Wednesday, June 30, 2010
I think he also whipped himself. Not that I ever saw it, but the neighbor/friend told us that the father self-flagellated. That phrase, connected to the mental image of his penis, made me think of something kinky but no, apparently he did these things to make himself stronger. (The word flogging is not much better.)
Where am I going with this talk of flesh weighted down? Of strength and piety, penance and penises?
Here. I am apologizing for being a bad blogger, both with infrequent slapdash posts and radio silence to fellow bloggers, friends and the like. I have been busy, overwhelmed, blah blah, clothed in excuses as if I am the only person that has ever needed to put gas in her car. Driving on empty, so I am naked now with barbells hanging from my balls to say I am sorry. And that it will probably happen again.
But that's what friends do, right? Forgive you your sometimes silence? And then pick up where you last left off? Grab your hand and spin you around? Dance?
You know how I love me the universe coming together. Check out this (admittedly shaky but oh-so-worth it) video. The song, the people, the lump in my throat from watching a bunch of probably BO-ey hippie kids dancing in the grass.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Her teacher sent me this video of her at pre-school, her first self-imposed day without a nap. (In college she is totally going to be the first one to pass out at parties only to wake up with penises drawn on her cheeks in black Sharpie.)
Two hour naps this weekend for everyone!
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Let's help Don out, shall we? Howza 'bout some rainbow jello? Nothing says kick it up a notch like rainbow jello. I think I'm going to attempt this gelatin strata this weekend.
No? Too safe? Too jiggly? Too sweet? Then how about this still from our dear friends at The Maury Povich Show.
I don't know about Don, but I just hate when I find a tooth in my house that Bryan can't explain.
Mmmkay, grasping here. That's what Don will do to a girl. There's this, then. This umbrella. I have been looking for a clear bubble umbrella forever and June-be-damned I am totally ordering this thing and standing under the sprinklers. Anyone care to join me?
Monday, June 21, 2010
My 20 year high school reunion is coming up, further evidence of a gaping hole in the space/time continuum. Somewhere I am still 17, drawing bad southwestern geckos on my binder during chemistry class while wearing a men's vest, my lips dark with Wet-n-Wild lipliner #666. At the same time I am here, my jeans boot cut, my mouth all cherry flavored Chapstick. I am afraid if I go to my reunion the coordinate system of physics will fold upon itself and my eyebrows will explode into a thousand furry caterpillars of what they once were. Perhaps this loose grasp on science and the gecko is why I got a D in chemistry.
I was talking to a friend of mine this weekend who made the very valid point that Facebook has ruined reunions. Why pay for a bad dinner and suck in my gut for the night when I can just go online in my bathrobe and view Memorial Day bbq photos of that guy who was in my ceramics class?
And yet--I want to go. I think, you know, maybe. Like if I don't get any good movies from Netflix that weekend. I don't know. (There might be people I graduated with reading this post since I cross-publish on Facebook, so, um, hi there. You going?) The thing is we are 37 now, 38. We are not supposed to think about being cool and yet there it is--20 years later and we're still wondering who's going to be at the party and saying that we don't care.
I don't care. It was 4 years, 20 years ago. A few hundred people who knew me back when I tucked in my shirt. Some of them I have stayed close friends with, most I have not. But this time I don't care in the sense that yes, I want to go. Now I just need to convince Bryan.
I cannot for the life of me remember the name of my English teacher freshman year, but I do remember he always excused the redheads first because he said his wife had red hair and he loved her. He also assigned us Dickens. "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known." There was a boy in that class who told me I had a face as round as a pancake and I cried. One day a girl farted in class and I laughed. I got a B and the comment that I did not work to my potential. It was a story about Resurrection, that much I know, though I don't expect much more from my reunion than just a night out drinking with people I once knew who knew me at 17.
Friday, June 18, 2010
And I was proud. There, I said it. I know lying is bad and I should definitely not foster that behavior, but it was cute, those small hands cupping gold-foiled chocolate coins, the way she nervously said hi to me. The girl has no guile, at least not yet, but the effort, well. Most nights I tell Zoey she cannot have any more dessert and then I walk into the kitchen to eat cookies by the back door. I weave stories of mermaids and Santa, the Switch Witch after Halloween, no more or you’ll get a tummy ache, I say, and say thank you and you love it when somebody gives you socks for a present. She is learning from me, and while two slim pieces of bad chocolate aren’t worrisome, what if one day the purloined gold coins aren’t candy?
Silly, I know. It’s silly to borrow what ifs from the future when nothing is wrong. No, lying is natural, healthy to an extent. Like right now, for example? You should totally comment and say that you loved this post.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
If you need a good cry ASAP, skip to minute 6:13. If that doesn't work, check out Carla's blog here. Still nothing? Then I can't help you, because this? This is a woman with heart.
Happy Hump Day.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
From left to right: Zoey, Sadie & Ruby. And below: me, Rosalie & Amber.
