Moon Water (NSFW)

Fifteen minute flash fiction exercise

Prompt: 

Write about a character looking for a sign.

    The crystals should have warned him that this would happen. Alejandro huffed and stuffed his hands into his pockets. With his right hand, he rubbed the blue lace agate as he continued walking. His shoulders hunched angrily and he kicked the sidewalk in annoyance.
    No one cares about you, Alejandro.
    Shut up. Alejandro almost said the words aloud. Instead he pushed his inner saboteur out the door and called on the agate’s energy. “Give me clarity. Align me with the universe. Give me a sign. I know he’s out there somewhere. Please. I need to meet him.”
    He doesn’t want to meet you. He’s happier without you.
    SHUT. UP.
    Alejandro clenched his teeth as he turned the corner and headed back to the foster home. A kid on the stoop called out to him. “Yo, Ale, you find out anything?”
    Alejandro just shook his head and squeezed the agate tighter.
    “Let it go, man,” said another one of his housemates. “Our dads don’t care. Do you need more proof than this?” He pointed to the black door with the DCS plaque.
    Alejandro remained silent. The full moon last night told him something different than these boys. Something different than the voices in his head. The moon had promised him something special. His father.
    Alejandro had prepared the moon water exactly like Lydia had said. He drank the whole goddamn liter.
    Fuck the moon water.
    Fuck the moon.
    Fuck dads.
    “Alejandro Rivas?” A woman’s voice asked from behind him.
    He turned around to see the telltale social worker with her stupid lanyard around her stupid neck holding her stupid clipboard.
    Fuck the social worker.
    “Who’s asking?”
    “I’m Cecilia D’Antonio. I have some information about your father.”

Autumn

And suddenly it's autumn
And the endless sweaty days have melted into
Crunchy leaves and cider
And you have melted into memories
Like the starlight from a distant constellation.
Your breath hangs on the air
Like the drifting leaves
Your kiss on my lips like dew.

I once chased the hot nights
Flying behind them on light summerwings-
But they find themselves sadly replaced
By scarves and sweaters
Cold and candy corn
Autumn and the feeling of being alone.

Wake me up if the sun changes his mind
And gives me back my lemondrop summer
And gives me back my lemondrop you.
My summerwings groan longing for one last flight together.

The Philosophy of Favorites

Can you remember the first time someone asked you what your favorite color was? Neither can I. But I have kids and people are constantly asking my five-year-old what her favorite [animal, color, food] is. Now, I’m not a philosopher. I’m a work at home mom with big dreams and big hips, but I'm also pretty smart, and recently I’ve started asking myself, “What is the deal with FAVORITES?!”

According to google, “favorite” means, “preferred before all others of the same kind.” That means when you have a favorite [something] that’s all you get-- ONE. FAVORITE. It’s a superlative. You can’t go higher or do better than “favorite.”

I used to love asking people what their favorite [fill in the blank] was. And if they asked me, I was always prepared with some absurd answer--favorite animal: hammerhead shark;  favorite color: mauve; favorite food: gummy bears; favorite holiday: Shark Week. I didn’t want to be like everyone else. I didn’t want to have the same favorites. I wanted to be unique. There was no way in hell you’d catch me admitting that I really like blue and dogs and hamburgers. Nope. No way. 

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that I am different and I didn’t even have to try. It’s not the exclusion of the popular things that makes me quirky, but it’s the inclusion of some really unpopular things. I really love bats, for example. Dr. Pimple Popper? Yes, please. Leopard print leggings? Is there any other color, I ask you?! 

Anyone who is married will probably agree that marriage includes constantly getting to know the person that you thought you knew better than anyone. My gorgeous husband, Etienne, likes to ask me what my favorite [whatever] is. This has been a “thing” between us for years, and he was getting really good at memorizing my favorites. 

