Friday, August 28, 2009

oh mr. postman

Dyan is one of my favourite of all time, and like many of my beloved bad-ass friends, she inexplicably chooses to live in Colorado instead of next door to me. (Hi Gail! Hi Pepper!) I met her when I was 16, she worked with my mom at the Women's Violence Intervention Program, and I immediately became enamoured of her scathing wit, jaded outlook, wicked intelligence, and heart of gold buried deep beneath a protective barrier. She looked past my braces, my pre-mousse hair (gasp!), and my infamous scowl, and we were instantly kindred spirits. In short, I love her. I reconnected with her on facebook, and she has brought a flicker of light to many a dark day with her shared use of hyperbole and a general hatred of douche bags. Plus she loves Pink's rendition of Me & Bobby McGee more than Janis', and that's a precarious club to which to belong.

The other day, I encountered this package. As I was not expecting anything, I assumed it was a bomb, naturally. Then I saw the sender: Dyan. I swooned, hella.

She had promised me some compilations in exchange for some I'd sent her, but unless she sent 7,000, there was more in this box. Now, I have made my affection for Dyan crystal clear, but she loves antiques and flea markets and shit, so I was totally prepared to find like a rusty kettle and a dream catcher or something. After all, we haven't gotten around to our preferred possessions, aside from weapons. So it was with great caution that I peeled each of several objects wrapped in tissue. The first one was something that may not have caught my own snobbish eye, but when I held it I started crying, it was so perfect. It fit in my life like another shirt from Old Navy, only I would never wear this:

Damn. Then it became christmas and I was tearing into shit with no shame. Next up was this, at first glance, an electric toothbrush for an elephant (um, thanks?) but on closer inspection it became (angels singing) a hand-held rotating electric deep cleaner. It's safe to say I became verklempt. I've never even seen such a thing. I'm still speechless:

And the accompanying note, ha ha ha!:

I was basically foaming at the mouth at this point, so of course the shit had to turn poignant and rip my heart out in that way only a dear friend can manage. I'm not typically a fan of weird little boxes, nor anything at all in my house, ever, but fuck me if this didn't have some healing powers:

And of course, the note:

There are no words to adequately convey the impact this had. Dyan doesn't know about my deep love for the UK, nor that my best friend (and now, wife of sorts) Mesina lives there, nor that I was supposed to be British, nor that I memorized all European capitals before US capitals. She knows Quinn answers the phone with a flawless British accent, and that's it. She also doesn't know that I quit cloves, but I would almost start again if a) they weren't outlawed, and b) because this box is amazing. Thankfully it alternate use is Xanax, which I will never give up. And the pound. Dear god. I was beginning to forget that some people are good. She couldn't have known what that meant to me. Only I suspect she did:

Next up was the compilation. Lord you have to be made of titanium to listen to three hours of Elliott Smith. It is most fortuitous that I am made of titanium, and goddamn can that lady make a compilation:

Once I was dying of sentiment I opened the card. I still can't stop laughing. For those of you who don't know, Debe gave me the same card a few weeks ago, which I featured in a blog because it's so effing funny and appropriate:

Literally RFLMAO!

Dyan, I already embarrassed both of us with my sloppy gratitude. You've always been one of my heroes, and you still rank among the highest on the ever-dwindling people I trust and cherish. If you don't hurry up and get your ass back here I will fully burn your house down and drag you back like a caveman. All in love of course. You made my day with these most perfect gifts, and I shall repay you by either buying you a proper nail file or removing them all from your house, depending on the day.


Wednesday, August 26, 2009

thank you ted

Most of you know I have been obsessed with the Kennedys my entire life, down to every single one of 319 cousins named Patrick. I have read every biography, studied elections, district races, assassinations, and scandals. My "memories" are so vivid I swear I watched Teddy emerge from the auspicious shadows of John and Bobby as the widely-acknowledged most brilliant of the Kennedy brothers. I have relished all eight of his terms with pride, and practically come to blows when someone tries to cheapen his legacy by playing the Chappaquiddick card. Spare me. If Jacqueline Kennedy could be exalted for popularizing the pill box hat, then Senator Kennedy has earned his place at the helm of Democracy. Kennedy deaths are always hard on me but this is the hardest. He was our champion, fighting until his final breath, and he was the haunted bearer of our last thread to Camelot, which is officially over. He represented a nostalgia that Caroline can't assume, and he embodied Rose's mantra, as have nearly all the Kennedys: "To whom much is given much is expected." Teddy had the dreams, hopes, and expectations of his entire bloodline placed on him, as well as the demands of constituents and skeptics, and he answered the call until his final day.

Rest in Peace Senator Kennedy, it's a new world, and I'm not sure I like it.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

countess of the cupcakes

Got some news yesterday that totally overwhelmed me to that utterly irrational point wherein I don't want to be by myself and yet will refuse all offers of company and/or invitations. That is, until those gorgeous words appear in text "I made cupcakes, get your ass here." Next thing I knew I was on the freeway, speeding like a bat out of hell to Debe's.

I was greeted by these sexy thangs:

Close-up after I ate all 487595 of the coconut ones:

Holy shit, these were the best cupcakes I have ever had, and that is not hyperbole. I practically ate the paper and sneered at Kris for having one, even though there were like twelve trillion. I have known some bakers in my life, but these take the cake, fo sho. And they were even vegan! I was apprehensive about this, as I have had to master the art of spitting gluten-free bitter-ass shit into a napkin, but these were heaven, or as close to heaven as I'll ever get.

What was my problem again?

Monday, August 24, 2009

obviously i'm from the bandwagon

Recently one of the 75 Amys on my fb list posted this and since hers resonated with me, and I scarcely know her, I thought mine might bear some relevance. The format is a template, so whether you love it or hate it, ain't no mattah. Thanks Amy!

I am from the Van Duzen River, from the original Capri Sun, and the days when it was safe to be gone until dinner time.

I am from the rustic house on at the end of Hansen Drive, with its sprawling porch, makeshift baseball diamond in the yard, grass hills for sliding down, and a studio in which my mom churned out many a masterpiece while I watched.

I am from the Thimble berry plants, my mom's roses, and lots of scratches.

I am from the Wilhelm family whipped cream fights, and being over six feet tall, from my big brother Sky, the best cousins on earth, Maria and Catherine, baby cousins galore, but most of all my mom.

I am from the opinionated, the merciful, and thankfully, Democrats.

