The Girl sits picking at a scab on her ankle. The sore lingered as a reminder of a fabulously wonderful pair of shoes. The black shoes boasted a 5 ½ inch silver heels, a zippered strap running up the Achilles to a rhinestone encrusted strap that wraps around the ankle, finished off with a rhinestone encrusted strap that swoops across the toes. The shoes smoked and in them The Girl was smokin’. But still, like all truly wonderful things, they left a mark, as did the evening She wore them.

Nova dreamed up the delicious idea for the gang to deck themselves out in their finest, rent a super-stretch limo and ride to some posh restaurant and drink and eat themselves silly. Of course, because decadence was involved, everyone agreed.

Jill and Woody know a guy who knows a guy, so they rented the limo at cost. They chose to dine at Bern’s Steakhouse, which is in Tampa. Everyone poured themselves into their finery and loaded into the limo.

The trip down rocked. The limousine stretched out into the lap of luxury. A full bar, deluxe leather seats, a booming sound system, and twinkling stars in the ceiling screamed of the debauchery the crowd so loves. The minute everyone sank into their seats the party began. Sy passed out flutes of champagne and Jill cranked up the stereo. The gang chatted and laughed. They played word games. They rolled down the windows and waved at the little people in their regular cars going about their regular lives. They stopped (3 times in 1 ½ hours) to use the restroom and smoke.

Finally they arrived at Bern’s. From the outside the famous steakhouse reminded the Girl of a factory or a warehouse. The crew unloaded, gave the Maitre’d their names, and headed for the bar. Once inside, the eatery no longer seemed like a factory, but rather a whorehouse, albeit an upscale one. Dark wood, red velvet walls, gold paint, busts and friezes helped to create the rich bordello look. Deliciously gaudy.

Speaking of delicious, the captain called for them almost immediately. Bern’s famous phonebook sized wine list rested on the table, so of course, The Boy was in heaven. They ordered a bottle of merlot. (All wine snobs make fun of merlot. But a great merlot really complements a great steak and The Boy and The Girl are uber-snobs of the, “Yeah Whatever,” delivered with a snotty smirk variety and don’t listen to the ramblings of lesser snobs.) They crew talked and drank and ate some appetizers (wunderbar calamari) while waiting for their steaks. The Girl loves her friends and relished in their company.

The dining experience was amazing. The Girl believes that few nobler or more difficult jobs exist than that of a good waiter. Their waiter honed the craft to a fine point. Friendly and efficient, he served them with a grace and elegance to match the evening. Perfect, fresh organic veggies from Bern’s own garden made a delectable salad. The Girl doused hers with wasabi green goddess. Then the steaks arrived. Bern Laxer ages his steaks to perfection. The Girl savored every bite of her 7 oz, medium rare, special chateaubriand. Without hyperbole, The Girl knows that this steak surpassed any She had ever or will ever eat. Dinner lingered on, well into the night. Everyone downed glass after glass of wine. Clouds gathered over the table. No one noticed. They continued on.

To be continued…

The Girl is exhausted. She and The Boy have finally moved into their new home. However, they have the long and arduous task of unpacking ahead of them. Their kitty has settled into a routine. He seems to be adjusting. The cat gives her hope.

There are so many boxes and bags and stacks. She feels overwhelmed. What was it Confucius said? “The journey of 1,000 moves begins with one box.” The Girl sighs and opens a box.

The Girl is introspective. Of late, She has been lost in her own thoughts. She is overwhelmed--by the house and her job and the oppressive sadness at the loss of New Orleans. But far off somewhere, in the distant recesses of her thoughts is a looming fear, that something is not right with the world. The sight of the victims of Hurricane Katrina begging for help, drowning in flood waters and filth is sobering. Is this America? Is this the shining beacon on the hill? Is this the finest the world has to offer? If the best America can hope from its government is a dollar short and a day late, we are screwed. She always suspected, but now She knows: There is no justice. It is just us.

