Didn't Leave Nobody But the Baby.

I’m the oldest of five children. I was 18 years old and a college freshman the year my youngest brother was born. As such, people expect me to be comfortable around tiny humans, but you guys. I’m just not. Let’s go over the reasons I should never be responsible for your children:

1. When I think something is cute my first impulse is to either tightly squeeze or shake it. Neither action really pertains to responsible childcare.

Cue vigorous shaking. 

2. My ability to communicate with children is on par with my ability to communicate with adults. Minimal. As an adult, I overcome this by studying up on current events and trending topics. You know, develop opinions and common ground, and so on and so forth. But kids are unpredictable. Following their line of reasoning is like chasing an errant rugby ball. For example, a recent conversation I had with my little brother:

Me: So what’s your favorite animal, dude?

Ben: Penguins.

Me: Oh yeah? Why do you like penguins?

Ben: Because they’re cute, and they have big eyes! And hippos. Do you like chicken nuggets? Come jump on the trampoline.

[Note: my baby brother has an endearing speech impediment. For historical accuracy please replace all C’s with T’s and R’s with W’s to reenact this scene. Also, somehow, N’s become D’s. For the record, my name is Bwedda.

Cons to conversations with 6 year olds: no logic or concrete talking points.

Pros: when all else fails, popsicles.

3. Kids hit. Kids hit a lot, and sometimes it hurts and when you ask them to stop they just laugh and hit you some more. Where do you go with that? Obvs the only logical answer is to hit them back, right? Right. Violence is the only answer to violence. Always.

4. My primary response to frustration? Uncontrollable weeping. This condition has plagued me the majority of my life. My throat swells, the space behind my eyes throbs and my lower lip does this horrible, seizure-y tremble thing. It’s the primary reason I don’t coordinate large groups of people, engage in philosophical debates, or learn how to do new things in front of other humans.

Coincidentally, babies also weep uncontrollably!

The last time I officially babysat, my little sister was about 6 months old. [Note: she’s 10 years old now, which is a testament to just how terrible I am with babies.] She started crying approximately ten minutes after my parents left the house. I managed to keep it together through the first hour. I checked her diaper, fixed a bottle, paced and bounced and sang to her. She wasn’t impressed. About halfway through the second hour I decided somewhere dark and quiet might work, since babies are essentially animals. Animals love their creepy little dens.

My parents came home about forty minutes later. My mom found us sitting in the dark on the upstairs couch, both crying quietly, staring into the fish tank. 

The morale of the story: I’m not the best with babies. I’m certainly not the worst either. Chris from Skins is the worst, but that is neither here nor there. What I’m saying is my terror of half-baked humans has long overwhelmed my desire to interact with them. But recently my work friend (whom I tolerate/miss horribly) birthed a 7 lb. baby boy. You guys. He is the sweetest little nugget. He sleeps so much he didn’t even bother to cry when I held him. He’s also freakishly strong, adorably fuzzy and one of my ovaries exploded a little bit when I saw him.

Nobody worry, I won’t be birthing one of my own any time soon. Let’s be honest, I can barely keep That Cat alive.

But I needed to say that I am proud of my friend, and only mildly terrified of her progeny. I would even like to hold him again some day, if she doesn't mind. I hope motherhood is everything she could have asked for, because I think she’s doing a fucking fantastic job of it. All of you who have babies, go hug them stat! But not too tight, ok? Their little brains need oxygen.

All my love, weirdos.

-b

Baby love me cuz I'm playing on the radio...

How do you like me now?

Hello, lovely human beings. Some of you may be aware that I write things. Generally these things embody wry cynicism or more typically, the soul-consuming angst most people experience throughout their 20s. And 30s and maybe 40s if they’re really lucky. Very occasionally I also string together words with internal rhyme schemes, cohesive imagery, and some sort of underlying message. I call these words “poems” but really they’re very short blog posts with a lot of alliteration.

This past Monday night KBOO radio (90.7 FM, for all you local yahoos) invited me to share said words with the public. I like to imagine I spent the evening sitting in a room with friends, talking into an unplugged microphone, pretending to be famous.

Realistically I read poetry on a local FM radio. Started from the bottom now we here, am I right? For those of you who thought eating/sleeping/having sex were more important than my words: you were probably right, good call. But my lovely cohorts were definitely worth listening to. So! Without further ado:

KBOO Talking Earth: Brenda Taulbee, Leah Rainer, Joy Pearson

P.S. Please disregard the five minutes of cow bell and didgeridoo leading up to our set?

