On my morning walk I saw light reflecting off leaves that held that sparkly quality you only see at the start of Spring and it reminded me of watching my Dad walk up the street toward me outside Taylor’s on 8th and Normandie.
And I remember how spry he looked, how he himself had a shininess to him that emanated from his chest and as he sauntered toward me, gleaming, I noticed how sharp his hair looked and asked him if he’d gotten a haircut and he said I don’t get haircuts, babe. Haircuts get me! and as we walked into Taylor’s I remember noticing the light that evening and thinking it was my favorite kind because it cast a crisp spotlight across everything and everyone and as my dad held the door open for me I knew absolutely that when we sat down to dinner I was going to mention how much I loved the light to him and I knew for certain that he would tell me he felt the exact same way.
I honestly do not know how I get along without those conversations any more.
Yours In Wist,
Marge of the Minuscule
On my morning walk I saw men playing soccer and it reminded me of my own disastrous futbol career with The Roadrunners when I was ten years old and had the body shape and density of a leaf. I remember that the entire time leading up to and during any game, my one and only thought was WHERE IS JULIE TUBBS?
Julie Tubbs was a sixth-grader on an opposing team who had the demeanor and stature of Lou Ferrigno as The Hulk. I don’t think I’ve ever been as terrified of anyone or anything as I was of Julie Tubbs. Not only had she terrorized me at Woodlake Elementary by giving me Indian burns when I didn’t perform to her liking on the kickball field, she also made a habit of calling me String Bean when I’d be unfortunate enough to pass her in the hall. Over time I developed a kind of Julie Tubbs sonar that enabled me to ping her location—like a low-tech GPS tracking device with a signal consisting of an intense case of stomach knots if she was within five hundred miles.
But during the ill-fated Roadrunner Era my sonar was completely useless because, on the rare chance that Coach Wingate would put me in the game, I’d just be standing there, alone, doing my best to uphold my fullback position without fainting and Julie Tubbs would come barreling toward me like a mobile home with legs and a look on her face that said YOU’RE DEAD and I remember at a certain point I just came to terms with the fact that nothing—not sonar, not athletic talent, not a move out of the country, not even god could save me from the menace that was Julie Tubbs.
I honestly do not know how I made it through in one piece.
When In Doubt, Run,
On my morning walk, Cooper and I got caught in a surprise fog/rain attack and it reminded me of that time when I was a senior in high school and I had ditched sixth period in order to go home and listen to the new George Benson album, Breezin’ and, as I was driving in my 1976 matte yellow Pinto down a side street near El Camino Real High School so I would’t be seen, there was a sudden thunderstorm that caused a flash flood that capsized me and my disoriented Pinto.
I remember I had to get out of the car and trudge through knee-high rainwater in my favorite baby blue Ditto jeans and my beloved Sbicca platforms with the cork soles. I was more concerned with my shoes than I was the car. That poor thing. I left her there, all alone, in the middle of the street looking like one of those pieces of furniture you see stranded on the side of the freeway and you think Did that get up by itself and walk here or did someone hurl it out their passenger window?
I literally do not know what made me tick back then.
Seize the Day, I Suppose,
On my morning walk I saw palm trees getting haircuts and I was reminded of that time, when I was working as a shoe salesperson at The Corral in the Bullocks mall off Topanga Boulevard and I let Patty Oracio, an aggressive beauty school student, “practice” chemical application on my hair and my entire head turned into the consistency of that wispy flyaway stuff that seems to explode and then rot off palm fronds after they’ve been laying in the middle of the street for several weeks.
I honestly do not know how I survived.
Time Heals All Perms,
Fiona Fluffy, PhD
The Follicle Whisperer