The Day the Substitute Custodian got an Eyeful: Or also known as… Ms. Wood’s Accidental Full Monty

4 Comments

caught

Boobs are something most female high school teachers try to hide.

Having large boobs in fact, is a detriment in this particular profession.

You have to constantly check that they do not bounce, jiggle, shake, or incite ANY type of movement that may provoke an inappropriate remark.

And, you might be surprised what topics will cause an inappropriate remark.

Take the time I was talking about getting an EKG, thinking I was making students aware of screening and good health when I look down from my perch, on top of an empty student desk, and see my 11th grade student, Zach Smith, staring up at me lovingly, mouth agape, breathlessly imagining me topless and connected to electrodes, on an examining table, before he breathes in a whispy whisper, “God I love when you talk about your doctor’s visit, Ms. Wood.” (student=1, ms. wood=zero)

Or just recently, when I bought a t-shirt from Old Navy. Not realizing when I put it on in the morning that it was completely see-through and that my nude underwire bra made me look like I had the best pair of perky breasts since the days of the Playboy Vargas girl drawings. Student commentary? Uh, no comment. (students=2, ms. wood=still zero)

Yes, we work hard to protect our reputations as stand-up teachers but sometimes our bodies just get in the way. And though at times high school boys and yes… sometimes girls make an inappropriate remark regarding my mammary glands… these incidents are of course, few and far between in my twenty years of teaching, but have made enough of an impact on me to still fill me with complete despair when they return to my memory.

But in my WORST nightmares… I never imagined that my breasts would make a public appearance on a school day but OH let me tell you… they did.

It was the substitute custodian, actually who enjoyed the full monty of my breasts.

He was a slow man (think Portagee Joe in John Steinbeck’s, Tortilla Flats) who shall ever remain nameless due to this “incident.”

Mr. Marshall, my regular custodian, was out on sick leave and so the district added “PJ” temporarily to our night time crew.

Now, “PJ” loved to take his break in my room.

He would sit at the desks and read my plethora of books.

He would eat his snacks and watch my classroom videos on the dvd.

He would saunter about and flop on my couch.

The only thing the man WOULDN’T do was clean.

I tried time and time again to tell him that I appreciated his love for my room but that it was filthy and he needed to clean it properly.

He would nod his head seeming to understand, a big sweet smile on his face, his hands wringing his dust rag in anticipation of the great job he would do for me and then… I would leave and find the next morning… my room still a dirt pit from the day before… his leftover snack crumbs trailed from the couch, across the floor, to his attempted deposit in the trashcan. Filthy, filthy, filthy.

My bungalow buddy, Dr. Hawkins was sure that he had something wrong with him. “There’s nothing going on up there,” she said one day as we were conspiratorially whispering during our nutrition break. “Brain like a bag of rocks” she added as she tapped her temple repeatedly… and I knew… that if Satinder Hawkins, a woman who can communicate with anyone and teaches advanced psychology couldn’t get this guy to pick up on our message and clean the fucking rooms… then no one could.

Days passed.

Mr. Marshall did not return.

PJ was our sub and there was nothing we could do about it.

All of the teachers on his run tried to reason with him but no matter how we cajoled and pleaded: the empty stare, the large smile, the wringing of the hands, the nodding head, the filthy rooms remained.

We gave up and assigned students to take over the cleaning until Mr. Marshall returned from GOD KNOWS WHERE but man… did we want him back.

For weeks nothing changed… until a Wednesday.

A non-descript Wednesday.

I’d stayed late that day… a group of alumni water polo players, our current coach and I had decided we would all get in the pool after regular practice and rip it up “after hours” with an alumni scrimmage. It was great fun… alone in the pool… a small crew… playing hard and laughing each time someone made a goal… until it began to grow dark and worn… we decided to get out and call it a night.

The girls all wrapped in towels headed off to the parking lot to get in their cars and shower at home but since the locker room was still open, I decided to stay and have a quiet shower alone… a bit afraid of my old high school locker room but… feeling grown-up and responsible and silly for giving into childhood fears.

I walked in and noted the half lights… the quiet calm… the emptiness without the sounds of a hundred girls shouting or giggling or blow drying their hair and headed to the first stall. I left my towel on the bench and stripped out of my suit in the shower. It felt good to be alone. I finished my rinse and then reached for my towel. I did a quick pat down and then wrapped it around my hips before I bent over and wrung out my hair. My head was down… my breasts were bare and dangling… when I did an extra large hair flip and bounced up to feel my long wet hair slap the middle of my back.

It was then that I heard a loud gasp and looked straight into the large stunned eyes of my substitute custodian.

I tell you the moment seemed to last forever.

The eye contact.

The amount of force I used to throw back my head must have showcased my breasts in stunning jiggling glory.

I imagine the uplift alone must have startled him silly as I watched his eyes roll back in his head and his breathing become ragged.

I yelped and rushed to hide in the shower stall.

There were no words spoken.

He scurried off… ashamed that he had entered the lady’s locker room without first shouting out. His little bowlegs painfully working to gallop away… his back hunched as if he had just received an actual physical blow… as I peeked at him from the top of the shower wall and waited for his shadow to disappear before pulling my suit back on over my hips…. Running for my pool bag… towel pressed to my chest as if it’s terry cloth fabric could erase the scar from my bosom. I hoofed it to my car, rushing to the warmth of the private interior, where I laid my head upon my steering wheel and moaned, “Oh God…” at the realization that I would have to see this man actually SEE this man on a daily basis until Mr. Marshall’s return.

I wanted to call in sick until further notice.

The next day, I headed to my classroom late…. terrified that he had left me a note about my improper impromptu show as he “innocently” tried to clean the lady’s locker room. But as I turned the key and flipped on the light… I found nothing… absolutely nothing but…

A SPOTLESSLY CLEAN ROOM.

