Musical Interlude-A Soap Opera

Rainbow Cello had married an eight string lyre who had her crying all of the time and playing her tiny violin in self-pitying melodies in minor keys. He was always leaving her at home alone with the infants cheating on her with Viola who, while shapely, was never in tune.

“I don’t care about that bastard,” Rainbow said to herself furiously wiping her tears. “He’s always had a tin ear, and one of these days he’ll empty his rainstick into the wrong cow’s bell and get the snot beat out of him by an angry bassoon.”

Her constant jealousy was depressing. That lying lyre had a new lie to tell on each of his eight strings, and he’d never stop being able to piss her off in C major or tug on her heartstrings in D minor with all his excuses and begging. And to add insult to injury, it was clear now he’d never find that spot on her G string and even if he did, he wouldn’t know what to do with it! Simultaneous double stop finger fluttering was so far beyond him he’d never even heard that angelic note she trilled when a lover got it right.

Rainbow’s girlfriend Dulcimer tried to comfort her by telling Viola jokes. On a visit one day she asked, “How are a violist and a prostitute the same?” Rainbow shrugged. “Both are paid to fake climaxes!”

Rainbow didn’t even crack a smile.

Finally her girlfriend Dulcimer said, “Come on honey, bring your chickadees and come out with me.  You’ve got to get out and quit playing the tiny violin for that stinking lyre and have some fun. Let’s go to the traveling carnival! The babies will love it and you will too.”

Despite her sweet name, Dulcimer was a Taurus and persistence was her middle name, so Rainbow didn’t argue. They scooped up the babies, of which there were eight now, Profligate Fecundity being Rainbow’s middle names, and took the night bus to the carnival.

The babies radiated around them peeping, plucking and bouncing spiccatos with excitement as they wandered the fair. Dulcimer’s dad may be a juice harp, but he had deep pockets and a generous spirit, and Rainbow’s fragile heart swelled as her babies got to ride the Zippers, Ferris wheels, and Teacups–boogers, wet diapers and major blowouts notwithstanding.

Suddenly a shakade percussed in the midst of a traveling band and a five string banjo with washboard abs and twinkling eyes caught Rainbow’s attention with his bright smile.

Besides his picking he was finger licking good, taking to her and the babies, making promises out the kazoo, putting her all in a zither and a dither about what to do, what to do…

Dulcimer went home alone from the carnival that night, full of her friend’s promises to stay in touch and comforted by the knowledge that five string banjos had honest and faithful hearts, not to mention fabulous lovemaking skills and super-sensitive G string manipulations. He’ll make a much better partner and lover than that eight string lyre, she thought, and little Didgeridoo, Pennywhistle, Fiddledeedee and the rest would find
happiness with their joyous mother who could finally throw away her tiny violin and quit crying all of the time….

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Penis Jousting

“He wanted to know if fish have penises,” my daughter told me.  “So we googled it and found that they don’t.  Then we got into a long search involving animal penises of all kinds.  If anyone looked at my search history right now, they’d think I was a pervert.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s amplifying his interest in penises beyond his own at last, I guess, but I think you’re safe.  Penis searches don’t always involve perversion.  Apparently, sometimes, it’s educational.” I replied.  My eight year old grandson had been fascinated with his penis since he first learned its name and his little brother imitated his enthusiasm, as he did many things about his big brother, when he wasn’t discovering his own creative originality.  They both thought girls were at a distinct disadvantage with their ‘cutted off’ penises.

“Yeah, maybe,” said my daughter.  “I finally had to tell him where babies come from.  He asked in such a direct manner I couldn’t dodge it.”  She was sitting at the table in their east facing cocina.  The sliding glass doors looked out on their canopied brick porch her hubby had put in for Mother’s Day.  Kat had put planters, some of which she had spray painted red to match the 50’s style red metal table and chairs.  She filled them with herbs and flowers.  Their lawn was finally taking off and the colors were beautiful against the wet grass.

“So what did you tell him,” I asked.

“I kept it pretty cut and dried,” she replied, “not like you did when you told me.”

