It’s obvious that I’m on blogging hiatus, yes? I’ll write again when I feel like it, and that could be tomorrow or next year. I don’t know. Lately, I just feel like reading (alright, and watching DVRed Buffy), so that’s what I’m going to do for a while. Thanks for checking in, pals. You can now return to your regularly scheduled failbooking.
Peace, love, and Oxford commas.
Jonathan Franzen. Read him.
You’ve seen the video.
“You know … something happened a long time ago in Haiti. … They got together and swore a pact to the Devil,” Robertson said on the Christian Broadcasting Network’s “700 Club” Wednesday.
Seriously? Just. Shut. Up.
For the second day, I’ve made lunch for the Kaiser to take to school. This is obnoxious for several reasons:
If I don’t send lunch, though, the kid won’t eat. He says the food is gross. It probably is. He doesn’t eat meat. And yeah, I know he’s not going to starve, but don’t even tell me that it’s acceptable for a three-year old to skip lunch. I mean, it’s not like he’s an ex-smoker trying to cut calories.
My bra is sequined and a size too small.
God, no one hates physical activity more than me.
Exercise: You're Doing It Wrong.
But diet pills make me feel all woozy and like I’m on the verge of cardiac arrest. Yoga, I can dig, but the only classes I can make are at 6am on Monday and Friday – I know, it’s barbaric.
In an effort to get proactive, I set the DVR to record all episodes of Namaste Yoga. This morning, I dragged myself from bed, pulled my hair into a ponytail and stumbled downstairs. I started the coffee, shoved Eleanor out the back door to do her bidness, and turned on the TV. Yeah, Namaste Yoga doesn’t come on until 8:30am.
So I pretended to stretch, staggered around the living room for a few minutes, and grunted through 18 crunches. All in all, I say it was a win.
I have not smoked since early morning on January 1. That’s the longest I’ve gone without a Marlboro since I was pregnant with the Kaiser. I know it’s a good thing. But I’ve also gained three pounds. In four days. Yes.
Ah, Christ.
Peace, Love, and Somebody Get Me a Diet Pill.
Sundays are my least favorite day of the week. No, scratch that. Sunday mornings are glorious, heavy with pancake smells and long baths with tomato-scented candles and plenty of time to shave my legs. It’s Sunday night that makes me want to ask the husband to bludgeon me into oblivion with the tea kettle.
***
The last light of the day oozes through the window,
dancing across the water.
Sunlit droplets march, jerk across my collarbone.
And the desire rises up again.
Oh, I’ll go –
Hot, sweet air. I inhale. Exhale and sink, lower
and lower.
Water creeps up, wetting the wispy hairs that
stick to the back of my neck.
***
I ran into the office (this was, oh, four and a half minutes ago) to grab a pen with which to jot some thoughts, some words I like — like “ooze.” I step onto the Oriental carpet and hear a scream rise up in me, feel my mouth open, listen to my throat make a startled, girlish yelp. I stepped in cat vomit.
No? Why not? I mean, it’s not of Montreal, but does EVERYTHING have to be good? Sometimes I just want to listen to a song about a guy and a girl and missing each other. OK? No deeper meaning. No metaphor. No subtlety.
Lead singer is a little strange looking, but shit, I’ve had pornographic fantasies about Adam Duritz since I was 17.
Really? This is so not worth it.
Still no smoking. Not gonna smoke. But I’ve gained two pounds. Is that even possible? It is, because I’ve totally gained two pounds. Hate.
I’m nearly 24-hours smoke free. I wasn’t going to have one at all yesterday, but my will is weak. I skulked around the house, glancing in drawers, checking my emergency-cigarette locations. I found one, limp and gorgeous, at the bottom of my purse.
Right now, though, a day into quitting, wonderful things are happening in MAH BODY. It’s like a little New Year’s miracle, on a cellular level. (Humour me here. I am in misery.) My blood pressure and pulse have returned to normal, as have carbon monoxide and oxygen levels. Unfortunately, the healing is accompanied by a dull, throbbing headache, a sore, scratchy throat, and a hateful disposition.
To stave off the cravings, I’ve been reading. Voraciously. I finished Tropic of Cancer and began it again. Because I’m reading Miller, I am also reading Whitman. Naturally.
Hold me tight, Walt. Tell me you love me.
Whitman is the greatest American poet. Don’t argue with me. That said, he’s awfully fuckin’ cheerful. Last night in the bath, I read the first three pages of Leaves of Grass before launching the book across the floor. I lurched, naked and soaking from the bathtub to recover my bent-paged, wrinkled copy of Tropic of Cancer.
“Today I awoke from a sound sleep with curses of joy on my lips, with gibberish on my tongue, repeating to myself like a litany — “Fay ce que vouldras! . . . fay ce que vouldras!” Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy.”
His words move over me, around me. Phrases that caress and strike. Penetrating, tedious words. If you’ve not read Miller, you should.
Holy Mother of God, what does this crap mean?
It’s hard to get a sitter for NYE. No worries, though, because we didn’t really want to go anywhere anyway. I made a deeeelicious baked, vegetarian spaghetti (did I mention that the husband is trying to consume less meat? It’s awesome.) The Kaiser went to bed at 9, and I commenced the watching of Gangland. Annnnnd, then I fell asleep:
Gangland is exhausting.
Resolutions? Eh, I’m going to quit smoking. It’s time. But don’t harass me about it. I’m also going to get back to yoga. It’s time. But don’t harass me about it.
Leave my human ALONE.
Also? I’m going to keep writing (seriously? You totally knew that.) I’m running over a novel idea, but nothing has solidified yet. Annnd, I’m beginning a new “Lemme See Yo’ Desk” blog series, so stay tuned.
I asked Karen if I could pick up Hayden today. The Kaiser has been driving me up the wall, and honestly, what’s another kid in the house? It’s my job to make sure the little gremlins don’t maim each other. Beyond that, I stay out of their way.
The Kaiser: You see that troll bridge?
Hayden: What toll bridge?
The Kaiser: Not a toll bridge. A troll bridge.
Hayden: A toll bridge?
The Kaiser: No. Nooooooooo. No.
You see that? No, cause you're being weird.
Hayden: I didn’t see it.
The Kaiser: It was a troll bridge, right over der.
Hayden: A toll bridge.
Me: Oh, Christ.
Happiness is a warm gun.
The Kaiser: You want a train?
Hayden: Nah.
Viva La Train, dummies.
The Kaiser: Hayden.
Hayden: Yeah?
The Kaiser: Hayden.
Hayden: Yeah?
The Kaiser: You want a train?
Hayden: Nah.
Your mother is a hamster.
The Kaiser: Mommy. Mommymommymommy.
Me: Yeah?
The Kaiser: Hayden say he don’t want a train. Mommy!
Me: I know. Trains are your special thing, Cole. Not everyone worries about trains.
The Kaiser: But I worry about trains.
Hayden: I saw the troll bridge.
Fuckin' rad, innit?
Sara Fraser is a South Carolina based writer, and a first-hand survivor of the early years of motherhood. Her intimate knowledge of Southern mommyhood and all its trappings — initial-embroidered onesies, extravagant toddler birthday parties, mini-van snobbery and new sport of competitive play dates — is first hand and unmatched.
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