Rest in peace, Sweetface



Her brain remained swollen and nonresponsive; she never regained consciousness. Her friends and family kept a vigil at her side for forty-eight hours until the family decided to let her go gracefully. Her organs will be harvested for donation and I think there is great poetry in that.

Thank you, especially, to the NICU staff at the phenomenal UAB hospital. Thank you for giving us all open access to her, for letting us gather to sing and whisper and pray over her, for letting us prop her family up unencumbered and even doing it with a sense of welcome. You were so very good to our friends and your humanity helped more than the constraints of simple words will allow me to convey.

It's pretty safe to refer to me as a gutsy girl. I'm not an especially fearful person. I have, pretty much, exactly one fear (and it is fairly crippling after a fashion): That fear is that some harm might come to one of my children. The losses of the past two years, they are marching up closer and closer and I'm a nervous fucking wreck right now.

wet blanket right now there are sirens

I took off a couple weeks from voyuernalling in order to tend to some friends who'd lost important people like moms and husbands, remember? And I have been doing what I can, although these types of situations really strip me of my usual sense of being able to do anydamnthing I set my mind to. To my way of thinking, there is no taking-charge-and-fixing-shit-up when somebody is burying their momma, you dig? So I feel useless and helpless in the face of these situations, but the garbage needs to be carried out. And the kitchen needs to be cleaned, and chirrens need to be taken to school and and and. I imagine that were Maxim were to be planted in the ground, I would be hard-pressed to clean the kitchen, which is something I despise anyway.

So, in my awkward, quiet panic and not-knowing-what-to-do-ness, I just hang around on the periphery and wipe counters and take dogs out to pee and administer sleeping pills to affected parties, stuff like that. This is precisely because I don't have the magic elixir that fixes broken hearts. It's all I can do to manage my own unwieldy one at times, after all.

Also I took a step away from writing here at that time because I imagine a lot of darkness would have escaped my errant fingertips. Some people like it when I tap into my What If Place, because there lies some of my bloodiest and most profound words. I am always surprised to find them pocketed away there inside of me; there is the same bit of startle each and every time.

There were great and terrible moments over the last two weeks, and there were times of brilliance and beauty and hilarity. I cataloged them, as is my way, delighted that I'd have fresh and funny things to impart when I made a sweeping return. Mama said that flair makes up for many a fallacy and I do not hesitate to tell you here that I am forever possessed of (with? by?) the notion that there's everything to be gained by letting just enough crazy show as to be thought both foul and charming. The kind of person who hears, "You fucked up little bundle of nonsense." a time or two in their lifetime.

So yeah, upbeat return. Fresh off of a spirited picnic with several families we love, I had a lightly sunburnt nose and a decent catalog of things to relay to you and was looking pleasantly forward to doing so. This was yesterday afternoon. I took my three kids plus a matched set --both age and gender-wise-- of three others belonging to some friends who had to leave early for a great-aunt's funeral. We drove the looping roads of the state park in the mid-afternoon's brightly cool weather. One of those utterly perfect days, you know? All six of these people surrounding me had things to add to the conversation, even the littler ones. They have been honed, razor sharp, by the cultural references inherent to having two teenage siblings. Teenagers, I seem to have forgotten, are mostly lightning-fast and devastatingly funny given a relaxed situation: It's all the hormones, I reckon. Them damned hormones'll keep you on your fucking toes.

Later, with everyone returned home and our brand of quiet starting to comfort us, I stood with bare feet pressed against cool tile and made a tray of freshly-steamed shrimp and bullshitty fancy crackers and the hoity-toity cheese that people like me have completely lucked into knowing about despite the low-rent status that has kissed us on the forehead at some point along the way. Oh, and blueberries. They sound like an odd choice, maybe, but those blueberries looked some kinda trucked-up awesome sitting there on that platter with the cheese and the shrimp and the bullshitty fancy crackers. If you can't picture that pretty in your mind's eye, son, I got no kind of hope for you.

It was then, about six-thirty, that it happened: I got hit with what can best be described as a big bag of grief. Just up and out of nowhere there was an unfamiliar flavor of despair and mourning. It was forty-five minutes later that we got the call saying that the oldest daughter of some of our most prized friends was in bad shape. She was alone in her car and roughly a couple miles from home when something(s) went awry and her car was flipping. Three guys happened by and pulled her out; the car burned straight to the ground thereafter. She's not regained consciousness since and the doctors are doing (and will continue to do) everything they can, but have been terribly honest. They don't hold out much hope at all.

Nineteen, my children are all in love with her.

