Boo! (Radley)

In what may have been the scariest moment of my Halloween thus far I said yes to Zoey when she asked if we could have a costume party.
If I had any time, this would be my costume: a woman pulling it out of her ass. (So what if this is swirling more out of her vagina than anywhere else? As long as it comes from somewhere I'll take it.)

Fuck it. I realize the cool thing to do here would be to complain about a house full of kids amped up on sugar, but you know what? I'm excited. Sticky finger spiders and kids who do not yet know how to truly cackle. My house comes prefab with cobwebs and all that's left to make is the cupcakes!

Happy Halloween, my treats. May you find sticks of gum and clean shiny pennies nestled in the spookiest of bare-limbed trees.
Bwahaha,
S

Mas Ass Backward

It's not your imagination: I have been a bit mas ass backwards than usual.
Don't quite know if I'm coming or going. How much harder can I beat this photo to death(awesome though it may be)? The thing is I've been freelancing again. Which sounds as if I have been freebasing, though truth be told I don't even know how to spell it let alone do it. Freebasing? Hyphen or no? Can one use it as a verb? Do people even freebase anymore or did that go down with the death of Andy Gibb and the passing of the celluloid torch from Spike Lee to Spike Jonze, Spike tv only a hiccup in between?

Who the fuck cares? It's hard, this working and parenting and living and lo--I do believe that story's been told a few times so as to be hackneyed. And so I will just say this: you guys, sometimes the Universe (and yes, I did capitalize Universe) gives you what you want. And in so doing you find that it is also what you need. And apparently I both wanted and needed The 1986 Crystal Light National Aerobic Championship. Watch and I believe you will find that it fills you up somewhere deep inside, as well:

So there's that. In the world. And there's me laughing and cooking dinner: ravioli stuffed with chicken, sundried tomatoes and mushrooms, though I detest mushrooms and sundried tomatoes and truly only tolerate chicken. And then there's this, the kind of thing that makes me want to lick the walls if it meant I could hold on.When 6-year-old Elena Desserich found out she was going to die from pediatric brain cancer she started writing notes to her younger sister so that she’d know something about her big sister after she was gone. What Elena’s parent’s didn’t realize was that Elena was leaving notes for them as well, and started finding them everywhere after she passed.

“They told us at the very beginning that she had 135 days to live,” Keith Desserich said. Though her parents didn’t want her to know the severity of her cancer, they feel that she must have known what was happening.

The tumor slowly took away her ability to talk. But Elena was still able to write.

After Elena passed away, her parents discovered that their daughter had left a message behind for them — a lot of messages, actually.

“We started to pull out notes and they would be in between CDs or between books on our bookshelf,” Keith Desserich said. Then the couple started finding them everywhere. “We started to collect them and they would all say ‘I love you Mom, Dad and Grace.’ We kept finding them, and still to this day, we keep finding them,” Keith Desserich said. “Literally, there are hundreds of notes that we found."

I don't know, you guys. You might think I'm crazy to post a video of spandexed men aerobicizing along with the story of a family remembering a girl. But the world is going by so fast and I have to go to work now, Zoey says she doesn't want to be a leopard anymore but a butterfly, plus she insists that one of the teachers at pre-school is a man even though she's not, the Bay Bridge closed, the day Indian Summer still, a scratch on my bumper that I know was not there yesterday. Sometimes this is it, all the time really, take what you will but the beauty of the world lies in the details like God or the devil, all of it hackneyed and hyphened and worthy of capitalization. I-Love-You, I say, and I mean it. There is so much and this is it, all of it, split seams all twisted torqued, sheared and Thursday.

Sprouting Potatoes + Brian Austin Green!

I have been trying so hard to save this photo for a Thanksgiving post, but every time I open my laptop it's right there, mocking me, not yet November.
And I don't even like fish. But this painting, there is something about it that I love: the oil, the abandon, the unclaimed hand grasping the inside of the reclining woman's elbow. And why is it named Sprouting Potatoes anyway? I fear that even in releasing this pic from my computer it will haunt me still.