Remember how I used to love asking people their favorites? Well, over the Christmas holidays one year, my brother-in-law and his then girlfriend came to visit us. (She left our house as his fiancee and is now his wife, but that’s another story). We took a trip to the Grand Canyon and we were stuck in the car for hours. Since it was my first time meeting her, I thought it would be fun to get to know her a little better. We played a game I made up where everyone in the car had to guess the other people’s favorite [thingamabob]. 

When Etienne guessed all my favorites more accurately than I did, I had to take a mental step back.

    Favorite food: Thai curry

    Favorite animal: peacock

    Favorite holiday: Easter

And it went on and on. He had correctly memorized all my answers, and given them with confidence. The problem was, some of them had changed. And I guess I forgot to remind him to run his updates.

That’s when I realized that when I declared something as a favorite, somewhere in the cosmos, it got recorded and I was locked into that choice forever. If Easter is my favorite holiday and I say it out loud, it can never be undone! Well, what happens when I have that year when I realize I’m actually part vampire and my heart is frozen? I can’t betray Halloween just because I love Easter, too! 
Anyone who knew me in middle school knew that my favorite color was pink. My backpack was pink. My notebooks were pink. I painted my freaking room pink. I even purposely found a pen with a pink fuzzy pom pom on top so I could be like Cher on Clueless.  I was married to pink. I had her name and our wedding date tattooed on my left buttcheek. It was forever. 

And then I changed.

And my favorite color changed. 

When I was in Interior Design school, I realized that all colors are so wonderful (except McDonald’s yellow-- BARF) that I could never choose just one. I determined that black was my favorite. Black-- the combination of all colors. It’s not just black, but it’s the representation of the entire spectrum.  In a way, that was my first step on this new path of anti-favorites. 
    Not long ago, Etienne asked me what my favorite movie was. Unlike my teenage self who would have quickly and confidently answered, “A Beautiful Mind,” “grown up” Florence had to consider, until, eons later, at last I said, “I don’t know.” I rattled off a list of several that I love: Amadeus, Slumdog Millionaire, Nacho Libre, The Ring, but each of them was just as wonderful as the last. 

Then it hit me: I don’t believe in favorites anymore. I like too many things. I can’t choose just one! When we were playing the favorites game on our Grand Canyon trip and my husband had said Thai curry was my favorite food, it was because I had told him years ago, very explicitly that Thai curry was my favorite food! Guess what? I forgot about that. That day in the car, thirty-five weeks pregnant, all I could think about was the forbidden fruit-- sushi. But wait. Can’t I love Thai curry and sushi? Don’t forget charcuterie, pizza, Indian food, gyros, tacos and a good ol’ turkey sub with mayo and American cheese. 

I had to tell Etienne about this philosophical rebirth. “I won’t choose favorites anymore. I can settle on a top five, maybe six? But I will no longer choose favorites. I just like everything!” Mr. Methodical didn’t seem to quite grasp the gravity of what I was saying, but to me it meant everything. Not choosing favorites means that I no longer have boundaries on what I enjoy. I like it all and I’m open to letting anything else that speaks to me into the hierarchy of enjoyment. Just like I could never choose a favorite child because each of them has brought a new stanza to the poetry of my life, not choosing favorites expands me, so I will no longer choose favorites. 

Although, when I lived in Italy, I tried a Golden Delicious apple for the first time. That is my favorite apple and I don’t care if the gods of favorites know I said it. That’s not going to change.

