Why are these boobs so complicated?

If you didn't know this already, here's the deal.

Big boobs are painful.

And apparently, no one in the brassiere industry has ever had big boobs. Especially not real ones. I'm looking at you "Victoria's Secret". Huuuh! What? Was that an innuendo about plastic surgery?! Gasp! What? Whaaaat? Huuuuh! She's the first person to have ever made that joke! Ever! Everrrrrrrrr! Ack!

Whatever. Anyway, big bras are hard to find. That is, if you are an identifying bio-female who doesn't want to look like a rayon banana slug when she takes off her flowy-peasant-top or XL-Pearl Jam-t-shirt. A female who wants to have a crack in her stack that isn't melting all the way to her belly button. A female who also wants her shit to stay in place when she walks down the street, and not bouncing around 180 degrees until they are bruised. Yes, bruised.

America, this bra doesn't exist.

I've only been a top heavy member of society for a couple of years, as my body blessed me with a disgusting last-minute growth spurt in my mid 20's. Yay. Thanks. So maybe I'm still waiting to get the secret catalog for sexy and practical giant titties. Maybe. More likely, the helmet sized black and tan safety gear I find around town is about all you can get, unless you want to go the other route and get some fake-lace-nipple-chaffing-hooker-reject-gear from bargain basements near your local strip mall. I want neither! I'm a fairly normal person and I want to feel like my breasts sit where all the normally-chested people's breasts sit. And I want it to look cute. But I guess I want it all!!!!!!

What I'm saying is, at last I found a tit harness that does the following:
--keeps that shit in place
--helps make proper posture possible
--does not encourage unsightly bulging or creasing
--makes me forget I'm wearing a bra

Alas, alack! What a find, America! What a fucking find! But you know what the catch is?
A. It is ugly. I look like a burn victim in recovery with this thing on.
B. It is big. To be so supportive and comfortable, it takes up most of the land mass known as my breast bone/collar bone/shoulders. Tank tops have ceased to be an option.
AND C. someHOW, this shit does the worst thing a big bra can do--it makes the boobs look small.

I was willing to live with A and B of the con category for the comfort and mobility this apparatus allows, but visible decrease in cup size?!?! Here it goes:
**I was blessed (for argument's sake) with naturally huge jugs, and you want to take that away from me?!?!
**You think it's somehow more comfortable for identifying bio-women to look like they're trying to bind their chests?! Hear. Me. If I wanted to bind my breasts I would do it, and I would do it without the help of a "ladies brassiere", thank you very much.

**Being a top heavy person, I am not just huge jug-ed. I am also large arm-ed, puffy chin-ed, thick waist-ed, and fully muffin top-ed. I kind of need the boobs to make the rest make sense. I don't want to draw attention to my rack, I just want to seem proportionate. Like a stalky apple on toothpicks. A bag of whipped potatoes on homemade candlesticks. A lumpy shape on a hairy skinny shape.

But let's at least make the lumps make sense. The thing is when you take the boobs and make them small boobs then the rest of the body looks swollen and odd. Small boobs are another thing. But compressing bigger ones into rectangular blobs is an odd stoplight between neck avenue and rib street.

So here we are, America. A search I thought had finally ended still blazes on. Big boobs can not truly have it all. Not to mention how time is not on their side. In the world of undergarments; asthetic, flattery, and comfort aren't either.

The question remains:
Why are these boobs so complicated?

to tweet or not to tweet

I need your help.
About a lot of things. (see: probably every conversation I've ever had with any of you)

But right now I have this twitter issue.
I have a lot of issues with twitter. My main issue is that it is stupid. No one is so important that the world should be updated on how tired they are at work, or how good their McNuggets taste. just put that shit on your facebook. It's like having a mini facebook. Tweeting barely even allows enough space to make jokes. And even if you did tell jokes on twitter, I would still say it's stupid. It's like a tiny blog, but the blog is about your favorite color m & m, or the consistency of your morning poops.

That being said, I got this thing going on. I'm starting to sell the stuff I make online. Not that it's good, not that everyone needs it--but I keep sewing shit onto shit and people keep being like "oh woah, mama, that shit's cute" so I was like "well, eff it then. I'ma be brave." Bam. Internet.

It seems like everyone who sells stuff they make has a twitter for it. Even when I made a facebook page, facebook keeps wanting me to link it to a twitter. Is a twitter helpful? If barely anyone cares now about what I make, would they care more if I had a twitter?

Should I make a twitter for goods and services (apparel)?
Help me, America. Help me hard.

mama

Dear, what is a life? Gene edition

What is a life? We have it, and we call it being alive. And then we don't have it, and we call that being dead.

I spend most of my life thinking about all of the things I want to do, plan to do, need to do, and feeling lazy/nervous/like a loser that it's not all happening quicker, and more clearly. To be honest, I have spent much of my young time questioning if I am already too old to achieve my goals, and if I am perhaps a person destined for a life of mediocrity. It has
not been until the last couple of years that I have started to
understand that personal happiness is a part of life goals that shows itself in the form of many things. It's the job you keep day to day, the relationship you have with your partner, the relationships you have with the people you let into your life, the sweet playtime with your awesome dog, buying a home, going on a trip, building something, having a goddamned hobby, being brave minute to minute, payig millions of bills on time, getting up early, sleeping well, nutrition, vitamins, books, blah blah blah. So many little fucking things that are JUST AS important as being a fucking revolutionary in your art. Needless to say it has been amazing to open up to all of these thugs. These little facets. These parts of a larger body we attribute to being a "life".

Well, it's almost my birthday. By this age I was certain i would be famous, influential, or at least not still working in a restaraunt. But this isn't about my life. And I can whine about that later.

Someone special died today. (no, not minute bol, though I am sure he was quite special). My best friends dad left the world with the memory of his humor, tenacity, stoicness, wisdom, and sweet energy this afternoon. And people die, I know. I am starting to get that by now. Like a sad hammer hitting me over the head again and again andagainandagain. But each time I have to think about life and death
and what the fuck this all is all over again. This person was so great. And not the way I ask myself to be great. He had tangible goals, enjoyed things as they happened, and ate a hot dog when he felt like it. He did not sit around telling himself thathis life was this untangiable thing. He grabbed it by the throat and did it. In a sweet and respectable way of course. He was a father to me
in many times that I needed one. And even when I didn't, and just stayed on his couch, made His son drive me to doctor's appointments, and watch marathons on his extended cable tv, he was still there for me. Infalliable. The man had a lot to give. And he did, without expectation or acknowledgement. A truely great man.

