Saturday, November 30, 2002

The unavoidable afternoon nap when the bed beckons and your head rests in a silvery patch of winter sun beneath the window. You curl your legs in and the cat, the black one who looks like a seal, he climbs up and nestles himself into the space behind your legs, head wedged up against your bottom. The afghan that your great grandmother knit for you twenty five years ago scratches at your chin as sleep pulls at your cells with the effects of a morphine drip and you fall into the well of subconscious. The falling is delicious. You want never to touch bottom. You revisit the dream from the night before of the tidal wave rising up above your town and blocking out the sun. This time you stand in the yard and watch it move closer instead of trying to find a safe place in the house. You stand with your arms outstretched-hands turned forward like starfish showing their bellies. When you feel the cold breeze coming off of it you think it could be miles away or inches in front of you and all you can see in it is shifting light and shadow, it's very waveness no longer clear, it's watery nature now air, now nothing. Your face feels cold, a draft across your ear tickling at your sleeping giant who growls a low rumble and shifts on his pallet. Clouds have moved in from the west and the silvery patch of winter sun no longer almost warms your face and you feel yourself landing, touching down, flying back up to the mouth of the well. Your cells breathe in and shiver, the cat nudges his head in closer, pricks at the blanket with kneeding claws, the house creaks, you feel the fullness of your body as it slips out of its stocking of light. The growling is your stomach, demanding its fourth small meal of the day. You open one eye and look at the alarm clock, twenty minutes and you feel as if you dove in and climbed back out in one graceful motion. For now it is enough. You'll swim again tomorrow.

Thursday, November 28, 2002

Thankful and the life of self absorption:

1. Bran flakes, all hail the digestive god that is the bran fiber-aho!
2. Sweet Violet Lotion
3. Sudden appearance of cleavage. Wreooowwww...
4. The sun this morning refracting off of the ice and snow in the onion fields
5. My featherbed, newly fluffed, aired and sheeted with flannel
6. Unlimited sick days
7. Dad called my brother for his birthday for the first time in four years
8. Chris (the BF-would like me to use his name) tells me how he feels now-much more freely
9. He'll be here before Christmas and we can bake cookies together
10. Vision of Ty in the field making angels in the snow, a big red coat with a smiling head on top, flapping his wings, spirit taking flight

Words to the wise: Don't forget to pull the giblets outta the turkey's ass...

kiss kiss

Wednesday, November 27, 2002

If you've got the Genie, I've got the wish

To go through this pregnancy and birth in my long-lost 25 year old body with the hard-earned semi-wisdom of my 35 years.

Anyone? Please? I just might be too old for this shit.

Tuesday, November 26, 2002

I'd like to have that wife now please.
I'm having vivid fantasies of whipping out my limping charge card and buying myself a SS Pro Mandoline. What kinda crazy ass would do something like that at a time like this? I need bigger pants! I have to buy a house! And can you see me actually giving a shit if my veggies are perfectly julienned or not-especially considering I'm on the verge of upchucking pretty much everything that I put in my mouth these days? Jiminey. I need to be checked. But I do, I want a mandoline. You know, one of those super sexy stainless steel ones. Tell me to take it easy. Tell me to come down off the mountain and get my poor slack-haired, dry and lifeless head out of the clouds! Tell me my ass is getting fat and I need bigger pants—like tomorrow! I should throw out my Chefs Catalog....right now, and clean the cat box and dump it on top of it so I won't be tempted to pick it out. Oh right. They're online. Everything's online. Mandolines all right at my fingertips. That and a handcrank pasta machine. As if. I'm having trouble boiling the water for the frozen raviolis right now as it is. Oh-and I'm drooling over one of those Le Creuset pots-the oval shaped one-that orange color. Yum. I don't know what the hell people see in that ridiculous Victoria's Secret Catalog when there's something as hot and sexy as the Chef's around! I think I feel some marathon roast cooking coming on this winter.
Screeching Halt That's what I came to two weeks ago...and haven't written a single word on my crappy novel since. Holding steady at 5,000 words and don't see myself banging out 45,000 over the next 5 days for damn skippy. But it's not like I haven't been busy. The fella and I were having intense negotiations, morning, noon and night-late late late night- about how to proceed or if to proceed. We are proceeding and he's shooting for arriving here in NY in a few weeks, hopefully before the holidays. Which leads me to the next part of my post. At the end of the negotiations a new factor came into play, thankfully after most of the decisions had been made in favor of continuing-and this is another reason the writing has taken a nosedive— I've been napping—serial napping, narcolepsy to be precise. I've been giving some thought as to whether I want to make this latest development in my life part of this blog or not and I think I'll give it a whirl-there could be some interesting writing coming out of the next 7 1/2 months...