Xoxoxo, beezies.

-b
                                       

i meant to be a poem, but i wrote this instead.

This morning I woke up feeling so sad and I don’t know why, except I use the term “morning” loosely because it was 11:30 and it’s Sunday and I woke up so sad. I haven’t felt like this in months, that big heavy ache like the universe crouched on my hollow chest and my bones refusing to break. Even though I think that would be a relief, like finally scratching a rash bloody after it’s driven you to the brink of insanity.

This morning I woke up sad because it’s Sunday and I thought you might be there, pressed against my back but it was just a pillow and I hate waking up alone with nothing to occupy me. So I occupy myself with sunshine and cigarettes and 16 blocks to the coffee shop. I feel lonely now, which isn’t the same as alone because I’m sitting here with other human beings who drink coffee and listen to the Beatles. I wonder how many of them are heavy the way I am heavy, even though it’s Sunday and the sun is shining and it’s summertime which means happy.  It’s supposed to mean happy, isn’t it?

There’s no reason to be sad except maybe I was too happy last night. Like happiness pools in a reservoir filled by a dripping faucet and it accumulates slowly and usually I can be patient but last night I drank too deeply. Now I feel dry and hollow like old bones, like a turkey carcass after Thanksgiving when everybody overindulges and we call it a celebration and the carcass ends up in the garbage with a sealable lid so the dogs don’t choke on the bones.

Or maybe it’s not like that at all.

Last night I celebrated because I exist in a body. I can be strong and capable with two legs and lungs like white sheets on a clothesline billowing full of air, and eyes that aren’t afraid. I have a mouth that forms words and sometimes they make sense and even if they don’t there are people who don’t care. They let me be a person who either talks, or doesn’t talk and it won’t matter because they love me. They let me exist, even on a dance floor wearing a tutu and my running shoes, which smell like too many miles.

It’s Sunday and today I woke up sad. I don’t know why except “happy” isn’t a lifestyle, it’s an oasis: a place you can’t stay forever because maybe if you keep moving tomorrow you’ll make it out of the desert.  I don’t know what to say now, except I feel better as a footnote than a punchline. 

That doesn’t have anything to do with deserts or water, but it makes sense in its own way too.

Achin' All the Time, All the Time.

My last three jobs were at a cardboard box factory, a taco shop, and an all-purpose pet care facility. [No lesbian and box/taco/bitches jokes, ok?] Each of those jobs employs a pretty specific type of human. Except the box factory. They hired me as a favor to my mother, who feared I would die of starvation if left to find gainful employment on my own. The majority of my coworkers wore cargo shorts and bandannas or called everybody “man” or “dude”. They’re the kids who play ultimate Frisbee, drink PBR, and nurse an unhealthy obsession with Bukowski.

Since moving to Portland, I’ve met enough people outside my age demographic to realize “what’s your major?” and “can I get you a drink?” are not the only conversation starters. I’ve discovered that knitting, gardening, and poultry care require extensive knowledge of a lingo I’m not privy to. And. At least once or twice a week someone laughs, looks me in the eyes and says, “Don’t get old, Brenda. Getting old is the worst.” 

Generally they make this assertion after regaling me with stories about creaking knees, irritable bowels, turbulent divorces, or the difficulties of surviving everyday life. They chuckle to themselves, like really it’s the best joke and I’ll understand Someday.

This statement makes me wonder:

1.       What are alternatives to getting old?

2.       How can I gracefully respond in this situation?

3.       …Seriously, what the hell? There’s no viable alternative here.

Listen. Telling someone “don’t get old” is like saying “hope to see you soon” at a hospital. Generally I laugh uncomfortably and change the subject, because as much as I love talking about colonoscopies, no. No, I don’t like that at all. And I certainly don’t like contemplating the fact that someday very soon my own colon will be a ticking time bomb that needs to be probed and tested for malignant cells. Every television show, movie, music video, and magazine cover already warns me to avoid aging the way Tom Cruise avoids calm, logical conversations: violently, with lots of exuberant jumping.

  

One response I’ve given in the past with limited success was, “Don’t worry, I don’t intend to.” The upside to this response is that they laugh uncomfortably, while trying to figure out if I’m mentally unstable enough to be telling the truth. Another is “Oh, that doesn’t sound so bad” or a variation of that theme (ex. “Well I’ve already got the knees of an old lady, I’m just waiting for the rest of me to catch up!”).

