Wednesday, May 30, 2007

The Seventh Thing

The last thing in this meme streak that you may not know about me is that I am currently in California because my dear, dear dad had an aneurysm yesterday, May 29, and is currently in a coma. I'm here with my siblings and extended family.

I trust that things will be what they will be.

Sunday, May 27, 2007

Saturday, May 26, 2007

The Fifth Thing

I have never read Moby Dick.

Friday, May 25, 2007

The Fourth Thing

I have a 1948 Martin guitar that I never play anymore, and it plays beautifully. I am terrified to sell it, although I fantasize about how much money I could get for it.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

The Third Thing

I learned grammar from teaching grammar. Before that, I wrote by ear. I still write by ear, more than by eye. But now my grammar is better. Not perfect, but good enough.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

The Second Thing

The Second Thing people may not know about me is that my favorite contemporary book of poems is Jelly Roll by Kevin Young. And my favorite poem in Jelly Roll is called "Boogie Woogie".

Boogie Woogie
(c) 2003
by Kevin Young

I'll be your lunch
date, your party

up & watch me run

nine eight

I'm your New
Year's Eve hat

with the propeller
on it--confetti

& kiss me
I'm kazoo for you

fool, counting
down the days

like those numbers
before films, a glimpse

that once, before Abbot
& Costello

a screen test
lady winked & was

gone--spliced in,
us laughing.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

The First Thing

Robin, of The Other Mother, tagged me with a meme: 7 things people may not know about me.

The first thing is that I was in a band, a rock band, for seven years. Lead singer, lead songwriter, shitty guitarist. We played at several Houston clubs regularly: Rudyards, Mary Janes, the Edge, the Ale House. Our band was called Shag, and it was born before the movie Austin Powers was born, so it wasn't a geeky cliche at the time, or at least we didn't think so. We chose it for the entendres: it is a haircut (I had a shag in third grade), a baseball play, a dance, a carpet, a fuck. Before I was with Shag, I was in a band called Shiksa -- comprised of two Jewish brothers and me. For Shiksa, I sang and played the bass SO INCREDIBLY BADLY. Shiksa had many, many rehearsals, but only one show, which took place in the living room of the band leader's house. There were at least 27 people there. We had some good songs.

Monday, May 21, 2007


After church on Sundays when I was a little girl, our family ritual was to drive around the San Juan Capistrano valley gomezing, as my dad called it.

To my dad, "to gomez" means to be a busy body. A guy in my dad's high school class named Gomez was always getting into other people's business; hence, the term was born.

For example, when I was little, my dad would often take detours on the way home from Thrifty's or the horse stables, driving through the Kinoshita's snow pea fields, or into some new housing development, around the back roads and side streets of our town, always in an idle sort of way, just to see what was going on, even though nothing was going on usually. When, exasperated, I'd ask him what he was doing, he'd say, "I'm being a gomez; shut up." Likewise, if one of his children seemed too nosy or intrusive regarding his property or doings, he would tell us to stop being such a gomez.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Saturday, May 19, 2007

Nostalgia, noun

When I lived in Spain, in Salamanca, on Calle de Espiritu, I fell ill in the fall and was ill all through the wretchedly cold winter. The illness, so mysterious, never named, sprang upon me with a vengeance, and then settled in, hosted itself in my body, a comfortable guest there I suppose because my body was brittle from starvation, self-imposed. My mind, fuzzed by fever, could not grip the reality of what was happening, and I lived so much a spectator of myself, that I might as well have been watching the movie of my life: a depressing one, at that.

Every day at the comida, the family I lived with, talked around me to one another about the minutia of their lives, catching up, even though they lived on top of one another in a palatial five bedroom apartment that could not have been larger than 1000 square feet. Sometimes, I sat silent throughout the meal. They talked about me to one another, weighing in their opinions about what was wrong with me, as if I were not there. One afternoon, the lady of the house, La Senora, told the family that I was muriendo de nostalgia, dying of nostalgia.

I was only 21, and I translated her diagnosis, this nostalgia, as loneliness. I was dying of loneliness.

Years later, a man who was pursuing me although I had a boyfriend, lived with him even, diagnosed me with the same illness. "You know what your problem is?" he said, a little laughingly. "Your just lonely."

"How can I be lonely," I answered, "when I'm surrounded by people?"

"You don't understand," he said, "do you?"

