Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Angel Food: FAQs

Photo by Jennifer Whitehead on flickr.

In celebration of Angel Food's release date, which is this Friday, July 25th, I am answering some frequently asked questions about the book. Without further ado: (*edited below)

1. Is Angel Food a book about cake?

No, it is not. Sorry.

2. But I get some cake if I order it, right?

Unfortunately we are unable to send you cake with your order at this time. It is summer and the cake would probably not hold up too well. Check back in December.

3. Will I like this book?

Are you one of the millions of Americans who wishes "Where'd You Go, Bernadette?" was actually a movie directed by Quentin Tarantino? Then yes! You will absolutely adore this book!

4. What kind of person is this book for? Who is the audience?

This book is for people who like road trips, Airstreams, family dysfunction, books about people who eat chips and guacamole, Instagram, things that are kinda funny I guess, and stuff.

5. What are early reviewers saying about this "book"?

Perhaps my favorite early review said, "I was not embarrassed for you while reading this." Other early readers have said "This book left me craving Tex-Mex in a violent way" and "But when will I get my cake?"

6. Any reviews that are not about food?

Marie of The (Not Always) Lazy W said "Hysterical. . . oh my cheeses. I'm terrified that this is almost over". (Marie is a very eloquent writer who plans to write an actual review. This is only what she sent to me by Facebook messenger. I think she would want you to know that.) Tangledlou at Periphery said "I started reading, got hooked, and kept reading because I loved the characters and I wanted to see what happened to them, because the story was fascinating and darkly hilarious, because the writing was consistent and had enough moments of absolute brilliance to be fantastic without being tedious (writing that is brilliant at every moment becomes tedious.)" Boy, is she right! Boy, am I in no danger of that!

7. Am I going to hate this book?

Yes, probably.

8. What prompted you to "write" Angle Food?

ANGEL Food. I thought, "what if you had to spend your life on the road because something was hunting you down to kill you?" But not a monster or a bad guy, because monsters and bad guys are always trying to kill people. I wanted it to be something more surprising.

9. Originally was this book about Oprah hunting four grown siblings through the desert southwest, bent on destruction? Because that would be surprising.

Yes. Yes it was.

10. Will Angel's Fool be available as an ebook?

Please, it's ANGEL FOOD. I don't see why you'd choose to destroy civilization, but yes. In a few weeks.

11. Anything else you have to say for yourself?

Thanks for being here, all of you. I hope you will like Anglo Dude.

*12. Where the heck can I buy ANGELES FUEL you dumb-ass? is the place. Thanks for asking!

Monday, July 21, 2014

The Outlawed Dance: 36 Hours In Charleston

Perhaps you think photo essays comprised of text placed obnoxiously over manipulated images are the lamest.

If so, stay away from this post.

The girls are in Colorado with their Grammy and Aunties, so Noah and I had time for a trip to Charleston. During the four hour drive, we listened to a playlist I had made the night before and that turned out to be surprisingly bittersweet. As a result, I felt like crying (to a Journey song or Springsteen) most of the way to Charleston.

A sign as you approach from the north bids you "WELCOME TO CHARLESTON" and then "ALL AMERICA CITY". Not All American but All America. This would haunt me over the next 24 hours. Are they commanding all of America to city? Or are they telling City that it's not just some of America, but all? You see why I didn't sleep well.

After a quick meal at a shit restaurant that somebody recommended to us, we drove around the historic district, the French Quarter and the Battery. I could barely breathe, it was so beautiful. I drove myself crazy acting exactly like my mother, rhapsodizing again and again at the beauty of the place, but the humidity, but the beauty. None of my pictures do any justice to the feeling of being there, all the history, the houses pressed tight each to each on cobblestoned streets. They did sing to me. I could almost feel time become relative and slip away, all the ghosts of the city's past bustling around us, just out of sight.

As for the restaurant, I had ruled it out after doing my own research. But then there it was, recommended. Try the she-crab soup, said yelp reviewers. Their mouths were watering just thinking about it, they said. Well we tried it, and we would like to bet money that the base is Campbell's Condensed Cheese soup. Sure there was crab in it (and a good bit of hard shell), but you could ruin anything by putting it in condensed cheese. Even the waiter knew it was shit. "Was everything okay?" he said as he took away half-eaten plates, unable to meet our eyes.

