A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

On Blogs and Black Swans

You know what I have found most fascinating over my years of blogging?

That you can never truly predict which will be the entry that will make people stop and read and come back.  Truly, the science of the "good post" is a Black Swan theory all its own (something thoroughly unpredictable beyond the scope of the imaginable-- go read the Wikipedia article, will you?).  A bigger Black Swan, in my opinion, than economics, because well.... blogging is personal.  And that is something that in some way tells you what people will accept or reject about you.  And do not be fooled:  you are still the most important person to you.

Money is just money.  When the quantities of it become excessively large, money loses its relevance and meaning.  It's impossible to comprehend just how dire or how non-dire our financial markets are until we take a step back, and even then we will have no idea why September 15 was the date that everything decided to go to pot in the first place, just to pick a recent event. 

Because you know, the most brilliant economic minds still do not know what caused the crash of '29, and that was, like, almost 80 years ago.  Weird, huh?

___________

I guess in blogs, pretty much like in life, you never know which attribute of yours (or your blog's) people will find fascinating or irresistible or downright addictive.  Could it be your sparkling wit?  Maybe it's your insouciance or your colorful personality or your bitingly sarcastic yet hilarious repartee.

But then it turns out that the real reason someone was your friend was that your life appeared to suck by comparison, for instance.  The moment your life appeared to suck less than theirs, they ditched you like a hot potato.

Then there is the boys (or the girls)-- what is it that makes him (her) come around?  What was the hook?

Was it the countless hours spent at the gym?  Or was it the thoughtful and manly presents you bestowed upon him?  Or was it your hours of talking and laughing and finding common ground?

And then it turns out that he was bored and you filled a little void.  And then maybe he became un-bored and that's history.

__________

But back to blogging, it's very hard to know what it is that will make people tick;  what will make people relate to you and seem more relatable and more human.  And conversely, what are the things that send people over the edge, never to return?

Is it something to do with your narcissistic urge to take pictures of yourself in every pose and use them as a compass and guide for each and every one of your posts?  Or perhaps it's your color scheme of black background and pink letters that renders the retinas useless for a couple of minutes?  Or maybe it's the fact that you won't shut the eff up about something you're so deeply passionate about but that most other people could not give three-fourths of a rat's ass about?

Blogging is an interesting thing because it reflects so much of the writer and yet it's something that becomes wholly detached once it's out there in the world-- not exactly a dismemberment thing as much a little birth of sorts with every new post.  The posts all have a life of their own, beyond anyone's possible imaginings.  Some things are destined to become dusty, antiquated relics while others are sure to become the next viral meme of the century.

Also, I haven't even considered those blogs who have jumped the shark, so to speak-- blogs that used to be good and fun and for which you'd stop doing whatever you were doing so you could spend some quality time reading them through the feed aggregate thingy but that suddenly are the most boring thing ever.  Or the most depressing thing ever, too.  Or the thing most unrelated to your life at any rate.

If you're reading this and you have opinions regarding what I just wrote, won't you share them with me?

Oversharing

I'm finding it a little aimless these days.

The writing, I mean.  The living gets done little bit by little bit: some housework here and a birthday party or two over there; and a couple of unmentionable potty trips and a lamb dinner; and a couple of hot dogs and tapas dinner with friends and a sip of disgusting sherry a little while back; and a couple more trips to the nail salon; and a gawking moment of wondering who's getting arrested and why; and a damaged silk skirt later; and all in all, life just happens infinitely, because after you're done talking about the dishes that needed to be done, they are done and new ones appear to take their place.

Whenever I talk to friends in order to catch up --lives become disconnected the farther away you live and the less your lives intersect-- and I'm asked that uncomfortable question, "So, what have you been up to?" or its derivatives, I never know what to answer.

Shall I fess up to the truth and wax poetic about watching Herr Meow grow and tell me sweet, unintelligible, interminable stories about the "firemans" who are mommy and daddy and grandma and Gracie too and how he played with his friends and how anytime he's mischievous he thinks saying "I love you" in as earnest a face as he can muster can somehow erase the throbbing foot or the burn of  the twisted arm?

Shall I go into depth about preferring to call plants by their scientific name?  How even though I know the difference between an oak and a maple I sometimes end up calling an oak Acer and completely blank out on Quercus and how sometimes I think that calling daylilies Hemerocallis makes them sound far prettier than they really are?  About how it's actually really easy to compost things and how it's really not that stressful and you don't need to know at all times how your nitrogen and carbon percentages add up?

