When You Can’t Write. And Why.
That’s a loaded title. Where are the words? When will they show up? How long will it take?
These thoughts are loaded with questions, baggage, and ghosts for all of us who have this strange urge to document our lives with letters and words and sentences. We do it to make sense of what has happened to us, what will happen to us, what we hope happens to us. We use it to figure out motivations, loved ones, puzzles, scary things, and mysteries. We use these words to figure out how we truly feel underneath all the layers, the fake smiles, the daily grind.
Fancy Dress
Jane: We’re getting married to Fayez.
Me: No baby, I’m getting married to Fayez.
Jane: NO, ME TOO. I’M GETTING MARRIED TOO.
Cactus-Needle-Hands
I’m not sure whether to blame the nitty gritty aspects of being a parent (like figuring out the odd substance streaked across my mirror was two day old banana courtesy of an angry Jane), or the ever burgeoning crank-fest of my age (last night I simultaneously watched Dateline, sprayed Icy Hot on my knee and yelled at Jane “Stop singing It’s a Hard Knock Life and go to sleep!”), but my love of decorating may be broken.
Listen To Your Mother: The Nickname
Last night I participated in Little Rock’s Listen To Your Mother show. And by participate, I mean I did not puke, slur, face plant, or sudden-onset-tourette myself on stage in front of a lot of people. It was, truly, an incredibly fun show to be a part of and to watch. I met amazing people. I laughed and cried. I’m very thankful for the experience.
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