss. A slow, smooth, cool, decadent kiss that reminded her of who she was.

She marked the time of the kiss, so simple and benign at first, at exactly 1:11PM. A time that, for some metaphysical, astrological or numerological reason, she was inextricably tied to.

Years later she would continue to be slightly obsessed by this time of day. If it was 1:09, she would stare at the time until it progressed to 1:11 and would feel a small outburst in the pit of her stomach. At 1:12, it would be gone.

On the first instance of 1:11, she was on a plane flying to attend her mother’s funeral.  She had always been exceptionally close to her mother, but in the past five years she had been swallowed slowly but steadily into the vacuum of dementia. She would have preferred to be able to say goodbye in a much more cinematic way with a last thank you to the woman who raised and loved her unconditionally, and her mother gifting her some final words of wisdom and love. But, they were destined to have the kind of farewell that slowly slid into oblivion without any real end point to refer back to over the years for some sort of solace. Her last lucid conversation with her mother went unchecked and, try as she might, she could not remember what it was or when it took place.

She felt  her own life had taken on some of the tone and color of dementia. The thread that connected her to her unique likes, dislikes, passions thinning to the point of breakage. She could only picture herself in a hazy, watery reflection, no longer in sharp focus.

This is what she was thinking of as she stared out over the fluffy marshmallow landscape outside her small window at 1:11 Mountain Standard Time.

Then, the second instance of 1:11. The kiss.

She was at a crossroads. Possibly the first of her life, or at least the first she took note of. She’d always been a person who winged it. Never a planner, just waited for the signs of what her next step should be by what crash landed at her feet at a particular moment. Then, she’d stop, say “What the hell?” and move into that direction. She lived her life as if she were in a maze of life choices. Hit a wall, turn right. Hit a wall, turn left. But, always keep moving.

WIth this new wall there didn’t seem to be any logical way to turn. She just kept moving against it like some kid’s wind-up toy.

Unbelievably, as she now stood in front of her husband, unsure of what to say, she allowed herself a glance at the clock.

1:11.

———————————————————————————————-

(Now, if you are so inclined, please go directly here: http://www.yeahwrite.me/speakeasy/107-voting/ to read other great writers and vote for your favorites…hopefully mine being one of them!)

 

Oh Cap’n, my Cap’n. I am sorely vexed.

I have recently heard what I had hoped was an urban legend – that the original recipe for my favorite weed-induced breakfast cereal has been changed.

I speak, of course, of Cap’n Crunch, Original flavor. Because I require Yellow Dye 5 and 6.

The broken glass and razor nuggets that used to slice up the roof of my mouth, rendering it useless for other foods, is now softer and less abrasive.

Say it isn’t so, Cap’n!

This is yet one more example of the codling of our children. We are at risk of raising a generation of people without leathery upper palettes. People who have smooth inner cheeks and lack the life skills to deal with violent food stuffs.

Why, when I was young we ate only after beating our food into submission in a violent knife fight. Then we washed the jagged shards down with a sugary liquid laden with every chemical dye known to man. And, if it came in a can and was called Hi-C but possessed no known vitamin of any letter, then all the better.

I remember stealing my parent’s Maraschino Cherries from the liquor cabinet. That’s right, I was shooting formaldehyde by the time I was 8.

So, keep your gentrified cereals, you generation of weaklings. I will continue to man-up and chew, unabated.

And to you I say, There Will Be Blood.

I wanted to bring the funny this week, but I’m having a hard time with that.

I felt like I wanted to say something about the horrific violence this week but also felt like one more missive about it wasn’t going to necessarily help anyone.

But, it’s kind of like listening to really sad songs after a bad breakup. I kind of want to wallow for a while. It seems appropriate.

When senseless violence happens on any scale, it confounds me. I find myself walking around in a general state of confusion. There is also sadness, anger, sympathy. But for me the overwhelming emotion is confusion.

With the events this week, I’m feeling all the more confused. This one feels different to me than some of the other horrific events we’ve been through. Maybe it’s because I’m a bit of a runner myself. Maybe it’s that I have friends who have run the Boston Marathon in the past. Maybe it’s that I’ve been to tons of events just like this one, sharing in the camaraderie and excitement of the crowd.

