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Archive for March, 2009

oh honey, I will stroke your fevered brow the next time

Lately I have a thing for copper spray paint, Mrs. Meyer’s Basil and self-preservation.

Also lately, I have been wondering: Do tattoo parlors sell gift certificates? I mean, hell, everybody else does. Tattoo parlors really should sell gift certificates. I will ring them or go ’round to one or two this weekend to see, maybe.

I made a set of banners, Patron Saints Of The South (I know that the ‘of’ is not supposed to be capitalized, but I always feel sorry for it if it isn’t, so to assuage my white guilt I give it a boost. Seriously; check the archives). I did this with the help of Tess one wine- and humidity-drenched evening a couple weeks ago. We went to the fabric store and dove in to the notions to plunder wonderful vintage finds that the little old laydehs had long-since overlooked; “OH. MY. GAAAAHD.” we kept saying to one another, in perfect Southern WASP intonation, raising the giant spools above our heads in victory and also slight fear that we would lose them again. I heckled the boy working in the upholstery department for not knowing what twill tape was, but he redeemed himself by presenting me with around a yard of teal mirabou trim, hallelujah and glory be. That Tessa and I picked up Chinese food on the way home, and over bites of szechuan chicken regaled one another with tales of textile geniuses within our respective families. This in turn caused the bemoaning our own lack of genius in this department, at least involving sewing machines. Thank God for fabric glue, because without it the saints would have gone marching on. As it is, though, there are Dolly and Billy Bob and Lulu and Robert-as-Boo and mysweetlandsofcourse Willie. They are both as wonderful and as tacky as everything.

Last year at the Doo-Nanny Tess bought the first piece of art she’d ever purchased for herself, EVER, and it was A Moment and I –being sappy about the most ridiculously unexpected of things– held her tightly to me, maybe-perhaps misting up just a little. In my defense, we’d had a lot of beer the night before. And some vodka. And also champagne and just a leeeeedle Tequila. I might have been a wee teary because my boots could possibly have been on the wrong feet, I can’t exactly recall.

This year, sitting at my big ole dining room table (whose face was piled edge to edge and just a little beyond with the detritus of wild-abandon creativity), Tess sighed to herself and said, “Who knew I had this in me?” while half-smiling at Dolly, who was mounted on apricot fabric, modeling a gorgeous seventies (sixties?) cascade of bouffant and curls while shyly trying on rhinestones for Tessa. Pre-plastic Dolly, all soft and precious and sweet-girl hot.

“You may be,” I said to Tessa, “an artist and have just never been given opportunity to realize it.” Of course she is, how could she not be? Every fucking day of her life is a performance, a great and grand performance; it is one put on mostly for herself because she has a constant need to be entertained. It is sometimes one of the most taxing things about her and most always one of my favorites. How can I even begin to explain such a matter to you?

The children are fine: Sam is a working man, and begins only slightly to understand what it means to be obligated to someone financially. He sighs, tired, handing over his money for the remaining car note and the never-ending insurance. Scout is still too driven, and wears herself into exhaustion, flinging herself against it again and again and again. She doesn’t think herself as pretty as the her of two years ago. Mathias is starting to feel misunderstood, I believe, and I don’t want a gap to fall in between the closeness we have begun developing over the last three months; he has always been his father’s child but as of recent has sought out my company more.

One day a little while back I was sitting in the floor of my bedroom, putting the vacuum back together. I’d disassembled it for a thorough cleaning and disinfecting; the parts were now spread around me neatly. Mathias was meandering around, running his finger across the spines of ceedee cases, picking up dumbbells, looking at himself in the mirror, as we spoke.

“What did you do that for?”

“So I could clean it out really well. It was pretty dirty.”

“And you washed every one of those pieces?”


“And you took them off by yourself?”

“Yes, son, I did.”

“And you’re remembering where each of them goes.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” I said to him, and paused. “I like tearing things down and fitting them back together. I started doing that when I was a little girl. It helps me, knowing how things fit, really getting in there and figuring them out. The more I know, the less nervous I seem to be.

“Plus, I like being able to Do Things. You should make sure that, when you become a grown-up and decide to settle down with a woman, she can Do Things as well.”

“I don’t want her to Do Things. I want to Do Things for her.” Just as my heart began to squish a little he appended that with a little revision.

“Wait. She and I will Do Things together.” And OhMyGod, how is he so impressively wise? There cannot possibly be another ten-year-old in all of the world that is even remotely a thing at all like him.

I got a Diana F+ impossibly cheap and despite being the dickhead who asks the clerk for proof that everything is in the box, I overlooked the fact that it was missing two masks. I dropped an email to the fine folks at the Lomographic C-O-R-P, who sent them along in an admirably short fashion (oh, efficiency and grace, Kelly Sullivan is thy name). While waiting on them I loaded my first roll of one-twenty and burnt it anyway, careful to fuck up the settings and neglectful of taping the seams ‘just to see what happens’.

I drop off the film for processing tomorrow, another adventure in the sea of them, both big and small.

And now you’re suitably caught up on enough things for me to pretend that all the silence just didn’t happen. There will be surprises in pictures later on in the week, and a plot twist of some significance.

Okay, two. Probably. Unless I find myself too cowardly or too selfish with the words.

pee ess….Maxim has gone and worked the magic of re-creating P.F. Chang’s garlic noodles to a tee. Just one more reason for me to not to have to leave the house, you know.


UPDATE, 31 March 2009: Photographic proof that she is suffering from middle child syndrome or mild retinal retardation:

Ugh, 'myspace mouth'
:: cut it out with the Myspace Mouth, kid ::

She just keeps getting better and better.

|| March 10, 2009 || 9:56 am || Comments (5) ||

maple says hello.

:: maple, mah doggeh ::

….and as Official Muffinass Doggeh, she also wants to offer up apologies for your hostess’ marked absence as of late. She hopes that her cuteness is worth, like, TEN-THOUSAND words. Her personality certainly is, but you can’t experience that particular thing through your monitor.

For that, we here at Superior Industries are truly, truly sorry.

(I spent the weekend at Butch’s helping to make ready for this year’s Doo-Nanny! I can’t be sure, but I think I came up with the festival’s new tag line and have also been put in charge of the Puddin’ Hut. I think. Whatever. WASABI PUDDIN’, Y’ALL! COME HAVE SOME AT THE DOO!)