Flirting with disaster

I also wanted to grow up and be a Playboy Bunny

By Eden M. Kennedy | October 29, 2012 - 1:13 pm | Main

Sunday morning I was lollygagging in bed with a small but persistent headache and occasional nose bleed, probably due to the fact that I wasn’t quite ready to enjoy normal dinner-with-friends wine drinking quite so close to the finale of my very important head cold. It occurred to me that nose bleeds can be symptomatic of all sorts of fun, including (1) change of seasons/dry weather, (2) brain hemorrhage, (3) getting punched in the face, or (4) over-blowing due to frantic amounts of congestion. But these days I’m also having hourly hot flashes and I haven’t had my period for a couple of months, and so for a moment I was actually addled enough to think, Is that a menopause thing? You start bleeding out of your nose? My mother never warned me about anything like that. We had a warm but shame-based relationship, though, so who knows? My organs could be migrating all over the place but I wouldn’t recognize the symptoms were because there wasn’t a Modess pamphlet about placental nose bleeds for my mom to leave on my bed.

Anyway. Sunday morning I’m lying in bed trying to will myself into the shower, wondering whether I’d be better off with two Advil or a Heineken, when Jackson comes flying in with his blanket over him like a cape. I love my son with all my heart, but not so much when he’s JUMPing UP and DOWN on the BED and then trying to suffocate me. With his love. And his blanket.

I managed to elbow him off me in the most passive, loving, sick-lady way possible, which he adores. We have the world’s laziest wrestling matches. We’ll be lying there watching TV and slowly trying to push each other onto the floor. So there I was with my headache and my bloody nose (and a very attractive dry cough that makes me sound like Lauren Bacall) trying to stiff-arm 100 pounds of boy, who then reared up with his blanket all dramatically and said, “DAMMINT, PAMELA!” and then covered my head like he was actually trying to suffocate me.

I was trapped under the blanket trying fruitlessly to elbow him in the groin in a way that wouldn’t ruin his life, so all he could hear was my muffled, “Oh my God, who is Pamela?”

“I don’t know!” he giggled, trying to sit on my head, “She’s your alter ego! And she’s blonde! . . . And she has a DRINKING PROBLEM!”

I managed to push him off, where he collapsed into a pile of his own hilarity, and I thought, Things are so much more well-defined for Pamela. I’m graying and have a cold-medicine dependency, but she gets to be blonde and call two bottles of champagne a good start.

But also, what in hell does he know to throw around the phrase “drinking problem”? Is he secretly watching Celebrity Rehab? Did I watch Lost Weekend when I was pregnant and Ray Milland crossed the placenta? It’s a shock to hear grown-up phrases come out of your child’s mouth like they know what they’re saying. I mean, kids pick stuff up all over the place, and I know Jackson’s fascinated with what it means to be an adult. When I was his age I was sitting in my bedroom memorizing Cheech and Chong routines and pretending to be Liza Minnelli in Cabaret and my parents didn’t have a clue.

Not dead yet

By Eden M. Kennedy | October 26, 2012 - 11:40 am | Main, Photos, Reading

10 Comments

My god, I’ve been sick. I’m so healthy most of the time! I must save up my allotment of not-so-hot feeling days and then have them all at once, once a year, when my immune system’s feeling just a little too smug. I could see it coming, days ahead, it was like a slow-rolling tsunami. I had plenty of time to cancel appointments and pack, tell my boss things weren’t looking good. It hit in the middle of the night, and all my hatches were battened except the one where I had to take Jackson to school the next morning.

There I was hunkered down over the espresso machine, making our usual morning coffees, a double cappuccino for me and a 12-ounce travel mug of milk with a shot of espresso for Jackson. (What, he likes coffee. I put half a packet of stevia in his because otherwise he’d demand four lumps of sugar, which = no.) We got in the car.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

“I don’t feel very good.”

“You don’t look very good.”

“Thanks, honey.”

I was hanging on pretty well, as well as you can hang on when you feel like absolute death. I really shouldn’t have had that sip of coffee, though. Nausea was not a welcome companion on our journey. Neither was Jackson’s morning playlist of Eminem’s greatest hits, even played at elevator-music level.

BITCH, I’M GONNA KILL YOU!

“Mom, are you okay?”

“I don’t feel very good.”

Jackson put his hand on my arm as we drove. He’s such a nice kid.

