She was relieved to discover that “wherefore” meant “why.” She was weary of people asking the wrong questions; it was reassuring to think that, sometimes, the right questions saw the light of day.

In the town that should feel like home, I pass a half-hearted bit of graffiti: SAG, it says.

Why, yes, I say, I do.

I speak to graffiti now. I also speak to my breasts, parking lot puddles, summer ants in my sticky kitchen, spilled oatmeal on the rug, my face in the mirror, people who are no longer there, figuratively or literally. Occasionally, I smile at people in passing, when they are present, willing and available for smiling. I say hello, but I speak to them only after they’ve gone. It is easier that way, sometimes. I do not always recycle yogurt containers and pickle jars when I should, so I practice another variant of mindfulness by saving my energy and my breath, and yours as well.

I remember when SAG was a kind of card I sorely hoped to attain. Now, SAG is weight, decay, gravity, disrepair, defeat. I respect it. I keep in mind that there’s only so much sagging that can happen before there’s a tear, a collapse, a snap—or, more rarely, a boomerang of energy. Intuitive physics, the only kind I’ve ever had patience or aptitude for.

I know: a cloth hammock will stretch and rip under too much weight; a metal awning will crumple. My breasts show no signs of a boomerang comeback. But something—something that’s disappeared under this surface—could possibly reemerge, if it does not simply sink into the soft earth at the bottom of all that matters.

By the way, if you are confused? About what matters? Go there. Go there often. He knows. And he knows how to say it, too.

Doing a series of images from my vintage postcard and other papers collection right now. Even if you don’t have an iPhone, you can have a look, over at Instagrid. A project is forming in my mind, sifting through all these old, old words, so hopelessly and wonderfully out of context.

Neil at Citizen of the Month is still using.

I am too.

I don’t think an intervention is an order. Instagram, ladies and gents. Life in 4″x4″, with vintage-vibed filters: the amuse-bouche of photo cuisine.

I like.

I am running short on words these days, as I try to figure out what comes next. I stare at the big blank text box here at the blog, and I’m stumped. Same goes over at Twitter, although Twitter has never been my thing. The pressure to be witty in 140 characters or less makes me intensely ill at ease. I always feel like I’m hollering sober into a crowded room full of drunken revelers—a cocktail party full of razor-sharp comediennes, socialites, philosophers and intellectuals.

“Still, you need to maintain your Internet PRESENCE,” I’ve been advised. “You must tweet. Blogging is no longer what it used to be. A blog can’t exist on its own, not anymore.”

But what did blogging “used to be”? What’s it supposed to be, and who says? Those have never been questions that concerned me much, although I always wonder if they should. “Social marketing” and “social media” are unwieldy phrases that shift as the technological plates do. Back in 2005, when I began writing Breed ‘Em and Weep, I hadn’t heard of either term. I’m a notoriously craptastic self-marketer (as Neil will be happy to tell you). I liked and like to write, period. I like to have something to show for time gone by, something other than paid gigs that yield scintillating copy about thread count and bakery hours and architectural details of local landmarks.

But I can’t write with the same surety that I read in my words from a half decade ago. I cringe, some, reading the early posts. I waver, now. I censor and pre-censor and pre-pre-censor myself. I wish I could tell you I can’t tell you I wish I could say I can’t say.

My pictures, though, come from a sure hand. There’s a steadiness in the images—a quiet positivity, a strength I can’t always find in the moment, or in words. The images don’t say it all—hardly—but what they say, they say well.

That makes me purely, simply happy. Maybe the pictures will lead me back to the words, in time.

Psst. Hey. Come and play. What does your life look like? If you’re an iPhoner, come visit…breedemandweep on Instagram.

Mother’s Day guest post from dear HB. She wouldn’t let me peek as she composed it:

roses are red violets are blue you are my mom and i love you.
this is a poem…so listen i cannot think of anything that rhymes with poem so i should say …………….
SUPERCALLAFRADGEALISTICEKSMAKESMEALADOSIOS!

Words like repellent and placebo and borzoi and ascendant, the serial comma, the self-satisfied however after an unwavering semi-colon, Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in F Major, with bare feet doing intricate pedal runs on behalf of the bass.

It was generally understood by the people who paid bills, put together my canopy bed, and helped me with my homework that I was on track for obscene gobs of greatness.

I was ten and chubby and insufferable. I had just stopped being mean to my best friend, who forgave me and taught me to swim. Language and Bach came easy to me. I read Roget’s Thesaurus for fun, memorizing all of the synonyms for “disgusting,” and hurled them at the boys in the cafeteria. Abhorrent. Repugnant. Vile.

This was no one’s fault, these expectations. Every half-decent mother hoped for some clue that she had been doing anything right: that the talk about the difference between a vulva and vagina, had not, in fact, happened too early, but just on time. Every half-decent father hoped for some clue that he had been doing something right: that the late-night trips to Marlo’s bookstore at Roosevelt Mall to get out of the house provided some culture for a bored pre-teen.

The Baroque flying bass pedal riffs were really something. “Slow down, slow down,” exhorted my mother and my music teacher again and again. “It’s not supposed to be that fast.”

I didn’t slow down. I rode those preludes hard, the fugues even harder. I pushed the volume pedal to the metal and annoyed the neighbors. At school, my fingers played tricky passages all day long on my desk, inside my desk, on my lap. My trills, my arpeggios—they were liquid, thrilling. No one knew why I was studying Bach. I barely understood why myself. Because I can, I suppose, was the answer. Because I can.

Later on, when one could buy music on a thing called the Internet, I bought the same preludes and fugues I used to play, to hear them played by professional musicians.

