Monthly Archives: May 2007

Famous Blog Celebrates Birthday

. . . with my two favorite past entries, now rewritten for your enjoyment as one ALL-NEW, EXCITING ADVENTURE-STORY! Because I’m really, really not supposed to be blogging right now. I’m supposed to be packing for the beach. See you in four days!

Happy 1-year, Blue Ox!

Somebody Better Ban Hokee-Dinkum Before I Throw a Grenade at the Music School
Blonde By Day, Domme By Night

We’ve been taking Rocky to this new music class. Now I always have all these goddamn wacko kiddie songs in my head. Lately it’s been “roo, roo roo roo, sing-a-roo, sing-a hokee-dinkum!” I shit you not. We’re teaching our child to say “dinkum”. The teacher is an ANIMATED!!!!! woman we’ll call Miss Elsa. Miss Elsa has long blond hair, a slightly European accent, a mouth the width of the Colorado River filled with gleaming white teeth and a long, lean body that says “I power-walk Town Lake every morning with little purple hand-weights and an AKC golden retriever”. Rukan gets VERY excited when it’s time to go to Music Class. When people ask about how Rocky likes her class, Ru answers “oh, she loves it! Miss Elsa is SO beautiful!”

Miss Elsa’s teeth in her grinning stretch-limo mouth outshine the flourescent lights. Her big spakling blue eyes catch you in their OH-MY-GOD-I’M-SO-EXCITED-ABOUT-THIS-SONG stare and pin you to your spot. Poor Rukan. I bet it’s hard, being so close to such a Magnificent Beauty of a Woman. It must be hard to sing hokee-dinkum.

Today Ms. Elsa has on butt-hugging white knee-pants and a chest-molded black tee with something written in white, something in French, that I can’t quite make out because her long, glorious flaxen hair is sashaying playfully across her lush bosom. During “Doom-Dicka-Doom”, I glance over at Ru and catch her squinting at Ms. Elsa’s chest. I elbow her in the ribs. “WHAT?”, she whisper-yells. “Quit it,” I hiss. “What does her shirt say?”, she whispers. “Yeah right,” I whisper back.

Then Ms. Elsa freezes us in her eye-beams. Her look says “Hey, you incredibly fabulous mommies! We’d SO LOVE for you to stop talking in freakin’ class!” She’s grinning, of course, ear to ear, and you can see the whites all the way around her eyeballs. Suddenly it hits me. Rocky’s music teacher is a dominatrix. Take my reaction as proof. At that moment, I had to resist the sudden urge to crawl over and beg her forgiveness lest she choose to teach me a lesson. This is what happens: at night she gets out of her music-class capris, dons tall black high-heel boots and one of those scary-sexy outfits, grabs her bag of torture devices and sets off for the office. I’m really sure of this.

So anyway, Rukan and I, properly chastised, focus on the task at hand – preventing Rocky from thwacking toddler-heads with the drumsticks she’s spinning around with. Until Rocky runs up to us: “Mamas, I have to go pee-pee!” Ru grabs her up and runs out the door to prevent any spillage on Ms. Elsa’s somehow spotless carpet. She’s obviously afraid of the paddle Ms. Elsa is hiding in her handbag.

At that moment, Ms. Elsa’s face lights up (more? Is it POSSIBLE??). The room goes quiet in antici . . . pation. She starts to clap her hands. She takes a deep breath . . . “Roo, roo-roo-roo,” she sings! The children clap and cheer and jump up and down!! “Sing-a-roo . . . SING A HOKEE-DINKUM!!”

Of course. Rukan and Rocky would leave me all alone with this mad German Kiddie-Song-Domme JUST IN TIME for the dumbest, most maddening song ever written. I’m sitting there slumped on the floor and Ms. Elsa starts singing right at me with that brighter-than-a-thousand-suns happy face, nodding encouragingly (threateningly?) at me and what can I do? I have no choice but to singaroo. I clap my hands limply and sing Hokee Dinkum as low as I can, sinking into the floor.