But, I think at it’s core, this one confuses me because it was a day of joy and community that was targeted. It was a day of great accomplishment for so many, with friends and family there to support and love these runners who had trained hard and made this, the most prestigious foot race in the country, a goal.  For many, just making it to the Boston Marathon was a huge goal met. To run it and finish could be a life-changing accomplishment.

I am of the thought that people are wired to be inherently good. That given a choice, humans will choose to be empathetic, to help, to connect, to care about each other. Every clip and news story I see supports that when you see the number of people running toward the danger to help others stuck in the midst of it.

So, what was the message that these broken people wanted to send? What could only be said by the deaths of children and the disablement of such able bodies? I can’t imagine, even for a moment.

But, I also know that we can’t imagine it because we are not them. We understand the immeasurable value of human life, family, community, altruism.

Violence doesn’t understand the value of anything but violence.

So, how can we ever understand in order to stop the feelings of confusion? We can’t.

And, for that I am actually grateful. Because as long as we’re confused, I know we will never understand. And if we never understand, we don’t run the risk of being them. Ever. Not for a moment.

So, this is a confusion I will choose to embrace.

There is nothing weirder than kids. Except maybe parenting kids. That’s just Kim Jong Un weird. You know, unreasonable weird.

I don’t usually like to blog much about being a parent. It’s not that I have an issue with being a parent….who the hell am I kidding? OF COURSE I HAVE AN ISSUE WITH BEING A PARENT!

Being a parent is being in the epicenter of the lunatic fringe, if that’s even possible. The thing is, I kind of like being in that epicenter. Except for the noise there. And the crying (theirs and mine). Oh, and the smell. Definitely the smell.

At the end of the day, the odd way kids see the world is what I sort of dig about them. It would appear I kind of get lunatics. Who knew?

But, there is shit they come up with that I honestly think would better the world as a whole if we all just decided to behaved like them.

Case in point: My kids seem to constantly be singing. They have a soundtrack for everything. They can’t help themselves, they start to hum and sing background music for almost anything you can imagine.

• Watching the velodrome races during the Olympics, they sing circus clown music. I suddenly enjoy watching track cycling. A first, I assure you.
• Walking through a zoo, they have a different song for each animal depending upon the pace of their movements and physical oddities.
• In the grocery store – each fruit has a theme song.
• They actually wrote some rap upon seeing  a woman pushing a little pug in a baby stroller (I know, I live in southern California, shit like that happens).

Puppy in a stroller
What’s wrong with your legs?
Puppy in a stroller
I bet you’d like some eggs.
Puppy in a stroller
Bone

They even made up a game called Colored Elmo. And, no, this is not some strange racial slur. Though, if Elmo ever needed to be cast as a human, I think Samuel L. Jackson may be our man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The rules of this game are as follows:

Player One thinks of a color. They then begin singing a tune that reminds them of that color.

Player Two then rattles off every color they can think of that may (or may not) match up with the color the music brings to mind. These colors can range from primary (green, blue, red, etc.) to hybrids (chartreuse, puce, mauve, etc.) to precious metals (bronze, gold, platinum, etc.).

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Player Two, Player One has changed the color numerous times in his head to throw off and enrage Player Two.

It’s fun stuff until someone loses an eye.

So, next time you are in some high-powered meeting, putting gas in your car, having a mammogram or a prostate exam done, go ahead and sing a little ditty. It just might put the whole thing in a new light.

Or, you may end up either arrested or institutionalized. Either way, you’ll have a song in your heart.

It was one year ago that I wrote my first blog post. I’d invite you all to an awkward first birthday party but I don’t know how to bake a virtual cake. Though I could probably figure out a virtual piñata of sorts.

All of this was really a grand experiment to see if I could stick to ANYTHING for a whole year so, from that perspective, it’s been a success. I said I’d post something, good or bad (no comments please) every week for a year and by God I did. So Yay Me!

