This Is What Happens When June Leaves The House

you can see more of this great photography here

I thought this weekend was going to be awesome and I was right. Friday night I went out with three of my co-workers, it was just so SATC with the lemon drop cocktails, high heels and hot outfits. But we are way more interesting than Carrie and friends. Our new mom friend, E rounded up a few of us for drinks because: “I never go anywhere anymore unless it’s work and I‘m sick of staying at home.”

If you wanted to play the SATC name game you could call her Miranda. She resembles Miranda in that she’s tallish with chin length hair and has a uterus. But E is funny and without the bitter and markedly un-funny brittleness of Miranda. She’s also about a million and ten times more interesting than Miranda. E also really loves her boyfriend and doesn’t treat him like crap. It helps her Boy is more Aiden than Steve.

M. “Our Lady Of The Bouncy Ponytail” came a little late but was very much present before she got there. She is like Charlotte physically: gamine, cute and smart. A lot smarter than Charlotte. M just read a book with the title--I kid you not--Why Men Love Bitches to try and understand why her boyfriend started having meltdowns about her “rushing” him into marriage. She reely admits (but not too much) she isn't sure she wants to marry him and she knows she isn’t ready to get married. Cute, gamine, smart but not desperate like Charlotte. \So far the advice in the book has worked because M’s Boy has simmered the Hell down and has become the boy she was dating six months ago.

So before anyone starts thinking…I’m thinking of myself as the Bushnell character…stop…take a breath and look next to Carrie. I’m her weird little gay boyfriend with the big glasses and the bright suits. Total misfit with these babes. They keep me around because I'm funny. Or at least think I'm hilarious.

Last but certainly not least, there’s our MILF friend (she had a co-starring role in a blog last summer) Uh…huh…she is Samantha but this time Samantha landed Mr. Big. Our S actually funny and doesn’t pose or speak in smirky pronouncements that pretend to be biting when really they are yawn inducing. She’s also one of the most generous and down to earth women I know. Our Samantha is the real deal. S is also a new gramma at the ripe old age of 45 and proud to be The Hot Gramma. And boy howdy, she won’t let you forget she’s The Hot Gramma. S has probably the most perfectly augmented breasts I’ve ever seen in real life (IN HER CLOTHING…OMG I work with this woman!! Gawd, get your minds’ out of the gutter!) But we did almost get a full frontal of them, given the cut of her extremely cut top. When we met outside of the restaurant, I gave her a hug and confessed.

“So don’t hate me if I forget to look you in the eye, because damn…your breasts? Sort of hard to miss.”

“Oh don’t worry about it, I paid enough for them I want people to look at ’em. Why I have ’em!”

E joins us, gives both of us hugs and says,” S those are some breasts you’ve got there!”

“I told her that I was going to have a hard time looking her in the eye.”

“June, I’m going to have a hard time looking her in the eye! And girls have never really occurred to me as an option!” Clearly, E was already mesmerized by The Breasts, too.

Later after a couple of yummy Lemon drop Martinis we are seated and had met our waiter we were left on our own to muse about this young man who was incredibly monotone and a bit shall we say…stiff?

“June did you notice how when we gave him our order he didn’t even look at us but stared at S’s breasts?”

I narrowed my eyes and smiled an evil grin: “I did notice that. I wonder if he will look at us at all.”

“But Oh my gawd, he was so boring, he needs to you know…LOOSEN UP! Yay!! I mean talk to us, be friendly. Have a conversation with us!” S let go with one of her patent party girl moves that never fails to make me laugh even during the weirdest moments at work.

You can only imagine what happened over the next few hours, every time we called him to the table, S would bend over just a little bit and lean forward. Every time she did this patented Pin Up Girl move he would stammer and his affect would become even more flat. We had made an unspoken pact with one another to mess with this kid.

