some mornings are sheer poetry

Belinda Del Pesco

Watercolor: Saturday Morning Sleep-in

I don't think of myself as someone who likes poetry. I don't usually seek poems. I've been known to run from them on occasion. At a fast gallop.

I might have taken a book of poetry out of the library once or twice, Erica Jong comes to mind. But I don't think I've ever read more than a few lines before I put the book down and then forgot where I put it and then it was time to take it back to the library.

I do, however, love to listen to The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor. I catch it some mornings when I'm getting dressed for work. Often hoping the timing of the blow drying of my hair will not coincide with Garrison's reading of his selected poem of the day.

Below is one such poem I managed to catch.

This poem has stuck with me. Some mornings it is consoling. Some mornings it saves my marriage, maybe.

After a Noisy Night

by Laure-Anne Bosselaar

The man I love enters the kitchen

with a groan, he just

woke up, his hair a Rorschach test.

A minty kiss, a hand

on my neck, coffee, two percent milk,

microwave. He collapses

on a chair, stunned with sleep,

yawns, groans again, complains

about his dry sinuses and crusted nose.

I want to tell him how

much he slept, how well,

the cacophony of his snoring

pumping in long wheezes

and throttles—the debacle

of rhythm—hours erratic

with staccato of pants and puffs,

crescendi of gulps, chokes,

pectoral sputters and spits.

But the microwave goes ding!

A short little ding! – sharp

as a guillotine—loud enough to stop

my words from killing the moment.

And during the few seconds

it takes the man I love

to open the microwave, stir,

sip and sit there staring

at his mug, I remember the vows

I made to my pillows, to fate

and God: I'll stop eating licorice,

become a blonde, a lumberjack,

a Catholic, anything,

but bring a man to me:

so I go to him: Sorry, honey,

sorry you had such a rough night,

hold his gray head against my heart

and kiss him, kiss him.

"After a Noisy Night" by Laure-Anne Bosselaar, from The Hour Between Dog and Wolf. © BOA Editions, Ltd., 1997. Reprinted with permission (on the Writer's Almanac but not here on CoffeeYogurt)

what not to do during your first couples therapy session

1. Do not show up at the first session with a bill board size list of all the things your spouse does that annoys you. You look controlling and narcissistic. And there's nothing that puts a shrink in a worse mood than a controlling narcissist.

2. Do not, when asked what you think after your spouse has listed a complaint, say, "I don't know." You look like a passive-aggressive numbskull. And there's nothing that puts a shrink in a foul mood like a passive-aggressive numbskull, except maybe a controlling narcissist.

3. Do not, when your spouse is rambling about her complex and convoluted feelings, doze off. You look like you don't give a sh*t. And since you're paying the shrink a hefty fee to occupy that comfy couch? You look like a spend thrift and an ignoramus. And there's nothing that gets under the skin of a shrink more than finding out you don't give a sh*t and apparently don't mind wasting hard-earned money while you perfect being an ignoramus.

4. Do not, when asked how you feel after listening to your spouse's rambling, complex and convoluted feelings, say, "Huh? Uh. What do I feel? Uh. Nothing." You look like a 1950's out-of-touch suburban slacker. And nothing makes a shrink side with your spouse faster than realizing you are a 1950's out-of-touch suburban slacker.

5. Do not, after your partner explains in a sensitive and carefully worded way that she is not having orgasms with your decades-old, same-old routine, say, "Huh. None of my ex-girlfriends ever complained." You look like a cad who has spent far too much time in front of cheap porno movies pushing the rewind button until your thumb is sprained.

And P.S. Your old girlfriends were lying.

You probably also bought the line, "You're only my second."

6. Do not, after listening to your spouse take responsibility for faults and overwrought, coming-unhinged emotional tendencies, say, "Well, as for me, I won Best All Around three years in a row." You look like an insensitive clod whose sense of self is as fragile as that English soccer goalie's ego after this now infamous World Cup move.

Speaking of the English goalie, here's a must-see video clip of a never-before-seen camera angle, complete with Green's never-before-heard internal dialog as the ball slips past. If you missed that link, it's What the English Goalie was Thinking.

