SkoopaTroopa was A Roof Pirate

(with thanks to Echo Farmer for the memory boost)

I have this very distinct memory of piracy. There was jug wine. There was roof. There was Beloit. It was late summer or early fall and we were, most definitely, pirates -- swilling cheap lambrusco from across the Illinois border where they'd sell it to us after 9PM.

I was young. I don't know how young, exactly, 20 or 21. This was a time in my life where my id was definitely doing the driving. But, the fun thing about my id is that is has always sort of just been an old woman--like, have the most fun you can have while also being not actually that much fun. I think, though, that I cared less about things beyond the moment I was living in. That moment was what was important and I was always seeking out ways to really live in and love and experience the moment as it was happening. Drinking cheap booze on a Beliot roof top with my friends, pretending to be pirates, was one of those ways.

I can't even say how that entire scenario came about or why we were so into pirates at that point in time. My friend, Captain Spatula, was like a punk rock pirate of sorts. And, having the moniker "Captain Spatula" really sort of just sealed the deal. I think this night, the one that I can picture, where we're sitting on the roof top and listening to punk rock (those are Mest lyrics, aren't they... they are...living the dream, so to speak) and yelling very pirate-like things like "Did ye hear the cannon shots last night" or "Booched" with some "Avasts" and "Scallywags" thrown in for good measure, at passers-by is the night we came up with the rest of our pirate names.

This is something that happened a good decade ago. So, I really just don't remember how many of us were up there and I've probably forgotten most of the pirate names. There was Shoebeard, the Dread Pirate Scoop, Salty Echo and Dencker, who may have, in fact, been allergic to a pirate name.  And, really, none of this matters. It's a still frame that exists in my head and I associate the feeling of happiness with that moment on that rooftop.

I'm definitely romanticizing the moment. My life was, and always will be, imperfect. I am a girl who has loved and lost and lived, and that doesn't come without bumps or bruises. But, I remember the happiness I experienced during some of these more outlandish moments in my more formative years.

I think that when people get older, they lose these moments. They lose these feelings, the ones that make day to day life seem worth while. And, I wonder about those people. How do they live? What might their day to day lives be like? And, I think to myself that I never want to be one of those people.

And, this post isn't really about pirates. It's about realizing that you need to take the time to have fun in life. Sometimes that means sacrificing sleep or responsibility. Sometimes it means letting things pile up in your car or not picking up your bedroom as often as you should. Sometimes it means playing tag in public with your friends who are all well into their twenties or thirties or forties. Sometimes it means staying up all night just to spend time with someone you like. But, all of those times, it's worth it. Happiness is worth it. Friendship is worth it. Smiling is worth it. The hangover is worth it.

SkoopaTroopa's Grandparents Were Marines

I am a fairly rational adult human. I'm at a point in my life where I completely understand that I cannot have 100% of what I want, out of life, out of people, out of a relationship. It's unrealistic to expect to have ALL of what you want. And, I probably want and expect too much from other people. I understand all of that.

I'm also 100% okay with that. I don't think I NEED 100% of what I want. I just want it. But, I'm not a petulant child. So, it's okay if I don't get it.

But, for me, the trouble lies in determining which part of the pie is least important. What am I willing to budge on? What can I live without? It's not really a matter of settling for something less than I think I deserve, or even a matter of compromising, it's more a matter of happiness. I can give things up and still be happy, but what are those things? I don't really know. And, maybe that's one of those things that you never really know until they slap you in the face---or, I'm a moron. The world may never know (If it's me, and I'm the moron, go ahead and let me keep living in my idiot bliss).

I've always wanted to write about my grandparents. I've told this story to some people. For those of you who were fortunate enough to have known my grandparents, I'm sure you can also corroborate what I'm about to say.

***

My grandparents loved each other. They loved each other in this very real and very visceral way. It wasn't the type of love that you see in a gross sappy romance. It wasn't the love that you read about in fairy tales. It was real love, bruised and bloody, but also fierce and unrelenting.

My grandfather was an Air Force and Marine veteran who fought in the Korean War. My grandmother was also a Marine. They were always Marines, something they'd never let you forget. They met and married while in the military and both went to school for Political Science. They were young and very different from one another, but love was all like, yup. This is how things are going down.

Now, I'm sure my perspective differs from that of others. I am not their child. I did not know them in their more formative years. All I have to go on are stories of their youth and my own observations, which spanned about 28 years of my life.

