My mother has recently moved from the town I grew up in to a different Texas town, and as such has has the misfortune to clean out my closet. The misfortune part is that she put most of it in boxes and dumped them at my house this weekend. Larry was suitably mortified when he saw the pile in our back room.
Since Larry was miffed, he was 0% interested in going through the boxes with me, and thus missed out on my existential nightmares as I opened each box. It was beyond depressing to open a box and find all the cards my parents’ friends sent them when I was born. What in the HALE am I supposed to do with those? Giving them to me places the burden on me. I wouldn’t have cared if my mother threw them away, but now they’re MINE and oh, hell, I kept them.
Things that were easier to get rid of: a blue duffel bag (that I won for selling eight zillion Girl Scout cookies in 1982) filled with Cabbage Patch Kid clothes and the matching shoes, which never fit well anyway, and were kind of melted and greasy. I will admit that I saved one outfit for the Cabbage Patch Kid that Spike plays with/tolerates. The duffel bag lingered in the keep pile before I decided it was stupid to keep it since I forgot it existed until five minutes ago. It smelled exactly like 1982.
As a child, I used to buy super-clearance baby clothes at Marshalls and TJ Maxx for my dolls, and man, am I glad I did, because today I am the proud owner of the most hideous striped velour shirt for a 6-month old in all creation. I am only sorry that I didn’t find it when it would’ve fit Spike (but if you have an infant you would like to torture, you are welcome to borrow it).
In unrelated news, I bought a new bottle of nail polish this weekend, and it brought me more joy than I imagined possible. Apparently all my other polish is also from my 1982 duffel bag, and painting my nails has been a laborous struggle. This new bottle, however, is like a dream! Thanks, $4 nail polish, for restoring my faith in…nail polish.
GORJUS, STOP READING NOW. YOU’LL THANK ME LATER.
Something that did not restore my faith in anything was reading Beth Ann Fennelly’s poetry collection, Tender Hooks. I wanted what the book flap promised: that Fennelly would be “fearless in delineating the joys, absorptions, and yes, jealousies of new motherhood.” Awesome! Sign me up! I love joy, absoprtions, and yes, jealousies! Oh, God. For every interesting or beautiful observation, there was an asshole. A literal asshole! The book is full of assholes. This particular line, from “Telling the Gospel Truth,” which imagines Mary giving birth to Jesus and the animals all around her, sent me over the edge: “Let the puckered stars of their assholes flex and soft wads of shit fall to the hay” (69). I just don’t think the poem would’ve been harmed by a kindly editor quietly suggesting a different turn of phrase for that.
I’ve been thinking about my reaction to this book all weekend. People, I love a good poop story (btw: Spike pooped in the tub the other night for the first time! HORRIBLE), but “soft wads of shit” doesn’t contain striking language or imagery. It’s just a soft wad of shit falling next to Mary’s head. Also: “wad.” Why is it there? Was Fennelly’s intention to make me say “OH GOD” and write a blog post about it? If so, well done, madame! I think the real reason is to say: “childbirth and motherhood is a dirty, nasty business — and I can prove it. Also, do not lump me in with Emily Dickinson!”
P.S. I have many feelings about last night’s True Blood, but I don’t want to spoil it for you.