Tuesday, July 25, 2006

little green dribbles

Started painting the living room. Rolling Hills by Behr.


behr rolling hills

It's kind of an extreme color, warranting an extended decision period. Two years ago I taped the paint chip on the wall so that we could consider and deliberate, and yesterday I cracked the can. What's the point? I should realize - I never change my mind. The passage of time serves only as rationalization.

It looks delectable. As I finished up yesterday the evening sun was streaming in the front door and onto the new green wall. Big Man climbed up on the back of the couch and watched himself living the music. I think it's Zola, from the Tsotsi soundtrack.



This is for Jaime: I got home late last night and had to park at the way end of the driveway, meaning I had to get out of the car basically IN the front garden. Mint and sage up to my knees. Then I realized I had to move the car. Waded thru the herbage again, got back into the car. Felt something scratchy on my thigh.

Because the dome light was on, I got a pretty good look at the grasshopper that I freed from high under my skirt. It racketed around inside the car, banking off the dash, my face, the windshield. I calmly opened the door and let him out, and enjoyed a moment picturing how Jaime would have reacted. Much flailing, perhaps a stroke.



This is for Loren. I've always had this craven need for people to like my children. I reason that if my boys are polite and personable, the teachers and counselors in their lives will go out of their way to help them get what they need. To that end, my two kids say please and thank you and introduce themselves and excuse themselves from the table to an almost neurotic extent (my neurosis, let's be clear).

The other day Loren met up with a child whose parents are obviously much more relaxed about this sort of thing. Coming out of Target, a TWELVE-YEAR-OLD boy pointed at her, yelling "FUPA! FUPA!" Were Loren not in her twenties and thus sometimes exposed to the Howard Sterns of this world, she'd have smiled and waved and yelled back, "FUPA to you too, young fella! Hi!" That's probably what I would have done. However, Loren, being down with the lingo and whatnot, was mortally humiliated and appalled, as 'FUPA' apparently means "Fat Upper Pussy Area."

Twelve years old this little fucker was. Loren checked and it turns out 'FUPA' is a unisex term. I don't want to go into it further. Just need to say that Loren? Not in possession of any body part (or fraction thereof) that can be called fat.

The Urban Dictionary is a worldwide slang wiki, and the examples are hilarious. However, I'm going to be my sniffy self and register my continued objection to 'urban' as a euphemism for 'black'. 'Urban fiction' my bony white ass.