American Girl

            With Christmas nearing, I asked my daughter what she wants, and she listed loads of accessories for her lovely Mary Ellen doll. American Girl Dolls exist so upper middle class whites feel as if their daughters have minority friends, like Kaya, whose back-story is as impressive as my great-great-great Grandmas.

            My mom said they called her Grandma Hatchet. It was a much less caring time. She was a Cherokee Indian who walked the Trail of Tears; the US government has documented it. She worked as a prostitute and didn’t speak a word of English.

Or so we thought. My mom did her 23&Me, and it sent shock waves through the family to learn we don’t have any Native American in us. So Great-great-great-grandma Hatchet’s story has us all at a loss. The most probable explanation being she was a grade-A dummy, taken in by one of the most marginalized groups in America, selling her metaphorical kitty at less-than-market value.

It’s not all bad; she did get a kid out of it. A son she named King. So I guess she did know one word English. There is a slight identity loss, like now that were not 1/64^th Cherokee Indian, we have to take more personal accountability for our alcoholism.

Talking with my mom on the phone, she starts spilling the tea on my relative switching from wine to vodka to cut calories. My mom said, “That’s a bad idea because of our Indian blood.”

“Ummm, mom. I don’t think you can say that anymore.”

She made it seem like that was up for debate.

I guess taking down my massive dream catcher is up for debate too because I didn’t buy it to be ironic. My Cherokee affectation was already on questionable terms, as I wasn’t even close to qualifying for Indian casino payouts, but I just like the style so much, I’m drawn to it and willing to slightly steamroll.

A friend played Nick Cave’s “Stagger Lee” and my ears perked up when he said Bucket of Blood. “Oh, how lovely, he’s talking about my old stomping ground,” I said in an English accent because I like to do that sometimes. With the mention of Lake Tahoo, I continued in my accent, “Does he live in Northern California?” Then I offered my guest a cuppa.

It doesn’t matter where Nick Cave lives, he is doing late 1800’s Northern Nevada better than people in the late 1800’s Northern Nevada.

I went to the mall to return a hat I bought. The sales lady asked my reason for the return, and I let her know, “Temporary insanity. I realized I don’t work at The Blue Oyster in Police Academy.”

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I will be at the mall a lot over the next two months. I started a seasonal retail job because of the long teaching break and my kids being away Thanksgiving week and the week after Christmas. The best anecdote to looming mental health issues from too much isolation, the human connection, and there is no better way to participate in the physical social network, than Black Friday! In addition to avoiding the mean reds, I get an amazing store discount. Imagining all the retail benefits, well, that confirms what my genetics won’t, I’m 100% American Girl.

Nice shirt, Becky

Lorena's Morning Vibes

I watched Lorena on Netflix. It’s a four-part series on the Lorena and John Bobbitt trial from 1993. The first part is full of comedic undertones as police are interviewed about the incident of Lorena chopping off John’s penis. Initially the cops went to level ten, and theorized she swallowed the chopped off penis, which made me think, “There’s no way someone could SWALLOW a penis!”

But then there is a picture of said penis, and I realized, “Well look at that!! That’s a penis that could be swallowed.” It looked like the last bite of an Aidells smoked chicken sausage.

The most knee-slapping moment is when the investigators go back to the field where they miraculously found the tiny nub to take a photo of the location where it was discovered. The picture is a long-shot of a man standing with him arm outstretched and his finger pointing down.

Another detective talks about Lorena’s interrogation, and how she said, “He always has an orgasm, and I never get to have an orgasm.” And as the first part of the series wraps up, a snip from an interview with Lorena propels the idea that she is a dick-cutting-off-maniac because she falls back cackling after acknowledging her act. However, over the next three parts, it becomes crystal clear John Bobbitt is a delusional, fame-seeking, abuser who should have his penis cut off again.

I’ve had my kids for the entire month of October, and it feels a lot like when I was married. No more staying up till midnight and watching TV and texting, I find myself laying right in between the two of them and falling asleep at 9. When we get home in the evening it’s marathon time; homework, dinner, packing backpacks, laying out clothes and reading, jammed into two hours. I wake up early to get some meditative time before the day starts, but spend it laying under a hello kitty blanket on my couch drinking cup after cup of coffee. The key to consuming gallons of coffee in the morning; creamer, it makes it chugging temperature. I manage to have alone time in my office, but I have to work, so it’s not truly a moment worth relishing.

A creature started scratching under my house two weeks ago. Initially, I thought it had to be a daemon clawing itself up from hell and though my heater vent to kill us. After some deep breathing, the most sensible conclusion came to me; a rodent is under my house and is trying to fraternize with the kitten.

My neighbor found last month full of opportune times to let me know I don’t water my grass enough, and that I have a hole in my particle board fence. I decided to confound his list by telling him about the creature under my house, and then he pointed his finger to my crawl space, describing their ramshackle condition.

A gross smell took hold a week ago. Initially, I thought it was strange that a bag of cut and washed Jolly Green Giant broccoli was stinking up my house from the crisper drawer inside the fridge. After some really shallow breathing, the most sensible conclusion came to me, a rodent under my house, trying to fraternize with my kitten, has died. Call pest control was added to my mental to-do list.

My November horoscope confirmed this month would be a lessening from the slog of October.  Were four days in, and the smell has gone away, so there goes that to-do item. It’s like the rodent was never here. Because of daylight savings, I put my kids to bed at 7 o’clock, and I’m having some personal time. And in a few days, we’ll be back on our usual family schedule. It would be nice if I planned to use my upcoming free time to tackle some home improvements, but I will likely dedicate that time to watching Netflix mini-series and taking long daytime naps.

Lorena, she must never have a bad day. Every day is a good day since she took the time to cut some dick out of her life. After October, I commend all the full-time single moms, and all those non-single-moms who still do it all. You’re horoscope might predict some break on the horizon, but if not, that to-do list sometimes has a way of taking care of itself, and try to catch Lorena. Spoiler alert: the good guy wins.