Mandajuice

Seven-Year Old Secrets

Genoa has taken to trying on my shoes. Every pair. Every night. I finally had to tell her she could only take one pair out of my closet at a time because tripping over my own shoes in the middle of the night was becoming a problem. I'm sure the basement dwellers are thrilled with this development, too, because I pretty much only own heels.

It's okay, though, because they stole her donkey pinata. (Which I totally understand - its butt has a sticker that reads "FILL HERE" right on the pucker.)

She's been kind of amazing lately. Weird, yes, but amazing. 

She uses sidewalk chalk to make rainbow-colored dust, which she then shapes into people. Chalk people. She keeps them in plastic bags.

She's an athlete who recently kept up with me on her bike while I did a four-mile run. She runs like a gazelle herself. A thirteen-minute mile pace on those tiny little legs.

The other morning she refused to let me brush her hair. She wouldn't brush it herself. I reminded her that she looked adorable with short hair that we could always just get it cut again if brushing it was such a problem. An hour later I was walking her to her classroom when she started bawling her eyes out in the middle of the hall.

"When you say I look cute with short hair, it makes me think you don't think I'm pretty with long hair!"

Wait. WHUT?! Color me dumbfounded. I got down on my knees, smothered her with loves and reminded her that she is a goddess. Even though I may never understand her.

I do understand her current predicament, though.

She's been talking.

A. LOT.

And people, this is ME saying this. I gold medal in the talking olympics. But she's doing more than talking lately. She's narrating. Her whole life. Every step.

"Mom!" she'll scream at me from her bedroom so I can hear her in the kitchen. "I just opened my curtains, but it was too bright so I closed them!"

"I'm reading Junie B!"

"Now I'm reading Go Dog Go!"

"I needed to go pee but then it went away!"

It's almost as if she thinks I'm Sting and I need to know every move she makes.

But I get it - she's telling me everything except the one thing she wants me to know.

A month ago she told me she had a secret she needed to tell me. A confession about something she did with the neighbor girl across the street. Some bad. Something she needs to get off her conscience. Aside from asking her twelve bazilion times if there were any grown-ups or boys involved (no) (thank god), she won't tell me what it is. 

She'll talk about TELLING ME about it. Constantly. Relentlessly.

But she won't tell me her secret. 

I've tried everything. Begging. Pleading. Paying. She keeps promising to tell me "tonight." "When we get home." "Tomorrow morning, I SWEAR!"

I've even tried reverse psychology. I told her I didn't even care about her secret and that she never had to tell me what it was because I don't even want to know anymore. Of course that only made her cry because "It's like [I] don't even care about [her]!"

Until the dam breaks, I'll try to just listen. To all of it. It's hard. Painful, even. She never stops talking.

But I get it. Secrets are terrible. And there are worse things than the constant chatter of the seven-year old love of my life. 

Daddy

Fifteen years later

and your wedding day advice

has never mattered more.

 

"Stop it, you'll mess up my makeup,"

was nothing but a juvenile attempt 

to get you to stop you saying

words I didn't want to hear.

 

I was already fluent in three languages, but

"I wish you could stop

looking to the future 

and just be happy NOW"

wasn't something my 21-year old ears

could translate. 

 

That poor girl. 

 

I can only imagine how hard

it must have been

to give her away

 

when she had nowhere to go.

 

Too lost in the future 

to see a single damn thing.

 

Today is Father's Day, though,

and I hope you're not expecting some stupid Rush Limbaugh tie

via Fedex.

 

Because all I have for you is this:

I may be a complete fuck-up

by every standard you ever tried to instill in me, 

 

but I'm finally happy.

 

Today. 

Right now. 

 

There is no future, no past.

Just the magnificent half moon I can see

from my kitchen table

where I'm listening to Al Green on Pandora

while my children sleep with their windows open.

 

I wouldn't change a thing.

 

I would tell you I hope that's enough,

but you're my dad.

 

I already know it is.

Daddy

Fifteen years later

and your wedding day advice

has never mattered more.

 

"Stop it, you'll mess up my makeup,"

was nothing but a juvenile attempt 

to get you to stop you saying

words I didn't want to hear.

