Life As a Pearl

There are one hundred and one things I'd like to say about this picture, but let's start with the obvious: that second fellow in line looks a whole damn lot like Daniel Radcliffe, right? What is that boy doing with ink all over his body and a fetus in his britches? I want to stop there--I really do. But it'd be hard to move on without noting that the guy up front must feel weird about his bare leg. And if he doesn't, I do. Could that explain his awkward posture? Perhaps he's explaining to Daniel that he can't afford to finish his leg because he spends so much money on women's razors to keep his armpit hair shaved--so you can get the full effect of his underarm ink. I'll admit, I've bought a few shirts and dresses based primarily on the fact that they showcase my tattoo--a pomegranate tree on the left side of my chest. Nothing too low cut, too revealing. But still. When I got it, I wanted it in a place people would see; otherwise, what was the ...

A list of ridiculous things (sans context) said in the past few days: Don't order the meat soup ever in Iceland. Get the sand wedge. Never trust a man who wears a cape. Give me all your forks. All your forks are belong to us. I just need a couple more paychecks. You know, birds used to hit my parent's windows all the time, and they always looked like angels. But this one doesn't look very good. He's the face of the wildfire. Who would make him the face of anything? He's the face of large teeth. (Response): He's the beard of the wildfire. If she's not pregnant by the time she rounds sixteen, she's just not trying. Sometimes girls are done having fun and they just want to struggle. I was born to be a triangle.

Well I might as well admit I've been dying to start a blog. OR. I have been feeling guilted into starting a blog ever since I went to AWP back in February. Potato, Potato. Huh. That only works if you say it out loud. Moving on. I've been waiting and waiting for inspiration to strike, or for a theme to pop out at me, or for my life to settle down. Here's the thing about that: never going to happen for me. Inspiration is going up in smoke along with my state, themes make my head itch, and the adorable 18-month-old scaling my kitchen table and squeezing all the bananas in my fruit bowl says, "Settled life? Dream on." Well, no she doesn't. Because she doesn't talk. We're all just going to pretend I'm not responsible for her silence, OK? Last night, my parents dropped by because they know it gets a little lonely in my hot apartment. As fun as single mamahood is, I admit to them on a twice-daily basis that I crave adult conversation. So they pop ...