Her Pictures

Her Self Portrait

R stole my camera. I am thrilled she did. Her 6 year old self portrait here is better than anything I could take (or pay to take). This shot sums her up, and frankly, it sums up the me I want to be too, and actually, it sums up our whole damn week. Her other pics, hidden until I got home -- are from a 6 year old wack-job eye, but an eye, a way of SEE-ing, nonetheless.

(Is she not lovely? God. I swear, her childhood is such a fortune cookie to me.)

So now, we move on. Teeth or no teeth.

And Then She Came Home

To shake sand from her pockets and out of her hair while waiting for a cab in the snow at 1am. Delayed by more snow, she made it home a day late only to wade through muck and icy slush and dirt to finish and find everything for a fundraiser hockey game that would commence in less than 24 hours. (She had to leave it all to the last minute, as the Grippe had laid her low for too long and then a flight to Fantasy Island literally took her away from it all.)

Once, it was stressful not to find a sand dollar, she thinks, wiping glue stick gunk off the counter. The beer tastes different here, doesn't it? Did we really cruise around stacked 5 or 6 in a golf cart, no seat belts to buckle, no ice to scrape off? Was that real? Was it possible that the to-do list included only three things -- sit at beach, sit at pool, find shells? Those freckly nosed, too exhausted to even be crabby kids -- were those her kids?

Home now -- even now, after that week -- was sweet: a nest of their own, a comfy bed she doubts she'll see for hours, a voicemail box full like always, a fridge empty like always, a clean house completely trashed in minutes... like always. It's home sweet home, this familiarity of the everyday -- the everyday she simultaneously abhors and adores. Maybe Mr. Roarke was right.

phone sex

I'm having some.

Oh stop, pervs. I write this from my new phone from an island in Florida. Technology is so cool.

Truly, it feels sexy. And the palms and noon-time booze make it even sexier.

Something about no grocery stores and making friends with strangers and driving golf carts all day - it just turns a girl all around.
And when the mom's happy...

I'm Totally Getting This For Your Birthday

Please take a gander at this.

Can you imagine how this might completely change the lives of multi-tasking, exercise-obsessed, chardonnay-swilling suburban moms? I mean, boot camp will never be the same!

Obviously this was invented by a man, because no self-respecting woman would wear something so... ugly, no matter how practical it might be.

The Grippe

Since Friday, that’s what I’ve had – the Grippe. I like this word. I like it much more than “the flu.” It sounds more onomatopoeic afterall. As in, the fucker’s got its claws in me.

Four days of fevers, subsequent chills, aching everywhere – from my eyeballs and eyelashes, to my hair and my teeth – I remained grateful for small favors: it started at the start of the weekend and That Man was in town. He fixed me up with a bagful of over the counter meds and every magazine on the rack. (Here’s what I learned about medicine: they all basically have the same ingredients and they all sell the same thing – false hope. Here’s what I learned from the mags: Angelina = pregnant, Britney = crazy, recession = on its way. But I could be wrong: I am not sure if I was reading or simply dreaming that I was reading.) It was like a lost weekend, without any of the fun of getting lost.

I crawled out of bed today, somewhat surprised to be feeling somewhat normal. Fevers do something weird to hair -- mine is close to dreadlocked again – so I took yet another long hot shower in a lame attempt to 1) wake up and 2) fix hair. The shower worked on neither, but the coffee helped and wrapping the mop into a bun always helps. Picked up the kids and took them all “voting.” (Giant Three Year Old: “we’re going boating?” Us: “no! voting!” Giant Three Year Old: “ahhh man, I wanna go on duh boat.”)

My kids don’t understand the silent ballot – “mom, didya vote for Obama, mom, didya?” – and they don’t understand that small town voting booths are kinda flimsy: they almost took two out in one swift move: it was like a clasped hands dance maneuver but I was not amused. Good thing it was my civic right to be there, kids in tow, or else I’m pretty sure we would have gotten the boot. Plus, I still felt like crap, and I might have back-handed anyone who gave me shit -- “Do you not see that I have THE GRIPPE? I have THE GRIPPE!” Could they possibly have thrown me in jail with that excuse?

Anyhoo, I must be on the mend.

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