mainly cos no one would guess over 110.
I flatter myself… over 96.

anyway, I’m thinking of having my kitchen tatt cleaned up.
here’s a pic when it was fresh. I’m thinking I’ll go to the woman in bellingham who did my good one. she’s amazing. maybe if the lines were sharpened and the red darkened, maybe even shaded…
I do like it simple but maybe I’d like it less folk-arty. although that was what I wanted at the time.

I have no intention of ever filling it in but what the hell, what would it say if it was yours?
or what would you think I’d put there?
besides “mmm… doughnuts”

funny, the whole “life” thing, isn’t it?
I was asked out today by–
an older Taurus guitar player who wants to make a song of one of my poems
and a much younger Taurus bass player who wants to take me to dinner and a movie.

two more “isms” for the list:

“It not rain every day.”
“When it rains it pours.”

If a tree falls in the forest, the tree knows.

When someone tells you who they are, believe them.

When you plant a seed you shouldn’t keep digging it up to see if it’s growing.

Whatever is true for me is true… for me.

Boogers are REALLY funny… but probably only to me.

Listen to your body.

Real love doesn’t go away, even if it’s one-sided.

Measure twice, cut once, and buy twice as much material as you think you’ll need.

Think before you talk.

Talk before you act.

Pay your bills before you buy shoes.

Never hurt someone on purpose.

When you look at anything too closely you will always find a flaw: a little distance is healthy.

If it’s Wrong, you can’t fix it.

If it’s Right, you can’t screw it up.

If you screw it up, apologize.

If you’re wearing button-up pants don’t wait to pee till you have to do lamaze-type breathing
to keep from wetting yourself.

Leonhard Euler (1707 – 1783):

If a nonnegative quantity was so small that it is smaller than any given one, then it certainly could not be anything but zero. To those who ask what the infinitely small quantity in mathematics is, we answer that it is actually zero. Hence there are not so many mysteries hidden in this concept as they are usually believed to be. These supposed mysteries have rendered the calculus of the infinitely small quite suspect to many people. Those doubts that remain we shall thoroughly remove in the following pages, where we shall explain this calculus.

[upon losing the use of his right eye]
Now I will have less distraction.
In H. Eves In Mathematical Circles, Boston: Prindle, Weber and Schmidt, 1969.

I love math. I love numbers. believe it or not, I’m fairly good at them. oddly enough, the whole sudoku thing leaves me cold. I prefer music or poetry, or even reducing algebraic equations. I can’t really say why I don’t like it, just that for me it’s like taking flour and water and making paste… why not go all the way and make pastry?

no offense meant to those who do like it– I simply do not. also, story problems make me apoplectic. It’s not a real story if you don’t supply me with the ending. that’s just effing lazy. if I’m going to write my own story ending it’s not going to be about trains and their speed rates. BO-RING!

My mother is very generous but it’s sometimes weird. I mean, I can’t afford normal stuff but this weekend I’ll be staying in a riverside suite at a resort. Last time she booked us a vacay I backed out cos it just had too many strings. I think it’ll be okay this time since we seem to have carved out some space between us. Plus, this is meant to be for the kids so whatever.

Two non-consecutive nights in two different local resort towns:

Lake– good; river– good… scads of holiday people in close quarters and bathing suits– badbad.

I’ll live. I’ll try to be appreciative and will most likely make it. The last time I stayed at one of these places was six years ago. It was not fun. I was pregnant, very, and found out some really unpleasant info. The night I came home from that stay I had some serious suicidal ideation. Had I not been pregnant, well I still wouldn’t have. But still, not the best memories of a place. Good food, though.

I have the same name as my cousin (Laura/Lara, close anyway) so when I called they gave me a better room than what they had originally said was available (she used to work there and is a total sweetheart). excellent. I didn’t namedrop; they asked if I knew her. That cousin (by marriage) and my cousin are out somewhere on their sailboat on their way to New Zealand. Good for them.

I just sat down at my computer to check my mail, a pretty fruitless activity lately, and it scared me to death. as I touched the mousepad a song started playing from itunes. I couldn’t have clicked it. Itunes was buried under the safari window. It’s a song that means something to me. a lot.

It started me crying again. Still I don’t feel as aweful as I might. It must mean something. Sure I don’t know what it means but at least something means something. and that’s something.