We did much better later, though. A silent cabdriver of vaguely Slavic origin drove us down to The Grocery off King Street. I had picked this place after reading menu after menu. Charleston's hottest places seem to be Husk and Fig, but I'm never in a hurry to visit places that are charging $30 for the same old steak, currently hip fish, and roasted quail. I'm also not a huge fan of southern food, so when a restaurant has yet again deconstructed shrimp and grits or chicken and biscuits, it's not my thing. The Grocery was a little more adventurous with its offerings, and it paid off.  The true highlight was the Piggy Plate. House-made charcuterie with toast and mustard and pickled veggies on the side. The stuff on the upper left was so incredibly flavorful I had to shut my eyes to experience it fully. I haven't had to do that since we ate at Jennifer Jasinski's Rioja in Denver, or not often since then, at least. "Tastes like Christmas," I said, and Noah, with his brewer's palate, separated from the salt and the fat the delicate flavor of cinnamon, aged, which was lending the festive flavors. The fat on the very top offering melted away on my tongue. We were in heaven. The other two hits here were the Wagyu tartare and the bone marrow brulee, two separate dishes which we ate TOGETHER and they married into a perfect union in our mouths and are probably honeymooning right now in our bellies.

(The fried oysters, which the server recommended, were less memorable but I mean, we should have known. It was fried oysters.) (I didn't sleep well that night because I was worried about the Slavic cabdriver. What if he hates his life and does he miss his family and did he hate us? I tossed and turned.)

We drove out to Folly Beach where I got 1) a sunburn and 2) rather emotional about being a Colorado girl who has set foot in the Pacific and the Atlantic ocean, not to mention the Gulf of Mexico and the Irish Sea. I adore the ocean.

Lunch in Folly was a second flub. We trusted Yelp, which I will never, ever do again. The Lost Dog Cafe was perhaps the most recommended restaurant around, with people saying things like "forget best brunch in town, this is the best brunch EVER". Well it wasn't. It was gross. I didn't finish. Next time we'll try Taco Boy instead. Noah kept calling it Taco Mac, which really would be a better name.

We found Prohibition on King Street while waiting for our Grocery dinner reservation. They were serving up really yummy cocktails by a very friendly bar staff. Noah had the Bacon Maple Old Fashioned (self explanatory) and I had the Strawberry Smash, which was Maker's Mark, fresh strawberries, mint, and lemon.

One thing that sucks about living in Brevard is that North Carolina has a ban on happiness. Oops I mean Happy Hour. Happy Hour is not allowed here, and I felt a bit like the prodigal daughter reuniting with it wholeheartedly in Charleston. This was at a place called The Macintosh, where Noah made terrible fun of me for walking in and saying to the hostess, "Do you have bacon happy hour?" I had read they did, but I wanted to be sure--I didn't want any bacon shenanigans. When I asked what had been wrong with my query, Noah informed me (good-naturedly) that "you just don't say things like that." I still don't understand what was wrong with it, but Noah teased me like this: "Hello fellow human, I am here to inquire about your pork and fermented offerings." Noah likes to say that I was meant to be a queen, or at least an aristocrat, and a hermetic one at that. Well, he is right. I have to agree with him there.

The Macintosh was another trendy place of $30 roasted quails, and I'm glad we didn't eat a full meal there, based on the soggy pork they served at bacon happy hour. (Yes. They had it.)

This picture was taken by an incredibly attractive barkeep right after I had asked DO YOU HAVE BACON HAPPY HOUR. She was wearing a collared shirt, red-and-white striped, tucked in to jeans with suspenders. It was really working for her. The barboy was cute too, but he wasn't waiting on us. She was blonde and friendly, and super hot. In the end, I will never truly be comfortable with things like eyeliner or my face, but this woman had aced the feminine arts. An absolute master. We were practically two different species. Noah said she wasn't his type (he likes redheads AHEM). I liked her and might have been her friend after I got used to looking at her face. Anyway, I asked her to take a picture, and she snapped a few. I was so self-conscious. Never before have I been so aware that I have a face. Also arms. And teeth. Oh my god. I can't even think about teeth.

Our last meal was at Xiao Bao Biscuit. It must be said that of all the people suggesting one restaurant or another, NOBODY suggested Xiao Bao and this is why NOBODY can be trusted. Xiao Bao is the can't miss place if you come to Charleston. They've converted it from an old gas station, which is super hipster I know, but the environment is laid back and inviting. The server was a Nordic God, male variety, with roasted caramel skin and a nearly white stallion tail. We started out with the Spicy Green Papaya salad, pictured above. Fresh, crunchy, spicy, tart. Delicious. Then we had this little number.