I think… 

Cut- a metaphor for anxiety

Spandex is Dead: The story of my existential millenial fashion crisis and subsequent mental breakdown

     Getting a forward helix piercing is almost completely painless. (If you don’t know, the forward helix is the front flap of cartilage on the ear, just north of the tragus. Or just be a normal person and google it.) This year, my husband took me to get mine pierced. I had been drooling over it since I watched Arie’s season of The Bachelor (I know you watched it, too) and the contestant, Sienne, had hers done. It popped up again on actress Chrissy Metz, who plays Kate on This is Us, and I knew I needed to have it done someday. 
        He surprised me and took me to the piercing parlor in the mall after our three kids were asleep and under the care of his mom. At the parlor, I had my choice of earrings, but I selected a tiny, circular black stud and it was that choice that ultimately led me to one of the deepest existential crises of my millenial life. 
Two weeks after the piercing was done, the tiny rhinestone fell off the back post. I need to illustrate how tiny this tiny is. On a scale of atom to penny, we’re looking at a solid 2. This thing is about the size of a quarter of a grain of rice. It is so small that you can’t even feel it in your fingertips when you hold it. It doesn’t even have enough mass to activate the signals in the nerve endings on your fingertips! And if you drop it, you sure as hell aren’t gonna hear it hit the ground (I know this from experience.) After trying for at least forty-five minutes to reattach the earring, I just swapped it out to keep the hole open and decided to go back to the source. 
    It was a Saturday. It was February in Arizona, which meant beautiful weather. I decided to wear something typical me-- tribal print leggings, a black t-shirt and boots. 

I think it needs to be said, before I go on, that I had heard rumors that gen-z had been bashing on millennial fashion. “Side parts are out! Leggings are out! High waisted jeans! Acid wash everything! Chunky sneakers!” But until that day at that mall, I hadn’t seen proof of it. 

And then I did. 

I remember walking behind a teenage girl thinking how amazing her waist looked in her jeans (shout out to you, nice-waisted chick!). Then I realized, she wasn’t the only one. Everyone was wearing those jeans. And they all looked fly. No one, apart from me, was rocking spandex. 

Suddenly, my four-year-old leggings and black T felt like poison, burning my skin and branding me as one thing: old.  I could literally feel my flesh crawling. I felt so uncomfortable, almost as if I were naked. I had marked myself as a millennial (as if my five-year- old daughter holding my hand wasn’t enough proof) and being a millennial just  isn’t cool anymore. 

For anyone screaming virtually, “What’s the big deal?! It’s just clothes!” I’ll explain. Firstly, I agree that clothes are just clothes and that they don’t make a difference in the quality or character of a person. My closest friends all dress so differently than I do and I love them with my entire frozen heart. I don’t care what other people wear. I love everyone just because I believe that people have worth. People are special and everyone matters. 

But for myself, clothes are important. I have spent a lifetime hunting them, collecting them, caring for them, breeding them and loving them. Clothes have always been a source of happiness for me, maybe because my mom used to take me shopping at nights at the Galleria Mall in Henderson, NV and we would try on armfuls of clothes and advise each other and then she would spend way too much and say, “Don’t tell your dad,” or, “Leave the bags in the car for now,” with a wink. 

My mom is a quilter (that’s a topic for another essay) and she has always created a plethora of fabric scraps. I used to dive into her rubbermaid bins of frayed strips of beautiful cloth and use them to design clothes for my Barbie dolls. I started experimenting with pattern mixing, asymmetrical hemlines, and off-shoulder Barbie looks. I realized that there was something therapeutic about clothes.  They are art. They are self. They are beauty. This gradually morphed into fashion sketchbooks and Project Runway binge watching, but sufficeth to say: I love clothes. 

And that day in that mall, my clothes betrayed me. 

I got my earring replaced, which hurt like hell, and then my daughter and I raced out of there. I was about to break down. 

As soon as I got home, I texted my best friends about what had happened to me. My head was spinning. My babies hanging in color order in my too small closet were looking more like rats; rats that I wanted to exterminate. But no. Each one has a memory attached to it. The “Au Revior” shirt that I got at my beautiful coworker’s garage sale. The floral lace blouse that was all I had to wear for three days when my luggage got lost in Paris. The green dress that I wore to my college graduation, and then out clubbing in Las Vegas with my husband while I was pregnant with my oldest daughter.