However, the story did end with Pandora finding hope in the bottom of the box…

The Girl learned a lesson from a lizard. The Girl and the Boy were painting. Are painting. (She feels stuck in some bad joke by Nietchze. Eternally returning, trapped forever in time, painting a wall.) She was going to open a window for some fresh air. When She moved the blind, She noticed a big fat lizard trapped between the window and the screen. Feeling sorry for him, The Girl removed the screen and tried to shoo him out. Frightened and confused, the lizard ran inside.

The Boy ran to their rescue. One of his many jobs is lizard wrangler. He cornered the lizard, reached for it, only to have it dash between his legs and run under a door lying on the floor. The lizard was terrified. For all he knew, The Boy was going to eat him. He was hungry because he had been trapped in the window for who knows how long. He was weak from thirst and fear. Hiding was all his reptilian brain would allow him to do. The Boy moved the door to try to release the little guy from his troubles. Unfortunately the door fell and crushed the lizard.

If only he had allowed Them to help.

This is how the lizard taught The Girl a lesson. He managed to trap himself in a window. When The Girl tried to free him, he ran the wrong way. When The Boy tried to free him, he hid. His fear caused his death. Fear is the enemy. So no matter what happens, no matter how strange or worrisome or terrifying things appear to be, The Girl is going to try and trust that everything will work out fine.

The Girl is frightened, but everything will be okay. And once again, The Girl will be happy.

The Girl is happy. Saturday found The Girl, The Boy, and the Gang at the lake. Harley, David, Luke, Sean, Nova, Gabe, Seamus, Coco, Pinky, Jill, and Woodrow were there. They stopped by the grocers, picked up some chicken and some chips, and headed out.

The day was hot. Not just hot, but HA-OT. Someone said it was hot as Hell, but The Girl suspects Hell is more of a dry heat.

Time for some math:

The formula for the Heat index (HI) = -42.379 + 2.04901523(Tf) + 10.14333127(RH) - 0.22475541(Tf)(RH) - ((6.83783 x 10-3)(Tf2) - ((5.481717 x 10-2)(RH2) + ((1.22874 x 10-3)(Tf2)(RH)) + ((8.5282 x 10-4)(Tf)(RH2)) - ((1.99 x 10-6)(Tf2)(RH2))

So when the temperature (Tf) is 90° degrees and the relative humidity (RH) is 80, your body thinks it is 113°, which is hot as shit. (HaS)

Even the water was hot. No breeze came to relieve or even lessen the blast furnace. The crew floated and baked. Baked and floated.

Nova interrupteded the sweat bath when he lugged out a gianomous raft, Big Bertha. After it was blown up every one took a turn riding Bertha around the lake. Harley and David went first. Jill and Woody were next.

The Boy and The Girl were third. They climbed aboard and straddled the sides of the raft as if it were a horse or a lover, gripping with their thighs. Hunkering down, they grabbed hold. Bertha humped and bucked, but they couldn't be thrown off. Round and round they went. The raft bounced behind the boat, with The Boy and The Girl clinging to its back. When the boat turned, the raft cut a wide arc, leaping over the boat's foamy wake. Still Bertha couldn't shake their embrace.

The Girl and The Boy know one another as well as any two people can. She is practiced at reading his signals. He is practiced at steering her body. The Girl tried to sense the nuanced movements of The Boy as they rode the raft. When he leaned out, She leaned in. When he leaned toward her, She leaned away. In this way they were able to ride the raft for a substantial length of time. It was glorious fun.

The spray created by the raft cutting through the water was a welcomed relief. At times it was a mist. At times it was a tsunami. But always it was wet and cold. Big Bertha bounced them about as violently as any roller coaster ever had. Dips and turns and twists. Crazily riding up one side of the boat's wake and pitching back down the other. The Girl was exhilarated.

And exhausted. Holding on to the raft was a great upper body work out. She still aches.


