drive to charleston …

One month ago, my fiancé and I moved from Manhattan, New York to Charleston, South Carolina, a city where I never planned to live. It never occurred to me to live anywhere in the South, except maybe Florida in my golden years. Nevertheless, here I am with Kirk and our two dogs, Victor and Rhoda, enjoying our suburban life. When I announced the move, my friends and family seemed shocked.

“You are leaving New York?” they would ask, almost daring me to explain how I would survive outside the city. “What are you going to do? Won’t you be bored? How will you meet people? How will you get around?”

Popular thought had me incapable of living in a suburban environment, even though I grew up in one. I agree that life in the ‘burbs is vastly different from life in a city. In the suburbs, you can’t call a building superintendent to fix broken things. You can’t walk to the corner drug store when you need a new loofah. You can’t get meals delivered from any restaurant you desire. You can’t rely on public transportation to get you where you need to go. And – oh emm gee – you have to drive to the grocery store.

“Wait a minute … do you even know how to drive?” they’d asked.

“Yes,” I would reply, “I am a native Californian; we are born with car keys in our hands.”

I must admit that I was shocked to say that I was moving from New York. The eleven years that I lived in its hustle and bustle were spectacular. I loved the grit, the heat, and the snow. I loved that the West Side Market cashiers barely acknowledged my presence, but scanned my items so quickly that I could not complete the delivery receipt before they drummed their long finger nails on the produce scale. Yes, I loved that everywhere in New York would deliver – even McDonald’s – but it should not be shocking that I chose to leave. After eleven years, it was time to go.

*      *      *     *     *

I moved to New York City with a boyfriend one year after we moved from San Francisco to Irvine, California. He worked in Los Angeles and I worked at the Pottery Barn store in Brea Mall. I continued to seek employment in the corporate environment, but that was challenging in the months following 9/11. I interviewed with a New York based premier lifestyle brand with a colleague from a prior company and was offered the job. I had to decline the offer, because my boyfriend had no job opportunities in New York. Since I could not earn his salary, I could not accept the job. This was his stipulation, which was his typical controlling and manipulative approach. He made more money. He had the power in the relationship. Everything was a contest with him, and he had to win.

A few weeks later, he was offered and accepted a job in his company’s New York office. Luckily, the position I declined was still open. We spent one weekend apartment hunting and signed a lease in a new building in Chelsea. I had final interviews and signed new hire paperwork. I returned to Irvine to start packing and he stayed in New York to start work. I hired movers, packed our belongings, most of which were his. He had a very specific list of what would go to NYC and what would not. Most of the items that would not make the move were mine. I gave away or loaned items to family and friends. Luckily, my piano was on the “approved item” list.

I also planned a five-day across country journey with the thought that it is not often one has the opportunity to drive across country. I thought it would be a fun experience to take time to see sights along the way. I was especially looking forward to seeing the statue of my great-great-great grandfather in Oklahoma City.

“We are doing this drive in three days — tops. No unnecessary stops or sightseeing. You’ll see things from the road. We just need to get to New York City,” he said over the phone when I reviewed the itinerary with him.

There was no discussion or debate. He had a goal in mind and would do anything to achieve it. Once again, everything was a contest. If it were his idea, we would have taken a leisurely trip. Instead, we drove Mad Max style and arrived 70 hours after leaving California. We stopped only for lunches, dinners, late night check-ins at motels, and to let Victor out to pee and walk.

As we got closer to New York State, I asked if I could drive into the city. I wanted that moment for me, a moment of growth in an otherwise oppressive relationship; no longer a passenger, the powerless partner watching state lines quickly pass, but instead, the driver taking the helm and guiding us through the waves of traffic. He said no, of course, he would drive and I would navigate us to our hotel with our MapQuest directions.

We neared the Holland Tunnel and the tall towers of New York City grew larger and larger. The sun was setting behind us when I glimpsed Lady Liberty and her glowing torch in the harbor. Like so many immigrants before us, we had arrived. Like them, I was unsure how to survive in the machine of New York City. It could chew me up and spit me out, unless I learned its intricacies and rhythms and became one with its madness.