Years after that, another man, a friend named Christian, told me that he described me to his friends as a beautiful cynic. I took it as a compliment because of the beautiful part. But tonight, I thought of that description as I sat alone on our balcony, not lonely, just alone, and I thought about how this description, which was probably right at the time he said it, was no longer right. Or that I no longer wanted it to be right. To be a cynical person is a way to distance oneself from the fray of life as it happens, to sit outside of one's life, to judge it and dismiss it with a carefully crafted sentence, tossed out lightly, but weighted with sarcasm and defeat tucked inside the sentence's syntax like stones sewn inside the hem of a coat. What is meant to be a terse quip is actually an admission of the incredible longing for connection, for a feeling of fullness and grace. Cynicism can become a mental stone, a heaviness that results in a coldness of being.

Nostalgia is like that, too. Defined as "the condition of homesickness", or "a yearning for situations, people and places in the past" (, nostalgia eats away at one's consciousness so that the grace that exists every moment in the present sits like a specter at the banquet table, the same table where one sits, also, surrounded by people, still lonely as a stone.

Friday, May 18, 2007

Favorite Teen Movies

The Breakfast Club (My mom's best friend in college was Anthony Michael Hall's kindergarten teacher. That guy looked like he was still in kindergarten when he did that movie.)

Pretty in Pink (Psychedelic Furs!)

Valley Girl (Nicholas Cage at his best -- except for Adaptation was awesome, too, and that Vampire movie where he eats the roach, and Moonstruck.... Also, the Plimsouls singing "A Million Miles Away")

Grease (every single part of it)

St. Elmo's Fire (Rob Lowe.)

Thursday, May 17, 2007


My friends Christopher and Rachel and I drove back over the Golden Gate
Bridge after spending a day hiking to a beach at the foot of MountTamalpais. We were cranky from the tension of it being the end of a summer, a
long one, in which I'd been leaving for months, on my way to Houston,
TX via Orange County, California. The era hadn't ended yet, but it was
ending, and we didn't want to talk about it. The tension ensued because
our age, then early 20s, was a time when we had no idea what we were
doing nor where we were going next. And because we wanted to speak our
minds to one another, we talked a lot about the meaning of life and
stuff like that. And our earnestness helped us tolerate each other's recklessness.

I was obsessing about a man, a sculptor named Chico, who made robots and installed them in the Exploratorium Museum, where I worked designing an ever elusive group vistor
program, answering phones, and sorting mail. Rachel worked in Group
Benefits there. She and I were there together on days when the public
wasn't, when people like SteveBuscemi were visiting because his wife, the artist Jo Andres, was in residence at the museum.

Christopher and I are close friends from college in Los Angeles,
and when we were in our early 20s, we lived in San Francisco as
struggling young writers, the two of us. And although we weren't living
together (I was a nanny in the Richmond district), we hung out every
day together as friends, struggling young writer friends. And although
Rachel and I worked right next to each other, we never really talked
until the day Chris and I happened upon her wandering alone through the
crowd at the free BonnieRaitt and Jackson Brown Day of the Dead concert at City Hall. From that day, we three were one unit.

And while I was in love with the two of them, and while they were (and still are) two of my best friends, they were SO not supportive of my obsession with Chico, the robot sculptor. And in retrospect, this is how best friends should act -- concerned about you! -- when you are acting all stark and nearly raving mad. And we're crossing the bridge, and I'm chattering on about how I hope torun into the robot sculptor in Seattle, because I'm going there soon to see my friends Ed and Lee and maybe we'll go to his art opening.

"Does he even know you're gonna be in Seattle?" Rachel asks.

"No" I say.

"What are you? Like Fatal Attraction?" Chris says.

"What. Maybe metaphorically." I say.

"Christa! The world is NOT A METAPHOR," Rachel says.

"But it is to me," I practically whimper.

And it was. And I knew then, as we rode together over the Golden Gate Bridge, that living according to the ways and means of the metaphorical world would not be an easy thing.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

The Way it Was

I grew up in the OC, which in the current parlance stands for a decadent ennui, a suburban nonchalance, a foyer in a side palace of Hell.