So I don't mean to go on and on, or wax blasé sentimental about someone who can't even see it, but it is makingme think. HE is making me think. What is a life? I guess I don't really know yet. If a life is what I've defined it as for myself it is an untangiable, unsatisfied machine. And maybe it should be something you hold onto while you have
it. Something you appreciate, for whatever it is. And that doesn't mean you have to get too comfortable in it and stop
reaching for more, but you can really embrace the reality of what's happening, the people you're with, and how you show gratitude.

Beacuse we are not owed this life.
We get it for a time, and then it's gone. Nothing waits for us to be ready to dive into it.
So, excused, if I sound like something oprah says or something you read in "new christian's monthly", but I am thankful that this man is making the question relevant.

What is a life? It's the only thing you have, and everything else is a part of it's one, big, short thing.

Thank you, Gene.

Dear, Things I Don't Get ep. 1

I mean, there are just so many things I don't get.

Why do I spend all day at my (OLD!) job thinking about all of the things I'm going to write about when I get home, all of the grown-up housely duities I am going to perform, all of the things I will put away and clean and make orderly, all of the career-forwarding emails I will write numbers I will phone call and moves I will make, all of the friends I will reconnect with, all of the things I have made that I will put on the internet for people to look at and buy--why do I spend ten hours thinking about these things, and then get home and sit like a lump on my bed, staring off foggy-eyed, letting my dog lick my nose, trying to remember a single one of those things, but coming up only with the looming loser-inducing issues like "I still have to do my taxes" and "If I'm this tired everyday I will never get anything done and will be a barista for the rest of my life". I don't get it. I don't get where all of those thoughts and ideas and motivations went. I don't get why at 11:00 life feels possible, but by 6:30 I can peel myself off the bed long enough to shuttle dog food from the fridge to the bowl. I.DON'T.GET.IT.

I don't get why people walk into restaraunts and cafes and think it's ok to just put their dirty pedestrian hands all over whatever they want. Instead of first paying for it and waiting for someone who works there to give it to them. ExfuckingSCUSE me? You see a plate of cookies for sale on a counter. You dig through them to find the one you want while waiting in line to order your food? You see a pie of quiche. You scoop your hands into that pie of quiche to find a slice you like, while you wait in line to order your food? Who the fuck do you think you are, buddy? You disgusting clueless moron. Not even a sneeze guard keeps people away. I have seen people reach OVER the sneeze guard to try and get at a muffin or tart that they just can't POSSIBLY wait to be served because their very important and entitled and gluttonous and EMBARASSING. Some people don't understand logic about dining out, and I don't get it. I don't get that. You can make six and a half / seven figures a year, and yet you have no common sense. DON'T.GET.IT.

I don't get why you know more as you get older, but things also become harder. Shouldn't I be able to know more about how finance works AND be able to do the splits? Shouldn't I be capable of excelling at personal and professional relationships AND be able to stay up all night without crying and/or puking? Don't get it. I don't get that one, and it's a real bummer.

Also, what I don't get is why I don't have the energy to finish this list of things that I don't get (aka generally things that bug me). I've been up since 5 and it's 11:00, which, is, like, the middle of the day almost. Hey, desk job, buddy: Let's go brew a pot! of coffee. fyi.

Dear you started slow, you got what you wanted

So you expected nothing...and you got all this. What an experience to try something and come out the other side with so many tickets open. So many people listening. So many avenues to drive your new thing through. It's been a while now. Some years. Seems like it's still going for you. What an amazing case of "right place:right time" plus "right stuff". Your story is somewhat of a dream. And I love you and am inspired by you and want to see what you are ever to create in the future, but you must know: sometimes my ideas mean nothing because we are so much alike. And you got there first so I sound like I'm imitating. And I frankly don't know how to do anything else besides what I am inclined/know how to do, so I am at a bit of a loss. You told the story of the people I wanted to tell a story about. Back to one. You wrote the tone I wanted to share. Back to square one. I don't know what you want for yourself. Maybe you feel you're at one. Maybe you don't feel like you're anywhere at all. When to me it is so clear you are on a party boat off of Miami waiving "fuck you" to the rest of us not-so-goods in gold lamae. My standards aren't super high for success. But to me, you are doing it. And it seems your travels lead to experience and greatness.

Not the most eloquent, but for truth and in virtue the most honest
Mama

The Past and Where you Put it

Dear Past,

I can see why people want to forget you. I can see why people don't want to talk about you or look at your documentations. I thought I was up to it. Now I have to get drunk. Thanks so much. I mean, truthfully it's not your fault. It is NOT your fault. I'm being melodramatic, I know. It would be better to say "it is what it is" and have a good laugh and move on. But you know, Past, I have a rash on my face. An unexplained rash that has been here for weeks. It continues to spread and grow and it is not an allergic reaction to anything. It is just here. Just hanging out on my dry, patchy face. And while sometimes I can ignore it or put some medicine on it and keep going, after spending some time with you tonight, Past, I am looking at this rash thinking "how apt". I mean really, what a great symbol of it all.

I do recognize that sometimes when I hang out with you, Past, I leave thinking "thank god" and "hooray for time passing". Mostly I probably think that, no offense, but tonight--paired with a foot injury that keeps me in orthopedic shoes, a moc-turtleneck I thought was comfortable, and a red patchy rash extending across my face--I found myself really missing you.

I mean, the thing is, Past, we had some good times. And above the good times, what I'm reflecting upon tonight, is how OLD I am. How sadly, insufferably old I have become. There was this person, this "me" that you were sharing with me, and that person looks so different than what I am now. I am having a hard time over here. And I know you're not trying to get me down, you're just presenting the facts. But the facts are hurtful. I mean, I wish you would have TOLD me, Past--I wish you would have told me what was going to happen. How everything was going to spread out and sag and swell and then sag even more. How my hair was going to get thin and limp and my freckles would fade and my chins would flow over one another like an American waterfall if I ever moved my head and my eyes would get foggy and my expressions would become more unsightly than they are creative. I wish you would have told me. Yes, I know if you had I couldn't have believed it, but Past, I have to say, I wish I could have found a way.

Nostalgia is a funny feeling. Sometimes it's laced with regret and remembering, and sometimes it's bookended by laughter and greatfulness. Tonight it's confusing. I love those things I saw pictures of. I love those times and the way I can remember them. But hey, how did that person experiencing all those things in the pictures become so different? That person does not seem like this person with an awful rash and broken feet. I don't even remember I smiled like that.

I don't remember I could smile like that. Do you know what that means? I looked at myself, and I didn't remember I could be like that. I don't remember. It's not even that long ago, and I don't remember it. I don't remember how to do it anymore. I know how to be happy, and I smile truly, but that thing--those faces--you showed to me tonight? I don't remember them.

