Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, covid19, The Mother

Trumptini: Lysol Cocktail on the Rocks

Ma and I had a fight last night. She threw me in the brig, but we don’t have a ship and there’s no brig. She threw me in the closet instead. Ma has no human strength left so I took it upon myself to throw myself in the brig.  I wanted ma to feel a moment of absolute power and control. This is what lifts her spirits in the age of the coronavirus.

This is (more or less) what happened: Once up on a time in a shitty suburban home on a warm and humid night beneath a half-ass moon a woman named ma poured herself a Trumptini: a toxic cocktail that is one part bleach, one part disinfectant, and rimmed with one Tide Pod (or whatever brand you have around). It was 6:49 PM on April 24th, 2020. The kitchen was apocalyptic. I told ma not to take a sip. Ma said, “You ain’t gonna stop me from drinking this drink. I do what I want when I want.” I reached for the glass. Ma reached for my hand. A scuffle broke out between the squirrels peeping-tomming in the window. Bobo the Mutt barked and licked his butt. “This is my goddamn drink,” ma blurted. “It could save my life.” “It won’t,” I told her. “It will kill you!” “I know,” ma said. “That will save my life.”

I thought about this for a moment. And then another moment. Ma always has things to say that make me think about the things I know and believe to be true. In a way, ma is right, death is a solution to life, but not this time, not today.

“Give me that fucking glass,” I shouted. Ma’s nostrils flared like Secretariat after winning the Kentucky Derby. (I love Kentucky Fried Chicken, but not as much as I love Church’s Chicken.) “Today isn’t the day,” I said. Ma said, “Every day is today. It’s all the same in this fucking pandemic lockdown madness. I gotta’ get out of this mess.” “You can’t,” I said. “Bobo the Mutt and I need you.”

Ma went all harlequin on us. Pantomiming her way through the middle part of our fight with a series middle fingers, fist pumps and ending with the Vulcan Salute. That’s when she spoke: “The President says we can disinfect ourselves from this plague.” I rolled the dice, “He also said he can Make American Great Again. Are you better off now that you were 6 weeks ago? A year ago? 4 years ago?” Ma shook her head. Neither yes. Neither no. She bobbled her head and got up. Glass in hand. Ready to strike anyone who tried to take it from her. “Don’t try and stop me, kid” she said. “I know what I’m doing.” “Fine,” I said. “Enjoy certain death.” “I will,” she said and stormed out of the kitchen.

Two hours later ma returned from the laundry room with the empty glass. It’s the first time she ever washed a load of clothes that didn’t turn out half bad. “Look,” she said taking my hand in her hand. “You’re just a kid, but you’re mine. I’ll never leave you like that, at least not without a proper cocktail glass.”

And that’s what happened last night. Today is a new day. One that I won’t take for granted.


(I apologize for using the word shitty and fucking. My not-so-best friend Diego says I shouldn’t curse or use bad words because it makes me sound immature and unreliable. I told him that it makes me even more reliable and credible because this is how real humans talk in the real world when they feel passionate about something. He told me that I’m not real and that whatever I say is a waste of words. I told him he’s a waste of words and a real and unreal jerk.)

 

 

 

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Bobo the Mutt, Characters, covid19, The Mother, Themes

Fimble-famble

Ma woke up depressed, which means she didn’t wake up at all. Bobo the Mutt and I howled and jumped on the bed. Scared the hell out of her. Her eyes discombobulated when they opened. Some of her hair fell out. She batted the air with catastrophic force and her tongue lit. “You foul-smelling cunctators,” she shouted. “Get me my gun!” I lit the cigarette to shut her up. Bobo the Mutt licked her butt. She uncocked the Glock and slipped it back underneath her pillow. I regretted waking her up.

It’s been 33 days of pure isolation and 36 days since ma lost her full-time gig at the bar she called home. The death toll from the virus surged to 37,086 from 21,418 just 6 days ago. There’s really not much else to do but apply for food stamps and unemployment, but the government websites don’t work, so ma made amends to the gods she called friends. It didn’t work.