My mouth dropped open and my face flushed.

‘God damn it,” I whispered.

I felt like I had a scarlet letter burned across my chest.

My own breasts used against me!

My dirty room now spotless not because of my voice and my brain but because of my abundant naked boobs.

When I finally got up the nerve to tell Dr. Hawkins several days later why my room was now each day…  “sparkling clean” she laughed a deep throaty laugh that made me feel connected and comfortable as a woman. “If that’s what it takes,” she roared.

It was two weeks before Mr. Marshall returned, and I refused to stay late after the ‘incident” and thankfully… I never had to make eye contact with the substitute custodian again. But now… as I grow older…. and my breasts give way to gravity (as they all do) I like to imagine the moment… and even have a bit of a giggle… knowing that somewhere in the LB Unified School District… I am legendary and considered “Custodian Porn.”

 

 

 

 

 

Lying to the Lake Patrol in Big Bear

2 Comments

Charlotte was nine-years-old when I lied to the Lake Patrol.

Dylan and Lily weren’t much older… a few years… but still quite young.

It was our first summer, with all of us together in Big Bear, and I thought it would be fun to rent jet skis.

Everyone in the group had been swimming since they could walk and since I, unlike my brothers, preferred jet skis and water skiing to surfing… I thought it would be fun to show the kids what I could really do.

Was I showing off?

Yes.

Isn’t that what water sports are all about?

I can do things with a jet ski that moms aren’t supposed to do.

Moms apparently are supposed to ride safely.

Moms are supposed to stay close to the kids.

Moms are not to see how deep they can submerge the tail while they spin a tight 360 and then pop the jet ski out of the water with a child on the back of it.

Moms are not supposed to know how to reach under the cover and reset the switch so that the rental jet ski can now do exactly what it is supposed to do: HAUL ASS… but this mom… well, that’s a different story.

I knew that Lily really hated the lake water: she did not want to get wet.

She did however want to ride on the back of the jet ski with Dylan, who she adored at the time, and so poor Charlotte, having no idea yet how crazy I was after only being connected to our family for about six months, was stuck with me.

I putted out to the buoy, looking like the perfect PTA mom, waiting for the children, waving at the lifeguards, riding close to Dylan and Lily, pretending to enjoy the leisurely pace, until I had enough distance from the rental office to open it up.

Dylan was smiling… happy to have his own jet ski to ride. Lily was smiling, happy to be snuggled up to Dylan… and Charlotte had her little fingers wrapped in the belt of my vest… not really worried about anything.

I waited until Dylan pulled along side of me before turning and telling Charlotte to hold on. Now, Dylan didn’t hear me say “Hold on” but he saw my face when I turned back to crank the throttle and he knew (having lived with me since birth) he was in for it.

I gunned the jet ski and shot off across the glass with just one smug look back at Dylan who was trying his best to catch up. I waited until he and Lily were dead center in the lake before I spun a large circle around them and headed back towards them… ready to play chicken before I stopped about twenty feet from where they now were, cranked the handle hard, and watched as a good seven foot high wall of water flattened them.

They didn’t have a chance.

They were tipped over and in the lake in a matter of seconds.

I wasn’t really sure what Charlotte was up to. I could feel her hands now clawed into the armpits of my vest. I’m pretty sure she was screaming bloody murder as we roared up to Dylan and Lily, positive that we were going to kill them, but she hung on through it all and I was quite impressed that the child who once used to stare out the window at me, afraid that I would walk too far away from the house and strangers would somehow jump out of the bush and snatch her while I was somewhere near the garbage cans for five fucking seconds, was actually a bit ballsier than I had given her credit for.

I waited until Dylan and Lily got back on their ski before I took Charlotte for a few more passes at them, hitting them hard again and again with walls of water, before I raced off to freak Charlotte out with some 360’s.

This is when the Lake Patrol came on the scene.

I turned to Charlotte and said, “Whatever you do… don’t speak.”

I doubt she would have… by this time her lips were blue from the cold wind and the cold water, and her face was pale white, ghost like in the terror and realization that she really had picked the wrong jet ski to ride. I saw her glance back towards the dock. I’m sure she was thinking if she just jumped off now and made a swim for it, she wouldn’t go to the Big Bear Lake Patrol jail wherever the hell that was.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The Lake Patrol officer asked.

“What?” I said, looking confused and humble with my little mom pony tail and my little mom bathing suit.

“We have rules on this lake missy and you just broke every single one of them.”

“I did?” I asked and I used this opportunity to practice my “totally innocent”‘ face which isn’t one that comes easily to me.

“Speed limit, reckless driving, those tricks aren’t allowed in California,” He stopped here and removed his aviator shades and leaned over the edge of the boat. “Did you know that?”

I actually did know that, but the good thing about being a mom, is that most people would believe, as I said earlier, that a mom would NEVER break the rules intentionally.

“Really?” I said. “Officer, I’m so sorry. This is the first time I’ve ever been on a jet ski. I just rented it over there.” I stopped and pointed to the far dock.

He made a face, “Those tricks you were doing were tricks only experienced riders can do.”

I looked at him and blushed. “Really?” I smiled, and pretended to act shocked at my “natural” ability. “I just watched a how-to video on TV about an hour ago and thought I would see if I could try it.”

This was the moment where he could have written me a ticket.

This is the moment where he could have taken me in.

This was the moment where he had to decide if I was a true mom: responsible, honest, mini-van driving, church on Sunday, bake sale cooking woman or…

a she devil… a harpy from the lake… a sea nymph waiting to lure him down.

He chose wrong.

“No more,” he said to me as he pointed his bony, weathered finger my way. “I’m going to be watching you.”

