Note to self: Quit calling them daily notes when I don't write them every day.

I just got my first rejection letter for Aerena! I've only sent it to one publisher, but still, it's a rite of passage. Somehow I feel professional and grown up from that one-line note. Well. Good for me.

April 20, 2005

Note to self: Quit making the cut on my finger talk to people.

I did it again today, I drove around with my car radio on static and I didn't notice. I used to do that a lot. An old boyfriend of mine mistook it for love. The night we met at the bar I ran into a pool table, spilled a drink, and slipped on the stairs. I was the bartender. Because I was acting so absentminded he thought I had a thing for him so he asked me out. A few months later he looked really disappointed and said, "Oh, you're just clumsy." We broke up not long after that, mostly because he was a wiener, but it still goes to show you that things aren't always what they seem. Like, my younger brother used to give me a big hug and then fart so I would chase him down and beat the crap out of him. We had a deaf friend who was scared to death of me.

IM About the duck (see Wildlife Encounter below)

CandieLK (11:09 PM): I brought him home on the plane from Chicago last year. There was no room for him in my luggage so he had to sit with me
xxxxxxxxx (11:09 PM): No one thought he was a bomb?
CandieLK (11:09 PM): they gave him a rectal exam
xxxxxxxxx (11:10 PM): Yow
CandieLK (11:10 PM): he got upset because the rubber glove they wore was a relative.
xxxxxxxxx (11:10 PM): Ah
xxxxxxxxx (11:10 PM): Incest

For as long as I can remember, my parents haven’t been able to remember anything.

When I was a kid we had a dog named Melvin. My dad would sometimes take our beloved family pet to work with him, and good old friendly Melvin always got a lot of attention. When someone would ask my dad what the dog’s name was, he would look at them blankly for a second and then say “Marvin?”

When my brothers and I would hear my mom start yelling syllables, we always stopped what we were doing and waited to hear whose name was going to come up last. I was usually known as “Mar-Jo-Ron-Candie.” No problem mom, you squeezed me out of your crotch one day, I can’t expect you to remember me when we bump into each other around the house.

My parents once left my two-year-old brother at church. When my dad finally went back for him the deacon who had him said Ron made it all the way to the road before someone caught him and dragged him back inside.

When I was seven I was left in the bathroom when someone called in a bomb threat to my church. After a couple of hours of listening to the minister go on about Armageddon and the Second Coming of Christ, I got up quietly to use the restroom. Imagine my terror after walking back to the main hall and finding the building empty.

At least my parents haven’t misplaced Gramma. Her ashes are, to this day, in a box in the hall closet with the word “Mother” written on the outside with a laundry marker.

One day, as a teenager, I decided to walk to the local convenience store to buy a snack. I asked my mom if she would like a candy bar and her immediate response was “I’d like a Nutty Nonsense.”

Nutty Nonsense? I thought about this for a few seconds. I had never heard of Nutty Nonsense, and keeping track of the brand names of chocolate was definitely something I kept myself current on.

“Oh! You mean a Nutrageous?” I suddenly realized what she was talking about.

“Yes! That’s the one, thanks!”

I stopped by the garage on my way down the driveway and asked Dad if he wanted anything.

“Sure!” Dad said from behind the open hood of my car. “I’ll take a Krinkle Bar!”

And life still hasn’t changed. My mom can’t remember my name so I sure can’t expect her to know the name of my favorite actor, Benicio Del Toro. Oh, she can place his face all right, but I sometimes get phone calls like, “Candie, I saw Belnikio in a movie about drugs last night.” Or, “Do you really like Belicio better than Tommy Lee Jones?” My dad just calls him “That guy from Way of the Gun.”

I guess I can’t blame Mom and Dad; I sure couldn’t handle raising four kids; I have a hard enough time keeping track of my one daughter. In fact I think I’ll find What’s-Her-Name now and go get us each a Mr. Goodwrench bar.

April 18, 2005

Note to self: When at Hollywood Video, never ask for the unrated version of anything. "The R version of Caligula just won't do" makes me look like a pervert. PS The clerk didn't buy it when I said it was educational and has historical significance.

April 17, 2005

I kept brief notes of my wildlife encounter today at Malibu Canyon.

April 16, 2005

Note to self: When shopping for a used kitchen appliance on Craigslist, always ask if the person is overweight. I just bought a stove from three skinny, well-dressed girls and it was brand-new. Not so much as a gravy stain on it. All I had to do was bring it home, wipe off the dust, and I can cook breakfast. I had never even seen my old stove this clean.

