Dear Aries, February will bring career opportunities, lots of cashola, and mucho romance into your otherwise dull life. On February 1, you will wake up rested, despite the residual hacking cough that is plaguing you and your family. You will meet a psychic who will explain squirrel psychology to you in great detail. You will snuggle with Batman, play chess with Kim Possible, and vacuum up thousands of tiny crumbs. You will write a fictional story about sexual dysfunction. You will drink beer without guilt, for it will be February! Don’t make any important life decisions until you have downed at least two drinks, dear, when tipsiness and the horned moon combine to project your astral energy towards fulfillment and a prized inability to think clearly. Happy day, dear Aries!
Meet my new mascot: Edgy Devil Duck. He broodingly sits on the dashboard of the baby Beluga (Honda Civic Hybrid) casting evil spells on anyone dumb enough to drive like an idiot in my general vicinity. He also keeps a watchful eye on any attempted hijinks occurring in the back seat (between my offspring, of course). Though we’ve only been together for a short time, EDD and I have bonded quickly. It’s the horns, I think.
(Thanks, Beth M, for bringing EDD into my life).
Number one sign of impending senility? Plus proof that I, too, despite my best intentions, will one day drive my offspring nuts? I’ve started drooling over their baby photos. I never thought that I, who struggled mightily with the loss of freedom and independence that Momhood wrought, would get all gooey over memories of my kids’ baby years.
Here’s what has happened. After 4 1/2 years of having my boy sleep for all or part of the night in the bed with me, I have cajoled him, with chocolate, to spend the entire night in his own bed. And I’m grieving. He’s such a big boy now. Waaaaaa!
Here he is four years ago, exactly. Yummy, isn’t he? Next I’ll be doddering on about the good old days when I wore spit-up as perfume and my home had the permanent stench of poo. Sigh.
Sorry for the lack of enlightment and entertainment this week. Can I just say again that those of you who are single parents are saints? All single parents deserve a special place in the afterlife or a karmic upgrade or to be reincarnated as royalty. E-spouse has been out of town since Monday, and I am exhausted, sick, impatient, irritable, and, yes, booorrrring.
I have not written a word of fiction this week, despite my plans to the contrary (having a plan does not always mean I FOLLOW it). I am thinking, however, about preparing for my on-line short fiction course that starts Tuesday. I’ve offered up a short story for the group’s delectation the VERY FIRST WEEK. And it’s a rather racy one as well. Not erotica per se, but somewhat erotic. Responses will be intriguing.
Finally, I need a little help. My four-year-old, who prefers to be called Batman, has been asking some difficult questions lately. Questions that I cannot answer without the help of a medical textbook. Questions like:
He: “Mommy, how do we talk?” Me: “Too loudly.”
He: “Mommy, why can’t the cats talk?” Me: “They can, but they can’t use words because they don’t have vocal cords (I have no clue if this is true).”
He: “Mommy, how do my ears work?” Me: “Not well, baby.”
He: “Mommy, why are you pulling out your hairs?” Me: “Because they sometimes grow in the wrong places or they’re the wrong color or, hell, because I might as well do something while I’m sitting and watching you take a bath.”
You can vote for the finalists in the 2006 Bloggies. I’m familiar with a few of the finalists, but not many. None do I read on a regular basis. But, of course, I am intrigued by the competition. Unfortunately they don’t have a “Best Former Debutante Turned Hippie Mommy Blog” category.
I will find you and cling to you like no other.
You will feel light-headed and dizzy when I am with you.
I will make you ache and sigh and moan.
I will keep you up late at night; yes, I will wear you out.
I will leave you, but I’ll be back–when you least expect it.
Love,
Your sinus infection
Finally, we have a story up on Flasheville. If you like flash fiction, stop by for a visit. If you write flash fiction, e-mail us a story at flashus@flasheville.com. We’re babes in the fiction publishing world, so we don’t pay or prize – yet. But lots of people in the biz will be dropping by, we hope. At this point, look for a new story every three or four days. Feedback encouraged and appreciated. Enjoy!
Today is my actual one-year blogaversary. So tonight I will drink beer, or perhaps the bottle of bubbly that’s been chilling in the fridge since Christmas.
