a few with some, one with others

How I agreed to be photographed in the first place defies all personal logic, but there I was in this guy's apartment half-clothed with an exposed breast making slack-jawed expressions while he clicked away. He was coming onto me, but I expected that and thought: no way creepo: this only works on the hookers.

The most interesting thing about this situation was the perspective involved with me seeing myself from eyes outside my own head, as if astrally projected into a hovering view two feet beside the camera. The only time I was in my actual body was when the photographer was beside me; that way I could look into his eyes when he spoke.

"Did an ex-boyfriend slice you up?" was the first thing he said to me. This made me self-conscious about the scars on my face. It's rare that anyone's ever mentioned them; for all I know they're not incredibly obvious in real life. "I was in a car accident," I replied. "Oh, he said, that's a shame," and photography session ceased.

I was instantly attracted to him.

When I began coming onto him he said, "You have the same lips as an ex-girlfriend of mine." Then "I want you to know something: I have nine children; they all have different mothers."

"Nine with one child apiece, or..." "No, a few with some, one with others." "Oh," I said.

"Would you like something to eat?" he said, walking toward the fridge, "Watch out for expired food, some things are ancient in here." I poured sugary flakes into an oversized bowl, checked the milk, and poured it. I was famished and finished the cereal in two bites.

By the second bowl, a soft fade brought me into the sounds of my husband rummaging in the kitchen for snack...before sunrise. "Please try to be quiet" I said, before falling back asleep.

plastic plates piled with grains

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With time to spare before class began, a high school science class it seems, I don't know why it's always science, though sometimes it's pre-algebra, and never English where I wouldn't have had to study much, but that's the point of these in-school-again dreams isn't it? The torture of being unprepared and failing, in these tiny desks, and it always feels as though I've skipped most of the semester already.

I decide to use the restroom which is conveniently located across the hall. I find an unoccupied stall, and the stalls never have a lock, are always incredibly filthy and then the door becomes invisible putting me on display, whoever walking by or point blank standing there, watching me awkwardly hover above a dirty toilet, and what usually kicks in at this point is a mental message I've left myself, written in childhood perhaps, telling me: do not urinate--this a dream and that toilet is not real.

When I look up there is cold-faced late teen black boy standing in front of me, but I don't have his attention. Instead he's looking behind me to the left at a larger late teen black boy who appears to be a dealer of drugs, sitting on the toilet like a throne, doling out some thing I can't see to girls and boys, all black whose faces look tired and angry. I leave the restroom terrified.

When I get back to the classroom, I immediately tell my teacher about the drug dealer, thinking: I can save this school from these drugs by getting at the source. The teacher summons the principle, vice principle and as they are outside the classroom waiting for me to explain what I saw, a few of the cold-faced black kids are walking by waiting to hear what I am about to say. I tell the men I will not talk where we are, that it's unsafe, that we need to go elsewhere.

The men take me across campus, to an open area on a green lawn dimly lit by the sun's diminishing state, though it's still very early in the morning. There's a gloom, people walking around us, ghosts, slow accessories of a setting. We walk inside a building. They tell me to wait at a long table, in a plastic orange chair with metal legs. They say it's time for lunch. Others soon join me at the table. When we are gathered accordingly, we set off to an outdoor area.

There are around twenty of us sitting in desks outside in a basketball court. A thick woman with a Caribbean accent tells her assistant to give us plastic plates piled with grains and tops our them off with a ladleful of creamy sauce. I'm about to dig into the plate of food when an attractive boy with dreadlocks next to me gives me a warning. He says: don't start until the others start. Then: This food will bind you with the dead; if you have sadness or malice involved with any dead members in your life, you will become a vessel for their return.

I do not eat the food. I watch others eat the grains and sauce and some look heavy lidded in ecstasy. Others dance and sway. The Caribbean woman chants something in the center of the circle. I watch an attractive boy sit calmly and wonder if he is afraid of resurrecting ghosts unto himself as well.  
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a fly a bee a speck for me

Today, since I took a long walk to the library to participate in something they call Sing-A-Long book Time, I thought a nice sitting-and-doing-nothing session was in order. I have to decompress from being in public mommy mode surrounded by everyone's own version of Felix. It's strange to a group of people so vulnerable yet guarded at the same time. Especially these stay-at-home daddies, sitting Indian Style on the floor with their daughters, singing along with juice cups in hand explaining, "We share, Madison," whenever another teetering baby comes along to try a sip of mystery juice. "Share" is the first concept babies must learn when they're putting objects and textures to words; this comes after the phase of tasting every toy, speck or fuzz before memorizing what constitutes actual food.

One afternoon I let Felix outside onto the terrace where I knew I'd removed all objects breakable, poisonous or sharp. Lo and behold when Felix comes at me with something in his mouth. When I ask for it--he spits out a fly and a bee, dead and dried from some grave of cobwebs. I said one word, "gross," which made him smile. Maybe the bug thing was his idea of a joke. I'll never know.

But getting back to the stay-at-home daddy thing, I see more and more, the less insular I become, and in a way I'm grateful at the sight which always reminds me that 2012 isn't at all a homogenous blur fusing into every other decade. Changes are happening. A shift in priorities. Men are stepping up as nurturers. Women are using their brains to make money. We're in the middle of a big shift here. And depending on who's coupling with who, it's nice that we get to be ourselves in terms of compatibility isn't it? Let the macho men be macho, and the mama's boys be mamas. As for me, I'm fine when it comes to being on thumbtack patrol. It's my choice after all.
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critters, critters everywhere

Who knows what got into Barnabas the cat today; he brought not one, but three critters & let them go in the bedroom for us to freak out about & catch. I don't know why he goes through the effort of catching these things if not solely for the bragging rights of a seasoned hunter.

