i obsess.

Something About Something

I wrote this for my creative writing course yesterday.  The assignment was to create a scene based on talking around the theme.  You know.  Elephants.  Rooms.  All that.

Anyway, I liked what I came up with (although I'm terribly aware of the overlong initial sentence and of my age-old addiction to indulgent overlong sentences and that I should've cut it).  You don't have to.  Like it.  Conversely, you're welcome to like it.  I DON'T CARE.  MEH.  (Except we both know I'm full of bull pucky, and that I am henceforth only to be known as "butt tube TM (pending)."  A butt tube TM (pending), if you must know, and you must, is my replacement word for pussy, because I don't like the association of weakness/lameness with a woman's vag.  I simply don't care for it.  Butt tube, meantime, forces association of weakness with the sack o' crap that everyone, regardless of gender, must bear.  You're allowed to use it, so long as you give me full credit.  LOTS OF CREDIT.  FOR BUTT TUBE. TM. PENDING.

What is wrong with me?

Ahh, yes.  I know what is wrong with me.  I am stalling.  So.  Fine.  Here's the damn story already.  READ IT.   OR DON'T.  FEH.  OR MEH.  WHATEVER.

(I'm having some trubs addressing the whole "critique" portion of the creative writing course menu.)

************************

 

She lay with her face pressed into the bed and she tried to cry, she tried to get it over with, the way you try to get done when you’re on the toilet and you don’t really want to be there, and nothing, no tears, which is exactly what she expected but was also really hoping she could push past and into tears anyway.  She wrinkled her face up and tried again, and still nothing.  The blanket smelled.   She inhaled deeply to discern the subtle elements lashed together within its fibers, settling on the prominent ones: cat and dirty socks.  The key turned in the lock on the front door and she lay and listened to the crumbly sounds, wondering if she should get up.

“You okay?”  He was obviously standing in the hallway, the way his voice came out over the sound of a coat being removed and hung on the hook.

“What?  Yeah.  I’m fine.”  The blanket was still pressed against her face so her words were muffled.

“Sure?”  He came in and sat beside her, resting his hand on her right shoulder blade.  Hesitant to move now that he was there, because she didn’t want him to get up, she held her breath for a second.  She had to flip over a little though when she ran almost completely out of breath.  It made him shift away from her.

“Eh.  I’m fine.  I don’t know.”  Grabbing a pillow, she pulled it toward her and lifted her head up with its bulk so she could be minutely closer to him.

“I talked to Richard about Heather today at work.”  He shook his head.  It looked uncomfortable, his sitting like that, she worried.  She leaned up so she could push him onto the other pillow.  She couldn’t look at him sitting all upright and awkward that way.

“Oh.  Did he say anything about Joanna?”

“Nope.  But guess what?  New baby.  They just found out last week.”

“Oh!  That’s hilarious.  Good for them.”

“Yeah.  I know.”  He stuck his hand on top of her hand.  The weight burned into the skeleton and the tendons and the veins, she could feel her veins throbbing.  She could feel them doing a dance.  It was a Katy Perry booby-shaking dance, no.  No it wasn’t.  It was Beyonce with the ring song dance.  Where you shake your hand and maneuver up and down.  Just like when she was dancing with John last weekend at the club with all of the gay boys and everyone was whooping and hollering because it was their favorite song, and they were all shaking their hands and moving up and down like they were on broken escalators and she was too drunk and she fell over, she fell off of her escalator, and she embarrassed John and she couldn’t stop talking to the drag queen who was that night’s DJ, she kept telling him how fierce he was.  He wasn’t even that fierce. 

“Hey.  Listen.  You already said you were gonna call and make an appointment with Amanda’s acupuncturist.  You’re still gonna do that, right?”  He picked up the wet piece of hair on her cheek and gently pressed it into the rest of her hair.  She nodded a yes.  She nodded a really small yes.

“Good.  I’m glad.  I think it’s a good idea.  Definitely worth a shot.” 

“Okay.”

“I love you, you know.”  He smiled down at her head. 

“I have to go make dinner.”  She stood up quick so he couldn’t see the lines from the blanket all squished on the other side of her face that made her ugly.

“I said I love you, you know.”  He pulled her hands toward him and she stumbled into him and kept her face turned a little away.  She cried.  She nodded again.  Small yes.

“Yeah.  I know.  I love you too.”  Her voice was shaky.  She laughed at how she sounded, she thought it was funny that she was being a little hysterical.  She sounded phlegmy.  She got up to leave.

“You sure you’re okay now?”

“Yeah.  I’m fine.  I gotta get dinner going if we’re ever gonna eat tonight, babe.”

“Okay.”

“Chicken okay?”  She said it over her shoulder as she walked down the hall into the kitchen.  The light in the kitchen was too white.  It felt too sharp.  She didn’t want it in her eyes.  She turned it off with a quick jab at the switch.

Flipping it back on, her hand resting on the button, she squinted around the room.   She had missed the light when it was off.

Do NOT Get Me Started.

I mean it.  I'm like a bad engine, all full of smoke and exhaust and things to be impaled upon.

I had my phone stolen yesterday, right from beneath my nose, and I spent all of these countless, never-to-be-regained hours at the phone store, buying the wrong phones, because MY BRAIN, IT HAD BEEN THIEVED, and the stale bits still rattling about under my hair are useless, FUCKING USELESS, I am vexed.

Vexatiously.  (Far less sexy than it sounds.)

But beyond that, Jack has begun asking these ridiculous questions lately, questions like, MOM, WHAT'S THIS?, and it's the blueberry jam we use every day, no, seriously, daily, it's what he eats for lunch without end, peanut butter and jam, and he's made his own sandwich several times when we've been home together and he wanted a sandwich, HE KNOWS WHAT IT IS, is all I'm saying.  He knows it's the blueberry jam, so why's he messing with me?  When I just had my phone stolen and I've asked, NEARLY BEGGED, to be allowed to write my husband an email to let him know that I'll be temporarily out of reach, that I might be graced with a modicum of silence while I write, Jack starts up the whine machine, and gets into my face with this incessant repetition about the jam, and I'm like, ARE YOU FOR REAL?, which is I think what bothered me most.  I couldn't discern why he was asking the question.  Was he just saying it over and over because it was funny to him?  I mean, he knew the answer.  What was the point?

And this morning, with the supposed tooth pain, the pain that was SO AGONIZING he couldn't finish - get this - a banana.  You know.  Bananas.  Those rock-hard, cumbersome, flavorless, torturous items of food packed into a rotting carcass, those things that devastate the mouths AND LIVES of young people, HOW COULD I ASK SUCH A THING OF HIM, WHEN HE WAS IN SUCH PAAAAAIN?  And, oh, dear heavenly father, the tears.  And the sobs.  And the horror of it all.

And when I told him he could chuck the banana but that he wouldn't be able to have any fruit at Grandma's later, he said, oh, but I don't think strawberries will hurt my tooth, mom.  I don't. 