“Let’s take a yoga class,” I suggested. Ma looked at me and I looked at her. This lasted for about 60 seconds. “Fine,” she said. “I”ll wear my Lululemons.” Ma doesn’t own Lululemons, but she puts lemons in her sportsbra to make her look more crapulous. I searched for “Joachim’s Hot Yoga For Beginners: Pandemic Edition” on ma’s Facebook.

Joachim is a retired elementary school teacher who has way too much time on his hands. He is self-taught, which means he sucks at yoga, but he looks good in athletic wear, which means he doesn’t wear athletic wear. He doesn’t wear anything at all. He’s a yogi, of sorts, the kind that makes you think about the loneliness he must endure. This is fine for ma. Ma has reached the age where form and function are incongruous like Joachim backlit on his patio teaching yoga to vampires in the nude.

The class elevated ma’s mood and stretched her mind. We did down dog, warrior pose, tree pose, upward facing dog pose, warrior II pose, bound ankle pose, and seated forward fold. We also did camel pose, plank pose, side plank, the other side plank, and planted cactus pose. It was a good workout, but ma didn’t really participate in the physical sense. She just watched Joachim stretch his buns in his invisible Lululemons.

“He’s a hot diddy,” ma said. I couldn’t take the temperature of his nipples, but ma was satisfied. That’s all that mattered. Joachim’s insatiable stretching and encouraging words disappeared the prevalence of sadness in our house. When the class ended, ma gave Joachim a vociferous standing ovation. “What a laniferous body you have,” she shouted. Her overzealous smile lasted a generation after Joachim cut the feed.

“Let’s eat,” ma said. “I’m famished.”

Bobo the Mutt licked his butt. Ma crawled into bed instead. I Googled “how to apply for food assistance” and “when will it end” in multiple languages.


I dare you to find the fimble-famble and post it comments.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, The Mother

The Seelie Court

Easter is ma’s favorite holiday, but it reminds me of the time we spent huddled together with our Seelie Court in a Port-A-Potty while hiding from the cops after throwing rolls of toilet paper at churchgoers. Easter is also ma’s favorite holiday because it’s the only holiday in recorded human history that celebrates someone who (supposedly) has (or is) risen from the dead. The kitchen table is set. The bacon is burnt. The eggs are too wet, but I don’t care because ma is risen from the bed. Bobo the Mutt howls aimlessly in the backyard because he is a fact of canine history. He is also risen from the dead.

“It’s incredible,” ma says. “Truly remarkable. A man rises from the dead when most men can’t even rise out of bed. Truly, remarkable.” (I never know where to place the comma. Commas are the common enemy.)

“Ma, you rose from the dead,”  I say.

“For that mimosa,” she says. “Let’s drink to that!”

We drink to that. We drink to this. Ma giggles. I laugh. I’m not of age, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not real and the cops can’t arrest magic. I’m not part of the official record of human history, anyway. I’m just a fiction unburdened by my own holiday.

“Pour me another one,” she says.

Ma is an insatiable bèbè.

It’s been 7 days since ma lost her job, or was fired, or laid off, or furloughed until better days. It hasn’t been a holiday and we’re still waiting for our Pandemic Impact Payment from the IRS. Ma has been a real hot & cold mess and her hair is falling out or off. I can’t tell if it’s the weave coming undone or her real hair or both. Ma got the chills and the shakes last night. She rattled her teeth and mumbled in Roman Numerals, which sound a lot like regular numbers, but more sophisticated. She kept repeating 21418, 21418, 21418. It was, by far, her best Glenn Close moment ever. I was terrified.

The first thing I do every morning is log onto ma’s busted up laptop from 2006 and visit the Johns Hopkins COVID-19 Dashboard to see the total confirmed infections and total confirmed deaths in the United States and around the world. Every morning I visit the dashboard and hover the mouse over the county in which we live. Every morning I click on that bright red dot that reveals the total number of confirmed infections and deaths in my county.  Our country is all lit. I travel from state to state, city to city, to visit the dead. It’s a morbid Easter Egg Hunt. These red dots are all I have to make some sense out of this catastrophe. Ma doesn’t make much sense. She never did.