From "I love you cosmically, universally, infinity," and as my mama's mushka.

I am from a vast landscape of open-mindedness, which sprang from Lutheranism, and one Republican uncle.

I'm from Santa Rosa, CA, by way of Germany and the Bavarian Mountains, and duck blood soup and sauerkraut.

From the grandfather who was a union organizer and ran for office as a Democrat in the 50's, the grandmother who begged comparison to a saint, and the schizophrenic uncle I never understood but wanted to.

I am from a million pictures my mom took, at rivers, oceans, yards, birthday parties, vacations, semi-naked (thanks), laughing, crying, in the netted porch swing, in black and white, I am from the Nice House, a car named Delilah, Santa Cruz, South Fortuna Elementary, singing "Beat It" and "Chattanooga Choo Choo" in the same talent show in a packed auditorium at age six, from spelling bees, hideous clothing, OCD before anyone knew what it was, being tall *and* named Cheyenne, curly-noodle soup (Top Ramen), rotary phones, a cat named Shoo-Shoo, and a mom whose unconditional love is the blanket under which all these memories rest safely.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

it was a village...


On this day, the three month anniversary of Persephone's birth and passing, and as we surround Debe, Kris, and Sorren with arms outstretched, I really wish I knew what in god's name else has to happen in order to mend this community.

In the past four days, I have driven close to 200 miles to pick up food from people I've never met, who have never met the Brookses, who greeted me with tears in their eyes, hugs, stares borne only of this particular sort of senselessness, and a love that can only come from the connectivity of mama hearts. Debe's home is filled with the love being sent along. I have retrieved cash from single mothers who have never met the Brookses, and their sisters, and have received meals and checks from almost as far as Detroit. Another single mom I know not only gave them her CSA this week, but also drove clear to Portland last night and went hella wild at Trader Joe's and we delivered the goods circa midnight. My broken heart is tempered by an anger at the universe over the losses of these baby girls, but this outpouring, which shows no sign of slowing, has rendered me awestruck and has reminded me what an amazing community this...can be.

I am incensed to be witnessing the continuation of fucked up petty grievances in the midst of such loss. Frankly? No one I know is anywhere near over the loss of Persephone yet. She is spoken of constantly, partly out of the deep remaining pain, and partly with respect to the impact her passing had on our community. We all walked away connected that day, and personally, in the precious moment I was so blessed to have with her, I thought this immeasurable unity was her tiny legacy, and many echoed the same sentiment.


(Note: This is my blog. I have the right to say whatever I want, and I intend to, and if the truth hurts, leave or change.)

Within a month of that sweet baby's lost life, while many of us were still in a haze of disbelief, others, mothers, friends, trusted allies and supporters, ignited a spontaneous social forest fire that still blazes. It so happens that I was the target, despite so many crocodile tears wishing "this whole thing would simply end." The obvious answer is that if ruthless attacks and slander against someone who has wronged you in no way is uncomfortable for you, don't do it. But that's just me.

As an aside, the previous month "everyone" hated someone else. This begs the question: Was junior high school really so great as to sustain that hateful bullying mentality our entire lives? With everyone scrambling to be in with the elites? And when have the elites ever been the nice ones?

BABIES ARE DYING! Get over yourselves. I am appalled to have learned that certain mothers so determined to see my ruination, while never specifying my alleged wrongdoing, would not drop off food for Debe on the 1/1000000000 chance of crossing paths with me. Meanwhile, my beloved, scared, trembling, heartbroken friend was sitting at home wondering when is the right time to birth her deceased baby. That is my priority here, and I could give a flying fuck whom I see. I will pick up food from anyone of you, but you are too immersed in hatred to make this about Debe, and not your own social posturing. Shame on you.

Anyone who knows me will attest to the fact that I will always atone for anything I've said or done that has caused offense, pain, sadness, anger, etc. Always. I am approachable, honest, accountable, and also imperfect. But I was never charged with a crime. Just convicted. Like that. And that's fine. I've climbed out of the poisoned well and I am never looking back. There are some premium mamas around here, who have stopped everything to offer anything they have to Debe's family, and would never give a thought to whom they will see, the social hierarchy, nor who is facebook friends with whom.

Tuesday night I delivered some bags to Kris, while Debe slept inside. I've always had a joking relationship with him, and the depth of his seriousness was really more than I could bear. I started telling him who had given what, to which he replied, "Who's Jennifer? Who's Jacob?" I nearly lost it. It dawned on me that they are new here and don't even know the people reaching out to them. He was so humbled and surprised. He said Lennon had explained their options, being induction and waiting. I sheepishly, softly asked if they were leaning in either direction. (Deep breath.) This man, so strong, such a wonderful papa, devoted husband, looked at me with the thinnest-paned windows to his soul eyes, and said the most painful words I've ever heard in my life:

"I'm still waiting for a miracle."

This man has lost a daughter he wanted more than anything, whom he named immediately, and cannot grasp letting her go, let alone the bags of food he's holding, yet across town it's still very important to a select few that I know that they will not see me, that to them, a baby's death does not transcend icky, needless drama. What empty, cold lives yours must be. Kris broke my heart so deeply I could scarcely see through my tears to drive home, but I wouldn't have traded that experience for anything.

To those of you who have mailed checks, brought food, cooked, sent cards, and everything you've done and continue to do, I extend my most heartfelt thank you on behalf of the Brookses, and for restoring some of the faith I had lost in our community. You are the unsung heroes of this very dark hour, and you have eased some of the burden from this family.

And to the mean girls, whose worth and rank are more important than babies lost, to whom personal grudges, real or imagined, trump the efforts being made by the rest of the group to lift this family up, scant months after losing our first precious girl, there are no words to describe the disappointment I feel in you. You want to pummel me with lies and subject me to months' worth of slander and bask in your wonderful betterness? Knock yourselves out. To fail to see past this to support a mama who is carrying her dead daughter right now, as I type, because she can't let her go, is so egregious you are eroding this community. Right now, with your hatred, your desperation, your running to the open arms of your sworn enemies to make sure you will have alliances. Contrary to your bullshit, Cheyenne is not the one tainting this group, it is those of you who would not hand me a dish for Debe who are eroding its purpose.

To you, and you, and you, and yes, even you, if one of your children died, god forbid, I would be the first person at your door, offering whatever I could, my whole heart. Even after the things you've done. This isn't about you. It isn't about me. We are mothers. We have all lost these babies, and it is incumbent upon us all to infuse Debe, just as with Carmela, with as much love and strength and unity as humanly possible. But we can't do that if we're not united. Figure it out. We are being called to action.


