My Quarantine Baby

First day of quarantine was pretty typical. I watched two movies, four episodes of the docuseries McMillion$, and a documentary on autistic savant twin sisters. I also ate a good portion of my candy ration and took three naps.

Spending the day falling in and out of sleep when you don’t have the flu, is such a treat because the dream scene gets ramped up. It was all fun until I woke up from my last nap; I was having an orgasm dream where I was humping on a fence! Yes, a fence! It was a low, picket fence, not really anything special to it. Sometimes any piece of wood will do, I guess.

I didn’t feel shame after waking up, but I didn’t feel good about myself either. I decided to stop napping.

I am not equipped for isolation; I work two jobs, practice comedy, and really enjoy the morning gab session with parents and teachers at my kids’ school. Here I was on day one, flailing.

The inactivity in my day was offset by yet another active dream scene that night, and I woke up on Day 2 of quarantine from a nightmare that I was playing very much the fool in my current relationship.

I didn’t realize the severity, until I on went on Facebook afterward, but I went to yoga. I went straight there, and straight home, where I showered. I had to, my mental health was feeling piqued. I bumped into the owner, and asked her if they were closing. She said, she didn’t know, but they had to implement in the 6 feet distancing rules.  It was really unintentional, when I started crying, while we talked my eyes welled-up, and to my surprise, overflowed.

The same thing happened a few weeks ago, when I stood up in my storytelling class, thinking I’d tell a funny story about my cousin who passed away two years ago, and to my unexpected horror, ended up just crying my eyes out in front of a group of people I didn’t know.

The yoga studio owner, like a room full of performer artist types, is a completely safe person to accidently start crying in front of. She was really nice, and told me to do the online classes every morning when I wake up, and stick to a schedule.

I didn’t feel embarrassed as I walked away from her, but I didn’t feel too good about myself either. The day before I mocked Tom Hanks for being a whiny bitch, and here I was, being a whiny bitch.

My retail job called and told me I’m off the schedule for two weeks, and tomorrow I start moving all my courses to online for my students to finish out the term. I won’t be at a loss for things to do with that undertaking, and in addition, I have to figure out homeschooling my kids.

All comedy has come to a screeching halt. With no where to go for the next two weeks, I’ll have plenty of time to work on my writing project babies. There will be a lot of actual quarantine babies born from this period of isolation. And after the action I was getting during my third nap on day 1 of quarantine, I expect I’ll birth something ten months from now, probably a brown log, and that’s not a metaphor for my manuscript.

Ground Zero

Last week I talked to my sister daily. We talked so much shit, a fire extinguisher of Binaca couldn’t mask our butt breath. After I locked my keys in my car, an hour before needing to be at work, I had a come to Oprah moment, and realized the sick pleasure I was getting in our cackle-fest was starting to turn against me.

Saturday I started my period, Sunday I woke up with a cold sore, and Monday, I’m in love. After I got out of the shower the other night, I forgot two of the three above, and stumbled toward my boyfriend looking like a ground zero case for the upcoming outbreak. Arms outstretched, leaking fluids, with an open sore on my face, I turned on the charm, and hoarsely whispered, “Get over here, you big galoot.”

Horrified, he just shook his head and muttered, “Nah uh.”

It’s his birthday week, and now I’m going to have to get him birthday gifts that cost money.

I woke up this morning and got right to chores. It lifted the grey cloud that showed up when my son woke up at 5 am on a Saturday. I sang to myself as I worked, “It’s the freaking weekend, baby, about to have me some fun.”

I took care of the sink full of dishes, trash and recycling, scooping out the litter box and starting the weekend laundry cycle, and I felt much more calm. We all made avocado toast, and sat around, basking in the nothing-to-do and nowhere-to-go day.

We tidied up the kids’ room. The time is approaching for them to start sleeping in their own beds, instead of us curling up like a pack of dogs every night. My kids are getting a bit too comfortable, demonstrated by my son walking around running his mouth like Kevin Hart.

I don’t know if I should be flattered by how relaxed he is at home, or horrified at how loose I let the reigns go. He macarana’d up to me in the kitchen, shaking fake maracas, and asked, “Will you make a fried egg sandwich?” And then he smacked his butt and made a fart noise.

I shook my head, “Nah huh!” Then I added, “I just washed dishes for 40 minutes, we aren’t eating anything but granola bars for the rest of the day. We have options, you want a chewy, fiber or sweet & salty?”

He reacted with a drawn out, “Oh shit!”

I asked him, “Does your daddy let you walk around talking like that?”

Kiki said, “Dad lets him say fuck three times. Then, he needs to say “Farmer John” instead of fuck.”

“For the love of God, will you please stop saying that word!”

