All posts in Posts That Refuse To Fit In

Saturday SlobberLove

stinkeyeSometimes on Saturday, after a failed attempt at getting our little brother to shut up by attacking him, we like to remove ourselves from the situation and wait for our mother to join us in our silent protest until she gives us the opportunity to share our grievances.

Half-Heartedly Yours,
Ricardo Resentment

Things I Like More Than the American Dentist Who Murdered Cecil the Lion

1. Having pipe cleaners plunged deep into my ears
2. World War III
3. Being forced into a “who can’t jump higher dies” contest with LeBron James
4. Extreme Nude Dating
5. Fox News

Sunday Secret

wolfieLord lordy knows when the seasons change I howl at the moon. I anticipate the nights when I can’t sit out on the deck without my jacket on. I picture how my breath looks like smoke. I plan the ways in which I will unwind and forgive. I read and watch and look and write. I have big plans, I do, when it comes to Autumn flowing into Winter.

And I hibernate and rejuvenate and reciprocate, all the while planning my reorganization of my whirling swirling planet. I rid myself and check myself. I picture the smiling faces at Thanksgiving dinner. I look forward to those gloomy days when I will be forced to lift myself up. I preen and prepare conjure up a type of joy that will have some lasting effect on my doomsday mind. I cook new things, I take different walks and I always, always always listen to sweet music.

Happy Pumpkins,
Gertrude of the Gravy

Tuesday Poem

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that my father died in 2006 and this was the year that my now-husband and I decided it was the year we should get married. Largely because my dad was our favorite person and we were his favorite couple and we thought OH MY HOLY MOLY WE HAVE SUFFERED THIS OTHER-WORLDLY LOSS—WE SHOULD CREATE OUR OWN GIGANTIC JOYFUL GAIN and so we decided to wed. And we pictured how happy he would be and it propelled us into our life union.

But that’s not really the point. The point is that my father was on his way to receive the test results that would deliver his No Alzheimer’s – Yes Alzheimer’s sentence on SEPTEMBER ELEVENTH, TWO THOUSAND AND ONE. Right—you heard me. September 11th, 2001. 9-11.

While the rest of the world equates 9-11-01 with the most devastating terrorist attack our country has ever suffered, my family equates that day with the day that postponed the news that was delivered to us where we learned that our father would begin the slow decline into oblivion. The decline that all family members dread. The decline that, if you ADORE someone, is the decline that is that diagnosis you do not want to hear. How could you? If you love someone, the thing you wish for that person is that they don’t lose their mind slowly and painfully and in the most complicated and scary way you could imagine.


So. Here is the poem that I wrote, using the fuel of my father’s diagnosis. The diagnosis that eventually took him and that he, in the end, suffered with his particularly elegant form of GRATEFUL SWEETNESS…

It was as if we discovered that we were losing him from one moment to the next, however, we know that things aren’t always that way. We all knew in our hearts—my sister, my brother-in-law, my husband, ME—His Truest and Most Devoted Fans that we’d CREATE ANOTHER REALITY for ourselves simply because we loved him enough to pretend that it might not be happening and simply because we reflected his love for us back to him—and this was the thing that kept all of us going. Because of all the people for us NOT to lose it would have been him. And I tried to describe this in a poem.

What The Experts Don’t Tell You

It happens the way you’d fear it most
Not from one month to the next
but in one moment: predictable and happy
and in the next: all wrong

The people you hear about on the news
that could never be you
Are around the next corner
Waiting to exchange their life for yours

They want you to know
they don’t want to be virtuous
To make something meaningful from their pain
Or establish another foundation in their son’s name

They would rather you take their burden from them
Exchange their unwanted tragedy for your freedom
Your unknowing, precarious life
They’d snatch it from you in a minute
if they could

It’s Election Day and I always think of him on Election Day and so this post is for him. The Nicest Bolshevik I Have Ever Known.

The Hopeful Griever

Saturday Sleuthing

This afternoon Mister Cupcake made a grocery run to Albertsons and when he returned he proudly entered the door holding up the latest issue of People magazine knowing how happy this would make me.

WHY IS SANDRA BULLOCK ON THE COVER OF PEOPLE MAGAZINE WITH HARRIET TUBMAN? I thought for several seconds before I realized that she was NOT on the cover with Harriet Tubman but was actually holding her new baby boy Louis.

Mystery solved.

Then when I was perusing the pages of the literary masterpiece, making sure to keep a keen eye out for any photos of Kate Hudson’s new boobs, I happened upon a photo of Robin Wright that showcased her without make-up and was alarmed to read that she is next appearing in a movie called THE CONSTIPATOR.

THAT’S A WEIRD NAME FOR A MOVIE. I WONDER IF IT’S ABOUT A WOMAN WHO DRINKS TOO MUCH METAMUCIL, I thought for several seconds before I realized that the movie she is soon to star in is called The ConSPIRator and NOT The ConSTIPator.

Mystery solved.

It’s experiences like these that make me wonder why I never pursued a career as a Private Detective. Or some kind of Wise Shaman.