I cohost the Average Attention Span podcast with my brother, Shannon. Or, used to. It’s been a while. We also make music.

I like ball pits in theory.

Probably unfollowed by most of my Facebook friends for spamming their feeds with animal activism.

I think sleep is the best medicine and I don't get enough of it.

I like to dance and take walks and watch TV.

Makeup is fun, but feels bad on your face.

I read a lot of fanfiction and enjoy posting on message boards.

I can cook.

Cat person. Probably also a koala person.

I volunteered at a primate sanctuary for a year.

I was a caregiver for various family members.

 

 

When she saw this picture, my daughter said, “You look happy.” The director of the sanctuary took it. I was handing out pumpkins that somebody donated. I’d baked them with seeds and nuts and maple syrup in the tiny sanctuary kitchen, while passing small pieces of fruit to a blind macaque named Honey.

I have a daughter. I’m a mom. I speak in third person.

I love dinosaurs.

I like tomato sandwiches, tomato soup, and having my hair brushed.

A chimp once gave me a mouth shower.

I’ve chased a coyote off with a cast iron pan.

I’ve never sat in closets reading comics. Never pushed broccoli off my plate. I didn't play with fire or kiss boys behind bushes. My demons were tame and knew their place.

I look in the mirror and I see someone old and tired. Someone who wrote shitposts about emperor on the Colosseum walls. Someone who bathed in the sink and threw bones at the feet of giants to decide my fate.

Sometimes my butt outgrows my pants and I use the pants as a resistance band to exercise my thighs.

How do I get a kelp forest in my kitchen?

Are mothmen drawn from their subterranean dwellings by the moon? Is that what’s happening at O’Hare? Confused moths?

Why do shirts have collars? I'm serious. Is this like a fin we evolved away from flapping uselessly in the windmills of my mind?

Can I substitute a climbing rope for a library ladder?

Why do air fresheners in restaurant bathrooms always smell like rotting flowers?

Can you break a pizza? Break it like bread. Communion. We are one in marinara.

If my buttons were candy I'd always be naked and sticky.

Why are blue buttons and sea stars so beautiful but also so gross? Life confounds me.

I have the best neighbors in the world. They love kids and animals, and they’re always ready to help. We share pictures of fawns and foxes, and we shared food and generators during the freeze. I freaking love fawns and foxes.

I asked my brother if I could post a video he took of the foxes yawning and stretching on our picnic table, and he said, “Really? There’s an old sink rotting in the grass behind them.” I said, “No one doesn’t not think we have that.”

 

 

The deer think they get fed when the cats do. It must be how another neighbor does it. The does show up like, “Trick-or-Treat!”

A possum moved into my roof and fixed a leak in my bedroom. Now I feed him every night to thank him for his charity.

Sometimes it sounds like the squirrels are moving furniture, and I think they're at war with the raccoons. I'm so afraid a petting zoo is about to burst through my ceiling.

How weird would it be if I pulled out a bib at a restaurant? Would you leave?

My favorite forms of currency are homemade coupons and crinoid stars. Under the right circumstances, I will also accept unusual rocks, gold ingots, and pie.

Aren’t stamps just sticker currency? I wish we could use stickers as currency. That would be pretty cool. Except for the landfills. Can we make stickers eco-friendly? I bet Neri Oxman is all over it.

A very old Knights Templar once took two heavy tomes out of a locked case and, with a pointer finger pressed to a thin closed seam, into my worn yellow backpack, and told me they would answer all my questions. His voice echoed in the ancient library like a quetzal in Chichen Itza. I could see it falling through the cracks of secret staircases and hidden passages, like a marble chasing gravity through a maze of neoclassical design.

I don't actually like candy, and I have no idea what I'm saying. I just type things that I think sound good, like a pulmonary artery squeezing a juice box.

I take a lot of delight in vending machine contraband. Especially, pocket ninjas. I will magpie the heck out of those pocket ninjas.

I make up vaguely Southern-sounding phrases and watch people struggle to work out if I’m joking.

You don't always get to decide. When you have a choice, appreciate it.

At any time, I might grab you, and say, “Tell me it's NOT Saturday!” Don't be alarmed. Just roll with it.

Selkies, Swan Maidens, and Tennin were so very obviously hot space women.

My glasses are purple.

My good book is the Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I will quote iambic pentameter at you.

That one hair after shaving. Did it duck and cover?

At the end of every period I say, “This house is clean.”

Why are banal things corny? And what's wrong with corn? It's the backbone of agricultural efficiency.

I want to know that Fiji is more than a marketing gimmick. They say there are forty varieties of orchid in a park called The Garden of the Sleeping Giant. I wonder if that’s where Ender learned that the only way to win was not to play at all.

A sassy tortoiseshell named Piewacket once proudly marched into my room with all the pageantry of a Roman emperor and dropped a huge dead rabbit at my feet. Which I then realized wasn't a rabbit at all, it was a rat, and it wasn’t dead. The rat-rabbit launched itself at my head like the Beast of Caerbannog and we spun like salsa dancers toward the landing, tipping backwards, and toboganing down the stairs like a human-rat tumbleweed. Halfway down, the rat repelled off my chest and landed in the living room, shooting like a bullet into the laundry room, where I heard the cat flap click like the swish of a skirt. I laid in the middle of the stairs panting like a turtle on its back, staring up at the landing where Piewacket sat radiating, “You’re welcome.”

You know how people always say that cell phones are built to break down after too many updates, like a clown car at a Marx Brothers family reunion? I think that’s why humans start to break down, too. Planned obsolescence. We can only handle so many updates before we have to upgrade.

I like to pray. When I feel helpless and unhelpful, and have nothing left to give, it feels like something. An intention. Love, for what that's worth. Don't ask me to whom I pray. Half the time, I don't know. I just focus on those I'd like to help and ask for the best for them.

I don't want anyone to hurt. Even people who are hurting me. Even the bad guys. I'll defend myself, but I wish no one pain. I wish them growth. I wish them empathy and perspective. If my soul finds itself adrift on foreign ocean, I beg it return to me, and fill my heart again with benevolence and love.

Whenever someone uses the phrase "dumber than a box of rocks" I always think about the guy who invented the pet rock and how he made a fortune off a box of rocks. That's not dumb.

Bitches’ Brew or Machito Goes Memphis for RV sessions? I’m conflicted.

There is no such thing as ‘Truth or Dare’. To tell the truth is to dare. To speak and wear honesty is to dare so far you might tumble off the edge of the world. Each word is a spell that could turn like a snake on the one who charms it. A three-hundred-word essay on why the Beetles broke up and Donald Trump became president, sipping mimosas at a baby shower. But dishonesty is for the meek and misguided.

I understand not telling someone something that would hurt them, though. Life is complicated.

When something is close it's scary. When something is far it's impossible. Truth. Dare. Jump. Swim. Drink, shout, run, fall. Get up again.

My family lives in a large, slightly shabby, slightly sheik, treehouse. Like the Lost Boys in Peter Pan, by James Mathew Barrie. We have guard cats and three tactical armadillos. The cats will pour into the house like Voltron if someone comes, and the armadillos disperse like Curly, Moe, and Larry, knocking down anyone in their path.

We have no central heat or a/c, so it’s always either unbearably hot or uncomfortably cold with a touch of swamp gas, and there’s this one horribly warped floor board that always makes me think I’m stepping on a stale fig newton.

The entirety of the treehouse is ensconced in fluffy white crepe myrtle, purple drank mountain laurel, twineberry and honeysuckle, Carolina creeper, and arthritic scrub oak. The porch is rotting away. The windows are covered in wild fox grape. Junk cars line the dirt and gravel driveway.

 

 

You know in your bones that somebody’s made s'mores with saltines instead of graham crackers, and that it was the least concerning thing to happen in that a crack house.

I bet Sid Barrett ate his s'mores with chocolate milk and apathy.

Tootsie Rolls taste like chocolate milk for astronauts.

I wonder what it's like to be so rich you get tired of pistachios. That sounds depressing.

Every day I wake up and think to myself, “Round TWO! GO!”

My morning routine looks like Laura Dern's sprint to the generator in Jurassic Park (1993), but with cats instead of raptors.

Naked and watching faces fall like the aluminum powder in an Etch-a-Sketch. Wrapping my hands around the bat and stepping up to the plate like big thing in competitive pie consumption.

Do I brush my teeth? Of course, I fucking brush my teeth. Climb back under a rock, cromags-a-million.

