2 new favorite things
Favorite Babysitting Kid Quote:
Laura and Child are playing in sandbox at playground. Child begins to do her "pre-peeing" dance of apprehension.
"Vivian. Do you need to go pee?"
"No, it's okay, Laura. I'm already peeing."
The stream begins to gush out of her right pant leg.
Favorite New Show: "Sunrise Earth"
It's the opposite of television as we know it. Almost nothing happens. It's an hour of minute, or longer, shots in one area of the morning and all the nature therein. I'm currently watching Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, as the bison mill about, grunting. The birds chatter and twitter and make strange whines. It's so fucking cool! No voiceover, no interesting facts. The TV becomes a literal window. So relaxing and beautiful. Makes me feel like I've escaped the city.
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What if we make one of those huge, common mistakes?
I'm happy. I'm content. I like who I am here. Brick walls and the homey atmosphere. I love our place. I love Alan.
We go out to dinner, one of the less expensive restaurants on the Upper West Side, and stuff ourselves. We chat about this and that, and on the ride home he mentions Ben's advice. "If you're serious about Laura, stay as close to her as possible." So, Albany? We mull and snuggle and poke each other with toothpicks from the restaurant. I want him close to me. I don't want him to be unhappy with his life just so he can be near me.
I have trouble writing it down. Saying it means other people will know, will add a solid form to my quiet fears. But here it is, the monster. What if we get married and it doesn't work out? It happens all the time. You think you're in love. You think you're immune. You think you've found it, the person you want to intertwine your life with. And then. And then. And then. My mother alone in her beautiful townhouse in her pale green pajamas, jetlagged and watching hours of CNN as her fingers cramp up from too much blackberrying. My father mailing us copies of his will in which he leaves us three daughters each 1/3 of his legacy. One third of what exactly? Of this strange warm closeness and awful distance? What has my father already given us?
Alan comes in to steal a kiss. I taste peanut butter on his familiar lips.
"I love you"
"I love you too"
"Come to bed soon"
"I will"
Laura and Child are playing in sandbox at playground. Child begins to do her "pre-peeing" dance of apprehension.
"Vivian. Do you need to go pee?"
"No, it's okay, Laura. I'm already peeing."
The stream begins to gush out of her right pant leg.
Favorite New Show: "Sunrise Earth"
It's the opposite of television as we know it. Almost nothing happens. It's an hour of minute, or longer, shots in one area of the morning and all the nature therein. I'm currently watching Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, as the bison mill about, grunting. The birds chatter and twitter and make strange whines. It's so fucking cool! No voiceover, no interesting facts. The TV becomes a literal window. So relaxing and beautiful. Makes me feel like I've escaped the city.
-------------------
What if we make one of those huge, common mistakes?
I'm happy. I'm content. I like who I am here. Brick walls and the homey atmosphere. I love our place. I love Alan.
We go out to dinner, one of the less expensive restaurants on the Upper West Side, and stuff ourselves. We chat about this and that, and on the ride home he mentions Ben's advice. "If you're serious about Laura, stay as close to her as possible." So, Albany? We mull and snuggle and poke each other with toothpicks from the restaurant. I want him close to me. I don't want him to be unhappy with his life just so he can be near me.
I have trouble writing it down. Saying it means other people will know, will add a solid form to my quiet fears. But here it is, the monster. What if we get married and it doesn't work out? It happens all the time. You think you're in love. You think you're immune. You think you've found it, the person you want to intertwine your life with. And then. And then. And then. My mother alone in her beautiful townhouse in her pale green pajamas, jetlagged and watching hours of CNN as her fingers cramp up from too much blackberrying. My father mailing us copies of his will in which he leaves us three daughters each 1/3 of his legacy. One third of what exactly? Of this strange warm closeness and awful distance? What has my father already given us?
Alan comes in to steal a kiss. I taste peanut butter on his familiar lips.
"I love you"
"I love you too"
"Come to bed soon"
"I will"