I am trying to convey to you, I guess, that there will likely be some bloodletting here for the next ten minutes or the next ten weeks; I can't with any honesty say which.

Three of us headed down to Birmingham tonight (Scout had to babysit and Mathias is happily spending the night with Nana) to try and speak things of comfort or distraction into the mother and father and brother and sister of this girl. I'm worried for the kind of brokenness this will impart to her momma. Tonight we held hands and said crazy-honest things into one another's ready eyes. She even said "DAMNIT. There are some things I HAVE TO GET OUT OF ME, some things I JUST HAVE TO SAY." and she railed about her fury and her disappointment and that fucking glove-to-the-side-of-the-head confusion for a good five minutes.

That shit is humbling, folks, when a person picks you to be that someone to hear the static of their soul. I find humility in a) dangerous or b)startling ways.

We drove home after a few hours, and the generous car trip afforded me the ability to satisfy a two-weeks-long craving for some microwave popcorn (oh thaaaank you, Helpful Convenience Store Laydeh; is my face a sweet hot mess, or what?) and the chance opportunity to notice that the stars strangely resemble disconnected spiders creeping across the blueblack sky. And there was a lemon-wedge moon. I remarked on this to the two men nestled down in the car with me.

"Hey. In all the moons that I've ever seen, I've never seen one that looked like a lemon wedge tacked up there in the sky." They agreed with me: It was a lemon-wedge moon. The fearful part of me noted that should I ever behold one again, it certainly begged for a better occasion.

It was about then that the music started to grate at me.

You, Neil Young, with your Hey, hey, my myyyys and you, Bruce Springsteen, with your Promise, please step out of the speakers. Exit them with your hands up, you crafty bastards. Don't. Touch. The. Guitars. Rage is a secondary emotion, and right now I choose it over The Sad.

And you, Suzanne Vega, you with your small blue thing, I ought to scrap every last song I've ever thought would say something worth a damn at my funeral in favor of you pulling the words

"I am lost inside your pocket
I am lost against
Your fingers"

down out of the ether and into everyone there.

Just a little bit ago, right before I sat down to pound all this out, I heard the echo of notes bouncing off of the atrium and rolling haphazardly down the stairs. My face pointing upward out of my tragically ugly fuzzy green robe (Maple ate my favorite cushy white one. She left the belt, though, in apology. Ohhhh, I console myself with the notion that she is saving up all her clever for the day that she has to tell someone that Timmy fell in the fucking well, selah and amen), my slightly chilly hand pushing wet hair back away from my face, I said, "Son. It's near two in the mornin'. Get to sleep." I noted at the time that I sounded somewhat like a fishwife, flat-voiced and nagging. I am not a woman who ever intends for that to be a permanent affect.

All of this is my wordybastard way of telling you that I don't mean to bring you down*, but when I started this writing thing all those years ago I wasn't necessarily promised (or promising) that all the letters would add up to equal something zen and uplifting. It's also my way of making you aware that the words oftentimes make up what I consider my bootstraps.

And fool that I am, I will honor them and most of what they are singing about by repeatedly hauling myself up by them.

You be well today, knuckleheads. I'm busy dancing across bridges that for once in my life don't feel like they need to be torched. I think this is what they call being a grownup. I'll keep you posted.

*God, I love me some ELO. Make fun if you must, but I shan't shy away from that.

[The final guest poster is Scott. Lemme just explain to you that I have a 'thing' for smart guys. Vincent D'Onofrio's character on Law & Order: Criminal Intent? Goren. Ahhhh, Goren, you cleverly-written piece of quality entertainment, you. I turn to Maxim when Goren's gears get to crankin' during an episode and I say, "Ahhhhhh, he's my boyyyyyfriennnnnd." Then Maxim is all, "YOU ARE NOT IN LOVE WITH THE CHARACTER, GOOFYWOMAN: YOU ARE ACTUALLY IN LOVE WITH THE WRITER WHO THOUGHT ALL THAT SHIT UP." And I shoot back, "HEY. HEY, HEY. Remember all those Northern Exposure episodes where you went a-gaga over Janine Turner? I NEVER ONCE TRIED TO DASH !THAT! BUBBLE ON THE COLD HARD PRESS OF REALITY." and then he shuts up and I'm maybe just an eensy bit smug, but mostly I'm just enjoying Goren's intellectual acuity.

Bear with me, people, I'm going somewhere with this.

So, first, smart guys. Second comes guys that are either steeped in creativity or wicked funny. Only then do I consider things like hands and eyes and hair and that spot on a man where his neck and shoulder intersect and invite your face to attach itself there. You laydehs know what I'm sayin', thaaaaat spot.

