This is a bit random, I know.
But Zippy brought home this coupon book several weeks ago.
And it’s now on my refrigerator
because I love this little boy.
His essence comes through his eyes and smile,
and I feel a lightness inside me every time I look at him.
I just wanted to share.
Apparently Zebu and Wildebeest’s limit
for filth is one inch.
As in that’s how deep the dust was in their rooms
before they cleaned today.
And it seems that’s about as disgusting as they want to go.
Is it totally pathetic I’m celebrating the fact
my teen-aged sons have a Filth Limit?
Today’s forecast was a high of 10 degrees.
This afternoon I was stir crazy
so bundled up and went outside to shovel.
I shoveled for just over an hour.
It felt good to get air and exercise.
I was very grateful for my mask.
But then I looked in the mirror
and noticed my cheeks are red.
A different kind of red.
Oh no!
Frostnip?
Frostbite?
I did a Google images search.
Ewww.
And whew.
I absolutely do not have frostbite.
Trust me on this one.
Today is cold as a witch’s tit.
At least, I thought it was.
Until I found this:
"For years, the public has assumed that the breasts of witches maintain temperatures at or around the freezing point of water," said team leader Phillip McCracken in a telephone interview. "Through a series of revolutionary experiments, we have been able to determine that they actually achieve an average temperature of 72 degrees Fahrenheit."
The researchers do not currently understand why witches’ tits — while certainly warmer than expected — are nearly 27 degrees cooler than the tits of normal humans.
"Unfortunately, theory behind the thermodynamics of thaumaturgic mammaries is sadly under-investigated," added McCracken.
Magdalena Chancerly, the president of the National Organization of Wiccans in Salem, received the news of the scientists’ findings with enthusiasm. "You can only hear ‘cold as a witch’s tit’ so many times before becoming offended. I, for one, am glad to have my breasts associated with the comfortable climate of spring instead of the chill of winter."
Michael Genrich is a Boston-based writer and compu-chimp. He accepts full responsibility for The Daily Instigator.
Yesterday I didn’t do a bit of writing.
I took the day off.
Instead, I aired out mattresses,
sprayed mini-blinds,
washed windows,
washed and rehung curtains,
and cleaned two bathrooms.
Today I worked on revisions
for about four hours.
I’m trying to decide which day’s work
gives me a greater sense of satisfaction.
My manuscript is almost ready to go.
On the other hand, those windows were really dirty.
This afternoon we noticed a stray dog out in the street.
He was skittish but I lured him into our backyard with a bowl of water.
We couldn’t get close enough to read the phone number on his tags.
Not even with the binoculars.
Or the telephoto camera lens.
We took turns trying to read those numbers.
My old(er) eyes couldn’t do it.
Zebu’s young(er) eyes couldn’t do it, either.
Zippy’s efforts were thwarted by all the fur.
So he got down on the ground with binoculars and biscuits.
And coaxed the big boy closer.
It took quite some time.
But Zippy prevailed.
Turns out his name is Buster.
And he was brought to the shelter as a fence-jumper.
The good news is a new family adopted him.
Bad news is Buster’s been caught three times by Animal Control.
Today, though, he avoided an arrest.
And made some new friends.
Wildebeest and friends are down in the basement.
Wildebeest insisted I come down to see the goings-on.
Zoinks!
D’s ping pong game may suffer
But he’s a slave to fashion.
Sunday night Zippy made the best cilantro pesto.
It was to die for.
Today we’re regretting it.
It seems some people react to over-consumption of pine nuts
by experiencing a metallic taste in their mouths.
People like us.
Two to three days after the fact.
So for instance, this morning’s smoothie tasted metallic.
Even my coffee didn’t totally mask the taste.
And in case you’re thinking a constant metallic taste
would aid in weight loss (because who eats when everything
you stick in your mouth tastes like a handful of old pennies?),
I’m here to tell you the post-pine nuts sensation isn’t a consistent sensation.
Some things taste better than others.
For example, I just got done "experimenting" with
a slice of cold pizza
a handful of tamari-roasted almonds
a bowl of cereal
and a banana.
Nothing tasted all bad all the time.
There were glimmers of good.
Not really good, but okay good.
Except I kept hoping for something that was 100 percent good from start to finish.
Which means I ate more than necessary.
So be warned: if you want to make that delicious cilantro pesto, go easy on the pine nuts.
And if you decide to live dangerously, let me know if there’s anything that tastes 100 percent good.
Especially since this phenomenon apparently lasts eight to ten days.
Last night Wildebeest’s friends trickled in
and headed down to the basement.
Zippy and I were reading in bed when
just minutes after the latest friend had arrived,
the doorbell rang.
Wildebeest went to the door.
"There’s no one there," he yelled to us.
