She Stoops to Be Conquered

Thank God for Us Weekly and a big bag of Chex Mix, because otherwise what would I have done last night? And don't say, Well, maybe you could have written or something, because I'm pretty sure I didn't ask. Or I didn't mean to ask. And am not, therefore, in need of an answer. So perhaps you have questions about Suri Cruise? She just celebrated another birthday, you know, and had such a wonderful time at her party. She really did. She really, really, really did.

What? Oh, the Chex Mix . . . yeah, it was Regular.

Would you like to hear my take on stain removal? Cat urine? Staplers?

Go ahead and leave your requests in the comments.

In the meantime, I'll be preparing a mediocre meal.

So . . . This "Blog Every Day" Thing Was Really Just a Bunch of Bullshit, Wasn't It?

Oh, shut up. Seriously. Just shut the hell up. You wouldn't have written anything, either, if you'd had the cough and fever and backache that I did. See what I get for staying up with you the other night? See? I told you that I'd pay, and I totally did. Serves me right. My just deserts and all of that. Anyway, now that I'm back, I'll bet you're wondering what you have been missing. Yes? Surely, you've been beside yourself with anticipation and worry, just counting on an update from me. Well. Let's see. Yesterday morning, before anyone else was up, I found a thousand-legger on my toothbrush. No shit: A fucking thousand-legger on my toothbrush. And the timing couldn't have been any worse, honestly, as my teeth felt disgusting, and I was absolutely dying for the minty freshness that only the marriage of brush and paste could provide. Never was I gladder for my other toothbrush, the one that I keep in the other, other bathroom (I know! How many bathrooms does a person need??!?), because--let me tell you--if there was one thing I didn't want that early in the morning, particularly as I was recovering from cough, fever and backache, it was a squirmy tangle with a thousand-legger. Really! So it was off to the other, other bathroom, to a world devoid of thousand-leggers, where the morning sun shone and oral pleasures were plenty. And oh! The plaquelessness of my teeth! And oh! The squeakiness of my gums! It was like heaven, it was, only better, because it was real, and I was so alive!!!!

And The Girl and I went to a birthday party while The Boy and The Husband went to Trader Joe's. And it rained. And, to the chagrin of my children, I spent most of the day cleaning my house.

Oh, yeah, and I hate my vacuum. And The Boy fell asleep and peed on his carseat. And, because I'm 100%, honest-to-goodness psychic, I can feel how glad you are that you just checked this site.

Say you'll be back tomorrow, won't you? Maybe there'll be another letter . . . .

What I've Been Avoiding

1. You, apparently.
Because otherwise, wouldn't I have checked in sooner? Wasn't that part of the deal, after all?

2. The cat box.
Which, I'm sorry to say, fucking reeks, in spite of the fact that I think I just cleaned it. Or did I just clean it? I don't know. In any case, at the very least, it needs a dusting of fresh litter.

3. My black, black roots (and we're not, like, talking Alex Haley here, people).
Who knew that being blonde would be so much work? God! While it's possible, I guess, that blondes have more fun, there is nothing enjoyable about being tethered to a bottle. Nothing, I say. And I'd better be hitting that bottle, too, because I'm starting to look like Nancy Spungen (minus the vacant stare and track marks, I mean).

4. The clogged drain just outside the door of the basement.
Though, in my defense, I did try to plunge it. Which--trust me--sounds a lot sexier than it was.

5. Sorting through the 9,226 pieces of art that The Girl has churned out since 3:00 yesterday.
On the one hand, of course, her art is hard to throw away (especially the stuff on which she's written I love you). On the other hand, though, it probably constitutes a fire hazard, given how drawings of tulips and bumblebees block every conceivable exit. Storage space might be an option; maybe I should look into that.

6. This one particular neighbor.
You know the one. The one who. will. not. stop. talking. no. matter. how. many. times. you. say. you. have. to. go. in. and. cook. dinner. Yeah, that one.

7. Casey Buttons.
Obviously.

8. My bedtime.
Like always. See how much I love you, gentle reader? If it weren't love, would I risk feeling how I'm sure to feel in a matter of hours, when one or both of the children wakes me from my peaceful sleep? Only love could make me this crazy; only love could keep me crawling back to you.

Meet the Monster

I will never look at our little stream the same way. Never ever. Now that it's gone all bloated and rabid, it's become a force to be reckoned with. Mississippi brown, raging past the primrose, hungry, frothy, lovely and mean. In between bursts of thunder and lightning, we poke at the rapids with bamboo sticks. The children, in their hoods, both delighted and frightened. The house, with its apple juice and its blankets, recedes farther and farther away.

