Friday, December 7, 2018

Sorry Not Sorry

Peppered throughout my ballyhooed blog history are apologetic posts packed with reasons why I haven’t posted in a long time: laziness, giving birth to a human child, wine, more laziness.  And yes, you are about to dip your toes into my depthless well of remorse once again.  You might want to take your socks off for this one. 

The date stamp on my most recent post tells me that it’s been over a year since I added anything to my blog, and that what I added was actually a reprint from my zine.  Mon dieu!  I am bringing blog neglect to heights not seen since stumbling upon pages that still shimmy and blink with Geocities-era graphics. 

Not my site, but I am a supporter of cute boys.

Although--real talk--my blog format is firmly stuck in the early 2000s.  Much like my belief that we just passed the turn of the millennium and I am still a fresh-faced lady in my mid-thirties.

My reasons for blog neglect are legion, but can mostly be summed up in a big hunk of good news: my 2018 publication bonanza! 

Since January, I have published eight pieces in various literary journals and websites (now conveniently listed under “My Other Crud” heading to the right of this post).  After many years--so many years, of toiling in obscurity--I am now toiling in slightly less obscurity.  I began submitting work for publication back in the pre-new millennium ages when I had to actually print out a hard copy of my story, jam it into an unforgivingly slim envelope along with my self-addressed stamped envelope (SASE, if you’re nasty) and hand it over to the U.S. postal worker with a hopeful gleam in my eye.  For nineteen (!!!!!!!) years, all I had to show for my efforts was a purple velvet journal filled with quotes from my rejection letters, the binding cracking from the few rejections with personalized feedback that I folded into the middle of its pages. 

Oh, how I dined out on my rejections with feedback.

I took a pause from the submission life around the time that online literary magazines and submission platforms began to spring to life.  I made peace with the fact that I would most likely continue my writing life without ever publishing a word beyond the music and book reviews I wrote for now defunct papers.  I finished the novel that had been burning a hole in my brain since I picked up my Pilot Precise v5.  At least I accomplished that even if it would languish on a floppy disc.  But the stories didn’t stop. 

I stopped submitting but I never stopped writing. 

I entered the zine-ing world and found much joy from finally seeing my words in print and getting feedback from readers.  The apex of my zine joy was when a woman approached me at the grocery store.  She had read my zine and my blog about miscarriage (a blog with the Geocities of blog names: the Peabody Project Chronicles 2: Experiences in Pregnancy After Miscarriage).  My words had helped her get through some rough times.  I walked away from the conversation almost breathless with joy.  I had connected with someone, maybe even helped them find a moment of comfort.  That’s what it’s all about.  (Don’t think I didn’t try to jam a Hokey Pokey joke in there.)   

The reformation of my writing group marked the official restart to my publishing attempts.  I made a spreadsheet.  I googled.  I found the Entropy "Where to Submit" list.  I polished my cover letters and I started to send my word assortments into the world. 

My first unsolicited acceptance came from The Rumpus on an essay I almost didn’t send because I thought it was too odd and silly for such a venerated literary website.  I got the acceptance early in the morning in June when we had relatives staying with us.  I read the email on my phone in the darkness of the living room while everyone in the house was still asleep. My first thought was “Wow!  This is the nicest rejection I’ve received yet!”  Then as I clicked away to check on Facebook, a question lodged in my mind.  Was that actually a rejection?  I clicked back.  I re-read the email.  I still didn’t believe my eyes.  Quickly I logged into my Submittable account and clicked on the Accepted tab and my essay, “The Butt Song” winked back at me. I almost yelled to wake up the entire household. 

When publication day arrived, I refreshed The Rumpus website every few minutes even though my editor, the fabulous Eileen G’Sell, told me she would let me know when it was posted.  During my lunch break, the message arrived.  My essay was up.  The first thought that went through my mind after I read her message: This is it.  The final moments before this new adventure begins.  These are my final pre-publication moments.  Savor them, lady. 

Grandiose?  Oh yes.  I actually laughed out loud at myself as I rounded the corner to my office.  I put some of the blame on being in the thick of reading David Sedaris’ Diaries (which are as spectacular as everything else that pours from his pen) and his description of the way his life changed in the wake of the publication of “TheSantaland Diaries.”  One day he’s dreaming about being interviewed by Terry Gross, the next he’s thanking Terry on-air in the WHYY studios.  

Although Terry has yet to come a-calling, I have upped my publication rate by over 100% in a single year.  I have no illusions that this is an upward trajectory.  It’s feast or famine.  I could very well never see another word of mine in digital print.

The best part of publication bonanza 2018 has been making connections with other writers and being able to share my work with the friends and family who have always supported me and this solitary thing I do.  Before a story is posted I always feel a little jittery, afraid that I have revealed something about myself that I didn’t realize or that I have left an errant “true” name in a story.  But mostly I feel excited.  Excited to share, excited to connect, and excited to get back to the composition book to see what comes next.

