Milk, Coffee, Water and Beer

A sign a loved one will have twins!! Good luck with that. Hehe!

My friend is pregnant. She likes to have her IPA, and the unexpectedness of her pregnancy did not allow her to have a proper binge session before her newfound sobriety. She lamented on how walking around the city in the summer unable to have a cold beer on a restaurant patio is hard to handle. She admitted her desire to have a beer was so strong, she considered going ahead and having one.
I said, "Lots of people have a drink when they're pregnant. I read French women drink throughout their entire pregnancy, but it's just one drink at a sitting." After sighing in dismay of not being French, a society above many social foibles; they don't get fat, are guilt free and confident about drinking while pregnant, smoke in moderation, and gapped teeth look alluring and sultry, I added, "But what's the fun in drinking if you can't get drunk, or at least seriously buzzed?"
She agreed, and then sounded like a bigger alcoholic by admitting she preferred to drink at home, alone while surfing the web and watching TV,  rather than at parties. There are definite perks to drinking alone. Firstly, not having to listen to a drunk person, and in turn, getting to find one's self so amazingly amusing it feels like a highly satisfying night of socializing. Secondly, there is no standing around compelled to be charming or try to gain affection from people who are all clearly great friends and don't need an outsider to try and penetrate their already complete social circle.
The last two weeks have been filled with intensive socializing. I spent the first week vacationing with friends and the second week with family for my Grandfather's memorial. By the time the memorial came around I was burning out, and scrounged up enthusiasm to see people I don't see often.
After my no-nonsense aunt told me I need to cut my hair and dye it brown, we chatted about her upcoming trip to Portugal. I said, "I hear it's a wine lover's paradise."
She grimaced, and said, "I don't drink wine, Alicia. I drink water, beer, coffee and milk. No wine." Her exclusion was admirable because of her contentment and feeling fulfilled. Her passion suggested that introducing another option would be glutinous and for her that is preposterous. Even though she lives out on a farm in desolate Nevada with my uncle, she is of French descent, as you can tell from her amazing self assurance and lack of hesitation in telling me I need to rethink my current hair style.
She probed with the usual, "Having any more babies?"
I mustered up similar self assurance, and grimaced as I said, "Oh, hell no. Babies are great and all, but they really aren't that cool until 2 years old, and still they act like turds, a lot. Besides, I get too fat. It takes me ages to recover, and it's demoralizing."
She asked for en example of my eating habits, and I said, "I used to eat an enormous chocolate croissant after lunch," trying to illustrate that I'd often eat another entire meal immediately after I ate a meal.
She didn't seem to understand what I meant because she said, "Oh, I never had that problem. I could always eat croissants without getting fat."
By Sunday morning my longing for my home was all consuming. The nights leading up to the memorial I was having weird dreams that were so nonsensical they were surely meaningful. One dream I was following a glossy haired skunk down the street. I read dreaming of a skunk can mean a couple things; I suppress anger and am on the verge of explosion, I am driving people away, or I am not expressing my true feelings.
Happily I'm home so I can stop suppressing anger, driving people away or having to mask my true feelings. I probably was being afflicted by all three, since they're all side effects of too much cavorting and the inevitable social anxiety.
When I cut open my hardboiled egg for breakfast and saw a double yolk. I first thought, "There is no way I'm eating that shit," and then I took a picture so I could send it to my friend and let her know this is a sign she is having twins.
One day at home and I already feel like reaching out to people. Self assurance in my social aptitude is nothing to dream about.

Magic

Legends of The Bear

My daughter asks me to do magic. I'm hesitant to tell Kingsley that magic doesn't exist, the conventional type of magic she is thinking of, where I can turn a bowl of broccoli into ice cream by waving my finger at it, not the whimsical magic often used to describe something seeming inexplicable or breathtaking, or deeply moving or beautiful, because I have lost touch with the notions she is being introduced to. I wrote them off a while ago as hocus pocus, mumbo jumbo, nonexistent silliness cooked up in children's books and TV.
While I think of how to respond to her requests or questions about magic, I think of All That, an essay by David Foster Wallace. The essay illustrates the mind of a child, and  how parents fit into that mind. Magic is held closely to children because of their lack of doubt, and the way a parent acts in regard to their children's beliefs impresses upon them.
An early magical memory I have is of my uncle with a half a finger pretending the tip of his finger grew back. He did this trick often, and I was always amazed and dumbfounded.
David's childhood memories seem to sadly contrast, his parents' game about his dump truck becomes slightly malicious, toying with the mind of a person they view as unknowing, yet simultaneously, they give him the regard of a fellow intellectual by engaging in one-on-one discussions at night called Talk Time.
Talk Time makes me rather jealous of the attention bestowed upon children who weren't raised like a pack of animals. My strongest memories from early childhood are of being embarrassed or afraid. The earliest memory I have is wrapping my arms around the leg of a man I thought was my father, and then looked up to find that it was not my father, but a stranger who was taken aback by a toddler clinging to him and reacted by laughing. As I stumbled back into a space of unknown, the crowd of people surrounding this strange man were all looking down on me and laughing with him.

