A Strongly-Worded Letter to the Supervisor of Sleep

Dear Noctus,

Good Morning, Sunshine! It’s 5 a.m. on a Sunday, and I do not have to work.

What are you thinking?

You have abandoned me in a time of need, and I thought we had already hashed out a perfectly acceptable arrangement years earlier. Perhaps it is time to review our contract?

Remember the early years, when our association was new, and I railed against your authority at nap time? How I protested your appearance with tears, screaming myself red-faced well into the afternoon until succumbing to your persistent pressure? Remember how we compromised, and I spent much of my teenaged and college time in a complicit coma that endangered my permanent school record? I thought we had a deal. I would catch up in the afternoons when my baby was small and had bad sleep-timing, and you would allow me the luxury of sleeping in on days I had a chance?

Where is your honor?

Even now, when my baby is a teenager making his own contract with you (he is an obedient fellow who has a noon-time nap scheduled), you renege on your agreement with me, the one who signed him up for your program. To this day, I cannot donate blood in a semi-recumbent position because of the strictures of your agreement (I fall asleep).

You have failed me, Noctus.

See you at 11 p.m. I hope I can count on your cooperation. I have a busy day tomorrow.

Regards,

Pan Narrans

Fear

The snake of my fear nearly leaves my belly through my mouth,

and I grip the sides of my seat

as if sheer will alone will keep me from ejecting willfully,

on purpose,

in order to clear out of this goddamned situation.

 

My face trembles with the force of my calm,

years of practice in customer service keeping me from

FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.

 

The acid in my stomach perpetuates its fervid dance,

my thighs twitch to join,

and my right foot pushes so hard down,

SO HARD.

 

I don’t think I can stand it

I don’t think I can stand it

I don’t think I can stand it

And I have stood it

We made it home.

 

The Kid complains to everyone who will listen:

“She never lets me drive.”

Food Politics and People on Medical Leave and NEVER BEING ALONE

So, I was really going to delve into food politics today. I was going to cite sources and make thoughtful comments and really work out what my opinion was on all of this stuff.
And here I am, sitting with my son, finally the television is off so I can work on writing and here he is, eating ice cream and talking to me. Talking talking talking. So much talking. And I know it is all my fault because I am the one who taught him to speak. He's being super nice and asking me if he can help me with anything. Also, "why are you making that noise?" and "is it something I said?"
Grrrr.
My husband is home on medical leave because he had colon surgery. He is home all of the time now. He is healing. It's great that he is home all of the time. I love him. I married him because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. Unfortunately, I didn't realize at the time, I was also marrying the very loudest of volume controls on the television.
In a month, my husband will return to work, and I will be able to listen to Harry Belafonte records again. Until then, I have to listen to every Nazi gold program and Alien Mystery investigative report that the History Channel has ever produced. I can't write during this time. I can only complain.
I'm TRYING to read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. I went through a phase of reading everything she wrote (mostly memoirs and diatribes on the oppression of migrant workers), until I just couldn't take any more righteous indignation. This particular book is about growing your own food and eating seasonally, and it's a memoir as well as an investigation into modern U.S. food ways. It's pretty good. Lots of citations! I'm so jealous!
Poem tomorrow. Sorry, Michael Vargas, it's as good as it's going to get for the next few weeks. I just can't coordinate my thoughts.
It might even be a haiku.
Haikus are easy.

Kitchen Poem

The striated flesh of a bisected potato

The fistfuls of spinach thrown in a hot pan

Hot steam flashing up like a magician’s trick

When I am elbows-deep in a mound of dough

Creating stealthy well-being under the guise of cookies

That’s when I am most me.

 

Teeth gritted in a determined smile

Whirlwinding across the linoleum timing pot to pan

Snapping at anyone who dares cross the invisible line into my domain

That’s when I am happiest.

 

And when it’s over and I am sitting at my own meal

Plate neatly piled with veg and starch and meat and bread

I’m actually disappointed that I have to eat this now and the fun part’s over

Where I am the witch who wields the ladle.

And so it begins…

Right, so blogging is commencing. I have had a fortifying (not fortified) glass of wine, and I’m ready to go. And…now. Go.

I want to write about Important Things, muscular ideas, tentacles of thought wrapping around the words slipping from my fingers like slivered almonds into great pots of sliced green beans sautéed with garlic, but the words slide out of my brain like raw meat slipping from a package, not right, slimy and bacterial, requiring hand-washing and serious grilling before ready for human consumption.

Someday, I will write Responsible Things concerning Actual Issues, but until then, I will dribble and drabble about the mundane meals I feel so proud of (whole wheat instead of all-purpose flour! I’m a genius!) and the irritatingness of having a Gentleman to Whom I am EnNuptuated (nope, not a word) constantly in the house due to a recent surgery.

Yeah, the wine. It’s not a problem so much as it is an indulgence. I freaking indulge. I even *fucking* indulge. That’s right, this blog will be full of cusswords and meanderings and made-up words. I’m tired of trying to fit my fat foot in the narrow shoe of proper language. I’m letting my fat foot free!

Things I want you to talk to me about: electronic cigarettes (any medical journal articles out there regarding the effects of Vegetable Glycols or whatever on the lungs?), food (always food, recipes, food politics), dogs, how much I love you (am a little tipsy, remember?), nerdy things I should know about. I’m going to try and cite sources and be science minded, and use my critical thinking skills. Go with me! This is a journey. We’ll walk together. I’ll even hold your hand. J

Dude. So tipsy.

I will write you a poem tomorrow.