Dialogue

Dialogue2

 

“Stop! Don’t say anything more or mom will blog about it!”

I am forbidden to tell you about a bit of dialogue between daughters when I came home one evening. Truth is, I’d have a hard time remembering it clearly as I was out celebrating my advancing decrepitude with a girlfriend but I do remember it was fascinating. But I promised and so I will not speak of it. Continue reading

Magic potions (or Menomama3’s recipe for life)

Moderation is the key.

What’s your temperature?

Food is pleasure. Food is sexy. Food is fun. Most days I’d rather eat than have sex. Give me some Tandoori Chicken or a bowl of Pad Thai or a Shawarma with garlic fluff and I’m delerious, slavering and panting for more. I NEVER, EVER miss a meal. EVER. I am perplexed by people who claim “Oh I got so busy I forgot to eat.” WHaaaat?

Maybe I have issues with food. Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m like most people when presented with a smorgasbord : I can’t choose and so I sample a dollop of everything. Maybe I lack self control. Maybe I should cut back. Or maybe I’m normal. Or maybe, just maybe, I should exercise a bit more and eat a bit less because there ain’t no cure for love and there ain’t no magic potion that will fix me if I gain weight. Continue reading

Staring down the dawn

Squeak. Squeak. SQUEAK.

Damn that stair. It gives me away every single morning but if I’m quiet enough, if I can just tiptoe through the skimpy dawn I will have time. Something will occur to me. Some scrap I can work with and scribble down on the page and spin from. It will. I know it will. There is hope.

At this hour there is no duty. I leave the dishes in the sink (the dishwasher is broken) and open the kitchen blinds. The sky is revealing no secrets in this scant light. The day could go either way. Surely this will be the day the sun makes a peace offering? The coffee is unmade, there are crumbs on the kitchen table but mercifully no mouse in the trap. No plans made yet. The dog sleeps on his oversized bed one ear flopped open. The dog dish is empty. Continue reading

Golden year

“I grow old…I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.” (The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot)

This week I have been trembling with excitement. Sometimes when I’m lying in bed at night it feels like my heart is trying to make a break for it. Pound its way out of my chest, leave a slick red trail across the white sheets and thud its way out the door looking for a transplant victim. Searching for a younger body, one where the breasts don’t need a winch and the butt a double skin of Spanx to lift and separate the cheeks back into their discrete selves instead of the uniglobe amalgam of silly putty and orange peel they have become. Continue reading

The perfect is the enemy of the good

Adoption discussions are passionate. People involved are highly invested individuals and groups and there’s a lot of emotional, psychological and, some argue, financial real estate at stake. Two adoptee blogs were recently Freshly Pressed and they got me to thinking.

Marriage is a fatally flawed institution that is the root of most societies’ ailments. I think for the improvement of humanity this rotting corpse of a tradition must be turned into compost and allowed to feed the worms of every dysfunctional offspring it has grown in its garden of misery. Continue reading