I have one thing to say: Vicadin, Vicidan ... however it is spelled ... sucks. Your back aches, your sister says, "Here, this will help." You take it, and in 20 minutes you are transported to Magic MushroomLand. I like CindyLand better; it's kind of like CandyLand but less sweet, sort of tangy, but not bitter.
It's good though to try something once and fully determine that you won't try it again. I've always been more of a If-I-don't-like-it-once, I'll-try-it-twice sort of person, but now that I think about it that only pertains to foods, like octopus. I love octopus. Hate Vicodan. (Whatever. Spell check approves none of them.)
I'm losing it. Christmas is in two days and we are packing to move in six. The punch: we haven't found a place to rent. What the hell. Looks like we are going back to Oceanside into our original condo; which isn't all bad, it's 400 steps from the water. Yessssssssssssssss.
Merry Christmas.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Five months in Chula Vista.
Mia said, “Write like your life depends on it.” I’m not quite there, but my feet are sinking in the hot dirt - I can see tiny trails of dust stirring from my movement.
I’ve gotten fat since we moved from the water. I get fat when I’m unhappy. My heart’s crying for the ocean. I hear tears splattering against the inside of my chest. I want to run to the shore and put my toes into its perimeters. I want water kisses from the Pacific. Beautiful, blue, wet kisses. I’m afraid if I leave it this time I might possibly wither into death. I know what my oxygen’s are; my children and the ocean are a few. Oxygen keeps us alive.
On a completely unrelated note: I’ve begun to only trust the numbers … the words consistently lie. Show me the chemistry, an equation, that concludes that vinegar possesses the same bacteria-killing properties as chlorine bleach. I want to see the microscopic plate proving death by vinegar. Is rice fermentation the equivalent of a rotted apple? How many days must a fruit brown and assault our senses? Show me, add and subtract – prove the math.
I think about this stuff. I obsess really. Is this worry? I guess if you don’t stop thinking about something that makes you somewhat fearful, then you are worrying. It seems like such a simple concept, to stop worrying, doesn’t it? You just say, "Hey. No more of that thought pattern." The protection of the environment is killing me. I see headlines, "Environment survives, concerned being dies from worry, exhaustion and possible fruit infection. Funeral at the landfill, Wednesday at 2 p.m."
Our house is rented. We must move on. Chula Vista could never have become home, it's too far from the water.
I’ve gotten fat since we moved from the water. I get fat when I’m unhappy. My heart’s crying for the ocean. I hear tears splattering against the inside of my chest. I want to run to the shore and put my toes into its perimeters. I want water kisses from the Pacific. Beautiful, blue, wet kisses. I’m afraid if I leave it this time I might possibly wither into death. I know what my oxygen’s are; my children and the ocean are a few. Oxygen keeps us alive.
On a completely unrelated note: I’ve begun to only trust the numbers … the words consistently lie. Show me the chemistry, an equation, that concludes that vinegar possesses the same bacteria-killing properties as chlorine bleach. I want to see the microscopic plate proving death by vinegar. Is rice fermentation the equivalent of a rotted apple? How many days must a fruit brown and assault our senses? Show me, add and subtract – prove the math.
I think about this stuff. I obsess really. Is this worry? I guess if you don’t stop thinking about something that makes you somewhat fearful, then you are worrying. It seems like such a simple concept, to stop worrying, doesn’t it? You just say, "Hey. No more of that thought pattern." The protection of the environment is killing me. I see headlines, "Environment survives, concerned being dies from worry, exhaustion and possible fruit infection. Funeral at the landfill, Wednesday at 2 p.m."
Our house is rented. We must move on. Chula Vista could never have become home, it's too far from the water.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Hey Jodie ...
While you are still their whole life, let the kids fill up your sad places. Just remember they will break your heart, maybe lie to you, but they will remember that you loved them and they will come back when they are done being kids. You can be the one person on the planet that they can count on to lean on.
We all need one person.
Happy Birthday. I'm glad you're on this planet; you are a beautiful person and I love you exactly the way you are.