WELL, OF COURSE YOU DON'T.  BECAUSE YOU WANT TO WATCH AS I BEGIN CLIMBING ON PRECARIOUS HOUSEHOLD ITEMS AND BUILDING A TOWER WITH THEM AND ATTEMPTING TO ESCAPE INTO THE ETHER.  Evidently, that's some funny shit.

But good golly, why?  Why must he do it?

And there's all of this, and it gets layered on top of other irritating morning elements within, say, a grump-laden span of time involving rushing about and not enough coffee and horrible hair and showers that just don't really quite do it, you know, IT, and clothes that ought to have been washed by the laundry wench but weren't, who sucks hard at getting the right things laundered in a timely fashion, and we shant point out her lameness in organizing the stuff she does manage to launder or her inability to get them into folded patterns (folding patterns?), we just shant, poor wench, she tries, honest she does,

and also there's the beginning-of-day spousal tension and the OH JESUS PLEASE GET OUT OF MY WAY in-the-kitchen Tango, IT'S A DELIGHT, and we're supposed to somehow, beyond all of that, beyond all of those items + having to face, in that half-peering way, the kind of sidelong, slit-through-a-plate, solar eclipse kinda way, where we will at some point have to do work, and talk to random assholes and pretend we're thrilled to do it, and face the boss, and deal with the minutiae of business, ALL OF THAT AND THEN ALSO WITH THE QUESTIONS, THESE SEEMING-ENDLESS, NONSENSE QUESTIONS THAT ARE PLIED ON OUR HEADS MERELY TO PISS. US. OFF (Or not.  But if not, then -- *whyyyyyyyyyy?* *soft soft whimper*), 

and,

?

Really?

Because, oh.  God. 

It's gonna be a  l o n g  summer.

pictures make up for lost time, right?

If I distract you with some nice pictures, you'll like me better, you'll grow a new layer of fondness for me, you'll not be bothered by my inconsistencies and my lack of focus, you won't mind my irritating habit of shearing my mental wool and spreading it out across this page in a wild tumble of fuzzy verbal disarray, you'll be nice to me still and you won't hint to me by word or grimace or oh-so-slightly-raised brow that I have underwhelmed you at any given point in our acquaintance.

You'll take me into your arms and embrace me and be glad I'm alive, glad I made it through the rain, Barry-style, won't you.

   

Camping self-portraits are such a rite of passage.  At least the camping part.  For, indeed, we finally gave Jack his first encounter with tent-sleeping.  Explaining the mechanics of houses-without-indoor-plumbing is so ridiculously inferior to simply experiencing it, after all.

Check out the fish we ate for dinner after we got back from a four-hour tour of the lake via canoe:

And while you might be on the point of assuming we caught it ourselves, you're nearly right; we caught it once it had been aimed at us from another guy's boat, where the five, yes, FIVE fish he tossed at us had been formerly languishing, because he hadn't caught any terribly large ones, and he was at his limit, prevented by the rules from the REALLY big score, so we were helping him by taking those into our boat (and, subsequently, our bellies). 

They were delicious.  They tasted like fresh air and sin.

 

 

(Caleb cleaned them, laid them on a piece of foil, placed thin-sliced apples and heaps of butter slabs and hefty douses of salt and pepper over and in and around them, wrapped them in the foil and laid them over the fire to cook for somewhere between thirty and forty-five minutes, then pulled them off when the butter and juice began to forge its way out of the packet.)

 

This is Jack, before we got into our canoe.  He was kind of excited to venture onto the lake.

 

This is the cabin where the life vests are stored.  It reminded me of a J Crew catalog.  Without the fashion juxtaposed against the rustic colors.  Just raw and pink and faded.

See?  Those vests are begging for a lanky, sun-kissed poser to drape herself across the log for perspective.  They'd be so perfectly offset.  PLEASE KNOW I'M SORT OF KIDDING.

I mean, I am.  Sort of.

And I may have coaxed Jack to interact with the all-wood Bigfoot, but it was worth it for the resultant photos.

 

I kept insisting that he find out what that guy's deal was.  Naturally, he repeated me in parrot fashion.  HEY!  GUY!  WHAT'SYOURDEALMYMOMWANTSTAKNOW?  GUY!  HEEYYY!

Mom, he seems to be saying, I don't think that guy's gonna tell me what his deal is.

Caleb and I were unsure as to who to pitch to sponsor this series of photos; Coleman stoves?, Fat Tire Ale? (now!  IN CANS!), or The Agencies Who Represent Small Children That Stand and Mold the Disagreeable Faces of Old People Who Resist Smiling Unless the Hands of the Small Children Are Involved in the Manipulating of Said Disagreeable Faces.  See?  It's a true conundrum.  Bet you're stumped, too.

Or we could skip straight to a strategic pitch to Hansen's Junior Juice, a high favorite among the nearly-five set in our family, and beautifully featured in the above photo.  Sigh.  Hansen's, you're scoring free ad-space this time.  *shakes fist uselessly*

We didn't forget it was Memorial Day Weekend.  None of us are much for war, but that in no way interferes with our deep appreciation, admiration and respect for those who are willing to sacrifice all to protect us and our way of life.  Thank you, active and veteran troops and your families.

Remy the Rat is the only welcome rodent in our camp.  All others, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

The fish was scrumptious.  Totally worthy of desert.

Which he decided he didn't like.  Too burned for his palate.  He preferred to eat pale, raw marshmallows straight from the bag.  Shocking, I know.

But -- where's the rain, Debbie?  Where's this mysterious, supposed rain, you ask?

 

Let me assure you:  it came.  We managed to ensconce ourselves in our tent just after it began, and it commenced to rain for twelve solid hours.  I know this because I was awake for most of it.  We packed up and were on the road toward Hood River by 7 a.m., because that was when the tent finally quit holding the rain outside and began allowing liberal amounts of water to drip onto us inside.

But we survived.  Rain isn't enough to scare us away.  Not for good, anyway.

badly-sprained toe-karma master strikes. for totally valid reasons.

May I recommend, as a seasoned experiencer of awful, semi(drunkenly)-predicted awfulness, that you avoid pronouncing your next injury on your blog?  BECAUSE THEN, IT WILL HAPPEN.  AND YOU WILL SAY, HOLYSHITTHATHURTS.

I am only trying to help.

As I have officially stubbed the bloody stuffing out of my toe.

