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Archive for October, 2006

 
|| October 7, 2006 || 11:16 am || Comments (3) ||

Question:

How old were you when you became self-aware??

 

Let the good times roll, let them knock you around.

So we’re all three leaving the restaurant, Jilli, Peckah and me. The boys had already left some thirty minutes prior. We had mugaritas to draw deeply from yet and they had to go do whatever boy things there are to accomplish on a night like tonight.

This guy, he’s standing on the front walk with a buddy and says, “Nice ink.”

It was delivered rather slyly and self-confidently and I, despising those sorts, locked eyes with him for about the whole of two-point-seven seconds while saying “Thanks.” I then slid my gaze away, intent on rummaging about my purse violently.

(this is why I loathe toting purses about; they encourage the prevalence of girly detritus and then I end up looking like a chicken pecking gravel for my favorite tube of lipstuffs)

He was referring to the work on my left arm, the one that was plainly in view because of my lazily-layered tank tops. The one that I thought I’d never get, because “…bicep tats on females just look so grody and butch.” but then changed my mind about because when I drew it out I was just so taken with it and wanted it to be the most visible of all the (four and counting) body art I sport.

“Ooooh,” Peckah said to me, “ooooh, he was a daddy.”

“Gack, no he wasn’t!” I fussed back, wrinkling my nose in a displeasure-disapproval combo that conveyed the message cleanly.

“Shuuuh-uuuuuh, he was.”

“Peck, he had dirty fingernails. He had a shaven head. If I am to entertain the notion of a dalliance, however brief, it is going to be with a boy with lots of mussed hair and the grooming practices of a keyed-up metrosexual. If you want to run back and see about hitting that, you are welcome, but I’ve a very satisfactory male on tap who will be meeting me at home,” here is where I squint drunkly at my leather wristcuff –the one with nary a watch in sight– and do quick calculations, “in about forty or so minutes.”

In closing, I am drunk (YES! YES, THOSE OF YOU THAT ARE JUDGING AND KEEPING SCORE!) again, and hoooweee I feel grrrreat. The moon is deliciously full, you fabulous Muffinasses; I believe I may pull on the ole running shoes and hit the trails for a near-midnight jog.

Don’t any of you wait up.

 
|| October 5, 2006 || 11:27 pm || Comments (5) ||

How to prepare for a date:

come home from work, strip off scrubs

find a pair of your softest fleecy shorts and a Pink Floyd tee shirt, pull them on

go to the kitchen to cook some dinner

talk with the kids while doing so, catching up on their day

welcome spouse home, ask about his day

orchestrate the setting of table and serving of meal

sit down, dine on prayer, food, and fond conversation

orchestrate the removal of meal’s detritus, same with kitchen cleaning

last minute homework is the pits.

as are last minute permission slips and fees

forget that the baby is no longer willing to tolerate being tucked in*

(he is a big whole seven, dumbass)

remind him to brush his teeth, call for the other children

they know bedtime, but they push it

teenagers *eye roll*

flip through channels aimlessly, not fully invested in the activity

turn brain off and watch several (like, thirty-seven?) minutes of Whose Line Is It Anyway?

That Wayne Brady. What an affable, nimble genius

Hear stirring upstairs / where ’stirring’='clumping about like it’s judgement day’

go to foot of stairs, issue preprogrammed threat should bodies not be in bed

in like fourteen seconds, oooooooo-ooooh

join spouse in bedroom, where conversation and handholding ensue

worry quietly because he seems so very exhausted

watch his sleeping form, pray over him, speaking blessings and peace

pull your hair back and go in search of your favorite ballcap

(yes, there is such a thing as an ‘inspirational hat’)

(I mean, der.)

gather the following: lighter, candle, bag of pumpkin seeds, bottle of water

–back in your wanna-be-Vonnegut days a pack of smokes would have been included, too, and sometimes you miss that–

kiss yon husband’s forehead

enter the living room, turning on what has been called the ‘condom lamp’

it is functional, artistic lighting,

that’s what your brain hisses now each time you pass eyes over the damned thing

open the wicker trunk next to the overstuffed chair

grab a lap blanket

take a seat in the leather office chair, sorting the blanket across your legs

light the candle, boot up an unholy number of emmpeethree files

crack the water, take a long pull

shift to a comfortable position in your seat

pull up a patiently-waiting window

push play on the music and begin to romance that window

to fill it the best way you know how

*this happened with each and every one of my children….one day night, a little round-toed barefeeted person padded up to us and announced the decision to Get Into Bed On My Own. This flabbergasts me; is it a common stage in development?

Shit, I get tucked in every chance I get, you know??

 
|| October 5, 2006 || 12:25 pm || Comments (4) ||

Whenever Wherever Whatever

This morning my hair insisted on being unbridled and fuzzy. I struck a compromise with it, allowing it to be fuzzy but gathering it into a high, loose knot. The typical refugee locks (left front, nape of neck fringe) sprung triumphantly forth and made themselves known, curling and defiant. No surprises there.