Tonight, Vernon and Adam are younger than we are, in their 20s, and they live in a fantastic old Spanish apartment complex on Main, very Tennesse Williams, very Camino Real. They are visiting us and are outside right now telling stories with David. When Adam asked me if I grew up in Houston, I tell him, sadly, no. I answer Orange County, California, when he asks where I did grow up. "The OC," he says as if he knows something about the place without having ever been there, a common result of the show on ABC or whatever channel it's on. I've never seen the show. But having lived in the real thing, I don't need to see it. I know what it was like to grow up there: awful and awesome. Totally. Simultaneously.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Braindrain #1

My friend Lucy created a film about her obsession (now past) with Ed Norton, Jr. I think it's called My Obsession with Ed. Norton, Jr. She asked me to participate, because apparently when she first confided in me about her crush on Ed Norton, asking what she should do about it, I told her to ask the universe for help. She wanted me to relate that part of her story to her audience.

I'd actually forgotten about saying that to her, although it did sound like something I probably said. Like when I was drunk or something.

But no, actually, the more I thought about it, the more I knew that not only did I say that to her, but also I said it to her in earnest. At the time of her film-making, It was not clear to me whether or not she had taken my advice literally, except for the fact that she did make a film about her obsession, and she did show that film to her now-husband Jeff on one of their first dates, which I happened to be there for; I happened to be there for their initial crush evening, too, and I remember Lucy's thrill at the end of the evening. "I have a crush on Jeff," she said, "and we're going out next weekend."

Now they're married. So maybe she did petition the universe, and instead of meeting Ed Norton, she met her husband; and maybe just ONE of the reasons he fell in love with her was because of her film about her obsession with Ed Norton, her husband an artist and therefore prone to falling in love with talent. And besides, Ed Norton was dating Salma Hayek, so he was already taken.

What is love? Tamarie Cooper explores this in her most recent show -- 20 Love Songs at Infernal Bridegroom Productions. Daniel Adame does this hilarious and heartwrenching dance to "What is Love? (Baby Don't Hurt Me)." And I've heard that Amy Bruce and George Parker's thing called "A Woman's Complex Relationship with her Vibrator" is flat out hysterical. I created a piece called MAW about mother love. It's gonna go up the first two weekends in June. If you've seen any of Tamarie's work, for example her Tamalalia series, you know that she creates shows that are poingnant and hilarious, the kind of comedy that draws us all in, that reminds us of our humanity and, also, of our godliness. She, herself, reads from her teenage journals about, for example, how she decided in 9th grade to become a "cutter" and how she used a pebble to draw first blood from her arm, giving the audience an insider's view into how Tamarie, and the phenomenon that is Tamarie Cooper, came into existence. 20 Love Songs is a show is not to be missed, dear readers. Not to be missed.


How many lightbulbs would it take to change the world?

One per household. David heard Michael Bloomberg speak the other day at a Greater Houston Partnership luncheon. Mayor Bloomberg sighted a statistic about how if everyone in New York City replaced one incandescent lightbulb with one fluorescent lightbulb, they could reduce this country's energy costs dramatically [or was it significantly?]. Bloomberg then said that the energy saved this way could power the empire state building for an entire year.

I've been dreaming about green. I want a green house, as in a house that impacts the earth minimally, and that does not emit toxic gasses, fumes and particles into our living space. I want the artist Mara Adamitz Scrupe to design a solar energy system for our house that is also an art installation. I want her to do this on the ranch that I want to own on the Central Coast of California. I plan to own this ranch one day. A medium-size ranch. A place for people I love to come and live and rest. And play. And work, if they want to. I dream sometimes of living in an extended family compound on the ranch that I plan on owning. I probably dream this because I'm away from them so much and I can't remember how miserable I let them make me. Sometimes.

The randomness of tonight's post reminds me of how I write in my notebook. It's what I used to call a "braindrain" with my high school students, a term I stole from my husband David's father, David, before I ever knew my husband David.

The universe works in mysterious and methodical ways.

Monday, May 14, 2007

Favorite Notebook

I found the Campus Notebook by Kokuyo 18 years ago, and I've been using it ever since. It's the best. I have to special order them from Japanese Stationary stores, specifically Kinokuniya stores. So very satisfying!

Sunday, May 13, 2007

Today is Mother's Day

photo by Christa

photo by David

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Slow Turning

Went to Dan Electro's Guitar Bar tonight to see this singer/songwriter Dan Bern play there. He had another musician with him, a Mr. Coon, who played -- get this -- a cellocaster. CELLOCASTER! This is the instrument I want played in my vicinity more often. It was great.