We all need one person.
Happy Birthday. I'm glad you're on this planet; you are a beautiful person and I love you exactly the way you are.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Girlie Men
It’s late, I’m exhausted and even though I had a million thoughts today, I can’t think of a single thing to write about. I could write about how it was 7:11 this morning and it seemed too early to get started with the day. I forced my eyes shut and awoke again at 9:22 – much more reasonable. I made in-the-bed phone calls. I was comfortable and I had simple questions. People were suspicious of my sultry voice and asked what I was doing. My reply was nothing because I was doing nothing.
It might be better if I wrote about my phone conversation with my son where he again accused me of trying to make him gay – this has become a habitual statement - it just kills me. It cracks me up. It’s effing hilarious. I told him of a recent conversation with a 25-year-old Verizon manager with divine blue eyes who confided in me that as a child, and the youngest son, his sisters would decorate him in dresses. He didn’t really seem that distressed but now I wonder if he too is harboring secret anger and goddamn it, very soon his family is going to pay. (Strangers tell me things, and I’m not sure yet why they feel the necessity of sharing – it’s … kind of weird but I kind of like it.)
I reminded my son that I never put him in dresses and he said, “You dressed me as a girl.”
“Not true,” I replied.
“You did. You put me in Demi’s pink outfit!”
I reminded him that was an emergency situation involving a lack-of-toilet issue and a lack of backup clothing – he was six. For 16 years he has believed that because he had a human accident and had to wear a Tweety Bird, pink and white checkered outfit, with a darling little hood on it, for an hour tops, (I drove home immediately) that I tried to make him gay. Jesus. Where’s Bill Nye?
Quickly, I asked if the phone was clicking on his end because my end was. He said he heard clicking too, and I told him to hang up immediately because the government was listening in. He laughed, paused, and said, “Seriously?”
I laughed and said, “No! Gay!” (I didn’t, but I wanted to in the worst possible way.)
The only thing I can establish about this day is that if in the future, I, or someone cruel and trippy like myself, solicit you to wear something pink and Disney related – I REPEAT - IF IT IS GENDER SPECIFIC CLOTHING, DO NOT PUT IT ON UNLESS YOU WANT TO CHANGE YOUR SEXUAL PREFERENCES. I have religious and scientific evidence that you will be traumatized and possibly permanently skewed. (Sorry about the pink clothes buddy; nobody knows, it’s our secret – shhh.)
It might be better if I wrote about my phone conversation with my son where he again accused me of trying to make him gay – this has become a habitual statement - it just kills me. It cracks me up. It’s effing hilarious. I told him of a recent conversation with a 25-year-old Verizon manager with divine blue eyes who confided in me that as a child, and the youngest son, his sisters would decorate him in dresses. He didn’t really seem that distressed but now I wonder if he too is harboring secret anger and goddamn it, very soon his family is going to pay. (Strangers tell me things, and I’m not sure yet why they feel the necessity of sharing – it’s … kind of weird but I kind of like it.)
I reminded my son that I never put him in dresses and he said, “You dressed me as a girl.”
“Not true,” I replied.
“You did. You put me in Demi’s pink outfit!”
I reminded him that was an emergency situation involving a lack-of-toilet issue and a lack of backup clothing – he was six. For 16 years he has believed that because he had a human accident and had to wear a Tweety Bird, pink and white checkered outfit, with a darling little hood on it, for an hour tops, (I drove home immediately) that I tried to make him gay. Jesus. Where’s Bill Nye?
Quickly, I asked if the phone was clicking on his end because my end was. He said he heard clicking too, and I told him to hang up immediately because the government was listening in. He laughed, paused, and said, “Seriously?”
I laughed and said, “No! Gay!” (I didn’t, but I wanted to in the worst possible way.)
The only thing I can establish about this day is that if in the future, I, or someone cruel and trippy like myself, solicit you to wear something pink and Disney related – I REPEAT - IF IT IS GENDER SPECIFIC CLOTHING, DO NOT PUT IT ON UNLESS YOU WANT TO CHANGE YOUR SEXUAL PREFERENCES. I have religious and scientific evidence that you will be traumatized and possibly permanently skewed. (Sorry about the pink clothes buddy; nobody knows, it’s our secret – shhh.)