And then this: The Way We Were. Completely and unapologetically unrelated to Sprouting Potatoes except for the mere fact that all of this exists in the same world of Wednesday on repeat; it is this type of sheer absurdism that keeps me going, the meaninglessness of life, art and Ian Ziering.

Happy Hump Day.
xo,
S

Stoned

Lately I have been thinking a lot about rocks in Death Valley, which makes it sound as if I've been smoking pot but I haven't, don't even like pot. Weed, grass, maryjane, doobies. I still kind of giggle embarrassed when my own mother says dope.
But I digress from the rocks. Sailing stones. They are called sailing stones, as if the hard side of a stone creates lift across dried up old river beds when in fact the force behind their movement is not entirely understood. Some think it's the severe temperature changes, the ground heating up and then freezing at night moving the stones over the crag like an inch-worm.

Wind, ice, mud, blah blah blah. Here I am talking about the how when that is what interests me least. Sometimes I like a good mystery as much as a deep tragedy, the way it makes my heart sing with wonder. We have ruined so many of our mysteries, crop circles now in the shape of Stewie from The Family Guy.
Sliding rocks and snail trails, a geological phenomenon in which speed is an unknown variable, long dusty trails signifying time of some sort. Everything an unknown but the movement, which is how I like it, an identifiable sea-change in philosophical thought or a disambiguation, both just as likely.

I was about to compare my life to a sliding stone, this last year when I have felt nothing if not stationary, even sedimentary, and yet behind me a striated track, a deep groove. But I know the how there, the why, and it is more like a crop circle in the shape of Stewie from The Family Guy than anything else. And so I will just tell you this instead: if I ever have another kid and it's a boy Bryan wants to name him Dolomite, like the rock. Not John or Mike or even Feldspar but Dolomite, giggle, embarrassed: dope.

Day of the Dead, 6 Days Early

There are certain things I choose to believe are real despite evidence to the contrary: ghosts, monogamy, sweet gazpacho, The Hills, the actions filmed in this workplace video:

I mean, right? (Certainly somewhere someone had the cajones to toss a computer monitor over a cubicle wall? Although really--did they all have to be white men wearing bad ties??)

T-minus 5 days to Halloween, 6 if you're gunning for Day of the Dead. Happy Monday, people, Monday indeed.

xo,
S

Hello Lampost (Happy Friday)

Slow down, you movin' too fast
You gotta make the moment last
Just kickin' down the cobblestones
Lookin' for fun and
Feelin' groovy____________
Got no deeds to do
No promises to keep
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morningtime drop all its petals on me...
Life, I love you*
All is groovy____________________

*Well, whaddya' know? Zoe[y] means life in Greek.

See you on the flip side.
xo,
S

The Church of Our Lady Pretty Please

True confession: I so totally believe in Hope in a Bottle. (Jar, tube, vat, jug.) What I don't believe in is drinking water, eating veggies, Omega 3 DHA, EPA, LMNOP and sometimes Y, unless of course those vowels and lipids are sold in some sort of package that increases the first cost by at least 60% and I can smear that promise clear across my face. Other things I don't believe in: exercise, Amway, line dancing. Incidentally, I do believe in ghosts.

Over the years I have bought the bottled belief of beauty on the average of once a month. This is clearly not so much mathematical as it is hyperbolic, but let's say I have been hoping since I was 13 and reading Seventeen. I am now 37: 24 years x 12 months = 288 and maybe each flicker of faith cost $30, so if you're keeping up with my English major math here that means I have spent roughly $8,640 on wishes, not withstanding whimsy and the years spent spackling my face with fat dots of Oxy 10 each night. (In which case let's tack on $2500--I used that shit like water. Except I don't like water. Circular, non?)