I am smarter now, that much we can agree on. I am kinder, clearer, calmer. All of that is good. for all of that I am grateful, and for all of that I would not go back. But to look sweet and alive and excited and enraptured and consumed and hopeful and charged? Well, I might feel those things still, but I don't look them. The proof is in you, Past, you know that. To look them again, what a feeling. The cheese, the burritos, the late nights, the lack of fruit, the cigarettes, the worry, the poor time management, the brown food diet, the beer. It's all gotten part of me.


The question is, Past, can I turn this into something we look at together and laugh about and say we learned from and move on? Or is this just who I am now?

Is it? Or is it?
Mamma

Dear Worry and Mice

The mice have been in my shoes. Can't wear the old ones like I used to, they won't close, 13 black ones, 4 reds, a little note at the bottom of each. You waste too much you want too much you weren't paying attention. Everything seemed clearer a bit ago but slowing down slows it all down, which seems like a feat considering that at any time before now it would have seemed slow. Slowest. This is the slowest. This is the slowest of the right now in memory. The memory has a way of being against me.

I used to stay up late, young, with a fever to keep going and an angst to get farther: all the "you'll see"s and "just wait until"s. Now it's sitting staring at the lamp with yellow light that flickers behind the dirty screen that's not mine with a worry and a far away sickness: the "what is this" and "what if not". Not doing so well with the Wide Open Spaces bit of the Rest of my Life; the long long path of nothing but what I make of it. I knew this was coming but I didn't know how it would feel and it feels old--no I feel old--and it feels like it knows and it's laughing at me, challenging me. The Everything about Right Now which is the same as Tomorrow is challenging me and I could take it, hard, if it didn't take long. But I know it takes long. It takes until I die. How do I not get tired. How do I not turn the volume of the show up and stare off, far away. How do I not tune out to something someone else already did when it's most comforting to see a final product--any final product. Do the dishes again, you know where they go. Pick out an outfit from the clothes that don't fit anymore, they're the only ones you own. Make a list on the back of an old receipt, making a list is almost like actually doing something.

That thing people think when they're safe inside an educational construct, that "maybe you're not good enough"--that thing you quiet with the praise of your peers and the looming deadline of something you wouldn't complete on your own? That thing is true. MAYBE YOU'RE NOT. MAYBE YOU'RE REALLY NOT. A lot of people aren't. Maybe you're one of them. Could be. Truly, very well could be. Your own abstract ideas about how good you are and what you can accomplish and the stars you're going to reach for and the star you're going to be don't mean anything. What you're doing right now means something. And what you're doing right now is dishes and staring at an old cheap lamp and watching the mice shit in your shoes that don't have soles anymore, and the part about the soles is not a metaphor. Your shoes don't have soles anymore. And they're filled with mouse shit. And you can't kill the mice. That's not a metaphor either. You can't kill them. You can't. And on your off days you would say that also you are unable to get your life into high gear--the highest of moving gears--and don't even know what they look like. What do the gears look like. What do any of the gears look like?
Someone else has made them. While you were thinking about what your life looks like and feels like, someone else has already made an interactive diagram about what YOUR EXACT LIFE looks like and feels like. The people who made these things were not waiting for anything. They just went forward and made programs for you to feel and think the things that you, as yourself, were not ready or able to think or feel, but TO ANYONE ELSE would provide a window into the deeper emotional psyche of you. Someone smarter has created a project for people to know you better, and you don't even know yourself. Enjoy that.

Not that it's bad. It's not terrible, is it. No. But sometimes it mounts on itself.

Dear Work, #1?

Dear,

Been working. It feels good to work again. It feels good to be doing the work I have aimed at making my life about. It feels good to not be lazy; to not be satisfied with the unhappiness of just making coffee, and just thinking about it all. It feels good to be with friends the way I want and need and haven't been able to get to for the longest of times. Internal, it feels good to be swimming through that.

It feels good to think about working my whole life if I can be doing this work. Isn't the goal to make your life's work one that you can embrace with pride and honesty, and not one that happens to you while you're trying not to stare the reality of it in the face? Ten years from now I want to look back on this and know that for those ten years, I really tried. And that "really trying" meant that I finally let go of some of the burdens of fear and just trudged forward, and just believed I was worthy of the dreams I have always had. That "really trying" meant being shitty a lot of time, but that I wanted to keep doing it, and that I wanted to learn.

That is where we're at right now. The time to cry about your lack of "just deserves" has passed now. You are a grown up. You can chase your dream down, or you can be miserable into adulthood, and push that misery onto your following generations. And I'm sitting right now, feeling like this will be easy because I want it so bad. I haven't felt the next round of stumbling blocks yet. But just being gifted the tenacity to get to this point--right here--right now--maybe that one push means you can have others. I can have others. WE can have others.

Maybe my point is that when you want your life to be about something, you should make your life about that thing. And stop waiting for it TO HAPPEN TO YOU.

Because a couple months ago I had this thought: You have all these ideas of things to create, and make happen. YOU are the only person who can do that. No one else can take the internal and actualize it besides you. If you don't, it will go to waste.

So let's not waste. Let's at least just try.

Realizing the obvious, in hard hitting ways,
MAMA

Seems, so obvious and simple, I know. But still, thinking it was like waking up. Remembering I am the only person who can have my own ideas--and that they're mine for a reason. That feels good to remember.

SO I'm working on it now. And it's amazing. I hope everyone is working on it. Carol Burnett, I'm channeling you. Let's do this life. It's the only one I can do.

Dear Bummers # 1 and 2, for your consideration

I've let this one sit a while. I wrote these over two (three?) weeks ago. They seemed harsh. So I left them alone. Over that time these subjects have come up in conversation, and every time I say nearly what I had written prior. Thusly, I have come to the conclusion that these are my legitimate viewpoints on the events in question.

I think it's good to choose your jerky, self-righteous, grand-standing, chest-puffing, soap-boxing, finger-pointing moments on issues. You can't get mad about everything. Well, some people do. But you can't share them all the time. People would stop listening to you. So, after considering them for some time, I feel solid about these bummers. Bummers, #1 and #2....