Hairy
My eyebrows have gotten out of control.
I have one of those super-duper magnifying mirrors, and a few weeks ago I decided that my brows were looking like a forgotten autumn garden. I wanted them to grow just a little more; I wanted more of a crop. So, I let them go. It’s not going so well. Correction, I thought it was going well until I looked into that blasted mirror this afternoon.
Without the mirror I definitely had the whole Frida Kahlo deal happening, and it was a little disturbing to be honest with you, but you gotta see these things through. Close up, in that mirror: Abe Lincoln. Carl Malden. Dear God, help me, I have Albert Einstein eyebrows. I ran for a tape measure for the utmost mathematical accuracy. I had a hair hanging over my eye, attached to my skin that measured a smidgen over one-half inch. I’m a woman for Christ’s sake how is this possible? Okay, okay! There were several. More than a couple. What’s happening? Am I alone here? Anybody out there?
I am all alone. I am me - Long Brows. I recommend the magnification of one’s face; just don’t take it personally when it’s all over with. Be thankful that you saw it before somebody else. The bastards can be cruel.
I need a professional facial hair person. I drove to a cosmetic surgeon’s office; it was 1:24 this afternoon. (I noticed their sign after a dentist’s appointment awhile back, in the beautiful, tall, tiled building with warning signs posted that say, “Watch for falling tile.” I’m not kidding.) The damn door was locked, lights off. I don’t understand what’s happening. I have questions. I need answers. First, somebody tell me why a new, ten-story building was tiled with eight by eight squares using bad glue. Who does that?
I need a professional facial hair person, everything else will fall into place. Where will it fall? Nobody's quite sure yet; they've left the building. Shit's falling; shit's growing. What's one to do?
I have one of those super-duper magnifying mirrors, and a few weeks ago I decided that my brows were looking like a forgotten autumn garden. I wanted them to grow just a little more; I wanted more of a crop. So, I let them go. It’s not going so well. Correction, I thought it was going well until I looked into that blasted mirror this afternoon.
Without the mirror I definitely had the whole Frida Kahlo deal happening, and it was a little disturbing to be honest with you, but you gotta see these things through. Close up, in that mirror: Abe Lincoln. Carl Malden. Dear God, help me, I have Albert Einstein eyebrows. I ran for a tape measure for the utmost mathematical accuracy. I had a hair hanging over my eye, attached to my skin that measured a smidgen over one-half inch. I’m a woman for Christ’s sake how is this possible? Okay, okay! There were several. More than a couple. What’s happening? Am I alone here? Anybody out there?
I am all alone. I am me - Long Brows. I recommend the magnification of one’s face; just don’t take it personally when it’s all over with. Be thankful that you saw it before somebody else. The bastards can be cruel.
I need a professional facial hair person. I drove to a cosmetic surgeon’s office; it was 1:24 this afternoon. (I noticed their sign after a dentist’s appointment awhile back, in the beautiful, tall, tiled building with warning signs posted that say, “Watch for falling tile.” I’m not kidding.) The damn door was locked, lights off. I don’t understand what’s happening. I have questions. I need answers. First, somebody tell me why a new, ten-story building was tiled with eight by eight squares using bad glue. Who does that?
I need a professional facial hair person, everything else will fall into place. Where will it fall? Nobody's quite sure yet; they've left the building. Shit's falling; shit's growing. What's one to do?
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Nice after 10 a.m.
November 30, 2009
The whole thing with disconnecting the Internet from your house - is tough! I am accomplishing what I wanted: I am focused and we are moving forward, working and learning. Twice this week the whole family was sitting together in the living room just talking. No shit. So, there is definitely that positive side to the situation. However, today I feel like whining about the shitty side.
My mom called at 9:10 a.m. “Are you sleeping?”