Okonomiyaki, otherwise known as "what you like" cabbage pancake. We ordered ours with Japanese pork candy on top. It was exactly like what you would imagine bacon cotton candy to be. Not bacon flavored cotton candy, but if you could make cotton candy out of bacon. I need to stop using those words. It was just delightful, different, incredibly flavorful. We were in heaven. Our last dish was the crispy duck, which Noah must always have. His Babi used to make it. It wasn't a jaw-dropper, but it was far better than most of the other places we've had crispy duck.

After another sleepless night (I'd accidentally watched Say Yes To The Dress and was troubled with thoughts of humanity being an invasive species, an evolutionary accident, haunted by the answerless question of the meaning of our short and brutal existence) it was time to say goodbye to Charleston. It was really hard to leave, knowing I might not see the sun again for weeks. It was hard to leave happy hour and the city. It was hard to pay $16 for a drip coffee, a latte, and a muffin at the Marriott Starbucks. Will I ever go back? I certainly hope so. Driving away, I thought about Charleston, a charming city that yet lacked a distinctive vibe. Maybe the vibe was shot away by the British, torn down by the hurricanes, trampled out by tourists. I decided it was hidden behind all those shuttered windows on the historic homes, curtains drawn against the eyes of travelers, the snap of iphone cameras. The poor neighborhood in stark contrast to the wealthy, ignored by happy hour seekers such as ourselves. The city full of its native women but fewer men, the stunning barkeeps, the Slavic cabdrivers. I decided Charleston's vibe was secrets. Like everything, the time was short, but I'm glad I went. 

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Once, In The Desert

I drove the girls to swimming lessons at the Racquet Club, which took me back to the days when I first met Noah and we were visiting his family in Palm Desert. La Quinta, to be specific, if you're in the know. Down the way from Palm Springs. Next to Indio. Noah's parents had a desert home with a casita that I slept in and a pool in the backyard. They belonged to a country club--all of this went away swiftly about a year later, it all drastically changed. But when I first met them, we could go to the country club and sit by the pool for hours, ordering smoothies and hamburgers and fries. We weren't quite old enough to order alcohol, can you believe that? But the endless smoothies and burgers and fries were pleasures enough. Noah's youngest sister was seven, his youngest brother nine, and they shrieked when he threw them around in the pool. I missed that desert, that extreme dry heat, those rows of palms and million-dollar houses, for a moment or two today, when we were at the Racquet Club, in the humidity. It's easy to hold up the past like a palace on a hill, a place where everything is glowing and twinkling. Laughter, champagne bubbles, fairy lights in the dusk. But that's not the reality of it, that vision lacks the truth. Nothing was more perfect then than it is now. That seven-year-old, nut-brown sister Noah threw around in the pool is getting married this August. At the end of the summer we've planned a family trip to the beach. I'll put on my bathing suit and get in the ocean, free from all the self-consciousness and shame that wrapped my body like a shroud when I was 20, though I am heavier now, and looser in every possible way. That girl sat in the shade in a cover up and didn't get in the pool one time. She loved the word Indio, and as she drank strawberry smoothies she rolled it around in her head, a smooth stone that would travel to the belly five years later and make a girl named Indy, who would connect everything like a thread. Who would carry in her the past, and the future,  and who would sparkle up the every present. And it goes on.

Friday, June 27, 2014

Drunk In Love

My husband has been making me gin fizzes with cucumber. After ten years without drinking gin I have discovered a new love. It mixes well with red lipstick and pearls. I can sip it and pretend my short hair is on purpose. Pretend my life is, too.

The girls are lazy in the living room. I could take them to their summer daycamp but I've decided to let them be lazy. Indy flew in from outdoors, interrupted my yoga routine with her knees as red as flapper lips, bleeding bright jewels down her shins. She is entering her coltish phase. She is all hair and limbs, fold of thighs, twist of neck. They are wild in the evenings when all we want is to drink gin fizz, which makes us remember what it was to fall in love.

The mornings are misty. I can pretend I'm in Ireland until they give way to sun.