The movers came and went, we settled into our new life, I started working again, and our relationship began to change. When we met, I was unemployed. He was in essence my rescuer. His job relocated us, not mine. He made the big bucks and he had the power in the relationship. He thrived on the power and the control it gave him. There were no ideas but his ideas and no solutions but his solutions. There was no life in New York, but life on his terms in New York. I was too insecure and meek to stand up for myself.

Regardless, I started to blossom in New York, which I believe irritated him. I loved the city and he hated it. I loved my job and he hated his. I was meeting people and making friends and he wasn’t. The city smelled, was dirty and loud. The subway was always crowded, the streets were noisy day and night, restaurants were always busy, there were too many people in line at Starbucks, the snow turned to brown slush after being plowed, the traffic was horrible, cabs were expensive, and people were everywhere. His list of dislikes was never-ending. I tried to explain that is what makes New York, well, New York. One has to learn to love them or cope with them. I was falling in love with New York more each day almost as equally as I was falling out of love with him. He seemed unable to bear that my life was turning around, that I could be happy, that I might not have to rely on him for everything. In some respects, the power paradigm was shifting, the contest rules changing.

He started to isolate, spending late nights at the office or traveling back to California for work. He yelled and complained that what I did, what I contributed, was not enough. I didn’t walk Victor enough, I didn’t water the plants the right way, I traveled too much for work, or I didn’t wash the car properly. When we were dating, he told me he was a recovering alcoholic. I had no idea what true alcoholic behaviors looked liked, or the depth of an alcoholic’s insanity, until it unfolded before my eyes when he began drinking again. It started innocently enough; we would be out to dinner and he would order a glass of wine. I would glance up at him, but not question his decision. I had learned not to do that.

“I just need to take the edge off,” he would say. “This city just makes me crazy. I need to relax.”

*     *     *     *     *

The concept of “one is too many, one thousand never enough,” was unknown to me at the time. I now understand this concept after facing my own drinking and drug dependencies to become sober. I would often go to bed and he had yet to come home, had not called, and had not responded to voice mails. I would wake up to a lumbering, clumsy, mumbling man who would snuggle against me with breath that could light a fire, or I would find him asleep on the couch when I’d wake in the morning. Once, in pre-dawn darkness, I found him passed out in the entry hall, face down, front door ajar, his body partially hanging down the step to the living room. I closed the door and went back to bed.

The last straw came when his twenty-something niece visited. He and I had separate plans one evening: I would meet a long-lost friend for dinner and he would get a haircut. I walked him to the barber and mentioned that I would be home around 11:00pm. My friend and I wanted to continue catching up. My multiple calls to seek permission to come home later went unanswered. Finally, I left a voice mail telling him that I would be home when I got home. I felt a tinge of self-worth after hanging up. I called his niece to ask her to feed and walk Victor. I discussed my horrible relationship over cocktails the rest of the night. I returned home, well after 2:00 AM, to his niece in a panic.

“Where is my Uncle?” she asked, pleadingly.

“I have no idea. He hasn’t been returning my calls,” I coolly responded.

“I am worried. He hasn’t returned my calls either. Where is he?”

“I don’t know and I don’t really care. He has been doing this a lot. He goes out alone, he gets drunk, and he doesn’t come home until very late. I am sick of it and I don’t care where he is,” I said, feeling a small sense of freedom and power having said the words ‘I don’t care’ to the universe.

“I’m going to bed.”

As time passed, her panic increased. She was crying at the bedroom door, horribly worried, and wanting to phone people. The sun was coming up and my worry increased, too. Maybe he fell down, was hit by a car, was mugged, or arrested. I got up and we brainstormed whom to call.