Or maybe I should talk about the best cleaner for stainless steel (nothing, but that Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day stuff at least smells nice), or the best kind of duster (I seriously love that Pledge allergen control stuff, chemicals be damned)?

Sometimes I just end up talking about blogging, which to my non-blogging friends ends up sounding like a hybrid between astrology and quantum mechanics ("Really... you blog.  Huh.  That's.... interesting.") --some sort of esoteric and mildly ridiculous endeavor for either the feeblebrained or those with too much time in their hands.

But then they share their stories and I realize that I need to let my guard down a little.  It's okay --expected, even!-- to talk about your children.  (Who knew?!)  And it's okay to talk about hobbies, even if they are not to others' liking.

But most of all, it's okay to share.  Even if sometimes it feels a little like a chore.

It isn't.

And Sometimes, A Blog Entry Is Just That

Fellini the cat: You go forth; you go back; but in the end, you don't go anywhere.
Enriqueta: I'm not in the mood for deep discussions, Fellini-- sometimes a swing is just a swing.
AutoLiniers

If you're a reader of Spanish, or even if you're handy with a bilingual dictionary, you should go read Liniers's cartoons.  Because they are cute.  And funny.

But really, they are cute if you don't understand them.  And that's fine too.  I mean, what else is Hello Kitty in this Earth for anyway?

Alrighty-- happy Saturday!  If you feel like commenting, you can tell me something weird.

Footballer-Gazing into Delicious Oblivion/NaComLeavMo!

Do you ever have days in which it seems you're filled with an unnatural sense of foreboding? 

I mean, foreboding of what?  I really don't know, but it's there and weighing heavily and doing weird things to your psyche and, well, yes, to your self-esteem too, because it's so very fragile it wilts like a humidity-loving plant in a room that dares drop its humidity below 50%.

But then the feeling passes --feeling this way, why?-- and then it's as if those hours feeling like a second-class citizen and feeling sorry for yourself never happened.  You remember to pick up groceries and that the kid needs active attention from his mother, or you engross yourself in the gorgeously chiseled form of Cristiano Ronaldo--he whose gorgeousness gets me so many hits from random strangers-- and you remember things like how you signed up for NaComLeavMo over at the Stirrup Queen's blog, and how you think that your readers and lurkers would find this little internet activity fascinating and fun and a good idea to find new blogs, be polite, and say howdy.  There is even a handy dandy graphic you can add to your sidebar or in a prominent post!  Isn't that thoughtful?



NaComLeavMo: More Conversation Than You Can Shake a Stick at

So, I strongly suggest you stop staring at those chiseled abs and that manly jaw and stop thinking about soccer-related euphemisms for sexual activity and go sign up for NaComLeavMo.  And maybe stop thinking that the sky's gonna fall, Chicken Little.

And by "you" I guess I mean me.  But I figure you already knew that. 

I did also mean you, though, because I already signed up for NaComLeavMo.  So there.

"B" is for Bogotá

First off, I'm not sure why I'm using the little quotes around each letter.  They strike me as unnecessary, but since I started that trend, I think I'll just have to stick it out for another 28 days.

So, B = Bogotá, capital city of Colombia.

You know, I haven't been back in almost 18 years?  I could have had a baby and it would be almost able to vote.  And that baby would not know Bogotá.

_________

Neither would I, at this point.

It's hard for me to write about that place that lies somewhere between a lovely hazy dream and a cruel nightmare, because every day that passes I remember less.
And every day that passes, whatever bit that might lie tucked into some corner of my memory may have been dug up and changed completely, just because that is the nature of places and things and people.

And Bogotá.  They love themselves some construction there, you know.  They love doing construction during rush hour and while sirens blare and drivers jump on the sidewalks and chaos abounds and a small bus looms deathly close to you and honks "La Cucaracha".

Or maybe that doesn't happen anymore.  Maybe it just did, somewhere in my mind.

It's been especially hard and yet oddly exciting for me to explore a Flickr group called "The Bogotá Chain," where places I remember and places whose appearance draw a complete blank are followed one after another, like memories I never had.

Maybe I ate a bad almojábana in a past life.
Or maybe it was an empanada de pipián? 

