I don't know why

Two days ago I walked upstairs and followed a curious fruity smell into the bathroom.  On the floor was a pillow.  Will had ripped off the allergy case and the cloth that covered it.  So the pillow was a lumpy, cottony mess carefully covered with a bottle of apricot body wash.  He covered the apricot body wash layer with an entire package of pads that he had taken out of the plastic wrappers and had removed the backings from the adhesive.  He carefully covered the entire "pillow" with two layers of pads and discarded the plastic wrappers by the door.  The backings were left in a different pile.  When I moved one of the pads to take a closer look at the orange body wash Will ran over and fixed his art installation.

Umm, tasty!

Sometimes irony is so delicious that you might as well be eating 3 flavors of ice cream, in a chocolate dipped waffle cone ... that doesn't have any calories!

Well, just when I was starting to think that my break with thtudnwmtb was permanent and that all she cared about was whether her alimony check was in the mail or not something happened.  We got a letter from the refinancing company who handled the refinance.  The town was misspelled in the paperwork so they sent us an letter informing us.

But ... wait for it! ... our name was misspelled.

A Poem

Gate C22 

At gate C22 in the Portland airport
a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed
a woman arriving from Orange County.
They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after
the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons
and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking,
the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other
like he'd just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island,
like she'd been released at last from ICU, snapped
out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down
from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.

Neither of them was young. His beard was gray.
She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine
her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish
kisses like the ocean in the early morning,
the way it gathers and swells, sucking
each rock under, swallowing it
again and again. We were all watching--
passengers waiting for the delayed flight
to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots,
the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling
sunglasses. We couldn't look away. We could
taste the kisses crushed in our mouths.

But the best part was his face. When he drew back
and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost
as though he were a mother still open from giving birth,
as your mother must have looked at you, no matter
what happened after--if she beat you or left you or
you're lonely now--you once lay there, the vernix
not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you
as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth.
The whole wing of the airport hushed,
all of us trying to slip into that woman's middle-aged body,
her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses,
little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up.

Ellen Bass

My Inner Teenage Boy

A couple of weeks ago I went to the Breaking Dawn with some friends.  I prepared myself for Kristen Stewart’s twitching er … acting by watching this:

I was pleasantly surprised that the movie was pretty good.  Because, according to one of my friends, Kristen Stewart didn’t have many lines.  (She nailed it!)

However, I was most excited when I saw this preview start!  Before they even said his name I knew it was John Carter of Mars and started excitedly, shout whispering, “It’s John Carter of Mars!  It’s John Carter of Mars!  I can’t wait to see this movie!”

Because yes, as a teenage boy I read the series and the Tarzan series and even Conan.