I think it sort of went like this:

brain: "Time to pee."

ears: "Husband is showering in the pee room.  (How dare he.)  Wait a tic."

brain: "Ope!  The showering has ceased!  Get thee ready, loins and such, for peeing time to commence!"

ears: "Husband is insisting that we should get out of bed.  Let's excuse our seeming slothitude for our desperate need to pee, and having laid in wait to do so, post-showering in the pee-room.  Fingers, cross thyselves."

brain: "Ha!  He fell for it.  Also, wow!  Pee-time.  Also, ears, seriously?  Thyselves?  The middle-english pomposity has gotta go.  Plus I'm *pretty* sure it's "thineselves."  *whispers* losers."

ears: "Dude.  Brain.  Still heard that.  BECAUSE, WE'RE :: THE :: EARS.  Brain, you make us sad."

body: "Brain!  Ears!  Shut up!  We're at all systems go!  Can I get a second on that movement?"

ears, brain, grumbling unintelligibly together: "Yeah, sure.  Fine.  Whatever."

right pinky-toe: "Harumph.  Nobody ever asks ME whether I'm good with moving.  I get the shaft on an all-too-regular basis.  Screw those self-important assholes.  I'm staying put here in this dark, soft place where there's a cozy mini-bed-on-bed made entirely of dog hair commingled with coils of sproingles from head's topping.  So what if it's mostly gray and full of split ends?  Beats a cold, badly-in-need-of-washing faux-Italian-tile floor that's a little too slippery for bathrooms/other likely wetted-on-regular-basis spaces due to its fauxocity?  Yeah.  YEAH." right pinky-toe folds tiny, invisible arms obstinately across tiny, pink toe-chest

asshole: "Excuse me, right pinky-toe?  You talkin' to me?"

right pinky-toe: *weighs options, chooses to ignore asshole*

asshole: "I get so damn tired of everyone taking my name in vain.  Christ." shakes tiny, shrunken head, defeated

body: "Move it out!  Blankets up!  Legs overboard!  Torso lurch toward bathroom drunkenly!  Too nearly drunken for real!  Slow up!  Okay, good movement, everyone!  Keep it upppPPPPWHATHTHEFUCKJUST-OWWWWWWWWWWWCHHHHH" entire body slams down onto slimy faux-crackled tile, alive with pain reverberating from churlish pinky-toe

right pinky-toe: "Ha."

p.s. Right pinky-toe didn't exactly get the last laugh, given that it split its head wide open on the wall it smacked into, AND is either fractured or sprained.

See, RPT?  Nobody, NOBODY wins in these situations.  Least of all the bladder.  The bladder spent waaaay too long waiting for the mind-breaking pain to cease before it was allowed to unhinge itself.  I'd keep an eye peeled for bladder after this.  Because it is now UNHINGED.  AND TOWERS ABOVE YOU.  AT. ALL. TIMES.  Open wounds are easy to compromise.  Something bladder is rather TOO well aware of.   Why ARE you so aware, bladder?  Oh.  Uh.  What?  I was -- hahahhahahahh!  Just! Kidding!  Ahem.  *backs up as bladder slowly circles, menacing*

p.s. I think bleeding is a good, generic metaphor for -- other kinds of bleeding.  If you can dig it.  *wink, wink*  *sad, sad*

my parenting book proposal, entitled "How to Parent, by Asshole McSurvivor-Pants." (or: What Would McSurivor-Pants Do, With Fewer Tools and Far More Insanity")

You know what?  I'M gonna write a goddam parenting book, and it's gonna be about a thousand times better than that of the ilk of the current popular motherlode of parenting book writers.  And it isn't gonna be a nonstop ball-busting lecture of mammoth proportions that sticks in your craw just as you go to manage a situation, it's just gonna be lots of crappy illustrations with stick figures and gigantic, 42 pt. font, all bolded, that says shit like "JUST DON'T KILL ANYONE TODAY."  "REMEMBER TO AVOID DRIVING OFF OF OVERPASSES RATHER THAN CONTINUE DRIVING WHILE PEOPLE ARE SCREAMING THINLY AND FOR LENGTHY PERIODS IN THE REAR OF THE VEHICLE."  "REMEMBER THAT THE RANDOM SCREWDRIVER YOU KEEP IN THE GLOVEBOX AND IS ENCRUSTED WITH BITS OF FRENCH FRY FROM THAT TIME YOU TRIED TO USE IT TO SNATCH A DROPPED EARRING FROM THE ABYSS OF THE UNDER-THE-CARSEAT-MONSTER IS NOT TO BE, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, INSERTED INTO YOUR EAR IN AN ATTEMPT TO REFRAIN FROM LISTENING TO THIN, LENGTHY SCREAMING.  OR IF YOUR EAR ITCHES REAL BAD."

ETC.

yes.  etc.

And it isn't gonna tell you how you should avoid using a certain tone of voice when you explain things to your child, it isn't going to recite in sing-song fashion at you like a tome of ministerial wisdom based on the ages, that you ought to avoid thinly screaming yourself, or thickly screaming, or just screaming, or even yelling, it's just gonna talk about how, if you haven't shoved anyone today, YOU ARE KICKING ASS.  YOU ARE A WINNER.  A WINNER FOR THE LORD.  (that part is just filler.  everyone knows you're a winner for the lord even if you haven't checked the little box next to the "managed to avoid tripping certain members of your family in a malicious desire to laugh at them for no specific reason other than pure, pisen meanness."  obviously, if you've achieved the ability to trip for comedic purposes, you are beyond our knowledge and should be writing your own trope-enriched parenting book.  that we may or may not commit to reading, although, to your face, we will LIE LIKE SNAKES and insist that we'll read it over and over until we are dead.  just please don't trip us.  or shoot us in the butt with a bb gun.  -- um, bee bee gun?  oh, fuck it.)

So my parenting book is gonna sell like crazy, everyone will line up for miles to congratulate me for pointing out that parenting can't be instructed on, and that people who dole out advice on how to parent someone else's children deserve, at minimum, to be shot in the ass cheeks, nay, PEPPERED in the ass cheeks, with bee bees.  (mmm.  delicious, cold metal beeee beeees. *salivates*)

MY parenting book will be very positive, because it will cover the finer points of how to be proud of yourself for not shaking the shit out of your children each and every day that you manage to avoid doing it.  For not yelling at them every time you stub your own toe, and just want to shriek at someone else rather than experience that small but exquisite moment of pain without possessing a direction for the shriek, like, say, at the small people who were responsible for tripping you with their -- heeeeyyyy.

Oh.  SHIT.

have we?

 Have we achieved the zenith of the yin/yang eyebrow experience?  I want to know, in earnest, because I am TIRED of having to regret so regularly my lame choice in the nineties to imitate Drew Barrymore/et al in their pursuit of the heroine of Blue Angel (Marlene Dietrich, she of the quasi-invisible brows) and remove my above-eye hair half-moons of caterpillar-esque expressiveness.  I want to stop opening fashion magazines and be forced to confront my antique stupidity at the routine aspect of the lovely, lithe, fully-browed beauties gazing therefrom.   (The moon will wane, however, for them, too, because it was cool to have fat brows in the eighties, I know, and then they STOLE them from us ten short years beyond that, so WATCH THE FUCK OUT, little full-browed beauties, for they are coming, and they will be bearing tweezers, in about ten years.  Or so.)

HahahahahahHAHAHAHAHAHAHahahah.

Ahhh.

*sob*

i'd say it's about time to hang it up, if i could be certain it wouldn't make me begin posting furiously in response.

Which simply means I have an uncontrollable urge, on a constant basis, to behave like an adolescent. 

At best.