You are loved and remembered.

third's for the birds

This was taken Thursday. She tore up the track at South Salem, and has moved on to the Bush Park league. This was only her second time running this course, which is mostly uphill. Not only did she shave a minute and 18 seconds off her mile, she placed third out of 121 kids. Obviously we were hella proud of her, but she was not having it. She wasn't a bad sport, she just can't conceptualize anything but blue ribbons now. Thus, she wouldn't look at the camera. I cannot imagine whence this streak of perfectionism came...

This kid is serious. She only wears track clothes made of like neoprene and shit, and we are eagerly awaiting her "Team Winter" jersey in the mail. She runs through the house timing herself on a cell phone, "Mom, I just ran from the couch to the back wall in 3.18 seconds, and yesterday it took me 3.21 seconds!" She's practicing endurance at the track at McKay, and as soon as superstar Winter returns from CO with her lacerated knee, it's over. We will live at the rock wall. There are still signs of the old Reilly too if you look closely enough though. Her fingernails are painted black, her new Converse (pathetic, non-competing shoes) have skulls on them, and she is an effing maniac about her days-of-the-week underwear and socks, even when the socks clash so loudly they will blind you. Also, she would kill me in my sleep if she knew I referenced her underwear online. But damn. I am so proud of this kid, even as she stands incredulously on the 3rd place podium with painfully yellow socks. They go perfectly with her purple highlights:

(For Gail, who wanted to see.) I love you Reilly.

Friday, August 21, 2009

"Battle not with monsters
lest ye become a monster
and if you gaze into the abyss
the abyss gazes into you."

-Friedrich Nietzsche

Thursday, August 20, 2009


You know how sometimes there's a song, or particular lyric you can't get out of your head? And it runs in a continuous loop until you want to rip your brain out with a fork? That happens to me with words. Someone said I ought to write them down, like in a journal, incorporate them into a short story or something. But I don't want to create a story that involves these words. I don't need to, in fact. Life is stranger than fiction, as they say.

-group contagion theorem

Maybe now I can hear the songs that are playing in here.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

see it, hear it, do it.

This is perhaps in the top five movies I've seen. I will caution that it's not the ideal date movie, unless you happen to be absolutely gorgeous when you throw up into your purse, but my eyes have seldom been opened so wide to an issue so relevant and yet so utterly ignored.

Admittedly, when I have heard talk of slaughter houses and the conditions in which food is "raised" and killed, I have felt somewhat incredulous. It's dead right? What does it matter? This movie will beat the importance of this matter into your head with a two-by-four, via images so gruesome, they will be indelibly imprinted in your brain forever. I am ashamed that there was such a disconnect in my mind between the conditions in which our food lives before it is served to us on a plate with mashed potatoes.

The implications are extremely far-reaching, in terms of health, politics, injustice. (Yes yes almost synonymous, I know.) From the woman whose son died from e coli, who has been fighting for seven years for an acknowledgement from the company who sold the contaminated meat, but cannot even say what changes her family has made as a result of her son's death without being sued, to the ridiculously endearing farmer with Coke-bottle glasses whose strident belief in free-range growing will win your heart, to the complex monstrosity that is Monsanto and its seemingly impending world domination.

Never in my life would I have thought that the cross-pollination of soybeans could hold such interest, and launch me into action.

Food Inc. paints an exceptionally vivid landscape of our need to lift the veil on food manufacturing, by delving into topics such as:

-Factory farming.
-Genetic engineering.
-Farm worker protection.
-Global food chain.

This is my hero, Joel Salatin:

I mean, I don't want to see the guy in a thong or anything, but he's awesome, one of the last true American farmers.

So, if you care about what you eat, and/or not dying, watch this moving. If it doesn't propel you into action, then you're an apathetic bastard.

Oops, gotta go, some black Suburbans just pulled up full of Monsanto investigators.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

oh what a night (late august, 2009)

This is the funniest birthday card I have ever gotten, I found it in my purse this morning:

How did this come to appear in the mountain of shit I pretend fits in my purse? I have no fucking clue but I'm going to attempt to piece it together. The sequence of the last 15 hours is more difficult to discern than Pulp Fiction, but so worth remembering.

Just FYI: I'm not one of those people who requires alcohol to have the greatest night ever, and then brandish it later like some badge of ... adolescence? Nope. No hops nor barley were sacrificed in the making of this insane choose-your-own adventure/let others choose your own adventure story.

Can I just say? Debe, you are hands down the funniest person I have ever met, and that is saying a hell of a lot because a) I thought I was (jerk), and b) I only associate with the funniest people on earth and you make them all seem as charming as Kenneth Starr. Never before has someone gotten me to puke orange Vita-Drink (or whatever that shit was) out of every bodily orifice just by saying, "She must come from..." You didn't even finish the sentence, I just exploded because I knew you were good for it. It was an act of god that I made it to the kitchen before my guts turned inside out in your sink (even they were laughing). I also peed my pants and puked on my sleeve but whatever.

Backstory: I met Debe, and have not stopped laughing ever since. Recently she was such a bitch she went to CA and I was so despondent her ass had to come home, though there may have been other non-me-related circumstances as well. Anyway, after cleaning like a madman all week for everyone I know, and getting my requisite 48 invitations, I went over last night in my worst gypsy cleaning frock, and instantly did seven back flips when I saw that Taylor and Maddie were there, and then got really nauseated and ruined the entire night. No it's true. Why else would I drink Vita-Drink? Duh. I don't even know what we talked about, but I laughed until my body did things that were so embarrassing the only options were to kill everyone or become blood brothers. This would have been quite easy since they spontaneously decided to pierce each other. I was pretty much not down with this considering Taylor the piercer (also not drunk) fell backwards in his chair 19 times, even though he is not a sagittarius.

I was so nauseated I was convinced I was pregnant. Plus, I inexplicably peed 168 times. I was so pregnant and exhausted, plus I laughed so hard, fuck the treadmill, I lost 15 lbs. last night alone. Maddie is the cutest thing ever, well, so is Taylor, but she was making a sock monkey (creeeeepy) and he was playing that Guitar Hero game or whatever that suddenly every friend I have plays non-stop, so I talked to Maddie first. Admittedly, I am no seamstress but she put the red crescent supposed-to-be-mouth-right? on the ass by accident, so obviously we had no choice but to laugh about prolapsed rectums until Debe noticed that Maddie was fully exposed in her skirt at the table and our collective IQ dropped to accommodate those insane hilarious younger-than-us bastards. I think that's when Debe made me puke/aspirate.