I had jumped the gun a bit with my parental sex education responsibilities I had to admit.  I hadn’t wanted to miss the question and was anxious that I do it right and ended up doing it wrong.

“I know,” I said.  “I guess you really didn’t need me to draw you those pictures either.”

“Well it’s a good thing you didn’t get to be a better artist till later.  Anyway, we found out that flatworms do something called penis jousting.”

“Penis jousting?”  The picture that instantly sprung to mind was amusing but unrealistic.

“Flatworms are asexual or bisexual or something.  Anyway they each have both sets of parts,” my daughter continued.  “The first one to get stabbed in the ‘penis joust’ is the one that gets pregnant.  If they both stab each other at the same exact moment, then they both get pregnant.  Chad was really fascinated.”

“How funny,” I observed.  “Penis jousting.  Humans seem to have sublimated that in so many ways.  Wish more of them were peaceful.”

“Now mom, don’t go all sociological on me,” replied Kat quickly.

“Oh all right,” I said, squelched.

“Since our penis exploration experience on the internet, Chad has been creating scenarios.”

“Uh oh.  I wonder how those go.”

“His latest involves a penis transplant,” Kat replied.

“Wo.  Did you run across a Lorena Bobbit website on your animal penis search?”

Kat giggled.  “No, but his story did involve a castration theme.  Apparently, Mike accidently had his penis cut off.”

“Huh.  As opposed to another appendage Mike actually intended to have cut off, or was his penis cut off in an accident?  Be precise, dear.”

“Oh shut up, mom.”

“OK, but isn’t there some sort of psychological symbolism involved, though?”

Kat got up to pour us some more ice tea.  “Probably related to some Oedipal thing.  Do boys to the Oedipal thing or is it the Elektra thing?”

“I think they do the Oedipal thing and girls do the Electra thing, unless we’re talking Jung versus Freud.”

My daughter’s eyes widened and she said quickly, “Well let’s not get into all that now.  So anyway, after Mike’s penis is accidentally cut off, his doctor gives him a penis transplant from a mummy!”

“Wow, a mummy!”

“Yep, a mummy.”

“Then what happens?”

“Well, naturally mommy and daddy immediately get into a spirited penis joust and daddy wins, injecting mummy penis dust into mommy causing her to get pregnant and have a baby mummy.”

“Hmmm…I’m guessing the baby came pre-swaddled?”

“Ha ha. And you know how Davy can suck his belly button all the way back to his spine?  That’s how I look after delivering my mummy baby.”

“Trust Davy to get into the act somehow.”

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The Boob Gnome

My beautiful little girl was six years old when she asked me wistfully, “When will I get boobies, mommy?”

Seeing my opportunity and buying time, I smiled and said, “Well…one day when you are old enough,” I took a deep cleansing breath, “You will hear a knock at the door.”

In our crapped out trailer, we didn’t have a doorbell.

“When you open the door, be careful stepping around the hole in the floor, so you don’t fall through.  It’ll probably still be there; you know how your Dad is about fixing things,” I said, buying more time.

My daughter nodded wisely.

A deeper, even more cleansing breath, and then quickly:

“You will see a teeny tiny little old man with a beard so long that he has to sling it over one shoulder to keep from walking on it.”

“Really mommy!?!”

“Really, really…”

“Oh,” she said, doubt and suspicion gathering in her eyes.

I stopped smiling and got serious.

“Don’t worry; you’ll know he’s the right one, because he will be carrying a great big sack over his other shoulder.  We call him The Boob Gnome.”

His official status and my brisk confidence in her abilities seemed to reassure her.

“Oooh,” she said, less doubtful, if not less confused.

“Remember, he’ll have his beard slung over one shoulder and a big bag over the other.  Don’t forget.  It could be a long time yet before he comes. As many as five or six birthdays, maybe more.  Anyway, he’ll give you two seeds.  You need to swallow them whole.  You can drink water with them like mommy when she takes her happy pills.  After that your boobies will begin to grow.  But…”

“But what?” she asked.