Because my parents had five children in six years they spent most of my childhood treating life like a battlefield. Their heads were too submerged under water to playfully work together in hoaxing their budding offspring. There was no time for Talk Time. The earliest conversation I remember having with my parents was when my dad, unbeknownst to me, was standing in the doorway as I laid across my bed cradling old shoes, sobbing as I said goodbye to them. My dad spoke, making this intimate moment feel ridiculous. He asked me why I was crying and I explained to him that mom bought me new shoes and said I need to throw away my old shoes.
He told me, "Don't throw them away," confirming my farewell speech was stupid, and confirming my parents broken alliance. I stopped crying and put on my shoes with a hole in the toe.
Saturday was my grandpa's memorial and, of course, I forgot to pack Kingsley an appropriate pair of shoes. An affinity for beat up old shoes has trickled down into acceptable shoes for my children. This past week my Grandfather's house has been a honey pot for a local bear. The bear first emerged on Wednesday, sleeping under the house with it's head poking out. Then we saw him later laying in the front yard of a neighbor's house. The next day my dad saw the bear swimming in the water, crawling to the yard, and sprinting to the neighbors. The day before the funeral my uncle came face to face with the bear when he went in the underground wine cellar and turned on his flash light.
My dad said, "Pops came back for his memorial, as a bear." I laughed, and thought, "How very Legends of The Fall of him," but now I am taking my dad's thought more seriously. An animal that manages to remain unseen while trampling through the neighborhood has decided to spend this week galavanting around my grandpa's house in a humorous and nonthreatening way.
The day of the memorial, I sat watchful on the deck, hoping to get a glimpse of the bear, but he wasn't there. I wanted the bear to squeeze out from under the house, stand up, captivating all my grandpa's friends and family, wave his giant paw, then sprint off never to be seen again.
It would have confirmed there was magic taking place. But magic would not be magic if there was a confirmation of truth. Childhood magic occurs in an instant, snap of the fingers, and maybe it's because time is so dense to them. Adulthood magic is drawn out, so obscure the reveal isn't even noticed until well past the curtain fell. The curtain drifts down at a rate it's easy to forget a magic show is taking place.
David Foster Wallace's father believed David suffered from "antiparanoia," having a strong belief there is a universal conspiracy to make him so happy he can hardly stand it. Believing in  magic must be a symptom of "antiparanoia," assigning oddities a classification that makes them have deeper meaning than absurd or ridiculous. Assigning a meaning thats self indulgent, making the heart beat a little faster and giving way to an easy smile on the face.

Gossiping About My Instagram Friends

The beginning of second lunch

Since I have a short list of friends, I follow a couple celebrities on Instagram. They pick up the slack of having not much to look at by posting throughout the day. Who knew Miley Cyrus was such a scandalous stoner? I now do because she frequently posts pictures of herself smoking enormous joints while topless or wearing pasties on her tits.
I am not sure why I follow Taylor Swift, but I do. Unlike Miley Cyrus, who seems like she'd be a great drinking and dancing mate, Taylor seems more like the kind of girl who hates the taste of beer, and would rather spend her evening painting nails and talking about how many people like her.
She posts pictures of her with her supermodel friends doing fun things, like jumping on the beach or riding on a boat at sunset. She also posts pictures from her concerts, and yesterday as I was going through my feed I saw a picture of Taylor standing with her supermodel brigade, but there was an unusual appendage to her women chain. Lena Dunham clung on to the end, looking like one of the supermodel's prepubescent little sister.