After everyone had taken a spin on Big Bertha, the crew headed back in. They went to a little restaurant on the lake. After guiding their boats into slips they wobbled on sea legs up to a set of picnic tables. Each of them ordered a lunch and most of them ordered a beer. They munched on their hotdogs and burgers and laughed and joked. The Girl soaked in the warmth of her circle of friends and ate a hotdog. She was happy.

The Girl is so very in love with The Boy. They are buying a house. She is so happy. The happiness arises not from just the material joy (that said, hey, who doesn't like to get stuff?), but from the comfort and the safety. The Girl will always love The Boy for giving her a home. She wants to make it a home for him, as well. She has been collecting color samples and decorating magazines and fabric swatches. She is overwhelmed by the prospect of decorating an entire house. Function, mood, and harmony...On the cheap.

The Girl will finally have a home. The Girl is happy!

The Girl hasn’t written anything in a long while-because, well-She has writer’s block. She thought perhaps that She had run out of things to say. That couldn’t be it, because it is not as if She ever shuts up. She thought perhaps that She had run out of important things to say. That couldn’t be it, because it is not as if She ever had anything important to say. At one time the Words couldn’t pour out of her quickly enough. Now it seems as if the well has dried up. Time to pray for rain.

Rather than write nothing She has decided to write anything. Starting at her toes:


Her feet ache. They always ache. Her right arch is non-existent. It leaves spatula shaped prints. She has waited diligently her entire life for her left arch to flatten out and catch up. It is this disparity in the arc of her step which causes the pain. She doesn’t even think about it most of the time.

Her left calf is twitching. The threat of a cramp somewhere deep in the muscle.

Her knees and thighs feel dewy and soft. She is fresh from a bath. Her skin tingles.

Her belly aches. Cramps. In addition to being THE Girl, she is also A girl, and sometimes it just bes that-a way.

Her breasts feel heavy for the same reason She has cramps. She considers this a small price to pay for the privilege of being a girl.


Her back itches. Its skin flying away like little dandelion seeds trying to take root in the rug. She and The Boy went to Egmont Key with Sy and Nova. She enjoyed herself so much that She failed to notice her back blush a shy pink. As She passed the hours floating in the sparkling aquamarine water of the Gulf, her back turned from embarrassed to angry. For a week it radiated a livid red. For one day it was a wonderful olive-brown. Then it dried up and blew away.

Her teeth feel clean. She just brushed them and her whole mouth is cool and mint-y fresh.

“If your eyes are the windows to your soul, does that make your ears the doorways?” She wonders. Bruce Springsteen comes in from the other room. His sad, graveled voice matches her mood.

Her face shines from being exfoliated. The Girl has never believed herself to be beautiful, but She knows She has beautiful skin. Trips to Egmont Key not withstanding, She tries to take care of it.

Her head is buzzing with lists. She needs to go shopping. She makes a list. She needs to clean up. She takes a mental inventory. She has errands to run. She prioritizes the tasks.

That is The Girl from head to toe.

Where, oh where has The Girl been? On the roller coaster....

Up: She threw a birthday bash for The Boy. What fun! Most of their friends came to watch him turn 40. (40? Has it been that long? She remembers when he was a child, now his hair is falling out. She loves to trace the time across his face. He wears the weary world well.) Everyone had fun. They danced and ate and drank. Celebrate The Boy!

Down: Her uncle died. It is surreal, because he was so young. She talked to him on Monday. He died on Thursday. He was here and now he is gone. Why does She still feel his presence?
Where do we go? Will we see one another again? She believes that we all come back. We do this again and again until we get it right. Until all of our loved ones get it right. What lesson did Uncle Dutch teach us? What lesson did we teach him? Did we get it right? Are we done? Deja vu...All over again.

