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 Amazon.com. 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!