#i love my baby girl but i need something easier which is my mumu

[warriorsgoddess]

I’M MOVING BLOGS!!!!

you can now find mikaela on my multimuse blog here! @glitchyluv

[acuppellarp]

We’re excited to announce that Ace has decided to level up X Scott from a mumu minor character to a main character! Please go through the checklist to make sure you’re ready to go and send in your account within the next 24 hours. 

OOC INFO

Name + pronouns: Ace + She/Her/It Age: 31 Timezone: CST Ships: X/Chemistry, X/Kindness, X/Acceptance Anti-Ships: X/forced

IC INFO

Full Name: Layla “X” Simone Scott Face Claim: Ari Fitz Age/Birthday: 25 / December 1, 1992 Occupation: artist/barista/waitress/children’s birthday party performer/regular Jack of all trades Personality: kind, calm, silly, humble, artistic. Hometown: St. Louis, MO Bio: Layla Simone Scott was an answered prayer. After 10 years of marriage and 3 little boys, Caroline Scott finally had the baby girl she had wished so desperately for. Caroline had dreamed of having a little girl of her own ever since she was a little girl herself. When Layla was born her mother envisioned pink, ribbons and  bows, her own little perfect princess. Dreams don’t always turn out how we envision them.

As a child, Layla didn’t exactly fit the traditional description of a Tomboy, but it tended to be the label that persisted. She was never very interested in sports, and she didn’t necessarily spend more time with little boys over little girls, with the exception of her big brothers. In fact, Layla spent most of her time alone in her room drawing fantastical worlds and people who would grow from her imagination. In these imaginary worlds Layla belonged, the imaginary people loved her and didn’t want her to be anything other than who she was. Her Tomboy title partly came from the fact that she loved wearing her brother’s clothes and she on more than one occasion attempted to cut off her hair, to her mother’s dismay. She ran around in makeshift capes fighting invisible villains and putting the masked crusaders she created with crayons and colored pencils on the refrigerator.

Very early own Layla realized she wasn’t exactly comfortable with the role the world had assigned her, though she didn’t have the tools to describe what she was feeling. What she knew was she hated the dresses her mother put her in, she didn’t have any connection to the name her parents gave her, and she didn’t fit the mold. Being from a black baptist family there were certain expectations for little girls and quite a bit of time spent in church was apart of that deal. Layla enjoyed the music but everything else was a constant reminder that she didn’t belong. The word of God was to be paid careful attention to, but being preached at just made Layla uncomfortable.

Those questions of belonging and who Layla truly was needed to be expressed and explored in some manner and her chosen route, or that thing that chose her was art. She couldn’t remember a time where she wasn’t getting lost in creating her own visual stories or getting lost in those created by others. Going on a journey through imagery was an indescribable comfort and actually creating those voyages was cathartic. It was also so nice to just be good at something that she actually enjoyed doing. It opened up a world comics and anime which would eventually open up a distant community.  

The older she got, the more she rejected the norm, the more strained life at home became. Her mother seemed to resent the fact that she wasn’t the little girl of her dreams, her father seemed to feel a level of visible embarrassment and her brothers who she felt closest to started to follow her parent’s lead. Once high school came along things were tough but life wasn’t without a few extremely cherished bright spots. Including her very first real friend. Layla had never had friends before, at least not ones she hadn’t met online. Her social awkwardness didn’t help this any, but her first true friend saw right through that.

Layla hated the clothes her parents bought her, so she’d find ways to turn them into something more expressive of who she sort of felt she was, or was maybe becoming. The clothing she wore, the way she presented herself to the world, like art, became an outlet for Layla. She’d leave home in one set of clothing and arrive at school in another. These clothes that would be cut, drawn on, and seemingly mismatched became a source of ridicule from her peers. One day, she was being pushed around by a couple of boys and Layla’s real life Superhero appeared out of nowhere and saved the day. Punching one of the boys right in the face. Layla couldn’t believe her eyes, and if she told the story today she would have said thematic music played along. Tasha Anders, stretched her hand out to help Layla Up from the ground were she’d fallen at some point. The introduction went something like, “Are you a mutant? That was some crazy strength behind that punch… // Why? Are you trying to recruit me, Professor X?” And the rest was history.

