muffy bolding

Our highly intellectual, eccentric 16 year old son, Otis, spent today with one of his buddies, doing some work for his buddy’s father — 8 hours spent shoveling dry concrete into a wheelbarrow, then hoisting the wheelbarrow uphill, emptying it, and then doing it again. With those long, soft, elegant, guitar-playing hands. In 90 degree heat.

He just got home, hot and exhausted (but with extra book, CD, and video game dough in his pocket!) and when he walked in the door, he smiled hugely and the very first thing he said to me was, “Oh, man, I am SO going to college.”

I am feeling rather confessional today, mein poppets — and am hoping that you do, as well.

So, what do you think is your WORST character trait — the part of yourself which needs the most work? For me…I’d say that I’m FAR too empathic when it comes to my children. When one of them is fucked up — even in the most miniscule way — I am FULL-ON FUCKED UP. I need to allow them to struggle. I am weak.

It just breaks my fucking heart.

Mother of god. GREATEST BAND NAME OF ALL TIME? “Yolanda Be Cool.” SO FUCKING AWESOME…that I give it the most humble, lush, lavish compliment I am able: “Man, I wish I’d written that.”

“I didn’t have dough handed to me because of my good cheekbones. I had to earn it.” — Miss Neely O’Hara

KIDS? Shiiiiiiiiiiiit. Knitter, PLEASE. My kids can KISS MY BIG FAT ANCIENT ASS. Children are undeserving of such a FINE LAIR. I want one of these COMPLETELY OFF-THE-HOOK-AWESOME loft bedroom set-ups FOR ME! Talk about a ROOM OF ONE’S OWN. I’d load it up with all my books, crank on the History Channel, skip-kick the gottdamned A/C down to 58, stock up on NORO yarn and iced tea with stevia, tuck those two delightful chihuahuas underneath my GUNT, lock that fucking door, and, aside from My One True Love — whom I would sneak in for breathless conjugal visits — no one would ever see me again. EVER.

I VANT TO BE ALONE.

This song is SO FUCKING UNBELIEVABLY OFF TRACK…that it actually turns round upon itself — much like an infinity symbol skate-cut into an ice pond in a Multiplication Rock Video — and becomes COMPLETELY ON TRACK.

Gosh, I really, really hope Miss Jackie Beat performs this delightful little number in her next vaudeville show.

I gotta tell you that, despite my initial reservations on the subject, having someone tell you that, “Saying ON TRACK too much…is actually OFF TRACK.” is, in and of itself, COMPLETELY ON TRACK.

And speaking about my Lady Bits (and, let’s face it, when am I NOT?), I think that in order for me to get past the burning, scorching horror in which I currently dwell, I just really need to say out loud that MY VAGINE IS A BATTLEFIELD.

Two words: FINGERNAILS and MONISTAT.

Whose shrieks and howls of the damned are these when I pee?

Oh, they’re mine.

That is all.

Last night I had the most entertaining dream that Miss Becky Thyre and myself were lying side by side on a psychedelic Pucci-lookin’ bedspread reading through an awesome old book of spells and potions that was REAL kitschy and REAL witchy. Our favorite? The recipe for how to prepare a big ass batch of VAGINATED TEA. When I woke up in this world, I was ABSOLUTELY FURIOUS that the book hadn’t made it back with me.

“Knit on, with confidence and hope, through all crises.” — Elizabeth Zimmermann, The Opinionated Knitter