This is me after driving 150 miles so Nathan could be watched by someone other than PBS’ afternoon programming (What? Dragon Tales won’t teach Nathan how to change his own diaper? Only how to live in freaking Dragon Land???), Mike could spend the rest of the day paralyzed in bed and so I could make it to the office to work for a grand total of FOUR hours.
Just as a sidenote: I wear heels because I’m too lazy to hem my pants and any height elongates my stumpy we-want-to-welcome-you-to-Munchkin-Land legs. I need all the help I can get. My pants are so big, they’re like two windsocks sewn together. I’ve gotten offers from used car lots to borrow my conical leggings so they attach it to a high powered fan and turn it into one of those air-blown balloon attractions used to attract customers.
So the next time you pass Burien Motors and see my jeans blowing in the wind, flapping at your windshield, remember me.
Odawni sent me this picture of me “back in the day.” I feel like I’m looking in at a life of which I have only a fond, but vague memory. Here I am smoking (!), drinking with reckless abandon (!!) and wearing a shirt that no longer zips up (!!!). You see that birthmark there on my right arm? Because of my flabby arm girth, it’s just a speck of a dirt now. I’ve had people come up to me asking if it’s a birthmark or if I just missed a spot.
Truth be told, some days I want to smoke again. I want to go into the tobacco shop dressed incognito, wearing a sweatshirt and sunglasses, and slip the man behind the counter a five. What stops me is that I like the way I smell now. I wear Calvin Klein’s Escape for Women (thanks to my days in Juvie). Also, what if those chemicals trap themselves in my body and after I breastfeed Nathan, he’ll look at me under some second-hand high and say just like those smoking grandmas who station themselves in front of slot machines, “WHERE CAN I GET SOME QUARTERS?”
Also, two months after this picture was taken, I found out that we were pregnant with Nathan. Luckily, it was in my bathroom and not in the one working stall at the bar. It wasn’t like I slipped out of happy hour long enough to take an EPT test with “There once was a man from Nantucket” poetry scrawled behind me.
I think the most shocking part of this photo is that I’m pictured as a woman, and not as I truly am: a 27-year-old fisherman named Jun who washes his cut-off mesh jerseys in the ocean by beating them with rocks. Who says the camera never lies?
And all this talk of drink and debauchery prompts me to share with you this song from Amy Winehouse. Isn’t that a great name? I think my stage name would be Mona Wineinaboxhouse. How fitting.