I watched the first two seasons of Girls, but then had to jump ship because I am a smidgen too old for it. Although I think the show is great and meaningful, it's out of my demographic, and I found myself saying things like, "those entitled shits," as I sipped Sanka and rubbed the bunions on my feet.
After Dunham's book came out there was a big hubbub about her acting like a child molester or some shit to her little sister. Dunham's shock jock joke was twisted into being literal at the beginning of a smear campaign against her by people who were probably propelled by envy.
Today I learned she is putting out a newsletter, joining the likes of Gwyneth Paltrow's GOOP and Blake Lively's Preserve. I didn't sign up for the newsletter, but I am guessing that it will be much like the others; a back patting introduction, followed by a self improvement piece, and then a long list of items available for purchase that will get you further down the path to enlightenment, or something close to enlightenment, like perfection.
I'm not sure what Dunham is going to sling because she is such a hodgepodge. Perhaps she will offer earrings fashioned after miniature dream catchers, or little socks to put on your hipster dog. Maybe her and Taylor Swift are great gal pals, but maybe this photo is PR recon for any damage done by the book smear campaign. I guess hanging out with a group of supermodels is the fastest way to ease people's minds on joking about pedophilia tendencies, and start selling dog socks through a newsletter.

Yesterday I was chatting on the phone with a real life friend who I am seeing this coming weekend. We were commiserating on how the worst part of frequently having nighttime drinks is the accompanying fat roll. The last time we spoke we were gearing up for the weekend reunion, and both resounded we aren't going to consume any alcohol until we meet up.
That statement jinxed me, and I had drinks the next three nights. It was as if I hung up, and the phone rang one minute later with someone saying, "I'm having a BBQ, come over, and bring beer." Then my short term memory failed me, and I responded, "I'm already there, and I ordered us a keg to tap."
Now that I'm finally getting on board with cleansing my liver, I have been getting ridiculous amounts of sleep. Last night I went to bed at 9, the night before 8. The baby somehow realized he doesn't need to teach me a lesson for staying up too late because he is sleeping in later than he has ever slept in before, 7am.
I might have to drink a beer tonight because things are functioning too efficiently around here. This morning we were eating lunch at 10:30am, and then had to have two lunches. I'm not sure if that's working harder or working smarter, but I am sure I don't want to eat two lunches. And looking at a picture of a bunch of supermodels is an easy way to realize that. I guess my Instagram friends are teaching me a thing or two.

Working harder... I don't want to go through all these pics.

Censoring Books

A very censored book

Tonight I read a book to Kingsley about Humphrey the Humpback Whale. The story is cute aside from unnecessarily fat shaming Humphrey with anecdotes commonly dispelled on humans. A seagull calls Humphrey Blubber Belly, and Humprhey's size is criticized as too fat to fit under bridges he swims under while swimming up the Sacramento River away from the ocean.
I was actively reading, so as my eyes came to Blubber Belly, I skipped over it figuring silence would be better suited since I don't want my four year old saying Blubber Belly. I find myself having to censor a handful of Kingsley and George's books. One book in particular needs censoring on every other page. If my mind starts to drift while I am reading aloud I can accidentally read the parts I am trying to shield away from my children.
The most offensive book is called Purplicious. It is a follow up to a very cute, yet overly feminine, book called Pinkalicious. Purplicious starts out by the main character being bullied for liking the color pink. Her classmates call her a baby, and when she says her brother likes pink too, they laugh ridiculing him as a sissy because boys don't like pink. She cries daily, drops the h-word (hate, which should not be included in a toddlers vocabulary because its already hard enough to control the shit that comes out of their mouth), and as she begins to conform, abandoning her favorite color pink, she meets a girl who likes pink, and doesn't feel all alone in the world anymore. She rejoices.
I feel like my censoring actually highlights the bad parts to the kids, peaking their interest, because when I accidentally read the bad bits they notice the change in the story. When I catch myself midway through reading what I usually replace with something else, and react by stumbling over the words, saying, "Ooops!" my children notice.
Yesterday when we left the park Kingsley said to me, "No one understands me!" Which is a line from Purplicious, and I told her she is being dramatic, and I understand her. She spent her time at the park climbing a play structure where another little boy was playing. A couple minutes later she came over to me crying because she said the boy on the structure was a bully. I don't think he did anything aside from trying to talk to her. She talks about bullies lately because of a Little Critter book we have, called Just A Bully. Little Critter has to deal with a bully picking on him. The lesson in the book is to not be embarrassed about sticking up for yourself. In the story Little Critter's sister advises him to give the bully a punch, and so the end of the book Little Critter beats up the bully, and the bully doesn't ever bother him anymore. Not a good message for keeping the peace.
Kiki was tired that day. She had to wear her nightgown to the park because clothes were so overwhelmingly burdensome. She reacted as if I were removing a limb when I suggested she put on a dress. Her night gown is one of my tank tops tied up in the back, so it passes as shabby chic. I laughed to myself as I looked down at her complaining of being misunderstood, stumbling around wearing jammies during daytime with her hair disheveled, throwing out accusations of bullying when really it was just a kid who came up asking if she wants to play with him.
Maybe I need to loose Purplicious and Just a Bully for a couple years. The topics are too heavy for her, and replacing "hate" with "Don't Like" or only reading in my head, that boys who like pink are sissies, are not protecting her from the messages in these books. The messages are coming through regardless of my censoring. I guess censoring books really isn't that effective. Maybe I should try burning them.