Tasha eventually became the one person in the world to accept them for who they were, Professor X. Layla told Tasha how much she didn’t like her given name in their many soul pourings, and from that point on Tasha only called them Professor X, or just X. The girl was also the first person to tell X that it was okay to not be a her or a him. It was okay to hover somewhere in between, and though X didn’t quite believe that at the time, the warmth that came from that permission was something that couldn’t be put into words. Tasha had opened up so many new doors in Xs life, the girl was magic. They explored the city together, and they were inspired by one another. X’s art became something… more.  Tasha was her first friend, first muse, first love and the first important loss in her life. The girl at some point became X’s home when the world was too tough to bare. And the abrupt way Tasha disappeared from their life still leaves a big lingering ‘why’.

Slight confidence came with the new realization that their was beauty in who they were and weren’t. X moved through their space differently.  They’d felt the loss deeply, but there was comfort in the knowledge that they could be loved for exactly who they were, even if only for a short while. X focused even more on telling beautiful meaningful stories with their work, and it wasn’t until then that they realized they wanted to share those stories with other people. They began showing their art at school and suddenly became the weird artsy kid instead of just weird and surprisingly, that made them less of a pariah.

As X grew more into who they were towing the line at home became increasingly difficult. Eventually X leaning more into their authentic self became more than their parents could handle, and they were essentially exiled from their home. While they figured out what came next X found themselves sleeping on one of their brother’s couches, dreaming of a quick escape. It was made clear the situation had to be temporary so making the dream escape a reality was imperative. Somehow X knew it would all be figured out, so when Alex sort of appeared with a magical solution, they weren’t surprised. Alex was a kid who hadn’t necessarily spoken much to X in the past but didn’t make fun of them, and recently begun to greatly admire the work they brought to school. He’d heard about the Scott family drama, as did everyone in their little area of town, and he reached out. Turns out he had an aunt in New York, a place very present in X’s work at the time. The two of them pleaded X’s case and eventually the woman agreed to take X in for a little while. It may have seemed crazy to agree to live with a complete stranger in a place they knew no one, but it was the perfect solution for X in that moment.

When X arrived at Grand Central Station, they breathed their biggest sigh of relief. Mona Thorne, the aunt of Alex, and the second of X’s real life heros was a small middle aged grumbly black lesbian. Standing in the middle of the train station with a sign that said “Alex’s Homeless Friend’, she was also the most beautiful site X had ever seen. Mona had three rules, go to school or get a GED, pay for your own food, and no company in the apartment. X got their GED within a couple months and quickly picked up a waitressing job. Life goes on.

It took a bit of time for X to adjust to the city, but NYC eventually became the home. They worked, volunteered, created and explored. Art was around every corner as well as other like minded sensitive souls. That meant by the time Mona eventually moved back to Missouri to help take care of her mother, X had already grown into her “everything works out in the end” attitude. The collection of friends from all walks of life, including the eclectic A-Cup group, they made continued to grow, which made their newly vagabond existence much easier, sometimes even preferable. They spent years couchsurfing and sometimes making parks or roofs their room for the night. They were not only creating adventures through their art but actually living them.

X considers themselves a serious artist but has in the past been reluctant about fully pursuing art as a career. They were afraid of becoming less authentic, but the desire to change the world through art has recently become stronger than the fear of becoming a sellout. They are now on a new mission to share their art with the world

Pets:  No pets because they’ve never had a steady place to live but X would love a kitty.

EXTRA INFO

Twitter name/twitter URL/description: ProfessorX/@XXXistential/ I’m going to change the world one canvas at a time

Five latest tweets:

   @XXXistential: Ororo Munroe, you have my heart forever.

   @XXXistential: You’re only inviting me to your party to be be your sober driver and I’m okay with that

Because I want you home safe and I want your chips and dip

   @XXXistential: Hufflepuffs In the House!!!

