“One of you should know how to write a check. Because, even if you have tons of love, there is still going to be a lot of bills.” — Ava, age 8 from http://www.elephantjournal.com/2012/01/kids-wisdom-on-love/
by Suda Miller
Elsa and I rode the bus home from Curtis School when I was in fifth grade and she was in fourth grade. We were the same age; at the beginning of the year I had skipped grades after six weeks of school. I skipped grades because the teacher, Ms Badham, got totally sick of me practicing my spit gland ejaculation technique. I managed to come across this trick by accident, but if you jerked a muscle under your tongue at the right moment and keep your mouth slightly open, you could catapult drops of saliva as far as a foot away.
Ms Badham was a pretty, young brunette; she wore mascara and lipstick and she was the daughter of the principal, Mr. Badham or Baddy as we liked to call him. We liked Baddy but we were also afraid of him because he had a paddle hanging on the wall above his desk. He used the Paddle when kids were bad. So we tried not to be bad.
Eddy Hansen was bad a lot and we knew he had gotten the paddle once or twice. Except in fourth grade his mother blew her brains out and after that he was mild as a dove. We felt bad for Eddy when he came back to school, so we left him alone. In those days this was about as compassionate as kids would get. Everyone pretended that nothing had happened. He looked pretty sad. Usually he looked feisty and angry, but not anymore. He didn’t get the paddle after that, either. There was no cause for it.
By Melina Watts
My mother stopped speaking to me when I was pregnant with my firstborn for six or seven months.
Another time, in my late twenties, my then boyfriend and I decided not to go out to the movies and she was certain that we had; she accused me of lying to her and then stopped speaking to me for months. I actually knew one of the stars of the film – a gifted child actor, Joseph Mazzello and I knew that he had been thrilled to work with one of his own personal heroes, Meryl Streep, so I really wanted to go see The River Wild. Honestly though, those accusatory conversations were so painful that I never did go to see the film – too much emotional overlay.
Blame: a way to discharge pain and discomfort.
"There's a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." - Leonard Cohen
by T. Halophile
Where it is explained further what it means to have standards that cannot be realistically be met. Last in a series exploring the Sponge Thief's complex relationships with his vehicles, and by extension, his life, and by extension, our lives.
In Loving Memory of the Prized Jeep
His mourning leads him, as it always does when he loses yet another car to dereliction, to recount the long drawn-out history of defunct cars of his past. There are a dozen or more whose demise I have personally witnessed, starting with the cherished cream colored CJ 7 Jeep that he drove when we first met 22-years ago. The Jeep is the prized auto to which all other jalopies have paled in comparison for decades, and no car conversation ever ends without a trip down memory lane to the days of the hallowed Jeep.
by T. Halophile
Second in a series examining the Sponge Thief and the Symbolism of His Cars.
“At least I haven’t had to give blow jobs for money.”*
My ex-husband is standing next to the crawlspace over a garage he calls home while this declaration comes rushing out as part of a flooded and tangential monologue. He is reviewing in great detail why none of the catastrophes in his life of late, and therefore in mine, are his fault.
Atop the list of recent calamities is his only hours-dead jalopy that met a fiery end on the side of the freeway while our teenage son was driving. My relief that my child did not meet the same fiery end on the side of the 101 freeway, and the fury that it was even a possibility compels me to make an effort to look for logic where none ever exists. Though our kid’s brush with a flood of automotive fluids, billowing smoke, and flames is my only concern, the word salad being tossed from my ex-husband’s lips also includes his plight that nobody will hire him after being fired three times in as many months; and not shockingly it also contains a lengthy explanation of why he needs to borrow my second car.
R.I.P. 1990-April 21, 1994 • 128 lbs. 9 oz. • Mazda 323 • "C'mon Baby!"
by T. Halophile
One may recall that J. Mitigate posted a piece about her Sponge Thief's affection for his Jeep CJ7. It became apparent that an accompanying piece was necessary in order to explain T. Halophile's Sponge Thief's parallel regard for his Jeep CJ7. After all, this more-than-coincidental over-regard for the Jeep CJ7 became one of the forensic milestones in discovering we may have the same ExHusband. However, it became apparent that in order to fully deconstruct T. Halophile's Sponge Thief's regard for his Jeep CJ7, the entire archaelogy of his vehicles must first be examined.
I was five centimeters dialated when giving birth to my son when I started to have brief moments of clarity about my life. I was nineteen, a freshman in college, and married to a man twice my age whose life choices were questionable at best. In that moment I begin to see this was an ill-thought-out life choice to have a baby with such a man, but the real eye-opener, was 36 hours later when my husband was driving my newborn son and I home from the hospital and our 1990 Mazda 323 gave birth to its stillborn transmission in the intersection of Kalakaua Avenue and Kaiulani Street.
My breast milk flowed freely in that intersection, as did my tears for I now foresaw the years of struggle ahead with previously unknown clarity, and the cars that followed the lifeless Mazda told the tale.
To put it wisely as my friend did:
"...To do justice by whatever it is to which you have committed your time and attention, the idea is that you have to work on it, intensely, every day.
"And that is what it takes to be a good parent: mainichi."
To our dismay, the Sponge Thief would rather steals sponges than to show up every day - but it takes years before we realize that this is the best thing that could ever happen to us. The farther in the distance my Sponge Thief fades, the better off we all are...
by J. Mitigate
He looked like Sam Shepard, with glasses and broken shouldersI was at a small silent auction benefit for Alzheimer’s Disease, trying to decide whether $40 was too much to bid on a batch of home brew, when a handsome man, about my age, with dimples and round gold wire-framed glasses, came up to me, smiling.