Some milestones this year:

• Hitting the Publish button for the first time was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done.
• People actually read my stuff this year. I remember the first person who subscribed to Left of Plumb who was not a friend or family member or who I paid. I almost wet myself. I could not believe anyone would purposefully read something I wrote. What a revelation!
• Writers are awesome people. I’m not including myself in that, by the way, lest you think I’ve got an overly healthy view of myself. Having insecurity and angst is the foundation of being a writer. But I’ve had the chance to “meet” so many this year and have been amazed at how nurturing and supportive that community is. And, I might add, I have been overjoyed at the amount of funny out there!! I salute you all!
• I feel about this blog much like I feel about my children. I both love and hate this blog.  Some weeks I can’t wait to get a post out. Other weeks I want to start it on fire, pee on it, then start it on fire again.
• I really hate social media and suck at it. Twitter is like a black hole of despair for me. But, evidently, one has to suck it up and do them all in order to get “followers” (which just sounds creepy and Jim Jones Kool-aidey). Twatter, Bookface, Instacrap, I hate them! And, they make me feel like I have headgear and am sitting alone at a table in the cafeteria eating applesauce.
• I have not received a single mean comment. Now, please do not take this as a challenge or request, because despite what you may think, I am fragile and could devolve into tears at any moment. But, the fact that all these total strangers have been so kind and supportive has renewed my faith that the world is full of rockin’ decent folks! And, even without meeting them, I feel like I can call some of them friends. How over-the-top cool is that?!

So, those are just a few of my thoughts around this year of living dangerously. A well-deserved tip of the hat to all of us who have put ourselves out there for the world to see and are still alive (and not institutionalized) to talk about it.

To another year!

I’ve been fortunate to have accidentally lived in certain cities during their heydays. In the 1980’s I was in Silicon Valley and San Francisco for the high tech and new wave music boom. 1990’s it was Seattle for Microsoft and the grunge movement.

I’m not sure exactly which city best represents the 2000’s but for me it was split between Portland (before Portlandia existed) and Santa Barbara.

Not sure there is much to say about Santa Barbara…..Michael Jackson’s pedophile case was tried here. Does that count for anything?

As I’ve gotten older and my kids are no longer the parasites they once were, I’ve been trying to recapture a little of the person I was before I turned into the life-giving drone I became.

So, when one of my dearest and oldest friends mentioned that The Specials were on their reunion tour and playing in San Francisco, I immediately committed to getting my saggy ass back up to The City by The Bay to do some serious recapturing.

Let me start by telling you that I have always FREAKING LOVED THE SPECIALS! I believe they are one of the best but shortest-lived bands ever. I am a closet ska girl. I made the DJ at my wedding reception play all their songs, even though there were only a few of us who would get out there and skank (ska dancing for the unenlightened).

One of the steps in recapturing my inner rude girl is going to a concert that is general admittance where one must stand pressed inappropriately against strangers.  In recent years I’ve gone more the barc-o-lounger route, because I say shit like “Oy, my aching back!” or “Is it loud or is it me?” and “What the hell is that smell?”

But see, with a Ska band, you CAN NOT sit down. It is physically impossible not to dance.

This is a scientific fact. Go look it up.

The next step is remembering all the important concert rules. First and foremost of said rules is that one must never “break the seal.” Meaning, hold your pee because once you go the first time, you will have to go constantly through the concert and no one wants to have to go to a bathroom in a venue that would have any band you’d want to see. So, if you hold it until that initial need passes, you can hold it for the duration.

This is yet another scientific fact. See, I entertain AND educate.

Or, at least that’s what used to work when I was in my 20’s and had not yet had children. Suffice it to say that there is really no “seal” to speak of after that.

But, pissing oneself aside, this was one of the most fun nights I’d had in years. It was easy to get right back to that place of feeling so much joy in music that you love while being surrounded by friends that you love.

Plus, I have come up with a new product idea. Concert diapers for the post-30’s crowd. You can buy them next to the t-shirts in the lobby with the band logo on them. Let’s face it, most of the bands could use these too.

Introducing
Piss Off! Concert Nappies ™

 “Not Your Grandma’s Diapers.” ™

Rude Girl is back.

At one time or another we have all come across one. Some of you may even be one. What I speak of is the Close Talker, the all-too-frequent person who just loves to get all up in your space.

It seems like, and this may just be me and my pile of neurosis, but the universally agreed-upon personal space boundary of 18 inches to 4 feet seems to be in jeopardy. I’d love to think it’s simply my exceptional magnetism that is causing people to stick to me like flies on shit, but I believe it may be a wider spread problem.

It seems to crop up all over the place. At work, social events, standing in lines. Who hasn’t had that  person behind you in line seeming to climb up on your back while waiting to buy their Hot Pockets and Tab?

