Saturday, September 22, 2012

keeping it real

eat my scabs

I am not always strong, courageous or peaceful.  

Yesterday was terrible.  I woke up in a good mood, made breakfast and took our daughter to school.  

Less than 10 minutes after walking through the door Mr. Scabs said something, then I said something, then he said something, then I said some more really mean things.  Insanity had taken over (remember her).  We were all out brawling!  Both of us hurt.  

We walked away, slammed doors, silent treatment, more mean things said, crying, blaming, sarcasm and before we knew it, it was time for dinner.  My eyes hurt from bawling, my face was swollen and my heart ached.  

It's like I was back on the bitter battlefield!

Mr. Scabs gathered the children and took them out to eat.  I stayed home.  

The silence was warm.  Cessation.  What had sparked this implosion of dramatic brawling and why couldn't I let it go?  I felt delirious, like slitting my wrists (not literally).  I couldn't pin-point why I was so hurt and so crazy.  

As the night drew in, we made some kind of uneasy, exhausted peace.  Mr. Scabs took my feet in his hands.    Smoothing lotion on my tired heels and loving me the best way he knows how.  After all the cruel things I had spewed in his direction, his eyes softened and his touch healed me.  Tears kept leaking from my eyes and a different kind of emotion overtook me.  

I felt his love and I felt vulnerable to it.

Today, I woke up feeling like a jerk.  Emotions were raging so high yesterday, I didn't notice the tell-tell signs; bloating, excessive chocolate craving, cramping, hormonal moodiness.  

I gave my heart-felt apology to Mr. Scabs.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

the masturbater

Follow the story.
Read the previous entry here.


Mr. Scabs and I have worked together to write this post.  
Although I form the sentences, many of these words are his own.  Trying to capture raw honesty from the past. 

Summer 2011

The corn field across the street had just been planted.  Climbing the steps toward the pink room, I feel like a hobo with a 3-wheeled Safeway grocery cart hauling my laundry basket full of clothes, my toothbrush and no hope.  Dejected, alone and bitterly hated.

I don't know how many cycles of corn I watched grow and die while I lived in the pink bedroom.  

The pink bed wrinkles as I toss the laundry basket on it.  Obviously, not meant for me.  It's meant for the daughter of my divorced roommate.  She would come and stay once in awhile but not anymore.

I can't be here.

Lacing up my running shoes and grabbing my ipod I run for the door, pissed.  

Pissed and falling deeper into my own self-pity.  Pissed I have to move out.  Pissed at myself.  Pissed at the world.  Pissed I couldn't make it work.  Why didn't things just fall into place?  We got married, I love her, why isn't that enough?  Running numbs the pissed and I begin to wonder why I'm here.

That first night I ran 5 miles.  Last time I ran 5 miles was in high school.

Exhausted, sweaty and awkwardly aware of my new surroundings, I climb the stairs prepared to hide away in the pink bedroom.  At the top of the stairs is a desk and a computer and the divorced father who's surfing Latin dating profiles.  I think how pathetic he is.

This computer desk in the hall is his daily perch.  He is the Masturbater.  Endless porn sites, dating sites and craigslist hookups.  I wouldn't dare use that keyboard.  He's disgusting.

I don't know his story but I can imagine it.

The Masturbater is clean and well dressed.  He is meticulous about his laundry even ironing his shirts.  He's a little overweight, drinks too much cheap beer, never exercises and lives on frozen corn dogs and burritos.   Scotch taped to his walls are pictures of his daughter.  They have almost no contact.

No matter how many cycles the corn has grown, the pink room feels foreign.  Like I have no citizenship, no rights, I'm a vagabond.  My nights are sleepless while I lay alone in between a strangers pink sheets.  How did I get here.  How did I become so estranged from my wife?  from my kids?

Am I the Masturbater?

Follow the story.
Read the next entry here.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Broken a/c Survival Kit

our a/c broke!  So I've put together a few survival kit and a cute hair scarf tutorial.

