Beware, HOT MILFS having a good few days…

PIE FOR BREKKY!

First, Baltimore is doing a classic revisit of spring, dishing out two sunny warm (70’s!) days in a row, mid November, starting yesterday.

Second, the Vegan Apple Crumb pie I made three days ago still tastes great, and there’s still some of the vegan coconut milk vanilla bean ice cream left, which is the perfect complement to a heated slice of the pie. Unless it’s an occasional sliver of delicious cheese, dairy can really suck in the health realm. At least for me. FUCK YOU, MILK! I like the soy and coconut versions of milk better, anyway.

Third and most importantly, yesterday morning, Sunday morning, beautiful sunny Sunday, I woke up at 7:30 a.m., packed up some art supplies, got a coffee and everything bagel with butter at a nearby cafe, and drove on over to the STUDIO to get crackin’ on Lynn’s sister’s painting. I purchased the canvas over six months ago and am just now beginning to put paint to surface. Julia, in her benevolent desire to help a sister out, has given me a wall in her beautiful studio so I can lose my verbal self for a few hours a week and paint paint paint. I put in about 2.5 hours yesterday of real work. Painted a Burnt Sienna base color, drew into it, painted into the drawing, wiped the whole thing off in disgust, then did another drawing on the canvas and painted into that one, had it come out with the correct proportions, washed my brushes and left by 11:45. It was so deliciously right! Divine! I felt like I had cheated on my whole family, it was that kind of intense and forbidden love. The fucked up thing is, clearly I shouldn’t have to feel like I’m cheating on anyone by making art. If anything, I am saving my family thousands of dollars each year by staying out of therapy, if I can continue to eek out a few hours per week standing in front of a painting, thinking about it for a few minutes, then applying paint. Doesn’t that seem a wee bit more productive and life-affirming than going to a therapist’s office, whining about how I have no time or space to be creative, getting a fat bill and probably some medication, and still not being able to create?! I demand creative time. I NEED CREATIVE TIME! Not easy to find these days, this elusive ‘time’, since poor spouse has been working six and seven days a week. Mothers, don’t let you children grow up to be architects.

Anyway, yes, painting yesterday was everything I wanted it to be. Except, of course, back again today. I’ll shoot for Wednesday morning putting in some studio time.

Okay, so, someone I know who lives in Los Angeles just got a medical ganja prescription for her PMS. This sounds highly reasonable to me. Should I consider moving my family west? Do I need to re-think my stand on living on the west coast? Because if the only real threat is that part of the North American continent breaking off and melting into the Pacific Ocean, it kinda seems worth it if you can puff as you’re going down. Kipper the Dog and his friends all do it, except for Pig, since he’s a single dad and needs to be present for his toddler pig, Arnold. My question is: where is the bitches, y’alls? Why are there no female-type characters in Kipper? I had an epiphany the other day that all of the characters are homosexual dogs and pigs and they don’t really hang with the hags and that’s okay, too. Pig is raising his adopted son, Arnold in a loving community, Kipper and Jake and Tiger, who may be Kipper’s partner, but I am unsure about this. Who is with me on this? Am I reading too much into it?

 

Mister Lister

1. you don’t have to cut up all foods into small, bite-sized pieces
2. some mornings, the two hours of school silence just have to be spent on domestic duties
3. other, more of the 2 hour mornings, should not be spent on domestic duties
4. people are listening, don’t be an asshole
5. if you got up at 5 a.m. every morning, you could start making art again
6. one day your children won’t wake up in the middle of the night and need your help
7. where does the snot come from? and how in god’s name can there be so much of it?
8. pie. today is pie day.
9. all human beings suffer
10. go for the double, in general
11. it’s okay to keep some of the halloween candy, just not all of it.
12. peeing into a cup isn’t that big a deal… who knew?
13. don’t forget to bring your camera
14. flossing IS important, especially after that poppy seed bagel
15. even if you’re already yelling, you can stop yourself and not ruin the morning for your two three year-olds
16. a cold isn’t the end of the world