FUCK, I miss blogging.  I mean, I miss writing.  I don't miss what blogging has kind of become, for me, which is this nightmare of social obligation that I cannot uphold.

I care about the people I have met through interaction created as a result of my writing here, but I do not crave regular social interaction.  I'm not super-good or whatever at that shit.  I kind of hate having to be social.  Mostly, I want to be left alone.  Sometimes, of course, that's absolutely untrue, and I wish ardently to be flitting, mothlike, diaphanous, under a moonlit night, threading through a maddening crowd, smiling, looking fantastic, making the other moonlit creatures laugh at my insightful jokes based on the quantum theory of poo, and wisely gleeful at my sojourn through life as a young, beautiful, diaphanous creature drawn to that one low-hanging light over there in the corner, oh, life, how long and beautiful you will be, how I will remain lovely and fresh and dew-bedecked, how there will always be other young, diaphanous creatures to love and fuck and kiss and spurn and worship and laugh with and oh, how that light beckons, I must just sneak only the merest inch nearer, I must just peer into its wizened depths for but the smallest speck of an instant, so that it may whisper its glowing secrets to me and I will grow only more beautiful and young and life will open and become more wonderful and the sounds will deepen and all the world will spin in a constant WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED WHY DOES IT BURN??? OH GAHHHDD WHAT! WHY! WHO THE FUCK SHOT ME UP WITH THREE AMPULES OF ELECTRICAL METHODONE HOLY FUCKKKK!

Owwie!

That's how it feels, somehow, lately.

Now that I am no longer beautiful, I can say all of these things, because my life is no longer that of the one where what people think matters.

It does not.

And I am glad.  I am glad to know this part, this clarity, this growing clarity that brightens and brightens and stings and burns the retinas, although that could also very well be the pain my eyes give me now in this era of my time from looking too long and too well into the depths of a stupid-ass computer screen, and from other equally eye-beauty-thieving shit.  I mean, don't get me wrong, I could read/ogle glowing screens from here until my personal eternity has quit me, because I am a suckling wretch at the teat of technology, but I will not score any points in the eyeball-beauty arena.  It ain't easy on the eyes, is all I'm saying.

(Okay, that was weird.  I had to spend, just now, easily a good minute trying to relocate my finger-stance on the right side of the keypad because I'm still getting used to this ever-so-slightly-smaller keyboard on the new netbook I work on, and it felt sort of like senility, like I had never seen the keys of a typewriter before, I scrabbled my right fingers over them attempting to place myself, place my extended-digit-self on the pad, and it was like forgotten-yet-known and so - scary.  Should it have been scary?  I. don't. know.  Yes?  Sure.  What's right, what's wrong, when your hand cannot find purchase on the keys of your mind's table?

I'm gonna give myself fucking Alzheimer's at this rate.)

Oh, the scourge of needing to write, and knowing how trivial, in the end, the pursuit.

There is no rhyme, no reason, and I should be loathe to share this nonsense, this drivel, and in point of fact I am, but I am compelled.  I am fire, I am heat, I am this stream of syllable and pronoun, and all while I whisper, faint, at night, late at night, when no one cares to listen, when I am shush and tuneless and all keyed up, and I turn disquieted on the spit in my steadily-deepening bed-coffin, there, in the night, I am burning it into my own little soul that I will never, no, never, write the things that matter, the epics, the torrid novels, the novellas, the pamphlets, there will be no great production, I will not matter, in this historic river I will not be trumpeting from the heights, I will be small and quiet and my voice will crack slowly and break into crumby bits that will not even float downward into the rocky crevasse and remain, stubborn, black, but instead dissolve, a foam of gentling acquiescence slipping out to sea.

I love these late-night rhythms of blur and tangy oblong heady chopped-up soups I whip up out of a child's purple cracked-plastic bucket filled with dark stars and cold, wet sand and dreams eddied into these arms, these fingers-of-brain that tell me stories when I cannot dream, cannot conjure my own dreams, am dreamless as I am currently barren, as I stroke my fingers down the length of the cave's walls and find etchings that remind me of a time so long ago that nothing hurts there, it is all wine-dark and wet and cool and there are gentle whispers of breeze along my forearms and about my neck, eliciting shivers that remind me I would prefer to go inside to the rickety rented house and away from the cold, but not quite yet.  Not yet.  Not when the chill and the stars and wine-darkness can cajole me with their guilty asides.

I long to know what they would tell me, but I am too impatient.  I must run inside!, now, and huddle close in a dog-hair-bedecked blanket, one that does not quite cover me, and I must choose between wrapping it around my neck while my feet dangle, bare, chilled, outside its snug embrace, or giving my feet its shelter and leaving my neck and shoulders naked and forlorn.

The hot cocoa is delicious but it burns my lip and is short-lived in its intoxicating splendor.  Why is nothing what it promises?

Oh, what I wouldn't give for the perfect cup of cocoa.  The one that is bottomless and hot but not stinging.

Fingers-for-brains, what say ye?  To bed, to curl up in crone-shapes and remind me of my pending death (which may be ages from now, but what's in an age, you fucking wretched bits of flesh and bone and sinew and shaped so very like the fingers of my forebears, that you would remind me of my own brief fling with this flesh fresh-that-is-not-fresh-and-grows-less-so-by-each-tick-tick-tick?  Hmmm?  Callous.  You're all callous as fuck)?

Obama's on Leno.  Tivo just winked on, but it can seriously fuck itself.  It cheated me out of a new episode of The Office tonight, and for that I will curse it roundly before allowing it to worm its pathetic way back into my life tomorrow at some stupidly weak point, preferably in the afternoon and we've gone and had some decent form of exercise and I can give myself the admirable excuse of having exercised our bodies adequately in order to feed on tivo's meager offerings for a few slices of hour.  Fucking tivo.  Ugh.  Tivo doesn't even deserve a capital letter at its front, the wretched brain-miser.  I could write things, you know, you beast, if I weren't slaving for you, panting to make my way to you and fall captive to your nightly spells of pithy, neatly encapsulated 22- and 44-minute dreams.

God.  What would Hemingway have to say about tivo.  Would we even know?  Would Hemingway have managed to escape its hungry maw?

I'm fascinated to ponder that.  I have to believe he, as well as my other literary heroes, would have stayed just out of reach of the miserable brain-eating machines.

Better me than them.  I am the martyr.  Yes.  Look to me so that ye may be saved from the existence of watching anything and everything your television shows you so that you do not prescribe thoughtful thinking on your porr, beleaguered brain.

I will bear that crass, er, cross, for you.

(I don't really think it's necessary to say anything.  It's cool.  I got you.  It's all me.  I got this one, baby.  I got this.  That's just how I do.)

making people remember why they avoid this blog like a suspicious stain.

Would you please stop sending me telepathic requests for posts that I don't have it in me to write?  I feel terrible about it, really.  Honest.  But my stomach hurts when I try to consider it.  And that's not my fault. 
It's yours.

It's also kind of the result of 2+ helpings of the chicken-with-rice dish I made tonight that's kind of a bastardized version of a Brasilian dish I used to love when I lived there, a regional (i.e., state of Minas Gerais, a state below Brasilia, the country's capital, and inland about ten hours' drive from Rio) recipe that I sort of make kind of correctly.  As far as memory serves.  (... !! ... ??? .)  There's this amazing sauce that accompanies it, called vinagrete, it's kind of a salsa but with vinegar as a base, and parsley instead of cilantro, plus red bell pepper that you mix with the onion, garlic, tomato, salt and pepper.  The only side dish is refried beans, which I would normally make from scratch because they're prepared differently in Brasil than in Mexico, but I forgot until the last minute and had to pick some up from the store -- *shrug*.  Similar-ish enough.

Did you want something from me?  Because that's all I've got.  I tried to collate all the addresses from everyone who said they want a private password for when I private-up for a few, but my computer crashed and I took that as a sign from god to suggest that I should not be near my computer.  Which is why I'm here, only not trying to do the email-collating thinger, since that would've probably gotten me nowhere close to anything resembling progress.  This all looks a lot more progress-y.  That said, I still want to private up but by the flaming hand of gilgamesh, how do I make myself try and go through all that rigamarole again?  It vexeth me.

Whatever.

Anybody wanna be my secretary?  GOD that sounds sexy.  Just the idea of having a secretary makes me so hot.

Which is funny, because I'm kind of freezing.

drowning Batman.

Jack:  "I'm dwowning Batman, mommy!  Wookit!  Wookit him drowning, go down, down, down into the deep, deep, deep bottom of da tub, mommy, see he's dwowning, mommy?"

me:  "Why is he drowning, though?  Batman's a superhero, honey.  He doesn't have to drown.  He could survive - he usually does, in fact."

Jack: "But no, mommy!  He's gonna dwown.  He's gonna hafta dwown, I think.  Batman's dwowned."

me:  "Is this because the fish were drowned yesterday and they died?  Is that why Batman's drowning?"

Jack:  "Yeah.  He's dwowning just like the fish."

me:  "Maybe Batman could play with that shark instead of drowning?  Maybe he could play with the shark and the polar bear?"

Jack:  "No!  Batman and the shark can NOT play together, mommy.  They are NOT friends."

me:  "Why can't they be friends?"

Jack:  "Because they're people, mommy, and people aren't friends."

me: (choking down laugh) "People aren't friends, Jack?"

Jack:  "No, mommy, they aren't.  They're just people.  And they sometimes just aren't friends."

As he sing-songed to himself afterward, I contrived to think of something, a vignette, maybe, that I could include with this, to write it as a post that referred to something else, something bigger, that could make the point so I wouldn't have to even comment on it. Which I sort of decided would be too easy.  Kind of a cop-out.  After all - the worst part of having that conversation is trying to determine any of its meaning.  Realizing, as I do, that there could be so many interpretations.  And each of them would be utter crap.  Because he doesn't even know what he meant by any of it, and when I ask him in several years about its significance, he'll not remember. 

And, yes, I will ask him.  It's the kind of annoying thing I do.

My mother would agree with that statement.

flavors!

There's two kindsa crazy, yo*; there's the "I can kinda dig this shiz" brand, and the "Wooooaaah.  Slow it down, there, Nelly," variety.

I think we both know which kind I am right now.

And I think we both know why you aren't sitting in my lap, petting my hair, and feeding me chocolate-flavored-whiskey as a result.

p.s. With all of the appointments I suddenly have scheduled to see both my therapist and my psychiatrist, you'd think I was a) popular and b) rich.  Turns out, I'm *not* Cindy McCain; rather, my husband called and reported that I was, uh, unwell.  Somehow, this alarmed them enough to see me now, rather than in the middle of November.  Cancellations all over the place!  Blowing up like my teenaged-neighbor's celly, yo!

It's so funny.  It's so funny that, once my husband informed them that I might seriously wish to kill myself, they're ALL. ABOUT. ME.

Why not before, though?  When I made all those calls to get appointments?  And even went to some of them (the ones I remembered)?  Why not then?  Why didn't they see it then?

I guess I do an adequate job of covering up the crazy?

(Well, not if you read me on twitter this evening.  But -- never mind that.  Sigh.  I blame the box o' wine.

Okay, and maybe also the crazy.)

*I will allow that, in fact, there may be more than two varieties of crazy.  But, for the above argument, it worked nicely.  Let's just leave it there for now, shall we?  Thank you.  YOU are divine.  And lovely.  And deserving of chocolate-flavored-whiskey.  I'll be sure to feed you some just as soon as I get back in the saddle.

yay?

I got the job.  So that's good.

On the other hand, we still have to sell the house.

Also, I'm supposed to interview Oregon's soon-to-be Senator, Jeff Merkley, on Friday.  It's a phone interview, so I'm not super-panicked, but still.

Maybe one of you who's kinda good with the words wanna, um, lend me your head for an hour?  We could trade.  It'd be funny.  You could be all, lookit me!  I'm a dummy!, and annoy the shit out of everyone you work with.  Or just scare your toddler to bits.  Me, I could be smart and engaging and on it and know all my questions inside-out and sound really, really articulate and coherent and brilliant.  Look at what you could be doing for me.  No!  Not for me!  For Oregon!  For the future of our country!   For humankind!

I'll be waiting to see whose head is ready to sit on my shoulders in a few days.  Just, you know, be prepared for the eventuality that I may not give it back.

xo Deb

my three year old has bludgeoned me with his energy.

So, turns out that a birthday party involving a bunch of almost-pre-schoolers (starting in September, ohmygodsomeoneholdme) can totally hand several adults their asses in terms of the fiery spinning and singing and screaming and running and chasing and throwing and door-slamming and crazed, human tornado-ish-ness. 

As I support an ice-pack to the brow with what remains of my personal verve, I offer a funny thing.  (You like funny things.  You do.  I know you do.  You've said so.  I think.)

Don't be insulted.  Just laugh.  It's funny.

(I've totally checked my objectivity in really, really exhausted land, and mean no offense to any particular ethnic group.  It's just - language/culture barriers are funny.  Right?

Oh, god.  My funny bone has split on me.

Fuck it.)

what it's like when you have a disability but can't get assistance because you forget to call because of the disability:

I'm on hold but it's already afterhours for the mental health triage for Kaiser and I have a feeling I should've tried to call maybe slightly earlier than I did, which was, hilariously, right at five o' clock.  You know.  Quittin' time.  So, basically, I nailed la hora solid.

What I want to know is this:  after I get the help I need, and b'lieve you me, I need it, N.E.E.D., should I write a book about my ADHD experiences?  Now don't you all (hee!  I said "you all," like there are more than three of you reading) kiss my ass and say, sure, honey, you should do it!, sure's shootin', don't just blow a bunch of hot air at me; tell me if you think there might be someone who would benefit from my semi-horrific collection of disarranged, colossally messy life puzzle pieces, none of which fit together in any coherent fashion.

