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Archive for January, 2007

|| January 31, 2007 || 6:57 pm || Comments (1) ||

I get all teh points for geekery today.

This afternoon found me explaining exactly who Happy Noodle Boy is to Tess.

This evening found me fielding the following question from Mathias:

“Mommy, is it okay if we sit and watch The Lord Of The Rings after supper? I’m really a big fan.” (be still my heart!)

Also, I tried to read a book on code at various times throughout the day, but the coughing and sneezing proved to be too distracting so I said FUCK IT very loud and frustratedly, then alternated between working on an interactive art project and playing hangman with Tessa. I won, thirty-six to twenty-nine. ‘Defenestration’ is an excellent hangman word, as is ‘confabulated’.

I still feel like hammered shit, the end.

|| January 30, 2007 || 9:04 pm || Comments (4) ||

My insides want to be on my outsides.

Because my employer is ay) one of my best friends and bee) beyond fabulous, and because I am ay) loyal like nobody’s business and bee) a complete and total dumbass, I went to work today. I felt like I was being slowly killed the entire time.

Miss Pat –one of our most faithful patients– came in for therapy, took one look at me and said “You don’t feel good.” Now, I was doing a pretty damn good approximation of well-put-together and chipper, so she startled me.

“Flu;” I said, and did that mouthcorner smile thing that I’m internationally famous for, “how could you tell that I was punk?”

“Your eyes,” she said, “it’s all in your eyes.” I marched her on upstairs and as I was readying her table, she put her hand on my upper arm and leaned into me conspiratorially.

“The flu may have you feeling poorly, but it’s not the flu’s got that look settled in the middle of those eyes of yours.” She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to my forehead before going facedown. I was stunned and my insides fell all over themselves. What do you say to that; how do you respond to someone who sees straight into your center?

My everydamnday is filled with the supernatural and I’m pretty fucking sick of it, altogether.

Last night my favorite watch quit moving along. It stopped at 6:21 pee eem, central standard time. Not-so-coincidentally, at that exact same time, someone was typing these words to me:

“I’m not looking for a point.”

Something in me cracked in two upon reading that, because well…just because.

Look, you people, it’s not that I’ve never had challenges to my faith before; it’s simply that it’s never been an issue. Though I’ve been told repeatedly in the past that I have plenty to take issue with God about, I just never have. It’s never been necessary. Hell, it probably still isn’t, but I find myself closer and closer to snapping; I’m edging more and more toward having a screaming hissy fit and punching the air and rebuking the day I was ever born and boy is that hard to admit out loud.

If I go a little crazy(er) for a while, just ride it out. It’s my version of flopping out on the cold ground, limbs akimbo, and hollering ‘WhhhhHHHYYYYYYYYYY????’ in my most petulant, despair-laden voice.

Also, um, be careful what you pray for. That bit is no cliché. Be very, very precise in your wording.

|| January 29, 2007 || 9:14 am || Comments (2) ||


Alright, which one of you sneaked in during the middle of the night to beat me mercilessly with a baseball bat and inject ice water in my veins? THERE WILL BE RETRIBUTION!

That is, after I can move without wincing, stand without being woozy, stop spitting this ungodly-colored stuff out of my head (black and yellow? the stuff in your head can go black and yellow?? the little bloody bits are a nice touch, though) and take off these fingerless gloves. THEN I’m coming for you.

Until then, it looks like a day of bad teevee and whimpering just a little.

“I was lookin’ for Jesus, and I wound up with you.”

So there was a thing at church. It was, officially, a going-away thing and it happened to be for someone very, very dear to the Superior family. The way he strolled into our lives is a story in and of itself, but it’s not time for that telling. He is going, and while it is really a time of inexplicable sadness for the six of us, this going-away gathering was gleeful and silly and upbeat.

I was organizing a little surprise for him, and nine teenaged boys (my own Sam included in there) were integral to the pulling-off of this. Some of the girls in church were nosing around, so I gathered the guys up and headed off to find a quiet, private place where we could discuss the gameplan uninterrupted. I ended up herding The Nine into the men’s restroom and managed to get them quiet and attentive.