Then it started. Maddie decided she needed a mango, which I attributed to her obvious ADHD the first 719 times she said it, but then it became real. She would not shut up so I decided she was pregnant too. Meanwhile, everyone in the room was texting someone named Mike or in my case, Michael, and it got hella confusing. Maddie is white, but has a gorgeous golden tint, like a perfectly toasted marshmallow, and I asked her if she was part Latina. She went ballistic, claiming to be Afro-Brazilian, which naturally led to her being black all night. At one point, as she was adding Rastafarian yarn hair to her sorry-assed (literally) monkey, Taylor threw a piece of black yarn at her and she was all, "What, you thought I wouldn't see that because it landed on my arm and I'm black?" She is so fucking funny. Later, I confessed, because Taylor and Maddie are in love with my candor, that I get possessive about certain word usage, and Maddie said, "Like in Finding Nemo, when those birds are like, 'mine mine mine'." It defies reality that I didn't throw up on Debe's couch, except she would slit my throat, dead serious.

Everyone was starving and I was really pissed because I was nauseated and ruining their lives. And Maddie would not shut up about the mangoes. Like ever. Subsequently, Taylor regaled us with how incredibly comfortable this new crop of people is with their own, and everyone else's, sexuality. Oh my god. He has seen more penises than a urologist, and has some very interesting pictures on his phone, which I declined to look at on the grounds of the nausea and well... I was so dizzy and sick I just wanted to accept Debe's 50th offer to spend the night, close my eyes, and have them entertain me until I could pass out. Alas, I said, "I should totally go," despite the fact that I was actually swaying by that point. As I was being read my last rites, Taylor and Debe went to the store, and I finally accepted the fact that I was staying, which of course I had wanted all along, duh, why do you think I had toothpaste in my purse? But I had forgotten a toothbrush. Fuck. I had my head buried in a blanket at that point but Maddie heard my groans and called and ordered me a toothbrush. A Circle K toothbrush, aka a prison toothbrush, but I so didn't care because the very thought of sleeping without brushing my teeth made them turn instantly into corduroy, blech. I cannot even sleep next to someone who has not brushed their teeth, and consider it a severe character flaw. It had like one, glorious, bristle, but I could have married those guys. Taylor also brought me Pepto-Bismol, which tasted like jiz, which led to more stories from his young and highly sex-centric life. I just want to thank the baby Jesus that I got out of there without seeing that guy's junk. And yet somehow the earth screeched to a halt when I took off my bra? Hypocrites. Every time Debe spoke, I somehow got three inches closer to her, because humour is so alluring, until I was essentially in her lap. That may have been awkward, I can't remember. (Remember to do it in person to maximize awkwardness? HAHAHAHAHA!) Maddie sat on my feet and was eating these heinous flaming hot Cheetos, and I could have kicked her teeth in, except she was sitting on my feet. Disgusting. And I'm not sure she brushed her teeth. They seriously bought Thanksgiving dinner worth of overpriced red dye 40-riddled bullshit. Then I spied Taylor's Sprite and instantly regretted having denied their offers of everything from the store. Dammit. I drank some of his, despite having heard stories that made the devil inside me blush and apologize. Then I ate Ramen because Debe is so effing awesome she keeps Oriental Ramen on hand always, as do I. I was starting to perk up a bit, and really got a surge when Taylor appeared with his Totino's pizza, which you know cost $7.99. I was so jealous I was dying, and had to go pee again. (I'd had almost three gallons of water.) They were so sweet, Debe and Taylor jumped up and went back to the store (it was 3am) to get me a pizza and Sprite, and Maddie started asking me about relationships, for chrissake. I declared "EPIC FAIL" and assured her she was better off without my input. I did subtly convey never to care about anyone, ever, by grabbing her beautiful throat and gnashing, "Do not ever care about anyone. Ever." Cut to this morning, or an hour later. It was light out, and I could feel that my eyes had sunken into my skull, my hair was matted down like a wet cat, and my entire pillow was soaked. That equals leaving, immediately, and never going back. Whether my head somehow leaked, or someone leaked on me, it's no good. I scooped up my purse-runneth-over, and fled the scene. That's when I saw the card. I laughed so hard I drove over the curb and would have had tears streaming down my face had my head not shriveled up like a goddamn raisin. And then the laughter stopped.

I never got my pizza, wtf?

And that sliver of sleep has to last me all day.

And it was all kinds of worth it.

And I will kick anyone's ass who calls you Deeb.


Wednesday, August 12, 2009

it's my party and i'll cry if i want to

I don't know why I even try. Every year I hope my birthday will come and go like a thief in the night, and instead, it comes like a tidal wave of love, thoughtfulness, generosity, and surprises. Seriously. I never talk about it, after all, who wants to be reminded that she is 32? It's not on the calendar, I do not bemoan my senior discount to friends. Yet without fail, at the end of every birthday, I am rendered so utterly humbled, often to the point of tears.

Sunday night I was waiting for Todd to get his Jeep-loving ass off the computer so I could post on Moxieclean, lest my early-rising New York Moxlings brandish their customary shyness. Even the Brits are more understanding. Anyway, Reilly was with my mom and Todd said she'd "be home soon." The next thing I knew I woke up upside down on the couch, suffocating in my robe, which I thought was a straight jacket, and so utterly disoriented it took me a while to realize the house was filled with streamers and balloons. This is something I have done since Quinn's first birthday, and though they expect it, it's still sweet to see them wake up and see how much their birthdays mean to me. So this year, my mama-lovin' girl, with my mom as her co-conspirator, waited with Todd, who apparently stayed on the computer until I passed out, decorated the entire house herself, laying out my presents, cards, just like I do. I was so taken aback, and yet not surprised. Quinn had been enlisted to help, but he has grown three inches in six weeks and is only awake 15 minutes each day now. He was seriously dismayed to have missed the covert mission, and raised his head in apology, then grew a mustache a fell back asleep.