These weren’t just clothes, they were me. And it took me going to the mall that day to have my earring fixed to realize that the me I had built over the years was no longer cool, edgy, or original. It was just blase. I was blase. I am blase. 

I wish I could give a really inspiring ending here like “I realized that I don’t need cute clothes to be a good person,” but I can’t. I already know that that is true, but clothes are such a big part of me, that feeling out of touch with them makes me feel out of touch with myself. I’ve never been one to succumb to trends for the trendiness of it. (I remember clearly telling my high school BFF that I didn’t like the monogram trend! Do you remember those tiny purses that just fit under someone’s armpit and they had someone’s initial on them? Ew.) But when I like a trend I absolutely embrace it (hello chokers!). 

While I am still solving my fashion equations, I do know that I am not in a place for a full fashion overhaul. I don’t have the time, money or really a reason to. I spend most of my time tucked away in my house with my little gypsies and a good book, but I do hope to someday have a reason to invest in some clothes that make me look and feel… like me. And I wouldn’t cry if leggings came back around either. 

Jacob Black is a Total Snack (and other completely biased and highly unprofessional observations on the acting career of Taylor Lautner)

One thing I have always thought was a mark of a good actor was someone who could play a variety of roles well. (I took two years of high school musical theater so I’m an expert on good acting.) As a completely biased third party observer, I think that Taylor Lautner is excellent in every role he’s taken. From breathing life into the (un)dead vampire series, to the subpar parkour movie, to my personal favorite, the completely insane but extremely lovable British comedy series, Cuckoo, Taylor is the best part about every production he’s in. 

You’ve probably seen Twilight. If you haven’t yet, don’t. Just trust me. The entire series of Twilight movies is horrendous. Each moment is physically painful to watch from start to finish-- with two exceptions: when Bella finally becomes a vampire and stops being so GD ANNOYING, and every scene with Jacob Black (swoon). From his long drapes of black hair in the first movie (yes it was a wig. I don’t care. I still love it.) to his… physique (trying not to objectify too much) in the second movie, to his incredibly awkward imprinting on the infant with the unspeakably cringy first name, Taylor Lautner is the best part (truly the only good part) about those movies. 

If you agree that Taylor is the redeemer of Twilight, you must do yourself a favor and watch every other movie he’s ever been in. I admit I haven’t seen them all, but for some reason, I just adore that ethnically ambiguous kid. Yes, I’ve seen the meme with him compared to an Alpaca. I choose not to give room to that kind of negativity in my life. 

If you’re Ravenclaw enough to have read the Twilight books, you get a fist bump from me but also you can understand the character of Jacob Black more than the strictly movie watchers. If you’ve read the books, then you know that Taylor’s portrayal of the young, sweaty, chiseled, bronze god is spot on. He’s kind, energetic, and innocent.  Of everyone in the cast, only Taylor succeeded in translating what Stephenie Meyer wrote onto the screen. (Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson are topics for another day. Or maybe I should just keep my lips shut about them.) Aside from the height difference between book Jacob and movie Jacob, almost everything about Taylor as Jacob is perfect. Taylor has that inviting smile that makes you feel like you know him even though the closest you’ve come to meeting him is that cardboard cutout your college roommate had. Book Jacob was there for Bella when no one else was, and unlike that bitch, he had no ulterior motives for spending time with her. He enjoyed her company for some incomprehensible reason, and he was her friend. Sure his feelings developed into something more, but Bella also flirted with him like a toddler flirts with a pair of scissors. Jacob is one of the best characters in the books and Taylor’s role as Jacob Black was perfetto. 

Do you remember parkour? It was a big thing on the internet a few years ago. (To be honest, I have no concept of time or trends. Too many mouths to feed.) If you look it up on YouTube, you’ll probably find some videos that will make your butt crawl up into your stomach. Parkour is terrifying. It’s basically running, jumping and “falling with style” (name that movie!)  in death defying stunts in urban or natural settings all with the goal of … drumroll please… getting from one place to another. How satisfying. Maybe you’ve seen the episode of The Office where Dwight, Michael and Andy try to learn parkour. Now that’s some viewing I can give my strongest recommendation. 

