tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13171985156860347042024-03-13T10:23:19.675-07:00Petunia FacePetunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.comBlogger961125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-32088551540378437852020-12-24T18:47:00.000-08:002020-12-24T18:47:08.339-08:00In a World Where Everything Has Changed, This Remains<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">2020</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The first year we have not hosted Christmas Eve dinner with our families. Just the 4 of us tonight, so I ordered matching jammies to try and up the special-quotient, even though we are not traditionally a matching jammies family. No one tell Bryan, but I waited too long to order the jammies, which meant most websites couldn't get them to me on time, and other websites had stock in Ozzy's size but not mine, available tops but no bottoms, yadda yadda. So I ended up ordering women's pajamas from J. Crew. For all of us. A very unisex striped waffle weave Henley top and bottoms. So yeah, Bryan's wearing women's pjs right now and he looks hot. It's 2020. Shit is weird.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LaWkRI_Rw_E/X-VO_Yhn0iI/AAAAAAAAGj8/JuLyX8h3GO0AEhDzJhK-hWMc9h1_YWvJACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Xmas%2B2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LaWkRI_Rw_E/X-VO_Yhn0iI/AAAAAAAAGj8/JuLyX8h3GO0AEhDzJhK-hWMc9h1_YWvJACLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/Xmas%2B2020.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">2019</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PK7WChgSshY/X-VO3wuQVXI/AAAAAAAAGj0/9SXIAVZjcBUc4kV1l0icZo0C35qJbFM0QCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/xMAS%2B2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PK7WChgSshY/X-VO3wuQVXI/AAAAAAAAGj0/9SXIAVZjcBUc4kV1l0icZo0C35qJbFM0QCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/xMAS%2B2019.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">2018</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wkvJfrzT0ak/X-VOzk6WUTI/AAAAAAAAGjs/T74ZHWQReA0NXpzYWbmsfzEfYKW65SBywCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Xmas2018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wkvJfrzT0ak/X-VOzk6WUTI/AAAAAAAAGjs/T74ZHWQReA0NXpzYWbmsfzEfYKW65SBywCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/Xmas2018.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">2017</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oj8A_cx_nGY/X-VOvvDI6yI/AAAAAAAAGjo/3Oi87L26jMUJLzL2kbdZISoLsPGPgFP3gCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Xmas%2B2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="578" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oj8A_cx_nGY/X-VOvvDI6yI/AAAAAAAAGjo/3Oi87L26jMUJLzL2kbdZISoLsPGPgFP3gCLcBGAsYHQ/w578-h640/Xmas%2B2017.jpg" width="578" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">2016</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iMhxl2FqcCg/X-VOqb7BvXI/AAAAAAAAGjk/V1sje3m8QYoim7ynbC7Jg7l5X4byEIZgQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/XMAS2016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="406" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iMhxl2FqcCg/X-VOqb7BvXI/AAAAAAAAGjk/V1sje3m8QYoim7ynbC7Jg7l5X4byEIZgQCLcBGAsYHQ/w406-h640/XMAS2016.jpg" width="406" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">2015</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f0MvBQL_jm4/X-VPoTleBrI/AAAAAAAAGkM/MTrLrwNs25IlM1tW5wgT9ldHI6XR2nivwCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f0MvBQL_jm4/X-VPoTleBrI/AAAAAAAAGkM/MTrLrwNs25IlM1tW5wgT9ldHI6XR2nivwCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h640/2014.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">2014</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-anO7zjf0Dw4/X-VOkoKZSuI/AAAAAAAAGjY/yk0x9NseUW0Zmc-eELa4EfJrIqoGdnU0gCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Xmas%2B2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-anO7zjf0Dw4/X-VOkoKZSuI/AAAAAAAAGjY/yk0x9NseUW0Zmc-eELa4EfJrIqoGdnU0gCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/Xmas%2B2015.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">2013</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nd159OWIsFg/X-VOfT0oG9I/AAAAAAAAGjQ/NmUoyISuDQQUYJmlihvrvINdhBrK7v24gCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/xmas%2B2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nd159OWIsFg/X-VOfT0oG9I/AAAAAAAAGjQ/NmUoyISuDQQUYJmlihvrvINdhBrK7v24gCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h640/xmas%2B2013.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">2012</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o9pc4flXg_A/X-VOZRWty1I/AAAAAAAAGjM/ayeHqbPQPoo40u2r0pro4pP6kxoCAFXjACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/christmas%2B2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o9pc4flXg_A/X-VOZRWty1I/AAAAAAAAGjM/ayeHqbPQPoo40u2r0pro4pP6kxoCAFXjACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h640/christmas%2B2012.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;">2011</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PZoAuS2lYVM/X-VOVS3vZ8I/AAAAAAAAGjI/rov1AWw3owcWe6hUPtoYpJHM6NDB0X3TwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Christmas%2B2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PZoAuS2lYVM/X-VOVS3vZ8I/AAAAAAAAGjI/rov1AWw3owcWe6hUPtoYpJHM6NDB0X3TwCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Christmas%2B2011.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;">The Great Mystery of the 2009 Missing Photo</p><p style="text-align: center;">2010</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m3Hlu9qlhdk/X-VORc9L52I/AAAAAAAAGjE/RdsEhQ5D9m8Wu22RTif18rFyPMvg6J-TgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Christmas%2B2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m3Hlu9qlhdk/X-VORc9L52I/AAAAAAAAGjE/RdsEhQ5D9m8Wu22RTif18rFyPMvg6J-TgCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/Christmas%2B2010.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">2008</div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7BPIyjSfV0Y/X-VOLm1GL6I/AAAAAAAAGjA/Oz3WWTMyVMovMY66Cb1NrvsjGSTEhGdMgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Christmas%2B2008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7BPIyjSfV0Y/X-VOLm1GL6I/AAAAAAAAGjA/Oz3WWTMyVMovMY66Cb1NrvsjGSTEhGdMgCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/Christmas%2B2008.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">2007</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fc7TMzXP7sY/X-VNzymJMZI/AAAAAAAAGh8/jdQ5kJHHTMsb8yCubgo7rbv2wDaHM49dwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Christmas%2B2007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fc7TMzXP7sY/X-VNzymJMZI/AAAAAAAAGh8/jdQ5kJHHTMsb8yCubgo7rbv2wDaHM49dwCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/Christmas%2B2007.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">I am not a person big on hugs. but I swear when this is over, I am going to hug everyone and squeeze tight. Hope you are all hanging in there. </div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">Happy holidays and so much love,</p><p style="text-align: center;">S</p></div>Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-85709100345583964602020-06-02T22:36:00.005-07:002020-06-02T23:13:02.665-07:009<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nein. Neun. It cannot be. The world is a topsy turvy place right now, including the fact that you, my sweet baby beautiful boy, are 9.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h14JrC2GaRs/XtcwdN6RO9I/AAAAAAAAGeg/F7HYiOcCC90n4DhrTigK9N-c2t0pntkJQCEwYBhgLKs4DAL1Ocqy39-eINBZzrywzJHUUgLWe5V6OshpTuRqkfJRPfA9PxPVyYTXxkGGg4Ra_Peia9pd_Rr5hB3oygZXofRq0PAaDfu1DIGnsm-17YFueg-y5Q_GeYVqTue_7j8yOKpU9dw2MARegPGHAtgUMcK_pWWeb1TY4G4vpP22bXODU0bSI_q0jQJ-mitsTwCcdOF1n-hNm3dqO7tscUYOaKJ6tci74qqGbFO9q9loa0wi0yuVdmsQSgL7Xkt_Czfk9Md49MTNiFnM4CPDmq-yBFxPkYSJcz9oPRPK9XtTqMpXPA4o1xQTrIB_Md1dkJbpJqcyB-zeLQITR7s1cVudsKaH2pzM8RRXpv2wq3-u407Yktru7G5saD5rw27B4bZWknL1X6TFxZo_FZBvXWR6uWUCK1-ViwdkBtRJoCjsL6Loi5tXzcefTSrQlyacT3yF3fFrwTjeXGc9LrMClex14k3idPMQT7VxTMy_C_6PtmzGUYRRSsYoMhR_TbCffZQEGymNuTwWbEevOBznrv1LlOqy23efGILJAyXfcIhUtn4SgL7NvtO1oM4Nrd7FxqGLZPtkrYZ2PegqxOoOK_FNjevbytwPhwi-qVN-fYH83MLzn3PYF/s1600/Ozzy%2Btrumpet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1213" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h14JrC2GaRs/XtcwdN6RO9I/AAAAAAAAGeg/F7HYiOcCC90n4DhrTigK9N-c2t0pntkJQCEwYBhgLKs4DAL1Ocqy39-eINBZzrywzJHUUgLWe5V6OshpTuRqkfJRPfA9PxPVyYTXxkGGg4Ra_Peia9pd_Rr5hB3oygZXofRq0PAaDfu1DIGnsm-17YFueg-y5Q_GeYVqTue_7j8yOKpU9dw2MARegPGHAtgUMcK_pWWeb1TY4G4vpP22bXODU0bSI_q0jQJ-mitsTwCcdOF1n-hNm3dqO7tscUYOaKJ6tci74qqGbFO9q9loa0wi0yuVdmsQSgL7Xkt_Czfk9Md49MTNiFnM4CPDmq-yBFxPkYSJcz9oPRPK9XtTqMpXPA4o1xQTrIB_Md1dkJbpJqcyB-zeLQITR7s1cVudsKaH2pzM8RRXpv2wq3-u407Yktru7G5saD5rw27B4bZWknL1X6TFxZo_FZBvXWR6uWUCK1-ViwdkBtRJoCjsL6Loi5tXzcefTSrQlyacT3yF3fFrwTjeXGc9LrMClex14k3idPMQT7VxTMy_C_6PtmzGUYRRSsYoMhR_TbCffZQEGymNuTwWbEevOBznrv1LlOqy23efGILJAyXfcIhUtn4SgL7NvtO1oM4Nrd7FxqGLZPtkrYZ2PegqxOoOK_FNjevbytwPhwi-qVN-fYH83MLzn3PYF/s640/Ozzy%2Btrumpet.jpg" width="484" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of course, this is supposed to be a letter about you, but how can I write about one topic right now when everything is happening at once? COVID-19. Incredible racial inequality. Let's not forget about Climate Change. Trump. How cute were the days when I used to overanalyze the upcoming election? How many unfathomable tragedies can we keep in our minds at once as an adult, let alone at 9?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Once upon a time there lived 10 dinosaurs</i>. You wrote a story the other day. (You are always writing stories, books, drawing pictures, comics, making newspapers, crossword puzzles.) <i>They were brothers and sisters, and they had names. Marsha, George, Lin, Bruce, Jack, Toby, Zack, Lori, Larry and Dale. </i>They were at a festival with cake and fruit punch, when somethingsomethingnotquitesure about a time portal and they were transported to present day. The humans began attacking the dinosaurs. <i>It got violent, in fact very violent, </i>you wrote. <i>The brothers and sisters fighted back. They got hurt. One tank shot George and he fell down, making a low growl noise. His death was very sad. His brothers and sisters were very sad. They had tears dripping down their faces, but the humans were happy.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sweet baby Jesus. Did you have to name him George? I wonder what you take in (apparently everything). Today, like most days now, I worked at home while you did your school work. Later, when I went to get the mail, I saw you had taped a piece of paper to our front door and on it you had written: Black Lives Matter. I almost cried as I grabbled the stupid phone book-sized Restoration Hardware catalogue from the mailbox and dropped it in the recycling bin. I have tried everything to get off their mailing list, but still, they keep coming. Everything happening at once.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Your favorite movie is Cool Runnings, an inexplicable impact as we are low on movies to watch as a family (and a movie that did not age well, rife as it is with racist tropes). You know all the words and sing along to Ziggy Marley alone in your room building Legos, the Rolling Stones, The Police. I can't help but think about what I don't have to worry about because of the color of your skin, the luxury you have should you ever shoplift a candy bar.