Saturday, August 8, 2009

Little Pink Houses

I am in love.
Truly, madly, deeply, in love.

Isn't she divine?

Tell me you can see it!
The front porch?
The shutters?
The Lilac bushes?
Cookies in the oven, clothes on the line?

I am coming Darling!


Tuesday, August 4, 2009

With Love to Pittsburgh

There are 6,775,446,338 in the world; I only know a handful of them. Of that handful, only a few like me. Most of those few are related to me, so they are obliged to like me.

They don’t count.

I avoid social networking sites because it is somewhat embarrassing to show the world just how unlikable you are. The majority of the requests I get to follow me on Twitter are from porn stars. Secretly I think that is kind of awesome, but it is not really a glowing endorsement of my superior people skills. My Facebook page is like the Gobi (In this case the Tobi) Desert, barren. The friend request I received from my Rat-Faced Brother yesterday said: “Mom says I have to be your friend.”

Pathetic much?

I am always a little surprised when someone says they like me. “Who me? No, you must have me confused with someone else. Someone nice!” I even had to turn off the comments around here because I could not handle reading such nice things. Not because I don’t love me some nice comments, because I do. Truly, I do. But, because I do not have enough practice at nice to reciprocate. I have Comment Anxiety Disorder.

When I saw this today, from she, who is quite possibly one of the nicest people on the planet, Holy Santa, Oprah, Hare Krishna, I did not know what to say! I still do not know what to say.

Other than --
Thank you,
And buy the shoes L.
You totally need to buy the shoes!


Saturday, August 1, 2009

Crazy Quilt

I still call her Mamma. She lets me.
Even though.
In spite of.
Just because, and for my part, I am grateful.
Not always, but now.
I am grateful.

She and I.
We have spent years, a lifetime, my lifetime, weaving spider web thin threads of time into fabric.
This fabric we patched together is a crazy quilt. A mother’s story. A daughter’s story.
It is our story.
The fibers are us.

Sometimes, the strands we gathered were bright, shiny gold bits, intense, reflective, hot to the touch.
Other times, they were no more than scraps of discarded twine, salvaged from dusty corners, blown clean with collective breath, threaded through bent needles.
Sometimes, the stitches were work, done up close, with hunched shoulders, through squinted eyes.
Other times, it was effortless.

It is our story.

We have created a patchwork of life, together, with the help of other mothers and other daughters.
The ones that came before we were us.
The ones that came after. When we, became all of us.

She and I, continue to leave our mark on this tapestry.
It will go on this crazy quilt.
Long after we become them, and they become us.

There comes a time when you can take the quilt out, shake it in daylight,
admire its beauty, wrap yourself in it, and be grateful.

I am grateful.

Happy Birthday Mamma.