Love You, Cheese and Triscuits

Any time I am having a conversation and someone near me is having a simultaneous and separate conversation — let’s say it’s on a cell phone, with, say, their spouse– and that person near me says “love you,” I suddenly have the feeling of being very, very stoned, and I look at the person I’m talking to and I can’t figure out if they’ve just told me they love me or if I’ve just told them I love them, completely by mistake. But in any case, I am certain I have not heard the last several words of the conversation in which I am engaged, because the “love you” is still in the air and I’m not sure who said it but I feel like I need to say it back. This is especially true if the conversation in which I am engaged is wrapping up at the same time as the peripheral “love you” conversation– I have had a few too many foggy moments where I’m 50% sure I’ve just professed my love for some unsuspecting acquaintance.

I just finished a hearty snack of Triscuits and cheese and grapes and mmmwaah! So delish. No matter how hard I try, I approach this snack with an unconscious game plan to finish all three elements at the same time, keeping a watchful eye on the Triscuit, cheese square, and grape count and rationing one or another to keep everything in check until the final moment where I eat the last Triscuit, the last Grape, and the last Cheese Square in one delicious and well-executed stack. And that’s how it just happened– a clean finish, and I ate more than I was hungry for just to make that happen. Because I am totally fucking nuts, apparently.

So, Bird. Last night, naked and waiting for the tub to fill up, (when will we learn on this one?) She looked me straight in the eye and shit on the living room rug, standing straight up and looking both surprised and victorious at the result.

Also, walked right up and hit the unsuspecting and endlessly gentle Ninny-dog on the butt. A. warned her of a time-out to come, and in response she picked up her little blue chair and carried it to the hallway herself, with no prompting, and sat there and looked at the floor in silence for a few seconds. She came out triumphant and giggling, and thirty seconds later, she smacked Ninny on the butt again, and replaced herself in time-out, joyously. What do you do with a kid like this?

A. helped me clean out a closet on Mother’s day, which sounds completely lame but which was exactly what I wanted, now that I’m on my purging-the-shit-from-the-small-house kick. He frightened me with his emotional detachment and purging ferocity. He is at times a pack rat and at other times a ruthless sorter. I have a carload of junk to drop at the Goodwill this afternoon, and that feels marvelous.

In appreciation of his furious cleaning efforts, here’s your A. quote from the weekend:

“Feel me. I’m silky and manageable.”

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