Dear Bummer #1,
I don't know what was happening in your day. And yes, I acknowledge that. It would be shitty for me to assume that you are supposed to operate in "super nice" mode all of the time. I don't. Especially at work. And you, 1, were at work. So I get it. So I didn't expect you to engage in personal or perky conversation. But I didn't expect you to be kind of...well...the way you were. Maybe I was expecting civility and or courtesy before you decided I wasn't worthy of being kind to. Maybe that was wrong of me. Needless to say, when I came to you on an 80-some degree day and said "hey, there's a dog tied up outside. Do you think you have a bowl of water or something I could bring him?" And you responded to me coldly, and tersely, I was confused. This seemed to be a bother to you. You didn't understand. Why would I want this bowl of water?
I explained again.
"Well," you asked, "is it YOUR dog?"
No, I said. It's not.
"Well then I wouldn't worry about it," you told me.
"So you're not going to give me any water?" I asked, confused, yes, about why this would be such a weird thing to ask.
You repeated "I wouldn't worry about it."
I feel it's necessary to let anyone else reading this know that you made a point of not looking me in the eye throughout the conversation, and when you did it was a punctuation of condescension. Though a small detail, it is one that does not go unnoticed as I have long been around people who build social identities by letting others know they're not worthy of their time. But I digress...
"...mmm...ok." I was at an impasse. There I was, an admittant dog enthusiast, just wanting the hot guy to have some relief. Oh water, the horror! Maybe not everyone would react as I do to a dog being tied up in the heat, and I understood, so I made a joke:
"Oh, you're a cat person, aren't you?" But you were not in the mood for jokes and shirked me off. Snorting at me, then looking over, around, and through me you went back to your work.
I walked out of the restaurant, patted the dog, and went on with my day. My friends were waiting for me down the street.
What I thought of saying to you two blocks away was this:
I hope someday you are tied to a post on a hot day, and nobody brings YOU any water BECAUSE THEY DON'T OWN YOU.
You totally logical and caring person. You were so rude about such a little thing. I'm not a lunatic or an animal freak, I just know that many places will put bowls of water out on hot days when they have a dog-toting clientele. But sorry. That must've been my bad. How silly I must have looked. Fuck the dogs, RIGHT?! Better to keep having your crappy day. I hope things changed for you though. I hope a rainbow sprouted overhead and the sky rained chocolate kisses and everyone who crossed your path adorned you with hand shakes and butterfly kisses.
If you're ever stuck outside in the heat, you probably shouldn't ask me for help. I might just not find it my communal responsibility to give you a cup of water.


Dear Bummer #2
Oh you. You probably believe we all have a right to breed. As Americans, I mean. And especially as the monetarily privileged ones. I work for an affluent clientele, so I will be the first one to say that my views on parenting in that neighborhood can be somewhat skewed by my perception of their electives to not participate in the rearing of their children. It's not a part time job in my opinion. But I know I am in no real position to have such opinions as I have no children myself. "Oh goody. Kids are like gerbils. Clean their cage once a week, they're fine." But I digress....
Anyway, you seem like a nice person. A kind person. I actually mostly liked you on your own. But you came in with your family on a Sunday for brunch. Here I would like to say that my place of business is very family friendly--to its detriment at times--and so any day, especially weekends, are frequented by families with small children. I have a very high threshold for erratic behavior from children in public places. But I DO NOT believe they should be allowed to be banshees. Look, I don't have kids, so how could I possibly know how trying it is to raise them. But I do believe if I had them I would be sensitive to other's dinning experiences. And yes, you, this family, I don't mean to offend you, but your children were unacceptable. I am used to seeing fits, and fighting, and vomiting, and crying, and all of that, but these demons you let rule your life were rude, and inexplicably inappropriate in the cafe. Shrill screaming, tantrum throwing, right from the beginning, and you let them. You were sitting right in front of me and I watched you enable them while they cried and screamed and hit and made others feel uncomfortable. I know you made others feel uncomfortable because they told me. Your children offended me and I just get paid to make your coffee.
CORRECTION: Perhaps what truly offended me was that you let them behave in such a way. Especially the super ballistic one. How could you possibly let such abhorrish behavior happen for nearly an hour? That is inconsiderate. Anyone interested can be sent an audio file of a recreation of this terrible, unmonitored behavior. Just, just bad. Like really, really bad. So, 2, you thought it was fine your child(ren) were ruining everyone else's dining experience. Fine.
But here's the problem: When you went outside and left your banshees in a stroller while you chatted with friends, some shit went down. I watched this happen. There was a dog tied up outside. It was being barked at by a dog tied up across the street. It seemed stressed. This was unusual for this dog and I know because the owner talked to me about it while she was in line for coffee. I don't think she was just starting to make things up. While your screaming child was sitting in her stroller and you were chatting with friends, she started provoking the dog. She was pulling on his hair, his tail, putting her hand in his face, his eyes. And when you started to notice, and tried to intervene, the dog nipped at her.
The dog NIPPED at her.
You know how I know? If the dog BIT her, she would need stitches, not a paper towel with an ice cube. Know how I know? Ask for my credentials.
The dog nipped at her, and she screamed more (a surprising feat) and bled some and you freaked out. Of course you freaked out. Of course your baby freaked out. Those things are terrifying when they happen to young children, weather they're nips or scratches or gashes or tears. You spoke to the dog owner, and you left.
Hmm, I thought.
And then you came back today. You came back this morning. You talked to my boss and I stood right there. You told the story in a motherly way, as though no one--not even his highness jesus--saw it happen. Just what you wanted to see happen, through your mommy goggles. You said we shouldn't let dogs stay out front anymore. You know, maybe they'll bite someone. Maybe just a suggestion.

Well, I have a suggestion for you. IF YOU FEEL THAT POTENTIALLY INAPPROPRIATE ANIMALS SHOULD BE TIED UP AROUND THE CORNER, THEN POTENTIALLY INAPPROPRIATE CHILDREN SHOULD BE TIED UP AROUND THE CORNER ALSO.

WATCH YOUR SHIT. IF IT'S A DOG OR A BABY, WATCH YOUR SHIT.

The dog is sitting on public property, but you brought your baby into a restaurant, and then you let it act shitty. And then you let it be inappropriate to an animal in a public space. So that really sounds like your problem, lady. Get your inappropriate human in check. I'm not a baby hater, but get your human in check. I would. I would make it my responsibility. And you know one of the reasons I don't have one? Because I know I don't want that kind of responsibility yet. Shame on you. You can't blame that crap on an animal. Get your people in check. Buck up and take responsibility for how your offspring act in the world. Other people live in it, too.



Oh now, Mama. You sound so bitter, you sound so worked up. Well America, I will tell you. The longer I am in this world, and the harder and more I try to contribute to it, the more I build intolerances. But I don't think I'm totally fucking out to lunch about them. Most of them stem from believing that people can be kind and thoughtful and not entirely selfish--and that it's not really that hard. I mean, it's easier to be selfish, rude, and depressed. But that doesn't mean it's better.

All things otherwise, are on the up and up!
So here's to moving up together,
Mama

Dear, Breaking in the motherboard!

Eee! (pc)

After almost two years of not having my own computer, I do. IT's haaaaaaapening!

