New Earrings!

I don't know if I told you about this or not, but Odessa's a little bit deaf. Not stone deaf, but deaf enough for my tastes.  She was probably born like that, but we didn't really realize she couldn't hear everything until she was old enough to start talking. Because while she had the compulsion to talk, her vocalizations sounded like those of a human child being raised by a family of wild turkeys.

So, last fall we took her to a speech therapist who told us to get her hearing tested, which we did.  And the hearing test people were like, uh, I don't think her hearing thingies are working? So you need to go to this other, more expensive place.  And then we went there and they anesthetized her and put electrodes all over her head and read her brains with a computer for an hour and a half, and when they were done they came out and said, yeah, I think her hearing thingies aren't working.

And now, after five months of audiology clinics, doctors' offices, hospitals, speech therapists, insurance companies, pharmacies, and parent-teacher conferences, Dessa is now the highly skeptical owner of two purple hearing aids.  And I would like to publicly thank her for taking it like a motherfucking boss.

After she woke up this morning, I was like, Okay, Sweet Strudel of My Dreams! It's time to put in your hearing aids! And she leveled this look at me, which was basically just The Bird, except with her eyes instead of her middle finger.  And then I was like, They're earrings!

Her (translated for your convenience): My Mommy earrings?
Me: No, they're Dessa's earrings!
Her: Mommy earrings.
Me: You want mommy to wear earrings, too?
Her: Yeah.
Me: You want to pick out some earrings for me?
Her: Yeah.

So we went into the bathroom and she didn't even look at the earrings, but to the shelf above, where all the nail polish lives.

Her: Dessa has orange pingernails?
Me: You have to put these earrings in first.
Her: Orange pingernails.
Me: Earrings then breakfast then orange fingernails.

At this point she paused for a few seconds and then nodded in a way that would make Don Corleone uncomfortable.

That was today.  We'll see how tomorrow goes.

P.S. I'd also like to publicly thank myself for taking this like a motherfucking boss.

Happy Birthday, Edna!

WILD SWANS

I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
And what did I see I had not seen before?
Only a question less or a question more;
Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,
House without air, I leave you and lock your door.
Wild swans, come over the town, come over
The town again, trailing your legs and crying!

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

Lady Love

Kristin and Jane are wearing hats. I want someone to pay attention to me. 

I'm especially fond of women.   I mean, Bryan's a really special and magnificent man and I've been blessed with some extra-good male friends. And 98.8% of the people I've ever wanted to face-gaze or whose forearm I've ever wanted to touch in kind of a weird creeper way have been dudes. (Face gazing is this thing Magdi came up wi--you know what? It doesn't matter, I'll tell you later.  And the whole forearm thing...don't you ever see somebody and a voice inside your head's like, "if I could only figure out a way to touch his forearm...."? Alan Rickman is a good example.  Shut up, Jesslyn.)

But anyway, when it comes down to it, I just really appreciate the company of a nice lady.  And I got to go to Missoula last week--which, in itself is a geographic hub on my map of magical lady love--but it was especially good because I got to fly there with Catherine Meeks, one of my very favorite humans.  Catherine's husband Alex once said "you crazy people aren't happy unless your souls have met on the astral plane."  Which is true; me and Catherine get some next level shit talked about if given the time: the radioactive mice buried underneath Niagra Falls kind of blends in with yogic financial management and the socio-political climatic arc of the Star Wars movies.  And, of course, we also talk about people we know and how they be so crazy.  On this trip, we had to switch seats in the airplane because our necks got cricks in them from talking so much.

Anyway, I don't think I could be happy if I didn't have lady friends like Catherine.  Or Kerry, who just started a blog for my birthday because she loves me: it's called The Poopy Scoop and it's hilarious and you should read it.  Or my friend Susan who wrote me the other night to tell me she had an insight that we were past-life sisters who ran a pecan weevil farm.  Or Jane and Kristin because we were there for each others' adolescences, and oh god it was so ugly.   And My Girl Audrey because I could tell her The Worst Thing I've Ever Done, and she'd be like, "that sounds reasonable, what else you got?"  And Mary and Vicki and Katherine, who I hope are present when I need an emergency civilian-administered leg amputation sans anesthesia, because I'd trust them to do it.  And Becca and Frances who are sweet fairy spirits and Missy Sue who is truly, magically bizarre and wise and Magdi who can make me laugh like I'm being exorcized. And Genevieve! Jess! Kiki! And there are more! MORE.

But the problem here is, that last paragraph looks like it was lifted from Dolly Parton's autobiography, which, yes, I've read, and as much as I love Dolly P., the book's actually pretty boring because she mostly just talks about people you don't know and never says anything mean about them.  Well, the part where she falls off the yacht near the Great Barrier Reef during a storm at sea and is rescued by her agent is exciting, but that's pretty much it.

My point is, nobody likes to hear you talk about people they don't know.  But I'm just saying I really wish everyone had their own Genevieve because I think people would sleep better. Genevieve's really nice.  You would like her.

Open Letter to My Immune System

Dear My Immune System,

Ahem. I hope this finds you well.

You and I are both in Missoula, Montana, lying in bed with a greyhound named Lemon.  We're having a romantic time of it, as she keeps shoving her butt into our armpit.  Because you're inside my body and might not be able to see out, this is what Lemon looks like:

Sorry, not a very good photo.

Okay, so, Immune System.

I don't want to hurt your feelings and I hope you are able take this critique of your work in the spirit in which it is intended: one of respect and sincere faith in your abilities as a professional with over three decades of on-the-ground experience. However, I feel it's time to have a frank discussion about your performance.

I'm just wondering: why is it every time we fly anyplace, you fail me?  Yes, I know it's cold here--for reference, this is what we looked like yesterday morning:

And we look okaayyy! Maybe a little like we just woke up? Like we'd prefer to go back indoors because we're only wearing a t-shirt and jammiepants.  Like we're slightly uncomfortable photographing ourselves with our laptop in front of a lady approaching on our left who is walking a terrier wearing a terrier-jacket. But otherwise, we look regular--I mean pretty healthy, right? 

 And you want to see what we look like this morning?

Those eyes are glassy, Immune System.  That woman is pale as shit and blowing her nose on the shirt she wore yesterday. Perhaps the purple rings under her eyes aren't as pronounced as they could be in this particular photograph because I do have a little self-respect, and this is on The Internet, after all.

And--by the way--I just tried to ask Lemon if she wanted to go outside? And I appear to be losing my voice.  Which is the last straw.  The LAST Straw.  Because talking is kinda my thing, Immune System. You know that.

So what I'm saying, My Immune System, is we've got problems that need solutions. And this isn't the first time this has happened.  Rather, this happens every single time.  

What I'm saying is your shoddy workmanship is bringing us down.  The rest of our internal systems require that you do your job properly. I am looking forward to seeing an immediate improvement in your job performance.

Thanks for your time and attention.

Respectfully and Sincerely Yours, 

Jesslyn