when she was 9

That purse and matching Rerun pom-pom knit hat and scarf — which were birthday gifts from my DARLING father — WERE MY ENTIRE LIFE. Also, I would gladly skip-kick the wall plug outta my own mother’s life support system to have that mod, Lily Pulitzer-looking’ shift dress in my size NOW, goddamnit.

Also: THE BOB, bitches.

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oh, christmas tree!

Can I just say how both amusing and satisfying it is and how DEEPLY it makes me smile when I walk into the homes of devout Christians…and see a HUGE tree set up in their living room, one which they have chosen with great reverence and care, to display in a place of great honor, to decorate and venerate and celebrate, to gather together and gather ’round, to adorn with baubles and trinkets and sing soulful odes to…JUST LIKE AWESOME LITTLE MOTHER GODDESS/EARTH-WORSHIPPING PAGANS?

So unbelievably awesome.

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dough

People seem to be infinitely curious about this mysterious writing partner with whom I spin my words and spend my days, as I am frequently asked who he is and what he is like. This always makes me smile to my wicked, wicked core, because he is, without question, one of my most favorite people in the world.

I smile and then tell them that his name is Doug Prochilo and that, first and foremost, he is a loving and devoted husband, father, and friend…as well as one SERIOUSLY fine writer.

I also tell them that he is kind, decent, dogged, diabolical, degenerate, brilliant, hilarious, indomitable, irreplaceable, unforgettable. He is not only my writing partner, but he is also my health advisor, my therapist, my endless entertainment, The Other Half of My Brain, my partner in crime, and one of the very best friends I have ever had. EVER. He is more my brother THAN MY OWN FUCKING BROTHERS, and, were it within my power and grasp, there is NOTHING that I would not do for him or his little family.

In terms of intellect and humor, NO ONE gets IT or ME like HE DOES. When we are writing, side-by-side, we are like some irreverent, deranged, disgraceful, hermaphroditic machine — throwing out the exact same jokes at the exact same time, sinfully smithing and riffing, finishing each other’s twisted, riotous thoughts, again and again and again. Sitting together on a couch or in a coffee shop, we have created entire worlds and belly laughed harder than I have ever belly laughed in my entire fucking life. Whenever the notion of writing with anybody else comes up, I always tell him, “Knitter PLEASE. YOU HAVE RUINED ME, Douglas. NO ONE ELSE would ever do.”

He is one of the five most important people in my world — and, in fact, aside from Gregory, he probably knows more about me, my past, my present, and who I REALLY and TRULY am and what I REALLY and TRULY want…than ANY other human in the universe. I trust him with my truth…I trust him with my life. And, most important of all, he puts up with this trashy old trollop from Fresno. He is my treasured friend.

The following realization hit me just yesterday, completely willy-nilly. For those who don’t yet have the pleasure or good fortune of knowing Doug in the material world, the very best way for me to fully convey to you who he is…is this. EXACTLY. DEAD ON. IN EVERY WAY BUT ONE:

Doug Prochilo…is a FULL-SIZE Tyrion Lannister.

Wily. Wise. Fearless. Charming. Heartfelt. Genius. Ingenious. Incorrigible. Improbable. Teflon. Everlasting.

That’s Doug.

Everlasting.

I really am The Luckiest Slut.

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orange

Unbelievably enough (considering that I have BEAT THE FATASS OF THAT BASTARD SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM and am only 27, myself) , my three beautiful babies are 27, 23, and 20…and every single Thanksgiving since their births, they have had this orange Jello salad sitting on their abundant plates, a dish that is TOTALLY a vestige of American, Mid-Century, Thanksgivings past.

It was, however, NOT by MY doing. This deliciousness — which is made up of orange Jello, mandarin oranges, pineapple, and bananas — was the creation of their beloved, wonderful Grandmother Bonnie…whose sole purpose in life was her kitchen, her cooking, and her lucky, lucky grandchildren. Additionally (and OF COURSE), on every Christmas dinner table sat this dish’s festive color-appropriate counterpart: RED Jello with strawberries and bananas. Over the years, she made EVERY single one of their holidays special, delicious, cozy, and memorable.

We unexpectedly lost Bonnie (who was my fabulous first husband’s mother) in May of last year — a profound loss that continues to reverberate throughout all of our lives, but especially so during The Holidays. The loss to her husband, Ray, her son, Dennis, her new daughter-in-law, Jerri, myself, my children, and everyone who ever knew her is INCALCULABLE, and facing yet another Thanksgiving without her is UNIMAGINABLE, particularly because her birthday itself randomly fell on Thanksgiving for so many years of our lives.