If you're anything like me you went into a fugue state when looking at those numbers (personally, I was thinking about Jason Bateman, no idea why, but I do like his nose). Just know this number: Twice. Lightening has struck twice in my life forcing me to believe that it is still out there, a packaged something so perfect my life will be forever changed. The first time I was 16 and oily (see: Oxy 10). Somehow I found papier poudrés and never looked back, my once shiny skin forever matte. And now all these years and $8,640 later I believe I have struck gold again, this time a bit more costly, but awesome nonetheless. Ready for this? Deep breath. Clarisonic. I am not getting paid for this. I am not getting paid for anything these days, much less this. Clarisonic. You guys, I was having the worst skin problems, a combination of dry and pimply, red and flaky. I tried everything: avocado and salicylic acid, vitamin c serums, clay masks, plain soap, pretty soap, soaps with peppermint, placenta and the sloughed off skin cells of ten year old supermodels. None of it worked until I tried Clarisonic.

Why am I devoting a whole post to this? I don't know. Not much is going on unless you're into balloons and boys and health care reform. I guess I think of you as my girlfriends (and a few smatterings of my guy friends--I know you're out there!) and this is something I would tell my girlfriends. Clarisonic--I mean, we're all beautiful with or without smooth skin, blah blah blah, please tell me you hate line dancing, too.

Anyhoo, that's that. What about you? Do you believe? How much have you spent? And what are the products and/or secrets that keep you coming back to The Church of Our Lady Pretty Please?

And speaking of ghosts, one more shot of latter day Linds. Because I am fascinated, transfixed, and simply cannot look away.

Nag Champ'On This

I very much wish to recreate this portrait for our 2009 family Christmas card.
I already have a ficus, but am still in need of the following:

ceramic tiger
rattan chair
leather vest with floral applique (child's)
white vest (also seems to be child's, possibly suede)
sitar
flowing robe
printed pants
forehead dangly jewel
redwood burl? Is that what that is?

If you have any of these items and will not be needing them, please let me know. Subsequently (or consequently, is there a difference?) if this is your family and you are open to adopting me, I come with my own ficus.

Happy Hump Day,
Susannah

Lunacy

(Self) Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl, 1976.

When I was little my family called me Crazy Girl. Which is not so different than now except back then there was no underlying uh oh of the actual, a prescription for anxiety meds in my name. Back then Crazy Girl was just one striped sock short of an all calico ensemble--this was the days of prime time Little House on the Prairie, mind you, and I've always been partial to bonnets. And so I wore polka dotted scarves over a red velour top (my favorite), rainbow sneakers with alligator shoelaces, dolphin shorts, tube tops without any actual boobs to squash beneath said toob, skirts over skirts to make them twirl, boots, sandals, plaids, floral, ditsy, shawls with pom poms, my very small and short life trimmed in rick rack, and all on a Tuesday just because. THERE'S NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS LIKE NO BUSINESS I KNOW! This was before The Great School Plays of '81 through '85 when I was quite unceremoniously cast as Extra #Nothing, back when I was still certain of my stardom and out-Ethel Merman'ed Ethel Merman, throwing my arms in the air as if I just didn't care because I didn't, pitch perfect mezzo-soprano something or other on a seven year old girl who knew all the words and made up the rest. I cut my own bangs. Pattern check! My mom would call each morning to see just what she was sending to school. I loved to bake from scratch but believed in the fiber of eggshells.

At some point--I don't know when--I grew up. Or out of it. Perhaps it was standing in the way back row of the chorus in Annie Get Your Gun when I realized that no matter how high up I threw my arms the audience still wouldn't see me, that stripes and plaids simply don't match in a world loud with so many people. And so I stopped wearing velour, bonnets, and when I finally did get boobs I pulled a too-large shirt out with my fingers at the hem so that no one would see and hunched my shoulders but not too much because I had read Deenie. I mean, god! Can you imagine? A tube top? Gross! I baked cakes from Duncan Hines.

