“I hate this game more than anything in the world,” says Rissa as we finish. My heart sinks. I’ve had such hopes. She’s an avid reader now – she knows so many words. I only tried to guide her word choices a… uh… few… (okay 6) times. She wanted to put down kinesis, but would…
“GAAAAAAAHHHH!!! HOLY MOTHER OF…!!!” I flap the dish towel in my panic. “What? What is it?” Rissa asks. “Treacherous insect!!” “What!?!” “Okay, so you know how when you said that there was a cobra in the kitty litter?” “I didn’t say there was a cobra in the kitty litter,” Rissa says, peeking around the corner…
It’s a good morning. I manage to wake up without whining about it. David makes me delicious scrambled eggs. I get dressed and throw a little makeup on, you know, just in case the really hot physiotherapist is at the clinic. I even volunteer to move the cars around so that I can make it…
“We need to kill all the cats.” “Huh?” I am lying on my side in bed, eyebrows so low that I can feel them on my upper lip. “WE. NEED. TO. KILL. ALL. THE. CATS.“ “You don’t mean that. You love the cats.” “4:45!“ “Hmmm?” “4 FUCKING 45 this morning Minuit with her fishy kibble…
In a parallel-dimension I must be Betazoid. Holy fuck – my empathetic core is in hyper-drive tonight. David’s Dad died unexpectedly this past summer. On our 17th wedding anniversary, as we made our way into Manhattan to make some dreams come true, we got a text from his brother telling us that his Dad, John,…
WARNING: THERE IS BAD LANGUAGE IN THIS POST “Shit-Piss-Fuck-Mother-FUCKER!!” “What? What is it?” David asks, his interest now piqued. “This fucking touchpad!” “Okay, steady on there, my love.” “You fucking steady on – JUST LET ME FUCKING HIGHLIGHT THE FUCKING SENTENCE!!!“ “O…KAY… It’s time to take your hand off the touchpad.” “I HATE IT. I…
“So I tried tea the other day,” says Rissa. “Really? How was it?” asks David. “Bad.” “How so?” “Well it held promise – it was cherry something berry something and it smelled delicious, but then it was all BLAH…” Reading a book, I’m fairly distracticated and don’t hear David’s response. “See she didn’t even hear…
Every January it’s the same. After a holiday season filled with my mother’s impossible-to-resist butter tarts, whipped shortbread and banana-cherry slice; after the boxes of Turtles, bars of Toblerone and Chicago Mix popcorn – I’m basically fucked. How is it that I make it through the first part of December relatively unscathed, only to then…
In 1983 I thought David Bowie was Elton John. Modern Love had just hit the airwaves with its pop-happy sound. I glommed onto its vibe as something dancy and fun and cluelessly mistook his voice for the Rocket Man’s. At 15, I wasn’t familiar enough with Bowie’s work to make the distinction. I do know…
“Hey Love…. where’s your passport?” asks David while I’m finishing up on the treadmill. “It’s up in our bedroom. In the thing…” I say patiently. Boys. They don’t know where stuff is… “Ummm… I looked in the thing… Your passport isn’t there.” Sighing, I turn off the treadmill. If I get up those stairs and…