   @XXXistential: To perform every action artfully is yoga. -Swami Kripalu

  ��@XXXistential Working a birthday party next weekend and I have some new things I want to try out. Who’s going to be my face painting guinea pig?

Relationships

Sam: Sam is the first person X felt deeply connected too in a very long time. She is there best friend and unrequited love. X has accepted that nothing will ever happen with them but has yet to figure out the formula for getting over Sam

Stevie: Stevie is actually one of X’s favorite humans. Stevie’s slightly grumpy nature poses a challenge X enjoys, trying to bring a smile to her face no matter how much the girl resists.

Hunter: They first became friends when Hunter began commissioning X’s work for her bar. Hunter is one of the few people who just makes X laugh for no reason at all. The woman’s energy is sort of the opposite of X’s and that’s intriguing.

Teddy: Teddy is this enigma of a person that X has a great desire to figure out. And X is one of the few people Teddy tolerates. They have an interesting friendship that X holds dear.

[theadventuresofartgirl]

Erotilogue: Something of a cross between a travelogue and erotica. I think this is my own word. I don’t find it in the dictionary, but it rolled right out of my brain and onto my tongue as familiar and comfy as a well-washed T- shirt and it suits this record of my journey to its own T.

Hello my Dear,                                                                                                                                         Will you forgive me for being such an awful correspondent? I haven’t written in months, you’re thinking. Not to you, it’s true, and I apologize for that. You have been on my mind. I do miss our chats. But I have been writing, let me explain.

A man I met connected me with a retired editor from Double Day, to see what the book needs. The editor likes the book, but he did suggest edits I need to make before submitting it again. I’ve gone through the whole thing, page by page, yet again, done as he asked — where it sat right with me — and now I’ve fired it back off to him for a re-read

So, as you see, I’ve been writing and writing, just not to you. And for that I apologize. I realize unless you’ve kept up to date on facebook, you don’t even know where I am. The last we spoke, I was hip deep in a snow bank, freezing my tail feathers when I wanted to be sunning them. And a certain friend was anxious that I do just that.

“Baby, when you come?” Railyn asked for the umpteenth time in several days.

“I can’t come until the house I renovated sells.” I told him yet again.

He wasn’t a believer. I’d come for the past two winters and he was positive I was coming again. He also didn’t seem to comprehend that I might not be able to afford to come, just at this moment. Dominicans and their finances are a whole other thing. When they have money, they call their friends and share it, enjoy it. then it’s gone. And their approach is, “Why worry? more will come. Tranquillo.” The truth is, outside of a disaster, they’re pretty much right. It usually does. I admire this philosophy. They live very much in the now, for today.

“House will sell, baby, don’t worry. Just come, I miss you.”

Okay, now it was getting good. “Really? What do you miss about me?” I love this kind of stuff.

“Everything. I have a little fantasy. I am lay on the sofa and you —“

I see him in my mind’s eye. “Yes, me, what am I doing?” I felt a little flushed.

“You cooking baby. I love how you cook for me. Strange food.”

Screech. The brakes are hit. Not exactly what I’d expected but oh well, I’ll take it. I do like to cook, experimental recipes. Things he’s never eaten before. Strange food. Like curry, paella and fahitas.

He’s such a good eater. It’s fun to cook for a man that’s a good eater.

 “Coming Baby, please. I wait for you.”

That night was spent like countless other sleepless nights I’ve had, waiting for a house to sell. Thinking of how to budget every cent, so I could hold out until it moved. This house got finished at the worst possible time of year, Christmas. I knew it wouldn’t move until Spring. I’d pretty much invested my whole wad and now there was nothing I could do but wait.

Although, I told myself … I could wait on the island, looking out at the ocean, with a sexy man in my bed, just as easily as I could wait here in Montana, alone, frozen, and in a snow bank. That heavenly blue water was calling my name. “Michelle, Michelle….” Oof!

