- Thigh rolls.
- Saggy diapers.
- An overturned bowl of spaghetti on the head.
- Chortling and/or gurgling.
- Bibs (unless they disposable plastic and have a picture of a lobster).
- Exposed protuberant or “outie” belly buttons.
- Sailor outfits.
- Small plastic barrettes.
- Waddling around comically then falling down.
And then some mornings you wake up at 5 from a dream of a tiger to find snow on the ground, knowing you slept through a lunar eclipse, and it’s time to pry your license plates from your car with a wrench, and it’s still National Poetry Month so all is not lost but some people are involved in hate…
Damn, this girl can write.
I am not active on Facebook because I am vulnerable to time-sucks, plus I don’t understand exactly how the site operates and tend to embarrass myself, but a friend of mine put something on her Facebook page about creating your band name. Remember that thing about your porn star name, which combines your first childhood pet and street name? That made me Lassie Gilbert, which wasn’t half bad.
Anyway, you get your band name by combining the color of the pants you’re wearing and what you had for breakfast, which made my band Beige Oatmeal. Terrible, I know, and super annoying, because I’d just gotten back from my run, changed, and had started eating my breakfast, causing me to miss being Black Nothing by less than five minutes.
Coachella. Music and Arts Festival, Indio, California. Micah told me last Tuesday that he was thinking of going. He wondered how I felt about it.
“I don’t know. I’ve heard it gets pretty crazy.”
Micah laughed. “I think it’s as crazy as you want it to be.”
“I also heard it’s expensive. And isn’t it, like, soon?”
“Actually, it starts Friday. I bought a ticket from a friend for $460. I know that sounds like a lot but it’s a good deal and I can pay for it. And Tyler’s flying in from Connecticut.”
“Okay, Micah. It’s three days from now, you bought a ticket, Tyler’s flying in, and you’re thinking of going?”
Pause. “If you and Dad really have a problem with it, I could sell my ticket.”
I would never play that card, and Micah knew it, but I appreciated the symbolic generosity of the offer.
So I told him to use good judgment. He promised he would. I was moved, deeply, that he pretended to hand me the rope so I could pretend to cut him some slack.
Then I got this video. When your kids share your faith in the implicit yes, you’re long past reclaiming the no. So this is what happens.
Happy birthday, brother John. We shared childhood back when life was paced in real time, with snow forts and leaf piles and runs through the sprinkler on hot summer days. You taught me to ride a bike on our front lawn, so when I fell, I’d fall softly. I remember one Sunday night at the dinner table when we made each other laugh so hard milk sprayed out of your nose and we both got a spanking. With Mom gone, you are one of the three people on this earth familiar with the term cuddle bunny.
I wish you health and happiness and an extravagance of days to savor your life and those you love. You were my first best friend and when I think back on what made childhood sweet I hear us laughing and even knowing the consequences, still, we don’t stop.
My Top Five Anti-Aging Tips
By Christie Brinkley
Can you believe I’m sixty? Well, neither can I! Even factoring in all the airbrushing, I look fucking fabulous. And guess what? I’ve decided to share my fave five anti-aging tips with you!
- De-stress: I find that when it comes to relieving stress, nothing beats having no actual job or financial worries. But for those times I do get stressed, like when my colorist gets my highlights wrong, I chill out over a glass of Pinot in my private jet en route to St. Barths, or if that’s not possible, pop a few Xanax. Or both.
- Friendship: Never enter the battle against time solo! I make it a point to schedule quality time with my friend, Dr. Rob. After my other friend, Dr. Jan, starts the anesthesia, Dr. Rob lifts my epidermis, redrapes it, cuts the excess, then reattaches it, using sutures artfully concealed in my hairline and behind my ears. No sir, you will never find me asking these pals to get out of my face!
- Don’t forget the sunscreen: I’m serious. My assistant forgot mine the other day and I had to kill her.
- Get plenty of sleep: In fact, I’m sleeping right now and some sad editorial intern I’ll never meet is writing all this shit down.
- Moisturize: I am religious about moisturizing every single night. My product of choice is very hush-hush, because it’s harvested from the stem cells of embryonic endangered Siberian white tigers. Way out of your price range, totally illegal, but you can improvise. Buy the cheap drugstore crap I advertise on T.V. and slap it on your face. Remember, in the end, when it comes to anti-aging, it’s not about the moisturizer. It’s about making friends with Dr. Rob.
When I was a kid, the word pussy referred to felines or the smaller species of the genus Salix (willows) when their furry catkins are young in early spring. But time passed and for pussy, things got ugly.
Pussy is now almost exclusively slang for two things: female genitalia and people, typically male, who are who are deemed soft, or “lacking balls”, “balls” being synonymous with courage.
While it’s too late to return pussy to the innocent associations of my youth, it’s not too late to reject its current connotations and most popular denotation by informing those who use it in the modern-day derogatory fashion that if it weren’t for both kind of pussies, the body part and the much-maligned personality type, the world would come to a screeching halt. The absence of pussies would mean the end of humankind and humanity. We’d be reduced to a planet of dicks, frantically slinging around big and very ineffectual balls.
When faced with something formidable, those who feel threatened rush to defuse by marginalizing and reducing, a strategy that extends to semantics. What happened to pussy is a prime example. Pussy became a pejorative for females and for accommodation, with both genders complicit in its propagation.
In my personal lexicon, I choose to define pussy as the place life begins, as well as a person possessing the flexibility to ease and sustain the journey. Simply put, a pussy is the absolute antonym of what they would have you believe.
believe me when I tell you
the world is full and wonderful,
life too short.
Soon and forever, we waste away;
there is no end to time for that.
savor this life, its ragged beauty, open-mouthed.
is what makes us human.
shame is not your fate
unless you allow it
to whisper behind your back, collarbones jutting from the pages of a fashion magazine,
it deserves to burn.
To the women’s table. Take your place;
the banquet is in our honor.
Kayaking is one of those recreational activities that isn’t particularly complicated but it is also not completely intuitive. There’s a learning curve. That’s why I don’t understand the practice of renting kayaks to novices with no instructions other than “get it back in an hour or we charge you for the extra hour.” Actually, when Hannah and I rented a kayak yesterday, the guy told us not to go swimming from it, which we hadn’t really considered, what with all the posted alligator warning signs.
To make a long story short, though not short enough for the aforementioned hour time limit, we kayaked for eighty minutes, two times slo-mo colliding into mangrove roots and one time into another kayaker. She was not amused, even though we apologized profusely after we managed to stop laughing. By the end, though, we were pretty damn fabulous at kayaking. Lest I sound braggy, I should mention that there were wizened grandmas and six-year-old kids displaying the same level of kayaking prowess, but for the sake of my ego, I have to assume it wasn’t their first time out.
Today, we rented paddleboards, speaking of which, we’d better get going. We have to have them back in an hour or we get charged for the extra hour, and time’s a-wastin’. We have a learning curve to fit in.