Day: July 24, 2016

The Universe Is Making Me Feel Not So Fresh

(Writing from November 19, 2010.)

My husband just called from the store where he is picking out seat covers for our new used car. In the name of protecting our investment and all that happy horseshit.

He listed the options over the phone. My seat cover print choices were: Hello Kitty, Ed Hardy, cherries, or skulls.

I told him they should just make seat covers with pictures of actual douchebags all over them, and be done with it. Just ‘Summer’s Eve’ bottles with nozzles, floating happily around. I would totally buy those seat covers.

I tried to talk him into skulls, if only to freak out the other mothers at my son’s preschool, but then we decided my skull-fancy probably means I am a douchbag. Darn.

We went with the boring solid gray.

***

So I found a guy I’ve been looking for on Facebook. I’ve been looking for him for a long time. He was my biggest grade school crush. I loooooooooooved him with all of the love and lust and passion my innocent little girl heart could muster. We talked on the phone a lot as kids. We were both Scorpios, so like proper astrology nerds, we bonded over our shared water sign compatibility. I sat next to him in class. He probably couldn’t have cared less. I was a friend, like any other guy buddy.

This theme would carry on into my adult dating world, by the way. When you are the first one to make a “That’s what she said!” joke, they don’t usually consider you marriage material. You’re one of the guys… forever. My tomboy leanings served me well when playing in bands with boys, but oh, how they sucked in the dating world, where they made me the eternal Mary Stuart Masterson to every some kind of wonderful Eric Stoltz I fancied.

I eventually moved away to another state, but kept in touch with my very best girlfriend who still lived there there, via pen pal letters and occasional visits. She later told me (in high school) that she slept with him. I was ridiculously jealous. I say ridiculously, because I hadn’t seen him since we were, like, ten, so how could I be jealous. She told me he that he was good in bed, that he “did amazing things with his mouth,” and I was like, “I knew it!” My instincts had been right on.

So I found him on Facebook recently via other grade school pals; my grade school boy crush. He’s a man now, of course. And I decided to peruse his photos, just to see how he grew up. Because I’m curious like a cat. (That’s why my friends call me “Whiskers”.)

I started to look at his pictures, and became very uncomfortable inside. There didn’t seem to be many pictures of him, just pictures of clowns. Creepy clowns. Like not children’s party clowns, but performance art clowns. Pennywise clowns. I suddenly realized that all of those clowns were… him. I was horrified as it very slowly dawned on me… my childhood crush had grown up to be a clown. He teaches a clown school. He runs a clown camp every summer. A fucking clown camp. I’m not making this shit up.

You have to know me to understand how hilariously, awfully perfect this is.

So of course, I immediately told my husband. He had a huge laugh with me at my expense. Of course my childhood crush became a clown. Of course. The girl who freezes in panic at anything in a mascot costume finds out her childhood crush became a clown. Awesome.

My mom even used a clown theme for one of my birthdays because I’ve always been so afraid of them.

Look:

The candles are burning clown heads. Burn, clowns, burn!

I once received a package from her in the mail that had a little piece of cardboard folded in half inside. When I opened it up like a small book, inside I discovered she had taped a tiny plastic clown with the words, “I’m watching you!”

My mom is hilarious. Seriously. I hope I remember to do things like that with my own child.

So, yeah. My childhood crush grew up to be a clown. Literally. My life is like a bad sitcom.

***

There was a Facebook meme going around for a while, apparently in honor of breast cancer awareness, during which the supporter was expected to post as their status a suggestive-sounding description of where they like to keep their purse.

For example: “I like it on the kitchen table.”

Then we all snicker and fan our faces in genteel lady laughter because tee-hee-hee, oh my goodness, isn’t that hilarious, how it sounds raunchy but is actually quite innocent.

Blah. I hate this kind of shit. And because I hate it, I had so much trouble resisting the urge to be a brat. I very badly wanted to make my Facebook status: “I like it in my vagina with my husband’s penis going in and out.” But I didn’t do it. I was a good girl.

But I really, really wanted to.

Conversation stopping moments have always worked for me. I love random weirdness, odd things done for no reason, and I love inappropriate. I could never sit through church properly for this reason. I spent every service stifling laughter and making fart jokes, trying to get my little sister to join me. (She’s the good girl in the family. And I love a challenge.)