 

"I wish you could stop

looking to the future 

and just be happy NOW"

wasn't a language my 21-year old ears

could translate. 

 

That poor girl. 

 

I can only imagine how hard

it must have been

to give her away

 

when she had nowhere to go.

 

Too lost in the future 

to see a single damn thing that mattered.

 

Today is Father's Day, though,

and I hope you're not expecting some stupid Rush Limbaugh tie

via Fedex.

 

Because all I have for you is this:

I may be a complete fuck-up

by every standard you ever tried to instill in me, 

 

but I'm finally happy.

 

Today. 

Right now. 

 

There is no future, no past.

Just the magnificent half moon I can see

from my kitchen table

where I'm listening to Al Green on Pandora

while my children sleep with their windows open.

 

I wouldn't change a thing.

 

I would tell you I hope that's enough,

but you're my dad.

 

I already know it is.

Rest in Peace

Today was rough, I'm not gonna lie. In spite of the fact that I woke up beautifully be-tangled with my muse, my day was unforgettably difficult. It's a good thing my heart was so well-fortified because before I'd had the time to finish my pre-run latte, I learned that a close, beloved friend of mine had lost her husband. A husband I know how much she adored. We all did. He was one of those guys you can't help but like. Totally irresistible, even after his wife told me all of his terrible secrets. The kind of guy who comes to a back yard weenie roast having never met the hostess or anyone else at the party (save Facebook) and then proceeds to charm the pants off everyone there.

Death is awful. It sideswipes most of us and always back hands me. I've never been able to deal with it.

After I heard the news, I ditched the group run I had planned for this morning and instead ran ten miles up and down the Leif Ericsson trail ALONE in the rain. As fast as I could. I cried for my friend the whole way up. When I got to the top, I screamed at her husband at the top of my lungs and then cried my way back down.

I'm just so pissed off. So angry he's not here for his family anymore.

It doesn't matter how he died, or why. We're all devastated that he's gone. I'm terrified that this woman I adore will never be the same. That their daughter will grieve this loss for the rest of her life.

And it was no one's fault. There was nothing anyone could have done to prevent it.

The hardest part for me is that I knew this man. I've waxed him. I've seen him naked. Literally exposed. Vulnerable. In the kind of raw beauty only few had known.

And he's... gone. This sweet, sexy (not gonna lie) beautiful man.

This shouldn't come as a shock, but people tend to tell me things when I get them on my table. Hot wax is the ultimate truth potion and Fred was not immune to its powers. When I first met him, he and his wife were  gearing up for a big anniversary on the town and all he could talk about was how much he loved her. How she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen or met or known. I think the word AMAZING came up over a dozen times in a single hour. All because of her. He knew he was the luckiest man alive because even after more than a decade of marriage, she loved him back and he was eternally grateful she kept him around in spite of his flaws.

Love can be magnificent, indeed, but I'm convinced that even at best, it's cruel, angry, formidable. I could run away forever, a million miles, and I'd still never understand why we need it so much when it hurts us more than we can possibly imagine.

If only love was ever enough.

Even broken, my heart is stronger than it's ever been. I only wish there was a universal love lending library, because I'd gladly hold my friend's heart in my chest tonight in place of my own.

Godspeed, Cynthia. My dear, beautiful friend. And sweet Jesus on a pogo stick, I hope there is such a thing.

My Universe for a God named Chavez

This weekend marked the official start of summer in Portland and let me be the first to warn you: no one is immune to this vixen city's charms. All it takes is a few hours of sunshine and I'm not the only one in town with a shit-eating grin and the kind of never-ending boner one can only otherwise achieve by mainlining Viagra. The ides of June aren't even upon us yet, but my Winter of Ill Repute is already long forgotten. It never even happened! And I'm in too good a mood to care. It's summer! Squeeeeee!

If I didn't know any better, I'd be worried about my Vitamin D erection lasting longer than four hours and find myself a doctor, but I'm be beginning to suspect it has nothing to do with the barometric pressure and everything to do with being turned on by life again. Apparently I forgot how intoxicating a little freedom can be. How being single means I have all this time! and energy! and enthusiasm! I'd go so far as to say I'm shitting sunshine, but it feels more like the Care Bear Stare - all of my resources are coming together to form a single ray of love and good cheer.

