“What?! I didn’t get the Gerber gig?? Wuh-wuh-wuh–WUH ………….. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!”
(Yes, that’s me, people. Wow. I really don’t know what to say. Feel free.)
two (really big) photos
All right! Here’s the original of the picture I used for Evil Dolly. Some background: I was in kindergarten and this was my first school picture ever. I remember the photographer kept trying to get me to smile and acted like a complete LUNATIC in doing so. You can tell two things from this picture: 1) It did not work, and 2) I did NOT like him. Look at how wary I am! All his crazed effort for naught, haha! And may we please discuss my BANGS?! WHAT is going on up there?? They look like a wild dog just chewed ’em off. Oh, and the white you see me wearing? THAT is a big, ol’ lacy gramma collar on a hand-me-down dress from my sister. Ugh. I was unhappy in SO many ways on that day. Well, I showed you, everybody. Take that! Here’s an unsmiling, bug-eyed mug for all posterity:
Here’s one of my favorite pictures of my dad as a dad, posing with my sister and me. Not sure which one’s me? Really? I’m the pale Buddha face with the bizarre white sun hat. Wow. That HAT!! Am I The Flying Nun? Am I AMISH?? A little Amish Flying Nun Buddha baby. Ah, how ecumenical of me. All right. Enough of that! Because ….. I’m sorry …. LOOK at my dad! My Lord. I can’t help it. He is simply stunning. I love his expression here, his warmth, how he’s holding my sister close. He looks content and comfortable, doesn’t he? (And you certainly can’t tell from this, where I look like a big blob of bread dough, but I have his eyes, smushed in there somewhere!) Look at how my sister is snuggled up to him, so happy, her little hand on his leg. Oh, my gosh, she looks so much like Piper! The eyes, the mouth! Wow. My dad and sister, so cozy, so sweet, and then … me. It’s killing me that my face looks like a popover. Ah, well. A few years later, my brother joined the picture. And many years later, my cheeks slimmed down nicely.
But, wow. Look at my dad again. That face.
domestic violence
A picture from about 6 months ago.
Here we have Button Baby brazenly punching oldest nephew — her cousin — smack in the braces. Later, during intense interrogation, she claimed it was “all an accident,” but I remain unconvinced. She’s a wily one, that baby.
No charges are pending.
Younger nephew, as I recall, enjoyed his brother’s pain just a little too much. Is it possible he put The Button up to it? He’s DOES sport a certain self-satisfied glow in this photo. Hmm.
Perhaps the case should be reopened.
Then there’s Piper, exhibiting either a natural, open poise or a frightening immunity to real-life violence.
And what role do the adults play in this act of senseless brutality?
We take the pictures, of course!
li’l mb
(MB, age 3, a little bruiser)
In honor of My Beloved’s birthday week, a favorite story of mine from his childhood:
Li’l MB was about 4 or 5. His mom, a nurse, was called into the hospital on an emergency and dad was at work, too, so Li’l MB and his brother were dashed off to the nearest babysitter: Cecilia Sloan, reluctant wife of Rocky Sloan.
Li’l MB and brother spent the afternoon playing nicely with each other; they were good little boys, well brought up, having a good little day. Cecilia, however, was apparently NOT having a good day. She was getting drunk.
Now, every good little boy, even in the midst of the most riveting afternoon of play, will need a potty break. Some little boys just go behind a bush, barely missing a beat. Other, better boys will stop, go in the house, and do their business. But the very best boys, finding themselves at, oh, say, someone else’s home, will ask permission to go in the house and relieve themselves.
MB, as I have established, was one of the very best boys. And when the need for a potty break presented itself in pressing fashion, he respectfully approached the boozy Cecilia Sloan, reluctant wife of Rocky Sloan.
Now, as the son of a nurse, he had learned the medically correct terms for the body’s vital excretory functions. In MB’s childhood home, there were no such words as “pee” or “poop” or “tinkle” or “wee wee.” And there were ABSOLUTELY no such words as “yellow potty” or “dirty potty,” the descriptive phrases used by Ritchie and Brian, Li’l MB’s troglodytic, melon-headed friends.
No. He and brother were taught to say “urinate” and “defecate.”
So L’il MB approached the sotted Cecilia Sloan:
” ‘Scuse me. I have to defecate.”
“What!?” Cecilia Sloan slurred.
“I have to defecate!”
“What?!? You’re suffocatin’!?”
“NOO-HO! I have to DEFECATE!” Li’l MB’s voice became urgent with need.
“SUFFOCATE!??”
“NOOO-HO!! I HAVE TO DEFECATE!!!”
Poor Li’l MB. He rocked on his heels, desperate, but Cecilia Sloan was soused, pie-eyed … stoned. She could NOT understand him, no matter how hard he tried. Maybe he should have said “dirty potty.”
Moments later, mom came to pick up her boys and a hysterical Li’l MB was in dire defecatin’ straits. A groggy Cecilia Sloan blurted:
“HE KEEPS SAYIN’ HE’S SUFFOCATIN’ !!”
Mom narrowed her eyes at silly Cecilia Sloan and looked down at her frantic, dancing boy.
“He’s NOT suffocating,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “He has to defecate!”
“Defecate?!”
Cecilia Sloan wheezed.
“What’s that?!?”
The question trailed in the air behind mom as she marched her poor little pooper home to meet his destiny.