My brain is like a junk drawer. As soon as my feet touch floor, it’s like, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go! Stabilimenta are most commonly found in the genus argiope argentata. Compound eyes are composed of units call ommatidia. Wine for ten, apps for six, and they’re still hiring for the kitchens. Two red lights. Seven sweaty dudes going into Bigs, staggered. Bright sun, no wind. Metal awning, double glass doors. “Protected by security company” decal on the lower right. “Emergency shut off” switch on the middle left. Recessed. Three outdoor freezers. Chains on one. A rack for firewood on the right of the last freezer before a picnic area with metal umbrellas and cement tables and benches. Bundles of wood in transparent packaging, no text. A propane cage on the far left between the two freezers on that side. “Amerigas”. Eight windows on each side of the doors. Four and four: four tall, four small. Tubular lights outside, canopy lights inside. Sign for drinks “2 for $5.55”, and another for “$2.58”. One grease stain on the curb to the left. Two cars to the left, three to the right. A hatchback and a sedan. One large black truck to the right. Cars at all six of the pumps behind us. The car wash attendant looks like he hates his life. I would too in this heat. I need to call Crimm and Berry. Or post on Facebook or something. If I don’t reach out, I’ll never have friends. Bullies crushing my autumn leaves in preschool. Mom standing in the doorway watching the rain. Wet rosemary, silently judging cats. Surprising Florence with a kiss. She smells nice. Worried she thought it was weird. Miss my cats. That one time we showed up late to a performance and an actor in the play told us off. Still want to crawl under a rock. The kind you hide keys in. A faux glacial conglomerate with a hollow core, dead inside, like the lime scaled coffee pot in the conference room of a Holiday Inn. I’d have to be Magic School Bus small, though. Rock iguanas are so cool. What are the logistics of rescuing one? How big of a project is the vivarium? Would they fight the ‘dillos? Those three blind mice would walk right into that. Lilly Tomlin is cool. I wonder what her life is like. Does she rock out to The Who’s Magic Bus? I’d be all over that. Six trees. Fountain grass, Black-eyed Sussans. Bright sun, clear sky. Apartment complex on the right, non-descript red brick building on the left. Oh! I forgot to look at the bug last night! Damnit. Now, I’ll never see that bug… lizard! “Baby! Come here—oh. He’s gone, now. Too fast.” I wonder if the UFO I saw was using road signs. The cyber truck looks like a prop from Back to the Future II (1989). Billy Jean is not my lover. Hem fuckin’ LOVED cats. Papa was a player. That one spot where the paint chipped off the canvass. White wall, two doors. Moving picture with limited range. Full moon, shadowy threshold. Autumn leaves whipping around a tall, frail, thin body. A lady with flowing chestnut hair and a green conical hat, wielding a feral-looking walking stick. Music.” Then I hear the plaintive wail of “Mama! I’m HUNGRY!” in the next room, and I know it’s about to get real.

Breakfast is V8 and half a Jet Alert. And maybe another Jet Alert. A beastly amount of caffeine is what's on the menu.

A hundred alerts on the Reddits? Nope. Not clicking that. I’m a lover, not a fighter.

Cognitive dissonance is a hell of a drug, and it comes for us all. Check those boxes and re-evaluate. I think Mark Twain said that. Or something like it.

If you have trypophobia, never look at a close-up picture of a house centipede’s eye.

I had an eyebrow piercing for exactly forty-eight hours when I was seventeen.

Two of my eyebrow hairs turned white and I quit the whole hair game. It can be free now.

I probably don't need all those supplements but taking them makes me feel like an astronaut.

I set alarms on my phone for certain times for no real reason. I just like turning them off.

I totally believe in crawlers, gnomes, fair folk, but you KNOW that’s somebody's parrot out there pranking people in the woods. Also, have Sam and Cody never heard the ghastly sound a deer makes when calling to its fellows?

Dogmen are kind of sexy. I would totally read a Skinwalker Ranch fanfic shipping Dragon and a rogue dogman. It's a tale as old as spacetime.

Giant spiders won't wait for the kata move.

Feeding seagulls is magical. Feeding ducks is frustrating.

Framing is important. For houses, for paintings, and for sentences.

Bananas and avocados are delicious but unduly biodegradable, composting all over the place. Some people are like that.

A lot of being a mom is just knowing the right time to bring out the popsicles. And when to turn off the tv. When to buy new shoes. When to introduce them to Led Zeppelin and David Bowie. To always have back up mac n’ cheese. To always pack the sandwiches, sweaters, and sunscreen. To be up to date on all the names of all their imaginary friends. To never say no to a bedtime story, even if you’re tired. To never lose your shit when it hits the fan. To always have their backs with teachers and principals. Put your best Han Solo on. “Don’t sweat it, kid. I got this.”

Do you ever want to take pistachio shells and make bicycle helmets for mice and their nonexistent bicycles?

Impressionist landscapes are my jam. I like a good wind swept botanic.

AntsCanada was fueling my dream of having a kelp forest in my kitchen, a tide pool in my living room, and an orb weaver habitat in my bedroom, until he turned his life-size terrarium into a Wardian bumfight. I’m not down with that.

Thinking burns a lot of calories. When I want to eat a high calorie snack, I make myself draft a story about it in my head while I do it.

Do you ever stop and think… “Those garden gnomes have seen a lot of shitake.”

Sometimes sweet things taste sad.

If you’re getting rug burn over terms like “organic” and “ethically sourced” you can fuck all the way off. We’re talking about averting human rights violations and farming methods that preserve the environment. If that’s trendy that’s a blessing.

It’s trendy to attack something for being trendy. It’s also easy.

On Friday nights, I just want to listen to Belle and Sebastian and try to masturbate without crying.

Sometimes I look up porn to remind myself why I don’t ever want to look up porn. I do the same thing with news publications. Scroll Twitter for ten minutes and you knew we’re taking the “f” in ‘decline and fall’.

I will laugh all day at dragons fucking cars, though.

My sleep number is unlisted.

I lost my house key in the garden.

If you send me a picture of your dick I’m sending you a picture of a lamprey.

Pulling your hair into a ponytail makes you feel like you're about to get shit done.

Smiling makes you feel like things aren't so bad.

Shaving your head means shit's about to go DOWN.

I know all the lyrics to Enter the Ninja.

Pool noodles are not optional, they're ESSENTIAL.

Garbage plates and Beyond Meat Tony Burgers with an orange fizz or root beer at Magnolia Cafe. Vegan Krispy Kreme glazed dozen. The buffet at India Palace. Vegetable lo mein at Ding How. Panang curry, Tom Ka Tofu, and spring rolls at Jasmin Thai. Taro boba at Bobalicious. Berry toatsers, Papa Ranchera kolaches, Gansito Bars, Chocolate Croissants, Jalapeño Popper Turners, Strawberry Lemonade Scones, and Cinnamon and Strawberry Conchas at Miss Chickpea’s Bakery. Portland Creams and Voodoo dolls at Voodoo Doughnut. Enchiladas and Flautas at Viva Vegeria. Pretzels and Veg-Out pizza at Mellow Mushroom. Nachos, Mac n’ Cheese, and Chick’n and Waffles at Go Vegan San Antonio near UT. Johnny Pops and SorBabes, and Non-Diary Ben & Jerrys, and vegan Magnums.

Joey Diaz scares the shit out of me. He’s like a gunned-up Kodiak melting down on snozeberry jam and cracker coke rolling down your mountain.

Indiana Jones wasn’t just some snake charming parkour peacock. He studied. Researched. Travelled and collected. Developed skills and a kick-ass cork board murder wall. The quest is a dream catcher. A blood pact. A crossroads commitment. Something that takes, and takes, and takes before it ever gives back.

Think about all the things I thought were too dumb to write here.