(And then came the years when I tried to reclaim the pattern, my early 20's with the pleather pants and platform shoes and the pleather pants. Oh god, did I mention the pleather pants? Life's too short to wear white socks! I once not-so-famously was never quoted as saying, only I still matched striped sock to striped sock, and a few years later came the anxiety meds.)

As I write this I am wearing jeans and a grey turtleneck sweater. Black bra, undies, inexplicable green socks but only because I am wearing boots and you cannot see them and I slept in them--the socks--and I am lazy. Cute sweater, a girl at the grocery store told me this morning, and it is cute, if you like grey. And I do because why not? Why wouldn't I? Who doesn't like grey after all?

She doesn't, that's who. Zoey. She doesn't like grey, or matching. She doesn't like her pale pink shirt, only the fuschia one; she likes headbands and wings, the color yellow, fairy dust, Chapstick, masks, tails, clickety clack shoes and her Shrinky Dink necklace. She doesn't get why she can't wear her heart pajamas over her pants to school. She really doesn't like being shushed.

It is very hard not to think that is me sitting there wearing leopard ears, not to think everything about her is just me some very odd years later. She has my cheeks, I know, my lips, my movements; I watch her as if staring at a mirror sometimes which is stupid, dangerous, a luxury of ego, a missed blink and everything, can't stop--but she is so pretty! And fast (so fast). Because while she is my daughter, my girl, she is her own crazy, strawberry glasses, cowgirl boots and a pink balloon. And it is my job now to simply watch her without the glare of my own glass reflection that is not there as she either sings and holds on, or lets go.

Monday: On Entropy and Barometric Pressure

There is something about a rainy day that makes me want to be a good mom. I mean, it's not as if when the sun shines hot I'm all second hand smoke and bitch slaps, but when it rains, it pours: pumpkin bread and jammies warm soft toes from the dryer.
And so it is that I don't have much time to write today. There are pillows to be fluffed, dishes to be washed, Barbie hair to be braided and I rully rully have to remember to set the Tivo to record "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown." Apropos of surely something I will tell you of a quote I read in a book last night that I love, "Life was unendurable, and yet everywhere it was endured." There once was a French geologist who confined himself to a dark cave for 45 days, though when he emerged he found it had actually been 61, the brain's inclination for distortion linked to movement as it is. Time flies! No matter what, and before I know it the rain will stop and Zoey's childhood will be over.

Image found here.

Tripping Balls (Happy Friday)

Dude. (Quite possibly my favorite way to start any sentence.) I had a touching post all ready to go for today, all about Zoey and love and love and Zoey and how very much I love me some Zoey and love and then Zoey. But when I went to download the photos that were necessary to illustrate the 1000 other words my computer looked at me like bitch, please.
I employed every trick in my arsenal of IT technical prowess, i.e. I pulled out the little pluggie thing that connects the camera to the laptop and blew on it a few times. No dice. So Happy Friday from this-- who is that anyway? Flash Gordon? Hercules? Phil Spector wearing a page boy wig? Anyone?

xo,
S

Socks

Woke up to a drippy, sleepy slow day, the kind of day that makes me want to listen to classical music and clean the house. A day spent in socks, and it is only in the sudden stillness between drizzling that I hear the tick tock of the clock. Goddamn weatherman says the clouds will clear in the afternoon; I really wish they wouldn't.

Anyhoo, here is what I am thinking: Nothing. So let's look at some pretty pictures, shall we? I love love love this:
And this. You may have to click on image to enlarge, and for that I am truly sorry. Apropos of nothing but the upcoming holiday, this, though I have never been a fan of Judy Garland:

And then this--maybe you've seen it, maybe not. (On days like this I tuck my feet beneath my body on the couch and don't really care.)

