Accepting the inchoate

18 May, 2009


I submitted my blog to a blog reviewing site known for giving more flaming middle fingers than expressions of love and now I’m having a hard time writing anything I think is good enough to put up here. Everything I write now strikes a little hollow, a little less golden than the real, which keeps zipping by in freefall moments of sunshine and lighting. There is so much going on, so many things to remember to put on the to-do list, everything comes out contradictory and wonky.

Aunt Carol threw me a bridal shower, all mimosa toasts, daintily wrapped packages of tissue and silk and paper-mache penises. Meghan made me wear a tutu and sparkling, noisy pink top whist I opened packages and tore exactly as many bows as the number of children I wish to have. My grandfather tried to walk in the room as beautiful young women painted and glued and adorned paper phalli.

Doc, paw-paws best friend, died last Saturday. Doc, who made horrible wine and taught me everything I know about calicos. Pawpaw has been working from dawn till dark 7 days a week since the sky fell too weeks ago. Even at 83, he honestly outworks most people my age. He stopped working today though, stood empty handed while younger men carried the coffin. The world thinks him too old to work, but the world constantly demands he never stop. He will give me away in a few days- an ancient, insulting transfer of property that has been hallowed out of some of its sexism and replaced with honor.

While the bridesmaids were getting their final fitting today I went to the weird tiny bathroom to find out what the mysterious, upsetting itch on my thigh was (it was, as I feared, a parasitic moving freckle) when I discovered my panties were on backwards.

I talked Eli into making dinner after telecommuting all day, which is really only fair since he talked me out of my backwards panties moments ago, despite my many, many vows to abstain till the wedding (am I really going to publish this? Where I manage, in one brief inchoate post to mention writing anxiety, my bridal shower, a funeral, my grandfather, and having sex? Blame it on the panties, I say.)


One Response to “Accepting the inchoate”

  1. Blunt Says:

    MY GOD how I like you.

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