Friday, July 30, 2010
heavy footed slogging
through the front yard.
after this discussion, my feet
sink into the grass as if made
of anchors; i am thrown overboard
to ballast this household with my ankles
bound, drawn down to the ocean
floor with my mouth like a live eel,
spills like squid ink across my retina,
there is nothing to see but the
phosphorescence of some adaptive
creature; i cannot glow, no matter
how tightly i squeeze my eyes:
there is no getting used to this.
long iron links sway upward.
land dwellers hold court in the ship;
i can hear echoes of your chatter
like sonic booms in the deep.
sand paper skin snatches match lit
heat across my face, something
has come close to biting me in half
and i am sitting with my shackled
hands and feet, holding the boat
in place. the sand snaps like pirrahna,
a thousand hot bites of red plum flesh
rubbed to pinkish sap of sting.
nothing reaches me here.
time stretches across the dark heft
of liquid and against every inch of
my body; i feel the patience of
death breathing open mouthed and
dark around my form. i am
engulfed in the mouth of that whale.
i breathe salt, my skin bubbles with
pustulence. seaweed lashes detach
and ride away in the smooth humming;
teeth give way and coral grows from the
gut of gum; a slick fish flickers in the
dim light of my eye. small scales
run over each other like waves on shore,
disappearing human markings with each
shiny silver curve.
some primordial slimed beast
attaches to my back, the barnacles
find knobby joints to suck, and
i find my nipples aglow with the
green illusion of light. a mermaid
tail smacks my face; i have
become lost to the land of make believe.
no one can hear me here; my mouth
opens, fills with the belly of ocean,
i vomit the scat and chum and the rest
fills my body like a balloon; i pop
as a blowfish and find myself useless
to the calling surface, the
flap of sun on wave front, the sketching
of salt against boat side, the skittering
vocals of gulls, i imagine you will
pull me in, and this will all be over.
hair against your chest,
naked and stripped of scale,
you will open my mouth and
hold me as i wretch and heave
and tremble in fury, and i will
never let you send me proxy again
weighing in for what you cannot hold on to.
maggie may ethridge old poem, undated
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Having revealed myself as a jealous insane woman of a certain age, I mentioned sadly to Mr. Curry, my mouth full of Subway, I'm really vain, honey. He looked at me and laughed, said his tag line to me- You are occasionally ridiculous. Of course he knows I'm vain. This is the same man that listened to me debate out loud whether or not another baby was really worth the possibility of ruining my incredible luck with pregnancy so far: no stretch marks, no sagging skin or breasts, no cave like vagina, no constant urine drip, no irascible fat. It wasn't a true inner debate, but the worries, the resistance was real.
Well. I am the kind that isn't vain until I am not in control over my body and face ( which really is all the time, but don't tell me ). I work out, lift weights, eat healthy organic foods to my heart's content and crappy processed food in moderation, wear a bra almost 24-7 ( please no lectures on breast cancer risk- I am sure the four years of nursing and lifetime of eating healthy and exercising will balance ) wear head to toe day to day sunblock and take good care of my skin. With these efforts, I go through my days mostly unthinking of my face and body, only the calm awareness of gratitude I have for a healthy body. Until something happens. Something like a cannon ball being inserted into my abdomen and two times the normal fluid levels swell up my face and body and an inability to exercise as I'm used to leaves me feeling haggard and frumpy and weighing more than I have in my entire life. I didn't weigh this much at 9 months pregnant with Lola. I started out this time older and fatter. Also, married, happier and stable, but try selling that consolation prize to my ass.
Pregnant sex has just rounded that corner from incredibly hot and constant to slightly ridiculous. I mean come ON. I'm normally an extremely passionate, sexually driven person, even now in my thirties, and so is Mr. Curry, it's part of our thing, what makes our marriage tick even when the tock is off. But how can I take my own passions seriously when my stomach bounces against his abdomen like a water balloon about to burst? When he tickles me in the wrong place and I worry about peeing on him? When my breasts have funny crumbly stuff on the nipples? When...hey! Did you stop reading just now? I don't blame you. And just proves my point. Sex is already kind of ridiculous, it's fumbly mumbly bumpy humpy grunting noise making fun fun stuff that leaves you as helpless and vulnerable and prickly as a wet cat. There are moments of graceful sensuality, but there is a reason sex is not shown as is in porno; who wants to watch a middle age man's face turn beet red and make a noise like a balloon with the air slowly leaking out?