That's that, and as I finish this post the rain has stopped. It is what it is. Which reminds me: One time I was talking to a friend whose first language is Spanish. I forget what we were talking about but of course it was in English because I took French in school following a cute boy who sang about ratatouille. But that is neither here nor there and in our very English language conversation my friend spelled out the word socks and although I don't remember what we were talking about I do know it had nothing to do with feet or footwear or even spelling for that matter. What? I said. Socks, she said. What? Socks. What? Socks, and it went on like this for too long until she finally slowed down to say es lo que es as if I were a retard. Which I am, en espanol, although if we were speaking French it would simply mean I was late. It is what it is in Spanish. Only to me it sounded as if she were spelling socks and to this day I think socks when really I mean fuck it. See? A day spent in socks. Told 'ya.

3 Things That Scare the Candy Corn Outta' Me (Plus One Thing That Doesn't)

In honor of the impending Halloween holiday I thought I'd make today's Hump Day edition a wee bit piss your pants (cue the cackle of Vincent Price followed by the high-pitched and prideless scream de moi).

First off: Clockwork Kid. Equal parts awesome and oh no. I mean, my eyes! MY EYES! Seriously. Have I ever told you about my silicone implants? Not of the breasticular variety but in my eyes. Turns out my tear ducts are too large causing my eyes to dry out, hence I have silicone implants plugging my tear ducts. (The very thought of Clockwork Orange makes me want to spackle vaseline straight into my too dry eyes.) GAH.
Then this. Whatever this is. Sea mucus? *shudder* Is there a worse word than mucus? I mean, aside from cunt or turd or moist? Mucus. (She emitted a moist turd of mucus from her cunt = the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog of words that just should not exist.) Well, thanks to climate change, jello-like sheets of disease-carrying mucus are spreading across the ocean killing sea life, and this marine mucilage may also be fatal to humans. IT'S THE BLOB PEOPLE! (Freud would be proud: I accidentally wrote IT'S THE BLOG PEOPLE! And then I went on to wish it was a penis.)

And then this man. No, really--THIS THIN-LIPPED UNIBROW MAN. Have you ever seen him before? In your dreams, maybe? Take a close look because even though my eyes feel like cornflakes from that Clockwork Kid pic I am afraid to sleep because of him:

Long story short, "in 2006, the patient of a well-known psychiatrist draws the face of a man that has been repeatedly appearing in her dreams. In more than one occasion that man has given her advice on her private life. The woman swears she has never met the man in her life.
That portrait lies forgotten on the psychiatrist’s desk for a few days until one day another patient recognizes that face and says that the man has often visited him in his dreams. He also claims he has never seen that man in his waking life.
The psychiatrist decides to send the portrait to some of his colleagues that have patients with recurrent dreams. Within a few months, four patients recognize the man as a frequent presence in their own dreams. All the patients refer to him as THIS MAN.
From January 2006 until today, at least 2000 people have claimed they have seen this man in their dreams, in many cities all over the world: Los Angeles, Berlin, Sao Paulo, Tehran, Beijing, Rome, Barcelona, Stockholm, Paris, New Dehli, Moskow etc.

At the moment there is no ascertained relation or common trait among the people that have dreamed of seeing this man. Moreover, no living man has ever been recognized as resembling the man of the portrait by the people who have seen this man in their dreams." That there is some freaky shit, right? I am so taking two Excedrin PM's tonight.

But not to worry. Out of the Associated Press this week came a story titled, "Mayans: The world won't end in 2012, so please stop asking us about it."

Happy Hump Day.
xo,
Susannah

Scenes From a Kitchen Table

INT. KITCHEN DINNER TABLE - NIGHT

A family sits at the dinner table eating tomato soup, biscuits and artichokes. ZOEY, a three year old girl opts out of tomato soup and artichokes, choosing instead to eat a biscuit and one tiny tip-of-her-front-teeth-only bite of a chicken nugget in a bid for an après dinner course of candy corn. ME, a 37 year old mother, does not think so young lady.