I smiled and nodded before I putted off towards the dock.

“You lied,” Charlotte whispered from the back of the jet ski. “And you’re a teacher,” she said as if God himself was about to come down and smite me.

So I lied again.

“You didn’t want to go to jail did you?” I asked. “You know, they take everyone on the jet ski… not just the driver.”

Charlotte was silent.

I could tell she didn’t know what was worse… hearing a mom and a teacher, a double pillar of the community, lie so blatantly to an Officer of the Law or… believe that she could go to jail at the age of nine.

Either way… in the end I left without a ticket, Dylan and Lily had a good story to tell, and Charlotte learned to never ride on a jet ski with me again.

Peeing on Annika, Dylan and Stroosma While Riding the Matterhorn at Disneyland on Grad Night

8 Comments

I don’t think people should be punished for having bladder issues.

But that is exactly what happened.

Annika, Dylan, Stroosma… all shaming me in the line of the Disneyland Matterhorn ride because I had to go pee super bad right before we were about to get in the bobsled.

“If you go now we’ll lose our place in line,” Dylan fussed.

“You’re tough,” Stroosma said. “You can hold it until the end.” Obviously… he was a teacher already exhausted from a long grad night… ready to hit this one last ride before cutting out, what was considered early, at 4 am.

“Ms. Wood,” Annika, my student, whined. “Come on! I don’t want to wait in line like two more hours again.”

“Alright,” I said… giving in… though my bladder was past the point of full… actually ready to balloon out as if I was hiding a boda bag of urine.

I stepped into the bobsled and sat in seat #4, considered the brake position in a real four-man sled, with Annika between my legs, Dylan, my son, in front of her, and Stroosma between his legs, in the first position as the “driver.”

“Don’t pee on me.” Annika laughed as she settled in, sure that her teacher would never do such a horribly nasty thing.

But she would live to regret those words.

I knew things were going to go terribly wrong when we hit the first stop in the track and I felt my whole body lurch forward and my bladder just about shake loose.

Oh my God… I thought to myself… I’m not going to be able to hold this pee. I’m seriously gonna lose it.

I felt my heart beat faster… and panic set in.

If I pee’d my pants and actually urinated on a student… I would NEVER be able to live the moment down.

I tried to wave to the ride operator, ready to beg for him to let me out of the sled, but it was too late.

We glided into the cavern of man-made rock and began our ascent up the track to the top of the Matterhorn and each click, click, click of the sled chugging up the rail… seemed like the sound of a time bomb ticking:

Go!… tick tick tick… Go! tick tick tick… Pee! tick tick tick…. Pee!… the track beckoning me to give in.

I worked to give myself a pep talk.

You can do it, I said. Just a few minutes and you can get off this ride and pee.

I even thought that this might be a good time to practice those Kegel exercises I’d been putting off for years, when suddenly, I came up with a brilliant master plan.

“QUICK Annika!” I shouted. “Let me put both my legs on one side of you.”

Annika turned around and looked at me as if I were a demented stranger. She couldn’t even imagine Ms. Wood EVER putting a child in peril during an amusement ride.

“Are you out of your mind?” She screeched. “Ms. Wood! You can’t do that in the middle of the ride. We could be hurt!  And you’re a teacher,” she snapped. “YOU should know bet…”

But she didn’t have a chance to finish her scolding and I didn’t have a chance to cross my legs and close them tight.

Stroosma and Dylan began to scream, Annika threw her arms up into the air and wailed wildly with joy, and I knew that in a matter of seconds I was going to decimate everyone in the entire bobsled with a long stream of urine.

I tried not to scream as we rocketed down the hill but as soon as the first abominable snowman popped out and scared me from his perch…I screamed bloody murder and the peeing began.

Annika was so engrossed in the moment that at first she had no idea that I was actually peeing all over her.

She screamed and squealed with glee until we hit a calm curve and catching her breath looked around before saying, “Wow. I really got wet.”

Stroosma grabbed the edges of the sled and turned back to look at me as if I were Judas. “You are NOT peeing on us are YOU?”

My face full of shame and betrayal… he knew immediately I was.

“It’s just water!” I lied. “I swear! Just water from the ride!”

“STOP IT!” He shouted. “STOP NOW!”

And then we hit the next big drop as we all screamed like mad.

My peeing escalated.

It was now a violent river rushing forward at an alarming rate.

“STOP PEEING MS. WOOD!” Annika shouted. “STOP!”

But I couldn’t.

We hit a drop and screamed again.

By this time… I was laughing so hard and screaming so loud… Stroosma’s yaking GUFFAW punctuating the moment as we barreled down the mountain… Dylan holding on for dear life screaming, “STOP MAMA! STOP!”  as my urine saturated my jeans, rushed out towards Annika, and flooded the bobsled floor.

I began to cry and curse my lot in life.

Why hadn’t I thought to wear an adult diaper?

Sure I was only 40-years-old but maybe the battle of old age was won by building reinforcements early.

I had a quiet epiphany:

If I had truly been smart… I could have been peeing and shitting myself comfortably right now in my adult diaper, while totally enjoying the ride.

“Noooooooooooooo!” Annika cried as we hit the last big turn… Stroosma still hysterical… Dylan disgusted by the entire episode.

And then the ride came to a stop.

“How could you do that?” Annika turned around and screamed at me. “How could you Ms. Wood!”

I sat in silence… my arms crossed… my brows knitted into an angry frown… pouting over the fact that they wouldn’t let me go to the bathroom…. furious at my idiocy for not thinking of wearing the adult diaper sooner… and distraught that I would have to walk the full mile to the exit with my pee-pee jeans rubbing and rashing my legs, while all of the grad students pointed and mocked me.

“Fuck you all,” I whispered. “If you would have just let me go to the bathroom, none of this would have ever happened.”