"Someone’s playing Doorbell Ditch."
We all, including Wildebeest, assumed
it was one of Wildebeest’s less-than-mature friends.
Late this morning Wildebeest went out the front door.
And found this:
It’s a Build a Bear.
For Zebu’s birthday.
He turned 13 a couple weeks ago.
The same girl who left this bear for Zebu
last year gave him a hollowed-out basketball
filled with candy and other goodies.
She’s been Zebu’s friend since elementary school.
It makes me happy they have each other.
When Zebu and I go to the library
he pulls books off the shelves.
At random.
He doesn’t really look at what he’s grabbed.
And he stops grabbing once he has a stack.
He recently read a book about a chess tournament
which he said was really boring.
Hard to believe, I know.
Last night he finished a book about a spelling bee.
He said it was totally stupid.
Again, what a shock.
I asked why he didn’t just check out a novel about knitting while he was at it.
Rather than throw a pillow at me
he said my idea would only work if it was a story about competitive knitting.
Involving a race to knit a pair of mittens, hat, and scarf.
So if any of my writer friends want to run with that plot idea, feel free.
Zebu would probably read it.
Despite the evidence out the window right now
and despite the past couple weeks,
Colorado does get sun.
I’d love some more sunshine.
My mental health would appreciate it, too.
We had some yesterday and we can have it again.
Come on, Sun,
do your thing!
Please.
Wildebeest is out on the couch right now.
Sewing a patch on his favorite jeans.
Focusing on tiny stitches.
And singing.
Winnie the Pooh.
Well, a combination of these words, anyway, with an emphasis on willy and silly:
Winnie-the-Pooh,
Winnie-the-Pooh,
Tubby little cubby all stuffed with fluff.
He’s Winnie-the-Pooh.
Winnie-the-Pooh.
Willy, nilly, silly, old bear
Elvis Costello might want to Blame It On Cain
but I know the real culprit is cake.
Specifically, Zebu-created chocolate cake.
Made in the evening.
Filled with sugar and caffeine,
ingredients not conducive to sleep.
Here it is in all it’s glory:
Don’t get too loud with your oohs and ahhs
because you might wake Zebu and Zippy.
And Lebowski and Coco and Zoey.
That’s right; it’s just me and the internets.
Blame it on cake.
Wishing you all a wonderful weekend with fewer scowls than smiles!
I needed to extricate Zebu from weekly lessons and
thought I was doing instructor and me a favor by dancing around the truth
and instead of saying he’s killed Zebu’s enthusiasm for drums,
saying we needed to take a break for summer because
of various basketball camps and a possible family vacation
which would make it impossible to keep Zebu’s lesson time,
a time slot we originally selected from a whopping two choices,
which clearly proved the man had a full schedule and wouldn’t miss us
and would understand our leaving the fold.
And make my excuse brief and painless.
Except for then he offered to be flexible and drive over to the studio
to suit our schedule since he lives nearby.
Okay, I’ve already learned that lesson about Truth = Best.
Even when that truth is painful.
So why’d I forget today?
In honor of National Poetry Month
and
here is my snowy day haiku:
April leafing out
cruelest time for snow to fall
buried signs of spring
It’s been one of those weeks.
A week-long funk.
Yesterday I felt crushed under the weight of it all.
But I forced myself to spin my hoop
while Zippy did his treadmill workout.
As we twirled and walked, we listened to an album that came out 25 years ago.
Yikes.
And I thought about where I was 25 years ago.
I remembered listening to that album (tape) in my car during lunch hour
when I worked for Giant Turd Enterprise (GTE).
I’d eat my fish sandwich from McDonald’s
and think about, well, I don’t remember what I thought about.
Probably not much.
Maybe I thought about the sweltering parking lot and
how my boss was the world’s biggest asshat.
Or that maybe the next day I should pack a lunch.
Fast forward to this week
in which I’ve had feelings of being that gerbil in a wheel,
always running and moving,
but never getting ahead.
It’s no fun feeling that way.
It crushes your spirit.
So I say to myself:
Tracy, you have made progress.
For one, you’re no longer spending time in a paint-peeling ’64 Ford Falcon Sprint,
sweating and ingesting questionable food.
And you don’t have to answer to that horrible boss-man ever again.
So.
Give up the funk, Tracy.
This morning Zippy and Zebu headed downtown to Zippy’s office.
It’s Take Your Child to Work Day.
Zippy is an engineer.
Zippy is currently employed by a company that filed for bankruptcy.
Zippy doesn’t have a whole lot of work going on right now.
Zippy is terribly worried Zebu will think engineering work is boring.
I’m terribly worried Zebu will think engineering work isn’t boring.
(Just kidding! Well, kinda . . .)
Still, Zebu chose to accompany his father rather than his mother to work.