“No, I’m in the garage doing laundry,” I replied. Doing laundry in the garage is weird to me. It’s a warm weather thing, I know – it doesn’t change the weirdness for me.
We proceeded to talk; me being passionate that I am, rose above an acceptable range of emotion and was a little hurt that my niece didn’t call me to ask for a personal favor. Hurt, because I would do anything for my nieces and nephews. I was there while they grew; I know these kids; I love these kids. It felt like they didn’t know it, and I was a little disappointed. Have I let them down? I try to remember every birthday and I give them random “Good night, I love you” texts. Have I been careless with them? If so, I am sorry. Sorry.
Is it me? Or have others been careless with me? I think we’ve all participated.
I couldn’t give mom the response she wanted, and I don’t like to let my mom down, but at this stage I have to stand my ground. It’s not about love. I love her.
The conversation didn’t go well, but it didn’t get out of control either. I had commented early in the conversation that I wait until after 10 a.m. to call people because they tend to me nicer. Near the end of the call, mom gracefully asked what time it was in California. I said, “I’ve got 45 minutes to go.”
She said, “I’ll call you back.” We said goodbye. I think this story ended perfectly well, thank you very much.
The whole thing with disconnecting the Internet from your house - is tough! I am accomplishing what I wanted: I am focused and we are moving forward, working and learning. Twice this week the whole family was sitting together in the living room just talking. No shit. So, there is definitely that positive side to the situation. However, today I feel like whining about the shitty side.
My mom called at 9:10 a.m. “Are you sleeping?”
“No, I’m in the garage doing laundry,” I replied. Doing laundry in the garage is weird to me. It’s a warm weather thing, I know – it doesn’t change the weirdness for me.
We proceeded to talk; me being passionate that I am, rose above an acceptable range of emotion and was a little hurt that my niece didn’t call me to ask for a personal favor. Hurt, because I would do anything for my nieces and nephews. I was there while they grew; I know these kids; I love these kids. It felt like they didn’t know it, and I was a little disappointed. Have I let them down? I try to remember every birthday and I give them random “Good night, I love you” texts. Have I been careless with them? If so, I am sorry. Sorry.
Is it me? Or have others been careless with me? I think we’ve all participated.
I couldn’t give mom the response she wanted, and I don’t like to let my mom down, but at this stage I have to stand my ground. It’s not about love. I love her.
The conversation didn’t go well, but it didn’t get out of control either. I had commented early in the conversation that I wait until after 10 a.m. to call people because they tend to me nicer. Near the end of the call, mom gracefully asked what time it was in California. I said, “I’ve got 45 minutes to go.”
She said, “I’ll call you back.” We said goodbye. I think this story ended perfectly well, thank you very much.
Oh God
You have not known beautiful weather unless you have spent a winter in southern California. The moment you walk out the door and the sunshine hits your face and bare toes; you breathe deeply and think, yes God, thank you for this one.
Don't forget every morning is the chance to start all over again. (Not my words.)
Sunshine is my drug. Dip me in an ocean a couple of times and you have a happy woman, bitch free.
Peace.
Don't forget every morning is the chance to start all over again. (Not my words.)
Sunshine is my drug. Dip me in an ocean a couple of times and you have a happy woman, bitch free.
Peace.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Bugs
It is November 18, 2009
Some crazy little Mexican doctor thinks my temperament is too high, he thinks I should be regulated. I’ve been too emotional for everyone’s comfort – even my own. The only people not raising a cry from me are Jodie (we just don’t talk) and … that’s it. So I can not react to hurt and pain only if I avoid someone? That’s insane.
So if I’m included in this discomfort, then it only makes sense to take a damn pill. So there you have my opinion of it, the damn pill. Said it twice. Do I want to be in pain, crying, dejected, or do I go it real? I can't make out the difference. So I’ll take the pill. What makes a person cry? Constantly? A high temperament apparently, whatever the hell that means.
Someone who had visited the town once asked how I survived Muscatine … with the projectile-vomiting people at Holiday Inn or that sickening smell that continuously blows from Kent? Or the millions of fucking bugs! And I read these things, and I figured something out (Yes, Something wants out.) I went from millions of fucking bugs to millions of fucking people. I can’t handle anything in the millions! What an enormous realization! I need a fucking mountain.
(Stay off my punctuation. I hear things differently.)
Some crazy little Mexican doctor thinks my temperament is too high, he thinks I should be regulated. I’ve been too emotional for everyone’s comfort – even my own. The only people not raising a cry from me are Jodie (we just don’t talk) and … that’s it. So I can not react to hurt and pain only if I avoid someone? That’s insane.
So if I’m included in this discomfort, then it only makes sense to take a damn pill. So there you have my opinion of it, the damn pill. Said it twice. Do I want to be in pain, crying, dejected, or do I go it real? I can't make out the difference. So I’ll take the pill. What makes a person cry? Constantly? A high temperament apparently, whatever the hell that means.
Someone who had visited the town once asked how I survived Muscatine … with the projectile-vomiting people at Holiday Inn or that sickening smell that continuously blows from Kent? Or the millions of fucking bugs! And I read these things, and I figured something out (Yes, Something wants out.) I went from millions of fucking bugs to millions of fucking people. I can’t handle anything in the millions! What an enormous realization! I need a fucking mountain.
(Stay off my punctuation. I hear things differently.)
Thursday, November 5, 2009
the pen salesman
After much long, arduous thought, I now know that I should have married that pen salesman. Finding the exact pen takes years. The ink must flow from its well in a precise rhythm. The circumference must fit neatly between my woman's thumb and index finger. And for anyone who understands what I'm talking about: it must slide across the paper at a precise speed: slow, steady, soft. You think I'm joking. I assure you, I am not.
I can't find any damn pens this morning. Something is shaking my bones. I went to bed at midnight, woke at 1:30, and rose at 5:19. I'm all juiced up with strong coffee, ready to take on the bills, the blown-off writing moment, the emails to people I'm not really sure care to hear from me that much. Or-gan-iz-ation. Ready. I can't find a pen, not even a bad one.
If I had only married that pen salesman. He would buy me boxes from his company at low, unheard of prices. I would wait in the fat brown chair in the living room; he would walk in with a box; he would spill the pens on the floor, smile and say, "Honey. I'm home." I would drop to my knees, and I would inspect them carefully making sure I didn't get a second.
Maybe then I would be a real writer ... if I owned a thousand good pens.
I've never met a pen salesman. But I'm thinking that would have been good.
I can't find any damn pens this morning. Something is shaking my bones. I went to bed at midnight, woke at 1:30, and rose at 5:19. I'm all juiced up with strong coffee, ready to take on the bills, the blown-off writing moment, the emails to people I'm not really sure care to hear from me that much. Or-gan-iz-ation. Ready. I can't find a pen, not even a bad one.
If I had only married that pen salesman. He would buy me boxes from his company at low, unheard of prices. I would wait in the fat brown chair in the living room; he would walk in with a box; he would spill the pens on the floor, smile and say, "Honey. I'm home." I would drop to my knees, and I would inspect them carefully making sure I didn't get a second.
Maybe then I would be a real writer ... if I owned a thousand good pens.
I've never met a pen salesman. But I'm thinking that would have been good.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
if i die before i wake
There's a little you don't know about me ... I worry that I'm a speck, an etcetera. I don't believe I have a set day to leave the planet. I have to stay out of the middle of the road. I believe I came from the ocean and I keep returning; I cry sometimes, afraid I can't stay. The first thing I do in the morning is take a deep breath of the sea and it feels like the most oxygen I've ever had. Ever. You should know that my kids are everything. They are sweet purple grapes and freshly mowed grass; big smiles and twinkly eyes; hot buttermilk biscuits and sleepy-morning Sundays. My heart filled up from little kid hugs and "I-love-you-mommy-kisses" I'm so proud of each of them - I hope we will be great friends, always.