But the truth is that I don't know if it's possible to miss something that, while being an intrinsic part of who you are, you are not sure if you have it anymore.

Or if you ever were part of it in the first place.

Monday's Blog Is Fair of Face

Happy birthday, blog.
Rainbow Showers, Sakura,
And you, my Lotus.
__________

Today has been a very, shall we say dramatic day for me.

But, I suddenly remembered, today is my little place in the interweb's third anniversary.  And that is special.  And I smiled and decided to put a hold on the things that are weighing on me right now --perhaps more on all that later-- and acknowledge this small but oddly powerful niche in this young, bold medium.

This soapbox I built for myself, out of pixels and humming server, has not just been a place to vent and to feel that my voice had a meaning beyond my own head; it's also been an opportunity to discover who I am and what I can (and cannot) do.

It's also been an opportunity to live beyond the four walls that surround me, and meet people whose acquaintance I never thought I'd make.

Three years ago it was a Monday. I didn't know I was pregnant.  I was in Hawaii and filled with aimlessness.  I wanted a blog and I was going to get it.  So I did.

Three years since, I could not be happier I did.  Here's to at least three more years.

I'm going to go get me some champagne in its honor and down the whole bottle, if need be.

__________

Thank you for reading, those of you who do.  Please, watch this space.

Chips Falling Where They Ought (In The Potty)

I hope Poop Week's done.
Bowel contents= My Viet-Nam.
I am jejune (um).
______

Please enjoy my, er, jejune, offering to Haiku Friday. 

When people talk about potty training, they just don't tell you, do they?

They don't tell you that the world as you knew it-- secretion-free, precise, persnickety and devoid of staring into others' anuses-- would seem like nothing but a distant memory.

They also don't tell you that suddenly it's cool to brag about poop and potties.

And furthermost (if there is such a word) they do not tell you the sense of accomplishment that comes when you are shepherding a little independent monster through the valley of Poop.  If you do it right --and I hope I'm doing it right-- they will hopefully fear no evil.

_________

Happy weekend, Internets!

Other Green Thoughts

Jealousy is an emotion that comes a little too easily sometimes, and I am, ironically enough, jealous of those who can actually stave it off or who seldom feel the stirrings of being covetous.

Is it jealousy?  Or is it envy?  Or maybe, it is greed?  Or is it a mere human compensation, in the order of breathing through one's mouth when it's impossible to do so through your nose-- an invariable reaction to the course of something, rather than an ingrained trait or emotion.

________

I don't covet dresses --though I have coveted on occasion the way a woman looks lovely and at ease in a dress that is nicely cut.  One that flatters her figure, is in a nice color and doesn't bunch up in between the legs when she takes a step.

I don't covet many children --apart from mine, that is.  But sometimes I can't help but marvel at the ease with which a mother or a loving nanny will dote on all her charges, and the way they all laugh and play and fight together.

I don't covet friends --though I have some and I hope they know I appreciate them.  But there are times when I watch a group of people I don't know laughing easily and being way too loud and having fun, looking like a TV commercial and lingering somewhere long, and I wonder what it must be like to be one of them and to have those friends.

I don't covet many things --I'm fortunate to have what many people, in turn, might think of as a wonderful and enriching life and a great family.

But I can't help but sometimes wonder what it would be all like, if it all were different: if I were thinner or prettier or bolder or more popular or not married/reproduced; if I were the sparkling laughter that draws a crowd; or the brash and brassy sassy girl who is a bit of a slut; if I were the perennial networking person who knows everyone and whom everyone knows; if I were the always-ready, always-in-control woman who never has a hair out of place.

I guess the short answer is that I wouldn't be who I am. 

But I wonder if I would be there, sitting on the edge of the looking-glass, wishing I were me.

Candid-Id

This is the blog equivalent of crickets in my head.

(BLANK)

________

Somehow as I typed that I got the mental image of tiny little crickets, ankle-deep in lovely flaky snow, wearing pretty little red woolen coats.

And mittens.  Must.  Have.  Mittens.

And tiny little scarves that wind themselves several times around their tiny little throats.

And they make delightful little snowballs in the perfect white snow that lies beneath their feet.

And then ooh and aah as they see the light of the dinnerplate moon bounce off the perfect white stillness of the frozen surfaces.

And they listen with their tiny legs as the sounds the snow makes --the soft sucking as it melts, the nitid dripping as it turns to water-- surround their playtime.