Monkeys Exploding Buttholes

I was watching Kimmy Schmidt on Netflix while surfing the web, and read an article on whether women are more attractive when they're ovulating. It was based on a study of female monkeys and how their buttholes explode when they're ovulating so male monkeys are drawn toward them because they want to fuck a baby into them. The idea for the study was propelled further based on findings of another man's study where female strippers make more tips the week after they started their period. I guess because women's buttonholes are usually under clothes, the scientists decided to study women's faces.

After reading the study I looked in the mirror and figured I must be ovulating because I was looking good.  Then I thought of the times I felt bloated and unattractive and how it might be cyclical, with when I'm not dropping an egg, and biologically unfuckable.
I know from a time of wanting to be impregnated that a woman does not ovulate until two weeks after her period starts. So perhaps the findings from the stripper study could be attributed to the huge spike in energy from the feelings of exuberance by having overcome the lethargy onset from the recently started flow.
The findings of this study showed the tinge in a woman's cheek becomes a brighter shade of pink, however the change is unseen to the human eye. The reasons why this study was published in a major newspaper is unknown to me since the findings were meaningless. I guess I will return to my show, and can have a meaningful laugh at something of substance rather than garbage in The Guardian.

Pre-party Burnout

Skeptical of the neighbor's 4th of July plans

My neighborhood will go off for Fourth of July. Since the kids are not old enough to enjoy sitting in traffic, and combatting aggressive drunk people for a picnic space to watch fireworks, we will stay in this year. That doesn't mean I won't hear the festivities.
The fireworks stalls have been open for business the past month, and today the lines are long. People will hardly be able to contain themselves, and hold off till tomorrow. I suspect, there will be quite a fireworks show tonight from people shooting off a couple fireworks from their stash for the Fourth.
I get it. I've never been good at waiting for the big event, and usually use up all my gas during the pre-party, the day before.
My sister and I stayed up till four am night before my Grandma's surprise 80th birthday party. We were supposed to be rolling silverware and cleaning the house, but we decided to drink all the beer in my parents' refrigerator. The problem with our pre-party plan was we didn't start drinking beer till 11pm, so we were up till 4am. Around 3am, we stood up after feeling like we drank enough. While I was standing I couldn't help stumbling from one side to the other. Then my sister came to help me be stationary, and she found herself in a similar boat. It really was like we were trying to balance ourselves on a boat that was rocking back and forth on giant waves. Our lack of bodily control had us in hysterics, and then we couldn't stop laughing while stumbling around.
My mom came out of her room, and pretended to be mad, so we crept to the guest room. I poked my head out of the door, and saw my mom walking back to her room with a pack of toilet paper, then I started loudly laughing as I reported to my sister, "She came out here to get toilet paper." Which isn't even funny, but at the moment, I found it hilarious that my mom decided to refill her toilet paper at 3 am.
It was to my mom's advantage that my sister and I were hungover during my grandma's party because we were her diligent servants, preparing food, washing dishes and grabbing the guests refills, without being pulled away because of over socializing due to drinking.
I followed suit on my birthday, and the night before I drank a bottle of wine while gabbing on the phone. Then, my actual birthday was a bit tiring, and the height of the festivities was going to bed at 9.
This morning I ran by an old lady who was moving her massive trash can to the street. The garbage can was bigger than her. A few steps past her, I realized that it didn't look right, and turned around to ask if she wanted help. She said yes, so I rolled it over the curb, and turned it facing the street for the garbage truck. Then we wished each other Happy Fourth of July and parted ways.
It felt nice to be a Good Samaritan. Usually I get too embarrassed to approach someone who appears to be struggling and ask if they want help because I don't want them to feel incompetent. My dad never has this problem, and acts like a boy scout helping people everywhere we go. He also likes to enlist one of his kids to do his kindness bidding for him, ordering us to race ahead and open the door for people, or load up someone's groceries or, his favorite, shoveling someone else's snowy driveway.
A couple years ago there was a big fire in Tahoe, and my parents' neighborhood was being evacuated. My little sister moved back in with my parents then, and she was helping my dad pack up valuables. Becky and my dad are two sentimentalists in the family, so they decided to fill their cars with family photo albums instead of artwork off the walls. It didn't matter because the fire was contained before burning down the house, an upsetting ending for my mother, an unsentimentalist, who was hoping the house would burn down so she could build a bigger and better one.
An older couple were packing up their house a couple doors down, and my dad was in fight or flight mode, stressing all the homes were going to catch fire. He raced to their house, and started throwing their boxes in the trunk of the car, then picked up this old lady and carried her to the car. My sister said, she thought the lady might have a heart attack from my dad handling her like a toddler. Sadly, my dad didn't playfully toss her in the air and catch her before swooping her into the front seat.