7. Do not fool yourself into thinking that you will be let off the hook that easily.

You will not. You will, instead, look like a spouse who needs intensive individual therapy if your relationship stands a snowball's chance in July in New Jersey. Your spouse has drug you into therapy not because he wants to humiliate you but because she wants this relationship to work, i.e., your partner loves you. Now quit being a bonehead, wake up, take some responsibility, and show some love back. Because nothing makes a shrink feel more optimistic than two people willing to talk openly and risk showing the love back.

buckets of rain

Woke up to an overcast sky. Forecast calling for 50% chance of afternoon thunderstorms. 11am -- sunny. 12 noon -- steady sunny. Checked the radar. No rain in the immediate area. Barton Springs Here We Come.

Forty-five minutes and nine dollar bills later. Comes the downpour. Buckets of rain. Buckets of tears. Nearly 6pm now. Still coming down. Rain guage says three plus inches.

Rain is much needed. Garden needs it. Lawn needs it. Creeks need it.

But.

It could have waited two measley measly hours.

First rain at Barton Springs. For me. Tried to enjoy it. New experience and all.

But. The beach bag. Not water proof. Cell phone. Not water proof. Kids complaining. Not waterproof.

Rain drenched schlep back to the car.

Blown up rafts. Unused. Submarine sandwiches. Uneaten. Sour cream and onion chips. That's right. Uneaten.

Load of laundry.

Off to the gym.

First time in a month of Tuesdays. So not a total waste of a day. Just sticky. And extra hot. Elipticizing in sunscreened skin. Not my favorite. Tennis shoes soaked in parking lot puddles. Not my favorite.

Forgot my water bottle. What with so much rain and all. Drank cooler water out of styrofoam cup. Makes my teeth ache. That styrofoam. But listened to new tunes in my ear buds. Rolling Stones. Some Girls. Start Me Up. Perk in my step.

And now home. Blog tending. Smelling dinner. Cooked by bestest husband.

Not like swimming in Barton Springs. But not bad either.

best summer read - my nomination

It's awfully early to say this is the best damn light read of the summer. Especially since some parents, teachers, and kids are not even out for the summer (Hi, Sis!) So I won't say it.

I'll just nominate this novel and say I'll hold my real vote at the end of summer (wink, wink).

It qualifies as a light read because there are no longer-than-your-driveway sentences, it's not thicker or heavier than your Websters New Collegiate Dictionary, and it's written in a three-paragraph-per-section style, i.e., you can pick up the book soon after sitting your feeling-fat, matronly self down at Barton Springs Pool, surrounded by the hundreds of young, single, hip, tattooed, hard-bodied University of Texas coeds, and immediately jump right back into the story, without being distracted once.

I loved this book because Julia is such the anti-heroine. She reminds me of an all grown up and married with a kid version of Bridget Jones. And I lurrved Bridget Jones.

Julia's conversations with herself are such a contrast to the out loud conversations I have with the moms I run into.

You know the type, the I only buy organic, gluten-free, lactose-free, corn syrup-free type and the Gotta run, my son has a soccer tournament in Dallas and my daughter has a soccer tournament in Houston, busy day!! type and the I'm so tired I stayed up reading the entire Harry Potter series to my identically dressed, identically hair-styled triplets type.

The type where I walk away, thinking, My kids are soooo screwed.

But not true with Julia. This is a mom who writes honestly about her parenting foibles. Who shares her dissatisfactions within her marriage (read, mediocre to forgettable sex) . Who does all the wrong things, thinks all the most irreverent thoughts, hopes for all the most immoral endings.

And I loved her. Lots of cynical, gutteral sniggering in my beach chair.

My one complaint - I wish it were the size of my Websters New Collegiate Dictionary.

If you like self-loathing, sardonically witty, modern-parenting-trend-bucking moms who still have a naughty sex life, at least in their minds, and occasionally in real life, you might love Julia too.

strong women, talking babies and bum phucks

Woman and Child is back. Yay!

And posting about good, strong women who age out of the nicey-nice, takey-care of everybody but me, phase. And the good, strong men who love us.

And posting a nod to the "totally brilliant humour coming out of the U.S." in the form of talking babies in advertising.

Since this is one of the few commercials I will do a mad-grab for the remote, risking a herniated disc and a twisted intestine in order to de-mute so as to catch the latest baby with 'tude, I thought I would post this E*Trade clip for all to enjoy.

