Well. I have nothing else to say about the matter, so that’s that.
~Chicken broth is not the same, as luck would have it, as chicken stock. I came upon this discovery decidedly late in life, and now I’ve an explanation for quite a number of culinary mishaps. Now you know too.
~I like older men, and what girl doesn’t. It turns out that even I have limits though, as regards the oldness of these older men, which surprises me as much as it must surprise you. My 85-year old neighbor, who requests a viewing of my boobs please-pretty-please-and-let’s-see-’em-now, is as it turns out, too old. Occasionally I consider throwing the poor old thing a bone, as it were – just a flash, you know – but then… no, I just can’t ever quite bring myself to do it. Which shows that I do in fact, contrary to all the rest of it, have standards and morals and limits after all. So there.
~The bladder infection of which I spoke yesterday: It has arrived, but thanks oodles for your offers of concern and your house-made remedies. I’ll be over here imbibing antibiotics and contributing to the imminent SuPeRbUg.
~I have this impression that brown sugar is healthier than white. This feels as silly as it sounds, and yet. I’m convinced.
~Sidewalks. Why have I none, on any of the streets on which I jaunt?
~Recently I told a pregnant lady that she “looked better.” Her face puckered up, as if her lips were about to issue an indignantly profound retort, but then… nothing. Now I worry that I offended her backhandedly, and I feel terrible, and I’ll try and take this as an additional reminder to just shut my trap.
~From somewhere deep (and I do mean this literally, as you are about to see) I’ve got the vague sense that a bladder infection is a-brewing.
There is a quiet freedom in being crazy.
She would know, is what you’re thinking.
Do you know what I want? A diagnosis, that’s what. Which really probably just underscores the craziness, and reiterates the need for a diagnosis.
Emotional overexposure, is what I’m calling it. I float about, wearing like a sleeve all of my feelings and my thoughts. They flake off and fly away like sawdust or fairy dust, twinkling as they land here and there and everywhere.
Likely some of my feeling-dust has landed on you, sprinkling you, like a fine powder.
That’s what it feels like to me… like little tiny fragments of my spirit are falling off of my skin and making their way, alight, onto yours. It feels like what happens when you blow on a spring dandelion, is what it feels like. Smithereens, and they scatter. And I can’t help where they might end up.
I want them back, is what I want. But also I want to be rid of them, I have no need for them… in their place sprouts so many more thoughts and feelings. So many feelings. I should share, is what I keep thinking.
And so I do.
The air was penetrated with water as if it was midsummer, but the calendar said we were on the cusp of fall. In some places it was crisp at dawn and at dusk, but not here. Here the only sign of changes was the darkness that creeped in sooner each night.
For me it was a veil, the darkness. Cloak and cover for what was probably, if I’m honest, an exceedingly eerie enterprise, if not outright illegal.
My binoculars swung at my neck and I lifted the lenses to my face, zooming in at first much too close. There was only blur, but then, after fingering with the dials, there was clarity. A scene out of a magazine advertisement, or a snapshot in a movie reel at somebody’s wedding or funeral.
That is not to say that there was perfection. No, the chicken breast was skinless and crustless and leathery, and with not the slightest sear.
Tomorrow I would talk to her and find a way to bring up the topic of cooking, and try to ferret out… why? Was there an abundance of caution with regard to lipids, thereby forbidding the chicken from coming in contact with oil or butter? And if so, did that sort of avoidant behavior, pathological to be sure, extend also to broth, for God’s sake, which would have, believe it or not, been an improvement even?
Just then I remembered the humidity, and considered that maybe this was now an environment that mimicked high-elevation cooking: Maybe the thirsty air, unquenchable, sucked up any bit of moisture there was, up to and including in Lynn’s chicken dinner.
Like a necklace, like a thick metallic chain, I peeled from my neck the cord with the binoculars. I carried them in my hand, letting them swing with my arms, and as I walked home I played a game in my head to try to guess what she’d serve tomorrow night.
My gut ties itself in knots as I watch the news and read the headlines. At irregular intervals it feels like the knots might unfurl, spewing vomit everywhere. The uncertainty and anticipation make me anxious, nauseous.
I never used to be scared of this kind of thing, only contemptuous of it.
