the soundtrack for standing in the middle of an orange grove, a hovering crown of bees dancing around your head…and bullets exploding all around.

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I was sitting at Tia’s one night a couple years ago before one of Alex’s softball games drinking a giant frozen sangria when Julie texted me. “will you feed chelsea while I’m in St. Maarten?”

“yes. but I want to go next time.”

“buy your ticket and we’ll go at midnight.”

Alex was looking over my shoulder. he said I should go. I told him how much tickets were. he shrugged his shoulders. I said I’d be gone for a week. he smiled. “buy your ticket,” he said. I said I’d be leaving in just a few hours. “you should go. you’ll have fun”

so within a couple of hours I had bought my ticket, packed and was sitting on a plane on the way to St. Maarten. The whole thing felt so surreal, kind of dreamlike. But that lasted all of 45 minutes because that country did not want me there.

as soon as we landed, the border control took our passports, refused to give them back and wouldn’t let us into the country. she wouldn’t answer our questions, but kept saying the condo we would be staying at – where Julie’s sister lives – didn’t exist. she didn’t seem to know her husband’s name – who was the financial controller of the biggest casino on the island and a very important person. everyone knew David. I forget what happened now, but eventually she gave us back our passports and let us go.

I thought that was as weird as it would get.

and then we were almost abducted/arrested/murdered.

we decided to go out that night and after getting ready, we hopped into Jackie’s van and started making our way down the long private road between her condo and the golf course where she had been recently attacked. the cops never came to help her and as she was telling me the story and I was gazing out into the pitch black stretch between us and the lights on the main road a few miles away, a car pulled in front of us and blocked the road. they shined their high beams into our car so we couldn’t see and three massive men got out. they weren’t in uniform…just regular clothes. two came and stood on either side of the van while the other cut the lights. he came and knocked on Jackie’s window. he said he was a cop. he wanted to know where her tag was. she said David must have it back home, can you please follow us to go get it? He started fighting with her. she told him he couldn’t do this on a private road. we couldn’t call David because none of us had phones. after fighting with him for 10 minutes, he told us to get out of the car. I started crying.

we were out of the car and he was yelling and he had the keys and he wouldn’t let us call anyone to get us or come help sort out the tag situation. he called the police chief for backup. meanwhile the three of us were standing on the side of the road in the middle of the golf course where there are known predators who attacked Jackie in the complete dark. every car that drove by and stopped to help was told to leave immediately or they would be arrested.

the chief showed up with a dozen other officers and cop cars and Jackie was furious. she started screaming in the chief’s face, asking why they could all come out for this, when no one came to help her the night she was attacked, just a hundred feet from where we were standing. he called her ungrateful and said she didn’t belong there. I asked Julie why they couldn’t just look up her purchased tag in some database. my hands were shaking. Jackie overheard and said it was because we’re in a third world country, they don’t have computers.

And then the police chief lost it. He flew into an absolute rage and started screaming that he needed handcuffs, we weren’t welcome there and that we were going with him. and right when I thought we were about to be thrown into his car, a man on a motorcycle stopped and said he would go get David. he stayed with us as long as possible despite the constant threats of arrest.

when he left to go get David, the chief took Jackie’s keys and drove away in her van – with no paperwork, no answers, nothing – and they all left us standing in the dark, alone, a couple miles to walk in either direction with no way of contacting anyone.

the next day we went to the police station and they had no record of any stops the night before, of Jackie’s car being taken, no record of anything. some of David’s goons from the casino had to come sort it out and get the car back.

and even after all that, every second of that trip was the stuff only the wildest, most unruly dreams are made of.

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this was the week of your first real gut wrenching, heart breaking cry. it took me surprise and for a second, I didn’t know what to do. my breath caught in my chest and I started to sing you the lullaby I’ve always sung to your brother, the one he falls asleep to every night before bed. immediately you calmed down and your eyes never left my face. by the time I was done, you had fallen asleep with your hand tucked under your chin and your fingers curled around mine.

you and your brother…the only two people in the world who like the sound of my singing.

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it was just the two of us.

it was just a little overcast.

it was just the two of us, back where it all started. the same stretch of beach from that summer five years ago, before jobs and kids and a white wedding dress. before houses and cars and a white picket fence. before stability tracked us down and held us hostage.

it was just the two of us, alone on our beach, watching the processional mirage of the last five years merge into what’s coming next…watching it all play out where the world dissolves into the sea, fades into the surf with the ghosts we left behind.

brigs painted for the first time this weekend, painted the ground and his arms and my face…the leaves and his shoes and sometimes on the paper I laid out in front of him. we framed them for the grandma’s for mother’s day gifts this year. on saturday he learned to play hide and seek. I was changing Rex, listening to B playing in the living room. and when I came out, I couldn’t find him. and I started to panic thinking he had gotten outside somehow…and right before I truly lost my mind, I saw 5 little fingers poking out from behind the curtains. and when I called his name, his whole body froze…and when I pulled back the curtain where he was hiding, he dissolved into a mess of giggles.

on mother’s day I just wanted, needed, a break. I needed to breathe. I needed for a few hours, to just not be a mother…a few hours to shake off the weight of that certain responsibility. it’ll crush you if you let it.

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the soundtrack for paint covered fingers.

for beer and crawfish.

for sand and sea.

for babies loving mamas and mamas loving you.