It's so much funnier in it's full-wide version rather than this chopped off one but it's your choice.

I don't know about your motives for gawking at tawking, wisecracking babies, but think I will look at this clip whenever I need a break from the agonizing coverage of the BP Gulf disaster.

Hang in there Louisiana, my mother's motherland. Katrina did not break your spirit and neither will this.

And BP? Stands for Bum-Phucks.

You can show your support by participating in Deb on the Rock's Love the Gulf Blog Carnival.

doc spelled backwards is cod not god

We really like our family doc. He's willing to offer homeopathic suggestions, for one. He's down to earth and friendly, for two., i.e., his ego is not the size of the heavenly firmaments.

So we've been going to our family doc for ten years now. A couple years ago he moved into a brand new building, a condomininum setup, so he now owns his office. Or the bank does. Within his office suite he has established a lab testing unit.

So my husband, Sam, takes an Rx that requires regular lab tests. Over the years, he's been going to one of those large, chain labs. No cost with his insurance card. Lab sends in results to the doc. Doc checks and notifies if there is a problem. All part of the regular check up.

Until recently.

Family doc's office staff instructed Sam to get his blood work done in the on site lab. Requires that Sam set an appointment, return to get blood drawn. Sam gets there, his weight and BP are taken (even though he was just there a few days ago), gets his blood drawn, does not see a physician, but is charged a copay for a "short office visit." In Sam's case, $35 copay. Ouch.

Sam protested to the office staff and the doc came out. Sam told him "I want to go to my usual lab." Doc insisted he get the lab work done on site.

Does this ring of a conflict of interest to anyone besides me? Might this be an ethical violation? We think he's funding his new office. Or has this "short office visit" become prevalent out there in family practice medicine?

flipflop season

for SOME of you out there, that is. But apparently, not everybody.

I know this now thanks to all the comments of support and empathy for the fact that I mostly have to wear thick soled slides.

As one example, thanks to Fantastic Forrest, my new summer mantra is, Slides are not clunky. They are hawt.

Yeah, baby.

Either lots of people can't wear thong sandals with abandon, like me, or the regular readers of my blog tend to be comfortable-shoe-wearing-feminist-lesbians, also. Ok, well, minus the lesbian part, for some of us, anyway.

cartoon by nataliedee

thong envy

I am in a fashion crisis. I need your help. Opinions. Suggestions. Sympathy.

From women of experience.

Wearing thongs.

I have long resisted wearing thongs for reasons that, I'm certain, are not unique to me: the anticipated discomfort of allowing, well, a strap, for lack of a better word, to wedge between my sensitive southern skinfolds.

But I decided to be adventurous yesterday. I tried on a pair.

Eureka! They felt good. Surprisingly awesome. I liked the airy sensation. The freedom. I never would have imagined.

Bought them. And a second pair in a different color. Brave new thongy me.

Got them home. Modeled them for my husband. He wasn't as excited as I was.

Not to worry. I was undeterred. I wasn't going to let his, or anyone's, lack of enthusiasm get in the way of my newfound happiness.

I wore them around the house as I went about my usual business.

Suddenly, I was seized with pain. The strap was rubbing my, er, crack. One side, in particular. Felt like it was hitting bone.

A knuckle.

A toe knuckle, to be precise.

The thong strap was rubbing the inside of my second toe. Leaving a red mark.

So I ask you, lucky wearers of the thong, is there an art to finding a pair that do not cause wincing pain upon prolonged wear?

Or, as I fear, is there a foot type that is simply unable to enjoy this style of footwear?

I have a wide foot with short toes. Paddle foot, as my own personal queer-pal-for-the-straight-gal so delicately phrased it. My second toe is shorter than my third. You don't see that very often.

We are a small, unfortunate tribe.

So small, in fact, that when I was shoe browsing yesterday, I saw one of the first other short-second-toed women ever. Sister!! I wanted to shout. Wanted to hug her, truth be known. But refrained. Didn't want her running off to report a suspected toe fetishist to the store manager.

So here's my serious question: Am I the only woman who suffers from thong envy? Who is missing out on the thousands of cute springy styles? Who must limit her shoe fashion to clunky slides? The dreaded comfortable shoe?

