Anne Nahm

Him: “It’s totally paying attention to me… Orion? Aurora borealis?”

Me: “No”

Him: “What?… Uvula?… Help me out here….. Areola!”

Him: *pokes*

Me: “Hey!… It’s just a nipple. And it’s not paying attention to you.”

Him: “Oh, it knows I’m talking about it. I watched it perk up.”

I once had a summertime boss who was fascinated with fairy tales. He claimed they were all Freudian representations. The Wilderness, for example, is representative of The Unconscious, and when characters like Little Red Riding Hood went into the wilderness, the story was really about the human experience of going into one’s unknown thoughts. And, like the fairy tale characters, often getting into mischief.

Of course, he was also the kind of guy who would call me fifteen minutes before work started and ask me if I could come in an hour early. So when I say I took most of what fell out of his word-hole with a grain of salt (Mmm…. Salted word-hole droppings…) you will surely understand.

But I thought of him this Thanksgiving weekend when we took the kids and traveled to Grandmother’s Cabin In The Deep Forest.

I felt very anxious all the way there, with the crazy traffic and the long drive and the screaming kids, etc.. Plus, I am not the kind of girl who ever takes vacations ‘just to get away from it all’ when ‘getting away from it all’ means going out to the middle of nowhere with no plans but being.

I mean, being is great for six hours if there is sleeping involved. I could probably do it for a full twelve hours if I am being on a beach, in a swimsuit, drinking a margarita, whilst the cast of LOST is shooting an episode that involves lots of sweating and possibly a DUI related script death (PS: Nooooooo! Jin!)

But being for six days in the wilderness with no cable or phone connection or heat? Meh.

I especially hate it when I’m still standing in my pajamas by the noon-time hour and end up screaming despite myself, “but what are we going to doooooo today?” You know, just to make sure I still exist even though nothing is happening. And people look at me like I am the biggest idiot on the planet. “We’re doing it, Anne.” They say.

But they are all just reading, or sleeping, or walking, or saying really freaky shit like, “hey, look at this fresh bear poop on the porch.”

Anyway. I went mental commando, Anne style, which means I foisted the kids off on my husband, kicked some ass in Boggle, drank some wine, and slept for 18 hours. My in-laws think my husband married a real winner. Yes they do.

I had weird dreams, peeps. I was part of a cult one night, where I had two husbands. That was fun. But later, I dreamt Middle Sister was killed in a typhoon. But I refused to accept it. Because, holy shit, anything could happen in a typhoon – Middle could just be swept away but totally OK, right? Right?! And then all my dreamt up family members just shaking their heads sadly at me.

The last night of vacation, I dreamt I was a serial killer. I remember thinking quite clearly as I staged the body in an empty parking lot and left my taunting note for the police, “I have got to stop killing people. I mean, it’s fun and everything. But what if I get caught? People might be pissed.”

And so passed a long holiday weekend with lots of good Turkey and Stuffin’ and Alcohol and Being-ness with Nature. Which is evidently all it takes to twist my psyche into wanting people dead. Or married to me in my cult.

Anyway, back in the real world we returned home Sunday night. Monday morning, I woke up feeling as though I had processed quite a bit of subconscious material. I popped right out of bed and:

I threw out 75% of the clothes in my closet

and

Decided I will never again wear a perfume that could conceivably pass for the epitaph on a gravestone. No ‘Eternity’, or ‘Beyond Paradise’. Also nothing that could be written on a gravestone implying judgment or cause of death such as ‘Addict’ and ‘Gossip’.

(I might be persuaded to break this last if the perfume is going to go all out for the cemetery theme. But it would have to be uber awesome for me to want to smell dead.)

and

Started redecorating my house sans FRED.

So I guess that wacky boss was on to something with that unconscious-wilderness connection, because I came back feeling like something had changed. I’m telling you, it’s like the forest empowered me to just let shit go and be without worry for clutching material goods in fear that if I let go of them, I will have nothing. Not even a picture of an elephant being goosed by a plant. Oh, and also all of you kind souls who persuaded me to dump that stuff on the curb before someone saw me with it. I think you might be right, so thanks for the advice.

Or. You know. Maybe I should stop eating those forest mushrooms.

More of my FRED inheritance bounty. I call this detail of a picture, “Bamboo Gets Fresh”:

I am hoping to pawn it off on Middle sister when she shows up for the holidays with her new husband.

Because after living the past year in a house crammed with a dead stranger’s knickknacks, I am starting to feel real heebie-jeebie about my personal space being invaded. Out! Get out, freaky dead guy stuff!

Perhaps this is not the best sales pitch for getting my sister to take stuff.

I was also thinking about Ebaying most of it, but I have no idea of how to price or label it. Plus, a lot of it is heavy and… How do you say it? Looking for a buyer with very specific taste. Like the person who has their knickers in a twist searching for a used, down-filled couch covered in pink and gold silk and needlepoint throw pillows featuring Cats at Rest. I think the only person who would have bought this item is perhaps in the place where he cannot take aforementioned items with him.

Anyone have other offloading ideas?

Saturday, 8:00 a.m.: Make decision to take family to beach. Have absolutely no reason to think this plan will make Baby Jesus cry.

9:00 – 10:30 a.m.: Check weather forecast (69, mostly sunny), make sandwiches, fill cooler, get beach blanket and umbrella, towels, bathing suits, change of clothing, sun block. Wrangle two children into clothes (this action = human equivalent of herding cats. Deaf, pissy cats that vaguely imagine you are taking them to the vet. For shots.)

Mmm… Shots. Dear God, why doesn’t Beach Day involve some form of shots? Tequila! No? Just wondering, because this is the fourth time I’ve put pants on the small child and the fifth time she’s screamed “nooooo pants!”, run away, and taken them off. Love, Anne.