Kathleen
“all the other girls here are stars—you are the Northern Lights
they try to shine in through your curtains—you’re too close and too bright
they try and they try but everything that they do
is the ghost of a trace of a pale imitation of you
I’ll be the one to drive you back home Kathleen
this party is made with the night air and the chance that a smile
will wind its way from your face to one of the boys in your line
you act like you’re hip to their tricks and you’re strong
but a virgin Wurlitzer heart never once had a song
I’ll be the one to drive you back home Kathleen
and I’ll have you back by break of day
I’m going your way anyway
and if you’d like to come along
I’ll be yours for a song
I know you are waiting and I know that it is not for me
but I’m here and I’m ready and I’ve saved you the passenger seat
I won’t be your last dance just your last goodnight
every heart is a package tangled up in knots someone else tied
I’ll be the one to drive you back home Kathleen
so crawl up your trellis and quietly back into your room
and I’ll coast down the length of your drive by the light of the moon
and the next time I see you—a new kind of hello
both our hearts have a secret only both of us know
‘bout the night that I drove you back home Kathleen”

Maybe someone will feel that way about me someday.

why am I here?
I used to ask “why are WE here?”
but everyone else seems to have a purpose
I used to think I was the ingenue
but I don’t think so
I feel so all alone
I don’t mean in a self-pity way
I don’t mean “lonely”
although I am that too
I feel apart
I feel untouchable
not in a, you know, bad way
if it was in a bad way I might be able to do something about it
it’s like walking around
in a big glass case.

keep going.
…Winston Churchill

“Lucky I’ve been through hell
Backroads and shortcuts I know them well”
…Liz Phair

There’s road construction on my routes here in the Snatch. It took me an hour and fifteen minutes to pick my son up from his girlfriend’s house tonight. What a pain in the keister. Earlier it took me 20 minutes to get past the flagger on my road. And what the fuck is this: they’re waving for you to go on and get through there but they’re holding a sign that says SLOW. Which is it? You want me to hurry up and go slow? And quit gesticulating to indicate where you want me to go. There’s ONE LANE. If I can’t find that one lane I’m too big a moron to drive.

So I was the second car in line and there was a woman in a black wagoneer behind me. She was restless right from the time we stopped, had the door open, then had her foot out the window (which I do from time to time but not in a “you’re holding me up” kind of way). So when we went down the detour, a narrow, winding road I’ve never been on before, she was ON MY ASS. I gave her a little ways to back off before I hit the brake and yelled obscenities (they were good ones too).

I can be pretty zen about the whole driving thing, complete with construction delays and detours TILL SOMEONE WANTS TO CRAWL UP MY ASS AND INTO MY BIDNESS. I don’t ask for much. I stop for people in the crosswalk. I drive fast and stay out of the passing lane. I let people merge. But I swear to all that’s holy if you want to see me get aggressive and lose my shit… go ahead and get in my space. I go all apeshit crazy. It’s not pretty.

You can pass me. You can not let me into traffic. You can toodle along at 59. That’s a mild irritation. Give me my space. It’s mine. MINE. It’s my bubble, my Dignitas. Back off. I will cut you, man.

I think we all know that’s code, right? What it really means is “I no longer have sexual feelings for you but I want to reserve the right to recall you to active duty.” Or “I don’t like you as much as I thought I did and this is my way of letting you know without you freaking out.” My thought is that it is usually some combination of the two.

What is so disingenuous about using that phrase is that it’s a Line of the first order. It’s distancing. It triggers memories of rejection… from the freaking 8th grade! What real grown-up ends their relationships that way? If you have to ask if you’re friends, you’re not friends. Most of my ex-lovers are what I would call friendly acquaintances or buddies. But then most of my ex-lovers aren’t interested in the emotional intimacy of real friendship. At least not with me, anyway.

I am open to new friendships but if you weren’t able to sustain the emotional intimacy sleeping with me offered, you’re not going to be able to BE a friend to me. That’s cool, you’re not up to it… but that’s what I require in a friend. I have enough buddies. I have LOTS of buddies. I was looking to develop a friendship and that didn’t happen.

If the attraction died, that’s a different thing. Maybe after time passes a friendship could emerge. But honestly, for me, that’s unlikely since my rejection pain runs deep. I’d always feel one down. Maybe that’s not very evolved of me, but it’s true. Perhaps I’ll grow out of it, I hope I will, but perhaps not.