I'm in love with Scott's brain, how it situates the thisses and thats and sends them down into the world via his fingers. I like the nimble way his headmeat seems to perform, the confidence with which he puts it out there. I've got no idea what Scott looks like; he could be hulking and googly-eyed for all I know, and who cares? Not me, because I've no desire to tryst with him in the moonlight. I do have a desire, however, to see him keep sharing the magic in that dome of his.]

When Jett asked me to write something for her blog, I thought to myself, "Self, — that's what I call myself — - what should I write?" In the end I decided to write something instructive, because I'm really getting tired of how stupid the world is and I think we should all take it on ourselves to teach people something every day. Unfortunately, I don't know much. I do, however, have a habit of sketching. I do it to silence the voices in my head that tell me to murder people. (That's a joke. Nothing silences those voices.) Here, therefore, in the interest of making the world less stupid, is an instructional post about sketching a portrait. Learn, damn you! Learn!

How to Sketch a Portrait



1. First, select a comfortable seat at a table near the window of a coffee shop. Busy Bohemian coffee shops are best, but corporate coffee shops will do in a pinch. Place your sketch pads and trendy, blue, plastic pencil box on the table.
2. Order a beverage. If you're in a good coffee shop, order a large (or whatever stupid word they use to mean large) Mexican High Grown coffee. If you're at Starbucks, order an espresso drink (their coffee sucks). Whatever you order, make sure it's in a ceramic cup or mug, not a paper cup. This is the only planet we have, people.
3. Alter your drink to your liking (this may not be possible if you're at Starbucks, but try to get close) and set the drink on your selected table. If you're at Starbucks, yuppies will probably be eying your table and trying to steal it. If this is the case, mark the table in the manner of wild animals and growl at the yuppies. They will leave you alone.
4. Now, go outside and talk to the homeless guys at the outside smoking tables for a few hours. Coffee shop homeless guys are the closest things to enlightened masters we have in our culture. Learn from them. Offer them gum or mints. They will decline, but it will set them at ease.
5. After learning at least two life changing truths from the homeless guys, return to your table. Open a sketch pad and select a good pencil. I know what I look for in a pencil, but pencil selection is complicated and personal. I wouldn't want to intrude or start another long pencil debate. If you come to the coffee shop with me, I'll show you all my pencils and tell you why I like them.
6. Now select a face as a subject. Subjects should have something to recommend them, some character or quality, some beauty, some sadness. Live people can be good subjects, but not really. They move too much. If you see attractive or interesting looking sleeping people or dead people around, they may work. I often work from photographs.
7. Start in the darkest parts of the face, where memories and hardships gather in deep recesses to stay warm and comfort each other. Emphasize these. After these, select only a few small details to put in, the ones that jump out at you.
8. Get the eyes right. Everything else is secondary.
9. Stop soon. You'll ruin it.

That's really all I know about it. It works for me. I appreciate the opportunity to share it with you. Now, you teach us something.

Hello, Jett's friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

[Guest poster that girl could be referred to as 'one of those feisty women', and don't you people just know I love me some feisty women? They make the best friends, ones who dive headlong into adventures and mayhem with you. I quietly fell into like with her from the first couple of times of reading her. She starts most entries with, "Hey you! remember me? I'm that girl who...." or something similar. But the 'heyyourememberme' is nearly always there and I'm infinitely charmed by it....and also a little jealous that I didn't think of it first.]

When Jett asked me to guest post I was unbelievably excited. So much so that, in true 'that girl' fashion, I became entrenched in a bloody, internal battle with myself. Myself came up with an ingenious post about my Grama,and Obama,and Jett intimidating me..and it had all these glorious themes about strong women and voices being heard..here's an excerpt:

The voice of a strong, independent woman is something to behold. Sometimes it catches one off guard..even the speaker. Sometimes it comes out of nowhere and pops you in the jaw before you, or she, know anything's awry…sometimes it whispers sweet nothings in your ear while you sleep…sometimes it plants it's feet firmly in an unfriendly room. This, my friends, is where it's needed most.