YOU DON’T
WANNA FUCK WITH SHADY
(why?)
CAUSE SHADY
WILL FUCKING KILL YOU

And in my head I’m all, “Help me, God, help me Oprah, help me Tom Cruise, use your witchcraft on me.” Except quietly and without punctuation. Helpmegodhelpmeoprah. Tomcruiseuseyourwitchcraft. Prayforusnowandatthehourofourdeath.

It was just comically awful: me feeling like a shit pancake, my son cheerfully programming his playlist of problematic white genius hip hop mayhem, my dog quietly farting in the back seat.

Naturally, I wasn’t done. I had to drag my animate carcass to CVS because Alka Seltzer Cold Medicine is the only thing that works, they don’t even have to pay me to say that, I will spread the word for free. Buy that shit. When the nice cashier says, “How are you today!” just croak, “I’m so sick” at her and she will give you your change with horrified fingers, it’s been proven in laboratory experiments time and again. I’m not even sure what that means.

I guess I must have made it home, and then I woke up and it was 2:00 p.m. And now it’s Friday, I think? How are you?

Yes, I was too sick to use a glass.

Fortunately, before all this went down I managed to put up another post at Babble, this one being a review of the latest J.K. Rowling book written in the form of Harry Potter fan fiction. I’m not sure what I’m going to do for an encore, I’m only halfway finished with Gone Girl, but maybe the cast of Twilight will have some opinions on it.

One-item lists

By Eden M. Kennedy | September 17, 2012 - 10:48 am | Main

22 Comments

After I made my big declaration about how Facebook is stealing our souls, I then spent the next two days posting things and chatting on Facebook like nothing had happened. I believe I can find a balance between this and that, but at the same time I’m concerned with the self-sabotaging psychology that kicks in, for example, when as soon as I decide to stop eating sugar, I make a big pan of brownies. I don’t even tell myself not to spend money anymore or this will happen:

[via dh]

If that isn’t the best video I’ve seen all summer I’ll eat my grandmother’s vintage cat’s eye glasses. After watching it about six times Saturday night Jackson was all, “Are there any thrift stores around here?” Oh, my son. The golden days of thrifting in Santa Barbara are behind us now, but there still exists a magical town ruled by bikers and street people called . . . Ventura. So Sunday we drove down to the Goodwill in Ventura and bought Jackson a pair of red plaid pajama pants, a green and white striped hooded sweatshirt from the women’s rack, a couple of white t-shirts, and we rescued a Build-a-Bear rabbit with floppy ears for .99 that doesn’t appear to have lice, fleas, or bed bugs. I bought a pair of ballooning, high-waisted purple wool lady pants that are going to look pretty awesome somehow once I wrap my mind around what to wear on top. If I could find a cropped brown rabbit’s fur jacket . . . I wouldn’t buy it, but you hear what I’m saying.

Another crush, with free association:

1. Alan Arkin: because of how sexy he is when he’s disgusted

Phrase from a comment on an old post that has stayed with me for years:

1. “Away-game pooping situation.”

So along with opening back up to the Internet, I’m also trying to be more approachable in real life. I guess I’m an introvert, but I like being around people who are more open than me because they help me connect to that part of myself that doesn’t see closeness as a threat. (I once had someone who knows about these things tell me that two lives ago I died by being drowned; as in, someone either held me down or pulled me down or I don’t know what, but he was all, “Do you have trouble when people get too close? Because that would explain it.” Holy shit, how do I get over that?)

Certainly the thing about working with the public is that every new patron is an opportunity to practice small, non-life-threatening connections. Most people seem to want that, which means at the start of every shift I unpack all of my extrasensory satellite dishes to figure out how best to make that happen. Some people, however, want a larger amount of connection, more connection than I am capable of (or paid to) provide as a public servant. Emotional vampires, in my experience, come off as super-extra friendly at first. Their requests start off normal, but somewhere along the line they try to lure you into the enchanted forest of weirdly-specific things most people don’t normally ask others to do for them. “Will you text this 16-line e.e. cummings poem to my friend in Las Vegas?” happened recently, as well as “Will you read the descriptions of forty different children’s books to me, both over the phone and in person the next day?” and ”Will you build a web site for me in WordPress?”

And I think, what is up with you? What is it? Just tell me. Is it that you get off on me touching your stuff? You’re lonely and want me to keep you company? You disagree with the concept of outsourced tech support so you’d rather take advantage of my limited skills?