I accessed his email and contacts list. I called his friends whose names I heard but never met, some in California, to see if they had heard from him. I called hospitals and police stations. No one knew a thing. The day went on and he did not come home. Calls and panic continued. The sun set and night began. I went to bed emotionally drained and tired. Later, he stumbled in and a commotion between he and his niece started. Apologies, tears, slurred words. He crawled into bed next to me and put his arm around me, whispering that he was sorry he was so late.

“Where were you?” I asked.

Fury boiled in my blood like lava inside a volcano. My ears were hot, my eyes stung from crying myself to sleep, my pulse pounded in my temples. He didn’t answer. I sat up and looked blankly into his glazed eyes.

“Where the fuck where you, you asshole,” I yelled.

“Fuck you, Scott!” he yelled back.

“You fucking drunk! Where the hell were you? She was so fucking worried. I had to deal with her panic. It’s fine to do this to me, but not to her. We called all over looking for you. Hospitals, police stations, friends. Everyone is worried. We thought you were dead.”

“You called … you called … my friends? Who the fuck did you call and what gives you the right to call anyone?”

“What gives me the right? What gives you the right not to come home? You are such an asshole, you selfish mother fucker! I fucking hate you. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I HATE YOU!”

I was beating my fists on my pillows and on the side of his arm. I was weeping. I was lost. I was completely alone in that moment. Rage had filled my brain and hate had filled my heart. All the days of feeling less than, of being told what do and how to do it, and hearing apology after apology after apology, came to the surface. A wave of pain and suffering came over me and I continued to shout at the top of my lungs how much I hated him.

Then, POP!

My head buzzed, blinding white light filled my eyes, and my ears rang. I no longer heard anything but the humming in my head. The light dimmed and my eyes focused. I was facing the floor, as if having been pushed over the bed. I leaned up, head throbbing, blood falling to the floor. It seemed to be coming from me. I touched my face. I stared at my bright crimson fingers and watched as slow motion drops hit the floor.

Is that blood? Is that my blood?

I righted myself and saw red spatters on the mirrored closet doors and wall behind the bed. My head pounded and I was dizzy. I touched my tender and quickly swelling face. He sat there in shock, eyes wide open with horror, remorse, and disbelief over what he had just done.

“Oh my God,” I said calmly, “This is what we’ve come to? You are now and forever that boyfriend … the one who hit me?”

Sounds around me became more audible. His niece was at the bedroom door shouting that I had started it, she heard it all, and that it was my fault. He was trying to calm her down and get her back to the living room. Her tears, his tears, my tears, her fear, his shock, my pain, my blood, my face. My God.

Instantly sobered by his brutal action, he showed kindness by helping to clean my face with a washcloth and by bringing me an ice pack. He apologized profusely. He wanted to talk about what had happened, where he was, how bad our relationship had been lately.

“I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you. Get out of here. Get out of this house. Go away.” I repeated.

He did.

*      *      *      *     *

The next morning I called in sick to work.

“What’s wrong?” my newly promoted boss asked me.

“There’s something wrong with my face. I need to go to the doctor.” I had not thought of a good excuse. I returned to work days later with a black eye and bruised and swollen cheekbone and nose. I told co-workers that I was mugged in the East Village after dinner with a friend. I am sure that no one believed me, but I have never told the truth – until now.

I called my sister to explain what happened and asked her to come to New York to help me.

“I have kids in school. I can’t. I am sorry.”

I felt completely alone. But I also felt able to live through and handle a very adult situation on my own. We broke up, he moved back to San Francisco, and I stayed in New York City. I have not held grudges against his niece or my sister, but I do hold him accountable for his actions. I also hold myself accountable for my part in all that transpired.

In the years since, I thrived in my career and personal life. I made new friendships, dated, had relationships, was brought to my knees by depression and insecurities, and crawled out of a personal hell to the clarity and lightness that now is my life. The beauty of my life now is that there is no contest. There is no fear. I am completely honest with Kirk; he knows about all my past relationships, their issues, my personal issues and struggles.

