I sigh, glance at the clock in the living room. It is smallish, round with a silver frame; two hands, flat black chopsticks, mark off minutes on a white numbered face. The third hand, shiny and sharp, reminds me of a hypodermic needle which is not—considering the circumstances, that my heart feels as if it’s been pierced straight through—a strange likeness to assign. Tick Tock, the little clock says. Hänni it’s been 10 days since he left. He is not coming back.

My step mom, a sturdy Norwegian with a killer sense of humor and fierce loyalty to family, is standing in front of the couch. She’s come to take care of me. In these, the first few worst days of my life, she is the one who is keeping me fed, calling the lawyer, making sure that when I’m in the bath—my head submerged in salty, lilac-scented water—I reemerge on the surface, even though I don’t want to. Even though I’d rather drown.

Elida, my stepmother, she is a lioness. And right now I’m as helpless as a mewling, newborn cub. So when Elida palms the cheap Ikea console and says we need to get rid of his things, I comply. The first object that needs vanished into the ether? Our wedding portrait wherein his full round face and crooked smile are on prominent display. Elida picks up the silver frame, flips open the velvet backing, and removes the Kodak paper. “Here,” she says, thrusting the black and white couple towards me. “You need to cut this into small pieces and put it in the litter box for the cats to shit on.”

It seems crazy, but—wielding the scissors with the orange plastic handle—I do it. And then, miracle of miracles, I feel better.

(Photo credit: Delta407@Flickr)

—-

Sweet and salty, her communications—once full of blithe—are now peppered with sadness.

In an email response about dining room furniture for my new apartment, Elida recommends a parson’s table. “They are very versatile,” she says. “You might try getting one used and painting it stealth black, it has a wonderful chocolaty undertone.” And then—a shotgun blast to the stomach, a strange orphan in an otherwise bucolic discourse—Elida tells me that her brother is not doing well. “He is going to die,” she says, “and he knows it.”

In a separate email, Elida bestows the virtue of zebra rugs—“A diehard classic, if there ever was one”—and then she laments the loss of her beloved father. “Our last years were so sweet,” she writes. “I miss him so much,” she says.

Things have not been easy for Elida this past year. In the spring a mystery malady rendered her auntie Robyn—for whom she has become a part-time caretaker—an invalid. Last fall, Elida’s brother, Mark was diagnosed with end-stage pancreatic cancer. Just after Thanksgiving, Elida’s dad, my Grandpa Byron, died suddenly when an aneurysm ruptured in his stomach during a flight from Anchorage to Seattle.

It must be hard for Elida, keeping her eyes open when there’s so much cold air blowing in them.

—-

In all this, I can’t help be reminded of a time—three years ago this January—when the struggles Elida tackled where mine. At the apartment one afternoon, in another house-clearing exercise, she instructs me to drag Blake’s computer desk—all cheap blonde laminate and wobbly metal rods—onto the third-floor landing. “Now,” she commands, “push it over the railing.”

Woooooooosh. The table free falls, and when it connects with the concrete, it makes the most delicious smash. Chunks of pressboard shrapnel splinter across the parking lot. And then—like she’ll do a million times in the months leading up to my post-divorce recovery—Elida assists me in picking up the pieces.

(Photo credit: Damork@Flickr)

Today I am better. Elida is not. She is in a black place, and I’m embarrassed to admit, I have not helped her like she has me. I’ve avoided phone calls, can’t will myself to purchase a condolence card. You know the conversations where you die a little inside, it hurts so much to have them? I circumvent those by emailing a steady stream of frivolity—paint colors, wall patterns, ghost chairs; these are topics from which I won’t stray.

I’m a jerk. I know this. I’m not sure how to change. Except—I can do as Elida once told me—and take a first step. The first thing to do, I think, is to let her know.

I open my MacBook, prompt a browser, and type:

Dear Elida,

I just want to say, I love you.
(P.S. I’m sorry for being such an asshole.)