I picked up my phone, looking at them, “I don’t understand where you got that from!”

Then I called my sister.

In Your Dreams

Making those shots!!! 

I quit drinking five months ago because I was afraid I’d end up with one of those “buzzed DUI”s. After a seed gets planted in my head, it comes to fruition, one way or the other.

I was talking with my mom about how I wanted to quit, which meant I had to quickly adapt to voluntary abstinence, because once my mom starts lighting her prayer candles with good intentions, a brutal path unfolds leading to the endgame. Her prayer power would have resulted in me driving my car off the freeway, with multiple casualties, living my sober life, in jail.

I feel very safe and stable when all my mom and I talk about is the food we ate the day before.

The best part of not drinking is waking up feeling good. Hangovers, even slight, are the worst times of introspection, where weight is given to self-constructed limitations and failings look like road blocks rather than splits in the road.

I told my sister, Lacey, being hung over makes me wish I was pregnant. She gets that feeling too, and thinks it’s a biological urge for forced sobriety. I actually just think it’s a biological urge for productivity after demonstrating such disregard for time. Your body’s reaction to wasting your talents is forced work, growing a little baby and then being very tired for three solid years.

My sobriety app tells me I've saved $1,860! The savings doesn’t take into consideration the uptick in kombucha consumption. And it’s not truly money saved because I have a lot more time for yoga on these wide-eyed-bushy-tail weekend mornings. So I bought the annual pass on black Friday, and that ate up half of those Coors Light savings.

The yoga studio fills the void of the carnal pleasures in a late night bar. I’m constantly confronted with the sexual buzz generating off the teachers, and most especially the assistants. Assistants don't get any money to rub up on sweaty patrons, they get paid in the excessive pleasure taken by thrusting their pelvis on you to “aid in the position.” Whenever an assistant presses upon me, I immediately have an OCD moment, commanding myself not to imagine them having sex, which then turns my brain into an ocean of filth. 
Leaving the yoga studio, the instructors and assistants wave goodbye from the front desk, they’re all sitting on each other’s laps and giving each other shoulder rubs. I have yet to receive an invite to their after hours den of iniquity, but who knows whats in store for me in another five months.

Occasionally, I’ll dream I’ve gone out and really tied one on. When I wake up, there’s a moment I’m engulfed in shame thinking I blacked out the night before. It’s such a relief when I realize I don’t have a headache, and it was all just a dream stemming from dormant anxiety. Last week, I woke up from a dream where I was drinking champagne and doing cocaine. My boyfriend was already awake, reading his phone. I looked over at him, and said, “I just had a dream I was drinking and doing cocaine.”

Then he said, “You’re such a bad girl in your dreams.”

Which made me laugh, but then I stopped because I wasn’t sure if he said, “You’re such a bad girl, in your dreams.”

The benefits from not drinking spill over into every area of my life. I'm way more productive, creative, happy, rested, blah, blah, blah. But I'm also a better mom, way more patient. My son spilled his cup of kombucha across the kitchen table, soaking Kiki’s homework, which might have been a head exploding moment, but I just got out a towel and we decided to microwave the wet paper. I wasn’t paying too close attention, or I would have advised he microwave the soaked homework in 15 second increments, and so it turned out, the homework caught on fire in the microwave because he set it for three minutes. 
Kingsley laughed so hard she threw her face into the hard plastic straw coming from her water bottle. And I am still recovering from the PTSD of her nearly blinding herself from laughing at the possibility of our house burning down.

At the end of the momentous evening, Geoffrey started climbing on the kitchen counters looking for his Altoids. Again, this would be a time for me to get hostile, but instead, I said, “We aren't living in a damn hipster Indie movie. You can’t climb around the kitchen like that.”

And Kiki said, “Mommy said a bad word.”

“You’re right. Bad girl, mommy!”

And then Kiki said, “Yeah, mom. Sure."

Cat Person

Last night I watched “Marriage Story” next to my boyfriend; a real buzz kill for budding romance. The movie does an academy award-winning job of illuminating the looming cloud of impending doom following relationships. I’m categorizing it as divorce fantasy, the target audience being married people. As a divorced person, the movie brought on a slight headache that resided in my front right brain for 18 hours.

Marriage. I don’t think many women would do it without the promise of the baby in the baby carriage. There are women who don’t marry a man in order to progress their maternal instincts, and some of them are called lesbians. It’s a known fact; lesbians are the most intelligent humans. Google it. I tend to be modest about my modesty, so I’m surprised I find myself watching Fire Stick with someone who has a fire stick, and I can’t even blame it on needing to get a baby in me.