Shhhhhhh. It's BELLY MAGIC.

I'm (totally not) kidding, but what I am trying to say is that I'm inspired again. All the time. By EVERYTHING - by my kids, my People, the city itself and runningrunningrunning its endless trails (I just signed up to run all 80 miles of Forest Park this summer!), by the spectacular brains of a certain bald muse, by music, new and old, by dancing my Fridays away, reconnecting with friends, and talking with my parents (we're going back to Cali in August!). I'm even inspired by the fact that Lola doesn't have air conditioning (that fine Mercedes Benz experience, now brought to you in smell-o-vision!).

In fact, by the time Sunday morning rolled around, I was so filled with inspiration I decided to hit The Bridge on my way to the Germantown trail head. A little punk rock gospel and an ass-kicking run? So perfect that Lionel Richie wrote a song about it.

Of course, as it usually does, church ended up doing most of the ass-kicking and that's what this post is about: how my summer wood led me straight into a tabernacle.

Yes. A taberFUCKINGnacle.

A god yurt.

Aside from the Mormon choir, I'd never heard of a tabernacle, either, and had no idea what anyone was talking about or what I was in for. But it's The Bridge and no one gives a shit if you've never read the bible. All you have to do is show up. So when Geoff (foul-mouthed preacher's wife's husband) (which technically makes him Pastor Geoff) (but that sounds gross) led us through all the Holy Furnishings (™ IKEA) of a tabernacle, I just played along like I always do (because I never ever regret it).

Apparently there are seven steps to yurty salvation. Geoff put us though all of them:

1) For step one, we each made a list of the injustices we'd done to others and then scripted step-by-step apologies, which we then burned in a terracotta pot so that God could forgive us our sins. My apology was to Alex and Genoa, and as much as I'd love absolution for my shitty parenting, I'm going to have to wait a few more decades and let them make the call on the forgiveness thing.


2) Step two was The Laver, which meant we had our hands sprinkled with water on our way back into the building. This only reminded me of how Genoa's kindergarten teacher would give each kid a squirt of hand sanitizer on their way in from recess. It also made me wish one of those rad Dyson hand-dryers would miraculously appear.

3) Step three had something to do with bread. Geoff tasked us with writing out the 12 elements of our lives that bring us life and truth and the one element we most mourn. Mine bubbled to the surface faster than I could write them down:
 

BOOM. Done. I'm still not sure why, but we then put our lists under the 12 pizza-bread rolls on the altar and moved on to the next step.

4) Step four involved looking at a candle and writing about light, clarity and understanding. Honestly - this is where the Care Bear Stare first popped into my mind. I'm feeling whole again and instead of focusing inward, I'm hoping to use all this inspiration as fuel to inspire others.

5) Step five was the Altar of Incense. I really hate incense (one of many reasons I could never be Catholic), but fortunately, I couldn't actually smell it. Instead, as instructed, I wrote down a few prayers for my loved ones (for my children's hearts, for Joel's well being, for SamnTerry's broken water heater) and then moved on to write down whatever thankfulness came to mind. Again, I didn't even think much about my response before it was already on paper:

"I'm thankful that after years of struggle, I'm finally at a place where I can feel all my elements coming together to fuel me into being something bigger (and ironically smaller) than I've ever been."

(I'm still putting that one in my incense pipe and smoking it.)

6) For step six, we finally got see inside God's Pandora's Box! Apparently he had three little questions hiding in there and I had three little answers:

How are you designed to function? (As a writer.) How will you be sustained in this functional beauty? (By having faith that people give a shit about what I have to say.) And how will you get back to it when you get off track? (Simple perseverance, exactly like running.)

7) Finally, we arrived at step seven - The Mercy Seat - where we were asked to close our eyes and imagine who God is and what he/she/it is like. As always, I substituted "The Universe" for God and described that instead. In front of a mic. Because that's how I roll:

You know you're a jock when you wear your running gear to church instead of high heels. (Photo By Crystal Eddington Neill)

 

Apparently, I see "God" as:

- The Wildwood Trail (specifically that downhill stretch on Alder where if you run fast enough, you ARE The Universe).
- My sleeping children.
- The beach.
- Back yard bonfires.
- Breath.
- My People.
- Dancing.
- Sex. (It's a mitzvah, after all.)