“Well, as soon as you notice that they are growing, you have to come tell me right away.  Right away.  Don’t even waste a minute.”

“How come?” she asked, eyes widening.

“Don’t worry, it will be OK as long as you come tell me right away.  When girls’ boobies are just starting, they are wild.  Really wild.  When you first get them, IF you tell me right away, we will have time to go to Walmart and get you a training bra.  A training bra will catch your boobies before they get big enough to start running wild.”

Any lingering doubts were stifled now by my beautiful little girl’s interest in my story.

“Otherwise,” I went on quickly, “they could pop out anywhere.  You never know where wild boobies will want to go.  They could pop out on your nose or maybe even your elbow!  A good training bra will train your boobies to stay on your upper chest like mommy’s.  But you will have to wear a bra the rest of your life like mommy to keep your boobies tame.  Some old ladies stop wearing their bras and their boobies run wild all the way down to their bellybuttons!!  You wouldn’t want that now, would you?”

“Oh, no,” said my beautiful six year old daughter, who believed fervently in ditch witches and putting her foot down.

“Is that what happened to grandma?  Did she stop wearing her bra?”

“Yup,” I said, nodding sadly, “and it’s a good bet that she didn’t get same size seeds either.  Oh, uh oh, I almost forgot to tell you.  I’m so glad I remembered.  Make sure The Boob Gnome gives you same size seeds.  He gets in a hurry sometimes with lots of girls to visit, so if he gives you a big seed and a little seed, make sure you give them back.  Tell him you want two same size seeds.  Be sure to put your foot down about that.  I think he gave me a big seed and a little seed.  My mommy was drunk the day she told me about The Boob Gnome, and she forgot to tell me to check the seeds.  That’s why one of my boobies is bigger than the other.”

“Is that bad Mommy?  To have one boobie bigger than the other?”

“Well, luckily for me the one seed wasn’t that much bigger than the other.  So at least I don’t need a special reinforced bra with hydraulics like a lowrider.  But that IS why your daddy says I walk with a lisp.”

Epiglog (purposeful misspelling, not drugs)

With a few irresistible additions, exaggerations, and inventions, this is largely the same story I told my daughter when she asked me her question when she was six or seven years old.  She used my story in high school on an assignment to write about family myths.  Unfortunately, I do not still have her version.

Grandma has recovered from her drinking problem due to lack of transportation.  To Dad’s great relief, Mommy is currently off the happy pills.  We now know why, years ago, we would catch our middle boy at home after school, sitting in front of the TV playing video games, wearing a bra over his T-shirt.  We think the reason our youngest son Jonnie fell off the top bunk and out of the back trailer window one night when he was sleeping was because of his dad’s slow home repair schedule.

I’ll never forget his plaintive voice, “Mom, dad!  I fell out of the trailer!”

The really surprising thing about this story is that my beautiful grown daughter has not needed nearly as much therapy as her mother.  Even more surprising, is that her boobies are perfectly fine and have not migrated far, despite giving me two beautiful grandsons and her irregular bra wearing schedule.

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BP Oil

He splashed her singing in the sunshine as she planted her flowers, weaving some of the blossoms into a headdress where they wiggled as she moved in the breeze, mesmerizing, fascinating. He was water; she was earth multiplying and rooting seeds within her rocky, but friendly breast. She was a beautiful planet, a world unto herself, gliding through her paces in her place in the starlit universe, draped in blue, white, green and brown, innocent and unbroken. If only she could have stayed that way, listening to the music of the spheres, praising from the heart of her a never ending song.

“Enumerate my children,” she cried. “So many you have never seen shaped to infinite size both large and small, all, all of you my children. Each giving way to the next in the dance of creation. And now you, my human children have wounded me in my side, poisoning my lover water and killing my sea children and bird children and soon, soon, even yourselves in your rush to be the first of my children to consciously choose the hour of your own departure. You will leave me riven and macerated; what will be left of me when you are gone? I, I who have given you all I had in the miracle of my own creation and placement in this amazing universe.”

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