VANILLA BEAN

Yesterday our rabbit, Vanilla Bean, got out of his hutch on the deck. When I noticed he was gone it was past 8 and almost dark, and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find him in our overgrown back yard. 

I checked the side of the house where he likes to hang out and then knelt to look under the deck, but the white shape I saw in the shadows was just a ball. When I stood up I heard an owl hooting and dogs barking, and I thought about the heartbreak we'd all feel if our little bunny didn't make it home. 

The kids were taking showers so I walked down the street to check the bushes in front of the neighbor's house. A few times when Vanilla Bean's gotten out we've found him sprawled on their front porch, apparently waiting for them to come home and invite him in. 

He wasn't there, and when I heard Lula call my name and saw her standing in the light of our front porch, I yelled at her to go inside. It would be awful to lose Vanilla Bean at any time, but possibly a little more so right now. She stood in the doorway and though I couldn't see her face I knew she was worried. Vanilla Bean is technically her rabbit and they have a special relationship--they really seem to understand and love each other. I gave him to her a year and a half ago, when he was just a little ball of fluff, and the thought of her sadness if something happened to him made my heart sink.

It was dusk now and I thought I'd look a bit further. Three houses down, the neighbors have been digging up rose bushes because they're worried their kids will get hurt on the thorns. Their front yard looked freshly groomed, with dark patches of dirt surrounding the remaining roses. An orange cat got up and walked away when I came closer, and then I saw a long white thing lying beneath a bush. It was bright white against the dark ground and I could see its cute grey ears flattened happily against its head. It looked at me when I said its name.

"Vanilla Bean, it's time to go home," I said, and I hoped he wouldn't run towards the neighbor's back yard, where their two dogs were barking loudly.

He sat up and looked around as if deciding which way to go. I crept closer with my arms stretched out to catch him or, more likely, catch myself if I tripped. Vanilla Bean decided against the neighbor's back yard and ran almost comically slowly towards my right. I stuck my hand out and for a second felt his little wet mouth pressed against my palm, then I picked him up and pressed his soft furry body against my chest.

He seemed glad to be in my arms, and even more so in Lula's when I called her and she opened the door. With Malko we cuddled Vanilla Bean on the couch and I was amazed, as always, at how calm and happy he seemed to be with his oversized family members. He laid there with his eyes half-closed, and when Lula put him back in his hutch there was a wet spot on the couch where he'd been licking it, giving it rabbit kisses.

COZY MONDAY MORNING

It's 4 am and I'm lying in bed while very cold rain drizzles down outside, unfortunately not snow, but who knows, maybe that will still happen! Anyway this is great too--it's super cozy in the house, the heater keeps coming on, and we're piled under blankets with Fia snuggled close. The deliciousness of winter!

Thursday I threw out my neck while doing dishes, though it started the day before when I lifted our bed with my shoulder. I was trying to pull a rug under the bed and I needed to lift the center support of the bed frame--before wedging my shoulder under the bed I thought to myself "This is how you get hurt," and then the next morning I woke up with stiffness in my shoulders and then BAM! While turning to look at Malko who was making a fort in the kitchen cabinets I felt the right side of my neck seize up and oh god, it was SO painful! Hot burning pain radiating out of my neck every time I moved a millimeter! All I could do was whimper!

I spent the rest of the day in bed and that was fine because I wasn't in a housework mood anyway, being burned out from all the painting and rearranging I did in our room the week before. So I just laid there and felt sorry for myself. Joedy came home early to help with the kids and that was nice, even if totally necessary given my immobilization. My neck still hurts but I think I'll try stretching today, get back in action and show it who's the boss!

Back to our bedroom: it's wonderful in here now. I painted the walls white and the floor purple, and then made curtains from this purple velvet fabric I found at the thrift store last year, and hung this great rug on the wall behind the bed. Then a few more things, and now it's the nicest room in the house--so cozy and colorful and fun! Just delicious! Like a mug of hot chocolate brimming with baby marshmallows! So drinkable!

Speaking of hot chocolate with marshmallows, that sounds pretty good right now. Only problem is, we're out of milk. Maybe I could use rainwater? 

I guess I could just go buy some milk.

But it would be so much more FUN to make the hot chocolate with rainwater!!

WHAT TO DO?!?!?!

To be cont.'d.

EYES OPEN

Today is Monday the day after St. Patrick's Day and I am drinking green tea to celebrate, having read until 2 a.m. about the BAM! FAZZLE! SHANG! amazing benefits of green tea and hot lime water poured over your head in times of stress, the principle being that the shock and burning stinging sensation will make you glad this doesn't happen all day long or even all life long, sort of the way I felt Saturday while driving on the freeway with Lula when a Honda Element swerved in front of us then swerved away then careened across our path and drove straight full speed ahead into the side wall, smashing and flipping and rolling in a real live horror show, the likes of which I've never seen, really, maybe felt a few times, but never seen, and which was not that different from the scene I witnessed and was part of while walking into Hairy Eagle Butt My Beloved Unpretentious And Super Wonderful Grocery Store and looking up at the twilight night sky and seeing not just a perfect crescent moon, glowing silver and magic, but a tiny airplane, an arrow, really, also perfectly silver and magic, its long exhaust stream or whatever you call it all alit silver and gorgeous too, an unbelievable manmade comet of beauty, really, and the nose of the plane was pointed straight at the gentle curved belly of the moon, the precise middle, and I thought "This is freaking amazing! Who sees this kind of thing EVER??" and wished I had my freaking camera but stood there and watched as the tiny amazing plane flew into the space of the moon and made contact and for a moment they were one, just a strange geometrical shape of silvery loveliness, and then the plane separated itself and flew on, away, its tail streaming behind, the moon silent and alone, and I wondered if the people up there reading and trying to stretch, hoping the goddamn flight wouldn't take too long, had any idea of the unreal beauty they'd been part of and if, somehow, my seeing it could somehow do something, I don't know, maybe just remind us, like that car did, that things happen fast and it's good to keep your eyes open--that said, happy almost birthday, Malko, we love you we love you we love you so much!