So excuse ME if I'm not completely enlightened when a sleek cat like dark skinned girl with a beautiful bubble butt in short shorts swings her flexing thighs in front of my husband's face while I sit, swollen and freckle faced and makeup less, in a shirt riding slightly up my large belly and pants that are airy and comfortable makes me a little crazy with jealousy. It's not having anything to do with Mr. Curry. As the amazingly articulate and gentlemanly Scott from The Kardashian's reassures his insecure wife who just had a baby, Honey you know I try to stick it to you all the time. Mr. Curry has loved me since we were teenagers, waited for me for ten years to love him back, and lusted after me enough in this marriage alone to fill ten harems with happy women. He looks at me with lust daily, and whatever he sees in my face, it's not the same older but still me everyone else sees- he sees me, just like he always has. The compliments, the attention, to look in his eyes could be more than enough for another pregnant woman.
Well. I am occasionally, slightly ridiculous.
I also attribute my fierce protectiveness of my health and that horrible word that makes women sound like breeding horses, up-keep, to the years and years behind and ahead of us with Mr. Curry unable to keep his hands off me. So sometimes, if that attentiveness slides into the crazy jealous insecurities of a woman possessed. ( I think possessed is a fair word for the state of pregnancy, when another life literally lives inside of you ) then who can blame me?
I'm single handedly protecting the sacred union of marriage!!! *
What about Mr. Curry? I heard you asking. What up-keep is he responsible for? Are you a feminist damnit, or what!? I'll tell you my what. My what is that like many women writers I've known; first of all there is how he looks at me with those eyes, there is the intelligence, the hands, the strength and integrity of spirit ( is his soul straight? oh that is hot ), does he really like women ( so many men, it turns out, don't actually really like women- maybe they just like you, but Mr. Curry likes women- just me the best ) the curve of his ass ( ok this is just looks, but I really never liked a flat ass ) hygiene, ( not too much- I once had a boyfriend who brushed his teeth four times a day and his hair more than I did, but not too little, either ) smell ( Mr. Curry's armpits are sex and home) and then the regulars, humor, adventure, family. And then, the upkeep: What I need from Mr. Curry are his devotions to me as a woman in the singular, quirky ways I need them, to not get really overweight, ( I have to admit this would be hard for me ) to keep up his hygiene, to never linger too long in his looks to a beautiful woman, ( which he could care about 5% is I do the same to a man ) to brag on me the way he always has, and a bunch of other small trivialities that make up the enormous puzzle of a long marriage. We meet each other's needs not because we demand that they be the same, but that they both be valued.
Actually I have no idea what Mr. Curry needs from me to stay in lust. I have a feeling it simply involves keeping potato chip crumbs out of my stomach folds and washing my face. My demands are on myself and I certainly ask for more from Mr. Curry than he asks from me.
Why this last week alone I've requested he stop spitting in front of me, pluck his nosehairs, trim his facial hair and stop wearing so much deodorant! I think on Wednesday he asked me to stop wearing thongs because if I get another infection and we can't have sex he's going to lose it.
* Did I mention I'm vain?
Friday, July 23, 2010
In third grade, I stood on the hot San Diego playground of my elementary school, feet planted on the blacktop, suddenly acutely and astonishingly aware of the hundreds of small bodies that teemed around me; aware of their lives, their fragility, and two things occured to me at once: all of these children will one day be dead- and- no one can prove to me that this is real. Inception is a movie hand crafted for the neurotic and expansive inner life of people like me, who never stop wondering at the strangeness of life and reality itself.
As the now famous David asked in his video: Is this real life? ...and Queen continued: Or is this fantasy?
This movie tells the story of Leo Decaprio's character Dom Cobb, a man seemingly without any roots but his children that have been somehow- we aren't told at first- kept from him in the US while he floats in expat hell working his magicks around the globe. Those magicks, we learn after an intense and what feels immediately dreamlike opening sequence, are the science of invading and controlling a person's dreams. Dreamlike? No, we realize, this is the stuff of dreams. The opening scene is taking place in what is in fact a dream, complex and bizarre as dreams are, with layers of memory and the actual bodies of the dreamer and dream-invaders all layered in the scene, coming forth one from the other in a perfect bloom and retract dance that engages the audience completely.