There’s a great part of “Words of Advice” by William S. Burroughs that applies:

“If, after having been exposed to someone’s presence, you feel as if you’ve lost a quart of plasma, avoid that presence. You need it like you need pernicious anemia. We don’t like to hear the word “vampire” around here; we’re trying to improve our public image. Building a kindly, avuncular, benevolent image; “interdependence” is the keyword — “enlightened interdependence.” Life in all its rich variety, take a little, leave a little. However, by the inexorable logistics of the vampiric process they always take more than they leave — and why, indeed, should they take any?”

I went into yoga the morning after a particularly lengthy exchange with one of these people and halfway through my practice I was all, “This is crazy, I’m too tired to do any more.” And then after sitting there for a minute I realized that my body was strong enough to continue, the problem was that some other, ineffable part of me just didn’t have the strength to go on. Once I had that realization, the exhaustion lifted and I kept going, but man. Feeling like you lost a quart of plasma. That’s a real thing.

Don’t put your finger up your butt to help yourself poop or you’ll never be able to stop.

Henry Alford’s wonderful essay about his brief stint as a runway model:

“It occurred to me that my lifelong slouchy posture is, in a complicated and wrong way, connected to my hatred of bragging. Somehow in my mind I’ve learned to equate slouching with modesty.”

He then improves his runway walk by imagining he’s a former Lufthansa flight attendant who likes vegan baked goods, vintage motorcycles, and Sofia Coppola when she wears aqua in airports. Henry Alford is now my spirit animal.

Look out, this is a long one

By Eden M. Kennedy | July 10, 2012 - 4:18 pm | Main

54 Comments

The last few years it’s been hard to enjoy blogging as much as I used to, and I eventually came to see that my lack of enjoyment was actually a lack of trust. Lack of trust in the ability of the Internet to play nice, but also lack of trust in my own ability to properly assess the impact of what I write as it comes out of me.

Back in April, for example, I wrote a post about life coaches in general and Martha Beck more specifically, as I was reading one of her books. The tone of the post was skeptical, to my ear, but I can sort of understand how you might read the post and hear bitchiness or dismissiveness, or any of a thousand other things that I have no control over ~~because your tinfoil hat prevents me from manipulating your thoughts~~ because everyone’s tuned to different frequencies. I tend to look for a funny way to talk about things that make me nervous, like feelings and my deeply repressed spiritual nature, and so my writing about these subjects can come off as immature. I’ll own that.

Anyway, my post hurt the feelings of some people who took the time to tell me that life coaches had helped them tremendously, as well as the feelings of people who were life coaches and felt kind of bummed that I didn’t get it. After which I felt bummed that I didn’t get it, because deep down I did get it; I got it very, very much, but I was deeply afraid of admitting how much I wanted such a miraculous person as a life coach to come and fix me. So I made fun of them.

Listen, it’s not always fun being a suburban, middle-aged white lady who can’t handle her own stupid feelings.

And commenters can be really smart. They can point out your flaws so quickly sometimes, weaknesses you’ve spent a lifetime carefully papering over can be stunningly obvious to them. They don’t always call you on it very nicely, unfortunately, but I think it’s the job of anyone who writes online to examine themselves when someone cuts them to the quick, and ask themselves, “Is it true?” It doesn’t have to be 100% true, but if it’s even 1% true you have to own that 1%. Because if you mindlessly take the road everyone who loves you and wants to protect you tells you to take, the road where you get to say, “don’t feed the trolls” or “they’re just jealous” or “ignore the haters” or the time-tested “fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke,” you will add another brick to the wall that will eventually turn into an airless room containing just you and your ego.

Just to make things worse, eventually I got a comment that began, “Hi, Eden, it’s Martha!” Martha! didn’t seem to like what I’d written about her profession. Actually, I had some doubts that the comment was truly from Martha Beck, because I was pretty sure Martha would know the difference between “Augean Stables” (the ones Hercules had to clean out as part of his many labors) and “Aegean Stables” (stables that are just Aegean in general). I didn’t think Martha would really be out there Googling mentions of herself in blog posts, but maybe she had a staff member dedicated to preserving her glorious image online. The e-mail address left with the comment pointed to someone @marthabeck.com, so who knew! Life coaches are crazy, right? Right? Oh, God, please tell me I’m right.

I knew I was in trouble because I’d violated such a cardinal rule of Internet blogulating that I couldn’t even believe it: don’t talk shit about people as though they can’t hear you, because 9 times out of 10 that person is going to end up on your blog, reading what you said about them, and then chanting for your slow, painful death from stomach cancer.