At night the house is quiet. The gin-soaked cucumbers lie in the sink. I follow my rhythms, pushing my night longer and longer by dizzy degree. Paperbacks spread-eagled on the couch. Pulsing to the jazz of hidden skin. The cat gallops around the house, stampede on the old wood floors. The yellow light is lulling. I turn it off and outside there are fireflies. They sparkle in the dark. They are the bubbles in the champagne glass of moonlight and magnolia air. I am inside myself and the world leaves me alone. Dazzled, desiring. Drunk.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Southern Gothic

Yesterday I was sitting outside the Boys and Girls Club, waiting for Ayla to return from the recycling center so we could go home. The small school bus carrying Ayla pulled into the lot, driven by the very amazing young woman, we shall call her Ms. X, who runs the healthy living programs at the club. She is smart and fierce and I'm glad the girls have her around as a role model. As she pulled in, a man on a bike pulled up next to her, shouted "HEY!", and proceeded to harangue her for some incident that I had not witnessed. Ayla heard everything, including, she says, his threats to call the police if this happened again. I mostly heard the man yelling at a young woman driving a school bus full of kids. I heard Ms. X apologize and say, "You didn't signal." "I didn't have time to signal," the man yelled back.

I don't know who was in the right here, as far as the driving and cycling go. I didn't see any of it. But I did see the man continue to yell, in front of a school bus full of children, after Ms. X had calmly apologized. And I'm pretty ashamed of myself that I didn't stand up and walk over there and intervene on her behalf. My instinct--proof that instincts are sometimes wrong--was to look away, thinking that I didn't want to embarrass anyone by witnessing the incident. I'm embarrassed, actually, to type those words. After the biker started to ride away, a different mother called out to him, something along the lines of "No more, that's enough" and he said, "You weren't in that intersection."

Embarrassed of myself is a theme in my life lately. I seem to have lost a certain filter and have been too blunt (except of course when I need to be, as in the situation above). I say things I shouldn't. I don't feel safe blogging or having opinions on the internet--not that that was ever safe to begin with. People keep asking me for money. Twice at work, patrons have come in and tried to sell me things. It's so uncomfortable. I feel guilty and angry at once. Last week I drove to PetSmart to get heart worm preventative for my pet. I didn't know this was necessary as we don't worry about getting heart worm from mosquitoes in Colorado.  I'm such an amateur at insect borne diseases that I didn't even know that PetSmart doesn't sell heart worm preventative. You have to get it through a vet or online from Australia. As I was leaving a woman pulled up to me in her car. There was a child in the back and an old man who kept his gaze forward and his jaw stubborn as the woman asked me for gas money. "We've had a death in the family. We're trying to get to Sarasota. We have ten dollars." I was confounded and confused. Compassion warred with some form of street smarts. Be kind, don't get taken advantage of. "I'm so sorry," I lied. "I don't have any cash." The woman nodded, started to cry, and drove away. "Jesus," I said once I got into my car. "Jesus." It's my job to make our grocery money last two weeks and I don't always manage it. "Jesus." I drove through the parking lot, past the Michael's and the TJ Maxx until I found the same car in front of Target. I don't want to say how much I gave them. As I reached in the window and handed the cash to her, the woman knew I had lied. But she had known already, as soon as it happened. We'd seen it all in each other's eyes. Everything.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014


(A list)

The cat has fleas.
The dog has fleas.
The house has fleas.
The medicine didn't work.
The fogger may not have worked.
The vacuum broke.
The daughter's finger broke.
The agent said no.
The other agent said, "very nearly yes . . . but no."
The daughter was crying at ten o'clock at night
about eternity and and camping and not wanting to grow up.
The husband is jet lagged
The wife is severely anemic
(but if she takes her iron, nothing comes out)
The wife can't tolerate any dairy
without having to call out sick to work
so lattes are out.
The money is out.
The flea medicine that was bought online to save money (because the money is out) and upgraded to overnight shipping has not arrived.
The cat thinks I've tried to kill it twice this week.
People on the internet don't agree with my opinions on Game of Thrones.
The other daughter says "YOU LIED" and runs away crying
because "three weeks" is not quite the same as "one month".
the refrigerator is working.
The vodka is cold.
"Is everything okay?"
Too soon to tell.
The verdict is out.

