Yeah! That’s right, sunshine, showers, all of it. Bring on the huge pollen spores making my three week headache and impossible inhalation possible. I’ll take it. The gigantic tree in front of our house has little pre-burst nubs on it, ready to explode in fluffy pink crepe papier clusters any minute. Requests to go to the zoo become more possible. Requests to leave the house are possible. Everything is possible, with the exception of breathing, but breathing is overrated, methinks.
What does the person who has already written about everything she could scrape off the bottom of the proverbial barrel write about? Food? I’m supposed to be saving that small morsel of energy for my food blog… no, something more esoteric than food. Potty learning? Pedestrian. Painting? I could write about the strange sensation I had last week when I spent two solid hours painting. The sensation of floating, the sensation of doing what God put me on this earth to do… but I already wrote about that, didn’t I? I didn’t! It just felt like I wrote about it since I’ve been thinking about it since… last Thursday afternoon. It was as if I met up with someone I have been deeply in love with my whole life, had a wild, two hour shag-fest, and can still smell it on my fingers today. The smell of turpentine. The scent of cadmium, dioxazine purple and other wonderfully poisonous pigments. Viscous linseed oil. Life affirming paintings. Camera Morte paintings. Puddle paintings. I don’t think I have painted straight for two hours in over three years. Maybe four. Ever since parenthood snuck in and took things over. Well, I’m ready to jump back into that illicit relationship with mark-making I’ve had since I was a child. Shapes like lead chunks on the wooden panels I’ve primed. Hovering and planted firmly into earth simultaneously. I must get away again to indulge in more wild, hot oil painting. I don’t care who gets hurt. I want more.
In other, completely un-creative endeavors, USAJOBS.gov has been sending me exciting job leads as project assistant and secretary. Do I type at least 40 words/minute? Who the fuck knows? I type like crazy for the few moments I have away from daughters during the day. I don’t know how many words per minute. I have a sneaking suspicion I am ill-suited for a gov’t job, but will continue to pursue this fantasy until it, too, is squashed, like my dream of creating art full-time. Happy medium, donde esta?
Grills are excellent and chatty of late. Much love and sharing. Out of town visit from old pal, Mara, put everyone on good behavior for two days, and the only incidents of note involved mild hair-pulling and stealing, both of which did not require any time outs. I’m sick of time outs and would just like it if everyone could get along without me disciplining. I’m not so good at it, but do it because it is my job. The same spirit will drive me to do my job, whatever it ends up being, when the ladies jump into preschool.
Got daughters into bed by 1:30 today, about a half-hour to an hour earlier than usual. Beenie was wearing nothing but diapers, yet had wrapped herself so well in little blankees I let it slide. Mimi got all burrito-wrapped in her purple durple blankee and inhaled her thumb. I left the room and they remain there silent an hour later. Maybe they will sleep till 4 or 4:30 as they do when they go to bed at 2. Maybe monkeys will fly out of my arse. Stranger things have happened.
Laundry awaits. Emptying the dishwasher awaits. Sweeping up every last, single, solitary, goddammed crumb off the kitchen awaits, in hopes of ridding myself of the scourge of the mouse I saw scamper across the kitchen floor yesterday. In front of my guest, in front of my daughters. What? Were, you may ask, were the cats? I asked myself that question just yesterday after the rodent sighting. I ran upstairs and started yelling at those goodfornothing felines, who were, by the by, lying belly-up on my spouse’s and my bed, snoring in the sunshine, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Fat. They are fat. I yelled at them and chased them downstairs to the kitchen and told them to get to work you fucking cats. Get to work! You don’t do shit other than inhale food and shit and piss. You don’t even play with the girls whose only hope in this cold, cruel world is to touch your soft, rotten tails and be your friends. Get busy, Olive and Slinky. Or its off to the glue factory with ya.