Admitting to not liking babies is much more socially acceptable than saying you don’t like dogs? Dogs, they’re all right. I guess. Whenever I’m around them, I’m scared they’re going to attack me, starting at my vagina. I love babies; even the annoying ones, and I see plenty of them at my second job, selling women’s clothes at Arden Fair Mall. The other day a family came in, and my co-worker started chatting up this nosey kid, and decided to brag on my behalf by pointing to me and saying, “She’s a college professor.”

The boy gave a look that suggested they must give those jobs to anyone, and then he asked, “Well what is she doing here then?”

I told him, “Voltaire says, work spares us from three evils; boredom, vice and need,”

He still looked confused, I wanted to expand on the idea, by saying, “You see, sonny boy, isolation makes me depressed, additionally, regular masturbation robs you of creative energy.”

Instead, he spilled his Taco Bell Sour Skittle slushy, and watched me clean it up.

Like lesbians, Cats are the most superior of domestic breeds, blowing dogs and babies out of the water. They require minimal attention, and only instill fear when hunting invisible entities while I’m relaxing watching Fire Stick.

So, while I watch Marriage Story with a man who gives me heart eyes, and I mask my fear of having to recite the rehearsed, “Well, we knew this was going to happen eventually, and I’m just grateful to have it over with,” speech by saying honest things like, “men are selfish liars.” It’s really nice of him to offer me up a gummy bear ring and protection from the seemingly possessed cat.

Marriage Story might be topping lists of the year’s best movies, but I could have gone without it. My official review, the movie is very long. During drawn out monologues you can easily drift off in thought, most likely considering the reasoning behind Scarlett Johanson’s haircut. The pretentiousness of the film crescendos after 15 minutes of boring karaoke, and it finally reaches the resolution, which was pretty much exactly where it started.

As discussed earlier, I’m not demonstrating a lifestyle that indicates I’m in those top tier intelligence levels, so perhaps that’s why I lack appreciation for the basic sob story of ingratitude and infidelity followed up by the celebratory flushing of a hundred thousand dollars down the toilet.

If you’ve got a night to waste, give the movie a go. It might help you amend to the old adage first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage, a natural fourth step, like then comes split custody, a cute kitten and long nights with a fire stick (if your into that sort of thing.)

That Cee Lo Green Song

"What was that?!"

George lost his TV privileges after he shouted that Cee LoGreen song in response to my telling him to put the salami back in the fridge, were eating dinner in 5 minutes. It was the tone of how he said it, really, that set me off.

I explained to his dad about the foul language outburst, and he asked where he could have heard that.

“I have no idea,” I replied.

I didn’t feel like explaining a real rough scene that went down in the parking lot of KB nails after I refused to let some bitchy man take out his shitty day on me in the form of a lesson on merging lanes. To defend my honor, and demonstrate the opposite of being bent over, I angrily recited that Cee Lo Green song, using the wrong tone.

Their dad suggested I stop letting them watch Jumanji 2 because it’s PG-13, and giving them bad ideas. I informed him that the most offensive word said in that movie is “penis” and that our kids have the inclination to run around the house after a bath like they’re working their way through medical school without having to take out any student loans.

And to even up the blame game, I reminded him that Kendrick Lamar offers up a nice well of colorful language.

My daughter’s class voted for the “Good Neighbor.” She told me who she voted for because she’s always nice to her, then said, “I’m not always positive so I didn’t get chosen.”

I’m glad she’s realizing that crumpling up her paper, and screaming, “You hate me!” at the teacher isn’t a productive reaction to not completing her morning work on time.

I said, “It’s ok, you’re working on it.”

I suffer from extreme optimism. It’s off-putting to a lot of realists who chalk up my positive Tony Robbins motivational quotes as being dismissive or my being a lousy listener. I guess those disgruntled nonpaying customers will find something else to fester on after reminding me that my cheerleading isn’t necessary. There I go again, with the compulsive silver lining.

Staying positive takes work, and it usually involves exhausting myself of all pent up energy by running every morning. Now that it’s raining I am back in the gym. I listen to music, but instead of looking at trees and clouds, I have to watch Kelly Clarkson entertain a wild bunch of enthusiastic adults who look like their about to have an aneurism with every back and forth comment between Kelly and her celebrity guest. It’s like Sesame Street for adults and I endure nonstop embarrassment from the scene by loudly commenting and cringing at the TV like I'm the only one in the room. Everyone has head phones in, so I can’t look crazy.

Of course, I’ll get some looks, but I practice what I preach. After my daughter voiced her distress about having knee jerk negative reactions, I told her, “You can’t worry about what other people think about you! You’re always getting better, even when something bad happens.”

Then we made cookies and listened to Lily Allen.

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.