So can anyone guess? Napping? 7 1/2 months? Boyfriend making even more mad dash to merge lives?

Bun in the oven.


The boy's going to be a big brother, the boyfriend's going to be a first time daddy, the Kelly's going to be fat.

Monday, November 25, 2002

Thankless and the death of fantasy...

I can handle the thanking part,
thanking you for all the sweetness you delivered
brimming over the edges of your cupped hands, flying
from the high perch of your
chapped and peeling lips.
But this last thing I cannot do-
forgive you for leaving me with the
shadow of
promises like coins stacked at my gate.
For leaving this heart
wide open and keening
and without warning,
all this useless currency and the market
closed for the season.
I can let the smile come, breaking
just on the surface
with no resonance in the deep of me,
my own lips residing too far from the
wall you beat down, the wall which once alternately
or protected my heart.
I'll not forgive you for breeching that wall,
for touching that
space behind my knee with your long
that space where flesh yields in sorrow
and delight.
For never touching that yielding skin
behind my sorrowful knee again.

This is goodbye,
and freedom.

Friday, November 22, 2002

Who made time fold in on itself? And why can't we make it ssssttttttrrrrrrrreeeetttttcccchhhhhhh? Jeesh. Has it really been ten days? It has. Well, in those ten days I went to my sister's fancy pants wedding and had myself a ball trying to swing dance without falling on my head. We all looked so good and the low-lit mansion filled with swirling eddys of love, the two families getting to know one another and old hurts between certain folks being healed-at least for the day. My fella got a good look at how much of a good thing family really is and it lit a fire under his butt. Dare I say he's relocating? YES! He is. My kiddo had his first Tuxedo experience and I swear he channelled F. Scott Fitzgerald all night long, charming, charming, charming. My face still hurts from smiling. Ouch.

Wednesday, November 13, 2002

Who needs cocaine?

I'm still trying to get the image of that guy in Jackass doing lines of wasabi out of my head. Christ. What an appropriately named franchise. The best part was being the only two people in the bloody theater for the 11:30 am showing and not knowing what to make of myself as I laughed like a thirteen year old boy in a room full of people farting and picking their noses and eating it. Unbelievable. And can we please talk about the concept of willingly giving oneself paper cuts across the eyelid, finger and toe webbing, and the corners of the lips? For those of you who have not seen it, fear not-I haven't given anything away. Words will never do it justice and believe me, it was helpful that my friends told me about the tightrope walk over the alligator pit with the raw chicken breast hanging out of the jock strap and the guy taking a dump in the model toilet in the hardware store in the middle of the day-in the middle of the room-in front of everyone. She even told me about the long shot of said toilet bowl after our young man finished his duty. Cut down on the trauma for me immensely. Believe me, there's sooo much more, I haven't given a thing away!

Monday, November 11, 2002

If quizzes are quizzical...

...what are tests?

Sunday, November 10, 2002

Ode to my subconscious; a twelve year old girl with unmanageable hair and the body of a newborn giraffe who has been in a perpetual snit for the past 23 years:

We who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
discontent and
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.

-Philip Lopate-shamelessly lifted with no title from Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird which I finally found on a shelf I hardly ever use, amen.