Last year, the Facebook breast cancer awareness and support meme asked us to post the color of our underwear as our Facebook status. I have no idea how this helps breast cancer research, but went ahead and posted “invisible” as I was freeballing that day. Or whatever I’m supposed to call a chick not wearing underwear. (I am a closet hippie. First thing I do when I get home is get comfortable, which means underwear and bra OFF. I don’t like restrictive clothes. Also: I am a lifelong Naked Sleeper. Don’t tell.)

A friend of mine pointed out how very little the stupid “funny” statuses help find a cure for breast cancer, and I realized she was absolutely right. I’m not joining in again.

Unless I get to shock people by talking about my husband’s penis, I mean.

***

Today in the car, my son made a sudden, loud noise. Like he yelled, “Watch out!” for no reason. I snapped at him not to do that when I’m driving because I’m really jumpy, and that makes it dangerous.

“Don’t shout like that. I’m jumpy. I’ll crash this car,” I whined.

“You shouldn’t be so jumpy,” he said.

I said, “I know, son. I don’t like being jumpy; I just am. I’d rather not be jumpy.”

He said, “Do you want me to give you some calm power?”

Except he said it like there was a capital letter in front of those words… Calm Power.

I laughed. He is such the perfect kid for me. When I was pregnant, my mom told me, “God gives you what you’re supposed to have,” and those words have rung true from the second I met my son. I was made to be the momma of a little boy. And this outgoing, funny little light I’ve birthed is so perfect for his introverted mom. He often pulls me out of a dark funk before I even realize I’m sinking.

Now smiling, I replied, “Yes, please. Give me some of your Calm Power,” and he waved his hands in my direction, magically applying the Calm Power to my soul.

It worked.

Hope you’re having a calm week, friends.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

 

(Writing from December 1, 2010.)

I don’t have much to say, but need to write something.

I can no longer stand having that whiny, pansy-ass Grumplestiltskin rant up as my last post here.

It makes me guilty when I spread negativity. Anyone else do that?

I feel like the world has enough of that crap without me adding my ever-so-important faux-dramas to the melting pot.

Yes, I would like a wahhhmburger and some French cries with my shake made of tears. Boo-hoo-hoo. Poor me. Sarcasm font.

SO… moving on. Shaking it off. I will be the duck and let the bad stuff roll down my back like so much brackish, filthy water. I will be the duck! The DUCK!

(Be the duck.)

***

I spent last week in and around Sedona, Arizona. I got to spend Thanksgiving with my family for the first time in years, like since I lived in Los Angeles and could drive there.

My husband, my 4-year-old son, and I flew from Tulsa to Phoenix, and drove to Sedona with my parents. Despite one night spent sleeping on the floor of an open recreation room in the Scorpion-filled desert with my husband and child, it was good times.

They have the machines that you stand inside while they whirl around you at the Tulsa airport. You have to put your hands on your head and stand very still. I don’t know if it’s an x-ray or not, just that it makes me feel self-conscious about my potential pit sweat.

I went through the swirly box, and was instructed by a woman wearing latex gloves on the other side to put my feet in the feet spots on the floor. (Yes, “swirly box” and “feet spots” are technical terms.)

She asked me if I wanted to go to a private room. I stuck a twenty dollar bill in her bra and asked for a happy ending.

Okay, not really. I said, “No, that’s alright. You’re just doing your job,” because really, I wasn’t nervous. She rubbed my legs, and I was like, “That’s it? I want my twenty back!”

Okay, not really. Actually she told me my son was cute, because he stood next to me for my pat-down. Then she showed me a picture of her son, who was adorable, and we cooed like mommies do over their offspring. Because that’s how I do. I make friends with people who gently frisk me in public. Don’t judge.

It wasn’t a big deal at all. All of the recent news hype had me worried. But I decided that after being in labor for 35 hours at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles, and having no less than 10 medical strangers stick their hands into my vagina to check my cervical dilation, an airport pat-down was like a polite handshake.

(My doctor chose the weekend my water broke to leave town. My son was eventually C-sectioned into the world by her replacement, Dr. Lisa Masterson from that television show, The Doctors. I shit you not. It was in 2006, before her TV stint. L.A. is freaky, you guys.)

