You are currently browsing the monthly archive for December 2007.
She was hunched over a worn diner plate at the Country Kitchen, tearing apart pancakes with her fingers, dipping them into syrup, then hurriedly stuffing the pieces into her mouth.
She was about 17, the age when most people are fairly self-conscious. But she held my gaze when she caught me staring, mouth agape, at her ripping into her short stack.
Her gray Arctic Cat sweatshirt hung loosely over her slightly padded body and she twittered excitedly, with her mouth stuffed full, to her elderly companions about the black stocking cap she wore. “Big Rigs” screamed out in blood red letters from its front. It was clearly a Christmas gift, and it made her happy. Her bovine eyes shone behind outdated wire-rimmed glasses as she spoke of it.
Let me heinously misquote Diablo Cody — I’m in the motherland and don’t have the book with me:
“I have what’s been called a ‘staring problem.’”
(from Candy Girl)
***
“Hello, Chippewa County 911.”
“Hi, I’m on Highway 29 headed east, near …”
“Near Frazier Road?”
“I dunno … I guess.”
“If you’re calling about the car in the ditch, we’re on our way.”
Click.
Are you a lyrics person or a music person?
I’m such a sucker for poetry – for words that burn an image into my brain. If that happens once, I’m hooked. Of course, if the music sucks, none of that matters.
“If I could through myself set your spirit free, I’d lead your heart away. See you break, break away, into the light and to the day.”
– U2
“Daddy, do you know what my score is?”
“No.”
“29,775.”
“Wow.”
“Are we even close to Grandma and Grandpa’s?”
“NO. And you asking that every five minutes doesn’t get us any closer.”
Ed shows me his watch. It’s 3:58 p.m.
“What?” I say.
“Couple minutes till my mom calls.”
“Did you tell her to call at 4?”
“Nope. I’m just expecting a 4:00 call.”
RINNNNGGGGG!!!!!
We’re off to the dairy state for family Christmas celebrations, and to have a fabulous meal at the restaurant of a fabulous friend. With my in-laws. On New Year’s Eve.
If you would have told me 10 years ago that I’d be willingly spending New Year’s with family in Sheboygan County, I would have laughed you straight out of the room. But shit changes, and now most of my favorite people are family members.
Happy holidays to everyone. Have a glass of (good) champagne (or two or three). I know I will.
I never expected to talk to you — me being green and a lowly grunt and you having a glass office. Much to my surprise, you singled me out and made me feel welcome.
You and Amy befriended me — new, friendless loser — on the third-grade playground. You were bookish like I should’ve been. We had fun imagining things. You walked outside in your sleep when I slept over.
Lucky girl who finally landed Jason. It’s easy to see why he chose you — you’re adorable, kind, smart and down-to-earth. And now you’re a high-powered lawyer! Perhaps best of all, I get to call you my friend.
Wiry little pothead, you stuck to me like glue. You were harmless enough, I thought, until you ground your pelvis into my ass at a Greazy Meal show. Then I had to cut you off.
Nice house in the country that pie and chili built. You said we weren’t allowed to watch Benson at your house, and I couldn’t figure out why. That’s when my mom told me what racism is.
I said once that I never buy my kids noisy gifts.
Well, Santa defied me and brought Pinkie Pie for Clare.
She sings. She dances. She NEVER SHUTS UP. A moment after she finishes her excruciatingly long dance number, she starts asking questions.
“Do you like lemonade?” She waits for an answer.
“I LOVE lemonade. PINK lemonade!”
“What’s your favorite color?” Pause.
“I like pink!”
The worst thing about her is that number 3 is also obsessed. He can’t get enough of her pink rubber motor mouth and massive, blinking eyes. She’s singing, dancing and cajoling my kids into answering the same inane questions all. day. long.
At this rate, it’s going to be just a matter of days before that little pony is taken hostage or finds herself under the tire of a minivan.
Ass-kicking, goose-bump inducing guitar prodigy. I remember trying to sleep while you and Brian sang Abbey Road (LOUD!) as a lullaby to yourselves. You hooked us on disco with your wobbly hip-shaking moves.
Blessed fat man. You give me something to hold over my kids’ heads for months preceding your visit. Especially now, when they are all jacked up on cookies, chocolate and holiday adrenaline, I NEED YOU.