Friday, November 08, 2002

Chaps my butt:
1. Joined the gym a month ago, haven't been once. Not once.
2. Winter blowing in and my skin's so dry and itchy I find myself yelping in public.
3. Unable to control potty mouth at work at all anymore. Fuckshitasslick.
4. Eating at McDonalds enough that the chemical taste of whatever drug they put in the food to keep people coming back is staying in my mouth days later.
5. Not so confused anymore, but still frozen.
6. Not banging out that 2,000 words a day like I planned.
7. Still haven't balanced the checkbook or done the bills.
8. Worried about fat roll around the midsection being the highlight in my Vera Wang bridesmaid dress.
9. Seemingly unable to consume alcohol at all without feeling like I bathed in arsenic and ate a case of Ho-Ho's.
10. Have Pavlovian impulse to reach for a drink anyway. Escape, Escape. Cry Freedom!

But otherwise fine. Hope all of you are well and healthy and keeping the breathing tube above water.

Wednesday, November 06, 2002

Staying positive in the face of three new HATE IT hits to my bloghop rater thing...I know, its just hard to hit the little teensy weensie boxes. Sure. Or it's that I don't have one of those super-hip political rant tv commentary blogs-that I fall into the Oprah Blog of the Month Club category, all that love and honesty and hard lessons bullshit, right? What I love about some of the blogs that people have on their own domains, like Bitchypoo is that fabulous thing called a disclaimer. Nothing like a little signage to let people know they can kiss your emotional ass, that they're in your world now and they can leave if they don't like it. Of course, I do realize that I am the one who put that little voting tag on my page...heh. heh. Power to the people.
Update on nanowrimo I'm at 2045 words...there's some guy out there who's at 15,000 and I want to know if he's having her meals administered with and IV and expelled with a catheter. Jayzus. Yahooey to Barb who's giving it a whirl in the word blender too! I'd like to know how the heck she got the graphic to work on her site...I can't get it to show up in my ftp manager. Regardless, here's to some fast and crappy novels.

Sunday, November 03, 2002

Halloween Genuis Let's get some back and forth going here folks for best Halloween costumes ever...I just heard about one that takes it in my book.

Guy in Ohio, he wears nothing but a pair of pants to a party. Group of people ask him what he's supposed to be, answers straight faced: "I'm a premature ejaculator, I came in my pants."

Hot diggity dog...can't make that shit up.
Happens Like This: When I'm four or five I stay overnight often at Nana's. This is at her three-family before she moves to the elderly highrise. She lives on the ground floor and I play on the swingset that belongs to the kids upstairs. Their dad is a fireman and when he lifts me from the top of the slide where I am frozen in fear he smells of crazy wood smoke and his arms are as big as my body. My dad is on a road construction crew and smells of marlboroughs and schlitz. He brings us Arthur Treachers Fish and Chips for dinner sometimes and I hope it means he cares about us.

One afternoon at Nana's I accidentally lock myself in the bathroom. I don't understand that it locks from the inside. I am inconsolable. I think I am going to have to stay there forever and if that means till morning it's much too long.

It goes from bad to worse when I see two long legs easing through the window and into the tub. They seem to go on forever and I fear they are not attached to a head, or to anyone I know. I begin to scream so loudly that I can't hear Nana on the other side of the door, lips pressed to the crack, yelling to me to calm down, that it's the neighbor-the fireman-the hero-come to help me out. My screaming startles him and he crashes into the tub with a shout that travels through my feet and up my legs.

I think I might pee my pants and want to use the toilet, but I can't with a stranger in the bathroom. I stop screaming and stare at him. Nana's voice penetrates the buzzing in my head "That's Mr. so-and-so from upstairs- let him unlock the door!"

When he reaches that endless arm across me and turns the switch for the lock, I am amazed that he could do this. I think doors only lock from the side I am NOT on.

At Nana's I am the center of her universe and her love orbits me with consistency and strength. She makes chicken soup and lets me have ice cream. I sit on the floor in the dining room on a worn pile rug. I play with the books of paper dolls she stores in the bottom drawer of the breakfront. I am the first great-grandchild. She has many grandchildren and my mother is one of them. Nana tells me my mother is still just a girl herself.