But, as we do in life, we shall push on, making new memories…and, in honor of her kind, loving, giving, cooking, baking, beautiful self…every year, I shall make this dish for my own Thanksgiving table…and when my children eat it, they will think of her and her great, great heart…which was so often expressed through her great, great cooking.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Bonnie Mae.

We miss you…and we remember you.

You are here.

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altadena represent

GORGEOUS, NOBLE, MAJESTIC, Big Pink Vagina Mountain that watches over me and my little family like a sentinel…keeping us safe. Always.

#noshitnofilter
#scattermynattyfattieashesinaltadena

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zion

I post this poem tonight for our great friends — Jamie Hebert and Alec Mapa — and their BEAUTIFUL, MAGICAL, LOVING, BELOVED son, Zion Hebert-Mapa…who is ADORED and CHERISHED by a vast network of proud, honorary Aunties and Uncles, myself so fortunately included.

We love you SO MUCH, Alec and Jamie — you are among the best parents I have EVER known — and to answer the plaintive, sorrowful question Alec asked aloud on his Facebook page tonight — a night when a jury in Ferguson, Missouri decided that the life of a young black man and justice for his grieving, shattered family did not matter in the least — “How on earth will I protect my son?”, I offer you the only answer I am able:

All who love you, Alec and Jamie and Zion — and trust me, there are MANY — WILL DO EVERYTHING IN OUR POWER TO HELP YOU KEEP HIM SAFE, and that includes voting out of office ANY politician or official who perpetuates the entrenched, insidious, institutional racism that continues to exist, continues to thrive, and is precisely what allowed this travesty of justice to occur tonight.

So, for Zion…and Michael Brown…and ALL the young black men in this country whose lives and futures and hopes and dreams DO matter:

I, Too, Sing America

I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.
Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—
I, too, am America.

– Langston Hughes, 1902 – 1967

‪#‎blacklivesmatter‬

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my will be done

To all those whom it may concern — I have contacted my attorney and added a new ironclad codicil to my last will and testament…with regards to My Framily. These are my wishes:

After Gregory and my three babies get their share of my adorable ashes, my remaining cremains are to be divided and dispersed among the six beloved members of My Framily, with the following specific and exacting instructions to be carried out by each of them:

Jackie is to put her share of me into a vintage Bauhaus tea infuser, steep me in an old, gold, porcelain dragon, Ching-Chongery tea cup full of hot Evian water, add a little stevia, put on her pajamas and, “Valley of The Dolls”, and with ALL three dogs snuggled on her lap…DRINK ME.

Mario is to use his precious gym membership card to lovingly chop down and lay out a huge rail of me on the rock hard ass of a beautiful young hustler boy named Hud…and SNORT ME.

Travis is to book a room at The Chelsea Hotel, cook me down in a vintage, sterling silver Tiffany spoon, draw me up into a junk rig once owned by William Burroughs…and SHOOT ME.

Selene is to roll me up in a big, fat, Bob Marley-lookin’ blunt as tall as she is…and SMOKE ME.

Adrian is to cook me up in a giant paella pan full of Cuban Arroz Con Pollo…and EAT ME.

And Nadya is to mix me up with a cup of vinegar, a cup of water, squat — EXACTLY like she is doing in this photo, belt out a chorus of, “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves” at the top of her lungs…and DOUCHE ME.

Take me, I’M YOURS.

Drink me, snort me, shoot me, eat me, douche me, lick me, smoke me, poke me, stroke me, toke me, coke me, joke me, choke me, and, for the love of Maude, don’t forget to fucking INVOKE ME…for this is my body.

So it is written…SO IT SHALL BE DONE, BITCHES.

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strictly horseshit

Inane Asshole Muff COMPLETELY True Fact #694: I actually had to clutch my pearls, close my eyes, take a deep breath, wipe my tears, light candles, and pray to St. Judy and St. Liza for strength and guidance — so that I might be able to just get the fuck over myself and my profound disappointment when it became irrefutably evident that my only gottdamned son is STRAIGHT.

Life can be SO CRUEL.

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truth

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mole

Inane Muff Fact #719:

When I was little, I used to watch The Waltons every Thursday night without fail. I was OBSESSED. But, regardless of what dire, Depression-era tragedy happened to be unfolding on Walton’s Mountain on any given week, I still could NOT take my fucking eyes off John Boy’s mole. I was transfixed by it. It controlled my every thought and move. It altered me on a cellular level. It changed my view of the Universe itself and my minuscule place in it. That mole was EVERYTHING to me.

NOTHING ELSE MATTERED.

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