Up: She and the Boy went to Savannah. Beautiful. Spring everywhere. Flowers in trees and on shrubs and in beds and growing wild. Savannah is slow and so they slowed down to keep up. She and the Boy walked everywhere. They talked. They talked over southern fried dinners. They talked over grave stones in ancient elaborate cemeteries. They talked over glasses of wine in manicured parks. They talked on the porches of antebellum mansions. And when they were done talking they sat in silence. The peaceful quiet space between them communicating as much as all the chatter ever did. They ate too much and drank too much. The Girl loves the Boy. The feeling was amplified over the backdrop of Savannah.

Down: Spring brings sickness. The Girl had 2 asthma attacks and was on steroids for 3 weeks. She is sick of being sick: coughing and choking, every breath a struggle as it rattles to the surface and wheezes it's way back in. Rattle, wheeze, cough.

She is better now. And despite all of the ups and downs, The Girl is happy.

The Girl hates Wal-Mart with a deep in the belly hate. She believes that they are partly responsible for the looming apocalypse. They rape communities by closing all of the locally owned competition. This forces people to work at Wal-Mart. They pay their employees next to nothing insuring that the workers will be too poor to shop anywhere but Wal-Mart. Creating a vicious circle of poverty and cheap house wares. What Stalin was to communism and Hitler was to fascism, Sam Walton was to capitalism-bad men taking bad ideas to extremes.

That said, She recently found herself in Wal-Mart purchasing a grill and a smoothie maker. As usual there were 30 shoppers for every one Wal-Mart employee. So, She had to wait for 22 minutes (She timed it) for someone to assist her in removing the grill from the top shelf. While waiting, She enjoyed (insert sarcasm here) the keening wail of some poor child who sounded as happy to be in Wally World as She. Finally, a tiny employee dragged a ladder bigger than herself over and wrestled the grill from high over their heads. The Girl felt guilty because the worker was so small, but she did manage to hand over the cooker. So, grill and smoothie maker in basket, She went to check out.

Of course, this wasn't going to be easy either. Only three registers were open and the queues snaked around the store, disappearing into the greeting cards and ladies underwear. Noticing a cashier who was carrying a till, She asked if another line would be opening soon. The worker told Her to go to number 10, she would be there in a minute. So, The Girl went over, put her grill and smoothie maker on the belt, and waited. In about 5 minutes the cashier came over and began to ring Her purchases up.

It looked as if She would soon be finished with her descent into marked down hell, when from behind her came an angry voice, "Well, we'd be outta here if that rude bitch ha'n't jumped the line." "Surely," thought The Girl, "She isn't speaking to me." As if it had read her mind the even angrier voice said, "Yeah, bitch. I'm talking to you."

The Girl turned and beheld the owner of the voice. The voice belonged to a rather large and harried looking woman. She might have been 30, but if she was, it had been a long, hard, 30 years. Her hair was dyed the botched shade of orange brunettes get from do-it-yourself dye jobs. Her roots were showing. Her chapped lips were parted by the groove where a cigarette would have been resting were it not for the store's no smoking policy. She was fat. She was wearing polyester. And, slung on her hip, was the baby whose crying had so entertained the Girl on her shopping excursion.

The Girl sized up the situation and, not in the mood to play, She retorted, "Wrap your tiny mind around this: How can a person skip to the front of a non-existent line?" She turned around to pay for her purchases. The Fat Lady didn't sing. She bellowed, "Yew thank yore so special don't yew? Yew prissy little bitch. Yew ain't nuthin'. Yew wait 'til I git outside this store. Yew just went in fronta all these people who had been waitin'. Yew jes' wait."

"Please call security," the Girl asked the cashier.
"Call security bitch. I ain't gonna do nuthin' to yew. Yew ain't worth my time."
The Girl lost it, "I'm not worried about it. It's not as if you could catch me, now is it?" Before the Fat Lady could say another thing the Girl put up her hand, "Shut up! Shut your rude mouth!" people were backing away, " Perhaps this is how you behave in the trailer park when you are in need of entertainment, but we are in civilization now. And here in civilization, we don't behave this way. Shut your rude mouth! You may not speak to me that way."