If you’re up for updates that are less annual, follow me on Twitter @kt_sinback.

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Great Moments in Dance History

(Reprinted from Crudbucket 7: The All Grown Up and Nowhere to Go Issue in honor of my recently published essay, The Butt Song on The Rumpus.)

My dance style is Devo, heavy on the herky-jerky and lacking in any but the smallest glimpses of what one would call a sense of rhythm or finesse.  It’s something about my shoulders.  They remain ramrod straight no matter how much yoga I do, or how many times Mr. Crud lays his hands on my shoulders and urges, “Relax.” 

How I ended up on stage at the 9:30 Club, dancing to a song exalting the glories of booty shaking with the horrid rock-rap fusion band The Hard Corps is one of the great mysteries of my life. 

Not this Hard Corps.

Yep, this one.

That night I shone with excitement.  My friend Colleen and I drove 2 hours from our smallish college town in the Shenandoah Valley to the big city, Washington D.C. so that I could bask in the glow of the first rapper—not counting the Beastie Boys—to steal my heart: Ice mothafuckin’ T.  I know this admission jeopardizes any sliver of street cred that I had, but I didn’t really catch the wave of hip-hop during its initial heyday.  I enjoyed the Run D.M.C./Aerosmith version of “Walk This Way” and I enjoyed the Beastie Boys enough, but high school’s racial-social segregation and my own need to define myself as a punky depressed girl through my music collection—the usual suspects: REM, The Smiths, the Sex Pistols—kept me from opening myself to the possibility that I might actually like that crazy rap music.  Then came Ice T’s “Original Gangster” and everything changed.  I played that cassette 24-7 and developed a heavy duty crush on—do people call him this?—Mr. T.  My boyfriend at the time taunted me for my T love, curling his lip with disdain as he said, “oh, he’s so smooth.” 

Ice T also fancied himself as a sort of intellectual of the street and even—don’t gasp—a feminist.  To a Riot Grrrl like myself, this made all the bitching and ho-ing almost acceptable, except that his feminism mainly extended to his song “That Bitch Tried to Kill Me,” which, he explained, shows how a woman tried to kill him with sex, how she had the power.  You can find more of his theories and explorations of gender relations in The Ice Opinion.  You can borrow my copy. 

Colleen and I arrived early.  This was our first real rap show and we wanted to be up front.  Although it was a mostly white crowd, there were more than just a few black people sprinkled amongst the Mohawks as was the case with most of the shows I saw at the 9:30.  The bill was the Hard Corps, Ice T, and then Ice T and Body Count, his new rock-rap band that gained notoriety for “Cop Killer.”  (You can borrow my Body Count CD too.  Actually you don’t need to return that one.) 

The Hard Corps started out the night enthusiastically enough, but my eyes were fixed on the corner of the club where black clad bodyguards surrounded the Sultan of Smooth.  Like every other famous person I’ve ever encountered excepting Thurston Moore, he was short.  While the bad rap metal screamed from the speakers beside my head, I got lost in my fantasy of being Ice T’s new purple-haired Riot Grrrl pal.  He would whisper smooth nothings in my ear and I would gently educate him about his flawed Bitch-Tried-to-Kill-Me logic.  (Is that totally fucking racist?  Shit.  I also had this fantasy about Anthony Kiedis so maybe not.)  Ice T was ready for feminism.  He already had seen through other power structures of society without stepping foot in a Sociology class.  Women were his blind spot, likely due to his years of pimping.  I could work with that.  I was at the start of my early feminist cycle, still willing to accommodate a certain degree of misogyny if someone showed the slightest glimmer of promise.  At a Positive Force meeting an icebreaker question involved whether Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “Baby Got Back” was good or bad for the ladies.  I was pretty much alone in defending Mr. Mix-A-Lot. At least he’s trying to be female positive even if it still focused on a woman’s body fitting a certain standard, I explained to mostly icy stares.  Ice T caught me at a good time.  In a few months I would be sucked into active disgust for everything with even a whiff of sexism. 

Lost in my revelry and undressing Mr. T with my eyes, I mechanically danced to the Hard Corps.  “Alright y’all, you know what time it is,” the lead rapper said.  Suddenly hands reached down into the audience and pulled me onstage. Colleen and a couple of other front row women milled around behind the band, our eyes frantically adjusting to the spotlights blinding us.  The other women were smiling.  Colleen and I shrugged at each other and giggled nervously.  Then the beat, then the bass, then entreaties to shake it, and then, for the sake of my dignity, I have mostly blacked out my hip hop dance debut. 

I know that I moved my butt around in some way and one of the band members attempted to get in a groove with me, but my rhythm-less jerking stymied him and he moved onto Colleen who had some hidden reserve of booty shaking skill that surprised me.  Damn!  Where was I when the booty skills got passed out?  With all the women paired up with one band member or another, I was all alone, spazzing around in my purple velvet pants—which at least did show that I had a big old butt—and black t-shirt.  