Isn't that lovely? I e-mailed Jett to let her know I would have it on Monday. I fought the good fight all weekend, it is now Tuesday afternoon and Myself is waving the white flag of defeat. Myself gives up. That girl's brain and heart are tormented and fuzzy and that wonderful post is not ready to be born. I'm not a fan of inducing labor y'all..let nature take it's course even if that baby is getting pretty damn big, let nature take.it's.course. So, this afternoon, defeated, emotionally wrung dry, in a general funk, I pulled my car out of my coveted parking space and headed across the street to the old, abandoned A & W place to smoke. Yes, yes, Internet - cancer, emphysema, Marge's twin sisters..I know already - shut it. Bob Seger sang: I've seen you smiling in the summer sun / I've seen your long hair flying when you run....

and I stared at the Golden Rods and tattered orange roof. I just let it go, maybe sometimes it just doesn't click? Maybe it's not a reflection of your writing or your ability or your worth - maybe it just doesnt' click. I heard gravel crunch as some fellow smoker whipped in next to me...and this little gem jumped up and did a little dance in front of my face..it made me smile, and hopefully Jett will get a kick out of it too:

Why I Have No Nose

I had a date.

I had a date with some Billy Bob character that I didn't really know. I'd met him at the parking lot the night before and when he asked I blurted out "sure" because it caught me off guard and I couldn't think of a nice way to say no..and because I was 16 and a big pussy. I had full intentions of calling him and cancelling that morning. I made the mistake of discussing those intentions over the phone within earshot of my mother. As I hung up she confronted me. She told me it was a mean, dishonest thing to do and that I was going to go. She told me to simply say no next time. I was livid. At this point in my life everything my mama did was hypocritical. This particular time, I recalled her own behavior with men and one instance in which she was nice to a man so that he might help us move. In retrospect, I realize maybe she was trying to give me the benefit of valuable lessons she'd learned the hard way..but realizations like that only come with time. I was so mad I could've spit nails. I didn't speak to anyone the rest of the day. Dark thirty found me sitting in our maroon rocker/recliner staring straight ahead.. Suddenly we heard a vehicle in the drive. We both went to the door, she moved aside the prissy lacy half-curtain and looked out the glass cutout.

Then he honked....from the truck.....at me...........for me to come out..

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head as she digested the shirtless boy and his beaten up truck that sat in our driveway. Just when it seemed the scene couldn't get any worse, he took a swig of beer and honked..again. Stunned, she dropped the curtain and looked at me. She laid all mother/daughter armor down and said earnestly and apologetically "You don't have to go"...I understood what she was really saying was "please, my baby girl, oh Lord Jesus, don't go with that boy! Don't even go outside, don't set foot in that truck for the concentrated levels of white trash will surely devour every fiber of your being! Don't go!" I delighted in the helpless look in her eyes, I saw my opportunity for revenge and I swooped in and snatched it quicker than she could comprehend what was happening. I said, in my snottiest voice "Oh, but that would be mean and dishonest Mama..I have to go remember?" Then swiftly out the door and into his truck. His idea of a "date" was a bee line to the liquor store, where we illegally purchased alcohol, then on to a 1 1/2 hour ride on back roads of course. I wanted to crawl out of my skin and prop it up there in the passenger seat so that he needn't come find me. About mid-way there I had to pee. As I walked to the back of the truck I seriously considered fleeing into the woods and waiting for one of my friends to come through (busy back road)..By the time we got to the party he was drunker than Cooter Brown and exceedingly more obnoxious. I wasn't even bothering to me make the polite "mmhmm" and "huh" to what-ever-the-fuck-he-was-talking-about anymore. I spent a miserable two hours at that party in the middle of fucking nowhere with noone I knew. Finally, it was time for me to go home, and although I would've delighted in breaking curfew this time, I didn't want to spend one more miserable minute with this icky, backwoods boy that didnt' wear a shirt than I had to! One of his friends (surprisingly normal) offered to take me home, which was nice..until we saw lights flashing behind us and he stuffed his OPEN beer underneath his seat. He assured me that the Doritos he'd picked up at the Shell station would cover his breath. Thankfully the cop was just as stupid as this guy and I got home safe, sound, and on time. She was up and worried. I went to bed without speaking to her except for a sarcastic "g'night" and that was that.

When I reflect on this night I'm amazed at my stubborn determination. I'm also ashamed of my behavior towards my mother. Let me say that again: I'm scared shitless that every time I try to teach my boys a lesson they will dig around in their archive and pull out a mistake that will bust my credibility wide open. Will I make mistakes they can't forget? Will I pass on these high quantities of spite? The kind of spite a person really has to commit to..enduring spite? Is that their inheritance? Will that be my penance? Dear Muffinasses, please, please promise to pray for me.