Just then, Ms. Elsa tosses her hair and reveals the words printed across her boobs. It is, indeed, in French, and translates: “Speak slowly, I’m blonde”.

I start shaking with laughter. Obviously it’s a ruse, but still, I can’t stop the silent guffaws, clutching my ribs and hiding my face, so that Rukan, upon returning, gives me a “what the hell?” look. I’m not sure why it was so funny. Something about it being in French, on a sexy tight black shirt. I laughed all the way out the door, surely pissing Ms. Elsa off, which could spell bad news for me if I ever chance upon her in a dark club somewhere on a Saturday night.



On the ceiling above the poppy-red, paper-covered examination table where I am having my yearly feel-you-up there is a large poster breathing warm ocean-view serenity down upon me with the words of Henry David Thoreau in subtly biblical font across the sand-colored bottom border: “You cannot perceive beauty but with a serene mind.”

Henry David did not have to get pap’n’pelvics.

Otherwise the quote may have gone, “You cannot perceive beauty but without having to get duck bills wedged in your vagina once a year.”

The walls are pink and the room is awash in eye-stabbing fluorescence and I am cold in the flimsy baby blue paper dress the shoulders of which remind me of the Flying Nun’s habit.

It’s charcoal grey and thundery outside and the clock is tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . ticking on the wall.

FUCK! Breathe. I am not going to kick her in the head.

“OK,” she says, helping me sit up. “You’re all set. It’s nothing to be concerned about, but you should keep an eye on the lump in your right breast.”

Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . .

“What do you mean by ‘lump’?”

“It feels like it’s probably just your normal breast tissue, but I did feel a mass in there. I just want you to keep an eye on it. If it’s not gone in 6 weeks, come back in. The nurse will be right in with your paperwork.” She’s getting up. “But I can’t feel it,” I tell her, palpating my breast. “Well there you go. Probably nothing.”

And she’s gone.

Flash! Rrrruuummmmble.

Slowly I ease my cramping uterus off the table, ditch the blue paper and dress myself. I bid Thoreau farewell and track down the nurse myself.

“Can I talk to Dr. Rasinger again?” The burly, busty nurse purses her lips at me. “That was it,” she says. “She’s already with other clients. You can make another appointment.”

In the parking lot, in the pouring rain, turning a careful but blind left into heavy, mostly slow-moving traffic, I am almost smashed driver-side by a Dodge Ram doing what looks like 40 or 45. He is so close when he screeches to a stop that through my open window I can see his eyes, filled with horror – just for a moment. Then it’s gone.

And when I get home and reach for the seatbelt latch, my fingers meet empty air. My chest feels hollow. I wasn’t wearing my seatbelt.

You cannot perceive beauty but with a serene mind.

Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick.

I hope this rain lets up soon. Texas is so lovely in the sunlight.

Interview With God, Part II

And now, it’s time for . . .

The Blue Ox Interview Hour!