ME

(because this is my idea of small talk)

Hey Zoey, would you rather be pretty or smart?

ZOEY

(pretending to use half-eaten biscuit as a sword)

Pretty!

ME

Hm. Okay, what about pretty or funny?

ZOEY

Pretty!

ME

(thinking: fuck)

Pretty or nice?

ZOEY

(laughing now)

Pretty!

BRYAN

Which one is mommy?

ZOEY

...

(All eyes are now on ZOEY; she realizes that the fate of candy corn everywhere depends on her answering this question correctly)

Nice? Nonono, I know! Smart? No! Funny? NO! NOT PRETTY!

And, SCENE.

Image from here.

I Love You (No Other Title Would Do)

Once upon a time in a gravel parking lot a mechanic showed me to my car. Here you go, he said, and let me know if that engine light goes back on. It was 6pm and dark. He had the bowlegged walk of a man with terrible knees, and as he handed me the keys I got into my car and said thanks, and good night, and I love you.

The air seemed to warp around us, a quick snap like the tip of a bullwhip, my misplaced I love you not just an audible phenomenon but something seen, a wave, a blip, and we paused there he and I, me sitting in my car, him teetering there on his terrible knees in the gravel. And then he turned, pivoted really which I imagine must have hurt. So I started my car and drove away slowly, backed away really but in Drive going forward.

Bye, I love you. I love you, good night. 'Mkay, I love you. I am an automatic I love you-er, saying it countless times during the day to my parents, to Bryan; I practically speak in I love you's to Zoey. (If I said I love you? in a certain tone she would totally know that what I was asking is if she wanted a pb&j.) It has become a salutation, an acknowledgment, a sign off, a disfluency in the pattern of my speech, like um or uh, well, yeah. Because I do: love them when I see them, when I leave, love them in between bites of a sandwich.

Then the other day as I was talking to my friend Erin I said it again. Talk to you later, bye, I love you. Only she is not my mom or my dad, not Bryan, not Zoey, and so we both giggled and I said sorry and we hung up.

Which got me thinking: Why did I giggle? Apologize? I have known her forever, she is a good friend and here's the thing--I do love her. Why does it feel so funny to say that?

I have another friend, let's call her Rosalie because that is her name. And I hope she doesn't mind me outing her but she is an I love you-er of friends. Good seeing you, she says, I love you, the differences in our upbringings forever apparent in the way we hug each other good bye. (I am an uptight WASP, no matter the fact that my parents moved to San Francisco in 1971.) And so the words stand out to me when said by a friend, hangs there in space, kind of like when you get one of those floaters in your eye? And it's there all fuzzy like a thread somewhere in your periphery, maybe you keep darting your eye over to look at it but then it's gone. I love you. Only I want to see it because I know it's there, something refractive in my eye's vitreous humor. (No giggling.) I love you. I think I'm going to start saying it to my friends. Or at the very least start with baby steps by writing it first. I love you. Erin, Rosalie. Amber, Ana, Chree. You are all fabulous friends and awesome women. Oh god, did I forget anyone? Because what could be wrong with saying I love you? As many types of love as there are hellos and goodbyes. I love you, really, I do. All of you. Except maybe not the mechanic, that was an accident. Although I am sure he is a fine man, keeps his plants watered and remembers his grandchildren's birthdays, I do not love him. (Yet.)

News of the Week (Plus Obama Won the Nobel Peace Prize. That, too!)

Here is the list of what she has wanted to be so far: a princess, a bee, a pterodactyl, a ladybug, Harry Potter, a unicorn, Baby Jaguar, a deer, My Pretty Pony (but only the one that is purple with flowers on its haunch), a shooting star, man with a mustache, Tinkerbell, the mold that fell from the hole in her dolphin toy and into the bathtub (apparently it made an impression). Then this morning she informed me that she would be a leopard kitty dressed as Harry Potter which was just so meta that my head then exploded.