Friday, June 13, 2014

Dede died Thursday night in his own home. The cancer diagnosis had come just a week ago. It was so sudden and we are all stunned. Here he is with Ayla at Noah's sister Mercy's wedding about seven years ago. I am sad. Everyone is in California and I'm in Brevard and I want to be with everyone. I want to be there and have a drink with Noah and all my by-marriage brothers and sisters.  Dede treated me like his own granddaughter, calling me sweetheart and kissing me on the cheek. He always wanted everyone to have a great time, and he was a great time. The last time I saw him was that December night at the old school Italian restaurant, Mama Cozza's, and Mama Cozza's is where he wants everyone to gather to celebrate his life. No funeral desired. I keep thinking of Zach and Susie's wedding. We were all piled, too many of us, into an elevator in a high rise on the Vegas strip. Late evening. They'd just gotten married and we were coming back from pre-dinner cocktails and the air was wild. We were riding the elevator down to the lobby when it stopped on the wrong floor. The doors parted and there was Dede and his wife, Shirley. Together we all raised our cocktails, sloshing vodka to the floor, and started chanting, like it was rehearsed: "Dede, Dede, Dede!" Dede laughed and threw up his arms. "Free drinks for everyone!" he cried. We were uproarious. That was Dede. I'm so very sad.

Thursday, June 12, 2014

For A Moment We Were

Yesterday was my birthday. Today Noah left in the witching hours to go visit his Dede. (Dede is Czech for grandpa and you don't pronounce it 'deedee'. )

He is flying to California to see his Dede because Dede is probably dying. The night before we got the news I had been laying in bed, troubled with thoughts of the passing of time as I am most nights, unable to rest with my girls growing in their sleep and lightning flickering outside the window. My thoughts turned to Dede and I told myself that Dede's mother, who we called Babi (Buhbee), lived to see her own great-great-granddaughter Ayla, and Dede probably would live that long too.

The next morning we got the news. Cancer. Everywhere.

Dede has always seemed invincible, so robust and lively, as he certainly was when we saw him last. It was Christmastime in Southern California and we drove to an Italian restaurant in Anaheim's Little Saigon where we fine-dined 1950's style, and at the end of the meal Dede had them bring out 12 little glasses of Becherovka. He was glad that the number in our party had changed at the last minute from 13 to 12. The food was old fashioned and heavy in my belly and the anise-flavored becherovka worked as the digestive aid it was intended to be.

So, I don't know. Wednesday was my birthday and Noah was supposed to make me fiesta fish from Rick Bayless' Mexican cookbook, but when I got home from my day of shopping and reading and writing, he was making multiple phone calls and travel arrangements and it wasn't a good time to be cooking. We chose instead to drive down to the end of main street and eat at a restaurant that was once a house, where Noah and I came when we visited North Carolina for the first time, two years ago. The girls were overly tired and fighting, and Noah and I were trying to keep the details of Dede's illness from them, exchanging information in snatches when they went to the bathroom or walked away from our terrace table to the sidewalk to play. The girls know what cancer does, they witnessed their Grammy's new husband die of it a year and a half ago, and Indy still talks about him and says she misses him from time to time.

I felt restless, emotionally charged and heightened. It was a wonderful birthday, we were drinking red wine, and in the morning my husband would leave me to fly across the country, where Dede is probably dying, where he will see all five of his siblings, who I love. I wanted to go with him. "Who will cook my fiesta fish?" I asked, because everything runs through your brain and your veins at once, your children growing as they eat their pizza and the family patriarch restless in his bed on a different coast, in a different time, two-thousand miles away. The table of tourists next to us mistook us for fellow travelers and offered to take a picture. "Of your family vacation," they said. We didn't correct them. We arranged ourselves into neat order and smiled, but everything shows through the cracks. The strain around the eyes and the light after the rainstorm shooting through the tree leaves and illuminating all, our faces lined and full of a lifetime of cities, oceans, Little Saigon, red wine, bohemian spirits, palms restless in the December wind, the wild scent of magnolia in May. Does the photo lie? For a moment, did we all look happy? For a moment, we were.

(We were everything. All of it. Forever and at once.)

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Hope For A Sea Change

Monday while at work a book that had been returned by another patron caught my eye. Garrison Keillor's Good Poems For Hard Times. Before checking it in, I flipped it open and read a poem. It was "A Man In Maine" by Philip Booth. The poem's last lines about the fierce stars brightened my bored brain. I impulsively checked the book out and brought it home. Later that day, my mom emailed me from work. She had been at the library that morning, and checked out the same book. She wanted me to read the introduction.

