1. For those who might care, with apologies to those who don't, the breastfeeding has taken! We're in, now. We can just do it. It's cool. It ain't no thing, and whatnot. We've been doing it for a couple of weeks now.
Finn's latching style is a little bit Hannibal-Lecter-just-released-from-his-mask meets random-blind-lunging-pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, but the process no longer hurts or makes me cry. Also, it doesn't give Finn that worried look on his face he used to get. He used to accompany that with "I'm on the fake telephone" hands to his ears. Like he was calling his agent with one hand and a lactation consultant with the other.
2. Also, HE'S INTO ME!
He's flashing that Peanuts blank-mouth smile at me all the time. And a couple of times now he's stared at me with this crazy look of stunned adoration while cooing at me in this sweet, strangulated way, as though he's striving like mad to articulate his feelings accurately.
When That Happens = Me = Puddle
3. A new blog is on the blogroll called Mundane Superhero, penned by one Heels. She's a mama and very smart and funny and charming and prolific, and she does all this crafty stuff that I would love to do if after I conceived of a project it did itself. Like, I would quilt all the time. I'd make quilts like Paul Newman doesn't personally make pasta sauce. I'd make quilts like Jude Law makes time with the nanny. I'd make like a tree and leave to go make a quilt. I go to EQuilter and design hypothetical quilts for real loved ones all the time. If ever I've spoken the words "I love you" to you, I've imagined in detail the quilt I'd make for you if I were someone who ever got anything done ever. I made a real quilt once for my parents, which ruined me by giving me the idea that I'd ever do it again.
Apropos of that,
Happy 3rd Anniversary to Kristen and Chris.
The quilt I promised you three years ago....I have the squares cut out and organized into rows. They're in a bag somewhere, slowly dying.
4. My husband got a poem published in this online journal called andwerve. He is getting so good, I tell you. He's going to let me post some here. He's the MOST, mofos.
5. Two poems for you, by Catherine Wing. She's unfuckingbelievable. Elizabeth came over and read us this one (if you're going to have poetry read to you, pretty much you want Elizabeth to do it):
The Evil Hypnotist Plans His Next Session *
your head is full of angry bees.
Your tongue is made of butter and
has melted. You are made of butter.
Now you are nothing but a stain on the carpet.
Your eyes are cocktail onions.
They cannot see.
Your lower half is planted in sand.
The tide is rising.
you are made of glass.
You are a candle snuffed.
A bubble blown - pop.
Don't breathe, please.
You are an old pickle jar
being filled with bacon grease.
A head full of dust, crumbs on a table.
You will be disposed of with a crumber.
You are a hull of the unseaworthy.
You are the husk of a cicada,
the shell the snail abandons.
You are the bed of a stream
that's lost to drought.
A sandbag with a hole in it.
A slow leak.
A water balloon come undone,
empty and nothing until
you are dead.
You are dead.
*Alternate title: Finn Was the Hypnotist on Monday, We Were the HypnoTEES
139 Words about Me
Dear Mr. Everything:
17 words about me. I like bad weather.
Drummers a plus.
Dear Vanilla Pudding:
My pronunciation is often bad.
ISO the world's smallest parade.
Dear Iniquitous Villain:
Kick my tires.
Seeking a synonym for nefarious.
Bad weather a plus.
Dear Gentle Iconoclast:
For Sale...As Is.
No beef jerky.
Dear Hey Sailor:
I'm an athletic drunk in an iron lung.
Need Deck Hand.
Usuals a plus.
Dear Cute Punk Rock:
Tired of kicking.
Seeking similar bird of feather.
No hootchie-kootchie to start.
Dear 17 Words:
Break me from my cancer shell.
ISO an iron lung.
Jesus a plus.
Dear As Is:
The usual parade.
Seeking Latin Cosmonaut.
I must stop somewhere.
The universe, please.