We have a life filled with love, laughter, honesty and communication. Our family (Kirk, me, and Victor and Rhoda) moved south on a new adventure. We have a lovely three-bedroom home with a large backyard and a vegetable garden. We are minutes from the beach. We have a car, garden tools, and a lawn mower. We put out the trash each Wednesday and the recycling every other Monday. We water the lawn, pull weeds, and soak the magnolia tree. We drive to Lowes, HomeDepot, Homegoods, and to the grocery store. We wave at our neighbors on our quiet streets. We eat in our screened in porch, listening to our wind chime and fountain. We look up at the stars. We sleep peacefully in the quiet of the suburbs.

While planning our drive for the move, we talked about stopping at his parent’s house in High Point, North Carolina for a few days, then continuing on to Charleston.

“May I ask a favor about when we leave?” I asked, thinking I was that needy, or that my request would be trivial to someone living outside my head.

“Of course. But you don’t have to ask,” he said. “You will drive out of New York.”

And I did. I drove across the George Washington Bridge while the lovely West Side of Manhattan, where I spent eleven years, grew smaller and smaller in the distance until it was no longer visible.

He remembered the story of my arrival. My desire required no debate, no whining or silent treatment, no feeling rejected or less than, powerless, a non-equal. Instead, what was required was true love. Deep love where there is no contest and where scores aren’t kept.

But, if it were a contest and scores were kept, when he acknowledged my need it was as if the stadium lights were blown out and a shower of sparks rained down on my life’s field of green. And, since he has joined my team, I definitely feel as if – no, I know – I have won.

pink lemonade for one dollar !

Recently, my mind has been filled with odd stories from when I was young, most likely because a friend had asked me to tell him about favorite childhood memories. My niece and nephew often ask me to tell stories of my past. It makes me happy to see their eyes light up and hear their laughter and to share a little bit of “me” with them.

Never one to shy away from telling a good story, I willingly share them. Most are random thoughts that arrive while eating dinner, watching TV, or walking down the street. Sometimes they are triggered by a smell or sound or a bit of conversation, which creates a spark. Many of them center around food, which I think is interesting on its own, but each story – each memory – has its own warmth that spreads on my soul.

*     *     *     *     *

My kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Perry, was kind, warm, and appropriately stern. Kindergarten memories include how much I liked to play house, take naptime on a towel that I brought from home, and eat graham crackers and milk for snack. I remember that Mrs. Perry played the piano. She was also missing a portion of one of her thumbs. It was a little creepy, and you rarely got a glimpse of it, but when you did, it was like seeing something you should not. It was electric.

The kindergarten playground was fenced in and separate from the “big kids” playground. It had its own grass, tarmac, and sand box. On the last day of school, we ran through the sprinklers and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

As a first grader, we had more freedom to roam the campus. Outside the teacher’s lounge, and adjacent to the first grade classrooms and cafeteria, was a large planter with several fragrant gardenia bushes. I was near this bush once when Mrs. Perry exited the teacher’s lounge holding something very interesting, a fruit that I had never seen.

She removed a section and explained how to eat it. I was mesmerized.

“You carefully peel this away,” she said as she removed the white, velum-like pith and exposed the jewel-toned fruit.

“You eat these little seeds, but must be very careful to keep the juice from staining your clothes,” she continued in her kind voice, and popped a few seeds into her mouth.

She handed me a section and a napkin and watched as I showed her what I learned. I put some seeds in my mouth and was surprised at how juicy, sweet and tart they were.

“What is this called?” I asked.

“A pomegranate,” she said and started my lifelong adoration for Persephone’s fruit.

She once joined my mom and me for lunch at Whataburger. I remember sitting across from her in the booth’s hard bench, watching her open the silver and orange wrapper from the burger, raise it to her mouth, and take a bite.

I remember thinking to myself, in amazement, “Wow. Mrs. Perry eats hamburgers.”

*     *     *     *     *

The garage in my house on Antonio Lane had a ping-pong table, a washer and dryer, my dad’s workbench and tools, and a second refrigerator/freezer. It also had shelves of mason jars filled with jams, jellies, and pickles that my mom canned; “the rafters” where all sorts of things were stored, like camping equipment and Christmas decorations; and other clutter that one expects in a garage.

