Taro, etc

Went to the Taro Festival; bought pottery, earrings, books, and water balloon yo-yos.


Caught the man studiously boinging one when nobody was looking, and he smacked in the head with it for commenting with my eyebrows. He's getting so hostile in his old age. Went to the beach, had friends over for beer-brewing and bbq and music and trashy pink wine. I put all the kids to work in an assembly line to roll balls of cookie dough in powdered sugar for crackle-tops, which were wolfed down amid a light-saber battle as if wild dogs had run through the house.



In the evening they wrapped themselves in blankets and sat on the porch playing cards and sipping water canteens.

Leif continues to try to potty-train himself, even though I dropped him into the toilet when he came out of the bath.

Still keeping my hands busy.

Making a librarian skirt out of old too-big jeans.



Knitting a sweater for a baby who won't receive it. Because that's how I do things.



And here is a song.

taro, sun, and beer

There have been interesting things going on, but all having to do with people I cannot gracefully gossip about on the internet. conspiracy theories! canned hash! zombie apocalypse! donkey porn! concealed recording devices! married men! Sorry, posterity. 

(edited in 2021 to add: one of the dads in my kids' class turned out to be a child abusing pedophile, and was arrested after his foster kids reported him. He had my red flags up immediately, and then tried to get our kids together for a playdate, which was when he explained that he was hiding out in rural Maui to survive the coming apocalypse. No idea what the concealed recording devices and canned hash were about, but the fun moms were screening "porn in the morn" and I was thankfully not invited.)

Feel no guilt in saying that Mr. and Mrs. Downstairs had their baby. The Mr. has been celebrating by bringing all his alcoholic friends over to smoke weed in their one-room apartment while mom tries to recover from surgery, and is already screaming "SHUT THE FUCK UP" at the newborn baby. We brought down cookies and admired the tiny curled-up neonate, but I didn't know which cookie the Mr. would eat, so I couldn't put glass in it. Will focus some mental energy into him inhaling a cigarette or getting eaten by a shark, instead. 

 Went to the Taro Festival; bought pottery, earrings, books, and water balloon yo-yos. 

Caught Mike very seriously boinging one when nobody was looking, and was smacked in the head with it for commenting with my eyebrows. He's getting so hostile in his old age. Went to the beach, had friends over for beer-brewing and bbq and music and trashy pink wine. I put all the kids to work in an assembly line to roll balls of cookie dough and dredge them in powdered sugar for crackle-tops, which were wolfed down during a light saber battle. It was as if wild dogs had run through the house. 

At nightfall, they bundled in blankets and sat on the porch playing cards and sipping water canteens, which charmed me. 

Leif continues to try to potty-train himself, even though I dropped him into the toilet when he came out of the bath. Still keeping my hands busy. Making a librarian skirt out of old too-big jeans. 

Knitting an ill-advised sweater for a baby who won't receive it. Because that's how I do things. 

And here is a song.

A visit to the general store

I rummaged in the cooler, poking packages of local beef in an effort to remember which ones were good for grilling, as if my finger could tell the difference between a chuck and a cross rib. Even after reading and adoring Julie Powell's Cleaved, I still don't know which ends of a cow are worth chewing on. I picked one of each, and some hot dogs for insurance. Someone had stopped beside me, and suddenly said breathlessly, "Is that really you?" I looked up, "Huh, who am I?" Maybe I was a starlet on an all-meat diet. I hoped I was Claire Danes. More likely, Helen Hunt. A middle-aged woman with grey hair in a loose bun and a batik sundress was looking at me very hard. Her eyes sort of crumpled in disappointment."You looked like someone who used to live here, but she left... a long time ago... Someone pretty!" she added with a laugh, but she didn't look happy. I nodded and closed the meat fridge, feeling a bit guilty. It would be a terrible thing to see someone well-loved and long-gone, only a few feet and a whisper away, and have them turn to look at you with a stranger's face.

swarm

I am not askaired of spiders. Which is a good thing, because we are suddenly living in world of B-movie terror. Any minute, Samuel L. Jackson will come crashing through the sliding glass doors screaming, "MOTHERFUCKING SPIDERS!" and I will have to do a slinky dance in platform boots.

Put up your hand for a moment. Wiggle your fingers. Walk your hand across your knee. There, you have been acquainted with the type of creatures we are here discussing. Scream now if you need to.

While taking a hot shower, I looked up through the steam and saw I had a companion. He looked at me. I looked at him. I pointed my razor at him as a warning and then bent to shave my leg. Glanced up, and he was gone. Because he had skittered across the ceiling and was CROUCHING OVER MY HEAD. Leaped from the shower and ran with dignity to the bedroom with a headful of unrinsed conditioner.