Blue Ox: Hello! Hello, everybody! Oh, thank you! Thanks, really! Love you too! I’m here today with . . . God! Hello, God.
God: Hello, Blue Ox.
BO: How are you today?
God: Oh, you know. Can’t complain.
BO: Gosh, I have so many questions for you. So, to start out . . .
God: My favorite color is green.
BO: How did you know I was going to . . . oh, right.
God: Yeah.
BO: That whole omnipotent thing. Damn that’s annoying. Right, here’s one: am I going to Hell for not going to church more often?
God: Ok. You people need to understand something. You want to know the best way to experience God? Some Sunday morning, go out and find someone with a womb, someone who can create and grow new life inside her body. Ask her to have sex with you, preferably out in an ancient mossy glade. Then, when the moment is juuuust right . . . POOF! God.
BO: Um . . . well . . .
God: What?
BO: I don’t know. That’s so . . . pagan.
God: I just read The DaVinci Code.
BO: What about the Bible?
God: Laughed my ass off.
BO: For real?
God: You know, not at the whole thing, just at the dumb made-up parts.
BO: How about Jesus?
God: Nice kid. Good ideas.
BO: Son of God?
God: No. Regis.
BO: . . .
God: Regis Philbin. Son of Regis.
BO: . . .
God: Regis, see? Five years from now, perfects the time machine he’s been secretly working on. Goes back in time, works the charm on guess who? When they ask the lucky lady who knocked her up, all she can say is “He was an angel!” and I guess they took her literally.
BO: Right.
God: Then all that rising from the dead, ascending into Heaven, all that? That’s Regis, going back for visits, taking his kid out for time-machine joy rides. Jesus really is going to show up again.
BO: Uh-huh.
God: Probably on America’s Got Talent.
BO: I don’t believe you.
God: Suit yourself. For the record, next time you stub your toe it’s “Jesus, Mary and Regis!”
BO: Whatever. Is the Pope right about gay people?
God: You know what that guy needs.
BO: I don’t think I want to know.
God: Hot, nasty sex around a Beltane fire. With three burly guys.
BO: Beltane?
God: Mix him up a little.
BO: You’re crazy.
God: Nobody’s perfect.
BO: A lot of people say you are.
God: Dude. Tammy Faye Baker.
BO: Woo! Point taken.
God: Cockroaches – now THERE’S perfection!
BO: So you CAN make perfect things!
God: No. They invented me.
BO: Oh. Huh?
God: I don’t like to talk about it. Next question.
BO: . . . Ok. Why did Rocky get born with a heart defect?
God: Moving right along! Want to talk about my favorite song?
BO: No. I want to know why bad things happen to helpless people. Why was Rocky born with a heart defect?
God: *sigh* Why do people need all the answers? You said it yourself, somewhere in your blog. There’s no reason, per se. Kids just get born with heart defects.
BO: You read my blog?
God: Every day. Unless I’m busy inventing things.
BO: Wow! God reads my blog.
God: Everybody’s personal God reads their blog.
BO: Listen, I know I said all that about Nature is God, it’s just the way things swirl, blah blah blah, but what if there really is some sort of destiny/higher meaning thing happening and the religious people are right? Why do bad things happen? Why do people kill each other?
God: Why do coyotes kill bunnies?
BO: . . . to eat them. And barf them up for baby coyotes to eat.
God: Same basic principle.
BO: . . .
God: People are just animals, Blue. To steal a phrase from a buddy of mine, people are just monkeys with problems. That’s all there is to it.
BO: That’s totally depressing.
God: Deal with it.
BO: So there’s really nobody at the wheel here?
God: I didn’t say that.
BO: So you ARE my Lord and Saviour.
God: Not me. The cockroaches.
BO: I’d better throw away the baits.
God: Word.
BO: Ok, one last question. So what is your favorite song?
God: Simon and Garfunkel. “Bridge Over Troubled Water”.
BO: “Like a briiiidge . . . over troubled . . . waaater . . . “
God: Stop, I’m gonna cry.
BO: ” . . . I will laaaay me doooown . . . “
God: Stop. Seriously. My mascara’s going to run.
BO: Oh, right. Sorry. Well, that’s all our time for today! Thank you, God, for being on the show!
God: Anything for you, Blue Ox!
BO: Anything?
God: No.
BO: Damn.

Kisses as Pastries

The Toasted Croissant
That first light, soft taste makes your knees melt like butter.

The Strawberry Jelly
Think about what you do with your tongue. Mmm, nasty.

The White-Frosted With Rainbow Sprinkles
Giggle! Giggle! Giggle! Giggle!

The Powdered Sugar
You have to constantly wipe your mouth off.

The Vegan Flax’n’Grain Muffin
Spitting it out would seem rude, wouldn’t it?

The Donut Hole
You taste the first one, and before you know it you’re diving into the box.

