I have moved to California after living in Arid Arizona my entire life. I am ready to find new adventures and to discover a new life. I will be chronicling this process.
A couple times a week an elderly man sits by the train tracks with suicide prevention signs and pictures of a young boy. Today I decided to go talk with him. He offered me a chair and we spoke for some time. His son committed suicide in 1986. I asked him what he felt would have really made a difference in his son’s life. He said that having a mentor would have made a tremendous difference. He said that he was “just a number” to too many.
He said that sometimes it’s just a simple act of showing someone that you care that can turn a life around. He said that this spot by the track once had a suicide per month on average, sometimes more. Since he has been here offering someone to speak to, there has not been one suicide.
He gave me some ideas to develop programs to help youth at risk, which I think that I will explore.
This man is still heartbroken 35 years later, but has found renewed purpose in saving the lives of others.
EDITED:
Shortly after writing this post, the man stopped his weekly or bi-weekly visits to the tracks. I was waiting for weeks to see if he returned, but he never did. If anyone knows what happened to him, please let me know. From our conversation, it didn’t appear that he had planned on stopping anytime soon.
I once had a psychologist tell me that every single man she’d ever known had penis issues. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. She told me she wouldn’t want one for anything. After this cake experience, I’d have to say I agree. I think it might be a lot like owning a pet grizzly bear; it would be fun and exciting at first, but it would quickly come with a ton of issues.
As we wait for the Easter potluck, I found myself facing so many insecurities over my penis cake. Was it too small? Did the icing look right? Would it even taste good? They also come with a lot of issues. It’s one thing to be nervous about one’s potluck casserole, but a Easter penis cake really takes fears of inadequacy to an entire new level. I have a complete newfound sympathy for men.
After this experience, I can sincerely state that this will most likely be my last penis cake, Who needs that kind of pressure?
Happy Easter, everyone! Posting a little gift from one of the roomies I probably should have taken the pic before we ate his ears, but as Americus said, “Everything is perfectly imperfect around here.” I agree.
P.S. I noticed even the bunny felt the need to draw attention that his ears were 12 INCHES. Well, not anymore, Bunny, not anymore….
After much debate over the past 24 hours, I finally decided to visit an adult shop for a penis cake mold. While driving there, inexplanably, a strange song came on m Sirrius, when is normally a heavy metal station.
In a deepest of deep baritone, the man sang, “ooohh, baby, choooocolate candy….” “It’s your birthday, ohhhh, yeah….”
When I arrived, there was only one other customer in the store, a man who appeared to be in his early 20s. He was having a very serious conversation with the 40-something year old female clerk and he seemed very embarassed when I walked in. I found the penis mold within seconds, near the register.
I could tell that the man wanted the clerk to stop talking while I waited in line.
“…but this will definitely help,” she said bluntly.
“Give it a try and if it doesn’t, we can definitely try something else,” she added, reaching to ring up his mysterious purchase.
“Actually, you can go!” he said to me. I took the lead and put my cake mold on the counter.
“Is this all for you?” she asked.
“Yes, and you have no idea how hard it was to find a penis cake a day before Easter.”
The woman put her hand over her chest and began to roar.
The man slinked silently into the back of the store as I told her the story.
So, cake mold in hand, I hustled home. Honestly, I have never been more eager to bake a cake.
Since my oven is broken, I needed to use another roomies oven, Don.
While it cooked well, when I extracted it from the mold, it just looked…well, like a blob. There was not a lot of definition to the cake. I’m sure a skilled baker could do magic with the icing.
That person was not me.
There was a reason I have been designated as the pickle, drink, and olive girl at most potlucks.
I tried my best. I’m currently searching for a ring that I can use as a piercing for added flare.
Well, happy birthday, Cleave! I definitely tried and am looking forward to the Easter dinner tomorrow.
If I know this group at all, it will definitely be interesting.
I would first like to note that instead of calling the eight other people living in our small apartment complex my “roomies”, I will be given each of them, and all of the other people in my life, a pseudonym.
I am writing this post at 1:16 AM, the day before Easter. This will be the first Easter that my daughter, who I will call Americus (the name I chose before her birth, causing a minor family intervention) would be away from family. Neither of us are big Easter girls, so we were not terribly affected.