After my uneventful, painless TSA pat-down, I had to wonder if all of the fuss is coming from men. Men don’t have to get on a table once a year and spread their legs while someone tells them to scoot closer to the edge so they can insert a cold metal speculum into their junk. Airport pat-down, airport schmat-down, say the women. At least we get to keep our pants on for this examination.

***

I was detained at the DMV on Monday. My driver’s license was expiring in 2 days, so I needed to renew. Airport security pointed this out, or I wouldn’t have noticed.

I didn’t know why I was detained. I waited in line for 30 minutes and my number was called. I went to the open window. The woman took my license and put my information into the computer.

She then asked me if I’ve ever had a last name I’ve never had, and I replied that no, I was born Tawni Leighanne P-word (nunya biznass). My last name is different now because I’m married, but I’d never had the name she told me.

She cryptically said, “I need to go look something up on the computer in back,” and walked away holding my driver’s license.

Oooooooo-kaaaaaay?

I stood there staring at her empty seat for 20 minutes. I watched 3 different sets of people come up to the window next to me and be helped, complete with photos taken. I took pictures of things with my phone. I even got my phone angled and ready to take a furtive picture of the agent when she finally got back to her seat because I wanted to be able to show it to a supervisor when I complained.

This is what I stared at FOREVER.

After her 3rd customer departed, I asked the agent next to mine, “Can you tell me what she is researching about me in the back? She asked if I had a name I’ve never had and walked away. Has my identity been stolen? I’m kind of freaking out.”

She said, “Oh dear, I hope not!” and walked to get the woman.

My agent came back out looking flustered, and sat down in front of me.

I secretly snapped her picture with my phone.

Gotcha! I’m like a spy and shit.

She said, “Okay, I think I figured it out,” without explaining what the fuck “it” was, so I looked down at the paper she’d set down. I don’t think I was supposed to see it, but I’m a fast reader.

Printed on the paper was the name “Tammy Lynn P-word” and I read it out loud.

I said, “I’m not Tammy Lynn, I’m Tawni Leighanne.”

She said, “I know, but there is a Tammy Lynn P-word in Oklahoma, and she has your exact same birthdate.”

Color me blown away.

And things suddenly made sense.

The last time I dealt with the Oklahoma DMV, I was moving here from California and had to get an Oklahoma driver’s license. They acted weird and treated me like I was trying to pull something over on them, but nobody explained why. I felt hassled and discriminated against, to the point that I finally called a manager to complain about my treatment. He had me come to his DMV and got me in a driver’s license that day.

But he also asked me if I’d ever had a different last name… apparently the one, Tammy Lynn P-word had at some point. Fortunately, he was able to recognize that “Tammy Lynn” and “Tawni Leighanne” share the same initials, but are still completely different names, unlike all the other ignorant witch (she was really suspicious and mean to me) I’d encountered before calling him.

So now I know from where the suspicion was coming.

Isn’t that bizarre?

I kind of want to meet Tammy Lynn P-word, if only so we can always go together to the DMV renew our licenses at the same time to avert confusion.

I also wonder what she looks like. I couldn’t find her on Facebook, but the Internet searches claim she lives in this city. I’m sure the DMV lady looked at our pictures on her computer in the back to make sure we were different people. I wish I’d asked her what my birthday and almost-name twin looks like.

DMV Lady was so flustered she sent me to the tag agency for my driver’s license without taking a photo, so I waited in line there, was told this and sent back, got the photo taken, went back to the tag agency to wait in line again to finally get my license. The simple process only took 2 hours. But hey, they had disgusting coffee and old popcorn at the 2nd (and then 4th) DMV I visited in 2 hours, so yee-haw! And also, gross.

(I can’t even do buffets. My inner germaphobe twitches at the thought of all the hands that have rummaged in and/or breathed on the food before me. I am not ashamed–nor do I judge those who aren’t ooged out by this type of thing. Enjoy your stranger-touched food and probably-super-to-mine immune system. I know I’m silly.)

Well, that’s my latest. Back to shitting rainbows now.

Hope you’re having a happy week, friends.

 

xoxo.