No one will take your crappy food products, honey. Back off and relax. Do NOT make me mark my territory….because I will. In fact, it’s one of the few times when I sort of wish I had a penis, as marking off that distance would be much more effective with that tool at my disposal.

Then, there are those who get up in your junk because they are simply liquored up. These people live in the “negative-space” world where they actually seem to try to crawl inside of you.

Now, I understand situational space limitations when one needs a drink at a crowded bar. I’m not an animal, people. I have feelings.

But, if you are pushing your way in for, let’s say, your 10^th drink, I no longer have the empathy I would have had for your 1^st or 2^nd.

I had an experience just recently with this exact situation. While standing at the bar of a groovy new hotspot I started to feel a strange pressure against my back that slowly turned into a full-body press. When I turned around to see who my assailant was, I realized it was a famous person who I will refer to as “Sam” because that is his name.

This fine establishment was obviously not his first stop of the night as he was doing that squinty-eyed swaying sort of thing that indicates either an astigmatism and vertigo or being tanked. Me thinks it was the latter.

So, instead of swaying and toppling over, why not just lean up against someone and hope they don’t make any sudden moves. Find a human lamp post, as it were. And if said lamp post is a woman, and I am a drunk dude, all the better.

I was a human lamp post to the stars. A very proud moment for me. Though not so much for him as he was soon escorted out of the place.

So, the moral of  the story is simply this:

Back the hell off!!!!

I will leave you all with this educational film. Watch it and learn. And, by God, stand your ground!

 

“If you wore a trend the first time around, you don’t get to wear it the second time around.”
― Stacey London

Oh, Stacey London, you are the Socrates of Style. If only people listened.

Like death and taxes, one can always take comfort in the consistency of bad fashion making a return appearance in our culture. It is a testament to the creative limitations of the fashion industry.

And proof that we are a planet of lemmings.

I’ve often wondered where fashion trends are born. I know where they all die – in the back of my closet. But what sort of demented mastermind came up with the idea to resurrect culottes (which first came into fashion as knee-breeches commonly worn by gentlemen of the European upper-classes from the late Middle Ages or Renaissance).

Yeah, I read shit.

I have been unfortunate enough to have been the willing victim of several hideous fashion trends. Just like the rest of you, I have happily worn shoulder pads so big I had to step sideways through doorways. I’ve worn neon mini skirts with suspenders and sang “Oh Mickey You’re So Fine” whilst kicking up my sparkly tennis shoes.

Let’s take a moment to walk down memory lane. Well, not so much memory lane, since most of this crap is back or on it’s way back into the fashion focus. Maybe more of a walk of shame.

Hammer Pants (or the “I’ve taken a dump and you can’t tell” pant)

Then:

Now:

The One-piece Jumper

Then:

Now:

 Overalls

Then:

Now:

 Bonus Now:

Double Bonus Now:

I could go on for many pages about neon, ripped up t-shirts, Varnais sunglasses, mock turtlenecks and platform tennis shoes. But, I think we all get the rather sordid picture here. So, I will leave you with a quote from my favorite famous gay, who is NEVER wrong.

“Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.”
― Oscar Wilde

I am 35 years old.

Oh, shut up! I know I’m not 35 – let me explain!!

I seem to have frozen in time at that age. I have not advanced one second past that age. I would say I will die at the age of 35 even though most people will argue that I will be more like 95 (and a HUGE pain in everyone’s ass).

I felt my best at that age and decided I’d hang out there indefinitely. At 35, I was in good physical shape, blazing trails in a successful career, had disposable income and was under the misguided impression that I was in control of my destiny.

I was not too young, nor was I considered old. I was in my sweet spot.

But, my body clearly did not get that memo.

So, this being the case, I feel I’ve become somewhat bi-polar with my insides and my outsides not matching up. I have a good angel/bad angel on each shoulder giving me opposing views.

Sitting on one shoulder sits the woman who will stop at nothing to remain young and beautiful. Let’s call her Carrot Top.

On my other sloping  shoulder sits the gnarled and bent figure of the aged and self-possessed woman. We will call her Kathy Bates.

It doesn’t help that I live in the land of happy, shiny, perky breasts. The buying public, and no matter what my Visa statement says, it does NOT include me, has set the standard for what beauty is all about. The buying public is named Stassi, Shauna, Brandeeeee or some other made-up name.