He lets them go to bap them around a bit & always loses them, forcing them to take up residence under the stove (if they're not caught immediately) to scrounge for dried ramen or chocolate chip cookies.

Anyway...here's a picture of the first catch, which the hubs caught by turning his office wastebasket into a dome/net thing, it's a sparrow!

The second catch of the day was not pleasant, at all...it was a giant rat with cancerous looking cauliflower ears and tumors all over its maw. It's pretty sad when you see something like this, praying it's not a mutation -- aka "sign of things to come due to prolonged exposure of malignant chemicals which are probably oozing in a nearby yard."

The third catch was a tiny & very cute mouse, which left me uninspired for yet another photo shoot with the office trash can. Just imagine what a gray mouse the size of a thumb might look like & there you go.

Now Barnabas is retired for the night & last time I checked he was ZZzzing through some logs. Isn't it cute when cats snore?

so the toy grill says to the undependable screwdriver: why so warped?

I'm proud to say I put a toy grill together today after receiving four missing screws in the mail from the manufacturer. Felix had been enamored with the same grill at a Mother's Day party in a plush Hollywood mansion, so of course we had to get him one.

To see Felix mesmerized by any particular object is a joy I wasn't prepared for. To see his eyes light up and focus on the colors, exploring textures with his tiny fingers, putting things in his mouth to find out if they're edible or disgusting...his profound curiosity is inspiring.

And there's a big chance I'm projected my own boredom onto his ubiquitous arsenal of entertainment, but that's another story, if it's not already obvious why I would ever be bored as an insularly-kept anti-social stay-at-home-mommy. Thank goodness for lush amenities and ice cold air conditioning--one Brooklyn summer in an airless apartment is all one needs to appreciate that for the rest of eternity.

I'm thinking about investing in a sturdy steel or titanium screwdriver so the tip won't get warped whenever I try to put something together in the future. I don't know anything about tools, but I do know the screwdriver I currently own is from an Ikea tool set and it's a total piece of crap.

The hammer's fine, but a rock from the driveway could put the same nails in the wall. I'm, two seconds away from googling "what is the hardest material a Phillips screwdriver can be made from"...high carbon steel it says--which is better than low carbon steel.

Guess that's going on the ol' Amazon wishlist--along with an International Playthings Flash Beat Drum and Elememosqueeze blocks, which according to the description, are great for learning the alphabet, in the tub, or just to hold and chew wherever.

knick knacking in La Mesa

It's Monday night and the weekend was fine. We road tripped it to a cute city beside San Diego called La Mesa which hosted us for Ned's appearance at their book festival.

Aside from sipping a delicious Malbec that we found at a local wine bar tasting, and watching Spiderman 3 while crunching Pop chips in a Holiday Inn like rock stars, and trying tiramisu from an Italian place called Tiramisu, good times were found trolling shops for knick knacks and checking out the happenin' coffee place recommended by our eccentric wine guide, Doug.

We finally found (after needing some for a while) a really great set of coasters at a unique shop that held an abundance of Tiffany style lamps, tasseled wall tapestries and Frank Lloyd Wright night lights.

The festival itself was charming, especially when I got to hold a baby chicken my cupped hands while nuzzling a baby goat. I told the farmer handling the animals that the moment was enough to compel me to go temporarily vegan and he just looked at me like: why?

I like being put in my place by elders who've lived twice as long as me. Even if by the well-honed furrow of the brow. He was in overalls and everything. I bet he's killed his own meals like a million times is the thing. In La Mesa. Fresh milk every day.

Mother's Day on the other side

My first Mother's Day was fascinating. I'm not sure what I was expecting. But around 10 a.m. I was ready to feel the VIP. Checking Facebook didn't help anything. Between breakfast in bed photos from women I hadn't talked to since high school and updates flaunting flowers and/or brunch -- I was feeling left out, fast.

Add some eerie night terror of my marriage being on the rocks (first thing I remembered when I woke up), and the fact that my husband is currently in heavy editing mode on his latest book (meaning his head is swirling with story). What's left was simple: no fun.

By twelve I'd taken a long walk around the reservoir with baby in tow, and felt a little better by the time I got home with an incredible pancetta egg pizza from a brunch place nearby. Then I decided to just explain what was on my mind to the hubso. I told him it was my first Mother's Day and I wanted a bauble to remember the day by -- and hallelujah: good communication wins again! 

He named a few places he could take me: Anthropologie, a few neighborhood boutiques, Nordstrom, but I suggested something different; I said, "Let's go to Tiffany." He was all right with that idea. But first we were set to make an appearance at a Mommapalooza event in Hollywood -- which ended up being a blast! A professional balloon artist was there, among other hired entertainers, twisting everything into life from koalas to Ariel from the Little Mermaid. 

There was a grill master on deck too, firing-up the juiciest burgers imaginable. Felix was obsessed with hula hoops. I was obsessed with what I guestimated to be a 5-million-dollar home that seemed like it was designed for throwing the most enviable BBQ/pool parties. 

In the end, we made it to Tiffany & Co. and my darling husband helped me pick out two things I had on my mind: a fresh set of pendulous earrings and a rose gold chain bracelet. Sweet, simple, elegant, timeless. What more could a new mommy of the most incredible baby in the universe ask for? Besides self-cleaning floors...