DESPERATE

While chilling through my jet lag I was checking in
with the "mommy blog" world and just over-friggin-whelmed
by the "whiteness" of it all. And there, in the heart
of the plum, I found the exact example of that which
stabs me in the wrist in this world:

"I had my very first outing as a mom of two when my son
was a little over two weeks old. I desperately needed
barbeque skewers to cook the kabobs I planned for dinner."

Who the f*** desperately needs barbeque skewers two weeks
after pushing a person out of their vagina?

Perhaps I'm naive. This is an actual possibility, not
one of those statements intended to imply the opposite.

I have lived in many countries and cities within their
boundaries...and what I would desperately need at such
a moment would be to cook, if my partner was not cooking,
something that was there and easy.

I would never desperately need skewers.
I would desperately need sleep.

There are so many conclusions that one can extract
from such a statement. But white suburbia is the
most high pitched in its "look at me" scream.

Sigh.

Of course I am sure that all of this will be proved
wrong to me if I manage to actually fabricate the person
apparently growing in my uterus.

And: what the hell is up with this rash of "Bad Mommy"
blogs. Why does everyone need to be such a "bad boy".
It's a competition for the Marlon Brando of mommyhood--
We all suck at a lot of things, and being a parent
is most surely one of the biggest.

PS: The cat agrees.
PPS: I dreamed that I had a miscarriage and the baby
looked like the alien who bursts from the belly in "Alien"
I was not dressed in sexy white cotton Sigourney panties
at the time, however. My dreams don't confuse shit like that.

He's Just Not Into You

Which I saw tonight. While in bed next to my mother.
And I tried to remember if I had ever had the "will he
call" things happen. I feel like no. But I know I have
ached and yearned along with all the other female animals
(because we are all animals) in the world.

And I wondered if my man will be happy to see me when
I get off the plane. And if he will express it how I would
like him to. And if he doesn't, I thought, maybe I will leave
him...because I will be so disappointed.

And then - or now - I wonder if I am a romance addict.

But while I am suffering through the loss of my dear love,
cigarettes, I won't give up my romance addiction.

Especially while I am pregnant.

It seems the pinkish discharge has abated.

Now I just have to buy more effing presents for my
french in-laws. Really. What the fuck could people
want from America? If it was China, I could get with
it. Or even the foreign land of Canada.

I also found some fiction of my mothers, or rather
a note toward future fiction, where she describes
being in a bathroom stall and hearing a young girl
who seems to have a stomach ache "softly groaning"
in the stall besides here.

It shocks me how disgusting I find this.

But then, while I adore and love my mother, I cannot
abide her smell, her odor. And no one else would
ever say she smells anything other than normal.

What is that crazy shit?
It is the crazy shit that keeps this blog anonymous.

Although no one is using it anyway.

Over and out.

PS: In a stack of books my mother is trying to displace
I discovered her copy of the original Joy Of Sex:
also shocking is how uninteresting it is to me...that
which I once spent so much energy on trying to see.