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, 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 Glit Lit

GLIT LIT by Maureen Seaton

PRESS RELEASE: Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, boy-girls and girl-boys, cats and turtles, Almost Dorothy announces the world premiere and inaugural edition of GLIT LIT, a wickedly funny, and/or serious, somber, smart and/or always  or usually interesting series curated by Maureen Seaton, who is currently a professor of Creative Writing at the University of Miami, author of 13 books, and mother of the universe. The GLIT LIT series marks Almost Dorothy’s flowering (or deflowering) of her blog into new realms of discourse and intercourse. Pay attention. Smart stuff is coming your way. Enjoy.

ALL ABOUT GLIT LIT: Well, it’s simple. GLIT LIT is all about glitterature. That’s glitter + literature. According to Maureen Seaton, GLIT LIT is “about (mostly) poets and the stuff they make, brought to you on a rapid if irregular basis (coherent if inchoate, blasé if décolleté, Floridian if Querque, queer if bonsai). Cheers to little A. Dorothy and her entourage of marbles: clearies, puries, and crystals. Enjoy the glit.”

 

Posted in Culture Clash, Themes

FCKH8: The Gay Gang

Last night ma and I decided to form a gay gang called the “Gay Gang”. Our gay gang will be dedicated to karate chopping, ass whooping, and tickling bullies who bully with feather boas in our hands and/or around our necks. Yes, Liza Minnelli will be our mascot because she’s the toughest gay man out there these days. We’ve decided upon a uniform for our gay gang, which is kind of gay, the gay gang and the gay uniform. The “Gay Gang” uniform will be all pants pulled down so that our butt cracks will show, but we won’t wear underwear. Instead, we’ll wear a sticker over our ass crack that says,”Crack Kills!”  For more conservative gay gang members, they can wear a thong speedo instead of the “Crack Kills!” sticker. But that’s no fun. Ma and I have no idea why the gang will wear that kind of sticker. She said it will be fun. People will be like what and we’ll be like uh-huh as we slowly swivel our butts in  their faces. They’ll remember us forever as the “Gay Gang” with the ass crack sticker that says “Crack Kills!” I think what mom really means to say by this sticker is that ‘we are powerful, we are strong’ no matter where you stick it. Think about at little then get back to us. We’re on our way to buy hot dogs for our church protest to protest their protest against the existence of gays. “Goddamn it,” ma says. “Even Christ was gay. I’m sure He’d join our gay gang and kick some freaking ass.” Bullies, beware. Ma’s got a nutcracker and she’ll use it. Turn you into gelded cows. Peace in/out.

 

 

Ma's "Gay Gang" Nutcracker

 

 

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Politics

Marco Rubio Sucks

Toot, toot, yah, beep beep. I’m wearing my who who outfit and I’m headed out for the night with ma, or an impersonator who may or may not be ma. We’ve got our boobs on and boss shoes. Meaning shoes that are the boss. We’re not wearing ma’s boss’ shoes. He’s a jerk with small feet and a small ____. That’s what ma’ says. Well, we’re gonna hitch rides on the bus off Biscayne Boulevard and something street. We’ll probably stick our tongues to the bus window. We love the taste of public transportation. We stick our tongues out at cars at stop lights even if there are no cars. I’m going to eat light tonight. I’m canvassing the city for Kendrick Meek who’s standing up for the middle class while Charlie Christ and Marco Rubio stand up for asses.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Amanda Bernstein, Family, Themes

World Cup Nipple Missiles

The Nipple Missile

Amanda B. and I are watching the 2010 FIFA World Cup soccer match between Spain and the Netherlands and we saw this topless guy in the stadium and he had nipple missiles, which are long, pointy man nips that look like warheads or eraser tips. In any case, I’m not sure why ‘the’ has to go before the Netherlands or why the Netherlands is also called Holland and why isn’t never(the)less just neverless. What does FIFA stand for, anyway? First Idiot Farters Association? I mean, come on. The Netherlands, Holland, pick a name like Spain, which is only Spain, not ‘the’ Spain or Spalland. Amanda B. is rooting for Spain, she’s insane and incensed because I’m pulling for Turkmenistan because I was once in love with a Turk, or Turkamen? They make great flat bread with butter and stick to one name at a time. You can’t root for Turkmenistan, Amanda B. says. They’re not in the finals. Oh, I say. But, I can root for who I want. Deal with it.

