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Archive for July, 2004

|| July 12, 2004 || 10:28 pm || Comments (7) ||


Mathias at play:

“Okay, here’s how it is:
“If you don’t dance, then we’ll take out your brain.”

You know, I’ve never looked at it quite like that.

I think that should be the official Muffinass motto.

|| July 11, 2004 || 9:28 pm || Comments (3) ||

Update, sort of.

Remember me telling you about Daniel? Well, his mother e-mailed me early this morning to point me toward this.

The Marine featured in the story is one of Daniel’s best friends. Dan’s mom has been in constant contact with his young wife, and things are apparently a little more grim than the story made out. The way I hear it, there will be some permanent loss of brain function.

Please, please don’t forget to insert our fighting men and women into your prayers tonight.

…and maybe you can take a minute to drop them a line of thanks and love, no matter the branch.

postscript: you should read this. It’s often heartbreaking, this loving of the devildogs, but it’s just in some people’s blood, it is who they are and who they were meant to be and you can no more change it than you could change the wind. You just love them and pray for them and grit your teeth while responding with a hearty bark of your own in return after they’ve thrown out the obligatory “OORAH”.

Yes, to love a Marine is often a heartbreaking thing. To love several takes someone mighty wonderful.

Goodnight, Chesty, wherever you are.

|| July 10, 2004 || 11:15 pm || Comments (3) ||

State of the Union Address


…aaaaand, “…many find that keeping up with the pressures to post regularly and to be sharp, witty and incisive is often too much.

M’friends, that made me laugh like ass.

|| July 8, 2004 || 3:45 pm || Comments (4) ||

Is this thing on? Alrightee then. Stay tuned. Dirk’s gonna set your life straight.

|| July 8, 2004 || 2:30 pm || Comments (12) ||

Things I’ve learned while away:

(from blogging, that is)

1) When I am without a weblog, I can watch Law & Order on a pseudo-regular basis. (Best line EVER was recently: “I’m an autodidact. Sometimes I hate my mother.”)

2) Being self-employed is great, except at tax time. (sonofawhore!) Thus far, a small forest has been felled and fed through my printer.

3) I thought I would miss weblogging immensely. *shrug* I haven’t.

4) I am, however, more surly without one…a weblog, that is. Please reference comment areas 1, 2, 3 (perhaps there are others, who can recall spastic fits of rage?) for hard proof.

5) Sam has been palming his meds, which (SURPRISE!) caused great drama and loads and loads of fancy new tics, some of which (infuriatingly enough) he deemed as “Pretty dang funny.” Great: My kid not only has Tourette, he is sorely lacking in sense.

6) The onset of prepubescent angst in one Scout is not as amusing as I’d previously imagined it to be.

7) Sleeping in a racecar bed can be quite the relaxing thing. When I sleep, that is.

8) Some days lately I’m so tired that I believe I just might die if I take one…more….step.

9) People, when posed with the conspicuous absence of one of their daily reads, come up with some side-splitting voice- and e-mails to lure you back into the fold more quickly.

10) Underarm waxing=NO. Please recall that this advice is coming from someone who has squeezed three wee squalling things the size of watermelons out of something that dilates to roughly the size of a small grapefruit; also recall that I’ve received tattoos on some of the boniest, sinewy-est (read: most painful) spots on the human body….and never winced nor broke a sweat. Allow me to repeat: Underarm waxing=NO. The standard bikini and leg waxes are still okay, but shave them there pits, baby.

11) Some days it’s just simply necessary to wear really bad lip gloss and leer disconcertingly at various (but not sundry) people.

12) Saying, “I’m sad. Where did the cake go?” will not make said confection re-appear as if by magic. Nosiree, not atall.

13) When your local five-year-old says, “Close your eyes, please, I have Sumping For You: A surprise!” then just do it and stand ready. There will either be kisses for your forehead and both cheekbones or the most amazing rip in a new jacket that you have ever seen. Both options offer an ‘exciting’ break in the deluge of homework/test-studying that you are faced with.

14) When you wearily shrug off your clothes after five hours of school, eight hours of work and three (a miniscule part of the whole) loads of laundry, proceed to rub your newly-emancipated breasts in what you deem to be a not-so-sexy fashion and your husband immediately ushers in Mister Stifford and says, “We haven’t had sex in a week,” he will not see the source of amusement behind your peals of hysterical laughter. In fact, he may go so far as to be offended.

15) Testifying in a parental rights-termination case: Nope, doesn’t get any easier, third time or thirteenth time.

16) If you think that you may be about to throw a bearing or lose a ceevee joint, try slapping on a brand new set of tires. *poof* Like magic. And like suddenly riding on pillows.

17) Writing an ode to your favorite Converse One-Stars: Not as easy as one might imagine upon first sitting down and wetting pencil on tongue.

18) That ‘Bitch’ song by Meredith Brooks? Still hate it.

19) One of my cinematic boyfriends has been cast to play one of my literary boyfriends in the best marriage of sci-fi and comedy EVER! (…and who will make a better Trillian than Zooey Deschanel, I ask you? Who?? Nobody, that’s who.)