One of the roomies, who I will call Dash, recently found a new job and I promised to have a courtyard pizza party to celebrate. I soon learned that everyone’s parents in this complex must have had the same idea sometime in July, because most of its inhabitants all had April birthdays, Americus included.
So, somehow this morphed into a Easter, birthday, and a new job celebration.
Natasha, the only other female roomie in the complex other than Americus and myself, asked me to get the cake,
In my PG-rated mind, I environed a beautiful little Easter cake with vanilla and lemon layers. I’d write, “Happy Birthday: Dash, Americus, Natasha, and Cleave; Congratulations on the new job, Americus and Dash; and finally, Happy Easter”.
I was actually wake-dreaming about the cake and wondering how to get all of that on there. I’d just make my own banner, I thought, in my half-awake, half-asleep state.
I reached for my phone as it binged around midnight.
“I’m going to get the best vegan birthday cake for us girls,” she wrote, “but I kind of promised Cleave a birthday cake shaped like a penis.”
Jesus.
“Where am I supposed to find a birthday cake the day before Easter shaped like a penis?” I typed with blurry eyes.
“I don’t know, Google?”
So, now unable to sleep, I began looking for bakeries in my Southern California area that carried penis cakes the day before a major holiday.
Fearful of what my targeted ads might contain and realizing that a last-minute penis Easter cake would be north of $200, I Googled “penis mold”, hoping to find a cake mold shaped like a phallus.
I cannot even begin to tell you what happens when you Google “penis mold”. Let’s skip this part of the story.
Out of desperation, I went to the Walmart site at 1:00 AM. While I did not find a penis mold, I did find the above cake mold. With some skilled knifing work, I THINK I can shape it into a phallus.
Sadly, the oven in my little studio is also broken. And, no, the irony has not escaped me.
I am hoping that by quickly writing this post I can try to sleep, so pardon its hasty nature. My task for tomorrow is to buy a penis mold for our happy birthday, happy new job, happy Easter cake for Cleave.
I have no idea what kind of frosting to buy. Let’s not even go there, it is Easter, after all.
Edited: It’s now 2;00 AM but I think I finally have an idea involving a sheet cake, some Easter grass, and a sharp knife that just might work. I hope I can sleep now.
My first order of business after arriving was to find a place to get my hair done. After asking a Facebook group of locals, I was given the name of a salon nearby. My first visit was uneventful, so I schedule a follow-up five weeks later.
About two hours before my appointment, the owner texted me to let me know my hair guy was no longer employed at the salon, but she’d be willing to fit me in.
She greeted me upon arriving and immediately sat me in her chair.
“I’m just recovering from surgery,” she said, her hair in a messy bun piled on top of her head. She wore loose shorts and a sweatshirt.
“Oh, I hope you’re feeling better,” I casually answered.
“Well, it was elective,” she said, “It was a good thing.”
I asked her if she minded if I asked what she had done. I figured that since we’d known each other a full minute, it was safe to ask.
“I had my thighs and stomach done,” she beamed.
“Actually, can I just show you?”
Sure.
I wasn’t sure to expect her to lift her shirt or pull down her pants. These things happen here.
She stopped inspecting my roots and picked up her phone.
She showed me a full frontal nude picture.
“This was before.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say to one’s “before” nude after multiple children.
“Yeah, OK.” I said encouragingly.
“And….this….is AFTER.”
Another full frontal, followed by new backside pics.
“Wow, you look great!” said, trying to find a tone that mixed encouragement with a casual air.
She threw in a free deep conditioning, worth $45. I’m not sure if it was due to the encouragement or the appointment time mix-up.
She went on to give me the “scoop” in the area: the designer place that doesn’t advertise, but you can get designer brands for $15, and the best place for facials.
“Give them my name and they will give you a huge discount.”
She asked me to be a “mole” for a neighboring salon and find out how she can be competitive. I agreed.
Hell, why not? I may even get another free deep condition.
EDITED: Upon further reflection, I can see how she was just so excited about her new body. I get it. She had said she’d been overweight her entire life and after multiple children, was ready to get into shape. I’ve been there and felt that same excitement. I’m ready to feel it again. I do hope I’m not so excited that I show strangers my naked body. However, as I’ve said many times, in California, anything is possible.
Catching the California Wave 