That’s all I’ve got. Sixteen tidbits of wisdom from a double soy latte’d up mama with an hour and a half of freedom after a week of 24/7 snotty people. Finally dragged them back into preschool this morning. Fever and really bad snots gone, just dregs of runny noses and bad attitudes left. Almost got into a knock-down with Beenie this morning over her clothing, or lack thereof (it’s fucking cold out there, crazy girl!), as we do at least once a week, but I stopped myself in the middle of my own fit and made it better. But you know what I will not tolerate? Two little girls fighting over who has the slightly darker shade of pink on the tops of their sippy cups. That’s when Beenie asked me if I was mad. And I said loudly, “Yes. That really pisses me off,” and removed the dark pink top from one of the cups and replaced it with an identical light pink top and told them both that I didn’t care if they drank juice or not. I WILL NOT LISTEN TO YOU TWO FIGHTING OVER THE COLOR OF THE TOPS OF YOUR SIPPY CUPS!

Woah. I’ve already invested way too much of my precious quiet time thinking, then writing about this.

Eight nine ten

October 25th was the last moment I had enough uninterrupted time to write here. I have a feeling even this post will be cut short due to a certain Beenie, who, in her troubled sleep is hacking up a lung as I type, which is quite distracting. She fell out of bed a half-hour ago and didn’t wake on impact with the ground. Poor sweet sickly thing. She’s had big gooey snots for the past week and now is choking on them, and Mimi is in and out of two days now with her second mystery fever of the season. I suspect this won’t be the last one. She’s not particularly sickly other than becoming quite hot in the evenings, and is now displaying lesser snots than her big sis, but snots nonetheless. Of course, this means I, too, have contracted some form of their hybrid scourge, leaving my right lymph node swollen and sensitive, as well as my left sinus filled to the brim. Damned viruses. Nothing quite as dramatic as to bring me to the doctor, but certainly tiring and uncomfortable, getting in the way of autumnal fun. At least we didn’t miss out on Tricks or Treats. The ladies donned flamenco dancer outfits imported from spouse’s old friend living in Spain. Extremely cute. I took the ladies to Michael’s, the hideously fantastical craft mecca to pick out the obligatory fake long stemmed red rose and acquire deep pink fake blooms to attach to headbands, completing the practically perfect Halloween costume. Despite traveling no further than two blocks from our little row house in Baltimore, the girls somehow came home with TONS of candy. Much of it to my liking, some of which I threw in the freezer, especially the copious M&M’s, some which I sent with my husband to his job. And there were a fair amount of Dum Dum’s lollipops left over from the candy bowl, which I now whip out when it seems like nothing else could help. Lollipops are the candy of choice by the resident three year-olds, with plain M&M’s coming in at a close second, though nobody sings an M&M song, which is not the case for lollipops.

** I have to pause for a moment… I really have so much I want to jot down, and it is just freaking me out now that it has taken almost ten days to to come to a place where I can sit down in solitude, at 11:34 p.m., listening to the clunky dishwasher half-wash the dishes (better it than me), listening to Beenie cough and cough and know there isn’t much more than what I’m already doing that is going to help her out. How is it possible my life has been so hectic that I can’t even write a blog post?**