This was a bittersweet birthday for several reasons, mostly because 32 is inarguably in the 30's, whereas with 31, you can insist it's on the cusp, like with astrological signs. By all rights I should be 28, which is where I was when I slipped and fell into a deep, toxic landfill, wherein I toiled in futility trying to spin poison into gold. In retrospect, I'm lucky to have only aged four years. I certainly spun my wheels long enough to have been turning 90.

We had a full day of play groups, Reilly's Humane Society class, coffees, etc., so I was going to do my online rounds in double time. That is, until I saw 405 Happy Birthday wishes clogging up my inbox and facebook. My eyes had just stopped stinging from my sweet girl's surprise, and now everyone I knew had thought of me. I really was completely overwhelmed.

The day before I had visited Emily, and she had pulled out this really cute little origami box she made, and was showing Big, while Elyse grabbed for it so desperately I seriously thought she was going to turn into a werewolf. I was secretly covetous, because the print was really cute and I like shit like that. So we sat outside for like twenty minutes before she handed it to me and said "Here's your birthday present." I was really surprised, and overjoyed (yeah, it's that cute). Then I realized there was something inside. I opened it with a deaf ear to her bullshit disclaimer about how it was nothing, and immediately burst into tears. No seriously, you can ask her. I may even call it sobbing. She had found non-lame little motivational sayings and cut them out, by hand, in circles (omg the tedium of that was reason enough to cry), with a toddler, broken ribs, and then made the box. The first one was and will always be my favourite. The implication and meaning of this gesture is too deep to describe, it was simply perfect.

From Emily:

Seriously, I didn't even know Emily knew my birthday. I am still emotional about this gift.

When I got home Sunday night, there was birthday mail, and I noticed a card from Gail, who already sent me a fabulous book earlier in the week. But leave it to her to make the extra effort. Inside the beautiful card was an even more beautiful Starbucks gift card, kind of a tradition with us. She said I had to have a birthday coffee on her. First I laughed, picturing me on her, then realized she probably would not appreciate that, and instead, I cried, obviously.

Other highlights:

-Having Deborah all to myself, thanks to her thoracotomy and lack of blanket, and subsequent need to sublet mine.

-Giving Brian a pedicure, only to discover that his Crocs are not in fact too small, his mom just sucks at clipping his toenails.

-OMG Toby curled up in my lap like a kitten for almost two hours. I told his mom I wanted to take him, and she didn't call the police, so that was good. I am so in love with Toby. It feels biologically wrong that he belongs to someone else.

-Deborah treated Quinn and me to lunch, during which we sat F-A-R away from the kids and had a conversation that, well, sort of changed my life.

-FINALLY got the word that the super-ghetto last-hope piece for my fucked-up phone had arrived, and went to pick it up. Got it gratis because it was my birthday.

-When I got home my mom was there, who, along with my kids, had made me a cake, which was suddenly thrust into my face. Holy shit I thought my body was going to become engulfed in flames. Evidently, so did Quinn. No, I could not blow out 32 candles. It took two blows (sorry Gail, I'm just a filthy heathen).

Rei eating an "R" off my cake:

Quinn at the ready with a gallon of water: (Um, he was deadly serious, there was so much fire, lol.)

-Presents, Jesus. I am always surprised by presents, and I have a very strong aversion to opening them, even with family. I will seriously let them sit there until the children are gnashing their teeth and wringing their hands in desperation. I can't even remember everything, but my Reilly went and stocked up on every size and version of my favourite scent at Bath & Body (Dancing Waters) because she heard me tell someone they always discontinue the ones I love. I now have lotion, shower gel, and a separate little bag FULL of anti-bacterial bottles, which I totally hoard. I was amazed, and few things make me happier than a bag full of anti-bacterial gel. She also got me a bag of my guiltiest candy loves from that horrid by-the-pound place wherein you think you're getting one sour thing and eight Jelly Bellys and it's $14.95. But damn, watermelon slices... Quinn and Todd played it safe with an Old Navy gift card, very sweet. My kids always insist on spending their own money on gifts. My mom got me a caddy I've been coveting, some radical bumper stickers which are ill-timed in our current social climate, but are motherfucking rad, an Old Navy card, and more money than I am willing to admit accepting for a major indulgence I found online. I tried giving it back even. God. I can't even bring myself to order it.

-Other highlights include, after numerous death threats to the Verizon technician and myself, I finally got this really dumb-ass piece working and had my phone back. You have no idea the luxury of a QWERTY keyboard after having to use the home phone for a week, which made me furious and arthritic. Normally I hate voicemail. Well no, I totally hate voicemail. But once I powered my phone up, I had zillions, from people near and far, including a super sweet message from my beloved big brother Sky, asking me to please call him, which made me cry. Also, so many texts I almost slit my throat. That wasn't as fun.

-The simple fact that amidst my infuriating phone-tastrophe, lots of folks texted or called both phones to say feliz cumpleanos.

-Karen texting from Seattle to tell me she was smoking a clove in my honour. I thought that was really sweet, but also really selfish inasmuch as I was neither smoking nor in Seattle, lol. I was flattered that she thought of me.

-A surprise pedicure from an unlikely source.

-An unexpected call from an old friend from the coast, from whom I've not heard in years, like five. We worked together at the place where Todd and I met, and it was surreal and incredible to talk to her. She's a bit older and someone I admire infinitely.

-Finally, I also got an email from a woman I met when we were teens, who is Egyptian, and with whom I had lost touch for eight years. I mean, when I say people crawled out of the woodwork, I also meant the sand. (Hi Julie! Hi Maha!)

-I love birthdays but hate the part where everyone comes over and messes up the kitchen with plates, wrapping paper, ribbon, frosting...I know I'm an ungrateful bitch. The kids asked if they could spend the night with Kevin at my mom's if they cleaned up, and there was no way I could refuse such a deal. They straightened the entire living room, wiped down the dining room table, swept and Swiffered the kitchen, wiped down the counters, stacked my presents so I didn't throw them away out of reflex, did the dishes, kissed me, and asked me 45738639875 times if it hurt my feelings for them to leave on my birthday. I reassured them, they left, and I immediately cried and wanted them back.

So I'm staring down the business end of 32, and it's going to be fine. I've got the best kids in the world, the finest crop of friends anywhere, and I can finally hold my head up high...high enough to see the signs that say "Warning: Toxic Landfill."

Sunday, August 9, 2009

love actually

Quinn and Reilly get along almost as well as Israel and the Palestinians. This morning I noticed Rei, who slept on the couch, using her to toe to remove some blanket tassels off Quinn's face. He was asleep on the floor.

