Tuesday, 14 May 2013
Men in Hats
The store reminded her of the wooden dollhouse the way they’d found it on the sidewalk. Boring brown. She was four, a year ago. So long ago. Mommy spotted it and just took it. Someone’s garbage, Mommy said, and it still looks good. Well, she didn’t think so. Not plastic like the one she wanted at the big toy store. Mommy painted it nice though, she thought at the time, purple and pink and white. She missed that house.
But she missed Mommy more. Daddy stabbed her and her man-friend with a knife. She was about to cry when a man came out of the store and smiled at her, his car parked next to theirs. Hey, he said, you okay? She squinted up at him. His tan hat looked just like Daddy’s, except maybe the words on it were different than Daddy's.
Have you seen my daddy? she said. He shook his head and smiled. Is he in there, your daddy? She nodded and sucked her thumb. So sleepy and hungry and thirsty. He offered her his drink. Through the window she grabbed the plastic cup and removed the lid and took a long sip of the lemonade and gave back the empty cup. My daddy has the same hat as yours, she said, wiping her mouth. Is that right? he said, still smiling, crushing the cup. Mommy used to remind her not to talk to strangers but he seemed kinda nice. I’m gonna go get Daddy, she said. She tried to open the door but couldn’t. Trapped. She was about to cry again but the man reached in and unlocked the door. She left the door open, gravel burning her feet, and danced toward the store. Into the boring brown dollhouse.
Daddy was pointing at a dark bottle behind the man at the counter. Then he scooped her up. On the counter lay a sandwich like the kind you get in machines. No chips. Almost touching the hat, her hand hovered on the edge of its cap. She looked outside. The man had gone. Nobody was around anymore.
*been edited since posted
Wednesday, 08 May 2013
Mother Will Say a Little Prayer for Me Now
The phone rang. She quickly put away the baby and the ham. The phone. Her boss. When was she going back to work? I thought we’d worked that out, she said. If only her husband was able to help. Maybe she would...the baby! She dropped the phone and ran to the crib. Fucking ham! The fridge. He’s okay he’s okay he’s okay. Thank God he had a hat on and a thick sweater. She removed the small jar of caviar from his grip. How old is this thing? She tossed it. Way older than you, huh? she said. Her boss. She picked up the phone and told her to fuck off. The baby sneezed. How cold is the fridge? Around 37 degrees Fahrenheit, she figured. That was how cold it was outside, just about. No problem. This kid’s tough. Been out in colder weather than that. He was no wuss. Not like his father, who complained about every fucking thing. Too much salt in this, not enough, too spicy, too greasy, too hot out, too cold. You're not gonna be like that, are you, sweet boy. The baby sneezed again and then cried. She thought it was gonna pierce her eardrums. She couldn’t think! Couldn’t hear herself cussing out the world! Into the crib he went. He hugged the cold ham and shut up. Quiet at long last. No ham for Mom for Mother's Day lunch today. No fucking way.
Sunday, 05 May 2013
which city do you suppose is the most exciting in the country?
(*the criteria are listed)
why? cuz i said so
now that you know. surprised? why?
Saturday, 04 May 2013
The other morning the mister asked where his brand new gortex jacket was. I looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights and said, I don’t know, I don’t remember putting it away. To which he responded, “I have no doubt whatsoever that you have no recollection of putting it away.” He was chuckling while looking up in frustration trying to drive home the fact that I put things away many times and not remember where I hid them.
It might be called selective recall, but I remember where I put my daughter’s stuff, but not his. I don’t know what kind of theoretical subconscious explanation there is, if there is one. For that matter, I forget many times where I’ve put away my own stuff. Once, I put a toy cell phone in the freezer and milk in the pantry. .
What inspired this blog is an article I read this morning. To quote the writer, “Many other mothers I know demonstrate an uncanny ability to locate things on behalf of other family members, calling into play super-hero tracking capabilities.” All I thought about after reading the article about how mothers have preternatural ability to narrow down locations of misplaced items was that I don’t have it. And I wanted to be a detective at one point when I was a kid. It could be owed to my absent-mindedness as I often ponder loftier things while performing perfunctory, menial house cleaning tasks. In other words, I often have my head up my ass. I think that the ability to think about say, the Mandelbrot Set and its application from jungian interpretations of the collective subconscious to historical repercussions while scraping dug in crayon on the hardwood floor may be partially responsible for women’s ability to multi-task. Our brain is wired that way because there can't possibly be enough time to do what we must, and what we want. I don't care what anyone says, but we're superior like that. Oh, this is for another blog, but all I’ll say for now is that give men more than one thing to do at a time and they short circuit, and then break down, no longer available for a protracted period to do anything useful. At least, the man of this house does.