April 14, 2005

Note to self: When at a gathering of in-laws and I decide to be thoughtful and pick up Aunt Mary's cane that has fallen aside while she eats dinner, be sure to put it some place where she can find it or else later I am going to look like some mean jerk.

Whenever someone offers me coffee in front of my mom she will literally throw herself in front of my body and scream "NO!" She says coffee makes me act like Rainman, and will quickly share the story of her terror-filled ride over the Grapevine with Candie and half a No-Doze.

On the way to Chicago a couple of weeks ago Dearinger and I drove straight through the first night, staying awake on hot cups o' Joe we picked up at gas stations and various incarnations of the Waffle House.

We were somewhere around Amarillo on the edge of the desert when the caffeine started to take hold. I wasn't driving, thankfully, as the Brawny man appeared in front of me, telling me that he decided to start making Brawny toilet paper. Brawny toilet paper! The idea was tantalizingly funny to my stimulant-addled, sleep-deprived mind. It's rough, it's tough, and it takes shit from no one.

I started laughing. Small giggles at first, as I didn't want to explain to Dearinger why I was laughing when we had hardly spoken since Tucemcari. My amusement seemed to incite the Brawny man so he fashioned himself some underwear out of paper towels and put them on over his jeans. That's where the dam burst. I was hysterical, hyperventilating more than laughing really, and I knew if it hadn't been dark the glow of my red face would have alarmed my road partner.

Dearinger was alarmed however, swerving back and forth as she was watching me, trying to grasp what sort of sound I was making.

She asked me if I was alright but I couldn't speak. The Brawny man was now dancing on the dashboard but I couldn't pay attention to him. I was dying. I could feel the artery in my brain getting ready to explode as I shook and gasped for air. Calming myself was now a matter of life and death. I cupped my hand over my mouth and tried to hold my breath. Slowly, slowly I was able to still my rabid lungs, shutting my eyes against the Brawny man's suggestive jig.

The adrenaline rush from nearly having a Brawny-hallucination-induced-stroke kept me awake for several more hours. I brushed my teeth in a gas station before visiting my relatives in Ft. Gibson, Oklahoma. After 22 years, that was one hell of a way to greet my old home. I'm sure my filmy skin and Manic-Panic hair dyed to match my bloodshot eyes confirmed to my dad's older sister that "Larry's girl just aint right." But at least my breath was minty fresh.

The Chinese buffet somewhere in the outback of Oklahoma was desolate, and there was a dead animal of unknown species ripening in the parking lot. I didn't care because they offered all the cherry cobbler I could eat! I don't care what anyone says, cherry cobbler makes an excellent side dish to lukewarm crab rangoon.

We finally stopped and slept at the Comfort Inn outside Lebanon, Illinois. I don't remember too much of that part of the trip, but the next day I made a stand. I must see the Cahokia mounds, I pleaded to Dearinger, who was anxious to get to Chicago to see her boyfriend. We didn't have time to see the mounds on the last trip, but now that I've read Native Americans Before 1492 I have to go to those mounds or I'm going to die. She finally gave in after I reminded her that it was my lead foot and sensitivity to stimulants that got us to St. Louis in under 30 hours, but I was really pushing it when I wanted to stop to take pictures of Lincolns home. Which, by the way, was lovely.

By the time we got to Chicago, Dearinger had had quite enough of me and my side trips. Chicago is another story.

April 12, 2005

Just got back from a ten-day road trip to Chicago. Dearinger and I drove all the way there and back in her Christmas present to herself, a Chrysler 300c with a hemi which gets about 3 miles to the gallon. It was worth it though, I really enjoyed cranking my seat back and turning on the ass warmer while listening to either my Nine Inch Nails cd or her Carly Simon.

On the way back we stopped in Ogallala Nebraska for dinner. I was enjoying the wagon wheel decor in a restaurant that has a sign outside that says "Livery Stable" when I asked the waitress if the salmon was fresh. She thought I was joking. I guess if I hadn't been so road-logged I could have figured that one out for myself, but there I was, looking up at this poor woman waiting for her to answer.

After explaining to me that the salmon came out of the freezer but was very good, she asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I held up my hand indicating that I wanted her to wait while I picked up my tumbler of ice water, looked at it closely, swirled it around in the glass, and then took a small sip. "This will do," I said, not needing to explain that I am from LA.

She was right, the salmon was indeed very good. I had never eaten deep-fried salmon before.

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