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in absentia

I’m gone for a few days. Won’t even have my computer with me. It’s all very last minute, but we’re just …. gone …. out into the wild. So no blogging, obviously; no email. No nuthin’. Just me, MB, and me noggin.

See you later in the week.

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the peep’s joke

Here’s how it went down when I did a silly new joke with her on vacation:

ME: Peep, will you remember me tomorrow?

PEEP: Yes!

ME: Will you remember me next week?

PEEP: Yes!!

ME: Will you remember me next year?

PEEP: Yes, Tee Tee!

ME: Okay. Knock-knock.

PEEP: Who’s there?

ME: Oh, nooo! You forgot me already!!

PEEP: Tee Tee!! Heeheeheeheeheeheeheeheeeeeeeeeeee, etc.

Here’s how it went down when I tried it on the phone a month later, just to see if she remembered:

ME: Peep, will you remember me tomorrow?

PEEP: Yes. (giggling)

ME: Will you remember me next week?

PEEP: Yes!

ME: Will you remember me next year?

PEEP: Yessss.

ME: Okay. Knock-knock.

PEEP: (silence, then …) Tee Tee, I remember you! You can’t get me again!

Here’s how the joke went down when she tried it on her brother:

PEEP: Brother, do you fink you remember me now?

BROTHER: What?

PEEP: Will you remember me later on?

BROTHER: What are you talking about? (He’s 15, what can I say?)

PEEP: What about in a year — will you remember me?

BROTHER: Probably.

PEEP: KNOCK-KNOCK!

BROTHER (sighing, it’s tough to have a 6-year-old sister): Who’s there?

PEEP: See? You don’t remember me!!! Hahahahahahahahaha! Right, Tee Tee?

ME (dying laughing): Uh-huh.

BROTHER: What are you two talking about?? I don’t get it!!

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overheard in zion, utah

In the dining hall — yes, there was a dining hall — from the table of teenage ranch workers:

GIRL: Just think, if the South had won the war, we’d all be driving flying cars and black people would still work for us.

Uhm, did I mention we spent our trip at a white supremacist commune?

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tippytoe

My brother-in-law is here for a few days, so blogging is hard. Hard to sneak around. Because this blog doesn’t exist, right?

I’ll try to blog something — I mean, something other than this — sometime tomorrow. After I sneak past the two giants, slide down the beanstalk, and tiptoe back to the computer to blog again. Shhhh.

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mixed (coffee) media journal

So …. during a slow summer afternoon last week at Boheme, I did this to the back of one of my writing journals — you know those composition books that are all black and white and marbly-looking? Yeah, it’s one of those:

journal-back3.jpg

I challenged myself to use only what was on hand at the coffeehouse — paper bags, coffee filters, register tape, newspapers, food coloring, coffee for dyeing papers. Oh, and glue. Yes, I keep a glue stick in one of the drawers. Then I gave myself half an hour, just creating what came out of my fingertips first, raw, wrinkly, whatever.

So. Hahaha. There it is. A mixed-media rough draft of sorts.

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I am retarded

Well, I was going through a bunch of old papers today and I am literally sick with grief and horror over what I’m about to share with you. I need to take a breath. Seriously.

Okay.

Just moments ago, I found, stuffed randomly in a notebook, a yellow (no, not “yellowed,” but yellow, like a happy sunflower) piece of paper titled ….. “My Wedding.”

I’m not sure I even want to give you a time frame on this because it is so embarrassing to me in a kind of soul-crushing way. All I can say is — look at me defending myself here — my upbringing was very very sheltered and whenever I find these old papers, I think I sound at least five years younger than the age I actually was when I wrote it.

That said, I am 19 in chronological years at the time I wrote this. But I sound about 14.

Okay. Without further ado or excuses, here it is:

My Wedding

*Fall — maroons? dark greys

*Winter — burgundies/ dark greys

*Spring — rose/pink/lighter greys

*Summer — pinks w/blues perhaps, for accents/greys – light
(I am aghast at all these colors. Who is this person and how long did her Grey Period last?

*Time — evening or afternoon
(Okay, so not morning.)

*Music — M on piano
(M was a boyfriend of mine. I guess I thought either we’d get married and he’d be my groom AND my pianist or that he’d be totally fine with being the pianist later — you know, when I married someone else. Um, what, Trace?)

*Singing — S.
(See explanation above, only insert “soloist” for “pianist.”)

*B-maids — S (sister), K. B?
(B was a wild card, I guess.)

*Flowers — roses, perhaps silk
(Oh, okay, my brain just popped. Right now. Poof.)

*Processional — I don’t know
(I don’t know if this means “I don’t know what musical processional to use at this extravaganza featuring all my ex-boyfriends” or “I don’t know if I even want to pro-cess.”)

*No reception line — they are too time-consuming
(I am not retarded. YAY!)

*Have gifts opened in advance and put on display.
(I guess I really wanted to say a heartfelt “Thank You!” to all my guests by putting their gifts up for scrutiny and comparison, like a swimsuit competition for wedding presents.)

*Pictures taken beforehand

*Short train on gown

*No veil, unless he wants one
(Who, Trace? Your pianist or your soloist?)

*Maybe a hat
(AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH)

*Would like to have husband sing to me, if he has that ability
(But please be advised, there will be auditions and callbacks and a rigorous rehearsal schedule with me, Mistress Helga, your future low-maintenance bride)

*Own vows — maybe

That’s the end of the list. But it should be noted that I must have revisited the list at some later date, because across the entire paper, in giant capital letters is an eloquent, underlined:

GAG-O!!

**********************************
(Posted in honor of dear Nightfly, who’s tying the knot this weekend! Congratulations to you and your bride, NF!)

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thread

When I lie in bed at night, through the sliver of space between the curtain and the window, I can see the glow from the neighbor’s window. It’s higher than our window, a little bit, and, lately, every night, I stare at that ribbon of golden light before I drift off, sleepy eyes blurring to see an almost white aura pulsing around the gold, watching the in-and-out sway of black branches of a nearby tree. And I’m mesmerized. The radiant ribbon. The rippling aura. The weaving branches. If someone asked, I could answer that it’s just the neighbor’s bathroom, but when I’m lying in bed, MB asleep beside me, that’s not what it is. No. It’s a queer tugging thread connecting me to something long long ago. A little kid’s bedroom. A little kid’s bed. A twin bed for me, a twin bed for my sister, and a dark room with blue shag carpet. Long after my bedtime, I’d lie there, watching the golden sliver under the door, listening to the muffled tv, the muted laughter, the quiet conversation, all the things that meant mom and dad were still awake, still there. I was safe. I was not alone. My sister would snore softly a few feet away and I would lie there, praying and praying, the same thing over and over. Praying that the bad thing that happened would never happen to us again. Praying that God would protect us from now on. Praying, praying, praying. Finally, though, I would drift off, with the golden sliver and the soft sounds and a quiet quiet God. Years later, it’s a grown-up bedroom. A grown-up bed. A golden ribbon. A snoring husband. But still, still, I lie there in the dark and pray to a quiet quiet God, gazing at the shifting glow until the window goes dark for the night.