Post from: Hannihaus

The First Step

Crush, crush, crush. The waves lull me into a wakeful sleep, and I smile at the busker on the boardwalk who is earnestly strumming a song I can’t hear. Salt is everywhere—kissing my lips, knotting my hair, stinging my face—and I get the distinct feeling I’m being brined, like a pickle, like a turkey, like a pickled Christmas turkey.

In my periphery, a flash of crimson and white shocks my eyes. I am amused, when on the pier—it’s caterpillar network of sturdy beams stretching high above an expanse of churning, turquoise soup—Santa comes riding, not in a sleigh, but in the back of a cherry red pickup truck with the word, LIFEGAURD emblazoned across the side. A radical twist on the conventional costume, this Jolly Old St. Nick is wearing Rayban Wayfarers.

And I think to myself, “This is why I’m here.”

This is what Christmas in California looks like.

—-
Last time I visited Huntington Beach, it was Thanksgiving 2006. I was married. My brother was not. Tommy was healing from the heartbreak of a broken engagement. I was about to—unbeknownst to me, my adulterous ex-husband having orchestrated my absence so he could break bread with his mistresses’ family in Pittsburgh—suffer a similar misfortune.

Three years later, my brother is married. I am not.

I spent most every minute of the last eight days cradling, my arms wrapped tight in a protective swaddle, the form of my pudgy precious nephew. Colby’s stunning halo of flaxen curls and the delicious pink bloom on his cherubic cheeks transfixed me like a cobra charmed, and my heart—now that I’ve returned to Houston—hurts a little knowing I won’t see him again until summer.

Sure, Christmas in California looks like Santa in sunglasses. But it also looks like closed doors, fresh starts, new love, true love, and a beautiful baby boy.

I’ve only been gone a few days, but I miss them already.

Post from: Hannihaus

Christmas in California

See the girl in that picture? That’s me. I’m celebrating a day that’s a lot like today, except it was 25 years ago. I was 5. I had fewer teeth, bigger dimples, and a lot less candles on my cake. My favorite TV show was the Bugs Bunny/Looney Tunes Comedy Hour, followed closely by Knight Rider and the Dukes of Hazzard (check out my sweatshirt). I had just learned to tie the shoelaces on my clunky, kid-sized Caribou boots, and was very proud that my bed—now that I was a “Big Girl”—was stripped of its protective, plastic sheets.

The day I turned 5, I remember my smile—like a watermelon in winter—was wide. At my party, I was Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt; instead of red grapes, I was served a Duncan Hines chocolate cake coated with canned frosting so sweet, it made my mouth ache. Before we cut the cake, Mom asked that I make a wish on its flaming crown. I filled my little lungs and puffed my cheeks. I blew for all I was worth, dousing the candles with a not-so-mighty wind and spray of spittle.

“What did you wish for?” Dad asked.

“World peace!” I cheerfully replied, mimicking something I’d heard Luke Duke say on TV.

My father snickered, and within moments the entire table was laughing at my precocious distraction. As I had hoped, no one was any wiser about my REAL wish. My secret wish, my true heart’s desire was that every day could be a birthday … that every day could be filled with friends, fun, and cake from mix … that every moment of my life would be so charmed. And also, I wished for a pony, even though I was scared of their stumpy legs and overly-large eyeballs.

…

Flash forward to today and suddenly: I am 30 years old.

I have gone to sleep and woken up 10,958 times. Since my birth, ticking clocks have counted down 15 million minutes. And if my life’s breaths were dollars, I’d have more than a quarter billion.

I have—as my 5-year-old self wished—lead a favored and felicitous life. I have many friends, an amazing family, money in the bank, and business cards with my senior title emblazoned across the front. I have hiked Mount Fuji, biked the Texas hill country, and survived nights spent at sleazy, Canadian hostels where the aged windows busted and shattered when wedged shut. I have witnessed great beauty in blizzards of cherry blossoms and in raindrops that transform when white-sleeved snow gowns are donned. In the faces of my cherubic nieces and nephews I have seen God, and because of them, I know He is gracious.

Save for my marriage to a troubled man who told so many lies—to myself and to his mistress—he lost track of all truth, I have had few sorrows. And even in sadness, there were always lessons learned. Since my divorce, I have pledged to love deliberately those who deserve it. And to those who do not? I now know to distrust a heart that’s so bowed it can’t break.

