It’s that time again: #ScrantonTweets at the Beach.
Last year, my father planked. The year prior, I got him drunk on margaritas (just two!). What should I have him do this year?
My friend Leslie, a psychologist, is joining me at the beach. I’m a little concerned about her reaction to my family. Wouldn’t you be?
You still have at least one new post coming per day–hope you’ll check in between barbecues, beach trips and hangovers.
Don’t worry about me posting that I’ll be away. First, I live in an apartment building with several levels of security. Second, I have a friend staying in my place for some of the time. Third, everything in my apartment is covered in a layer of dust because I haven’t called the cleaning lady for ages.
I thought we had a nice enough business lunch together. It was neither mind-blowing nor awful. Then again, I wasn’t paying.
Imagine my surprise when I found out that you have been designated by Eater as a sh!tshow. Even stranger? Salman Rushdie is somehow involved–although his choice to have his birthday festivities elsewhere is telling.
Now I’m kind of waiting for you to close.
All my best to you in your future endeavors,
PS your bathroom is kind of weird and your web site is amazingly awful.
Sometimes I imagine my mother in the months before her death. I imagine, for instance, that it was raining when she finally went to the clinic. This is implausible, of course, because she probably went in May or June, months when it doesn’t rain in L.A. But I like the rain, and I like to think she did too, and so I make it rain as she waited at the bus stop. It was 1976 and so I imagine Chevettes and Galaxies driving by on the busy street in front of her, their tires kicking up a fine mist. Her jeans were probably too long for her, as mine are. Their hems were frayed and wet. Perhaps she leaned back against the smoky translucent plastic of the shelter, then touched her stomach. Just a faint, quick touch, as if she were checking to make sure her top button was fastened, but it wasn’t that. She hadn’t fastened that button for weeks.
The power of imagination: filling in the blanks of a story she may never otherwise know, all the way down to the tattered, damp hem of her late mother’s jeans.
Via Art.com and Diana Ong
I also love the way this powerful essay unfolds. She starts with the image of herself as a new mother, nursing her baby girl, while her husband steals away for what may be one last night of uninterrupted sleep for a while. But then details are revealed. The author’s mother is dead and before that, at loose ends.
The author has me thinking about the families that bring us into the world and what makes us who we are.
Read something that moved you? Let me know in the comments so I can read it too.
Actually I am broken.* My ankle is. I’m stuck in Das Boot for at least four more weeks. It could be longer and surgery isn’t out of the question.
I am giving myself a little time to sulk about the fact that I’ll effectively be hobbled all summer. And then I will move on.
First though, can I be ticked about the doctor who first examined me and said that my ankle wasn’t so swollen? He, Dr. Janitor we’ll call him, gave me an air cast (that didn’t properly immobilize me) before sending me on my way. I am tempted to mail him a copy of my MRI report.
Hmph. Fortunately the care I have received at my real doctor’s office has been terrific if not exactly punctual.
Know what’s funny though? I couldn’t even tell you which bone is fractured. This is involved. Also this and this. There’s more but if you have read thus far, you obviously love me more than my mother.
Speaking of Mom, if there’s a bright spot in all of this, it is that my wobbly bits may get a partial pass when we see each other at the beach soon.
“Injured! Pitiful! Unable to exercise! Mother me, Mommy!”
If that doesn’t work, I’ll just hide and drink a lot. Thanks in advance for the well wishes.
*In case you clicked my link hoping to watch Kristen Stewart star in Marcus Foster’s video for “I Was Broken” here it is: