Top Ten things I’ve been thinking about lately
By Blue the Ox
3. How much I miss my little brother, who is suddenly engaged and I’ll probably never meet her until they have been married for four years
6. My current Biggest Problem (see 5, then 2)
7. I hope the fish are ok in that bitty little tank…
8. School, which starts in two weeks or something – I guess I should find out, huh?
9. How much Rocky looks like Rukan, talks like Rukan, and dances, paints and pouts like me
10. How I wish my mom, who still occasionally calls me “Dove Bottom”, would move to Austin
Mom counts me as her best friend. “Well, you and Bonnie,” she clarifies. “But you never even talk to Bonnie,” I say. “Oh yeah. I guess that just leaves you.” I might be one of the few who understands Mom’s sense of humor, because I grew up with it. Tonight she was playing with Rocky, and suddenly did something crude involving a farting toy horse (I won’t repeat it, because seriously people, you won’t get it) and we were both red-faced, teary-eyed, laughing on the floor. We now call Rocky’s plastic horse doll “Hoo-Hoo the Magical Farting Pony”.
The fish are fine, Blue. Stop worrying. They’re JUST FISH. The kind you eat at seders. Mmm. Seders.
Scrabble? Because back before there was TV, before the internet, before cell phones, basically back in the time I’m living in now, there were board games. It’s actually kind of fun. When you’re bored out of your mind and there’s nothing, NOTHING else to do.
My brother sent me an email telling me he’s engaged. My brother and I grew up joined at the head. We were best friends, and we were always together. I was the outgoing one everyone noticed because I was always trying to be the one being noticed, and he was the very quiet one keeping to himself. He’s only met my daughter once, when she was tiny (and I can’t even be sure of that, so far down the potty has my mama-brain flushed) and now he’s engaged, and I’ve never even met the woman and probably there won’t be a public wedding. When I talked to him I tried to be happy for him, but when I opened my mouth to say mazeltov what came out was “And you’re sure she’s not psycho?” I’ll call to apologize tomorrow. I just want to meet the girl, you know? See for myself. I mean, he’s my baby brother. I should be giving him away or something. She should be asking me for his hand.
Somebody asked me recently if I’m excited about school. I thought about it. And had to admit that I’m really not. I’m not dreading it, and I’m sure once I’m there it’ll be interesting and I’ll enjoy the learning of new skills and all that. But really I’m avoiding thinking about it, because of the load of stress it’s probably going to put on me for the next year. I got the loan, and I was all excited and felt like I had done this grown-up thing all by myself, and then it hit me that you have to pay loans off, and rent’s about to rocket because of the new studio. And then I lost my last weekly cleaning gig. So I’m buying veggies in cans again, and advertising like crazy. I was writing my ad, and instead of “dependable” by accident I typed “desperate”. For real. I had to backspace over it. “Housekeeping. Friendly, thorough, non-toxic, desperate. Call Blue, 333-5555, PLEASE.” Really, Concerned Friends, I thought this all through beforehand, and I’m not putting my family in danger or anything. Unless you count canned peas. Eew. It’s all . . . UNDER . . . CONTROL . . .
When people tell Ril how “she has your eyes!” and “oh, look at those curls, just like your Mommy!” I think she should just say “I know, it’s amazing, isn’t it?” When they say “Which side of the family gave her that classy pout?” we should say “the donor.”
Sex. Because it’s just always there, nowadays. Lurking in my mind. Because it’s ok to be a mother and to also lust after the shirtless lawn guy. Because I’m 33, and that’s the magic decade for the women in my family. Primetime, baby. Get me while I’m hot.
Am I missing anything from the list? No? Well, great! Have a lovely night!
I don’t want to talk about it, OK???
Actually I do. It’s just a really big one this time, and I don’t know where to begin. I said I wouldn’t therapize on my blog any more. Because surely you’d rather hear about Pocket’s constipation problems. But if you have any insight into why a sensitive, creative kid who grew up with drug and alcohol addicts in a totally fucked-up society turned into a touch-starved, insecure, anxiety-riddled addict who can’t look her partner in the eyes, and how such a wretch can unlearn intimacy-fear, let me know. Melissa, at her wits’ end, will thank you.
On that light happy note, I will bid you bonsoir, which is French for “Good evening, oh la la, I need to go have sex in the shower”.