It was one bugger of a winter too. The worst I could remember in a long, long time. I got out my credit cards and started rifling through the zero percent interest offers I’d accumulated. H-m-m-m … It could be done. I decided to take a leaf out of the Dominican hand book and trust more would come, and I’d be able to pay them off.

Seven days and twenty-eight hours later, I’d managed to pull my tights off in the minuscule airplane bathroom, wad them up and shove them into my purse, and slip on my sandals. All part of the nifty, f-ing-frostbite to hellacious- humidity quickie-kit, I’d wedged within my carry on. Then there came a rap on the door.

“I need you to take a seat for landing now, please.”

“I’m almost finished, I … “

“Take a seat and fasten your seat belt, now. Thank you.” The flight attendant rapped again.

And you know me, I’ve always been a good girl, so I minded her, damn!

I got off the plane at one forty-five a.m., in Santiago, with bare legs below, and a big, bulky turtleneck sweater on top. Not the look I was going for, especially not after an eight-month absence from Railyn, and the heat hit me like I dropped into a swamp as soon as I stepped off the plane. The turtleneck glued to the back of my neck. Sweat trickled down my spine. In that moment, I wanted nothing so much as to rip it off and go topless.

It’s a lot for a poor bod to take, going from 10 below to 85 above like that. I think mine went into shock. I definitely felt rummy as I heaved my two enormous cases onto the push-cart. Then, I piled my little dog Sweet Pea’s rolling travel case on top of the heap, with her inside, peeking out her mesh window.

We toddled down the long white hall towards customs, but there were no friendly musicians— in sugar cane cutting costumes — there to welcome us with a merry meringue,  like there had been when I landed in the afternoon. Customs, which consists of buying a tourist pass for ten dollars — which no one will ever look at again for the duration of your stay — and telling the nice man in the glass passport checking box, that we were here for pleasure — definitely for pleasure — which made him laugh.

An Army waited for me outside. Railyn, his brother, and his best friend all stood shoulder to should ready to greet me exuberantly, raise eyebrows at my bulky black sweater, what was I thinking, and then hoist my cases into the car. Railyn had experienced my suitcase situation before, you see. He came prepared. He knows I am not a girl who travels light, and the condo I’d rented this time was a fourth-floor walk-up. Once they got the cases up the stairs, the other men took off home, back to their beds.

I on the other hand, followed Sweet Pea to where a long stemmed red rose lay across the thresh hold of the closed bedroom door.

I turned the knob and pushed it open to find a trail of rose petals with flickering tea lights woven in and out among them, (thank god he hadn’t burnt the place down, it’s over an hour drive from the airport), smelling heavenly and leading to the bed.

The maids had formed the bath towels into two white swans, their necks entwined, forming a heart. He had circled the swans with velvety red rose petals, and long stemmed roses were strewn across the bed.

A second path led into the bathroom,

where pink petals formed a giant letter M,

and long stemmed pink roses filled the basin of the sink.

A rose was on my bedside table, and a bouquet of long stem red roses was on the dresser.

I remember being pissed off when I read that Ben Affleck had done something similar for J-Lo. I was jealous. She already had everything. Then she got that too? Not fair. No one had ever done anything like that for me. And here it was. I stood right in the center of the room and cried, I was so touched.

“Baby, why you cry? You like it? Yes?”

“Yeees,” I wobbled. “I love it.” I did. I truly did.

Of course, there was no Harry Winston pink diamond on the bed, like Ben had left, but that was easily forgiven. I’m more a romantic, than a materialist.

If you would have asked me on the plane if I was in the mood for sex, I would have said, definitely not. I was exhausted. Funny how quickly my mind was changed for me. Three a.m., and no sleep for the last forty-eight hours and yet there I was, awake, alert, and on fire. My poor, neglected, spinsterific body was brought back to life, trembling, arching, moaning, once again. He had not forgotten which buttons to push. And then I slept like a coconut had dropped off a palm tree onto my head, out for the count.

Unfortunately, Sweet Pea had already done a little too much sleeping over the course of our flight here. When She heard Railyn get up and leave for the gym, she was ready to be up and about too. ARGH!