(In what was probably the rookiest of rook-mom manuevers I bought Zoey's Halloween costume back in August. Because she had to have it. Of course now that costume is so August, and everyday it is something different. By the time we get to the 31st she just might go as a man with a mustache dressed as My Pretty Pony covered in the mold that fell from the hole in her dolphin toy and into the bathtub, which should be pretty easy considering we already own most of the components.)

In other news of the week Zoey asked me to marry her. We were cuddling in the living room when she put her hands on my face and said, "Mama, let's marry eachother." I said yes. When I asked her how we get married she pulled me up and held my hands as we danced in a circle which is what they do at the end of every Disney princess movie so it makes perfect sense. (We are registered at The Land of Nod.) I am pretty sure Happily Ever After comes next.

And lastly, this. Because I have watched this 13 second video approximately 170,000 times since I found it last Monday which means that in the last week I have spent 36,833 minutes or a little over 613 hours which equals 25.578703 days so basically I spent all of Wednesday and then some watching a baby deer come through a cat door.

Happy Friday.
xo,
S

Where i Is the Imaginary Unit

First there was this. I mean after Barbie and Bratz dolls, Calvin Klein, Guess and every other dollar and cents-less marketed toward women and girls. And I kept quiet because the jeans are cute and I was busy watching The Hills, wishing Kristin would at least try to stop smirking when saying a line so that I could go about my life pretending everything was real. But then came this and I felt stupid. I mean, really? How can they make it so painfully obvious and expect me to believe that Audrina still cares who Justin-Bobby fucks and that the diameter of this girl's head is larger than that of her pelvis? Who do they think we are when Stephanie Pratt's nose job reverts itself back and forth within the span of one drunken early-20's night and good god this pic makes me only crave more nutella on toast with butter--
We live in a time without true meaning. Homemade pie! boasts the menu at the chain restaurant, and when somebody says that they could care less it means that they actually DO care. It's confusing, like the other night on The Rachel Zoe Project when Rachel said she literally died, she literally vomited, she literally felt like a cow about to moo, and yet--there she was, at the end of the show, alive. Seemingly not a cow that had either vomited or mooed and I was more than a little disappointed. Who knew? Back when I was having terrible panic attacks my dad told me not to believe everything I thought and he was right. Still, the airbrushing can fuck a girl up, this knowing that nothing is really real and then some. Arbitrary objectivism, noses that shrink to a cute button over cocktails. Can't a girl just buy a pair of jeans without her head falling off?

Apparently not, which is why I am going to show this video to Zoey every morning after she watches The Backyardigans. (She must know that in reality Uniqua is a drab shade of puce.)

Whiskers On Narwhals

I haven't seen My So Called Life since it went off the air chokers and plaid shirts ago, but there is a line that still reverberates. It's been a time. I think Angela says it to Rayanne or maybe Rayanne says it to Ricky, I don't know, but there it is, so flat as to be perfect. It's been a time. Not a great time or a terrible time, just a time. And that is what this week has been. A week. It's been a week, and yet it's only Wednesday but there it is. And here we are. Hello. And so given the week that still is I think I shall post on a few of my favorite things. You know, to get me out of my 37 year old teenage angst (insert eye roll here). Ttcchhhh. Duh.

First off, this lady. I dunno' why this picture makes me happy but it does. The fact that her hair is still dry and that dimple in her elbow? I have a bad tattoo on my ankle of a dolphin--don't get me started. Perhaps I should add this randomly confident lady to the mix?
And this, yes this. If Bryan and I ever design and actually build our own house I am totally insisting on a staircase bookshelf. Even if it's a one story ranch house with nowhere to go but horizontal. This is awesome.
Narwhals. Somehow I stumbled upon this picture and it was like a revelation. Narwhals! It's easy to forget that they actually exist, but here they are: like a wet fairy tale. Narwhals! Maybe I can add a horn onto my bad dolphin tattoo with the soon-to-be-lady riding astride it, a narwhal. It will become my battlecry, rage, rage against the dying of the light. Narwhals! Like Wolverines in that movie Red Dawn. Or maybe not. Just an idea.