The Fat Lady shifted the baby and her considerable heft onto her other hip. "Who do yew thank yew are, yew bitch?! Yew thank yore all that! Yew skipped all us and yew know it! "
"For Christ's Sake, you insane red-neck. THERE WAS NO ONE IN THIS LINE! It was not even OPENED!' the Girl felt herself becoming hysterical. Was She actually standing in the middle of Wal-Mart arguing with a stranger over whether or not She had cut line? Could this actually be happening? From the shocked , frightened look on the other shoppers' faces, she realized that it must be.

About that time, the manager walked up, "Can I help you?" The Girl tried to calm down. She could feel the whole store watching. "I don't know why this lady attacked me," she explained. "She is having a bad day. Perhaps, it is because her baby won't shut up. Perhaps, it is because she cannot seem to stick to her diet. Perhaps because she is wearing uncomfortably tight pants. Whatever the reason, she is taking it out on me." "Ma'am," he sighed, "if she weren't yelling at you it would be at me or a cashier or another customer. We get it all the time." The Fat Lady was beside herself, but didn't say a word. She just opened and closed her mouth as if she were a huge guppy, flopped up on the shore of public humiliation. Her righteous indignation was replaced by her confused embarrassment. The Girl just walked away.

"I'll walk you out," offered the man. As they went to her car, the Girl and the man chatted. He acted as if this were an everyday happening. He loaded her purchases into her car. He apologized. He waved as She drove away.

The Girl hates Wal-Mart. She has decided to never shop there again. The Girl is happy.

The Girl stopped by her mother's house today. Like every mother and daughter who ever lived, the Girl and her mother both fiercely love one another and fiercely hate one another. The two emotions intertwine until they are indistinguishable from one another. Fathers and sons either love one another or hate one another. The Girl envies their decisiveness.

Today, the Girl just needed to be near her mom. Her mother was in the yard hosing down baby furniture when She pulled up. She didn't say what was wrong. Her mother didn't ask. The Girl went into her mother's pantry and found the candy orange slices, hidden in a jar, on the top shelf, behind the flour canister, just where they always were. The sticky candies hurt her teeth and made her feel mildly nauseated, but they instantly improved her mood.

She rejoined her mother in the yard. Sitting on the front steps She watched in silence as her mom gathered up the toys which had been strewn about by the kids she babysat. She tried to remove the orange goo from her teeth with her tongue. This occupied her for a while. Her mother continued to clean in silence.

"Come here, Girl," her mother called from behind the house. She went to see what was happening. Her mom was standing beside the stump of an old oak. The Girl remembered the tree from her childhood. She always leaned against this tree when counting for hide-and-seek. It was "base." She realized, with a pang of guilt (one-one thousand, two-one thousand), that She hadn't noticed when it was removed. Her attention drifted back to her mom. She pointed to a paperwhite that had bloomed among the stump's useless roots. "You know, these are the first signs of spring. I have seen them come up through the snow."

The Girl pictured the whole world covered in white interupted only by this brave little shock of deep green, bowing under the weight of its pale yellow head. She wasn't so sad anymore.

The Girl helped her mother finish her chores. As they worked her mom pointed out different stalks and stubs and described the blooms they would soon sport. She told the Girl the Latin name for the flowers and all their aliases. She explained which were good to eat and which were deadly, which preferred the sun and which the shade. The Girl learned which plants were pollinated by bees and butterflies and which by the wind. She discovered that cornflowers stink and that clover taste sweet.

By the time the yard was clean The Girl was ready to go. She thanked her mom for the candy and her mom thanked her for the help. Too many things stood in the way of them saying anything else. "You can stop by whenever you want." "Thanks mom."

As the Girl drove home, She realized that She was happy.