Denim-and-rhinestone 3″ platform flip-flop haiku

Oh, fine summer shoe

Why must you be so noisy

Pop-pop! down the hall.

|| July 5, 2004 || 7:52 pm || Comments (5) ||

Vacation Journals, part three

Saturday, eight twenty-one ay emm

Miraculously, the babies are still sleeping.

Likewise, the adults.

I perch, cross-legged and straight-backed, on the balcony floor, sipping orange juice. The balcony overlooks the tennis courts and pool, and as I absent-mindedly nibble a corner of wheat toast, I watch what appears to be a boy of ten and his father play tennis. I am in awe of the boy, whose skill is amazing. I don’t even like tennish, but I am entranced by the pair for twenty minutes.

Then my eyes travel the pool; just climbing in are a father and a child of about eight. The child has an angry red scar atop its head and wispy tufts of chickenfluff hair scattered about a mostly-bald pate.

A big spot of joy goes immediately dead in my middle. Today is the day. In two hours a crowd will gather to memorialize my Catt-girl, and I will not be in attendance.

There is a taste in my mouth so bitter that I don’t even think I’ll be able to ‘drink to forget’ today.

Even though my grandfather pissed his kidneys out because of it, ‘Cancer’ is a word that I’ll never view the same now. Catt was only thirty-three and one-half years.

None of the books seem to tell you: When does closure begin after the death of your VeryBestFriendEVer? When will I get my bearings back? When will my feet be planted on something other than grief?

Her poor parents; I cannot even imagine.

Not even.

Saturday, eleven ay emm

Settled on the beach, ‘A Little Respect‘ pipes in joyfully across the headphones. My heart soars.

I look at my phone. It’s eleven ay emm on the nose. They are all back at home in the heart of the Delta, sitting at my old high school, watching a slideshow of my best girl.

I contributed words, music, ideas for planning.

The wind skirts my face, the sun lovingly lies on my skin, the waves roll in and pull back, green and shifting as her eyes ever were.

Tears roll quietly down;

I am there, twelve hours away, not here.

I am there.

Saturday, four fourty-eight pee emm

Earlier a man exited the surf; he was sporting navy trunks, a brown tee-shirt and one arm. Mathias -ahem- wondered loudly at what had happened to the not-there limb.

The man answered quickly and thumbed toward the ocean, “Shark got it,” and gave a grin worthy of the aforementioned sea-dweller.

Mathias stayed out of the water the rest of the day. He says he wants poolside action tomorrow. So be it, then. That’s less steps I have to take to flop around in some water.

Sunday, nine forty-seven ay emm

Maxim has taken the children to the water park.
Brave, braaaave soul.

The only thing I’m left to worry with is which hand I’ll lift and then re-seat the Mug O’ Doom with. I think every hour or so I will rotate the lid so as not to overwork either arm.

Sunday, three twenty-one pee emm

I brought some homework along that I told myself I was supposed to do. Maxim chided me for this.

He needn’t have worried. I only just now thought of it, and that thought was quickly followed with, “Fuck that.”

Sunday, three twenty-six pee emm

You know, I’m sporting one hell of a pedicure. Several days’-worth of digging my toes inna sand haven’t marred it one bit.

Good thing, because we go out to a fancy-dress dinner one vacation night each year. That night is tonight, and the wine consumed this afternoon will have rendered my smallobjectpainting skills useless. Hooray for itty blessings!

Monday, three-ten pee emm

It’s started to rain and we’ve pulled over to a rest area to attack the sodas and tuna subs I made up for the trip home. We are about four hours from our destination, as some yokel decided to forget how to drive and subsequently caused a traffic jam.

I, having the worst case of GirlBladder ever, excused myself to go to the restyroom while the fam set up shop at one of the covered pic-a-nic tables. I sauntered across the parking lot –as I love the rain– and was pulled up short at the sight of my little tribe, smiling and talking, warm under the picnic gazebo, framed with a backdrop of rain. It is one of those pictures that I tuck achingly away in my heart, every minute detail (Sam’s shaggy hair, the rhinestones on Scout’s barettes, Mathias’ beaten-in leather sandals, Maxim’s floppy jungle hat) preserved for bittersweet recollection.

Life bears up these little moments of amazement and preciousness. I am infernally blessed.

Monday, eight thirty-nine pee emm

As we were en route home tonight, road fever overtook Mathias and he began muttering, squint-eyed, the phrase ‘chicken beaks’ over and over.

(It goes like this: “Chicken….BEAKS!” with his head lolling lazily forward on ‘beaks’)

I turned to Maxim, saying, “That’s your DNA at work there, buddy.”

“Pardon me, but your own DNA is a little muddy, missy,” he said.

“Honey, my DNA is the super-deluxe, whisper quiet kind.”

In a perfect illustration of both my points, Maxim embarked upon an imitation, which he dubbed, ‘Your DNA Whooshing Down the Fallopian Freeway’.