Cobb is the action character, we assume, the ringmaster and dynamic. Other minor characters help Cobb invade the dreams of a person by simultaneously all being hooked up to the same drug cocktail while someone in real life watches all their sleeping bodies. The mission is to find out an innermost secret that they have been hired to obtain, which in dreamland is locked in a vault or prison, representing of course the subconscious and it's desire to protect itself. In Inception, the subconscious is a leading character; a man or woman of a thousand faces showing up in dreams as hundreds of 'extras' that roam around the cities and villages of dreams. As the dream continues, the subconscious of the person dreaming slowly realizes that an invader is present, and the 'extras' begin staring at the invaders as they walk by, banging into them with a shoulder or bag, eventually attacking with the intent to kill.
Only it is not as it seems: ( making this move from a good movie to a great movie ) Cobb is the dynamic leader, but he is also in the midst of a great and terrible dream himself- an internal struggle involving his dead wife that is so painful and entrenched in his psyche that his wife begins invading the dreams that Cobb is invading, ruining his plans and his job. Cobb works with an Architect, who builds the dreams ( Ellen Page ) and Eames, a.k.a. “The Forger” (Tom Hardy) who impersonates people within the dream- an idea which resonates clearly for anyone who has had a dream and woken to realize a person in your dream was also NOT the person in your dream, at the same time. The dual nature of all representation of people in your dreams- they are themselves, filled with your projections- is a fascinating idea. There is also Arthur ( Joseph Gordon-Levitt ) who is Cobb's right hand man and who is primarily concerned with organizing the timing of dropping into and out of a person's dreams, and controlling the increasingly volatile subconscious of the person being invaded.
As the movie moves forward, with it's thrilling cinematography and explanations of how to make and map dreams, the emotional life of Cobb moves forward center, and the love story between Cobb and his dead wife Mal becomes intertwined inexorably with the big dream invasion they plan: hired by a mega millionaire to invade his rival's dream and do what is thought impossible, to not only invade a person's dream, but to plant an idea in the deepest recesses of the mind. In exchange, the CEO promises Cobb a safe return back to the U.S. and his children.
In an quote from a premiere Leo Decaprio said of this film, This is an interesting movie, because I really believe people can extract what they want from this film and interpret that in a lot of different ways. I interpreted the movie very personally as it continued; his dead wife's pleas for him to join her ( in his dream ) and his eventual revelation of what happened to his wife moved me to the point of tears based on that interpretation. The meaning of a life lived on different planes of reality, when one does not or cannot differentiate between reality and fantasy spoke loudly to me as a metaphor for mental illness or damage and death- the great losses that can occur when those we love slide away from us, no matter the greatness or depth of love- into a world of their own making or simply a world we are unsure exists: after death. The excruciating pain of such losses, our inability to let go, to accept the loss in our day to day life and the consequences of that inability, is reflected in this movie beautifully between Cobb and Mal, and gives the movie it's emotional backbone and resonance. The movie beautifully utilizes repetition, shorthand and phrasing to build emotional intensity and meaning.
As Mal repeats throughout the movie in a haunting foreshadow: You're waiting for a train. A train that will take you far away. You know where you hope the train will take you, But you cannot be sure. But it doesn't matter, because we'll be together. What this means when you go together to somewhere outside of reality, a place that could be drug addiction, mental illness or death -but in this movie is dreamland- is a question that weighed heavily on my mind at the end of the movie.
Ellen Page's character, Ariadne, was the only weak link in the film and not the fault of bad acting but instead because her character was created to explain the movie to the audience as it continues and becomes more complex. Because she was created to ask questions of the main character, some kind of bond was attempted to be forced between her and Cobb that never comes through as believable. She spends the movie following him saying things like Now whose subconscious are we going into? while I would have rather been confused and had questions answered in repeat viewings. The chemistry between Marilyn Cotillard and Leo Decaprio is marvelous, adult intensity, heart and mind meeting an equal- both wonderful actors.
Not only is this film visually thrilling and intellectually stimulating, it asks without answer questions rarely touched on in mainstream art: What is reality, and after we think we have an answer makes us ask again... Are you sure?
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Second The artwork here at The Dishwasher's Tears mesmerizes me. The man is truly talented.
Third I could dream about being like Bleubird: amazingly chic, creative and put together while pregnant, but it would just make me laugh, probably while snorting, in very un-chic clothing with no makeup and my hair in a big cele-bun on my head. Instead, we can marvel at her awesomeness!
Fourth Enter this huge and awesome giveaway on Making It Lovely. I did!
Fifth Someday, I hope to look at at a blog page and realize that one Douchey Bitch is listed in Followers. For then, assimilation will be complete. Until then, I can keep posting links and
making people like this write really funny diatribes against blogs.