Someone tried to barge their way in, so I sort of rudely pushed them out by their face and locked the door after. When I turned back around, there were all these boys, grinning and expectant. Right about that time, Allen, who is not blessed with neither restraint nor tact, dumped a mess of words into the air.

“Oh my GOD, this is my FANTASY.” The look on his face sort of said, whoopsIsaidthataloudwhooooops and nearly every boy there had eyes the size of tea saucers.

“Allen honey,” hands on hips, I said gently and matter-of-factly to him, “I am far too old and much too exuberant for the likes of you.”

The boys all whooped and got rowdy, shoving Allen and jabbing him in the ribs; it was then my son’s best friend turned to my oldest boychild and hollered, “SAM! DO YOU SMELL THAT? YOUR MOM TOTALLY BURNED ALLEN!”

|| January 27, 2007 || 1:21 am || Comments (0) ||

a day in the life of

I ingested one-hundred, thirty-five-point-four ounces of water today. At times I am overzealous, at others I am scatterbrained. Oftimes the two have the same result.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Once upon a time, there was an ice cream man. My introduction to The Ice Cream Man came by way of phone call:

“My doctor is out of town, can your doctor see one of my doctor’s patients?” She was possessed of a voice that indicated leathery wrinkles and too much nicotine over too long a period of time. I made arrangements for The Ice Cream Man to come in. He was a big guy, tall and rough around the edges but his eyes screamed of something spectacular lying within. Spirited discussions of ice cream ensued: Three women and the one ice cream man. That was yesterday.

Today found me in the company of The Ice Cream Man again. He came through the door wearing a knubby hand-knit watch cap, beat-up denim coveralls and carrying a box under each arm. One was a case of popsicles; the other was a mess of Ben and Jerry’s pints. Seventy bucks-worth of Ben and Jerry’s pints, to be fairly exact, and they were all in my favorite flavor (“Maaaaan, I love mint-chocolate anything.”).

“How did you do that?” one of the laydeh patients in the lobby asked after The Ice Cream Man was seen to and freshly gone.

I raised my eyebrows, confused. “Do what??” Tess smiled at the laydeh, just smiiiiiiled and smiled.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Fridays are a half-day. I needed a half-day today, as I’ve worked into an unusual amount of lunch hours and evenings this week. This morning there was a text:

“3 hrs sleep last nite. sleepinglate, fuck the gym. Going afternoon”

so got the kids off to school and went back to bed for a blessed forty-five minutes more. Aiming toward the gym this afternoon, I was lost in wicked trance and loving life. There was a curve. Just beyond it was an intersection. There was something there. It was backing in an impossibly slow fashion across said intersection. Backing up. Across a relatively major thoroughfare.

The truck was so huge that it made the road look pregnant with it. It was blindingly shiny, or would have been had the sun been set on the appropriate level of ‘blaze!’. It had ‘Air Liquide’ plastered across the forward end of the tank next to a swoopy, almost-comforting blue logo. The other signs? Not so comforting, since he was going five miles an hour –backward, I need to say again– across the intersection I was approaching at a healthy forty-five or so: CAUTION, CONTENTS HIGHLY FLAMMABLE and DANGER, WILL ROBINSON and shit like that.

I might have said all sorts of neat curse words and creative combinations thereof had I not been so busy swallowing my tongue.

It was the first time since the (really. horrible. debilitating.) accident in two-thousand five that I’d relived the thing in my head. It was a strange combination of slow-mo replay and pictographic representation, colors eaten away at the edges. All this time and I’ve not envisioned the wreck even once. No dreams, no conscious recollections, nothing. The liquid air truck fucked that up. By the time I got to the gym four blocks later, I’d more adrenaline than I’d need in a week, so I biked, ran, did strength work (leg day! oh how I hate leg day! my caaaaankllllle!) AND hit the swimming pool today. I was starving when I left.