I grew up on Garrison Keillor and there is something about his voice that recalls the Lutheranism of my childhood without being preachy. (In fact, Keillor speaks against the "cadre of Christian pirates and bullies" holding the levers of power in our current government.) He is slightly more cynical than I am, in the introduction, probably because the world of his youth is gone while the world of my own youth is still partially in tact. Still, the introduction is wonderful and moving, and I got a bit teary and the world stopped and my heart was stunned when I came across this sentence:

"The meaning of poetry is to give courage."

There it was. Lately I have been wondering what the point of all this writing is, and why I do it. It hurts if I don't do it, of course, but there has to be a purpose beyond the avoidance of pain--for writers in particular, who are so creative at finding ways to dull the pain of not writing. Do I write in attempt to illuminate, to agitate, to elucidate? All of these intimidating and lofty goals, for me especially, fumbling my way through it all. Reading that sentence, I put the book down in my lap and thought, there it is. A reason why. I don't write poetry but I think Garrison might be willing to extend this definition to blog, and to memoir, and to fiction. Writing isn't easy, but writing without a purpose can be especially terrifying. A boat bobbing on a slushy, half-froze sea without any axe of clarity in sight.

All this is to say that my friend and fellow writer, Elizabeth Aquino, has had her memoir published today. She refers to it as Sophie's story. Sophie is her daughter who began suffering seizures when she was very small, and suffers from them still, although the introduction of a specific type of medical marijuana has helped enormously. Over the years I have followed Elizabeth on her blog she has brought me to tears and stopped my heart, not only because she is gifted with words but because she has a lion's heart, the heart of a warrior and a mother, and her writing, through all the godawful shit she's seen, somehow manages to do what Garrison says.

She gives us courage.

Here is Elizabeth's blog, by turns amusing and incendiary,  and here is where you can buy her memoir--breathtaking, tender, and true--about Sophie's earliest days.

Thank you Elizabeth, mentor and friend.

Friday, May 30, 2014

Matriarchal Tyranny

(30 minutes to write)

Because I'm still working too many hours I've been getting up in the dark to write before the kids wake up. All this ensures is that the kids will wake up in the dark as well, as they have just now. If I sleep in I have to wake them from heavy slumbers, they resent me for it, but if I get up early and turn on the burner where the espresso pot waits ready before the sky is pink and purple, it's a fairy tale kiss to them. Our house is small, so I'm sent back into the bedroom where Noah now sleeps next to me and I am still not really alone. I am tempted to lock myself in a bathroom, a nice dark bathroom, cut off from everyone's energy, which I absorb until there's no room for my own, and the sound of their breath. Doesn't that sound lovely, dearie?

Please bear with me during this Writing In The Time of Real Jobs when my sentences are jumbled and only borderline coherent. That's just the state of my brian. My brain.

The #yesallwomen thing that happened on twitter was cathartic for me, and despite how cynical we can be about social media activism, this one did seem to raise the social consciousness a degree, at the very least cluing in a few clueless men. #NOTALLMEN are clueless as I now know I must say, as any conversation about women must ultimately reassure the men. Now the only thing getting in the way of a Total Matriarchal Regime is the Dalai Llama, who keeps tweeting at me to be compassionate.

I only encounter #notallmen while at the library, where they feel entitled to take up my emotional resources and time. Then the Dalai Llama says I should be more compassionate, you know Jesus used to mention that too, over drinks, and I ponder what it would be like to give these men what they want, my compassionate attention. Any woman knows this would be risky behavior as it would encourage these #notallmen and could lead to them feeling I owe them a thing or two, and we all know where that could lead, I don't have to spell it out, right? So here in my bedroom while the sky is pink and purple, it occurs to me that #yesallprophets have been male and they risk nothing by being compassionate. Maybe you're thinking about Mother Teresa, but she was older and thus unsexed. What we need is a Female Messiah. I have a feeling She would spend a lot less time telling me to be nice, since as a woman I am already so conditioned into niceties that I feel bad for being less than pleasant to #notallmen who are calling me baby babe and commenting on my appearance while I check out to them their Tom Clancy and David Baldacci.

Listen we adopted this little butterscotch kitten. We were throwing around names on the drive home, and as we pulled into our driveway we noticed an excess of cars in the ministers' driveway. "Bob City," Noah said. "Bob City," I said. "Let's name him Bob City." The girls were furious at this development and told me so, saying my name too long, stretching it out. "No, BIBLE STUDY," Noah repeated, but it was too late. We might have accidentally named our cat Bob City because Noah and I called it that repeatedly in order to torture our children, and it now feels weird to call it anything else.

Time's up.

link within

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...