My Wonky Eye

Okay, so I have a wonky eye. I didn’t really know this until I saw a video of myself and there it was — wonk. And then I saw pictures of myself on my birthday at the tail end of the night and again – wonk. Here’s my best guess — when I’m tired and have had a bit of booze my eye gets all wonked out.

I’ve brought this to my friends’ attention and all of them have said, “What?!? You have no wonky eye!!” And I think they’re just doing it to be polite, but really I don’t care if I have a wonky eye. I see perfectly fine and Fancyhats doesn’t seem to mind it, so whatever.

Well, I still had this lingering doubt that I had a wonky eye because my friends are honest people who love me and they’d probably tell me if I did have a wonky eye, right? Or wrong? I didn’t know. So I’m visiting my parents right now and last night we went out to Mexican food. After I’d driven a fair amount and Archie hadn’t slept well the night before, so I was tired. And I had a margarita.

And my mom came into my room while I was reading in bed and said, “Melissa, what’s wrong with your eye?”

And I said, “OH MY GOD MOM! IT’S TRUE!!! I HAVE A WONKY EYE!”

She said, “What?”

And I said, “I KNEW IT! I HAVE THAT!”

She rolled her eyes (no wonk) and walked out the door.

In summary: the wonk has been confirmed.

I’m Back

And it wasn’t me who called Portland the most miserable city ever. It was someone else. Some news thing or whatever.

I don’t know how this post will end up because I’m so beat, it took me five minutes to tie my apron today. Five minutes to figure out how to turn to strings into a bow. I was confus-ed. And had this thought in the midst of trying to make a bow: maybe the internet could tell me how…no I can’t follow pictures real good.

And then a long thread of drool poured from my mouth.

I’m kidding about the real good part. You know I’d think, “rather well.”

Anyway, the title of this post ought to be:

Like North Shore. Or something.

Because I was going to tell you about how I went back in the water, Internet. Back in the water! You know why? Because the only thing that scares me more than the ocean sucking me into its deepest depths and squeezing the life out of me is gaining the Portland 15. I did that when I moved here. I gained fifteen pounds because I was unhappy and beer and chocolate made me feel better temporarily. And so, by this time last year, I was larger. Larger. I don’t want that again, Fan Club. I don’t want it.

GOD PLEASE LET IT STOP!

So I got back in the water and went snorkeling with my brother because I spent my entire Hawaii vacation full. Full of mom food. You know the food you find in your mom’s cabinets? I ate it. All of it. That included kettle chips, vanilla coke, Dr. Pepper, steaks and steaks and steaks, and we went out to eat a lot where I ate cheeseburgers and French fries and sushi and carne asada and carnitas and linguisa and nary a piece of broccoli passed my lips. God, I felt so fucking mellow.

And then I started getting scared because those are all bad things.

So I went back into the water with my brother. And remember that scene in North Shore where Rick Kane, from Arizona, goes out on the North Shore the first day there and then eats it big time in the coral and the dark-haired lady puts aloe on his wounds? And then they fall in love and he gets his paints stolen and the shaper takes him in and shows him how to be a soul surfer? Well, that was a lot like what happened to me. Just the coral part.

See, my brother and I were snorkeling and we saw a bunch of sea turtles. Oh my god, sea turtles are the neatest things ever. And we saw a bunch of tropical fish and it was a calm day and we were swimming and I was thinking (smugly, I might add) that I could eat another steak that night because I had been swimming in the ocean! And we swam in, I took off my foot paddles (what the hell are those things called???) and, just like Rick Kane, I cut my heel on a piece of coral. And my finger too.

Now if some pretty Hawaiian lady had rode up to me on horseback and offered me some aloe, I would have taken it, but my mom handed me some Mexican antibiotic lotion and told me to get it on there quick. I swear, if you ever need any Mexican antibiotics, just drop me a line. Between my parents (who go down to Mexico to hunt) and Steve’s mom (who is Mexican and goes to Tijuana –or TJ as we called it in high school, or Aunt Jane’s if we were sneaking out–frequently for produce) we have plenty of Mexican medication. Plenty.

Where am I going with this?

Here’s my wound.

Here’s a sea turtle.

Here I am.

I use 70 sunblock.

If you have emailed me over the past ten days, and I have not responded, please know that I may or may not respond and don’t take it personally if I don’t get back to you over the next few days. If it’s Monday and you haven’t heard from me, then do email again, would you?

A Cautionary Tail

Don’t blame Melissa for what follows.  It’s all my fault.

Uncle reclines full-bore at the far side of the room. Feet higher than his head, he looks like he’s about to undergo a root canal. Somehow, he keeps the wine from swirling out of the glass in his outstretched hand.

My aunt sits next to him, upright, a thin smile drawn on her face.

I watch from the couch while my cousin, who has perched himself next to me in an odd half-standing fashion, crunches on salted peanuts.

“The family curse, yes indeed,” my uncle says. My aunt’s smile melts a little. “You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

I’ve never heard of it. I’m about to say so, but then I stop. My family is already suspicious of me. They think that I hate them (which I don’t) and that I go out of my way to avoid them (which I do). If I admit to not knowing part of the family lore, I’m bound to get another one of those phone calls from my mother: “Figlio, why do you hate you’re own family? They love you. They’re so proud of you, a lawyer. Imagine! And all they ask for is a call on a birthday, and an anniversary card, and a visit, and a cake, and a car blah blah blah ZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”

“The family curse? Yes Uncle. I know all about it.”

My wife’s eyes flash from a dark corner.

“Well then, you know what a pain in the ass it is.” The recliner squeaks and trembles under the weight of his chuckling belly. The white soles of his shoes stare at the room. My aunt leans close to his ear. “Dear …” she says quietly.

Suddenly, he slams the chair shut with a metallic pop. His ruddy cheeks shine in the lamp light. “What? We’re all family here, aren’t we?”

“I don’t think …”

“Carla, please. Look at your son. Look how miserable he is, sitting there like that. It’s ok to talk about it, that’s all I’m saying. We’re practically born with tails in this family. Pop used to say that it’s a punishment for something one of our ancestors did back in the Old Country, right? ”

His bloodshot eyes are staring right at me. What the hell is this man talking about?

“Makes sense,” I say.

“I’ve been telling your cousin here that he needs to get his tail under control, because the way he’s living now is no good. Nobody can live like that for long, right? You know what I’m talking about. You probably had one too. You probably had it surgically removed, like I did, right?”

He’s insisting that I play along. Damn. Let’s see. Tailstailstails. Hmmm. People in my family get them as a punishment. Hmmmm. It’s time for my cousin to change his ways. Hmmmmm.

My cousin is on drugs. That’s it. Uncle wants me to help him get into treatment or something. Fine. Whatever. I just want to go home.

“Yeah, I had a tail too, Uncle. Most of us do. And, at times it got a little wild, but, in the end, I cut it off. It wasn’t easy, but I did it.”

Everyone in the room looks at me. Nobody speaks. Maybe I didn’t say the right thing. I don’t know. Maybe I should say something else.

“It was painful, but I’m much happier now.”

Silence.

We leave soon after that. Relief.

“What in god’s name was that all about? I swear, I just come from a different planet than those people.”

“You really have no idea, do you?”

“No idea about what?”

“Honey,” she says, “your cousin has hemorrhoids.”