Needless to say, I often have many things on my mind, the least of which is the actual act of dusting, vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, and all the other things to keep a relatively livable home. Can you blame me? When cleaning the bathroom, would I really want to focus on the task at hand? Please. If I did, I wouldn’t be doing what it is I’m doing. Would I really like to think about how many microbes I’m killing while I scrub the toilet or the tub? No, thanks. I’d rather think about the logistics of my novel, or current short story, or the subject of my next painting, or global warming. The fulcrum is not performing the task itself, but the general idea of cleanliness. I’d rather not think about how I feel like a fucking maid sometimes by putting away things that others could have put away themselves. As I typed the last sentence, it occurred to me that my forgetfulness may be a form of protest, which partially, if not mostly, explains it.
Back to what I was saying: I have no recollection, as my husband put it, because I don’t think about what I’m doing. He knew that I had this tendency when he married me, but is now realizing its full extent—or hair-tearing limitations. I found the jacket in his winter bag, by the way—hey, it makes sense, right? To put a jacket intended to wear on the slopes in a bag with like items? I just honestly still can’t remember having done it.
I’d rather not see it as flakiness, but more like, shall I say, a certain charming quirk, a wonderful, coping deniability.
Yes, I’d rather see it that way.
Friday, 03 May 2013
People I Sometimes Think About
-our neighbors from our old address.
-the nice elderly couple next door. they have a beautiful home the husband designed (he was an architect). i'd do it up differently but it's their house. nice couple. we had been invited a few times: eves before an election to make calls; little concerts they had (she's a cellist. and oh my word their backyard is HUGE and gorgeous); just parties whose foods were labeled because the old people needed to know what it was they were eating exactly. the wife also introduced my daughter to her would-be piano teacher. i wonder--and i hate wondering this--if the husband is still alive. he didn't look so well when we moved out. she, on the other hand, gardened, stayed active. i hope they're both doing well. they were quiet neighbors. i often worried our smoking right below their windows might've bothered them. but nary a complaint.
-our young neighbor who used to babysit my daughter. she eventually became a part of the family, coming over whenever. my daughter loved her oodles. she thinks a lot about her too.
-the middle-aged woman who used to live across us (in our current residence). i have often wanted to befriend her but i never got around to it. she was once taken away in an ambulance from passing out drunk. i think her husband had left her. there's a sad story there somewhere.
-my last dorm roommate in college. man she was a lot of fun. i adored her. though i hate gossips, we talked about this princess bitch on our floor. ugh, all the things you hate about asian american princesses? she was that girl. damn, we had a lot of princesses on the floor--all kinds of color royalty. how the hell did i get so lucky. anyway, V asked to touch my titties once. we were in her boyfriend's apartment. i simply said, no. are you fucking drunk? her favorite thing to say to me was, god, you're such a bitch ( in a new zealand accent). it used to touch me beyond words. her boyfriend at the time was an engineering student. he had 2 roommates who drooled over me, not to be conceited. but it was so obvious helen keller would've taken notes. anyway, it was from these guys i learned how to swear in arabic. their apartment (was a party) where i also met this swiss guy who took me for a ride on his motorcycle (my one and only time on one). i sucked his cock but that was it. why did i do that anyway? he was an arrogant bastard. god sometimes i hate the fucking swiss. that was not why i sucked his dick. i digress. i wonder if she married that french guy she introduced me to at my wedding. did she move back to new zealand. i once tried to call up everyone with her name. she has a common korean surname and a common combination of that surname and first name. nothing. so we had so many adventures together. one evening we were walking toward a club in the city and this guy just started talking to us. he then dropped to his knees and took her shoe off and started massaging her foot while it rested on his dick. he said he was a shoe salesman. what the fuck? dude was moaning. true story. ok. so i said, V_______! let's go! what the fuck are you doing? she attracted weirdos. that was what i said. why do you attract such fucking weirdos? she just laughed. oh my gaaaawwwd, you're such a fuckin bitch! she said.
-dirtbubble. anyone heard from him? say hello to him for me, will you
-about this boy who was a (and only) boyfriend in HS (we never fucked). hawaiian (of puerto rican and filipino and chinese descent). mama mia. a bit over 6 ft. on the swimming team. had abs and wings like they were photoshopped. and his legs... he also surfed. he was so sweet. the sweetest guy i had ever known--and i've known really sweet guys. except he was as dumb as my big toes. but man he was gorgeous. but that's not why i think about him sometimes. it was because he was so simple, uhm the opposite of complex, and...well, sweet. the sweetest guy ever.
-my cousin with the fake titties. i honestly do NOT miss her but i do wonder what she's up to. last i heard she and her french husband (what's with the french guys?) were living in hong kong. we used to be really close. i guess i miss the old her. her pre-fake everything period. seems after she bought her titties she decided to be a superficial, inane, stupid twat.
that is all i can come up with for now
i'm smiling for you motherfuckers