you are not a winner

my breath mints taunt me.

"sorry, you are not a winner!" its evilly perky box top cheers everytime i open the lid. all i want is a little minty refreshment. not a constant reminder of my non-winnery-ness. i don't even know what prize i have lost.

a million clowns?

a lifetime supply of garlic and kisses?

a guest appearance on the 'full house reunion special?"

i didn't even enter the contest in the first place for chrissakes. not knowingly. just like i didn't enter the yoplait contest- the foil lid encouraged, "try again next time!" try what? to eat more live yogurt cultures? okay, i was going to do that anyway. but thanks.

i am clearly failing miserably as a consumer. everywhere i go i lose. even my diet coke mocks me- "you are not an instant winner! buy more coke!" but the quesion is "why?" what marketing god dreamed up this scenario wherein every product must be at all times running some inane contest with a prize not worth winning so that 99.9991% of the buying public can constantly be reminded of the fact that once again they are NOT WINNING?

is it for the pure joy the .00009% of a person will feel when they finally pop that top to reveal a certificate for a shiny new bmx bike and a case of fritos, redeemable by mail-in-rebate-void-where-prohibited-minus-tax-and-licensing? do they really think most people purchase that sierra mist mainly for their shot at winning the $50.00 gift certificate to the yarn barn?

now, if you'll excuse me, the california lotto is up to 70 million and i think i've got a real shot at it.

or else i hear skittles has got a pretty good promotion running.

or there's that polo mallet i've been meaning to bash my skull in with.

moon june spoon

david broke my heart.

jeff was a stupid actor with feathered hair and jeans two sizes too small with a faded patch in the crotch.

mark was muscle bound, with a mean streak and flinty eyes.

stephan was a foppish brit who blighted everything he touched.

shawn was a soft spoken vet, all heart, no edge.

they came, with roses or cocaine, with a song in their heart or sex on the brain. they pitched the woo to my mom, and then, they were gone. leaving varying levels of destruction in their wake.

by 12 i'd given up the dream of my mom meeting a nice guy and settling down. i was beyond the need for a step-dad. also, i had no belief that she could be trusted to pick a winner. i'd settled into the idea of our being a twosome. my taking care of her. she needing me to.

by 17, we'd been through... what? the ringer? the mill? the shredder? i didn't feel anything when i thought of my mom anymore. except iciness. and fatigue. i counted the minutes to graduation; my freedom from the smell of welfare housing and government cheese. my ticket to ride.

blake was a tall lunk of a man. heavy steps. not too bright. filled the vending machines at the college my mom went to. drove a rusted out gremlin. it was so old, it had no drivers' side floor. just the pedals and a clean view of the icy utah streets below.

i was openly apathetic towards him. dismissive in that smug way of teens who are gratuitously less smart than they think they are.

he was a mormon. he lived for football. he had no politics. he didn't like to read. he was- basic. and one thing i knew about my mom, she was anything but.

i gave it six months.

a decade later, they are still together.

blake's still a mormon, miami dolphin loving, non-reader. but he's gained a rabid hatred of neo-conservatism and a soft spot for social programs. he couldn't love slim more if she were his own daughter. he takes care of his parents, even when he has pnemonia. he's a practical joker prone to cake fights and surprise attacks with water balloons.

he loves my mom.

in june, at age 52, for the first time ever, she will become a bride.

i will be her maid of honor.

yes.

we thin gin

pleasantly zoning, mind awander, something mellow, when

the radio speaks up, mid-sentence, "miller, 89, died of congestive heart failure."

i say out loud "oh, man, arthur miller died?"

which is a kick in the pants for me, because reading 'death of a salesman', at 16, was a revelation. i wrote my a.p. english essay on it and received a '5.' (yeah, that's the highest score allowable by law, what of it? i'm a smarty girl) wait, fuck that, i'm not ruminating on all the various and sundry ways miller's work has touched my life.

moving on.

slim wants to know what's so special about this miller guy and what's the deal with 'death of a salesman'?

so i'm telling her the plot and i get to the part about willie's discontent with biff and happy. trying to figure out how to distill it, i say-

"i guess he felt they weren't living a good life."

to which she responds-

"did they smoke tar cigarettes and drink whiskey?"

there, my friends, is a girl with her finger on the pulse of modern day times. i was surprised the next question out of her mouth wasn't "did they listen to jazz and frequent honkey tonks with women of ill repute?"

i stifled a laugh and muttered something about heartache and the loss of the american dream.

but how can anyone alive not love that goddamned kid?

FUCK! but, okay

her first film is forever linked with the halcyon days following my extreme youth.

we, the group of us, were old enough to know how young we were.

wise enough (barely) to begin to grasp the fact that we didn't know shit.

and hopeful enough to be cool with that.

we'd managed to live through the invincible teenage years, when you believe death will never come for you. heartbreak, bullshit, and pain, yes. but not death.

we understood how lucky we were to be young and vibrant and raging to live. to be gorgeous and fresh and ready to roll.

we took in a midnight showing, then spent the rest of night shooting pool, quoting her best lines, and making out with our respective partners.

her parlance became a part of our lexicon, she was a groove on the record that was soundtracking us all the time.

how can i possibly express what it felt like to sit across from her last night? to have her say she wants to direct something i wrote? to tell a joke and listen to the spark and flicker of her laugh? to hear her enthuse about another film, a role tailor made for her. a role she is going to fight for with every ounce of passion she possesses (and she has stockpiles)?

i said "you'll get it. you have to."

ann asked her "but what if you don't?"

she started "if i don't get it, then..."

she threw her arms in the air in rage and frustration- "FUCK!!"

she let her arms fall simply to her sides, said softly, with acceptance- "but, okay."

give it all your love and energy, if you want it badly. give without shame or fear or reservation. and if it still doesn't happen?

fuck! but okay.

i'll take that.

total freedom

"yeah, baby, you like it like that? you a dirty little bitch?"

i know he was crestfallen. i know it was mean. i know he was trying to sexxify it up and make it fun and whatever. but how could i not laugh?

it sounded so stupid. he was using that phony 'looove making' voice that they always use in the movies. he was giving me the super serious, 'now we're having sex' eyes. it seemed so ridiculous and forced.

i assumed there was a proper call and response (wave your hands in the air like you just don't care, say 'ho') to his question, but i didn't have it in me to play the role. 'yeah, i'm a dirty bitch. blah blah blah.'

this experience and ones like it led me to believe that i would never be a dirty talker. noises. noises i was always down for, the squeals and low moans and lovely whispers. the slow exhale and the jagged uptake. but the naughty talk, i found--- embarrassing, phony.

then i fell in love. he stroked my face and looked into my eyes, like liquid, and said 'how do you want me to touch you, j?"

and it all bubbled up. all the words and desires and bottled up fantasies that i'd only shared with my pillow flowed out, free and fast and wild with abandon. i used words i never thought my lips would comfortably form. with great ease and fun.

i asked. i demanded. i pleaded. i teased. i egged him on. i may have even called him a dirty bitch. but it was okay because i meant it. i giggled.

he did the same.

and it was the prettiest, best thing you could ask for.

the feeling of total freedom. and someone to share it with.

i miss that.