 

 

Born and raised in Texas. We have Harry Knowles and Robert Rodriguez. Willie Nelson, Beyonce, Janis Joplin, Patrick Swayze, Blind Lemon Jefferson, The Butthole Surfers, Graveyard Girl, Roy Orbison, Buddy Holly, Stevie Ray Vaughn, George Strait, Donald Hoffman, Kris Kristofferson, Richard Linklater, Owen Wilson, Miranda Lambert, Kenny Rogers, Dabney Coleman, Meth Damon, James Andrew Harris, Scott Joplin, Meat Loaf, Shelly Duvall, Waylon Jennings, Boz Scaggs, Ethan Hawke, Sandra Bullock, Freddie King, Carol Burnett, Gary Busey, Robin Wright, Phylicia Rashad, Forest Witaker, Eva Longoria, Jaimie Foxx, Joaquin Castro, Matthew MacConaughey, Lou Diamond Phillips, Selena Gomez, Bill Paxton, Renee Zellwegger, Woody Harrelson, Mike Judge, Pendelton Ward, Wes Anderson, Megan Thee Stallion, Win Buttler, and Selena. Kinky Friedman and Tom Ford. Zooey Deschanel and Jensen Ackles. Shack. Davey Crockett. Tommy Lee Jones and Sissy Spacek. Lex Freidman, Joe Rogan, Elon Musk, Shane Gillis, Theo Von, Tom Segura and Christina Pazsitsky (acquired). Sonic and Whataburger. Taco Cabana and Las Palapas. Voodoo Doughtnut and Waffle House. BBQ and Tex-Mex. Tamales, breakfast tacos, kolaches. De la Rosa and Alamo Candy. Kick-ass Indian buffets. Vegan brisket, and possibly more tigers than currently reside in the wild. Peaches, pecans, strawberries, watermelon, blueberries, oranges, wildflowers. Austin, NASA, Tesla, Fiesta, Sherwood Forest Faire, HEB, Dell, the Spurs, the Hill Country. Office Space (1999), Twister (1996), Bottle Rocket (1996), Smokey and the Bandit (1977), Pure Country (1992), Bubba Ho-Tep (2002), Desperado (1995), Manos: The Hand of Fate (1966), King of the Hill (1997), Dazed and Confused (1993) Rushmore (1998), Tin Cup (1996), Reality Bites (1994). That Frost bank commercial starring Willie Nelson (it’s on YouTube). Crazy weather. Baptists and Santeria. Bluebonnets and armadillos. Roadrunners and bluebirds. Bobcats and feral hogs. Negligent gun laws, Alex Jones, Joel Osteen, Ted Cruz, and a war on women, immigration, and trans rights. It’s a sometimes infuriating, sometimes wonderful, sometimes strange, sometimes scary place to call home.

I grew up in a sheltered multigenerational household consisting of my mom, her two sisters, and my maternal grandparents. My brother and I were sometimes homeschooled and did not engage in typical adolescent behaviors. We dropped out, became caregivers, lost our family, grieved… took a number, took a seat. Became stones in the river of life, and let the water soften our resistance, the weight of it disappearing like a cough drop under the tongue. Blindly struggling to afford gas and groceries and keep our family home. It went from Tangled (2010) to Miss Havisham eating cake in her ruined mansion. We knew we had to get our shit together fast, and we tried. Good lord, we tried, and we’re still trying. Like everybody now, I guess.

Our family had some dysfunctional attitudes via my grandmother, who was famous for inciting arguments. She wasn't a bad person; she loved us very much. But she created a lot of discord in our home. The more research I've done to identify, and resolve learned dysfunctional behaviors, the more forgiving I've become toward her. She grew up in a different time. A hard time. And she had issues that were never properly addressed. I can't truly understand what she faced or the environment that made her the person I knew. The person whose quick thinking under pressure once saved my life.

My maternal grandfather was a contract negotiator for the military. He worked on the Apollo and Stealth programs. I know this from what my family told me, and from his personal records. I don’t know what he did exactly, but my mom said that my grandfather would come home and just gush about conversations with Werner von Braun, and how brilliant he was. I know enough to know that von Braun was part of the all the rocket stuff. Yes, I said “rocket stuff”. Bite me.

My mom said they moved around a lot. That my grandfather traveled a lot. That he worked at White Sands Missile Range, and at one point they lived in Indian Springs, Nevada. That the base in Indian Springs was under ground and only active above ground at night. Mom told me they had an escape plan for nuclear war that didn’t include my grandfather. That he told them he would be underground somewhere, were that to happen. He could track any animal and was an excellent marksman, but he looked like an accountant. Wore glasses, always had a pen in his pocket. Scuffed up new shoes before wearing them. Quiet and soft spoken. Didn't break rules. Patriotic. Cried during the National Anthem. Took the flag, and all that, that very seriously. Despised bullies and liars, and discrimination of any variety. Smoked two packs a day. Marlboros. Never in the house, though. Always on the carport, even in the rain and snow. Was a hunter but went vegetarian after accounting for a factory farm. Spoke Spanish and German fluently. And French, I think. He was some kind of WWII badass. Given a field commission by General Patton. I have no evidence of this, just family lore. The story went that had to be moved very quickly to avoid being offered a position on Patton's staff because, "Nobody said no to Patton." Again, just stories.

He played and enjoyed watching football. Read a lot of sci-fi novels. Was moral but not religious. Left behind only three possessions, all from the war: a trench knife, a Drilling rifle, and a Minox Riga. I’ll take a picture of the Minox if I can dig it out. My mom processed the film in the camera back in the eighties, I think, but it was just troops and villages, and a picture of a seated officer lifting a beer stein.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My impression through his daughters, and my own in the short time that I knew him, was of a humble, emotionally intelligent individual who cherished his family and his privacy. We called him “bompa”. When I was five, he walked to the pharmacy near our house and bought us an electronic toy Santa car for Christmas. I remember him bringing it home and turning off the lights in the kitchen before letting it go. So delighted, as my brother and I shrieked with excitement, watching as it zoomed around playing Christmas music, red and green lights flashing. I love that memory.

 

 

More about bompa: In University he wrote a sweet poem about a conversation he had with a “little star” at dusk. And he liked to walk everywhere like I do. As Elizabeth Bennet would say, “The distance is nothing when one has motive.”

 

 

A story about bompa: When my mom was a kid, she and bompa were driving home when some power lines went down in front of the car… or maybe it was ball lightening, I’m not sure. I’m not sure mom was sure. Mom said she saw electricity on the dashboard. But before she could even process what was happening, bompa threw his arm out and pinned her to the seat, yelling, "Don't touch anything!" Then he kicked the driver's side door open, grabbed her by the seat of her pants, and threw her ten feet from the car. And he was right behind her. She said it happened so fast she didn't have any time to be scared.

 

 

Another bompa story: One day, a car jumped the curb in front of their house, almost hitting my mom and her sisters, and some kittens they were playing with. Bompa chased the car on foot for several blocks until the guy parked in front of a church and went in. Mom said bompa followed him into the church and beat the crap out of him. Obviously, my mom wasn't there at the church, she was only present for the car jumping the curb and bompa chasing it down the street… and she was a kid, and this is just what she said she heard happened.

 

 

A little more about my bompa: Mom said he was dropped behind enemy lines with British paratroopers during the war. That they “took over a castle” and “stayed there for a while”.

 

 

It was one of the only stories he told, and it was very vague. After the war, he trained at Langley to become a contract negotiator. I don't know much about what that entails other than paperwork. Mom said his most famous case was the moon one. That he wasn't allowed to take files home. That everyone had to be careful what they said over the phone and always be on their best behavior. Never cause any trouble because it could affect his job. I’m guessing he was worried about psychological fitness. “Awarded Secret” immediately followed by “Awarded Top Secret” and “STEALTH” in all caps were all over his service record.

 

 

One more story and an aside: mom said that bompa told her he killed an enemy he wasn't meant to during the war, because he momentarily lost his mind over how evil that person was. Someone he was supposed to keep alive, or interrogate, I’m not sure. He said the person shocked him and he momentarily lost his shit. Mom said he cried when he told her this. Mom also said bompa was given the opportunity to move the whole family somewhere in the Middle East and work there. That he turned it down because he thought it wouldn't be a safe environment for his family.

More stories: My grandmother’s younger sister married an officer in the Air Force. She threw dinner parties, and worked hard to climb the social ladder in a way that grammy just wasn't capable of doing. But I don’t think that's something bompa expected or wanted. My mom said her aunt used to make fun of bompa for being a “boring paper pusher”. But he wasn't. He was freaking Brock Samson.

 

 

My grandmother was very close to her sister. They spoke on the phone almost daily. On her sickbed, though, my grandmother told me, rather fervently, “Don’t trust [grammy’s sister's name].”

My grandmother’s two nieces attended her funeral in their mother’s place as she was too sick to travel. Afterwards they offered to take my brother and I, one to California, one to Pennsylvania, to help us develop our educational prospects. After accepting, our great aunt asked that I legally change my name again to something more socially acceptable and urged my brother and I to join the Air Force. Which, if you’ve met either of us, you’d understand how unrealistic an aim that is. Something about college benefits, which was very a generous offer. I mean, it was all generous. And I was grateful. I still am. Just never been good about strings.

