Archive for the 'You are who you love' Category

Snowed In

14 February, 2014

There was a very rare snowstorm in my area last weekend, and even though I was living almost exclusively on chocolate ice cream from Dairy Queen (I had my wisdom teeth out last week) the roads aren’t plowed here, so we stayed home. Eli has chains for the car, so we could have left if we really needed to, but, and it shocks me to say this, we had fun staying in with the little. He’s 17 months old now and just FULL of energy, excitement, and screaming. He is exhausting, but, he is awesome. The absolute naked joy on his face as he lay in a snow pile and let the flakes hit him in the face more than made up for the hours of frustration I’ve felt lately.
And I have been frustrated– with the little and with myself (for loosing patience with someone so angelic and so very very ornery).
He has recently decided that the stroller just won’t do– he wants to walk, spatula in hand (oh dear god don’t get me started on the fucking spatula). So I leash up the dog, shoe-up the little (which takes a half hour, even though he was screaming to go outside), and we get outside. Twenty minutes later, we might make it out of the yard. An hour later, we might (maybe) have made it up the block. It is irritating going that slow, literally going backwards at points (and why can’t the dog and the little stop at the same time?!). But why, why is it so irritating? Where do I have to be? Why DON’T I want to sweep the house for the 10th time in a day, when he so clearly enjoys it and wants nothing more than to ‘sweep’ with me (forgoing the small broom I got him in favor of his spatula). It is especially hard on the days when I just want to read but know I’ll have to wait for that hour or two after he goes to bed but before I do– the same hour where I clean, plan, and occasionally say hi to Eli. But, I signed up for this– I want to stay home with him. I want to enjoy every little thing… even if it means taking two hours to go around the fucking block… Which is why that snow was so magical. Because it was the most amazing thing to ever happen to him, and we didn’t miss a bit of it.

in which I complain a lot

18 February, 2012

Apathy and other small victories

I hate cute.
I really can’t fucking stand it.
Sweet, darling, adorable- these are also on the list of go fucking die.
I like coffee, I like it as black as my sense of humor, I like wrong and angry and mean.

So stop calling and expecting happy glowing Lea. She is not here. You may try again in 6 months or so, but I doubt I’ll have changed much.

A (part of the) list of things that now make me so seriously puke are:
food, target, the food at target, the smell of food, the smell of target, my dog’s breath, my husband’s unwillingness to argue with me, my husband’s fucking niceness, anyone giving me advice, baby books, pregnancy yoga, earth mothers, the zits all over my fucking face, my giant fucking tits, clothes shopping, being so goddamn tired, cute, adorable, sweet, darling, well intentioned people I used to be able to stand, myself, my bloated ugly body, crazy detailed dreams and you, if you tell me anything about my future or how I’ll feel ‘in a couple months’.
and being pissed off and sad. that’s fucking nauseating too.

And now, since I’m like REALLY pissed off and nauseated thinking about the things that nauseate me, some things I can stand:

the canary.
strawberries.

missed gifts

13 October, 2011

Homeless meter

Have you ever bought someone candy, truly intended to give it to then, but ended up eating it yourself?

and then, as you were eating it, think, ‘oh well, I’ll just share and give him half, it will still be a nice surprise’, then keep eating past your half without realizing, then pretty much HAVE to eat the rest so he didn’t know?

no?

oh.

me either.

Cranberry Relish

13 March, 2010

adjla

Winter sun filtered through the kitchen curtains as Lea sat at the table, legs swinging several inches from the ground. In front of her an old meat grinder, its pewter parts screwed together and clamped securely to the table edge by its bottom vice. Her grandmother brought over half an orange, dropping it into the mouth of the grinder. “We’re only going to use half the orange skin, since you thought it was too sour last year,” she said. Lea moved on the chair so she could reach the grinder, leaning over to grasp the handle. Her grandmother covered the mouth of the grinder that she had just dropped the orange into with the flat of her hand. She raised her eyebrows at Lea, who began to turn the handle.
Lea is about 6 years old, her grandmother some indeterminate age older. Lea’s messy brown hair is pulled back in a braid that has mostly fallen out of its plaits. Her grandmother is wearing the latest trend for ladies of a certain age, a turquoise and purple wind suit smartly accessorized with matching enameled earrings.
The lovely gush of orange pulp crackled through the old grinder, smelling so tangy and metal and sharp it was almost possible to smell it. The juice dripped into the bowl next to the grinder followed shortly by the pulp. Lea’s grandmother removed her hand when Lea stopped turning the handle, turning around to grab the bag of cranberries. Her grandmother began to pour the bag into the mouth of the grinder and Lea started to turn the handle again, laughing as the cranberries popped and tried to fly out of the opening. Her grandmother dumped about half the bag in and covered the opening with her hand again. Little chunks of white and red cranberry began to emerge from the grinder and fell into the glass bowl in front of it with soft plops. The popping of cranberries slowed and Lea’s grandmother removed her hand, pouring in the remainder of the bag. More popping as the cranberries ground and the bright pink juice began to drain into the bowl, leaking through the cracks of the machine and dripping on the table. Lea paused in the turning. “Nanny, do you want to turn the handle for a while? This is hard.”
“You always say that” her grandmother retorted, “And if you don’t want to help me we don’t have to make it next year. Besides, we’re almost done”. Lea reached for one of the slices of bright green apple on the table and almost had it in her mouth before her grandmother’s sharp noise of disapproval stopped her. Lea looked up at her grandmother and quickly dropped the slice into the grinder.
“You really have to push the apples in”, her grandmother said, “but mind your fingers”. Lea’s grandmother shoed her out of the chair and took over the handle. Lea pressed the apple slice into the opening of the grinder, watching as the spiral blades at the bottom eviscerated it. She dropped in more apple slices and covered the mouth of the grinder with the palm of her hand, like she did when she wanted to feed the sugar cubes to the horses but didn’t feel like loosing her fingers.
“Do you think”, Lea said, “If I stuck my fingers really down in there they would be ground off and then we’d have Lea finger relish?”
“Yes” said her grandmother without pausing, “Now really push those slices in there”.
The last slice went in and Lea pushed it down until the spiral blades took it away, smashing through the slice with fragrant tearing noises.
Her grandmother pushed aside the glass bowl of fruit and began to disassemble the grinder, placing the pieces in the big white sink. She pulled out a damp rag to wipe down the table. Removing all the visible juice from the table she set the rag back in the sink and took the sugar out of the cupboard. Taking a generous scoop of sugar from the container she poured it over the bowl of ground fruit, muting the bright colors under a blanket of white before opening the refrigerator door and bending down, put the bowl on a low shelf.

the cool side of the pillow

9 December, 2009

pods and fingers

I wish I could photo people from above while they are sleeping. I think it would reveal something about them, about all of us. The sheet-hoggers, the teeth-grinders, the jaw clenchers- it all comes out in our sleep. To capture the basic letters of love we write with our bodies, all the Ls and Ss and Xs and Os, the alphabets of space and blankets, of tosses and turns and dogs not quite at the foot and kids tucked under arms and socks everywhere.