This morning I logged on again. Total confirmed deaths in the United States: 21,418. I closed the laptop and took a bit of burnt bacon. Ma looked at me all serious and crusty-eyed because she knows I only like medium rare bacon. “21,418,” she said. I nodded my head. She didn’t waste the last sip of her mimosa before she spoke again. “Real people don’t rise from the dead,” she said. “Not even fairies like you and me.”

Ma broke her smile. Bobo the Mutt went silent. I crossed my legs. The eggs.

 

**The Seelie Court were described as those fairies who would seek help from humans, warn those who have accidentally offended them, and return human kindness with favors of their own. Still, a fairy belonging to this court would avenge insults and could be prone to mischief.

 

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Family, The Mother, Themes

I Don’t Take Responsibility At All!

On March 13th, 2016, ma got a real job. That’s when she told me that I couldn’t be real. The bottom line: ma didn’t want the new employer to find out that I’m real and that we’re related. Ma didn’t want them to find out that we have opinions about things beyond our socio-economic status. Ma wanted to be part of the real economy. I just wanted ma to feel real.

“Shut that shit down,” ma said. By shit, ma meant my blog. By my blog, ma meant me and every single word and syllable that made me possible.

But, I shut it down. I shut myself down for ma because she is my number one and my number two. I shut that shit down so fast lightning’s got nothing on me. I did it for ma because of everything that she has done for me, which really wasn’t much except for providing a roof over my head, at least for most of my existence. Even when we lived in a Buick, we had roof over our heads. Most of all, I did it for ma because who the hell am I to stand in her way, which is always-always our way. We have always been one through the ups and downs and even the eventhoughs.

On March 13th, 2016, ma walked in on me writing what would be my final blog post.  “Girl, I got a real job now with real responsibilities. We can’t be acting all ‘fuck this’ and ‘fuck that.'” “Does this mean you’ll be wearing clothes at work?” I asked. “Of course,” ma said. “Well, probably. Depends.”

I never trust ma for more than 30 seconds, but her new job lasted much longer than I expected. Exactly 4 years to be exact. It was a difficult time for me. I only had the memory of my best friend Bobo the Mutt to keep me occupied at night when I was alone and ma was at work participating in the real economy. Ma stopped drinking. I stopped writing. Ma stopped smoking. I started drinking. Ma stopped being ridiculously cruel and insensitive. I became a ridiculously cruel and insensitive drinker. Ma started reading the newspaper. I stopped reading.

Those were the worst years of my life.

I haven’t grown much in 4 years. I still wear the same red shoes because no matter how hard ma worked she never ever made enough in the real economy to accommodate our real needs, but none of that matters anymore. We can barely afford the Buick over our heads now.

On March 13th, 2020, exactly 4 years after my last blog post, ma lost her job, meaning ma lost her way home after getting laid off because there’s no work left for a women behind a bar in city without tourists in the real economy during a pandemic that no one wants to take responsibility for.

Not even the “President” of The United Sates.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” ma said. She was all serious, head down and hands up. The wounds of the past opened up. Secondhand smoke never smelled so good. I mixed her favorite drink.

“I didn’t think he would be elected,” she said. That’s when she puffed a giant cloud of smoke in my face. I inhaled every molecule of that cloud. Even though ma voted for him (twice), once with her real ID and once with her fake ID, she thought he’d never be real REAL. “Who could have imagined?” ma asked. “I don’t know, but what matters is what matters next,” I said.

That’s when I rolled her up in my favorite blanket, pulled out a ragged copy of our favorite story and read to her.