[Here's the thing about guest poster ciii: He writes from his Mellow. I try and write from my Mellow, but then I have the third glass of wine and everything comes out all trucked-up. You guys know how I do. ciii and I have spent a little time getting to know one another outside of blogstuffs and I think the two of us are barefoot, chigger-nibbled, wading-in-the-creek, rock-skipping childhood friends in another dimension and we've only just reunited in this one. If you look real hard, you may just get a hazy glimpse of that place; I am the pistolbritches with fuzzy braids and he has a shocky cowlick and gentle demeanor. We both have skinned knees.]

So, I'm here in the Casa de los Superior. Nice digs.

I must admit that I'm a bit Nervous about this Whole thing. It's my first-ever Guest Post. And, quite frankly, Jett writes like Tom Morello plays guitar. And I write like Neil Peart plays the guitar. And I'm pretty sure that she got me confused with some other Dude that she had in mind for this Gig, but then when I said 'yes' she figured it out, but was to nice to say anything. Jett's sweet like that. So here goes.....for Good or Ill.

Oh, look! Booze!

Cheers Jett!

Auto Pilot

Sometimes, the Best conversations are had by talking about Nothing in particular.

My tumbler was down from Four Fingers to Two and that was the last of it. No worries though. The contents are starting to Caress my Outlook the way Good Scotch should. The Sun was playing Peek-a-Boo on the Horizon. One last game. Peek-a-Boo. Good night Red Giant.

I had split a mess of Walnut and Maple with the maul behind the Helpful Goat Brewery prior to the Single Malt. Booze and wood splitting, as a combination, are best avoided. A 20lb maul coupled with the relaxation properties of Scotch is a sure fire way to remove those unsightly toes. The wood split easily as the Weight of the maul worked. Almost effortlessly.

After the Dynamic Duo were secured, perfectly in Sleep, Cutie Mcwifey buggered off over to Roo's place for some InterTubin' and general Girly Business.

As I was starting to fret on the scarcity of Libation in my tumbler, and thinking about getting a Book and my Headlamp, my Brother, along with his trusty Hound, Luna, came strolling down the Driveway. He had Beer. Things were looking up. I tossed a few more pieces of fuel on the Fire.

As the Moon rose and the Sun journeyed to wake up Australia, we talked about the taxing day that he had. There had been some miscommunication involving Childcare. Schedules had to be rearranged. Fingers were pointed. You know the drill. Our conversation then drifted to the State of the Nation. We spent very little time on that particular topic as there was Fire, and that Particular topic makes me want to throw myself on it. So we switched gears.

We played "Name that Tune" as my Neighbor and his friends were having their Thursday Night Jam. "That sounds like 'The Sunshine of Your Love'." Or, "Holy shit! Are they playing Devo?" And it went on like that for a while. Naturally, the Topic of music came up. My Brother is on a Quest to listen to the complete Tom Waits discography. A bold adventure indeed. I ask him if he has ever heard of a band called the Arctic Monkeys. He says he has and gets all excited and we talk about how much Ass this song kicks. And it does. Listen to it. I'll wait.

Told ya.

Then we talked about how our Kayak trip to Everglades was going to be just what the Doctor ordered. We discussed the 99 miles that we would cover and exactly how much potable water we were going to need for the 7-9 day Trip. 72 lbs per person total. If'n you were wondering. That weighs more than my kayak. We agree that we need to start familiarizing Ourselves with Tide Charts. Then we reflect. Quietly. Each of us envisioning our own scenario of a perfect trip. Or that's what I was doing anyway. He was 'probly thinking about Midget Porn.

Somehow, the topic of Conversation switched to Religion. Or. More precisely, Mythology. We decided that if we were kickin' back in the day, Zeus would be our Boy and we'd tell Poseidon to go fuck himself. Unless we happened to be on the High Seas. My brother proceeds to say that Poseidon could, indeed, go fuck himself. Him and his Kracken Sea Monster. From there, of course, we started talking about the classic movie, Clash of the Titans. I know, right! And how it really sucked ass that Hera put Perseus in the middle of that Arena just because Zeus turned her son into a Goat or some such, but how it kicked total ass that the other Gods gave him the Spear and Magic Helmet.

I'll give you one guess where the Conversation went after that. Bingo! Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd in the classic Kill de Wabbit sung to the tune of Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries. We laughed like Bastards until our eyes were soaked with Tears as we reminded each other of different scenes that Adulthood had robbed from our memories. The image of Bugs Bunny in full Valkyrie regalia and Wagner's Der Ring des Nibelungen is too much and, anyway, Luna just broke my empty Tumbler by fucking around in the Chair, so we called it an Evening.

Oh well. It ain't a Party until something gets Broke. And the Fire is Dwindling.