CLIMBERS' CRIES

There's a sound in the wind
sometimes
of the cries of climbers who stopped
near the top of Mt. Everest
to catch their breath and feel the glow of the sun
and who didn't know that pausing would mean freezing
limbs instantly stiffened
from the outside in

I don't care about Mt. Everest
everyday life is thrilling enough for me
the rapture of opening mail
successfully
cooking wild salmon and
broccoli
gives me all the glow I need
But sometimes late at night
I hear the teary sighs of climbers
whose pause cost them their lives
and I shiver because
who hasn't felt strong among tall peaks
who hasn't let their eyes rest
for a moment
on the infinite beauty
of diamonds
and who hasn't begun to drift
suddenly
sadly
away

TSA TIPS

 

INTRODUCTION

Before we get started, TSA (Travel Security Association) would like to point out that, though it might seem as if we're trying to make your travel experience more difficult, that's not the case: we simple want everyone to arrive at their destination in one piece (if not in peace). The following, therefore, is meant to prepare you for the security portion of your flight with your child; please read it carefully and, if you have any questions, call approximately seventeen months in advance at 1-800-GET-HELP.

To ensure the security of all travelers, TSA is under blood oath to screen everyone, even orphaned disabled babies, before allowing them to go through the security checkpoint. What do we mean by “screen”? Well, that’s a good question, and one we can’t readily explain. It could mean long periods of uncomfortable standing, sweating, and being glared at in hostility, or it could simply mean that a radioactive wand is waved around your brain. Regardless, the point is that we are doing something to show that something is being done before any orphaned disabled babies are allowed to advance to security.

TSA will NOT ask travelers to do anything that will separate them from their child(ren). That is, unless the children are made up of more than three ounces of liquid—in which case (especially if they’re made up of organic free-range breast milk) they’ll be dumped in a large canvas sack, to be sold on the sidewalk behind Terminal B.

TSA specially trains Travel Security Officers (TSOs), drumming it into their heads that child travelers, like their parents, must be given a modicum of respect. Not too much respect, mind you, because we want everyone to stay in line, but certainly enough that there are no riots. If a child becomes uncomfortable or starts screaming because she’s only two and the idea of having to remove her shoes in front of all these strangers is overwhelming, TSOs will wave their radioactive wands while singing Eminem songs, a surefire technique to get young passengers to chill out, YO.

THE SCREENING PROCESS

As part of our highly mysterious and borderline incomprehensible approach to security, TSA recently accepted that some children, especially orphaned disabled babies, might not be able to perform the shoe removal ritual with adequate speed and that they therefore might need to go through the security checkpoint twice, and sometimes even fifty, times. The new screening procedures TSA has adopted in hopes of appearing “considerate” and “nice” towards innocent children includes a Sno-Cone machine that doubles as an explosives detector; when the blue raspberry button is pressed, electrodes penetrate the passenger’s aura, determining whether he/she has ever enjoyed a fireworks show or held a sparkler. Passengers twelve and under are now allowed to leave their shoes on (but not their socks).

AT THE X-RAY

All carry-on baggage, including children’s bags and toys, must go through the X-ray machine. Examples include: everything that is carry-on baggage. You don't need to take your pants off and put them through the X-ray, but if you do, we’ll gladly take you aside and have an in-depth conversation with you in a small room. All child-related equipment that will fit through the X-ray machine must go through the X-ray machine. Examples include: everything.  If any child-related equipment does not fit through the X-ray machine, TSOs will either throw it away or keep it for themselves--NEVER, under any circumstances, will the equipment be returned to its rightful owner.

Ask a TSO for help gathering bags and child-related equipment, if necessary; bribery, in the form of chocolate cake, may come in handy here. 

THE WALK-THROUGH METAL DETECTOR

TSA has interviewed many moms on this issue, and the consensus is that children who can crawl should be urged to go through the metal detector/Sno-Cone machine alone. Why? Simply because moms need a break, for Pete’s sake, and those three seconds of  alone time are deeply valuable. Many of the interviewed moms actually encouraged TSA to make their children crawl through the metal detector many, many times—everyone will be that much safer afterwards. If parents are carrying a child through the metal detector/Sno-Cone machine, the officer will have to additionally screen both the passenger and the child. TSA acknowledges that this statement makes no sense whatsoever, but in the spirit of keeping things complicated so they seem better, it’s a legitimate rule; if a baby is carried through the metal detector in a carrier or sling, such as that used for a broken arm, additional screening may be required.

Passengers may not pass their children to another person (“pawn them off”) during this process, EVEN IF the children are screaming.