You may be interested to know my brother got married this past Sunday to his Rebecca, who I wholly endorse and am delighted to have absorbed into my dysfunctional but creative and honestly strange and great family. Well done, young peeps! Okay, not that young, but younger than me, which gives me the right to say ‘young peeps’. Love love love. I offered up to do the flowers for their intimate event, a wedding bouquet for bride and boutineer for my bro, the groom, as well as random other arrangements dotted throughout their house, where they held the ceremony and reception. In case you didn’t know, it isn’t weird that I did the flowers for the wedding. I was a freelance floral designer for over ten years, in one of my many pasts. From my early twenties through my early thirties, up until I got suckered into learning how to make websites once I moved to Baltimore in 1998. I am old enough to have had two completely unrelated careers, if they can actually be called careers, both of which have exceeded ten years in length. If that doesn’t make me feel old, I don’t know what will. Anyway, I had two anxiety dreams over the course of the week I started thinking and discussing what kinds of flowers Rebecca wanted. My husband hit it on the head: I don’t have any sort of outside demands in my life, only internal to the house and people in the house (and don’t you worry, all of this is plenty demanding), so when an outside act that would require some sort of work and exposure to unknown people came about, it was more than my little pea brain could handle. It automatically went into potential failure mode and I started worrying about all the things I worried about when floral design was the way I made a living. Funny. It all worked out in the end, tho, you should be glad to read. The bride loved her bqt, groom was fine with bout, the flowers all looked great in their house for the excellent happening. Whew! Now I can go back to worrying about what preschool to send the girls to next fall, where my identity went, how in tarnation I’m going to squeeze out some artwork so that I don’t have to go into therapy for lack of creative expression, despite the fact that THERE IS NO TIME FOR ANYTHING. Breathe. Breathe from the belly.

Oh, and I think I’m going to start working soon. Like in the next two weeks. I got through the nine pages of paperwork required to start the process, then today had blood drawn to check for strange diseases floating around, and peed into a cup for a drug test. I felt a little bit violated, though understand why it is all done… I’ll be working with a hospital, in their marketing department, building out websites through a content management system, ten hours per week. If it all goes through, which it should. I never in my entire existence thought I’d agree to a drug test. But today I did. And lived long enough to tell you all about it. Someone said this sounded like a “Gateway Job”, which I thought was clever and accurate. It could possibly lead to bigger, more addictive employment. We’ll see. I can’t imagine being able to hold down a full-time job when both my daughters are sick. How do people do it? You can’t take ‘em in to school when they’re sick. Reinforces my conviction that you should find the cheapest preschool available, that treats your kid/s well, but doesn’t have too many bells and whistles, because in the end, they won’t be there much in the first year or two.

Oh boy I’m tired. There’s more to write, like about me moving my petty art operation into a corner of my friend’s studio. Hoping to start work on a few commissions, get the turpentine flowing. Maybe that would clear out my sinuses. Can you neti pot with solvents?

On my way home from my pre-employment screening, the sun was beginning to set for the evening. The quality of light was something glowy and cool and warm. I drove by a nearby graveyard and snapped some pics. I find old graveyards to be grounding. This graveyard in particular has the most gigantic fabulous trees. The trees look like the sum of all the dead people was concentrated into growing these ivy covered mammoths.

Hot MILFS rock decorative gourds!

Hey y’alls. The sun is lowering in the sky, it is 3:43 in the afternoon. Cool, warm sunshine. Nothing looks like this time of year. And, of course, I have my motherfucking decorative gourd collection sitting on the kitchen table, no wicker fucker this time, tho. Not sure that I have one or really, what one is. I just like the use of the two words together. Really resonates.

My cute little family went to church this morning! We’re trying to do it once a month or so, get the girls used to some kind of spiritual life. My husband’s church is about as liberal a church as I can imagine, myself not being of any particular faith other than humans being good to other humans and animals and the earth. Everyone is welcome at this place, though, and I have no reservations sending the girls into a belief system including everyone no matter what. Bring it. As an old co-worker once said, “I’m trying to put the fear of God into her (her daughter), since she’s not afraid of me.” You get the idea. I am not pushing scary gods or anything, but awareness of greater forces in the universe outside of ones’ self is important. I think so, anyway.

The day has been a good one, this Sunday. Cool, bright. Got home, had a leisurely lunch, girls off to play with blocks and a dead fly I put in a glass baby food jar for observation, on an old tablecloth that belonged to my grandmother, who ruled. Snaps to Margaret! She was an ass-kicker and we used to crack up together all the time. She called me ‘Fred’ after she’d gone down a long list of other names, including my mom and uncle, brother and sister. I can totally relate. Grandmother Margaret also showed me the importance of solitaire, and taught me card-based parlor games, most importantly rummy. I still have the little table she used for cards and fully plan to teach my own daughters the imperative of cards and active, participatory, mindful interaction with other people outside of television and computers.