Not to backtrack, but Taylor Lautner is totally ripped. Not sure if that’s been made clear, but when you see him topless in New Moon, that’s no CGI. Muscles like that don’t grow on trees, so I’m sure Taylor spent tons of time training for that role. Little did he know, that sculpted bod and heroic strength would help him with PARKOUR!! Tracers premiered in 2015. It stars Taylor as Cam who [insert heartbreaking life situation and problem here] and has to [insert ethically challenging solution to said problem here]. Somehow parkour helps him solve his problem. Like I said earlier, it’s a subpar parkour movie. But Taylor is again the breath of fresh air it needed. In this movie, he’s not a Native American werewolf, but a New York bike delivery boy who learns how to hurl his body over stomach churning drops for the sake of his greater cause. Pretty badass. 

Finally, Cuckoo. If you haven’t seen this one-- STOP READING. GO. NOW. NETFLIX. I can’t even form a coherent sentence because I love this show so much. Skip season 1. Critiques agree (and by critiques I mean my girl squad) the show doesn’t get good until season two when the raven haired Adonis, Taylor Lautner, appears. (Are we seeing a pattern? Maybe Midas is a better metaphor…) Cuckoo season one is about a young British girl, Rachel, who travels to Thailand and meets a new age American who calls himself Cuckoo, played by Andy Samberg. They get married and move in with her parents in Litchfield, England. The first season is… fine. Season two, Rachel is recast and Samberg is out. (Cuckoo dies while mountain climbing in the Himalayas). That’s when Taylor Lautner as Dale appears. (Insert wolf cry here: Awooooo!!) This role is night and day different from what we’ve seen him in before. Taylor is hilarious. The character, Dale is the illegitimate son of Cuckoo, product of Cuckoo’s very first sexual experience at age 13. Dale was raised in a cult with PLENTY of strange nuances that pop up as the show progresses. The best one has to be at a dinner double date. Rachel and her beau, Ben, set Dale up with mutual friend, Natalie. At the end of the meal, Dale offers to show them all his friendship ritual. He leans in close to Natalie, and, placing a hand on her cheeks says, “Friend, take my trust.” He repeats the gesture to Rachel, saying, “Friend, take my love.” Finally, he says to Ben, “Friend take my blood,” then he takes a huge kitchen knife and slices his palm open and rubs the blood all over Ben’s face. The sheer unexpectedness of the scene sent me over the edge in a laughing fit the first time (and every other time) I watched it. Dale’s catchphrase, “Oh well. Gotta keep smilin’!” in any situation, no matter how inappropriate, was also the source of much hilarity. There are countless other amazing comedic moments in Cuckoo, all of the best ones centered around the quirky (maybe even straight up strange) and adorable character of Dale. 

Taylor’s filmography reaches far beyond the Twilight series (thank God,) Tracers, and Cuckoo, and I’m sure that every production on his roster was made better by his participation. Where is he now? Well, he’s off screen, that’s for sure, but in my research I found that he was in a show called Scream Queens in 2015-2016. (This is probably the part where you ask yourself how out of touch a person can be. Remember, I already said I don’t keep track of the time or trends). For anyone as behind the times as me, the show boasts quite a star-studded cast, including Jaime Lee Curtis, Abigail Breslin, Ariana Grande, John Stamos and Lea Michele. Here’s the premise from IMDB, “A semi-anthology series that centers on characters being terrorized by a serial killer in different locations, including a university and a hospital.” If I had a beard, I’d be stroking it in intrigue right now. That sounds awesome. And it has Taylor Lautner? AND it’s currently streaming on Hulu?! That’s all for now, folks. Gotta go get my binge watch on.