The intention of the purchase was to start writing more, and more regularly. It's just a little guy, almost personal pizza sized. Personal pizza pc. But it gets the job done. I think it's a he. Not sure yet...But pretty sure it means there will finally be more writing.

Back in the technology game, y'all! Emmer effers here I come!

Donny Osmond You Are Not A Little Bit Rock n' Roll

I mean, seriously? Was that for real? I'm not trying to rip on Donny Osmond, but did anyone hear that? The very nature of the way he sings those words is so wholesome and dripping-gooey-teen-sugar-vag-cresting-on-a-river-of-fruit-loops-and-chocolate-milk that it kind of is the exact opposite of what someone who is a "little rock n' roll" would sound like. But then, I'm also going on the assumption that rock and roll has a defining sound or look and is not simply a "state of mind" or "way of being". I have, in the past, been informed that it is and that is why "Green Day is the greatest punk band of all time". So. And I'm really not prepared to get into that kind of an argument, or "discussion". So.

Sorry Donny O. Maybe you are a little rock n' roll in there somewhere.

Keep On Chasing tha Paypah

Just Live yo life. "oooooh!" heey eyeey eyyeyyyeeeh.

Yeah.

Before Steven Bach died.
Before Steven Bach died I thought of writing to him. Funny that I thought of writing to him about the things III was doing---"please would you read this" or "what's new in your life, here's my new whatever"---and as much as I was thinking of him the past few years I was never totally selfless enough to just want to ask about HIM. I mean, the guy was a mentor of mine, and a saucy one at that, so it was always as much about him as it was about anything else. But he never made it that way. I usually thought the immediate universe revolved around him, but I don't think he ever thought that. That's one of the things that made him so amazing. You could never know Steven without thinking of him implicitly with things. But he never grandstanded himself. He really just WAS. Or, IS. Steven Bach IS quite a person, and my experience with him is a testiment to why you shouldn't sit around only thinking about the people you want to talk to or get back in touch with. Because they are brilliant and they might die. We have seen this is true. Before Steven Bach died I was thinking of him a lot. And then he died. And I never got to send the letter-emails I had wanted to send. But the point is I hope he felt full. And he was beautiful.


My personal stock in popular R&B/rap songs is only going up. "Blame it on the a-a-a-alcohol..." Then maybe T.I. and Justin Timberlake sing that song about trying to lead a better life, but still they sound kind of hard, and also a little relatable, and even some of the fainter-at-heart turn up their stereos. Yes, I feel good about this.

Dogs sitting on other dogs is a funny sight. Lucky for me I get emails of these things daily. These important pick-me-ups are the things that remind me "hey, you might not be getting much work, and YES, you might be terrified sometimes, but also sometimes you get to look at puppies and kitties cuddling on couches or uppon rolling fields and at least you have that to look forward to." And good meals. And great friends. And cuddling. As though I were sometimes a giant kitten myself.

So this means nothing. But maybe it could be a little, too...

xo mama

Sometimes don't we all just want to be giant kitties or puppies? (yes, either, but really puppies, correct?? I mean, come on here....)

stop...taking...my...brains...google

I don't know what's happening. I only know this: When I try to log into my harmless blog, the website tells me I now need a google account.

When I enter my google account it tells me to make a new profile. No, I say. I have a profile. I'd like that one please.

When I enter my blog profile it tells me I'm wrong.

We go around in these flirtatious circles until generally I give up or reset something in the desparation that I'll make the problem go away.

It never works.

Now I don't know what I've done, but I'll tell you it just informed me I'm not ALLOWED to make a google account (make up your fucking mind, you fucking machine). Not allowed to make one when I already have one, and not allowed to use the one set up to this account because it's NOT google. I don't even know how I logged on just now.


So if you don't see me blogging for a while, America (all 2 or 3 of yalls), please help me defeat the google.

That nasty, nasty computer machine.

Shame on you, google. BIG, big shame.
mama

Dear Heyyy, no need to melt down, freak out. at least you have your health, mostly

Oh the joyous woes of growing up and learning lessons and trying to keep thinking that becoming an adult isn't one of the shittier things to happen to a person.

Let's see...while stuck in the transition of not making, as my father would say, "squat" as far as american currency is concerned, only so many things can make that time feel more freaky. One of those things is more bills. Huge bills. Bills that won't go away. Bills that appear almost out of nowhere but also not considering they piled up due to a silly misunderstanding between you and your landlord. But really just you. Because only you are held accountable. Oh, silly kids.

The silly missunderstanding in question has resulted in a back log of gas and electricity bills. For the last six months. "Now mama," you might be saying, "Surely this has to come as no surprise, surely you knew you would have to pay for these things when you moved in." and friends, I couldn't agree with you more. But let me say that this was the Giraffe and I's first time renting a house; rules for such dwellings are different from, say, apartments. and when our landlord quoted us a figure to pay him each month for "utilities", making no mention of needing to register for gas/electricity separately, and in fact making mention of things to the opposite effect.


So, rightfully so, we thought all was well.

UNtil our gas was shut off on a Friday afternoon in January, leaving us with no choice but to go without heat for 3 days.

Now friends, we will never make this mistake of assuming again, but the delightful little penalty for such an error is a costly neglect charge and reactivation fee, and a sumptuous bill (correction: TWO bills) for both gas and electricity for all the months we already thought we were paying for them.

We got the first of those two bills this afternoon. The Giraffe called the "people" and they put us on a payment plan. Kind of makes it more bearable, but the bills are still higher than I could have even afforded before I got my pants let out at my job. Now? Fugghet about it. as my dad would say, "ain't happnin'". Not just a pain in the ass, but now just plain not possible. Yum.

So there are these bills. I'm sure I'll get another job eventually, hopefully sooner than later, but friends, I don't have one today. Today there's a cute little melange of things wrapping up the crap ball wrapped in bacon stuffed in the Going To Fucking Come Out ahead Of It in The End Oven of my life.

Billsbillsbills. added bills.
freetimefreetimefreetime. free time with a kick of insult.
pantsthatdon'tfit. ones that haven't fit for months, but even the big-person pants I bought don't fit anymore and I am nothing if not muffin topped, and gushing over.
dogcoveredinpuke. walter barfed, and poor man did it all over his beautiful colored coat. and our couch.
beerbeerbeer. Back to beer. For a good number of months I cut way back on beer in hopes of taming the gut. But that didn't work, and I'm too poor and fed up to drink anything else now. Yum, Olympia.
burstingbustingveins. Veins are popping left and right in my legs. either busted or trying to float right out of my body, my stems look like aunt Dottie's on a cruise to Bocca Raton. I might as well wear a plastic visor and learn bridge.

