Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Bryan's Nightmare: A Letter to Him (Sorry?)

Let's just call a spade a spade and say that our relationship has changed. Although I slightly recall that "calling a spade a spade" is racist, so let's not do that and just say that everything has changed. We almost never talk anymore. Or we do and it's about who's picking up the kids or can you buy some more milk today and while you're at it Cheerios, did you close the toilet lid? Hardly the stuff of sweet nothings, interrupted as we are by bits of flying food. Remember last night when you grabbed my boob in the kitchen but I pushed you away because I spotted Ozzy crawling inside the dishwasher? Yeah. That was hot.
College Us.
I am so fucking tired. And I think I might be tired for the next 18 thousand years, but I know that can't be right. I remember when I used to sleep in, how you would wake up early to go surfing, come home hours later smelling of ions and salt, how you would crawl in bed and wake me up to have sex. It would be 11, maybe noon. We'll do that again one day, right? After the after ever after. Funny how I get so annoyed when Zoey asks me to get her some juice. Why can't she get her own juice? She's 6, and yet I know that one day she will be everything I hurried her to be, and then I'll be sorry.

In the meantime Ozzy wakes us at 5:30 in the morning and every morning he pushes that button on the plastic toy that for some reason is still in our room and it plays that dinky-dink music with the monkey shrieks and Ozzy, he dances a little bended knee jig, and so we do, too. Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo, all of us smiling. I wonder if in 20 years we will remember that song, that dance?

How is it that I miss something I used to have at the exact same time as I miss something that I have right now? The timing of it like a dry pill in my mouth. Let's just acknowledge that things have changed, that things always change and this is not forever, but for now we have somehow become two bone-tired lovers inside a circus tent juggling chewed up bits of pear and tortilla, beginning each day with a monkey laughing.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

What I Thought About On the Bus Ride Home Tonight

I hate September she said, but I did not want to talk. So I said Mm, the universal, non-committal shut up of buses and airplanes. It was only after retreating from that stretch of awkward conversation that I realized it was too late to ask why.

Why would anyone hate September? With its sweet scent of pencil lead buried deep, new sneakers, leaves, forever the memory of growing seeds in Dixie cups. Because September is safe, soup and something new. All these years later and it is still the beginning. I love September for its simplicity, a purity that I can still taste if the light is right.

For a very brief second I thought about hugging her. Not really, but god. From the corner of my eyes I watched her thin fingers flip the pages of her magazine and I felt bad. Does she not remember circle-time? The fascination of earthworms smeared across the pavement after the first rain? Who made her childhood not feel safe? And is that why she hates September?
Thank you Mom & Dad for giving me a safe childhood. Even if you apparently never brushed my hair.

p.s. Not coincidentally, this is what Zoey and I are listening to lately.

Sunday, September 16, 2012


I was all set to write a blisteringly honest post about the inauthenticity of the positivity of blogs, about the wwwonderful landscape of Instagrammed images of things to do with mason jars and letterpress, though not always at the same time, of cherub-cheeked children nary a snot-nosed scream in sight and the latest skinny jeans to be had because ohmyfuckinggodyouguystheycomeinteal! But then this happened and that so I took a picture and then another and really honestly? I had the bestest weekend EVER.

(Yes, I capitalized EVER and that is annoying, and yes, these photos are free of boogers, but lest ye feel depressed rather than entertained, there is mold growing in my bathroom so as incentive to read all the way through I have taken a photo of that, too, Instagrammed the hell out of it and published it at the bottom of this post. Good times ahead!)

But first, there's this.
From a day in the park where we actually flew a kite because why go all inauthentic halcyon happy if you can't do it with a mothereffin' kite? And p.s., Bryan and Ozzy simply must form a rock band ASAP because this would make the raddest album cover. (Title track: Halcyon Happy with a Mothereffin' Kite.)
And this, the cover of Ozzy's solo album after a particularly tense studio session with his dad. This album will be called "Surrounded By Soccer Games But Too Young to Play" (Title track: Fuck Your Whistle, Guy in the Green Shirt.)
 Attack of the 50 Foot Ozzy...
And this one? You guys, this one has rainbows around the edges and I didn't even put those there. That's how awesome my weekend was, rainbows around the edges of everything.
Even my mushrooms have hearts. Or something. I don't know. Here it is, the aforementioned promised pic of Behind the Curated Veil of Blogs: The Fungi Edition. One night I noticed these in a particularly dank corner and thought they were errant pieces of pasta but then a few days later there they were again and as cute as seashell pasta is these are not cute but kind of rubbery and very very wrong.
Bryan says we have to demo the whole bathroom which we were going to do anyway but now, after his truck broke down and we had to get a new fridge and--I mean, sick, right? Who shows you spore-bearing rot behind their toilet anyway?

I do.
Hearts and rainbows and Instagram set to the Hefe filter.

Monday, September 10, 2012


Guess who started first grade today?
Hint: the girl whose mother spent the night before looking at baby photos of her, remembering the dimples on the backs of each finger and how her mouth was always shiny. The same girl whose mother spent the morning looking in the mirror as she pulled the skin back from her eyes to test its elasticity. That girl. This one, her eyes the color of moss on wood and teeth that surely must tap out perfection in Morse Code.

After hours spent laying out her clothes, this was the winning combo: neon yellow shorts, cat shirt, leopard sweater. Not pictured: brown knock-off Uggs. Yeah. Pictured: Confidence. Fuck Yeah.
Compare to last year...
She could not get there fast enough; I walked quickly to catch up, trying not to think of the back of her head, the small shadow appearing in the space behind each knee as she moved forward and away.
My only saving grace came when the teacher asked the students to draw a picture on their name card and Zoey...she drew a heart dripping blood and skulls.
I fucking love this girl, a visceral squeeze of certainty and thank you. This is first grade.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Time to Wake Up

In case you were wondering, the very best part of our California Coast Road Trip 2012 was this note that I found in the backseat. I am pretty sure Zoey wrote it on a particularly long stretch of 101 as Bryan and I sang a dramatic duet of the Eurythmics pop duo sensation "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)." Bryan does a great falsetto.
Please, let me to translate: My parents are acting weird. To which I am compelled to respond, Der Zoey, my prarins r stil akting waerd and ima grone up so gud luk weth that.

And then there was this which is totally going in Ozzy's high school senior yearbook, although maybe that's frowned upon, what with the empty Modelo and all.
Wanna see more? I like to pretend you are nodding vigorously, eager to lap up my vacation pics, so have at it...
Honestly, some of these don't even warrant anything clever; I just can't help myself. Look! More photos of my kids!
What's that? More, you say?
Ignore the circa 1992 dolphin tattoo on my ankle. I do. And yes, that is also a Chinese character next to said dolphin. What an asshole I was. Am. I just realized that I look naked behind my kids. Pinky swear I am not.
We also went to Disneyland on a 95 degree day where I bought a $17 bottle of water but would have paid $117, that's how grotty my bits felt. The Happiest Place and all that.
Also? A baseball game where we actually ate peanuts and cracker jacks, though I do care if I never get back.
And this. Because Ozzy was undeniably The Boss of our California Coast Road Trip 2012, poking and opening and walking and falling and peeking and peeing and reaching and, and, and...
And I am tired now. Was. Is. Forever will be. Sweet dreams are made of this. Who am I to disagree? I travel the world and the seven seas; everybody's looking for something...