It's On the Corner

My niece, Jacquelyn, and I recently took a trip to Kirksville, MO, to tour my alma mater, Truman State University. I was excited to be back, already filling with nostalgia as we drove around the small town.

After dinner, my niece and I spent our evening in the pool of the hotel; we had it to ourselves. Once acclimated to the cold water, we floated aimlessly, musing and making plans. I realized we were about to spend the day walking around campus. Outside. In the sun.

With my skin.

ME: I need to stop in the morning to buy sunscreen.
NIECE: Okay.
ME: Did you see a Walgreens while we were driving around today?
NIECE: Yeah.
ME: Where?
NIECE: On the corner of Happy and Healthy.

Yep. She's definitely related to me.

My Ass, The Sequel

Paper towels … check.

Shampoo … check.

Birthday card for brother … check.

Pair of jeans … Here we go.

I put off this part of my Target mission until last. My pear-shaped frame—a term I didn't know until it was bestowed upon me while shopping for jeans—was particularly hard to fit.

My plan is simple: lowered expectations. If I don’t emerge with a pair of jeans, no big deal, I’ve accomplished my other goals, crossed plenty off my list.

I navigate the forest of too-close racks overstuffed with cheap clothes. Fortune smiles on me; I only knock one thing down before finding the rack of jeans that will cover my bull-in-a-china-shop ass. I find a dark wash in my size and place it gently in my cart, because that’s how I roll. Next, I add a pair of skinny jeans, because I believe in torturing myself. 

Maybe I’ve been too judgey about the skinny jean. People can change; so could jeans. Everyone wears them; there must be something good about them.

I sidle up to the lone woman manning the dressing room: a factory for naked women squeezing into mass-produced clothing. I can almost smell the frustration and sweat from the Gatekeeper’s booth. She stands, cuddling a gigantic stack of clothing, over which her lackluster, apathetic eyes spy me. With a sigh, she reaches across her desk and hands me a plastic-colored card that she won’t pay attention to later.

Once inside my dim room, I kick off my shoes, pull off my jeans. After a quick glance at the mirror, I rush to cover my pasty, almost-translucent, thigh-touching legs with the skinny jeans.

Noooope.

Hell no.

Fuck no.

I don’t know who these were made for, maybe no one. They take the worst parts of me and magnify them. I look in the mirror with disgust; I’m pretty sure they defy all laws of physics.

Next!

I hitch the other pair over my hips and button the waistband. They’re snug, but I can still breathe comfortably. A good sign. I take a good look in the mirror: top to bottom. I squeeze the roll of fat above my belly button. When did that get there? I remember, like a year or two ago, it was almost gone. Suck in your breath. Does it go away? Not even close.

I turn around, contorting my neck like an owl to check out the view from the back. Fuck! Backfat?

Sneaky bastard.

I mean, knew it was there all along. I could feel it, but to see it up close like this ... Quickly, I move my eyes downward.

Hunh. Look at dat ass. Shapely. Round and juicy. Perky, even. Just to be sure, I turn the other way, ogle it from another angle. Nope; it's true. I have a damn fine ass.

Oh, I am buying these jeans. And every pair in this store.

Square Pie

On a date: one secretary and shy mathematician—“like the expression, πr².”

“No, pie are round.”

Forty years, anniversary cards still said πr², instead of love.

Now, etched in black granite in the ground: date for birth, date for death…

…and πr².

Shower Friends

Water sluices down on us,
ricocheting off black marble.
Soft gentle words speak in my ear,
sharing tales of those living in the wall.

Jaunty Pirate Bunny,
eternally in profile—see his nose?
His hat?
Pirate Bunny sails the water rivulets,
down the walls,
circling the drain,
searching for carrot loot.
(He won't find any of that in here!)
Shh. Don't tell him.

Austere Rat,
Not cavalier or chipper. Nobody
likes a cheerful rat.
(Everybody likes a cheerful rat.)
Not when he's your dentist.

Moving on...

Eyes, horns, ears—
Upside-down floating cow.
(Maybe upside-down floating bison,
with the frizzy mane?)
No, upside-down floating cow!
So high.
Aliens zorped him up here,
that's why.

Happy monkey
(You sure that's not you?)
No, he is tricksy, so the confusion
is natural. Happy monkey,
(Smug Monkey)
sneaks up behind Pirate Bunny,
something clever up his sleeve.