Passengers may not pass their children to TSOs, even if they wish they WOULD confiscate them and sell them on the sidewalk behind Terminal B.

Security officers may ask for help screening children, although, if the parent has fled at the thought of the eight hours of travel with a toddler, “help” might be far away.

IN THE GRASS

Like prehistoric people,
a family beating grass with sticks
looking for something lost
something loved

Swish, wish, through the dryness,
the sadness
of the fear felt
thinking of what she was like
when she was little

I saw her picture
a few weeks ago
and hoped she wouldn't end up dumped
somewhere nearby

Now a thunderstorm's rolling past,
and I'm wondering
did they find her?
or is she lying
cold and wet
in the grass

DISASTER

You made a
grilled cheese sandwich
in a punitive way
adding extra butter
aggressively
forcing cereal down your throat
while waiting for the bread to brown

Everything was wrong
but especially you
old lady dressed much too young
pathetic and scary
the person you thought you'd
never be
heavy makeup, wrinkles showing deep

sad, so sad

You ate, and ate, and ate
emptily, remembering
the sound of doves cooing
in the garage at lunchtime that day
what did they say?

sorry, so sorry

TASTELESS CUPCAKE

Some days I can't meet
people's eyes
my face feels long and
set in stone

tired
ugly
old

Eating a cupcake tonight
for Valentine's
I thought about love and
how lonely
it can be

dry
empty
sad

The cupcake was tasteless
and I remembered thinking,
earlier,
this would be a day
without tears

RESULTS OF INTERGALACTIC MISSION 1674: SPACE DELIGHTS!

A couple weeks ago I finished my first ten mobiles ("Space Delights"). Since then I've been on a house-painting bender, and am only just recovering from the fumes, but am DYING to get started on the next ten (they'll have a different style of frame--a vertical line with horizontal-ish arms). I'm going to enter these in a show sponsored by Austin City Hall, and maybe try to get them in a store, but I'm hesitant about separating them because I think they pack more of a punch when they're all together. I'll post more details about these guys later--right now, I REALLY need to take a shower...

GOODBYE DAVID RICE

It's one thing to joke about cops coming to the house when you're high on paint fumes and another thing when it actually happens. I'll just say this: it's not as funny as it sounds. Nervous giggling usually doesn't go over well with the law, and when your hair looks like it hasn't been washed in eleven days--specifically, because it HASN'T been washed--and you're giving off guilty vibes because of that time, twenty years ago, when you thought it would be amusing to write "I have a gub" on a piece of paper at the bank with your then-boyfriend, and he threw the piece of paper in the trash, and the cleaning person found it, and gave it to the bank manager, and next thing you knew you and your boyfriend were being interrogated at the police station--

That was twenty years ago, and my terrified tears quickly proved me innocent (and stupid), but for some reason the guilty conscience is still there, to such a degree that when I saw the cop car pull up to the curb I went and hid, and it took a few moments of standing in the dark hallway, clutching a paint can, before I came to my senses and thought "What the hell am I doing?" THEN I walked, a little more assuredly, to the open window of the office, which I was painting various shades of green, and said "Can I help you?" to the strangely bulging-eyed officer crossing the yard.

"Hello," he said. "How are you?"

"Fine, thanks," I replied. "And you?" I didn't do it!!

"Just fine," he said, eyeing me--scrutinizing my sloppy painting getup, my guilty aura, my past lives as a gondolier and a squirrel--with mild suspicion. "I'm looking for someone"--my throat tightened--"who, I'm told, lives at this address. Do you know David Rice?"

Phew--he wasn't looking for me! I started to feel friendlier towards the cop, and for a second imagined myself inviting him in through the window, offering him a glass of milk, maybe gently broaching his eye problem. All I could manage, though, was a smile--a smile that said, I hoped, I'm a good, rule-following person. Those mushrooms I wrote about? Shiitake!

He waited. Gesturing awkwardly with the paint can--what was wrong with me?--I croaked out an answer: "David Rice? NO! NEVER HEARD OF HIM."

It was too vehement. The cop looked at me, his bulging eyes still bulging, and I began to think it was a trick--I'll make them nervous with my weird eyeballs! I'll make them think I'm the one doing illegal things, things that make me look this demented way!--but caught myself. "He used to live here, you say?"

"Yes, his sister told us this was his last place of residence. You've never heard of him?"

HELL NO, I wanted to yell, while in the back of my mind I started to wonder: maybe this David Rice lived with the seven other male occupants during the house's looney bin phase? Maybe he's the one who kicked the bedroom door in? Maybe he left the deep holes--enraged-looking gouge marks--in the kitchen counter? Something kept me from going into all that, and I just offered this piece of information instead: "We do get mail for other people, sometimes."

It seemed to do the trick. He looked at me one more time with his disconcerting cartoon eyes, asked my name--why??--and thanked me. When his back was turned, I got braver: "Have a nice day!" I called out. "Thanks for stopping by!" He waved, and got in the car.