Being very protective of my precious lady shaving gel, I peeked back in on the stubbly-legged creature a minute later. Found a second spider applying my makeup in front of the bathroom mirror.



Decided to pretend I had not seen these things. Went to the livingroom for a bit of drawing. Two chortling dinosaurs later, something skittered past the couch.

OMFG ANOTHER FACE-EATING SPIDER.



I don't know why the cats have not devoured these creatures yet. Probably because they have been tied up and glued to the ceiling somewhere.

So far, none have turned up inside the toilet, and that is priority #1. Was not funny last time it happened.

no good

Update on my mother's health: she has tried to blow up her eyeballs.

After the meningitis, her doctor warned that she would be susceptible to any damned virus that got sneezed onto her, and she immediately got bronchitis. Fine, we know how to kick bronchitis. Not a problem. Then on Easter Sunday, she called to ask me to do some web diagnosing because one of her eyes went blurry. As expert google-hypochondriac, I narrowed it down to two things: close-angle glaucoma, where the eye stops draining and blows up like a balloon and results in permanent blindness, and pink eye. Turns out there was pink eye going around her school, so not a cause for hysteria and holiday ER visits, yes? NO. She went to the doctor a day later and - surprise! CLOSE-ANGLE GLAUCOMA. She is now in emergency eye surgery to try to save her eyesight.

Have I mentioned that my mom is only 50? Am back to feeling helpless and unhappy. Even the bacon chocolate isn't fixing this.

Easter 2010

I want to write something long and meaningful and filled with thoughtful details. But I'm not going to. I'm anemic and sleepy and coasting on mini cadbury eggs.

Let us just say that it was a wonderful weekend. Let us also say that I pulled off a crown roast dinner in 4 inch heels. It isn't true, but it could have been.

I'll fluff this with pictures and then go pass out under my basket.

Firstly, we went to a wedding. You know how people go to weddings and become transported by the magic and romance of new beginnings? Well, that didn't happen to me. Gavin enjoyed seeing his tae kwon do teacher in a dress, though.



"Wow, that's a nice dress. What did your dress look like at your wedding, mom?" "A tent." It did. Indulged in a bit of self pity about my pointless marriage, until I saw the tragic cake.



Cheered up further when Mike came back with the "uck" part for us. Dodged the bouquet, which went whizzing past my head and smacked the tree behind me. Pretended to get my heels pegged in the mud while a little girl dove for it. Which was easy to do, because they were.

The pavillion was on the edge of a sea cliff, which made for a very exciting afternoon for all the mothers in attendance.



After eating the handsome groom's hand-killed venison and pushing the car out of the mud, we headed home, grabbed the boiled eggs, and trooped over to our friends' house to dye eggs with the kids.

No picture, because we laid out the eggs, turned to find decorating implements, and turned back to discover all 12 eggs dyed pink. The end.

For the second year in a row, Gavin wrote a letter to the Easter Bunny and asked him to write a note in return. And for the second year in a row, the Easter Bunny ate the note. Leif screamed at us for being too chipper at an ungodly hour of the morning, then found his basket among the pots and pans.



He looks happy, but I got a BACON CHOCOLATE BAR.

The day was lovely. There was cooking, and feasting, and sword fighting, and card playing.

Also fake oven-checking for auto-timer, since nobody would take a picture of me.



And two men with booze.



We got into the hobo wine someone made in their bathtub and delivered to us in a used bottle covered in plastic wrap. It tasted like Drunk.

It was as good a holiday as we could have wished for, having to spend it away from family. Next year perhaps I'll be back to juggling appetizers with my mom in her tiny kitchen.

sloshen

But I can still type! Easter is a happy time. We talked to my mom on ichat, cleaned the house, then went to the beach. With the crappy old camera that puts blurs in the middle of everything. I am too cool for swim wear. Hana Bay. The glowy-white figures in the foreground are the boy-people. Leif just gave up trying to stay clean and ate the sand. Chops on the grill. The rainy season is over, and the sun is pouring in. Am not going to send any drinky emails.

itemized

• Fell out of the car again. Considering cleats. 

• Was almost killed by a pit bull: rounded blind curve and veered out of path of careening truck; slavering dog whizzing perilously past my window. If I were to be killed by an animal, being bludgeoned by one would probably be the way to go. Unless it were a hamster, or other very small animal which would require either a cannon blast or hours of effort to finish the job. 