Or, conversely, tell me if you think that, oh, poor dear, she really *is* a big, sodden, ridiculous mess (and please take note of my having deliberately NOT described myself as a fierce, hot tranny mess, b/c I am simply not that interesting anymore, people), and she just needs to find somewhere quiet where she can whisper to herself and rock out in her kewl granny chair.

Book?  Or whispery chair scenario?

It all starts here, people.  IT. ALL. STARTS. HERE.  (It also all falls out of my ear, or ass, depending on your pov, or maybe quite possibly where you're standing, in which case, I apologize and -- you're right.  Absolutely no more beans/beer at the same time.  Scout's honor.)

Dweedle deedle dee!

word of the day.

Gotcha!  There is no word of the day!  But you looked.  And I used exclamation points accordingly, as one should, when one is expected to produce and, realizing that the drawer full of "brightly imaginative" is tapped, finds oneself doing a silly jig instead.

I could do the jig with my clothes off and maybe while holding hands with jesus and THEN maybe you'd be innarested.  But I suppose, since you pepeol jus wont be sated wwith antyhign less, i'll have to jig sans vestments and since i *obiuvsouly* cant produuce jesus to be teh fred adstair to my giner, you will just have to acept GIN as his standin.

Which, no pobrlm, ive had alredady some of.  And i will now commnence the jizg.

Whee!

Didja like it?

Was it all thata you had hopped for?

Goodm.

wanst some gin?

itsh good to.

yyum.  *licks inside botttle for resth7*

i can kance, um,m dance again if you want.  i had thiaz really awsmoeme dream abuout how when i saw, um, when i wasz a shripper, i used to get upset when the polae waz too slickh, becasue my hands go tall clalmmy whne I'm tyrifng to do thingfs like climbs rocks or polkes, heh polka i can't do that dance., wher whas i.  i had a dream about climb ing pokes, no, poles, DAMMIT KEYOBARD, sotp messing up wat im tring ot say.  i was dreamignas bout working hte pole and how much i prefered a less slick surface, the brass onesz wer sucked, the more indrstrial kindas were boss, because amy nands coudl stick to it better.

and its was greate, my dream because i realy woredd the pole fierce ilke a fiecre hot trany messz.

mk gona go laya domn,, now.

hopee you had a goood time watchgmi me do the pokla.

plseeae close youre dor onna way ou.t

*whipeser8* thxnkmsa ou, i llove yo.mu, your rad.  m sognna be sichk now shhhhh

p.s. GREATEST HITS CLASSIC!, in case you actually arrived here hoping for something that dwelled somewhere within the realm of substance. 

emotions, allow me to introduce surface.

Oh, hi, Surface!  Nice to meet you - again!  I mean, I'm assuming we've met before.  I feel like we must have, even though I totally can't remember.  Whatev.

Wouldn't you love it, Surface, if you and I could somehow form a permanent bond, so that whenever we meet, we don't have to be reintroduced?  Somehow, every time that happens, there's this surprising pain that Nervous System has to manage.  It's surprising because, well, there's that whole *ahem* (whispers) issue with Memory.  Yes.  I know, issue is being overused these days.  I didn't think that sort of thing bothered you too much, Surface.  I thought you were disaffected.  Cool.  Etc.  And I have this spidey-tingle that says you're about to launch into a long, tedious explanation as to why that's not true and cite several examples and precedents and DUDE, stop pretending to be a barrister.  Yeah.  I said barrister.  It's cooler.  You know that when you're not playing your never-knew-from-cool tired-ass bit.  But.  Back to what I was saying - about Memory having kind of sucked, well, all along?  It's not our fault Memory's so bad at her job.  Why we should have to endure this repeated pretense at not knowing one another?, and why Nervous System has to continually fend off the bouts of pain that result is totally stupid and illogical.  Which brings me to Logic.  Where has Logic even BEEN all this time?  Logic spends more time vacationing than anything, and is conspicuously absent on these recent bitter-cold, rain-soaked days, just when we need her support the most.  God!  This!  Sucks!

I have to go, Surface.  I promised Velvet-Lining-of-Chest Tucked-Inside-Inner-Depths-of-Soul I'd be back by lunch.  We're having toasted cheese and tomato soup.  Don't worry.  I'm sure you'll get some.  I'd just rather not have to watch, is all.  You eat like a mad cow.

Anyway, relax.  We'll meet again soon.  Don't start sobbing.  God.  You'd think you were Emotions.  Sure.  You can call me E. 

Just don't you fucking DARE call me Emo.

or, you know, okay, i could completely disagree with myself.

I've said so many dumb things in my years playing a human being here on this planet that I'm not surprised to catch myself out having said one more dumb thing.

For instance, I've now switched stances wholeheartedly from what I just posted about ignoring the network media, although not so much about ignoring them, but mainly ignoring the suggestion that McCain's winning because he's no longer having to struggle with another candidate for the nomination, while Barack and Hillary are still in a heated contest.  Rather, what this dude says:

Matchups Against McCain Will Suffer

Expect Clinton to start closing the general election performance gap on Obama, but not necessarily gain on McCain. I have long argued that whoever has the monentum in the primary campaign will always perform better in the general election. For the next several weeks, neither Clinton nor Obama will have momentum in the primary campaign, but McCain probably will. As our campaign gets nastier and remains somewhat inconclusive, there is a good chance McCain will gain on both Clinton and Obama.

I dislike eating my words, because they taste narsty, but I'll do it.  Bleah.

(Mainly, I just DON'T want this to be true! - I don't want to see the Dems infight to the point that we can't win the election in November - we are only hurting ourselves with this crap.  Hill and B DO just need to have a thumb-wrestling match and call it, already.  And we know they won't.  And it makes my head hurt.)

this is when i begin squirming subtly while smiling in an awkward fashion.

So, all that brouhaha I stirred up about the paint and other make-up of the toddler trike?  I suppose I should try to keep it in mind for future reference, because the truth of the matter is this:

I.e., that my son's utter, unabashed joy over receiving his first shiny, red bicycle (okay, it's a trike, but you be the one to explain that to him, 'cause I don't really have the energy) is outweighing my concern over whether he'll spend large portions of time licking its probably lead-soaked alluring red exterior.

Thank you, Grandpa Jeff.  The recipient is satisfied beyond words.  He'd prefer to sleep with it, but is settling for just sitting on its well-curved black seat for most of the day as second-best.

And Gwen and Mignon?  Your told-you-so's are more than earned.

I'm cool with it.

5 a.m. logic.