My bompa’s dying wish was that we “get off the fault line”. That was it. It didn't make sense. It’s a low-risk fault line, and he’d never mentioned it before. Now, I think I know why. Slowly piecing that one together.

We did attempt to move. Twice. Went halfway across the country with all our belongings. McMinnville (which my grandmother comically had difficulty saying, so she made up her own names for the place with a divisive huff), OR, the first time. Then Colorado Springs, CO, where grammy’s younger sister and brother-in-law were stationed before retiring and moving Pennsylvania, then Florida. The second move went: Missoula, MT, then Albuquerque, NM, which boasted a charming little ice rink at the base of the mountains, a lovely little cookie cutter adobe residential, a natural history museum I regret missing, and the best green chili veggie burgers, nachos, deep fried shrooms, zukes, sweet potato fries, and ice cold root beer floats this world has to offer, at the Owl Cafe. We always came back to Texas, though. McMinnville was too rural. Missoula even more so. Colorado Springs was too cold. Albuquerque seemed right, but then grammy had a stroke and we moved back for insurance purposes. The second time, we’d already gone through the sale of our house and we ended up moving back, but to the treehouse in the Hill Country.

Before leaving the Pacific Northwest we took a detour up to BC. Got stalked by a German pig farmer. Bought poutine at a McDonald's drive-thru and ate in the car. Watched the moon’s gumdrop reflection on the cold dark waves of the Salish Sea from the taffrail of a Vancouver Island ferry as the wind tried to knock us to the deck, screaming its siren song in our delicate human ears. Had a strange foreign lady hand us a xerox of a check and ask that we give it to our embassy. I just kept it.

In Colorado Springs, my mom and aunt burned our files in the fireplace at the apartment we were renting. Boxes and boxes of stuff from the storage unit, as a winter storm raged outside, and I sat reading an Anne Rice novel that my aunt had bought me at a used bookstore in town, a small, brightly lit hole-in-the-wall, with a street-facing window, and a friendly cat to dote on. My brother says he doesn't remember our mom and aunt burning all our files, but he was in his bedroom on his computer every moment that we weren’t on the road or talking about movies, so it’s whatever. And, honestly… our mom and aunt were always doing strange stuff that we didn’t tune into. That's just how they rolled, and how we responded.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I did a Google search for “bompa” and it's Flemish for grandfather. I Googled “Flemish people”. They mostly reside in Belgium.

 

 

I don't know a lot about bompas’ mom. Bompas’ dads’ family is more well documented: two Welsh brothers came to America as indentured servants. One burned a bridge and fought in a war. The other founded a cemetery. I read about them in elementary school.

 

 

Maternal grandmother grew up on a farm in Oklahoma. Biscuits and gravy are the smell of my childhood. When she cooked or cleaned, she sang, "Shoo, fly! Don't bother me!" She called exercise "calisthenics". Watched daytime soap operas and the news. Said things like, “Don’t do me that way!”, “I’ll snitch you bald-headed!”, “That’s possum dirt”, “You don’t know how to clean!”, “Useless as tits on a boar hog!”, “cattycorner”, “cattywampus”, “warsh-rag”, “washing machine”, “Jezebel!”, “He’s a dirty old man!”, “Flatter than a flitter!”, “Someone just walked on my grave”, “My nose is itching; someone’s talking about me”, “If you drop a knife, a man’s coming!”, “It’s about to come a storm!”, “Little toad frog!”, “Naked as a Jaybird”, “The Devil’s beating his wife!”. Constantly shifting between an awkward media-inspired transatlantic clip and a more natural Oklahoma church lady seesaw. She had a twin brother who died when they were babies after drinking raw milk. Her father was a teacher, and he died when she was very young. Her mother went to work in the fields while my grandmother minded her siblings and the farm. Every story about growing up on the farm was awful. Dogs eating the pie fillings just as the preacher arrives for Sunday dinner, and everyone just digging in. Using the outhouse in a snowstorm after her little brother sewed up the legs on everyone’s long johns. A beloved pig dragging its guts across the lawn after an abscess burst. Her little sister coming in from playing in the rain, saying she felt like she was going to die, then passing away that same night. Her other younger sister, the one who lived, encouraged her to leave Oklahoma after high school and enroll in college out of state. Grammy was pre-law, working as a secretary, and dating a judge when she met my grandfather, and he went off to war. She loved plants and animals and having people to feed and take care of. When you were sick, she was as gentle as a spring rain encouraging the flowers to grow. The rest of the time she was as crabby as a ruler-wielding Catholic school nun. She was a hardworking, antisocial, nervous, neurotic, self-conscious, germophobic, puritanical, forthright, finical, fighting, easily embarrassed scold, with sharp elbows. Amazing in an emergency. Best person to have in a pinch. But day-to-day, her fears and anxieties seemed to eat her alive, and she would transfer all that negative energy to everyone around her, feeding and manufacturing discord all the days of our lives. We called her “grammy”. She would have laid down her life for us.

A grammy story: The first time my mom brought her high school boyfriend home, grammy went and hid in the bedroom for the first half hour. When she came out, she was dressed up like she was going to church (which she never did) and snuck into the shadows of the kitchen. My mom had made her boyfriend a plate of food, and they were sitting at the dining table. That's when my grandmother noticed my mom had set the table with the regular flatware, and covertly switched it out for the nicer silverware when my mother’s boyfriend wasn't looking. He looked down and saw the fresh fork and knife and thought he'd gone insane. My mom was embarrassed, but defiantly indifferent.

Another grammy story: One day, the local priest saw grammy watering plants in the front yard and pulled over to chat. He said she dropped the hose, didn't shut off the water, ran in the house, and shut the curtains. And didn't come back out.

One more grammy story: Grammy thought they were “supposed” to go to church but couldn't handle being around a lot of people. So, she'd dress my mom and aunts up, and drop them off at the entrance every Sunday. Mom said aunt Peggy, the oldest, would go to the bathroom and read until it was time to leave, and she and aunt MaryBeth would sit outside the door waiting.

My grandmother always acted like she didn't understand how normal humans interact, but was desperately trying to figure it out, and getting frustrated. Imagine Ethan Peck's version of Spock from Star Trek: Strange New Worlds (2022), in the episodes where he struggles with his emotions, but speaking with an Oklahoma accent and vernacular. That’s what my grandmother was like.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mother was a professional artist. Her medium was oils. The smell of linseed oil is also the smell of my childhood. Linseed oil and L'heure Bleue. And cigarettes. Ashtrays. Smoke.

 

 

My Mom was a really good cook and probably should have been a chef. She was an award-winning artist, but I think she would have liked being a chef more. She craved community and financial security, and I think art was unfulfilling in both these respects. She had waist-length copper hair, and eyes like the bluest sky. A million freckles. Taught archery to kids at summer camp and worked at a stable before I was born. Read a lot of romance novels, and always wanted to learn Japanese. Got married too young. Twice. She was a good mom. And I think that's saying a lot considering her childhood with my grandmother.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mom was close to my grandfather's father growing up, who was kind of a magic man. Mom said he could charm bees and snakes and track any animal. Ate squirrel and opossum. That he slept under the stars, carved little monkeys from peach pits, and could tell you where to find something you’d lost. That he'd chat with the garbage men and tell stories to the neighborhood children on the front lawn at night. That he called mom “coyote” and made her jump off the roof of the house a bunch of times to teach her how to fall.

Mom said he called her “coyote” because she was “a trickser”. And because my grandmother named my mother after an old boyfriend to spite my grandfather because he tried to make her lose the baby on the way to the hospital. That doesn't sound like grandpa, but this is the family lore. I assume they maybe though grammy had been unfaithful. Although, that doesn't sound like grammy. Mom also said that the hospital where she was born had no “girl” baby bracelets, and that the doctors took her from her family and wouldn't let them see her for three days.

When doing some family tree climbing, I discovered that Tommy Lee Jones (the actor) is probably great grandpa’s nephew (which is funny for several reasons). Great grandpa was estranged from his side of the family, so we never met them. But the family is old and well-known, and the information that lead me to believe this was public. I think my aunt Peggy kind of looks like him. She got the eyes, and the brow, and that cheek meat. Mom got more of bompas’ moms’ looks, with the longer face. My brother and I got more of my dads’ subterranean elf had a fling with Charleton Heston look. Genetics are awesome.