Then, without giving it much thought, I added:

… a blinking cursor.

And that was the money shot.

THAT's where all the BELLY MAGIC needs to go. To Chavez.

I think I've decided to name my blinking cursor Chavez. Chavez and I are ready to get 'er done. #nanowrimo

— Amanda P. Westmont (@mandajuice) November 4, 2009

I tweeted that three and a half years ago and then proceeded to write 50,000 words in a month. Genoa was only just beginnng to sleep through the night and Alex was just starting first grade. I did all that writing after they went to bed at night. I've barely written anything since.

When exactly did I become a writer who doesn't write? Sure, I may have done some of my best work while I was with Joel - Year of Sundays is the writing I'm still most proud of - but once things started to go South for us, I completely lost my mojo. All my emotional energy went into the relationship and I had nothing left for myself. (Or my children. See #1 above.)

I stopped writing.

And that's what this hard-on for life is all about. All this inspiration has nothing to do with the weather or summer or how much I love this town, and everything to do with the resurrection of my mojo. Somewhere along the way, I think I forgot that I didn't give up everything - my white picket fence, my marriage, my large automobile and well-paying job, my security, not to mention the financial security of my children (all that facade) - for nothing! I didn't reconstruct my world into the antithesis of the American dream just so I could chase bald men and make mac and cheese.

I did it so I could WRITE.

I never would've guessed I'd be born-again inside a yurt, but The Universe wouldn't have given me such a big mouth if I wasn't meant to use it.

Cinco de Junio

I drove out to the beach today,
thinking it best to burn off my endorphin high
while the kids busied themselves building sand castles.

But the water was too blue
and the sun too bright
for anything but glee.

My bottle of cider somehow caught
the wind blowing off the river and became a flute.

And my boy tried to catch a fish
with the pole he'd constructed from a broken broom handle
and a paperclip.

All the while a bright yellow crop duster
practiced his air show stunts above us.

I took a nap in the sun.

Watched my kids have a sand fight.

Broke my face smiling over a slumber party invitation from a cute boy.

Then I took a photo of my daughter with my cell phone
and thought of nothing but gratitude.

How lucky am I to have the life I never knew I wanted?

Seven

Genoa turned seven last week. I still can't believe it.

All she wanted for her birthday was to get her ears pierced. She's been begging me for MONTHS and the minute her Dad gave us the okay, we went to the highly HIGHLY recommended Nomad Piercing Studio since he's notoriously good at working with children. (NO MALL SHIT signs are EVERYWHERE, god love him.) 

Of course, the little lady insisted I get pierced first and since we all know my policy (YES!), I did. film by Alexander Del Buono, age 9:

She was up next, and not the least bit excited AT ALL. I had been worried Genoa would take one look at Papa Nomad and freak out, but I told her that no one in town is better at piercing children (the truth!) and she was game.

I was so proud of her. Not a single complaint then or since.

Afterwards we had The People over for Kraft Mac N Cheese and chocolate cake with sprinkles. (Menu by Genoa Del Buono, age 7). Terry made her a bipolar ugly doll, which is pretty much the best thing ever.

Sad on one side:

Happy on the other:

See why I have the best people?!

And let's be honest while we're at it, MY DAUGHTER IS THE CUTEST ONE OF ALL. She could not possibly be more adorable. Smart as a whip, personality coming out her ears, and more sensitive and kind than I can even fathom. (Today she cried and cried despairing over whether to give her best friend, Sydney, a birthday party invitation because she knows Syndey is a Jehovah's Witness and won't be able to come, but she didn't want to make Sydney feel bad for not getting an invitation OR for getting one and not being able to come. It was the worst possible dilemma because all she really wanted was to be with her friend. So sad.).

I know I wanted all boys, but thank you - THANK YOU - universe for giving me this magical girl child. Every time I see her, my heart gets bigger.