Dear Jenny

Dear Jenny,

I'm sorry about the times I called you fatty, about the day I made up that song, to the tune of "The Sound of Silence," about how much you loved Nestle ice cream balls. The fact that I still remember parts of that song--Hello Bon-Bons, my old friends/I've come to munch on you again--reveals just how ingrained in me that meanness was, how ingrained it is in me still. You were always unfailingly nice, always kind and hopeful and generous and friendly. Also boring, I decided later, though we were the best of friends for a while. How I enjoyed those Friday evenings at your house--the cheezy-cheez pizza and the pretzel sticks--and how I loved the Saturday mornings after, with the waffles and your sisters at the table beside us. Why I was so cruel to you, when I, too, had been fat just a year or two before, I can't say. But I do know why I abandoned you, why I left you with your Bon-Bons and your cheezy-cheez pizza and your sisters, and why I never looked back. That summer you flew to Michigan, when I discovered pot and how to make my lips pouty, fun became fun in a different way. You were far away and would never understand how it all happened, how one boy came and then all the others, how, in a puff of smoke and Sun-in, I simply disappeared. And when, in Health class all those months later, you whispered that I was still your best friend, of course I pretended not to hear. The bell rang and I reapplied my lipstick. And you smiled, unfailingly nice as always, as we walked, not speaking, toward the lunchroom and everything that lay beyond.

I hope that your adulthood's been nicer than I was. Take care.

Love,
Laura

The Hurricane

On the warmest morning in at least six months, she shows up in corduroys and a long-sleeved penguin shirt. She's come to point out that she's dressed, that I haven't had to nag her, that she's ready for school--hell, she's ready for anything--while I, the lazy mother, am still in bed. But I'm too sleepy and stupid to realize this. "Sweetheart," I say, "you're going to bake in that." And when she runs from the room, broken and weeping, I am stunned, amazed at how easy it is to ruin everything.

Sleep Will Tear Us Apart (Again)

I awake at 3:30 in The Boy's bed, to twisted hair and the sound of traffic. You, of course, are asleep in The Girl's bed, with your big feet sticking out from beneath her comforter. I hate that this happens nearly every night, that we hardly see each other, that kitchen lights get left on and dishes get neglected and writing gets forgotten. I want to be sharp and purposeful, but my teeth are unbrushed and my dress is still on and it's hard to be industrious at 3:30 in the morning. And, holy shit, it is 3:30 in the morning. The street is dark and the house is quiet. And I'm left with a faint nausea, a slight loneliness, that tells me I should probably go back to bed.

Who Are These People?

And would you fuck with any of them?

Domesticity

Morning begins with dripping pajamas, with wan sunlight and sandy rugs. I make eggs, eat eggs, dispose of eggs. I wash children, then towels, then dishes. In the living room, with cheese and crackers, the children watch their morning show. Past the window, in their greys and navies, the fast walkers. The forsythia and leashless dogs. The golden swell of naptime.

Dear Green Purse

Dear Green Purse,

At some point, maybe when we're both a bit older, I'll stop loading you down with all my shit. We both know that you don't deserve this--the boy's underwear in the little interior compartment, the squashed fig bars, the unwrapped tampons--and that you'd probably be happier with somebody else. But it was Marie who believed we belonged together, who believed--God help her--that I'd treat you right. Remember at Christmas when I opened you, when I gushed over you and those Portland truffles, when I hastily, because it was Christmas and we were going to dinner, stuffed you with my wallet, a lipstick and a few metal trains? You were so empty then, weren't you, and so full of promise . . . so free of used tissues and ice cream stains. And now, good God, just look at you . . . still green, yes, and still hardworking, but also sticky and cluttered and grossly overweight. And while I desperately wish that it all could be different, one look at my car or my desk or my closet suggests that nothing will ever change.

Anyway, thank you for being sturdy and capacious, and for not dumping those three months' worth of paystubs all over the street. I hope, in spite of everything, that you'll "hang" with me a little while longer; you know you'll always have my shoulder to lean on.

Thanks again.

Love,
Laura

So I skipped a Day . . . You Wanna Make Something of It?