Hiding behind the living room curtain, I watched him sit there for ten minutes, ten minutes during which, I was sure, he did a background check, triple background check, and inside-out cross-pollinating background check of my current life and the ones spent as a gondolier and squirrel. Finally his car pulled away--Good riddance, I thought, go do your job and catch David Rice!--and I went back to the office, where the afternoon light was making the newly painted room look especially happy and inviting. In the past week, the bathroom, hallway, kitchen, and front door had undergone similar transformations, making the whole place so much nicer--more dignified, more respectable, more normal--than it did when we moved in last year, not long after its illustrious time as a halfway house. To have helped bring about that change, to have replaced ugliness with beauty and carelessness with order, to have created, in a way, a new reality for myself and the family, felt really, really good...

No one's come looking for David Rice again, and I think it's pretty clear he doesn't live here anymore.


p.s. please note author wearing pig hat in photo. Get it? Pig?

LOST TOOTH FOUND

Yesterday Lula was in the studio while I continued my eternal activity of walking around the house with random objects in my hands, wondering where the other green sock was and what had happened to the 599 other lego ocean liner pieces; to add to the stupefyingly endless amount of daily household chores, I'd started organizing a closet in the hallway, dumping its dusty, mysterious contents--crap, mostly--on the studio floor.

One of the things in there was a pink box I'd been using to store sentimental stuff--postcards, old passports, somewhat macabre locks of the kids' hair, Lula's baby teeth--and though putting it in the studio with Lula made a little bell go off, I was in a fog of dodishesmakedinnerfoldlaundrywashdogsfindsockopenmail, and it wasn't until I heard her say "Hey Maman! I found my second tooth! We forgot to put it under my pillow!!" that I realized Pink Box + Lula = Oh Shit.

"Your...tooth? What tooth?" I asked, the fogginess giving way to alarm. Silently I berated myself for slipping up, for allowing the Great Tooth Fairy Myth--and Lula's precariously hanging, 7-year-old, almost-not-believing-anymore innocence--to be threatened. She'd recently told me some of her friends don't believe in Santa Claus; though I'd suspected she plays along, to a certain degree at least, with the bizarre gift-oriented lies we tell her ("Yes! It IS remarkable that Santa gives the exact same toys as the ones at H.E.B!" "Yes, it IS weird that Maman and the Tooth Fairy have the same handwriting!"), I'm finding that a year of a child's life, from my new perspective as an ancient person, goes a lot quicker than I remember it going, and...What?? Lula doesn't believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy anymore?! I'M NOT READY FOR THIS!

Scrambling to gather my thoughts, hoping she'd interpret my 10-second pause as Preoccupation With Important Housework, I affected a tone of nonchalance: "Oh right, we forgot that one. We'll just do it tonight." Still frozen in the middle of the living room, I waited for her reaction: had it worked, or would she...laugh at me? Did she know?

She answered in a clear voice, a voice so sweet, so guileless, that I couldn't help wondering if I was the one being duped. "Ok Maman, I'll put it in an envelope, then!" she said, and I heard her walk, suspiciously businesslike, into the office. I heard the filing cabinet open, then the desk drawer (to get a pen to write a note, I assumed), and then, still as perfectly accepting of "the story," maybe just a little too unquestioning, she walked briskly down the hall and into her room.

I heard the bunk bed creak, and started to relax. Phuh-EW, I thought, and then I wondered: had she written a note? If so, what did it say? Was it another series of questions asking how she could beat her friend Sammy in track? Was it a repeat of the last "note"--the words "I WANT A TOY" hastily scrawled on the back of the envelope? Or was it something different, a little more thoughtful--something that matched the steadily growing, happily purposeful activity I sense(d) in my not-so-little girl?

I still don't know what she wrote, because I forgot to do the whole Tooth Fairy routine last night. That came close to inflicting serious damage to the reputation of the Winged Hoarder of Teeth, but! As everyone knows! If you're late getting your tooth under your pillow--even if you forgot!--you get put waaay down at the bottom of the list. So she might not come on a timely basis. Although she had better, if she wants anyone to care about her...

Better go put that scratchy costume on.

PAINTING TIPS

It used to be that when I'd paint I'd be all sloppy, interested more in the outcome, half-assed as it was, than in the process, the knowledge that what I was doing was being done well. It wasn't about people coming over and saying "Oh! Isabel sure did a neat, methodical job on those cabinets!" but the knowledge that shit was getting done quickly. Crappy as the cabinets looked with bits of masking tape still showing, here and there, and the interiors as neglected, as yellowed and ghetto as they'd been in the 60's, all I cared was that, come on, the fronts were blue now! There was color! I had done my work and anyway, HELLO, I HATE PAINTING.

Times have changed, and I am now an adult. The ripe old age of almost-38 has taught me a thing or two--namely, a thing or two about painting...

HOW TO PAINT LIKE AN ALMOST-38-YEAR-OLD

1. Choose a small space, like a closet or a bathroom, for your first project. If it's a closet, drag a bathtub/horse trough up to it; if it's a bathroom, use the bathtub that's already there.

2. Open can of paint with a spoon. If that doesn't work, use your teeth. While calling the dentist (because of resulting "teeth"), use power drill to create holes in paint can and, simultaneously, to ease stress caused by fact that eating, talking, swallowing, and other basic life skills will be problematic for a while. With free hand, pat self on back for multitasking!

3. Pour contents of paint can in bathtub/trough. Stir vigorously with foot.

4. Remove clothing. If paint is red, bloody shirt (from teeth issues) can be wrung into it, creating a DIY organic effect. Pride self on resourcefulness, then jump into paint.