And as they rub their tiny mittens --and possibly their antennae-- for warmth, a Mother Cricket would step out in a lovely pinafore and earmuffs and  a shawl, carrying a tray of hot cocoa to warm up the bellies of her sweet baby crickets, whose tiny breaths swirl in the icy air.

________

But then I realize: whatever crickets didn't die a gruesome death with the first frost or are hiding in some egg lair and waiting for summer, are probably trying to mete out their half a chirp or so, so as to drive the point home that it's nice and chilly and that crickets are summer insects.
_______

I didn't mean for that to be suddenly brutal.  I think I need sleep though.

Thank you to all of you who, by comment or by other communication, inquired as to my/our well-being.  Everyone is okay over here!  Just a little shaken up, but that is a story for another day.

Happy Thursday-to-be, everyone!

Over the River(s)

I am sitting, watching the sunset's last purple fingers disappear through a thicket of Monterey pines and cypresses and of live oaks.

Meanwhile, the joyous strains of politics and Washington (our home-away-from) chime behind my back --today's is the last State of the Union address of this administration-- mingling with Herr Meow and Rev. Mom talking about Thomas the Tank Engine characters ("Canky?").

A lonesome car breaks the twilight glow, and as it goes away, the peace returns.

To say that I love it here would be an understatement.

More love later.  Meantime, I have a speech to sleep through.

Junkie Cosmonaut, Anyone?

The cars roll slowly --bovinely, stupidly-- along Massachusetts Avenue.

It's not the cars' fault, of course: I should have walked to my friend's house but didn't and here I am paying for my fuel indulgence.  It's four-thirty in the afternoon.  This is Washington D.C.  It will be Christmas in six days.  The year will end in twelve more.  Did I really expect to traverse Capitol Hill in less time? 

________

I push the radio's ON button.  The Globe plays a song I haven't heard in a while.  I listen, and I'm suddenly transfixed.

It's Cracker's "Low" and it's a song I've always liked but somehow been afraid to like after associating it with my first car accident ever-- the hi-hats crashing around 1:51 into the song could have been choreographed in sync to the Toyota 4X4 barreling into the left side of my car, inches away from where I stared at it doing so, wordless and uncomprehending.

I was fine.  The car, not so much.  That happened a while back.  No scars, until the song envelops me.

I see sad, naked trees.  I see exhaust fumes and the last light of the day clinging stubbornly to this short winter's day.  The guitar distortion sounds like agony itself, being ripped away from the prying fingers of the sunset and it hurts somewhere near my tear ducts.

A bus rolls by.

Suddenly I realize I'm gripped by the panic that the song might end and I don't want that to happen.  I don't want to hear the uniformly happy and vaguely yet harmlessly sexy DJ voice that can be heard in every radio station across the English-speaking American continent tell me anything.  I don't want the weather or traffic and I don't want to win concert tickets: I want to be left alone with the sudden mourning for the dying of the light I'm experiencing.

But the song ends anyway.  It really only has been four minutes and change, and not an existential eternity.

_________

The turning arrow turns green and I sit there, once again uncomprehending but somehow glad.

A car lets me pass.  The street opens up and invites me to race, even just a little bit.  My brain didn't notice when the saccharine song followed by the angry song started playing, but suddenly the light looks lovely.  And soon enough I'm home and I realized I had to write this.

Because.

Just because.

Doing The Most Good (Starting With Yourself!)

To say that I've been unmotivated to blog would be a gross understatement.  As a matter of fact, I suddenly had the blogging faucet turned off a few days after NaBloPoMo ended and just looking at the innocent tab marked with "TypePad" on my browser became kind of a little much for me.

But if there was one thing to be learned from the month-long exercise is that there is something to write about and what needs to change is the writer's attitude.  So what if you're cold and you only have a few minutes?  You can still bang out something, if only to say hello to the blogosphere.  To say hello and to say, "sorry I'm being so dysfunctional" you know?

Yes, I know you know.

_________

And to get back into the writing rhythm, we start off the blogging cycle again with an exercise from Kate over at Babylune.  She is hosting the Generous December Group Writing Project and I strongly suggest you go over to her blog and say howdy, read some good entries (especially if you're  pregnant or are a new mom) and maybe even participate yourself-- you have until December 19th.