My mom made us watch Coal Miner's Daughter (1980) about two hundred times growing up… and who doesn't love the cinematic monolith that is 1997’s Volcano? So, yeah. I’m a fan, too. But after hearing Jim Carrey's story about bumping into Jones at a restaurant during filming together, and Jones telling him he “hated him”, and “couldn't sanction his buffoonery”, I think may be wary of ever meeting him. I came away from that story thinking that Carrey handled it pretty sensibly and sensitively. And that Tommy might have been going through something with less grace than he would have liked in a situation that was not ideal.

And that great grandpa probably moved away from his family for a reason. That maybe he was too woke for the yoke of West Texas ranch culture. Something like that. Not that I know anything about it. I was raised different. Really different. For better and for worse. And not that I know nothing about it. I was raised here, too. And it’s my culture, too. For better and for worse.

That said, I’m pretty sure I would similarly rub most West Texas ranch folks the wrong way. There’s buffoonery in my blood. Also, bridge burning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My mom was an abductee. My grandfather believed her. The first time it happened, he freaked out and tore the house apart looking for clues. Mom said he checked every door, window, and closet, then made her repeat her experience to him over and over, parsing every detail.

Now that I'm typing this… was he looking for listening devices? Before asking questions that he didn't want overheard… never considered that. Huh.

He told mom she could never speak about it to anyone. Especially, over the phone. In fact, NEVER over the phone. To anyone. But to tell him immediately when it happened again. That there were cars on the street that watched the house, and his job had files on all of them. Whatever that meant. I really wish I could ask mom about this stuff again as an adult, because it sounds so crazy.

She said “they” walk through walls. That they took her through walls. Used telepathic images to frighten her into climbing onto an exam table and showed her the ocean from a spaceship. That they didn’t speak, but when they were displeased, some of them would hiss at her. When I told my mom about my own experience, prior to her telling me anything about hers, it was this detail, the hissing, which was so specific, that convinced her we had all experienced the same thing.

My mom went on to paint this haunting life-sized portrait of a grey alien that seemed to glow in the dark. I don't know what happened to it. Knowing mom, she probably gave it away. Or it’s packed away somewhere in a closet… if I can find the polaroid of the finished painting I’ll come back and add it. That’s probably in some closet, too.

My grandfather would repeat the same warnings again when my mother was in high school and made a psychic prediction that came true and spooked some teachers. She did things like that a lot over the years. Saw a stranger's deceased pet playing in their yard, got messages from people's grandparents about documents they needed to find and where to find them. She just knew things. Little things. Like great-grandpa did.

I have no evidence for any of this, and I’m not making a statement about what I personally believe. Just relating the story I was told.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My great-grandfather also claimed to be an abductee. But he didn’t use that word. I don’t know if he imprinted his experience onto my mom, or if one or both of them had imagined experiences due to some inherited delirium. If you’re reading this, you probably think so. Maybe something unusual happened AND they were crazy. The Universe, the brain, and people… they’re all pretty strange territory. A riddled wrapped in a Joel Schumacher wide angle. Elusive and unpredictable.

My grandmother also had an experience. Again, no way to know what really happened, and I can’t ask them now. But she said that she and her siblings would hide in the trees outside their home when their mom came back late, to avoid something that would come in the night and take them. My grandmother was very reluctant to talk about it. I guess the further back you go, the murkier it becomes. More vague, more silly. Like half a sweater at the end of a long loose thread. Again, could all just be a big bag of mixed nuts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After lupus nephritis and nine years on dialysis, lupus cerebritis, two strokes, mitral valve replacement, hypopituitarism/empty sella syndrome (her pituitary gland did not show up on MRIs), and what doctors claimed was one of the worst lupus rashes in North America (it was photosensitive, looked like a burn, covered more than half of her body, and was photographed for medical journal I don't know the name of), my mother died in the hospital of sudden cardiac arrest.

My maternal grandfather died of lung cancer. My maternal grandmother died of a malignant meningioma. One of my mother's sisters died of cervical cancer, the other of breast cancer.

My mother was the last to pass, and the hardest. It felt like the end of the world.

My mom never met a creature great or small that she didn’t want to mother in some way. She saw homeless people huddled outside a grocery store and ran home to make them soup and collect blankets and clothes to give to them. She fed the birds and rescued stray cats and dogs. Chatted up cashiers and servers. Never stood back when she could offer help. She was a damaged, insecure teen, hiding in bathrooms at parties because she didn’t think she was deserving of friendship and hospitality. Terribly, terribly insecure. And she often said the wrong thing, offending people. She didn’t really have a filter, and she could be rude. Though, she didn’t mean to be. And she always regretted it. She tried to hide both the insecurity and the social blundering with earnest hard work, false bravado, and over enthusiastic charm. She was the life of any gathering. The heart of our home. And she would do anything for her family, no question. She wanted nothing more than to be with us, close to us, always, and to see us thrive.

I can still picture her bent over the rosemary before dialysis. Inhaling its scent and touching the leaves and rubbing the oils into her cracked arthritic birdlike hands. Or standing in front of the kitchen window and tipping her face to the sun, basking in its warmth. I miss her every moment that I draw breath. My aunts, too. They are never far from my thoughts. And my mother is always whispering in my ear, “You are stronger than this. And this is not the end.”

 

 

I dropped out of school a bunch of times.

I'm like, five feet tall.

Awkward extrovert.

Fussy and fidgety.

Gullible and weird.

Sentimental.

Hygienic.

Dumb baby.

Would describe myself as “Lights on, but the candy bowl is full of toothbrushes.” A major flake, with the morals of a Disney princess, and the OCD of a young Howard Hughes. I’m a mess, but I’m learning from my mistakes. Curbing impulse control, managing social cues. Swallowing word salad like gravel.

I’ve always wanted a golf cart.

I use nursery stake tags from my favorite plants as bookmarks.

My coffee is usually cold by the time I get to it.

I’m not that fond of coffee.

If I have it at all, it’s black. A double red eye if I need to feel sick and wired. Or a spoonful of instant. Let that demon tea fill your mouth cavity with bitter chewy regret. Or skip straight to Jet Alert. That said, I’m not opposed to a cinnamon soy macchiato, but I just have to be ready for it. Don’t spring that shit on me.

I was a Starbucks barista.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I liked talking to customers and taking special orders. Rude customers never bothered me. If someone was rude it was kind of funny. Bosses were different, I guess. Not all of them, though. Ralph Martinez was the best boss I ever had, and not just at Starbucks. Like, ever. Of all time. The best. And he had a lovely singing voice. Always a pleasure.

I saw the Power Rangers movie in the theater with the Starbucks crew: Ralph (who picked me up and dropped me off in his Nissan Cube), Veronica (who told me I could be a manager if I wanted to, and worked for it), Rafael (Raphael made me my first cinnamon and toffee nut soy latte, and told me my personality was like Appa from The Last Air Bender, and swore it was a compliment), Nathan (who went out of his way to befriend me on the first day), Jerico (who should have be famous already), Bensen (who had the best deadpan delivery), Erica (who smiled sincerely at every dumb picture on my phone), and Josh (who helped find my heavily pregnant butt a good seat at the theater; he was like, “No. You’re not sitting all the way down there.”).

I used to wear novelty drop earrings to work like Shelly Tambo in Northern Exposure (1990), and a grey sweater with an embroidered badge of a steaming cup of coffee with a heart on it. I used to get the earrings in sets at Claire’s. My favorite were these little coffee cups. I wore those a lot, probably more than any others. Customers always commented on them.

I used to change the name on my name plate every day. Ralph got it.

I’ve had older coworkers tell me they despaired when I was hired. That they all thought I’d be dead weight, but then I proved myself willing to listen and work hard. I’m proud of that.

One day we had severe weather and the power went down. But our instructions were to keep taking orders, and the line went out the door. I was on register and had to memorize the drinks and call them out while taking money and jotting down what we’d sold on a notepad, without slowing down the line. We slammed that day. I’m still proud of that. Even though I know it’s not rocket science, and we didn’t save anybody. I guess it’s because it’s something I didn’t think I could do. I tend to think of myself as incompetent. Not at stuff like manual labor or looking after people, but other stuff. You know the stuff. Money and math, politics and socializing. That stuff. Probably, because I’m nervous about the responsibility and expectations that come with being competent, and I’m afraid I’ll embarrass myself.

My coworker Cassandra and I used to dance with the customers in drive-thru. Colton was a hotheaded control freak on the clock, but chill outside of work responsibilities. I really did love the majority of the people I worked with.

