pimping yet again excercize your

pimping yet again

excercize your right
vote for haiku of the day
winning things is cool

Do you like haiku of the day? Maybe you even like like it. That’s cool. Share your love (or like, or like like) by voting for Haiku of the Day as the Best Austin Blog, Summer 2004. Just go to the the austinblogger site and put a little check mark next to Haiku of the Day.

My ego thanks you.

Haikuterbury Tales Lives! You know

Haikuterbury Tales Lives!

You know that song in Fiddler on the Roof that goes something like “Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles…” Well, play that song in your head as I reveal this amazing fact:

Someone has donated not one, but TWO DOLLARS towards the creation of my epic poem, Haikuterbury Tales. That means two full stanzas are forth coming. So hold on to your britches folks. As soon as I wrassle with this pesky HTML I’ll have the beginnings of the world’s newest epic poem.

Hot dog!

prepare for profanity plastic packaging

prepare for profanity

plastic packaging
beezlebub’s creation
makes me shake my fist

You know the brilliant packaging idea of encasing something entirely in razor-edged plastic? Packages of two HP print cartridges are packed this way. And the new mouse I bought a few weeks ago was packaged this way.


You effing effers. Why would you endorse this way of packaging? Do you think people ENJOY being stabbed to death by their print cartridge packaging material? Don’t you think we’re pissed off enough already because of the $75,000 we just paid for the effing ink?

Thanks for making me bleed, cocksuckers. Thanks a lot.

Here’s a comforting thought lego

Here’s a comforting thought

lego shaped bruises
four angry dots on left heel
taunting me all day

If anyone ever broke into my home they would be immediately hobbled by stepping on the thousands of legos littering the floor. They’re the big legos, too. We’re talking giant stone bruises on your heels and arches. Though I guess burglars would be wearing shoes. Maybe I should get some shoes. Or a giant flame-thrower to melt the legos.

Tell me if you think

Tell me if you think I’m crazy

I’ve had a brain wave. It’s a way for me to panhandle, yet give you something in return. I call it the:

Haikuterbury Tales

It’s an epic poem (like the Iliad or the Canterbury Tales) that I’m going to write in haiku form. For every dollar I get I’ll write a new stanza. I’ve set up an Amazon donation box over in the ever-growing column o’ crap to the left. In a day or so I’ll have a PayPal thing up, too. (See, I’m serious about this.)

I’ll publish the epic poem on the handy blog, and when we hit certain milestones I’ll do something ridiculously crazy to embarrass myself and further pimp out my diminishing self-esteem. Say, when we get to the 25th stanza ($25) I’ll write a haiku on my forehead and post the pic as a stanza. Another 25 stanzas after that maybe I’ll write a haiku in roly-poly carcasses… a jillion more stanzas might result in a butt haiku. It’ll be like performance art. (Though I don’t know about the butt haiku. Pimping the mind and writing on my butt are two very different things.)

So that’s my late-night brain wave. A brilliant idea that just came to me as these four thoughts collided:
“Damn, I need money.”
“Damn, no one will pay me for my book.”
“Damn, I need to write a book of haikus.”
“hee hee. butt haiku.”

So what do you think? Crazy? Interesting social experiment? Big fat cry for help?

You know you’re curious to see what the Haikuterbury Tales will look like.

So am I.

where’d they go? everyone is

where’d they go?

everyone is gone
mom sleeps late, dad and baby
quietly vamoose

I don’t know where they went, but it sure is quiet around here right now. I should be drinking a cup of tea and staring wistfully out the window, enjoying the silence. Instead I’m typing away. I guess, to me this is the same as wistfully looking out a window. It’s nice to type without a small person playing jungle gym with my arms and neck.

I don’t have any tea, but I’m gonna get wistful now. Bear with me.

My cousins are all getting married. To be honest, some are already married and some already have kids, but those are the cousins who are a good deal older than the rest of us in the “brat pack.” The Brat Pack cousins were all born within about four years of each other. There are six of us. In two weeks, 5 of us will be married, with the 6th wedding planned for next summer.