Sad frog (Why is he sad?)
He's a sprained hopper, flies
killed his mother.
Day and night he hops
and drinks (and drinks), out for
vengeance. For meaning.
For hope.

A gust of wind, a beak here,
windswept feathers there,
The Great Gun-Slinging Ostrich.
(You can only see his head. Where's
his gun?) Look at him:
Grizzled, grim.
He's packing heat.
Bringing order, keeping
peace, his great burden
to bear.

A small wet kiss, dropped
on the neck.
Don't worry, Wife.
You're safe with me.

Pink Heels

I was seven or eight when they came in the mail: those pale pink, five-sizes-too-big, high-heeled sandals. My father’s sister in Texas found them at a garage sale for fifty cents and guessed her niece would love them.

Love them I did. My mom would tie the long pink straps around my ankles, criss-crossing them up and down my leg. Then I clomped around the basement in them, strutting up and down imaginary aisles of desks, playing Mrs. Marciolonus—my teacher with the amazing shoes and impeccably manicured toenails.

One afternoon, as a thunderstorm threatened, I wore them and played Rock Star in the garage and on the driveway. I waved to throngs of screaming fans, singing songs of my own creation. The rain began to tease the ground with big intermittent plops. I kicked off the shoes and ran inside before disaster could strike.

After the rain subsided, my father backed his 1971 Ford Bronco out of the garage. As he did, there was a sickening crunch. He trudged back into the house carrying the terrible carnage of my beautiful pink shoes. They were broken beyond all repair.

My father was a quiet and shy man with two older sons. A crying daughter rendered him helpless. His only recourse? Offer to replace her shoes, of course. As though shoes that gorgeous come around more than once in a lifetime.

That weekend, my father drove me to a discount women’s shoe store. They were having a dot sale; everything with a green dot was $5, yellow meant $10, and red meant $15. I found a pair of black peep-toe pumps imprinted with a faux reptilian pattern. They fit me perfectly. And there, on the bottom of the sole, was a green sticker.

We returned home, triumphant. The shoes added an edge to my basement adventures. As a teacher, I was a little stricter. As a singing sensation, I was a little more rock and roll.

Like most things from childhood, I outgrew the heels my dad bought me. I imagine they’re still in that basement, rambling around with long-lost BBs and Barbie’s old Jeep. Perhaps they’re sitting patiently next to the school desk, waiting for class to be back in session.

Decades later, in the clearance section of DSW, I found a pair of pink strappy sandals. Of course they weren’t the same; how could they be? But the shade of pink, the way they circled my ankle and buckled on the side, the dainty heel--all evoked the shoes my dad destroyed. They made me feel like a lady and that girl playing Rock Star, all at once. I turned over the shoe to find the clearance sticker on the sole; it was green.

A year later, I unpacked the shoes from my suitcase, along with a black dress and a string of pearls. I hung the dress in the bathroom of my parents’ house while I took a shower. I got dressed. Carefully, reverentially, I put on my pink strappy heels. I walked down the hall to my parents’ bedroom and knocked softly. "Mom, you ready?"

Later that night, we stood awkwardly in a room of the funeral home, as friends and family came to pay their respects to my dad. I had cried more than I thought possible in the last two weeks. You know how your body is made of 75% water? I was down to 20%, easy. For these people, it felt like there were no tears left.

There was only me and a pair of pink strappy shoes.


        

 

The Thanksgiving Spreadsheet

Wait. So you've never heard of a Thanksgiving spreadsheet?

As a vegetarian on a food-centric holiday, Thanksgiving historically offered little to me. That is, until I was able to host my own. Not only did it guarantee me food I actually like to eat, but it really let my inner Julia Child shine. Now, Thanksgiving is the Big Show. Step aside, bitches; I am a kitchen diva and this is my day.

You all know Charles M. Schultz, right?

Rolls are made from scratch. The turkey is moist and tender. My mashed potatoes are the creamiest you'll eat. (Got spoon?) Stick with me, kid, and you'll have your choice of homemade pie.

All of this, pulled off in a two-bedroom in Albany Park, doesn't happen without planning. I'm a nerd, so of course I make a spreadsheet. I'll tell you how it's done.

I gather my dishes--good little soldiers that work hard, look hot, and make the perfect team. Once I have the lineup complete, I catalog the dishes in a spreadsheet. For every one, I list each ingredient and required quantity. Next, I sort the ingredients in alphabetical order.