“Oh,” he said, “I thought you were someone else. You have the same shoulders.”
“I didn’t know shoulders were that distinctive?”
“Yes well, they are.”
“I see,” I said, and since he didn’t go away, and I don’t know how to end conversations, I continued, “And how did you find out about this benefit?”
“My wife’s friend at work invited us, he’s over there.” He pointed.
“And what does she do?”
“Oh, do you do that as well?”
“No. I was an engineer, but that didn’t work out, so now I’m a stay-at-home husband/cabinet maker of sorts.”
“You mean you’re freelance.”
“No, actually, I don’t make cabinets anymore, because I destroyed both shoulders making cabinets.”
“I see, that’s why you notice shoulders.”
He nodded and continued,”You know, when you get older, everything gets all screwed up.”
“Don’t I know it,” I said.
“No, you don’t,” and he paused, looking hard at my face, “I’m about 12-15 years older than you, and believe me, when you screw things up with your body, it doesn’t really improve.”
“Wow! I thought you were in your 30s. You have a great hairdresser. Really, you should tell them they’re doing a great job.”
His poor wife came up to us at that point and glared at me suspiciously as if to say, why are you hitting on my husband and I smiled back at her wishing I could shake her very hard while I shouted, He’s a sponge thief! Run away as fast as you can!
"I don't have
a working voice
I just have
a voice that
comes out the
from me. I think
I admire & try
it does look
by J. Mitigate
I have the sneaking suspicion that Romantic Love, the concept, served a purpose when women were chattel and could not choose their mate and couldn't work or inherit money, etc, (new idea at that time: you can choose to marry who you want, technically!!) but that it is not helpful long-term unless you are some kind of evolved wunderkind who isn't attracted to the person who embodies all the stuff about yourself you don't want to look at, or wish you were.
I have the sneaking suspicion that romantic loves means the god in you falls in love with the god in the other person. If so, watch out for the gods! No wonder it is a mess in prosaic terms...you fell in love with a god and you expect him to change diapers? That's hilarious.
What the God in Him Actually Looks Like. yikes.
The Victorian novels dealing with this...I read them over and over & watch the BBC shows, trying to learn, while loving it every minute WHY?, but they always end without revealing whether it was the right choice after all, to marry for love. Getting married, those novelists consider that the logical end. And then what??
Clearly someone needs to write sequels to all these novels, I think it is the only thing that will quell my fascination. Is it simply the most amazing propaganda campaign ever? Propaganda for what?
Djibouti is THE BEST AT FEMALE GENITAL MUTILATION.
"...practised [on females] from the neonatal stage up to childhood and on women following childbirth."
Some nights Mr. T wears his jewelry to bed "to see how my ancestors, who were slaves, felt."
by J. Mitigate
LADY’S DIAMOND AND PLATINUM RING. The ring is set with (1) marquise center diamond and two (2) each tapered baguette diamonds. The center marquise diamond weighs approximately 1.55 carats and has a clarity and color VS1-G-H. This diamond measures approximately 12.9x6.19mm and is cut with good proportions and symmetry. There is one small natural located on the lower girdle. One (1) tapered baguette diamond is set on each side of the center marquise diamond. These two (2) diamonds have a total combined weight of approximately .20 carats and have an average clarity and color of VS1-G.
APPRAISER: ARCHIE HANDERSON, G.G.
MY MOTHER WORE THIS RING as an engagement ring, that is, on the ring finger next to her wedding band. Her wedding band was a PLAIN GOLD BAND. While growing up, I liked to examine my mother: her clothes, her face, her hair, her voice, and her jewelry, and I examined her with absolute love and devotion up until I was of the appropriate age to cease said love and devotion and examination, at around fifteen (15) or so.
by T. Halophile
March 4th is International ‘Rid Yourself of a Tyrant Day, and who knows better about needing to unload a dead-beat, bastard or bully than those of us who have been married to Our Ex-Husband? So on this day, we celebrate the peace and happiness that comes from freeing yourself of relationships and circumstances with people whom no longer serve you.
As wonderful as that day of freedom is when you have finally untangled yourself from the likes of Our Ex-Husband or other bastardly individual, there could be another bully who may lurk undetected in your very own psyche. The inner tyrant, or negative animus, as he is sometimes affectionately known, is the figure in a woman’s psyche that sits on the committee in your head, and wrecks havoc in your life.
by J. Mitigate
Saw a yellow Rubicon w/ gas can today with a sponge thief driving it. - T. Halophile
Our Ex-Husband drives a jeep. The jeep is more important than eating or pooping and certainly more important than his dogs or his kids or his wife or his house or his job.
The jeep must have a special lift kit. The jeep should also have accessories such as: hard top, bikini top, metal doors, fabric doors, gas cans, rolltop for safety. That last one because if his jeep rolls, he has a better chance of becoming a parapalegic as opposed to instantly dying. Because jeeps have that propensity, to roll when it is least unwanted.
by J. Mitigate
Fred Astaire is asking Ginger Rodgers to dance; he’s asking you to dance.
Watch Fred Astaire, watch him twinkle, precisely. Turning, bowing, welcoming: every step synchronized, artful, every gesture exact. Smoothly navigating the turbulence of boa, then tulle, now satin gusts from her dress, they hold hands sideways, then backwards. Now they face each other, just for a moment: all is in alignment, all one. Then they’re off, gliding lightly, effortlessly. When Fred Astaire died, the world lost grace.