Amanda B. and I both miss mom because we know it would be really fun if mom were here watching the finals with us. If you haven’t been following me lately, I busted out on mom and hid with Amanda B. Mom thinks we’re dead or long gone, but we’re just around the corner in Amanda’s sugar shack. Amanda B. likes treats. She dumped mom, which meant she also dumped me, because mom is the male version of Hunter S. Thompson. I hate rejection, so I left mom and chose to stay with Amanda B. because the B is silent when I need to think or just be Almost Dorothy. In any case, we’re thinking about calling mom over to welcome her back. Amanda B. shows me the unauthorized tattoo of a rat that mom (while drunk or stoned or sober) haphazardly drew on Amanda B.’s ass in the middle of the night while Amanda B. slept peacefully cause mom put sleeping pills in her milk. Amanda B. says we’ll call her after the game. I cross my fingers for good luck. Amanda B. crosses her fingers for good luck too as we sip from our 7-11 blue monster Slupees. Viva Turkmenistan, she says and winks I love you.

Programming Note: My Potty Mouth Interview series resumes tomorrow with an interview with the fabulous documentary filmmaker Sandrine Orabona who was one of the two cinematographers on Michael Jackson’s “This Is It.” Wonderful interview with an amazing, enlightened and inspirational figure. Fo’ sure, kids. Stay tuned.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Politics, Squinny, Themes

Almost Bjork

When I grow up, I want to be a bell just like Bjork. I will ring all over the world in clock towers and market squares. I will ring inside the heads of happy humans that gather in front of churches and synagogues and mosques and farmhouses as they pray to their Godless Gods. I will ring in the ears of sea otters, lions, and spiders, so they’ll know, for once, that somebody loves them. I love sea life and simple things like hand mirrors and sisters, bells and whispers. I will  ring my bell in the nose of librarians who say be quiet and don’t say a word as they stack ee cummings and Shōnagon. I will ring my bell body in the face of bishops and tell them in tongues as I shake my ass that I’m on their side while I tickle their toes with my freakishly long fingers.  No one can raise the dead, but I will ring my bell and raise the dead and the living dead and the living. I will raise my friend Squinny up with my bell and she will float above the surface of the world in her red dress. I will tell her what I’ve done. Tell her that the world is really full of love. Even if it’s really not. Even if she can’t hear a goddamn thing.

Painting by Macief Hofffman, “Gravitation” (2009), Oil on canvas, 210 x 185 cm, © Hoffman. Special thanks to Scene360.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Random Shit

Like the Weather after Natalie Merchant

Last night I had a dream that a sleepy giant tried to chew my toes off. A happy puppet rose from the bed and scared the sleepy giant away and then the happy puppet tried to chew my toes off. I was pissed because I love my toes and nose and the things that help me move from here to over there. Then, you guessed it, mom appeared in my dream and tried to chew my toes off, but no one and no thing came to save my toes from her happy chewing. I couldn’t get up. Couldn’t open my eyes. Couldn’t scream or shout or kick that happy beast off me, so I conducted an interview with her in Japanese to calm her down. And, like the weather, everything changed, even the pace of her happy chewing. When I woke up, I found mom asleep with her nose pressed against my feet and she was snoring like giant.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Family, Squinny, Themes

Almost Dorothy Is Not Dreaming

This morning I woke up in a debris field. Fragments of my imagination scattered all about. I ran and ran and ran to my BFF Squinny’s house and Squinny’s house was gone. I ran back to my house and my house was gone. I ran down the street toward North Miami Avenue and North Miami Avenue was gone. Only the impression of an avenue remained like the footprint of an Ibis on the wet part of the beach. I ran back toward Biscayne Bay and Biscayne Bay was gone except for a boat and two fish. I ran nowhere and everywhere was gone. Meteorites skimmed skyscrapers and the world was on red alert. Squinny is dead, mom said. She said Squinny was dead. I know, I said. I know. Then I went back to bed.

Posted in Almost Dorothy, Amanda Bernstein, Characters, Family, Squinny, The Mother, Themes

Almost Dorothy on Lesbianism

I woke up this morning, again, and I asked mom if she was or wanted to be a lesbian and, if she were or wanted to be a lesbian, I wanted to know what she planned to do about it. Mom said she’s not a lesbian but she likes women, especially women who are on the verge of lesbianism, like Hillary Clinton or Oprah, but she also likes men who are somewhat butch, like Elton John and Kid Rock. I told mom she made no sense and she said she made sense because she doesn’t care to be called LGB or T or PYT. Mom just wants to be mom and do whatever she wants where ever she wants, which sounds like a verse from a Shakira song, even if it means she’s a slut. I told mom she’s not a slut but mom said nothing and just smiled like yes I’m really a slut. I think mom is a true artist because she can survive anything.

Continue reading “Almost Dorothy on Lesbianism”