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BKiRYCeWoOU/Xtcwmg_6jpI/AAAAAAAAGek/md9GAuAMmkUR-jzzXUugRgPvEUbbQDGNQCEwYBhgLKs4DAL1Ocqy39-eINBZzrywzJHUUgLWe5V6OshpTuRqkfJRPfA9PxPVyYTXxkGGg4Ra_Peia9pd_Rr5hB3oygZXofRq0PAaDfu1DIGnsm-17YFueg-y5Q_GeYVqTue_7j8yOKpU9dw2MARegPGHAtgUMcK_pWWeb1TY4G4vpP22bXODU0bSI_q0jQJ-mitsTwCcdOF1n-hNm3dqO7tscUYOaKJ6tci74qqGbFO9q9loa0wi0yuVdmsQSgL7Xkt_Czfk9Md49MTNiFnM4CPDmq-yBFxPkYSJcz9oPRPK9XtTqMpXPA4o1xQTrIB_Md1dkJbpJqcyB-zeLQITR7s1cVudsKaH2pzM8RRXpv2wq3-u407Yktru7G5saD5rw27B4bZWknL1X6TFxZo_FZBvXWR6uWUCK1-ViwdkBtRJoCjsL6Loi5tXzcefTSrQlyacT3yF3fFrwTjeXGc9LrMClex14k3idPMQT7VxTMy_C_6PtmzGUYRRSsYoMhR_TbCffZQEGymNuTwWbEevOBznrv1LlOqy23efGILJAyXfcIhUtn4SgL7NvtO1oM4Nrd7FxqGLZPtkrYZ2PegqxOoOK_FNjevbytwPhwi-qVN-fYH83MLzn3PYF/s1600/Ozzy%2Bcone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1192" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BKiRYCeWoOU/Xtcwmg_6jpI/AAAAAAAAGek/md9GAuAMmkUR-jzzXUugRgPvEUbbQDGNQCEwYBhgLKs4DAL1Ocqy39-eINBZzrywzJHUUgLWe5V6OshpTuRqkfJRPfA9PxPVyYTXxkGGg4Ra_Peia9pd_Rr5hB3oygZXofRq0PAaDfu1DIGnsm-17YFueg-y5Q_GeYVqTue_7j8yOKpU9dw2MARegPGHAtgUMcK_pWWeb1TY4G4vpP22bXODU0bSI_q0jQJ-mitsTwCcdOF1n-hNm3dqO7tscUYOaKJ6tci74qqGbFO9q9loa0wi0yuVdmsQSgL7Xkt_Czfk9Md49MTNiFnM4CPDmq-yBFxPkYSJcz9oPRPK9XtTqMpXPA4o1xQTrIB_Md1dkJbpJqcyB-zeLQITR7s1cVudsKaH2pzM8RRXpv2wq3-u407Yktru7G5saD5rw27B4bZWknL1X6TFxZo_FZBvXWR6uWUCK1-ViwdkBtRJoCjsL6Loi5tXzcefTSrQlyacT3yF3fFrwTjeXGc9LrMClex14k3idPMQT7VxTMy_C_6PtmzGUYRRSsYoMhR_TbCffZQEGymNuTwWbEevOBznrv1LlOqy23efGILJAyXfcIhUtn4SgL7NvtO1oM4Nrd7FxqGLZPtkrYZ2PegqxOoOK_FNjevbytwPhwi-qVN-fYH83MLzn3PYF/s640/Ozzy%2Bcone.jpg" width="476" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is supposed to be a letter about you, and it is. You are living though this awful scary tragic time the way you have lived through the last 9 years...with that impish smile, a tilt of your head, a sigh as you drape one arm around my shoulder as if we are buddies riding the rails together. "I cannot believe you are 9," I said to you the other day. "I cannot believe you are 47," you said right back. All of it. Unbelievable. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">But this, I know—with your creativity, your kind heart—you will make the world a better place. As you wrote at the end of your dinosaur story, TO BE CONTINUED...BOOK 2, COMING SOON.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I love you a thousand times forever,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mommy</span></span>Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-51075771291834050112020-04-24T12:00:00.001-07:002020-04-24T12:04:25.895-07:0014<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dear Zoey,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">14 and under quarantine. There’s really no cute marketing way to spin this—it’s plain old fucked up. No birthday party, no extended family dinner. Of all the ways I feel like my generation and the generations before have messed up your generation, this takes the (birthday) cake. But I’ll save my lamenting for another day. Today is your birthday, and truly, honestly, there is no one I’d rather be in quarantine with than you.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8cScAF_YKUc/XqM2-4q-UVI/AAAAAAAAGcI/mRvxF8CjBcMs9VF7lLzlhLg2j9yj0NB4QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8cScAF_YKUc/XqM2-4q-UVI/AAAAAAAAGcI/mRvxF8CjBcMs9VF7lLzlhLg2j9yj0NB4QCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Beach.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I keep getting warned about the pissy teenage years. Lord knows I was a punk ass pissy teen! I can still be a punk ass pissy 47 year old. But so far, you are still as sweet as ever. All big eyes and bigger heart, goofy sense of humor. You spend much of your time in your room, true, but you are in there painting or drawing, and you welcome me in, ask me questions on how to shade noses and jawlines, how to add light to hair. (The only time you make me leave is when you are playing guitar or ukulele. I know you know, but I stand outside your door and listen.)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh Zoey, at 14 you show me photos of Timothée Chalamet and young Leonardo diCaprio because they are so cute. (You have good taste.) Whenever I go in your room you are listening to music that I have never heard but really like, so you made me my own playlist titled, “I’m a Cool Mom.” But you are the cool one, Zoey. You love surfing, skateboarding, art, music, making açai bowls with granola and a drizzle of honey. But the very best part of all is that you know who you are and are just you. Plain and simple. Not afraid of disappointing anyone really, only of disappointing yourself. A nose shaded wrong, it happens, and you stare at it while I stare at you, so proud of who you are at 14, my forever funny Petunia Faced Girl.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I love you, I love you, I love you,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mommy</span></div>
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Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-82514132620296837482019-12-21T21:47:00.001-08:002019-12-21T22:39:47.673-08:00We Will Always Do This<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yesterday Ozzy asked me if the Easter Bunny is real. Totally off-season, after sitting on Santa's knee at the mall, writing him letters, looking for Elf on the Shelf each morning, but yesterday he said with all the nonchalance of a warm spring afternoon, <i>maybe the Easter Bunny is the parents, what do you think about that?</i> I was unsetting our house alarm when he said it, my back to him, punching the code into the system so I wouldn't set off the alarm when I left.<i> Ummm</i>, I said, like maybe I wasn't really paying attention, and then I turned around and told him there was a spider on the wall right behind him. SPIDER! Like that. And he screamed, and I screamed, and we left the room and the conversation really quickly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That's what I think about that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2019. I make them kneel at the tree. Closer! Directing, setting the shot. At 13 and 8, they still look tiny if you squint your eyes.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lfS97saSGcM/Xf7353XuZwI/AAAAAAAAGZ0/kkrXUYTBSKoboWHNGktapDmyYrFHsSeRQCEwYBhgL/s1600/xMAS%2B2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lfS97saSGcM/Xf7353XuZwI/AAAAAAAAGZ0/kkrXUYTBSKoboWHNGktapDmyYrFHsSeRQCEwYBhgL/s640/xMAS%2B2019.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2018. The curve of the cheek, the zig zag part.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BgnrXKAMovk/Xf73gTbTPiI/AAAAAAAAGZk/TZGQm3-L0U4QXqZFN6iuL7UdqiuRhCZ8wCEwYBhgL/s1600/Xmas2018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BgnrXKAMovk/Xf73gTbTPiI/AAAAAAAAGZk/TZGQm3-L0U4QXqZFN6iuL7UdqiuRhCZ8wCEwYBhgL/s640/Xmas2018.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2017. The jammies.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J4G5HSPUows/Xf73f7TyxII/AAAAAAAAGZk/2bJt3PVo_KAny97TgffPQXihIAkpsIJogCEwYBhgL/s1600/Xmas%2B2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="578" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J4G5HSPUows/Xf73f7TyxII/AAAAAAAAGZk/2bJt3PVo_KAny97TgffPQXihIAkpsIJogCEwYBhgL/s640/Xmas%2B2017.jpg" width="578" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2016. A departure that year. But your arms around each other! I said.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g1Fqs4yelxU/Xf73ez1eQ6I/AAAAAAAAGZk/SocVDFQgWO8catw-OY8cVzVX_sekLFWoACEwYBhgL/s1600/XMAS2016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="406" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g1Fqs4yelxU/Xf73ez1eQ6I/AAAAAAAAGZk/SocVDFQgWO8catw-OY8cVzVX_sekLFWoACEwYBhgL/s640/XMAS2016.jpg" width="406" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2015. The year he looks older, a precursor to one day when he will be taller.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RFxbWfZJSfs/Xf73fQO3eLI/AAAAAAAAGZo/6iHx7XY4j8sPiYgsilOZHsUtqMd94XlXwCEwYBhgL/s1600/Xmas%2B2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RFxbWfZJSfs/Xf73fQO3eLI/AAAAAAAAGZo/6iHx7XY4j8sPiYgsilOZHsUtqMd94XlXwCEwYBhgL/s640/Xmas%2B2015.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2014. The cheek on this one gets me every time.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UNs3L87sm0Q/Xf73dQuZdeI/AAAAAAAAGZg/W38DhIkwr-sW9K_6p_UjyLZQsTGFjYTGwCEwYBhgL/s1600/2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UNs3L87sm0Q/Xf73dQuZdeI/AAAAAAAAGZg/W38DhIkwr-sW9K_6p_UjyLZQsTGFjYTGwCEwYBhgL/s640/2014.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2013. Looking back, I would have done an outfit change. </span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xkaPWX7wUCo/Xf73hvA3PII/AAAAAAAAGZs/TTyv9cVbIIwjhZbYiNpZjPP78wUciCAbQCEwYBhgL/s1600/xmas%2B2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xkaPWX7wUCo/Xf73hvA3PII/AAAAAAAAGZs/TTyv9cVbIIwjhZbYiNpZjPP78wUciCAbQCEwYBhgL/s640/xmas%2B2013.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2012. The naked back.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gzxWQjo32uI/Xf73g4ZqAhI/AAAAAAAAGZo/JFOG1DESze8MqWZlc83_EAly54Ju08BZQCEwYBhgL/s1600/christmas%2B2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gzxWQjo32uI/Xf73g4ZqAhI/AAAAAAAAGZo/JFOG1DESze8MqWZlc83_EAly54Ju08BZQCEwYBhgL/s640/christmas%2B2012.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2011. Before he could stand on his own.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l1D8mVLzO8I/Xf73eawes2I/AAAAAAAAGZg/LxqfAex8Tmo-CeVvyD6OvqlUf5yBGPdYwCEwYBhgL/s1600/Christmas%2B2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l1D8mVLzO8I/Xf73eawes2I/AAAAAAAAGZg/LxqfAex8Tmo-CeVvyD6OvqlUf5yBGPdYwCEwYBhgL/s640/Christmas%2B2011.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2010. Her last year as an only child.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AwAhdwCLn1Y/Xf73d0hMk1I/AAAAAAAAGZc/0VcbrTGMLeImYgOwoabf_T95W1xHfb52wCEwYBhgL/s1600/Christmas%2B2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AwAhdwCLn1Y/Xf73d0hMk1I/AAAAAAAAGZc/0VcbrTGMLeImYgOwoabf_T95W1xHfb52wCEwYBhgL/s640/Christmas%2B2010.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2009. Missing. What happened in 2009? No freaking clue.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2008. The last of the fluff.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vv1s4AgaQy4/Xf73dTxL-JI/AAAAAAAAGZY/2AxsThP_xroX9nZ52JXdT3WZIG5uiLMDACEwYBhgL/s1600/Christmas%2B2008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vv1s4AgaQy4/Xf73dTxL-JI/AAAAAAAAGZY/2AxsThP_xroX9nZ52JXdT3WZIG5uiLMDACEwYBhgL/s640/Christmas%2B2008.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2007. The cotton-headed ninny muggins that started it all.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2XiUz06OGxA/Xf73dSQTCCI/AAAAAAAAGZc/Q8G-Vu937IUxM0R9grJr61YZT0srtvQFwCEwYBhgL/s1600/Christmas%2B2007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2XiUz06OGxA/Xf73dSQTCCI/AAAAAAAAGZc/Q8G-Vu937IUxM0R9grJr61YZT0srtvQFwCEwYBhgL/s640/Christmas%2B2007.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don't believe in lying. One day I will tell him that. That the Easter Bunny is maybe yes most certainly the parents, Santa, too, that Elf on the Shelf isn't a narc, and I will show him the plastic baggie I have filled with all of their milk teeth pushed way back in my bedside table drawer because the Tooth Fairy isn't real either. There is no reason to be afraid of spiders, I will say, and then I will tell them both that lying is complicated, almost as complicated as magic, but it doesn't even come close to the complications of love. Because what is real is this. The roundness of their heads together year after year.</span></div>
Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-87015134654293338222019-05-30T22:30:00.004-07:002019-05-30T22:30:57.568-07:008<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Dear Ozzy,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh sweet boy, you funny, smart, curious little man. I feel like all of your birthday letters have been about your sense of humor, but that's just it—you're funny as hell. Have been since the day you were born, and it's only getting better. Your jokes, quips, inflection...as you get older, you just get funnier, and I cannot wait for the day when we can swap dirty jokes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course you are as sweet and sensitive as you are funny. Inquisitive, questioning, kind. A long time ago, before Daddy and I were even married, I went to a psychic who told me that I would have one girl and one boy, in that order, and that the boy would have soft energy. Now after a long day of you asking me questions over and over again, of you pushing back on me with everything, of you speaking too loudly (seriously, why do you talk so loud?), I don't know if I would say your energy is soft, per se? But I do think it is something effervescent. Bubbling and round, an energy you want to cup in your hand and keep safe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And oh how I want to keep you safe. Bubble wrap your heart, your face, the back of your neck silky and warm. You are a looker, my love, the very best kind, the kind who doesn't quite know it. A few months ago there was a dance at your school, the auditorium filled with 6, 7, 8, 9 year olds. The boys pushed around with the boys, and the girls crowded with the girls, and there you were--doing your super special fast feet dance moves that look a little ska-like, cool, asking everyone to dance with you. The girls, they loved you that night, danced with you, took pictures in the photo booth with you, gave you notes the next week at school to say that they liked dancing with you. And I? I died a little, watching how this all unfolds. My sweet baby boy dancing with the world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh Ozmatoz. Please don't ever let anyone tell you not to talk so loudly--yes, that includes me. Keep dancing, keep laughing, keep looking at me with those shiny hazel eyes always on the verge of a punchline. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Happy birthday, sweet boy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love you, I love you, I love you,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mommy</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2018/05/" target="_blank">7</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2017/05/6.html" target="_blank">6</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2016/05/5.html" target="_blank">5</a>,<a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2015/05/" target="_blank"> 4</a>, 3, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2013/05/2.html" target="_blank">2</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2012/05/1.html" target="_blank">1</a>,<a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2011/06/woosh.html" target="_blank"> birth</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2011_05_01_archive.html" target="_blank">pregnant with you</a></span></div>
Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-46584681130496905262019-04-24T05:30:00.000-07:002019-04-24T10:16:14.197-07:0013<div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Dear Zoey,</div>
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It's a numbers game. A racket. It has to be, right? The fact that you are 13.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LG10gWvzvJ8/XMCXvSQrNjI/AAAAAAAAGU0/-4nxRwJjCYUQfqMkLMNGdCL3-PwHDzETwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_5790.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="934" data-original-width="1237" height="482" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LG10gWvzvJ8/XMCXvSQrNjI/AAAAAAAAGU0/-4nxRwJjCYUQfqMkLMNGdCL3-PwHDzETwCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_5790.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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12 years ago, on your 1st birthday, I asked our family to each write you a letter to the once and future Zo. I started with 13. Somebody else got 14. My mom got 17 and didn't just write a letter, but a composition book. (That one is going to kill me to read, if you let me read it, that is.) The letters go all the way up to age 21. But on this day, 12 years ago, you were just turning 1, and the possibility of you at 13 seemed as incomprehensible as the number of stars in the Universe (3 sextillion), as fathomless as the fact that 99.9999% of matter is empty space, as wondrous as the matter that it rains diamonds on Saturn, as mysterious as a photo of a black hole, as baffling as the reality that Donald Trump is our president, as unimaginable as the truth that my mom and brother are now gone.</div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-74wJcrIBYsk/XMCXvVlJaaI/AAAAAAAAGU8/o52JuiR2sagpUBOQ8qFtFxVS_IjxtzrvACEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_5794.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="921" data-original-width="1083" height="544" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-74wJcrIBYsk/XMCXvVlJaaI/AAAAAAAAGU8/o52JuiR2sagpUBOQ8qFtFxVS_IjxtzrvACEwYBhgL/s640/IMG_5794.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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But here we are and you are 13, as simple and plodding as time. Oh, Zo—at 13 you are a wonder! All legs and hazel eyes and lashes. Last night we took the box of letters down from your closet shelf and read the journal I kept while pregnant with you. Before you, even. A page from April 23, 2005—14 years ago to the day—when I thought I might be pregnant but wasn't yet. Dear Soul, I wrote, and the rest is history. Sprout, Baby Girl, lists of what we called you before we knew you, Willa, Milla, Allegra, Odile, a list of names and at the bottom, you. Zoey Dimon.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-o4yDXATlNU4/XMCXvVJFmLI/AAAAAAAAGU4/rvYv5iNa9BwKbmbW36TGl42FH_9Kz0dogCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_5801.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1213" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-o4yDXATlNU4/XMCXvVJFmLI/AAAAAAAAGU4/rvYv5iNa9BwKbmbW36TGl42FH_9Kz0dogCEwYBhgL/s640/IMG_5801.jpg" width="484" /></a></div>
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At 13 you play guitar and ukulele, shutting your bedroom door to sing. You skateboard and surf. Your teacher calls you out for being an excellent writer, you're getting an A in math, doodles on every page because more than anything, you are an artist. My girl. My sweet sweet baby girl Sprout, your big eyes so much like my own mom's eyes. <i>You know now, don't you? </i>my mom said to me the day you were born. <i>You know how achingly much I love you. </i>And I did, I do, and one day when you have kids of your own, you will know, too, all of this some sort of parallel Universe of simultaneous synchronicity. Don't ask me—I struggled to get a C in math. But this much I know: time is not only pulling us in one direction, but in all directions. I loved you before you were even here, and I will love you long after I am gone. And tonight you will read the letter I wrote to you 12 years ago today, when you were just 1. Always and forever, my sweet petunia faced girl.</div>
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I love you, I love you, I love you,</div>
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Mommy<br />
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<a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2018/04/" target="_blank">12</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2017/04/11.html" target="_blank">11</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2016/04/10.html" target="_blank">10</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2015/04/9.html" target="_blank">9</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2014/04/8.html" target="_blank">8</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2013/04/7.html" target="_blank">7</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2012/04/6.html" target="_blank">6</a>, 5, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2010/04/4.html" target="_blank">4</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2009/04/3.html" target="_blank">3</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2008/04/2.html" target="_blank">2</a>, 1</div>
Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-32702682957661600752018-12-22T17:49:00.001-08:002018-12-22T17:49:40.124-08:00I'm Just Going to Put This Right Here<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because I guess there is still a very tiny part of me that still believes in Santa and blogs...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2018</span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hh6OTMuqT4o/XB7kx6O6GbI/AAAAAAAAGRo/M159i7J-PUcswzLvbCnE1J127ZhrDYwuwCEwYBhgL/s1600/Xmas2018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hh6OTMuqT4o/XB7kx6O6GbI/AAAAAAAAGRo/M159i7J-PUcswzLvbCnE1J127ZhrDYwuwCEwYBhgL/s640/Xmas2018.jpg" width="478" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2017/12/prospero-ano-y-felicidad-thats-another.html" target="_blank"> 2017</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2016/12/the-invention-of-tradition.html" target="_blank"> 2016</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2015/12/happy-everything.html" target="_blank">2015</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vjb1QqWpqqU/XB7lOW7y1XI/AAAAAAAAGSM/R2P0B_XIYIIueCGukxJpjNEJiMd0eSDyACEwYBhgL/s1600/Xmas%2B2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vjb1QqWpqqU/XB7lOW7y1XI/AAAAAAAAGSM/R2P0B_XIYIIueCGukxJpjNEJiMd0eSDyACEwYBhgL/s640/Xmas%2B2015.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2014/12/may-you-always-see-wonder-of-it-all.html" target="_blank">2014</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rPSWG9kkT1w/XB7lj67cL2I/AAAAAAAAGSQ/1-CmuoX8yd45khghLxf1-OHZIJ361P-mACLcBGAs/s1600/2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rPSWG9kkT1w/XB7lj67cL2I/AAAAAAAAGSQ/1-CmuoX8yd45khghLxf1-OHZIJ361P-mACLcBGAs/s640/2014.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2013/12/because-nothing-says-merry-christmas.html" target="_blank">2013</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mQ_cJuWuypk/XB7lOeyEhaI/AAAAAAAAGSE/Ubr4NQeJr7I3Hd_JQeKal_aJEy3-hgv6wCEwYBhgL/s1600/xmas%2B2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mQ_cJuWuypk/XB7lOeyEhaI/AAAAAAAAGSE/Ubr4NQeJr7I3Hd_JQeKal_aJEy3-hgv6wCEwYBhgL/s640/xmas%2B2013.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2012/12/2006-no-hair-2009-no-idea.html" target="_blank">2012</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FpHxSIUTKCs/XB7lzd3ZeII/AAAAAAAAGSk/QwwnPvC9ZK8GhPnibwLWvF7iVWPLiYfDQCLcBGAs/s1600/christmas%2B2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FpHxSIUTKCs/XB7lzd3ZeII/AAAAAAAAGSk/QwwnPvC9ZK8GhPnibwLWvF7iVWPLiYfDQCLcBGAs/s640/christmas%2B2012.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2011/12/" target="_blank">2011</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k4z0h_quzRA/XB7lzBHFBNI/AAAAAAAAGSg/Nw3PCXjHL7Aa6z1hwdbO_JfT0i1skH3BQCLcBGAs/s1600/Christmas%2B2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k4z0h_quzRA/XB7lzBHFBNI/AAAAAAAAGSg/Nw3PCXjHL7Aa6z1hwdbO_JfT0i1skH3BQCLcBGAs/s640/Christmas%2B2011.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0r96s4EWTPU/XB7lyXYwE7I/AAAAAAAAGSY/8H4KhJUTEgQR-XTB_d19-urp8PX8CNMlgCEwYBhgL/s1600/Christmas%2B2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0r96s4EWTPU/XB7lyXYwE7I/AAAAAAAAGSY/8H4KhJUTEgQR-XTB_d19-urp8PX8CNMlgCEwYBhgL/s640/Christmas%2B2010.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2009 Missing</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oQtHYYGdOV8/XB7lyT-X5qI/AAAAAAAAGSU/gztqFZgt7bIYWCtCJA55JpVM7jvVcD1lwCEwYBhgL/s1600/Christmas%2B2008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oQtHYYGdOV8/XB7lyT-X5qI/AAAAAAAAGSU/gztqFZgt7bIYWCtCJA55JpVM7jvVcD1lwCEwYBhgL/s640/Christmas%2B2008.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2007</span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rwoZYs0vszk/XB7lyePLs2I/AAAAAAAAGSc/o6lYlbZF7_oUSg8kD8a1UV81pkMJ3zDBQCEwYBhgL/s1600/Christmas%2B2007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rwoZYs0vszk/XB7lyePLs2I/AAAAAAAAGSc/o6lYlbZF7_oUSg8kD8a1UV81pkMJ3zDBQCEwYBhgL/s640/Christmas%2B2007.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope you still believe, too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Xo,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">S</span></div>
Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-46550196080587436112018-05-30T22:45:00.002-07:002018-05-30T22:45:31.714-07:007<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dear Ozzy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Oh Oz-matoz. My Great and Powerful boy. You steal my
breath with your wet-lipped smile and those eyes that give you away. Today I
got a Facebook memory served up from May 30, 2011 at 12:14am. It was my status update that said simply: Here we go. And away we went.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Who was the first baby ever born?</i> you like to ask me, and
I stumble a bit with evolution and the Bible before settling on I don't know.