Me: "Do you love your brother?"

Reilly: "You ask me that everyday." (Subtle evasion.)

Me: "Would you kick someone who was messing with him?"

Reilly: "I would kick them anyway."

Somehow that works for me.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

another day in the life...take that sam!

Please pardon these ghetto dime-bag pictures, but our media card recently broke and apparently Todd requires several months to research a new camera because a) he's a libra (Sam, Mom, Gail, Mesina, back me up here), and b) he usually ends up getting lost on some after-market Jeep paradise site.

Here are the highlights (more like a strobe light) of an ordinary Thursday in our lives.

Got home at 4:00am and bust out the Moxie blog because those east coasters are not shy about letting me know what a shitbag I am if their challenges aren't ready by (their) morning. But in all sincerity, I'm flattered. Ate a red pepper even though my tongue has burned completely off from my pepper/tomato gluttony. Realized my phone wasn't charging, on any of my three chargers. I tried to become MacGuyver and strap a hundred rubber bands to secure the charger but fuck me if they didn't all break and shoot across the kitchen, evoking a desperate wrath. When I lay down it had one bar and figured that was enough to seek a solution come daybreak (which was 2.5 seconds away).

Slept on my earring ear, and couldn't decide whether to spray the fire extinguisher on my ear or into my flaming mouth.

My kids were at my mom's and we were due to meet Deborah & co. at Padington's so I fell prey to every grandiose trap available to a mama home alone with seemingly an eternity to kill. One second later we were due to meet Deborah in 28 minutes and I had failed to make 1% effort towards readying myself, and had not picked up Quinn so he could shower and use half a bottle of hairspray. So I pulled a Deborah and asked for a 55 hour extension, which she readily granted as she was also unshowered.

Had a simultaneously sweet and disconcerting moment wherein my beautiful son and I shared the dual vanity, the hair dryer, the hairspray, the MIRROR (I was lucky to get a sliver), and the mascara. Kidding. Like we actually have a rhythm for maneuvering around each other as we preen. So far I like it.

Drove to Padington's and held hands with my towering baby, while listening to Buffalo Springfield's For What it's Worth on the freeway.

Ordered our pizza, our ticket was number 10. (I have a mild obsession with numbers that are divisible by five.) Looked out the window and saw a radiant, gorgeous young woman, and realized it was Shannon, with her hair pulled back, possibly for the first time ever. Wow. She is stunning. This was the first time I'd seen Deborah since her thoracotomy, and she was moving slowly. She informed me that she had been driving against doctor's orders and that she was on morphine. Um, a year ago Deborah would have left a child stranded on the freeway rather than squeeze an extra body into her car with no seat belt. I had to laugh. When my pizza arrived she began cursing very loudly at my tomatoes. "I cannot believe those fucking tomatoes, they are so stupid!" I believe were her exact words. When I say loud, I mean, I realize that no one on earth is louder than I, but she was embarrassingly loud, grabbing at my tomatoes, hissing that no decent Texan eats fresh tomatoes on their pizza, only sun dried ones. I pointed out that a) There are no proper Texans, b) I'm not from Texas, and c) sun dried tomatoes are disgusting. I slid away from her and ate my pizza and we left, headed for her house.

We had a fabulous visit, and she gave me an incredible book called Without Conscience, about psychopathy, which I will read after I finish the DSM -IV she ordered for me as a surprise a few weeks ago. It's meaty, and 4734653945093750 pages long, so it will be a while. Then Ken came home, and we had a great talk, and he presented me with copies of the dreaded Dr. Who, to which they have converted Quinn into a devotee, much to my angst and boredom. But it was nice of them.

When we left there was note on my windshield which was at first a citation, then a note from Shannon, then a note from a neighbour about how I parked, but ultimately, it was a note from an unidentified friend inviting me over. Totally surreal, and with no phone, I had to call the Scooby Doo Mystery Team to crack the case. That's when I realized Jennifer's kids' daycare is two houses down, so off we went to Jennifer's, where we marveled at our sons being two years apart in age and fifteen feet apart in height.

En route to the hacienda, I stopped at meth, er, Circle K to reward Quinn with a Slurpee, which he declined because I didn't have enough on me for two, and he didn't want to hurt Reilly's feelings. That's my boy. (Also, am I that poor?)

While Quinn and I made our rounds today Todd took Reilly to her new track event. She graduated from the south Salem High league into the upper-crust Bush Park races. When I got home, I was greeted by what else, a ribbon. Inspired by Winter the superstar, Reilly wasted no time ditching the 200/400m and went straight for the 1,600m, which Todd ran with her, against 120 other runners. My lightning girl took third, against adults! She said she is going to train like hell and become a triathlete, training with Winter and running the track at McKay everyday (my cheers were only a decoy for the deep disdain and exhaustion I felt at the notion).

Then I saw my package from My first thought was identity theft because if you can't afford two Slurpees you sure as hell can't afford a book. Alas my fantastic friend Gail sent it to me for my birthday. There is nothing like new books, omg. I added it to my pile. (It's called The Tall Book.)

That's when I came face to face with the bane of my existence: my purse. People laugh at me constantly but I'm so used to it I forget to address the fact that, as Jennifer said, I need a backpack. But it's an emergency. In addition to what is visible in the pictures, my notebook, my DSM-IV, seven disks for Quinn, an envelope of nine compilations I forgot to mail to my friend Dyan, three packs of Wet Wipes, two packs of Ice Cubes gum, two anti-bacterial bottles, 13 Sharpie pens (omg), a lighter for survival purposes, two lip balms, my fat-ass George Costanza wallet, a survey from the surgical center to make sure that having my insides burned out with a blow torch was the best experience of my life, a brochure Deborah gave me for some new activity she's forcing us to do, 97 punch cards, bobby pins, a water bottle, and fucking Jimmy Hoffa for all I know. I need a bigger purse. But I need input, and that's overwhelming.

I peeked at facebook, and saw the most splendid picture ever, posted by my old friend from high school, Amelia. She was zany and daring and flamboyant and hilarious, a true star. And Amber, poised and a revered ballerina who went to Juilliard, both so very dear to me and vital to my survival in Newport, whose pulse was thready at best. They both live in New York as highly successful entertainers. They're incredible. Amber just had a baby Sunday, and this picture, this love, transcends the 14 years since I did naughty things with them and pierced my heart.

