What Happened to the Month of May?

I just realized that I did not post anything really during the month of May. I started back working at the Fires of Hell Brazilian restaurant in Nashville. Which reminds me, The Arabian Princess gave me a call from Cashville/Nash Vegas today. He wanted to know if I was going to Ms. A's birthday party at Bar 23. I told him I was in N.J. Then he wanted to know if was going to Cocks in the East Village. The Slut.

Today was an interesting day. My father is distressed that his 11-year-old daughter has been watching Fergy and Kellis's new video (What should I do about apostrophes after names that end with the letter "s"? Does anyone know about adding that extra "s" after the apostrophe? I am never sure. Plus, book editors are much different than magazine and newspaper editors, so I never ask an editor cause I am still confused about commas and the item listed second to the last in a list, just before the word "and".) He says it is soft pornography. My stepmother says that "Check Up On It" is soft porn, but "Deja Vu" is not. It was an interesting conversation. I told dad that The Pussycat dolls were practically burlesque.

My stepmother looked at my sister who was sitting on the couch by the time we got to such details and said "Do you know what burlesque means?"

My sister looked up at me and said "No."

I said in a pendantic and brazenly patronizing manner, "They are strippers who work where they serve martinis."

My stepmother looked at my sister and said, "Do you know what a martini is?"

My sister said, "No."

"Littlemilk, You have to learn how to talk to younger people." my stepmother said in a dry voice (of course she called me by my family nickname, which everybody knows; and, I am certain this oh-soooo-delicious Sting and The Police like anonymity would die an awful death if I revealed that to you. But most people know who I am anyway, and might have used my name so what does it matter anyway?).

Man! Accounts like my stepmother make me tired. They are so matter-of- fact and clear about everything. My sister just looked at me. Then she smiled. Then she went on to humming the lyrics to "Deja Vu." I am the only artist in the family. My father is a biologist. My mother is a retired civil servant. My stepmother is an accountant, a real Ubererbsenzahler who makes lesser penny pinchers piss in their pants and simple minded bank tellers just say "Fuck it!". My other sister is a perpetual student in the art of paper pushing. She is striving to be a medical records Meister. My youngest sister is a natural actress and has already been in 12 plays and she is only 11. Maybe she will be an artist like me. There are no others. My uncles, aunts and cousins are engineers, armored truck drivers, eighteen wheelers, camp counselors, investment bankers, high school teachers, kindergarten teachers, retirement home executives, principals, members of the paparazzi and perpetual takers of the Bar after two previous Masters.

My father had declared early during breakfast that he did not know when we (as in the James Earl Jones in COMING TO AMERICA Royal middleclass Family "we", or just the letters "W" and "E" for the Well E-cheived) started the day off with videos.

"We have always watched CNN first thing in the morning." he said looking out onto the lawn contemplating the brown splotches that look like miniature reminisces of U.F.O landing, his hands aimless circling the brim of a large clear water glass with a soapy sponge.

Well, needless to say, things are changing in our household.

1. My father and I are making some sort of peace. He is not so presumptive about what is good for my life and what isn't. He held up a Christmas picture of me and my "other" sister when I was 5-years-old and she was only 3. We were all smiling then. I wore a brand new blue flannel housecoat and leather slippers, my sister had plaits in her hair. My father asked me if I remembered.

I said "Yeah!", holding back a microscopic tear and trying to enable the cookies on this stupid PC so I can read the New York Times online.

I was generally a happy kid. But later today, while half listening to this 16-year-old girl go ape shit on Dr. Phil, I felt nauseous as the love crazed, Northeastern, plain Jane, harpy accused her then absent from the camera mother of being a liar, as her distraught father tried to figure out what to do. Somewhere in the distant rumbles of the television background noise, I heard Dr. Phil talk about children and the stress of divorce. Ironically, the subliminal messages from the boob tube were being transmitted through my skull, while my stepmother and I were talking about my younger sister choosing not to go to her first dance. "She would have been the youngest one there." my stepmother said with her feet elevated and a cushion positioned neatly in her lap.

Little Sis is already old enough to go to her first dance. I am already part of my father's first failed family. I am part of my mother's previous stint as a single mother (that girl on TV is screaming too fucking loud!).

2. My youngest sister is into everything but still a child. She says I am weird. I believe she is picking up on something but just can't figure out how, or why, I don't fit in. Maybe, it is the manic gardening? Is gardening bisexual? Maybe I should say I am a landscaper? No, that is definitely bi. Well, I am about to dig up some of the shrubs anyway.

3. My stepmother is getting older. She is right. I have a hard time adjusting my speech, humor and mannerisms to those that are younger, say below 16-years-old.

The Harlem Baker said that I have to channel my talent for being a teacher to my family. I have to except the fact that some will get me and others won't. But the problem is, no one gets me; and, I thought at one point, that my youngest sister got me.

But she doesn't.

Maybe, she will come around one day. I didn't really like my first dance either. Actually, I came home and watched television teary eyed. My mother didn't notice as she gave me something to drink (probably orange juice, I luv orange juice). I felt I missed something big that was suppose to happen that night. I figured out then too, that I didn't fit in just right. I had to change something, so I could pass.

I was 13 and in the 7th grade.

Sis' was 11 and in the 6th.

I wonder if it was this May passed (?)