Once, my friend Jerry and I were in the garage having a burping contest. We would take turns gulping 7-Up straight out of a two-liter bottle, burping as loud and long as we could, and laughing at each other’s accomplishment. We would try to burp the alphabet, our friend’s names, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” and anything else we could say to make each other hysterical. At the time, this was great fun.

Jerry was sitting on the washing machine when he gulped an excessive amount of soda and began what would have been an Olympic medal-winning belch. As the burp came, so did the soda and he threw up into his cupped hands. Frightened by what just happened, he screamed, “Help me!” opened his hands and dropped it all over him, the floor, and the washing machine.

My mom ran from the kitchen to assess the commotion. I remember her exclaiming, “Jesus Christ! What on earth?” and I think she included her patented “Lord love a duck!” She helped clean up Jerry, but we had to clean the washing machine and the floor.

*     *     *     *     *

My family camped often, either just us or with other families, like the Sharps and the McCarthy’s. Camping memories have been top of mind while planning my upcoming backpacking excursion. The smell of bacon and coffee in the morning, wandering in the trees until late afternoon, fishing in lakes and playing in streams, and roasting marshmallows after dinner. Listening to the adults talk and laugh while drifting off to sleep in my mom’s lap, smelling of burnt wood when crawling into my sleeping bag, unzipping the tent in the middle of the night and walking in the cold with a flashlight to find a place to pee, and gazing up at the many stars in the sky.

One time, we stumbled upon a field of Brussels sprouts. Our campsite may have been adjacent to a farm or they may have been growing wild. Regardless, we all picked some and had Brussels sprouts with butter and salt and pepper for dinner. They were delicious! Brussels sprouts are one of my favorite vegetables to this day.

*     *     *     *     *

As long as I could remember, my parents had a garden. They grew lettuce, tomatoes, strawberries, carrots, radishes, zucchini, bell peppers – you name it, they grew it. One year, we even had corn! We had two artichoke plants, too. Each year we would rotate which one we ate from; the other one would flower. Artichoke flowers are stunning, gorgeous, deep purple thistles.

We had a screened backyard patio and ate dinner outside most summer nights, many of which included eating artichokes. Dipping the steamed leaves into melted butter or a mustard/mayo dip, scraping the nutty-flavored meat off with my teeth, cutting out the choke and savoring the heart until the last bite was gone. When I eat artichokes, I think of those summer nights.

In our front yard, we had an apricot tree that sprouted from nowhere. Once mature, it bore ample fruit. It was great to eat them right off the tree, nice a warm from the sun. My mom made jams and preserves. Apricot jam is my favorite jam flavors to this day.

I remember there was a woman who did not live on our street, or even near our street, who used to come and pick our apricots. A poacher! I remember my mom being at the kitchen sink, which faced the front year, and cranking open the kitchen window to tell her to stop picking our apricots. “Lord love a duck!”

The window crank is what really captures my attention in this memory. It was a late 1960s and early 1970s tract home window with a metal crank that swung the window open. It took ten or fifteen cranks to open the window. You had to have a fast wrist to open them quickly, especially when trying to curtail poached apricots.

This ethical lesson did not stop me from poaching my favorite fruit, cherries. My friend, Tiffany, lived directly behind a cherry orchard and in the summertime, we hopped her fence, Safeway or Brentwood paper bags in tow, and spent hours picking cherries. We would fill bag upon bag with cherries, like five or six bags each (it seems). I remember when our task was complete we would sit in her backyard, eat cherries and spit out the pits.

I am sure those cherry orchards no longer exist. It is likely they are now homes or a strip mall. But man, those were good days! And, yes, I was very regular then.

*     *     *     *     *

I remember a dessert that my sister Christy invented called “Delights”. Delights were the “everything but the kitchen sink” kind of ice cream sundae.