I climbed out of the sled, pulled my sweatshirt roughly over my head, wrapped it around my soaking butt, and stomped off towards Main Street: a dirty mess trapped in the Happiest Fucking Place on Earth.

Lexi Licks The Candy: A Cautionary Tale Involving Siblings

2 Comments

LEXI CANDY

Today on Easter Sunday, I watched my two adult children, Lexi and Dylan, prepare a lovely meal for our family. I wandered in-and-out of the kitchen, working through my mundane chores, as they prattled on about nothing and everything, and prepped the asparagus and deviled the eggs and God knows what else to get the meal ready and on the table.

Lex, now thirty, Dylan not far behind at twenty-three… happily sharing the space together and if any outsider had stumbled onto the scene, they would have believed that these two peas in a pod always got along… just splendidly.

Yes, to unsuspecting eyes… all would seem well in the proverbial “sibling” kitchen… but they would be wrong. Very wrong. Because if they had been standing with me in the kitchen just several short months ago… they would have seen Lexi licking the candy and known… that appearances can be deceiving.

It was Halloween, the only traditional holiday I seem to like these days… and we had bought a ton of candy.

I had grown-up following in my mom’s footsteps and buying two types of candy: the good candy; Snickers, Three Musketeers, Butterfingers, the upper echelon of chocolate treats which my mom gave to her “favorite” trick-or-treaters, or children who’s costumes amused her, or a child who was charismatic enough to win her over therefore… receiving a coveted A-list treat. And… the other candy: the bag of mixed mini-tootsie rolls and lollipops that she gave to high-schoolers she felt were too old to be begging candy off of neighbors or, as back-up candy on particularly busy Halloweens when she rather stay up and give each child at least ONE tootsie roll, instead of having to concede defeat and turn off the porch light.

It was a candy code I had learned and mastered.

It was a candy code we lived by.

And if we had EXTRA candy after Halloween… my brothers and I of course always fought over the “good” bowl of candy… fought to the point of fist-a-cuffs and beyond. Blood would be spilled and it was well worth it.

Believe it or not, I never realized that Lex and Dylan had any arguments over the candy. Their fighting was so tame compared to the scenes me and my brothers created that I really didn’t notice it.

My two off-spring had never picked up a knife and threatened to stab a sibling over a Baby Ruth.

My two precious lambs had never tried to drown each other in the pool in hopes of stealing a sibiling’s pillowcase full of Halloween spoils.

No… I had not witnessed this type of brutality… but what I found last Halloween was that their war was much more strategic… diabolical in design.

It was the day after the big event. It was a lucky year for the siblings. Halloween had fallen on a week night and so we had been left with two full bowls: one of A-list candy and one of B-list candy.

I figured my kids were too old to really care if candy was sitting around the house so I made a mental note to take both bowls of candy to school and give them to my 11th graders as a fun surprise. But when I woke that morning, I found the A-list bowl was gone… and the pathetic B-list bowl was left behind.

I imagine I made a face at this moment. I thought of what my Juniors would think if I showed up with a bowl of B-list candy. I would be the “cheap” teacher… the one who didn’t go “all out” for her students… the one that skimped on trick-or-treaters and next thing you know… I would be the old lady who gave out demerits for wearing flip flops and referrals for cussing. No…  that wasn’t going to be me. So, I left the B-list candy behind and went to school empty-handed.

I forgot about the candy until I was back home in the afternoon but, as soon as I walked in and saw the pathetic group of tootsie rolls sitting in the bowl on the counter, my inner child became incensed and wanted to know just WHO in the HELL had taken all of the A-list candy?

I went upstairs and checked the children’s bedrooms: no tell-tale wrappers strewn across the beds… no bowl stashed beneath. They were clean.

I went back downstairs and looked around the living room: nothing. No sign of the chocolate.

I dug through every cupboard in the kitchen thinking their grandma, Nana, had hidden it. She was a known candy hoarder but… once again… nothing.

I grabbed my keys and headed out the back door. There was one room I hadn’t checked… the recording studio where Dylan practiced his drums and worked on his music. Maybe the candy was hidden there.

I put the key in the lock, jimmied the door a bit, gave it a push, then opened it wide to find an almost empty candy bowl on the floor and candy wrappers strewn everywhere.

“Dylan.” I whispered in an accusatory rasp. “You little bastard.”

I grabbed what was left of the candy and brought it back in the house.

When Dylan arrived home later that afternoon I read him the riot act for eating the candy.

“What does it matter?” he shouted back. “Why do you care if I ate the candy? Did you want it?”

“Yes,” I shouted. “Yes, I did! I wanted to take it to my students.”

Dylan pointed at the bowl of tootsie rolls and pops. “Well take that,” he said. “There’s a full bowl of candy right there.”

I snatched the bowl from the kitchen bar and held it up to his face. “I can’t take this candy,” I screeched. “This is the cheap candy. I don’t want my kids thinking I’m the cheap teacher that gives out bad Halloween candy.”

“Well, exactly,” Dylan said. “That’s why I took the other bowl and ate it. I’m not gonna eat the secondary candy when I can eat the good ones.”

I had to fight not to smile.

It was a real struggle.

I knew he was right.

I totally understood his logic.

But as most parents know… there is a time when you just cannot back down and this was one of those times.

I gave him my most vicious mother glance and said, “Go outside now. And don’t you dare eat any more of this candy.”

He sauntered off. His big pom of curly hair bouncing about as he tried to walk away without a smirk.

I leaned over the bowl of candy and sighed.

I knew I would have done the same thing.

I knew years ago I HAD done the same thing.

But it didn’t calm me down in the least.

I walked away from the candy and went to lie down on the bed.

Several days went by without event.