Jim put up a cute, celebratory card at Blogasheville for Edgy Me and syntax, who was at the one-year mark two days ago. Thanks, Jim!
As I mentioned earlier this week, today is also Squirrel Appreciation Day. Thus, it seems fitting to re-post a much-loved story in honor of my friend and nemesis, Mr. Squirrel. Enjoy!
“Mom, Mr. Squirrel’s in the house.”
I charge down the stairs and onto our screened-in porch to see two kids and one cat confronting one small gray squirrel, who is chattering angrily. On one hand, Mr. Squirrel is practically family. He lives in the hickory tree that shades our home, spends mealtimes eating out of our bird feeder, and entertains the kids by letting them chase him. The kids have their own mantra/handshake: they put their hands together, throw them up in the air, and yell, “Wild Kids. Squirrel Chasers.” Then they run out the back door to chase Mr. Squirrel away from the bird feeder. On the other hand, he has fleas, so he is not allowed in the house.
About three weeks ago, our son punched a hole through one of the screens, which he immediately blamed on the cats. It was through this hole that Mr. Squirrel gained entry to the porch. I quickly closed the doors into the main part of the house and opened the screen doors to the outside–and the chase began. Mr. Squirrel kept avoiding the doors and climbing up into the exposed eaves. Rocky, the fat cat, was intrigued, but he learned long ago that Mr. Squirrel too fast for him to catch.
Eventually, after much yelling, sweating, and waving of plastic swords, we banished Mr. Squirrel back to his tree. I’ve fixed the broken screen with safety pins, which, although not a deterrent to mosquitoes, should prevent Mr. Squirrel’s reentry.
After it was all over, my son, said, “Mom, that was so much fun.”
Yesterday, I met with Chusy Jardine, writer and director of asheville the movie. The movie is currently on a short filming hiatus while the crew waits for new camera equipment. I can’t tell you much about the film, except that it is fricking hilarious, is set in our funky mountain town, and a year from now, I hope, will be taking Sundance.
The best part of hanging with Chusy is listening to the man talk. He has a sexy South American lilt to his speech and mixes three-dollar words with slang and curse words, producing an pleasant and slightly shocking melange that sucked in this listener. I adore people who have the verve to use the words “jejune” and “fricking” in the same sentence.
Probably because I do the same. Enviro-spouse accuses me of having a mild form of Tourette’s Syndrome. Although I never curse at the kids, I do occasionally drop inappropriate words into my conversations with them, and then seem surprised at myself for my lack of filters. But they do have a rich vocabulary…
Also yesterday, I had lunch with two of my most pervasive commenters. One is a friend, whom I see often, but the other I’d never met off-line before. And they’re related – to each other. Who reads this blog carefully enough to guess with whom I ate barbecue? An autographed copy of Storm Mountain to the first correct answer (My guess? SC will be the first – although it is Saturday, so he may not be glued to his ‘puter this morning).
Today a judge in sunny LA granted Angelina Jolie’s wish to have her children’s surnames legally changed from Jolie to Jolie-Pitt. Which sounds to me like a fancy French bathroom.
Why didn’t Brad Pitt change his surname to something a bit more interesting twenty years ago? He could have been Brad Pittsburgh or Brad Pitstop or Brad Pitroleum. And, if they marry, will he take the surname Jolie-Pitt as well? Maybe it is an improvement over the spit-inducing monosyllable he’s currently graced with.
So let’s get the timeline straight. A year ago this month, Pitt was vacationing on a tropical beach with his wife, Jennifer. Upon their return home, they announced that they were separating. Rumors swirled that the breakup was because of Pitt’s interest in Jolie. Then Pitt and Jolie began traveling the world together, doing good deeds, including visiting Ethiopia so Jolie could pick up her second adopted child. In October, Pitt’s divorce was finalized.
Now Pitt is adopting Jolie’s adopted children, and, ta-dum, forget rescuing another cute ethnic baby, let’s have our own. Judging from Angie’s bump, she’s at least four months along. Which means, omigosh, how did we celebrate the impending divorce, kids? By pulling the goalie, perhaps?
Ah, to be young, fertile, rich and in love.