The lights let me pretend that Ice T had returned to his dressing room, that he wasn’t scratching his chin and laughing at the silly white girl.  The lyrics started to penetrate my fog of nerves. My cheeks blazed as I realized that this was the rap-metal version of “Big Bottom.”  How had they known of my posterior gifts?  The stage cut me off at the waist.  Was it obvious from my face?  Did I have a large-assed face?  After the longest song ever, someone mumbled a thanks, pulled me in for a quick hug, tucked a tape, Def Before Dishonor, in my hand, and helped me off the stage.  Colleen followed.  

“That was awesome,” she said, her cheeks flushed with exertion and eyes brighter in the lights.  

“Yeah, wow,” I said. We high-fived and acted like the chosen. 

I wondered if backstage, somebody would be getting chewed out after the show.  

“Explain to me again how you picked out the least funky ladies in the entire audience?”  

“That one DID have a huge ass,” he would say in his defense.  They would nod reflectively.  

Ice T would pop by, tossing his two cents into the mix, “You gotta admire her balls.”  

I would’ve hoped he said clit instead of balls, but close enough.

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

The Future's So Bright I Gotta Wear Sequined Shorts


Purvis’ current favorite graphic novel is Victoria Jamieson’s awesome Rollergirl.   When we aren’t catching up on the sad tales of the Baudelaire twins, we read about Rollergirl Astrid who joins roller derby in Portland while undergoing a painful separation from her former best friend.  I try to prepare Purvis for the inevitable friend pain ahead, or at least give her a place to turn when she finds herself in conflict with friends.  Judy Blume got me through a difficult period when I watched my friends peel away one by one for reasons that I still don’t completely understand.  (And I haven’t been able to find Amy G on Facebook to get the lowdown as to why she ditched me then led a fifth through eighth-grade campaign against me.  Let the speculation continue.)  All that I could ask for, outside of my friends taking me back, was understanding and commiseration from someone who had been through the hell of losing your friends. 

Knowing that this pain awaits Purvis is a punch to the gut.  I can only prepare her so much.  She just has to live it.  Already I see shades of things to come—stories about first-grade friend groups excluding wannabe slugs from their incomprehensible game, Slug Wars.  Purvis is an OG slug, but I tell her that excluding kids is never okay.  Someday she will be slimed by slug rejection.    

When we read Rollergirl, she doesn’t focus much on the problems Astrid experiences with her friends.  She is all about the roller derby.  So when I saw in the paper that the Rose City Rollers junior roller derby teams would be derbying Sunday, I added the games—or as Purvis corrected me “bouts”—to our calendar. 

“Maybe we’ll see Astrid!” she said. 

“I don’t think so, sweetie.  Astrid is a character.  And I think the writer is a grown woman now,” I said.

Purvis looked doubtful.  She would still be looking for Astrid.

When we parked near the Hangar at Oaks Park, Purvis practically started to run to the door.

“It looks just like it does in the book.” She gasped.


We stepped inside the cavernous hangar just as the home team Rose Petal All-Stars were being announced.  The Rose Petals are the tween skaters, aged seven to twelve.  Their bout against the Seattle all-star Derby Brats would run for shortened periods to accommodate the second bout of the teenaged team, The Rosebuds. 

Purvis reasoned out the team names.  “Because the petals are lighter, it’s for the tweens.  And the buds are like the strong part, so it’s for the older girls,” she said.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” I said.

We found seats at the back of a curve of bleachers.  Music pumped.  The announcer hyped up the crowd: “Who’s seeing their first roller derby tonight?  All right!”  Cool air wafted in through the open door into the hangar.  The Rose Petals zipped around the track, their purple shirts accented by glittery shorts and black leggings.  I tried to make out the derby names stenciled below their numbers.  Dragon Slayer.  American Gangsta.  Trickster.  Lucille Maul.  Fantastic.  I envisioned Purvis and I brainstorming our roller derby names after we finished figuring out what V.F.D. stands for in Lemony Snicket’s The Ersatz Elevator.  (Spoiler alert—it stands for Volunteer Fire Department, but I am having too much fun theorizing to tell her.  Her current pick, a reference to the evil Count Olaf: Villainous Fortune Devourer.)

Purvis passed the roller derby program to me, open to a page with the basic rules.  “This will help you understand.” I skimmed the rules—the jammer tries to break through blockers in the pursuit of becoming lead jammer and racking up points.  The lead jammer can “call off the jam” by emphatically putting her hands to her hips.  If nothing else, roller derby has the best terminology.

“Can you tell me how it works?”  I asked Purvis

Her frequent reading of Rollergirl was obvious.  She’s read the entire book at least ten times and carts it to school everyday to read during her free reading time.  She explained the bout, what a jam was, what the jammer was trying to do and then showed me examples as the skaters zipped around the rink. 