The A-list candy: just sitting on the bar.

No one touching it.

No one.

Not Dylan of course… but Nana and Lexi didn’t touch it either.

I started to wonder if something was going on each time I walked past it.

I examined it: It looked like the same amount of pieces were in there since the day I had scolded Dylan.

So, I finally asked Lex.

“Oh, I ate a couple,” she said. “But Dylan is the one that really wants it,” she dug through the bowl looking for a favorite . “But he told me you wouldn’t allow him to have anymore. Can you believe him?” she picked up a candy, unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth.

“I mean, he ate almost the whole bowl.” She swallowed the candy she had and went to unwrap another one. “The WHOLE bowl,” she repeated as she popped the second one in her mouth. “What a little asshole.  I didn’t even really want any this year. But he was being such a jerk, it made me want to take them all. Do you know that he actually took the whole bowl out into the recording studio, locked the door and wouldn’t share it with me?”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s why I wouldn’t let him have any more.”

“Yeah,” Lex said. “That’s what I thought. You know, he comes in here every day and if he sees me touching it… he gets all bent out of shape and says that I’m leaving my germs all over the candy… and that no one wants to pick a piece of candy that’s been touched by a bunch of germy people but in particular, me with my germy hands.”

And just then… I watched as Lex’s face registered some brilliant diabolical idea. It was fascinating to watch. It was just a moment… a brief second…. and before I could stop her, she snatched all of the remaining candy bars up out of the bowl and licked the entire package of each and everyone of them with a dramatic flair. Yes: Each and EVERYONE.

I watched as her tongue circled the wrappers and left a thick film of saliva from end-to-end. It was absolutely disgusting.

Then, I watched as she sat each one back in the bowl, walked to the fridge and grabbed some apple juice, and then wandered off to her bedroom as if I hadn’t been watching at all.

I stood there… stunned… wondering why I had never thought to do something so insidious when I was at war with my brothers over the Halloween candy. I guess that’s the difference between fighting at seven and fighting at thirty: more brain power.

Just then, Dylan walked in the back door and when he saw me standing by the candy bowl, came over and stood across from me as he eyed the leftover Halloween treats.

“May I have one of these now?” He asked sweetly.

I pushed the bowl towards him. “Yes, of course, go ahead.”

I watched as he fingered through the selection before making his choice.

“Lex was touching all of these,” he said with disgust. “I told her no one wants candy with her germs all over it.”

Then he ripped open the end of a Snicker’s bar with his teeth and began to eat it.

I tried not to smile.

“What?” he said.

I shook my head as if to say no.

“What, Mom?” he said again.

“Nothing,” I said. “Take them all.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Did you do something to this candy?” He asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I’m your mother.”

He picked up the bowl and headed out to the recording studio. “Good,” he said. “Cause I don’t want Lexi getting her germs on any of it. I’m taking it back out with me so she can’t touch it.”

I heard the back door slam and then a quiet little laugh come from the top of the stairs.

I craned my neck and looked up the stairwell to see Lex, lying on the floor, just as she had done as a small child, head pressed against the carpet, giggling with glee.

“YES!” she said as she held her fist up with triumphant joy before sliding back into her bedroom, shutting the door, and disappearing from my view.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Very First Visit to Raji’s Night Club: Or… How I Survived Being Woolied and Molested by El Duce and Top Jimmy: Two Very Drunk and Disorderly Punk Rock Legends

3 Comments

DUCE-1

It was 1985.

I was underage, barely 19, and sporting a fake I.D. the first time I went to Raji’s Night Club.

I was dating Joe Wood, who was already well-known as the lead singer of T.S.O.L. and I was new to the gig scene, just barely starting out with my own band: Gypsy Trash.

Joe was dead set on getting me to make the jump from gigs in Long Beach to L.A. but I was young, a bit unsure of the Los Angeles club scene, and really… a bit out of my element that night.

I had grown up under the watchful punk rock protection of legendary Long Beach and Orange County bands such as: Vicious Circle, T.S.O.L., The Adolescents, The Vandals and being baby sister to Jack Grisham, and then Joe Wood’s girlfriend, as well as a musician in my own right, I was used to being cocooned in even the most disgustingly seedy club environments throughout our “home” territory of L.B. and O.C. due to my connections to the notoriously violent boys of the scene but this… this was different.

It wasn’t that I was naive… I don’t think anyone in our punk rock crowd could have been considered naive… but the L.A. scene seemed harder, faster and I felt like a baby in their world.

I was withdrawn by the time we pulled into the back parking lot, trepidatious as we walked up to the Hastings Hotel, where Joe introduced me to Bernie the doorman, and down right disturbed as he lead me inside to the club.

The front of Raji’s was a thin dark corridor, smoky and dirty, with a long bar on one side, and there wasn’t a single familiar face for me to look to for comfort.

I felt like the perfect idiot 80’s girlfriend: scantily dressed, jet black cropped hair and large doll-like smile plastered across my face, as I waited for Joe to make the rounds of the room.

I didn’t want to seem like a downer or a drag so I tried to act cool. I think I even lit up a smoke, imagining at the time that it made me look mysterious and older, until Joe turned and pulled me close, kissed me hard on my forehead and whispered that he would be right back; he just wanted to find Dobbs, the promoter, and a bottle of Ten High.

He went off on his search, sure in the knowledge that his L.A. punk friends would keep me company until he got back but, being that I was an unknown outsider in their world, they all dissipated in a matter of seconds, moving off to the shady fringes of the room to snort coke, pop pills, chain smoke, or cop a grope while they waited for someone of notoriety and “interest” to walk their way and man… did they ever get it when El Duce and Top Jimmy came rolling out of the back room.