My grandparents had and raised 6 sons and 1 daughter, and formed this crazy Chicago Hawaiian family, one that indulged in both American culture and Hawaiian culture. And, I know that they were never perfect. I'm sure my grandmother yelled and threw things much more than was necessary and that my grandfather probably just ducked and quietly rode out the storm most days. They'd bicker. They'd pick at one another. I'm sure they had habits that drove each other up a wall. My grandmother would constantly suck at her teeth, trying to get at who knows what. My grandfather would often nod off mid-conversation. They were what I'd refer to as adorable.

My grandfather's wardrobe largely consisted of Hawaiian shirts (and polos) and my grandmother was a fan of a good pair of black slacks. My grandfather was always looking for the next crazy get rich scheme and filled the basement of their house with things like Oxy Clean or Orange Glow or unprinted Hockey Jerseys, and my grandmother always went along with it. My grandmother liked to do craft fairs and sell Hawaiian wares. She played the ukelele and danced the hula, passing her knowledge down the line to her children (and trying to pass it on to some of her more uncooperative grandchildren, like myself -- I'll Hukilau right off stage left while no one is looking). And, my grandfather always went along with it. He'd sit behind craft fair tables telling stories about his youth, about Wisconsin. He'd give advice to others (and he'd usually tell me to go become a lawyer).

I have this really funny memory of sitting at one of those craft fairs. Some woman had come up to the table and was talking with my grandfather. My grandmother was so jealous. Like, how dare that random woman speak to her husband. It was very funny to see her get flustered, also slightly terrifying. But, you're looking at two people who had been married 40 years. There was trust there. But, she just didn't want another woman flirting with her husband.

My entire life, they refereed to one another by using gross pet names (I say gross, but only in this context because I, of course, do the same thing which is decidedly NOT gross) like babe. My grandfather would often refer to my grandmother as H.K., which I didn't figure out were her initials until much later than I should have -- a little slow on the pick-up there. But, then again, I forget that grandparents actually have names. They always held hands. It was disgusting, and also I loved every second of it.

Near the end of my grandmother's life, she sort of lacked a filter of any sort. And, I warn you that you may not want to read ahead -- I certainly didn't want to overhear the conversation when I did, but in retrospect it's definitely okay that I did. We were sitting in the living room. I don't know who else was there. It may have been a few family members or I may have randomly knocked on the door with a car full of my friends -- something that I did often when I was in college. I was always excited about it, like "Hey guys, you wanna go to Chicago and meet my awesome grandparents?!". I'm weird. Get over it.

Anyway, we had just eaten pizza. I'd show up. They'd order pizza, regardless of whether or not I was hungry. They were sitting in chairs across the room from one another and my grandmother was in a mood of some sort. The conversation, across the room, while I was sitting there went sort of like this:

Her: You don't love me anymore.
Him: Of course I do.
Her: Then why don't you touch me down there anymore?
Him: I do, sometimes.

I am sure I cringed. I'm sure I was wriggling and that I thought it was the grossest thing to hear. Ew! Ew! Ew! Grandparents are like Barbie dolls. But, after that fact, you're looking at a dying woman in her 70's having a nonsense spat with her doting husband.

Like, they really and truly loved one another right until the end. She passed away, and he was fairly healthy, not spry, but healthy. After she died, he was on a steady decline. He made it longer than I had anticipated, but not by far. His heart was broken. His partner was gone. But, he held on because they had built this super awesome family with an abundance of love, much of it aimed right at him, 7 kids and their significant others, 13 grandchildren and 2 great grandchildren.

***

Now, I know that lots of people have stories like this. There's this attainable end game that we're all seeking, and this one is mine. I want an imperfect, but everlasting love. I definitely don't want all of what they had. But, what I do want is what they felt for one another.

And, it's not that this is some sort of metaphor for my life or poetical waxing. It's just this thing that's always bouncing in the back of my head. Like, it's real. It's there. I've seen it. I have proof. And, that's where I want to end up some day.

In the end, I will not be a princess with wealth and fortune and everything I've ever wanted. I'll be an old woman sucking at her teeth, trying to get out some chicken from lunch, sitting in a comfortable chair across the room from someone who has, does and always will love me despite my many faults.

SkoopaTroopa is Back in Time Like Huey Lewis or Some Shizz

Tonight, I stumbled upon many things from my past. One of those things was an old writing account where I used to post my work when I was shiny and green. I took a break from grading to read over some of my old work.

Some of it was actually very good, albeit with a young voice. But, I was 18 or 19 or 20 years old when I wrote most of it. So, it was appropriate to my real-life age.  It made me remember my first college graduation. There was a dinner / award ceremony for all of the Sigma Tau Deltas. We were each asked to read one of our pieces for a room full of our peers, professors and family members, and also the chair of the English Department. I'm certain that what I read was slightly risque, but that it was probably also very funny. I really think it had something to do with my nickname, and I don't know that I have a copy of it anymore. I may have to investigate.