I had the basic hang of roller derby by the time we hit intermission.  I still don’t understand the strategy, how scoring works, or what constitutes a foul, but I know what a jam is and why being the lead jammer is so important.  I also get why Astrid was so desperate to be a jammer.  Purvis is too.

“Well, sweetie, first you have to learn how to roller skate,” I said.

“I can skate!” she said.

“You need to be able to skate without holding onto the wall and my hand.”

“I can,” she said indignantly.

Purvis’ image of her skating abilities is another one of those overconfident blind spots, much like her belief that she already knows how to play soccer and could walk onto the Thorns field with no problem should Tobin Heath be taken down by injury. 

At a recent birthday party at a local skating rink, she frequently dropped to her knees when walk-skating around the rink became too taxing.  One of her best friends, who logs hours skating in a nearby parking lot, zipped around like she had laced on her first pair of skates a few days after taking her first steps.  Purvis is trying to convince her pal to take up roller derby, perhaps so she can live vicariously through her friend while Purvis works on her skating skills.  

“We’ll need to work on skating a little more,” I said.  “That’s no problem.  We can get some skates and go over to Hosford to practice.”

“Oh!  Yeah!” she said.  “That’s a great idea.” 

Time to start combing Craigslist for some size four skates for Purvis and some size elevens for me.  May I emerge from this latest foray into sport without breaking my arm as I did when I was in fourth grade and the toe of my left skate had an unfortunate convergence with my right.  Fun fact:  roller-skating is second only to skateboarding in the breaking of kid bones.  Or it was in 1982.

At the roller derby, we moved to the front row and watched the rest of the first bout.  As I am wont to do, I got into it.  I cheered when the Portland jammers pulled ahead of the pack first.  I delighted when one of my favorites, the nimble Dragon Slayer, jumped over a blocker’s skate to zip around the track and rack up more points for the Rose Petals.  My enthusiasm didn’t pass Purvis’ embarrassment threshold as it has a few times during close Thorns matches.  I did not hiss curse words then immediately turn to my daughter and tell her to never say the thing that I just said.  Most of the time she looks at me blankly.  “What did you say?”


She’s still not totally clear on the f-word or is playing dumb for my benefit. 

At the end of the bout, Purvis hopped up from the bleachers and walked to the track.  She stepped over the thin rail of padding that surrounded the track.  She beckoned me over with a flick of her hand.  “Come on, you can stand on the track for the victory lap.” 

Throughout the bout, she leaned over to tell me that she was super excited for the victory lap.  I imagined the skaters zipping around the track to the cheers of the crowd.  The victory lap was cooler than that: skaters whipped around with hands extended, high-fiving the crowd that lined the track.  

The line around the track was already packed tight with admirers so I let Purvis do her high-five slapping of the derby all-stars solo. 

I loved roller derby almost as instantly as I did soccer.  I love watching the young women flex their hard-won muscles, be tough, hit hard, and exude bad-ass confidence while wearing glitter booty shorts.  Or not.  Roller derby fashion ranged from tomboy to exploded glitter-bomb.  The vibe was inclusive.  There is room for everyone, all styles, as long as they celebrate bad-assery.  I liked that the comradery among derby girls extended beyond the boundaries of the team.  The two jammers in the teenage bout smiled and laughed before the whistle blew and they hustled to push through the blockade of spandex and sequined butts and sharp elbows.  

On the car ride to swimming class, the reason we had to leave the second bout early, Purvis made her intentions clear.

“Just think when I’m a teenager, I’m going to do roller derby, be a soccer player, and a wrestler!”

Just think indeed.  An ambitious plan and I am behind her all the way.  What is the optimum roller derby name for a soccer player-derby girl-wrestler? 

Purvis’ proposed roller derby name: Rocket Fire.   
Second choice: Lighting Bolt.
Josh’s suggestion: Her-cules
My suggestion: Cap’n Crunch.  (Both Purvis and Josh looked at me quizzically.  “But that’s just cereal.”  Yeah, but it’s CRUNCH-y cereal.  Get it, Cap’n Crunch?  They didn’t get it.)

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

My Cruddy Spring Break 2017: A Pox on our House


When Purvis started to sniffle the Friday afternoon before spring break, I should have slathered myself with hand sanitizer, and installed masks on our faces.  Instead I entreated her not to cough directly in my face and hoped for the best.  Shouldn’t my immune system be up to the task of fighting off the bugs she ferries home from first grade? 

My answer came Sunday evening when my chest tightened and a few coughs escaped my throat.  Purvis' health was improving just in time for spring break.  And I was sliding into my second illness in as many months.

The Monday walk to work settled my internal debate.  My legs were weak.  My head throbbed.  Last month I had pretended that the morning nausea I was experiencing was a blip in my day.  Pretended myself through a yoga practice where I had to leave the mat to keep myself from ralphing all over the candlelit studio, and then to work where, after an hour of reading email, the pretense ended.  I had to get home before I spilled my choked down oat bran all over my keyboard.  (Victory!  I made it home in time to upchuck in the comfort of my own bathroom with minutes to spare.)