5. Naked, roll in the paint. Cover hair with it. Pretend you are engaging in a strange alien ritual. Make it more convincing by screaming "EEP! EEP! PIXELLATION IS THE HANDIWORK OF OSCAR MEYER!" Disregard the knocking on the front door.

6. When thoroughly drenched, get out of tub/trough and approach an area that needs to be painted. Place self against the area; rub.

7. Continue to rub self against the area, effectively painting. Using the snow-angel, windmill, and eggbeater techniques, cover as much space as possible as quickly as possible. This is called efficiency, and it is the cornerstone of living life maturely.

8. When you get to hard-to-reach places like the inside corners of cabinets, do a quick assessment of body parts that will fit in there and proceed accordingly. Sometimes, you'll find, only your butt will do. This is normal, especially if the space is shaped like a giant cinnamon roll.

9. When entire area is painted, lie in bathtub/horse trough for a well-earned rest. Gazing at the ceiling, now covered in turquoise imprints of your butt, reflect on the leaps and bounds your painting skills and overall maturity have made; you might have the "teeth" of a 1-year-old, but your wisdom is shining through for all to see…

10. Rouse self from paint-fume-induced hallucinogenic trance and briefly wonder about the knocking on the front door. Still delighted with your ingenuity and your ability to commune, while painting, with Oscar Meyer, skip towards the door. Feeling as ecstatic as that time you ate an entire bag of mushrooms, open the door, turn around, and moon the policemen--moon convention, rules, and responsibility!--with your turquoise-painted butt.

SHUT UP, I LOVE YOU

It's 1:27 p.m. and I'm trying to type really quietly so as not to wake up Malko, a.k.a. Harbinger Of Noisy Destruction. He finally fell asleep around 12 after yelling "PAPA'S BED!! PAPA'S BED!!" no less than 180 times, during which I gritted my teeth and sent him the telepathic message Suck It. I'm all about respecting my needs, yo, and my needs were telling me to ignore his insane, demented, loud, obnoxious demands to "take a nap" in the parental bed. My needs were that he needed to shut the hell up. In his bed.

Funny I should talk so roughly about my child after having a little breakdown, yesterday, about the impermanence of life--specifically, about the unrelenting possibility of one's child getting sick or having an accident and everything quickly turning into a nightmare. I recently learned that one of Malko's nannies, Jessica*, lost a child to cancer years ago, and putting that knowledge next to her ever-smiling, uncomplaining face was a shock. I've always wondered how people who've lost a child go on, how they manage to act normal, and to be so physically close to Jessica's reality--to witness, in a way, what I imagine is a constant struggle--was more than a little moving. I imagined myself in her shoes, working as a nanny thousands of miles away from the country she grew up in, from the place where her seven-year-old son died. How does she do it? How does she look at Malko, the same age her son was when he got sick, without bursting into tears? How does she keep it together?

I try not to think about this kind of thing--children dying--too much, but the fear, the worries, the thoughts are always floating around on the periphery, and sometimes I think that's a good thing: it makes me appreciate what I have. Believe me, I know what a ridiculously perfect life I have: our kids are healthy and happy, we have a comfortable home, we have safe water to drink and lots of food to eat. We have loving family and friends, and luxuries beyond belief.

I try to appreciate these things daily, to really think about how lucky I am, and most days, to a certain degree, I'm able to sustain awareness of our good fortune. Sometimes, though, like today before Malko fell asleep, I revert to the me who bitches and complains, who wishes my kid would shut the hell up so I can sit down and finally, finally write an entry in my blog, an entry that says, I hope, how much I love him.


*not her real name

BACK IN BEDLAM

Hello, and welcome back to Tales From Bedlam.

I guess I should be saying that to myself!

So. Some moons have passed. Some things have changed. My hair, for example. It's now dark, and I have bangs--in other words, it's exactly the way I said I would never, ever have it again (dark with bangs). Oh, the things we say we'll never do and end up doing!

Yeah.

Today was a quiet day around the house--it was just Malko and me and the dogs and cats. We took the dogs for a swim this morning, where Malko got to splash around in the possibly polluted river until his diaper got all soggy, and then we came home and he took a nap. When he got up we went out for a piece of pizza, and at the restaurant he demanded to eat three packages of Smarties, almost fell over backwards out of his high chair, and generally was as unpleasant a dining companion as anyone could be. I'd thought it would be nice to relax and have a beer while we ate, but I had to gulp it down between his toddler hi-jinks and, guess what--it wasn't very relaxing.

The five-month blogging break has been good in terms of the creative projects I mention in the bio box, and that's satisfying beyond belief. I'm getting closer to my goal of "getting my stuff out there," and it is SOOOOOOOOOO EXCITING!!!!!

My eyes are getting super heavy now so I'm going to do a little drawing and then sign off.

It's really nice to be back in ole' Bedlam...

FRISKY!

WELL, HELLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

HELLO BLITZEN! HELLO CRAIG! HELLO DONNA! HELLO PAUL! NOW DASH AWAY, DASH AWAY, DASH AWAY ALL!!!!!

Hello--I am high. No, not on that. I flushed that down the toilet and boiled the accompanying gadget so none of that could be scraped out of it (the gadget) in a moment of weakness. Everyone has moments of weakness, right? And luckily, moments of strength. Which is when, personally, I flush shit (ooh! double meaning!) down the toilet.