Over the years I’ve done a lot of yoga, and one thing I’ve learned that I can carry into any situation is that your weaknesses often point directly at what you need to work on the most. And one of my most persistent weaknesses as a human being is that I check out emotionally when things get tough. So I alternately hid from, beat myself up for, and tried to ignore the fact that I may have pissed off Martha Beck — who never did anything but write a book that I found helpful, for fuck’s sake — for two and a half months.

Then, last week, I watched as someone I admire angered and then shot back at a whole lot of people, thought deeply and clearly about why that happened, and then apologized like a pro. And I knew what I had to do.

Hi, [person at marthabeck.com], a few months ago I wrote a blog post talking about how I was reading Martha’s book “Finding Your Own North Star,” and in this post I expressed some skepticism about the profession of life coaching in general. (The link is here: http://www.fussy.org/2012/04/selvishness.html .) On this post, a person left what I felt was an angry-ish comment under the name Martha Beck. I felt terrible, of course, because I was coming to admire Martha’s writing tremendously, but at the time I also felt like the comment might have been left by someone just pretending to be Martha so I let it sit.

But since your e-mail address was the one left below their comment, and this has been nagging at me for more than two months now, I felt I ought to put on my big girl panties and apologize, if the comment was indeed left by Martha and she was indeed ticked off by what I wrote. Friends have told me not to worry about it, but friends don’t have to live in my skin and walk around feeling like I’ve offended someone I’ve come to admire. I haven’t even finished reading “North Star” because every time I open it I feel like I don’t deserve to have Martha help me. So I thought a good way to get past that would be to apologize and go forth and try not to be such a dick in the future.

If the comment wasn’t Martha’s, at least I got all this off my chest! Sorry you had to witness it!

Eden

A couple of hours later I received this reply:

Hi Eden,

Thank you SO much for your email and for reaching out. I read the comment and double checked with Martha because it was definitely not something I felt she would ever do or say. She responded with No no no. We are deeply sorry someone used her name. She also asked that I send you the message below.

Attached was a kind message from Martha Beck herself (I’m pretty sure, unless this is a really elaborate ruse involving a weapons-grade e-mail cloaking device). Not long after that I also heard from the CEO of Martha’s company, who was unbelievably nice as well and had no problem with my post whatsoever.

So that pretty much made my day.

This story has a couple of morals, as I see it.

Internet commenters can be lying weirdos with unfathomable agendas, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing
If you hurt someone’s feelings and the reason you did it points at a fault within yourself, own it
Thou shalt not commit adultery
Buy the kosher hot dogs
Don’t let the pigeon drive the bus

I can see!

By Eden M. Kennedy | February 3, 2012 - 9:05 am | Main, Photos

25 Comments

A couple of weeks ago I finally got my eyes checked. (Life List! Or, if not Life List, then Life Errand.) After checking my eyes and examining the eBay reading glasses that have been living on top of my head for the last two years, my optometrist told me that I might be a good candidate for contact lenses. Apparently there is science that allows people who use reading glasses to have tiny, wet reading glasses hugging their eyeballs all day long, while also allowing them to see far away, drive without crashing into walls, etc. “How does that work?” I asked skeptically. My optometrist felt that it would be a better use of our time not to explain the physics of lenses, but to make me follow the tip of his pen until my eyes crossed.

Monday I went to pick up my contact lenses. They were hard lenses, so he put some desensitizing drops in my eyes to make them easier to adjust to. I spent the next three days with watery eyes, being unable to read. At the same time as I got my lenses I had also purchased a new pair of back-up bifocals for times when I didn’t want to deal with the contact lenses, which turns out to be always. I always don’t want to poke myself in my wandering eye, or watch both lenses disappear up into my brain with little hope of getting them out without the use of abrasive tools and prayer. I know, there’s an adjustment period, and I didn’t really give them a chance. But I am a glasses person, it seems. I know that now, deep in my heart, and I embrace it without regret.

Before! After!