Most people think they have several friends. Most people would be wrong. If you have a friend you are very, very lucky. I learned that in my early twenties, and I learned it good. I was once homeless with a child and I know who was there for me and who wasn’t. Tragedy helps you figure out who your friends are, or if you have any. A friend who won’t tell you you’re full of shit is no friend at all.

It’s really nice to have buddies. I have lots of buddies whom I love. They are so much fun, so funny, so bright! But real friendship is deeper. Fodon is a friend. Elsa is a friend. Most people just aren’t willing to get in that deep. And that’s fine too! But I really hope they’re in that deep with SOMEbody or they’ll never be Real, you know, like the Velveteen Rabbit. Come on in, the water’s deep but the water’s FINE.

“And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.
For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

And let your best be for your friend.
If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.
For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?
Seek him always with hours to live.
For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.
And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.
For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.”
…Kahlil Gibran

It’s a cliche’ because it’s true.

Emma’s spending the night with a friend tonight so I heated up the pesto pizza for BabyJane and I. I knew Dylan wouldn’t want any and figured if he didn’t he could fend for himself. He’s 16 years old and has taken two years of home-ec. Bjane and I were watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when he asked me how to prepare a chicken breast. I said, “get the broiler pan, you know the one? (yes) Put it on there, sprinkle it with basil and pepper, and broil it for 8 minutes… then turn it over and broil for another 6. Then you take it out, cut it open and see if it’s done though.”

I was sitting there watching the movie when I thought, mmmm… I love the smell of broiling chicken. Then there was the smell of burning chicken. “Dylan are you checking on your chicken?” Oh yes. But I got up and went in to look. There on the burner was a charred, smoking chicken breast in my nice saute pan. The back door and the window were open. My pan is ruined and the kitchen was trashed. He put butter in. And put it on high. Aw, crap.

I freaked. He got surly.

This is a perfect example of how being a single mother Sucks. There’s no one there to offset your freaking out. No one to be the calm. No one to vent to afterward. Plus, you need to shore up the kids. You have to put your arms around them and tell them you’re sorry. Oh yeah, and Baby Jane needed a back rub before bed. Single parents give out energy and it’s not the kids’ job to give it back. There are no loving arms to retreat to for you, no back rubs. There’s a constant outpouring of energy that you have to replenish on your own. Where do we get it? We make it. Forget alchemists, single moms are fucking amazing wonders of nature.

I get over things quickly but frankly the damage is done. Forget the quarter. I’m putting ten bucks in the therapy jar for this one.

I remember making my mother breakfast when I was 8. I put the bacon in a soup pot, filled it with oil, put on the lid and turned it to high. At least my single mother got to meet some good-looking firemen. But let me mention that *I* had not taken home-ec at that point.

I was a single mom for three and a half years. I’ve been a single mom again for over two and a half, if I’m counting correctly. It is SO HARD. No one appreciates what you do. Do you think my ex-husband, the Prince of Darkness, ever calls me up to say, “thank you for being a single mom to the kids so that I can see them every other weekend, watch movies with them, take them to the mall, and feed them Lucky Charms”? Uh, NO.

Jerry Maquire’s been on the tube again lately. Men love that movie. I think it’s a load of crap. It’s pretty good up until the unrealistic ending. Do you really think Jerry Maquire would walk in and say “you complete me”? No he’d just call. He’d say, “Hey, uh, hon, I’m in Cancun with, uh… anyway, could you fed-ex me my good shirts?”

This is why you don’t “shoplift the pootie from a single mom,” as Cuba Gooding Jr.’s character so interestingly puts it. Know why? Because you just made her life exponentially harder. Those few weeks of bliss she had that brought so much joy to her life, made everything seem so much easier? Well, now she’s paying and paying and paying. Everything seems so much harder, for so much longer. And how do you think that effects the kids? If mama ain’t happy ain’t nobody happy.

But we’re the miraculous single moms. We know the score– so we fucking suck it up, put a smile on our face, and fucking GO ON. We’ve learned how to take tragedy, scrape the char off, and make it, if not delicious, at least palatable. We GO ON.

We work hard and no one seems to care. Here’s to all of us rockin’ the single mom gig. We appreciate each other. Don’t fuck with a single mom.