Broken A/C Survival Kit
vintage lounger, umbrella, lemonade, Gal Pal ice bag
Glamazon lip colormaxi kaftan, industrial fan

The big old fan on our air conditioner decided to sputter and die yesterday.  Which wouldn't be a big deal except that we're reaching 99 degrees during the day and we're dropping into the 70's at night.  The evenings are deliciously crisp but the days are hot.

Dear Air Conditioner,
Although it is never convenient for you to breakdown, I must thank you.  Thank you for not breaking down in August when mercury rises past 115 and we can bake cookies on the sidewalk.  Thank you for not abandoning us when we needed you most.
Thank you for not breaking down in the winter when we would have ignored you and then kicked ourselves in June when we realized you were still broken. 
And lastly, thank you for doing a thankless job.  You are loved. 


-Scabs Family

So, for your enjoyment (and mine) I've created the above curated broken A/C kit.  
Just in case this ever happens to you.  

And, here is the cutest scarf hair tutorial by the beautiful Keiko Lynn.  At 99 degrees we're guaranteed to perspire but we can still look adorable.

Cheers to the A/C guy who is here right now at 9:30 pm, replacing the motor!

our a/c broke!  So I've put together a few survival kit and a cute hair scarf tutorial.
Keiko Lynn

Monday, September 17, 2012

the other woman


Follow the Story
Read the previous entry here.

August 2011 

I discovered Joy on Facebook.  One of the women of my husbands sex-cation.  The result of years of porn and entitlement.  I found myself writing her a letter.  A twisted kind of love letter.  I wrote the letter in her language.

Dear Joy,
Hindi ko mapoot ka...
(I don't hate you...)

She lives across the sea, in a country a million miles away.  A country where rice and fish are the daily menu.  I lived in this country for over a year.  I know it's smells, it's customs and the way the a single motorcycle can be piled, teetering with 12 passengers and a box of chickens. It's a place I love with people I adore.

You see, his betrayal hurts more than just me. It's not just a mutual choice between consenting adults.

Joy is the epicenter, the eye of the hurricane, the individual personification of every women my husband used and discarded.  Thoughtlessly abused.  I hurt for them.

I'd seen Joy's picture, studied her smile.  I knew her face and her body.  I'd read her profile.  I knew she liked to read the Bible, spend time with her family and hoped to go to college someday.  I knew she'd just celebrated her 24th birthday.

Prostitution wasn't on her life list.

Why do I care?  Mr. Scabs and I are separated.  I'm preparing for divorce, about to leave his ugliness behind, start a fresh life.  I am fully detached so why do my thoughts linger on these women?

My heart steps into her shoes.  How would it feel to be her...

Each morning, after passing some cash to my landlord, buying some rice and one cigarette,  I wash my body.  The cool water rinses the sticky filth from the night.  I crawl my sore body onto a handmade grass mat.  It takes seconds to shut down and sleep, my mind removed from each nights work.   
How did I get here?  How many years has this been my life?  How many years do I have left?
New men each night.  Some are ruddy, overweight, sweaty and speak languages I don't understand.  Sign language is universal.  Others are lean, awkward and simple to please.  Some are angry, brutal and hurtful.  Some are handsome.  Some are rich and important.  Some are married and some are not.  Some are curious and some are lonely.   
I smile, giggle and put on a show.  Sex is mechanical.  Sometimes I'm afraid, degraded, other times they pretend to be my lover, but mostly it's empty. I do not know the genuine love of a man.

How would it feel to be them?  To have no safe place?  To be less than human, a commodity?   Her worth only has good as her blow job?

My heart cannot believe that any prostitute really wants to be there, whether by choice or by force.

I write Joy this twisted love letter because we are the same creature.  I am them and they are me.

Friday, September 14, 2012


School's out

Have a great weekend ya'll!
Don't forget to do something fun.


p.s. have you been on a swing recently?  I mean, really, high-flying swinging?
It's an instant blues chaser.  
Guaranteed it'll clear your mind and make you smile.

Maybe something like this is more your style!

Monday, September 10, 2012

What Mr Scabs learned from Oprah

What Mr. Scabs learned from Oprah

I didn't even know Mr. Scabs saw Oprah as a valid source of information.  
But, driving home from our 12-step meeting last night he says, 

"It's all in our attitude.  
An optimist can change his life and be successful and happy.  

Did you know Oprah writes down 6 things she's grateful for before she goes to bed?  And it's scientifically proven that if you fall asleep feeling happy or grateful, you're more likely to wake up feeling happy and grateful.  

I'm going to change my attitude about everything."

Totally off topic and not related but...
I darkened my hair a few weeks ago and love it!!!
My hairdresser is a genius.

I'll be posting pictures soon.

Friday, September 7, 2012

May the Force be with You

May the Force be with You,

It is the most delicious rainy day!  

Overcast and kind of chilly...I'm wearing tights and a flannel button up.  I might even put some socks on later.  Awwww, who'm I kidding?  The sun will come out in a few hours and burn this all off and we'll be back down to our underwear.  Such is life in Arizona.

Yeah, I'm putting that out there.  
The Scabs Family lives in Arizona.  Email me.  I'll introduce you to my favorite $1 ice-cream shop.

In other blog news, I'm testing the idea of a Facebook page, updating this blog layout and tossing the idea with a few other bloggers about hosting a Camp Scabs next spring.


There's also an interesting discussion beginning here about forgiveness.  
I'd like to hear what you think.

Have the best weekend and

May the Force be with You!

                                                                                                                  -----was that nerdy? 

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

My Birthday and Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson -...
Seriously, who didn't love the Thriller Album?

When I was 7 we lived on Faculty Court, a university neighborhood reserved for assistant professors, sabbatical researchers and other educational gypsies.

This place had all the ingredients for neighborhood exploring and adventures.  Alfalfa fields surrounded us, a rusted tractor was left in the waist high grass and a long overgrown alley with all kinds of abandoned trash ran behind the houses.  We would disappear for hours.

Every house was sided with pastel shingles, asbestos, no doubt.  An overgrown lilac bush flanked the side of our pink house and underneath it's perfumed branches was our fort.  The perfect place for collecting rocks, making up stories and de-legging daddy long legs (peer pressure!)

We were gypsy kids.  Not really part of the established neighborhood a block over and not really settled into our temporary pastel homes either.  We didn't belong.  Not even to each other.   A family would live there 6 months, 3 months or a year before moving on.

We were an ever rotating small hoard of elementary school kids.  We'd pass the Pickle Barrel ogling over the unnaturally gigantic pickles before walking 3 miles home from school.  For some reason, that is my most vivid memory, the Pickle Barrel.

This nomadic neighborhood was the location of the best birthday party ever!

Yes, this is actually the purse.
Selling on Ebay to one lucky buyer
September 5th,1980-something, my four, for the moment friends Lori, Mary, Stephanie (who spewed her lunch in the middle of 3rd grade) and Amber were invited to my birthday.

It was a dress-up tea party.  We wore lipstick, high heals and my moms' old homemade prom dresses (move over Disney!)

My brother was the butler.  He donned his dapper best in my Dad's old suit and tie and completed the look with a brown eyeliner mustache.

High on cake and ice cream I squealed as my 8-year old fingers tore the wrapping off a purple pleather purse with Michael Jackson printed on the front!!!!



On a side note...thank you sincerely to all those who have emailed.  I read every note and am in awe of your strength and kindness.  I'm in the weeds and am currently hacking my way out.  
Hope to catch up on emails this week!  

Sending my love to every single one of you,

Sunday, September 2, 2012


If this were a hipster blog, I'd post these perfectly styled homemade pancakes or better yet, I'd Instagram my Clinton Street Bakery Company experience complete with the above scrumdiliuptious flapjacks!  But with a hot griddle, hungry mouths and some accidentally spilt orange juice taking pictures didn't even cross my mind. 

A few years ago, I ran across this pancake recipe in an issue of Rejuvenation.
They've been a Sunday staple ever since.

I feel a quiet sense of satisfaction and humility watching my family gobbling up flapjacks as fast as I can flip them.  Not all mothers are so lucky.

Make them.  Eat them.  Yum!

credit (gorgeous lighting, right?)
Clinton Street Baking Company's Famous Pancakes

Prep Time: 10 minutes

Cook Time: 15 minutes

Total Time: 25 minutes

Yield: 18 to 20 3-inch pancakes


  • 4 cups all-purpose flour
  • 1 tablespoon baking powder, plus 1 teaspoon
  • ¾ cup sugar
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 6 large eggs, separated
  • 3 cups whole milk
  • ¾ cup (12 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted, plus 2 teaspoons unmelted for the griddle
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 2½ cups blueberries or sliced bananas and 1 cup chopped walnuts
  • ½ cup confectioners’ sugar or cinnamon sugar for dusting
  • Maple Butter


Here’s the secret of our pancakes: we fold egg whites into the batter. Neil discovered early on in the bakery’s existence that if he applied his French techniques — that is, you make a cake lighter by folding in whites (almost like a soufflĂ©) — the batter gets lighter but retains the springy resiliency that makes for a proper pancake. The other key to magnificent pancakes is to avoid overmixing, which creates gluten in the flour and makes them tough.
  1. Measure and sift all the dry ingredients into a large (preferably stainless-steel) mixing bowl: flour, baking powder, sugar, salt.
  2. In another bowl, whisk together the yolks, milk, melted butter, and vanilla until combined. Whisk the wet mixture into the dry mixture. The result should be slightly lumpy, yet combined to form a batter.
  3. Whip the egg whites in a medium mixing bowl until they reach medium peaks (soft in the middle). You can either whip them by hand with a whisk, or put them in the bowl of an electric mixer to whip. Be careful, you don’t want to overwhip the egg whites.
  4. Gently mix half of the whipped whites into the batter with a large rubber spatula. Then gently fold the remaining half into the batter. Remember: this batter should be slightly lumpy and have large parts of egg whites not fully incorporated; it should look like whitecaps in the ocean with foam on top. (The batter will last a few hours in the fridge without deflating too much.)
  5. Heat a griddle — either an electric griddle, a stovetop griddle, or a big flat pan — to 350 to 375°F. Grease the hot griddle with the remaining butter. Drop cup (approximately 4 tablespoons) of pancake batter on the griddle and cook to set. Add 1 tablespoon blueberries or sliced bananas and 1 teaspoon walnuts before turning the pancakes. Never add the fruit to the mix; always add the fruit to the pancakes once they’re on the griddle. When you see bubbles start to form on top, lift the pancake halfway up to see if it’s golden brown and crispy on the edges. If ready, flip the pancake.
  6. When the pancake is golden brown on both sides, remove with a spatula. Repeat with the remaining batter and filling, cooking several pancakes at a time. Garnish with confectioners’ sugar for the blueberry pancakes, cinnamon sugar for the banana-walnut. Serve warm with Maple Butter.

Common Mistake

Many cooks don’t heat the griddle enough, which is why the first pancake is usually a dud. Make sure it’s very hot, then put the butter on. A teaspoon or tablespoon is fine. Use just enough so that the pancake doesn’t stick.


To ensure that the whites whip up to maximum height, clean and dry all of your utensils. Also, when separating, be careful not to get any yolk into the whites.

Note About Peaks

Peaks are “soft” when you put your finger in the whites and they fall over. Peaks are “medium” when you put your finger in and they drip over a bit and stand up. “Stiff” peaks develop when you whip the whites longer and they stay up.
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