Despite the big buildup, sexy mommy will probably not be in evidence this week. What we get is a me we haven’t regressed to for awhile: Martyr Me. It’s teenage me, basically, plus a hefty dose of daddy’s little girl, with the added stress of sleeping next to a sleepless, restless child who’s prone to whimpering all night because he kicks off the covers inside his too-small portable crib. Martyr me says things like, It’s all your fault! Computer doesn’t work? It is husband who picked out computer’s fault! Baby can’t sleep at night? It’s brother who drove so slowly that baby fell asleep in the car on the way home after dinner and then wouldn’t go down until 11:00’s fault! Nothing good in the house for breakfast? Parents with cheap Midwestern shopping habits’ fault! You see how much fun I was to live with as a teenager, listening to Brian Eno records and dying my hair shades of drugstore red eerily incompatible with my complexion.
Gosh, how do you like Fussy’s new unintentional unhilariousness? When we moved into this house I used to scare myself at night by thinking it was built on top of an old Indian burial ground, and I would hold my breath, waiting to be flung from my bed like Linda Blair. As I walk past my angry middle-aged brother’s closed bedroom door and imagine finding him hanging from the closet light fixture, I think, This is how ghosts enter a house; it starts with a bad vibe and creeps through like mold.
The Secret
don’t worry, nobody has the
beautiful lady, not really, and
nobody has the strange and
hidden power, nobody is
exceptional or wonderful or
magic, they only seem to be.
it’s all a trick, an in, a con,
don’t buy it, don’t believe it.
the world is packed with
billions of people whose lives
and deaths are useless and
when one of these jumps up
and the light of history shines
upon them, forget it, it’s not
what it seems, it’s just
another act to fool the fools
again.
there are no strong men, there
are no beautiful women.
at least, you can die knowing
this
and you will have
the only possible
victory.
Charles Bukowski