On the Subject of Babies

The first argument Ilya and I ever had was about what our children's names were to be. He proclaimed (this is three weeks into our relationship, mind you) that his first son would be named Victor after his father, and his first daughter Natalia after his grandmother. It was as if he expected the hand of God to come down and pat him on the head, he was so proud of himself. I was taken aback, but chocked it up to some kind of Russian Jewish tradition I knew nothing of, that the father named his children before even going to the trouble of securing a handy fertile woman. So I told him he was a moron and we sort of forgot about it.

Which pretty much sums up my feeling about kids in general. Can we just forget about it? Lalalala I can't hear you. I'm 26 years old, Ilya and I have been together nearly 10 years, we own a home, he has a good job, and we're both all over this country like a pack of dogs on a three legged cat. We are writers. We are selfish. We need three hours a day holed up in our respective offices with no disturbances to mentally masturbate, producing maybe 10 words, maybe 1000. We go to bookstores for fun. I'm turning into the kind of woman who sneers at noisy kids in the restaurant.

But funny things sometimes happen. A 5-year-old with a mohawk made me giggle by standing on his head. A picture of a newborn made me feel a little empty in the womb region. I simply refuse to plant over our back lawn despite the drought because I see an undefined but rather tall toddler stumbling all over it laughing insanely as his father chases him. A little girl picks up a Queen Elizabeth doll in the bookstore and turns to her mother, saying "Look, mama. A queen." With a kind of reverence I have never, ever heard.

There isn't any time. Lately I've felt more desperate than ever before, watching it slip away. Where are my books? My degrees? Where's my career? Ilya continues to be successful, and I could not be more proud. I love my life, I'm proud of my accomplishments, but damn if I don't feel jealous sometimes. Just on the verge, on the cusp of finally succeeding, of beginning something wonderful with my life, how can I slow down for 18 years to bring a child into the world?

Even if I would be a MILF. Cause I totally would be, you know.

The better to see you with, my dear...

So I took my new contacts to my optometrist yesterday for a check-up. Everything was fine except for one minor annoyance-- at night any bright light was surrounded by a halo. Which made it look like there were cars all the fuck over the road. To cut down on the glare, I've been wearing shades at night, like a crack-whore. They're my asshole cop glasses-- polarized aviators. I keep asking my friends for their license and registration. Yeah, they still think it's funny.

ANYWAY, my optometrist nodded his head, concerned, looked deeply into my eyes, and told me it was because I had enormous pupils, so big in fact that they expanded around the edge of the corrective part of the contact lenses. He used the word enormous. He even made a gesture with his hands that implied a sort of weight, rather as if he were talking about breasts. I believe it turned him on a little.

I myself, I was a little freaked out. How can you go for twenty-five years without knowing that you have some truly exceptional physical characteristic? I felt a similarly taken aback when I found out that I had a tipped uterus-- it was like, how come no one ever told me? I've been seeing gynecologists and optometrists for many a yearn now, and they'd kept mum. I say that's medical malpractice by omission. 

At any rate, I found a sudden need to take a look at my pupils.

Here's the things about looking at your pupils: looking at them makes them disappear. They go into hiding. They shrink down like genitalia in cold water (that was my attempt at tact there, the lack of specification of genitalia, by the way). As you may already know, pupils dilate in the dark, when you're relaxed, and when you're sexually aroused. Through undisclosed means, I attempted to contrive a combination of these three factors in the bathroom, flipping on the light only after I was quite certain they were dilated. Of course they just contracted again. I had to try this two or three more times until I had convinced myself that I did indeed have enormous pupils, and also it was good that I was doing this at home instead of in Providence where I have a (male) roommate.

Well and so, I have to wear glasses at night if I'm driving in unfamiliar terrain, and I have learned two things about me: firstly, I have Pupils of Unusual Size (POUS's). Seriously. Those fuckers are huge. Also, I am willing to do almost anything in order to prove a point to myself.

I think I'm going to create a center for those, like me, who are the Particularly Ocularly Enabled. We're accepting applications now. Please include your name, phone number, and the maximum dilation measurement of your pupils. In metric units.

Mutiny in my nase

There is a very small mutiny or perhaps a pirate war going on in my nase. There are several ships mutinying at once, so it's not a small war in the sense of importance, only small in the sense of scale-- that is, those are teeny weeny ships. And they are exploding one after another, in the vicinity of that silly place between your eyes that people are always pinching. Now I know why people are always pinching that place: because they are trying to kill the tiny fucking pirates! Hey guys! Stop making my nasal passages burn! IT'S NEITHER HILARIOUS NOR PRODUCTIVE!!!



