mydarlingcurse.com

yeah, so i was totally kidding myself to think i’d have time to even write 143 words a day when sometimes i don’t even speak that much.

where on earth has robert downey, jr. been?
rehab? yes.
jail? yes.
making the best summer movie EVER? yes!

in a rare turn of events hubbin and i snagged a babysitter and hit a 9PM movie. buns was asleep and boo and the sitter are pals, so bedtime for her was no big deal.

we went to see Iron Man, and let me tell ya, it was great! maybe i’ve been deprived these last few months, all but shut in with a bebe at my breast, freak snow storms, and utter lack of motivation. but honestly, Iron Man was a blast!

robert downey jr., i think, is the quintessential gen-x actor (along with james spader…meow!) and he’s been through some shit. so how fabulous was it see him aged and snarky as ever playing a comic book character. pretty damn fabulous!

as much as i’d love to bore you all with my breakdown of this movie, i’ll restrain myself. but allow me two little things…

One - Jon Favreau is a great director
Two - the special effects in Iron Man don’t detract from the storytelling as is often the case with comic-book movies. it’s not ALL about the effects. there IS a story there and good one.

i can’t wait for the action figures to come out. remind me to tell you about mulder and scully one of these days, they kept the aliens off my desk for years, back when i was working.

i’m taking a tip from two writer friends of mine, well, one of them is a friend…..

in a haphazard way i found out that the cute ex-writing teacher only writes 143 words a day (allegedly). he writes 143 words on a story a day, probably every day. wow, doesn’t seem like that much, but you never know.

so i decided to give it a try. read the results here. i’m putting it some place else because i don’t want to clog it up here at MDC.

wherein Jodi and I bitch on the Bitches.

powered by ODEO

my arrested development/jason bateman crush is well documented. and last night, after mixing grapes and grain at JCSG’s (”wine before beer, in the clear”), i had a weird phone sex dream about mr. bateman.

i say weird because we were in a public place, me on a pay phone (remember
those?) and him on his cell. i say weird, because we were right around the corner from each other and we could both peek around and see the other person. i say weird because i did really well up to the part when i had to say and describe “penis” and then my mind went blank, and i ended the call. i say weird, because after a sexy call, even if it ends badly, being in such close proximity, there was no slow easing around the corner with a smile and making out with the other person.

so with almost half the year gone, there is still NO DML for 2008. just to remind you, the DML is my Dream Make-out List. not a list of people i’d like to make out with, but rather a list of people i make out with in my dreams.

obviously having two kids under three severely affects my ability to dream about kissing hot men.

so i am doing homework for the upcoming Bookclub Bitches podcast. JCSG and i decided that we are doing a retrospective of all the books we’ve read so far. i’m listening to all our podcasts keeping stats and making notes. i’m SUCH a dork!

ck and his wife are having their wood floors refinished. this really isn’t news since they’ve been re-doing their house for a few months now. however, the hotel they checked themselves and their two dogs into is booked for Friday night, so they are coming here.

again, this really isn’t news.

however, for the last two years hubbin and i have been using the spare bedroom as a junk depository, a staging area for boxes to be stored or sent to goodwill or whatever charity is coming to the door that week. also, since my dad is “cleaning” his house, he always sends a box of crap home with me. these usually contain unwanted sentimental crap that was important to me in 1988, but not anymore. i can live without the billy joel concert ticket stub, believe me.

however, there are some things of my Mom’s that i’m not ready to tackle yet. mainly, the bag she packed when she went into the hospital. it was the last thing she did and i can’t for the life of me unzip the bag and take things out. and if i remember correctly, we left the bag at the hospital after she died. for some reason, it has a sticker on it, and i’m thinking that hubbin had to go get it. my memory of this time is a little fuzzy. i remember my uncle arizona sitting in the waiting room across the hall, TV always on and whenever i’d come into the room, he’d hug me. giving his silent support. i remember aunt iowa rushing me to the bathroom down the hall. they had just told me mom had only a few hours left and a tsunami of nausea came over me, i only remember the pattern of the floor tile on the way to the bathroom. thankfully i held it together and didn’t throw up.

but this bag. this bag haunts me. it’s this stupid little denim bag with pleather handles. and my parents took it with them everywhere. it was their carry-on bag for all their trips. africa, italy, fiji, new zealand, nova scotia, this bag has seen them all. and now it holds the last things my mom wore before she died. it’s been zipped and in the spare room for over a year now. a spectre of my last hours with my mom.

and today, i’m going to unpack it. i’m going to open it up and face whatever is inside, not just the bag, but me too. it’s time.

two reason why mother’s day didn’t suck…

1. boo wore her Tinkerbell costume all day - she was so vehement about not taking it off she peed in it.
2. i am mom. i am mom to two beautiful children, and that ain’t bad. not bad a’tall.

in a curious IM conversation the other day with JCSG, i became aware that people might perceive me as being largely unhappy.

shortly after my mom died, the chicago ex became frustrated with talking to me on the phone (our only means of communication) because i was taking too long to get my words out. at the time he thought i was being arrogant. as if my words had such weight and meaning that i had to speak slowly, to ensure they landed just right. when i explained what was happening to me, he was more forgiving, and even a little sympathetic.

for the last fifteen months, i’ve had a chronic log jam in my head, my heart and my soul. and it’s not so much that i’m unhappy - because that implies displeasure, it’s that i’m most likely very, very sad. incredibly sad. even with these great and joyous things, i’m still a little sad.

and - and i’m not trying to play the woe-is-me card here - i’m extremely tired. i have a newborn. a wonderful, beautiful boy. a little spot of heaven here on earth. and he’ll never have the pleasure of knowing my mom. my daughter no longer remembers her “Nana” and that kills me, although i knew it would happen. it kills me because my mom waited so long to be “Nana” and when she finally was, she was terminal and in constant pain. and it chokes me up just typing it.

i see these beautiful children everyday, and everyday i feel my mom looking down with love and approval, and everyday i wish she was here. i have told more than one person that i feel like i’m going through motherhood alone. and JCSG was quick to point out how untrue that it. and she’s right. but no one fills the gap that my mom left, i mean how could they? so while there are people around who love and care about me, it doesn’t make the chasm any less heartbreaking.

so i am a motherless mother. when some beautiful, unbelievable, random thing happens with boo or buns, i have no one to share it with. my first instinct is to call my mom, and i can’t. and by now, my heart’s killing me. so while i’m not alone, i find my life very lonely without her.

yes i have a wonderful husband. yes i have wonderful friends. yes i have wonderful children. i should be grateful for what i have, count my blessings and shut the fuck up.

it’s just, my mom meant the world to me and she died a horrible, undignified death. i guess i haven’t been able to shake that off yet.

send me wine. that might help.

apparently, according to hubbin, the last two nights i’ve done some weird things while sleeping.

two nights ago, he said i rolled over on top of him and gave him a big hug, rolled back and fell promptly asleep. then last night, after only being asleep for an hour or so, he said i sat up and questioned him, who are you? which one are you? are you number 13?

of course i don’t remember any of this. but it’s nice to know that i’m affectionate in my sleep. and i have no fears about the number 13, in fact it’s one of my favorite numbers.

it’s so strange to know that you did something or said something in a completely different form of conscientiousness. who knows maybe tonight i’ll do laundry in my sleep.