Seraphia: 50% Saint, 50% Stripper

There is a charming little oceanside town on the California Coast just south of San Francisco. It's filled with over-priced boutiques, surfers, artists, $15 artichoke appetizers and the world's best seafood restaurant (and I'm not just saying that because my Aunt works there).

It's also a great place to build an illegal fire on the beach and smoke a little crack until you vomit and then smoke a little more.

And for whatever reason, it's a place where the local teens are given nicknames that stick with them for life. It's kind of like a Catholic getting their very own confirmation name. I was never confirmed (and not just because I told my mom the holy water burned) so I never got to give myself a new name. Which is too bad because I already had a named picked out - Seraphia. Seraphia, because she was a virgin and a martyr and if you're going to pick a new name you might as well go big. That, and because I thought it would be a great name if I ever had to work the pole for a living or serve sloppy mouth hugs in the VIP room.

[Gentlemen, please put your hands together for the lovely, the virginal, the long-suffering ...Seeeraphiiiiaaaaa .....]

And I didn't grow up on the coast so my nicknames in High School were totally crappy. People still call me G, which is short for Gina. I just totally blew your mind with the originality of that one, huh? Maybe that's why I've dubbed myself Miss Spoken. Or maybe I just love the idea of an alternate personality, one that refuses to integrate. One that doesn't play well with others and sometimes stubs her vagina (not really, but I hadn't used the word vagina yet in this post and I always like to use it at least once. You're welcome.)

My late husband grew up in this town. Actually, he would clarify that he grew up in Trailer Town which is exactly what it sounds like; a community of trailer homes. Double wide, bitches. Anyhell, he went by the name Seltar and I think I dated him for several weeks before learning his real name was Richard. My sister, Miss Led, had a similar situation. She once dated a guy but could never remember his name so she just called him homey.

"I love you, Miss Led."

"Ditto, Homey."

Actually, I guess her situation wasn't the same at all. Anyway, my point is that these people have the best nicknames I have ever heard of. Names like Turkey Dinner ('cause he was as big as a turkey dinner), Puppy, Bucket, Goose Mama, Frogger and his little brother Tadpole (fucking brilliant), Clayture, ZiirroSixx (I'm sure I spelled that wrong), Jungle Brother (no, he wasn't/isn't black) and the list goes on and on.

So what'd they call you back in the day? Come with it, Innernetterz. I promise I won't tell a soul.

Her Turntables Might Wobble But They Don't Fall Down

My sister, Miss Led, lives in a place where she's not allowed to have a cell phone. There's also no television and forget about a newspaper so don't bother asking her where Tiger is 'cause she'll just tell you that he's hiding in the doghouse with Kitty Carryall.

But my sister is resourceful and not one to follow all the rules. Her contraband is her cell phone and yes, it's fancy so it has Internet access which means she's finally able to join the army (where army means handful) of people following the word of Miss Spoken.

She immediately observes two things:

1. I use a lot of profanity, maybe too much for her. That's odd because I seem to recall her owning a stack of fluorescent orange stickers that read, "Fuck You, You Fucking Fuck!"
2. There is a noticeable lack of postings that are centered around, involve, showcase or otherwise mention her.

There's not much I can do about number one, but I'm all over number two. Ladies, gentlemen and children too young to comprehend the filth that rolls off my tongue ... now appearing in the center ring, ..... It's .... Miss .... Led!

[Insert random clapping, muffled coughing and shifting uncomfortably in one's seat]

I'm sure it wasn't easy growing up with me as a big sister and not just because of my incredible intelligence (please don't make me explain quantum mechanics again). I'm guessing it was difficult because I'd play games like Let's Make Little Sister Close Her Eyes & Walk Her Into Stop Signs, and the ever-popular Let's Put Little Sister On The Handle Bars & Hit A Curb. And who could forget Let's Grab A Knife & Chase Little Sister Into The Closet singing the "We Don't Like Snitches" song.

And when my mother decided to give her a pixie cut, she looked less like Mia Farrow and more like she fell head first into a wood chipper. And God help her, her favorite outfit at the time was this rose colored jumpsuit that made a shwoosh shwoosh noise every time she fucking moved. To this day, I have no idea what kind of fabric that was but luckily she took her school picture in it so future generations can continue this perplexing research.

There are way too many stories to tell about Miss Led.

Like the time she came home high on Ecstasy and thought my Aunt was giving a blow job to a guy in a wheelchair (She wasn't. At least we're pretty sure she wasn't). Or the time she accidentally glued one of those squiggly eyes to the center of her forehead using industrial strength adhesive. And how together, we both like to torment our Grandma by constantly saying words that offend her: creamy, faggot, orgasm. Grandma might deserve this because these are her favorite words: Go to hell and piss on you all.

Miss Led ......

She's a little bit of this:

And a little bit of that:

She may or may not have had sex in a cemetery. She certainly had sex in Candlestick Park.

She can recite nearly every line from The Devil's Advocate ("It wasn't the wine, Kevin...")

She was once overcome with emotion while listening to a song and started to cry. The song was Tupac's "California Love."

I should probably stop here before this turns into an unauthorized biography and she sues me for defamation of character.

A Not-So-Funny Post About Addiction

It's about 9 o'clock in the morning and my semi-collective family (Johnny Boy, my mom, The Boy and I) are making our way over the hill and through the woods to Miss Led's house we go.

Miss Led is my little sister.

Miss Led has two daughters.

Miss Led currently lives in a residential rehab for women.

Alright, I'll just say it. Addiction is not uncommon in my family. It's actually quite the norm. Think steak and potatoes (or orange juice and vodka); it's like it was just meant to be. What's abnormal, is somebody in my family getting help. And she is.

So we are making this three hour drive to celebrate Christmas a week early. The car is packed with gifts for her daughters and things to make her life in the Anti-Shangri-La more comfortable (and therefore maybe less likely for her to leave?). Pillows, cigarettes, tampax, string cheese and a huge bowl of homemade spicy peanut chicken with a bag of lettuce cups to wrap it in. Because I know that if I were in rehab, I would want spicy peanut chicken wraps. Who wouldn't? I might also want a powerful sedative.

But enough about chicken, let's get back to the meat and potatoes. The undeniable truth is that addiction has infected every branch of this family tree. It's our root disease. It's made grandchildren steal from grandparents, fathers smoke crack with daughters and mothers pass out at the kitchen table while their jeans darken with the release of urine that their broken bodies can no longer hold. Our boys have gone to prison. Our girls have abused themselves.

If you follow the word of Miss Spoken, you might be under the impression that I'm a genius. That I would naturally be immune to this bacteria. But for the record, I am not the better sister wagging a finger at the poor choices the younger sister has made and tsk-tsking her behavior. Instead, I feel nothing but empathy, a sort of soul-symphony.

Trauma. Abuse. Neglect. Exploitation. All of these things pretend to be buried when you're high so you stay high. But the addict knows that in reality, drugs are just a lay-away plan. Recovery means cashing out and getting it all back with interest. Which is why I love my sister even more for taking these initial steps and doing the work that will give her back her identity, her confidence, her children and ultimately her life.

Two months down and many more to go before I can stop holding my breath for her. Until then, I'll keep her supplied with meat that doesn't need to be refrigerated, canned white potatoes and whatever my heart can afford.

One Lucky Bastard Am I

Miss Spoken is Irish. Not completely, but she's more Irish than she is Greek. More Irish than she is Portuguese. And more Irish than she is German.

Let's see just how Irish she is. To do this, we shall start with (and end with) Irish stereotypes:

1. Yes, she's Catholic. No, she's not a practicing Catholic, unless you count the religious art hanging in her house ('cause she thinks it's cool) or the neck-weary crucifixes she wore in the 80s or the time(s) she actually did go to church but told her mother that the holy water burned. Which reminds me ... Miss Spoken's sister, Miss Led,  thinks her bedroom is haunted and therefore has asked her mother to send her holy water. Miss Spoken has suggested to said mother that she instead send toilet water. Sort of like a placebo. This proves that not only is Miss Spoken a certified genius, but she is also funny(ish).
   
2. Yes, she loves the Kennedy Family. Once upon a time, Miss Spoken was the proud owner of a gorgeous black dining room table that was supposedly owned by a Kennedy. Which Kennedy, you ask? Who cares. Any Kennedy. And because the owner before Miss Spoken bought this table at Christie's, she believed it with all her heart and would spend weekends loving this table, polishing this table and totally making out with this table (which is a reoccurring theme for Miss Spoken).
3. Yes, she loves potatoes! She loves them fried, mashed, baked, baked again and stuffed with wonderful things like cheese and onion. God help her, she's even had them on her pizza.
4. Yes, she's a brawler? No, she's not a brawler? Miss Spoken refuses to answer, citing some bullshit excuse about self-incrimination and outstanding warrants. Blah-blah.
5. No, she's not an alcoholic ... per se. Aren't Sundays supposed to be about drinking? And so what if she relies on her 4:00 glass of Chardonnay (stop yelling at her 'cause it used to be 3:00) and Miss Perceived is the one who told her to take a shot of vodka in the morning ... just to settle down when life throws a big pile of shit at your already shit-coated extremities.
6. No, she does not have the Luck of the Irish. She has the Potato Famine Raped By Vikings kind of Irish luck. The kind of luck that delivers your menstrual cycle like a tsunami while you're in the middle of the woods camping. The kind of luck that always finds you in a Wal*Mart line where a price check needs to be done and the person doing the checking is fucking brainless. The kind of luck that shapes itself into a virus resting in Miss Spoken's chest and sinuses the day before she is to host a dozen people in her house for Thanksgiving. 

Conclusion:  Miss Spoken is too Irish for her own good and should consider being more Greek or maybe more German. More Greek/German stereotype tests to follow.