i dont drink but tonight i wore a missile toe and mimosa t-shirt with the arms cut off to qualify for the ugly sweater party. all of my friends are beautiful. they donned their santa-riding-a-unicorn sweaters and acrylic reindeer shells and tried to neutralize their exquisiteness with Tacky - but it is just impossible. one friend showed me an app where she could wipe her screen with her index finger and she swore it was erasing our wrinkles. i could not stop laughing. not because i couldn't tell the difference but because i thought it was so damn funny that she would try to erase the wrinkles on a photo of something so imperfectly perfect already. plus it was the way her finger rubbed back and forth naive almost, the finger, i could barely take it. friendship cannot be measured in cocktails poured or hors d'oeuvres served or even sweaters worn. but little fingers on screens and white elephant re-gifts and the magic of reading the bill held out three feet in front of you... one eye closed for squinting the other shot full of love. girlfriends are just the best. there is no other way to say it.
Forty is a magic number like 7 and 11 and 13. Forty is when you are closer to fifty that you are to twenty and you just cannot believe it. It is also when mean people start to not matter and your real friends show themselves and your occupation is only part of who you are. It matters who you love when you are forty - because you realize you may be half way home or on the back nine or however you say to old to screw around anymore. It matters who loves you back now also - more than it did before - because who has time anymore for half-assed love affairs and broken promises and the greatest insult of indifference? Forty is great because you really start to care about things that matter - differently than you could when you were thirty - and you've lived enough life to simply reply "because i said so" when someone asks you why. At 46, I'm thinking 'hells to the yeah' just watch me put in some crest strips and hit Facebook - i'll write a poem all about the life.
the rain is back this time like a no nonsense bag lady collecting hours and their passing. i wanted to say something important today but there was turkey and cranberry mold funeral potatoes and green beans crispy onion, corn and cream - plus cookies and cake and pie. that shut me up like a million lazy minutes and all i could say was thank you. when we decide to age together and i mean really age - without all the trying - i hope you will remember that i am cute.
please don't tell anyone but i have a Chiweenie. his name is Felix. Felix is a small appetizer of a dog - a little Fifi - a tiny Foo. He tries very hard to speak to me with leaps and racing, a cocked head, a shiver, a whine. When I returned home from work today he tore circles around me in delight and said, unabashedly, "I left you a tootsie roll near the door."
almost like a thief the night crept out in an afro on platform heels. los dias de la muerte happens early with lip-stitch scars, bustiere,sexy kitten cop and you. the convict and the donald are the quiet ones. what i love is that you kept carrying the purse even after you took the dress off, your painted Flinstone toes their own little shop of horror. his bones were fancy that's for sure - while little red balls dangle from her montera. a ghostbuster, a hippy and a dancing queen polish grapes while i stretch across rock and stone to count the stars. all the matadors here are wrestling Taurus from the sky.
Brothers fight. They just do. Maybe not all of them, but I suspect a large majority do. I remember the pediatrician telling me, when they were only about 2 and 4 years old, “Don’t ever assume that the older one started it, even if it always appears that way. I assure you the younger one did something to provoke it, even if it was just being born.” Well that sure put a fresh and unusual twist on things. Most of the time, this insight makes me rethink the desire to dog-pile the older one and hold him down until he cries “Uncle”. To squash the tyranny out of his little self. Of course, the younger one isn’t always at fault either, unless you believe the idea that he chose to come into this family, rather than being the involuntary result of me sleeping really close to the man who’d been toting his yet-morphed form around in his pants. Being inappropriate is a little scary. The monster that fighting boys are capable of turning me into is a little scary also. Scary things are scary.
because I am such a die-hard “Tiger Mom”, I tossed out the 20 minute a day reading rule this week and spent the last few days with my son watching about 20 hours of complete brain cell-killing television shows. We even watched WWE – or whatever you call those bizarre nearly embarrassing “wrestling” performances with the big guys in small shorts who talk like they are
hold ing pallets of steel dung
in their arms and are trying to gather the
strength to form
big words like “the” and “belt”.
Then I offered lots of pancakes and pizza and other fortifying food so he would have the energy to go pick out a 7 pound Chihuahua from the local rescue, because he hadn’t done anything to deserve it. After that we had salmon because it is good and not because it makes you smart and I served him non-organic cherries in a bowl with a lil’ pitt dish I re-purposed from a broken measuring cup. I let him sleep through the little chihuahua’s night-time crate training while I took on the job, even though I had said in no uncertain terms that he’d be the one waking up in the middle of the night. When my son finally did wake up, I made him more pancakes and put a band-aid on the hole in his face he got from a box of ridiculous firecrackers I bought him for the fourth of July. It’s tough being such a strict, bad-ass Tiger mom.