I said Goodnight to my Brother as I was picking up empty bottles and headed for the Recycling Bin when I realized I had a big 'ol shit eatin' grin on my face. We hadn't done anything. We weren't that drunk. We didn't make any Prolific conclusions. We just talked. We drifted on a Current of conversation. Paddles up. Bare feet in the Water.

And the Water was fine.

-word.

[Guest poster Carolyn wanted to kiss me with tongue was surprised and grateful when one day out of the blue several weeks ago I wrote her an e-mail that said, "You are awesome. But I'm sure you hear that a whole bunch." She said she never gets those kinds of e-mails, and spends most of her days being told she is sucky. Kids are ingrates, y'all. Anyway, Carolyn is a hot, hot babe and hella clever. Plus, she is a Southeriner, which makes her inherently awesome. She lives a mere two-hour drive away, which means we can go to the Pink Pony together and buy one another lap dances. After I'm absolutely sure she's not really a sixty-year-old man with a convincing mommyvoice, that is.]

Hello happy campers

Hi Jett readers. Jett asked me to stop by. Swear. I'm not gate crashing.

When you say J-E-T-T-S-U-P-E-R-I-O-R and catch a glimpse of those ass kickin' boots over there do you get a mental image of a nun wearing Doc Martens and some seriously black eyeliner? Is it just me? Perhaps. I had a scary nun teacher at my Catholic school in first grade. And now, as a recovering Catholic, I think sometimes images sneak up on me.

Jett's busy dealing with life right now and wanted some help filling these pages. You know what I'm doing right now? Well, no you can't possibly so I'll tell you. I'm getting ready to take a mass of Brownies camping. At a lake. In the rain. Jealous? It started out innocently enough. I was just signing up to take my little Brownie troop of 14 third graders camping but then at the meeting someone clocked me over the head or slipped me a micky or something and the next thing I know I'm in charge of the whole event. Two hundred girl scouts. At camp. Which is hi-larious because I am not the outdoor type. Even though this isn't really camping. I mean we don't have to hike in and pitch a tent or anything. We have cabins. And the camp is run by the YMCA so they have lots of counselors to help out. But still. I feel responsible. And it's raining. It never rains in Georgia! What happened to my reliable drought?

Of course the worst part of this whole thing is that I'll be shoehorned into a cabin in the woods by a lake with nothing to stand between me and Jason with the hockey mask but 14 little Brownies. I know what happens at cabins by the lake. And I'll have none of it. I'll start with the little ones. They'll be easier to throw at the boogie man. I should be able to fend him off until daylight. They don't attack after sunrise do they? I wouldn't know because I'm too much of a chicken to ever actually watch a Friday the 13th movie. But I've heard that if you don't act in a promiscuous manner then you won't get attacked and you get to run away at the end. So I will be all manners and appropriateness ALL weekend. I won't even paddle across the lake in a canoe searching for the boys camp or anything.

So aside from psychotic killers in the woods, the other issue I'll have this weekend will be my daughter. She's a tad compulsive. Hahaha "tad" hahaha. Maybe she's a LOT compulsive. And it might rain. She doesn't like rain. It's fine if she's in a bathing suit and therefore intent on being wet and then gets rained on. But if she's dressed and it's an unsanctioned rain event then she squeals like a banshee. She's like a vampire being doused with holy water. It's not pretty. And she's almost 9 which is way too old to still be going bat shit crazy if you get caught in the rain.

But one of the mottos of scouting is to be prepared. So I'm planning to sleep with a machete under my pillow to ward of the boogie man. I'm planning to make my daughter have a bathing suit on under her clothes at all times so at the first sign of rain I can rip her clothes from her and leave her in her bathing suit ready to get wet with the rain water. And I plan to hook a carafe of coffee somehow to my person and mainline it all day. I think if properly caffenated I can handle anything.

[Guest poster Captain Dumbass has a five-year-old and a three-year old who dress up as Spiderman without needing a special occasion to do so. They're all, 'It's TUESDAY! Time to DRESS UP AS SPIDEY!' Coincidentally, I also have a son who dresses up as Spiderman. Only, he's sixteen and does it in special places like Lowe's paint aisle and the local high school football stadiums.]

Never trust a 5-year-old

So it's way past bedtime on a school night and I'm perched on the side of the bathtub patiently waiting for my 5 year old to poo, which he assures me he HAS to do. As he sits there going off on a stream of consciousness soliloquy (and yes, a soliloquy is the act of talking to oneself, but he'd be talking whether I was there or not so I'm using it), I float off into my own world and wonder what the hell I'm going to write for my guest post on All Blogged Up. My first guest post ever. My first guest post ever and I can't think of anything to write. No pressure.