And then I remember that it's only Tuesday and I should probably save my energy.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Not to worry: the Boobie Beanie can be ordered with a pink nipple as pictured or a brown one, the aureola sized up or down, skin tone modified. Organic cotton, cozy & subtle...how freaking awesome is that? (I only wish I had seen this before the little baby boom that occurred in my circle of friends this past year.)
Also making me happy on this day when 2% of the moon is illuminated? This video:
Reminds me why I love to kiss Nacho on his little black mouth. *blink*blink*blink* And I pause here for a minute watching my cursor blink knowing full well that sentence could be taken out of context when the context is simply how delicious kitty lips are and--oh, this isn't getting any better, is it? Moving on...
When the sun rose today the azimuth was at 59.5° and when it sets the right ascension of the sun will be at 79.27° which honestly means little more to me than this:
Shadows, people. We are almost in the dog days of summer and it's Friday. Long days, skinny legs, the smell of hot, wet pavement when the sprinkler flits off-course. Happy.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
File this under: shit I wish I had thought of first (but I didn't, so now I will just blog about it a wee bit jealous but with tons o' respect). The Monster Engine is a concept (a book, a gallery, a lecture, a show) based on the question: what would a child's drawing look like if it were painted realistically? Here are some answers...
What kills me is that you know the kid sees their drawing as the realistic one, so in a way these paintings allow us to see past the one dimensional line drawing and into the imagination of a child. Do you see what I see?
I am seriously in love with this whole thing, both the before & the after. And I cannot wait until Zoey's one way roads turn into entire towns, her floppy balloons into circuses. No more pre-fab jellyfish but shaky underwater worlds of fish that have yet to be discovered.
Trivia about yours truly: I was not allowed coloring books when I was little because they stifled creativity. Another tidbit: in preschool all of my artwork was black. Some brown. A bit of a goth at the age of 4, my parents became worried and thought of taking me to a child psychologist. Luckily they asked me first why I only painted in dark colors and the answer was this: I was the slowest runner at school and thus got to the easels after everyone had already taken the yellows, the reds, the blues & greens. I was goth by slow only.
I love this, you guys, really I do. These drawings & paintings (and that one lone letter S) make me want to run just a little bit faster.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Fast forward to now. I put Zoey to bed and go online. Bryan comes home and checks his email. Works. I blog. Glance at the clock and it's bedtime. Past bedtime. I am in the middle of 4 different books but can't seem to finish any of them. I cannot remember if we ever played Aces high or low.Aside from the fact that the bedroom wall here appears to be sponge-painted and the woman pictured features the faint shadow of five o'clock somewhere, this could well be Bryan & me. (After all, our bedspread also says love in some sort of galactic script, natch.)
Anyhow, this photo simply serves as a Note to Self: Make the effort to fall asleep on the couch at least once this week with my husband, for old time's sake.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Anyhoo, here's the backstory: the film features world champion freediver Guillaume Nery diving at Dean's Blue Hole; at 663 feet, it is the deepest blue hole in the world (and quite possibly the worst named underwater sinkhole ever, in this blogger's humble opinion). Filmed by his girlfriend, Julie Gautier, a french champion free diver.
Hole-y shit, you guys. My toes tingle in the deep end of a swimming pool.
Have an awesome weekend.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The other day I opened my fridge only to have a full gallon of milk fall on my foot. Fuck! I said, and bent down to mop up the milk that glu-glugged out. Insert something about "crying over spilt milk" here, but of course I first uprighted the carton because everyone knows you cannot clean up a mess that just keeps spilling. Or gushing, whatever. I don't know much about oil spills, Corexit, or Kevin Costner's brother Dan, though I assume he's a great guy. Hell, I don't even know much about milk except maybe something something Louis Pasteur. What I do know is that stupid plastic gallon of milk was made from crude oil.
Where to start, what to do, why, when all I want is to take a nap. I hate this, this oil spill, this corporate greed, this paper or plastic carbon-sized 13 shoe'd world when I keep forgetting to bring my reusable bags to the store. I hate the very fact that I drive to the store. It all feels so hopeless, you know? Sometimes it feels like the only truly impactful thing I can do is to teach Zoey what it all means. That, and yes, from now on we're buying the smaller cardboard cartons of milk (even if they are still coated with polyethylene...).
Happy Thursday. Not to get all didactic on you, but let's all try not to use any plastic today, mkay?
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
I am more than a little bit in love with this giggling gnome of a woman, and I really wish I had her laugh. (Fact: I have serious laugh envy. I don't naturally laugh out loud, nor have I ever, not even once, ROFLMAO. True, I think things are funny, hysterical even. I have certainly peed my pants a few times laughing, but for the most part I smile and breathe heavy through my nose. It's a hoot, as they say, but I would love to be more of a burst out laughing kind of girl, infectious, snot rockets and all. I would love to make people laugh just by laughing myself.)
Anyhoo, that's that. Ha!