Archive for July, 2011

There’s a little black and white stripped kitten that is hanging out in my parents backyard, despite the presence of our nearly 200 lb mastiffe.  He mews at me from afar.  A little helpless mew that is just begging for a good kitten snuggle.  I’ve been feeding him cans of tuna in an attempt to bribe him to my fingertips, but every time I make a move in his direction he darts off like the little tease he is.  Finicky bastard.

This is as close as Kitten Little lets me get.

Baby is happy to watch from afar, splashing around in the pool.

I’m not even sure I like cats.  They come out cute and puffy with those big eyes and that little mew voice, but before you know it they’re all claws and teeth and piss.  This kitten looks like he’s the type.  Wiley, skinny, giant green eyes that are just oozing cute innocent kitten.  I know the risks, but over the past two days it has become my own personal goal to harness my animal spirit skills and give this kitty a proper ear scratch.  It is a healthy obsession, and more than that, it has distracted me from life events that I would rather not be a part of.

The first being the three year anniversary of my sisters death.  The day always creeps up on me, it’s like this terrible heaviness that sits inside of me and makes me smell of rot and feel even worse.  I was determined to make it a beautiful day, wonderful and full of hope.  I was determined to bask in the happiness that my sister afforded me in her life and to try to push away all memories of the day of her death.

Unfortunately, fate, or god, or the universe fucking hates me.

My dog, Tiny, that my family has had since we lived in our old house, went into cardiac arrest.  His heart gave away and his lungs filled with fluid.  We spent a night listening to him hack and pant, which isn’t that unusual since he was about 14 years old and he was always old manning it, clearing his throat, shedding, farting.  But this time the pants were heavier and his tick rottweiler tail didn’t quiver in gleeful anticipation of our touch.  We took him to the vet, the vet told us the news, and we all took turns patting and kissing him until it was time for him to go.  I sat with him so he wasn’t scared and stroked his face.  He relaxed and smiled and seemed okay with going, and then his eyes got a little dim and it was all over.

Even though I know he hurt, I feel like in some way I did him a disservice.  I keep thinking about if he wasn’t ready to go.  I keep thinking that maybe he would still be okay, or we could have done more, even though the vet said we couldn’t.

His face smelled like a sweet dust.  Always kind of perfumy.  I liked to hold my cheek to his and smell him,  he would tap his tail to the ground and smile at me when I did. And I miss that the most.

Part of me wants to believe that Tiny chose this day with more knowledge than I have.  That he wanted to help heal me.  That by being beside him when he died, and knowing that he was soft and peaceful and gone when he was gone, would give me some kind of closure.  That he was healing all of us.  I’m just not so sure I believe in that.  I’m not so sure it makes anything hurt less.

My two favorite lady friends came to cheer me up, and to take me out dancing.  Sometimes I feel like maybe I’m too high maintenance of a friend/lover/person.  Like I have so many things that I’m sensitive to, and so many times where I need a helping hand, that I’m just not worth it.  My two best of friends proved to me that I am worth it.  That I always will be.  I am eternally grateful to them for all the love and happiness they give to me, and last night when we danced we were the hottest ladies in the club, and I laughed and smiled sincerely, even if there was sadness behind it, I was free and happy for at least a couple of hours.

I will continue to stalk this kitten.  With every can of tuna he/she/it sneaks closer.  The kitten reminds me of sister in a lot of ways and his presence seems like another coincidence that isn’t so coincidence.  It makes me happy that even if this little pussy runs when I get within 5 feet of it, it comes out mewing when I call.


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Today will be a good and beautiful day because you are good and beautiful.

Today, I will put aside all the hate and anger and piss inside at whatever or whoever took you from me, and I will smile and dance and sing for the moments I got to hold on to you.

Today will be good and beautiful and pure and new, like every day, I will hold onto it until the day that I’m back with you.

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Tonight, I sit next to my part time lover as he sleeps.  His head rolls to the side and his breaths come out in soft semi-moans.  We’re in my parents family room, and my mom is watching him with her brows all pushed together and baby is running around shoving forks down his britches.

It’s a semi-normal routine.  Me awake, baby awake, him asleep sitting up on the couch.  Sometimes it doesn’t bother me, and sometimes I look over and his face looks really scrunched and I wonder, “Is this what it will always be like?”.

I got in contact with a friend of mine that I knew in high-school.  That was a time way back when I was a vegetarian and I wore my hair short and cut up and made all my clothes.  He told me that he was in Vienna, part of two and a half months that he had spent traveling.  Just traveling.

He asked what I had been up to, and I froze.  I didn’t know what to say.  Where do I start?  I don’t have an exotic life where I jetset around the globe and wear a backpack full of souvenirs.  I don’t make love under the stars, I don’t speak different languages and I don’t dance with exotic strangers in foreign night clubs until the wee hours of the morning.

I live in the house I lived in in highschool.  And, while watching baby do all these beautiful and brilliant things is wonderful and magical and I feel like he’s the most exotic and interesting little souvenir that I can put inside of my pocket, somehow I feel defeated on paper.

I wrote to him:” I am enjoying summer, I have a wonderful two year old Jude that I spend all of my time with.”  And that was it.

It is hard to explain to people that my life will never be the romantic adventure that sometimes I dream it was.  It’s hard to explain that I’ve already been on an adventure.  That my life has been exhausting and beautiful and so terrible already, that I’m afraid to drift away from what it has become.  It’s hard to explain that little baby is the life that I cling to, the life that I want.  Maybe it’s just me that feels like it’s not enough, that I should be more.  Or maybe it’s just this feeling I have that someday, there will be more.  That baby and me will have much more than just swimming lessons and gymboree and storytime.