I also worked at an ice skating rink. Skate guard, mini golf, party rooms; split shifts, and three hundred laps a night in a freezing ice box, even when I fractured my ankle. I loved all of my coworkers at the rink, too. And the regulars. They all became either friends, good friends, or dear friends, and a lot of the time they felt like family. Carinette, Ana, Ryan, Gates, Tory, Dallas, Jake, Cameron, Hanna, Nick, Bernadette, Pattie, Arthur, Carolyn, Sandra, Marissa, Michelle, Shay, Heather, Chris, Emily, Janiece, and Betty. I love you all. Thanks for giving me a chance when I needed it. For being there when I was tired and hungry and just trying to make it. I swear I’ll figure my shit out some day and call my friends.

My first job was working at a breakfast taco place. I had to beg them to hire me. Had to promise to be their slave. They wanted me sunup to sundown, all week, with no time off and no vacations, for janitorial, dish washing, loading, and food prep. Payment would be however much they thought I'd earned at the end of the week. First day comes to a close, and I see my brother’s headlights in the empty parking lot. Discreetly palming my timecard, on which I'd written my first and last name (they wanted no other information), I limped into the sparkly twilight. I was desperate, but I knew there had to be something better.

I’ve also worked in the kitchen at the rodeo, and various equestrian events, from four in the morning till midnight, doing food prep, burgers, fries, and register.

Anyway. I’m not fond of coffee. Not really. I prefer juice or kombucha in summer, and cider in winter. Good cider. With a side of whoopie pies. Ever since Amish country. It changes you. Amish country. Mostly, I drink water without all the stuff in it.

But bring me a thick porcelain diner cup, blistering hot, fresh from the sanitizer, with a generous splash balmy black bean juice, the heady aroma climbing over the table like Christina Aguilera released from her bottle of Everclear and Kool-Aid, and I will melt into that sticky scarred Formica tabletop like I’m seeking refuge in the cracks and craters of J. Allen Hynek mission report.

I don't remember any of the drinks I made as a Starbucks barista. It’s all muscle memory, though. Right?

The worst part of working at Starbucks was tossing all that unsold food at closing. It physically hurt to load up a trash bag full of untouched food and dump it. We weren’t allowed to do anything else. Such a waste.

I don’t like to talk about sensitive situations involving other people. Even if I trust you, even if it’d do a body good to get it out. Sometimes, when it’s heavy, it just happens. But I’m very reluctant.

I like stews. Thick ones. I want the heat to melt my face and the pottage to coat my gut like a microfleece.

Apples, mother fucker! Do you even know a Braeburn from a Jonagold? Tap the fuck out.

Vegetarian since my first viewing of Jurassic Park (1993). Vegan since a year before my daughter was born.

I’m annoyingly vegan. I'd call cow's milk butter “the rape butter” but I'm afraid someone might think I'm weighing in on Marlon Brando. Then again, I'm fine with that. Two birds, one megaphone.

I want to learn to play the electric sitar.

I get really excited about lunar events.

I find disco balls slightly threatening.

Frosted Mini Wheats make me think of Christmas.

Glow in the dark nail polish is disappointing. It doesn't work, and it looks and feels like you let snot dry on your nails.

I wish unicorns were real.

When I'm happy I eat a lot. When I'm anxious eating is hard. When I’m sad it's impossible.

If you’re buying whisky at Kroger they’ve already won.

For most people, it’s not so much that they see what they want to see (although, that does play a part in any case), it’s that they see what they’ve already seen. And what they’ve been conditioned to see. Experience can work like blinders.

Principals and practicality do not always harmonize. I worry about this a lot. A lot. In my bones. In my meat and sinew. In those tiny little spider veins that crisscross the backs of my calves and make me think about how old Hugh Jackman’s getting.

Has anyone made a cheese ball with the cream from gutted Oreos? I feel like this is obvious, even though I prefer cheese. Stinky vegan cheese.

Don't tell me what to put on my charcuterie board. I will have gummie worms and plastic dinosaurs, and you will fuck off.

Jalapeño hummus is so good.

Oat milk compliments coffee and chocolate better than cow’s milk. Lindt makes oat milk bars, toffee, and truffles. Tell me I’m wrong.

Lindt is also Fair Trade. Nestle, Hershey, and Mars are not. "A study published by Tulane University in 2010 revealed that over 1.8 million children work on cocoa farms in Ghana and the Ivory Coast."

Almond butter trumps peanut butter but makes me think about that time Vegetable Police sat at his kitchen table and mournfully shelled a dragon’s horde worth of almonds.

Chicken soup flavor is just carrots, onions, celery, garlic powder, parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Put that in a pot with some wild rice and mushrooms, and you have Campbell’s beat without the grease. Want the grease? Add coconut oil and Impossible nuggs.

I want rum raisin marshmallow fluff, and I can’t stop eating Goya plantain strips.

I love a Burger King Impossible meal. That’s a real treat. Used to enjoy Whataburger’s rings (even though I’m allergic), fries, and pies, but the rings and pies are no longer dairy-free. Almost nothing at Whataburger is. Maybe the taquito.

I’m pissed at Taco Bell for not going vegan. It’s not like they’re using real meat and cheese, anyway. And I’m mad at Taco Cabana for dropping the Beyond Meat Bowl. That was awesome.

Cyndi Lauper and Judy Tenuta should have gone to White Castle.

Whenever I see "Newtons" in relation to bite force, I think about Fig Newtons, and imagine a lanky Acrocanthosaurous with a mawfull of fruit and cake.

First light passes me off. It has no right to be that beautiful.

When people aren't strong enough to trust them with the truth and they don't even know they've failed you. I wonder how many people I've failed.

If I see an animal that needs help, the activity, outing, or vacation is over. My priorities have shifted to helping that animal. If that's a thing that bothers you, I'll bother you a lot.

Every time someone tells me I think too much I feel sorry for them.

Writing is about the micro, not the macro. See your story the way Lydia saw the model in the attic where Beetlejuice lived.

If you can teach, you can write.

The only way to get better at writing is writing. Go on Twitter and write Hem’s ‘six word story’ all day every day. Not on your feed, though. Not in your comfort zone. Respond to people. As fast as you can, as much as you can. Use different aliases, perspectives, styles. Challenge yourself.

Don’t get precious about your writing or any creative endeavor. The exercise is its own reward. You only get stronger.

Writing isn’t just grammar and vocabulary. It’s having a great idea, and having a great idea about how to explain that great idea. You have to train your brain to always be spitballing.

Maturity comes out in writing. You can be a respected academic or grizzled war hero and still write like a thirteen-year-old girl talking to her diary if you stopped maturing around high school.

Great novels aren’t about the writing, they’re about the concept, and how you present that concept. Lots of great writers never wrote a great novel.

If you want someone to leave you alone start talking to the furniture.

Those who unite in ridicule divide by the same means.

Hitchhiked a few times. Nothing too far, or too terrible. I lived, but would not recommend it.

Jumped from a moving vehicle once. Luckily, it wasn’t going too fast. Busted my knee on a rock rolling into the grass. When you’re done, you’re done.

None of the women I grew up around wore makeup.

Being comfortable isn’t educational.

Being bored is a choice.

I like to carry emergency spices. Sea salt, stevia, old bay, Louisiana Cajun, garam masala, cardamon, hatch pepper, Tajin, mango powder, harissa powder, Colman’s mustard, ancho chili, umami, za'atar, cocoa powder, five spice, pumpkin spice, cinnamon, nutmeg, lavender, smoked Danish sea salt, pink peppercorn, ginger, bay leaf, Kashmiri chili powder, Mexican vanilla, Tahitian vanilla, Madagascar vanilla, smoked paprika, gochujang, dark brown sugar, juniper, cilantro, Tasmanian mountain pepper, curry, cumin, turmeric, dill, fennel seed, green curry, red pepper flake, gumbo file, fennel pollen, celery seed, basil, saffron, kala namek, Sichuan peppercorns, rosemary, and thyme. Also, hot sauce. Del Primo, Boerne Brand Texas Style, Herdez, Tapitio, and Taco Bell. Hichifuku white soy sauce. Crema di Balsamico. Lord Sandy’s Worcestershire. Inglehoffer stone ground. Hellman’s vegan mayo, or Kewpi vegan mayo. Heinze ketchup. Lao Gan Ma Spicy Chili Crisp. Cowboy Candy. Chow Chow. Branston pickle. Ferrel’s Sorghum Molasses. HEB pecan pie almond butter. Oma’s peach syrup. The Great San Saba River Company apple pecan preserves. Poteet strawberry preserves. Homemade lemon curd. Orange marmalade and raspberry jam. A tin of orange spice tea, a tin of lavender-vanilla rooibos tea, Ippodo matcha powder, Lipton’s, Taza cinnamon hot chocolate wheels, a jar of Postum, and a shaker of sprinkles. Those multi-chamber shakers with different kinds: sanding, jimmies, and sugar pearls. I’ve recently found a unicorn themed mix that my daughter likes. We put them on Oreos.