You have a scientist's mind, always asking questions, and
I have a mother's mind, always thinking I need to have the answer. But a lot of
the time/most of the time, I don't, though I am hoping we have a few years
before that becomes unflinchingly obvious to both of us. Who was the first baby
ever born? Might as well have been you because the world cracked open new the
moment you came into it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And here we are--you are 7. Most mornings now you wake up
at 6am and get yourself dressed while singing a song that goes like this:<i> I
love sunny daaaays, when anything is possible... </i>You may have made up this song
on your own, I am not sure. But I do know that when you draw, you act out every
single sketch in a loud, throaty falsetto, even if you're just drawing a
straight line. <i>Woaaahhhh guys! Over here! Here we go!</i> For a line. Just a line.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">With you, a line is a possibility, something to be toed
then crossed, danced across really, a horizon stretched as wide as your smile. Here we go indeed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zrABdzSIg1k/Ww-JOm0qJcI/AAAAAAAAGQI/s6tkm1RPCX4_WEZDNViz1G_7fOAbghTJgCLcBGAs/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1360" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zrABdzSIg1k/Ww-JOm0qJcI/AAAAAAAAGQI/s6tkm1RPCX4_WEZDNViz1G_7fOAbghTJgCLcBGAs/s640/7.jpg" width="542" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Happy birthday my sweet, smart, delicious Ozzy Fozzy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I love you I love you
I love you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Mommy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2017/05/6.html" target="_blank">6</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2016/05/5.html" target="_blank">5</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2015/05/" target="_blank">4</a>, 3, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2013/05/2.html" target="_blank">2</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2012/05/1.html" target="_blank">1</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2011/06/woosh.html" target="_blank">introducing Ozzy</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2011_05_01_archive.html" target="_blank">cranky, pregnant me</a></span></div>
<br />Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-21397676782368354172018-04-24T23:00:00.003-07:002018-04-24T23:27:54.919-07:0012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dear Zoey,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I wasn't sure I was going to write this letter here, but I just kissed you goodnight and realized I had to. Because suddenly you exist in the same world as green juice, the internet, social media...you know how to pronounce foyer, who Putin is, you follow #timesup on Instagram. I realized that this letter is not some future possible something you might read someday from the backseat of your flying car, but a now, hit publish and there you might be. Hello. </span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_1JdhyvhiSo/WuAIJZPlfCI/AAAAAAAAGPU/93KvuunUG7QEIUa4oGG_c1Jepy1bLC_OQCLcBGAs/s1600/fcpsuv5h5rkucc2hztz6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_1JdhyvhiSo/WuAIJZPlfCI/AAAAAAAAGPU/93KvuunUG7QEIUa4oGG_c1Jepy1bLC_OQCLcBGAs/s640/fcpsuv5h5rkucc2hztz6.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Oh Zo. How are you 12? Where did the time go? A dozen years ago I gave birth to you, but you gave me life. You with your impossibly large eyes and that freckle on your lip. Next week you get braces for that one tooth that won't grow in, and it's not so much that I am afraid of change, but I am afraid of how quickly I will get used to you with braces. I am afraid that one day I won't remember how your teeth looked "when you were little," the happy round shape of Chiclets, as if a child drew them in with a very soft crayon.</span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HWkcdqIZwH8/WuAMXhElcrI/AAAAAAAAGPs/om55fZbqhL0h6TwIO-WYLZ2vc0uNoa-7ACLcBGAs/s1600/ren9t4efjrwq2cpqys5j.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="542" data-original-width="400" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HWkcdqIZwH8/WuAMXhElcrI/AAAAAAAAGPs/om55fZbqhL0h6TwIO-WYLZ2vc0uNoa-7ACLcBGAs/s640/ren9t4efjrwq2cpqys5j.jpg" width="472" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here we are where there are edges, and I am still trying to cover them with my palm so that you don't hit your head. Of course you are too tall for that now. At 12, I watch as you and your friends try on growing up like a pair of my shoes that even I am not comfortable wearing. Walking around town by yourself, posting selfies, talking about another girl's hoops as if to measure something ineffable and uncomfortable by the circumference of earrings. Some of your friends have boyfriends. Other friends are no longer really friends at all. Today you got a bad grade on a math quiz, and I know how these things can splinter. But I also know that you are unflinchingly kind. You are not afraid to be soft, and it is my birthday wish for you that this softness is unbreakable, that the boys and the posts, the crop tops and Instagram stories of places you were not invited, that these do not make you hard. That you always know that there is a center, as shy and as brazen as a magnolia, a place where you belong and are loved. And that place is inside of you.</span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d8et_ZcnIYM/WuAIOyQRd6I/AAAAAAAAGPY/abFTW_vYqJYH931i2GrH7GnLUTd6Z5noQCLcBGAs/s1600/osd4ptc7zmqvqrrr73em.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="566" data-original-width="400" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d8et_ZcnIYM/WuAIOyQRd6I/AAAAAAAAGPY/abFTW_vYqJYH931i2GrH7GnLUTd6Z5noQCLcBGAs/s640/osd4ptc7zmqvqrrr73em.jpg" width="452" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I love you, I love you, I love you, my sweet petunia-faced birthday girl. I cannot believe how lucky I am to get to be your mom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Xo,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mommy</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2017/04/11.html" target="_blank">11</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2016/04/10.html" target="_blank">10</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2015/04/9.html" target="_blank">9</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2014/04/8.html" target="_blank">8</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2013/04/7.html" target="_blank">7</a>,<a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2012/04/6.html" target="_blank"> 6</a>, 5 (too pregnant and cranky), <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2010/04/4.html" target="_blank">4</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2009/04/3.html" target="_blank">3</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2008/04/2.html" target="_blank">2</a>, 1 (pre-blog)</span><br />
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Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-39491379717570587012017-12-23T22:11:00.001-08:002017-12-23T22:13:24.827-08:00Prospero Año y Felicidad (That's another thing I did: finally found out what that other Spanish line is in Feliz Navidad, which duh, but suddenly I feel that much smarter/sexier/feliz-ier, so merry xmas to me.)<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I finished my Christmas shopping. We took Santa pictures, went ice skating, Christmas caroling. I sent out holiday cards. I felt grateful. I yelled at the kids for bickering. I bought myself some presents. Polished off a tub of English toffee whilst watching The Crown and Googling Prince Phillip. We decorated Christmas cookies. I had a few ugly cries over my brother being gone. Felt grateful despite. I went to holiday parties, drank wine, took antibiotics for a sinus infection, decided I am fine with not being good at wrapping presents, stood in line at UPS, the grocery store, felt grateful some more, tried to find Christmas crackers but they are sold out, and now it is the eve of Christmas Eve, so Zoey and Ozzy stood in front of the tree, because tradition, and yes, I am so very fucking grateful.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2017</span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-E6EPl45Fo_4/Wj84_VFGiDI/AAAAAAAAGNY/YDmTlRJ1PfQKLR4PRbYONTU9zVpk0AW_wCLcBGAs/s1600/Xmas%2B2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1446" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-E6EPl45Fo_4/Wj84_VFGiDI/AAAAAAAAGNY/YDmTlRJ1PfQKLR4PRbYONTU9zVpk0AW_wCLcBGAs/s640/Xmas%2B2017.jpg" width="577" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2016</span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FLFtUfVJ_es/Wj86I-KlTII/AAAAAAAAGN8/sRCS4Zmxmsc-fCGgw-fmf5zkLNi_AjJiACLcBGAs/s1600/Xmas%2B2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FLFtUfVJ_es/Wj86I-KlTII/AAAAAAAAGN8/sRCS4Zmxmsc-fCGgw-fmf5zkLNi_AjJiACLcBGAs/s640/Xmas%2B2015.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2014</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2013</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q40zyrvLbSw/Wj85_dYRuHI/AAAAAAAAGN4/35DA29QcDJ0PJEZumRFMsZ5QoDKz37YjQCLcBGAs/s1600/xmas%2B2013%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q40zyrvLbSw/Wj85_dYRuHI/AAAAAAAAGN4/35DA29QcDJ0PJEZumRFMsZ5QoDKz37YjQCLcBGAs/s640/xmas%2B2013%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2012</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K-oMGyLckT4/Wj85yUUSYnI/AAAAAAAAGN0/1R4oSMOKXRQjkDDiRt5pQw3vcikKGCKKQCLcBGAs/s1600/christmas%2B2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K-oMGyLckT4/Wj85yUUSYnI/AAAAAAAAGN0/1R4oSMOKXRQjkDDiRt5pQw3vcikKGCKKQCLcBGAs/s640/christmas%2B2012.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2011</span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hfRdYI9My60/Wj85r16EIvI/AAAAAAAAGNw/-Dgj2nIRf9wDLUP7B4r_n9E6bhLevqLmQCLcBGAs/s1600/Christmas%2B2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hfRdYI9My60/Wj85r16EIvI/AAAAAAAAGNw/-Dgj2nIRf9wDLUP7B4r_n9E6bhLevqLmQCLcBGAs/s640/Christmas%2B2011.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2010</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-10XNQLGV-Ic/Wj85j7fXYeI/AAAAAAAAGNs/irt_QBMPQbg8D5BqglkfSp7O-mNBtB07wCLcBGAs/s1600/Christmas%2B2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-10XNQLGV-Ic/Wj85j7fXYeI/AAAAAAAAGNs/irt_QBMPQbg8D5BqglkfSp7O-mNBtB07wCLcBGAs/s640/Christmas%2B2010.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2009 (missing)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2008</span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3OfVjwLEk0I/Wj85dFJhktI/AAAAAAAAGNk/o3eTeZESVwYjo7ydMCf5VWYIzOVWbG66ACLcBGAs/s1600/Christmas%2B2008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3OfVjwLEk0I/Wj85dFJhktI/AAAAAAAAGNk/o3eTeZESVwYjo7ydMCf5VWYIzOVWbG66ACLcBGAs/s640/Christmas%2B2008.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2007</span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6OdQZml1qi8/Wj85QJ6iVRI/AAAAAAAAGNg/wX6VvnEovUYYuIFcnfXmEv7ONEcENejJQCLcBGAs/s1600/Christmas%2B2007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6OdQZml1qi8/Wj85QJ6iVRI/AAAAAAAAGNg/wX6VvnEovUYYuIFcnfXmEv7ONEcENejJQCLcBGAs/s640/Christmas%2B2007.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thank you, thank you, thank you, for all of the above, and so much more.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Happy everything to you and yours.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Love,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">S</span>Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-69565805369211206642017-10-19T07:24:00.000-07:002017-10-19T11:30:04.552-07:00What a Time to Be Alive<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 15.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">Through
a series of unsynchronized schedules, I was alone in my house last night for an
hour or so, and I am NEVER alone in my house, like, ever. Giddy with the expanse
of the hour, I wondered, should I take a nap? Watch tv? Do dirty things, paint
my toes, shop online? But no, somehow I ended up unloading the dishwasher and
asking Alexa if she thinks Trump will be impeached. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xDw0-Xqfhd8/Wejq-edem_I/AAAAAAAAGMY/OfrJUPSbsQgPYFE3wNO7JmxOQ2UqgjNsgCLcBGAs/s1600/bloggrossingers1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xDw0-Xqfhd8/Wejq-edem_I/AAAAAAAAGMY/OfrJUPSbsQgPYFE3wNO7JmxOQ2UqgjNsgCLcBGAs/s640/bloggrossingers1.gif" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><i>It
looks like you're asking about Trump</i>, she said, and then gave me NPR headlines
on his latest embarrassment.</span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1AJWcD8VIyo/WejrG-oac5I/AAAAAAAAGM4/SOSxq0-amxEgU42zcJQqXClDTm2qeZQVQCEwYBhgL/s1600/blogunityhouse1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="364" data-original-width="640" height="364" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1AJWcD8VIyo/WejrG-oac5I/AAAAAAAAGM4/SOSxq0-amxEgU42zcJQqXClDTm2qeZQVQCEwYBhgL/s640/blogunityhouse1.gif" width="640" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">The
house was so quiet with only me and the clink of clean dishes, so I kept
talking to Alexa.</span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qwSJQce5TOE/WejrGHO8IcI/AAAAAAAAGM4/lhgwZVy_QXYnym1H87KpOBPQhxLHzSs4gCEwYBhgL/s1600/blogpoc5.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="394" data-original-width="640" height="394" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qwSJQce5TOE/WejrGHO8IcI/AAAAAAAAGM4/lhgwZVy_QXYnym1H87KpOBPQhxLHzSs4gCEwYBhgL/s640/blogpoc5.gif" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Alexa,
do you believe in ghosts? <i>I don't have a view on the supernatural.</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EDUv1v3OlzY/WejrKTNasdI/AAAAAAAAGM4/piFCsxrbKgICTrq7_bP8erJxtxIXlmDcgCEwYBhgL/s1600/blogwack2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="500" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EDUv1v3OlzY/WejrKTNasdI/AAAAAAAAGM4/piFCsxrbKgICTrq7_bP8erJxtxIXlmDcgCEwYBhgL/s640/blogwack2.gif" width="552" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Alexa,
are my mom and brother watching me? </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Sorry, I don't know that one.</i></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--cMdsYCHB7k/WejrBr2NfkI/AAAAAAAAGM4/4vAz99UC2J0OKtdBAZjET7Kl_bR8ejsdwCEwYBhgL/s1600/blogoutdoorpool.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="640" height="406" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--cMdsYCHB7k/WejrBr2NfkI/AAAAAAAAGM4/4vAz99UC2J0OKtdBAZjET7Kl_bR8ejsdwCEwYBhgL/s640/blogoutdoorpool.gif" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Alexa,
when will I die?<i> I'm not sure you really want to know the answer to that question.
