my big bro

happy happy birthday alex

kissing tales

in a toy shop window

killing tales

for years i have been telling these dogs
that they will never ever ever in a million years
actually catch a squirrel, bunny, raccoon, moose, etc.
i say this not to diminish their amazing hunting skills—
they are fierce, believe me--
but, here’s where i have to whisper--

i say it as a testament to the agility of the hunted.
anyway, and more truthfully,
i tell them these things to prevent it from happening.
yeah, when things are clearly out of my control i get all superstitious on myself.
good old fashioned white girl voodoo, crazy lady hexing.

hunt away, boys! ‘cause it ain’t gonna happen.

and it works, for the most part.

but there have been 2 incidents.

The Bluebird of Unhappiness Incident
In Which The Puppy Jesus Himself Was There
Helping The Fish Jump Into The Boat

holden was about 2 years old, we were in the backyard, no hunting going on.
just sitting and sniffing and tongue hanging.
you know, just kickin' it, dog style.
and out of the big blue,
this kamikaze blue jay
swooped down into the yard at 5000 miles an hour and
i swear, hand to the dog gods,
flew into his mouth.
in the next instant,
holden dropped it, pushing it out with his tongue going bleh bleh bleh.
he said, what the fuck just happened here? did you see that?
indeed i did.

the force of hitting his teeth killed it instantly.
holden freaked out, i freaked out.
it was weird and terrible and traumatic and there was a proper funeral.

to this day, he shows no interest in yard birds.


The Opossum Playing Opossum Incident
In Which The Puppy Jesus Not-So-Gently Reminds You
To Be Careful What You Ask For

louis is even more non-deadly than holden.
he’s a big pile of fluff and curls and velcro weighing in at about 80 lbs
and when he stands on his hind legs he’s about 5’8”.
it’s early evening, in the backyard,
i’m swinging on the swing, talking to bird on the phone.
there’s this opossum scaling the fence
and louis gets a good running start,
hurls himself full force at the fence, slam dunks it,
the opossum loses its footing
and drops right at lou’s feet, playing dead.
lou is so blown away, standing over it, cute floppy ears flopped forward.
he looks at me and says, huh?
and in the next instant
he throws up all over the poor thing.

with perfect aim, i should add.

and then he stood there and looked pretty.
which is what he always does.
fortunately no need for another funeral, just an apology.


fezzik is a whole other story

cover up toots, your hormones are showing

just a reminder,
being a woman is not for pussies.

putting aside the whole life-long evolution of
sugar and spice,
growing and then harvesting tits and hips,
being fitful and moody,
(titful and hippy?)
dramatic and detached,
sexual awakening and politicking,
the pms-ing, ms-ing, post ms-ing, (back to one! let's do it again, girls!)
yeast infecting,
childbearing and rearing,
and on and on and on.

viva la vadge!
right?

but this bit,
this mack truck of middle-age bullshit is wearing me out, folks.
(middle-aged? me? i swear to fucking god, i was just a scrawny wide-open twenty-something, my femaleness just a pretty accessory and occasional sparkly distraction).

i guess it really started with the removal of that stupid ovary.
i started a distinct list, starboard side.
that is,
my adorable, light, fluffy side
went under.
port being my spacey, dark, chubby, easily irritated side
rising rising rising
out of the ashes of the hot flashes.
(or "ha frashes" as my beautiful acupuncturist, dr. yo calls them).
oh the ha frashes!
it starts
somewhere
out of nowhere,
deeper
than
deep inside
and then it moves, (just like nausea! weee!)
one big rogue tidal wave of
earth's core fire
and out-of-my-mind agitation.

there is no thought that can be clung to.
there is no iceberg cold enough.
there is no herb soothing enough. (fuck that shit, people)
no place zen enough.
no man man enough.

now, i don't know if they are an actual thing or not, but
this is what i imagine a hormone magnified 10 billion times might look like

kinda like an wicked dust bunny herd, on a rampage. with torches.

those little scribbles off to the side are hormone poop.

jeremy's new tat, uh, 'stache

señor JERÓNIMO

updates, amendments, and whatnots

i was going to tell you
about my absence
(*i was called home,
my mom broke her hip and wrist in
one fell swoop.
one swooping fall.
one swooping mom fell.
one swell foop, that mom).
plus some

updates
(*ye ol' merry pranksters blew some transformers
which apparently is cause for continued hilarity,
*my ditsy, fat ass).

amendments
(*insanity as played out by letting the absolutely totally deaf dude do my hair.
he says he can read lips "puhfekyee" but i don't think so,
*more scolding from the housekeeper -- "fonda. who taught you to clean?").
and

whatnots
(*holden had a tooth pulled with roots the size of an oak seedling,
*lou has tonsillitis,
*fezzik started a meth lab.
did you know that dogs could get tonsillitis? do you need any crank?)

but then i got distracted by some of my rocks.
and the scanner.

looky here

rock solid love to you all
including

the nome de plumed
and

anonymoused.
but more about that later.

soon

i'll be back in a sec.

i swear.

meanwhile,

dig,

if you will,

my latest saunter into ebay

come play in my yard

for the last few weeks, chain saws and giggles have been wafting through our neighborhood.
the saws start their unnerving buzz and then incongruously,
there is this rising symphony of laughter and utter glee--
like cicada songs coming in waves floating out
and over us.
and over and over again.
all the live long day.
(a good 8 hour day of hard labor, people)

i am thinking they are
completely lovely, with their big orange monster trucks and t-shirts and talk of line clearing and their mellifluous
saw sing-songs.

dangling from high electrical wires, swinging from trees, ripping out limbs and dropping one liners, dancing from ropes, twirling in the air like gravity is just a thing.
and my god, the laughter.

what is so funny?

I dub them
asplundh’s merry pranksters.

now, i’m a wild thing, all about letting trees do their own tree thing, and against the willy nilly pruning and manicuring of trees in general. unless you’re a bonsai artist or it’s a true tree emergency, i think a tree’s architecture pretty much can’t be improved on. and line clearing is usually just a tragic bloodbath. I am known to have these opinions.

but these men in trees!
serenading the air, their gorgeous spanish-
catatta catatta catatta-
streaming out from the tree tops, filling our airspace with rhythm,

and it settles over us

like a protective bubble of joy and soul .

so by the time they knock on our door, our trees are not safe with me because
I have totally fallen in love with these guys.
sure! take ‘em all out!
trees are stupid!
let’s clear cut this piece of real estate!

our bamboo has to come down.
it’s about 50+ feet, straight up.

how’re they gonna do that?
turns out they’re
Brilliant Engineers with Whole Tree Chippers,
Bamboo Balladeers,
Kick Ass Tree Climbing Wood Chip Chucklers,
Saw Totin' Mariachis
is what they are.

did you know that you don't have to be a koala or something to climb bamboo? i didn't.

after the acrobatics and singing and dancing and hi-jinks and true tree ingenuity,
we had some apple pie.

a la mode.

and then they tried to throw each other in the pool.