These pirates are way more cute and yet still way huger than the motherufckers in my nose. Just to give you a sense of scale.

My Feelings (Mostly Negative) About Ice.

What's that you say? It's the only known non-metallic substance that expands when it freezes? That it's an important part of global climate and the water cycle? That glaciers are pretty and stripey? 

I DON'T CARE! FUCK YOU, ICE!

Yesterday was the first time I've seen ice in probably years. It is ice, not snow, that drove me from New England. Think I'm exaggerating? I cried when I heard the words "wintry mix" uttered over the radio a couple of days ago. Cried! Like a baby! 

Ever since the day I slipped and fell on black ice outside the chapel of St. Catherine's School (since I'm already grumpy, I might as well mention: FUCK YOU SISTER SUSANNAH! I have had a happy and productive adulthood without learning how to write the letter "b" in cursive according to your arbitrary rules. Although I have lived in sin and no longer believe that Jesus is my Savior and for that matter, I assume the Pope is kind of a twat, so maybe you should have tried HARDER!), I have hated ice. 

I walk around like a little old lady which I always think is going to help but it DOESN'T, because if ice wants you, it will have you. And you can say hello to a bruised tailbone, is all I'm going to say. Nothing hurts more than a bruised tailbone, except maybe getting shot or having a baby or getting your toenails torn off or occasionally really bad indigestion which is NOT THE POINT, let us just say that it hurts. And that I really, really, have strong, distasteful feelings for that slippery stuff. Okay? Let us never speak of this again.

Except to say that here's a really suggestive image of a girl sucking on a icicle. Like, almost NAFW. This girl's going to be one hell of a troublemaker when she grows up.

Climbing the Walls

I am afraid of heights. This is fairly well established to anyone who knows me well. Walking on sidewalks looking down at the curb can make me kind of dizzy. I have to close my eyes when I go up on tiptoe. Don't get me started on getting in and out of Hummers. (Because I am this eco-obnoxious, may I just state that I have never, in my life, gotten in or out of a Hummer?) Okay.

What is the most logical form of exercise for such a one, may I ask? Obviously, rockclimbing. Or wall-climbing. But you know, anything that gets you sixty or so feet off the ground, dangling from a dubious purple string and a carabiner between your legs. But for some strange reason, I have always wanted to do it. And on Tuesday (and again today!) I did. 
Injuries sustained. (Yes, they hardly exist, but the one on my elbow hurts like a BITCH!!)

I can't begin to describe how proud I am of myself for this. When it comes to physical fitness, I usually lack a little in the way of... motivation? Confidence? Reflexes? Going on a treadmill was enough to make me sweat (I mean, not in the... you understand). Why? Because I might look like I didn't know what I was doing. And let me tell you, being the only one on a climbing wall in the middle of a gym screaming your fool head off is not the way to deflect attention. But I don't care. Because it was really fun, felt like I was doing something (unlike the treadmill) and allowed me to overcome a fear. Or at least, ignore it for a little while. I think I may have to sleep on the floor tonight, though-- the bed seems a little altitudinous for me today.

PS-- I must also note that it was Friday the 13th! That must account for the elbow bruise.

In the Pursuit of my Life-Long Desire to be a Crotchety Old Lady

Not only do I drink Cape Cods, not only do I have more cats than bathrooms, not only do I wear flat orthopedic sandals, not ONLY do I hate children and make inappropriate sexual comments at any turn, I partake in needlework, darlings. And not just any needlework: this is the queen of all crotchety old lady needlework-- it is in fact, CALLED "crochet." Crotchety, crochet. Get it?

At any rate, these are Granny Squares for the afghan I am currently completing in my head. I've made seven (Granny Squares, that is: not afghans) in the last four days, with speedy progress in the pattern-reading department, and here are them (why do I adore bad grammar so much? Seriously? It just makes me laugh to write like that. My mother will be horrified. Hi Mom!). There are the Loopy Flower Granny Squares (not so hard to pick out), the Basic Granny Squares, the Diamond Granny Square Variation C, and then the one and only "Splendor in the Grass" which reminds me of the CDB song "Uneasy Rider." You know, the part, where said uneasy rider is trying to convince the other rednecks that the greenteethed one is actually a "friend of those long-haired, hippie-type pinko fags." "He's a snake in the grass, I tell you guys/ He make look dumb, but that's just a disguise/ He's a mastermind in the ways of espionage."

