Jack Talks Some More

Jack: Do you think it's possible that using Chapstick can make your lips MORE chapped?

TR: What do you mean?

Jack: My lips have gotten so bad that I have to use Chapstick every two hours. After I use it, my lips get drier and drier--more than before I used it, and then I have to reapply.

TR: Maybe you're allergic to it--like Lola.

Jack: I'm NOT allergic. I think it's like using steroids, you know? When you're putting steroids in your body from the outside, you stop producing testosterone naturally. So when you quit using the steroids, suddenly you have no testosterone and you lose all your male stuff.

TR: What in the world does THAT have to do with Chapstick?

Jack: Well, in this case, Chapstick is the steroids and my lips are the testicles.

TR: That's quite a metaphor.

Jack: It makes perfect sense.


Back Door Mat

Jack: Mom, I HATE this rug. Can you get a new one?

TR: What's wrong with it?!

Jack: Um, it has Dachshunds on it. It looks like something Mamoo would have in her house.

TR: Do you understand that I'm turning 47 tomorrow? That's almost 50. It's perfectly natural for me to have a rug with dogs on it.

Jack: You could try to change that stereotype.

TR: OR, I could just enjoy it, like all the women who've come before me.


Childhood Memories

This has been a bad couple of late-night days for me--getting home around 11 pm.

So I was telling my friend Claire at work about my conversation with Lo this morning:

TR: Lola told me she HATES it when I'm not home at night, because her dad is the "worst putter-to-bedder ever." She said he just THROWS the covers on top of her in a big pile. You know, I carefully spread each of the five blankets in the particular order she likes them stacked. You'd think he could handle something so simple…

Claire: I used to LOVE when my dad tucked me in. He always read to me--Rudyard Kipling--in voice: …till at last he came to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees…It was great.

TR: Really, Claire?! That's so sweet. My dad used to come into my room trashed, throw himself on my feet, and cry.    

Claire: ...        ...          ...

TR: My work here is done.    


Small Dog

served up with cream of death.


Women Like This Make Me Ashamed to Have a Vagina

What the heck are we supposed to make of these GQ photos, anyway? One seems to say, "Come #$^% me on my daughter's toys," and I'll not speculate on the other... (I've decided not to exploit that child by posting it.) For once, couldn't she have kept her pants on? Gross, gross, gross. I get that sex sells, but must we stoop to the sex/child combo?


My Mean Son

TR: What's that on TV?

Jack: Holes.

TR: You wanna go run with me at the river?

Jack: This movie's not gonna watch itself.


Friday Nostalgia

Takes me right back to the late-night/early-mornings in 1992, when I was up with Jack, rocking him and watching infomercials with my friends Susan and Victoria.

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Writer, teacher, student, mom.

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