I'm terribly lonely and it seldom goes away. I cry sometimes, afraid it won't go away. I miss my kids. They are my friends. I wish my mom was happier. I love my husband and I worry because he drifts when he's driving. I want to be a better swimmer. Wild ginger is my favorite scent. I survived the road to Hana. If I could do it over, I wouldn't have had knee surgery. I like anesthesia. I wish I could live forever and just have good naps. I was a fast runner in elementary school. I like to be Arizona-desert hot and then jump into an ice-cold pool.
I hate driving. I want to be driven.
I'm terribly lonely and it seldom goes away. I cry sometimes, afraid it won't go away. I miss my kids. They are my friends. I wish my mom was happier. I love my husband and I worry because he drifts when he's driving. I want to be a better swimmer. Wild ginger is my favorite scent. I survived the road to Hana. If I could do it over, I wouldn't have had knee surgery. I like anesthesia. I wish I could live forever and just have good naps. I was a fast runner in elementary school. I like to be Arizona-desert hot and then jump into an ice-cold pool.
I hate driving. I want to be driven.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Head Ache
I'm currently in the presence of a two-day headache. Let's see what it brings forth.
Never mind. Fuck it.
Never mind. Fuck it.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Tijuana time
This will not be profound. Well, I guess I've already established that with my previous entries.
One pickle jar, small; one empty bleach bottle; a half empty oil container; a very unfashionable charcoal-colored coat, size ... I'm not looking that closely. These are not items that I put on today's shopping list. These are items that I picked up from entangled brush and weeds near the Mexico border as a contributing hand at today's Surfrider.org's "No B.S." clean up project in the Tijuana River Valley. I was late. I was militant. There were no porta-potties. I had issues. I had to leave early. I helped some. I made a dent, a difference.
I'm off to show my grandson penguins. At four months old he is now aware. I am in love with this fuzzy warm little baby. He's on my lap now. He is eating my hand and curling his pink toes.
Trash-picking in TJ has pumped me up. Burger King at Interstate 5 N, let me use their restroom. All things are cleaning up around San Diego. The freeway will be nuts as always. I wish everyone drove slow. This is why I walk - it's slow.
Penguins are slow. Time means everything to me.
One pickle jar, small; one empty bleach bottle; a half empty oil container; a very unfashionable charcoal-colored coat, size ... I'm not looking that closely. These are not items that I put on today's shopping list. These are items that I picked up from entangled brush and weeds near the Mexico border as a contributing hand at today's Surfrider.org's "No B.S." clean up project in the Tijuana River Valley. I was late. I was militant. There were no porta-potties. I had issues. I had to leave early. I helped some. I made a dent, a difference.
I'm off to show my grandson penguins. At four months old he is now aware. I am in love with this fuzzy warm little baby. He's on my lap now. He is eating my hand and curling his pink toes.
Trash-picking in TJ has pumped me up. Burger King at Interstate 5 N, let me use their restroom. All things are cleaning up around San Diego. The freeway will be nuts as always. I wish everyone drove slow. This is why I walk - it's slow.
Penguins are slow. Time means everything to me.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Oral Opening
So, I went to the dentist yesterday.
She smiled.
She hurt me.
Sadists are mean.
They smile alot with their gleaming white teeth.
She smiled.
She hurt me.
Sadists are mean.
They smile alot with their gleaming white teeth.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Perpetual cheese versus nicotine.
I'm back. Suck? Cause I just can't seem to get it rolling. A pink stickie note on my refrigerator urges me daily to get with it; I am.
Speaking of my refrigerator ... I have a story.
My addict husband keeps singing the same old, boring song. "This is my last pack." My ass. I've been hearing that for four years. The melody is permanent and dull. Today he was heading out the door to smoke his "last" Pall Mall. Our grandson Caleb watched him with curiosity. Caleb, three-month-old genius that he is, whispered to me. I asked David to wait. Caleb whispered, David waited.
Word for word I repeated Caleb's words ... "please stop smoking so you will be around when I get older." (It could have been, if you don't quit, Kuku (that's me) is going to be stuck here, alone, wrinkly, without a husband, so give up the cancer sticks pops, but I spared David this version.)
