Scintilla Day 7: Event Horizons

The first real fight I ever had with my best friend. We were 11, on the school bus on our way home from school. She called me a bitch and I retorted that a bitch was just a female dog, like my own pet, and she couldn’t hurt my feelings. Inside though, I was shaking with anger I would later identify as hurt, and with confusion that would peek its head out anytime anyone was mean to me.  

The Saturday or Sunday afternoon my parents told my brother and me they were divorcing. The Saturday or Sunday my dad hired movers to move into a one-bedroom apartment four blocks away. The Saturday or Sunday my mom would decide to move my brother and me out to small-town-Connecticut. The Saturday or Sunday I would think my dad wasn’t fighting for me.

The Saturday or Sunday I learned he did fight, hard, and lost.

Whatever night it was that my brother called me crying, in a depression so deep and so low I thought I might actually lose him. Whatever night it was that my mom called me crying, telling me we almost did lose my youngest stepsister. Whatever night it was that my best friend called me crying, sobbing into the phone that we did lose her boyfriend’s dad.

The night my college roommate confided in me her struggle with anorexia the year before. The night the same college roommate confronted me with genuine concern and understanding about my own hazardous eating habits.

A summer afternoon when I accidentally picked up my friend’s vibrator. It was in a makeup case on her window sill.

Those days I left Boise, Chicago, Brookfield, Gettysburg, New York City. Those days I arrived in Chicago, Brookfield, Gettysburg, New York City, and finally, Los Angeles.

The day, most recently, that I realized I’d reached yet another horizon when I felt at home in the California sun, when I felt in my core, yes, yes, this is the right place.

I’m participating in The Scintilla Project, a fortnight of storytelling. One of the prompts on Day 7 was “What have been the event horizons of your life – the moments from which there is no turning back?”

Boobs, Bacon, Bourbon Guest Post: The Wine Dipper

I’m over on Boobs, Bacon, Bourbon today regaling you with the tale of The Wine Dipper. I’m almost ashamed I’d never blogged about him, but honestly, I tell the story so frequently it’s become somewhat of a local legend.

Go on over there and check it out. It’s truly a special story; you will not be disappointed.

The Sex Education Experience

My brother was born when I was just two-and-a-half, but I was a hyper-observant intelligent kid, so as soon as my mom was pregnant, I was asking questions about how it happened. I don’t remember any conversations, but I do remember my The Facts Of Life book – with pop-up illustrations. I received the book with little fanfare; sex was a fact of life, something I would do eventually with my husband to make babies.

In fact, my parents’ presented reproduction in such a matter-of-fact way that I had no qualms asking them how often they had sex. All I really wanted to know was if I’d be getting another little sibling any time soon! (Thankfully, they also explained the concept of privacy very well, so they were able to dodge that awkward-as-hell question from their toddler child.)

I told you I was a smart kid, but I should probably mention that my intelligence was accompanied by some serious naivete. I took everything literally. So one day after pre-school, I came home clutching a large stick-figure self-portrait. I don’t have the original piece of art, but I assume it looked something like this:

Titled: Sara, age 3.

Titled: Sara, age 3.

Look closely and you can see that I appear to have drawn myself with two belly buttons, a confusing detail my mom noticed immediately. Always the diplomat, my mom kindly asked why I’d given myself two belly buttons.

“MOM!” I groaned, “That one is my uterus!”

Seeing as this is how my sex education began, it really should not have come as a surprise to anyone when, one day after 4th grade, I came home and asked my parents about oral sex. Being big proponents of independent thinking and figuring things out for oneself, my parents asked me to think about what I thought it was. Or, you know, they felt really fucking awkward about their 10-year-old daughter asking about blowjobs.

So I thought really hard about what the words meant and I knew that sex was, well, sex, and that “oral” had something to do with talking and so I asked,

“Is it talking about sex?”

If you ask me, that’s a pretty fair conclusion to draw about oral sex, but my parents burst out laughing so I immediately knew I got the answer wrong. They proceeded to use words like fellatio and cunnilingus  and while I know now those are the official clinical words, back then they pretty much ensured I cared absolutely zero about anything oral sex.

Lucky for me but probably sad for you, there was never any art class assignment that involved me drawing oral sex.

Old Adventures