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Posts Tagged ‘anthony’

cherish

as i pulled into 
my driveway, i saw
one of my neighbors
basking in the sunshine
on her front porch,
with a dog on
either side
of her

“heya,”
i called
as i opened
the driveway gate

she told me
that she’s feeling
a little pain, but that
the sunshine helps
in more ways
than one, so:

she can’t
complain

i paused,
and said,
“you know,
i just had a really
great conversation
with anthony, and i’m
just so grateful for
him … i’m with you.
i really can’t
complain”

i’d already
planned on
sharing (a little) about
anthony and neighbors,
so the timing of this
exchange was
perfect

earlier,
as anthony and i
talked, i asked if he’d
be okay with
this one
thing

(which
might
prove
aggravating)

he laughed.
“you know me.
i can put up with
almost anything.
i can’t say i’ll be
all sunshine, but
i’ll be okay”

we talked about
how people mistake
his very long fuse for
absence of fuse, with me
explaining how my sister
rache taught me that
the fact someone
has a long fuse
and peaceable
demeanor
doesn’t
mean
they’re
meek

(a lot of people
make that mistake)

i thought about
this one post 
i wrote on
l2sp;
how
anthony
surprised me,
and reminded me:
i no longer have
to fight every
fight alone

i’m sharing
that post here
tonight, but with a
caution: while the first
part was all about
anthony, the
second was
me raging
about
white
people

i’m done 
raging at 
individual
people,
done
done
done,
i do
solemnly
vow Read more…

Poop slippers, pictorally

Last night, I wrote about winning the real prize at yesterday’s office holiday party: poop slippers. I forgot to include the picture in last night’s post, so here it is:

image

As I picked up my phone to post the picture above, I saw another picture worth taking and sharing.

Since I’m “making my SoCal husband cold,” he’s using his old Cthulhu hat to keep his head warm.

image

In a house full of morning people, one stands the lone night owl. Which one, hmm?!

Everything about this tickles me!

Happy weekend, y’all.

Categories: Family, Nerd, Silly Tags: , ,

Prescribing Joy: Wild Is The Wind (2)

Anthony (And now and then an elephant all in white.) is my husband. He’s infuriating and delightful. I love him, else I wouldn’t have married him … even though he was on Survivor (gag!) and marrying him involved marriage (gag!, or so I thought, until I married him).

prescribing joy

Wild Is The Wind (2)

We all spend so much time
trying to find happiness in the world
that we are blinded to it
sitting there
like so much dross on a dusty shelf,
when there is gold to be found
in the everyday,
in the mundane,
in life:

The smell of fresh cut grass on a summer day
The smell of the dust, just as it starts to rain;
The laughter brought on a truly terrible,
ill timed fart;

The satisfaction of rescuing
that one piece of meat that’s
been stuck between two back molars
for the better part of the day,
after Sunday Brunch,
having only used the dexterity of your tongue,
and creative suction;

Home improvement shows;

Finishing the final brush stroke,
on a set of miniature fantasy soldiers
just as the movie you had playing in the background
resolves its audible crisis, rolls credits,
and plays music to exit a theater by;

Your dog coming over to you,
unbidden
on your lowest day,
and putting his head on your knee;

A kiss on your cheek in the middle of the night
from your love,
followed by a half murmured comment to
someone in a dream,
followed by stolen covers and soft snores;

A half naked child waking you up at 3:41 am
on a Tuesday morning,
to find solace in the warmth
that is buried somewhere
deep within the cavity of your nose–
so deep that only a child’s foot can free it;

Twenty-Five undisturbed minutes in the bathroom;

Handwritten correspondence in the mail,
your name scrawled across the front;
Clearing off a long littered desk;
A good cup of coffee;

Driving home in loud silence
after an overwhelmingly
Not Quiet day;

An Ice cold glass of water on a fall morning;

The moment of removing
sock, then shoe,
sock, then shoe,
and then flexing your feet;

Putting on a clean pair of jeans
that you’ve not worn for weeks,
putting your hand in the pocket
and finding a five dollar bill;

Hugs, and smiles, and laughs,
and memories of baby teeth;
tiny toes on children;

Music, played too loud,
from car speakers,
with the windows rolled up,
so no one hears your singing along badly to
Counting Crows,
Tony! Toni! Tone!
The Clash
L.L. Cool J
La Traviata;

Going to bed tired,
laying your head down on a cool pillow
and letting sleep devour you,
one molecule at a time,
only to have that one moment,
that singularity
of knowing the answer is–

Crying, sometimes;
Laughter;
Stillness;

Sitting on the porch,
on any given afternoon,
watching people going about their day,
their ordinary day.