They included different ice cream flavors, peanut butter, jam, raisins, cereal, bananas, chocolate sauce, and any other topping in the refrigerator. They were … well … delightful. Rich, sweet, sticky, and chewy. Looking back, I do not know why my parents let us have this sugar feast before bedtime, but we didn’t complain. When Christy whipped up the Delights, everyone was happy.

I recently made Delights for dessert. Mine were no match for what she could concoct. I was missing key ingredients and had to improvise with some left over chocolate chip cookies and other things. They were rich, sweet, sticky, and chewy. The essence was there, but it wasn’t like the real thing. It was like craving McDonald’s French fries but settling for Burger King’s. It just wasn’t the same.

Maybe in June, when I am home for my nephew’s high school graduation, she’ll make some Delights.

there is ice cream in there , i promise …

*     *     *     *     *

I do not recall ever setting up a lemonade stand when I was little. In New York, occasionally kids will set up a table outside their apartment building and hock their wares. One such entrepreneur, just a few buildings down from mine, was selling lemonade quite enthusiastically. He and his little brother were dancing around, happy little kids, while his nanny looked wearily on. He was shouting at the top of his lungs, “Pink lemonade for one dollar!” over and over and over again.

“Pink lemonade for one dollar! Pink lemonade for one dollar! Pink lemonade for one dollar! Pink lemonade for one dollar! Pink lemonade for one dollar! Pink lemonade for one dollar!”

The lemonade was pink and it did cost one dollar, but it was also watery and not very flavorful. He was so excited about what he was doing it was hard to not buy a cup.

I cannot help but wonder if he will remember this day when he is older. What will he look back on recall? That his mom thought up the idea? That he screamed his throat hoarse? That he bought something special with the money he made?

Will he remember this moment when he tries to convince his children to set up a lemonade stand? Will he tell them about one warm day, when he lived in New York City, he set up a lemonade stand and screamed out to get people to notice?

And will his children laugh as he recalls and reenacts his high-pitched, carnival barker-like sales call “Pink lemonade for one dollar! Pink lemonade for one dollar!”? Will his children follow suit and set up their own stand, and create their own memory to tell their kids, or their friends, or to others who happen to read about their childhood memories on their blogs?

*     *      *     *     *

gum …

Gum is revolting. There. I said it. I hate gum. Before I tell you why I hate it, I need to vent about this gross … ummmm … what do you call it? Food? Candy? Treat? What the fuck is it? Where is “Gum” categorized in the game “Animal, Vegetable, Mineral?”Nowhere. It’s just “Gum.” It’s just gross.

The very thought of gum can fill my mouth with warm, salty saliva; the warning sign that my stomach is about to empty itself as quickly as it can. Even the word “gum” is gross. It’s an ugly word. Like most German words. (Nichts für ungut, meine deutschen Freunde.) Say “gum” ten or twenty times and the word gets uglier. I mean it. Say it. Here, let me help you:

Gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum, gum. Gum. Gum. Gum. Gum. Gum.

I think I am going to be sick.

*     *     *     *     *

When I was young, I babysat two kids who lived down the street. My sisters also babysat them. They were like “hand-me-down” kids in need of sitting. The oldest, a little girl named Heather, had a little brother named David, and when Heather asked for a piece of gum, she would spell it.

“I want some gee ewe emm.”

I can still hear her spoiled, little girl voice saying that. The tone, the inflection, and the pitch creeps me out almost as much as those twin ghost girls in “The Shining.”

If I think about it long enough – which I don’t like to – I can hear her chewing her “gee ewe emm;” loud smacks with every move of her jaw, her wide-open mouth, her lack of manners. Those who smack and pop their gum make me want to smack and pop them. And, of course, when I encounter such an unfortunate, I fixate on them. There is no, ‘Live and Let Live’ credo when it comes to my life being intruded upon by an annoying subway rider who smacks and pops their gum. I summon as much power as possible to try to burn holes in them with my eyes. It never seems to work.

Many people seem to forget manners when chewing gum. It’s as if gum wrappers had one or more of the following directions on them:

“For maximum enjoyment, chew with your mouth open and smack your tongue off your mouth’s roof with each chew.”