Anyway, Dan Bern was totally entertaining. Good lyrics. Lots of Bob Dylan echoes, but as my friend Jason says, "that's totally appropriate because Bob Dylan ripped off all his shit, too." Which is true, of course.

It's been so long since I've seen live music and, well, JESUS I used to play live music in Dan Electro's Bar. SHit. I've come so far....

Anyway, seeing Dan Bern reminded me a little bit of when I lived in Los Angeles and would go to McCabe's Guitar store on Pico Blvd. to see John Hiatt. John Hiatt was something I was loving back then when I lived in Los Angeles. A long time ago.

by John Hiatt

When I was a boy,

I thought it just came to ya'

But I never could tell what's mine

So it didn't matter anyway

My only pride and joy

Was this racket down here

Bangin' on an old guitar

And singin' what I had to say

I always thought our house was haunted

But nobody said boo to me

I never did get what I wanted

Now I get what I need


It's been a slow turnin'

From the inside out

A slow turnin'

But you come about

Slow learnin'

But you learn to sway

A slow turnin' baby

Not fade away

Now I'm in my car

I got the radio on

I'm yellin' at the kids in the back seat

'Cause they're bangin' like Charlie Watts

You think you've come so far

In this one horse town

Then she's laughin' that crazy laugh

'Cause you haven't left the parkin' lot

Time is short and here's the damn thing about it

You're gonna die, gonna die for sure

And you can learn to live with love or without it

But there ain't no cure

There's just a...


Friday, May 11, 2007


The storm last night, which on the Mega Doppler looked like hell hovering over Houston, TX, refreshed me. Oh boy, did I need some refreshment. David and I were caught during the worst part of it up at the Spacetaker office. We were doing some work. Around 9 set out to meet our friends for drinks at Poison Girl, but the rain, thunder and lightning were pounding the area, so we had to stay where we were. Nearing 10 p.m., I started imagining the kids home, awakened by the ferocious thunder and lightning, worried and scared because mommy and daddy weren't home. Their beloved Marcia was with them; nevertheless, in my mind I pictured them staring out the windows at the maelstrom feeling completely crushed by fear of the storm.

David said, "Stop worrying. Clara loves storms."

I said, "Marcia is not answering her phone, so there must be trouble. We need to go home."

When we got home, Marcia was sitting on the couch, and the kids were fast asleep.

"They went to bed around 8," Marcia said. Like they always do. "They've been asleep since then."

I looked at David and said, "You were 100% right." It's so rare that I say this, and I wanted him to revel in the glow of his rightness.

After Marcia left, I realized that I was the one who was scared and frightened by the storm because my parents weren't home. Unlike Clara and Diego, I did not dwell in an area frequented by fierce storms every few weeks/months. Storms rarely happened in my hometown -- once a year at the most -- so when they did, I was consumed by the strangeness, the interrupting power of the storm. I used to fear that we might not come out on the other side of the chaos -- that we would all just be swallowed by the sky's maw.

It's hard, even though I try all the time, to remember that Clara and Diego are totally different people, with different orientations to the world.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

All Shook Up

Right now there's a rat scratching somewhere in the fireplace's flue. My son is wheezing in his bed. My daughter sleeps, exhausted by her crippling social shyness/paranoia. My joints ache. Nevertheless, I keep trying to find the bright side of everything. Today, I realized that this trying to find the bright side of everything is so Pollyanna of me. I was talking to a new friend, and she mentioned ordering books on, which reminded me of a book I want to order about living gluten-free, which I want to read in my quest to become more healthy, due to my poor health over the past year, including my brain hemorrhage after Diego was born. Off the cuff and enveloped in my response to her comment about Amazon, I mentioned the hemorrhage to her. As in, "did I tell you I had a brain hemorrhage a few months ago?" Like I was asking, "did I tell you I tried this new yellow squash yesterday?"

She seemed aghast by the information, appropriately.

I keep believing that it's no big deal that I had a brain hemorrhage. And because I'm alive and (relatively) well, I suppose it isn't a big deal. Nevertheless, I don't know what the fuck my problem is that I keep trying to see the bright side of a brain hemorrhage.

I even had this idea that I could write a book called THE BRIGHT SIDE OF A BRAIN HEMORRHAGE. It could be my book that makes me a million dollars, and furthermore I will get paid bookoo to travel all over the world giving lectures about my enlightening experiences. The cover art of THE BRIGHT SIDE OF A BRAIN HEMORRHAGE could be one of those classic smiley faces, the yellow button face with two black dots for eyes and the smile, only this smiley face would have a droop on one side of its mouth.

Oh HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. It's all so funny and interesting.

But the fact remains that I could have died, and ultimately this is not only a laughing matter (gallows humor and all), it is also a serious matter. However, it's hard for me to stare into that darkness for too long, because what's the point? There's nothing to see. It's dark. What else can I be but positive and grateful and wildly optimistic about everything? Even though the rat keeps scratching, Diego is still wheezing, Clara continues collapsing in public places when someone says hello to her.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007


Last night after reading my post, David said, "I always forget that."

"Forget what?" I asked.

"Your strict religious upbringing," he said.

I don't think I had a strict religious upbringing, although to some it
may look like I did. I did attend Catholic school from Kindergarten
through 8th grade, and I went with my mother and siblings to church
every day before school. I was taught by an order of dementedly strict
nuns, who told us we would go to hell for laughing at the double entendre
of words like balls or pussy. For a long time I wanted to be a saint when I grew up. However, I was allowed to dance and eat hamburgers and sit next to boys in church. And besides that even the strictest Catholic is still pretty lax compared to, say, an orthodox Jew. Or even a Pentacostal Christian. I mean, Catholics worship a
nearly naked guy who hangs on a cross in front of them at every single mass.

Anyway, it doesn't seem that strict to me now. It did feel strict to me then,
which is why at 16 I decided I would not be Catholic anymore. Which is
why using Jesus to win the Miss San Juan Capistrano, 1984 contest was a
cheap shot, because I didn't even believe in "Jesus" at that point.
Although, to myself, I rationalized my use of Jesus in that situation
by viewing him as a historical figure. And in that vein, I could admire
him from where I stood, more than I admired Barbara Streisand,
regardless of whether or not I believe he was God.

For a long time before that day, Jesus was the person I admired
most. He was my savior -- and not in the "have you accepted Jesus
Christ as your personal lord and savior?" way. He was my savior because
for the majority of my childhood, he was the one I talked to about all
my problems, problems that resulted from growing up in a dysfunctional
family with a wildly alcoholic father. I spent about an hour every
night before falling asleep talking to Jesus, telling him about my day,
asking him for special attention, letting him know I loved him and that
I hoped that I was good enough to get to see him someday in heaven. In
short, he was my confidante during a time when I could confide in no
one else.

And I know I'm not the only one who feels this way: Were it not for the Catholic church, I might still be loving me some Jesus.

Monday, May 07, 2007

Know Your Audience

In 1984, although Orwell's nightmare didn't exactly come to pass, I was living my own little nightmare out in San Juan Capistrano, Ca. Because my father's family has lived in that town for 7 generations, he felt it my right, nay my familial duty, to become Miss San Juan Capistrano at some point in time. 1984 was that time. I told my dad I did not want to do it, but, as usual, he decided for me that I did.

The Miss San Juan Capistrano Pageant was not a pageant in the strict sense of the word -- there was no pageantry, in fact. Rather there was an essay and an interview. Five girls applied for the job -- I mean, the honor. Whoever won would spend the next year attending ribbon cuttings or presiding over local traditions like "The Hariest Man Contest." Whoever won would be expected to mix and mingle at the Historical Society monthly gatherings; she would preside over Swallow's Day activities like the Old Mission Fiesta and the Swallow's Day parade. She would return her library books on time, drive the speed limit, wear modest clothing, brush her hair regularly.

I remember well the day of the big decision. The city coucil held a luncheon at the El Adobe Restaurant for the final, I don't know, screening? During that luncheon, each candidate was asked to stand at a podium and answer one more question for the judges: who is the person you admire most?

When I got to the podium, I had no idea what to say. At this point, I didn't want to lose because I'm competitive by nature, an Aries, for Christssake. I looked at the judges: the mayor, a couple city coucil members, Carmen O'Malley (the city matriarch), and Father Martin, our parish priest. I leaned into the microphone, and my first inclination was to answer Barbara Streisand. But at the last minute, I looked directly into Father Martin's eyes and said Jesus.

I won.

Sunday, May 06, 2007

On My Running Away

I'm sure my mother's worst nightmares started when we got our drivers' licenses. And I didn't give her any reason to relax. Blue Thunder and I were renown throughout town for "barrelling," as in "down the highway." My father called it ramming around. I remember driving down El Camino Real, my six year old sister sitting sans seatbelt in the passenger seat, telling me to slow down.

One evening during dinner, apropos of nothing, my sister blurted out: "Christa went 70."

My parents grounded me from driving at night for the next three months. During that period of time, I was so miserable -- a prisoner in my own home! -- I ran away. Running away consisted of my calling Patti Orozco one Friday afternoon and asking her to come pick me up. I didn't tell my parents I was leaving, I just packed my backpack with enough clothes for the weekend and went to sit at the bottom of the hill, waiting for Patti to show up in her mom's Dart.

When I saw the black and white Dart pull up the street, I was crestfallen to see Patti's mom driving it, with Patti's five siblings hopping up and down inside as well. They pulled up. Patti's mom rolled down the window and said, "Do your parents know you're coming over to our house?"

"Yes," I lied. I crawled into the back seat. The Orozco clan jumped around me like monkeys. From the front seat, Patti gave me a look that said, "I'm sorry." She could see I was pissed. I mean, I was supposed to be running away!

When we arrived at her house a couple miles from mine, her mom called my mom just to make sure she knew I was spending the night.

That was my one and only attempt at running away. I was such a failure at it, I humiliated myself.

Friday, May 04, 2007

From Here to Eternity

In August 1990, I moved from Orange County, CA to Houston, TX. I hauled several boxes of books, a large arm chair and a garbage bag of clothes with me in my 810 Datsun Maxima station wagon. My dad accompanied me, and because it was my dad, we had to take the roundabout route from there to here. And we had to listen to the same "Shell Classics" (as in Shell Gas Station) cassette tape over and over. The only other tape we could listen to was one of my Bob Dylan tapes -- Desire -- and only once every 200 miles or so. It took us three days to get to New Mexico, where we spent a couple days resting in Taos. Then we drove out of town the back way, over the mountain through Angel Fire Ski Resort into Las Vegas, New Mexico. From there we took highway 84 to highway 277, headed toward San Antonio.

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, I noticed that my toes were getting dripped on underneath the dash. I told my dad. He leaned over while driving, stuck his finger in the drip and then sucked the drip off his finger. "That's not good," he said. I figured he knew what was wrong because he had owned an auto parts store for the majority of my childhood. "It's the air conditioner," he said. "One of the hoses is broken."

That was not good, indeed. Like I said, it was August in Texas. We kept going until we hit the next town; well, the place wasn't even trying to pass as a town, it was just a few buildings on the highway. One of them looked kind of like an autoshop/garage. My dad pulled into the bay where a guy in overalls was hosing down the concrete. "We're closed," the guy said. It was 5 p.m. on a Friday afternoon. "But keep driving down the highway until you see a field full of Chevys," the guy said. "Darrell's place. He can fix it for you."

We headed down the highway. Soon we saw a field full of probably 300 cars, most of them Chevys from all different eras, in all states of disrepair. My dad turned off the highway and into the field. He headed straight toward a farmhouse, then veered sharply around the side of the house. Without stopping, he careened over the lawn, through a clothes line with clothes actually hanging on it, through a bunch of chickens strutting around, and toward the barn. When he reached the barn, he didn't get out, he just honked.

"Dad!" I said, taking my hands away from my eyes.

"What?!" he barked.

"You can't just --"

"Oh shut up. Don't be such a pussy."

Darrell came out of his barn, dressed in jeans and no shirt. My dad stayed seated in the car and waited for Darrell to come up to the window.

"What's going on?" Darrell asked, as if he and my dad had just seen each other the day before. My dad explained the situation. Darrell said he could fix our air conditioning hose, and he did, in less than 15 minutes. When it came time to pay him, my dad offered him $20 bucks and a six pack of Lone Star from our cooler. That was just fine with Darrell.

On our way back to the highway, my dad went around the other side of the house, where instead of a clothes line, there was a bunch of lawn furniture he had to maneuver through. Darrell didn't seem to mind. And as mortified as I was by my dad's behavior, I was more grateful to have our air conditioner working as we pulled back onto the highway and headed straight into the sun.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

Favorite Childhood Games (Card and Board)

Bull Shit
Connect Four
Gin Rummy

Wednesday, May 02, 2007


Things I lost that broke my heart:

My mother of pearl first communion catechism
One of my grandmother's long, black leather gloves
My Stetson fedora
My plastic blue photo album

Tuesday, May 01, 2007