Hopefully a neighbor doesn't start a fire this weekend with their fireworks. Although, if I blow my party load early, by taking it to the limit tonight, and not being able to celebrate tomorrow night, I will be able to remain on high alert while the drunken neighbors start blowing shit up. And, if a fire does occur, I will remember to grab my electronic devices that are loaded up with all the pictures I need to print and make into photo albums.

Yeah, I'll be DD tomorrow

Jim Croce Steam Rolling?

I've been on a Jim Croce kick lately, listening to Jim the first part of my jog. Then, after seeing my shitty ass miles per hour, I stop the hippie shit, and put on fast paced music, where I make up for the slow jams.
The first few times listening to Leroy Brown with earbuds was startling because of sporadic hooting and hollering in the background. I'd crane my head around while trying not to trip, looking for the person who is yelling. Car Wash Blues reminds me of a couple people from high school who got  high SAT scores, then considering themselves to be brilliant geniuses, the rest of their life has been a Groundhog Days series of smoking weed and watching TV. Note to the self diagnosed geniuses, having a strong knowledge base in Netflix documentaries does not equate to being well informed.
When I listen to Operator I get sentimental, which can give me the chills. I worry the combo, chills in the summer heat while jogging, could give me a seizure, so I think of something sad and gross to squash any emotion conjured up from the song.
On NPR James Taylor was being interviewed about his new album. He acknowledged "Steamroller Blues" is about white blues singers in New York acting like they are black. I worried Taylor was lampooning Croce. Croce goes a bit Rachel Dolezal when he sings You Don't Mess Around With Jim. The chorus is fine, but when Jim sings about his custom made suit I get uncomfortable, and wonder if the song is inadvertently racist.
The other day I went to the pool with my friend, and she said, "You have gotten so tan."
Its true, the outdoors lifestyle of mommy hood, makes it so I turn into a different race during the summer. My older sister is the same, and spent middle school as a tanned white girl chola. During these times, we can get away with checking ethnicity boxes that don't belong to us.
It's because of the Cherokee blood. My mom's great grandma was a Cherokee on the Trail of Tears. We were awarded a certificate confirming this tragedy. My mom said they used to call her Grandma Hatchet, which is obviously racist. The name was meant to be funny in the Tina Fey-Larry David kind of racist humor, maybe it ended up more Adam Sandler racist but that was a different time. 
Tahoe has a lot of this ethnic cocktail, white with a dash of Native American. We tan easily and have almond shape eyes. Maybe its the call of the outdoors, being close to nature, or perhaps its the casinos, booze and free love thinking, that draws this population to Tahoe.
My little sister, who inherited the Norwegian appearance, was holding her baby when a friend approached her and said, "Wow, your daughter is so tan."
The friend who was taken aback by my niece's skin color was with her own baby, who appeared to be see through. His veins were visible, and his forehead could easily pass as a road map, but it would have been rude to point that out. I didn't want to tell her she sounded like an asshead because she is a known anorexic, and although her problems are legit, the world will chew up and spit out any person who is willing to starve them self to death because of self loathing, and I won't promote the upheaval.

Even if Jim Croce was Steamrolling, he did it out of admiration. He is a blues singer, so he wanted to do it in the best way he thought. They say imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Rachel Dolezal pretended to be black and worked as an activist for Blacks so I think her flattery was also with good intentions.
Again with the NPR, but I heard a professor from Tufts say that the problem with Rachel was checking the black ethnicity box on her application. She is a great person and helping fight the cause but now she created a Great White Hype moment where black achievements are being overlooked because of this white person's scandal. Then I thought, well that gives her checking the Black box meaning because if her parents hadn't outed her, then her activism would not have been credited to White Hype.
Regardless, of how far Rachel went back to feel the One-drop rule worked in her favor, she got caught. It would have been the perfect crime, if it weren't for her parents, who seem a bit mean.
My favorite Croce song is One Less Footsteps, and I picture Rachel playing this song to her parents' voicemail, while shouting, "You will never see your grandchildren again!"