Now the ladies are chillin’ on the couch, watching Kipper the Dog, resting up until we leave in an hour and-a-half to attend the Great Halloween Lantern Parade down in Patterson Park. This is one bitchin’ parade, fiends. All the beautiful peeps in Bmore arrive to celebrate fall and Halloween and lights and alladat. I’ll take some pics. Keep it up, Sunday, you’re my fun day!

Hot MILFS taking spaces!

Yeah, that’s right. Watch out! I was informed this morning as I shoe-horned my daughters into the car to go to school, I’m a double space hog. It didn’t seem that way when I parked on my street yesterday afternoon, when there were almost no other cars parked, but apparently it became a fact by the time someone wrote me a note (above) late last night or early this morning. I wonder who has time to write a note for a parked car… Shit, I can barely get the two people I’m responsible for from our car to the house, which is usually not more than a twenty foot distance. I wish I had time to write notes for people’s cars. It isn’t as if I drove over the sidewalk and stopped on someone’s front lawn, then poured myself onto their lawn drunk and passed out in my own vomit. Somehow, over the course of the day, when the street went from virtually empty of parked cars to the usual jam-packed by the end of the night, my car was left with a space in front of or behind it, and that warranted someone saying something.

Dear Note-Leaver,

Thanks for your courteous note, asking me not to take up two parking spaces. Were you watching me from your window all day, noticing how cars were pulling in and pulling out of the finite areas in front of our row houses? Do you think our cars should be able to tuck into line behind and in front of one another the way our row houses do? The houses stay in the same place, day in, day out, but the cars, they come and go. As do the people on our block. Well, everyone but you, who sits quietly in your house, watching to see if the most efficient use of street space is being observed. Which car is yours? The minute you notice if too much space has opened up in front of your parked car, do you run outside and scooch it up a few feet? Probably. I was wondering, since you’re paying so much attention to this situation, the impossibly impossible parking situation on our street, if you would mind coming by, giving me a friendly heads up that I could be doing a better job, making enough room for as many cars to be jammed in a row as possible, in front of our houses. Or you could even give me a ring. Whatever is easiest for you. Leaving a note on my car window seems like too much work. You didn’t even have time to write out the word “PLEASE”.

Sincerely,

J. the hot MILF double space hog

Impossible techmology

Somehow I’m able to write this on a bus, live, coming back from NY. Of course, my headache stopped around 4 a.m. this morning, which I am now convinced is when everything happens, always, and I just need to accept this and all will make sense. It was strange… my migraine actually “broke” the way a fever usually does. I woke up in agonizing pain, the kind of pain a knife would have caused in my head. I thought for a moment or few that the tumor or aneurism that has been percolating in my brain the entire time I was out of town was coming to a head (heh heh) and would finally explode and I’d die, but then was able suddenly to feel normal and pain free. I believe I was dehydrated and it took me two days to catch up to hydrated. What a waste. But I still liked having a break from the 50’s housewife existence I find myself in most days.

On the housefrau note, there is a better than good chance I will have a for-real part-time job starting in the next two weeks. A few things have to get lined up first, but it seems as if it may happen, 10 hours per week, getting me back into some kind of consciousness that has nothing to do with the running of a house or toddlers. I look forward to trying to remember all the stuff I learned about web sites and computers that has erased itself from my memory banks over the past three years. Wish me luck!

Memory banks. Do those things exist anymore? What is a memory bank, anyway? The same as a hard drive?