“To enhance flavor, allow a piece of product to hang outside corner of mouth while chewing.”

“Blowing bubbles and popping your gum is not only fun, but it makes you a more interesting person that others enjoy being around!”

“Chew until there is absolutely no flavor or color left. Consistency remains forever as is and will not disintegrate, dissolve, or pulverize from any chewing action. Chew until satisfied and either add another piece to increase enjoyment or discard unwanted chewed gum.”

*     *     *     *     *

There are gum discards everywhere! Look at the sidewalk in any heavily trafficked area and you’ll notice hundreds – if not thousands – of black dots. These are old pieces of gum. Discards. Cast aways. Garbage. Trash. Litter. Gum. It’s absolutely disgusting.

Everyone has accidentally touched the underside of a table, desk, chair, or bar and found a gum discard. In one millisecond you first think, “What is that? A rough patch of wood or something I need to attend to?” and then immediately, gum chewer or not, you recoil and think, “OH MY GOD! That’s a piece of fucking gum! Gross!” There is no better reason to carry Purel.

Two places are attractions for gum discards. There is “Bubble Gum Alley” in San Louis Obispo, California, and the mother of all gum discards, “The Gum Wall” in Seattle’s Post Alley. Touted as the most “germ infected” tourist attraction in the country, people put their gum on this wall for fun. This wall is my torture nightmare. More than being eaten by bears, I am deathly afraid of being pushed against this wall, face first, eyes and mouth forced open. While some tortures may be more painful, this is THE worst kind of torture possible.

Bubble Gum Alley — San Louis Obispo, California

The Gum Wall — Seattle, Washington (photo by Victor Grigas, Dec 2011)

Oh my god. I taste salt in my mouth.

*      *      *      *      *

When my dog Victor was a puppy, he often found freshly discarded gum on the warm sidewalks of Irvine, California. If I did not watch closely, I’d eventually find him smacking his lips as he chewed, a confused and elated look on his face. I’d scream “Drop it! Drop it!” with no result, so I would reach into his mouth and take it out. What horror: people-chewed and then dog-chewed gum, that sometimes had a minty smell!

Oh my god. I taste salt in my mouth.

When I was little, we labeled discarded wads of chewed gum, no matter where found, “ABC Gum,” or “Already Chewed Gum.” One of my sisters (maybe both, but I am not certain) loved to find ABC Gum and try it for herself. “Mmmmmm … ABC Gum!” she’d squeal as she pulled it from the water fountain basins at Rosemary Elementary School and promptly pop it in her mouth.

Oh my god. I taste salt in my mouth.

In high school, before I met and fell in love with my first boyfriend, I dated this horribly trendy mod girl. Yes … I dated girls. I wanted to try to fit in. Besides, she drove a cool scooter and wore awesome Creepers. Keep in mind, however, that I was also sleeping with most of the New Wave boys who I met at The Upstart Crow, a coffee shop/bookstore that was the misfits’ hangout.

Anyway, this same girl joined me at a school dance. I remember vividly the incident that prompted our breakup.

We drank bottles of Peppermint Schnapps and Bartels & James Wine Coolers and got pretty buzzed by the time we were standing in line to enter the Cafetorium. We kissed. (Being buzzed made kissing girls a bit more palatable.) She was chewing gum. Our lips locked and our tongues did what tongues do while kissing. She placed her gum in my mouth.

Oh my god. I taste salt in my mouth.

Done. Goodbye. Drive that little scooter away, but first, can you give me a ride to The Crow?

*     *     *     *     *

It is a social norm that one offers others a piece of gum when taking one out to masticate. How polite. When offered, I always decline. Most people get a quizzical and confused look on their face, as if gently thinking, “Are you a freak, I am offering you gum? No one turns down gum. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Are you sure?” they ask.

“Yes, I am sure. I don’t chew gum.”

“You don’t chew gum? Why not?”