So far as I can deduce, this comment intends to solicit:

Validation? Your misery deserves my undivided attention. Clearly you have it much worse than the rest of us. Your body’s inability to process food without extraordinary gastronomic distress is horrifying. You’ve earned the right to half-heartedly conceal it/unapologetically discuss it even though I’m sitting here flinching like you’re shooting lawn darts into my knee caps.

Reassurance? Them’s harsh digs. I’m sure you’re just having an off day? Except… you know yourself better than I do. I have no reason to question that. You really think your mind has started to slowly shrivel up like the last grape in the bottom of the bag towards the back of the refrigerator? Those things don’t even turn into raisins, man. They just become mushy little piles of icy mold waiting to ambush you when you’re drunk and mindlessly searching for anything edible. I mean, damn.

Empathy? Maybe the appropriate response to that story would be a story about my own creaky joints… Misery loves company right? We can both talk about how Life slaps us around like a kitten wearing a tiny hat. That ought to make us both feel better.

I am 24 years old, and I know this life is rarely predictable. Our bodies disappoint us; they are imperfect fallible things. People disappoint us, because they are imperfect fallible things too. There are no guarantees, only warranties and even those tend to be time sensitive. But I'm trying to shift my perspective here. Because sometimes sunrise looks like a cupcake. Sometimes you pick raspberries in the backyard with sun on your shoulders, your fingers stained and your mouth singing summer songs. 

And sometimes pug puppies. Don’t forget about pug puppies.

Hey. Let’s get old together, ok?

-b  

I Refuse to Title this Blog with Katy Perry Lyrics.

Hello dream weavers. Welcome to b Honest: 5^th of July edition, wherein we question the logic of working after holidays. Things were literally exploding until 2am, and I’m supposed to be able to audit inventory reports? Bullshit.

Did your 4^th of July look like Lady Liberty arm wrestling a grizzly bear while eating apple pie? Maybe it was Uncle Sam eating a hotdog while playing baseball in a corn field. Or did it look more like George Washington, riding a bald eagle while toting a bazooka?

http://texags.com/main/forum.reply.asp?topic_id=2273868&forum_id=5

Friend and I celebrated our country’s independence the way we celebrate just about everything: with meat, fire, and off-color social commentary. For the record, I’ve adhered to a strict vegetarian/gluten free/non-dairy diet for the past month. But obviously ‘merica’s birthday is the perfect occasion to overindulge. Go big or go home, right patriots? Confession time: I ate two hamburgers and three hotdogs. No shame, just a meat hangover.

The 4^th of July is not my favorite holiday. The noise, and colors like the sky throwing a rave (and what is a rave anyways? Like is there a technical definition?). I hate the way so many people want to be in the same place at the same time seeing the same thing. That hot messy press of other humans overwhelms me, or that feeling like pride but tinged with something bitter that only America inspires. Yesterday I woke up with enchilada sauce between my toes. I don’t know what that means but I think it says a lot about the current state of my life.

The first time I fell in love was July 4th, 2006 with rain falling down like sparklers spitting silver all around us. I remember blackberry wine, wet gravel sloshing between my bare toes, the way she kissed me at the foot of the slide and it felt like sitting-still-falling. We crawled into the backseat of my van and I kept her with me as long as I could because we had to go inside and sleep in a bed with her boyfriend and in the morning everything would be the same but different and I wasn’t ready.

The next morning I woke up early, stole the keys to her car, and put my last $40 in her gas tank. I imagine that was love, but really it was foolish. We were all so poor back then. We’re all so poor now, but it feels somehow different because we sit at desks and wear nametags.

Yesterday was the 4^th of July and I’ve never seen the way you hold a sparkler, but I’ve seen you hold a camera and I imagine that’s close enough.

This year was muddled berries and vodka, strawberries like battery acid. Adorably tousled friends huddled on the roof, fireworks reflected in my neighbor’s second story window. Wishing headlights could be fireworks the way fireworks wish they were stars, the way stars wish they were moons. Worrying about people the way you worry about people who are far away, which is mostly angrily because helplessness can’t be helped. I never wanted to be the sun… maybe a moon. Allison wants to be a chair. Andie would be a bookshelf. She wants to hold knowledge, and Allison wants to hold people and I love them both for their different reasons.  

I want to be a notebook, or maybe a blanket. Both things comfort people in different ways.

Many miles of love.

-b