I apologize for the poopy Mama haiku post. I'd been on a run of enjoying my kids, getting all simultaneously joyful and angsty about Hannah's progress, and hoping for something slightly more intellectual, but then, I resorted to bodily excretions, again. And I will again today because my aging dog is at home, aging, and what with the aging and all, she miiiight be crapping all over my house again as I write this.
My friend was telling me about the Amazing Race this season and how two undercover narcotics officers are on a team. How undercover can they be, given the show? Anyway, she said one cop said something like "if I can find drugs in a person's buttcrack, then I can find fake grapes in an empty vineyard." This pretty much exemplifies how it is that I am not watching much TV, because if I saw that, I might laugh until I snorted coffee out of my nose, and really, I don't like TV all that much anyway.
Because Claire crawled into my bed last night and stayed from 1:30 until I kicked her out at 3:30, I had a dream about the fake pot I didn't smoke, kittens, making out with a man I didn't like twenty years ago and haven't seen since, and then being stuck with Jason and my children in a toxic wasteland where Jason had taken a job because it was all he could get and we had to live in barracks (kind of like the internment camps in Utah's west desert, maybe) that were so contaminated the powers that be put soap in the drinking water. I kept asking, hey, my kids are not drinking that bubbly stuff, right? My subconscious is wholly unreliable.
In a substance abuse assessment I read today, I found the following statement "she spends up to six hours a day practicing trapeze work in order to become an acrobat with a circus, and she likes to relax by smoking marijuana."
I followed this truck today, but we did not end up at the same place.
Some gum is so strong that Claire thinks it is too stinky to chew.
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Sounds like you are having a disturbing time. Isn't it amazing how those bastard dreams can just pinpoint all the craziness and bring it out?
ReplyDeleteCan you write a haiku about the police finding grapes in someone’s butt crack while working in a toxic wasteland?
ReplyDeleteI still don't understand teh whole genitals on the truck thing. Bizarre.
ReplyDeleteWe don't watch much TV around here either. Scratch that--we rent stuff, but no network and definitely no reality TV.
I suppose a haiku about a pot smoking trapeze artist who drives a truck with balls would work, too. (Just in case my other idea didn’t lend itself to Japanese poetry.)
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