At 24, my life story is already an exotic adventure.   I just wish I didn’t feel like I had to tell it to people to prove to them that I’m just as well traveled as they are…

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Baby got a new bath toy courtesy of my mama bear:

It’s this plastic doo-dad that suctions to the side of the tub with lots of little swirly and drippy water toys.

He is particular about where the parts go.  And when he plays with it I remember the toys I played with in the tub, which were mostly a washcloth and plastic cup.  Even so, I remember the underwater adventures and deep sailing seas and mermaid days of my childhood.

The water is blue from some more oh so fun bath fizzies that we drop in.

It also makes me remember bath time when he was small and I would cradle him in one hand with about an inch of water just getting him damp and sing silly bath time songs.

It also makes me want to get in with him.  Which I sometimes do, even though I worry, “Oh no, is he too old for me to splash around in the bath with him?  Should I put on a bathing suit?  Is this weird?  Am I weird?”, before I think, “To hell with it”, and grab the water spout toy.

Bath time should be enjoyed by the young and the old, amiright?

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Sometimes the world is all different colors of red and blue and white and green and I feel so much more than lucky to be a part of it.

My grandmother asked me if I thought everything in life was planned out.  And she revealed that the more she lives, the more she believes that it is.  I have to admit, as much as I’d like to deny it, I find myself believing more and more in a plan, or at least a great connectedness.

Sometimes the world seems too big and too great and too much and I feel so small and insignificant and so little a part of it.

I’ve had people in my life that I believed would last forever.  And even if they are gone in some respect or another, I still think that in this life or the next or the next universe we’re holding on to each other.  I believe they exist in things that I love.  They exist in people that I love.

Sometimes I feel helpless.  Sometimes I feel hopeful.  Sometimes I know that I’m meant for wonderful things, and great and wonderful and terrible things have already been laid out for me.

Baby sings “Hey Jude”, and “Baby”, and “Psycho Killer”.  He sings them with gusto and runs around the house.  We shout out “BOOM, shaka laka laka” and jump like the worshipers of a volcano God.  We jump like sister, and me, and the two brothers did many years ago.  We jump into the pool and now Baby swims and I can see him underwater, like a little not yet two year old fish wriggling around in the sea.

And to him, the pool is just as big as the sea and the couch is just as big as the biggest volcano and the house is just as big as the world.

BOOM, shaka laka laka!


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Baby and mines fourth of July started off with me slicing up onions to make a breakfast omlette.  We have a new knife here, one that is supposed to be better than all the rest with titanium slicing power and a never dull blade.  It’s supposed to slice through pennies, rope, hearts.  It is the Rolls Royce of the knife world.  I used it on these pesky little onions that pack such a powerful aroma that I usually can’t get through a whole onion without breaking down in burning sulfur tears.  They’re beginning to rot, and I am determined not to waste them. I began to chop them in a furious haste, all the while entertaining baby and using my chef voice to tell him about the wonderful concoction we were cooking up. In my concentrated flurry of knife skills I, you guessed it, chopped halfway through my own thumb.  It made about the same crunch as cutting through the onion, but with a much different sensation.

A funny thing happens when you’re a mama and you get injured around your baby.  You make every attempt not to terrify baby, while inside you scream, “Holy F-bomb, that shiz hurt!!”.   I went, “Shookies, I cut myself!”, and then proceeded to turn away in an attempt to hide my bloody thumb from baby.  My dad ran to the rescue from the next room and hollered, “Stop shaking it!”, and then had me sit down; as I was trying to reassure concerned looking baby while making a drippy blood mess on the floor.  Don’t worry.  I was bandaged and back to new in no time.  I suspect this injury will only result in a wonky growing fingernail and nothing more severe.

At night we heard the fireworks.  Actually, baby daddy and I were discussing relationship things and old family pictures and the beautiful bbq at the beautiful friends house that we had both enjoyed, when the blast of fireworks woke the sleeping baby.  I thought I could lull him back to sleep with nursing and sweet lullabies, but as soon as his little eyes closed they popped back open.  He shot up and yelled out, “Mommy!” (which is, sadly but also sweetly what he now calls me, in lieu of “Mama”), and then “Pop Pops!!”.

We made a dash downstairs, grabbed daddy, grabbed stroller, and headed towards the commotion.  The fireworks burst out of the little houses that line our street.  There were screamers and fizzlers, and probably some of the illegal kind too, and they burst open in the sky and rained down colors on baby’s face and hair.  He was delighted.  He was delighted, until one was let off down the street much too close for comfort, and then he was terrified.

Baby clung to me for dear life as we ran down the street and back to home, all the while yelling, “Pop Pops!  Too scary!  Pop Pops!”.

The rest of the night was spent consoling a very scared and confused baby, who simultaneously would ask for “More pop pops?”, and then crying out “Pop Pops, so scary!”.  My poor little guy.

I hope you all had a beautiful and not too eventful fourth of July.

And, as for all the news buisness today, I only have to borrow some wise words from my cousin: “Our justice system has it’s problems but if I had to choose between a system that acquits for lack of proof or one that convicts for without I would choose the former.”

Focus on the beauty of life, and enjoy some Baby singing Baby.

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