So yesterday was the actual anniversary, and we spent a fair amount of it in our lovely backyard. The Girl made us lunch, which was very sweet, and I tried, in spite of my food paranoia, not to note the antiquity of the bread. Friday was a lot of fun, what with dinner out and the Spoon concert. Although, if I'm being completely honest, my meal wasn't all that hot. Anyway, it's Sunday now, and there's another pile of laundry, and the children are trashing the living room.

Dating Myself (And Not in a Masturbatory Way)

In celebration of our eleventh anniversary, which is tomorrow, Thom and I will be going to dinner and a concert tonight. The fact that we've been married 11 years, coupled with the fact that our reservation is for five-freaking-thirty, makes me feel unbelievably old. But seeing Spoon will make me feel youthful again, what with Britt Daniel and his fitted shirt. Eleven years, by the way, is a really long time. Think about it: what were you doing in April of 1997?

Those Crazy Homophones

After a trip to the garden center with his father, The Boy describes some of the establishment's most impressive water features:

The Boy: And we saw waterfalls wid blue water!
Mom: Blue water?
The Boy: Yeah!
Mom: Why was the water blue?
The Boy: (somberly, quietly) Because people died in it.

Dear Pookums

Dear Pookums,

What a relief it is to be happy, to feel the sun--at last--on my shoulders, to want to run and to write and to stay awake. The children delight and do not annoy me, as we poke at the mud with our bamboo sticks. I love these kids, this house and this springtime. I love you, because you drew that leather skirt on Dora, because you plant pretty flowers, because you like Spoon.

Hope you're not too pissed about my calling you Pookums on the internet. See you upstairs before too long.

Love,
Pookahontas

Dear Failure

Dear Failure,

How dare you make me hang my head in shame? Don't you see that it wasn't my fault, that I was sick with a cold, and exhausted. The Girl woke me up at like four in the morning, and the day was cloudy and cool and confusing, and . . . what? Oh, come on; don't look at me that way. Plus, the internet crashed--I swear to God, it did--so there was no way for me to keep my commitment. It's not like I have a laptop, like most normal people, and can just run down to Starbucks and write or something. I'm bound to this computer, man. So, anyway, I'm sorry. Roll your eyes, if you want to. I'll just have to--GULP--post twice today.

Oh, and you should know that smugness really doesn't suit you.

See you later, I'm sure.

Laura

Dear Truancy Officer

Dear Truancy Officer,

I'm sure that she was kidding when she said, "Next year, I'm gonna sneak out of school and walk up to Old Navy." I'm sure that she was kidding. And yes, I know she's only five-and-a-half, and yes, I know I'm completely fucked.

Thank you for your understanding.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Laura A. Goodmother

Dear Thomas

Dear Thomas,

This picture was taken in October, about a month or so before the rains began, and sometime in the middle of my deciding that I wanted to leave California. There I am on the crumbly balcony, with the Mexican roses and my raincoated mother, trying to find the words to tell you that I want to go back to Baltimore, to my parents. Even then, all those years before she got sick, I knew that she would die, knew that it was only a matter of time, could sense, already, that she was fading. My father, as you know, took this picture, during their first and only visit to our apartment, to those rooms that rattled with mariachi and stunk of tight living and cheap ground beef. When they left that Sunday, I wept and wept, partly for my parents and the loss of my childhood, but also for us, because I knew what was coming. Already I could see you, your head against the window, crying at your last glimpse of the avocado tree. I knew that you would beg me, and you did. And it was awful. But we left, and that was the beginning of now.

And now? Now we are ancient, and it is springtime, and we've been married nearly eleven years. Look at the children poking sticks in our river; listen to my father whispering about this woman I've never even met. My mother is dead, and California is a stranger. You cut daffodils from our new garden, put them in a little glass jar.

Zipping off to Bed

We go to dinner at our friends' house, and I suck down a fair amount of wine. The older children play "evil science," while the younger ones wander from room to room. Now it's late, and I'm tired, and everyone is sleeping. The only sounds of life are the cat in her litter box and the neighbor's dog barking at what might be a deer. Oh, and here's your daily letter: it's zzzzzz.

Dear Nasty Headcold

Dear Nasty Headcold,

You suck. And you have my full permission to go away, as it's April, and I'm in no mood to be dripping with snot. Sorry to be so snippy, headcold, but I'm all tired out, as you obviously know. So run along, then. B-bye and good riddance. See you next winter, if I absolutely must.

