Thursday, July 28, 2011

First. (Well, First That Was Caught On Film. Baby Smiles Are Like Yetis In That They're Tough To Photograph And Look Stupid Creepy When Photoshopped.)

And just like that, we decided to keep him...
p.s. I have a new theory: the time it takes for your brain to forget the sharp-edged horror of pregnancy and childbirth perfectly coincides with the time it takes for your baby to decide to smile at you. Coinky-dink? I think not. That there is a Darwinian smile.

p.p.s. I mean, just look at that gummy smile! If this were one of those annoying singing Hallmark cards it would coo when you opened it up. And maybe sing Damn It Feels Good to Be a Gangsta, I don't know.

p.p.p.s. But I am not having another baby. Ever.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

I Can Write About Couches Next Week

Once upon a time I wrote a short story about how everybody loves a good tragedy. That rubber-necked pull toward thankgodit'snotme, at once both plain ol' human nature, because in a way we are all in this together, married with sensationalism because, well, didja hear about--?

I wasn't going to write about this because it's not my tragedy. I was afraid writing about it verged more on the side of sensationalism since I hardly know the girl. I mean, I went to high school with her, but she was a year younger, I think, which of course in high school is a chasm of other. So while I have been following her story with horror, it has admittedly been horror from afar, from other people's Facebook posts and the local newspaper, the kind of detached horror that compelled me to donate but that's it because I hardly knew the girl, right?

So why am I writing about it now? I don't know. As far as tragedies go it's pretty fucking up there: With a brand new baby, Tika Hick and her contractor husband had to declare bankruptcy and lost their home that he had built. Then she was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. So they went to Maui to gather strength before she was to undergo a double mastectomy, and while there, her husband was swept into a blow hole by a rogue wave. His body has not been found.

I guess I am writing about it now because while you might think my neck is made of plasticine I know my heart is made of something warmer. We are all in this together. And while part of me wanted to write about how I really want a new couch I also knew that I had to get off my ass and write about something more. I have readers from all over the globe-albeit a little farther away from knowing a girl from high school that was a year younger at that--but I'm asking you to please hear her story. If you're a blogger, please reblog. Better yet, donate. This girl who you don't know and who I hardly knew? She and her son need us.

Donate here.
The chasm of other is a mirage at best.


Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Because I Am a Lover of Words. But Mostly Because Inside I Am a 12 Year Old Boy.

Granted I am no epicurean (and wasn't even epicurious in college), but really? Chingalingas? Are you trying to make me say the word cunnilingus while out to dinner with my in-laws?

This is what I do know: Chinga basically translates to fuck in Spanish. When you squish that together with lingas which is a derivation of the Latin word for tongue you get tongue fucker. Come on people! Tell me you don't get tongue fucker!

p.s. I opted for the flautas.
p.p.s. This is probably why I don't get invited out to dinner more often.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

July 5

You never quite got the ruckus made of the 4th, choosing instead to celebrate July 5th, or August 4th. March 20th, why not? The way your daughter gives you rocks that she finds in the driveway, brown pebbled things that were probably dirty chunks of pavement once slick with motor oil. You drop them into the only vase you own, the weight of throwing them away full of something you don't want to play with or even think about. Swim class @ 2:10 circled on the calendar, July 5th, and you find yourself promising to always be the mother you are once she finally falls asleep each night, how you stand over her forgetting the sharp no's of the day repeated, the 1, 2, 3...without either of you fully understanding the portent of 3. This is what you celebrate, this day, fireworks for nothing, and how tomorrow you will be better.