But, what I remember most about this event is that some of our favorite faculty members were invited to give each one of us a short introduction before we came up to read. I was very excited to learn that one of my idols (still, to this day, idol), Alison Townsend, would be giving my introduction.

What she said, I'm sure, was written in a way that is far lovelier than I will ever be able to write. The woman just has a way with language, not that I don't, but hers is just so much more elegant and poignant than my own.

I remember that she talked about how I was this great explorer of love -- that I constantly wrote about it, the good, the bad and the awful. It wasn't just romantic love, but love in all of it's forms, as well as the absence of love. I never really noticed that sort of thing about myself. I have feelings. I enjoy love or I abhor it, depending on the day. But, what she saw was this person seeking to define and dissect and understand something so complex that the effort itself was fruitless, and she found some type of beauty in that willingness to search even when an answer was, at best, intangible.

In looking over the work in my not quite defunct writing account, I guess she was sort of right. I did write about love. I wrote about loving paint chips as a child (let's not get into that, just move along), my love of being five and thinking I could fly, my love of playing childish pranks on a paramour,  my love of the night, my love of memory and hatred of the moment it begins to fade, my tumultuous familial relationships, my love for an uncle who had passed away, and my love for a vagabond Captain named Spatula.

There is one piece that's sort of a letter to the man who wants to love me for the rest of my life. It's this goofy laundry list of qualities that, at one time, I was looking for. Much of it is really poorly written, though I'm sure I loved it at the time. But, a few lines still resonate with me over a decade later. I've changed, but I haven't really changed all that much.

"And even if you actually believe that

I am perfection; do not tell me over a candle-lit dinner

While spewing some business about love and gravity,

In fact, you probably shouldn’t tell me at all."

I laughed when I read this particular stanza. The writing is clunky, and I'm sure it was part of a "fit your writing into this form we just studied" assignment for some poetry class I took during college. However, the sentiment is 100% me. I am not very sappy, and when people go on about the moon and the stars I start to get bored. I also abhor being put on a pedestal. I am a human person, made of marred flesh, and expect to be treated as such.

"What I really mean—if you really love me,

  Don’t make it a chore. I wont.

  I’m very lazy after all."

I also, very much, enjoyed the ending. I don't think I meant that I will not put effort into something, but more that loving me shouldn't seem like a job. It should just be a part of existing.

So, after reading all of this, I decided to try my hand at a revised version of the poem. The copyright date on the original is 2008. So, this is almost 10 years later. If you stop reading here, I will not be offended--silly love songs are not for everyone. If you do not stop reading here, be kind, I wrote this entire post during the 30 minute journal time that I allot for my students.

2017: For The Man Who Wants Me To Love Him For The Rest of My Life(Disclaimer: Title has been slightly altered so that you cannot google the OG posting.)

Let your love linger in the back
of your brain with the moldy
name of your kindergarten best friend
and the jar of pickled insults from
your playground arch-nemesis.

Forget it. Don't let it pervade your
thoughts, but also do not let it completely
slip away.

You are a person, individual, unique,
your bones covered in tough flesh, a
perfect original. Do not lose this
person. He is the reason
I love you
in the first place.

But, let him stick
to my flesh, for seconds or
minutes or hours, because
sometimes
we're more alike
than either one of us
will ever
admit.

I do not want flowers,
they'll make me sick
and that's something
no one needs to
put up with.

But, my feet will be cold
and your butt will be warm,
so that's definitely
going to be a thing.

Understand my imperfections
and love them
along with the rest of my
fragmented pieces,
the bright,
the fun,
the funny,
the talented,
and the utterly
broken,
and
let your own
cracks
show.

I like
very few porcelain
things, and those
are already collecting
dust on a
bookshelf
in my office.

You'll offend me
and that's okay,
I will offend
you too.
But, forget it
or
forgive it
and
sleep next to me anyway.

Know that I sulk,
that I'll be a pain
in your ass,
that I'll have
very black dark
days,
and they may
not have anything
to do with you,
and you may
not be able
to fix them.

Understand that's
okay.
Love me
for my
flaws and not
besides
them.

And, do not
read me
poetry
about love
and
longing
and
stars
or
moons,
about pining.
If you
read me
poems
let them
be
about beer
or pizza
or
wandering octopus
anatomy.