In 2015, the United States' average female life expectancy was 81 years.</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BYujG2MoqjU/Wejq90tYywI/AAAAAAAAGM4/s8RZTlNsdf448P3cjkb_jKF-zcKHgZVDwCEwYBhgL/s1600/bloggrossingers2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="367" data-original-width="640" height="366" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BYujG2MoqjU/Wejq90tYywI/AAAAAAAAGM4/s8RZTlNsdf448P3cjkb_jKF-zcKHgZVDwCEwYBhgL/s640/bloggrossingers2.gif" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Alexa,
what is the meaning of life?<i> The answer is 42, but the question is more
complicated.</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wMin-25jmXE/WejrFOkFsKI/AAAAAAAAGM4/kK5qY0_Oxjk8RAcqOVfnELSWgqb8Wl0-QCEwYBhgL/s1600/blogpoc3.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="489" data-original-width="640" height="488" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wMin-25jmXE/WejrFOkFsKI/AAAAAAAAGM4/kK5qY0_Oxjk8RAcqOVfnELSWgqb8Wl0-QCEwYBhgL/s640/blogpoc3.gif" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Alexa,
what is the sound of one hand clapping?<i> It is the sound of a High Five.</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YOf_JXEjBtc/WejrABnCh9I/AAAAAAAAGM4/kXQtcOMXOLUmqbIowO4U6HXNl5hQc8d6QCEwYBhgL/s1600/blogmatches.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="296" data-original-width="640" height="296" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YOf_JXEjBtc/WejrABnCh9I/AAAAAAAAGM4/kXQtcOMXOLUmqbIowO4U6HXNl5hQc8d6QCEwYBhgL/s640/blogmatches.gif" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">After
I had asked Alexa about the chickens and the eggs, what I should be for
Halloween, why do birds sing, and could I get more cowbell, my family finally
came home and it was the comfortable chaos of baths and brushing teeth, books,
bed. But that hour--it was nice. Like therapy, just me and agenda-less Alexa, monotone
jokes, answers and matter-of-fact don't knows.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SylJzndZYUM/WejrJSRncWI/AAAAAAAAGM4/OEyhXgLBlQwxvQzXItinWUJGvQ58Tu-4ACEwYBhgL/s1600/blogwack.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="640" height="386" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SylJzndZYUM/WejrJSRncWI/AAAAAAAAGM4/OEyhXgLBlQwxvQzXItinWUJGvQ58Tu-4ACEwYBhgL/s640/blogwack.gif" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">All images are from <a href="http://dcist.com/2017/08/abandoned_postcards_poconos_catskills_animations.php" target="_blank">this amazing post of abandoned states</a>, postcards of better days
lined up with now. As the post says: </span><span style="background: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><i>They have a surreal quality. Ephemeral, disposable, they served only one
purpose—to let someone know "I'm here. I'm thinking of you."</i></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">Lastly, I still don't know what Alexa meant when she said the meaning of life is 42, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't haunting me, but nonetheless, here is <a href="https://youtu.be/YvT_gqs5ETk" target="_blank">a funny SNL bit on Alexa.</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">xo,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">S</span></div>
Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-16120755202982446362017-10-12T07:12:00.000-07:002017-10-12T11:12:47.677-07:00My Heart Can't Take It (In a Good Way)<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="BODYCOPY"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wildfires, hurricanes, mass shootings,
Harvey, Trump, the horizon like a set design of flat layers beautifully still with
melting plastic and ash. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WzhoClVAyOo/Wd-wLoAqBuI/AAAAAAAAGL0/4Pd5jSd9QL8KpntKOxpr82H9lYEUt8OsACLcBGAs/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="1600" height="454" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WzhoClVAyOo/Wd-wLoAqBuI/AAAAAAAAGL0/4Pd5jSd9QL8KpntKOxpr82H9lYEUt8OsACLcBGAs/s640/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I force myself to remember that there
are also school photos, library books, The Beatles, chai lattes, kitten videos,
a piece of paper that Ozzy left on the table with a list of words he practiced
writing in green crayon: egg, cow, vase, wagon, clock, pumpkin, nest, car, pretty,
black, go. I tell my children that there is way more good in the world than
there is bad. (I tell myself that, too.)</span></div>
Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-82118632349283539842017-10-01T21:26:00.000-07:002017-10-01T21:32:19.233-07:00This One<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">This one has
a thing for blondes. A type, for sure. He currently has crushes on 5 girls,
each one blonder than the last, and I try not to let it bother me, that I am
not his type. His mother. Oedipal Ew notwithstanding, it's a glimpse into
a future wherein I am not the only woman in his life, and I swear I am okay
with that. Or I will work on it and will be when the time comes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RXENd9RETJQ/WdG-dbzD0ZI/AAAAAAAAGLU/ugnHpx2-Y28SgTE_-AOxqCMqGNIHE_vrACLcBGAs/s1600/ozglasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RXENd9RETJQ/WdG-dbzD0ZI/AAAAAAAAGLU/ugnHpx2-Y28SgTE_-AOxqCMqGNIHE_vrACLcBGAs/s640/ozglasses.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">This one just
came over to me as I am writing this even though I told him I need alone time, and he stood next to me and read,
<i>This one, this one has a thing for bananas?</i> He has a dimple in the strangest
place on his face, a little below his bottom lip on the left. Sometimes he makes
me so angry, and then</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c2336; font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">—</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">that
dimple!</span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1IJEA73oEH4/WdG-p3FD7YI/AAAAAAAAGLc/Qz0V1AZqKP4p1Wpz0yEqoGLC0QLsUq6pQCEwYBhgL/s1600/ozzysunglasses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1IJEA73oEH4/WdG-p3FD7YI/AAAAAAAAGLc/Qz0V1AZqKP4p1Wpz0yEqoGLC0QLsUq6pQCEwYBhgL/s640/ozzysunglasses.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">This one came
with me car shopping the other day, for a used Audi. At the dealership, the man
helping me was dressed in a 3-piece suit and clearly did not want to waste his
time on me and my used (up) budget. Still, I asked for a test drive, and
driving down the street in that butter-soft Audi, the man rattled off specs on
the Bang & Olufsen sound system, seeming to know that I had no idea what he
was talking about. He asked me what music I wanted to listen to as he fiddled
with his phone. Anything, I said, when from the back seat, Ozzy said he wanted
to hear The Buttcracker.<i> The Nutcracker? </i>the man said smirking, and Ozzy said
no, not Tchaikovsky, <a href="https://www.jibjab.com/view/template/the_buttcracker" target="_blank">The Buttcracker</a>, in the tune of farts, please. I nodded
yes, yes, that is what I want to listen to, to make sure the Bang & Olufsen
sound system was up to par. So the man found it, and we drove on in plush,
leathery silenc<span style="background-color: white;">e</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c2336; font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">—</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;">b</span>ecause
oh, how that car drove beautifully sile<span style="background-color: white;">nt!</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c2336; font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">—</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><span style="background-color: white;">li</span>stening to a ballet of farts.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">You know, that one.</span></div>
Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-64847658528382733952017-09-08T21:38:00.002-07:002017-09-08T21:43:11.401-07:00tl;dr: My Brother Is Not Talking To Me Through the Fart Machine<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Just stopping in here to tell you that I thought my brother was haunting me through Ozzy's remote control fart machine, mostly because we lost the remote to the fart machine forever ago, and suddenly the machine started farting on its own. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...I'm in the kitchen cooking dinner. Fart from the other room.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...Sleeping in on Sunday morning. Fart across the house.</span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...In the bathroom, big fart. It totally wasn't me. </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I tried to ignore the fact that unlike most siblings, my brother and I did not have a relationship rich in flatulence, that if he was going to communicate with me from the dead it was unlikely to be through farts, but I guess I miss him so much I was willing to think maybe? That is until we had a massive heat wave and figured out that our ceiling fans run on the same frequency as the fart machine, so whenever anyone turns the fans on or off or up or down, the fart machine rips one from the other room. (Please nobody show Ozzy this new trick.) Consequently, I have requesting a reading from <a href="https://www.tylerhenryhollywoodmedium.com/private-reading" target="_blank">Tyler Henry</a> because something tells me he is true and does not fart either; he has yet to get back to me.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So there's that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's been a few months. We went to Costa Rica. Spent the summer swimming, surfing, fighting, reading, trying to find the best mascara. I think <a href="http://shop.nordstrom.com/s/dior-diorshow-pumpnvolume-instant-volume-squeezable-mascara/4670670?cm_mmc=email_tran-_-090717-_-ship_confirm-_-proddescr1" target="_blank">this might be it</a>. Zoey is now in middle school, Ozzy now a Cub Scout. There are hurricanes and wildfires, earthquakes, North Korea. The world might be ending but I kind of doubt it, because it is September, and everything is too beautiful.</span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H8o8la26Bqc/WbNvTVjsI6I/AAAAAAAAGK4/vqzss_OhzrYcfTkmHlFmAgKoFQQMlVIOgCLcBGAs/s1600/september.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="750" height="476" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H8o8la26Bqc/WbNvTVjsI6I/AAAAAAAAGK4/vqzss_OhzrYcfTkmHlFmAgKoFQQMlVIOgCLcBGAs/s640/september.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Xo,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">S</span></div>
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Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-24461416150904782542017-06-29T05:59:00.000-07:002017-06-29T13:12:31.793-07:00Tragedy Porn<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I never meant to become a tragedy porn (star). Of course
I don't think anyone does, really. It just happens. <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2013/09/she-is-gone.html" target="_blank">The first bad thing</a>.