Anyone?

jensational haiku wednesday

Needing more, not less

Putting myself first, not last

Ergo my ego

And if you didn't figure it out by now, I built the entire Haiku around my wish to use "ergo my ego" as a line. Pathetic excuse for a Haiku but there ya have it.

forever young

I am slowly recovering from a Fab50 reunion with six of my closest girlfriends from high school, all graduates during the late 70's.

When I mentioned this visit to people, I was met with incredulous looks.

High school? You're still friends with girls from high school?

I do realize that for some people their best-friends-for-life were met in college. For others, as the psychology department head told we incoming graduate students, this would be the place where sacred, lifelong friendships would form.

But for me? It's always been my high school buds. No question about it.

I was really lucky that way. I moved to a new area the summer before my 8th grade year. A few weeks before school started, two nervous, 13-year-old girls knocked on my front door to meet me. The mother of one of the girls made them introduce themselves, I was to find out later. It was probably more our of nosiness about the new family in town than genuine concern for my wellbeing. But whatever the reason, these two girls became my friends and introduced me to a larger group of girls who became some of the best girlfriends I could ask for.

I've met many friends since then who have become very good friends. Excellent friends. Cherished friends. We relate in a way my high school friends and I don't, or can't, or won't ever relate.

But there's something singularly special about hometown friends. All the shared experiences, a shared larger network of friends and towns people, memories of some of life's most difficult heartaches.

Over this past weekend, here we all were, gathered in my home, the first time a few of them had even been to Texas. All of us 49 or 50 years old. (Come think of it, only ONE of us was actually 50. Poor woman. The rest of us will remain forever 49).

But here's the remarkable thing. As I looked at my friends sitting around my living room, or on my back porch with the sunlight fading, or on a river bank cooling our feet in the spring fed water, I was taking them all in.

I saw not their crow's feet, nor their varying shades of color enhanced hair hiding the gray, nor their extra-padded midlines.

What I saw were laughing teenagers. A seventeen year old running beside me during a field hockey game. A young woman chugging down her first beer and wincing at the god-awful-taste-of-it. A girlfriend crying over a boyfriend betrayal, the first of many.

Over the past recent years, when I have met someone new, someone my own age, I would see a middle-aged woman.

But my childhood friends? The years drop away in an instant. Disappear. Gone. In each other's company, for just a weekend, we are ageless, timeless, forever young.

feels like saying goodbye to a good friend

Finished reading Lit last night. Feels like saying goodbye to a good friend.

Really good memoirs and novels feel like that. One reason why I like reading so much. I'm one of those people-who-need-people, people. Having a book in my lap, especially when written in the first person, feels like listening to a friend confide their deepest secrets.

As for Lit, it was another home run for Mary Karr. An an especially insightful read for those trying to understand alcohol abuse. Or trying to kick it.

Recovery, relapse, reconciling with an abusive parent, doing what it takes to stay sober. It's all there.

So I'm back to the novel I was reading when I got notice that Lit was ready at the library, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. It's the story of an eccentric teacher at a girls school in Scotland, told through the eyes of the students.

Halfway through the book I was thinking it was not all that great. But then over the weekend, while planning my next read, I came across Brodie on one of TIME's 100 Best lists. Ok, so somebody thinks it's all that and a bag of chips. I'm determined to finish it since it's right there on my bedside table. Check off one more on their list.

Last night I read the passage where the students are attending sewing class. The girls see the sewing machine's needle go up-down-up-down, "which usually caused Sandy and Jenny to giggle, since at that time everything that could conceivably bear a sexual interpretation immediately did so to them."

I was immediately transported back to Catholic school. Sixth grade. Miss Napolitano's Geography class. Listening to a student drone aloud out of the textbook, about some South American country,their biggest export, rubber. My BFF and I caught a glance, laughed hysterically, trying not to, which only made us laugh more. Miss Napolitano saw us and rolled her eyes. Miss Napolitano was no Miss Jean Brodie.

And now I'm thinking of watching the movie, since it stars Maggie Smith. I fell in love with her when she played Miss Bartlett in A Room with a View, one of my all-time favorite movies. Smith must have played an equally excellent Miss Brodie, given her Oscar win as Best Actress for the role.

Has anyone seen the movie? Recommend it? And how about the book?