David looked at me and said, "Okay." Okay? That's a word and not a commitment. "Okay, stop talking for the baby?" "Okay, you're a perpetual pain in the ass - Cynthia!" I let him slink away to participate in his own death. Later, the carbon monoxide got to him and he had to have a nap.
When he woke from the nap, he was hungry. He was hungry because he had no cigarettes to smoke and when there is no cigarette, he turns to food. He went for the animal fat drawer and found his Swiss Cheese missing. I wasn't aware that until this moment that Swiss Cheese was always his. Now the entire household is clear. He demanded to know who ate the cheese. I admitted I had some. One daughter confessed, the other denied. This was not good enough for cheese head. "I just want to know who ate it." I told him we had just clarified that and from now on, I would personally take full responsibility for making sure that there was a perpetual stock of Swiss cheese on the premises. Believe it or not, this is exactly what he had been wanting to hear. I am effing astounded, once again. Tomorrow I will head to Costco and buy a 50 pound block and put it in the backseat of his truck so he will never be without. He can cut off a chunk when comes into the house for the night and another to take to bed with him. Oh! and one for the shower. My God.
The daughter who confessed to a slice of dairy delight hooked up the Hookah; which I bought for him, and taught him to smoke this evening. I'm told that the shesha is less lethal than mainstream corporate tobacco products and relaxing in non-blood-vessel-constrictive-way. Let's hope. Well, either way. Whatever. After the cheese, I don't even care.
Speaking of my refrigerator ... I have a story.
My addict husband keeps singing the same old, boring song. "This is my last pack." My ass. I've been hearing that for four years. The melody is permanent and dull. Today he was heading out the door to smoke his "last" Pall Mall. Our grandson Caleb watched him with curiosity. Caleb, three-month-old genius that he is, whispered to me. I asked David to wait. Caleb whispered, David waited.
Word for word I repeated Caleb's words ... "please stop smoking so you will be around when I get older." (It could have been, if you don't quit, Kuku (that's me) is going to be stuck here, alone, wrinkly, without a husband, so give up the cancer sticks pops, but I spared David this version.)
David looked at me and said, "Okay." Okay? That's a word and not a commitment. "Okay, stop talking for the baby?" "Okay, you're a perpetual pain in the ass - Cynthia!" I let him slink away to participate in his own death. Later, the carbon monoxide got to him and he had to have a nap.
When he woke from the nap, he was hungry. He was hungry because he had no cigarettes to smoke and when there is no cigarette, he turns to food. He went for the animal fat drawer and found his Swiss Cheese missing. I wasn't aware that until this moment that Swiss Cheese was always his. Now the entire household is clear. He demanded to know who ate the cheese. I admitted I had some. One daughter confessed, the other denied. This was not good enough for cheese head. "I just want to know who ate it." I told him we had just clarified that and from now on, I would personally take full responsibility for making sure that there was a perpetual stock of Swiss cheese on the premises. Believe it or not, this is exactly what he had been wanting to hear. I am effing astounded, once again. Tomorrow I will head to Costco and buy a 50 pound block and put it in the backseat of his truck so he will never be without. He can cut off a chunk when comes into the house for the night and another to take to bed with him. Oh! and one for the shower. My God.
The daughter who confessed to a slice of dairy delight hooked up the Hookah; which I bought for him, and taught him to smoke this evening. I'm told that the shesha is less lethal than mainstream corporate tobacco products and relaxing in non-blood-vessel-constrictive-way. Let's hope. Well, either way. Whatever. After the cheese, I don't even care.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Ha.
The title is actually meant to be enthusiastic, but I resist exclamation points unless it's absolutely necessary! See what it does to you? You think you know where the writer is taking you and then that! Do you run? Scream? Hide? I'm not sure myself; which is why I leave them alone on the keyboard. It's a dangerous area.
So, yea, it's been less than six months this time my friend(s). (God let there be at least one!) Okay, I will stop. Given that only one day has passed, there must be something terribly exciting right? No. Nothing. It's just that I had this dream ...