For my next 30 years, I’m wishing for babies, a house, a second shot at being a bride.

And if all those things come true, then the next time I do this assessment—when I’m 60 and smile lined—the only thing left to wish for will be the pleasure of a posture bra and sensible shoes. And maybe a pony, assuming I’m over the eyeball thing.

Happy birthday to me, xoxoh

Post from: Hannihaus

30

My sweetie-pie niece, Baby Grace was born this morning, weighing 9lbs 6ozs.

What’s cool about all this—besides the fact she looks like a little squished grape and I am all about organic raisins—is that I intuitively knew today would be Gracie’s birthday.

I knew this because I dreamed it.

Sometimes I think I’m psychic. Last night I had a very vivid dream I was at the hospital with Spanky. She was in labor with Gracie.

And then when I awoke—not 5 minutes after my cats’ lodging of claw up my left nostril roused me from bed—I got a call from Sis. She was in the delivery room and it was time to push.

Seriously, Miss Cleo has nothing on me.

So one time I had this dream where I was on a date with John Mayer. He sang for me, and while he performed he made that real ugly face he does; the one where it looks like dude just ate a pound of queso and is in excruciating pain. I find that face incredibly hot. Blown away by both his vocal and physical performance I was like, J-May you’re the shit. And John was like, no H-Wick you’re the shit. And I was like, oh please J Babe you are the total shit. And then JMan was like, Hanni you are the kraft macaroni and cheese of shit—you are the shittiest! And I was like, true. And then he sang some more crap and I swooned while he made Frankenface. And we rode off into the sunset together and ate Tex Mex (so John could make more fuel for The Face.)

I’m still waiting for this particular dream to come true.

In any event, I want to wish Baby Grace a happy birthday. I love you very much little one and I’m sorry I tainted your “welcome to the world” announcement with talk of shit. But if there’s one thing you need to know about Auntie, it’s that when it comes to shit, she is full of it.

Here’s hoping the next time you’re photographed looking so mottled and splotched, it’s at a keg party and you’re in college.

xoxoAuntie

Post from: Hannihaus

Welp My Sister Shoved a Watermelon Out Of Her Hoo Hoo Today

In a post about sibling rivalry, she mentioned one sister had kicked the other sister in the neck.

Who the eff kicks their sibling, the flesh-of-their-flesh, blood-of-their-blood in the FREAKING NECK?!

…

I’ve always preferred the crotch.

Just ask my brother, the eunuch.

Post from: Hannihaus

Rockstar Brother *Will Not* Be Amused By This

1. Scientists have discovered the world is indeed flat
2. Girls with short hair are bitches

Obviously he was only right about one of two things.
…

Everyone knows planets are *not* shaped like pancakes.

Post from: Hannihaus

My Brother Called Me Today

And that trip—like the one our forefathers embarked on in 1620—led me to lands previously unknown

For the Pilgrims, the final destination was America.

For me, it was Fresno.

Yes Fresno, California. A place I’d been scared to visit for quite some time. Part of the trepidation lay in the fact that I’d never been; it was foreign. But mostly I was scared because I saw on E! True Hollywood Story: Britney and Kevin, that K-Fed is from there.

And it did not seem impossible—because it happens to everything he touches—that being in K-Fed’s hometown would result in the ruination of my pop star career and/or the impregnation of my ovaries.

Both bad things, I assure you.

So I went to Fresno where I stayed with Rockstar Brother. We had a great time! Fresno’s actually very charming with lots of good shopping, clean air and kempt lawns.

In deed, the only time I sensed the presence of K-Fed, we were on our way out of town. It was a false alarm anyway; it turns out the bad smell in Bakersfield is just manure.
—–
Thanksgiving has come and gone but the next major holiday is right around the corner kids! Saturday, December 2nd is the holiday we can look forward to all year long. Bigger than Christmas, more kick ass thank kwanza and more fun than the ‘Fourth, it’s my birthday! I’m totally stoked. After all, it’s not every year that I turn 21!
…

Oh wait. I have been turning 21 every year since 1999 …

Pshaw, details. The important thing is it’s almost my birthday! And I really like presents *hint, hint* Amazon Wishlist right here *hack hack*

Post from: Hannihaus

Tofurkey For Me, Tofurkey For You, I Eat Tofurkey In A Wooden Shoe

For my Mama, I came home.

