Not a bad day
I stayed home sick because this cold is kicking my ass, but I did go out to get a few prescriptions. After, I got coffee at the Roastery. Might as well sit there and read, right? At home I'd be just as sick and with no one around. Although, jeez, some guy was sitting across from me, making pompous comments about the Buick Regal. And he kept saying the same thing over and over, because he was being coached by the worst coach ever.
I mean, seriously, the guy was supposed to be giving him advice on how to express himself better, but he never once touched on the fact that the coachee uses the term "sublime perfection" way too much. In fact, once is enough. Just once. He drove off at least one person and the whole time the guy being driven off was packing up his laptop, he had a smirky smile on his face. *snicker*
I suppose I'm a bad fangirl, because I hadn't known that Misha is a poet. And not a bad one at that. His poems, not surprisingly, are about family and longing. Baby Pants makes me think that while he was writing it, he was thinking about something that might be missing in his life. And now he has West. Makes me wonder how long the poem rattled around on his hard drive. How long he wanted to wrestle baby pants onto chubby legs.
I understand the desire, although I won't have the experience as he does. Probably too many X-rays when I was a kid, I guess. I'm 48, so it's just not going to happen. But, other than the odd tug, now and then, I'm OK with it now. I wasn't for years, though. There's an unlying ache that pervades everything during those years that you try. Then when you give up, the bitterness and rage. At least for me.
And now, it's sad still, but I've made my peace. I have to, don't I? Or else I'll be longing fruitlessly forever. And i don't want that, so I have other things. I make jewelry, I sometimes write. I look at lovely pictures of Misha Collins or his adorable son.
Speaking of whom:
I don't know who made this. If someone does, please say so I can put their name with the image, 'tho the original photographer was Misha, of course. LOL
Here's the poem I mentioned:
Baby Pants
This morning I drive across town for a friend
To Justin’s house on a Saturday at 9.
His wife yells from under wet hair
Belt unbuckled
“Justin!”
He’s down in the office
And I sit-collapse on the new couch
Custom made, brown and squarer than a couch should be.
Justin’s baby produces baby pants for my inspection.
I’m impressed, he can find his own pants now.
Can’t put them on, but knows
They go
On his baby legs.
And there I am
With my friend’s family
On a weekend morning.
The mother holds an envelope
In her teeth
Hoists and struggles
To pant her boy.
I’m slouching and hot in my vest
My blue, down vest.
Thinking today was colder than it is.
Forgetting that fall in California
Is like summer back home.
Plastic diapers pack the thighs of tiny corduroys
The smell of Cheerios bloated and floating in milk
What have I missed?
I mean, seriously, the guy was supposed to be giving him advice on how to express himself better, but he never once touched on the fact that the coachee uses the term "sublime perfection" way too much. In fact, once is enough. Just once. He drove off at least one person and the whole time the guy being driven off was packing up his laptop, he had a smirky smile on his face. *snicker*
I suppose I'm a bad fangirl, because I hadn't known that Misha is a poet. And not a bad one at that. His poems, not surprisingly, are about family and longing. Baby Pants makes me think that while he was writing it, he was thinking about something that might be missing in his life. And now he has West. Makes me wonder how long the poem rattled around on his hard drive. How long he wanted to wrestle baby pants onto chubby legs.
I understand the desire, although I won't have the experience as he does. Probably too many X-rays when I was a kid, I guess. I'm 48, so it's just not going to happen. But, other than the odd tug, now and then, I'm OK with it now. I wasn't for years, though. There's an unlying ache that pervades everything during those years that you try. Then when you give up, the bitterness and rage. At least for me.
And now, it's sad still, but I've made my peace. I have to, don't I? Or else I'll be longing fruitlessly forever. And i don't want that, so I have other things. I make jewelry, I sometimes write. I look at lovely pictures of Misha Collins or his adorable son.
Speaking of whom:
I don't know who made this. If someone does, please say so I can put their name with the image, 'tho the original photographer was Misha, of course. LOL
Here's the poem I mentioned:
Baby Pants
This morning I drive across town for a friend
To Justin’s house on a Saturday at 9.
His wife yells from under wet hair
Belt unbuckled
“Justin!”
He’s down in the office
And I sit-collapse on the new couch
Custom made, brown and squarer than a couch should be.
Justin’s baby produces baby pants for my inspection.
I’m impressed, he can find his own pants now.
Can’t put them on, but knows
They go
On his baby legs.
And there I am
With my friend’s family
On a weekend morning.
The mother holds an envelope
In her teeth
Hoists and struggles
To pant her boy.
I’m slouching and hot in my vest
My blue, down vest.
Thinking today was colder than it is.
Forgetting that fall in California
Is like summer back home.
Plastic diapers pack the thighs of tiny corduroys
The smell of Cheerios bloated and floating in milk
What have I missed?