june bird

Early June is a separate little gift from the rest of June.

Early June is promise and closure all at once. 

It doesn't know if it's a bookend or the beginning of a book.

And it doesn't much care.

in the presence of the king

I arrive fifteen minutes early for my noon appointment.  I am given a stack of papers on which I answer about thirty personal questions of a somewhat sensitive nature regarding my reproduction system and personal habits.
Then wait for thirty minutes.
I am here to see an OB/GYN they call "The King."

He is called "The King" because his patients always get pregnant.  There is nothing dubious, here.  It's just an appointment or two with The King, and parents-to-be from all over the tri-borough area are celebrating.  Legend has it that, after years of trying unsuccessfully, one woman...

I get stupid, I mean outrageous.

I heard Rob Base & DJ E-Z Rock's "It Takes Two" today.

"Right about now... you're about to be possessed... 

Remember this one?

...by the sounds of MC Rob Base and DJ... EZ... Rock...  

and I wept.

Hit it!"

I wept for my high school cafeteria where had my first braces-clad kiss on some Friday night just inches away from the same spot where I ate Fiesta Sticks in flourescent lunchtime lighting every Thursday between '89 and '92.
I wept for the teenage brain that I can never get back.  The one that was the Secretary of Student Counsel and President of the V-Club.  The one that was totally happy believing that sushi was gross and America was great.
Of course, I weep for my teenage waist, too, but I am not strong enough to face that tonight...  "Bartender...?"

Three-Whiskey Hotel

I do a lot of traveling.  I love traveling.  I have stayed in a lot of lodging.  I don't always love the lodging.  Good lodging is like home away from home.  Bad lodging is like an attack on all of your senses and a desire that your skin not make contact with anything.

The things I love include tight white sheets and shades that block out sunlight in the morning, then spring open to reveal abundant natural light when I am ready to get up.  I don't give a rat's ass about room service, but a continental breakfast that includes fruit is high on my list.  I just want one food-thing that is not over five years away from its life source.  A hard boiled egg counts...  unless it is over five years away from its life source.

Cheerleader Me

The Angry Baker, Columbus, OH, is on the corner of Oak and 18th, just East of Downtown in "Olde Towne."

It is a question I have been asked repeatedly in my adult life.  It is a question for which I am never quite prepared.  It is a harmless question.  To anyone else, it is meaningless:  "Were you a cheerleader?"

Often it is not even posed as a question.  Often it is half accusation/ half "I-know-your-type":  "You were a cheerleader, weren't you?

It's been 20 years since high school.  I am a grown woman.  And I am frightfully flattered by the question.  What is it they see in me?  Am I little and peppy?  Am I popular?  Am I cheery!?!

In 1988 as I prepared for the Bishop Hartley Cheeleading Try-Outs, I believed in my heart and soul:  I am a cheerleader.   I  knew all the words to all the cheers, I had the right hair, (well, I had big hair, but that was acceptable), my big sister Katie was already a BHHS cheerleader and coached me mercilessly in the weeks prior to the try-outs ("straighten your wrist, straighten your leg, more to the side, more to the front, higher.... higher.... higher!!!!  Well, you asked me to help; don't get mad.")  I can still remember the first 16 counts of choreography we learned to a New Order instrumental.

Cheese and Rice!

Only in Southern Utah do I go out on a Friday night to do a v & the b and find the coffee shop ready to close "unless you are here for Bible Group."  

I was not there for Bible Group.  

I did not even know that Bible Group was happening... but they hadn't busted out their guitars yet, so I stayed.

I know it's going to seem like I am making fun of religion, but I am not.  I respect religion.  I might however insert a few wisecracks about hypocrites.  I fucking love hypocrites.  They do all the work themselves.  

Southern Utah.  Mostly Mormons.  And Mormons don't drink hot caffeinated beverages and they don't drink alcohol.  This was going to be interesting.  (Please refer to title of blog.)  Turns out there was plenty of coffee to be found and there are liquor shops.  (Just don't buy that beer they sell at grocery stores:  that stuff is Barley-Flavored Soda dressed up for Halloween.)

It also seems like the Mormons don't like The Cussing.

P.B. & G.

We think we should be in commercials.  

Sometimes, we even write them ourselves.

Rarely can we shoot one without laughing.

Peanut Butter.  Take One.