I need to dust my nightstand, to wipe the tiny bits off the picture of my dad and I that was taken in California when I was twenty - two years before he got sick. I need to do the same with the picture next to it of his siblings and I taken on a still July day in Omaha when we celebrated the anniversary of the family immigrating. There’s a philodendron draping itself across both of them and in front of them is a small collection of rocks from significant moments, a fortune I kept for a reason I no longer remember and the nose from the teddy bear that’s still…somewhere…in my bed. I need to stuff some clothes back in a box and mail them off because the small is too big and I want to know what designing jack-hole decided “long” tops were the way to go because frankly I’m a tiny human and even if I include my ass in the equation I can’t use that much fabric. I want to replace the bracket and plank shelves I built with barrister book cases…my books and my plants are my children. I want them free of things that go bump in the night and the dust bunnies that sneak out from under my bed when I’m at work during the day. I’m craving the sun on my skin and fantasizing about the way it warms me from the outside in and the way it makes me glow of health in a way only a hefty dose of vitamin D can supply. I ache for the deep measured breaths and unmatched footsteps that give me permission to empty my mind and feed my soul when I run about clumsily on my buckled neighborhood sidewalks under the cover of night. I haven’t had to pluck my eyebrows since my mother had them waxed when I was in sixth grade because the hairs that were removed left word for their grandchildren that growing back was a suicide mission. When I shaved both brows off completely and repeatedly between sixteen and eighteen the survivors returned undaunted and prepared to fight the good fight. They’ve remained unchallenged for a decade and a half. I still have the scars from those years, the emotional ones that ensure it’s an internal act of congress to voice my needs along with the external ones like the hole in my nostril and the six puncture wounds in my left ear that make for light hearted conversations while killing time before a steering committee meeting. It’s been a long time since that girl was around, but her shadow is still cast when I least expect it. My ghost.

It’s late and I’m rambling now because I know I won’t have anything for you when it’s early and I need to post for the day. There’s a book laying on Troy - inches away from my right elbow and its waiting with the patience of a new lover to be devoured. Soon, I’ll take the time to tell you what I know about intimacy and my anam caras. For now I’ll spin a sentence or five on a friend.

He reminds me of something. He reminds me of a lot of somethings.

He reminds me of the best parts of the few/proud/brave that have known the secret handshake and made it past the barrier walls. He reminds me that vulnerability and strength are not mutually exclusive. He reminds me people will care whether you want them to or not, and that as the gift of friendship is weighed, measured and marked for post, it matters not if you think yourself worthy. He reminds me that bad things sometimes happen to good people and that if we look at it very closely with our eyes scrunched and our noses wrinkled - we can find the message that was created just for us.

He reminds me of home.

The easiest way to reach you kids is via this being syndicated over on atlbloggers.net, so if my other readers will kindly forgive the interruption…

Found this morning that I’m being syndicated elsewhere without my consent - and you are too. Just a heads up re: http://atlantasnews.net.

I sent them a love note this morning and have yet to hear back:

Hey there.

First, you’ve got a stack overflow that keeps giving me error
message “72″ on your site.

Second, you may not have noticed the Creative Commons license on my
site, or you may not understand what it means. I did not submit
myself to your site for a feed, nor did I authorize it. While I may
have (had I been asked), I’m now just peeved instead.

What you’ve done is against blogging and web decorum, not to mention
you have violated my CC license.

Please return this email to discuss resolution.

-Maigh

I’ll keep you posted, in the mean time you may want to look at what kind of butchering they’re doing to your site via their inadequate implementation of a feed and having hijacked an image from your site or assigned their own pointless image to your “profile.”

It’s almost flattering, but not really.

Three years ago, this was my “about me”…

I can’t touch my toes, I’m a low talker and I’m mostly blind in my left eye. I despise mimes but love pirates and ninjas. I am in fact skilled in the ninja arts, having once split a mans sternum with my foot (true story). I am also a master of the ancient art of rochambeau. I like poetry, long walks on the beach, kicking people in the nuts and gluing live chickens to Joe.

Times change and times stay the same.

Is it a coincidence that NPR runs their pledge drive during Lent when I’ve given up television or are they really out to get me after all?

Related Stephen Wright quote -

“If the world was out to get you, they’d have got you by now.”

Mother Nature reminds me of an immature girlfriend who brings up stuff from the past in current / heated arguments.

Just when you think it’s safe to have a conversation, she shouts “Oh yeah!? What about winter?! You said you looooooove that, too.”

And suddenly you’re trapped in a cold, wet, grey world again…

This is Stacey. This is Stacy with her husband Andy. These are Stacey and Andy’s bellies.

Point of clarification: her belly is technically their belly because there’s a wee humanoid parasite growing in there and he had somethin’ to do with it.

When I found out they were with child, I offered this support to Stac: “I plan to the the auntie who always has gum in her purse, and I’ll be the one that gets it drunk the first time.” Incidentally, I offer this to all my pregnant friends. It’s the gift that keeps on giving, really. Irresponsible? Nah. The way I figure it, I’ll be responsible for making sure the critter never wants to touch booze again. Either way, Andy’s response went something like this when Ms. S relayed the message: “I figured.” Awwww kids, you really know how to touch a girls heart.

Among many other bits of wisdom I imparted on Ms. Thang was this: I will not be party to any foolishly named children.

This is especially important because up until the day of the animal / vegetable / mineral ultrasound, they were calling it by the name of a local roadway or something.

That said, I insisted that we form a child naming committee immediately to name our collective child. Today I invite you to participate with names you’ve seen or heard recently and thought “what the fuck? They must want their kids ass to get pounded on the playground”.

Give it to me. And skip the Ferris Bueller plumbers cousins neighbor at 31 Flavors stories, I too went to school with children named Justin Case and Joe King. I’ve also seen the inner-city school teacher e-mail with the names like Meconium. I want first hand don’t-make-me-slap-you names. To get you started, I’ll list a few names I jotted down as 6th grader, thinking they were be “cool”: Ehmjay Blue, Octobriana Shay and last but not least - Q. Don’t ask me why I remember them, because I have no intentions of multiplying or joining an 80’s retro band where I might be able to use them.

Now seriously, I need to be prepared for the first meeting of the What NOT to Name Your Baby committee. Bring it.