Got MLK

By Eden M. Kennedy | January 16, 2012 - 5:27 pm | Main, Photos, Reading

4 Comments

In honor of Martin Luther King Day (or, if you depend on Twitter for your research, Martian Luther King Day, or maybe Martin Lutheran King Day), I woke Jackson up and told him he had the day off school to think about peace and forgiveness and racism. Which is timely, because he told me they’re going to read Huck Finn in class next year. According to an older kid at Jackson’s school, they use the original version, not the “sanitized” one. As a purist, I am sort of glad about that? I dig that they’re sticking with the version Twain wrote in all its post-antebellum glory, and I completely trust his teachers’ ability to guide a mixed-race classroom through the subtleties, ironies, and vagaries of the text. (I think Twain’s pretty blunt, actually. Plus there’s plenty of action.) But part of me thinks the themes are too big to grasp at that age. They’re gearing up with Tom Sawyer right now, and frankly, Jackson seems more prepared than I was at ten to examine his conscience and inherited beliefs. Huck didn’t have much appeal for me at that age; once Becky Thatcher fell out of the picture I think it felt too much like a boys-only story. It wasn’t until I wandered into a post-grad course on Melville and Twain and read all of his travel writings that I got fully back on board the Twain train. (I will also recommend Melville’s Typee if you’re interested in avoiding Moby Dick. It’s full of ships and exotic lady savages and longing for simplicity and all that unironic 19th-century stuff.) In the end, he’ll read it now and if he’s lucky he’ll read it again as an adult and it will be a whole new book for him.

(Thanks to a suggestion that Jackson read Origami Yoda and Darth Paper, we made some origami cranes and put them in their origami nests. It’s a post-racial way to honor MLK, as we judged these cranes not by the color of their paper, but by our ability to fold them without making them all wrinkly and sad.)

Fun with retail

By Eden M. Kennedy | January 12, 2012 - 3:18 pm | Main

35 Comments

Yesterday, I returned my birthday cake. This was not at all Jack’s fault, he bought it in good faith from what is normally a fine bakery that today shall remain nameless *cough* on ~~West~~ East Figueroa Street *cough*.

We came home from dinner on Tuesday (birthday) night and I said, “WHO WANTS CAKE?” Nobody did, because we’d eaten too much at Trattoria Mollie, so the cake sat on the counter for a half an hour while we all looked through the giant Helmut Newton book Jack had given me as a present. All the most gracious homes have naked ladies on the coffee table.

So, whatever, it was getting late and I’d be damned if I was going to bed without any birthday cake, so we lit candles, sang, made a wish, etc., and I got my cake.

“How is it?” Jack asked.

“It’s good. It’s okay. Maybe the recipe changed. It’s different than it used to be.” More eating. “It’s weird.”

The next morning Jack and Jackson both decided to have a slice for breakfast because that’s just what you do.

“This isn’t that great, Mom”

“This is bad,” said Jack. “It’s stale.”

“It tastes like it was in the walk-in too long, right?” Because it would be too depressing to throw away a cake I’d been looking forward to all week, I decided to take it back and ask for a new one, because by God if you spend $30 on a cake anywhere in the world it should not taste like ass.

“Good luck,” said Jack ominously.

I went to the bakery, cake in hand, and asked for the manager. A tall, energetic thirtysomething fellow appeared before me. I explained that I believed he had sold my husband a stale cake that tasted like the inside of someone’s refrigerator.

“Did you have it straight out of the refrigerator?”

“What? Your refrigerator?”

“No, yours.”

“Oh. No, it had been out a little while, I guess. I don’t know.” I didn’t have my stopwatch handy.

“You need to leave our cakes out between one and two hours before you eat them, it gives the butter cream time to [I forget what word he used here -- flourish, maybe, or come to life].”

He then proceeded to explain that how his employees should have told us to leave it out longer, because that was the problem. “How was the texture, was it dense?”

I had no way to judge how appropriately dense my cake was or wasn’t supposed to be according to him, so I said, “I don’t know, it just didn’t taste like it was supposed to. I mean look at it, it’s kind of gray.”

“Well, it’s too bad no one told you to bring the cake up to room temperature before you served it, it’s the most important thing you can do . . . ” blah refrigeration blah density blah butter blah, I didn’t hear the rest because at this point that I literally threw my hands in the air and turned to walk away because he could keep his fucking cake, I didn’t need to be lectured anymore about how I had made my own birthday cake taste like a mild case of Satan’s halitosis.

“No no no, wait! I’ll give you another one!” He said. Reluctantly, I returned to the counter and watched him box up a fresh chocolate cake with mocha frosting. “They should have put these instructions on the box,” he said, placing a gold-trimmed sticker on top of the box that had a paragraph of text about treating pastry nicely, implying that they could not be held responsible for the certain destruction your ignorance of butter science would cause.

“Well, thanks,” I said half-heartedly, as you do when someone else has spent a great deal of time telling you how wrong you are. I left, went to get my car washed, and then, since it was a mild day and the cake had been in my non-refrigerated trunk for two hours, I went home and had a piece. It was delicious. I talked it over with Jack (who then revealed his own bizarre experience with the uptight bakery manager when he picked up the first cake) and I decided to be a good guy and call the manager and thank him and tell him that the replacement cake was great. Bygones, etc.

