tuckova

holey underpants, batman!

We were going to go to the cottage last weekend but then I had this dream about squatters and I couldn't face them so we didn't go. I wanted to make a Productive Weekend to compensate, so we stayed home and did Important Things like figure out why my pretty iPod hates me and I closed out all the 2008 paperwork.

And I cleaned out the closet. I am ratty girl who works in her ratty jammies and that's how it is. But sometimes I start thinking maybe all my clothes don't have to be so ripped punk rock and I go on a rampage. Such it was this weekend. And when I had a bag full of horrific nasties I gave them to Squire to take down to the trash.

Wow, this is kind of harder to tell than I thought. Okay so the way trash goes here is you obviously take your plastic, glass, and paper to the recycling. Then you put IN the trash can the things that are trash. You put NEXT TO or ON TOP OF the trash can the things that are trash for you but might be treasures for others. I have a certain amount of pleasure in running stuff down to the NEXT TO trash and then waiting to see how long it takes to disappear. In particular outgrown clothes are fun to watch: when you have a kid, they outgrow shoes at an amazing rate, and since I don't feel like dealing with second-hand stores we just put the shoes by the trash and pouf! Gone!

But these clothes were not for anybody but the trash man. I mean: who wants toeless socks? So Squire went down to the trash cans but they were full. So he came back up with the bag of clothes. And I said: just stuff it on top. But he misunderstood, I guess, and so he placed the bag on top of the trash can.

And this morning I woke up to watch the trash men take things away and there were my rip torn underpants all draped all over. Like somebody went through this bag of old socks, torn sweats, and nasty old underpants and draped them out nicely for the next customer.

I don't even know if I can show my face in the neighborhood again. That is all.

the past week in review

Basically it's been a whirlwind. On Wednesday and Thursday I visited my new favorite baby (...next to yours, of course), who is very beautiful and smart. She is beautiful because she is two months old and she is smart because when I read her the New Yorker article about Gary Snyder she was very raptly attentive to his outdoor wilderness retreat lifestyle, but when I tried to read her an actual poem by Snyder she burst into tears, which is about how I feel about him.

Then I came home and had a day of relative normalcy, and then a series of events got me really, really upset and at some point I decided I wanted a divorce or at least A Break because I am Not Appreciated and Not Cared For and Oh, Man, the Weeping, and the house was so cold and then I realized that I had a fever. Yeah. Sunday I barely left the couch, and was brought tea and soup and tempting bitlets and alternately read to or left to watch television and basically I just drifted in and out of a fever haze, and Friar put a clean shirt on the heater so when I woke covered in sweat I just changed into a warm, dry shirt. Generally I felt like a tool but I kept taking everything anyway, because hey. Sunday night I wrote bad poetry to amuse myself which is how I knew I was getting better. Here is one:

I wonder what Mr. Rogers would do
if Mr. Rogers had the 'flu.
I like to think he'd quietly lie
against his pillows, fluffed quite high

by his wife, at whom he'd smile.
And she would read to him a while
and maybe even kiss his head
or touch him gently as she read.

His son would bring tea on a tray,
and Fred would blow his nose and say
his gratitude was really boundless,
though with this throat, it's kind of soundless.

And so far things here are also good,
in mine as in his neighborhood,
I'm sick, and gladly taken care of
Though I am also most aware of

the fact that I am not the good guy
(despite all attempts to be such)-- I
have merely surrounded myself with
sweetly loving kin and kith.

and now it is Tuesday, and other than the fact that I think I may quit smoking since it's been a week and I dunno, it just doesn't sound that good, well, things are back to normal. Going out tonight to celebrate OUR NEW PRESIDENT OH YEAH!

And you?

you may never have to talk about reality ever again.

So: a Muslim, an atheist, a homosexual in a committed relationship, and an unmarried person are all running for U.S. president. Who wins? If you get this solved too quickly, you can make one or more of them female. If that's still too easy to figure, make one or more of them Republican.

brought to you by the letter C

Yesterday I said words I didn't want to say and when I woke up my mouth was covered in blisters.

I think it's either this or that. And this is not okay and that is not okay so why do you care if it's this or that. Rewinding the film and looking to see when it turned. When I should have put my hand out. My hands are out now but they are empty as cages should be. It is the strangest mourning.

Then I spent hours reading old stories and thinking about how I used to be and what that was like. How I met gods and stammered before them and what have I done with any promise I ever showed except break it. I'm very good at very little other than saying what's wrong, which I say loudly and often and my face is made of lemons.

Last night, I cooked chicken and carrot curry, chopping the onion while listening to the Cure (briefly considered Counting Crows, which also makes me cry), and served it over cous-cous, with a little chutney on the side.

Sometimes I'll do anything to make myself laugh. I mean really what else is there.

by one of my first poetry heroes

IN SYMPATHY, BUT ONLY FOR A LITTLE LONGER
-   by Ann Menebroker

everyone's
doing their job
but annie
and she can't
because she doesn't
feel up to it
and gets claustrophobia
she's thirsty
she has to go wee wee
she feels fat
she's tired
she's horny
she can't face people
without slipping into them
like a toe checking
water temperature
she feels unsafe
she drinks and gets sick
she sweats easily
she doesn't like her face
she needs to be alone
97% of the time
we all keep telling annie
we understand
because we want her to feel
loved
and we hope she gets well soon
because she is
a pain in the ass