Happy Pride Month – because Pride still matters, now perhaps more than ever.

#TinyThreads

It may be summer, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t storms, or darkness. Sometimes the darkness in summer is deeper than it is in winter. All the tree leaves lend shadows upon shadows, darkness piled on more darkness. In winter the branches are bare, the moonlight can sift through, and the snow and ice reflects any light that might remain. Summer plunges all of that into blackness. 

I kinda hate you
Kinda love you
Kinda wish I was you
Wanna kiss you
Can’t resist you

That underlying melancholy runs through this outwardly pink and perfect little song by Alex Sloane. The lyrics and images start off innocuously enough – all whimsical, airy fluff, all romantic overtures and posturing – and then it veers a bit darker, the way summer sometimes suddenly turns on a storm.

I hate my body
I want yours
I hate my skin
I hate my flaws
I hate my body
I want yours
I hate my brain
I hate these thoughts

I kinda hate you
Kinda love you
Kinda wish I was you
Wanna kiss you
Can’t resist you
(I think I’m loving it!)

The summer storm often feels more punishing because it seems at odds with the notion of the sunny season. It stings a bit more coming in the midst of all that was supposed to be lovely. Like the fall of these little petunias – so bright and cheery and seemingly invincible, yet how quickly they shrivel and go to pieces under the briefest of thunderstorms, their blooms limp and lifeless, never to return to what they once were. How strange and sad, all these little deaths, replaced immediately by other blooms where forgotten ones once shone. 

Summer angst, summer melancholy, and a little bit of summer madness. All part of the glorious package that makes up a coquette summer. It’s only the second day in… who can say what the rest of the summer will bring? The push and pull of this song personifies the moment – a moment that feels torn… fraught. Like the rain…

I hate my body
I want yours
I hate my skin
I hate my flaws
I hate my body
I want yours
I hate my brain
I hate this song

I kinda hate you
Kinda love you
Kinda wish I was you
Wanna kiss you
Can’t resist you
(I think I’m loving it!)

A sigh, now, at the onset of summer, and perhaps a little PTSD from the last sad summer we had. This one begins in the midst of a mini-heatwave, a proper start to the proceedings, and a reminder of sultry summer days past. Extreme heat does something different to the soul. It suspends things, slowing the world in stultifying fashion, as if it were the only way to survive. It’s summer’s way of warning us not to move too quickly through her beauty. Savoring the days, no matter what they may bring. 

Along those lines, our summer theme is entirely of the moment – ephemeral and fleeting and fabulously frivolous – the best things a summer can be. This shall be our Coquette Summer, as we have already promised with loads of Laufey and a preponderance of pink. While she is certainly bewitching, our song of the summer comes from Orville Peck, who recently made a very naked splash to christen the sunny season in hot and sweaty format. 

Catch ’em by surprise and
Chasin’ the horizon
Nothing holds me down

Askin’, “Where the time’s gone?”
Dreamin’ with the lights on
Tryna keep your eyes on
Something along the rise

You and I
Bide our time
And I
Miss summertime

The Coquette Summer is casual and breezy and like the old-school Crystal Light commercial that used Enya’s ‘Orinoco Flow’ to such wondrous effect. Summer is specific to every individual that way – my summer memories likely won’t dovetail with yours, though elements may be primally connected. A toast to that – to all of the things that summer means to all of the people – and let’s do it with a mocktail recipe as depicted here. 

Catch him on the run, they
Punish those who love young
Never right on time

Summer is a collection of myriad moments and moods, some disparate and disconcerting, some wholly fitting and embracingly comforting. It’s a song playing on the rickety old CD player by the pool, it’s a sudden rainstorm that sends the birds scattering, it’s a slumber in the attic for the kids because there is no more school to be had. It’s a road trip on pavement so hot that only the car’s AC will save you, a stand of water irises whose yellow blooms reflect upon still water like the flames of a multitude of candles, a rabbit munching on a patch of grass  – a rabbit that you don’t bother to shoo away because you’d rather not be bothered with mowing the lawn. 

Watch each other fallin’
Always catch the call and
Whistle while we’re walkin’
Something inside me dies

Summer is a party, whatever constitutes a party these days. Gatherings of friends, whose hunger is always fueled by swimming – because nothing seems to fuel hunger more than swimming – are satiated by Andy’s expertise with our new grill, as piles of burgers and hot dogs and grilled vegetables mount on platters and plates carried in by willing children. 

You and I
Why? Oh, why?
And I miss summertime

Summer is flowers and gardens and trees and grass. It winds its way around the heart like a vine that sleeps and creeps and leaps like most vines do. Summer is beautiful and insidious, a poisonous nectar that goes down much too sweetly, without any warning of tartness to hint at its sinister aspects. And it’s all so pretty no one seems to mind or question it. 

Summer unassailable.

Keep on rockin’, baby
Keep on risin’ on the tide
(Somewhere along the rise)

This summer is designed to be dreamy and romantic and coquettish in the most modern manner, giving in to the sumptuous opulence that frilly pink frivolity occasionally aims to achieve. Summer is meant to be silly.

And carefree.