“That night, and for many nights after, the Velveteen Rabbit slept in the Boy’s bed. At first he found it rather uncomfortable, for the Boy hugged him very tight, and sometimes he rolled over on him, and sometimes he pushed him so far under the pillow that the Rabbit could scarcely breathe. And he missed, too, those long moonlight hours in the nursery, when all the house was silent, and his talks with the Skin Horse. But very soon he grew to like it, for the Boy used to talk to him, and made nice tunnels for him under the bedclothes that he said were like the burrows the real rabbits lived in. And they had splendid games together, in whispers, when Nana had gone away to her supper and left the nightlight burning on the mantelpiece. And when the Boy dropped off to sleep, the Rabbit would snuggle down close under his little warm chin and dream, with the Boy’s hands clasped close round him all night long.”

Ma hasn’t left my bed since that day, but it’s okay. I’ve got her back and a plan to burrow us back from the brink of disaster. I’ve also got her drivers license and access to her vast  wardrobe of impeccably questionable taste.

“What is real REAL is what you make of it,” ma said that day in 2016. This time, I won’t give up even if it comes for me.

 

 

 

 

Posted in Almost Dorothy, The Mother

14 things ma resolves to do for 2013 in alphabetical order

Chicks | Neil de la Flor
Chicks | Neil de la Flor

1. Ma resolves to solve the unresolved issues that plague her nanosphere with grace and humility as she tiptoes across the front yard barefoot wearing her pink biking shorts and “I Had Sex With Jesus” tee shirt.

2. Ma resolves to brush her teeth on first and second dates.

3. Ma resolves to have sex at least twice a week (with humans).

4. Ma resolves to have sex at least twice a week with the windows closed with at least 2 humans in the same room at the same time with or without sneakers and resolves to have each client come back for seconds so the neighbors don’t think she’s only into one-night stands. One-day stands don’t count, she says.

5. Ma resolves to stop reading self-help books with titles that suggest she’s half of this or half of that.

6. Ma resolves to hurl herself into the delta quadrant and kick species 8472’s ass.

7. Ma resolves to use protection even when the men of her dreams offer protection with their super powers and magic tricks. A condom, she says, is more important that the Second Coming.

8. Ma resolves to Kool-Aid.

9. Ma resolves to hug and kiss me twice a day even when she feels like punching me in the face.

10. Ma resolves to wipe from front to back (at least 3 times a week).

11. Ma resolves to be intelligent, competent, reliable, responsible, honorable, trustworthy, centered, grounded, coherent, sympathetic, empathetic, less pathetic and soulful; and she resolves to live by the code of justice even if it means wearing underwear in the most obvious places.

12. Ma resolves to fill her half-empty heart with ginger and jasmine while she drains the other half of Tabasco sauce and curry; and she resolves to stop buying into the scheme that a heart can be half of this or half of that because if it weren’t full 24/7 she’d be dead. Only the non-living, she says, believe in this symbolic bullshit.

13. Ma resolves to make fun of angels and everything holy because nothing is sanctified.

14. Ma resolves to celibacy, but I think she really meant sobriety.

14.5 Ma resolves to reveal what’s inside.

 

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Angel, The Mother

Ma: The Healer & The Destroyer

Sometimes ma is glowing in her fruity apron. Sometimes she is sad and sometimes she is a glowing lizard on a bed of velvet roses. Sometimes she is angry and sometimes she is awake when she is asleep. Sometimes she sleeps when she is alive and dead.

Sometimes ma is aware of her biceps and that she is the anti-Christ. Sometimes she is aware she is a vampire annihilating the anti-bodies that enter her canvas. Sometimes she is the quotient and the quadrangle triangulating the quadraphonic sound of blue whales. Sometimes she is a whale and the woman between me and her and sometimes she is the man between me and him. Sometimes she’s a clown.

Sometimes I know what makes ma unhappy and filled with darkness because it’s the same thing that makes me unhappy and filled with darkness. Sometimes I curse the healers who enter our home and try to destroy us with their crystals and incense. Sometimes I destroy the curses that heal us after the healers who have come to destroy us heal the room of wounds. Sometimes I curse the curses who heal the hell out of us for the hell of it because they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about when ma’s heart goes boom boom boom.