But you know, friends, it's dinner time now. The Giraffe and Uncle Cousin Brother were great enough to go to the food bank up the street and cook an awesome looking dinner. So I'm going to eat it. and stop complaining.
we got each other. and food. so it's only almost February. We got eachother. IT's still anybody's game.

--mama

p.s. anybodyknowadoctorwhocanlasertheseshitsawayIwouldlovetoreturntolookinglikea20somethingagain

This Just in: Hole in Free Time Now Suddenly Blown Wide Open

Dear america,

as many of you know, for the past little while we, as a nation, have been going through what some are calling an "Economic Recession".

Many are going without jobs, many struggling to keep them, and many are just loosing them all together.

Until recently, I was one of those more fortunate. I was a worker. Granted I wasn't a full time worker, and paying the bills had become near impossible, but Gosh Darnit, I had a job.

and then, america, a beautiful kaleidoscope of events and information came whirling my way, and I was let go from said job. Well, not exactly. To be fair, what really happened was I was cut down. Cut back. Let "out". Like a beautiful pair of my pants.

What was once a part time job is now more like a financial hobby. a life infidelity. a sweet little thing I'm doing on the side. My most lucrative days of employment were taken away (temporarily maybe, maybe not), and while I do not have it in writing, I am fairly certain--nay, confident--that this action was not because of the need to save money. This action was more because I am the least competent person in my job title at my place of employment. My shortcomings were brought to my attention right after the news about the schedule shift. and america, I don't have the desire to over exaggerate this point. Whether I was surprised, confused, simultaneously not surprised, hurt, internally protestful and internally wishing those shortcomings were brought to my attention say, as they came up--doesn't matter. What matters is what they see and hear. and that person is not a very good worker. Or maybe just a "fine" worker. Who knows? We don't know these things. When we are told we need to do better and we are working less we say yes we understand and we leave.

We do not wish to inquire about undisclosed details, or make a case for why we need/want more money. Because those things, in this situation, are not necessary. and we, as an employee understand that some of our punishable actions, like tardiness, are indisputably true.

OH america, what will become of our economic crisis? What will I do with my further plunge into pooritude and gaping pockets of free times? Look for jobs, yes, that one is true. Hope my average skill set on par with every other "artsy" 20 something college graduate looking for a job is somehow viewed as "better" or "special" enough to earn me another service job? Yes, also true. Worry, stress, feel bitter at people who take their money and job security and important skill sets for granted, go back to drinking more cheap beer and assume that an ever expanding gut is now just going to be a new feature in the real life action doll that is me, try desperately to make my crafts and career important (and god willing lucrative), do more artsy shit that will never see a financial return, cry so that I look like an overgrown puffy tomato fetus that makes people ask "are you ok?", face some of them demons that don't seem so bad when you're a loser with no money, write more letters n emails n phone calls, clean probably maybe hopefully, do IT more and more (history shows that rates of sex skyrocket in troubling economic times. Free entertainment! We'll flood the streets with our fluids!!), work off some of this cellulite which--america, I fool you not--has worked it's way all the way to my calves and wrists (the gut, you see, will continue to grow but perhaps some muscle could return to the other long forgotten regions of my soft sloppy body. additionally I would wish for a hard belly, perhaps in exchange for the buoyant cottage cheese), build a home studio, spend a lot of time with the people I love (and stalking them on the interweb. I'm talking to yooooouuuuu, east coasters...), get weird, get funky, get it together, get down, get down on myself, get into some theaters, get craazy, get good, get real. THESE are all things I will do.

Let's get real, america. Let's do this together. america, we can do it. If some of you out there have free time blowing through your schedules like I do, let's get together and make some things happen. Let's cut costs. Maybe learn how to make Q-tips and moonshine and dog food and tree houses and latrines.

andifanyofyououttherehaveameshapedjobopeningpleaseohdeargodpleasehireme

Love,
Mama

a brief note of things with a broken keyobard

Long time, long time. Sucky typing with a broken keyboard, hence the not doing.

I am ok with my body saying "I enjoy life" but not so much "I don't fit in pants". Thank you, holiday season, for "piling on" the unavoidable temptations in a carb-cheese-dip-fried-something-gravy obssesed life. and let's not forget the beans. Who could forget the beans.

Something happens when you get to the age and proximity with your family when they have the potential to stop being the people you've known them to be for the last almost three decades, and morph into totally realer most realest people with more flaws and baggage and confusing spiderman webbing than ever before. Now with more webbing! It makes one wonder if sometimes it is better not to know. "But this is reality," some would say, "no one's perfect". "They were never perfect," I say, "But they are my family." Feel me? Oh, the holidays...

all my tights have runs in them. The temperature in my house is hard to regulate. It's either tropical and rosy, or cold and numb footed. Reminds me of college.

Uncle Brother Cousin B moved in a couple months ago. It's been awesome to have a house full of friends and doggies. Except Cousin B's old smelly boxer Jackson is such good friends with Walter now that they are often playing , and all Jackson's drool makes Walter crunchy, dreadlocky, and smelly. Such is the price of big dog-little dog love. Probably the best thing is that Jackson is one of the kindest sweetest dogs there is (though very forceful with the cuddling and spooning) and so is very respectful of playing with little Walter. The action you'll hopefully one day be able to catch in the "youtube" is where Walter does his favorite manouvers: the "chewing Jackson behind the knee" trick, and the "flying off a chair or bed and biting Jackson on his giant flappy cheek" trick. It's like if Danny DeVito and arnold were dogs. But if arnold were cooler. Sorry, Gov. you got nothing on this smelly smelly dog. Jackson for office!

Welp, here we are, at the one year anniversary (or there abouts--who really keeps track of such dumb shit?) of not having a computer. Strange. I guess it goes to show that as long as you have kind friends with their own technology you can safely avoid the libraries you're affraid of, stave off the bad habits of getting nice things dirty, and safely confuse yourself if you try and write anything important (where is it? PC? Mac? Disc? Email? Oh well, better just stop writing then.) Yep. Getting a new computer is right there on the list, right behind visiting friends, building an office to put a think box in, going out to eat, probably bowling, christmas shits, and probably even under "getting new hairdo". Basically, america, getting a new computer is as far away as saving a couple thousand cool ones. and with this job, you can imagine. and what with trying to be one of those "artists" you can really imagine. You know Mama don't do credit cards.

Thank God for the Giraffe and his computer. Were it not for him, you know my ass would be in a library somewhere sweating bullets, checking my "internet profiles", and crying on the inside. His key'board is wonky, which makes it SUPER easy not to want to type for very long. But this is unimportant.