After Caleb did the 2 a.m. potty trip with J, the one where he wanted to sit vacantly on the toilet after he'd finished going, for an indefinite period, and Caleb got a little short with him about that desire, I woke blindly at 5 a.m. to the screaming shrew that is our toddler.  I insisted that, with eyes burning and shoulder achy from too much time sitting weird while watching stored-up Scrubs episodes from the last few months last night, not to mention past the old bedtime (whydoIdoitwhy), he'd better go back to sleep, NOW, or I was going to shut his door (the deal we've worked out recently in order to keep him from sobbing after bedtime has finally, adamantly, arrived).  He kept sobbing.  I stumbled toward his room and stayed true to my word, shutting both his door *and* ours.  Nothin' doin'.  He continued screaming.  (This was after we'd already gone through the litany of issues that might have woken him up, with his scratchy-throated, wobbly "noooo" bleated out after each item was asked; "Do you need to go potty?"  "noooo."  "D'you need to change your pants?  Is your bed wet?"  "nOooooOo."  "Are you thirsty?  Do you need a glass of water?"  "NOOOooooOO."  "Is this retro-active payback for what you may require in psychoanalyzation as an adult thanks to our current parenting behaviors?"  "NOooo."  And so on.) 

A few minutes later, as the screaming hoarsely continued, I blurrily reminded Caleb to ignore it.  He was obviously managing that just fine, because he responded in the almost-asleep voice that it was not a problem.  Seconds later:  snore.  You know.  The usual.  Meanwhile, my heart began accelerating its rhythm, because I always get kinda pissy when he can fall asleep so fast and so easy after so much disruption, and because, well, there was the fucking screaming happening, still, so I waited a little longer and then stomped over to the door.  Caleb snapped awake and tried to caution me to be nice.  I was, sorta, if you think of sotto-voce as nice.  I mean, I do, especially at 5 in the morning. 

Anyway, I beligerently tossed his door open, kneeled down next to his little bed, and said, in a nice, quiet voice, "J.  Listen to mommy." 

"Oh." 

"Now, you need to stop crying or later today?  You're going to stay in your room in the morning.  You won't get to go downstairs and play, and you won't get to go in the living room and play with any of the ornaments on the tree, and you'll just stay in here.  That's it.  Nothing else.  Because it's only 5 in the morning.  We're not getting up right now, you're not going to play downstairs right now, it's still the middle of the night.  Time to go back to sleep.  Unless you keep crying.  Then you'll just be in here, with the door shut.  Do you want that?" 

"Blow my nose?" 

"Sure."  And I offered the lower portion of my t-shirt for him to honk good and loud into.  He did it twice.

"Are you all done crying, now?  Should I leave the door open?"

"'Course, mommy.  Leave it open, peese."

"'k.  G'night.  Go back to sleep."

"'Course, mommy."

And I shuffled back to bed, feet cold, stomach colder where the snotty part of the shirt clung to my torso.

Climbed in under the covers, husband already softly snoring again, and thought about how weird it was; that I could be so quasi-mean to my son about his potential punishment, even feeling like it was mean as I proposed it, listening to myself sort of shocked that I could say something so like what I remember hearing about kids being trapped in rooms, all day, every day, fed scraps, clothes unchanged, *abused*.  Granted, I knew that this was simply a proposed extended time-out, and that I didn't really mean it, because I knew, just knew, he'd not call my bluff.  But what if he had?  What if he'd continued to cry, what then?  Would I have insisted angrily on his remaining in his room for the morning?  Is that like jailing a toddler?  And when I know my husband would have most likely balked at my trying to enforce what I'd said (because I try to stick to what I say I'm going to do, for the sake of consistency, even though it's sometimes a little on the, let's face it, batshit-crazy end of the spectrum)?

I'd be lying if I didn't find the whole thing kinda funny, though, as I was drifting back toward pretty, pretty sleep.  I wouldn't have to follow through on the jail-time, and it worked, my threat, and still.  I had a belly coated with snotty goo to attest to my being -- normal?  Tired?  A real parent?

Oh, I know.  Finally done with my hipster phase.

*******

Just re-read this and I can't resist adding that I read between the lines more than the lines themselves, and boy, is it enlightening.  For one thing, it's pretty obvious that J probably didn't give a crap what the content of my lecture was when I went in there, rather, he was happy to have my soft, quiet voice playing close to his ear, getting to blow his nose, receiving the little pat on the back and, finally, a nice blanket readjustment from mom.  He probably didn't even think about what I was saying.

So much for my getting all caught up in that part of it.  gah.  So typical.

of tummy-ache and ginger tea and -- oh, realllly.

I had a vicious tummy-bug (doesn't that sound so much adorable-r than "gastroenteritis") take me down on my birthday, which was Sunday, and I had cute-as-a-button fevers and, while I did no vomiting, my bottom(ing, keeping within the cute theme, 'cause rhyming is cute, it *is*) will not be the same as it was for some time.  And my tummy is sore from all the precious spasms.  Plus I'm sick to death of flavorless food, i.e., dry toast, rice, bananas, and some applesauce thrown in which actually *did* keep things kinda interesting, also, I put (ooooh!) peanut butter on my toast a few times for protein and 'cause I think I might have had to hurl the toast away, with my arm, not my throat, but anyway.  Fun!  Which, shame on me, I shouldn't mock the process, because I blew it on Tuesday night, since, even though I was still in the throes of misery, I ate the delicious, mind-blowingly good fried latkes Caleb made for the first night of Chanukah, and then?  I had seconds.  I'm officially retarded.  No offense to special-needs people.  I'm serious.  They are all smarter than me.  I mean it.  I rate low on the brain-possession scale when I pull such stunts.  Which is why I paid dearly yesterday.  A damnably tepid day on the eating front in my world.  And that is something that pangs me, because food really does = one of the best things in life, I believe.  I'm not exactly a foodie, because I can't cook worth beans (heh) but I likee the eatee part.  Lots.

But my birthday was fine, Caleb and the kid sang the song and the kid helped me blow out the candle on my cupcake, selected from the ones that he and Dad made, so that ruled, and all the people I love called and sent cards and emails and wrote on my facebook wall and stuff.  I'm learning more and more that it's what means the most to me, those people just leaning in through the doorway for a minute and saying, "Hi!  Happy!  Love!"  So.  I'm getting cornier than ever in my wizening age.  Sweet.

Sweet.  Something I'm not, lately.  I'm more just "stress ball of yarn wound tighter than all of the press secretaries for the current presidential administration put together," which almost sounds more exciting than it is.

I've been unable to blog about my parenting, no, wait, let me start over.  I'm unable to blog about my son, more and more, as he gets older, because I'm feeling more and more guilt and frustration and have no idea how to reveal that to people without feeling like I'm doing it wrong, doing it badly, with no redemptive anything, and am so afraid that people will criticize me, or worse, call the authorities and remove my son.  Even though most of my logic says that is just silly, really, silly as can be, there's a teeny part that says, don't give up the goods, bitch.  Don't tell people what you're doing, not in black-and-white, because then the evidence is all there.  Shhhhhh.  If you're gonna be a horrible mother, don't broadcast it, for FUCK'S sake. 

(Hi, Mom [in-law]! *waves*  Don't be horrified by this stuff!  I always pour my soul out on my blog like this!  It's how I manage to keep it from driving me to drink.  Heh.  That was funny.  *pours another cocktail*  That was another joke.  I make a lot of jokes about being an alcoholic/drug-addicted/actor-type-person here.  No worries.  I would never, ever, ever, *ever* become an actor.  So breathe easy.  Wanna shot of tequila?  Damn.  Bottle's empty.  Neversmicnd.)

