IT'S ALWAYS 11:11 SOMEWHERE

1. Tonight after my 10 hour stint at the workplace, I came home to find a birthday card from my mom and dad with real folding money in it. Two thoughts I had before I opened this envelope:

a) I wonder if they enclosed money.
b) Jesus Pete, I really could use some money this week. Real folding money.

I had a slightly painful convo with my mom this week wherein I tried to explain why I was so in the hole financially, and I felt really defensive.

Dear Folks,

I am so grateful that I learned what a work ethic is from you. And I am also eternally grateful that you let this dreamer do whatever he wanted to. So when I landed in Oklahoma, I thought that the idea of an artist collective would be an ideal situation for not only myself but for anyone who landed here. The reality is that most of my roommates cost me more money than they contributed. Some money I have gotten back. Some I will never see again. I cannot regret this much as I entered into this agreements with faith and hope. Faith and hope don’t keep the lights on, but I have somehow, paycheck to paycheck, kept the lights on. And I will move on from this stronger, perhaps having learned that what I needed to do most was look out for myself first. It’s a tough lesson when you want your friends to rise above as well. I am sorry that I don’t have shiny happy stories to share right now. But I am trying. And I will get through this. And in the meantime, your real folding money is the best miracle I could have received, and just in time. I do have faith and hope that as I find what my next step is, all the rest of the little miracles will continue to fall into place. Thank you for loving and believing in me, no matter how difficult it may be. I will do my best to make the heavy air in your lungs lighter this year.

2. Just when I feel underappreciated/ignored/out of time, I creep upon something like

http://bostonpoetryslam.tumblr.com/post/23745084306/a-blog-for-those-who-want-to-improve-their-craft#notes

and I know I am doing something right. Thank everyone who feels me, one word at a time. I’m far from done.

3. That’s all I have for now. Sleep happens soon, work beckons again, and I trust that the little miracles will keep happening. I see the Amazon sales of my book and my funny amazing little zombie anthology happening, and I know another miracle will happen come royalty time.

4. Here’s to little miracles. The ones we overlook most days. Lately they are the things that keep me afloat in bus fare and meals and utility payments. I have so much hope and faith that some nights my dreams are murky with worry. I wish I had more happy happy to spit at you, but I am headed to Charlotte, NC, with my slam team this summer, and when I get there, it will be every holiday I have neglected celebrating. Another snazzy sexy just-in-time little miracle.

I started to panic this week when I realized that I had burned through the season finales of Grimm, Once Upon A Time, and Smash in one week. Add on Parks and Rec, Office and Community, and even the Morgan Spurlock joint A Day in the Life, and I almost went into Hulu convulsions.

Thank Baby Jeebers for reality shows. As shows with scripts take a break, I can revel in the fact that a new season of Food Network Star has started. And today, against my better judgement, I burned through all the preview clips from The Glee Project 2 (but hey—they have a blind contestant! and a real live girl in a wheelchair! and…yeah, I know).

And for the record…I’m Team Alton.

Reposting this for my mom, and for moms everywhere. You know who you are.

Because I never knew how to fully say thank you before
or because my words tripped over their own shoelaces—
this is what I see when I see you.
You are culinary David Copperfield, making zucchini taste like apples.
Squash taste like spaghetti.
Spinach taste like not spinach.

You are classically trained voice warbling Billy Joel like hymn.
My motivation to sing in church at Christmas.
You: Christmas. Red and green sugar.
The Sears Catalog, thick as a phonebook, all photographs and promise.
You are a card for every occasion, a clipped article, a twenty dollar bill,
the unbreakable habit of get yourself something nice.
You are chicken soup with rice
and tolerating my six-book-a-visit library habit.

You never judged me when I thought I was an actor,
when I thought I was black,
when I thought I was God.

You are the feeling I get in my throat if I feel I might disappoint you.
You are a tiny powder keg of watercolor.
The kindest mouse.
You, when I was a frail five year old house of cards,
dropped it all for me. I hope I have inherited half your sense of sacrifice.

This is the comic book I never finished.
The screenplay you should have starred in.
A never-ending poem that I don’t know how to write.
I know, I will always be a funny t-shirt and not enough phone calls.
I will always be a house of secrets.
This is you teaching me how to talk and talk a lot.
To share. This is me, jumping off of this babble train,
loving you all the way down the hill. Geronimo, I yell.
Which translates literally to “one who yawns”
but when I say it I’m thinking Matki są święte…

Mothers are sacred.

from a prompt by Nicole Homer

The mariachis were playing all cover songs.
While they crooned “Hey Ya” in Spanish,
you ordered a salad with spring greens and apples and blue cheese.
The waiter had a haircut that made him look like
the guy from Flock of Seagulls, completely unironically,
and he made some shitty comment about rabbit food.
I got a little defensive, felt a little protective.
This was no way to for a first date to kick off.

The menu, in big bold Helvetica, had the words
CHEF’Z ZPECIAL
at the bottom of its laminated surface,
and I inquired as to what that may be.
Flock of Seagulls snickered, and said,
Oh. The Zzzzzzpecial.
He dragged it out like he was too cool for his job,
for this restaurant, for this life.
The Zzzzzzpecial is a pound of lugnuts
served in a whole wheat tortilla shell,
with lamb fries and kale.

Sounds delicious, I replied through gritted teeth.
I will take it.

The band started playing “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac.
You looked at me as if I’d agreed to fistfight
Charlton Heston on the top of the Chrysler Building.
Which is to say, somewhere between impressed
and horrified.

Flock of Seagulls did a doubletake,
and then in his best snark, sighed,
Okay then.
He dragged his all-black ensemble
(with the skinny silver tie, looking for all the world
like a big pants zipper down his crotchy torso)
to the kitchen. The mariachis got “In The Still of the Night”
bubbling up as I sipped my beer and smiled.

And so out it came.
I started with the lamb fries, wrapped them in the kale,
because who doesn’t like a good testicle
(and everything is better fried, right)?

And then were the lugnuts. They were glazed
in a wonderful chipotle-lime sauce,
which I think appealed to the faux-Mexican in me.
I clearly couldn’t chew them, but the sauce
helped them go down easier. I just kept
swallowing, letting the tortilla be my guide.
Next thing I knew there was a big glop of chipotle sauce
on my tie. Kind of post-modern,
but unslightly nonetheless.

Oh, Flock of Seagulls, drawled,
You missed your mouth.
I told him (and you) that it was okay,
that I liked the new addition to my wardrobe,
that a little chaos was good for the soul.

Of course, I said, smirking and patting my belly,
I have been accused of being a little nuts.