• Got another book project*. 

 • Patron in scanty shorts rested his testicles on my desk.

 • Bought a new pack of red pencils online. Spent almost an hour agonizing over what to add to get free shipping (6 dollars - NEED TO SPEND 6 DOLLARS), stamping out the joy of purchasing precious effing carmine pencils. 

• Ate half a tub of fat free whipped topping. Yes, I know it is made of hemorrhoid cream. 

• Couldn't finish sewing tart dress because there are no zippers on the island. Probably because the governor laid off the zipper inspectors. 

• Swore at governor on television because she is laying off 1,800 more people instead of raising taxes a bit because "it wouldn't be good for businesses". But cutting our pay, furloughing every state agency, closing schools, and laying off thousands of people is JUST GREAT. Now I am going to go close my head in the fridge because I just ranted about politics. 

*  Task: figure out how to wedge prehistoric beasts into a board book format. I'm thinking... 

  

 Still working on concepts.

The House of Sick

Meningitis.

Was told by mom's doctor to watch her and get her to the hospital if anything changes because "she could die." Was not happy with this. Even though her doctor is tiny and cute and I wanted to knock her over and steal her fancy shoes.

Changed ice packs, picked up prescriptions, administered pills, refilled water bottles, and found myself with hours of quiet time to knit on the couch or lay in bed alone late into the night reading. Felt like the old me. Put on a baggy old tee shirt and took off my jeans to complete the effect.

Boob turned into a potato. Breast pump insisted it was doing its best.

The man arranged to fly in on Saturday. I experienced a confused mix of excitement and disappointment. Filled my arms with kissing boys and put jeans back on.

Cleaned the bathrooms, sneaking four garbage bags out behind the house. Said "it had a hole in it!" every time she asked about missing soap slivers/old toothbrushes/that hairspray in the rusted can that we can't use because we're allergic.

Mom started to feel better, as indicated by the fact that I went upstairs and found her disassembling her air cleaner instead of resting. Secured her recovery with a load of Thai food from the restaurant with the old lady who predicted I'd go into labor when I sent my mom for saté sticks.

Went to Target. The man became stressed by city traffic, tried to run 4 people off the road.

While cleaning the kitchen, discovered a cupboard of miscellaneous liquor that was still good. Also a cursed 7 year-old bottle of cheap champagne from our wedding. And a pack of pre-cooked bacon I bought during the divorce, disturbingly normal-looking.

Got a cold. Leif showed his sympathy by sneezing snot down my shirt. Then made Cute Face (exaggerated blinking with tongue between teeth). Forgiven.

I asked him to do it for the camera, and this is what happened:

I threatened to take them to the Sears portrait studio for a babies-rolling-pointlessly-in-flowers photo shoot. Preview of how that would go:

Tomorrow we fly home. My mother is expending all of her new energy in the cheesecake section of Costco. I know she'll be safe now.

Was all of this the sign I was waiting for that it is time to make the move back? Perhaps.

Hits and knits

This month the furlough gods decided to throw us out on Fridays instead of Wednesdays, just to keep the public confused. This means that I can now watch the boy get his teeth knocked out in his Tae Kwon Do classes.

Due to financial woes, the classes are being held in the local homeschool:

To help the kids get back into the studio, a fundraiser is in the works. A poker tournament. I believe the last time I played poker, it degraded into a penny-throwing match. I will not be doing that thing.

Before class, the man had a good snog with Oprah the dog. Afterwards, Oprah ran away to roll in a maggoty corpse. She spent the rest of the morning under the yurt on her rope of shame.

Gavin tried to kick his buddy's face in.

I hid behind the bookcase.

Not pictured: the hour spent chasing the kids through the rain after class and hiding under a tarp while they howled, "I'm the Water God, follow me!" from the top of the play structure. Finally came in, sopping and grumpy, to drag the man out of the poker-organization meeting.

Came home to learn that my mother has been too sick to eat since Wednesday. Talked to her, knitting out my worries on the boy's sweater. Finished it while my mother was in Emergency yesterday afternoon. She's back at home, two IV bags fuller, but still unable to eat or stand. My auntie is being a good sister and dumping Gatorade into her, despite the whining from her husband on the phone, having been forced to watch his own children.

So today I am upset about my mother's mortality, and waiting to see if I need to fly over and beat the doctors into fixing her. But at least the Durrow sweater is done.

And it's really kind of fantastic. The boy kind of likes it, too, despite the fact that I cut off the loose ends, which he had been using as dangly lures to drag the cats around by.