The Sportscaster and The Bunny

It’s my brother’s birthday today and for the next few months we will be the same age because we are only 10 1/2 months apart. When we were little I always wished we were twins. We were our own version of twins, I guess. Not that we connected so much, but more that we had an unspoken understanding of each other. He was hyper and energetic and easy-going. I was slow-moving, quiet and angry. He was a pleaser, and I lived in my imagination. But I liked having him around, and I think he felt the same about me.

I’m not sure when it happened, maybe after the teenage years, but we each started to adopt the other person’s characteristics; he started to close and I started to open. We switched, like some odd, slow-moving, figure-8 exchange. I am still a dreamer and he is still more functional but something very twin-like took place. I only wish I saw him more.

Happy Birthday Pete.

Dogs in My Neighborhood

Another silent sniper in the alley.

4 More Days

Dar and Harry are coming home in 4 days so until then I have to go all the way under a rock and finish writing. Everything I post this next week is all procrastination. I love you. This song is for Mo-licious.

Let Your Conscience Be your Guide

I have recently been lying in bed at night feeling as though an army of thousands of miniscule bugs are creeping and crawling up and down my body: in between my toes, in my ears and yes, even in the dark crevices. I am an expert at explaining away most things by distracting myself with other, stronger, more upsetting thoughts than the ones at hand. But if something feels like it is burrowing its way into my hiney hole, there’s not a whole lot else to think about. Especially when I am completely alone in my house.

And yet.

The marching is at its worst when I first wake up in the morning (or maybe I wake up because it’s at its worst in the morning), but believe it or not, once I am up and running I am excellent at completely blocking it all out. How? It’s disgusting. It’s horrifying. There might be live creatures crawling into my ass. I don’t know what to tell you. In my mind I am able to put the emphasis on might be. I have things to do, I think to myself, I’m probably just imagining it.

I may have been able to stay in denial if it weren’t for my neighbor Leslie who asked me if I had any bugs in the house. Oh my god YES, I screamed and immediately began to scratch my head and underarms like a dog with fleas. It’s horrible, I said; I was practically in tears. She told me that the exterminator was coming to her place to investigate, should I send him over to yours?

YES.

I flew back into my house and tore off all the sheets and random items of clothing and washed them in scalding water. I vacuumed up any hair or speck of dust and then washed the floors and bed frames with bleach and cleaner. I wore a mask and rubber gloves. I thought, Oh my God, what happened, I wasn’t thinking, I might be losing my mind. I’m a live and relatively intelligent person and I’ve been letting bugs crawl all over me. I must hate myself.

I was thinking about the way that denial is much more soothing than action, when Tom the exterminator came by. Tom had a completely shaved bald-head and looked like a combination between Irving Swifty Lazar and Jiminy Cricket. He came fully equipped with a flashlight and a clipboard. He knew every possible thing there was to know about any and all species of bugs from the dawn of all time to the present day. His eyes darted from the light switch to the window-sill to the four corners of the walls, “There’s no bugs in here,” he said, then he switched on the flashlight and helped himself to a look around.

I stood out of the way. I knew I was in the presence of a master. I told him I thought I had bed bugs.

What makes you say that?

When I’m in bed, I’m itchy.

He walked to the bedroom and told me about the lifespan and habits of the bedbug. I was riveted. He told me about walking into homes where the bottom of his pants turned black from fleas jumping on. He took the flashlight and examined my mattress, pillows, head board and frame. Then he did it to the other beds.

Tell me why you think you have bed bugs.

I’m itchy. I can feel them crawling all over me.

You got a lot on your mind?

What the fuck Tom, yes. I always do.

He looked at me, his eyes magnified to the size of jelly donuts.

You think I’m imagining this.

I can’t tell you what’s going on in your head.

Tom, you’re messing with me now.

We’re done.

Tom, I felt them. In between my toes. Into my ears. (I followed him to the front door).

It happens.

I couldn’t argue with the guy. He had to be right. He knew what he was talking about.

Why am I so itchy Tom?

Maybe you’re trying to distract yourself from feeling lonely.

I looked at him. He was already halfway back to his van, What if I need you to come back .

Just give a little whistle, he said, and drove away.

Hometown

Phone Home

When I was little, I used to visit my Grandparents in Rhode Island for a few weeks in the summer. If we called my mother ever, it would happen maybe once, usually at the end of our stay, at night, after the bath but before bed, when my hair was still wet and the phone rates were cheap. Nana would sit in the chair by the heavy black phone and dial the number and then hand me the receiver. There’d be a long sound sssssshhhhhhh before I could hear a low froggy ring that sounded muffled and under water (my grandparents lived out in the country surrounded by corn fields and tree farms). My Mom would answer, Hello?, and her voice sounded so strange I barely recognized it. We’d talk for a minute or two and then quickly say goodbye.

When Mo was little, she used to go to her grandmother’s house for a few weeks in the summer. We couldn’t talk on the phone because it was too upsetting. We missed each other, and the phone calls inevitably ended in tears, so it was better to avoid the distraction of hearing each other’s voice. And really, what did she need to talk to me for? She was having a fantastic time in a beautiful (and not boring) place with lots of people who loved her. Instead, each summer visit, I would send her some letters and a care package.

You know where this is headed.

Dar has been visiting her grandmother for 2 days so far and I have gotten 87 texts, calls and emailed photos. A few calls at 11 pm. I haven’t heard from Harry though I’m not sure if it’s because he’s too busy playing, or if he’s not into the cell phone world yet, or if he’s a guy (probably a combination of all three). It would be easy, and boring, for me to talk about the good old days when kids had the ability to focus and keep themselves busy and happy with a spoon and a pile of dirt. But I think they can still do all those things: crack each other up pressing their faces on the back screen-door, run around catching fireflies, have water-gun fights and text their friends, post pictures on facebook, and call home.

I’m the one who can’t.

Nine

Today is Harry's Birthday and since he's visiting his Gramma, Aunt and cousins, we are not celebrating together. For the first time in nine years. It feels very odd not to be making last minute trips to Target and the grocery store and calling friends who never said if they were actually coming to his party. It's very quiet. I've been thinking about all the things he's experienced so far, and all the things about him that are an honor to know.

He lives with three girls who all function pretty much on the high end of the dramatic/emotional scale.

He is two belts away from his Black belt in Tae Kwon Do.

He loves all animals, but especially dogs, even though he was attacked by a pit bull at age 4. He will sometimes ask me to pull over if he sees a cute pug or bulldog.

He is a great dancer.

He is brave and doesn't cry when he is really hurt.

He is an excellent cartoonist and loves to draw.

He calls my friend's dog, who is named Deena, Deena Fey.

He is on a first name basis with the ice cream man.

Homer is his favorite Simpson's character.

He can do a spot on impersonation of a Vietnamese nail-salon lady.

He always wakes up happy and ready to go.

Happy Birthday Harry!