Life As a Pearl

I have stuff to do today. Lots of stuff, actually. But that's true everyday, so sometimes I just have to pretend the list doesn't grow with every unencumbered breath I take and shanghai seven precious seconds of me time. Nine times out of ten, if I've managed to trick myself into taking a few minutes off, I'm going to spend that time reading. The good news is, I'm a fast reader. The bad news is, reading makes me want to write, and who has time for that? Apparently, this girl. I worked hard yesterday, really I did. And I rewarded myself with David Sedaris's new book ( http://www.indiebound.org/book/9780316154697 ) because I can read one paragraph (sometime two if I have the time) and still feel well read and inspired to write. You don't believe me? You don't think David Sedaris, or any author for that matter, could possibly be that good? WRONG. Allow me to demonstrate: "Never would they [David's parents] have blindly defended me or even asked...

Now before I post this picture, I want to give it the context it deserves. Here are the things you need to know. I have a grandmother. I wouldn't say we're close (because we're not--neither geographically, nor relationally), but we get on when we're in the same room. No one would accuse Grandma of being overly sentimental, but she has sent me many hand-sewn flannel pajamas and cigarette-flavored Christmas cookies over the years, and treated me well on the scant occasions our paths have crossed. Because of the distance between her and her children (I'll let you decide if that's geographically or otherwise), Grandma is a letter writer. That's something Grandma and I are of a mind on; we like licking envelops and trekking to the mailbox. For all my GF friends out there, don't worry. I don't actually lick the envelopes; I know better. Anyway, Grandma and I write--not to each other, of course; unless you count the occasional thank-you card. We write pe...

Oh, sure. It sounds  sweet: Therapy Llama Visits Children at St. Jude. Coverage of that might even include a picture of bandaged or bed-ridden toddler with his arms wrapped around a long, hairy neck--the perfect photo op. In fact there is exactly that picture, floating around in cyberspace, attached to an article explaining the benefits of therapy llamas. I want to be charmed--llamas are  cute, and I'm all for cheering up a sick kiddo. But honestly, I can't get past what a bad idea it is. Llamas are big. They're hairy. They're germy. They spit. They fight--brutally actually--with those huggable necks. I'll be the first to admit they're cute, and I can understand the temptation. They're trainable enough to forced into the drudgery of servitude (or is that alpacas?), and to stand still long enough to be woven into a lovely sweater (that might be alpacas too...); wandering around the sterile corridors of a children's hospital ward, then, shouldn't b...

"Evolution?" you say. "That seems like a bit of a touchy subject with which to reinvigorate your short-lived blog," you say. To which I respond, "When did your grammar get so good? Your avoidance of ending that sentence in a preposition was masterful." But you're right, of course. I didn't start blogging (see those THREE posts I wrote nearly a year ago) to stir up pots. I started blogging to, um, listen to myself talk in a whole new forum. The fact that some of you out there also listened was a delightful development. Not delightful enough to keep me blogging, evidently. And for that I apologize. In truth, if not for evolution, my life as a blogger would likely have been over for good. Two-year-olds generate an alarming amount of work, as do college students. Whatever worms of time I don't chew and feed to those greedy birds, I try to spend cutting my nails (sometimes I can even get a whole hand done in one sitting), unloading the di...

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 ...