To top it off, I got a VIP spot on the patio and talked to my beloved Karen for an hour, hearing of her recent vacation and apparently serving as Thanksgiving dinner for every motherfucking mosquito in the valley.

Then I cleaned my car, which was weeping in the garage. And now I am writing to prove to Sam that, while I did not bleed, suffer a cracked skull, and though my phone didn't melt, it did die, which I liken to the earth losing its gravitational pull, and this is a typical day for me. Ha Sam, it only took me five years, but, YOU WERE WRONG!

Tearing into my book:

The "purse," aka an erupting volcano:

My beautiful friends who haven't aged one goddamned day, bitches. Welcoming baby Julius:

Amelia's love for Amber melts me. Real friends are what it's all about. I am so thankful for each and every one of mine. Even when they don't BELIEVE me!

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

go go gadget garden!

Everyone I know is going ga-ga over gardening this summer, in a major way. Seriously, even people whose husbands have lost their jobs and are living by the river are borrowing cell phones to call and boast about their squashes and whatnot. I'm not gonna lie, my fondness for eating is totally disproportionate to my interest in gardening. Oh well, I mean, I know many people whose verbosity is disproportionate to their grammatical prowess, and somehow, the world goes 'round.

But Todd's garden, which he planted in one day, is gaining serious notoriety amongst my family and friends. Right before he stopped working, he came home after a 14 hour shift and built a patio, the first thing our yard has had to be proud of since a monarch butterfly visited in 2003. We never spent that much time in our un-landscaped scourge of a property, but the patio changed everything. Not that my house isn't cozy and inviting, and that Todd and the kids aren't welcoming and behaved, but summer nights gabbing with friends outside has suddenly become a sensation. So yea for the patio:

Please note the extra large cinder block in the corner behind Quinn, the one on which I bashed my head two posts ago.

Now for the garden. The day after Todd whipped out this little slice of serenity, before coming in and whipping up dinner, he decided to plant a garden. I scarcely looked up from my book. "Okay." He came in after dark and explained that this row was gonna be...oops I totally forgot everything he said. He added that being off work, he felt it was wise to grow some of our own produce. With my only reference being the other gardens I've seen, we're either going to save 7 cents on produce or go on an all-meat diet. Call me a cynic.

Then this happened:

Jennifer came over the other night, despondent over her ailing grandfather, and as I prepared to listen and comfort her, she said, "Holt shit! I was just here and that garden is twice the size it was!"

The back forty, which used to be dirt.

I definitely know carrots...especially when there's a sign that says 'carrots.' And I am perfecting my fraudulent, knowing nod when people arrive to see me, and then dash past me as if I were a telephone pole exclaiming, "Oh my god! That's a rare African Duvalia Polita!" Of course it is, I nod, not knowing what the hell they're talking about.

This corn is taller than I am. Every time I pass it I hear "if you build it they will come," and expect Shoeless Joe Jackson to appear.

Blessed be grape tomatoes. Note the absence of any ripe ones...

The aforementioned squashes...guess they were worth hearing about after all.

So colour me impressed. And corrected. And let me know if you need 15 ears of corn in a hurry or three bags of beans. I am not, however, sharing my tomatoes, but you can sit on the patio with me and watch me eat them.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

say hello, wave goodbye

A couple weeks ago at a park day, attended by an assortment of friends and strangers, and where I am often met with hugs and kisses by various little ones, I had just settled in and became immediately engrossed in a conversation with Deborah about something either brilliant or incomprehensible, or both. I can't remember.

As we impressed the hell out of ourselves by being so smart, one of the mine-ish little kids came and curled up in my lap. My response, without looking down, was to pet and cradle the tiny tot, whom I've known forever. There I sat, for twenty minutes, relishing the deluge of Deborah's witticisms, petting this kid, who has been in my lap no less than 5,000 times before. Then I looked down and saw a boy I have never met in my life. His head was turned, and he just stayed there, all curled up. This was rather odd, I thought.

"Hi. Who are you?"

"I'm Toby." (Head still turned.)

"I'm Cheyenne, do you know me?"

"No, but I wanted to sit on you."

"Okay, I'm really glad you did."

That's when he sat up and I realized why I assumed he was mine. Not -ish, but mine.

Toby looks exactly like Maia. Exactly. He is the same size, has the same impishness, sweetness, and he folded into my lap as though he'd been doing it his whole life.

Of COURSE due to the sun and weird angles, the resemblance isn't quite as pronounced in this picture, but he really does look like her.

This is Toby:

He is so incredibly sweet and so very intent on sitting in my lap. These are good things, because talking to him helped keep the magma of hatred from erupting out of my heart. I really enjoy Toby a lot, but no one could replace Maia.

I love you Maia, I'm sorry you're not allowed to remember.

Saturday, August 1, 2009


My eyeballs are basically rolling under the desk but I have to recount this most surreal, and oddly typical day of mine.

I went to bed at 5am, and set my alarm for 9am because my beloved Mesina was due to call at 9:30. Of course even as I leave my kitchen gleaming each night, by daybreak it's a war zone, so I scurried around and drank my protein shake, and then planned to take a shower. I might be the only female who shampoos, soaps, conditions and shaves (everyday) in 4.5 minutes, so I didn't anticipate a problem jumping in at 9:27. I'll be damned if Mesina didn't call at 9:28. Jesus. Really? So, since I had planned to do amazing things during our chat, including run to the store, I asked if she would call me back in five minutes. That wouldn't feel rude with any of you but she's British and somehow I felt as if I were asking her to loan me ten thousand quid. But of course she accommodated me.

We talked all about homeschooling, a possibility she now faces as epilepsy has rendered her a pedestrian indefinitely. I got dressed and dried my hair, and my skirt, with the fan, and just as she began to ask how I'm doing, as only Mesina can, she devised some excuse to hang up. (Kidding, it was legit.) She's calling me back in like three hours.

Off to Fred Meyer to haggle on an appliance, pick up donuts for the kids, grape tomatoes for myself, and figure out what to do with my day. Just then Deborah, who is two days post-op, texted to ask if today was good day to burn down, er, sort the playroom. The obvious answer is no, it is never a good day for that, but I told her to hang on. Then I made plans to drop something by Sam's, presumably en route to Deborah's. Genius, I know. But Todd called and said he needed me to drive him to Portland to retrieve the Jeep into which he has now officially put over 50 large. Um, he never asks me to do such things, and how could I say Deborah's playroom was more important?