Nana grows African violets in little pots all over her house. I wonder why the leaves are so fat and furry. I touch them with my fingertips and lips.

When I'm 13, my aunt moves into an apartment when she divorces my uncle. He hit her. She paints the wood floor in the kitchen red and wallpapers with strawberry print on a crisp white background in the bathroom. She fills a dish with strawberry soaps that look like candy. The place has the exact same layout as Nana's old apartment.

She invites me to stay a weekend and help redecorate. I spray the old walls with water and cider vinegar, scraping the layers of paste and paper away in dark, wet curls. The new apartment is in a bad neighborhood and I can't go out by myself. I see the county fairgrounds across the busy street, watch older kids hanging out in their cars, drinking beer from those huge brown bottles in brown bags with the openings twisted tight around the spit-glistened necks. I know they smell like my father. Their rough voices carry across the parking lot. We turn up the radio, Cat Stevens-"I'm being followed by a moonshadow" and we sing along together. We sound good.

She transforms the drab, slope-floored place into a color-washed jungle. A sanctuary. I feel my heart beat fast for her, watching her furiously paint and scrape and spray and scrub-even though I don't yet know about the beatings. I can smell the freedom and the fear on her. It smells like vinegar and strawberry soap.

When I leave my husband, I fill my apartment with color-a tomato red rag rug on a caribbean blue wood floor. Purple watercolor wash on the walls, and a room painted to look like the sky to make up for its having no windows. My fear and freedom smell familiar. I grow african violets. I touch them with my fingertips and lips.

Saturday, November 02, 2002

I'm doing it.

So there.

But 50,000 words in 28 days?

Oh my.

Friday, November 01, 2002

Let's try a Friday Five...

1. Were you raised in a particular religious faith? Yes, Catholic with a hippie twist. We attended the college chapel in my hometown and Father Joe liked to have the high school art teacher hang out in the front with his acoustic guitar and his shaggy beard keeping time to the rising and kneeling and sitting and shifting of tired butts on oak pews. Do you think they're called pews because so many asses have rubbed up against them?

2. Do you still practice that faith? Why or why not? No. I did the whole confirmation thing to get my mother off my back, but that was the end of the line for me. Same thing with Girl Scouts...I crossed over the rainbow bridge into Cadettes and ran like hell. Religion creeps me out. I think I covered this already. Numb ass, drooling stupor, no thank you, not for me.

3. What do you think happens after death? I figure it depends on what you're thinking about the moment you die...what you're obsessing on, worried about, or desiring madly. Seems like hell is here on earth and most people leave this world holding onto something or someone. Do we zoom straight away to whatever unfinished thing is most pressing and try in vain to work it out? Or do we just break up into a kazillion points of light and go back to Source or God or Love? How the fuck do I know?

4. What is your favorite religious ritual (participating in or just observing)? Um, that would be the Chalice full of the Blood of Christ. When I was a wee tyke we attended a much bigger Roman Catholic church where Mom would let me have my own tiny plastic medicine cup full of blood. Every Sunday I gulped it down as if it were grape juice, shuddering to think it was ancient blood and wondering how long it would take for me to turn into a Vampire then my neck and shoulders went numb and I fell asleep with my head on my mother's starched lap. Occasionally if I have a sip of red wine before I've eaten anything I get the same effect and am thrown into a delicious vortex of sense memory. I'm 5 again, with banana curls, black patent leather Mary Jane's and a white eyelet dress with a bow in the back. I'm on The Good Ship Lollipop.

5. Do you believe people are basically good? Yes. No. Maybe. Are you?
It starts today and I want to do it! It's nanowrimo and I'm away for a full week this month for my beautiful sister's fancy-pants-swing-dance-they're-serving-sidecars-wedding (yay yay yay!). There's no way I can manage the requisite 50,000 words in 30 days on top of my regular duties and desires. But I wanna. I really, really wanna. Really.

Shit. I should do it. Tell me to do it and I will.

Negative Space Someone voted "Hate it" on my blog at bloghop...and I'm shocked that I give a shit...must be side effect of bad dye job. No?