Today I listed my latest in babywear. I’ve had so many parents deliver me their adorable children, so I can more effectively model some of my homesewn pieces. It is new, getting used to photographing very young ones. It is also super-fun and the babies are so beautiful it really makes my day.
For tomorrow’s early dinner we are having our traditional fare: a big-ass Paula Deen ham, hot cross buns, scalloped potatoes, cold pea salad, and roasted lemon asparagus (for breakfast we’re having the Cypress Greek Bread the kids adore). I swear the family isn’t even all into that (except the fresh buns) but I make it anyway because Tradition is all about “longing, deprivation, and resentment”.
Also. I want you to know I laughed so hard at these that hot tears streamed down my cheeks. HOT TEARS.
Also: if you are a local, I am looking for babies and kids as models, so I can photograph some of my creations. I have several items that are not being published in any way because I do not have children to model them. I am hoping especially for newborns in the zero to three months’ range; also kids up to three. AND of course any child model (and carer) gets a lovely Hoga-playdate plus a hand-sewn or hand-knit bit of loveliness from YOURS TRULY.
Tonight – our first Bond film debuting a Shirley Bassey theme song (and the second Welsh artist to do a Bond theme out of seven so far)!
Now, my Bond is rusty on this film. If I remember, it is pretty misogynistic and extra homophobic, even for Bond – notably with the handling, so to speak, of Bond girl Plenty O’Toole as well as the two gay assassins Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd. I will say, apparently the early 70s was all about good cleavage – both Toole and Tiffany Case (played by Jill St. John) provide us with acres of that soothing, mammalian goodness.
This morning in bed I barely moved and my sleeping son rolled over and draped his leg over mine. We sleep like a single organism, our family. It’s wonderful. & now, I can’t fall back asleep, but I am content. I bury my head in his hair. It is THIS pillow-bushy and blonde and tangled and smells delicious. Depths. His skin is smooth and alive and flawless, warm velveteen, a tawny timbre even in the dead of winter.
This morning my first cup of coffee and I’m watching a little telly. My daughter comes downstairs, long legs and a shallow belly-bowl and her little cotton underthings and big beautiful eyes and she plunks next to me on the couch, and I mean right next to me, and I tell her not to get dressed, when I get home after the treatment center we’ll watch television together, and she is well-pleased.
A little before 1 I pull the car off onto the main thoroughfare and a few moments later my phone rings and I click on over and it’s my son and he’s sobbing. He’d chased my car because he wanted “one more kiss and one more hug” and now he hiccups he’s lost. Turns out he ran over four blocks and almost caught me. I had no idea. I tell him to call me back if he can’t find his way home and my eyes sting a little.
Tonight. My husband is out the door for a run after kissing me goodbye and in the quiet I fold up clothes then I plate up dinner – all-day pot roast and an Ethiopian cabbage, potato and carrot dish. Today I didn’t get up to much, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy so much what I have.
TWEEKERS SUCK then, clearly added later, YOUR [BITCH] TITS
It’s cold as hell and the bus “shelter” provides no respite. I tap on my phone and look online expecting to see the bus here any second; instead I find we will have to wait fifty more minutes and I’m like, stunned with despair.
I want to cry. My serenity vanishes and I am completely pissed. I will spare you the details; it’s ugly and trifling, but yeah I’m angry and I’ve already figured out how everyone is to blame. And with every ounce of self-restraint I do not say or do anything shitty out of this mental place and instead I zip my coat and I walk alongside my husband and I tell him, “I’m very cold.” He’s a cheerful bastard and has his metabolism so in a single-layer cotton hoodie he’s fine. He and my kids, I’m telling you. Their bodies ramp up and they are like hot little bread loaves in the bed at night, ask me how I know this. But I’m cold, cold, always cold.
A man gets on the bus and then another, and I recognize them from Treatment. They perhaps don’t know me or are too busy. One looks good though like he might not be drinking. Last time I saw him he was all yellowed up even in his eyes.
One thing about being wet and cold and out in the elements, we’re finally home over an hour later, and I am so pleased to be back inside. My daughter brings me a blanket and a pillow and asks if she can remove my shoes, and I’m so grateful and she blushes, pleased with herself she could make me so happy.
My daughter. This morning, first thing she said to me, she pulled me in close while she was still in bed and whispered her good dream she had. It was the most stunningly beautiful handful of words I’ve heard in a while. And I knew it was a secret only for me the moment she told me. It brought tears to my eyes; the dream and its sweetness, and amazing thing that she shared with me because she trusts me.
Things were different for me when I was her age. It’s hard to believe in something better, even when it’s right before my eyes.
I wrap up in blankets and I rest. A friend picks me up and takes me home, later. Simple things, those little things that help me. I am very grateful for these.
Here’s the scoop – I made this wonderful whipped body butter, out of nut and seed oils, and it is incredible. A single tear slides down my cheek, how lovely it is. However I accidentally made a bucket’s worth! I wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of packaging it up if I didn’t think it wasn’t incredible, lovely stuff!
Oh, and whipping a bunch of oils up in the kitchen can seem a little scary and messy. I just went real slow and when I was done, I carefully put the bowls and implements in my bathtub for bathtime. Which was awesome.
