I’m just curious: Was my mother EVER sick when I was a kid? I mean, there were at least six of us in the house at any given moment, and I know that we had our share of viruses. I’m sure we were predictably whiny and pathetic as she tossed us kleenex boxes and told us to stay in our rooms to avoid making the baby sick.
Thing is, I don’t remember my mother ever being sick until I was in high school and she was really sick (like, hospitalized sick). She must have gotten colds. She must have felt like ass. How come I never knew?
So, whatever, I’ve been fighting this cold and it really pisses me off that, unlike my mother, I am not able to put on a Mom Face and push on. I can barely speak and my head is so full of crap that I get dizzy when I stand.
This would be kind of fun if I was alone and I could go to bed and drift delusionally off to sleep. But both boys are home sick as well, and apparently even boy-fevers of 102.5 don’t preclude pointless bickering and sneaky back-of-the-arm pinches between brothers.
Goddamn 60 degree followed by 8 degree followed by 45 degree weather. I can’t take another 13 years of being sick when my kids are. Stop the polar ice caps from melting. For the love of the polar bears and my sinuses.
My friend Sasha gave me her copy of Diane di Prima’s Memoirs of a Beatnik for my birthday. I think she bought it at a secondhand store during her freshman year in college. There are marks in the margins, which I completely adore, even though they’re not Sasha’s. She’s a relatively new friend who’s recently learned about my little writing projects and it touched me that she came up with, really, the perfect gift for me.
I’m sort of in love with di Prima, having read her poetry since I was very young. I’m not much for memoirs (now called blogs, by the way), as such, with exceptions being made for Katharine Hepburn and Boutros Boutros-Ghali, because duh, they didn’t have blogs and they actually had something interesting to say. And yes, a lifelong love affair with Spencer Tracy is interesting.
But seriously, stuff like A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers can kiss my ass. (ooh, snap.) Whatever; the kids seem to like it. Of course I like di Prima because she writes amazingly lyrical and lovely things (do your beat poet research), is smart and real and her attitudes about sex and love in this work have a very familiar ring.
madeline: at the risk of sounding like an asshole, why do dudes feel the need to fall into extreme like with me?
is it because i’m unavailable emotionally? because i don’t fall over myself to make them commit–in fact, just the opposite?
because, really, i think i’m like the perfect sex partner in that regard.
and seriously, if one of my sex partners starts getting weird and lovey, i’m so done.
meg: well, then allow me to be an asshole right along with you because seriously, i am SICK of guys trying to be possessive and up in my business. come ON, i am offering you the ultimate in no strings sex!
madeline: THANK you.
meg: i’m just saying.
To the lady sitting in the middle of the supermarket parking lot today–just sitting there in your car, not signaling a turn, yet flashing the universal signal for “asshole” at everyone who beeped their horn at you–just blocking traffic and looking all mean:
I’m sorry you’re having a rough day. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Until then, though, could you please try to drive by the rules so the rest of us can get our apple juice and yogurt?
I should have known something was wrong when I met Jen and her husband for lunch (my birthday, their treat) and despite not having eaten since dinner, I couldn’t finish a cup of soup and half a sandwich. Then later I turned on the oven to preheat and set to mixing the final batch of cupcakes for our party last night, scorching the two dozen vanilla and red velvet cakes I’d put there for safekeeping.
My head hurt.
I had one cup of coffee this morning at Joe’s place. Maybe it’s caffeine withdrawal.
I made a big cup of coffee and took acetaminophen. Dark chocolate orange cupcakes baked. I dressed, ignoring the complete control this headache had taken over my neck and skull and my eyes, my eyes, ow.
Stirring hot cream into bittersweet chocolate pieces for the ganache I reasoned, it may just go away.
I didn’t eat much today; I’ll go to the party and eat and feel warm and I won’t drink, except for tea. Tea will be good.
As I coated the cakes with shiny chocolate a thought hit me. I refused to acknowledge the possibility. On the drive over a wave of nausea struck.
I walked gingerly up the steps, cleared of the recent snow. I opened the door and saw all my friends. The box of (twelve, not thirty-six) cupcakes was taken from my hands and five minutes later, after saying quiet hellos to people I love and shaking my head at the offer of a plate of food, I gathered my small and thoughtful gifts (the best kind) and drove home.
I closed the door to my bedroom, pulled on pajamas and opened the window a crack to let in the 20-degree air.
Go away, please go away.
Before sending your DVD player with your children and their father for the weekend, always ensure you’ve remembered to remove the porn.
That would have been embarrassing.
This morning, when driving through the woods on our way to school Miles exclaimed, “Momma, the snow is so beautiful on the trees!”
“It really is gorgeous, huh?”
“Uh-huh. It looks just like Narnia!”
Filed under Kids, Quiet, Stories
You call and ask if I’m free tonight, “…a long shot, I know.”
I’ve just been fucked like a bitch by my love as three others watched and came, their come swirling together, homogenizing in a pool at the small of my back.
I do not return your call.
I return to our bed where life is still and time is heavy haze, where cunt swallows cock. I breathe the air from his mouth, making it mine. When he dies I will pull his last breath deep inside me, imprisoning his soul within my ribcage.
He fits me. Loves me.
Quietly rocking, writhing, bending, pulling, stretching, gasping, squirming. Content. Senza voce.
I do not love you, because when we fuck, I am discontented. Impatient. Growling.
When we fuck, my hand does not move to your cheek, tracing its thumb across your brow. You do not shut your eyes and turn into it, kissing my palm.
Because you do not love me.
leg slung across pale softness
i will never move.