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The Birds of America and Toddlers of this House are Sleeping.

I'm rereading "Birds of America" (still), and this morning, "Charades" had me laughing like a goon, alone out on the dark sunporch.

Therese mentally measured the length of her body in front of her and wondered if she could do it. Of course she could. Of course. But would she? And then suddenly, she knew she would. She let her hip twist and fell straight forward, her arm at an angle, her mouth in a whoop. She had learned to do this in drama club when she was fifteen. She hadn't been pretty, and it was a means of getting the boys' attention. She landed with a thud.  

"You still do that?" asked Ann with incredulity and disgust. "You're a judge and you still do that?" 

"Sort of," said Therese from the floor. She felt around for her glasses. 

I'm having a hard time making time and cultivating headspace these days, but this is still my work, part of it, anyway. For that I am grateful.

If I'm lucky, I have an hour to wrestle with this thing that I hope and pray will soon be a story and--if the gods shine golden--will, as if by magic, cure all that ails the collection. No pressure!

update: About ten minutes after I wrote this, a sleepy kid stumbled onto the still-dark sunporch and said, "You wanna go night night, Mama?"

"Of course," I said, and closed Word.

"Here," she said, and pulled my stocking hat off. "I put this here so you can have it in the moe-nin."

Though these two parts of my work often seem at odds, this morning I am thankful for both.

Professional Haircuts? Not part of my work.

This is It.

"This is what life's done so far down here; this is all and what and everything it's managed--this body, these bodies, that body--so what do you think, Heaven? What do you fucking think?"

-"Dance in America," Lorrie Moore

I listened to "This is It" on repeat while I reread "Birds in America," and it was the saddest thing. It also made me think about prolepsis, a term I learned from Ryan Call and good HTMLgiant. I miss Ryan Call on Twitter.

You should buy his book The Weather Stations. It's so good.

 Newsroom

Frappuccino Turns 20: The Story behind Starbucks Beloved Beverage

LOL 20 years ago I was driving around Charlottesville in a Starbucks van setting up renegade "jazz cafes" by the side of the road and handing out samples of their fresh new drink. Yes, sir! Just coffee, milk and sugar!

I'd "taken time off" from UVa, loved and left a bass player, and spent my time concerned 1) that the CDs I was supposed to play weren't actually jazz 2) that the bass player was not all that concerned I'd packed a Ryder truck and left and 3) that I might serve UVa students I knew and have them ask me what I was up to.

Or does my memory confuse the matter? Had I left the bass player at that point? For the first time? Certainly not the last. Had I even left Charlottesville for Austin? I am almost certain I played an unauthorized Hot Buttered Rhythm CD in place of the terrible smooth whatever Starbucks provided. But perhaps I am imagining that too. Frappucino came out twenty years ago today. Starbucks tells me so, so that part must be true.

crossposted

We followed the tornados east, back home to Oklahoma.

Here we are, four generations strong.

(The second was whirlwinding the kitchen.)

Missing is Mom, who was cleaning old brisket and beans from the fridge.

Like a Lion

Today's my mom's birthday. I wanted to share her wonderfulness with you all.

We may not be kids together anymore, but she still carries me on her shoulders. She is something else. 

I wish my mom's refrigerator were as big as a garage.

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I'm working on series of O The Owls entitled TODDLER, LET ME BE GREAT! There are others. They were, fittingly, destroyed.