This past Monday, as each step became more labored, I remembered my pledge to not doubt my body again after the recent close call.  I flew the white flag of surrender.  I was sick.  I called Josh and Purvis to come pick me up because I couldn’t fathom how I could walk the rest of the way home. 

Not the best start to spring break, but what could I do?

I installed myself on the couch to ache and cough and shiver.  Purvis joined me for some family sitcoms. She knows that me being sick is prime time for her to expand her TV-watching privileges and discover some new shows.

Sick Day Shows Watched:
Casual – I watched this Hulu dramedy when Purvis was on a play date—she is not ready for graphic sex and tales of teacher seduction.  This, I know.
Fresh Off the Boat
The Simpsons
Malcolm in the Middle - Probably Purvis’ favorite discovery.  I feel entrenched in the nineties the second the They Might Be Giants theme song starts.  

By Monday night, Josh was feeling the telltale chest tightening.  I alternately shivered and sweated on the couch, trying to keep myself downing liquids and sucking on the zinc lozenges that I cling to like little cherry-flavored lifeboats whenever I get sick. 

“They reduce the duration of colds by fifty percent,” I droned. 

“Should we cancel our reservation?” Josh asked.

The past three years we have spent the latter half of spring break week at the well-located and nice-enough Spindrift Inn in Manzanita, Oregon.  Manzanita is a quiet town on the Oregon coast with a main street of cute shops, decent restaurants, and a windy stretch of beach littered with driftwood, broken sand dollars and hemmed in by grassy dunes.  When Cannon Beach got too crowded and too expensive, Manzanita slid into our coastal getaway slot.  In January, as soon as we get back from our Christmas trip to the east coast, I book a few days in the unit at the Spindrift with a full kitchen.  The email confirming my reservation is a beacon of hope at the end of the typically brutal winter term.  Unfortunately, the Spindrift Inn is a small business and does not have the most forgiving cancellation policy.

I checked my email reservation.

“Even if we cancel now, we still have to pay for half,” I told Josh.  “Let’s wait and see how we feel on Wednesday.”

“Okay,” he said doubtfully.

I had high hopes that at least I would be partially recovered by Wednesday.  My illnesses tend to follow a three-day pattern.  The first day of acute, can’t-leave-the-couch fever times.  Then a sweaty night of sleep to a morning of slight improvement on day two.  Until day three comes and I start to feel a sliver of myself again.  Day four, I return to my routine, weaker and slower than usual, but back in the swing of life. 

This time, day two was worse.  I woke in the middle of the night, my head feeling like it was clamped in a vice.

Types of Headaches Experienced:
Skull in a vice a.k.a. The Skull Crusher
The Face-Melter
Nail pounded into left temple
Sizzling Sinuses of Lava
Temple of pain lurking in the shadow of my eyebrow

“If I could shake this headache, I think I could be okay,” I told Josh, who suffered from a similar misery, that afternoon.

After realizing that the headache was not going to go away on its own, I got serious about pain management.  I loaded up on Advil and some expired acetaminophen.  I rifled through all of the meds I bought when I had the flu five years ago.  All expired.

“Expired doesn’t mean they will kill you, they just won’t work as well,” Josh said.

“Yeah, I know.”  But still, I feel uneasy putting anything expired in my body.  A picture of my furrowed brow as I scrutinize a carton of milk should accompany those articles about food waste. 

When Tuesday night brought no relief, and another round with The Skull Crusher, I stared longingly at the remaining Oxycodone pill from my bout with Shingles a couple of years ago.  I’d been saving it for some untold misery that none of my menstrual cramps and headaches had approached in the past two years.  Or for the apocalypse.  Because I will need heavy narcotics when the end times come.  I stared at the bottle.  My eyes snagged on the expiration date.  One year to the day.  The start of spring is not good for my health apparently. 

I stuck with my OTC painkillers, but tucked the Oxy away mentally.  As long as I have a pharmaceutical escape hatch, I can bear the pain. 

As I lay awake sweating, contemplating my headache, and wondering if it was the most pain I had experienced since Shingles, I came to terms with the fact that there was no way we could drive to the coast the next day. 

Maybe I could get Purvis into the remaining days of spring break camp offered by her art afterschool program.  Or beg some friends to take her for an afternoon play date so that her report back to her teacher when she returned to school was not exclusively a list of all the TV shows I’d let her watch.  I composed mental text messages, emails, pleas for help.  

The first rays of sun crept through the curtains.  When Purvis came to perch on the side of the couch to wake me up, I felt somewhat prepared.  She had been looking forward to this trip—aided by me, pumping her up for the trip before being dragged under by pestilence—and would be disappointed at its cancellation.  Disappointed being the polite way of saying bonkers balls-out pissed.   

I rubbed the crust from my eyes and perched up on my elbows.  “Hey sweetie,” I said.

“We’re going, right?” she asked.  

“I don’t know, sweetie.  I don’t think we can.”

“What?!  What?!!”  She dropped to the floor, sending a sound of rolling thunder through the house.  “You can’t cancel it.  We made a commitment!”

Whenever the topic of canceling or delaying our trip arose, she insisted, “We made a commitment to this.  We can’t go back on it,” as if our trip were a music class or a karate-training sequence from her new favorite movie The Karate Kid.  (Ralph Macchio version, of course.)

“I know this is disappointing, sweetie, but Daddy and I are really sick.  If we can’t get there safely, we can’t go,” I said.

Josh poked out from the bedroom and took over disappointment abatement while I scurried into the bedroom to grab a few more minutes of rest. 

By the time I emerged to throw together breakfast, Purvis was pacified. 

“I told her she could pick out a movie and get a treat if we didn’t go.”  He said.

“Sounds good.”

After breakfast, Josh and I entered negotiations.  He felt better.  Well enough to drive the two hours to Manzanita.

“If you can drive, I can definitely sit in a car for a couple hours,” I said.

Plus the thought of surrendering $200 for a trip we didn’t take was a burning ember in my gut of cheapness. 

“Okay!  Let’s do it.”


We stopped by the drugstore to load up on non-expired painkillers and a fresh box of Nyquil.  As we pulled onto Route 26, my mind flashed to the prescription bottles I had stumbled across in the medicine cabinet, prednisone and an anti-viral drug I took when I last had Shingles.  Why hadn’t I brought them just in case?  Because what if I had…

Illnesses Googled While Sick (and panicked about for at least a day)
Shingles – what if the red splotch on my cheek was really a budding zoster? What if the headaches were precursors to another descent into a cartoonishly swollen face crusted with oozing blisters and the worst pain of my life?
Spinal Meningitis – a stiff neck, a bad headache, a germ-ridden kid: it could happen.
Tumor – Because what health panic is complete without a nod to cancer?

I was able to keep my Shingles/Spinal Meningitis/Flu/Pneumonia/Brain Tumor fears at bay for the drive to the coast and kept them to myself during our stay although I lingered by mirrors to examine the cheek splotch.  In retrospect, I think the splotch is another Shingles scar.  Not as pronounced as my Harry Potter lightning bolt, but another reminder that I am stumbling into old lady-hood at a more rapid pace then I’d like.  Although my bout of Shingles could be balanced by a diagnosis of the young person’s illness, Strep Throat, that I had a month earlier.  I contain multitudes.  Multitudes of germs.  And an immune system that needs to step up its game. 

We drifted into Manzanita on a raincloud, but the showers did not dampen Purvis’ spirits.  After checking in and dumping our carful of luggage in the cabin, she dragged us to the beach.  Wind whipped sprays of rain into tiny bullets against our skin.  I pulled my hood tighter and wished for gloves. 

“I want to take my shoes off!” she said.

“Not right now, sweetie.  It’s freezing,” I said.

“I’m hot.”

This conversation would repeat itself over the next day and a half until, finally, the sun peeking out from behind a cloudbank, I let her slip out of her rain boots and run free in the sand.  Immediately she sprinted to the shore and commenced with jumping waves of ice water. 

“Be careful!” I yelled impotently. 

Do I prefer the year that she refused to leave the safety of the dunes because she was gripped by fear that a sneaker wave would snatch her from the sand and take her out to sea?

In general, no.  But her newfound ocean fearlessness unnerves me too.  While walking around town on a mission to the candy store with Purvis, I let it slip that a surfer got bitten by a shark at Cannon Beach last summer.

“We didn’t tell you because we thought you’d never get near the ocean after that.  But I think you can handle it now.”  I said, throwing a sidelong glance.

“Oh,” she said, breaking into a sprint to the candy store, where she chose Bean Boozled jellybeans as her candy treat of spring break.  After lunch we quizzed each other on the Bean Boozled flavors:  Spoiled milk or coconut?  Barf or peach?  Toothpaste or Berry Blue?  Is this fun for anyone?  Because Purvis was too afraid to try more beans after she put a barf-flavored bean in her mouth.   

It turns out that Purvis can handle my story of a shark on the Oregon coast because she still ran at the ocean like a beloved school friend after summer vacation.

Top Beach Activities
Beachcombing – We didn’t find the holy grail, an unbroken sand dollar, but we found some interesting shell fragments to fill our bucket.  Purvis slipped her hand in mine and asked me, “Are you glad I’m looking for shells with you now?”  Yes, I am.  After years of trying to bring her along on my shell searches, finally she volunteered to join me.
Running in the Dunes – Purvis assured me she was fine and told me to leave her to play in the dunes by herself.  I was fine as long as I saw her head bobbing along above the line of the blowing grass.  But when I lost track of her ponytailed head, I climbed to the top of the dune for a better vantage point.  “What?! I’m fine!!!”  Can anyone explain why she feels safer getting lost in the dunes than going into her dark bedroom by herself?
Sandcastle building
Frisbee – Purvis patiently taught me how to throw the Frisbee again.  The wind thwarted our attempts at a game. 
Flying Sharkie, the new family kite – After much debate and lobbying from Purvis, Josh picked up a new kite for the family to replace the hopelessly tangled unicorn kite we bought Purvis when she was two.  The unicorn kite has been a point of contention.  Purvis doesn’t want us flying it because she’s afraid we’ll let it blow away.  And yet she doesn’t want to fly it because she doesn’t like unicorns.  As Josh handed over the moolah, he let her know that Sharkie was for everyone.  Viva Sharkie!   
Taking in the beauty and grandeur of the sea – In thirty-second increments before being dragged to another Purvis-directed activity.
Biking in the sand – As with all new activities, this one got off to a rocky, tear-soaked, family fight beginning peppered with threats that “We will leave the beach this minute!”  The preceding afternoon Purvis went on and on about how she had always wanted to try the bikes.  We took her at her word.  Apparently what she meant was she wanted to be able to be immediately adept at the bike from the second it touched the sand (and not to have to carry it to the beach herself).  After about fifteen minutes of turmoil, tears, and empty threats all around, we got the hang of the bikes and had a good forty-five minutes of fun riding them around in the wet sand.  My thighs burned, my brow was soaked with sweat and it felt good to be moving.  Pro tip—don’t stop moving lest you sink into the sand.

At the end of our sunny-ish day of beach play, we settled in for a movie. 

Movies Watched
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – Not the Order of the Phoenix as advertised on the DVD box, but still full of Hogwarts good fun.
Fly Away Home – A young Anna Paquin and a grizzled Jeff Daniels teach a gaggle of geese to migrate to North Carolina. 
The Secret Life of Pets – Among the new kids movie releases I had been avoiding, but it was better than expected.  Plus with Louie C.K. as the protagonist dog, Max.  Now I know where he is getting all the money to make Horace and Pete.  (We are stuck on the second episode of Horace and Pete, unsure if we can wade through so much bleakness.) 

Throughout our stay in Manzanita, Josh and I were both wracked with chills, fever, and coughing fits.  Every morning we woke up hoping that the cold had lifted.  Even lifted just enough for us to trade off parenting duties.  When one parent is sick, life can move along at a limp, but still move along.  When both parents are sick: chaos!  Misery!  Accusations that you are the worst parents in the world!!  Purvis granted us two days of parental sick leave.  She crafted a Get Well house for one of the minions she has taken to crafting out of folded scraps of paper since watching the movie.  She wrote me notes.  She even wrote me a message in the sand during our sunny day at the beach: No matter what I love you.  As our colds dragged on and our ability to keep up with her waned, she got pissed.

Accusations Hurled
“You’re not sick!”
“You’re the meanest!”

Josh and I laid on the guilt as thick as peanut butter.  “You know, honey.  We are really sick and we came to the beach because you wanted to come so badly.”  Plus, as she reminded us, we made a commitment.  And we had to pay anyway.  And trying to amuse her at home sounded more difficult.

Someday she’ll appreciate our sacrifice.  Or so we tell ourselves.  On the drive home, I told her about how I called my mother and apologized for all the times that I was mean and ungrateful.  Taking vacations with Purvis has put my past family vacations in a new light.  Were we really so demanding?  Did we throw a fit when our every whim was not honored?  I think I may owe my mom another phone call. 

“And someday you’ll apologize to me and realize how much I did for you.” I said to Purvis.

“But I’m not getting married or having kids.  Or I’ll get married and have kids then I’ll get divorced.”  She said. 

“Sure.  Whatever works for you.  But if you get divorced and you get sick, it’s going to be so much harder to take care of your kids.  It’s hard to be a single parent.” I said.

Then she asked to hold the French fries from her Burgerville kids’ meal.  She had more pressing issues to deal with than the hypothetical future and the apologies she may or may not grant me when she has kids of her own.  I’m not sure why I feel the need to bring reality intruding into her daydreams about her glorious future of post-divorce single parenthood.  I blame the cold.

Friday, October 28, 2016

The F-Word

Don't take my effing picture, Mom!

“Mama, what’s the f-word that isn’t fart?” Purvis asked at dinner. 

“Uh,” I fumbled, “why do you ask?”

“At School of Rock, the teacher asked who our favorite band was and I said Tacocat and we were going to do ‘I Hate the Weekend’ but she said we couldn’t because of the f-word.”

“Oh, yeah.  So when you and I sing it, we sing another word for the f-word.”

“What?” She asked.

“Purvis’ teacher’s band is opening up for Tacocat tonight,” Josh interjected, using the time-tested misdirection technique.

“How cool!” I said.

“No, Tacocat is opening up for them,” Purvis said.

Several times we tried to correct her.  Tacocat was definitely the main event.  But she wouldn’t hear of it.  I’m not sure if she thinks the opening band is the main event or if her teacher’s band is bigger than Tacocat.  The issue became a sore one and wasn’t worth the disagreement.  Also, it steered us a satisfactory distance away from the f-word topic.  “Look over there!” saves the day once again.

On Saturday, Purvis and I packed into the car to go to acro-class. 

“I Hate the Weekend!” Purvis called out once she was buckled into her booster seat.

“Okay, okay,” I said, taking a moment to appreciate that she is no longer demanding the Wizard of Oz soundtrack or the now-disavowed “Let It Go.”  (“I never liked Frozen,” Purvis claims.  I have a pile of Elsa stuffies that tell a different tale.)

“At the end of every week/they pull into our streets/homogenized and oh-so-weak,” Purvis and I belted out along with Tacocat.

Got a hall pass from your job/just to act like a buckin' slob,” we sang, me doing a quick-check in the rearview mirror to see if any recognition fluttered over her face.

During our early sing-a-longs I omitted the “fuckin’” from “fuckin’ slob” and kept going.  One day Purvis insisted it was “buckin’” so I went with it.  Sure, buckin’ slob works.

She paused her singing.  “That’s the word, isn’t it,” she said.

“We sing buckin’,” I said.  “Buckin’ slob.”  I enunciated like I was teaching her a new word.

“But what is it really?” she asked.

“I can’t tell you.  Ask one of your older friends what the f-word is.”  I said, hoping it was the last time I refer Purvis to the playground to acquire a piece of grown-up knowledge. 

“It’s fart, isn’t it,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s fart.” I said.


Purvis’ search for the truth about the f-word continued.  She knows it isn’t fart.  She scoured the playground for information, asking older kids and know-it-all peers, and none of them could enlighten her. 

“Tell me, Mama,” she begged.

“Sorry, I can’t.”

I pondered the issue.  I want her to come to me with burning questions.  I want her to trust me to give her the information she needs to negotiate this house-on-fire we call life.  But still.  Does this include providing her with a list of curse words?  Is it time to introduce her to George Carlin?

Somehow I’ve managed to negotiate the whole Donald Trump “grab ‘em by the pussy” ordeal without exposing the other meaning of the p-word.  All she knows is that Donald Trump kisses women without their consent and that is not okay.  Also that Donald Trump is a disaster of a man who wants to build a wall keeping people out of this country.  (The playground scuttlebutt on the Donald is all negative in Southeast Portland.)

I checked in with Josh.  “Should I tell her what the f-word is?”

“No, you should not.  She isn’t ready for it.”

When she’s frustrated, she “Jesus Christs” all over the place.  We’ve told her that she can’t Jesus Christ in public, but I know it’s only a matter of time.  I can’t help laughing when she “What in Jesus Christs?” something.  What in Jesus Christ indeed.  Something about her dropping f-bombs seems to be taking it too far. 

My parents had a no-tolerance policy towards curse words.  Neighborhood kids could "shit" and "bitch" within earshot, but if we uttered even a "piss," our mom dragged us aside for a stern talking-to.  When I was in college, I OD-ed on them.  Fuck this and fuck that, fucking fuckety fuck.  "They're just words," I smirked.   During my brief tenure as a substitute teacher, I didn't jump all over kids for cursing in class at first.  As long as they don't demean me or their peers, I don't care, I told myself.  Then, in the line of high-schooler fire, I changed my tune quickly.  Curse words were the canary in the coal mine they tossed out to see what the sub was made of.  This sub was equal parts unresolved high school issues and not wanting to get fired.  So I endured.  I kept it in the room.  I tried not to care when they no longer though of me as "the cool sub."  (For more details on my adventures in substitute teaching, check out "The Cool Bad Sub" in Crudbucket 4: The Happy Childhood Issue.)
As Purvis and I lay in bed, she again made a case for f-word enlightenment.  “Please tell me.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you.  It’s fart.”  I said.

“No, it isn’t.”

“It’s Frankenweenie,” I blurted.



You know, the Tim Burton movie about a boy who brings a dog back to life a la Frankenstein?  I haven’t seen it either, but somebody did their marketing right since that is the word that popped into my head.

She was satisfied for the moment. 

Sunday we piled in the car and turned up the Tacocat for the drive to swimming class.

“I Hate the Weekend,” she implored.


I forwarded to the track.  I pumped up the volume.  I sang along at the top of my lungs.  Purvis was suspiciously quiet.  At the end of the song she said, “I can’t hear it.”

I turned it up another notch.  “It’s pretty loud already,” I said.

“I didn’t hear Frankenweenie.”

“Oh, right. Sometimes they just say ‘frank,’” I said.  “Like frankin’ slob.  But I like buckin’ slob better.’

Good cover.  Or at least a cover. 

The secret of the f-word remains safe for another day.