So! Anyway. I meant high on sugar. I haven't done this in a while. But tonight I had a CRAVING and concocted chocolate sauce out of baker's chocolate, butter, milk, water, and sugar, and poured it on top of raspberry crunchy cereal, then put whipped cream on top of it. Yum! High.

I haven't written here in a while. That's been strange. But I think it's because, as I said in a recent post, I've needed a break from the blog. And also, perhaps there's been some stuff happening and I haven't felt much like writing about my life.

Um.

It's spring! Spring is springing up and down, jiggling its cheeks like a frisky clown. Say what? Say "FRISKY"! "FRISKY"! "FRISKY"!

"Frisky," in my opinion, is a greatly underused word. I am going to try to use it here to make up for its lack of use in the general lexicon of American babble:

This morning I woke up at 6 a.m. to put the trash out because I had procrastinated the night before and was afraid of being attacked by the pack of frisky wild raccoons that stampede through the attic at ungodly hours. I threw my phone at the wall when it started doing its frisky fucking alarm noise because I had been up till very late not feeling frisky or even fanatical about flapjacks or anything related to being chipper and annoyingly jolly. When I opened the door to the garage I noticed that the rats had not eaten (friskily or not friskily) any of the laundry, and that made me slightly debonair. I tried to quietly roll the trash can out to the street but it was loud so I gave up and figured the neighbors wouldn't mind being woken up a little bit earlier on such a goddamn frisky morning.

I went back to bed and slept friskily for five more hours.

THE END.

Welp, that's that! Now we can move on to other things. Like the recent alleged "time change." Excuse me, but do you take me for an idiot?!?! NO THANKS BUCKAROO, I DON'T BUY THAT CRAP. Time change belongs in fantasy novels featuring frisky half-insect humanoids, NOT in my world. Thus: the computer says 1:58, but forget it pal, I ain't no sucker. It's 7:21 a.m. and/or p.m., and it will be that way as long as I say so. So there. Time change, my FRISKY BUTT.

WOOPS! That didn't sound right. Never mind.

Anyway, it's spring, y'all. Persephone is climbing out of the cave, or whatever the myth said. Sailing down the river Styx in a mega-yacht. Sprinkling petals hither and thither. Fro and aft, totally daft. The leaves they are a-coming in, and yes, I am somewhat intoxicated on the merry glee that is the rebirth, so to speak, of the Northern Hemisphere at this time of year, and which I am trying to enjoy without thinking too much about natural or, more appropriately, unnatural disasters, those frisky earthquakes and things that are wreaking a bit of havoc here and there and which I am afraid--

Woah, bummer topic there! Let's try to stay positive, shall we? Remember: "frisky"!

Before sitting down at the computer I was making earrings so I can try to become a wealthy artist. For some reason I was having gargantuan amounts of difficulty coming up with even simple designs, and in three hours I only made six pairs. WOW. Not very frisky.

My plan is to do a table on South Congress in a month. Wish me luck! I've made one Space Delight (mobile) and hope to have six billion more. For that to happen, great quantities of sugar will need to be consumed. Raccoons will need to be sacrificed. Frisky freaks, the names of whom I'm not naming, will need to go to bed earlier and sleep less lately. Even if they're up doing "important" "stuff" like "finally" writing in their goddamn "blog" after so much time has passed that frisky or unfrisky readers might think it's THE END.

Which it is. The end.

FOR NOW!

THE GROCERY STORE PT. 2

This is continued from HERE.

Enjoy!


It had been a difficult morning, preceded, as usual, by a night of insomnia that left her shattered and groggy by six, when the alarm went off. The internal battle to shut off the snooze, drag herself out of the blankets, and propel herself out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the kitchen was made more difficult by the fact that she'd drunk a bottle of bad white wine the night before; the rebelliousness that had pushed her to do that had now mutated into a simmering anxiety about her drinking, among other things--into worries, intensified by a stabbing headache and dry, dirty taste in her mouth, that were difficult to ignore.

She made it to the coffee maker and turned it on, her mood briefly brightening with the comforting sounds of the machine and the smell of the coffee; for a moment, she leaned against the counter and rested her head in her hands, resolving, once again, to approach the day with a new, dynamic, positive perspective.

The sound of the baby crying drew her out of the beginnings of a dream, the insomnia finally having given way to dark curtains falling, falling, falling mercifully around her, and she jerked up and looked at the clock on the stove: it was 6:45. Late.

The coffee hadn't finished brewing but she grabbed the carafe and poured it into a cup sitting by the sink, then shook a hefty amount of artificial creamer in the cup and stirred it, hastily, with a fork. The house was rarely tidy by nighttime and it wasn't unusual for the morning to play out like this--a mad scramble for spoons, razors, and matching socks, a kind of real-life board game with real-life setbacks that, for some reason, never sank in.

Lifting the cup to her lips, she walked as fast as she could to the bedroom yelling "Hon! Hon! You're going to be late!" and then shook, with her free hand, the lumpy shape of her sleeping husband.

"Hon! Get up!" she said again, and gave him one more urgent push, then lurched away towards the baby's room. The movement--the turning, especially--prompted a fresh series of piercing jabs in her head, and she instinctively raised her hand to press it against the pain, but in her foggy state forgot about the cup she was holding; in a slow, dreamlike arc, the contents sloshed out and landed in a milky brown puddle around her.