Then this. This makes me happy: balloons for lovers (or something like that):

Although truth be told it also skeeves me out, all that exhale in a balloon. I would have to insist on the brushing of teeth beforehand, perhaps even flossing. But the idea is there, and I like the idea. Bit of a non sequitur here, but what list of my favorite things would be complete without something leopard print? I swear to god the other day I was at Bed Bath and Beyond and found myself skimming my hand over a polyester leopard print duvet cover that looked fresh off the set of Married With Children. Something about leopard print just speaks to me; quite frankly, it will not shut up all rawr and grrr and purrrrrr, so I think I ought to listen. I just wish I had the duckets to listen to this.

Or this. Not leopard print but pretty rad as it is. Personally I'd pair it with some jeans and boots this fall (then throw on my leopard print coat should it get too chilly!). A girl can dream...

And dream I will. Because in this otherworld in which I wear a Mexican inspired frock with a leopard print coat, in this otherworld of book-lined staircases that go sideways and fresh-breathed balloons for lovers, in this otherworld in which it has been a week, I am hanging out with this crew:And I am pretty sure we are talking about narwhals.

Happy Hump Day, my friends.
xo,
Susannah

Untitled (No, That's the Title)

I am so in love with this video it's not even funny.

Actually it's really funny. Like thank you funny. I so-totally-needed-that funny. Friday at 5pm on a Tuesday funny.
I've typed the word funny so many times now it looks funny. Funny funny.

Yeah. That.

Lamb Lule

There is a restaurant I like in the city that serves mediterannean food and the best Moroccan mint tea. Above the door to this restaurant is a stained glass window that reads Le Billet Doux, though that is not its name. I like the way the words roll around in my mouth like a kibbeh. Le billet doux, le billet doux. Cold cucumber soup and karni.
It means love letter, and for years now I have been meaning to incorporate the phrase into my life somehow, but it's like a joke that I always forget to tell. Love letter. I am the worst joke teller ever, giggling before I get to the punch line, apologizing for captivity.

(At the bottom of the menu at this restaurant are the words Anoush ella! I find that I cannot forget these words smushed as they are next to the list of desserts. Rosewater infused pudding with pistachios. Like a song whose lyrics suffer the fate of an ear worm. Anoush ella! I think it must be said with an exclamation point, Armenian for may it be sweet.)

Dates and nuts rolled in phyllo, served warm.
Happy Friday (may it be).
xo,
S

Neither Person, Place, Thing Nor Noun

Sometimes he smells of wet suit, mouth, of pencil, of dirt but clean (puppy dog tails); in the morning, of shaving cream. (Other times I cannot smell him at all, and I know I am home.)

At night he watches 90210 with me. Hanh haanh haaanh, from the other end of the couch he mimics the girl with the too big teeth, and we laugh. Hanh haanh haaanh, all night we turn to each other and say this, curls of funny like a fire.

(I hate when he licks me, my shoulder, my cheek. But it's a love lick, he says, knowing how I hate. Don't fucking lick me, I say and rub at my skin with his shirt.)

Other times he works in his office, throwing hazelnuts at me there in the living room. I find them when I move the couch, the coffee table, traces of him everywhere rolling across the hardwood floor. (Most times we exist, he and I, in things that are found beneath furniture.)

When we sleep he snores. Grey sounds fecund from his chest, and I have learned to kick him with each inhale so that he thinks he woke himself up. Susannah, how old am I? he asked last night, and when I told him he kissed me. Thank you, for a minute I thought I was 38. Sometimes he burns like a coin between my palms filling everything.

***Something about this image says love to me (not lust). I was told that my grandmother was not allowed to eat bananas in public, or maybe ever.***