Hormones

This is what I think of hormones: if they were a person I would never invite them to a party. If I saw them on the street I would kick them in the shins. On a particularly bad day I would run over them with a caterpillar tractor.

They are sneaky evil-doers who make you think you are crazy, and they actually do make you crazy and you say mean horrible things and you shake over spilled coffee and cry when you misplace your keys and have waves of rage wash over you for no reason whatsoever and I just know they are watching and laughing maniacally, the horrid little beasts.

I really wish they were a person. I want to smack them in the face.

Ferries

I took the ferry from Port Orchard to Seattle yesterday. It was sunset and had been warm all day. Max was sleeping in the sling, his head was damp like a just-born-chicken. Or a baby mouse. We stood on the deck at the back of the ferry, admiring the sun setting behind terse mountain peaks and drooling gold on the water. While we were out admiring, I heard the slow-rising pitch of a person singing with passion on the covered part of the ferry deck behind me. A lady with a mullet was kind of yodeling. Slow yodeling. She kept laying back on the benches in front of the windows, so that from the deck all I could see were her knees and feet waving about lazily. And her earnest voice rising and wailing into the sunset. She would occasionally right herself, and drift around, changing her notes, brushing at her bright red dress slightly preoccupied. Never breaking up her music. Never once looking around to see if anyone could hear, or was paying attention. Then down on the bench she went, wailing passionately to herself. I like people like that. Max does too. It felt like we were in an indie movie, the soundtrack being one single, a capella voice...

Oh no inspiration

I hate the feeling of being empty. Uninspired. Like my friend Jenn says, "I feel like an empty husk." Except she is referring to the lack of energy she feels in her muscles. I frantically flip through "Home and Garden magazines. Simple Living. Body and Soul." I will become zen. I will throw out all my clutter. I will burn and purge. I will become organized. I should take more walks. I will take more walks. I will eat more kale. I will rise with the sun. "Savour, Seattle Metropolitan, Oprah , Coastal Living..." I will find a little spark to ignite me in these pictures and meaty quips of articles! I will fan it into a flame!! I will be interesting, I will be interested! I will create! A song as good as Tom Waits, a poem that rivals cummings, I want to write a Fairy Tale!!

*I examine myself sceptically* And my lesser side comes out instead and entices me to eat ice cream.
The moon is not right for you.

I feel like an empty husk.

Seattle Summer

...finally! I feel like Seattlites deserve summer more than other people. We've all suffered together for nine long months. Rain on July 4th?! We are the laughing-stock of Mexico and Hawaii. And California. Those states wouldn't even associate with a state like ours, and they shoot withering glances whenever Seattle walks into the room. Seattle's like a mean miser. A crochety old miser man who refuses to give. My greatest feeling is absolute indignation. How dare it.
But today: I sweat. I glisten with sunscreen. The sidewalk burns my feet. Ahhh....
I've spent all day spraying Max and myself with a squirtbottle. He gets to lie around naked on a towel. We got him a little tub so he can splash his feet. He sits in it and beams at Samuel.
Also: my friend Jenn turns me inside out. Her faith in me makes me rapturous. I wish I had two huge bouncy balls so I could give one to her. We could glisten our bouncy way into the sunset.

Fourth of July

We are off to museum to see the Japanese woodblock prints. Max asked to go before the exhibit ends. Then we celebrate Independence Day. We have fireworks. I hope no one loses a hand or their sight today.

Feeding the blog

Yesterday:

We slept a lot. In his waking hours, Max was quite subdued and pensive, avoiding my eyes. I'm afraid he's mentally composing a letter of complaint to the management. His stay has lasted nine weeks, which is a good sign, but I have no experience raising another earthling, and can only imagine the exasperation he feels over my incompetance. I know he is sometimes embarrassed to be seen with me by the way he falls asleep as soon as we leave the house. How am I to tell if he is only pretending? I imagine that while I'm walking him along in the stroller, maybe admiring the lack of a summer that Seattle seems to be having, his tightly shut little eyes slowly open to see if I'm watching. If I look down at him he quickly shuts them and blows a soft adorable snore. Today his embaressment hinges on the fact it took me till midmorning to realize my shirt was on inside out, which still failed to hide the salad dressing stain smack dab in the middle of his feeding area. It is to my advantage that he has the memory of a chicken (which, in case you didn't know, is four seconds).
He has spent the afternoon playing thumb war with an invisible friend.