I think it’s also a good idea to have a Welly first aid kit, a window breaker, a seatbelt cutter, a flashlight, and a Gerber multitool. My godmother has an emergency witch kit, and I do sometimes have that stuff, too. Never know when you’ll need to bust out some sage and do a banishing. Zipties and binder clips. Trash bags. Toothbrush and paste are good. Floss. Larabars, Kind bars, Bobo’s Oat bars, Lenny & Larry’s cookies, Wheat Thins, Oreos, chips, Fig Newtons, Anni’s bunny fruit snacks, nuts, apples, silly putty, panty liners, a wet brush, hair ties, an empty zip drive, a zip drive full of my favorite wiki articles and fanfiction, a zip drive full of photos and info I might need, Vaseline, ChapStick, change of clothes, wet bags, reusable food storage bags, Tylenol, Motrin, Imodium, Loratadine, Benadryl, ginger candy, Qualia Focus, EmergenC, Jet Alert, Guaifenesin, Zofran, Melatonin, Bacitracin, hand sanitizer, Clorox wipes, napkins, a water purifier, a set of screw drivers, a Hooker lockpick set, gauze, skull and cross bones cloth hockey tape, adhesive remover, a Garmin handheld GPS or GPS smart watch, a fire starter, iodine tabs, fifty feet of nylon paracord, bear spray, coyote urine, a tourniquet, a moleskin kit, self-adhesive bandage wrap, GOOD TO GO and Backpaker’s Pantry freeze dried food, Gatorade, Alani Nu Cosmic Stardust Energy sticks (pixie sticks for grownups), a Ziplock bag, a garbage bag, glitter, sharpies, an Emergency Bigfoot Electronic Noisemaker, Bowie Stylophone, mini Theremin, pocket spirit box, mini motion detectors, perimeter alarm, palm stones, tarot and oracle cards, a tin of mints that doesn’t contain mints, Thai curry takeout box, a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts, microfiber towel, Dawn dish soap, Ethique shampoo bar, headphones, a charger, a sewing kit, waterproof lighter, extra socks, battery powered camp lights, Star Trek action figures, dinosaur headlamp, screaming zombie doll, repair tape, tin foil fire resistant document bag, ShiKai vanilla hand lotion, O’Keef’s Working Hands cream, Sakura Micron pens, Jellyroll pens, Halloween themed stickers, a Goo Jit Zu doll, mini Godzilla, a Pinky High Bounce ball, a bag of cat food, a can opener, a book (maybe two books), a notebook, toilet paper, a shovel, a hammer, an axe, a flare, a UV wand sanitizer, emergency sleeping bag, emergency tent, emergency thermal blanket, GSI cookware set, duct tape, crazy glue, nitril gloves, disposable masks, a music player, a poncho, and tiny rubber dinosaurs. I call this my “bug out burrito”.

I hate how we are now. I hate how much I like it. How easy it is to let go. Every sconce and headlamp whispering secrets and confessions into the pale moonlit night as we savagely burn our telomere links at both ends. Returning to the bedrooms of our childhoods, to all those newborn dreams. Bobby socked feet bouncing over too-narrow beds, pumping in time with our restless scrolling. Poets with deaf, dumb, and blind-sight. Basking in the lurid glow of our digital age technology as long and slender tree fingers pluck the stars from the sky, and the wind howls a mournful tune, kissing keys and foreign alphabets, bent elbows and long lashes, sad sighs and mislaid ambitions.

All my friends ARE strangers, Larry McMurtry. All I have are a pocket full of parasocial relationships and an empty box of Pop Tarts. The s'mores one. But the organic knockoff brand, because Pop Tarts aren't vegan.

I've never seen a lamp post I wouldn't hook an arm around, and swing like a tether ball. If only I were more buxom, less respectable. If only.

I miss having an actual camera. My mom’s Polaroid 600 or 35mm Nikon.

My mom and I used to listen to Art Bell on a yellow SONY boombox. We watched X-Files (1993), Buffy (1997), Bones (2005), LOST (2004), Frasier (1993), The Closer (2005), Northern Exposure (1990), Turner Classic Movies, and A&E’s Pride and Prejudice (1995). Our favorite movies were Hellboy II (2008), The Mummy (1999), Once Around (1991), Mama Mia! (2018), Flashdance (1983), Howl’s Moving Castle (2004), Jaws (1975), and Land of the Lost (2009). We watched them anytime they were on tv. My mom liked Law & Order, too. And all the A&E murder mysteries. Miss Marple (1984), Hercule Poirot (1989), Midsomer Murders (1987). We like the David Tennant era Doctor Who (2013), too. We made microwave popcorn and cheese plates, which mom called “bear” snacks, and we always had the doors and windows wide open to let the wind and the wildlife in.

The Spin Doctors are a happy accident.

One time, my dad served roadkill turkey for Thanksgiving. He said it was fine, “the ants hadn’t gotten to it”. And thus, the “rule of the ants” was born.

That was an echo of my parent’s first date, when my dad hit a deer on his way to meet my mom and threw it in the trunk of his Mercedes.

I was almost born in that Mercedes.

My mom said my dad sold that Mercedes so that no one could say “she got the Mercedes” in the divorce.

During a funeral in Oklahoma my aunt Peggy stumbled out of the viewing line and fell on the coffin. It was raining, real muddy, and her foot slipped under the casket before she could right herself. As the coffin squealed beneath her, sounding like a fucking siren, she cried out that her shoe was hanging by a toe. Without a second thought, my mom flopped into the mud and climbed under the coffin, yelling “Don’t move! I’ve got it!” People were laughing so hard, but also trying hard not to. Even the minister. Every moment with them was a Marx Brothers movie.

My cats think inside the box.

Cameras mount to assert their dominance.

There is a Pillows track to chase every tear.

I often imagine what it would be like to run through an orange grove. An olive grove. A redwood forest. A canyon. A Walmart in Dusseldorf.

It would be awesome if buses were shaped like peanuts.

If crows had hands we'd be in trouble. And it'd be weird.

The Magus is my favorite book, but I don't know why.

I told my daughter that Santa was the All Father leading The Wild Hunt on his eight-legged horse, Sleipnir. She nodded like that made sense.

Spring cleaning isn't just for Spring. Like the spirit of Christian appropriated Yule, I keep it in my heart all year.

Fuck feathers. And would we know if dinosaurs were chromatophores?

I like putting together an outfit. Staging an area. Buying ingredients. Lists.

I always get too close to snakes, spiders, and critters. Mostly, due to poor eyesight and unchecked curiosity. So far, I’ve been lucky.

Are gift bags a kind of reward for attendance? Are these party’s lame and in need of bribery?

My gift bag would include secret glitter, a magic lamp, and a chocolate pie.

 

 

My first cell phone was an orange Envy and I loved it so much.

The amount of Tylenol and Motrin I had to take to skate on a fractured ankle for a month put me in the ER with gastritis.

Favorite 80s bubble pop: Uptown Girl and I Wanna Dance With Somebody.

Favorite 80s movies are: The Goonies (1985), The Breakfast Club (1985), E.T. (1982), The Lost Boys (1987), Labyrinth (1986), The Princess Bride (1987), Legend (1985), Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), The Neverending Story (1984), Sixteen Candles (1984), Beetlejuice (1988), Flashdance (1983), Moonstruck (1987), Running Brave (1983), Ghostbusters (1984), Big Trouble in Little China (1986), La Bamba (1987), Die Hard (1988).

Favorite fear is the one that drives me.

Favorite drugs are caffeine and antibiotics. Both important in different ways.

Favorite shitty restaurant is Golden Corral. If I’m going to shit my guts out, I might as well do it while laughing at the bags of powdered food products piled behind the buffet. China Harbor runs a close second. So much gas and bloating. It's like all the food was formed from Pandora's box of six-piece chicken and slime.