The listing on Homesewn includes links if you’d like to make your own. In the meantime, COME FEEL MY SKIN, it’s so soft and lovely. I mean like, feel my elbow or something. Nothing weird.
I’d walked out with dinner plates still dirty and left it all behind. My husband either would do the washing up or he wouldn’t but I couldn’t spend another minute in the house for this or that reason. I’d spent a large part of the day cooking: homemade rolls and slow-roasted orange pulled pork; a coleslaw with green apple and a pineapple marmalade upside down cake with cold cream to pour on top, and that was just dinner, not even what I made for breakfast and lunch.
The bread: satisfying. Handling dough, the mixing and oiling and steam-bath and fashioning and glazing and baking, wiping down traces of flour off the counter and the mixer. A lot of love into a simple food that many take for granted.
Now, though, it’s cold outside and I’m glad I don’t have to wait for the bus more than about eight minutes. I buy a punch pass from the driver as soon as I step on board, before I can think about it being twenty dollars and we have four more days until payday. The pass has a gold-leaf little bit embossed so people can’t fraud one. I zip up my coat and sit mid-way back. Riding the bus in the later hours is quite pleasant , although I need to really know when to catch one though, as they are few and far between and I don’t want to get stuck in Crackton, Aberdeen in this kind of cold. The interior lights are red and low and there are only a few passengers and they’re not rowdy. Like I said, quite pleasant, not as loud or as odorous as day trips.
I look up at the signs I’ve seen most my life up above the windows. “If You’ve Found This Number, Give Yourself A Break And Call”, followed by the phone contact for Narcotics Anonymous. I feel this little thrill sitting there, wondering how many people have happened on that sign and felt the familiar flutter in their gut and an accusatory jab, then cut their eyes away and tried to blot out their intolerable reality a bit longer.
We head up the hill to the hospital and back down with no one getting off or on. I was up at the hospital earlier; a friend gave me a ride to see another friend who was suffering internal bleeding. I flick my eyes up to the second floor and say a little prayer. Later in the afternoon, after our visit, I’d gone out with the ill friend’s wife and we ran our dogs at the bay. Two Bassett hounds and my Hutch, two hundred pounds of dog, and Hutch was in the lead being awesome!
I’m thinking though while I text and wait for my stop, I want for nothing. Both cars broke but one’s in the shop at least and hopefully it’s something we can fix, and the fact my husband isn’t upset about any of this helps me a great deal. I don’t want anything, not really, I am content with things the way they are. I’m happy to get more blessings but I’m okay if for a day or two things are tough. I was thinking maybe I’d want to take the family on a sunny vacation somewhere and you could even get a credit card for that sort of thing maybe? Even this option is something open to me, something we probably won’t do, but who knows, maybe we could do it. I’m okay with my thoughts accompanying me against the damp, cold glass, and my mind doesn’t hang on or cling or run neither.
Yes, tonight on #BondBFFs we are viewing the fifth Bond film featuring Connery in yellowface, the evil piranha pool!, the formation of the adjective “sexiful”, and a rather beautiful theme song – or at least, so I came to believe after hearing Natacha Atlas’ rendition:
My friend on the bus with her newborn son, she tells me she just ran into the father of the child and they sat only inches from one another without acknowledgment. She tells me this was awkward, but I can tell it was upsetting and as tough as she is, she’s a bit rattled. A few minutes later and we tell her goodbye and I sit and look straight ahead out the steamy bus windows as much as I can. The diesel smell makes me ill. People smile at us a lot, perhaps because my children are cheerful and beautiful, perhaps because it is unusual to see a mother and school-age kids riding at this hour, perhaps it is simply because many people are having a Good Day today.
The bus fills up gradually and it lumbers through the wet grey streets it seems I’ve never not known, and after what seems like a long, long time, but a peaceful enough ride, we arrive at the grocery store. I pick up: red leaf lettuce, cucumber, mint, carrots, beef, rice noodles. Nels gets a complimentary cookie for himself, his sister, from the bakery. The children are hungry but we’ll have to wait until home to eat. We pack our groceries in my backpack and I carefully allocate things so the lettuce won’t get bruised, then heft the bag onto my shoulders and step out into the cold.
We walk several blocks along highway traffic and the rain has set in in earnest. Into the health food store and pick up the teas Ralph likes, along with fresh yeast, ten times cheaper here than anywhere else. Packed away and back outside and now the rain is horizontal into our eyes and the children suffer as we walk about a half mile, a little less, to the bus station. Phee puts up her collar but Nels falls behind and cries out. We pass the dancing Payday Loan employee, dressed as a Statue of Liberty a young man wearing a dazzling smile, even in this weather, but I am cold cold cold.
On the bus and even with the stench of fuel I am feeling relieved. I am cold, my body so cold it is tired simply from being cold. The kids are cheerful and have kept up their wrestling and singing and most of the time on the bus or on foot Nels has been holding my hand.
I get home and put my hands in hot dishwater and I’m a special kind of exhausted. I make a pot of hot tea for my husband and put it in the oven, after preheating then switching the oven back off. The cut of beef is cheaper than past cuts but Ralph transforms the rest of the ingredients into a delicious meal and we fold clothes and draw the curtains and a friend stops over to visit,
and Phee & I will finish watching the documentary on American whaling tonight,