I knew both El Duce and Top Jimmy by reputation only and I swear when I saw those two together, stoned out of their minds, lumbering towards me, I actually felt my stomach drop and my hands turn cold.

I scanned the room for Joe, praying that he was close by but he was long gone.

I would have given anything to have my brother, Mike Roche, Ron Emory, any of my big Long Beach boys with me at that time.

I was trapped.

I looked down at what I was wearing: a tight white and black animal print dress, braless, bare legs, high heels.

I actually ran my hands down my sides in a panic just to make sure I was actually wearing panties that night; something we often went without during the 80’s so that the lines of our super tight dresses didn’t ruin the lines of our ultra thin figures and I was fearful that a small piece of black cotton cloth with strings would be my only defense against these Punk Rock marauders.

I looked at the door wondering if I could get out before they saw me.

It wasn’t an option… I wouldn’t make it in time.

I felt that my best defense was to hide in the shadows and so I backed up slowly against the wall, trying to be low key, but I knew I stood out like a debutante in a biker bar.

Everyone else was in black: black leather jackets, black leather docs, black leather pants, black lipstick, black eyeshadow and here I was, the Punk Rock Princess, with my large green eyes, my fair white skin, deep purple lips, looking like one of the girls from a Nagel painting or a naughty Punk Rock Barbie doll that those boys couldn’t wait to pick-up and play with.

Panic set in.

I side stepped and tried to hide myself in the dark corner but it was too late.

El Duce’s eyes locked on me; a brand new toy that he had never played with, and he stomped towards me, pants unzipped, sweaty large belly protruding from under his ripped black shirt, bald greasy head, glassed over eyes, God knows what drink in his hand, as he snatched me from my hiding spot like I was a rag doll.

He woolied me about and then held me tight until Top Jimmy, distracted by someone in the crowd, heard him calling to him to come across the room and meet his new baby trick.

Jimmy smiled: a big hill billy gap grin with numerous teeth missing from his mouth, and I thought to myself, Oh God… I’m about to be fucked by the punk rock men of Deliverance.

I looked back towards the door, hoping for help, but saw only Bernie who waved, gave me a big thumbs up and a happy nod, sure that I must like being woolied by two of the most notorious Punk Rock Legends of all time but I assure you… I did not.

El Duce and Top Jimmy had me pinned tight in that corner so fast that I was sure my initiation into the Los Angeles club scene was going to end with me being knocked up by El Duce: the most disgusting man I had ever met in the world or tag teamed by the both of them.

El Duce leaned in and laughed loudly in my face.

His eyes were crazy.

My mind reeled through the numerous stories I had heard about him: stories about El Duce and The Mentors sexual deviancy were legendary.

I felt like I was going to be sick.

I’d probably end up with crabs, syphilis, gonorrhea, herpes, just from him laying his dirty old fingers on my skin.

By this time, Top Jimmy was licking my neck and El Duce was up my skirt and trying to work off my underwear.

The amount of alcohol on their breath, and in the air around them was overwhelming.

I tell you… if I hadn’t been brought up with some of the hardest punks in L.B. and O.C. I probably would have fainted and woke up a victim of “big man” abuse.

Luckily… I kept my sense of humor, and my pretend calm demeanor, as I used my sass to keep El Duce’s hands from going “all the way” and Top Jimmy from covering my body with an enormous puddle of drool as I looked to reach for the nearest Budweiser bottle to clock those mother fucking clowns as soon as I could get a chance.

I felt my skirt being lifted higher.

I pushed El Duce’s face away as I turned to see what was going on with my skirt.

Top Jimmy was now pulling it up from his side and I knew if a miracle didn’t happen quick… I wouldn’t have much longer.

I scanned the room in a panic… praying someone would do something but everyone was completely oblivious to my plight or just accepted that when it came down to El Duce and Top Jimmy: You let them do what they liked.

Just as I was about to totally give up hope, Joe came strolling back into the room, one arm around a large, jolly man I could only assume was Dobbs, and his other hand firmly wrapped around a low ball glass, I could only assume was full of Ten High, acting like he was the God damn Punk Rock Frank Sinatra of the club scene.

I wanted to kill him.

I swear if I could have gotten a hand free from the lecherous grasp of El Duce, I would have clocked Joe with a Budweiser bottle first and then used the broken neck to ass torture El Duce in a night club.

Joe took one look at me being molested by the big men and rushed across the room and knocked El Duce away from me.

I will never forget the look on El Duce’s face: it was as if Joe had just pried raw red meat out of a wild bear’s mouth.

I thought El Duce was going to kill him.

But Top Jimmy loved Joe. He stepped in between Joe and El Duce, wrapping his arms around Joe, and soon… they both had El Duce calming down as Joe explained that I was his girl and that El Duce would have to move on to someone new.

I watched as El Duce clinked glasses with Joe, walked away, heading to the back room, but not before he turned around one more time, staring me down as if to say, Another time Princess, then pretended to jack himself off, flicking his tongue back in forth in a grotesquely sexually explicit gesture, as he disappeared.

I was furious.

Now that El Duce was away from me, I wanted to run back after him and slap his big fat greasy head as hard as I could but I was sure if I tried it, he would chase me all the way to the parking lot, all the way home for that matter, and make me sorry for doing it and so… I held my anger for another day.

Top Jimmy, was nothing more than a toadie. Without the likes of El Duce to egg him on he was soon happily entrenched at the bar with Joe, settled in for a long night of drinking, while Dobbs, who took an immediate fancy to me, babied me the entire night and made sure that I wasn’t left alone again.

I can’t say that it was an enjoyable experience, but it was of course, and infamous one… and a story worth telling.

It’s been thirty years since that night at Raji’s… Dobbs, El Duce, Top Jimmy all long gone now… and I’d like to think that Dobbs and Top Jimmy with his big goofy smile are somewhere off in a musical Heaven; Dobbs telling stories and Top Jimmy apologizing for his sins.