Now I have a baby and I can see in my brain, in irrational and disturbing images, all the ways that the dominos might tumble – the fallout, the blowback, the retaliation, the backlash. Unforeseen consequences, unintended outcomes.
And because I have a baby I can also see the value in risking it: If it were my baby’s lungs that might fill with chemical weapons, wouldn’t I hope for a savior?
But mothers are selfish, and when push comes to shove (or even when we just think it might), we abandon all the theories and the theatrics. Then all that matters is our own babies, even if it is a zero-sum game. Even if it means that keeping my son safe all but guarantees the suffering of some other mother’s baby.
…doesn’t realize that she needs a boob job.
P.S. ~ Also I’m shocked and disappointed that feminists have convinced America that casual sex is super, and they’ve simultaneously convinced America that dancing provocatively is objectifying and exploitive.
When the national media reports on South Carolina, it’s never very pretty. Early this morning I read in the NYT that our state’s capital city has approved a cruel, elitist extermination of homeless people.
Passed this month, the new ordinance grossly expands current vagrancy laws (which on their face are already cruel, elitist, and also illogical). Evidently the Columbia City Council is concerned that homelessness may wreck the town’s chances of becoming the “next Southern hot spot.” (Their words, not mine).
Putting aside for a moment that Columbia, South Carolina (and indeed S.C. as a whole) is hardly an exemplar of economic or cultural vibrancy, the notion that homeless people are “problematic” is…. well, problematic. In passing such an extreme ordinance - ”extreme and highly disturbing,” according to the National Law Center on Homelessness & Poverty – the Columbia City Council demonstrates a lack of comprehension and compassion so total that it’s hard to put it into words.
Addressing systemic poverty has absolutely zero to do with bussing people out of city limits.
All of which is to say nothing of the actual demographic that’s making people (and businesses) nervous: Young males who are often black. Ask anyone who has spent time in Columbia and they’ll tell you resoundingly that the downtown area has a gigantic problem with violent crime.
But of course the City leaves that issue unaddressed, because what politician wants to be on the record even discussing the possibility that young black guys are making Columbia dangerous.
I’ve been meaning for a month to take a big donation of food to my local food bank. I have a feeling that today I’ll actually make it down there, propelled forward as I am by this socio-political affront to humanity and reason.
Out of nowhere comes the panic. What I’m scared of, I’ve got no idea.
The fear feels at once personal and universal… like the whole sky might come crashing down right this minute, or maybe only the tiny sliver of sky that’s suspended over me.
I feel terrified for myself and also on behalf of everybody else, but terrified of what? Cancer? A tidal wave? A nuclear bomb? An asteroid? No, it’s none of these things, it’s nothing tangible. And maybe that’s why the panic feels so total… If I don’t know what it is that scares me so, then I’m left fearing everything and nothing.
Nothing in particular precipitates the panic, as far as I can tell. These spells began soon after my baby was born, so I like to tell myself there’s a hormonal explanation. A synapse misfiring, a neurostransmitter ebbing or flowing too abruptly.
I don’t hyperventilate. I don’t curl up in a ball and cry. In fact tears don’t compel me at all in these moments. I carry on with whatever I’m doing, and from the outside looking in there’s no indication that there’s a tempest in my teapot. I don’t mean it to be this way – don’t mean to be guarded – and surely I’d be very forthcoming if only I could figure out why I’m panicking.
While Western feminists suffer their perceived indignities (such as the “Blurred Lines” music video), in India another woman has been brutally gang-raped.
As a narrative, feminism and indeed most of modern womanhood rings hollow to me. Genuinely, I don’t know what the kvetching is about. And while feminists in the West freak out over “fair pay” and flex-time and the tyranny of motherhood, they ignore the work they ought to be doing: Figuring out why so many women internationally (and even domestically) are brutalized on the reg.
Most infuriatingly, when feminists do decide to pay attention to this type of thing, they’re always concentrating their focus in the Mideast and then blaming Islam and its modest dress.
Feminists wonder why the girls of my generation won’t self-identify as feminists. It’s because the movement, such as it is, has absolutely zero to do with the preservation of feminine mystique and everything to do with manufacturing outrage.