Like Prozac, but without That Pesky Weight Gain

Wow. What a lovely weekend.

Now that the weather has turned--finally--everything is sno-cones and sunshine. I feel as if I'm walking on spongecake. And in a good way; not in an oh-my-god-I-smoked-way-more-of-that-shit-than-I-should-have way. That endless rain was really dampening my spirits . . . so much so that I began to worry that I was entering a funk from which it might be hard to exit. But. But! Oh, what a difference clemency makes. Such a difference. We even got to go to the pool today.

And also, I'm in the mood to overuse italics. So, you know, just deal with it.

So anyway, yeah, our weekend pretty much rocked. We ate barbeque on Friday, went to the Herb Festival on Saturday, attended a kid's birthday party and family cook-out on Sunday, and hung out in the yard and visited the pool on Monday. In addition, thanks to Tracey, I was treated, for the first time, to Showgirls, a film I'm fairly certain I'll never forget. Never . . . no matter how hard I try. The company was good, though, as was the venue--a rockin' little theatre/candy store. Plus, now that I've seen just how tough it is to be a showgirl, I'm less jazzed about pursuing topless dancing as a career. Which is a shame, kind of, because what else is there to do? And for God's sake, don't invoke the TESOL ghost. Just because you remember that I started graduate school last autumn is no reason to remind anyone else. Dig?

Well . . . everyone else in my house is asleep, and I should probably join them. Particularly since now, on top of overusing italics, I've taken to overusing ellipses . . . .

Tomorrow, we'll discuss the many creatures we've spotted in our big, beautiful yard. And you can maybe roll your eyes at my optimism, provided, of course, that it lasts.

Good-Bye, Preschool: The Second Season

Well, it happened again. Only this time, I was ready, having lived through it all before.

Though really, I wasn't that ready. And really, I'll probably never be ready, because she's still my baby, and she will always be my baby, and I can't believe how quickly the time has passed.

I know: I'm still so fucking sentimental.

One day, in about three months, maybe, I'll be able to loosen the apron strings. But not now. Not today.

Though what does she know of apron strings? As she rolls with the boys--through the grass, through the mud puddle--there is nothing in the world that binds her. She is her own brilliant, filthy agent. And though I'm misty, nothing could make me happier.

OC

When we got to the beach there were motorheads, lots and lots of motorheads, racing their hotrods up and down Ocean Highway. Everywhere, the roar of engines, the haze of machismo and gasoline. The Girl, eager to dip her feet in the ocean, stripped as soon as we got to the condo. Nevermind that it was only 60 degrees, that the water was frigid and choppy. She buzzed about the shore, freezing but elated. The sand blew, and The Boy chuffed up and down the beachcomber tracks. Later, there was fried chicken, and later still, rides and treats at the boardwalk. All night long, the revving of engines, the silent and unseen turn of the ocean.

The Story of the Lobsters

You tell everyone. First, the cashier; then the tattooed fisherman; then the harrowed woman with the mud-colored dog. "It's the lobsters," you say sadly, "they're all gone." And because they suck, each and every one of them, they never ask you to explain. They keep ringing, keep fishing, keep scooping up shit. In another thirty years, with my bones brittle and the ice caps melted, who knows where you and I will be. I'll be old, and if I'm lucky, you'll be patient, and you'll hold my elbow as slog through the seas. Your adulthood, it is blue and shapeless, mysterious as the light from the neighbors' TV. Look now as the ducks fight the current, as the sun wanes, as again you begin your lament of the lobsters, a story that belongs just to you and me.

Thank You, God, for Moments Like These

Scene: The playground
Actors: Two girls from what appears to be a Christian homeschool collective

Girl 1: Frisbees are not stupid!
Girl 2: Yes, they are!
Girl 1: No, they're not!
Girl 2: Yes, they are!
Girl 1: No! You don't understand! Frisbees are . . . are . . . made by God, and everything made by God is good!

(Girl 2, now convinced that frisbees are not stupid, piously tosses the disk around with Girl 1.)

The Queen of Hyperbole Disappeared for Two Weeks, and All I Got Was This Half-Ass Update

I knew that the rain was maybe starting to get to me when I fantasized about eating a whole block of cheese. And in my fantasy, I didn't waste time (snicker) cutting the cheese. Oh, no. Rather, I took that block of cheese in my hands and bit and bit and bit. And it was good. And it was cheddar. And everything was right as rain. Righter, actually, because this rain, it is not right. It's just always. And I want cheese. And I want sunshine. And I want you to forgive me for going away for so long. And when you forgive me, I want you to kiss me, your breath cool and minty, your teeth coyly peeking from between your lips. And I'll share my cheese. My cheddar cheese. The cheese of my fantasies.

Jesus Christ, haven't you missed me?

So I celebrated my 36th birthday last Friday. It was a good birthday, except for the rain, spent with a friend and some out-of-town family. I had lunch--a soft crab sandwich (which I totally just typed as soft crap sandwich), sweet potato fries, fresh fruit and a mimosa--at Miss Shirley's, a restaurant that, for unexplained reasons, I only visit on my birthdays. After lunch, I went home and cleaned for company, and then I managed to squeeze in a nap. For dinner, we ate Chinese. And birthday cake. And my father scared the shit out of everyone by pretending to support John McCain. He had us going a little, too, until he slipped and called McCain a crusty old fuck. And then we laughed. A lot. Because we're a nice family, and it's a gift to be surrounded by people you love.

Speaking of old fucks, though, can you believe that I am 36? I mean, my high school graduation was half my life ago.

Aren't you glad you came back? Aren't you? Stay tuned for a blending of Cole and Caroline's requests; I call it The Meaning of Life, in Pubic Hair.

Oh, and I love you!