I was a little surprised (shocked) when Jett twittered me the other night to ask if I'd like to write something. I twittered back asking if she'd sent the message to the right person. She replied back that she had. Excitement and terror ensued. Much like being in the delivery room for your first born, just without the screaming accusations. Aside from the fear of writing for somebody else's followers, the fear of letting someone down who is putting a lot of trust in you, Jett intimidates the hell out of me. Maybe it's just the boot and all that tartan? Maybe I'm just waiting for her to scream "too right, mate!" and head butt me.

So now I've wasted two paragraphs writing about nothing and still have nowhere to go. Wait, don't go yet, I'll come up with something.

Hey Connor (pooing 5 year old), what should I write about for Jett's blog?

Jet planes?

No no no, her name is Jett... well, that's not really her name, it's... forget it. Are you done yet?

Not yet daddy. But I understand that "Jett" is merely her pen name, like your "Captain Dumbass." It would be nice if you didn't treat me like a five year old all the time.

But you are a five year old...

Did you want help with the blog or not?

Ok, shoot me some ideas then.

How about the election? Americans love to talk about politics.

True, but we don't want to step on any toes here. It's not our country and we don't want to cause any backlash on Jett's site.

What about some Sarah Palin jokes? Our province borders Alaska, we could tell them we've had diplomatic relations with her?

Heh heh, ya, that's pretty good. We could tell them we can see her head from our front window.

Ha! Good one dad. Then again...

Ya, she might have some Republican viewers.

How about our upcoming election?

Um, I watched the VP debate instead of our own. If I thought the Canadian debate was too boring to watch I don't think they're going to be interested.

So daddy...

Yes, hon?

It's like, what? Two days after this little story began? We're not sitting in the bathroom having this conversation and Jett hasn't had a post up in three days. You've turned this post into a bad episode of Seinfeld. If you're going to keep dragging this imaginary conversation on, could you at least replace me with Liam (younger brother)?

Really. Well why don't we imagine your ass upstairs for a little nap then, shall we?

It's ten o'clock in the morning!

Well then, I IMAGINE I'll get the TV all to myself for awhile, won't I?

DADDY!!!

[Guest poster Chris Robinson is a long-time reader and commenter here; he could safely be called the measured voice of reason within my readership. We've had a sporadic but rich e-mail correspondence over the years, and I can say about him what I can't say about much of Cyberia: I implicitly trust him. He is sage and kind and completely honest. Sadly, he has no website for me to link, but I can tell you that he has letters in Philosophy and Political Science and is way, way more learned than me. Don't let him fool you...there are a wealth of things going on in his innards. Maybe one day I can audit one of his courses and heckle him just a little bit.]

Life Changers

Greetings to all you readers in Jett-Land. I’m honored to be the guest blogger for the day. When I was asked by our hostess, this invitation initiated some pretty deep reflection on life changing events. I’ve led a fairly uneventful life so far. There’s been no trauma or religious epiphanies (darn the luck), but I’m struck by how I have been altered fundamentally by small, mundane events. The promise of such moments gives waking up each morning a sense of adventure.

Several years ago, some students told me about the growing universe of blogs in the on-line world. I had never heard of a blog, and I set out to see what it was about. Within an hour of searching around I found two writers whose work I continue to read with fascination to this day. The first was “Sugarmama.” I was drawn to this blog for three reasons: First, the writing was vivid and funny. Second, there was a column on the side titled “Buy Me Shit” and it had a fairly long and hilarious wish-list of things Sugarmama wanted. Finally, Sugarmama’s blog featured photos and tales of her very cool dog Ruby. This blog has changed over the years, but what remain consistent are the thought-provoking writing, the humor, and the occasional photos of Ruby. The second blog I discovered that day was linked to Sugarmama, and this was Jett Superior. Jett’s writing is fiery and unpredictable. Her writing features her family, thoughts on the sacred, and a talent for poetry. I continue to read these blogs every day, and I am very grateful to both writers for all their work. They have brought me a great deal of happiness over the years.

This is just the backdrop to my post for today. I’m interested in hearing about life-changing events you’ve experienced. The one I’ll tell you about by way of example is Bob Dylan’s great record Blood on the Tracks. This record was my personal and intellectual awakening. I was dreaming my way through my teen years, and I was headed toward a safe life that I would live close to home, with a job that didn’t challenge but paid enough to get by, and a formal education that would end at high school graduation. What ambition I did have was shaped by suburbia and network television. All of this was shattered when I started listening to the first cut of Blood on the Tracks, “Tangled Up in Blue.” That lyric went straight to the marrow of my being. I was shaken. I wore out my copy of the album in a month of near-constant listening. Every corner of my life and thought was illuminated. My expectations for the life I would lead were transformed fundamentally. Within months I was reading and writing, exploring the history of philosophy, planning for college far from home, and engaging in political activism. To this day, hearing something off this record sends me back to that time when I learned to cast off mere satisfaction with what is and began to work for what could be.