Of course, it wouldn't have been a birthday if there wasn't a chance for her to put a post-it note on mom. I picked her up from her dad's on Sunday for a trip down to Anatomy Tattoo to see Lucky. She scrawled "Laugh" a few times and then I had her film the whole tattoo from beginning to end. Two minutes, thirty seconds of TORTURE:

But Lucky was quick and now I have matching(ish) wrists:

Lucky told me most people have wrist tattoos written the other direction, so other people can read them. But hell no! These are for me - forever reminders of what my children are here to teach me (if I listen) (and lighten the fuck up).

Happy Birthday, Benoa. Even when you're 37, you'll always be my baby.

Recipe for a new leaf

It's nice being single again. It's still an adjustment, sure, but different from any of the previous iterations of singledom I've experienced since my divorce. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not out there humping the leg of everything with a pulse. My girlfriends all want the juicy details, but I seem to have lost my whorepants in the wash. Sorry!

Instead, I'm dating myself (okay, fine, maybe there's that ONE guy, I'm no martyr). I'm running in the forest. Joining meetup groups. Reading. Writing. (Fiction!) Reconnecting with friends. Dancing. (Good lord I forgot how much I love to dance. Especially since dropping it to the floor is really good for the glutes.) Working. (Busy season!) Playing mom. More running.

Last night Dave offered to take the kids at the last minute, so I was on my own. I spent an hour cleaning my kitchen and that always leads to the same conclusion: an insatiable urge to get it dirty again. But I had no one to cook for. You know, except me. And there's a novel idea. Real Food. Cooked by me. FOR ME. Duh.

Three hours later, I had a new pesto recipe and one hell of a dinner date. Fresh-rolled pasta with arugula pecan pesto and broiled salmon:
I usually hate cooking for myself because, honestly, if a tree falls in the forest and there isn't anyone around to taste it, is it still as amazing as I think it is?

Turns out, yes. Yes it is.      

 

The vaguest recipe for homemade pasta ever written (I don't follow a recipe any more):

Go out to the chicken coop.

Collect the eggs. (At least the ones you can find. One of our chickens is a hider...)

Add them to flour (before they get cold!).

Knead.

Add flour and/or eggs until you have a smooth dough. 

Let sit.

Roll/cut/shape to your heart's desire.

Recipe for Arugula Pecan Pesto:

Combine in your cuisinart/food proessor/hand blender/mortar and pestle:

2C baby arugula

3 cloves garlic

1/2 cup chopped pecans

1/4 tablespoon lemon zest

Salt/pepper

2 Tablespoons roughly shredded parmesan (the good shit from Italy) (Don't skimp.)

Olive oil (I prefer Tuscan.)

Serve with a baby arugula and strawberry salad and a side of who needs a man anyway.

He makes a good point

Sam tends to be a man of few words, so when he speaks, I do my best to listen. This comment he wrote about my race post will stay with me forever:

Let me get this right. While running you realized that all you need is inside you, you don't need to wait for some guy to show up, and you have people that will do anything for you. And you say you didn't have an epiphany while running. I would suggest re-defining "life changing epiphany."

I don't call SamnTerry MY PEOPLE for nothing.

What I ACTUALLY thought about during Sunday's half marathon

First off, I got to the starting line over half an hour late (in spite of the fact that Lola may have the best parking karma of any car I've ever owned. FREE SPOT TWO BLOCKS AWAY!). This meant that even though I'd signed up for the 2:30 corral, which turned out to be number 16, I had already missed my starting time.

Since I was late anyway, I decided it didn't matter and found a Honey Bucket before sneaking in with corral 23. This was both a blessing and a curse. The curse was that I'd joined a mostly WALKING corral and I wanted to RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUN. So I spent the first ten minutes weaving through bodies, which, while fun, tends to be a waste of both energy and speed.

But running a half marathon and passing people the whole time? Not bad for the ego. Just saying.