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I dreamed we were in a wooden house, a house with no rooms, just balconies and stairs stacked precariously atop one another. all the people I loved were there but they had no faces…they were so exhausted, so fragile that their faces had begun to melt away and they lacked the energy to do a single thing about it. over the side of one of the balconies, framed against an orange sky there were tree branches, hundreds and hundreds of twisting branches…branches and frogs that I understood to be deadly. “the frogs…” they said, “the frogs must not come in.”

while everyone around me wasted away, I grabbed a tree branch, the only one not crawling with frogs and brought it over the edge of the balcony, layed it on the floor. and when I moved it, I found that inside there was a single frog hiding among the leaves…large and purple and painted with an intricate web of daisies. and from the heart of that frog sprung a troll…a disgusting beast of a troll, pale and tall and hulking. without a second thought he went after all those people I loved, the ones with the fading faces. The way I understood it, he wouldn’t kill them right away, just keep coming at them until they hit the floor dead from exhaustion, so spent, so utterly lifeless that their hearts would  beat slower and slower until eventually they stopped beating altogether.

and I was so mad, so completely furious, knowing that in their vulnerability their faces might fade forever. at my feet there was a bat, roughly carved from the trunk of a tree. I reached for it, took it in my hands. they screamed no, voices that came from everywhere and nowhere all at once, from mouths already melted into obscurity.

he never even saw me. I hit him in the back, watched him fall over the balcony, heard him hit the ground below. I looked down over him, surrounded by splintered wood, arms and legs resting at impossible angles…and I realized I was grieving for the frog, the purple one with the pretty face and painted flowers.

I was grieving for the frog and I didn’t know why.

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way back when – last september – Incubus played a show in Tampa. my dad, having met them and done the inner-circle thing in LA already, decided to have them come over before the show to shoot guns at the orange grove he now lives in and cook out and eat macaroni and cheese and stuff. and they came. except for Brandon who COULDN’T MISS HIS WORKOUT or yoga or whatever it was and was kind of being a diva about it.

so Alex and I dropped off B and drove out to the farm and watched them shoot guns and Becka’s dad grilled some hamburgers and Becka made some ice cream (like she did literally every time I went to their house while she was pregnant). After a while the sky started getting pretty dark and we knew what kind of hell would be raining down from the sky, so they called it quits and came in to eat. but they wanted some pictures with my dad and the desert eagle and the rest of the arsenal.

so my dad hands me an iphone to take some pictures. obviously anyone would assume it was his. so I take pictures and the boys pose and everyone’s laughing and birds are chirping. now intead of being the asshole who says “HEY WAIT LET ME TAKE ONE WITH MY PHONE TOO” I was like ‘oh, yeah, I’ll just text it to myself. done.”

well.

I type in J, assuming my number will just pop up.

it does not.

I type in JAMIE.

nothing.

I type in DAU…for daughter.

nothing.

I type in my entire phone number.

nothing. unknown contact.

I send it anyway, but really.

what in the actual fuck, dad.

and right as Chris is sidling up next to me and I’m scrolling through all the contacts, I say it.

“WHY THE FUCK AM I NOT EVEN IN YOUR PHONE, FATHER?”

confused side eyes from both alex and my dad.

And then. AND THEN.

Chris reaches for the phone, smiling but obviously wondering why I’m going through it like that.

And he says thank you.

thank you because it was his phone.

what I should have said was you’re welcome.

what I actually said was “oh shit oh shit I’m sorry – I thought it was my dad’s. I’m sorry I DIDN’T KNOW OKAY”

he didn’t know what I had done, so he’s just all smiling at me and not caring.

I texted myself from his phone.

and now had his phone number.

just let me tell you how awkward that was.

all through dinner, all through the rainstorm and backstage at sound check and even kind of during the show I felt like such an ass….especially when he was referred to as my boyfriend.

because we all know he thought I was insane.

The end.

I bet you thought this was going to be semi-romantic.

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In the middle of a monday, in the middle of a soft black sheet on the floor of a sun drenched room, two boys lay staring up at a camera. one squirmed and smiled, waved his little fists in the air. the other gave him kisses, rested his cheek to his, held his hand and watched his every move. for a few minutes in the middle of a monday there was no crying, no screaming, no scolding or fussing….no falling, no barking, no chaos, no messes.

and their mother, she was happy.

Posted in Brigsby, Rexley 6 Comments

we were sitting out in the driveway the other night after dinner, throwing the basketball around, letting B get as filthy as possible before his bath. Rex was sleeping by the rosebush and my hands were covered in chalk, streaks of a dozen different colors leaving kaleidoscope fingerprints on everything I touched. The crickets were out, the sun was low, the air was heavy…and it felt like summer.

And then B came out of the garage with the skateboard Alex made for him around Christmas. I sat at the end of the driveway watching Alex teach him how to sit on it, how to roll down the driveway. I watched his hands as they caught him, as they hovered just close enough to keep him safe. He’d roll him down the driveway, I’d watch him laugh and shriek, eyes bright, until I caught him in my arms…and then he’d roll that little skateboard back up to Alex until eventually he could do it on his own.

the boy fears nothing.

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beat up scooter. thick smoke. loud motor. antique hats. new house. bourbon pie. derby bets. spare change. sweet sangria. tacos. tequila. dirty feet. birthday pup. red sombrero. stolen glass. quiet morning. white light. new rug. brewing beer. tiny feet. pool baby. empty bottle. blinding halo.

       ///

I like busy weekends…but saturday. my god, saturday. it was kind of like the gods said, “let’s have the kentucky derby, cinco de mayo, corona’s birthday, move-in day, and a really awesome garage sale all on saturday and see if her overly-festive little head explodes.” …which, of course, it very nearly did…and I didn’t even know about the supermoon until the next day.

I think around the time everyone else was counting all the craters, I was floating somewhere between the bottom of a margarita and the hazy beginnings of a technicolor dream.

Posted in Life In General, Little Holidays 2 Comments