We acted like complete Mean Girls and squealing with laughter every time he took he and his discomfort away from the table with yet another drink order and sushi request. And after an hour of waiter torture M joined us. When she sat down with us, I thought this waiter was either going to have a seizure or run away crying like a scared little girl because M isn’t just pretty, she is Hollywood pretty. Luminous comes to mind when you see her. Not only is she pretty and smart but she reads people like Lady Cleo on the psychic network so after ordering her drink she turned to S and pointedly said:

“Dude, he is totally NOT looking at your face. You knew that didn’t you? I mean has he stopped looking at your boobs, at all?”

We all squealed with laughter again but while I was laughing I sort of felt sorry for him because I think he was hypnotized by her boobs and was in some kind of Tata induced trance which rendered him speechless. Or at least I hoped that’s what it was because if it wasn’t.

Dude was boring.

Driving Under the Influence

This past July (oh lordy that was a lifetime ago) I was issued a traffic ticket, my first in about twenty years. When I saw the lights flashing in my review mirror it scared me because I didn’t have a clue what I had done wrong. I was driving at the speed limit on a street I had driven down almost every day for the last sixteen years. I pulled over and waited for the deputy sheriff to lean down and speak to me. She was a plump blonde woman, very young very polite and to the point, “Do you know why I pulled you over, ma’am?”
“Um…actually I don’t have a clue.”
“You failed to stop at that stop sign”
that’s impossible! I have stopped at that stop sign for sixteen years, sheesh there’s a school up one street and the community pool up the other, I could mow down a kid if I didn’t stop!
“Really?!”
“Did you stop at the stop sign?”
I know I looked at her like she had two heads because I thought it was a silly question. “Well…if you didn’t see me stop then I suppose I didn’t stop.” I’m very distracted today; a week ago my fourteen year old had his wisdom teeth out and he’s still in a lot of pain and feels like crap; my stupid ex husband and his nasty wife kicked my nineteen year old out; and he just announced his ship date was moved up and he leaves for Georgia in about six weeks rather than in twelve weeks. Did I mention my job really sucks right now?
“Do you have your proof of insurance?” well f*ck me runnin’, no I don’t have my proof of insurance, and it’s at home on my kitchen table. Let’s see if I can remember the big ass speech I gave my son about always always always ALWAYS have your proof of insurance in the car because just this minute I need to hear it!
“I’m not sure, can I look for it?” The very polite officer allowed me to toss my car looking for my proof of insurance and alas and alack the only one I found was a year old even after I did everything but tear out the carpet and rip open the seats.
“Ma’am this is a year old.”
“I know” I sighed, “Can we call my insurance agent, and you can confirm I’m insured?”
“No, but you can go to court on this date and then you can prove you have insurance. And thank you for not lying to me.”
thank you for not lying to you? Are you high? Why the hell would I lie to a sheriff’s deputy? People lie to you? People blatantly run stop signs and do illegal maneuvers and then lie about it? Are they high? Dude, you have so much power in that little notebook that the last thing I’m going to do is lie to you. (Obviously, I’m not one of these people who cries or acts stupid to get out of tickets.)

