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Archive for April, 2007

 
|| April 19, 2007 || 11:55 am || Comments (0) ||

What Tessa just said:

Tessa’s Daddy is here talking to the doc. They are upstairs male-bonding and stuffs.

“Wait, did he just say ‘crap’??

“Holy cow, I’ve never heard my daddy say ‘crap’. He’s always went straight to shit.”

Tess’ Daddy has a pocket watch that is inscribed, “Give ‘em hell, Daddy, all the time.” Tess gave it to him a million Christmases ago. I swear, I love these people like I was born to them.

We always end with a neck-hug and him telling me, “I love ya, stink,” to which I respond, “Well, I don’t even like you.”

Today there was an addendum, because the sun is shining and there’s a light breeze and he has on a new pair of overhauls. There’s also a fresh shave and haircut involved. This all culminates in extra-chipper orneriness.

TD: Do you think they’s any love lost?

JETT: Sommers. Maybe down around our bowels.

TD: Guess that means one day we’ll give a crap.

JETT: Something like that.

 
|| April 19, 2007 || 10:46 am || Comments (0) ||

Stress=Leprosy

What Tessa said to me yesterday afternoon: “Look, I gotta go ahead and get my sanity back, ‘cos my head is completely broken out in sores.”

She gets sores, my hair falls out in patches. We are a tag-team match made in heaven.

 
|| April 19, 2007 || 3:27 am || Comments (3) ||

+INSOMNIA.+

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Also, I’ve been up for two hours now. Why aren’t any of you people online??!!?

{there was a long chain of events that led up to tonight’s sleeplessness, none of which had anything at all to do with me directly but effectively have me wide awake after some really divine –almost sexual– deep rest, so fuck any of you who might Blame It On The Hotwings. or the acid jazz, for that matter)

Mine will all be of bombs and things careening willy-nilly.

I am the worst kind of girl.

Tonight I am drinking a Pepsi, eating hotwings rather sloppily (i.e., not at all pristinely and not employing near enough napkins or precision), sitting in an unattractive-slash-boyish manner, listening to acid jazz and flipping the bird at various websites while hoping their owners get the overall tone of the vibe I’m sending them over all these gateways and miles.

You have yourself some sweet dreams, kittens.

Pee ess….a poem of the afterthought variety, entitled:

She fakes left and shoots it over to Robinson, who catches it every time.

I feel like a

lion roaring

sometimes

when I

write. This

is all at

once a

great and

terrible

thing.

 
|| April 18, 2007 || 3:46 pm || Comments (0) ||

Loop-di-loo

Late last year, my second-born son was diagnosed with TS. Two sons, two different fathers, two separate sets of tic behaviors, one diagnosis, both rendered ‘officially’ at seven years of age. “You guys are, as parents of Touretters go, old hat at this. Pretty good at it, too, since I’ve only had to see Sam three times in the space of eight years. Like always, call me if you need me.” That’s what the Big Ole Fancypants Birmingham Neurologist said to us.

Yesterday afternoon I received notification that the same son was accepted into the district gifted program. In a hand-penned letter that came along with the packet, the point of contact that initially approached us about having him tested wrote, “Your son is amazing. In thirteen years of doing this, I’ve never met anyone quite like him.”

Dear Universe,

You are fucking crazy. CRAZY.

Yeah,

Jett Superior

 
|| April 16, 2007 || 2:32 pm || Comments (2) ||

there’s no smarmy title to assign

I love my country, and that’s why it breaks my heart that it is growing more and more fucked by the day.

Virginia is supposed to be one of those ‘nice places’.

 
|| April 14, 2007 || 10:40 pm || Comments (0) ||

My extraordinary powers in action.

Magically, *poof*, one by one (well, Mathias and Lili went in a pair) the children disappeared unexpectedly this afternoon. Trust me, I was just as baffled by it then as you are now. But when you have five children milling about and yukking it up, and then you don’t, you go out, get a little sideways and go see a movie whose main star is ‘biblical prophecy’. Then you come home and light a fire in the bedroom.

No, really. We have a fireplace in there.

Shortly after arriving home, I was strolling around, shedding clothing, when I saw my spouse peering fixedly into his Magic 8-Ball. It was a crank gift to him from me a few Christmases ago. Seems I should have taken a shake myself and asked it, “Will you be a pain in my ass later on down the line?” before purchasing the thing. But hindsight don’t need glasses and all that.

“You’re not going to get to [insert name of certain, specific sex act here] tonight.” He was getting lucky anyway, he knew that; with the appropriate amount of air and opportunity, that is always a given.

He looked up and grinned big, dead caught.

“That was it. That was exactly what I was asking it.”

“Are you embarrassed that I knew precisely what was in your head?”

“No, just a little sad that you said ‘No’ to it.”