Aand within days she was struck by a virus, fevered and ached, shivering in her bed. This AND she received a vitriolic, hate-filled email addressed not only to her but to her colleagues as well. All of whom would vouch for her character. Brought her to tears it did. She would tell you all the nitty but this here’s the public stratosphere. Suffice to say she should have seen it coming, the pain. The misery, the amputation of endorphin flow and thus her social world of bootcamping ladies. Muscles slacken. The sofa has gone miles of dreamless sweaty sleep as the virus tendrils way too slowly out of her system.
I finally found it. I’ve been looking for it since last night. I don’t even know how it came up. I was talking with the kids after dinner. We had fish—a nice frozen white filet of some sort from Trader Joe’s that I’d defrosted in the fridge and refroze about three times before finally committing to the thing. I hate eating fish when it’s raining. It’s too much water element, you know? It depresses me. And I always think I’ve scored the deal of the century buying a frozen fish filet at Trader Joe’s, but the things are still like six dollars a pound which ain’t cheap.
It’s been almost a month since my last confession. I left off shortly before Halloween. Then Sandy came. And the election.
My fingers hover over the keyboard wondering what the hell to write. Sandy was devastating. The election, for me anyway, was a relief. Now it’s Veterans Day and the veterans are being thanked. Thank you veterans. Thank you hurricane clean-up volunteers. Thank you linemen and women. Thank you donators. We give thanks every night in my house. Thanks that we have heat, electricity. Hot water. Food. Health. An internet connection. Coffee. Pie. Snuggly fitted fleece jackets with those neato holes in the cuffs for your thumbs. Poo poo as my mother would say.
When did you know you were grown up? Are you grown up? Do you have a set of balls? A set like these ball-point balls below?
I found this set of cockandballs at my local cafe. It’s a twenty minute walk from my house, or a five minute drive. Four if you speed. Continue reading
This morning I drew a picture of the twin towers and a sad face above the date on Spike’s lunch note. Is that bad parenting? Is there a book on what and how much to tell your children about the world? Maybe I will write one.
It’s my calling to keep it real for these kids. They already know about cosmetic surgery, pedophiles and factory farm chicken. Peaches has seen a deer eviscerated. Terrorism seems logical company. But maybe I am screwing them up. Maybe! Ha, what a laugh. A parent not screwing a kid up? Still, no nightmares that I’m aware of. No new drain, dark or insect phobias. Peaches and Spike are getting older, more accountable. More engaged in society. They have a right to know.
Ode to summer. A hazy humid dream. A pair of tan legs. Oh carefree days of yore.
I’m not going to lie to you. I am obsessed with these pouty chiseled people. How did this happen? Well my friend Danielle for one thing. Thanks D! For another, Swamp Chicken went camping in California for a week and the kids went to stay with their grandparents. While I had the house to myself I did not organize the basement. I did not de-clutter my closets or cull outgrown stained clothing. I didn’t step foot in Ikea. No instead I cultivated a claustrophobic, productive on many subtle levels and possibly pathetic relationship with Elena Gilbert and the Salvatore brothers. Who of course are teenaged vampires. We had a blast together. Then I found I had something else in common with my fourteen year old niece when she came to visit. We couldn’t decide if we were on team Stefan or team Damon—life-changing decisions—so we compromised, agreeing that it would be splendid to be an Elise or L___ sandwich with Damon and Stefan bread. The thrills! Continue reading
Another game-changing book. It’s not the prose style that got me. It’s the story. Inhaled this decidedly unkosher sucker over the weekend, then lent it to my in-laws, deeply religious people—not proselytizing in the least thank bespoke God. Dickie and Ca’ are kind, good generous people—poo poo as my mother would say—curious people like me, who, especially having lived for years in Brooklyn, have to be utterly fascinated by the subculture of Hasidic Jewry. I mean, who ARE these people? And why do they wear such ridiculous hats? (Channeling Jerry Seinfeld.)
I’ve been getting my thriller on. When the Gone Girl hoopla reached me, I Googled it up right quick only to learn that I already owned Gillian Flynn’s first novel. It was sitting there on my shelf, a score from a local library book sale. I devoured it and felt it spark something in me, a path I have yet to travel as a writer. Murder. Mystery. Something I’m now intrigued by, especially in the dim lamplight of my fourteenth rejection. Mark your score cards.