Sometimes I walk silently through the house of healers and destroyers, ma and me, and tell each room “I’m sorry” for our trespasses and transience. In sequence. In solemnity and solace. In slippers. In every room, a ghost wants to say “I’m sorry”, but the ghosts are rouses.

Sometimes I walk silently where angel once roamed the surface of the house where ma fears to tread even in her best Jacqueline Smith dress. Sometimes I am too much for ma and she is too much for me just like she was too much for angel and his medicine chest of chests. Sometimes I am too much and never enough even though I know I am a button and ma is a shoe.

Sometimes the knowledge of this differential is enough to heal the equations of the world, the wounds in the room of curses and moans. Sometimes the knowledge of this is forgiveness and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes this knowledge is just knowledge to note the difference between two unknowns. Between healing and destroying. Between practice and partition. Between ma and me. Freud and Jung. The curses between us were promises.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Amanda Bernstein, Culture Clash, The Mother

Florence + the Machine

Ma dumped Amanda B. for Florence from Florence + the Machine however Florence doesn’t know ma nor Amanda B. or that she’s ma’s new girlfriend. I think ma is delusional and dreaming but I let her dream cause ma needs to dream to keep her balance from tilting her off the continental shelf. Florence would make a great step-ma. I kind of wish it were true. I kind of wish ma and Florence would make a new machine that included me. Maybe Florence can teach ma how to sing and dance and act like a real woman. Maybe ma can teach  Florence how to be insane. Together maybe they’ll have the love that’s missing between ma and Amanda B., missing between ma and me, missing between ma and ma. Well, we’ll see.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Amanda Bernstein, Politics, The Mother

Rick Scott, We’re Not Gonna Take It

Do you understand!

I haven’t been faithful to you or constant in my criticism of your stupidity. It’s not because I don’t love you. It’s just that I’ve been taking care of mom, who has taken care of Amanda B., mom’s faithfully wedded lesbian wife, who has a cold, a serious cold, a cold that may take her life and her jeans (my favorite jeans) away for ever. Well, I’m being dramatic. That’s what I am, dramatic. I’m a kid, a pickle too. I love pickles. Rick Scott, you’re a pickle and I wish I could tickle you out of the State of Florida so that you don’t infect us with your brand of social justice. The kind of justice that takes all the social safety nets away from the most vulnerable citizens in Florida–the elderly, the young, the middle aged, the born and unborn, the smart, the gay, or bi-curious, or gender neutral or natural. Anyway, yes, Florida is vulnerable because we’re under attack–bullied–every day by your 50 million dollar political campaign to turn us back to the dark ages. The age of religious idiots and zealots. Pickle heads like you. In any case, I wish you luck in the upcoming election because it’s the only way I know how to subvert the outcome. I never get what  I want. Not even a hickey. Mom’s got Amanda B. in her arms right now. She looks like a lowercase b, a baby, an infant Amanda B. But, she’ll be alright, Mr. Rick Scott. She will. I just know it. Cause Alex Sink ain’t gonna’ fucking take it, you stupid chicken head. (Ma said that.)  Kisses. (I said that.)

Yours Unruly,

Almost Dorothy, Mama D., and Amanda B.

 

 

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, The Mother

Rick Scott (Gollum) Wins Florida GOP Primary

Gollum or Rick Scott
Rick Scott or Gollum

Breaking News: Ma is totally freaked out because the Lord of the Rings is true. She says Gollum, from the Lord of the Rings, also known as Rick Scott, won the Republican primary for Governor. She’s very afraid because he spent millions of dollars and lots of time over the last year trying to defeat healthcare reform, which ma doesn’t have but wants but can’t afford because she works 3 part-time jobs.  Ma’s afraid Gollum will eat her if he wins the FL governors race. She’s afraid he’ll toss her into the ring of fire. Steal her wedding ring and wigs. She’s afraid he’ll wear her wig and ring and prance around like a she-devil or Gollum cum Dragzilla. She says he has pretty eyes though. For a goblin. She says vote for Alex Sink because she’s the only true woman in the FL governors race.  Plus, she’s a hero like Frodo Baggins.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Politics, The Mother, Themes