So, back to Carrot Top and Kathy. Let’s start with Carrot. He sits there with his plump lips, surprising eyebrows and permanent eyeliner. He is telling me that all I need to do is a lift here (to help those falling butt cheeks),  a tuck there (to shore up the jowls that make me look a little more like Nixon every year), a tweeze (because what is it that makes you turn into the Fly after 35?), and a few good shots of some unnatural material to plump you up in just the right spots.

All this for the special package cost of your soul.

But there is Kathy sitting there, a little stooped and a bit androgynous in her look. She wears no makeup or adornments because, well, what the hell’s the point?

She whispers into my ear in a raspy voice “We’ve worked at this beauty thing for decades. We’ve bought every lip plumper, push up bra, gut-sucking underwear, and spent the national debt on anti-aging everything like good little soldier.

Aren’t you just weary of all that work and wasted energy? You could have written several novels, found a cure for the common cold AND found Bin Laden way earlier with the time and brainpower put toward “beauty”….which is a subjective word, by the way.”

(We will pause here while Shauna looks up the word “subjective.”)

So I ask, is there a happy middle ground? Aren’t we supposed to learn moderation as we get older (along with where interest rates are and how our 401K is performing)? Can we learn to love ourselves enough to allow our bodies to age gracefully, as intended?

I see you getting all indignant, shaking your fist at the sky and bellowing “But it’s not us, its MEN who make us this way! It’s MEN who expect perfection!” This may well be at least part of the problem. I don’t know of any men who hang posters of Madeleine Albright in their rooms because she has a really big brain.

And, yes, most men would take a killer rack over a sagging one any day of the week. Who wouldn’t?

I know we’d like to think of ourselves as highly evolved creatures, but the bottom line is, we’ve been doing this little dance since we crawled out of the primordial slime. The vision of a healthy, big-breasted cave woman with childbearing hips sent all the knuckle draggers into a frenzy…just like today.

Oh, our foreheads have come in a bit (except for James VanDerBeek), we’ve discovered bathing (except for Joaquin Phoenix), and now we can talk (often, this is NOT a good thing), but those pesky little DNA strands are still calling the shots.

Women still want to look attractive to men and men still want them to look attractive.

So, do we go against our very nature? Do we thumb out nose at our chemical make up? Why are you asking me? I have no freakin’ idea!

But, it would be nice to think that our intellect would have exceeded this need by now. It does seem like we should know better and would be able to hold other deeper traits in higher regard.

So, it may seem obvious that the Kathy Bates has won the fight. She has triumphed over shallowness and has driven her point down our turkey-like throats. We will be happy with who we are. We will find healthy, graceful, and proud examples to follow. We will love ourselves, cellulite and all.

And, only the evolved, forward-thinking men will be allowed in our sacred presence.

Only the men who, themselves have reached that inner peace. You know, the ones with the “love handles” because somehow that makes fat cute. The ones with arms that jiggle like your grandmother’s…

Gotta go now, Carrot Top is driving me to my Liposuction appointment.

 

The big event arrives on Sunday

our hearts are all aflame

Daniel, Sally, Helen, Ben

MacFarlane, don’t be lame

 

The glitz and glamour of red carpet style

The men all handsome and lean

With yards and yards of wardrobe tape

Nary a nip will be seen

 

Who will be the big winner this night?

Could it be Zero Dark Thirty?

Or maybe Silver Linings will win

Bradley Cooper makes me feel dirty

 

Lincoln, Django, Life of Pi

All wonderful movies, surely

But with runtimes over 2 hours long

Our bladders were starting to get surly

 

Bradley, Daniel and Joaquin

Denzel and Jackman, Hugh

Thespians every one of them

But which one would you screw? (you know you’ve thought about it….)

 

Who will be the lucky presenter

For Beasts of the Southern Wild

To say the name Quvenzhane Wallis

Big name for such a small child

 

Chastain, Lawrence, Riva, Watts

Each one is the one to beat

Their acting chops are unsurpassed

Honey, please get something to eat

 

Adele will sweep the Best Song prize

And I for one could hug her

I only hope she drinks lot’s o’ plonk

So I can ‘ear ‘er say bollocks and bugger

 

So prepare your snarky comments, all

Let’s judge and rip and tear

Which awkward speech will get played off

Who will trip on a stair

 

You may all wonder why it is

Oscar makes me weak in the knees

The simple, honest, truth is this

I  f**king love movies!