Yours in Mucous,
Laura

Dear Miss Slaybach

Dear Miss Slaybach,

It's safe to assume, given your long-ago indifference, that you probably don't remember me. I was in your class in '82-'83, in the last 5th/6th split to ever attend L-ementary. At the end of that year, as you may recall, the school just upped and closed up shop, and didn't reopen for another ten years. This was back in the days of low school enrollment, when people, apparently, were not making babies. At any rate, that was a really tough year for me, what with the chubbiness and Kelly Fannon's transfer and that fucking asshole who called me Porky all the time. I tried the violin and abandoned it. I thought, for a minute, that playing it would make me beautiful, but it was hard and practice was always during recess, which I didn't exactly think was fair. Not that I loved recess. Oh, no, I didn't. It's hard to love recess when there's no one to play with and your corduroy jumper doesn't fit quite right. I sucked at kickball, I sucked at 4-square, and I was only just mediocre at jump rope. On rainy days we had recess indoors, and I did find that at least modestly enjoyable. On rainy days, Jenny and Dana and the Other Kelly would trade satin kitty stickers with me. That was okay. Also okay were those fishburgers at lunchtime, though I think I was the only kid who liked them. I loved their perfect squariness, as well as the fact that they came with Tater Tots, like some sort of fucking lunchroom cliche. Jesus Christ, will you listen to me--romanticizing fishburgers and Tater Tots. Is it any wonder that I never made the popular group, that I never joined the ranks of Denise or Jenny D? Surely you're not surprised that I never was popular; you always seemed so weirdly disdainful of me. And why? I always did what you asked; I never talked in class (who was there to talk to?); I turned in every assignment. So years later, when I read that study about how teachers treat overweight children differently, how could I help but think of you? I thought of your coldness and of that time that you caught me tying my shoe during Spelling, and how you punished me by making me tie and untie the shoe over and over, a hundred times or more, during recess. Which, honestly, wasn't the worst thing ever, since it was sunny and I got out of kickball. But still, I don't know . . . you just seemed so frigid.

Anyway, you were young back then, (30, maybe, or even younger; to me, of course, you were old but ageless), and I was even younger. Maybe your iciness wasn't intended, and if it was, shit, that was all those years ago. So yeah, I forgive you. None of us is perfect; certainly not I, who not so very long ago, smashed a toy in irrepressible anger. We all make mistakes and we all have to live with them, whether we know we are living with them or not.

So I hope that the years have treated you gently, and that all of your students since then have worn Velcro. Next year, if you can believe it, my daughter will be up at L-ementary, possibly even in that very same classroom. But she's a lot different than I was, Miss Slaybach; she is spark and paper and gasoline. Here's hoping that she'll be the conflagration that I could never bring myself to be.

Regards,
Laura

Dear Commitment to Write Every Day

Dear Commitment to Write Every Day,

I have every intention of keeping you; I do. But I've got these things, see, called children, and--do I have to spell it out for you, CtWED--sometimes writing is hard. Lately, I've developed this nasty habit of falling asleep in the children's beds. In a way, I guess, it's kind of sweet, but it leaves me no time to do anything for myself. And you should see our house! Oh, my God, you should see our house!! Writing takes time, and laundry takes time, and when you're sleeping, like, 10 or so hours a night, it doesn't leave you with very much time. But now I'm just bitching, and I don't want to be bitching. And anyway, it's not the children's fault that I'm a lazy sack of crap. But now I'm just self-deprecating, and I don't want to be self-deprecating. It's two in the afternoon, and The Boy is offering me imaginary cake in exchange for my getting off the computer. And hey, CtWED, I'm not heartless. Nor am I a quitter. So, you know, I'll just have to balance and shit. Or something. Anyway, CtWED, stay in touch. You can bet, one way or another, that I'll stay in touch with you.

Warmest Regards,
Laura

Dear April

Dear April,

First off, honey, let me assure you that you are not the cruelest month. March is far crueler for all kinds of reasons, reasons like Ides and icestorms, for starters. In any case, while we're talking March, I've always thought that "in like a lion/out like a lamb" mumbo-jumbo was better-suited to you than to March. But I'm not here to get catty or offensive; in fact, this is really a love letter of sorts. What I like best about you are your hyacinths and sunshine, when, all coquettish, you at last bring them on. I also dream of your fishtank greenness, of your fairs and your sulfury sneeze of pollen, of your linen dresses and wet, bushy grass. It's true that I have a teensy-weensy crush on you, April, that I'm blushing just thinking of your dewy buds. So come to me now with your thunder and tulips. And promise me that you won't tell May.

Love,
Laura