Sixth Look here at House 09 for what this amazing mom built her kids. Totally Little House on the Prairie meets Pottery Barn.
Checking in to let you guys know I'm hanging on to all your money in my Paypal to give to Mamapundit, but have not heard back from her yet as to her Paypal addy. She has said on her blog she is ( of course ) completely overwhelmed with grief for her Henry and then love for her new baby, and has a huge backlog of emails. I'll let you know when the money exchanges 'hands'.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
ALSO..Lola is obsessed with the ocean ( she did a week of Sea World Camp in late June ) and I want to put up some great posters of sea life that are scientific in feel, like the butterfly poster above. if anyone knows where to find one, please hook me up. i can't find any that are just right as of yet )
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
The setting near the bay- we are all under the front tree, playing volleyball and underneath the back tree. Ed's Grandma Curry is the matriarch of the family at 88. She was there, big hat on in her wheelchair, Parkinson's be damned.
Mr. Curry's big Top Gun moment= sex.y. I see a whole future of new babies in this picture.
Lola and cousins Sarah and zoey
20 weeks with Ever Elizabeth :)
Uncle Carl with sleeping Jacob making peace over Mr. Curry, Dakota and Ian
Mr. Curry, Dakota and the beautiful and lovable Auntie Kristi, Mr. C's sister
Lola on the paddle board with the excellently patient Uncle Carl
Lola with Howie, Ed's Uncle Mikey's sweet funny girlfriend's dog (got that?)
Ian and Howie
Cousin Reef building with Dakota and Ian
Reef and Lola are so sweet together. They are really close and love each other so much!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Last weekend we had our first marriage therapy appointment and it was good. Afterward, later, I fell apart, full of named and unnamed fears and self doubts and panics. The panics. I sobbed on and off all weekend, in and out of Mr. Curry's arms. And then a stillness inside, an eye of the storm. I am worn and look worn, but I am loved and look loved. I move with Mr. Curry through these things, sometimes as if underwater, but always within fingertip reach of each other: there is the sky and his face, the sudden overcast and rain and his sex, the talk of others and the still meeting of our eyes. There is everything else, and Mr. Curry. This is how he has always made me feel and in eight years of marriage I have only ever lost this during his worst Bipolar struggles. Losing touch with him...like losing his face underwater when we are drowning. Like thinking he is on the bottom of the ocean and I cannot reach him. Every single time I think in wonder and fear to myself This is how the world will be for me if we cannot find our way. The emptiness that is left after you have been understood, connected and loved by someone day in and day out is a grief I hope to wait out until death. I was happy before Mr. Curry. I was strong, and smart, and connected, and loved, and inspired by life- I was alive. And. There is nothing that can replace or negate the profound joy that comes from being a team bound together in love and commitment. There are other things. But they are not this thing.
It is the way when we walk together our bodies find each other and bump. It is in travel and the stark emotional contrast different geographies evoke, and how we are always in sync, experiencing and reflecting and absorbing, always with a backdrop of gratitude to be alive, to be doing. It is in reading side by side. It is in the arguing and the amazing way an argument suddenly disappears in your mouth as you laugh. It is the ugly hateful feelings that can arise from the prodding of the oldest, sourest wounds, and the intimacy that rises with the expression of those wounds, the trust, the connections formed from secrets said and heard. It is the middle of the night and heat. It is the middle of the day and our children around us. It is the washing of dishes. It is the making of dinner. It is the sound of his voice reading to Lola. It is the thump of his body wrestling with the boys. It is the heft of his hand over Ever. It is the kissing, the groping, the making out, the quickies, the romantic notes. It is the total honesty, something we have had always, through mental illness or not. It is the faithfulness of our bodies. It is the fact that we both love Barack Obama. It is the way we both hone in on the character of people quickly. It is the kind of people we both agree are our kind and the fact that that kind has nothing to do with religion, color, race, accent, sexual preferences or political association. It is how no matter where we have gone, how strange or how wonderful, surrounded by filth or beauty, safety is next to each other. No matter what problems or arguments or hurts, we never abandon protecting and loving one anther.
There are the children, their love and smell and voices and needs and struggles, and Mr. Curry. Always he is the constant, the traveling companion, the sanctuary...at times, from myself. When I was half insane with grief after the loss of our 13 week pregnancy and the physical trauma of two blood transfusions and that tiny body sliding out of me, Mr. Curry stayed in that current with me, sheltering me as he grieved himself. What I remember most from the hospital is the loss, and then Mr. Curry- his hand on my arm as I went in and out of consciousness, his voice talking to the nurses, his eyes meeting mine and his body sheltering me from the eyes of nurses and doctors, how he was there for two days, every single time I fell asleep, and every single time I woke.