<a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2014/03/allen.html" target="_blank">Another</a>. (And then<a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2014/03/allen.html" target="_blank"> </a><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-truth.html" target="_blank">another,</a> if you're me,<a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2017/03/the-truth-about-my-brother.html" target="_blank"> another</a> after that.) How people turn
to look, and they are nice about it, how they slow down. But you can feel it,
the looking. It's human nature, after all. I have looked at a thousand
tragedies myself, still do. The meaningful squeeze of a shoulder, faces
crumpled in concern but also naked curiosity, relief. There's nothing wrong
with it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And maybe I did this to myself. After all, I write about
it. Even when I sit down to write something funny, the sorrow spills out. Grief
unspooling like those black snake fireworks coiled and lazily roiling, a
sulfuric intumescent sadness that twists itself uncomfortably until it's just a
pile of ashen turd on the pavement. Yes, that's what it's like. Sodium
bicarbonate sadness in my belly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Of course it's also like this:<i> Alexa!</i> I say. <i>Play
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6bWyhj7siEY" target="_blank">Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah</a> by James Basket!</i> And we dance in the kitchen, me, Bryan and
the kids, Ozzy so proud that he taught himself to whistle. <i>My oh my, what a
wonderful day.</i> I post happy photos on Instagram because I am happy. It is
summer. I go out to dinner with friends. <i>My brother recently died of a drug
overdose, </i>I am able to say now with what I think is a normal look on my face,
knowing that they are getting the wrong impression of my brother. He was not a
drug addict like that, I want to say but I don't, except I guess he was a drug
addict like that. <i>I'm sorry,</i> they say. <i>Thank you,</i> I say.<i> Plenty of sunshine,
comin' my way...</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I called the Medical Examiner's Office every few days to
see if the toxicology reports were done. I couldn't understand how Chris
Cornell's report took a week, but my brother's report would take over 12 weeks.
We finally got my brother's report on the day that Carrie Fisher's toxicology
reports were made public. Carrie Fisher had cocaine, methadone, ecstasy,
alcohol and opiates in her system, although cause of death was sleep apnea. WTF?
My brother's cause of death was listed as accidental, an acute hydrocodone,
carisprodol, meprobamate, and gabapentin intoxication. A bigger WTF, if you ask
me. I think I was hoping for something harder, like heroin, so I would know
that he was in deep. But maybe that is me being naive, not understanding yet
that an addiction to prescription pain meds, muscle relaxers and nerve blockers
are just as hard as heroin. I have ordered the full toxicology and autopsy
report, looking for answers that I know are not there. Sometimes I think if he
was going to die doing drugs he should have at least had more fun. Again, me
being naive, stupid, and I shouldn't think that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Instead I think about how I look when I am crying while
driving home from work. Stopped in traffic on Valencia Street, I wonder if
anyone sees me. I put my hand to my face and feel dramatic. Then I think about
how we are all on stage now with social media, or maybe it's just how it is
being a girl, thinking about how you look even when you cry. That thought feels
very un-feminist, and I push it away. Analyzing the crying makes me stop crying,
but I try to squeeze out a few more small sobs because I can feel it in my
chest all tight and kinetic. More than likely it's that I feel as if I am in a
movie, that this is not my life, that this is not me driving down the street
trying to cry in my car because my brother is dead, because I don't have a
brother anymore, because I have no one to talk to about the smell of the rotten
plums from my childhood. I poke at my insides with these thoughts as if they are a sore in my mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>Alexa! Play <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gz5j70DY4zg" target="_blank">Poop in My Fingernails!</a> </i>says Ozzy when I get
home, even though I asked him not to play that song. I take away his Alexa
privileges but not before I hear,<i> I wipe really hard, and my toilet paper is
weak, sometimes I break right through and my fingernail is rubbing up against
my poopy butt-cheek... </i>How long is too long to not get over your brother dying?
Oh, I know there is no right answer to that, and I know that even if there
were, I am only 3 months out, so not even close to a time limit that doesn't
exist. Still I feel like maybe I should get over it. Move on. Write about the
way my hair feels now that it's long enough to brush against the tops of my
shoulders, how Zoey is going to middle school next year. (!) I really don't want to be
anyone's tragedy porn, but here I am, making jokes because grief is
embarrassing, and because resting on it too long is annoying. Like the song says,<i> you're
never gunna get it completely clean, poop in my fingernails, poop in my
fingernails.</i> I grab Ozzy's hand and we dance, me hoping that him telling Alexa
to play that particular ditty was a non-sequitur, not a segue of action into
song.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">xo,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Images of the incredible<a href="http://tyreecallahan.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"> Chromatic Typewriter by artist Tyree Callahan</a>, a conceptual art piece about the translation of art into words.</span></div>
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Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-30081011366678012942017-05-30T22:03:00.000-07:002017-05-30T22:04:23.108-07:006<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dear Ozzy,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here we are at 6, and oh, but you are a beautiful scheisse of a boy. Such a Gemini, I told someone the other day, the softest, wet-lipped thing I ever did see, one minute squeezing my heart with <i>ohmygodIlovehimso</i>, the next, that same heart squeeze a grip of <i>fuckingstopitrightnow</i>! But always I love you. I love you, I love you. I love you so much I can't breathe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>You sound like you hate me</i>, you say in what is either the saddest thing a boy in trouble has ever said to his mother, or the most genius manipulative thing a boy in trouble has said to his mother. No matter. Either way I tell you<i> I will always love you, even when I am mad at you, even when I yell at you. I love you</i>. I hope that you hear it, because I will keep saying it, just as certain as you will keep not listening. This is who you are, my Ozzy boy. Had I named you Robert maybe you would have listened, an Eli would have been quiet, but I didn't. I named you Ozzy and you do not listen. You do not toe the line. You whine. Yell. You laugh too loudly, say hello to everyone who passes by, you color with crayons as animated and hard as road rage, you fall to the floor just because you think it's funny, even when there is no one around to think such things. You fall simply because it is. Funny. You are my Ozzy, and I love you, my wild-eyed boy who kisses me each night with carbonated lips mid-story, your face smelling of swimming pools and coins. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I love you, I love you, I love you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mommy</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2016/05/5.html" target="_blank">5</a>,<a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2015/05/" target="_blank"> 4</a>, 3, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2013/05/" target="_blank">2</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2012/05/1.html" target="_blank">1</a>, <a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2011/06/woosh.html" target="_blank">7 days old</a></span></div>
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Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-33171874942650924012017-05-18T07:23:00.000-07:002017-05-18T13:24:46.255-07:00Want to Come Over for Dinner? (Kitchen Remodel Reveal!)<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Unfortunately for you (and my family), I suck at cooking. BUT THAT DOESN'T MATTER ANYMORE BECAUSE WE FINALLY REMODELED OUR KITCHEN!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Let me back up to 1979 when our kitchen was last updated. Then fast forward to a few years ago when I entered a contest I saw on the Ellen show--she was partnering with Houzz to remodel someone's ugly kitchen for free. I had an ugly kitchen, so I took a bunch of pics and submitted them. Before you get all excited for me, this is not a post about how I was on the Ellen show and got a free remodel, because me and my ugly kitchen were not chosen. Apparently my kitchen is not Award-Winning Ugly, which makes it even uglier so it should have won on technicality.</span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t9HlexzZ4aU/WR325ELPpOI/AAAAAAAAGIQ/_wKTmuMcmgAZn0Hz0Qi-Rrc5Zn8-xM3AQCLcB/s1600/HouseOldStove.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t9HlexzZ4aU/WR325ELPpOI/AAAAAAAAGIQ/_wKTmuMcmgAZn0Hz0Qi-Rrc5Zn8-xM3AQCLcB/s400/HouseOldStove.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I just mention the Ellen show because I found my pics from when I entered that contest. And no, I did not artistically stage the pic with that cupboard open; it simply wouldn't close. Ever. Closed cupboards are for Ugly Kitchen Posers.</span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vl1dx6ASRrY/WR328avl63I/AAAAAAAAGIg/oNyPZKO4eNM85VWlyMHHFQPR8-vJbhnjwCEw/s1600/HouseOldsink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vl1dx6ASRrY/WR328avl63I/AAAAAAAAGIg/oNyPZKO4eNM85VWlyMHHFQPR8-vJbhnjwCEw/s400/HouseOldsink.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I believe this photo was to illustrate the mold growing beneath the sink. Whenever you ran the garbage disposal, you had to open the these doors because sometimes, inexplicably, just as a fun surprise, the pipes would burst spewing water and food bits.</span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bex_a90EelU/WR327Z8MSOI/AAAAAAAAGIY/9Zcc3Vp8s2E2PgMyQw7ztb5SbPgfhe-nwCEw/s1600/HouseOlddishwasher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bex_a90EelU/WR327Z8MSOI/AAAAAAAAGIY/9Zcc3Vp8s2E2PgMyQw7ztb5SbPgfhe-nwCEw/s400/HouseOlddishwasher.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Perhaps I ought to have entered the contest with a video as so many of the uglies were ugly in action, such as the dishwasher, which popped out of the counter with a loud ka-thunk every time you opened it.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6StyLsnq4NA/WR327lR8_ZI/AAAAAAAAGIc/sLMWaiUPrhwxtrZcL8JkyvrKzLLNlUPEgCEw/s1600/HouseOldfull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6StyLsnq4NA/WR327lR8_ZI/AAAAAAAAGIc/sLMWaiUPrhwxtrZcL8JkyvrKzLLNlUPEgCEw/s400/HouseOldfull.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Oh 1979 kitchen, you sexy linoleum beast, you.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WuvdaOmLWYY/WR329BVI00I/AAAAAAAAGIk/9yd09fsbVfQtid69gjAoP6SwjF4sSYcCwCEw/s1600/HouseOldsinkfull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WuvdaOmLWYY/WR329BVI00I/AAAAAAAAGIk/9yd09fsbVfQtid69gjAoP6SwjF4sSYcCwCEw/s400/HouseOldsinkfull.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It took a few years of me giving the stink eye whenever I'd open a cupboard and the entire panel would come off in my hand, but eventually Bryan agreed that Ellen or no Ellen, we needed to remodel the kitchen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As an aside, it makes me laugh a dark, sinister laugh whenever people say to me, <i>oh, how lucky your husband is an architect! He can just remodel your house whenever you want!</i> To which I pull out the ol' <i>cobblers children go shoe-less</i> line.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I will say that having an architect husband is lucky in that he has connections, said sans dark sinister undertones. Bryan got us deals on deals, and for that I owe him a back massage (safe to say that here as he doesn't read my blog).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's hard to compare photos because we took out a wall to open up the kitchen, or perhaps I should say Ozzy took out a wall. </span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uZy5R6o6KUA/WR38cosZgcI/AAAAAAAAGIs/2xfC5qGmAAEvdRt4EaLlnwR2tEZstjaqgCLcB/s1600/Ozkitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uZy5R6o6KUA/WR38cosZgcI/AAAAAAAAGIs/2xfC5qGmAAEvdRt4EaLlnwR2tEZstjaqgCLcB/s400/Ozkitchen.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Try explaining to a 5 year old boy why sometimes it's ok to swing a hammer into a wall, but not other times. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You ready for an After?</span><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8lCT2nM_Z_M/WR322AQsGEI/AAAAAAAAGIA/qoclsQMYCeg4OUJ3ZLXqv6wbmFHeogaDgCEw/s1600/HouseNewfull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8lCT2nM_Z_M/WR322AQsGEI/AAAAAAAAGIA/qoclsQMYCeg4OUJ3ZLXqv6wbmFHeogaDgCEw/s640/HouseNewfull.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">New counters, new cupboards, new floor, sink, appliances, new everything.</span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8QV4Xt0HSxA/WR324wzzVWI/AAAAAAAAGIM/63gPoZYl7LUqGZRcb2Sa4IB88yXX_hu3ACEw/s1600/HouseNewwindow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8QV4Xt0HSxA/WR324wzzVWI/AAAAAAAAGIM/63gPoZYl7LUqGZRcb2Sa4IB88yXX_hu3ACEw/s640/HouseNewwindow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am a sucker for a pop out window (which we did not replace, and which Bryan regrets, but whatevs, I needed a spot for my neon rainbow, duh.)</span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o-8yUSLTJ5o/WR32y17vqQI/AAAAAAAAGH0/W2QZzBeuJ_McAw-F9-45VY7RVPNazSAOgCEw/s1600/HouseNewChalkboard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o-8yUSLTJ5o/WR32y17vqQI/AAAAAAAAGH0/W2QZzBeuJ_McAw-F9-45VY7RVPNazSAOgCEw/s640/HouseNewChalkboard.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is the wall we took out, and it makes ALL THE DIFFERENCE IN THE WORLD. (Note: we did keep some chalkboard wall, which should be a staple in all households, in my opinion.)