Yes dear hannihaus readers, just days after arriving in Houston, this dirty hippy hit the bricks, headed (further) west and then north to Alaska.

I guess the fact that I recently pissed myself at a truck stop wasn’t a deterrent to traveling. It was just a deterrent to dry pants … and ever being cool.

But anywayz, fresh out of Texas-requisite hairspray and jalapenos, I’m enjoying being laid-back-chillin’ in the freezing 49^th.

It’s nice to visit a place where the seasons aren’t Hot and Hotter.

And it’s lovely to spend time with people who really get me, who really know where I’m coming from

… and who’ve also peed their pants a time or two.

Here’s to reminders that baby nieces are the best,

xoxoH

Post from: Hannihaus

Mama I’m Coming Home

“It’s been quiet at the haus,” you wrote. “What’s new in FL/TX?”

Well first thing, I’m still in Florida. Maaa’s back home in Alaska. My current status is: knee-deep-in-packing-boxes.

This is only slightly preferable to being knee-deep-in-shit.

At least when you’re knee-deep-in-packing-boxes, the used cardboard—procured through Craig’s List because you’re too green to buy new boxes—only smell like rotten, festering produce and not poo.

Well, the boxes smell a little like poo…. But I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I am, however, one to look a sandwich in the mouth. Especially when it’s filled with sprouts (yum!). Look at these cute sammy’s I saw at Universal Studio’s Boulangerie Café:

And look at Maaa at the Blues Brother’s street party—she’s freak dancing with strangers! (Now you know where I get it from.)

Me and Maaa ran into this green dude at Suess Landing. Judging from his lovely pallor, I’d imagine he’d just got off the Back to the Future ride. Can you say barfaronius?

Also in Suess Landing, we met this guy. He said he was a Sneech. I said, bless you.

At one point, someone told me and Maaa we should check out Bikini Bottom. Imagine my surprise when we got there and realized there were no bikinis or bottoms—just a guy in square pants.

And while we could not meet him in person, I just want to say a big thank you to Napoleon and his friend (e)claire. Your namesake offerings at Epcot’s French patisserie were so good it made us say, ooh la la!

—–
Because inquiring minds want to know, Angel and I are getting the eff out of dodge (or at least Florida) on September 26^th. Wish us luck as we head out west! Then, stop bothering me!

Post from: Hannihaus

Not Dead. Just Moving. Still Sucks.

The wolf replies that these are all the better to hear miss Riding Hood with, see her with and eat her with.

If Little Red Riding Hood were to come visit me at three o’ clock in the afternoon she’d probably—after seeing me chained to the computer clad only in sports bra and booty shorts, a trashy gossip blog displayed in my browser— exclaim, “My how unemployed you still are!”

And I’d say, “All the better to entertain you with my dear.”

Because that’s what I’ve been doing these past few days.

Maaa’s in from Alaska and the two of us have been playing O-Town tourist. Today we head out to the theme parks for three exciting days—one at Epcot, two at Universal Studios.

Yes, dear hannihaus readers, me and Maaa are about to have more fun than you can shake a stick at.

… And that’s probably a lot.

I can’t be certain though, as I’m not exactly sure what constitutes “more fun than you can shake a stick at.”

You see, I’m no expert on the fun-stick threshold.

My experience with sticks involves burning them in campfires—oh and one time someone accused me of having one stuck up my butt.

But I digress …
—–

Monday Maaa and I went to a beautiful botanical garden. I found myself strangely fascinated by the grapefruit grove. I’d never seen anything like it. The low-hanging fleshy orbs were all very large—especially when compared to the fleshy orbs I’m used to seeing every day, re: the ones that don’t fill a b-cup.

Post from: Hannihaus

Vee-Ay-See-Ay-Tee-Eye-Oh-En