I share with them this true tale:

When I was little, I chewed gum. I liked it. Hubba Bubba was a favorite. Chewels and Freshen Up were awesome. Dentyne, Wrigley’s, Razzles, and Blow Pops, and that pink, hard-as-a-rock crap with the comic strip in the wrapper. I chewed ‘em all. Then I got braces.

I loved my braces and I did not chew gum when I had them. The day they came off, I marveled at how smooth my teeth felt and I licked my teeth until I nearly cut my tongue.

I rode bikes with my friends to the nearby 7-11 to buy gum. Off we peddled to Campbell Park. Oh! The joy! That Hubba Bubba was the best thing I had tasted in months! I chewed and chewed and chewed and chewed. Four, five, six, maybe countless pieces filled my mouth and I went to town. What fun! What freedom!

Shortly, in the summer sun, I got a familiar funny feeling. I said to myself, “Oh my god. I taste salt in my mouth” and promptly threw up on my white and blue terry cloth OP shirt and my starch-stiff 501 blue jeans.

And since that day, “gee ewe emm” has disgusted emm eee — period.

don’t touch my poodle …

I know FM really stands for frequency modulation not frequency moderation, but I have been thinking a lot about how to moderate the frequency of my posts. Since blogging is new to me, and since I don’t want to force content, I am a bit flummoxed by how to establish a process. Besides, I like the play on words.

Should I post something every day? Do I really have something that important and mind blowing to share every day? Most likely not. I might find that I am simply stretching a Facebook status update into a blog post. For example, this post could have been this status update: “I am thinking about how often to post updates to my blog …”. Done and over with. Period and end of sentence. Except, I typically end my status updates with an ellipsis, so it would be “ellipsis and end of sentence” in this case.

Should I set a specific day to post updates? That would mean there would be a commitment. Yikes! Commitment! Run! Completing updates in that manner could set me up for failure based on the pressure to perform on command. I would have to get something up on a particular day, otherwise I would not be meeting obligations. It would be like being in a relationship and dealing with sex. When the pressure is on, or when it becomes an obligation, I want nothing of it. I guess I could do what I would typically do in relationship … cheat. You know, find a blog other than mine and post there. Or I could pretend that that blog and I just met at The Eagle, and that its swarthy good looks and pecs were h-o-t hot and would look great in my Room and Board metal bed. Then, I’d be all good for a quick posting.

Should I post only when it tickles my fancy? What is ones fancy and how does it get tickled? I must have skipped school the day they reviewed that in biology. The “mysterious fancy” could be a post in and of itself, which I once saw written as “inaovenself” by some fucktard on Facebook. Now that tickles my fancy. I think.

Should I post pictures? Should I have included a picture of Fritzy, my childhood dog, in Costs Money? Would it enhance that post? Should I post pictures of Victor, my current dog? Should I post pictures of my poodle that can’t be touched? Oh wait, I am not creating that kind of blog. And, ewww, gross … I just called “it” my poodle. It’s not a poodle, it’s my … my … never mind.

Should I post old crap? I have written many other stories (or essays, thoughts, musings, or whatever you want to call them); however, posting those seems like cheating and feels like the easy way out. At the same time, they are interesting and help explain what makes me, well, me. And that is what I really hope to accomplish: explaining what makes me, me. If only for myself.

Should I be profound? I could use this blog as a forum to share deep, meaningful, and thought provoking content. For example, my sobriety and the intricacies of navigating life through that filter, my struggles with growing up gay in a straight man’s world, my views on childhood obesity, war, peace, or how I feel sorry for toddlers in tiaras. Should I expose myself in ways I haven’t already done, or talk about the ways I already have?

Maybe I’ll start by posting some old stuff with its original posting date for transparency purposes. Those who have already read them will be reminded of my brilliance (or stupidity) and those who haven’t will marvel at the same.

That’s what I will do. Sunday night postings at a minimum, a mix of previous work with new work, and other postings as the need (or inspiration) strikes ….

Ellipsis and end of sentence.