I’m the freak cousin of the bunch – I was married five years ago and have a baby – so I’ve been kind of out of the loop with the rest of the bunch for a while. I also live in Texas and they’re all out in Georgia, so, again, it’s easy to kind of fall away from the crowd.

But when we were kids we all got together fairly frequently… for Georgia bulldog football games, beach vacations, running around in our grandma’s backyard, all that fun stuff. Some of us threw up during car trips together, we got chicken pox at each other’s houses, and when we were tiny we took baths together.

Now we’re married. Spawning. We all have intricately individual lives. Of course, we’ve had individual lives for some time now. The family vacations pretty much stopped once college arrived. And I haven’t taken a bath with any of them in ages (joke – that’s a joke). But it still feels strange.

We’re grown-ups now, with our own mortgages and car payments. It really is the beginning of a new time – everyone in the family is growing a generation older right before our eyes.

And I hate that I’m missing the weddings. I missed one last summer. And I missed one yesterday and I’m missing one a week from Friday. But as a grown-up I don’t have anyone to buy my family plane tickets. (Though my Mom has graciously donated some frequent flier miles to help – the tickets are still too damn expensive.)

The cousins were all at my wedding, and they were all at my sister’s wedding, but we’re not going to make it to theirs. I’m sorry guys. I would LOVE to be there. I would LOVE to show off the Wee One. I would LOVE to have too much to drink at the reception and conga with the rest of lunatics we’re related to. But the fam isn’t going to make it.

I wish you all the best. And I send you all my love. And the Wee One sends sticky kisses.

It’s hard to be a grown-up and not get everything you want.

At least the house is still quiet. I’m going to go drink my tea now.

weird things letting baby cry

weird things

letting baby cry
that’s some biblical-sized guilt
even with big hugs

Before I address the haiku above I want to say that I was cutting my fingernails this morning (a prophylactic measure to keep me from gnawing them off) and a shard of fingernail flew from the clipper straight into my nose. Thankfully my nails are pretty much already chewed to pieces so it was a small shard, but still. It hurt. And it was hard to get out. And I must have looked like a moron as I squinched my eyes closed in pain, pinched one nostril shut and blew frantically out the other. I freed the shard, though. And my nose is fine.

It’s a haiku worthy story, so feel free, budding haiku-ists… make one up for me.

On to the haiku above…

I had a dream last night (don’t roll your eyes, don’t “ugh,” I’ll make this short – I know reading about other people’s dreams isn’t nearly as fulfilling as the dreamer wants it to be).

I dreamt that my son got a letter. It said something to the affect of:

Dear Wee One,
We know that your mommy has resorted to letting you thrash and cry at night when you want to nurse. She’s telling you that you’re a big boy now and don’t need milk at night. Son, your mommy is right. You can buck up and make it through this tough spot. You’re mommy is letting you cry for a good reason. It will build your character.

Here’s the kicker: the letter was signed by George Dubya Bush and that chick who is grinning and giving the thumbs up in all those horrifying prison pictures from Iraq.

Now, I know that not letting my son nurse at night isn’t going to cause him any major emotional damage. Especially with me cuddling him, offering him a drink of water and explaining why it’s time to stop nursing at night. But, seriously. I don’t think my subconscious understands at all. Apparently it believes I’m torturing my kid. It kind of feels like that when he’s screaming for milk. And maybe I should let him keep nursing. But I just feel like after two years of nursing at least three times a night I’m ready to not be doing that anymore. I’m ready for a full night’s sleep. And I’m going to try not to let dreams about Dubya and Psycho Lady bully me into feeling guilty.

I can do that all by myself. Sheesh.

I’m feeling angsty I feel

I’m feeling angsty

I feel dang angsty
or maybe I mean antsy
just too much to do

There probably aren’t a lot of people out there who watch Zoboomafoo on a regular basis. But for those of you who do, I’ve adapted Zoboo’s song:

Angsty-ish. I feel angsty-ish how bout you? Angsty-ish.

