My trip to Eden

"I shake my head cuz he's stuck in there."

An Unpredictable Eve Finds Eden – on an I25 off-ramp.

Yesterday morning I awoke too early from a bizarre dream (even for me) with sweat generated curls stuck to the nape of my neck, one sock on, one sock off, and a tank top smelling of the basement twisted around my accordion ribs. Apparently these are the results of a fight with the beast of nightmares. What was this beast you might ask? -- A minivan full of limbless children. Five torsos sat car-seat-restrained in what post-nightmare I inferred to be my white Dodge minivan. It had the automatic sliding doors on the sides, GPS, air conditioning, and a plentitude of cup holders. In my nightmares I roll in style, while in reality I drive a civic, with paint chipping from the sun, a dust covered dashboard, and a pair of snakeskin heels riding shotgun.

I sat behind the wheel of the mini-van in a Winehouse inspired bouffant, red lipstick, teal track suit, and a full-set of acrylic nails with miniature pumpkins airbrushed on. My five limbless spawn were screaming for juice and animal crackers as I swerved through oncoming traffic, the stereo blaring a Jerry Garcia children's album. I looked down at the smiling faces of the pumpkins and screamed. I sat straight up in my bed and let out a stream of air; wiping the sweat from my brow, I ran to the toilet and dropped to my knees to confess my morning sickness to the porcelain goddess.

The porcelain goddess' words were wise: My child, you must leave your suburban confinement and drive south where signs will lead you to a preordained destination. With the release of the flush I jumped from the carpet, gathered provisions, wrapped my body in too tight jeans and green shirt, black eyeliner, a white flower pinned in the hair (for the boys), and rushed out the front door. Confronted by August heat, and a crowd of plastic smiles beaming from the windows of automatic-wash station wagons, I hurried to my car and locked the doors. It was not until I had passed Colorado Springs that I wondered if my morning conversation with the goddess had been a hallucination, and that if I was now a mad woman driving 80mph down the highway.

An hour and a half on I25 south and 8 miles north of Pueblo I found the town of Eden. And it really exists right here in Colorado. The billboard read "The Oracle – and other hocus pocus sold here." I veered to the right followed by a string of horns. The La Quinta was rotting around the edges underneath an acidic lacquer of Colorado heat. I recalled the late-night advertisements of free wireless, and I was in the lobby -- an internet junkie fingering the fake foliage.

With my backpack dropped on the left of the two double beds in room 215, I skipped down the stairs. "Oh shit, I forgot the key." A quick stop in the lobby, a flutter of mascara covered eyelashes, a push of the breasts, and a new key in my hand; I stepped into the parking lot. I followed signs to a pond – the local tourist attraction – and with the essence of attitude swung wide into the corner parking space. My gold toenails were the first to hit the asphalt, followed by squinted eyes (I crushed my sunglasses with an over exaggerated wiggle to a Macy Gray tune), and a pout.

Adam was crouched on a large rock, clad in high top Nikes, sagging pants, and long dark hair curled around his ears. He looked at me hungry and bit his bottom lip, a vague premonition of the night in the trace of saliva left behind. A woman from the local domestic abuse shelter stood at the edge of the pond feeding the ducks with Girlscout cookies.

As I stood next to her silver bun and gold hoops she pointed to a bruise on her left cheekbone – this is from the time last week when you said "Oh my fucking God." Profuse apologies, a sworn oath to use "oh my goodness," and additional curse words sans the blasphemy tumbled from my lips. She took my small hand and placed it in Adam's rough palm, and with the words "Man meet woman," we were sent to introduce the world to the sin of fornication. She slipped an apple scented condom in Adam's back pocket and off we went to room 215, to the double bed on the right side of the room (the one without the contents of my backpack scattered on it).

In the right double bed of room 215 is where we now sit, our bodies covered by crisp La Quinta sheets, smoking vanilla cigarettes, and watching soap operas on channel 4.

Footnote: Yes, I did go to Eden, but no, this story did not actually happen per se. I did not engage in any recreational drug use, but I did drink heavily. I'm shackled to my debt, and therefore I cannot take cool summer vacations.

Why are soap operas so weird now? Like a bad acid trip. And lastly, why do women pout their lips in photos (myself included)?