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Archive for March, 2008

|| March 12, 2008 || 11:16 pm || Comments (0) ||

“What comes next in Project Mayhem?”

TESS: I think we should come up with new names for Doo-Nanny.

ME: Oh God, is it gonna be one of those weekends?

She smiled. It was right then I remembered I told her I wanted sparklers ( *!* ) on my annum celebratory cake this year. Of course it’s gonna be one of those weekends. We’ve already decided that at some point over the course of the festival, we’re gonna put a glitzy hat on D-SOLID (yes, his name is all-caps, just exactly like that) along with a cardboard sign around his neck saying, “NOSTRADUMBASS. Your Fortunes Told In Rhyme For A Nickel.”

We reckon it will take a well-rounded breakfast followed by a couple of hours of getting near-criminally polluted for him to do it, but eventually he will. I’m taking two spare sets of batteries for the camera.

|| March 9, 2008 || 4:01 pm || Comments (6) ||

Today: disheartening

We came home from church to find Baxter dead in the back yard. That dog was crazy in just the perfect way, and he loved my hugs. And I loved hugging him, the massive blonde beast. Sam went up to his room, came down with a fleece blanket for Maxim to wrap the body in, then we lowered Bax into the red-brown clay of the back yard. I requested Sam and Christopher dig the hole right outside one of my bedroom windows, and they did. I will scatter some wildflower seed over the fresh-turned earth tomorrow.

Just a minute ago, I heard that Patrick Swayze has an inoperable tumor. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner!” keeps careening crazily through my head. My friend Sanders’ dad is dying of the same kind of cancer, pancreatic. It seems like cancer has smashed a hole in the lives of all my closests and bests in the last handful of years. Was I just oblivious when I was a kid, or does there seem to be a way higher incidence in the nowadays?

Right now, there is a story on about a mother ‘punishing’ her toddler with a high-pressure water hose. (print and video here)


:: Baxter Superior, April 2002-March 2008 ::

|| March 9, 2008 || 1:01 am || Comments (5) ||

could’ve been anybody

:: partyparty ::

There is this beyond-awesome picture of Scout where she is wearing a ruffly wool plaid vest over an AE shirt. The logo is broken up like amer/ican/eag/le, parts of it left-justified and parts of it right-justified. The only bits of it you can see over the cutaway of plaid, though, are letters making up two words, one stacked on top of the other.


I can’t think of two better words to cleanly zip up the essence of who she is as a person. Am. Can.

The colors of the photo are drab, save for the loud yellow hairbow that screams out past the top of the frame. It’s the same kind of bow she wore at the age of three. She gave them up by five but came around again at thirteen, only she wasn’t scowling like this at three or four or five. Thirteen has a block of facial expressions reserved solely for it. They evolve through fourteen and fifteen, but suss out to mean pretty much the same thing. They’re all, in essence, barometers of my thirtysomething stupidity. Indicators of my inherent, age-based total lack of comprehension.

Her arms, encased in thin grey cotton, are stick-straight at her sides.

I think to myself, when I see photos like this, “If she can do this with that shitty ninety-nine dollar point-and-shoot, what then might she produce with a decent rig?”

Scout went to lunch last Sunday with her father. She left the church at twelve-thirty. Shortly before one, I received a voicemail from her. “Mom, call me back.” I thought something might be wrong for a half a second, then brushed that away. She didn’t sound hysterical or even upset, jackass is what I told myself. But then I saw where she’d called from.

It was not a number I recognized, but the prefix gave away the fact that it was a mobile. Her father’s number? I haven’t had Biff’s cell phone number since that award-winning smash hit, He Lost His Fucking Mind And He Forsook His Gorgeous Kids. In short, I’ve not had it for over two years now. This part always baffled me, because he was the one calling me eight and nine times a day for no good reason. I would say, “DO. NOT. CALL. ME. ONEMORETIMETODAY, Biff.” or “Mother of GAAHHHD, would you juuussst! make a lisssst! and go over it once a week with me?”

So when I dialed it up and found that it was, indeed, her father’s cell, my insides began to shimmy around just oh-so-slightly. When she returned my return call some ten minutes later, sounding matter-of-fact and shaken but self-possessed, they began jumping about gaily, hollering and goosing one another.

My voice, though, my voice was calm and even as I asked her, “Where are you?”

Her dad had run off an embankment and flipped his truck. The point of initial impact was right on Scout’s side, and it was all caved in something miserable. Had Scout not been wearing her seatbelt, her head would be scrambled eggs right now. As it is, her neck is in some crazy shape, but she came out with life and limb intact; she is today the same walking, smart-mouthed, capable and overdriven fourteen-year-old she was two weeks ago and two weeks before that.

Biff surely to God must have bumped his skull, for when an ambulance showed up he sent it away at Scout’s proclamation that she was okay. I quietly had a heart attack when I arrived on-scene and was told that, because “OMG, cracked cervical vertebra!” or “Slow brain bleed!!” or any one of a dozen other far-out scenarios my head could conjure up to throw on the bonfire in my head. Ankles to earlobes was covered, I’m pretty sure.

I gathered her into the car and kept telling her not to go to sleep. About the third time I did this Scout turned to me and said, “I’ve got to have some food now, please. Would you stop at Burger King and get me some chicken fries?”

Chicken fries. The girl could be leaking from her aorta into her chest cavity and she wants shitty fast food. I told her this in a little more polite terms, of course. It was then that she said, “Listen, if I’m gonna go, might as well thicken up the old arteries for the journey.”

Listen y’all, the kid needs a sign: I’m Scout and I’m fully badass.

:: indescribable ::

|| March 3, 2008 || 11:28 pm || Comments (5) ||

1% inspiration, 99% perspicacion

Struck with an idea and sure that Maxim would appreciate its novelty as much as me, I booked it back to the bedroom with his ice cream.

“Somebody,” I declared, underlining the word with the spoon I’d brought at his specific request (like I’m too feeble to remember that Oh yes, CromagMom, utensils accompany all food in this house.), “some chocolatier somewhere, should make cockroach-shaped chocolates and call them (ARE YOU READY, OH INTERNETSES?) Chocroachestm.

“Oh merciful Lord, isn’t that GREAT?”


He looked at me sidelong and –having just shoveled in his first spoonful of Cinnamon Buns– let his eyebrows do the talking. Their communique was punctuated with an exacting eyeroll. Just in case, you know, you thought the brows had been kidding. Those damn brows, always hamming for effect.

“You know what? I believe I’m gonna take this one to the People Of Cyberia and see what THEY think! I bet they’ll lovvvvve Chocroachestm! I’m gonna tell them that, ‘HA! See? Maxim thought it was laaaame. I knew true genious genius only exists on the nets0r!’”

And at the exact same time as I was saying, “….aaaaand, I bet they won’t roll their eyes at my idea, EYE-THURRRR.” I am full-on Delta Dawn when you get my back up even just a little. Thus, eyethurrrr, which we all know translates down to a familiar adverb-type word. Anyway, just as I was saying that, Maxim opened his mouth and said, “Well, don’t you forget to tell your Internet Peopletm (you turkeys are apparently a whole race, see?) that I accompanied that with a healthy eyeroll.” and gave me the hmph face. I don’t have to explain this one to you. If you’ve ever been in a relationship for more than ten or so minutes, then you’ve seen that particular face dance itself across your beloved’s countenance.

So here I am: Chocroachestm, yay or nay?