10:32 a.m.: Husband says, “Why don’t you bring a book, and I’ll take care of the kids today while you read.” Thereby accomplishing the one response Nine 1/2 Weeks could not.

10:33 a.m.: Change panties.

10:34 am: Make everyone practice potty and walk out the door. Whoa. That was almost too easy.

11:30 a.m: Arrive at the beach. Walk in stunned silence of the awesomeness of the total perfection that is Beach Day: Slight breeze, perfect temperature, and warm sand.

11:30:01 a.m.: Forget to suspect God might be pissy today.

11:40 a.m.: Find perfect spot on beach after trucking thirty pounds of crap across the dunes for 10 minutes. Still too in love with life to care about aching calf muscles. Anyway, there is plenty of time to relax before thinking of carting stuff back to car.

11:45 a.m.: Watch people on horseback ride by on perfect day while perfect children laugh and perfect husband takes them down to the shore. Snap picture to taunt internet:

11:50 a.m.: Hear husband remark that the waves are kind of big today. Also? What’s that cloud bank waaaaaay out on the horizon? Huh. Weird. Oh well. Let’s get wet!

12:00: Both kids squealing in delight of ocean. Both soaking wet and sandy. Husband says, “I think towels are in the car. Girls can dry in the sun while I get towels.” And departs. Duh-duh-dummmm. Somewhere, someone cackles.

12:01: Small child gets knocked over by a wave. Panicky screaming and urination commence. Upon picking up small child to comfort her, I learn we both now smell like low tide/porta-potty. Hmmm… On reflection, I don’t think I actually packed a change of clothes for myself. Also? I’m pretty soaking wet now. And wearing a white t-shirt.

12:02: Big child stuffs a kilo of sand down the top of her bathing suit and does the hula to shake the sand into every crevice possible. Small child? Still screaming.

12:03: Huge gusts of wind commence. Suddenly and with no warning. Everyone is immediately blinded by flying sand. Wet, sandy kids begin screaming and acquiring hypothermia. Time to take refuge back at camp and wait for towels.

12:05: Oh my effing calf cramping, children screaming, sand blinding, umbrella inside out, blanket tumbling down beach crap. I hate you beach.

12:06: Winds, winds, winds! And hey! They are now very cold and wet winds. It is like Mother Nature’s big wet willy. Just for us, and especially for our delicate and warm parts such as under the armpit and eyelid. Thank you.

12:07: Every fly on the beach takes refuge on our bodies as we huddle under a broken umbrella in wet swimsuits. Freezing. Squinting at cloud bank that is now screaming across the ocean at us. Did I mention the wind, flaying us with 90 grit sandpaper sand? Just checking.

12:07:30: Flies. Everywhere. Let the freak out re: flies begin.

12:08: Hear, “Mommy!!!! There is a fly crawling into your nose!” Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew!

12:15: Husband returns with towels. Wants to know what we did to the beach. Am too busy trying to learn how to close up my nostrils like a camel in a sand storm. Hmm… Perhaps I can catch the next fly like my nose hole is some Venus Fly Trap.

12:30: Return as huddled mass back to car. Shake angry fist at world. Eat sandy sandwiches in the car that is covered in seagull poop. Try not to cry as husband asks why on earth I am in such a bad mood.

8:04 p.m. Realize my half-finished book is buried out on some sand dune.

* You people with the NaNoBlowPoMoFoShoBro or whatever are killing me with the prolific posts. There is only so much space in my brain. That melty, burny, electrical smell coming out of my ear? You did that. Enjoy your resulting bullets.

* I rented Nine 1/2 Weeks this weekend. When I went to boarding school, the freshman girl’s dorm had a t.v. room and a plethora of soft core girly porn to which I had never previously been exposed: Two Moon Juncture, Fire With Fire, Wild Orchid, Blue Lagoon, and of course, Nine 1/2 Weeks.

*Anything more I want to say on the matter just sounds like a set up for some kind of soft core scenario in itself, with the adolescent girls and the awesomeness of being allowed to watch porny movies on a Saturday night past 11:00. But trust me, the only action that went on in the t.v. room was the burning of microwave popcorn, the cleaning of braces, and a psychological dissection of what would make boys so cute and yet so. totally. warped. Also? What’s up with the way they smell? Gross. Hey, I wonder what the guys are doing in their dorm right now? (I later found out they were memorizing Monty Python’s Life of Brian. I’m not sure what the parallel is, except perhaps learning about buffing the pearl.)

*And here I have deleted about 100 beginnings of essays on re-watching a high school movie and the ensuing sense of ‘getting older’ and ‘seeing the cartoonishness in something that seemed so deep in the past’. But I just can’t make it hang together, thank you NaNoBloPoMoFoShoBro people! You crammed all your funnies in my funny making place and now it doesn’t work right. Which sounds like a scene from Nine 1/2 Weeks, but unfortunately wasn’t. Let me sum up by saying that in the last sex scene, I thought Kim Basinger seemed kind of bored and I thought, “oh honey. I totally get it. Nine and 1/2 weeks is 8 days too long to be putting up with all this juvenile S&M bullshit. I mean, in the end, it just goes in a hole.”

*And there you have it. Bah humbug. Am old and dried up and no longer easily amused by romper room sex. Even when it comes to the charms of pre-surgery Mickey Rourke. Even then, people. Certain evidence that there is no hope. I mean, I actually turned to my husband mid-sex scene and said, “I’ve seen dirtier things on MTV” (!!!) Which is totally the equivalent of saying: “back in mah day…” and rocking in a rocking chair with my dentures out.

*And also making my relatives very, very proud with the things I write on the internet. Especially about sticking it in holes. Whee! Enjoy.