"Goddammit! Fuck!" she said. The hangover and agitation were rising, a flood threatening to spill over, and as she opened the baby's door the smell of shit hit her and it was too much. The smell was too much, everything was too much, and as she reeled and fell to the floor the flood waters surged. Suddenly relieved, almost...happy, she opened her mouth and released a giant wave of white wine and coffee and another thing, a profound, unidentified thing, all over the legos and clothes littering the pink fluffy rug.

TRYING TO GET BACK IN THE SADDLE

DEAR EVERYONE,

I HAVE NOT BEEN ABDUCTED BY KILLER BEE CLONES AND SENT TO WORK IN THEIR HIVE ON PLANET FLEEDLEBOP. DON'T THINK I'VE GIVEN UP ON THIS BLOG--I JUST NEED TO TAKE A BREAK BECAUSE I'VE BEEN FEELING BURNT OUT.

AND I'VE BEEN DOING LOTS OF OTHER STUFF LIKE MAKING JEWELRY AND DRAWING, THOSE THINGS I CLAIM TO BE DOING IN MY BIO THING AT THE TOP BUT WHICH I HAVEN'T ACTUALLY DONE MUCH OF UNTIL NOW. FOR A LONG TIME THIS BLOG WAS ALL I THOUGHT ABOUT AND IT MADE ME VERY HAPPY AND VERY SAD ALL THE TIME AND NOW I'M DOING OTHER THINGS AND FRANKLY IT'S GREAT TO TAKE A FREAKING BREAK FROM IT.

Hello! I've returned, briefly, from Planet Beetleflop, whence I was sent by Spence. Who's Spence, you ask? Frankly, I don't know. All I know is he has plastic eyeballs and no arms. Overall he's a nice guy despite his abnormalities.

Sooo....the old blog question. Right. Right. Yes, it's true, I've been taking a bit of a break from it. And really only because I've been doing OTHER stuff, that stuff I mentioned already, the jewelry and children's book stuff. Hot dang dawg kebobble, it's been so great doing those things! I feel productive, finally, for the first time in a long time. I've made 70-something necklaces, and I started drawing on these illustrations for the FIRST children's book (not the one about the bug) I started, seven years ago, and although it feels slightly weird using watercolor pencils again (it's been a really long time) I can't really describe how satisfying it is.

And! Tonight I got some supplies (electrical wire, ribbon, beads) to start some mobiles, and all I can say is yee-f'ing-ha, this is what I want to be doing, thank god almighty in the deepest heaven and Planet Fruitcake, or wherever hE (note cryptic reversal of standard capitalization) resides.

I tried to write more to go with the last thing I wrote, but it sucked, it really did, and I got all weirded out about it, like I wasn't able to keep up the voice, or whatever, but lately I've been reconsidering that and all I can say is, writing is hard. Good writing is practically impossible. For me, anyway.

Readers, whoever you are these days, as always, I want to thank you for reading and checking in--I'm sorry there's been a void. I'll be trying harder to get back into this blog from now on and providing something of interest and entertainment to you.

Buenas noches a todos,

Isabel

THE GROCERY STORE

It started with chicken breasts falling, chicken breasts falling off the over-stuffed shelf to the row below, an equally crammed expanse of grayish-pink poultry bodies. The slapping noise jolted her out of her moody thoughts and brought her back to reality: the grocery store, Monday, 3 pm.

The act of bending to pick up the fallen packages embarrassed her almost as much as the noise they'd made, that bare and open sound of flesh striking flesh, a noise that was so raw and primal she wanted to close her eyes for a minute, just a minute, while she got her bearings and was able to respond, with a quick, confident smile, to the gazes of the young couple and the dirty toddler beside her.

"Just chicken breasts falling," she thought, but as the shelf continued to waver beneath its weight, her unsteady hand sent more chicken breasts falling like dominoes--like lemmings, she thought. It could have, it should have, been comical, but with that feeling in her head each slap felt like a warranted reproach, and with all eyes seemingly on her in painful accusation, all she really wanted to do was cry.

The toddler was grimy and scantily dressed for the chill of the meat aisle, and the mother had bad teeth, chipped and gaping, the teeth of a mouth she could hardly imagine kissing, let alone loving to the point of creating a baby, and she momentarily felt cynical, but then the absurdity of her own situation--the fact of the breasts falling, the fact of the breasts, the breasts that were not unlike her own breasts, the breasts she'd used to feed her kids, the "time bombs," she'd heard, "waiting to happen"--hit her and she succumbed once more to the feeling that had overtaken her, the feeling that had made everything so strange and shaky in the first place.

NOT SO FALLOW NO MORE

Hi everybubby!

Don't worry, I still haven't been devoured by a Siberian tiger. And I do mean to tend the fallow fields of my g-o-l-b in the near, near future, like maybe tomorrow, when my "rolly-polly chubby cheeky shit machine" (I'm quoting a friend here, describing her toddler son) is being watched by his new, wonderful nannies!

Joedy got back in one piece the other night, just as I was embarking on a nervous breakdown, standing in the middle of the house crying because I'd watched Black Beauty that afternoon with Lula and Malko and it was sooooo saaaaaaaad, I just couldn't get over it, poor Ginger, why did she have to die?!?! And little Merrylegs--why couldn't he be at the meadow at the end too? It wasn't FAIR! LIFE isn't FAIR!

