Monday, May 12, 2014

We're just talking here ...

Oh Hey, You.

Two weeks ago I was so busy that I forgot that blogs (including my own) exist. At all. In any capacity. It was like the 2004 part of my brain got buried in an avalanche and had to survive until the thaw by eating its own face. After the busy-ness waned, I stretched and yawned and clicked an app on my phone because I couldn't remember what it was for. That app was Feedly. Duh.

I went straight to Jodi because if I had to be stranded in an avalanche with one blog, it'd be I Will Dare. She had a fresh post about how she hadn't really posted lately but that it's not like the old days. In the old days when you didn't post people got all 911-y. I was glad she opted to not post during the week when I forgot that blogs (including my own) exist. Jodi said during a non-writing period you can always find her saying things on Twitter. For me, I think the thing is Instagram. It's really my happy place. It hasn't gotten Facebook'ed to Death with Opinions and Memes and Virals and Comments. If Instagram was a thing in 2004, I'd have secretly hoped to become Instagram Famous. As is, no one will ever again be famous for living life on the Internet. Though, maybe someone could become famous in the future for not living life on the Internet.

I use Twitter wrong. I just kind of walk into Twitter and yell things into a loud room full of people who are already talking to the people they want to be talking to.

I was busy because there was a music festival. I split my time between my Daily Obligation, My Baby and The Music, sometimes creeping into the house at 1 a.m. ears still buzzing from a 20 minute song that made my appendix vibrate. On the final night, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had a hunk of meat stuck in my hair. I'm still wearing the wristband, for whatever superstitiously lazy reason.

One night I took The PBG. Baby's first Music Festival. We saw Old Skool folk singers in a room at least 50 people past the Fire Chief's Recommended Capacity. First she tried to touch another baby. His mom yanked him out of reach. Then she pulled the long greyish hippie hair of a festival attendee. She quacked and chirped along with the singers and people smiled either kindly or tolerantly. It's so hard to say. She tried to yank a pair of dangling earrings from a kind woman's lobes. She was perfect. I stole this photo from the festival director's Instagram feed.

We've also started going to Baby School, which is interesting because the PBG really hadn't met another baby until I set her on the floor next to a Cool Cucumber of a 7 Month Old. She tried to poke his eyes and touch his face and eventually just pointed at him and screamed a quick curdling burst. According to something I haven't signed yet, what happens at Baby School stays at Baby School. So I'll leave it at that.

Well, there is one other thing. She licked every toy in the room and now we're both sick.

Also: Chuck and I have started doing this fun thing where he makes a new different cocktail on Saturday nights and we have a special themed food to go with it. This week we drank El Presidente and ate these Cuban Toasties that included Hot Mayonnaise, a dealbreaker for those with refined tastes.

This week we got wicked ramped up about this song from the 1970s. I was telling Ma Pista about it later and she was very excited and encouraged me to listen to the entire album. I mentioned that I might write about the song and she got quiet.

"Oh. I only really like it when you write about (the PBG)," she said.


1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Baby school? More like GERM school. But, at least she is entering in the wrap-up of the sick-y months.

As much as I love my the school the kids attend, we went through a 1-year phase with each kid where we were just frickin SICK ALL THE TIME. Even in summer, some weird stuff can pop up like Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease. Grrrr, so over the germs, and hoping all viruses die a brutal death.