Do not idolize
me, and if you do,
keep it to
yourself.
I don't need
a
ridiculous
standard
looming over my
head.

What I really mean
is that if you
love me,
really love me,
do not make it a chore.
I won't.

I'm very lazy, after all.

SkoopaTroopa Says, “Frankly, My Dear, I Don’t Give A Damn”.

Let’s start out, first, with a disclaimer. I cannot stand “Gone with The Wind”. There are many reasons for that. Of course, I love the iconic Vivien Leigh, but some of the content doesn’t sit right with me. Even with the understanding that it is representative of both the period it’s portraying and the period it was filmed, I still despise some of the insensitivity. I also abhor romance as a general rule, and I think Scarlett O’Hara is, mostly, insufferable. 

But, this post isn’t about my deep hatred of “Gone with The Wind,” it’s about my failure to reconcile the part of me that is female with the expectation of what’s considered feminine. Realistically, I’m not. But, we’re operating on stereotypes here instead of considering the spectrum itself.

This is something I’ve recently thought about and/or discussed with people around me – and the only thing they point out is that I wear make-up. This is true, absolutely. I do. But, I don’t wear it to meet some sort of societal norm, I wear it because I’m creative, because I find it aesthetically pleasing, and I don’t think creativity is a feminine quality; it’s a human quality.

And, now you’re probably wondering why I brought up “Gone with The Wind” in the first place. Good question. The reason here is that I deeply identify with Rhett Butler, a masculine character. I’m not sure if I’ve always identified with him, perhaps it’s just that he and I are now the same age. Some tout him as this dreamboat, romantic hero. He isn’t. Some view him as an inconsiderate scumbag who doesn’t save the protagonist. He isn’t. He is, like me, human.

Scarlett O’ Hara is a willful and spoiled child, which you can forgive her because she is truly a child. She is beautiful and living in a hard world during uncertain times. She has drive and business savvy. She has determination; she is singularly focused on her end game. These qualities, in and of themselves, aren’t inherently bad. A strong woman can make for a great role model; it’s the way she uses these qualities that makes her truly infuriating. She is hard-headed and narcissistic. She understands that her good looks can get her things, and she uses them to excite young men so that they will fight over her. She chases after someone she finds attractive, not because they’re compatible, but because she wants to win. She doesn’t understand herself. She acts without considering why she’s acting. She defines success and does all that she can to achieve it, but she never ponders the thoughts and feelings of the people she’s stepping over. There is very little that I can connect to there. I have drive. I have goals, but I am kind and compassionate. I think about how my actions affect others; I consider people when making choices.

Rhett is independent. He’s also the victim of false rumors, but he moves beyond it. When he’s touted as a ladies man, or a scoundrel, what’s really happening is that he’s testing the waters. He learns that he isn’t into silly or foolish people, and he does so without actually harming others.  He is blunt with others, which can be off-putting, but he’s always honest about his intentions and he thinks things through before acting. He is noble and looks beyond the surface; he sees people for who they truly are. He has the ability to love and the patience to put up with someone who may not be perfect; someone who has some growing up to do. He is always there in times of need. But, what I find truly remarkable is that he has the strength to walk away when it’s time. He doesn’t give in to pressure. He doesn’t play games. He makes the best choice he can make with the information he’s given.

Really, I don’t know what the take-away is right here. I do not identify with the female. I do identify with the male. But, is it a matter of feminine vs. masculine or a matter of my inherent good nature? Perhaps it has to do with my age? Or, is it that I can relate to one of the characters a bit more?

And, if you’re still reading this, you probably realize that maybe this is about something entirely different than I said; that I’ve misled you.

SkoopaTroopa's ISO: Storm-Chasing Puddle Jumping Companion

With so many warm rain storms happening, I am ISO a Storm-Chasing Puddle Jumping Companion.

Must be willing to jump in a car and meet in the eye of the storm at a moments notice. Must be open to hand holding and post deluge puddle jumping (this is a firm requirement). Must be open to the idea of exploring hedge mazes should we stumble upon one. This is a part-time position. All applications considered, gender non-specific.

Applicants can e-mail application question responses to profjessgleason@gmail.com

Questionnaire

1. What is appropriate storm chasing attire?
2. What is proper protocol if a funnel cloud is spotted?
3. What type of experience do you have with puddle jumping?
4. What is your recipe for pants pie?
5. What is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?
6. At what temperature is it appropriate to shower in the rain?
7. Do you keep Snickers bars on hand to feed to your friends?
8. Can you summon thunder? If so, how?
9. What are your thoughts on rain sticks?
10. Will you wear socks with your sandals while playing in the rain?