But El Duce?

I’m sure El Duce went down swinging.

Off in some Punk Rock Purgatory on the outskirts of Hell: wrecking havoc and mayhem and I imagine… still loving it.

Neighborhood Barnyard Critters

2 Comments

The Barnyard Critters

It will be a year ago this next month that my chicken, Matilda magically appeared in my life.

It was late night, while I was walking the park, when this funny little red head popped out from behind a tall pine tree and called to me as if she had been waiting for me and only me.

It did seem like fate that evening… the way she followed me down the road, sure… now that she had made herself known to me, that I must realize immediately that we were kindred spirits. And I must admit, no matter how I pretended to protest to my friends walking with me that evening, how we already had too many pets how I didn’t need a chicken in my heart, I already considered her mine.

And so… when I said begrudgingly, “Come along, Matilda”  she seemed to smile at me and say, “See? You did know my name! I knew you were my bosom friend.”

And now, I have Frida. She, like Matilda, was also left abandoned late night at the park and as I saw her dark red shape huddled down by a tall oak, I realized that unlike my Matilda, she was just a baby… unsure of herself and the world…. and that she had resigned herself to her fate: the dark of the night and the idea that she may not survive the moment.

Once again, I was with a friend who even said to me, “You are not going to bring that chicken home.” But I could not leave her to fend for herself, and as I stepped up quietly on her, making soothing whispers, my hands gently reaching down to enclose her, she cried small coos that reminded me of the sad sound of the mourning doves that some times nested in my tree outside my bedroom window… as if she longed to go home… where ever that had been… and couldn’t understand how the people she believed had loved her… had left her there… all alone.

“Don’t cry, Frida,” I said quietly and then I held her tightly to my chest and watched as she laid her head in the crook of my arm, her bright yellow legs stretched out like spindly twigs beneath her, the only part of her body which betrayed her fear at being handled by a stranger.

Shocked from her experience, it took her nearly a month to come close to us and almost two before she would eat from our hands yet now, she sits bravely each day, on top of the small table on the porch, eating grain from a tin, and acting as if she is queen of the yard.

And then there was Rupert.

Unfettered by feathers and claws, a fat, hairy little hoofed black and white pig, who was brought to us in a cat carrier, dropped at our house by someone who believed that a pig was “way too much work.” His tiny little tail the only thing we could see swishing through the holes in the side of the cage as he hid his face from us, unwilling to come out of the carrier. My son and I understood his fear and so… we quietly popped the top of the cage, lifted the lid, and watched the wee small man climb over the edge and head to the mound of chicken feed on the dirt, while our pet squirrel, Jax, now five years past being “Star of the Yard,” watched in horror from the roof top as if to say, “Two chickens and now a pig? Are you out of your mind? Isn’t a squirrel enough for you?”

Rupert, entitled from day one, threw his weight around daily. He destroyed gnomes, stepped on top of our German Shepherd, Emma, as though she didn’t even exist, and pushed his way closer to me and what he believed was my endless handful of  “manna.”

And really… I can understand why people choose not to have critters when I am surrounded by so many needy animals.

They are noisy and messy.

They must be fed and cleaned on schedule.

And of course, like any pet, you take the risk of falling in love, becoming attached, and losing them, heartbroken, to a hundred different maladies.

But really… is this any different from anyone or anything we love in life?

When I picked up Matilda that night in the park, brought home Frida, gave Jax her first peanut, accepted Rupert into the yard, I had no idea the gift that I would be given in return.

The stories I am able to tell, the people that share in the joy of my barnyard world, and the community that has been delivered to my front yard gate due to this motley crew of critters.

Every day, when I sit and write, I hear out my office window a steady stream of foot traffic coming to my yard to see my pets:

I know that Kay’s sister is about to retire from teaching, is an author like me, and that Kay loves to keep turtles.

I know the toddlers, Faye and Mia, believe my yard to be magical and almost always wear their princess gowns when coming to visit.

I know that Bruce and Bridget, the widowers, met in French class, wed in their 70’s (after long successful marriages to other people) and found solace and joy and love in each other.

I’ve learned that Richard works late but still rushes down the street in his work suit so that he can bring his boys to see Rupert before my pig goes to bed. And I know that his son Max’s autism finds peace in the quiet petting of my animals.

And even as I write this, I stop to meet Eric and Bekah, a young married couple who live over in the Ranchos and had heard about our yard, word of mouth, questing out on their bikes across the busy street, to find this “mythical” farm yard and were actually just leaving when a young boy named Logan, not more than four, ran up to my fence with his brother, mother, and father, following close behind, to let me know they had just gone to the pet store to buy mice for their snake, but had stopped by to check on my pig. Logan racing back as they left, to give me a flower saying, “You can put it on your computer so when you write, you think of me.”

It would be a fault that I could not bear to carry, if I did not acknowledge how my “cup runneth over” by what some would consider a burden, a nuisance, a hindrance.

The joy I find in these shared moments of togetherness are worth the work and the risk.

How fortunate am I to have a life filled with children and neighbors who find a moment of connection and happiness on a random corner of Anywhere, U.S.A.

There is a comfort in knowing that I will watch these children grow over time, as they first walk past my house on their way to elementary school and then soon… maybe even becoming my own students when they are teens, and one day… when I will be gone as we all soon will… may still stop at my front yard gate with their own children, point to a particular corner of the yard and say, “When I was little this garden was a magical place.” And though I will not be there to stand witness to the moment, I find solace in knowing that I will become a thread in the stories they tell.

The Food Poisioning Incident: Or how I found out that Stephen truly loved me.