Meanwhile, life has been moving. In the general everything is, and has been on the up and up. I feel like I don't see many people that often, but the ones I do see I am grateful for, and the ones I don't it seems I think about often. But I'm still not sure how to be the person I want to be with the people I love when some of them are so far away and some of them are living in monday to friday schedules, and pre-determined couples hang out nights. I like those nights. Not sure I get the memo on those too often. Kind of been doing that thing though, where staying home and drinking and organising and movieing and high fiveing is actually that really rewarding thing I always saw it being. Domestic Meca. Too dramatic? How about "making a house a home". Too cheesy? How about "less anxiety about being where i am than ever before". It's a nice thing to enjoy.

Do you ever feel like you're getting an overdose of yourself? Like possibly Quickly dissappearing into a gentle crowd would feel nice, recalibrating, and reimerging a neutral party is just the thing to do? Or hermitising, or shutting up, or saving orphans, or writting letters, or just a little something to take you away from the ready and loud voice of your head which is always, invariably, a worse version of what you sound like when you speak. I think everyone could use a vacation from themselves every now and then. I remember Florida. I still, and again, want Disneyland.

EDIT: Not so brief note.

Winter coats can be really warm or maybe we're just drinking.

Life with the Giraffe and the Flat Faced Chinese Dog is never nothing. Often a lot of saying "thank you" and "how can I be getting where I want to go and know that I am getting there". That last one is really about life with myself. But it'd still be nice to see the progress you're making. If you're making any. If we're making any. But we're all doing something. We all made it through some of the weirdest times, surely? Surely.

and, wine for dinner means I've gone on too long, and that I felt that about 30 minutes ago. Gonna put on my neon coat and smoke in the cold.

Mama

p.s. OH HEY!!!!!!! what I was going to say up top somewhere was that next Halloween I am going to forego the excuses for whatever I'm "dressing up" as, and going as a Slut. No "Sexy Teacher" "sexy bunny" " sexy police Lady" "sexy fucking wolverine". Just a plain old Slut. Just put it right out there. Because if we want to get debased as dirty sexual objects so badly, surely we don't need the thin vail of a beloved archtypical character. Generally I don't do the slutty version of what I'm trying to dress up as--I just actually do it. But next year--look out world. I am slutting it full force. I mean, what else do I have to offer as a chick with tits that may or may not be too big for my body?

So when you see that sexy sex slut slinking around at the party next year just ask me what I am. I might tell you something like "Snow white" or "a nurse" or "librarian". But you'll know what I'm really saying is "just. a. plain. old. slut."

p.p.s. girrrrlll, you should totally go as little red ridding hood. But like, in lingere.

Welcome, Walter Bernard!

Here he is, the new addition to our family, Walter the Pekingese!

We adopted Walter a little over a week ago when he and his sister were left at the shelter by a series of people who "didn't feel like keeping them anymore". Thanks guys! Sure hope none of you have kids!

The Giraffe and I had no intention of adopting a dog like Walter, but a really awesome woman who works at the shelter stopped us and asked, "You like Pekingese?" We couldn't say no. She showed us Walter, and the next day we took him home. He had a stupid name at the time that he didn't respond to, but as soon as we started calling him Walter, he started listening.

For the first few days he was a confused shadow, following us from room to room, sleeping always, and looking depressed.

Now Walter is absolutely the best dog you could imagine. The most loyal animal I have ever had, happy and relaxed with people and animals, loves to eat and run, and really loves to nap in our arms. He is calm and happy and loves to sleep by the tub when you shower. This dog is such a gift. He is only a year and a half, and we look forward to our long life with him.

The Barron is home, indeed!

Dear, I think I Dreamt Of a Murderer, or Actually I did

Twice. I really admire people who have dreams about flying and turning purple cotton candy like dinosaurs at circus boarding schools or ridding a hum backed whale to Egypt. Or any of that. I seem to have trouble with my dreams. And it gives me trouble with the waking up. Which can make me trouble to be around. And it feels troubling, stomping around the kitchen for the first hour I'm awake. It'd be much nicer to delicately squeeze some juice, pet the dog, and do a crossword.

I feel like someone kind of famous said that everything happens in fits and starts. Or that someone I know and love said that. And either way I think they're kind of right. At least here. I seem to get really motivated for really condensed periods of time, and for the other part of it seem to gestate, get nervous, think more than I act, and then wake up one morning so stressed out that I scrub the kitchen floor for three hours, and get really productive for a bout all over again. And maybe I'm wrong, maybe I'm more constantly productive than I think (wouldn't be surprising), but so often it doesn't feel like enough. It seems like there could, should be more. I'm willing to bet if you talked to most people who know me, or have taught me, they'd tell you it's true. It's not consistent enough. I think by now I should have figured out how to change that.

You know, I just came off a magical weekend. Louis and I planned a weekend retreat for the first one of us who's getting married. Just the closest five of us for three days in a Bavarian themed town, staying in an A-framed house called the Wolf Den. It was wonderful. it was special, and fun, and full of drunk and meat and polka and everything you might think being surrounded by old people in Leiderhosen might entail. One of the cute-slash-tacky-slash kind of cute again things we decided to do was come up with a series of questions to answer with each other one night, that may or may not have involved makeovers. This is excusable for the following two reasons: One, it was a Bachelorette party for crying out loud, and Two, we've all been friends for long enough now, and get together so rarely, I think we've earned ourselves some Steel Magnolias Kind of Moments.
So one of the questions we had to answer was "What is one thing you always thought you'd be doing, but aren't, and what is one thing you ARE doing but never thought you would be?" Cute, right? I know, it's so emotionally adorable. Just so much so that you want to call Julia Roberts. But the thing is, we went around the room talking about it, and I started feeling a little displaced. A little like I needed to scrub my kitchen floor for a few hours. Here I was, in this house with these beautiful women i've known for a decade (a feat for me), all of whom have known each other for longer, and they are magnificent. I am a swamp monster. I mean, the thing I never thought I'd be doing, but am, is so special and wonderful, I'm not trying to undercut it at all. Not ever. But the "what I always thought I'd be doing" was hard to settle with. I realized that night that it has been hard for me to settle with it for the last two years. A mentor of mine told me a few years ago to "Let to four year old die". And I have done that in so many ways over time, but I think I'm probably still doing it and it is frusterating. The great thing about it was, that having that Sisterhood of The Travelling Emotional Bonding Moment allowed me to see these "women" (are we women now? It sounds weird to say) as the accomplished, assured people they are becoming. The one marrying the love of her life and starting her business; the one teaching children who need a mentor; the one learning sustainability and growing her own food; the one in the circus--the true artist of us all. And me. Not sure where I fit in. This beautiful collection of people, and this odd piece dancing around its edges.
I know how "woes is me" that sounds, and I'm sure everyone feels that way. (really? does everyone?) But you know, fuck it, I DID think I'd be doing something more by now. I do also think I'm doing what I should, but when you lay out the tracks of everyone's life and mine is "embracing happiness and learning all that that means" it is certainly fulfilling, but I'm not sure weather or not that should be the whole. A part, yes, but the whole? Also, if it is the whole, shouldn't part of that whole involve nurturing my "dream" (thanks art school, thanks life long ideas)? It probably should. And maybe it is. Maybe my life really is nurturing and embracing slow productivity and the enjoyment of happiness on all fronts. Maybe I just wish I could see that more clearly. Or that I could make myself do more with it everyday.