The Boy

After the day was over, after all the calls to all the various types of mothers had been made, after Rocky had given us our gifts (a bunch of lovely irises for me, a green silky nightshirt for Ru), the dog had been walked, Rocky was in bed, and the moms were settling in for a quiet late night, Rukan noticed that there was a voicemail. “Hey, it’s Aza. I’ve been working a double shift all day . . . [something about surfing, more about surfing, surfing surfing surfing] . . . finally got a chance to call and tell you guys happy mother’s day. All right. Love you!”

How many times a month can you cry from happiness?

Interview With God, Part I

Imagine that God is not separate from you. Imagine that there are no middlemen between you and the Holy One. Imagine that your very core is the creator and created all at once, that you are just a microcosm of the Universe and All that is in it. Imagine that you have every answer to every question and prayer inside the Temple of You and Everything, and you just have to listen closely and let go of a bunch of mind-poo to get to said answers. Imagine that God is not some higher being to whom you are an inferior beloved little lamb who has sinned and knows nothing and needs saving, that you don’t have to give up your birthright (your divine power) in order to commune with divinity. You ARE divinity.


Lesbian Dad has been writing about her nephew who died of cancer, and how it has affected her experience of parenthood. I’ve been talking with a classmate whose husband’s cancer, if it comes back, will kill him very quickly, within fourteen months. We’ve been swapping ICU stories. When you’ve looked that closely at the death, or real possibility of death of a loved one, when the reality of it lives in you at the surface, everything, your entire life, is put into new perspective. The world has a different color, somehow.

Tonight Rukan and I took a walk along the dark, leafy streets of our neighborhood, Rocky asleep in her stroller and Sunny trotting along beside on her short little legs, sniffing the air. We came along by Chris and Diane’s house. They finally got pregnant after years of trying; little Ming is almost two now. Then Diane unexpectedly, miraculously, got pregnant again. They were overjoyed, and we celebrated with them. Then there were signs, and they got an amnio. The baby was going to have serious troubles. The look on the face of someone in that situation, when you see them walking the dogs or driving by, can’t be described.

Chris is a Buddhist. Meltingly handsome, deep, kind, laughing blue eyes, wide grin and smile lines. He’s the kind of guy you recognize from somewhere, who you know you would fall in love with in a heartbeat, given the opportunity. Or maybe you did in a past life. He looks into your eyes when he talks with you and hugs warmly, if he knows you’re a hugger. He exudes serenity and reflects your beauty and worth back to you.

Diane is more hidden. Her refined Chinese features hold a look of quiet observation, and you never quite know if she really wants to stop and talk, or if she’s just waiting to return to her solitude. Tonight, as they stood together on their porch, lit yellow from above by the porch light, I could see something small in Diane’s arms. When she saw us walking slowly their way, she melted back into the open doorway and disappeared. Chris came across the dark lawn to us.

We had the baby last night, he said. I was about to congratulate him – then I realized how far along they were. Twenty weeks. Way too early. Then I saw the look on his face.

The doctors said she wouldn’t survive long outside Diane’s body, that it would be painful for her. The last few days she’d been kicking a lot. Then there was a ceremony in the living room, they told her they love her, that they’d miss her, and that she could go. She stopped kicking. Diane took drugs to induce; the baby was born at home, little Meili, dead into her father’s hands. Her own hands, the size of a fingernail. That was her, the day after her still birth, in Diane’s arms on the porch. They’ve got a spot out back; they’re going to bury her tiny body before dawn.

He said, I’ve been crying for two days. But it was so amazing. She came out, and she was so beautiful – so small and beautiful, her little hands and curly lips, so beautiful. And she was dead. I keep looking at her, and all I see is beauty, this amazing little baby. And he was smiling while the tears welled up, truly smiling, radiant, his face filled with love and joy and the deepest grief, all at once. He said, I’m just not trying to figure it out.

The world is filled with horrible beauty, I said. He said, you felt that duality with Rocky. Yes, they saved her life – by cutting her chest open with a bone saw. A bone saw. And there’s this magical, miraculous child.

You just can’t put that into any kind of conventional way of thinking. The world is a different color than that. Everything, on the spectrum between black and white and endless variations of the primaries. I’m not going to try to figure it out.