I was having a teary crisis partly because certain hormonal fluctuations were taking place at that very time, but also because I was just ready for Joedy to be home. I was sick of being Solo Parent and listening to my thoughts all day long, I was sick of the intense quiet when Malko took a nap or when both of the kids were asleep. By day 8, I was over it--very, very over it.

While he was gone and since he got back I've been making craploads of jewelry, necklaces actually, and it's been an incredible blast. I've made 47 so far, and I'm going to try to get to 150 so that I can have enough to try to sell them. I found out how to do a booth on South Congress on Sundays, and I'm just so excited about it, I really can't wait to give this jewelry thing a shot!

In case you're wondering, I'm not giving up on the other projects, namely, the children's books--they're just on the side burners while I focus on this project, which I hope might bring in some much-needed greenbacks in the next month or so...

It's late now and I need to go to bed so I'm bouncy and perky in the morning. Oh, right, it's Valentine's Day! I'm not going to get all sappy on you like I did last year:

Happy goddamn Valentine's Day!

And good night.

HAPPY

Malko's sleeping and Lula's playing outside in the snow, yes, SNOW, so I have a little time to write.

As I said in the last post Joedy went to California for work on Monday; it's been remarkably easy managing the responsibilities that go with solo parenting this time around, probably because we have such a better house than the last one--comfortable and pretty and with a yard for the dogs and kids to play in--and because Lula's in school (except for today, due to the snow) and Malko's in day care. I didn't want this time alone with the kids to be difficult and stressful like the last times, and I'm really happy to say that I've not only been able to keep my cool (ok, there has been some yelling) but I've also managed to do a little extra, like wash the kitchen floor and cook something new and interesting (a bison and cauliflower pie).

Despite an insanely stupid washing machine saga involving three consecutive floods in the utility room, the purchase of a third washing machine when we had two perfectly good ones in the garage, lots of heaving around, and, ultimately, a clogged drain pipe, which started the whole stupid thing in the first place, I've survived, and even managed to produce clean clothing for the three of us, although much of it belongs to Black Ear, my old teddy bear, and is definitely a little snug. Malko has been throwing up off and on since last night (due to a bug, I think--hopefully not my culinary creation), so there's a pressing need to get this drain unclogged and one of our three washing machines hooked up; the maintenance guy said he'd be by today, so it should work out...except that it snowed and Austin's apparently frozen in place...so we'll see.

LATER

I just put the kids in bed, and the house is clean and warm--heaven. It's not even 8:30, so I'm pretty proud of myself, because of that and because I got Lula to eat warmed-up bison and cauliflower pie and salad without much complaint--she even said she liked it.

In a way it's been good being solo, because I've been able to have a constant, solid connection with Lula and Malko and to rule the house unhindered by the opinion of an Equally Important Person. The place has stayed remarkably tidy, not because Joedy's particularly messy but because I've decreed that during this period the house will be clean, and therefore less a source of stress. And having the kids to myself, when Malko, at least, tends to be a little obsessed with Joedy, has been really nice: holding him today when he was all sick and cuddly, hearing him say "Oh, Maman," feeling his hands reach up to my face to give me a hug, was beyond compare.

Late last night it started snowing, and this morning it was all white out, with heavy gray clouds overhead; with the bare brown tree trunks and the cardinals and blue jays flying here and there, it reminded me so much of Rhode Island, of that feeling of winter, that I was as excited as Lula, who jumped out of bed and was dressed and ready to play outside by 7:20. I watched her romping around in the back yard with Diablo and Astrid, her hat sticking straight up on her head and her too-big navy corduroys tucked into her rain boots, and although I'd barely slept I felt peaceful and happy, because she was experiencing one of my favorite childhood things: snow, and a day home from school to play in it.

Malko continued feeling sick all day, a clear indication being the fact that he only ate one cookie, which, if you know Malko, is absurd--the kid loves to eat like...like...like crack addicts love doing crack. A few times he allowed me to offer him some juice, which he drank good-naturedly, resting his head on my shoulder between sips and in general being the most adorable snuzzle monkey you can imagine; the rest of the time he dozed in our bed or on the couch, waking up now and then to look around with glassy eyes and flushed cheeks, just asking for another hug...

I said it's nice being solo, but when I talked to Joedy today, immediately falling into a highly detailed account of the stupid washing machine saga, complete with voices of certain players, I was reminded of how much we see eye-to-eye and how much, frankly, I feel like I'm living with my twin (in a good way) (most of the time). Granted, I'm somewhat better with time than he is, and he's somewhat better with banking than I am, but from the very beginning, from our first "date," I felt like we were connected somehow. The fact that I still feel that way, that I still love having a conversation with him, because half the time we're saying "Right! Exactly!" means--despite my present highly enjoyable ruler-of-the-roost status--I'm really looking forward to him coming home.

It's 10:08 and I'm going to go get into our sort of throw-up'y bed (that odor eater stuff works wonders!) but first I'm going to post a picture of Joedy and me from last weekend in Corpus. We'd been out doing some shopping for his trip, and stopped at a seafood place and had some delicious grub; the picture's a little dark and blurry, but I think you can tell we were happy...