I really like plumeria, banana trees, jasmine, honeysuckle, fairy castle cactus, pencil cactus, prickly pear cactus, desert roses, oncidium orchids, string of pearls, ivory towers, bear’s paw, dancing bones, hobbit jade, lily pads, snowballs, golden gate Ficus, flaming katy, monstera, alocasia, pink, blush, and purple Eden climbing roses, loquat trees, pecan trees, orange trees, apple trees, peach trees, bay leaf trees, avocado trees, lemon trees, live oak, ponderosa pine, cedar, juniper, lavender, hydrangeas, irises, tomato plants, pepper plants, okra plants, apple mint, salvia, purple cone flower, and all the varieties of rosemary.

I used to figure skate. I already said I worked at a rink, but… yeah. I started around the age of twelve. I loved it. I was okay at it.

You can take up figure skating for not very much money. It’s just skates and ice time, and maybe some classes or coaching. The skates can be expensive, depending on what you need. But you don’t have to buy new ones very often (not unless you’re pounding out triples every day). You can use the same boots for years (two is recommended) and transfer your blades when you buy new ones. The thing that IS kind of inaccessible for most people is competition. You can’t do that unless you have a ton of cash and started when you were four.

 

 

 

 

My aunt Mary Beth was co-editor of her school paper with my godfather’s sister. She went on to get a degree in journalism at UT Austin. Then she worked in an art gallery in Alamo Heights.

My aunt Mary Beth loved France, Queen, Annie Lennox, and fashion. She always remembered and celebrated everyone’s birthday, even if she didn’t know you very well. Rescued animals. Loved dogs. Was always doing something tragic to her hair.

One Halloween, she bought my brother and I a giant pumpkin and someone stole it off our porch while we were trick-or-treating. I don’t even know how, because it was huge.

We used to visit her at the gallery, and the gallery owner would buy us croissants and Palmiers at the bakery next door.

One Christmas my aunt was too broke to buy presents, so she made everyone a coupon book (this was before I was born). Things like “will rake leaves” and “will sit for one portrait”. One of the coupons in my mother’s book was “will put your shoes on and tie them anytime, anywhere” as an apology for having made her little sister do this many times for her when they were children. My mom waited until they were having dinner with friends at a fancy restaurant to slip off her shoes and pass the coupon to my aunt. Without missing a beat, my aunt wordlessly took a knee and put my mother’s shoes for her. She wanted to visit France, fall in love, have a bunch of children, and write a book. When she died, we found a bottle of expensive perfume tucked away in her bathroom, still in the box, unopened.

My aunt Peggy was a CCRN. She did relief work in Africa. The first half of her career was in the surgical/cardiac ICU. The second half was in pedi recovery. She had a soft heart and loved children. She was our second mother. My mother told her so in my aunt’s last moments as we all gathered round her bed and clung to her arms and shoulders and bawled our eyes out.

When my aunt Peggy was a kid, she won an award for having checked out every book in the children's section of the public library. She read a stack of books every week of her life. Science fiction, fantasy, romance, but also medical texts. She always had several books in her bag, and we visited libraries and bookstores like we were picking up groceries.

The day we found out my aunt Peggy had a week to live we sat at our kitchen table and held each other close and cried. Then she and I ran an errand that took us down that long scenic road to the next town. We went to Half Price Bookstore one last time, and we rescued a sweet stray dog. I think about that day often. She was so strong. It was our last adventure, and how I’ll always remember her. Calmly taking that stray dog up to the Firehouse so they could get him to a local rescue. She was strong, stoic, gentle, and kind.

When I had to schedule a procedure for my daughter at the children's hospital, the nurse I spoke to over the phone remembered my aunt. She gushed about my aunt Peggy’s kindness, courage, friendship, and bravery, and it made me cry.

You can learn from your own mistakes. You can learn from your friend’s mistakes. You can learn from your parent’s mistakes. You can also learn from someone’s strength, tact, and dignity. I feel like my mom, aunt, and godparents gave me a lot of strength and dignity to emulate.

 

 

We used to go to the local art museums, and the zoo, with my mom and our godfather when my brother and I were kids.

My godfather makes ginger beer and mead and marmalade. He can make chainmail, and he knows all about bladed weapons, and the history of many genres of music, and he plays the bass guitar. And his nephew makes guitars. And one of his nephews is the punk rocker Bad Bunny. He’s a little scary. My godfather. Not to me and my brother, but to other people, I think. He can be very direct and doesn’t suffer fools. He sometimes carries a violin case full of chain link into meetings. His conversational style reminds me of Garry Nolan’s. I think they’d get along.

 

 

My godmother is the calmest, most gentle and perfectly composed person I’ve ever met, and I’ve always envied that, because it’s nothing like my nervous energy. Her humor is subtle and dry and delivered with a sunny smile. She performs a banishing spell that sounds like a song. Her hair has always been long and pale, and she has the kindest eyes. She plays the bodhran and sings in an Irish folk band. She knows all the words to Fairytale of New York.

My godparents have always been there, through thick and thin, at a moment’s notice, with love, with kindness, without hesitation. A stabilizing force. I am so very grateful for that. And I love them both very much.

 

 

My dad has always been active and health conscious. He knows a lot about herbs and supplements, and houses and contacting. He’s always worn Wrangler jeans, western boots, or white tennis shoes, plaid button downs, or IZOD polos… houndstooth driving caps. He’s always had a bamboo steamer in his kitchen, no matter where he lived, and shoeshine box under his bed. He’s always been open to new ideas, to an extent, which I appreciate. And he apologizes when he’s wrong, which I also appreciate. Smooth jazz, rice cakes, Irish Spring soap, Zapp’s Crawtators, Rossini, and yellow legal pads remind me of my dad.

When we were kids, he built us a train set and read The Chronicles of Narnia to us before bed every other weekend. When we were older, he would come by periodically to take us out to eat. Usually, Northern Indian cuisine. Sometimes Italian, or a buffet.

My father isn't a soft man, and he doesn’t have a lot of patience for soft people. People like me. And we don’t have much in common or see eye-to-eye on many issues. I love him very much, though. And I know he loves me. He helps us when we need it, and he’s helped us a lot in recent years, for which I’m grateful. He’s a good grandpa, too, for which I’m also grateful. My daughter loves him and always looks forward to seeing him. I do, too.

More than anything, I suppose, my father has taught me that people are complicated and more than one thing.

 

 

Paul Hudgins used to give my brother and I watercolors for our birthdays, which my mom then framed and hung on the wall. Shannon still has the one of Superman astride an Andalusian, and I still have the one of the girl and her grey tabby cat at Taos Pueblo.

I wrote to Paul after my mother died to tell him. We exchanged regular correspondence for about a year. Things got rough again, and I stopped. I regret that. There are reasons, but they aren't good ones. I don't know if he’s still alive. Wherever you are, Paul, I’m sorry. And thank you.

Postcards from members of the Texas Watercolor Society are framed all over our house. Paul Hudgins and Kuo Yen Ng. Mostly New Mexico landscapes. Abiquiu and Ghost Ranch.

Some of my best memories are catching lightening bugs with my dad in a park in Alamo Heights, going to a stargazing party with my aunt Peggy at SAC, and spooning on the hard wood couch with my aunt Mary Boo while watching Conan the Barbarian (1982), cocooned in her loving embrace. Also… waking up next to my mom. Sunlight and warmth and safety.

My dad was a legend at running vehicles into the ground. He once used a brick tied to a rope to break at stoplights. The passenger doors were tired together with the same rope, as was my seatbelt, and I often shared my seat with a free range buzzsaw. I have no idea how we got away with that. The trunk was also loosely secured with rope and partially gaping, with tools and two-by-fours sticking out like rude elbows. The back windshield was completely covered in poster-sized pictures of aborted fetuses.

My dad did the school drop off one time. His car broke down at the head of the line and belched out a huge cloud of exhaust, which immediately descended on the crowd of students and teachers. As I collected my things, I realized I didn’t have a pencil. My dad got out of the car and took the rope off the trunk, and proceeded to pull out every tool he owned, and set it on the curb. I looked around, and Shannon was gone. Vanished. Wisely. As I watched, in mild horror, my dad took out a utility knife and one of those carpenter’s pencils. The flat ones. The kind you have to whittle. And like some kind of sadist, he began to chip away at that pencil at a snail’s pace while I, and the entire student body, waited in silent awe. Life with my dad was like a Trailer Park Boys movie.