Aside from crochet, I am enjoying summer vacation enormously, despite my twentieth cold of the year (!) catching up on my reading. Recommendations thus far include Pricksongs and Descants by Robert Coover if you like fairy tales, short fiction, or fantastic prose, and Kay Ryan's Flamingo Watching-- fantastic short, rhyming poems. I'm looking forward to the Blotner Faulkner biography and as much Carson McCullers as I can cram in before school starts again!

Woohoo!

 Just got news that I was accepted at Brown for their MFA program in Fiction... with a $33,000 scholarship! I called Ilya to inform him, and after some mutual celebration and back-patting, he let me know that he'd flinched two rejection letters from the mail before I could see them-- Iowa and Michigan. Good thing he told me now-- I'm still floating on air!

I'm trying not to think about all this implies, though-- I love San Diego (contrary to my expectations)-- I have such great friends here, a beautiful apartment, three kitties I adore, and oh, yes, what's his name? That big guy who always leaves such a mess in the bathroom? Right. That one. On the other side, Brown is just the best program for me, writing wise. It's experimental, I've heard it's incredibly supportive, and, well, they want me. And who doesn't find that sexy?

I'm still waiting back to hear from a few places... Irvine, which is probably still my first choice, because it's A- Close, and B- one of the best programs out there. It's a little more traditional in style, so it's probably not the BEST fit, but it'd mean a lot less logistical problems and probably a little less heartache, too. I'm also waiting for Johns Hopkins, which has a fantastic program, and University of Virginia, which is up there too. But I'm kinda thinking that unless JH and UVA include two houseboys and a happy ending, I'm going to go with Brown if Irvine rejects me.

Oh, I'm all a-flutter. Hope you all are having wonderous good days!

3 Wishes

I've given a lot of thought to what my three wishes would be if a genie popped out of, say, the vase I picked up from my last trip to Goodwill. There are a lot of reasons for this, I'm sure, including a passionate love for fairy tales, fantasy novels, and men in parachute pants. So, after at least twenty years of mulling over this question, I'm ready to reveal my three choices:

1. I wish to be able to change shape into whatever animal, vegetable, or mineral I desire. (This requires amendments)

• I have to be able to change back!
  
• There have to be some  formal words to think or say aloud in order to do this, lest, you know, mid-coitus, the image of a porcupine should pop into my head and my husband would end up doing some SERIOUS explaining in the hospital.
  
• I need to be able to change from one shape into another without going back to my intermediate human shape.
  
• When I change back into a human, I need to be wearing the same clothes and retain whatever objects I had with  me before I changed.
  
• I need to be able to retain my human brain and consciousness in whatever shape I change to, even if it's a flea, or say, a diamond (a diamond shape would actually be really useful if say, a piano was about to fall on your head.)
  
• I also need to be able to retain the abilities and instincts of whatever animal I change into. It wouldn't be much help to change into wolf form and then not be able to run because I don't know what to do with my tail, or into fish form without knowing how to breathe through gills. 
  
• I also want to be able to change my human shape. So I could be a man, or a child, or an old woman, convincingly. Even better, I should be able to know the things a helicopter pilot, or doctor, or painter should know, if I change myself into one.
  
• I should also be able to wish to be myself, but in a different place. So this takes care of teleportation, basically.
  
• I have to be able to retain the memory of being whatever I change into, and what happened while I was in that form.
  

2. I wish to have the power to know the answer to any question. (This is another one that can bite you, so more amendments).

• Again, there have to be some sort of magic words uttered so I don't find out things I'd rather not know, which seems to be the fate of many people who receive this wish. I don't want to KNOW everything, I just want to be able to find things out.
  
• I want to be able to find out not only factual things, but also more subjective things. For instance, it would be very helpful to know what the best way to go about getting someone to give you something.
  
• I want to be able to forget anything I need to.

3. Free the genie. Duh.

I'm fairly confident these are the best wishes ever. Shape-shifting is awesome-- I can experience anything, from flying to deep-sea diving to watching my neighbor's HBO. Knowing anything I want to know could take care of me for the rest of my life-- in trouble with the law? Instant blackmail! Need money? Find some local buried treasure! Want to cure cancer? Bingo. And if you're tempted to ask a question you know you shouldn't (does he really love me, what do my friends find most annoying about me, what am I really like?) you can forget about it. And everybody knows you're supposed to free the genie. If you think you know different, you obviously haven't read  "The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye" by A.S. Byatt, and if you haven't already, you should. 

Anybody think they have better wishes? Or think I left something incredibly important out of my amendments?

Essence o' Bloggery

Credit for the painting goes to Caravaggio, liquor-swilling, shop-lifting, brawler of a Baroque artist, who painted this, his Narcissus.