Headache waning…or not

Finally, the migraine that has been nauseating me for two days is starting to fade. I’m not sure if I would feel that way without acetaminophen every four hours, but at least something is helping to mask the horrible pain. I have been able to enjoy this afternoon immensely. Doing nothing much is all I could have possibly asked for. Brekky at Chez Oskar. Dinner at The Smoke Joint. Choice for a lovely dessert plate. Life is good. One million thanks to Limey for his boundless generosity hosting a cranky, tired pal from the past and the future.

The girls are having a fun time with their Granny and Baba, and dear husband sounds like he’s enjoying his bitness trip to Austin, TX. As I type this, my headache threatens to come back… more drugs. Damned brain pain!

This evening ends on a somber tone… the Magnificent Foobar, found in a bag of snakes, cat to Kate the Great, has been laid to rest today. That cat had a great life and was taken care of to the max. RIP Foob. You are already missed.

Nothing says out of town like 4:30 a.m.

Why in god’s name am I awake? I’M NOT EVEN BEING WOKEN UP BY MY CHILDREN!!! I thought because I’m spending a few nights away from home (don’t fret, my parents are staying with my adorable darlings), I’d hit the pillow like a lead weight and get a solid night or two’s sleep, but nooooooooooooooo……. Fucking headache that started on the bus to my weekend away woke me up, as well as the myriad medications and caffeine superdoses I’ve ingested to combat said headache. I’m staying with a good friend who also happens to live across the street from a very loud bar, at least loud at very early hours of the morning, outside the bar. I didn’t even get to drink to earn this headache. It just showed up on its own. Probably because I fasted food and liquids before getting on the bus so I wouldn’t have to pee or poop. The bus is good if you can get on, then pass out till you get where you’re going. I actually have no complaints about the bus. I took BOLT, which appears to be Greyhound’s response to the Chinatown-type buses in the Mid-Atlantic region going betwixt D.C. and New York. Shit, $30ish bucks round trip sure as hell beats the over $230ish round trip Scamtrak charges to ride the great rails. I prefer the train, who wouldn’t? but I don’t have an income, so if people like me want to do anything its gotta be cheap. There appears to be a plethora of cheapo bus services available at this moment in time. Good. Mama needed some time away from the roost. Though I am making a formal request to the universal powers that may or may not be, please, PLEASE make my goddam headache disappear.

100% everybody else-serving

Wonderful as Monday was, I find myself now balancing mememe time by mad vacuuming and packing up lunch for a visit to the zoo after I collect the ladies from their H1N1 ridden school at noon. Does crossing your fingers, then washing them–lots–help fight off the horrible scourge of the pandemic? Here’s to hoping it does! YIKES!!! This world is a little too grown-up for me today. Am feelin’ a little like I’d like to be a baby for a few weeks and have other people wait on me and try to keep me pleased, safe and fed. No easy task. Get back to work.

100% self-serving

Finally. The girls are back in school! I dropped them off this morning and have done nothing for anyone else but me since. Put the first layer of gesso on ten small wooden panels, drank a soy latte and ate a toasted everything bagel with butter, checked my email, looked at fuckbook, and am now jotting a few words on 20/20. Not a single unselfish act has been performed this morning by me. IT FEELS GREAT. Next, I need one million dollars so I can keep up this whirlwind love affair with being completely self-serving.

Spent the morning with Sun Ra and his Intergalactic Solar Arkestra blasting on the stereo — yes, I still have one of those, complete with a double cassette tape recorder, record player/turntable, CD player, speakers and amplifier. That’s how I roll. I was born in 1967 for chrissake! I will never get over the lust for vinyl. Getting over cassettes has proven quite difficult as well, and I’m not sure it is going to work, especially considering it is pretty much how I dated guys during my youth rather than actually dating them. There’s a whole website and upcoming book dedicated to this mixed tape phenomena if you’re interested in reading some funny stories on the subject… CASSETTE FROM MY EX.

The next painting series, the one I’m using the newly primed wood panels for, is lunar. That’s all I can say at the moment. All hail preschool and the solid hour-and-a-half during which I get to be me, three times a week. Whoever that is or was is apparently still up for discussion.