4 Comments

poison

Many years ago, when Stephen and I were first dating. We liked to go out to Hof’s Hut for dinner.

It was just one of those silly stupid things you do when you are first dating: Go to “your” regular spot. Order “your” regular dish… and try on “being” a regular couple.

It had only been about a month, but we seemed to be doing a pretty good job of getting along and easily bonded over our shared love of Chicken Tortilla soup.

So one night, we followed our regular routine: soup at Hof’s… and then headed back to my house to lay on the bed and watch some mindless TV.

I don’t remember who fell asleep first… but I do remember who woke up first: that would be me.

I felt funny.

I felt woozy and sweaty… poo sick basically and so I quietly snuck off to the bathroom where in just a matter of seconds… I eliminated what I thought was my entire dinner and most likely also my meals from the previous day.

Like most people… for a moment… I felt relief and was sure that I was fine.

I washed my hands, splashed water on my face, and then headed back to bed.

It wasn’t more than a moment later that my stomach began to cramp and I knew that I was in trouble.

This time… there was no “walk” to the bathroom… I raced towards the toilet… just making it in time… where once again… I thought that everything exiting my body could not have been found even if I had chosen to do a HIGH colonic.

I put my elbows on my knees… I felt the room spin…. I was hot and irritated and upset that I was dating.

I was irrationally angry with Stephen who was sleeping peacefully in my bed.

I heard an Exorcist style voice from inside me hiss, “GET OUT!”

But there was no movement from the other room.

Stephen slept on… blissfully unaware of the horror that was taking place in the bathroom.

This time… I was unable to exit the toilet for a good fifteen minutes.

I knew then, that something we had just eaten had made me sick.

We had basically had exactly the same thing yet Stephen was fine.

It must of been the Ranch salad dressing, I thought to myself. He had the Honey Mustard. I seethed. “Fucker…” I whispered. “Fucking men.”

When I felt able to rise, I quietly crawled back into bed, weak and worn and hoped that I would be able to sleep.

“Are you okay?” I heard Stephen whisper from the other side of the bed.

I wanted to say, “No. Go home now. I’m sick and I don’t want you here to witness it.”

But we were new in our relationship and I was still trying to hide behind the facade of the perfect woman and so I said, “No I’m fine. I was just a bit sick to my stomach but I’m okay now.”

I would have to say… that amongst my many “famous last words” that these sit firmly at the top of my “wish I hadn’t said that” list.

I closed my eyes… and fell to sleep… thankful that I seemed to be stable after my incident.

I don’t know how much time passed… ten minutes… fifteen… but I had crossed over to the place in which you are definitely asleep but still… something in your brain… is awake and watching. Like… when you are observing your own dream or listening to someone rustling around in the kitchen late night… a quiet alarm really somewhere off in the distance… but still not yet in a place where you are “willing” to wake up and see what’s going on… and that… is when I needed to fart.

I could feel the urge to push and yes… somewhere… inside of my twilight… I thought… maybe it would be a bad idea… but I was too far gone… too far worn and groggy and so I pushed and immediately felt the warm rush of wet sludge fill the back of my panties as if filling a hot jelly doughnut.

My eyes opened wide… I moaned in embarrassment when I realized what had happened. I saw the stain on the bed and ran to the bathroom, hoping nothing more would escape my pants.

I barely made it to the toilet before I began vomiting.

Can you imagine?

Four weeks of dating…

Still in the limerance of the moment…

Never a burp or a fart or a misstep and now… on the floor… shit seeping out of my underwear…. my head halfway down the toilet… vomiting and crapping myself… sobbing uncontrollably between bursts of excrement and bile: the perfect picture of Aphrodite in all of her glory.

I heard a gasp and looked up to see Stephen standing at the bathroom door and that is when I completely lost it.

“GO AWAY!” I screamed. “DON’T LOOK AT ME!”

But look he did.

In fact, he even walked into the bathroom, grabbed a hair clip from the vanity and pulled my hair back.

My crying grew louder… so touched by his small act of kindness and so embarrassed that my current “love interest” was seeing me at my absolute worst.

“Please go home Stephen,” I cried. “Please… I swear I will be okay. I just need you to go home now.”

I felt him place his hand on the back of my head for a moment before he walked out of the bathroom and closed the door quietly behind him.

I cried hard against the rim of the toilet seat. My sobs echoing in the bowl before I once again lost all control and my body gave way at both ends.

I stayed there for sometime before my pain eased… and then I stepped into the shower: panties and shirt still on… to clean the excrement from my body and clothes, before stripping naked, drying off with a towel, and heading back to the bedroom to clean up the mess that I had left all over the sheets.

But when I opened the bathroom door, and walked to the bedroom… there was no mess.

There were fresh sheets on the bed… a large towel placed across the spot where I would be sleeping… a lined, clean trashcan by the side of the bed in case I got sick again in the night… and a good, good man waiting to see if I was okay.

“I couldn’t leave you,” Stephen said. “I wouldn’t have felt right about that.”

I can’t tell you how much this still touches me today: to be with someone who doesn’t leave… who doesn’t abandon someone at their worst.

I sobbed all over again knowing that this time… I was the lucky one.

Stephen helped me into bed where he held me close until I fell into a deep sleep that lasted into the early morning.

Of course… by then… Stephen was also shitting himself… vomiting uncontrollably… and writhing around on the bathroom floor in pain.

It was the soup… not the dressing: Our shared love of Chicken Tortilla had betrayed us.

But seriously… it was okay.

We spent 24 hours caring for each other living on Saltines and Gatorade.

We laughed… we cried… we crapped… we vomited… and we swore… and then… we shared a vow… a solemn vow… that we would never eat the Chicken Tortilla Soup at Hof’s Hut ever, ever, again… as long as we both shall live.