Sunday, September 30, 2007

My Stove

It's taken me thirty-plus years to understand my body. Like when you've got a temperamental camping stove that needs just the right TLC to get the thing started. One burner might appear to be broken, but in actually just needs a set of pliers to turn the gas, and the match has to be held just right, and, so on and so forth...

Wait - I'm not done. My cook stove isn't one of those trendy little two-burner hotties you find in chi-chi outdoor stores. It's a four-burner, sausage chili, eggs, bacon, coffee pot affair. And it suits me. Do you know me? You must know how I like to play things that are hard and physical. I prefer to be bruised and scraped. Mornings in which I awake pain-free and fresh are a disappointment. Clean and unblemished campstoves are for debutantes and wannabes. My stove looks like it survived the Oregon Trail, and can still cook up a mean-ass elk steak with a side of something brown. When I go camping with the other ladies (i.e. changing into my Speedo at the water slides), the women I respect probably check out the goods and nod knowingly, if not aprreciatively. The little two-burners turn up their noses and smirk, but then hide their unused and ineffective stoves behind designer towels. No dings? No burnt remnants of ten-year-old trout omelettes? Yeah, I'd hide that shit too. Pshht - probably can't even boil water. (Yesterday in the grocery store Madeleine was sitting under the shopping cart and announced to the entire produce section, "Mommy why are you always beat up?", which is only slightly better than the time I was trying on some shoes at Bob Wards, and in response to my removal of my rank running shoes she called out, "Mommy your 'gina stinks.")

But I have to say, each month there comes a time that throws everything out of whack. The burners don't start, the latch sticks and the cover doesn't close properly, the card table tips over spilling singed oatmeal all over everything. You know. I should recognize the warnings, but it's always a sneak attack. This month, however, I think I got it. It's probably a good indicator of what's to come, when Brett Favre's routine touchdown pass makes me cry. Well yeah, it's the record and all, but, it's a football game. Although, it was his 421st, after they'd just shown the highlights of the Monday Night game after his dad died, and then Marino spoke, and then. Now I'm tearing up again. Okay, the first time may have been legit, but these tears? Clearly time to head to the drugstore. SOS pads.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

This is what I have to offer.

Thank you all for the kind words and e-mails. I appreciated everything each one of you said.

Last night Julie and I went to see Once. Please go see it and come back and tell me you liked it a lot.

Sometimes I see a movie I don't want to share. This is one of those, but I consider all of you the kind of people I would like to share this with. It is my thanks for being nice, thoughtful people. Thanks.

Monday, September 17, 2007

My dad died yesterday. He had prostate cancer, and it took him relatively quickly. I went to see him a week ago, we visited over the weekend, and I tried to get ready for what we all knew was coming quickly. I feel like there should be some kind of Queen for a Day button to wear when stuff like this happens, but instead I got up at 7:33, made Madeleine's lunch and took her to school. Later I did some grocery shopping. Tonight I have a soccer game, and Jim will get home late after being on the road. Tomorrow, wash, rinse, repeat. He was a good guy - someone you'd want in your corner.

Here's the link to a blog I started for him several weeks ago. Why don't you go on over and see what he was like. That'd be nice.

Monday, September 03, 2007


Last night I was dreaming I was lying in bed scratching my butt and found it was covered in butt zits. No matter where I searched, my fingertips found painful little bumps. I woke suddenly to the sound of Quinn hollering in his room. It was 3 am and he was screaming, "NO WASHEE ABBLES MOMMY NO NO NO!!" I went downstairs to soothe him, assured him I would not wash any apples, and went back to bed.

Just now, standing here in front of my computer, I was reading e-mails and daydreaming and found myself scratching my butt. As you can guess, there were bumps. Mosquito bites, actually. I was covered in them. After a good healthy scratch, I went to the kitchen sink to wash my hands. There was a bowl in the sink, so I picked it up to move it, and Quinn walked in the kitchen calling my name. I turned around, water running in the kitchen sink, and he stopped short and looked at me strangely. Yes, it was a bowl full of apple slices he had been eating last night. They were floating in soapy water.

I exchanged a queer look with my two-year-old son. After a full five seconds, he gave me a little tip of the head, turned and walked back into the other room and stood in the center of the carpet and crapped his pants.