So, August. The month dawned with mixed emotions. Nuv went on a four day road trip which left me minute by minute either: A) devastated and unable to listen to any music that had a hint of a melancholy note, otherwise I would end up sobbing in the handicapped bathroom at work, envisioning the funeral arrangements I had to plan because he was surely laying in a ditch somewhere, the flaming wreckage of the car and his friends spread out in a Rorschach pattern of blood and fuel all over the Idaho tarmac.
Or B) I was content to blow up 2 air mattresses and pile them on the deck so I could lay around and read old magazines (this Esquire being the best cover to cover read I’ve ever had), watch the entire second season of Parks and Recreation in Nuv’s chair, and eat an amount of cherries that some people might describe as “dangerously asshole-enlarging” without any recourse. So, it was amazing/terrible. (To be fair, I did also clean out under our bathroom sink, a space I call “Nooooooooo, I can’t throw that out. That comb/brush combo we got on our honeymoon in a Tokyo hotel will one day be the single most useful thing I ever own. Next.” I was ruthless. I threw out LIPGLOSS. I tossed out 10 year old NAIL POLISH that will for sure be in next season. I even let the garbage happily munch on the Chanel toner sample I got free with purchase, but made me feel more suave and sophisticated even if it was just sitting in a baggie in a plastic bag next to a years supply of sample-sized Colgate. It was brutal but had to be done.)
Went to White Spot with the family and marveled at how unless you eat their gold standards – burger dripping with Triple-O sauce and a frosty shake – the menu is shit. Don’t let those commercials fool you, this joint is a hooker dressed up as a fancier hooker. Ok, that's mean, but my salad was fucking abysmal, every cherry tomato wilted and dug out of a compost. The side of coleslaw though – amazing as ever. I guess I just have a problem with the whole "fixing it if it ain’t broke" strategy. Or ignoring what you do well to focus on what you think Joe Average now wants. Based on the diners around me, and the comforting filth on the floor (that’s the White Spot I remember!) we all would have been super content with burgers, fries, shakes, some deep fried vegetables, cola in an amber plastic glass and a mothereffing Pirate Pak.
As a special treat for the kid I took it to its first hip hop show. Uncle A. Vice was opening for Naughty by Nature, so off we went to Pop Opera. I’d like to have a round of applause for staying out until past 2:30, without peeing or yawning every 90 seconds. The kid either lay there scared shitless of the beats, or slept right through it, lulled into slumber by the music Pops plays at home all the time. As proud as I was at my late-night feat, I did feel like wearing a sign for all the clubby people to read, declaring I was not a shitty party Momslut. Although my homely virgin sandals probably screamed that message loud enough.
The kid is now pulling maneuvers I imagine look a little like this at the 0:45 mark. For me, the vessel, the new motions can only be accurately described as such: imagine swallowing a chloroformed possum that alternates between wanting to get the fuck out of there, and bench pressing my lungs up into my throat. Some movements make me stop cold, still and wide-eyed, worried that the kid didn’t get the neuron memo about slip n sliding head first down the birth canal, and instead is trying it’s hand (literally) at clawing out through my belly button. I realize with about 6 weeks left space is at a premium in there but c’mon pal, I’m not just the puppet master, I gotta use this gloopy pile of flesh and bones too. Oh, and for every time you do the combo Running Man/Roger Rabbit literally seconds after I have drifted off to sleep, I am already deducting cash from your allowance.