And readers, what are you reading now? Meeting any good friends lately?

do not disturb

Seriously

excellent

reading

in

progress.

For weeks now, I have been patiently pacing the floors waiting for my local library to deliver my hold request.

And Thursday?

Deliverance.

So now, after numerous distractions (volleyball game, two-night visit from mother-in-law, school carnival pick ups, sleepover drop offs) I am, to use a phrase I know the East Texas author would approve of, happy as a pig in sh*t.

If you are looking for a fascinating, disturbing, engaging, and inspiring memoir, or series of memoirs, which in my mind's eye is evah so much bettah, I invite you to read my absolute

favorite series by Mary Karr.

Begin with Liar's Club. Natch.

It's about her Texas childhood. Daddy working the oil fields. Momma working the bipolar. Both working the bottle.

In her words, "A dysfunctional family is any family with more than one person in it."

Follow Liar's Club with Cherry. Karr's adolescent years. Where she unwittingly follows in her mother's footsteps. Isn't it always the way? We're running away from our parents but running right smack into them at the same time.

And finally (oh hopefully not) the sequel to the sequel, Lit.

When I read Karr's memoirs, I feel as if she is sitting by my side, talking to me. An intimate conversation where I'm thrilled I've found a new friend who will tell-it-like-it-is. No sugar coating. No holes barred. Emotional, gutsy soul barings. The stuff typically reserved for the confines of a shrink office.

The way Karr describes her confused, distressed, approach-avoidance feelings regarding her mother is deep, from-the-core, inside turning out.

And her marriage to the wealthy, waspy New Englander. The same. The subtle twists and turns that can steer a married couple right into the ditch. And the way the hurts stick with us, "the shreiking fight or the out-of-character insult endures forever, while the daily sweetness dissolves like sugar in water."

But mostly it's her insights about herself. ""For me, everything's too much and nothing's enough." Yep. Especially when I'm reading her books.

All this to say I may be even less present in the blogosphere than my poor attendance record of late.

But I know you understand.

girlz 'n da house

Or out of, as the case may be.

Going away for the weekend with da girlz. Girlfriends, that is. Much needed play vacay.

No kids.

No husbands.

Just lots of fun and giggles and big Hill Country sky.

There will be alfresco dining,

minus the male servant, unfortunately. But who needs that noise when we'll be under the Texan sun, 80 degrees and a cool breeze.

There will be hot salsa made fresh in my kitchen this morning,

complete with roasted jalapeno peppers and an overdose of cilantro.

And of course, the crowning touch, my infamous, fresh-squeezed, prickly-pear-tini's. Otherwise known as an intervention.

Ah yes. There will be a variety of interventions.

Have an excellent weekend, ya'll!

and we're not even halfway through the year

Priorities, man:

The exact quote I've been searching for:

Am extremey embarrassed for you:

For the rest of the Huff Post's funniest protest signs of 2010, click here.

dear anonymous commenter

I wonder if you would take time out of your busy spammer schedule to help me. I can't decide whether to curse you for your indecipherable comments or to thank you for providing inspiration for a late night post.

Inspiration being in short supply and all.

I also can't decide whether your dominant language is non-English or whether you've been sipping too much electric kool-aid.

Here's what I mean:

... free multi facesitting movies ...

It's not clear to me what you are hawking here, precisely.

Or to which motivation you are attempting to appeal.

Do you think we bloggers want to ...

a. learn a little variation in our face-sitting technique?

b. multi-task while we face-sit?

c. join the naughty analog to Facebook?

d. other

(please specify):

_______________

_______________

Thank you and have a big day.

ssssshhhhhh .. don't tell

Disappearing for a little while.

Slumber party.

Twelve girls.

Twelve years old.

Twelve hours

in the attic

ought to cover it.

If not?

There's always vodka.

once in a very red bonnet

As I wrote here,

a very blue moon

shone down on New Year's Eve.

I believed it was

an omen of

good things to come.

Perhaps more rare than a blue moon, this red Bluebonnet growing on my street, might be one such good thing.

It's such a beautiful time of year, spring.

And when you come upon a field of Bluebonnets, you do believe there's nothing prettier in nature.

Below is Nanci Griffith singing a duet with Darius Rucker (of Hootie and the Blowfish) about a Bluebonnet Spring: