Because Vikki says it better than I can. Thank you, Vikki.
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From the category archives:
Play nice. (Religion & Politics)
I think most of you who come here, come here because you have a hunch there is meaning in the small events. Not all of you are sure of this, but most of you—like me—hope it’s true. That the library trips and grocery errands and baths and Vicks Vapo-Rub all matter, somehow. That they matter more than the fire raging all around us, burning nothing but itself.
Some of you write me, apologetically, about your own blogs: I have a blog too about my kids but I can’t write like you. No one reads my blog except family. My blog is boring.
I visit your blogs, slipping in and out of your lives unseen, grateful for the welcome mat and the unlocked door. I visit you, I look at your photographs. I can feel your love and your devotion to your families. I can feel your frustration. I can feel your boredom. I can feel your wondering: Is this it? Is this all? What else should I be saying? What else should I be doing with this life?
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I know you and Wall Street have been going steady for some time. I can’t say I like her. I think she’s out for herself. She doesn’t give me the time of day. When I tried to get to know her better, for your sake, she said I’d need a minimum of $1000 before she’d even look at me. When I told her I didn’t have $1000 just yet because I lost my job and have $65K in student loans, she turned on her heel and walked away with her buddies, laughing. I think she was off to vote for herself for Prom Queen.
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As I plunged the upstairs toilet for the 47th time in the past week, I daydreamed that Obama and McCain added the nation’s first Presidential Couples’ Counseling Debate to the expected-but-never-anticipated lineup of run-of-the-mill, rhetoric-spouting debates.
Come onnnnnn, my peeps. How fantastic would that be?
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And a really solid follow-up. Heather Ryan sticks the landing. Yesssss. Not all the judges agree, but I give her a 10.0. Or a 16.259, if you’re going by the new judging rules. Either way, I’m happy she’s out there, giving voice to the hard stuff.
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Because she says it better than I can. Yes. YES.
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Sophie made a huge sign with a smiling dog on it, explaining she was raising money for animals in need of homes. Then she and David made banana bread and set up a buffet table on the sidewalk. Sweet neighbors stopped by to buy up all of the banana bread from sister-sellers S and H.
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ASSUME THE POSITION! ALL FOURS! SAY MY NAME! THAT’S RIGHT, MISTRESS LINDSEY! NOW CRAWL OVER HERE AND LICK MY SHINY BOOT, YOU LITTLE BOY-WHORE. I’M GOING TO TIE A STRING AROUND YOUR B**LS SO HARD YOU’LL NEVER FORGET MY NAME AGAIN—
Hattie Belle bursts into the room. “Who was that mean lady on your computer, Mommy? Why was she yelling at the boy?”
Crap. Snap laptop shut. “Oh, um, it’s just a game she was playing. She was playing the mean witch.”
Hattie Belle considers this. “Did he like the game, or did the man think she was too mean?”
“Kind of both, honey.”
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Driving the girls home from the grocery store and the bank—these errands that once were so simple and mundane as to be forgettable, these errands which now require careful understanding of the glycemic index in small children, an advanced degree in Child Psychology, and Camp David-level negotiation skills—I was quite pleased with myself. Children were buckled in the back seat (okay, so I was late picking them up, I had ice issues). Groceries were in the trunk. Checks had been deposited. God was on the way, unbidden and unexpected, as usual.
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Small gray blur, swift and decisive downward motion, four feet to my right as I am brushing my teeth.
Hm.
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