</span><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iw6n2yk2bE8/WR321jL5piI/AAAAAAAAGH8/xlM1rxLdbmwHHSZXoYylyfBBsS-m492YACEw/s1600/HouseNewStools.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iw6n2yk2bE8/WR321jL5piI/AAAAAAAAGH8/xlM1rxLdbmwHHSZXoYylyfBBsS-m492YACEw/s640/HouseNewStools.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The view into the kitchen now. And yes, we totally play "restaurant" and yes, I did get a bell that I ding and I do yell "order up!" to call the kids to dinner.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Also yes? I got a print of Rapper's Delight by the Sugar Hill Gang. Once you get it down, nothing makes you feel more bad ass bouncy cool than rapping it a cappella.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Everything about this makes me happy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So take that Ellen and Houzz, that's that, a wrap on our kitchen remodel. I still suck at cooking, but who cares when I have a fresh kitchen with a neon rainbow and can rap a hip hop, the hippie to the hippie, to the hip, hip-hop, and you don't stop, the rock it to the bang bang boogie, say up jump the boogie, to the rhythm of the boogie the beat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Order up,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">S</span>Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-11746196609971933832017-05-11T07:00:00.000-07:002017-05-11T11:31:45.688-07:00Other Than That, How Was the Play, Mrs. Lincoln?<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Last weekend was my brother’s memorial service. Which still makes no sense to me, typing that sentence. It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, except it is.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I could tell you about what it was like seeing a large photo of Andy on an easel at the church, how it was so iconic of a funeral that I immediately began to choke-sob ugly cry, but I won’t. I could tell you about my eulogy, or my dad’s eulogy even, how my dad told a story about Ozzy asking him with all the shameless curiosity of a 5 year old why he was still alive. My dad said it was supposed to be him who died next, the order of death unnatural with a son dying before his father, how even Ozzy knew that, but I won’t tell that story either.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Instead I will tell you that we went to Disneyland the next day. I mean, in a world where nothing makes sense, why not go to The Happiest Place on Earth?</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Unflattering photo credit: my cousin, Oliver.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hate Disneyland. Which is to say I hate crowds and lines, other people’s kids, other people period (kind of, super fine print a mile long on that one). Lucky for me, Disneyland was thick with people who looked as emo as I felt inside. Seriously, as far as the eye could see were people dressed in black, goth women carrying dark lace parasols, their boobs spilling out of black leather corsets, men in steampunk suits clanging with buckles and chains, white makeup spackled on faces. It was...weird to say the least, but also right? Already we felt surreal going to Disneyland the day after my brother’s funeral. Everything felt disjointed and wrong, so finding ourselves surrounded by the dark subculture at The Happiest Place on Earth seemed to make as much sense as my brother not being there with us.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not my pic, not my people. Although let's be honest--fashion aside, these are "my" people.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; text-align: center;">There was just too much black lipstick for it to be a fluke, so I finally stopped a goth man and asked what was going on. Apparently, it was <a href="http://www.batsday.net/about/about.html" target="_blank">Bat Day in the Fun Park </a>at Disneyland, which he emphatically told me is NOT a themed dress up day, but an annual “meet up” that attracts people in the goth community from all over the U.S. What this meant for us is that the line for the Haunted Mansion was 70 minutes long, while the line for It’s A Small World only took 20 minutes.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">What this also meant for us is that we laughed. Not at the Bat People, per se, but at everything. What else were we going to do waiting for over an hour in line for the Haunted Mansion, snaking between fake tombstones, squished between people dressed in the Victorian cult of mourning? Laugh. That’s all we could do, all we can ever do, and so we laughed. Together.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">How was the memorial? Thanks for asking. It was gut-wrenching agony, another step forward in me accepting that my brother is really gone. (Why is there no analogue word of "orphan" for someone who has lost their only sibling?) But it was also healing. Being with my cousins and aunts, my sister-in-law, my nephews, old friends I haven't seen since I was 10. Despite so much tragedy, I am lucky. So freaking lucky, and so, so loved.</span><br />
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Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-14853573549850654862017-04-23T22:19:00.000-07:002017-04-23T22:19:48.715-07:0011<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Zoey,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh Zo. You are 11 and the world is a crazy beautiful mess. At 11 you are just beginning to see this. My heart breaks for you, that you have to wade into knowing that things are not always right. I can see it sometimes there at the corner of your eyes, the knowing. I wish I could stop it, but that is not my job. My job is to hold your hand as you see it, to help you celebrate the blown-egg fragility with resilience and a fine Welsh dark humor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other day you convinced me to let you ride in the front seat while I drove us back from the city. It changed the dynamics immediately to have you sitting right there next to me. We sang to Gwen Stefani and cracked jokes as if we were friends. Which we are, but I am careful about that, about everything, and the next time you tried to get in the front seat I said you couldn't. It's not safe yet, I said, and I can't help but wonder what would be the harm of putting you in a rear-facing 5 point harness? (I used to have a friend who said that growing up he and his brother made fun of his cousins because their parents made them wear helmets in the car. Is this such a bad idea??? Why do we all not wear helmets in the car?)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Middle school must be getting to me. Sure, it's 4 months away, but if you have taught me anything, it's that time means nothing. You are still 4 months old yourself, Smurf-faced baby girl, and in 4 months you will be in middle school where the stakes are higher. Pretty please can we find a cute first-day-of-school outfit that goes well with a helmet?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Don't stop talking to me</i>, I tell you, <i>whatever you do, please keep talking to me</i>. The hormones have not yet fully kicked in so you squeeze my hand and tell me you will. <i>Seriously though</i>, I say, because you still let me be earnest, <i>you can tell me anything, I am your safe place. Even if you think I will be mad, talk to me. I will help. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is me at 44: I am bewildered, cautious, ferocious, tired. I grab your hand to cross the street. This is you at 11: you are kind, sweet, silly, smart. You grab my hand to cross the street.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sweet girl, the world is a crazy beautiful mess, and I wish I could tell you (tell myself) that middle school will be ok, that the world will not shock you with how painful it can be, but I can't. But I can tell you this: by far the most shocking thing to ever happen to me is how much I love you. It far exceeds everything else, this relentless tender truth that is you. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Happy birthday, Zoey. As much as I wanted to, I didn't get you a helmet for your birthday.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love you,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mommy</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2015/04/9.html" style="background-color: white; color: #bb422d; font-size: 16px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">9</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #573e2e; font-size: 16px;">, </span><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2014/04/8.html" style="background-color: white; color: #bb422d; font-size: 16px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">8</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #573e2e; font-size: 16px;">,</span><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2013/04/7.html" style="background-color: white; color: #bb422d; font-size: 16px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"> 7</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #573e2e; font-size: 16px;">, </span><a href="http://www.petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2012/04/6.html" style="background-color: white; color: #bb422d; font-size: 16px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">6</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #573e2e; font-size: 16px;">, 5 (too pregnant and cranky to write), </span><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2010/04/4.html" style="background-color: white; color: #bb422d; font-size: 16px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">4</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #573e2e; font-size: 16px;">, </span><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2009/04/3.html" style="background-color: white; color: #bb422d; font-size: 16px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">3</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #573e2e; font-size: 16px;">, </span><a href="http://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2008/04/2.html" style="background-color: white; color: #bb422d; font-size: 16px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">2</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #573e2e; font-size: 16px;">, 1 (pre-blog)</span></span>Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-62017292214100528422017-04-18T21:43:00.000-07:002017-04-18T23:12:27.655-07:00All the Shingle Ladies (All the Shingle Ladies)<div>
<i><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="text-align: center;">Now put your hands up!</span></span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Wuh uh oh uh uh oh oh uh oh uh uh oh</span></span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: center;">Wuh uh oh uh uh oh oh uh oh uh uh oh...</span></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is not a post about <span style="background-color: white;">Beyoncé</span>. Nor is it a post about single ladies, or even a post about me getting shingles. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">No,this is a post about how we went to Cabo last week, a pre-planned spring break trip with the kids. Which, if you want to feel extra surreal about your seemingly healthy brother suddenly dying, then go to Cabo and cry openly in a restaurant when a mariachi band inexplicably plays 'Let It Be.' </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Halfway through the trip I thought maybe I was having a heart attack. Only the intense vise-like pain was under my right boob radiating to my back, and I know that your heart is just left of center, but who am I to question the sensation of a dull, burning knife slicing my heart until it is difficult to breathe, wherever that heart may be?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What can I say--I did not want to go to a hospital in Mexico, plus the kids were having so much fun swimming, so I did what so many dead women did and I drank my margarita.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">tl;dr I didn't tell anyone I was in so much pain until we got home last night and I got undressed and finally saw blisters all over my right side. OH SWEET JESUS, THANK YOU FOR SUPPURATING BLISTERS. I was going to share a photo of them here but Bryan didn't crop out my boob, and while I am surprisingly not vain regarding sharing the bubbling shrapnel-scarred, pizza-like appearance of my torso, I am vain about my saggy boobs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In a very strange way that makes me sounds like a cutter, it's kind of nice (?) to have a physical pain right now? Like somehow my outsides now match how my insides feel, raw and confused, weeping.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But like I said, this is not a post about </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Beyoncé or </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">single ladies, or even a post about shingles. Instead I like to think of it as a post about me NOT having a heart attack in Mexico.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">small things,</span></div>
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Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-33205469451921833112017-04-06T09:41:00.001-07:002017-04-06T09:43:08.847-07:00How I Am Doing (Not Dancing in the Street)<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How am I doing? Kind of you to ask, thank you, hanging in there, you know, it’s hard. Yeah. As it turns out, death is embarrassing. Crunchy awkward, don’t-know-what-to-say, side-hug squeeze kind of awkward, the kind of awkward that happens when you’ve been caught being much too human. Because no one wants to make eye contact with Death with a capital D. You, yes--YOU--look at me. We are all going to die.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-a3306695-441d-d77e-c6be-0d2d90f03d92" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">See? I’m totally doing fine! Smiley face emoji maybe add a dancing girl!</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Seriously though, I am fine. I wake up, remember, feel as if I might throw up, don’t throw up but instead get ready for the day. Do the day. The day looks like this: I am fine. Which really means that I am not fine at all, but I know that not-being-fine is where I am supposed to be, which makes it fine. I am fine in my not-fine-ness, the word ‘fine’ having lost its meaning the way words do if you think too hard about them. Finefinefinefinefine…</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fine. I will explain it another way. This video. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BHkhIjG0DKc" width="560"></iframe><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This video illustrates exactly how I am doing, how normally Mick Jagger and David Bowie would rock the shit out of those streets, but here their voices are thin, not even their own, the echo-y scuffle of their shoes, crickets. The day looks like this: somebody has dubbed my voice talking to friends, laughing, at work, small talk, crickets.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> It doesn’t matter what you wear, just as long as you are there…</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am here. I know that one day the music will creep back in without me even realizing. One day my voice won’t be dubbed into my days. One day I won’t wake up feeling as if I’m going to throw up. But for now, it still can't be real, nothing is, and I just really, really fucking miss my brother. That’s how I am doing, and I am fine.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">xo,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">S</span></div>