Yes, it’s a pretty terrible song. Usually it’s about animals (chicken-ish, I feel chicken-ish how bout you). But I’m feeling angsty, so, sorry, Zoboo, I’ve stolen your song and made it not about animals.

Good grief, I’m going insane. Naw. I’m just tired. Or as the wee one says, “Tie wad.” I am very tie wad this morning. And for some reason I’ve awoken with this feeling of angst. It’s like I’ve suddenly figured out there are a million things I should be doing.

I should write a play or two or three
I should write another book
I should find an agent and/or publisher for the finished book
I should take the GRE
I should try to get accepted to the Michener School for Writers at UT
I should try to get more freelance work so we can have money to pay off the dang credit cards
I should be a better mama
I should clean my house before federal haz-mat agents arrive
I should buy birthday presents for the babe (who’s big 0-2 is the 31st)
I should be nicer to the dog and not yell at him for licking his butt
I should not clean the kitchen so half-assed. That’s why there are gnats in there.
I should clean my desk. It is not necessary for bill stubs from 2001 to sit stacked in front of me.
I should get a bigger desk that’s more conducive to working
I shouldn’t spend any money, ever
I should wash my car
I should clean the wee one’s room
I shouldn’t let the wee one watch so much TV even if it is PBS
I should stop chewing my fingernails
I should get a haircut so that I don’t accidentally grow a mullet

I could just go on and on. And the frustrating thing is that there’s so much I feel like I should be doing that I’m paralyzed. And everything on my list contradicts at least one other thing on the list.

It must be an astrological thing. Is Virgo in the Gemini toilet or something?
And what am I doing writing in this blog when I have so many other things to do?

I’m grouchy I was reading

I’m grouchy

I was reading Parents Magazine (shut up) and came across this insightful line:

The lap pool (with underwater speakers) is surrounded by a rocky grotto sprinkled with faux stars

Really? Faux stars? You mean there aren’t actual gas-filled celestial bodies powered by nuclear reactions scattered throughout the “rocky grotto”? Whew. Thanks for the clarification.

I was also reading Time Magazine where it was explained to me:

Go to the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA) in Los Angeles right now and you can see one of the … blah blah blah

Oh, so the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art is in Los Angeles. No wonder I couldn’t find it. I’ve been looking in friggin Dallas for it this whole time.

Seriously. Are people so dumb nowadays they need explanations like this? Or am I just irritable from my phantom illness?

All doped up signs of

All doped up

signs of empathy
when wee one pitches fit, cries
as mommy gets shot

I don’t know what was scarier – getting a giant shot of antibiotics in my butt, or driving home from the doctor’s office and becoming fixated on the train wreck that was some jogging guy’s jiggly, sweaty, hairy-ass back.

Who am I kidding? It was the shot. Though I was really brave about it. (You kind of have to be when your kiddo is in the room watching you.) And it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as some of the shots I got while I was pregnant. Yowzas, those sucked.

Anyway, turns out I’m sick. I didn’t even know it until I almost fainted in the shower this morning. That wasn’t pleasant. I was washing my hair when the sound of the shower started to get muffled. Then purple dots started floating in front of my eyes. Then I tried to prop myself up on the shower wall, but it was so covered in soap scum and various hard water buildup that I just kind of slid down. That worked, OK, though. As I slid down, my head naturally took the “put your head between your knees” position that it’s supposed to take when you feel faint. So I was rescued by the soap scum.

The doc told me I have a sore throat and “drainage” I don’t feel like I have a sore throat. And I don’t feel like I have “drainage” But I do feel kind of shitty. So I’ll take her word for it.

When I get my bearings I’m going to post a letter to Donald Rumsfeld I’ve been composing in my head. I figure I should post it soon so I can blame the medication if it doesn’t make a lick of sense.