I know that the only time I can seem to write is late at night. And I get conflicted about that because the Giraffe goes to bed and I want to be there, too. I know I get caught up in situations I have no business being in, and I'm just trying to make people feel better. I know I communicate poorly, and I'm just trying to do it aptly. I know I make lists I don't cross off, and I wish I had less to look at when I pick them up at the end of the day. I know I have to work by myself now, and I wish I had a teacher. I know I never could have guessed I would have so much to work at. Surprise surprise.

I guess the thing about it is, I got to have this beautiful weekend, and I got to come back to a beautiful thing. I just have to realize what I am. Or what I want to say I am and make it so. Otherwise there are too many days of cleaning the kitchen floor for someone who never had a wish to be a housewife.

That person has a beautiful house, and a beautiful partner, and a dog, and slow prospects. But I look at that person with question.

There is the beautiful party. Full of the beautiful people I have watched over the years. The people I can never quite seem to really convey my Green Fried crying moments to.

The Lover, The Teacher, The Farmer, The Clown, and me. Whatever I am.

So whatever I am, goodnight.
Mama

Dear All the Blog Titles I've Thought of the Last Two Months

Some of them are written down on various receipts and scraps of paper. At first I thought it would be good to write them all down, you know, like some innovative card-catalogue for my thoughts and milestones, but really, A-I can't find them as of now, and B-probably they wouldn't be so refferential to anything that exciting anyway.

I remember San Francisco with my mother. I remember my roof in high school on weeknights. I remember cold lousy Bushwick mornings, schlepping through the neighborhood half drunk still, alone and with that beagle, waiting for him to pee, only for him to pee blood despite himself and everything we tried. I remember feeling not like myself. I remember David Cross and how tiny he actually is.

Moving was definitely the best thing I could have done. Things are slow to get off the ground here, but they are actually moving, and I feel glad to help them. The Giraffe and I have moved into a beautiful house--a house!--with a yard and more space than we will ever need. We live on the same property as a house full of wonderful friends who are always close at hand, and growing a beautiful garden, and making amazing plans. And we don't know how the money will pan out, but for some reason I don't feel so afraid. Because this is just kind of nice. This is just kind of really nice. The right thing. When something feels like the right thing you just make it work.

Moving, though, kept us off the map for almost a month, bouncing around with family and my mother and "staycations" and selfishly rewarding trips. So now I'm back. On the map. We've lived here for almost a month, and still I am catching up, and still I am remembering how long it takes to move. So long. Plus, once you have a lot of space, you realize you have crap to put in it, but it all lives in piles. We need more recepticles. I need more recepticles.

Growing up feels pretty ok at the moment. I went to the gas station to buy wine the other day and when the checker asked for my id, she looked at it, and said "you no look old. You look 18." Getting older, I imagine we all come up with idiotic responses to comments like that, and mine, seamlessly, in that moment was "Oh man, I'm deffinitely not 18. Sad. I WISH I was 18." And without missing a beat she looks at me stone-faced and says "no you don't . Young is bad. Old much better. Know more stuff. Never want to be young."
And yeah, she's actually pretty right. I don't really want to be 18 again. But then, I never thought I would want to be 25 either, and yet being it now, you know, it kind of feels relieving to be one small step further into being a functioning person on the planet. As long as we have the planet. But thats another story... So, age? If 40 is the new 30, we're all set. This time right now can still be baby time, and we can relieve ourselves from the pressure of having all the answers. I find that people our age who have all the answers are insufferable to talk to.

What's the hurry in trying to know everything? It must be boring if you know everything right now. It must be hard to find people who know as much as you. How lonely. And the thing that I didn't say before is that we shouldn't. We shouldn't know everything. We just shouldn't let ourselves feel so lonely. Besides, in the coming years we will need each other more than ever, and how nice would it be to feel like we have a community of people to reach out to. A community of people to build a real community with. Grow some vegetables. Shear some wool. Because we're going to have to. So not knowing much now is actually kind of relieving.

And speaking of not knowing much, I know I just want to just curl up with the Giraffe and our new Muppet, most valuable, who doesn't know anything, but tries only to figure out who's leaving, and who's staying. And I can't talk about him, this muppet, because I don't have pictures yet. But he's coming. Oh, yes, he's coming. He's mellow, so you might not take notice at first, but he is definitely coming.

I like that life can be filled with things you love if you allow yourself to see it that way. And I'm not trying to say anything there. I'm simply saying. With such a short time, let's give ourselves the gift of happiness and discovery. Let's not go wrapping ourselves up in tie-die and burning our bras, but let's have discovery.
I'm certainly having some.

Goodnight, world, and all the things in it. Goodnight moon, though I never felt attatched to that book.
Mama

Old Now

Who knew Leslie Nilson had such a beautiful speaking voice.

It was my birthday yesterday. My dad called and said "happy birthday, kiddo," and he also said "I'm so proud of you for turning sixteen." And I said "thanks, buddy, for all that tough teenage support!"
I'm older now, but I don't feel older.

Now today two things have gotten me choked up: an episode of Full House, and one of the Golden Girls. Two things. Both Tv sitcoms. There is something I find both comforting and disturbing about that. It's very nice that I can


8-08
Yeah. I was saying something up there. But now, almost two months later, it doesn't seem all that important. I just am the kind of person that gets weepy about the nostalgia and moral lessons of 80's and 90's television shows. Probably nothing special up there except that something special triggered the "something special" part of my brain, but god knows what that was about. Probably Rose made a comparison to Saint Olaf, and I thought "That is so topical to how things really are today". Or maybe someone talked about teddy bears and I happen to like teddy bears. You know, that kind of thing. If they were talking about hippos, I surely would have gotten choked up.

The Giraffe took me to the zoo on my birthday, and we discovered I am actually quite attatched to hippopotomi.

Also, I have no idea why I thought Leslie Nilson sounded so nice. But Naked Gun is funny.