Over the years, I’ve enjoyed many interesting conversations with folks about the song, book, or event that changed their life. What is yours?

company meeting

Hello, precious and lively Muffinasses. One of the best features of living on the last mountain in the Appalachian chain is that you can drive a few minutes out of town, wander into a stand of trees and scream your fool fucking head off when life gets to be A Little Too Much.

Yesterday, my friend Suze lost her mother to cancer. Della has been battling the beast for a couple years now, but she took a sharp turn for the better back in March and we were all very, very hopeful. Then a couple of weeks ago it was reported that she only possessed function in one lung because the other was one white mass of tumor on film. All in all, she has survived far longer than anyone is supposed to with her ratio of cancer to healthy tissue; it was enmeshed in several regions of her body. We love this family so much, we Superiors. Our children are the same ages and we all just have so much fun together. Suze and her husband have vacationed with us (not something we would even ask some of our own kin to do), dined with us countless times, helped us gut and reconfigure our Brady-style home. They are beautiful and compassionate people of great heart: Not one time throughout her mother's illness have I seen Suze shed even a single tear. She drove her mother back and forth for treatment over an hour each way, every other day for most of this year and never once have I heard her complain or fret. "I'm fine, I'm just fiiiiine," she told me just today, "Just see about Mina and the girls, okay?"

Which brings me to my friend Mina, whose three teenage daughters are close friends of Sam and Scout's. Their father, forty-five, died on my lunch break today; it was a horrible and racking process over the course of this week. I don't want to belabor too many of the details, but it was a sweet hot mess there at the very end and those babies and their momma are several kinds of wrecked right now.

I am thankful that Maxim had taken the day off today, because for a good portion of my lunch hour(s) we just sat, holding hands, while he made me laugh over and over again. I cannot explain the kind of lonely I would be if I had to know life without him. Who else knows that I sleep easier with a hand resting lightly at the base of my throat? Who else could talk me down from the ledge of myself without breaking a sweat? Who else could do the chicken dance for me at six-thirty in the morning without acquiring a mortal wound from me, a prime example of Not Really A Morning Person?

After I came back from lunch, I was putting a patient I'd not seen in a few months on a table when she let a wince of pain slip. When I inquired as to her well-being, I was met with the news that she was fresh off a double mastectomy and reconstuction. I'd no idea why she'd been away from us for so long; I guess it was diagnosed and dealt with just that quick.

"Well," I said, "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you. You look really great." And then I snuck back to the x-ray room to drop some saltwater for a minute.

As some of you people know, this sort of business just wrecks my contacts, so I'll be sporting my glasses over the next couple of days. Something else I'll be doing is taking a little bit of a break from posting here. The events of the last handful of days, coupled with some health issues I've been dealing with for a few weeks, have left me feeling drained and resolved to use what good energy I've got going for me toward shoring my friends up (and maybe writing nutty comments on the posts of others).

Another something I'll be doing is asking a few people that a) you might not have read yet and b) I've been spending a little time visiting to step in and throw some words at you to see if they stick. In eight years of doing this voyeurnal thing, I've only had dog-and-pony guest posting 'events' a couple of times. It's always turned out really well

(oh God, please do reference this VidBlog posted by theDane during my trip to Scotland...I don't give a fuck what the rest of Cyberia tells you, the birth of the VidBlog happened one afternoon many, many years ago while theDane and I were on the phone talking about one of my audblog posts. He mentioned that he'd like to do a VidBlog, whereupon I let out a wild whoop of encouragement. Thus, blogging in video format. And nobody seems to recognize theDane was doing it before anybody else. BOO, very BOO.)

and I have no expectations of anything different this time around. I will communicate in as convincing a fashion as possible that if there's any letting out of a wild hair to be done, there's no place more suited to that sort of thing than the site you're squatting on right now. Everybody put on your rhumba panties, let's dance!

Me, I'll be sitting sidestage, making sure all the pulleys and knobs get yanked and twirled in the appropriate places. And I'll be smiiiiling, all chill, because luckily all this stuff fell in my lap at the beginning of medication week. Who says the universe ain't on my side? Not me, that's who.