Eyes looking at you with love;
and watching them close,
and flutter to sleep;

So many little things,
lying around our world
like so many wild horses
waiting to carry us off,
(holding on for dear life,)
cackling like school children
overflowing with tiny
triumphant
joy.

last : Reading Dreams | Casting On : next

The 40s track

“You’re on the 30s track, aren’t you?” my six-year-old asked of my age yesterday.

Laughing, I agreed I am. Nodding toward my husband, I added, “And he’s on the 40s track!”

A little later, I couldn’t help but notice how the 40s track suits him.

image

I’m already looking forward to his 50s track.

Somethin’ lovely

wedding bwMost folks who know my husband know him as the quieter, gentler half of this couple. That’s often all they know of him, so they think of him as “gentle” and laugh about how he once cried on national TV.

Last night, I came inside after a confrontation with our neighbors and explained to him what had just happened. His face got stormy, following which he very quietly put on his shoes and went outside.

He returned six minutes later to explain what had just happened. It all made sense, and all will be okay going forward. I was grateful that he’d had the conversation.

But his face was steel, just steel, when he relayed his starting message to our neighbors: “Don’t you ever talk to my wife like that again.”

I can hold my own. If you read my blog, you know this. I have held my own since I was very small, so that it astonishes me when anyone else speaks to protect me.

Because of all this, I sometimes forget how seriously he takes his vows of for-better-or-worse.

He loathes confrontation, but he loves me more.

That’s somethin’, folks.

That’s somethin’ lovely.

Categories: Communication, Family, Love Tags: , ,

the love memo

Mom and Li'l D“take care of my family,”
said my then-future husband
as he hugged
my ex-boyfriend

thus began
a 900-mile drive
northward
with my ex
to introduce
my son
to my
dying
mom

i know
from experience
this is the part
where you interrupt
in horror:

WHAT.

men and women can’t be friends!
exes can’t be friends!
it is against
the natural laws
of … uh, well,
nature!

is that so?

i’m glad
i missed
the memo

there is far
too much unlove
in the world
to willingly observe
those rules
that limit
love

this post
inspired by
a monday chat
with ra

ra-d wrestle

Policemen, let names be names

Alton Sterling.

Philando Castile.

These two men
are now memories,
members of a terrible club of those
deceased by having the misfortune
of crossing paths with policemen
while brown-skinned.

I wrote
in December 2014
that “No parent anywhere
should reasonably fear
the sanctioned killing
of their children.”

I also wrote
about social media’s
power to transform policing
specifically, to enhance
accountability, instead
of enabling officers
who have ended
a life to narrate
its conclusion;
to enable all
citizens to see
police officers
as protective force,
not protected fatality
factory.

In August 2015,
I wrote that if my husband
ever dies at police hands,
he will have died
with his hands
in the air.

This morning,
I pray for police cameras
actually turned on, for police
accountability such that lethal action results,
always, in independent review and indictment,
rather than habitual non-indictment
that virtually assures tomorrow
policemen will again kill
without consequence,
and then again the next day
and the next day,
and the next,
ad nauseum.

Let names be
names, not hashtags.
Let hashtags be hashtags.
Let police protect all, and be
held accountable when
they do not.

Let my husband
make it home to me safely
today, and every day … and let
everyone’s husband, and father,
and son, and brother and cousin,
do the same, instead of
reasonably fearing
at every traffic stop.

Let me look at
policemen and think,
“I am so glad you are out there
protecting me and mine,”
instead of cringing and
thinking, “Please do not
kill without recourse
today, tomorrow,
or ever again.”

Accountability
is not a negative
thing, but the basis
of trust, and oh, how
I want to trust
(reasonably).

This is the picture I will plaster everywhere. You will not find a mugshot.

This is the picture I will plaster everywhere.
You will not find a mugshot.

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