I don’t really want to relive my second conversation with the guy but I will tell you that it was still very important to him that I know that I was wrong and he was right. He told me that after I’d left they’d cut into the cake and tried it and, “We all thought it was fine.”

If I’d had a little more presence of mind at this point, I might have said something funny, or sympathized with the fact that it must be hard for him and his employees to bake their cakes using the furnace that’s been built into Satan’s asshole, but I didn’t. Instead, I revisited the stunned silence that had become so familiar to me earlier in the day.

“Do you want to come get your cake back?”

Fuck me. Really? Come get it back and do what with it? Throw it on the floor and roll around in it, crying and apologizing to you and all your employees for doubting its stale, gray excellence? I’ve worked in customer service for years and witnessed some amazing moments of passive-aggression on both sides of the counter, but man. This guy takes the cake, and I am not even going to apologize for forcing that phrase into this post. The only thing that makes me feel a tiny bit better is reading the other terrible online reviews the place gets for its service.

In conclusion

By Eden M. Kennedy | January 11, 2012 - 10:06 am | Main

7 Comments

Unfortunately, it looks like a meteorite did not hit our house. As my husband unsportingly pointed out, the bird’s nest above Jackson’s window can account for the streak of dirt below his window pretty convincingly. And the rock I found is not even a little bit magnetic. And now I’m faced with the knowledge that I’m more likely to throw my lot in with a colorful theory than continue to investigate until the cold hand of reality pushes me into the unheated swimming pool of fact. I’m pretty much my own cargo cult.

Fortunately, Jack’s competing theory that someone in the unit below ours was jumping on the bed and their head cracked into their ceiling so hard that it moved five-plus pounds of gaming systems is almost crazier than my meteorite gambit. However, after a little more discussion, we realized that the electrical panel for the entire building is underneath Jackson’s window, and that maybe a fuse or a circuit blew. And now you are really tired of this discussion, so we’ll let it end there.

Thanks for all the birthday wishes! It was a good one, but coming as it did so hard on the heels of my post-holiday letdown, I seem to be in a bit of a funk now. It might be cured by a long walk, or some plaintive Medieval choral music, or funny cat videos, or more hugs. I guess I’ll try all of those things and see what happens.

That whale’s going to have one hell of a bruise

By Eden M. Kennedy | January 9, 2012 - 10:57 am | Main

20 Comments

Last night, about 1:30 in the morning, I heard a BANG. At first I thought maybe a box fell over in the next room — I’d bought some boots online as an early birthday present to myself but they were too small so I had to repack them to send back, but I’d left the box on top of a Salvation Army donations bag and it had already slid off once, so maybe it slid off again? I couldn’t imagine it would make that sharp a noise, but there was no way to know unless I got up and looked. I got up and looked, the box was where I’d left it.

I opened the door to Jackson’s room.

“What are you doing here?”

“I heard a BANG.”

“No kidding. It ruined the dream I was having.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. Why is my Xbox turned sideways?”

His Xbox was sideways, and the pile of headphones and cords that normally lives underneath the Xbox had been blown a foot to the right. Also a box full of Lego people was all over the floor.

I opened his window shade and looked out. Nothing unusual. It didn’t occur to me that there might be a bullet hole somewhere. No, that didn’t occur to me until I’d gone back to bed and decided it would be a good time to terrify myself. (There is no bullet hole.)

Right now my options for an explanation are as follows:

The Navy is refining their pinpoint sonic testing out in the Channel and one of their beams ricocheted off a whale and the shock wave hit Jackson’s wall
Pinpoint earthquake
Psychic phenomenon/haunting/poltergeist/full moon
Meteorite?
Help?

Winter sky

By Eden M. Kennedy | January 2, 2012 - 5:04 pm | Main, Photos

22 Comments

This may be a bad idea, but I’m going to try to post every weekday of 2012.

So, yeah. How about that!

(The exit is behind you, try not to knock anything over on the way out.)

New Year’s Resolutions

1. Get stronger (back to yoga)
4. Love everyone and tell the truth
2. Stop eating M&Ms for lunch
5. Blog like it’s 2002
3. Get a pet porcupine and let Jackson name it. (Jackson says he would name a porcupine Quill. He would name a guinea pig Oink, and if we had a white bunny he would name it Frost. If we had a white bunny named Frost then we’d have to get a suspicious mole and name it Nixon.)