Archive for August, 2010

“I’m afraid we live at the mercy of a power, maybe a God, without mercy. And yet we find it, as I have, from others.” —Philip Levine


if heaven had a window…

Shit, piss, spit, and vomit. These are the things that rock my kid’s world right now. I think this is the closest thing to having a boy that I’ll ever know. I have opened her Calvin and Hobbes books to find pages and pages edited to add illustrations of projectile vomit spewing forth from open mouths. Her  ever present cute and sweet stuffed kitty, Georgette, has the bladder the size of a pea and sprays everywhere, unselfconsciously and without couth. Last year, at my family’s annual vacation at the lake thing, she took an unofficial survey of everyone’s “throw-up” sounds. Wouldn’t surprise me if she still remembers everyone’s. But I’m pretty sure she’ll re-query, just to make sure. Know your vomit sounds, everybody.

We spent a lot of time together on buses on a recent trip. Mercifully, no fellow passengers were  questioned about their body functions.

Ipods come in handy, I have found, on such trips. With a pair of earphones clapped around her little head, she can listen to Maroon 5’s This Love againagainagain to her heart’s content, and I can listen to my own stuff without her making fun of my taste in music.

We boarded the bus to Boston and she got pensive. She looked at me. I braced. I know that look.  I sucked in my breath and looked back  at her, waiting.



“Remember when we were talking about heaven last night?”


“Well, what color is it?”

“Any color you want. Heaven is anything you want it to be.”

“Oh. What color is yours?”


“Oh! I want blue! Wait, no! I want a RAINBOW heaven!!!!”

O.k. So now she is obsessed with heaven, thanks to Tom Tom Club’s Genius of Love, her new favorite song, and a coupla days hanging out in old cemetaries, pondering the big questions. And I think that’s pretty cool, though somewhat unnerving when she asks me why she can’t go to heaven RIGHT NOW.

Yesterday was my late sister’s birthday. Not that she knew that.  She’s dancing, with a rubber snake coiled around her head, appropriately, to Lady GaGa.

“You know Mama…Aunty Paula’s in heaven….”

“I know…”

“Why should SHE be having all the fun?!?!!!!?”

Oh, sweetie.

thinking about “her”

ever notice how “heroin” begins with “her”? just thinking….

mighty hearts

I liked this article in Springfield’s Valley Advocate about the poet/activist Maurice Taylor. Some people that survive childhood abuse and live to tell remind me of boxers in their everyday resilience, strength, and grace. Getting up off of the mat to face another day and potential rounds of  anxiety, random flashbacks, and repressed pain is utterly grueling.  I would love to sit down and chat with this man.

And I really fucking hate abusers who damage little children. Makes me feel positively homicidal.

keeping it light

I was recently reading the editor of Saveur magazine’s list of five embarrassing comfort foods. I have five. But unlike he, I’m unembarrassed.

1. Cottage cheese and potato chips. Preferably w/salt and vinegar, but as long as it’s not barbecue. I think Roz got me hooked on this. I try not to indulge in front of other people, who think it’s disgusting. Kiddo, included.

2. Grated potatoes w/garlic and onions, with a side of sour cream, bleu cheese dressing, or ranch, in a pinch. Roz started that one also.

3. French fries and bleu cheese dressing. Preferably large steak fries, or crispy wedges. But I’ll take any fry I can find, when the mood strikes.

4. Stove Top stuffing. I lied. This one’s embarrassing, a little.

5. Butterfinger candy bars, which, like Oreos, must be eaten in a certain way. First the chocolate shell is nibbled at all over, then I chip away at the inside. I let the little flaky bits of peanutbutter goodness melt, and it’s heaven.


Fiona covers. She’s such a chanteuse! Even the kiddo likes “A-Ona” Apple. Lady Gaga?!? Katy Perry?!? Taylor Swift?!? pffft!

Bill Wither’s Use Me

Why Try to Change Me Now

I Walk a Little Faster

You Belong To Me

Another of those wise, wild Welshmen….

-The more I study religions the more I am convinced that man never worshipped anything but himself.

-Home is where the books are.

-A man that hoards up riches and enjoys them not, is like an ass that carries gold and eats thistles.

-Richard Burton

August 2010
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