When is the right age to expose babies to beheadings again?
She tests it during her peak hours of late morning, stomping on the keyboard and cooing and staring at herself in a mirror that dangles over her head. She's so into it, so content, so stimulated, that I expect to see the shadow of Ken Kesey in her pupils.
There is a house on the walking route that uses its porch and front lawn as a walk-in closet. The No Trespassing sign affixed to a beam seems to be a warning to yard sale fiends who might froth over the old clothes and broken furniture. Today there is a man sitting on the front porch. He's got a dog tied up, one of those small growlers with something to prove.
"The dog is mostly harmless," the man says as it rears.
He conjures a luggie from deep down, sends it sailing into the yard.
The rest of the walk is without incident.
Our neighbor wanders down the street to chat and I find myself staring intently into her eyes and latching on to her words. Later I will tell Chuck that I can hear myself talking and I sound like a crazy person.
"This happened again?" he asks.
"Again," I admit.
I get this way around people who can talk and walk upright. Hungry for communicado. At one point I find myself leaning into her begging her to tell me about life on the outside. What's happening in the world. WHAT DID YOU EAT FOR LUNCH. TELL ME ABOUT YOUR BOYFRIEND!
I get out. I do. I take a daily trip across town for an Iced Vanilla Latte, which I finish before I'm even back on the highway. These lattes, I've found, are inferior to the ones at the Target Starbucks. But I have to avoid the Target Starbucks because I can no longer go to Target without dropping bills in hundo increments.
There is a scorched taste to the coffee at the coffee shop around town, selected simply because it has a drive thru window. The scorch doesn't ruin the drink, rather, it gives it character. The ice is what makes it worth the drive: the small kernal variety is the best for chomping. It takes on a coffee flavor, savorable for the time it takes for the loot to melt.
I stop at Walgreens to talk to a pharmacist and Video Vision to rent "The Great Gatsby."
We usually tag-team baths. One holds, one scrubs. We both dry her on an owl towel then massage baby lotion into her limbs. She desperately needs a bath. Her keister is two craps from turning, permanently, mustard colored. Chuck doesn't get home for hours.
I decide to do it myself. I'm trying out something new: Instead of immediately asking for help or assuming I can't do something that I a) don't want to do; b) think I can't do, I'm just doing them. I want to be a person who can do anything. Figure out what's wrong with the wireless keyboard, drill things, locate a spark plug, roast a chicken.
The bath goes fine, though she screams her head off like I'm trying to re-give birth to her. I forgot to plug the tub, so I'm in a race with the diminishing water supply. I hurry through the process, wrap her in a towel and pull her close to warm her and ... she pees on me. All over the front of my shirt and onto my pants.
But she's clean. Her keister returns to its regular pinkish hue.
Gatsby is deece.
I sit down, attach myself to a machine and harvest milk from my body while penning this post. At some point my left leg wettens and I realize that one of the bottle has over flowed and I'm spilling my own milk all over my lap. Right next to the pee stains.
Huzzah! Another Sunday in the books.
The "It's (Insert Day of Week) and I'm Boring" is a series that Jodi and I do to pay homage to the beauty of old-school blogging.