So yesterday morning I had my day in court, it was the first day of autumn, snow on the mountains, errant flakes driven by a damp cold wind hitting my face as I walked into the court house. I gulped when I saw my name was the first on the arraignment list. I was being arraigned . Damn, when I saw I was being arraigned I felt like I should have brought F. Lee Bailey’s protégé or something for this serious business. I checked in with a clerk who looked--I swear this is not an exaggeration-- eerily like Della Street’s older sister. There were only five of us to be arraigned that day and the other four were my children’s age. I was the only matron jailbird in the bunch. Della Street gave us a copy of our rights and I was immediately fascinated I could plead guilty by reason of insanity, for a moving violation! Awesome! I wonder if anyone has ever done that. I imagined the look on the judge’s face when I told him I ran the stop sign because I was insane. “Ok, Your Honor, I wasn’t actually insane, insane. Have you ever had teenagers? I mean those people are enough to drive you OVER THE EDGE! And I was at the edge of the brink that day with the Ward and Alexis Asshat Show much less dealing with two teenaged boys. You know it’s just amazing I didn’t wreck the car. . .“ Ummmm probably not a good idea to plead insanity. I could also plead “no contest” because this wasn’t really a moving violation because I rolled through the stop sign. I know I rolled through it because if I had driven through that tight corner I would have toppled the Mitz onto it‘s right side. You can‘t take a corner like that at 30 in one of those things without terrible repercussions. No Contest seemed like the better option because Reason by Insanity could also mean a 72 hour M1 hold, and my State Nursing Board frowns on nurses having M1 holds on their medical records. Besides, they might decide to keep me and the mental health option on my health insurance is probably the most craptastic in the industry (aside from Medicaid which is next to nothing but I’ve already beaten that dead horse with a few sticks). My final option was the least amusing but the most sound: just plead guilty, pay the fine and eat the insurance points for failure to stop at a stop sign. I quietly tallied how much money I had and said good bye to the new shoes and jeans I wanted as I listened to the names being called and people were ushered into a room to discuss their cases with an associate DA who looked fresh out of law school and probably had visions of being Mayor or God or something. After they had their little face to faces with Doogie Houser Esq, they quietly walked into the courtroom, tails between legs. I was really nervous about all of this failiing to have insurance is a really serious offense(OMG as it should be!) and if proof isn't valid, too bad. One of my co-workers--a hot 40ish blonde MILF type, told me this would be a piece of cake, just show up and they will dismiss the ticket, she had done it a few times over the years. Well, yeah of course it was thrown out, look at you! was my response. Oh no, she insisted, that county’s DA is really easy-going. When it was finally my turn and I followed him into a little office trying to look law abiding and NOT my usual bitchy MO.

“So Ms Cleaver, you failed to stop at a stop sign, is this true?”
“Yes it is.” rolled, I rolled through the intersection, an intersection I have pointedly stopped at for years. . .
“And you didn’t have proof of insurance. Did you have insurance on this date?” He looks at me like he wants to give me the chair because I had left my effin’ insurance card on the kitchen table.
“Sir, I’ve had auto insurance since I was sixteen” I pushed the card over to him.
“It appears you did have insurance.”
yay! He can read!,
“How is your driving record?”
“Oh you clever boy, I know you have my driving record resting in your hand. What kind of idiot would sit opposite you and lie. This is another chance to be caught in a lie and then you send me into the court room to get scolded by a judge. I know this game, sonny. ( I wonder what he would have done if I had said: Let‘s see, over the past ten years I have been issued fourteen DUI‘s; one night I was going 120 and when they finally caught me I was given a speeding ticket; I ran over a small child; and I’m wanted in California for a minor little road rage incident involving a hand gun and a fist fight.
“I haven’t had a ticket since about 1987”
“How are your points?” He leans towards me and glares when he asks me this. I thought any minute he was going to hand me a phone so I can hear Beav pleading with me to tell the truth so they won’t kill him. I’m thinking Doogie's nanny let him watch too many LA Law episodes on Lifetime television when he was 12 and I’ve watched too many conspiracy flicks on TNT.
“I don’t think I have any points on my license.”
“That’s correct, Ms. Cleaver, you don’t!” So now he is morphing into Monty Hall. I can hear the DING DING DING and applause in the background, pretty purple, green and red lights are flashing because I’ve just picked door number two and I get a new washer/dryer, a year’s supply of Rice-a-Roni and a Dismissal!
“I’m dismissing this.”
“So I don’t have to pay a fine for the moving violation and I’m not getting any points?” I’m feeling paranoid, this was way too easy. He didn’t really dismiss it and next week there will be a warrant out for my arrest.
“Just be a better driver!” He said peering down at me like I’m NOT old enough to be his mother.
Be a better driver? Look you little bug, I taught my oldest son to drive and I’m teaching the other one to drive. . .don’t tell me to be a better driver…if you want to be all bad ass why don’t you get a real lawyer’s job. . .

“Thank you, sir I will.”

So it was dismissed I didn’t have to plead insane or no contest or even sit in the courtroom. I can buy new jeans! And shoes!

Life is sweet sometimes, innit?

Art for Art's Sake

<

June got her culture and art on last week; between a friend of a friend’s art opening; scavenging tag sales for art and finally an annual open air art market downtown; I can safely say I have seen enough art...…at least until next week when I go to Next Town and make a quick tour of the local modern art museum. Sadly, my taste in art has been referred to as pedestrian and predictable despite my appreciation of the abstract over the representational. I grew up with really bad representational landscapes (sorry mom, your work was too safe) so I bristle a little when I see them. But when representational pieces reach out to me it is usually because the artist tells the truth of the object through color. She sees the glint of light off water as the color gray tipped with yellow and thereby makes it--creates if you will--a glint of light on water. This gift fills me with awe, wonder and envy. To be able to make color and paint hang together in such a way that I see what she saw in the moment she was painting, is genius. Abstract painters amaze me, too. They think and paint outside the lines. No safe vistas and bibulous skies for them! Their leaps of faith make me giddy. A few months ago the local posh university was offering an adult ed class in oil painting and overcoming fear: the colors will be layered and therefore muddy, I will hate it and therefore wasted $$ on a canvas and paint. It was like the instructor called me and asked me: “if you love color, texture and form so much why don’t you paint?“ Hopefully, the class will be offered again.

The theme of the opening last Thursday was so obscure and ridiculous but I am reluctant to blog about it because I feel mean-spirited: as if I am utterly clueless about the often difficult process of creating. The show revolved around a theme and featured four artists each representing a different medium. My limited art background is perhaps why I found the show to be--well frankly--an absurd and pointless exercise in deconstructing space. Because literature wasn’t enough now we must deconstruct space. I can grope my way through the murky waters of Deconstructionism and it’s tenants. In the beginning, I was fascinated with subtext and all the blah-blah theory but after my initial dewy-eyed fascination, I found it to be ludicrous and a waste of time and academic energy. My favorite description of the importance of deconstructing text was: “so we can read the pauses and spaces between the letters.” Oh. What. The. Fuck. Ever.

This is a snippet of the show‘s statement: “. . .an exhibition featuring works of art that non-representationally refer to human bodily figure. Whether a surviving mark or mere evidence of the former existence--blood stains, sweat, hair, footmarks--indexical signs create a narrative.” The statement continues to instruct this collection of work “delves more into semiotics with the dualistic role of artist humanistic vestiges; intact are the clues that link the imagery to its human origin.”

You lost me at “semiotics”. Is “indexical” even a word?

One of the artists spent the last year collecting her hair from the shower drain, lobbed the wad on the scanner bed and made a picture of it. Yes, they did look like dainty line drawings but that it was scanned hair made me snort in an unladylike fashion. Another of the quartet, made paintings as he stomped, jumped or walked across the canvas in different paint covered shoes. The paintings reminded me of Joan Mitchell’s work, the shapes were airy, loose and sometimes off to the sides of the field. These pieces grew on me because the artist freely admitted what a departure this was for him as a representational artist. He lost me with over thinking his work: “Man has no identity without a carbon foot print, a traceable identity that is erased over time. “ The third is a French chemist who photographically explored how a drop of blood devolves over a year. Scientifically, it was interesting to see the breakdown. He also photographed drops of blood moving through water as an exploration of the alchemy of blood. On an intellectual level, the idea of his work intrigues me. But to see the actual work made me physically recoil. In my reality, an intimate acquaintance with someone else's blood can be deadly and is never beautiful. Finally, the piece de resistance, a textile artist who looked like Joyce Carol Oates younger more intense baby sister working hard to outdo her sister in the oversized eye glasses department. She used the bits of worn thrift store garments featuring stitching, snaps, buttons or zippers on each square of a large quilt. I thought my eyes would spin out of my head when she confessed feeling the previous wearer’s essence in each piece of clothing. She confessed being delighted as she ironed how she could smell their bodies. . .well that’s just icky. Ickier than the hair and the blood. She relates in her artist statement: “. . .the traces of human action that remains on linens and clothing--the rips, holes and stains that mark them as used--become markers of domesticities, lives constellated by cycles and patterns.” Oh joy! Feminist Deconstructionism! Let’s dig up the decomposed corpse of scholarship past and revisit how women’s art is demarked by the cycles of “repetitive and tedious processes” of domestic labor. Let’s debate whether or not biology ultimately decides my creative process. Lee Krasner's "Portrait in Green" as case in point! I did stick my hand in the air and asked if she was still artistically exploring this dead mare. (for the record, I was polite and didn’t say dead horse or dead mare but did assert this had been done to death) Many greater than she had beaten the cycle and drudgery of domestic labor to a bloody pulp back in the 80’s. For the love of the Goddess and womyn everywhere, give it a rest Ms. Oates Jr. And please, girl! The 80‘s are done! (now I’m being BitchyJuneCleaver)

I think I shall pitch a show: I can cart around an empty portfolio, and when I open it up I will do a dramatic hand flourish with a staccato “Viola!” I present to you: The Deconstruction of Space!” But there aren’t any pieces. Not even blank canvases. How ironic, how navel staring, how PoMo of me. Excuse me while I light my Gitan; adjust my gigantic and flowing scarf whilst contemplating my art.

Seriously, I thought the images were either absurd or repulsive. I found their intimacy grotesque. (I can hear Ms A’s man--R--with his laconic English accent: “June, art isn’t always about the beautiful, sometimes it’s about the profane”) But the intimacy evoked wasn’t the a sad piquant intimacy of Goldberg’s photos; or the brutish and jarring intimacy of Mapplethorpe’s finger in a penis. Goldberg and Mapplethorpe rivet me but these pieces made me want to turn away and wash my hands. Perhaps my boundaries are too hard and fast but I felt as if I had violated the artist‘s, and in one case, ultimately the subjects’ personal space. Much of my life’s work revolves around strangers most private functions and becoming intrinsically involved with their bodies. My companions at the show were surprised by my disgust and took note: “But you are a nurse!“ After a week of contemplating all of this it boils down to I would rather art not cross that line. I prefer to be entertained by art. But really, what the Hell do I know? The nice girl that lives in about 2% of my soul is appalled by my distain for these artist’ efforts and one’s complete body of work. What I do know and completely understand how difficult creating art can be.

The art market was a mindless pleasure after the intellectual contortions a few days before. Some of it was boring and predictable but other pieces were surprising and inspired smiles. Like this piece at the student show. I must admit to gasping with pleasure when I saw how well he photographed against the stormy sky.


It’s a deconstructed notion of Mr. Stay Puff as interpreted in Ghost Busters, don’t you think? oh my god! Make it stop! Make the Derrida and Smith voices go away! But you gave them the power of the text by typing their names. Their influences are now the subtext of your life. Ahem…sorry little moment with the voices in my head.

Despite my bitching about the show, I had a great time with Ms. A, R and his friends. The garage sale art and the market a few days later was cosmic payback for the head scratching, belly gazing experience last Thursday night. I did see things I would love to own at the market. I returned with cards and websites for the future when I can acquire a canvas and maybe a tea pot. Art makes a splendid gift. A picture of my hair would be just the thing for TG next Christmas! Better yet, I will allow our strands to intermingle as one continuous line. . . The supreme romantic gesture. Do you think she would like a Kleenex from the bottom of my purse? Because, that too contextualizes traces of my existence. My existence is too important to not be contextualized.

I slay myself, truly.

To Be Continued

I've developed the habit of writing while I'm waiting. I keep a stack of index cards in my bag--Moleskins too fine for the likes of my hackery--and free write either what I'm observing or things weighing on my mind. The Beav graduated from the eighth grade yesterday and I was actually early for something so I seized the opportunity to write.