I apologize to Brad Pitt, because like Brittany, I wish he could be left alone, but I wasn't the chaser in this dream. I wasn't the stalker. It was not me. It was Brad. Now I could lead you off into this fantastic meandering little path of wonder and eager curiosity but I'm not going to do that. I'm straighter than that. It was just a kissing dream. Just? No, not just - it was a fabulous kissing dream. (Today seems to be the day of "F word" writing for me; the biggie will not be used here.)
I've got to make some confessions. One's a statement actually: I don't have a thing for Brad Pitt. Of course, he's cute; worldly; beautiful; rich - none of this matters. I don't have daily thoughts of Brad Pitt. See? I don't even call him by his first name; that's proof! Brad came to me last night - it was not the other way around.
So, that confession. I love kissing. Love. It. I want to marry it. I want to eat it. And ... apparently, so did Brad. Pitt. I wanted more and he just kept on giving it. It was effing delicious. (Technically, effing is not an "F word.") But he stopped and put his shoes on, and I clung to his jeans and tried to keep him in that room, but he left. He was smiling though and I'm pretty certain it means something. I'll tell you what it meant: the kiss has left the frigging building.
I'm brought to reality, as I have to wake up eventually. I tried to stay in bed once all day and sleep but I can't do it. Reality is that my husband and I peck. Three years of marriage and we peck. When I was young I pecked only because I was pissed. Now it's my hello, goodbye and be safe at work. How do we start over? I don't know. I love kissing. I want to marry it.
So, yea, it's been less than six months this time my friend(s). (God let there be at least one!) Okay, I will stop. Given that only one day has passed, there must be something terribly exciting right? No. Nothing. It's just that I had this dream ...
I apologize to Brad Pitt, because like Brittany, I wish he could be left alone, but I wasn't the chaser in this dream. I wasn't the stalker. It was not me. It was Brad. Now I could lead you off into this fantastic meandering little path of wonder and eager curiosity but I'm not going to do that. I'm straighter than that. It was just a kissing dream. Just? No, not just - it was a fabulous kissing dream. (Today seems to be the day of "F word" writing for me; the biggie will not be used here.)
I've got to make some confessions. One's a statement actually: I don't have a thing for Brad Pitt. Of course, he's cute; worldly; beautiful; rich - none of this matters. I don't have daily thoughts of Brad Pitt. See? I don't even call him by his first name; that's proof! Brad came to me last night - it was not the other way around.
So, that confession. I love kissing. Love. It. I want to marry it. I want to eat it. And ... apparently, so did Brad. Pitt. I wanted more and he just kept on giving it. It was effing delicious. (Technically, effing is not an "F word.") But he stopped and put his shoes on, and I clung to his jeans and tried to keep him in that room, but he left. He was smiling though and I'm pretty certain it means something. I'll tell you what it meant: the kiss has left the frigging building.
I'm brought to reality, as I have to wake up eventually. I tried to stay in bed once all day and sleep but I can't do it. Reality is that my husband and I peck. Three years of marriage and we peck. When I was young I pecked only because I was pissed. Now it's my hello, goodbye and be safe at work. How do we start over? I don't know. I love kissing. I want to marry it.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Oceanside, California
I'm bad. Six months is a really long time. I now understand why it feels like life is racing past me - it's because I can't get much accomplished in less than six months. Six months is my whole life, divided by two. That's crazy.
Speaking of crazy ... wait, never mind. So my grandchild hasn't been born yet. We moved to California and don't have our own house yet. I haven't won the lottery - yet, and ... someone should take this computer away from me.
For what it's worth (which isn't much of anything at all) I'm going to publish and leave and will try really hard to not let half of my life pass by before writing again, because the brain isn't ... later
Speaking of crazy ... wait, never mind. So my grandchild hasn't been born yet. We moved to California and don't have our own house yet. I haven't won the lottery - yet, and ... someone should take this computer away from me.
For what it's worth (which isn't much of anything at all) I'm going to publish and leave and will try really hard to not let half of my life pass by before writing again, because the brain isn't ... later
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