S: Where are we going?
Me: Just down the street. (the kid knows how to get anywhere and everywhere)
S: are we going to the place where you mailed those letters that time, remember that
Me: Yes, that is where we're going. I do remember.
S: Why did you mail those letters?
Me: They were different types of letters. Some to friends and family.
S: Why did you send them letters?
Me: Because I care about them and love them.
S: and you miss them?
Me: That too.
S: I want to send a letter to Aunt Hope, cause I miss her.
Friday, July 31, 2009
S: Where are we going?
Posted by Anna at 11:15 AM
Friday, July 24, 2009
I was out painting the deck and I had a conversation with Hope. I asked her what I should tell Scarlett because of the random and varied questions she throws at me. We'll be driving in the car or she'll be watching a show and suddenly start crying or become sad, "because I miss Aunt Hope."
We'll today we we're watching a recording of So You Think You Can Dance...we like to pretend we can dance, Scarlett and I. Damn them for giving us a reason to talk.
Posted by Anna at 11:17 AM
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
It’s the sense that you know the horrors and the bad that makes having children so difficult. I feel it looming, that cloud of danger, omnipresent and dark. They hover in the distance, lurking, waiting for a step away in trusted surroundings and a false sense of security. You can’t trust that. Not in the projects, not in the suburbs. They are there and danger is certain. It’s knowing that frightens me the most. Panic. Fear. Pain that enters in the time when I’m alone…
Last night I dreamed of a ship. The water. As it started to sink I climbed staring up at the foaming waves. The railing was white. It was an earthquake.
Posted by Anna at 10:57 PM
Thursday, July 16, 2009
One bottle of red and no filter. Suck it.
MY students are funny. I call them mine like I have some sense of ownership, but at one time in their lives, I did “own “ them as far as the Brevard county school district is concerned.
My point, I don’t have one. I began the day bitter. My ankle was twisted and I hated my PhD program and I felt like I went too hard on the contractor. Did I mention I dyed my hair four times this month, talk about mood swings…
So I asked on facebook, tell me about a moment between us, when I met you, etc… Some of my former students replied, so honestly. Yes, I (we if Davidson is concerned) took them to Lucky Chengs….which according to the Sheraton TV was a family restaurant. Let’s just say, it’s not, and it was fantastic. Anywho, I will be interested in taking any and all to a reunion at the joint.
FYYFF (Davidson, you know what this means)
John Grisham, your daughter is sweet. Her car is above her status as a human. You write and make me question ethics. Fuck you.
Chris Connelly, you used to tell me about the “news” on Mtv, now you “read” for ESPN. Fuck you.
Nicholas Sparks, you wrote The Notebook. I cried for two fucking hours after watching the movie. You’re no Graham Greene, you bastard. Fuck you for making me feel insignificant and unloved. Fuck you.
Ryan Reynolds. Abs. Funny. Nuf said. Fuck you.
Megan Fox. Two movies away from cinemax, but damn, you are hot. Fuck you.
Jim. Wild hair. You make me feel inadequate, continually. Ahhhh, but candy bikinis. Fuck you.
Silver hair. So we have met for the first time, but not the last time. The shock of the light blonde hair after that OOPS shower was a littler overwhelming. I mean, I wanna look all superhero and such, but oh my, didn’t expect such a mess. Silver, you are my nemesis and my maker. Fuck you.
Eyeliner. My addiction. Who knew you could tube down the Soque with your eyes on? I did! Fuck you.
Ben Affleck. You had your chance…..Benanna. Fuck you.
You. You don’t hear me. Fuck you.
Planes. There are those that believe in your nonsense of mid air travel. They are fools looking for a quick fix. Fuck you.
Oprah. You didn’t visit Hope, not even a letter. You talk of spirit to middle class white mothers. Fuck you.
Ankle. Fuck you.
HBO. When are you going to teach me about some strange cult of sexual deviants that I have yet to discover? You keep airing real sex episodes from 1988. I want to see new hippies in the woods. Fuck you.
Sun. You cause cancer. I love you and your embracing warmth. Fuck you.
Sarah Palin. That voice, ugh. Fuck you.
You, with the vagina. Stop having children and get a job. Fuck you.
Bitter childless Doctors. Fuck you.
Torn meniscus? What the fuck? Bucket flap? Fuck you.
No, you don’t need calgon. You just need an IUD, a passport, and a fancy backpack. Fuck you.
CCC’s…change the world, welcome culture, but not in my backyard or from my wallet. Fuck you.
“I think you just wrote this paper to write one and be done with it.” No shit. Do you think I would sit around in the middle of watching someone I love die and throw myself into your research? Fuck you.
Transcribe them, I don’t even know them…Fuck you.
So I heard you died. Sorry I missed it. I’m sure you would have loved seeing me there. I’m not sure that anyone who carries around a giant cardboard cut out of themselves half naked could be anything but a narcissistic asshole. Fuck you.
But you died alone at a nursing home. Nursing home, Fuck you.
Tara Reid. I watched a movie…you were in it…it was awful and impossible to turn off. Fuck you.
Posted by Anna at 9:34 PM