The Beav has successfully graduated from many things like sucking his thumb, sippy cups, diapers, kindergarten, lying about taking baths and the fifth grade. Today is another graduation referred to as a "continuation". This is my fourth continuation and Wally cheated me out of an actual graduation because he didn't want to be "bothered" with the ceremony and "sitting around just to hear my name". I feel alien to this White Mommy Daddy world so gatherings at the boys' schools make me a bit anxious. I am seated alone and not bothering to save places for Ward and Alexis especially after last night's Saga Of The Pants.[Ward was supposed to buy Beav some new pants and didn't. I got to do it at 8:30 on Monday night after a very stressful twelve hour shift which evolved into thirteen hours. Needless to say the conversation we shared was colorful]

The people around me are dressed in a sort of upscale casual and one woman in particular takes this continuation thing seriously, donning a lovely geen and white halter dress more suitable for an evening wedding. I can't image what she wears to weddings. Sparkles? But it suits her, she of the blond carefully exercised set. The type I see talking in a quick clipped cadence on wee phones as they pause between the hearth breads and chocolates at Whole Foods. Her resplendent dress is a relief, I thought I was overdressed in my flowy black linen dress, the sort of thing worn on a patio sharing drinks and sailing stories with people named Mimi and Biff.

So many familiar and well known faces in the gym this afternoon; many acquaintances for the last two decades a few of them were even friends. But having fallen out of their orbit they have forgotten me. Pity this, I'm a lot of fun to know and interesting company. Many of the mothers are easily ten or more years younger and this is probably their second big milestone with their kids. Most of us are watching from the jaded seat of having done this a few times before and know the real pay off will be when they graduate from high school.

I recognized one mom of a boy Beav played with when they were kindergartners. I still remember where I was standing and what I was doing when she called to tell me her boy was no longer allowed to play with Beav at my house. My first conclusion was she had heard via the grapevine I was lesbian. She gave me a self-righteous speech about how she didn't want Little Darling playing at a divorcee's house in the city. I was polite and gave her a canned speech about how we would miss Crown Prince. I wanted to ask if she was she afraid the ennui, dissatisfaction and final despair I experienced would jump onto her boy like a cold germ and then rub off on her hands as she scrubbed away the wretched city dirt after his playdate? Or was she already infected and couldn't risk further exposure in an effort to keep all the bad stuff dormant? "Is denying you are unhappy easier than admitting failure like I did?" Most of my days as a young mother were marked by unhappiness, frustration and helplessness. Years ago, Dear Abby poised the question "if you had to do it all over again, would you have children?" My resounding answer would be no. I have too much baggage to visit on defenseless children and I am far too selfish to be a good mother.

But this particular emotional mud puddle won't keep me from milestones like a Continuation. My regret and insecurity won't stop me from feeling joy and pride when Beav's name is called as an honor student. Beav is my pay back for watching the heart wrenching struggle and defeats his brother experienced in school. Regret doesn't prevent me from feeling cheated I'm not watching Wally walk across the stage after spending so many years symbolically dragging him through school.

Milestones like this lighten my dark and heavy heart because I have succeeded in continuing as a mother when so many days I just wanted to quit. The darkness doesn't dampen the joy I feel when one or the other succeeds at something, nor does it quiet worry when I see them making decisions I perceive as ruinous. Last week, Wally proved I had done something right. Nestled in the thorns of all of my bad parenting he has found his path . Wally made a life altering decision completely independently from me or his father. Isn't this what we ultimately want for our children the second they leave our bodies? Isn't independence the goal? But when I heard he had stepped away from the Navy and joined the Army I was angry. Over the thunder of my helicopter blades snapping the air as I lectured about commitment and seeing things through. Now I can see the root of my anger rests solely in not being consulted. My eldest is continuing without me. As it should be.

Image by Blake Flynn