Last summer Jackson was mad for the Hulk, this summer it’s Spider-man. Spider-hyphen-man. Were the concepts of “spider” and “man” just too close originally, we needed a buffer? Yes. Where would we be without the emotional buffers only punctuation can provide? Saying a Hail Mary in a boat without a paddle. Senator Pat Geary: “Mr. Cici, was there always a buffer involved?” Willi Cici: “A what?” Senator Pat Geary: “A buffer. Someone in between you and your possible superiors who passed on to you the actual order to kill someone.” Willi Cici: “Oh yeah, a buffah. The family had a lot of buffahs!”
So so fragile this week. I took Jackson to Paseo Nuevo to buy socks and we got walloped by Fiesta. How could I forget? The beginning of every August. Three hundred people with melting summer foods craning to watch fifty glowing little girls in taffeta and petticoats, spitcurls plastered to their foreheads with Aquanet*, their tiny heels clomping almost in rhythm, their fans kind of snapping shut sort of together, prerecorded flamenco music lifting our wigs. Ai! My valorous pony! The music, the whole scene killed me dead, I had to turn away before tears came, and there and then I decided I need more sleep. No more catching up on my reading after Jackson’s asleep and then hauling my weary ass out of bed for yoga before he wakes up and misses me. There has to be another time of the day I can do the important work or stranding my ankles behind my neck.
*Did I ever tell you about the time I worked in an office and our cleaning lady’s name was AQUANETTA?