Monthly archives: June 2012Entries found: 2
God doesn’t require mothers to go to church.
If you leave the bread upside down, God cries.
If you become a nun, you’ll wash the priest’s underwear for free for the rest of your life.
If you don’t wash your face before you go to church, God won’t see you.
You can pray to statues of the saints and if they don’t give you what you ask for, you can punish them by turning their faces to the wall.
There is no God.
God opens up your stomach to let the baby out when the time is right.
If you wash your hair when you have your period, you’ll go mental.
If you swim when you have your period, you’ll get sick and die.
If you go into the wine cellar when you have your period, the wine will turn.
If you have sex when you’re a teenager, people will be able to tell because you’ll suddenly look older.
Not wearing a bra will make your breasts hang to your waist before the age of thirty.
You should dress like a prostitute to look sexy.
The movie Raging Bull is a love story.
Men are God.
Men are assholes.
Milk and spaghetti are a poisonous combination.
Too much reading will make you go blind.
Too much reading will make you go crazy.
Too much reading will make you a man.
Too many compliments will bring down a curse on you.
You can be so smart, you’re stupid.
Someday your children will make you suffer like you made me suffer.
from Jesse, A Mother’s Story
Miss you every single day, ma.
The minute Chris leaves town Lucky and Frenchy morph into Hound-of-Hell Protectors. My husband was away for a short film job a few weeks ago and the Fierce Fluffballs were hyperalert to the looming terrors of the wind in the trees and the occasional car driving by. I lost count of how many times a night they would leap off their preferred chair, run to the top of the stairs and stand there quivering and facing the front door, ready to hurl their combined twenty pounds at any intruder who would dare to threaten me, their Food Goddess, She Who Disperses Marrow Bones every morning. We live in a quiet neighborhood and our house faces a salt marsh and a tidal river. Sometimes a pack of coyotes howls from across the river and Frenchy will freeze, lift his head and emit a sympathetic yip. I always tell him he would be an amuse-bouche for that crowd if he tried to join their pack and not to waste his breath. He just looks at me like I don’t get it, and the next time there’s a suspicious rustling, the running, standing at attention and warning barks continue. Finally, at some point during the long night, I can expect to become over-vigilant myself and become convinced that the Delirious Duo is on to something: there’s someone outside, possibly a rabid raccoon or a serial killer. That’s when I sleep upstairs with them on the daybed with all the lights on and the phone handy. I can only stand the daybed for one night, but since our bedroom is downstairs, the new normal is falling asleep somehow to the pounding of little feet followed by barking at intervals all night. My dreams become even more Felliniesque than normal and the Zombie Apocalypse is a running theme.
The Night Terrors continue their watch until the day Chris returns, and I can finally get some sleep.