They played them just as fast as I did.

I was right, I said, to no one in particular.

The greatness never did find its way to my door. If it knocked, it’s possible I was stomping the pedals so hard I didn’t notice.

I don’t play anymore. I’d hear the door, now. But it’s quiet out there. Trust me.

Downstairs, Soph is on a roll. She is doing the karaoke version of “Baby, Hit Me One More Time” for the twelfth time tonight. She’s stinkin’ good.

HB and I hung in there for a while, trying to learn all the dance moves so we could be proper backup dancers for Soph, but we’re beat, man. Those backflips took a lot out of us.

*****

My explanations take a lot out of them. And me.

“I don’t like the name of this song,” I announce lamely to the household. Again.

“We know, Mommy. You said that, like, forty times.”

“She means ‘hit me’ like, in cards. Like, ‘try me again.’

“Maybe fifty times.”

‘Give me another card.’ Blackjack. Like, uh, ‘CALL ME.’ Not HITTING hitting.”

“Blackjack?”

“Poker. Card games. You know it’s NOT ABOUT HITTING. Tell me you know it’s not about hitting.”

They perform their gold medal Olympic synchronized eye-rolling routine. Flawless. “WE KNOOOOOWWWWW.”

“Because hitting is always bad. ALWAYS. Unless it’s self-defense. It’s totally okay to beat the poo out of serial killers and anyone who touches you inappropriately. You, or your friends or family or pets. Then you can WHACK THE POO OUT OF THEM, and I will totally support you.”

“We know.”

“Okay. I just…I wish Britney named it something else.”

“We know.”

“Sing on. I do wish she kept her belly covered. It’s a little inappropriate. Let’s pretend she’s singing about cookies.”

They sigh. “Okaaaaaay.”

Mommy is a dork, yo, but a well-meaning one.

****

I have a little gig. I have a little gig at a big place where the hate hitters come out to hit, and hit hard. They make the Breed ‘Em and Weep trolls look like inert yard gnomes.

I’m not going to read the comments there. Because that ain’t pretty, there. I never signed any contract that agrees to let people poop on my doormat or into my open hands. Someone made the mistake of reporting a comment that was nasty, and it just got bounced into my email inbox. Goodness GRACIOUS, the world is full of asshats.

I could write that I had sold my house, used the proceeds to start an orphanage in Central Africa, given up all gluten, sugar, meat and sex, and cured AIDS, cancer and bad hair extensions. And That Brand of Hater would appear. There’s a hater for every story.

It’s pretty wack. Anonymous hating. I can’t quite wrap my head around it.

And I don’t know how you read THIS general story:

I loved my ex-husband very, very much. He loved me. We have wonderful daughters. We broke up. We both tried online dating. A sad, funny thing happened. I took the sad, funny thing as a sign from the sad, funny universe that maybe we should work it out. I thought this for perfectly valid reasons. He did not agree, for his own perfectly valid reasons. It didn’t work out. We are all still alive and breathing. The End.

And get this conclusion:

The writer is a petty, picky bitch. The writer is lucky to have her own teeth. She needs to get a dog. The writer is a $#@!ing twit.

A friend wrote me, “A slut does everyone. A bitch does everyone but you.”

That made me laugh.

In that case, I guess I am a bitch.

And I am lucky to have my own teeth. I will add that to my Gratitude Journal for Petty, Picky Bitches and Twits. Thank you.

Way ahead of you on the dogs, buddy.

It’s live! And it is PURE AWESOMENESS.

The Fifth Annual Blogger Christmalhijrahanukwanzaakah Concert, hosted by Citizen of the Month’s Neil Kramer, is a holiday assortment of various bloggers Doing Their Holiday Thang, whatever their holiday or their thang might be.

The Mater and I are in the ninth (or so) slot, with a very special mother-daughter Christmas duet. So special, my girls covered their eyes and shrieked while watching it this morning. I’m sure they’re just very, very proud.

DON’T MISS. And a very Happy Christmalhijrahanukwanzaakah to everyone!

Santa Claus Is Coming To Town

Tomorrow—Wednesday, December 15th, 2010—you are going to want to go HERE.

I’m not kidding. One more time: you DO NOT WANT TO MISS IT. THE EVENT OF THE SEASON! OMG!

That’s my pal Neil’s blog, Citizen of the Month. He is all famous and smart and crap but he talks to me anyway on Facebook and Twitter. And sometimes, he even comments here. He Expects A Lot From Me. He thinks I’m stinky at social marketing and have, like, ZERO game in the world of media savvy and self-promotion. Which I am and I don’t.

He is not impressed with my vocal talents, but he’s very impressed with The Mater and her musical stylings. WHAAA? How could Neil have an opinion on THAT?

Ah! You will see why. TOMORROW. Aren’t you getting excited? Aren’t you? Seriously. You should be planning your special froufy coffee drink with which to enjoy this event.

For the record, I am kind of impressed by myself anyway. Because that’s the first step toward being good at self-promotion, as I understand it. Being suitably impressed by my own mediocrity and dubious achievements to tweet and Facebook about it all.

U KAN HAZ TWEETS, TOO! Follow me @breedemandweep on Twitter and HAZ MAI TWEETS! I kan haz ur tweets too?

I IZ IMPRESSIVE! #impressivejenn #yayselfpromotion #selfmarketingmakesmeclimax

Anyway. Tomorrow. It’s a date, okay? Trust me. Oh, yes. Holiday merriment at its finest. AND YOU WERE THERE. Or, well…you will be.

K thx bai!

Love,
Jenn