I slipped on a little, floral, cotton mini-dress I call my mumu, stepped into some flip flops, clipped  Sweet Pea’s leash onto her collar, and we headed for the beach and a sunrise walk. We always have to stop and look both ways before we exit the path that leads from grass and gardens of the complex here at Cabaret East, to hit the sand. Sometimes big dogs roam free on the beach, and they aren’t the type to play nice at the dog park. I’ve ended up in the water, up to my neck, holding Sweet Pea over my head, until a pack of dogs snarling at us from shore, gave up and went in search of easier prey.

I always talk about all the things I love about coming here. But the way dogs are treated is not one of them. I don’t blame the people, they are very poor and when you are trying to figure out what you can possibly feed your children that night, you are not worried about grain free dog food or any of the other things that American pet owners are concerned with.

A lot of dogs don’t seem to belong to anyone. No one takes care of them. They are neglected, flea infested and sometimes have been abused. I would say they fall into the category best known as curs. They have been left to fend for themselves on the streets, snatching up a scrap of anything they can find to survive. (It may be just the same for cats, but they appear to be sleek and well fed, as opposed rib cage baring, thin).

One night, on my last trip down here, we were invited to a barbeque dinner at a friend of Railyn’s house. When we finished, we noticed a mama doggie lingering near the gate, lured by the aroma, sad-eyed yet hopeful, watching for her chance. Railyn’s friend stood up to ready to flap his arms and shoo her away. Tail between her legs, she tuned to go. But Railyn held up a hand and stopped his friend. He stacked all our scraps onto his plate, and made his way to the street, to feed the mama doggie. She had children hidden away somewhere to feed too. These are the things he does that woo me. A tenderness that appears and melts my heart. Because this isn’t normal behavior here. Dogs don’t count for much here, over-all.

This particular morning no dogs were visible either direction on the beach, so we set off.  Suddenly Sweet Pea stopped in her tracks. To all appearances, she seemed to take in and appreciate the glorious warmth and the beauty that surrounded us, and came forward to kiss us good morning.

“Hello ocean,” I shouted out to the surf, which trembled with delight and rose up to wave a white hanky in our direction. “I’ve missed you too, my friend.” I told it and we strolled along together, while it whispered its gentle words to me, soothing words, that never fail to relax the soul. Back and forth, in and out, with a rhythmic, cool caress it lapped my ankles and jumped back, waiting to see if I minded. I allowed it, so it came again, this time daring to glide up my calf.

Fresh

At the complex next to ours, a little old gray haired fellow was cleaning the pool. He stopped what he was doing to come to the fence and thump his chest with his open palm in the general of his heart. Aha! We had an admirer. He was telling us something, I caught linda and bonita, so I smiled and waved. He patted his heart again. As always, Sweet Pea thought it was for her, she wagged her stubby little tail and pranced towards him. I thought it was for me, so we were both happy. Our morning was made.

A little further down we came abreast with a house where Sweet Pea had made a friend, last winter. She’s so smart, I thought as she stopped, determined, waiting, sniffing the fence in the exact spot where she always touched noses with the neighbor dog. She was looking for Alta. But Alta was no longer living in the house. It looked deserted.

All of a sudden, a cacophony of yelps broke out from the balcony above. Puppy faces popped out through all the rails, one after another. A young dog started down the stairs, but when I said “Olah Baby,” it ran away, frightened. A young woman appeared on the balcony to hush the dogs. I could see she was probably American or Canadian.

“Hi. What’s going on here? Are you a dog trainer?” I shouted over the volume of barking dogs, mine included.

“Hello. No, I’m here to take them back to Toronto.” She made her way down the stairs, closer to me, so I could hear her. “I’m Olivia. I volunteer for Save Our Scruff. I’m taking these dogs back with me to find forever homes for them.”

“That is so cool. I’ve seen shows on T.V. about programs like yours, but those people were driving them up north in big trucks.”