Having a few minutes to spare, I opened wide the french doors and stepped barefoot onto the cobblestones just outside the bedroom to squint quietly unsettled into the trees and sun and softness of the morning. Hello, Indian Summer. I thought you’d abandoned us this year. I stood there a good five minutes, insides deliciously blank (but still roiling about), when I leaned against the doorjamb and spotted a tiny black cricket on the thick, thatchy carpet just inside the doorway.

Feeling a strange sort of affection in that moment, I scooted him gently toward the out-of-doors he was remiss in abandoning. Some cultures believe these tiny black marvels of song to be good luck; that had nothing to do with my patience for him. My heart was just not in a place for killing today.

I wish I had more control over it. My heart, that is. It wantonly and drunkenly goes pitching about, exhausting me, wearing me so thin that I grow embarrassingly (to me, anyway) transparent. And God, how its swooping, diving, expanding fierceness must tax others, as well.

For all I’ve seen and lived, I find myself constantly searching out the next adventure, planning, eager. I don’t even consciously do this, really: I seem to live with this constant ache, a presence that tells me that I’ve so much living yet to do. My eyes widen with anticipation at the horizon every time I fix on it, and I sometimes wonder what it must be like to be a person who is never so readily eager, a person who takes coffee and the paper in the morning and a bath in the evening and is content with every single moment in between. A person who does the same thing over and over and over and never mourns for those other things out there, tugging at the spirit and the gut.

I am tired and wanting today. The very core of me is churning. I’m on a two-day signal delay with extended periods of static in between. The signal, when I do indeed fix on it, is strong and maddeningly insistent but prone to riddling vagaries. I am capable enough of deciphering these high-flown things, sure, but sometimes you just want to drink deeply of the wellspring without the bother of buckets or pulleys or ladles; you Simply Want To immerse your head in the pleasant coolness and suck down great, sweet and satisfying draughts.

Today’s recommended listening:
Maxwell’s Urban Hang Suite

Just some stuff you really don’t give a fuck about.

Deep in my squidgy, grainy heart, I love NBC’s new Heroes.

Also, my head is in a place where damn near every moment in life equates with a Queens of the Stone Age song. You understand.

Aaaaand, since I mentioned QOTSA and I’ve not done any active celebrity (quasi- or otherwise) lusting on this here blog in some time:

:: Josh Homme, you hot bicepy bastard, will you be my daddy? ::

I dated a redhead once. It was a mess, but we did indeed have some fun.

(Got off my lazy keister and did up the effteepee. God bless us all.)

 
|| October 2, 2006 || 11:49 pm || Comments (0) ||

I canna help it.

TESS: *gesturing to the car stereo* Who is this?

JETT: Breaking Benjamin.

TESS: I like this.

JETT: Me too…their music makes me horny, so if I start *touching* you or sommat, don’t get all wigged out.

TESS: *looking skyward* doot-de-doot-de-doooooooo…..

“you take the breath right out of me / you left a hole where my heart should be /
you got to fight just to make it through / ’cause I will be the death of you”

Sam performs his medley of Peanuts®-inspired dances (sorry about that separate window, I’m on a dash to the gym and haven’t time to try and remember how to embed the player), peaking with the difficult and ever-popular ‘Snoopy’.

That’s his mother (ME!) accompanying him. The symphony of laughter is joined by younger brother Mathias, seven, whose laugh is startlingly similar to his mother’s. You know, barky and quite loud.

If you don’t have one, really, you should get yourself your own fourteen-year-old boy*. I swear, ever since they were eleven or so, it’s like he and his friends are my own personal comedy troupe.

For instance, they were out in Wal-Mart t’other day. Unbeknownst to them, so was I. Scout and I wandered up on them in the Halloween goods, trying on masks and voices. When we found them, one was poking another with a plastic pitchfork while that one was wearing the most grotesque rubber-and-hair contraption on his head and rubbing his nipples. The third was down on the floor, rolling and near-strangling with the hilarity of it all.

Scout and I stood at the end of the aisle and watched their shenanigans, crying with laughter and biting it back with forearms shoved in mouths, for about four minutes. Several patrons and one associate were Really Good Sports and joined in on the fun when provoked. After that four minutes, I had to go put on my Stern And Slightly Embarrassed Mother Facetm and say things like, “I cannot beeeelieeeeeve you people are acting this way in public! Settle down, before I take you all outside and tan your backsides like you are four!”

“That was pretty good, mom,” whispered Scout upon our taking leave of the Smashing Young Men, “I would’ve bought it.”

*unless, of course you are a Florida Senator or one of his ilk. To you I say, “Cut that shit out, sickfuck.”