At the end of the day I cannot wait to tell him everything and to hear his everything. At the end of the night I cannot wait for the ten, twenty minutes we might eek out alone before he falls asleep, to feel his heavy strong fingers in my hair. He rises at 5am and works all day. We meet in the in between spaces of our family life and those spaces are more than enough to cultivate the deepest intimacy I have ever known. To be seen clearly and still loved and wanted...to see clearly and still love, still want- still choose. Thunder rolls and nothing can be better than these atmospheric disturbances with his companionship, our mutual appreciation of Nature and it's glorious Religion we both embrace. To lose yourself in another's heart and body rolling with you as the skies roll over must be what God thought of as passion, as love, when made man and woman. If we both believed in God we would say thank you. I believe in not knowing, and say thank you even more reverently. For every day is a complete mystery and blessing both.
The miserable times must be carved away at-
This is the therapy. The man who sits before us, and we sit on his soft colored couch, looking back and forth between him and ourselves, revealing our gross inadequacies and failures before a perfect stranger we are paying to make us stronger, more loving, more knowing. Here, I am an abuse survivor, at times ridden with anxiety and panic. Here, I come from a deeply troubled home, struggling with Bipolar. For the intellectual non believer, perhaps therapy is a facet of faith. Heal us. Help us heal. Love is not enough but it is essential, and we have it. Help us not to damage this gift beyond repair.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I want this darling gown for Ever:
Elizabeth's simple and lovely designs of childhood have been featured round the blogsphere ( including my favorite, CJane ) and are very reasonably priced.
Every visit from Flux, and of course any purchases, help me continue to have and accept paying sponsors, so thank you so much for your support.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
no makeup, lots of can't take my crazy pills exhausted anxiety, but still madly thrilled to be pregnant
Saturday, July 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
through the eye socket, jam through
the white paperback tooth:
needle through thread, that easy.
this is how my ears fail
in thatch of old man overgrowth
this is how my eyes fail
slowly: dendrites and scattered leaves.
something left for dead, long ago
blown clear into life
with the hush hush reach of vine
jingling leaves; the keys snaking in pocket.
i am not afraid
i am terrified
i am all grown up
i am a child
i listen owl-like to the great white therapist
he offers his plan with enthusiasm
brown loafers kicking and kicking
myself in the smooth crib of couch.
hear hear, i turn my head,
see his instructions, and the vines.
my fingers swell, turn red
dip dip in turpentine
the darlings come clean and i am meaty.
the lovers make simple i make spider webs.
come see me in ten years,
i shall be a great vine covered castle
made for remembering, not living.
made for the deep pocket keys,
the child's sweat flinch hand
he smooth pages of map-books.
my keepers, my God!
why can i not just. just.
would you curl your mover's fist
round the trumpet rope in my brain?
my keepers, my godless heart.
here i am, replanted after all this time.
i thought i was perfumed against rape
and crimes of the heart.
come lick me clean, lover.
i'm not supposed to ask for a savior,
having no religion to speak of.
still the heart wants what it wants
i'd like you to save me. sorry to ask.
maggie may ethridge
*Araujia sericifera- trumpet vines
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
apple : i thought of him after reading Rebecca's aha here
baby : he lives with his cool wife and children here
cool : he survived this
decadent : he is acting in this
elevate : he said this ...
Interviewer :You said that after you got sick you lost a lot of confidence. Did you mean personal confidence, or as an actor, and how did you go about getting that back? Does it change your perspective forever?
Ruffalo: Well, part of it is forever, but a lot of it I’ve gotten over. You have all these insecurities, like will I ever be able to act again… I mean, they were probing around in my brain, cutting stuff out. (laughs). You wonder if that will affect your abilities. I was literally falling down for months, the side of my face wouldn’t move for months, I couldn’t remember how to get home. But now… I actually feel like I’m a much stronger actor today. Obviously it colors your perceptions of mortality. You find out what you’re made of. All of my fears were survival-based and ego-based, and I guess that’s where most people’s fears are based—they’re “loss” fears. I felt like I was losing it, and then I realized ‘I’ll survive.’ And after going through that fear and living with it for a year, I had a different perspective. Certain characters I wanted to play, or going from a studio movie to an independent where you might’ve worried before that you’d be seen as taking a step down… Or if you don’t play a leading man all the time they might consider you a “character actor…” Oh, God, not that! Please don’t label me a character actor! And being apprehensive about difficult material because of how it might affect your career… All those crazy questions that go through your mind,I came to realize are just bullshit!
So at a certain point you had an epiphany that you no longer give a damn what people think—as an artist you’re going to do what you want to do.I’ve gotten a lot less worried about it, I’ll tell you that. I just feel so much more free. I can happily defy the voice that says “You can’t do this.” You know, that editor voice. I’ve realized that I want my life to be my life, not my agent’s life, not my mom’s life, not my wife’s life—my life.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Poway CA, Community Park Fourth of July celebration
the band played ole American jazz
his expression speaks for itself. and it's not saying Happy Fourth
Mom. I can't believe you made me take a picture with that strange lady. Please don't ever do that again
Despite his vampiric name, he looks Team Jacob here
She's so lovely...Very Little Women here
Mr. Curry is such a good Daddy
I love my husband to infinity
this is the face that says i'm sixteen and i resent the paparrazi action of every Holiday and i will sit here and pose but i will not look like i like it
the local train takes off
Monday, July 5, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Mr. Curry is making breakfast potatoes, toast (not for me, Gluten-Head), bacon and juice. Lola is watching cartoons. Dakota just woke up crying and shaking from a bad dream in which Mr. Curry and I were being total assholes. Mr. Curry, Lola and my pregnant self went to Starbucks this morning to get my Starbucks Doubleshot half-caf and Lola wore a brown newspaper boy hat and striped Boden shorts and looked like the complete wonderous girl she is. Mr. Curry is browned from working in the sun, despite my leaving the sunblock in the bathroom sink where he has to admit he saw it, and looks strong and muscular and completely sexy. He has the best legs ever. Let's just admit it. And that muscle that snakes from his shoulders down the sides of his back? Forget it. In a few hours we will stop by Target to buy Lola a toy she earned, and head to the local Fourth of July celebration at the awesome Community Park, just a five minute drive from our house, in which we will see half the people we know and get a feeling Mrs. Moon gets in spades in Lloyd but that is rare in big ole San Diego: community. Ever is kicking daily and I am finally believing I am going to be the most incredibly blessed Mommy on the planet and get to have this baby. Every day I love her more and can 'see' her more clearly in my mind's eye. I try to reach out to her with my cells, because they know her, even if I don't yet. Mr. Curry and I saw Eclipse yesterday, and I thought as I watched it that Ever is a terrifically perfect vampire name. Her name to me says newspaper reporter, artist, sharp eyed, opinionated, stubborn, dreamy, idealistic, hard working, intelligent, proud, huge hearted and private souled. We shall see. Ian is on a camping trip and Dakota will come with us to the celebration before leaving for a friend's house who has the dual awesome factors of 1 a swimming pool and 2 direct line of sight to the fireworks.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Like most happy children, Lola has no idea that the details of her life and thoughts are not completely interesting and appropriate to share with the general public. She likes to say in public, Mom, you know how I have two Dads? Or, Mom, you and Daddy make out all the time. Yes, yes we do. And I'm so happy we do. Not so happy that now everyone at my local Henry's knows this. Mom, Dakota doesn't smoke pot anymore does he? No, no he doesn't. And I'm so happy he doesn't. Not so happy that now the pharmacist down the street has this juicy tidbit. Mom, why don't you talk to your Dad anymore? Mom, I need new underwear. My old ones all have big stains. Sweet.
Ian and Dakota can be merciless in trying to embarrass me in public, but they aren't innocent offenders. Last week at the grocery store Dakota stopped and clenched his hands together, saying Mom, please don't buy any more alcohol, you know it's not good for the baby. I wanted to be appropriately disapproving, but I was laughing too hard. Ian has taken to begging me not to hit him again when I am scolding him. Mr. Curry tells them to stop, but he's grinning, so it's a non point.
You can see we have a sparkling reputation in town.
Ever kicked Lola this morning :)
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Because I spent today worrying I made a faux-pau in putting up my Paypal, that
people would be concerned I'd steal the money.
Because instead of people worrying that, they gave money, in a time when money
is short for everyone.
Because when Kate receives every penny of this money, it will be a way for us to say
that you are not forgotten, that your suffering matters to us.
I'll keep collecting until the end of week and let you all know the total.