I had forgotten lunch completely. Sometimes in my haste to do ten million things, I do that.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Hormonal teenage boys should be assigned handlers upon arriving at the gym. That, or mirrored sunglasses. If I can’t see them seeing me, Ima be okay. If I can, then I do things like grit my teeth around the neckline of my tank top (which is clenched between the ole uppers and lowers) so as to not let all of my cleavage do all of my talking for me. At least [most of] the old[er] guys make a conscious effort to not let you see them ogling. I can do that dance.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

There are a gaggle of geriatric laydehs at the gym that are not so much fun to be around. They mostly participate in the light bobbing and bouncing that is laughably called ‘Water Aerobics’. They do their hair and make-up before showing up and never, never muss either/or. The very presence of me and Tess irritates them, and they are downright rude in the face of our ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘have a nice day’ decorum.

We call them The Swimming Pool Bitches because of their propensity to try and bully or overrun us, The Young And Thus Very Obviously Stupids. One thing the SPBs do is to hop in the shower, do a pre-dip rinse (as is mandated by Teh R00lz) and not towel off in the least prior to exiting the shower. Quite generally, they don’t pull the curtains, either; the combination of these two things leaves a fucking lake all over the tiled floors. This both freaks me out and disgusts me, because ‘ewww standing, fecund marshes of germs’ and ’somebody’s gonna get hurt, damn it all’.

Their towels are just so much arm decor, as they don’t dry much after exiting the pool, either. A MESS, for fucksakes, A MESS AND A DISASTER WAITING TO HAPPEN. I’ve been passively pointing this out for weeks-cum-months now.

I have a large scrape on my left palm and a massive knot/blooming grey-green bruise on my left buttcheek. I walk in a slightly gimpy fashion. This is all because I just wanted to put my bag and sunglasses in. a. lock. errrrrr.

Ice cream, potential explosions (oh, but what a fitting obituary that one would make!), sidesplits pratfalls. Someone is wishing me dead today.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

The last thing I cut-and-pasted before I started this entry:

“As a result of the damage caused by the treatment, Pete has been unable to fully pursue his career in music and in the media,” said his solicitor, Auriana Griffiths.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Hey North Dakota,

Quit camping out here and crawling my archives. I had nothing for you then and have nothing for you now, you creepy fuck. Still burning up the phone lines?



::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

The children scattered to the three winds today: Piper to work, Mathias to the ready arms of Great-Grandparents, Sam to his best friend’s for the weekend.

The fourth wind was still and quiet, and left Scout at home. While she thought I was doing something that occupied my attentions completely, I got the bright idea to bring her a snippet of something I thought she could use in an ongoing project. She sat in front of the computer, Augustana shaking the speakers, fat tears rolling down her angel cheeks.

I could only see a third of her face, but I knew that her already-amazing eyes blazed phosphorescent and otherworldly. I knew this because that is what my eyes do when I cry. I forget how much alike we are sometimes, me and this Scout. I ached for her ache and exited the room the way I came, but backing out, not bothering to turn around.

Sometimes our grief wills itself further in. That’s what this smelled of, and I’ve no right –not even the one that is signed motherly license– to scoop it up out of her. She loves so hard and so steady and so deep and so quiet as to sometimes appear cold. Should you ever run into her on the vast expanse of planet, please do recall this.

Oh, Scouty, this world. I wish I could convey the things to you that are the Very Most Important Of All, but my role as your mother precludes this. That’s why, upon the occasion of my death, I’ve willed my letters to you. All of them: The silly notes passed between second-graders and the lovesick, loaded-barrel pages of heartspeak passed between me and Him. And Him.

After a respectable spate of time had passed, I called to her, “Let’s go eat, I’m starved.”

“Me too,” she sighed, and I was grateful, because she has been eating poorly as of late; the healthy weight is speeding away from her face, her hips. Her migraines have come roaring back. Hearts that hurt, they hurt further outward than the chambers they possess.

She wasn’t playing around; she ate ravenously once the pretty waitress set the plate of chicken and dumplings and greens in front of her. Two-thirds of it gone, she made a sick face at me and said, “Meh, I’m stuffed.”

My own heart sighed relief. She now sleeps deeply above my head, The Damnwells a sweet lullabye for her tired and wanting innards.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

There were drinks tonight, but none for me. I just sat and, quietly sipping ice water with lemon, listened. No one asked me what was wrong and there was palpable relief in that. I simply wanted to be, and the people that surrounded me know me best, know me well enough to understand that being caressed with their own laughter and words is well and truly enough.

