Can I just eat my soup? Please?

Took my mother out for her birthday today. 3 weeks late. With all three kids and my mother in law (yes, that one). I knew it would be weird but not even I could see this one coming: After a decently lengthy conversation on the differences between AMOUNTS & TYPES of medication (and how they are NOT related), she asked me if I knew how Farrah Fawcett acquired her particular type of cancer. My mother, a breast cancer survivor, has an acute interest in such matters.

Anyway, I go: I don't know what kind of cancer she had. She goes: I do. I go: OK, I don't. And then she's all: *anal* Whispering the shit across the table at P&G's with Ruby, Penelope and my mil in the firing line.

Motherfucker. What did she expect? That I'd lay it all out there that old Farrah must have been taking it up the ass from Ryan O'Neal all these years?

I wanna be... so high

The pleasure I get from taking care of this baby! I have often wondered how great a heroin high would feel; cooked down & main-lined, straight to my CNS. These days, I'm conjuring up main-stream mommies hawking pure oxytocin at PTA meetings...

Random Part 1

Characters in my books will drive around for hours killing time by cruising drive-thru-s & one dollar cheeseburger at a time, fill the minutes till they go home and purge. They will dis-impact their own stool in the shower, pick their noses and smell their pits. They will revel in the gross-ness of their yellowed teeth and stinky farts.

They'll be rude bitches who give the stink-eye when other people's kids eat a banana in the grocery store BEFORE THEY BUY IT! (but only in a minor, barely supporting role). They will drink too much. Yell too much. They will plant gardens with poisonous plants right next to the neighbors fence. Their cars will be stolen and they'll have bodies buried back behind the swing-set. They'll hate their mothers and fuck their friend's-sister's-room-mate's-nieces.

Their dreams will be graphic and they will be vegan. They will be bad kissers, racists, bus-drivers & waitresses who don't wash their hands and serve you salad with their fingers.

The books will be good.

Who's your (grand) Daddy?

Tomorrow is my father's birthday. He's a loser. Well, to me he is. He may very well be a great dude to the people currently in his life; who knows? I can't actually come up with a more unremarkable person that I know.

Since my parents split in 1981, I have seen him 4 times and the last time we spoke, he called to ask for money. He's been invited here to meet my husband and the kids, he's been given email addresses and cell phone numbers... He is the kind of person that (I suppose) lives much better in denial. I assume it's too painful for him with each passing year to find a way to re-connect. So there he is, in Michigan (might as well be Madagascar) and here I am, we are, in New York. Ruby used to ask about him, Penelope never does and only time will tell what Lincoln brings to the party.

Weird thing is, my mom (who lives 10 minutes from me) is turning into the same kind of person. She waits for me to call, to show up at her door, to invite. She has told me it's my duty, as the daughter, to make these overtures (that's my word, not hers).

So, a healthy paranoid person can't help but wonder: Is it me? I am pretty in touch with my shady side. I can be a fucking jerk. But I can also be a lot of really great things. And then there are the kids. We have a new baby that my mother has seen 4 times. It hurts so much to type it. Fuck. The kids are tantalizing, succulent things! I can't fathom how their grandparents, these grandparents, can let them slip away.

I look so much like my father it's creepy. Cree-pee. And I carry around a nice dose of his temper, his insecurities & clumsiness. I can't get away from the guy, not that I'm trying, mind you. But sometimes the fucker sneaks up on me he like a gorilla; a gorilla clinging to me so hard that he shoves me into the dirt and won't let me get up.

Don't suggest therapy. I'll be fine in a little while.

Stress can aggrevate your condition...

I don't have health insurance right now and I'm pissed. My hair has started falling out again.

I had a decent bout of alopecia areata in the early 90's that seriously fucked with my moshing career (hard to be all reckless and head-bangy when you're worried the cute guy in the tattoos thinks your patchy bald head is NASTY), and I fear it's back.

Now, as you may all know, I recently had a baby and am currently breastfeeding that baby around the clock; two things that can wreak havoc on one's hair.... but with my history, the confirmed alopecia diagnosis... I just don't think I can blame this on the baby, too.

So thanks to Google, I now believe I also have pernicious anemia and a thyroid condition. My kingdom for a complimentary CBC and a TSH!

Head, meet pillow

For the past two nights, big-daddy-main-man-sgueglia, has taken the "first shift" with the Milkman. This means that for the past two nights I HAVE SLEPT UNTIL 4 IN THE MORNING WITHOUT INTERRUPTION (if you don't count the dream I had last night with Dennis Hopper chasing me down with a weird pointy penis through an Old Timey Wild West Town as an interruption, that is *shudder*).

Newsflash

Little man found his feet the other day. Apparently, the toe bits are delicious.

Today he founds his, uhm, balls. And let me just say, if anyone else ever grabs those bad-boys that hard, I will have them arrested.