Could it be because Zebu already knows
my work involves multiple trips to the kitchen to see if something tasty showed up since I last checked?
Did Zebu avoid my workplace because he knows
I’m likely to spend considerable time pacing the room, talking to myself?
Or could it be Zebu is avoiding me and my work because
yesterday as I sat writing in front of the window a turkey vulture circled my house?
( assures me the vulture was only there to carry off dead words, but it’s still worrisome.)
Either way, I was left alone to contemplate my career choice.
I’ve gotta say, no matter how tough this road to publication,
I’ve never, ever contemplated being an engineer.
And that’s okay.
This morning I put Wildebeest’s lunch in his backpack.
And laughed.
Since May ’08, one of these: COMBINATION LOCK
has been locked onto the top loop of one of these: BACKPACK
On the last day of school Wildebeest
took the lock off his gym locker and locked it
onto his pack for safekeeping.
And promptly forgot the combination.
So this morning when I laughed about it
he told me it’s “like the shoe thing and seeing who fits.”
Whoever can figure out the combination,
regardless of sex,
will be who Wildebeest marries.
Kids keep attempting
combination after combination
in hopes of freeing the Wildebeest.
It makes me smile thinking of so many friends
working to give him a happily-ever-after.
A while back I wrote about Wildebeest’s quest for dread locks.
He hit a, shall we say, snag along the way.
The dreads were put on hold.
This past Friday Wildebeest’s friends were here.
While skating on the patio, Wildebeest caught sight of his shaggy reflection in the window
and decided he wanted to see his neck again. (His words.)
He ran upstairs and informed Zebu, D, and J he wanted to cut his hair.
Mania ensued.
The whole process lasted about twelve minutes since Wildebeest had to leave for an
appointment. D and J did a pretty good job under those conditions but there was definitely
room for improvement. The next morning, with D’s guidance, I tided up Wildebeest’s hair
as best I could. Later, he took this self-portrait.
This morning I asked if he still liked his hair.
Wildebeest said, “My long hair looked nice when it was combed out and smooth.
But now it’s nice all the time.”
He’s happy.
I’m happy.
Wishing everyone a wonderful weekend.
Wildebeest and friends are helping D make an extra-credit video for Spanish class.
D came out from behind the camera to wield the bat.
Wildebeest bared his belly
and K donned a multi-color wig.
A few minutes later Wildebeest ran into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of ketchup.
I get the feeling viewers are going to wish there were subtitles.
Wildebeest is 15.
Wildebeest decided he wanted dreadlocks.
After several failed lunch-hour attempts by friends
to dread his hair, Wildebeest mentioned
another dread method: neglect dreads.
Wildebeest started sporting a snarled head of hair.
I assumed neglect dreads.
And said nothing.
Until he mentioned we needed to order the dreadlock kit
he’d researched online.
The kit with wax.
I said, “But you’re doing neglect dreads.”
He said, “No.”
I said, “Then what’s going on with your hair all snarled up?”
He said, “I’m too lazy to comb it.”
(Insert EXCLAMATION OF YOUR CHOICE)
Yesterday we spent several hours combing out the hair
we’d coated with a half-bottle of conditioner.
I’d comb for a while and then leave him to it,
all the while hoping he’d just give up and ask me to cut it all off.
But the next time I’d go in to where he sat in the bathtub in swim shorts,
he was still working on it.
Tears of pain and frustration in his eyes.
I’d comb some more, apologizing when I yanked his hair.
Still hoping he’d give up and have me cut it.
But then something happened.
I started to root for Wildebeest.
I wanted him to stick with the agony of the comb
until the very last snarl was smoothed from his head.
I didn’t want him to give up. Give in.
I wanted Wildebeest to keep his long hair.
His major accomplishment.
His freak flag.
So at the end, it was me combing out the last snarls.
Him in tears.
Me crying for my stubborn son who always does stuff the hard way.
I wept, wondering if his life would always be this way.
Him choosing the rockiest path.
We finished. Both exhausted.
I wish I had after photos but I don’t.
Despite the abuse his hair was smooth and silky.
Wildebeest is reconsidering getting dreadlocks.
He has a whole new appreciation for the fact that
dreadlocks require hours of backcombing.
I’ll go with whatever he decides.
Can’t you smell that smell?
I gave this dog three baths today.
Coco’s apparently the kind of dog who doesn’t just like skunk-stink on her face.
She likes the full-body experience.
She found leftover skunk-stench in the yard and rolled in it. Twice.
Coco is Wildebeest’s dog.
Doesn’t that make perfect sense?
Anyway, he helped with this last bath.
When we finished he said, "That was no fun at all. Not even a good bonding moment."
I didn’t say anything but between you and me, I felt a bond.
Tracy Abell 