There is an important cog to my makeup that I’ve never really addressed here: I trust few people with my silent moments.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Sometimes getting the RPMs and the BPMs to synch up is the hardest fucking thing in the world. I miss who I miss, and there’s no helping that. There’s only the matter of sitting on the backwards bench, gratingly uncomfortable and dying to get up, but not being able to because this is something you have to do.

Even if you could be getting laid in the meantime.

afternoon art: a lover's letter

:: cut, but not yet pasted ::

|| January 25, 2007 || 1:11 pm || Comments (8) ||

Applaud, you people!

Oh my God, I am so stunningly great at False Gleetm this week. I have elevated it to a breathtaking art form.

Pretty soon I will be able to charge large rolls of dollars for my expert advice in this arena; stay tuned.

As always, your standard Muffinass Discount will apply.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Earlier I was cheerleading one of our patients via phone. She was being sent out for tests and was nervous.

“Just take a couple shots of rum and sing ‘Victory In Jesus‘ at the top of your lungs. You’ll do great!”

There was a Baptist preacher sitting in the lobby. “Um, I don’t think it works that way.

“Just what religion are you?” The First Church Of The Bobby Jesus’ Magical Train Ride To Heaven. That’s what I wanted to say, but there is indeedy the matter of professionalism. I smiled sweetly at him and blinked slowly.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

A little bit later than that, Tess’ daddy came by to see us. He is one of my Very Most Favorite Men On The Planet. He’s a tough old country cuss with a stinging sense of humor; he wears Carhartt overhauls and an Auburn ballcap wherever he goes. He visits us once, twice a week and brings us fresh produce (pineapples! tomatoes! nanners and onions!) when he does.

“That’ll be five-seventy-five, laydehs,” he tells us. Tess says back, “I’ll pay you on Saturday.” Daddy says, “Then you’ll get that mess of produce on SATURDAY.” but he never means it. It’s just a back-and-forth that they do. He always leaves us sacks and sacks of whatever’s in his produce van, the crusty old so-and-so. I bought him a five-pound tray of shrimp for Christmas brunch this year; you’d have thought I gave him the deed to the Taj Mahal. He sat and plowed through three pounds of it. The rest of us combined threw back a pound. I sent the remainder home with him. Tess says he bragged on me for three weeks afterward: “That girl shore can thow a party.”

Today we were cutting up and he said to me, “Now listen here, you little pigtailed shit, you’re cute but I suggest you quit while you’re ahead.” and pinched my right cheek. It made my damn day.

He always admonishes us before he takes leave of us: “Now, beee-HAYVE.”
When we are trading neck hugs goodbye, we also trade ‘I love yous’. Well, he says, “I love ya, meanness” and I say in return, “I love ya, but I don’t like you much atall.”

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Funny how you can be all, ‘I’m closer to losing my mind than I ever have been before’ and then the next occurrence will trump that one entirely.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Somebody say something. All of you mouthy bastards have been disconcertingly quiet as of late.

|| January 23, 2007 || 11:13 pm || Comments (0) ||

I am not a science project.

:: reaching ::

I keep coming here to write, but the eight-hundred and fifty ideas that grabbed my brain’s attention didn’t dig in as well where my fingertips were concerned; they were lost to the ether beyond, looping and whorling on their way out.

It’s hard to wave goodbye to them with hands so shaky and cold.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

I changed my color for you

I shed my coat with caution

I lack the beauty you display

See here they are the bruises

Some were self-inflicted

And some showed up along the way

// Blue October, ‘Chameleon Boy’

UPDATE, Twelve-fourteen pee emm:

I’ve thought about meaning, but it’s like how scientists using the background radiation from the Big Bang determine that our Galaxy is moving at 1.4 million miles per hour, but can’t say where we are headed. I can choose how I feel to some degree by managing my perspective and keeping my actions constructive. I don’t suffer from a sense of meaninglessness, but of an abundance of meanings and the ineffable burden of choice.

Yeah, what he said.