Rick Scott for Governor Sucks: Part 1, Family Values

Rick Scott for Governor

“I’m an across-the-board conservative. I am pro-life and support traditional marriage. We need to protect our values as well as our tax dollars.” – Rick Scott

Dear Rick, Mom and Amanda B., my two moms, think you should go f-ck yourself. That’s a direct quote. On your website for Governor, you write that you and your wife are high school sweethearts and have been married for 37 years. Mom says wow, big deal, Amanda B. and mom have been together for less than a year and they’ve raised a litter of cats and a dog and me without a problem except for the time mom lit the neighbor’s yard on fire by accident (on purpose) with a blow torch and lighter fluid. Your website also says that “together [the two of you] have raised two daughters, Jordan and Allison. Rick knows that strong families are fundamental to a strong America and he will fight [with boxing gloves?] to preserve traditional marriage and protect society’s most vulnerable – the unborn and elderly.”

Well, Amanda B., the B. is silent, so it’s really Amanda ., says, “what the fuck, Rick!” Protect the unborn? How do you protect something that doesn’t exist? Are you going to protect the idea of the unborn too?  Or just force women who are pregnant (by law) to surrender the right to her own body to you? To a politician who has no personal connection to most women that this kind of policy will impact? The real question, that you won’t address, is this: Will you provide every woman who is pregnant with universal access to health care so that she can get prenatal care and the kid can get all his/her shots when he or she is born? What about protecting those who are between “unborn” and “elderly”? Do they just spend the majority of their real lives struggling without healthcare? Rick,  your vision of governance, in you panavision, cares more about the pre-existence or possibility of human life than the actual children, teenagers, young adults and adults that live and struggle daily without access to healthcare? Oh, and at what age do you define “elderly”? 60? 70? 80? 90?

Amanda B. says fuck you (the u in fuck you is silent so it sounds like fck yo) and your horse and your stupid platform and your shiny head made for rubbing Johnson’s Baby Oil. Amanda B. says your wife must be really nice to stand your bullshit. Or deaf. Or…I won’t quote the other stuff Amanda B. says. It’s not fit for print on a blog that no one reads.

Rick Scott for Governor Family Values Platform:

  • Rick believes in the sanctity of human life (but not the sanctity of the living, and only if you are unborn or elderly which is between old, very old, and very very very old.)
  • Rick is pro-life. He is opposed to abortion and believes that Roe v. Wade should be overturned (so that his daughters, who may be raped one day just like Amanda B. was raped one day, is forced by the GOVERNMENT to have the child without her consent or healthcare to care for the child once it’s born.)
  • Rick believes that marriage should be between one man and one woman (so long as the man has a penis and the woman does not have a penis.)
  • Rick believes that we should appoint commonsense judges to protect our rights, our laws, and religious liberties by enforcing the law (which really means he wants to appoint religious police to oversee and replace our personal ‘liberties’ with his ‘religious liberties’ just like the religious police in Iran, Saudi Arabia, and Afghanistan do. The same judges that beat women or condemn them to death by stoning who don’t follow strict ‘religious’ codes. Bye bye Britney Spears and your crotch shots!)

Isn’t it ironic, Rick, that your platform and rhetoric are not true ‘conservative values’. Don’t tread on me and personal liberty are codes for I’ll tread on you with my own Rick Scott values. In fact, your ideas are ultra fascist bullshit that mom says you love because you’ve got the money to buy your freedom if you’re ever in a jam, or pickle, just like bribes got ladies of a certain class special access to abortions when the poor and unconnected were forced to have children or died while receiving substandard care in dark alleys. Because of your warped idea of government intervention in the personal lives and liberties of Americans, you and your politics, are unAmerican. In Amanda B.’s words, “Rick, keep your dick out of my vagina! Pickle head!”