“Its Laura Bye’s organization. I just volunteer to fly down and get them, crate them up, and fly them back with me.”

“I’m so happy to know these guys will be taken care of. I was just thinking about how many abandoned and abused dogs there are here.

“Yes, it’s really a bad situation. Are you here on vacation?”She asked, and we proceeded to get acquainted. After a few minutes I told her I had to be off.

“Well, it was nice to meet you. Wait. Let me give you Laura Bye’s card.” She jogged back up the stairs and returned with it. (Now, I’ll tell you how to find them, in case you are feeling flush and would like to help out. I did, poor doggies. www.saveourscruff.org, or facebook.com/saveourscruff).

“Thanks. Very cool you’re doing this.” I put the card in my pocket and we headed off down the beach, pleased to know someone had seen their plight and stepped up to make a difference. Lucky Dogs!

Further down along our sandy trek, I watched as two little kids ran up to their fence, excited about Sweet Pea. She is unique here, you don’t see many dogs like her. Certainiy never with a flower in their hair. They were darling children. The little boy squatted down to pet Sweet Pea through the chain link.

I took out my phone, to snap a picture, and he hurriedly stood and put his arm around his little sister. Dominican’s love to pose for a shot. Completely snap happy as far as I can tell, the lot of them. This tiny boy already had it down pat.

“Adios,” I told the children. “It’s time for us to head back Sweet Pea. Mommy wants her tea.”

The only problem with that was my honey. I’d asked Railyn to buy one so it was there in the morning when I got up. He said he had some at home and he’d bring it. Now, taking it from the cupboard, I saw the little bit left wasn’t enough for even one cup. What was there had crystallized in the bottom corners and wasn’t looking exactly luscious. Poop.

Railyn wouldn’t be back for hours. But I knew what I could do. I’d take the Guagua, the people’s transport, into the store on my own and get my honey. After all I was a seasoned traveler now, this being my third winter here. I knew they passed by here all day long. I knew they went by Janet’s Grocery Store. I got a hundred peso note and went down to the street. The man at our gate appeared surprised, but if that’s what I wanted to do, by all means he would help me. He followed me curbside and a few minutes later, stepped out to hail the Guagua which was barreling towards us at breakneck speed.

The mini-van came to a slow rolling sort of stop, it’s the side door wide open, with a muscled young man hanging out of it.

He grabbed my arm and I flew inside, as the driver hit the gas and lurched back into oncoming traffic, nearly sideswiping a green Honda in the process. I fell forward, but the agile people-plucker caught me.

Looking around, I saw all the seats were taken.

I was prepared to stand up next to the people-pluckerer, but he didn’t want me there. He spat an order and the people in the shortest seat, the middle seat, wedged together further. I couldn’t see how I could possibly fit. My butt wasn’t any where near as small as that. The people-plucker barked something else and prodded me, indicating I should take my seat. I hovered for a moment over the infinitesimal space they’d created and then dropped. I ended up with half a cheek propped up onto the right thigh of the boy next to me. He looked at me and smiled. The Guagua careened to the right, slowing down. We were picking up even more people.

Janet’s is a busy hub. I got off the Guagua with the majority of the bus riders, et voila1! I was in downtown Cabarete. The store was bustling. It always is. Tourists from every nation, as white as the rice in their carts, wander the aisles. Here and there, you’ll see a few sprinkled in who are as dark as mahogany, and look like they’re made out of old belts. They’ve stayed here too long.

A woman in a red sunhat held a can of olive oil in each hand, looking from one to another as if one brand might confess to being the inferior. A tall man with a big nose peered over his reading glasses at the cookies up on the top shelf. Pushing the specks back up, he muttered their ingredients to himself. Spanish Labeling led them astray.

But I’m seasoned, I’ve been here many a time, and I know exactly where they keep the honey, which is my preferred brand, and I love its label. Very sweet — (pun intended) — graphics, and nothing could be simpler to understand.

Of course, I didn’t stop there. As long as I made the trip I figured I’d get something to make for Railyn’s lunch and the French bread was still warm from the oven, it smelled heavenly, so I had to take it. Oh, and the little crackers they make here, I just love them. The fruit is so ripe and lovely too. So are the avocados. I got some.

I left with a full shopping bag in each hand, and dashed over to the opposite side of the street, where a long line Dominicans also stood, waiting for the Guagua. It pulled up and a hoard descended. Just as quickly, the throng I stood among, boarded. It was packed. Cram-jammed. Butt to butt jammage, there wasn’t even room for half a cheek.

The people-pluckerer was talking to the tourist that was holding them up, gesturing for her to hurry up and get on board. I was talking, trying to make him understand that I would wait for the next bus, that there was absolutely no room for me in that mini-van. Neither understood the other. The driver tooted the horn. The people-plucker took matters into his own hands, literally. He picked me up under my arms like I was a child, and plopped me down, lickety-split, onto the lap of a fat man in the front seat. My groceries dropped onto the lap of the woman sitting next to him, who I took to be his wife. She put her arms around them.

“Hola,” she said.

“Hola,” I responded, from atop her husband. No one seemed to find this the least bit out of the ordinary.

The Guagua pulled out without looking both ways. They never do. They believe they own the road, this people’s bus. Other drivers should stop for them. Railyn swears at them frequently when they pull out in front of him, and makes bad gestures at them as we pass them, after he’s been cut off. They don’t care, they remain oblivious. Now the  blaring of horns and squealing of brakes sounded from behind us. I wanted to look back but my head was bent at an odd angle, pressed up against the glass. I wanted to hold on, but I couldn’t imagine what I could take hold of, so I wrapped my arms around my waist and bobbed up and down on the fat man’s lap, along with the motion of the chuggy van. We rode along like this for several miles, to where my condo was located. I saw it out of my periphery just as we were starting to pass it and shrieked “Pare, pare, condo, condo” (stop, stop, condo condo), being ever so proud of myself for being seasoned enough to have remembered the word I’d seen so often on the red stop signs, while riding around with Railyn. Of course I was pronouncing it as “Pear, pear, condo, condo,” since I’d never heard it spoken. At least not that I’d absorbed.

The driver turned his head with a scowl marring his brow. “Que?” (What) He queried, not even slowing down.

“Pear, pear, condo, condo.” I said again. This time gesturing madly at the condo we were quickly leaving far behind us.

“Quando, quando?” (When, when)? He asked, eyes searching, brows beetling further.

“Ah, si, ” (Oh, yes), The friendly lady holding my groceries said suddenly. “El condo.” (the condo), She got it. Her eyes were alight.

“Si! Si!” I bobbed my head against the glass. “Si, el condo.”(Yes, the condo). “Yo vivais”, I said. Well vivais was french but sometimes it works and they are the same. I always try it. I live condo, is what I was after.

She nodded, she knew. She gave a rapid-fire explanation to the driver, who slammed on the brakes. I would have fallen, but I was wedged against the glass. My groceries slid off her knees, but she caught them.

“Adios,” she said, handing me the bags.

“Adios, gracias” I said, right before I felt the people-plucker lift me off the fat man’s lap, and I sort of flew backwards through the mob. My flip flops dangled precariously from my feet. I squeezed my toes and held on tight.

He dropped me on the gravel to the side of the road. I stood in the cloud of dust they left in their wake, watching as they peeled out directly in front of a black Rover — now shaking a fist at them — and the strong young man hung way out the open door of the speeding van, eyes forward, glued to the road, watching for the next people to pluck.

Something cold and wet touched up against the back of my ankle. I jumped and looked down. A stray dog slinked back, like he was afraid I’d hit him. Fleas circled the poor nose that was so interested in what was in my sack. I broke off the end of the fresh loaf.

“Here you go buddy.” I tossed the bread to him. “Say, how would you like to live in Toronto? I’ve never been, but they tell me it’s nice.”

My Island Lover: Dog’s Town Erotilogue: Something of a cross between a travelogue and erotica. I think this is my own word.