As for me, I have struggled to write about a charity or noble cause that is near and dear to me.   I find that it's hard to talk about and back charitable causes because in many cases you can back up organizations that sound wonderful on paper but that have had major scandals associated with them, or whose money doesn't go to the intended purpose.  For instance, when I worked at Macy's many years ago, they were associated with the United Way -- an organization that has excelled in selling itself as a champion supporter of children and as a builder of community.  So Federated would force its employees to "donate" to the United Way and match gifts and all those annoying things that employers do wrong for all the right reasons; i.e. Can you really commit to an act of love ("charity" is derivated from "carus"-- which means "love" in Latin) when your employer takes it out of your  wages, really?
Of course, the United Way is constantly involved in unsavory embezzlement and theft stories that tarnish all the good work that most of the organization does.  And this is not a problem of the United Way or the Boys and Girls' Club or Goodwill or the Salvation Army or any of the charitable programs and causes that you can rattle off as if you were playing a rousing game of Scattergories, Feel-Good Edition.

Having said my disclaimer, I must tell you something:

I find it soothing to my soul to give things I no longer use to places like the Salvation Army or Goodwill or a local church thrift shop.  Bonus fact: ringing the Salvation Army bell is actually incredibly fun and rewarding in its own way; but I don't know where the red kettle is emptied, so I'm not openly endorsing that part.

I am a packrat, and someone who tends to hold on to things; so when I finally commit to simplifying my existence and putting things in bags and eventually walk through the tinkling door of one of these musty-smelling places, I find a strange peace and a sense of hope.

I know that my things will be loved by someone else-- maybe even more than what I've already loved them (and believe you me, I LOVE things-- far more than I should).

I know that places like a Goodwill or a Salvation Army storefront provide a channel for change of ownership with dignity-- it's a place where someone can walk in and buy things for a very affordable price and can sometimes find a bargain, without it being a free handout and therefore having the tarnished aura of the unearned.  In fact, these places can be such good deals that many people love combing the shelves of their local thrift shop just to find one-of-a-kind deals like you cannot find in regular store shelves anymore (looking at you, Miss J).

I know that someone's child will be delightfully well-dressed, warm and utterly charming with clothes that no longer fit my son -- someone who perhaps can't regularly afford to clearance-rack-dive over at Gymboree or Nordstrom, and who will have more money left over to buy essentials.

I know the world isn't perfect, as neither are its inhabitants.  But every time that I am able to give actual goods to one of these outfits -- goods that hopefully will make someone else as happy as they made me-- I smile.  I know it's pretty hard to embezzle a pair of used heels or a baby sleeper, even though I'm sure there is an employee or two who is fond of calling dibs on new merchandise.  So I'm pretty sure that what I donate will help someone out and will spread the good will a little farther out.

I encourage you, dear blogosphere, to clean out your closet even if it isn't spring yet, and go donate to your local thrift shop of choice.  Not only is it good for your karma, but it's good for the environment (recycling is green!) and it's good for someone who needs the coat you haven't worn for two winters.

Someone is in need.  Why not fulfill it?

And on that note --and now that Herr Meow is up-- I'm off to unload at the Salvation Army.

Mederma Can't Help This

Suddenly I've been flooded with reminders that life does, in fact, change in an instant.

And even if it's not an instant, it is changed irrefutably and irrevocably.  Only that if we stopped to think about this fact, we'd be overcome with so much grief and sorrow we'd find it hard to get out of bed in the morning.

A week ago somehow seems like an eternity ago-- or perhaps like it might have only happened in a parallel universe where you alone dreamed or nightmared it up.

Only that it did happen.  The scar is barely forming.  The ribs are still tender and sore and cracked.  The jeans are ripped but are already clean and put away.  The pale veins seem crossed by a paler, creamy tattoo.  The flesh sags-- first just a little, then bit by bit it catches up and continues its graceless topple downward.

The scar turns purple, then fades to silvery white.  It doesn't go away, but it leaves its mark.

The newborn whose fists were two tiny flowers --too delicate to even kiss-- runs down the street and yells and gives you high-fives.

The songs that kept you company through the rain and the storm and the not-another-year-alone come back, still angst-ridden and sad.  There is a hopeful note, but you only notice it ten years later.

Because you can remember ten years ago and it is not a hazy memory, tainted by the indolence of childhood time-passing. Ten years ago you were filled with doubt and self-loathing laced with invincibility, but it was all premeditated and known.

The years keep marking higher and higher.  Do we know how to count?  We do.

Do we want to keep counting?  Sometimes not so much.

But keep counting we must.

A High (Coo) Note

Sometimes, short entries
Are most gratefully received
Sometimes, they're sell-outs.

~~~~~~

Happy birthday to
The Semper Fi Marines
And truly, thank you.

~~~~~~

November is winds,
And stunning reds and yellows--
And hacking, sniffles.

~~~~~~

I solemnly swear
That tomorrow, no haiku.
Need that elbow grease.

Better Than Stuffing And Sweet Potatoes Combined

I am pretty tired today.

I've been battling some sort of allergy attack cum friend's cold that I just realized today was actually going around.  As much as I am sure the homeopathic nose spray I sometimes use --and my God-given paranoia-- has been helping, it sometimes behooves me to accept an undeniable truth:

It is cold season, and it won't be pretty.  Is it ever?

________

So as I was racking my brain trying to figure out
1) what to make for dinner;
2) what to write about here;
3) why some people are such assholes that, when I took a pretty nasty fall yesterday evening in the full view of a well-dressed man and his wife, both pretended that nothing had happened and moved on without so much as a supercilious glance in my direction;
4) why I am so tired all of a sudden;
5) why people insist it is spelled "all of THE sudden";
6) and finally, what to write about on here, yet again.

And then in my inbox was a nice email from the author of a blog I enjoy reading, called MamaBlogga.  If you're a mother who blogs, you would do well to check out this blog --it has interesting articles about blogging and networking and it also features a monthly group writing project, which is something nice to be a part of if you would like a writing challenge and exposure for your blog.

And then, I breathed a little easier despite the dismal strains of NPR in the background.

_________

This month's group writing project is on what makes me most grateful about my children.  Or, well, child: Herr Meow, soon to be two.

Right off the bat, this is not an easy prompt.

I apologize to those of you who do not have children and therefore have (circle one) [no idea about/little interest in/a confirmed aversion to/a full-blown documented case of the hives when it comes to/a hideous dread of] the children topic. 

I used to be a little --or nay, a lot like you-- not too long ago.

I would look upon mothers and children and would shrug and go about my day.   

I would roll my eyes impolitely when people would foist unprompted little wallet-sized pictures of fat children posed awkwardly on sheepskins and letter blocks, or bawling pitifully while on Santa's lap.

I would walk into Gymboree and instead of feeling the biological clock rage out of control or hearing the banshee wail of my American Express, I would shamelessly ask the salesladies if the rain boots or the cap with the teddy bear ears came in my size (hint: next time, try GapKids).

And whenever kids behaved like kids, I'd try to block them out.  Even though I have worked with kids of many ages, I always gravitated to the older kids --"more human" I actually called them.

I guess you could say I was not a kid person.

________

I'm still not.

I still peer with mild irritation at most kids' pictures shoved in my face (especially if the kid is not cute).
I still bristle at kids I don't know.
I still try in vain to see if things will fit at GapKids --though I have been forced to acknowledge that age more than size is the true deterrent in buying girlish fashions.
And I still roll my eyes at kids being kids.

BUT.

Because, you know, this wouldn't be a heart-warming entry of gratitude and gushing feelings if this didn't have a "but", I must tell you this: having a child has been, for me, a massive emery board, filing away at the sharp, hard, judgmental aspects of my personality. 

(personality range: from acerbic to bitchy in ten seconds flat)

Having a child has been a catalyst of an empathy I thought was only reserved for doing stupid stuff like bawling my eyes out at the end of My Dog Skip.

Having a child has shown me that it is possible to love someone so much that you scare yourself with the unbridled violence of those feelings.  It's realizing that you can and will actually kill if someone were to attempt to harm your baby.

Having a child is repeating to yourself the immortal words of Uncle Ben Parker  and suddenly realizing how deep, sad, and sweet they are. 

Having a child is realizing that you can be SO VERY PISSED OFF AT HIM THAT YOU CANNOT EVEN BREATHE YOU ARE SO DAMN MAD.... and still love that little --or not so little-- person so much it hurts.  Which, you know, makes it doubly painful.

Finally, having a child is hard work, no sleep, premature aging, far too many secretions (most of which are not yours), and not enough time to carry on with your life.

Your former life, that is, which from this child-ful distance seems so oddly selfish and devoid of joy and true love.  And so you give thanks for this life, which despite the bone-tiredness that clings to you like a film, is really that good when it's good.  And even the tiniest smile can make it good.

The best?  A full-body baby laugh-- possibly the most wonderful, satisfying sound in the world.

If You Like It So Much, Why Don't You Marry It?

Yesterday I was at a meeting for Herr Meow's pseudo-school thingy and several things happened:

1. It being August 21st and all yesterday, the date was mentioned and I realized that my birthday will be in less than two weeks.  Specifically, the calendar clearly goes in this fashion:

Tuesday, August 21st
Tuesday, August 28th
Tuesday, September 4th <-- "oh, right,  D-day"

And it seems that every year I am reminded of this fact and still manage to do the same amount of freaking-out.

2. OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG my child is old enough to go to some sort of school.

3. Time passes way too quickly.  I met a couple of women last night who've managed to be pregnant at least once more since the last time we were all pregnant --that being the main reason we were at this school-thingy meeting.  That just blows my mind, because I haven't really even gotten over being pregnant the first time.

4. This August-September timeframe is definitely the best time of year.  This time and that late-April/kind-of-almost-all-of-May one compete directly.  Okay well, and summer can be nice too, if a little too hot.  And yes, I miss summer already even if it's supposed to be in the 90s again starting tomorrow.  And well, winter is nice too --all snuggly and sweatered and stuff.  But *weatherwise* this is the best time of year.  Did any of that make sense?  I hope so.

5. Do you know what makes this time of year extra awesome, apart from the break in the heat and the lack of annoying interns?  CRICKETS. 

As I left the place where Herr Meow will be for three hours a week for the next four months or so --sniff sniff!-- I was greeted by the loveliest serenade of loud crickets.  The air smelled sweet and tingly and slightly perfumed; there was a gentle breeze that proudly boasted, "I'm totally 65 degrees; with humidity accounted for, I might hit, like, 68, max?"  (it is well documented that breezes talk like Valley girls)

There was a lovely and huge magnolia tree to my right, and it looked so pretty with its glossy evergreen leaves.  If the tree had talked, it would have probably had a very soft and light Southern accent and it would have asked me if I wanted to sit nearby and enjoy some sweet tea (YES please!).

And the night looked peaceful and heavy with possibilities-- that perhaps this summer is not fully gone, and that turning thirty-one is just like turning any other age, and that even when it gets soul-crushingly cold it won't be really all that bad because there was last night and last night was beautiful.

I'm glad that August exists.
And I look forward to September just a little more today than I did yesterday.

Béret And Ennui Not Included

rosie o donnell
rosie o
ro ro
ro
shut the hell up

ur exegeses on fame
    and fortune
are as hollow
    as ur stomach
will u stop whistling
    that same tune?
it's sad when u have to challenge
    our paula for a match

snatch
those fingers away
from your poor k b
u r a rich byatch
u know
ur a hole also stinks
and u also have ur bad moments
(hello, calling Trump Towers?)
namely ur worst is ur blog
and b t w
beat poetry cries every time u write

ur spite
seems endless
endlessly annoying
ur feuds are sad
oh you make me so mad

i know
that last part was very juvenile
but it had to be said
ro
please
give that ridiculous
"blogging"
of urs
up

then again
dont
coz
it's a reminder of
how people in
glass houses
LOVE
to throw stones

From The Abundance Of The Blooms...

I keep having dreams about gardens.

In the dreams, the garden is just like my little one at home but...

...there is always a "but" isn't there?

The garden changes.  Sometimes it's wild and overrun with vegetation.  Other times it's dead as dead can be.  Those dreams are not good.

And other times the garden is abloom with such an amazing abundance that I feel my heart beating faster in my dream.  Early this morning,  it was my little Phalaenopsis who'd grown to outlandish proportions.  Fat bells hung from its skinny stem, ready to open, and two more flowering spikes were growing, bearing the promises of many more flowers.

I'm not even sure an orchid of that genus can do that, (or maybe it can-- click on this UC Davis picture to see) but that didn't stop this one.  And it was incredibly beautiful.  I was happy in my dream.

I'm no dream interpreter, although I have taken classes and read books on the subject, but I'm going to venture a guess:  I miss home.