Like this:

"But I told Deborah I'd clean her playroom." He was incredulous but understands I will wither away and die if I do not do everything expected of me at all times. Except for him, apparently. So he said he'd get it Monday with his friend Todd. (All his friends' names are Todd.) I took the donuts home to my kids, and felt like a total douche bag for flaking on him, but in true Todd fashion he was totally over it.

Off I went to Sam's. Back story: Need I say it? I love Sam. She's my oldest friend in Salem and the wisest person I know. Her life is exceedingly busy and harrowing so it's hard to plan visits but somehow, pulling up to her curb to hand her something turned into one of the most intense, soul-searching, soul-finding, profound four hour conversations in recent memory. I mean, she is deep, but she actually got her tool belt on and went inside my brain, then to my heart and before I knew it I was sobbing, with full-on snot and everything, for the first time in many months. Obviously I responded to this by trying to leave, but my cocksucking Jeep wouldn't start. God, it caught whatever Jeep Swine Flu Todd's Jeep has. I reached for my phone off the dashboard to discover that it was like peeling Laffy Taffy off a griddle, and it was deader than dead. This was awesome. Todd couldn't save me because I was a selfish bitch who left him stranded with no car. AAA was useless because where would I take my car at 6pm on a Friday? And worst of all, while Sam was hoisting me up a notch on the evolutionary totem pole, I totally neglected Deborah, and felt so horrible I knew one of us would have to die.

So I went in Sam's house, drank lemonade, apologized a lot, and blew on my phone, which finally lit up said "Device had to power down due to heat stroke" or something, but it was still all floppy and hot. I called Todd, and he tried to advise me, 22 texts came in, so I couldn't hear him, and in retaliation I went outside and tried the engine again. Miraculously it started, so Todd forbade me from going back to say goodbye, insisting instead that I pull some Y chromosome-only driving-with-the-brake-on method of getting home. This, for those of you who haven't done it, requires two feet, and your power comes from the brake, talking on a Laffy Taffy phone, yelling at Todd because I was too stupid to figure it out, because it was the most counter-intuitive sensation ever. I'm ambidextrous, which is great. Driving with two feet is the opposite of being ambidextrous. It's being non-dextrous. And you can't think, you can only drive. I had to make it down Cordon Rd. to our house. I had no choice but to become some Jesus-turned-Nascar-racer in order not to die. I immediately lurched 40 feet onto Cordon and narrowly escaped death, to which I responded by closing my eyes. Traffic on Fridays. Enough said. I hit two green lights, feeling pretty good, until an ambulance was screaming behind me and my options were to think with my feet or drive into a cornfield in order to maintain motion. Luckily I compromised and cruised the shoulder. Whew. Nine secons later another one came, faster, and two assholes in Toyota pick-ups were like playing chicken or something about pulling over so I was nearly T-Boned as I jerked along the shoulder. After they sped away (hopefully into a head-on collision with each other), and I had gone a precious mile, a motherfucking fire truck streaked by, so fast, no one could pull over, but I was able to kill the car. I could see my turn, but I accidentally began thinking and I knew I was going to live there forever, on the shoulder-ish. I prayed to the baby Jesus and got back on the road and eventually to my house (thank you baby Jesus), whereupon I shuffled into the house, stripped off my clothes, sobbed to Deborah for failing her, responded to Sam who thought I went insane and stormed away for some Cheyenne reason, sucked my thumb, and drank some diet Pepsi. Todd had made some splendid dinner with veggies from his garden wonderland (coming to a blog near you), and pork, which may even be from pigs out back. I don't know, it's his domain. Again, I asked the baby Jesus to grant me a wish. That the side dish would be mashed potatoes. I asked Reilly what our starch was. "Mashed potatoes. Do you want a plate?" Did I? I was so hungry. I was so confused I didn't know whether to eat with my right hand,left hand, or my feet.

Meanwhile, a new friend is experiencing a hellacious break-up and is torn to shreds, which translates into roughly 8,095 texts per minute. I got online to deal with some business, answered a few emails, and perused facebook solely to check out Janis Joplin video my mom sent me. Then, by happenstance, I ended up chatting with my mom's old friend Dyan from Newport. They worked at the Women's Violence Intervention Program and she was always so cool. Obviously at 16 I had no way of knowing I'd be her age in 2.5 seconds, and we chatted for hours. It was so awesome. I hate that some of my favourite people defected to Colorado (Gail, Dyan), and I have every intention of getting Mesina deported, filthy expatriate. I assaulted her with links (which I abhor when on the receiving end), and she loved everything, and my friend continued to fall apart and have panic attacks and ask me if "STOP TEXTING HER" could in any way be interpreted as, "Text her how sorry you are for the 255th time." Poor guy. He is so sweet and so sad. By the time I got done with Dyan, and had new buddy breathing for 15 seconds, I began thinking about some cloves a friend left here last night. By thinking I mean I would kill anyone who tried to stop me. I'm actually over them, but I could hear them and really felt tempted. Just then Jennifer texted to say, out of nowhere, "Do you by any chance want to smoke on your patio right now?" Obviously I asked her to marry me.

I went outside to wait for her. Having forgotten Todd's mention of one of the lawn chairs warping in the heat, of course I sat on it, and it collapsed, and I fell flat on my back, smashing my head against a cinder block I never noticed is the size of Stonehenge, with my broken coccyx stuck in the crook of the former chair, and completely unable to get up. I called Todd from my phone and he came out and had absolutely no idea how to get me up without further entangling me in this twisted heap of metal. Just as I thought I would live on Cordon Rd., so did I think I'd live on the patio, my head mashed into the cinder block, dented, wrapped up in this chair. The kids would grow used to it as would their friends, like an iron lung. Instead Todd, who always surprises me by being able to lift me, just grabbed me up. Sure enough the chair snapped and gashed my leg open from knee to ankle. God it was so excellent. He asked about stitches, but what care I for gaping bloody legs when I'm about to have my first, well, born again clove?

Jennifer came over and vented some of her grief about her poor grandfather and how some relatives are not being nice. I felt so sad for her. She is one strong, hard-working mom, and it kills me that she can't grieve simply, without needless bullshit. Then she got a much-anticipated call from her best friend and excused herself around 1:45am, and I came in wrote this blog.

Somehow, even though my Jeep never breaks down, I never cry, and I never fall backwards into the corner of a cinder block, I feel like this was a pretty typical day.