<br />Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-22463528285219213552017-03-27T10:21:00.002-07:002017-03-27T12:23:02.400-07:00The Truth About My Brother<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The truth about my brother is this: he died sometime in the very early morning hours of March 22 of an accidental drug overdose. Norco, vicodin, other stuff, we are not sure yet. Toxicology reports take 8-12 weeks, so maybe we don’t know if he truly died of a drug overdose, but we do know. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-fd64b5e1-10c5-6408-493b-402f3801c02d" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The truth about my brother is this: I loved him so fucking much and might not have known him at all. For example this: I did not know he had a drug problem. I did not know he did drugs at all. We used to say both incredulously and smugly that we don’t know how we escaped the addiction gene so prevalent in our family, but we did. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The truth is he didn’t.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We did not always get along. There were times I did not understand him, did not like him, but goddamn if I didn’t always love him. I was so mad at him for so long because he was not there for me when I was sick, when I went to Tel Aviv. He disappeared and I was so hurt and baffled. How the fuck could he not be there for me with what I was going through? The truth is he was a fucking drug addict and couldn’t handle it.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The truth of my brother is this: I used to have dreams when we were little that someone was beating him up and I would have to save him. A boy named Lachlan, the bully up the street with the Dickensian name of Josh Maggot. In these dreams I would bite the bully on the arm and save my brother, and everything would be ok again. When I was afraid, my brother used to let me sleep on his floor, even in high school, I slept on his floor. He was my big brother, and I only ever had to save him in my dreams.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The truth about my brother is that he told a lot of fucking lies that are just coming out now that he is dead, and not just the lie that he was addicted to pain medication and whatever else, but other lies to help hide that, little lies that didn’t fucking matter, lies that didn’t need to be told at all, big lies, hurtful lies, lies that shatter.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My brother was a good man, the kind of person who said please and thank you almost too much. He was kind and generous and I could talk to him about small silly stuff and effortlessly slip into talking about something deep. He did not shy away from talking about what really mattered, so why the fuck didn’t he tell me what really fucking mattered? That he was so addicted to drugs that everything was a lie? That the pleases and the thank yous were so we wouldn’t question the truth?</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the last few weeks my brother and I had gotten closer again, and we texted or talked almost daily. I don’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing or if it’s just a thing. We told each other how much we loved each other and how lucky we were to have each other, but of course now I look at those texts and I wonder: was that the truth? His house of cards was crumbling and he came to me and my dad with lies so big we believed them. We rallied around him, fed him, loved him. Was I just so eager to have my brother back in my life that I swallowed it whole?</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My brother used to say that I was the only person in the world with the same childhood as he had, and I didn’t really understand why that was so awe-inspiring to him. Well, yeah, duh. But now I do, and it is too late. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The truth about my brother is that I will never know the truth, and that’s the biggest loss of all. For a very long time he lived without any real connections because of his addiction and lies, and that’s what I cannot stand. The fact that he must have felt so alone for so long. That he died alone in an apartment and we could not get to him for days. Did he know that we loved him? Would have done anything for him? That he could tell us the truth and we would still love him?</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My brother was a good man, a kind man, a talented, accomplished, respected film director with a beautiful, loving wife and two amazingly adorable kids that he loved to distraction. I am going to do my best to remember him this way: smart, funny, his uncontainable laugh, the best one-eyebrow-raiser I have ever known, the brother I knew before or despite or beneath the drugs and the lies. Because all of that is still true, but so is this: my brother died alone of an accidental drug overdose sometime in the early morning hours of March 22. He told so many lies and lived without truth for so long that I think it’s important to be truthful now. If he could not live in truth, then I will give him truth in death, a real connection. We deserve that, he deserves that, not in a malicious way, but in a loving way. He fucked up. And I still love him. I will always love him.</span></div>
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<br />Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-28137965036277093102017-02-23T17:25:00.001-08:002017-02-23T17:38:20.223-08:00In Times of Uncertainty, Many Reach for the Heavens: Hello There Trappist-1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I wake up and check my phone for news of what may have happened
over night. Bad news, worse news, meh news. I used to not be like this B.E.
(Before the Election). Which might be the problem. All of this, my fault. But
there are 7 new planets now, so there is that. 7 new planets to put us in our
place. We are small. This is all so small. I am very, very small. It will all
be ok, or it won’t, or it doesn’t matter. We are to take heart from that, the
not matteringness of us all. Don’t know about you, but I feel better already.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Still, I trip out that my mom never knew about the 7 new planets.
Isn’t that strange? That she never got to know that all this time there were 7
Earth-sized planets orbiting a tiny star not too far away? 235 trillion miles,
but also–that Trump is our President? WTF, mom? Also, I may or may not have MS,
the wishy washiness of it as incomprehensible as 40 light-years and the fact
that she is gone, that she does not know that I now take my Earl Gray tea with
milk.<br /><br />I am pretty sure I have written this post before. Dead mom? Check.
MS? Check. Jokey joke emo suburban mom here. You guys, I swear I am happy and
super fun to hang out with at parties. (Ok, maybe not super fun at parties, but I am
happy.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SMv-FTX6miE/WK-I3aYYHSI/AAAAAAAAGFE/zoar0oGAz-wFDVXeEMzqqCwYMJ7mcHHnwCEw/s1600/ivy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SMv-FTX6miE/WK-I3aYYHSI/AAAAAAAAGFE/zoar0oGAz-wFDVXeEMzqqCwYMJ7mcHHnwCEw/s400/ivy.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cocktail party question right here: I’ve been wondering...do you
think it’s better to live your life as if you might die tomorrow, or to live
your life as if you are going to live forever? Don’t worry–I still watch
Vanderpump Rules and spend too much time online shopping for a serum that will
make me look 30 again, but yeah, I do wonder. This MS thing. I say it as if
it’s a pesky problem, a hangnail, an errand I have to run before I get home. Do
I have it? Do I not? If this were a first kiss, the anticipation would be thick
with delicious, but it’s not. It’s the possibility of terrible, the
anticipation thick with<i> oh, fuck.</i><br /><br />It’s fine. No, really, I am good. Great! It has been 2 years now
since I had the hematopoietic stem cell transplant, and I am stable. Stable!
But still, either due to my brooding Welsh genes or the mere facts of what the
fuck--or both--I can’t help but think...in 10 years? In 5? What about when Zoey
graduates from high school? Will I be in a wheelchair when Ozzy is a freshman?
Or never? Pray for never. You know, that kind of thing. Creeping Paralysis.
That’s what they called it before it was given a scientific name, and that’s
how I think of it in my head. Insidious and slow. Will I know? Do you?<br /><br />Sometimes I feel like a lying liar face because I think about it All. The. Time.<br /><br />Other times I feel like I am lucky because I think about it all
the time. How fucked up is that? But seriously. Most people don’t know that
they exist a thin membrane away from something they don’t think they could ever
live through, and here I am–knowing. And living through it. I wear it like a
heavy coat or a bag, sometimes a fanny pack that I am ashamed of and try to
hide. I check my steps on my phone each day. Today I walked 3,116 steps, 1.1
miles, 2 floors, but that’s because I work! A desk job! This is the immobility
of modern life, not disease! I walk up the steps and maybe I catch my toe, but
still, I walk up the stairs.<br /><br />There is so much we don't know and yet it exists anyways. There are 7 new planets
and I am small. We are all so very, very small, and even though the world seems
like it may be ending sometimes, I check my phone each morning knowing that I
am lucky, that none of this matters, that I am happy, ripe as we are with fear and enduring kindness, after all, you don't know
if you will still be walking in 5 years, you might be dead! Like I said, I may or may not be super fun at parties, our only difference being that I have caught a glimpse into the knowing, and I am here to tell you, to tell myself: it will all be ok,
everything rich with existing at once.</span>Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-39033937091866806482017-02-05T21:54:00.001-08:002017-02-05T22:04:53.149-08:00ZoLuZo<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sunday night, rainy, folded the laundry, cleaned up the toys, now it's time for me to slice into my heart. But in a good way. Like maybe I'll sprinkle some sugar on it afterward instead of salt. Who's with me?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Because last night this happened. No seriously. WATCH THIS VIDEO OF MY CHILD.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qCN0sBl0e04" width="560"></iframe></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Zoey with her two friends, Luella and Zoey, (hence the stage name ZoLuZo). Call me a stage mom, but holy mother of all that is Dina Lohan, I am just so proud. This was at their school Variety Show, in front of more than enough people to make me self-conscious just walking to the bathroom down the dark aisle, let alone play guitar and sing and debut a stop-motion video. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Frame of reference: My Zo is the one playing the guitar. Perhaps you might recognize her <a href="https://petuniafacedgirl.blogspot.com/2009/03/on-death-and-beautiful-things.html" target="_blank">from her earlier work</a> circa 2009, Beautiful Things...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/FyXct0TJK7k" width="560"></iframe></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In a world where brave, creative girls wear patent leather Docs and sing about friendship, it's all going to be okay, right? It simply has to be.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JHVwWgl-g18/WJgR30ffRhI/AAAAAAAAGEg/Zr16CdxOAb4Cj6aCadr7n_oYYmIWVZonACLcB/s1600/zoluzo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JHVwWgl-g18/WJgR30ffRhI/AAAAAAAAGEg/Zr16CdxOAb4Cj6aCadr7n_oYYmIWVZonACLcB/s400/zoluzo.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue", arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Love, love, love,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">S</span>Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1317198515686034704.post-51413044427101529022017-01-17T20:51:00.001-08:002017-01-17T20:54:51.137-08:00Pillow Talk<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One day Ozzy is going to have a daughter named Dottie and a son named Zack. At least that’s what he says, and I cannot wait to meet my grandchildren. Well, I mean I can wait--at least 20 years or 30, but still, the idea of them is there. I can feel it. </span></div>
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z46Kn6XdlqY/WH70AJaO-jI/AAAAAAAAGEA/tq-QJzAZUOc5e4t0SvL4h7LeMD82-ttTQCLcB/s1600/pic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z46Kn6XdlqY/WH70AJaO-jI/AAAAAAAAGEA/tq-QJzAZUOc5e4t0SvL4h7LeMD82-ttTQCLcB/s400/pic.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the meantime, I have this. This Slurpee-lipped boy who says he wants to marry me. He told me so the other night as I was putting him to bed, and all Oedipal-Ewness aside, I would totally say yes if I weren’t already married, 38 years older than he is, plus his mother. Instead I will settle for saying yes to whoever he chooses to love. Yes, I will love him forever, her, too, or him, whatever, plus little Dottie and Zack. I love them already, the family that he will one day have. Which is good since, as he just told me tonight as I put him to bed, he will probably have to find someone else to marry when he grows up, because I will be dead. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">xo,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">S</span></div>
<br />Petunia Facehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10862319327443285277noreply@blogger.com5