Finally, the coup de grâce, I program the spreadsheet to calculate the total amount of each ingredient I'll need for the entire meal. Sure, I need flour for my rolls, pie crust, and the gravy. But how much do I need overall? I use the calculations to generate my grocery shopping list, which is, of course, organized by store and section.

You think I'm done? Not a chance.

Next up is mapping out my time the week of the big day. Dishes are color-coded by day they will be prepared. For the night before and the big day, I break down the time table to an hour-by-hour accounting of prep work, oven space, reheating requirements, and cooling time.

Perhaps this all makes me a spreadsheet nerd. But days of planning and shopping also makes for weeks of anticipation. You may think of Thanksgiving the week it happens, but it lives in my heart for much longer.

Bring it, Thanksgiving 2014.

Ode to my Ass

Exhausted and relieved, I crashed back to the exercise mat. It was fifth grade gym class, and we had just completed a minute-long sit-up test. I had cranked out more than most in my class. The boy next to me, however, was only aware of the tremors in the mat radiating from my last one.

“Geez, ease up on the Ho-Hos, why don’t you?”

But I’ve never even had a Ho-Ho. 

Indignation, shame, anger all coursed through me and flushed my cheeks. That boy radiated judgement and assumptions. I knew he was wrong ... about most of it. Of course, I said nothing in my own defense. Instead, I mentally added sit-up vigor to a growing list of body-conscious issues to worry over.

Such an encounter was nothing new. As early as first grade, I towered over most of my class, including the boys. In the second grade, my girth caught up to my height. Sometime around third grade, it began to outstrip my height. Next to cute, petite little girls, I felt like Shrek with my supersized body. I became ashamed of the space I took up. I learned to suck in my breath, shrink into myself, pull in my arms and legs tight, try to occupy no more space than an average person. It was my burden to carry, along with all that extra me.

Then skating and roller derby came barreling into my life. I had dreams of becoming a graceful, nimble skater like Suzy Hotrod or Francey Pants. I went to bouts and imagined myself jamming through tight spaces, lapping the pack. This was the skater in my head. In the rink, though, I still felt clumsy and unsure. I didn't skate like anyone I knew, certainly not like anyone I admired.

At Rollercon, I attended an on-skates seminar, "Does This Make My Butt Look Big?" Like a bird puffing up its feathers to look intimidating, our goal was to make our asses more intimidating, into the biggest obstacles they could be. I was a natural. For the first time, I wasn’t focused on defying the laws of physics. Quite the opposite; I unfolded from myself. Years of self-consciousness melted away. This is what my ass was born to do.

At practice a few months later, I was struggling with a drill. As usual, I was caught up in where to put my feet, wishing they were quick and nimble. After a particularly disappointing performance, our coach for the drill, Ivanna Schoop, skated up to me.

“You know, you have so much power; I would love to see you harness it. Use that leg of yours, with all its strength, to push those bitches out of your way.”

Power? Me?

Dazed, I skated away from Schoopie on a cloud.

On the car ride home, I mulled over her words. I would probably never be fast and nimble like Lola Blow or Queefer Sutherland. With just a few words, the imaginary skater in my head was hip-checked right off the track. Another skater was forming in her place. She uses her ass like a weapon, harnesses her mass and strength for offense and defense. She may not zip through tight spaces between skaters, but she makes her own holes on the track. This skater holds her own valuable place on the team.

So what if my ass knocked things off shelves in a store? It could OWN a bitch out on the track. So it took me ages to track down a pair of jeans with enough fabric to cover that juicy butt. Nobody was getting past it on the track. So what if I towered above the rest of the pack like a giant? I could get loooow. And then? Good luck knocking me down.

Through derby, I stumbled on the most honest relationship with my body I've ever had. The transformation was huge, but I didn't understand it fully until a Derby Lite student told me a story about one of my classes.

“You said something like, 'with all this mass, I was meant to be a blocker.' You just owned your body ... all of it. It was like you realized the beauty and power in your own body, regardless of its size. It was so inspirational and empowering."

I remember that moment and several others like it. There was no shame in my body, no apology or vain efforts to make it what it wasn't. There was only truth and acceptance.

Power.

That student was more right than she knew. It was beautiful.

It was a goddamn miracle.