I wish I could just be honest, like Kristen and Lotta, who do it with humor, panache and pistol-smart talent, because it must be so emotionally cleansing to unload about how things really are as a parent, and I want to do it, but it feels scary, so instead I turn the loaded gun I carry on my own fleshy ghost and shoot, shoot, shoot away.  I'm positively, no, negatively riddled with wounds of my own making at the moment, because I'd rather manage the pain I've caused myself than this messy, unbounded emotional swamp made up of moments where I've done or said something involving my son that I regret.  Regret because I fear.  I fear that he'll be harmed, irreparably, and okay I'm a cliche, I'm the mom that everyone says, don't be silly, we *all* fuck our kids up, I'm just going to pool my money with my friends, like Nora's friend and I had a laugh over this morning at the daycare doorway, because when they're grown up we can pay for group therapy for them (cheaper when you buy in bulk, right?).  I'm not laughing inside, though, and neither is she, neither are any of us.  It's horribly hard, it's horribly scary, I don't want, and neither does anyone else want, our kids to develop scars and permanent wounds that they

can't help but develop or experience and WHY can't I get past that thought of a sudden?  I've done nothing but tell myself that he'll have to run into things and fall off of things and he'll have scars and he'll have experiences and he'll have stories, and I was totally okay with that, I really have been massaging my own back for the last two+ years, convincing myself he'll need these things in order to have a full, rich childhood, but why in the motherFUCKING world did I forget that it applied to the emotional as well as the physical?

Wow.  I've been beating up on MYSELF, beating up on myself because I want to keep him from feeling those beatings, those emotional bruises and scars, and I just. can't. stop. it. from. happening.

He's going to be hurt, scarred even, not necessarily by me, but by life.

Oh.  Oh, but, god, it's one thing to say that what-doesn't-kill-you-makes-you-stronger over and over and OVER to yourself from the time you first hear it as a twenty-three year old until right this second and onward, ever onward, into the misty, gray future over that hill, but SHIT, no, I can't can't I can't let him have to oh, god.

I hate this being a parent so much more than I thought I would.  I hate that he will hurt.  I hate that he's already hurting.  Necessarily so.  Because that's our fucking plight. 

I know.  There's beauty.  There is absolute, stunning, breathtaking beauty and light and joy in this life, and I see it in his face, I hear it in his raspy, sweet voice when he shouts at the sight of lights strung along rooftops and when he spies a bird tunneling skyward, when he smells cookies or bread baking or hears music and, enchanted, dances wildly, hands in fists and a crazed grin on those little-boy cheeks, and I delight in those moments.

Shit.  This shit is hard.  It's so hard.  I love him more than I ever thought possible, and that love makes everything so hard.

Well, at least now I've solved my health riddle.  I think I'm getting an ulcer.

somebody oughtta slap me.

I get not one, not two, but *three* good things in one fell swoop.  This after bearing no deserving mark of any kind, and instead, earning merely a box on the ear.  Or three.  For one thing, I wrote that lame, whine-encrusted post earlier, and now I have brand-new, perfect, hump-able countertops in snow-white (the color is, in fact, named "blizzard") manufactured quartz.  They are, well, they're making me breathless.  And not just because of the epoxy used to adhere their sleekness to the cabinets.  Although that may have something to do with my spinning head, and not just the beauty. 

The second thing was that I screeched more at my poor, sweet puppy-muffin this morning, in a vain attempt to quell my anger over things that are out of reach of my clutching, dried fingers, because she leapt onto my bed while the countertop installers were here and I'd trapped her into our bedroom to keep her from pestering them with her overly-personal greetings (she *is* a dog, but still -- it's rude, the crotch-sniffing, if you're not a dog; people don't like it, and by people, I most certainly mean me).  Afterward, as I was cleaning the surface of the bedcovers with a rolly-tape-thingy one uses to remove dog hair from clothes, and in my case, many, many other random surfaces that are probably not what its intended use is for, not that I'll let that stop me in my endless search-and-destroy mission re: the dog detritus within our living space; I realized that, in terms of her cost-benefit ratio, Ella is mostly all +s, with the only negative being that she sheds enough to build a new planet constructed entirely of her shedded material and it drives my crazy just that much crazier.  Well, and she can be whiny if within 100 yards of a tennis ball, but that's pretty much it.  Otherwise, she's a pet amongst pets, and with the prettiest, softest brown eyes I've ever peered into, and guess what that dollfaced dog did for me, just a few minutes later?  While I tried to vacuum the stairs, but instead encountered a spider bigger than my hand walking, yes, WALKING down the stairs, because it *could*, I suppose, but then.  Oh, my, yes, then.  I summoned SHE.  And she came.  And the spider stopped walking, and froze.  It knew.  And I said to her, Ella?  C'mere, girl!  C'mere, sweetie!  And she wagged, and smiled, and ran up and down the stairs, until I pointed, shaking, at that thing.  And she stopped.   And pointed at it.  Until I said, Ella.  GET.  IT.

And she did.

And I love her.  She is my shining, white dog in furry, shedding armor. 

Do you think eight treats is too many?  Do you think I'll regret my choice to reward her thusly at a later point, say, this evening, when her anal glands begin firing a round of fishy bullets into the air? 

Probably.  But, hell.  Girl-sweet-face deserved it.  I couldn't have done anything but wait for the end of time, or my husband, whichever came first, shivering low in a corner while the spider circled me, ever closer, its fangs dripping.  *ewwwww*

And the third thing.  The thing that has already provided me with much commingled shame and embarrassment, because my ADHD is in full dudgeon today, what with the kitchen stuff all happening, both good and bad, and the spider-attack, and the epoxy-sniffing, and my burgeoning appointment with the therapist where I have to disclose that the medication thing was a bomb, and now we have to talk about it and I have to describe things and finish sentences and try to avoid crying, all on one measly cup of coffee and zero food because that would require my doing dishes in the bathtub and I'm holding out until the dishwasher's installed, tomorrow, and don't look at me like that because you'd do the same thing, and you know this. 

Um.  There was supposed to be a third thing included in that last paragraph, somewhere.  Did it make it in there?  Can anyone else look?  I'm afraid to.  I can't remember quite where I mentioned the part about the spider-attack and I tremble at those words so I can't look back or I'll turn into a salt-lick for spiders to trod upon.

So Jozet gave me this award and I don't deserve it and I lost control of my bowels all over her comments section because I have no control over anything, ever, but especially in the face of being honored by someone so - someone whose abilities defy description, in the better/bigger-than-life category.  So.  I feel bashful and unworthy and thankful. 

And I'll write another post later about who I'm passing the award to, plus the pretty button will be revealed, which will hopefully prompt me to belatedly post the other buttons I've been given in the last few months but I keep forgetting to do it, and I apologize deeply to the givers, for I have dissed thee, please forgive.  Please. 

But first I have to run or I'll be late to my appointment for ADHD, a thing that causes tardiness, among other resulting disastrous effects.

Sweet.