Son of a gun and maybe
We’ll be riding all night
(Something inside me dies)

Welcome to summer, and welcome to you, my dear friend, for whom I write this and share these photos. Summer is about friendship too, and sharing the days, whether they are sunny or rainy, still or stifling. High school may be over, but we’re still all in this together. 

You and I (you and I)
You and I
By and by
And I
I miss summertime

My body did not wait until I finished the 8th glass of Gatorade and Miralax before it forced me into the bathroom and a veritable deluge exited my anus. My water broke, a baby was birthed, and flood-gates I never knew existed let all the fuck loose. This was an evacuation and exodus on a global scale. Remember when all that blood started gushing down the hotel hallway in ‘The Shining’? That was kid’s stuff. 

My ass as Mt. Vesuvius. This is a role it never wanted to play. 

After that initial expulsion/explosion, there was a little lull. ‘Is that all there is?’ I wondered. At such a moment, one might want to pause and take stock of one’s life. My mind went immediately to food, and all the things I wanted to eat as soon as this nightmare was over.

Andy’s carbonara – with all the butter and cream and garlic and goodness he puts into it. My Mom’s mushroom knishes – breaded and fried and buttery decadence in bite-size jewels of flavor. Suzie’s granola – she makes a mean damn batch of granola. This kimchi fried rice with a fried duck egg on top. The Dover Sole Meunière at Mistral… my eyes are practically misting at the thought of such food glorious food.

Meanwhile, the lull is almost over. I feel it, I sense it coming, I light this candle and watch it throw tears on my pillow… 

It begins with the gurgling of an almost-empty stomach.

Two glasses of Miralax and Gatorade in, and the stomach has started a conversation with itself. I’d been on the recommended liquid diet for an extra day because I do not want anything to mess with the results of my first colonoscopy, and my first thoughts as this ordeal begins are all about food. 

Solid food. Rich, creamy, hot, fried, filling food. Any fucking food – I’d gladly gobble up a saltine or a Ritz like they were caviar on lobster right now. So no, I do not enjoy a liquid diet. That was news to me – I thought I might, and that it wouldn’t bother me. Not happening.

And so the stomach churns. 

A few more minutes remain before the third glass (I have to down a total of eight – for a full 64 ounces of blue gatorade and the first bottle of Miralax powder – then do it all over again tomorrow morning.)

Everyone says the prep is the hardest part, and I am dreading what might start shooting out of me at any moment, as much as I am worried about shitting the bed – something I have never done before in my life. I’m also concerned based on what people have told me about all the wiping and chafing that’s about to go down. A pack of Huggies baby wipes stands at the ready. Will 56 be enough? I wonder…

The stomach gives a moan and a yelp.

Strangely, I do not mind the blue gatorade that much. I thought I would. The orange stand-by is cooling in the fridge for tomorrow. I didn’t want to do all of one flavor because… boring! Once upon a drunken day I would have done all of this with vodka and had quite the time. Just kidding – you cannot do this with liquor (he said like some goddamn public service announcement). These internal dialogues should probably not find their way onto the internet, but what do I care? My ass is about to explode and there are no more fucks to give.

Third glass down, and almost halfway there. When does the madness kick in? I keep on waiting, anticipating, but I can’t wait forever… 

Ok, four glasses in and half-way done with the pitcher. Thank God I usually drink about eighty ounces of water a day (it’s true) because that has definitely helped prepare me for downing this much liquid in more or less a single sitting.

Oh… something just bubbled up big-time in the belly. It may not be happy with me. But after tonight I’ll tell it to talk to my butt if it wants to complain. 

Five glasses down and a lot more gurgling is happening inside. This doesn’t sound good. My stomach is talking back to me and it’s sassy as fuck. If I ever get out of this alive I’m gonna drown it in Buffalo chicken everything. That’ll show it. 

My tummy seems to be making gasps for air, and I rest my hand on it, silently apologizing for all that I’ve already done to it. I can’t even face my asshole for all the horrors I’m about to inflict on that. (I actually haven’t punished it as much as you probably think I have – and all that’s about to change tonight.)

Stepped away from the laptop around glass six, and now I’ve gulped down glass seven with just one more to go. Things are definitely in motion, and it’s almost time to shit, I mean shut this post down. 

Oh… HOLY FUCK…

{To be continued…?}

{Quiet, please, for this prayer circle.}

This is a day on which I have no idea what’s going to happen to my ass, but please God give me an ass to show everybody here that I did make something out of my life. Ok, I’m paraphrasing ‘Truth or Dare’ here, but in times of duress, I tend to turn to Madonna. In this case, I’m about to begin the final stages of prep for tomorrow’s colonoscopy, meaning I can only have liquids today, and in a few hours it’s 64 ounces of Gatorade mixed with Miralax. 

Do I dare document this ass-centric rite of middle-age passage? At the time of this writing, I haven’t decided. I’m told that once this process begins, I won’t have much time outside of the bathroom. Then again, that’s what laptops are for – and live-blogging the lead-up to a colonoscopy is just the sort of TMI antic that has made this blog what it is today. 

It’s always been about my ass.