My only goal for this race was to run the whole thing. But then every time that Nike+ Bitch interrupted my run to tell me how fast I was going, I WILLED myself to slow down. I had planned to run 11-minute miles the whole time, but I was doing 9:34, 9:45, 9:30, 9:36, 9:12. So thinking about (my time) didn't really happen. I didn't stress about it at all and just accepted the fact that I was going to be walking up the hills because I had the time. Oddly enough, I looked forward to them, if for no other reason than the speed I got BOOKING IT down the other sides. (Why don't more runners SPRINT the downhills?!? Highlight of the fucking race!)

And then...

There were My People.

You have NO IDEA you guys. I know I've talked about SamnTerry before and how they are My People, but I don't know if I've ever talked about how they are my SAFE CALL People. I wish I didn't mean that in the way it sounds, but I do. I'd like to think I'm theirs too.

Normally, I would've had Dave take the kids during my race, but instead I kissed them goodbye and left them with my roommate, Sage until Sam could get there. Then Sam not only came to my race, but he picked up my kids and drove them all around town so they could cheer me on from multiple stops along the route. (Terry would've been there, too, but she was jet laaaaaaaged.)

Sam and my kids met me at mile 6 and mile 8 and mile 10 (I think) and every time I saw them, I got choked up. I mean, sitting around waiting for someone to run by is BORING, but it meant so, so much to me. And every time I saw them, I ran faster.

Between those miles, the music kept me going. Thanks, Pink! And that one recent song by Maroon 5 about hating yourself the next morning. Unfortunately, all my music was too slow. I'd set up an 11-minute mile play list and I was running 9:40's. That'll be fixed by the next race.

So that whole thing about me obsessing over my time?

Didn't happen at all!

My mind was completely open. I felt like a squirrel. Trees. Water. Beauty. Beats. MY KIDS! That one big guy who I wanted to tap on the shoulder and give a thumbs up to, but worried it might come across as patronizing because there's no way he could possibly know I used to weigh more than him. Beauty. Beats. Water. MY KIDS! Gu tastes like dog ass. FINDING A BATHROOM. Water. FINDING A BATHROOM. Downhill. Squeeeeeeeeee!

My knees were fine. My breathing was excellent. By mile nine, my hips and the balls of my feet were starting to bark. Fuck them, though, I still couldn't slow myself down. I was too busy singing along to the music, and, all too often, raising my hands to the non-existent roof. Even my fellow runners (all of which are obviously lunatics) were looking at me funny.

When it got hard (hello mile 12!), I was able to force myself to look up. And magically, almost hallucinogenically, I got that same full body glitter bomb I got the last time it got hard for me along the Willamette. Endorphins!!! This time it brought tears to my eyes because I had no idea that kind of magic was accessible to me all along. It's IN me. I think it might be there any time I need. I just have to LOOK. THE. FUCK. UP.

I wish I could say the race was somehow life-changing, but it wasn't. Basically I found this thing I love to do with this body and I was just doing it. It really isn't a big deal.

My only real epiphany was that I wasn't looking for Joel along the route. I wasn't expecting or even hoping that he'd show up. It took me a day or two to process, but if this race was about anything, it was about how I've spent the last two and half years WAITING. With my phone hovering in my hand. In cars. In restaurants. In bars. Crying in my bath tub. At church. At home. At my stove wondering whether or not to start dinner. On his front porch in the rain. In my HEART. This stupidly open heart of mine has been waiting and waiting for something that was never going happen. I probably would have spent the rest of my life waiting if I hadn't snapped. Every finish line would have been a disappointment.

13.1 miles later, I'm done waiting. I refuse to be disappointed by anyone but myself.

The beauty is I didn't have to wait for Sam to show up and be there for me - with my kids. In fact, I almost completely missed them in the middle of that two mile stretch on Hawthorne because I was just trying to make it up the hill. Seeing them there was a SURPRISE.

They were just there. My People. As it should be. They filled me with lovelovelovelovelovelove.

But the biggest surprise of all was that I surprised myself:

My official time (including a five-minute potty break) was 2:16:47. But I paused my Nike+ app for my poop break, so Nike's total time for the full course (which the GPS said was 13.6 miles) was 2:14:13.

Nike's 13.1 mile time was 2:07:37.

Apparently I have one helluva PR to beat on Independence Day.

No more waiting for this broad. I'd rather run.