The amount of, excuse me, bullshit in TNY is pernicious. Who would read anything so baroque, so eristic, except that its damned verisimilitude wiles us into it? (Also, we are stuck in the bathroom with nothing else to read!)
There’s always the possibility that I’m a “writer” because I hate my actual self and am trying to inflict as much pain as possible on my psyche as punishment for my being a loser. That answer, even if true–and let’s hope it’s not–would be a hard sell as Small Talk. It certainly wouldn’t get me a publication deal.
Toddlers are concrete thinkers, and egocentric speakers. To them, language serves one purpose: to express whatever they’re thinking. We are the ones who teach them that language is powerful and malleable. Saying “please” and “thank-you” is the only way you’ll get that cup, we teach them. If you ask a question, you’re more likely to get a response, we reiterate daily. When these admonitions collide with Henri’s ego, a tantrum ensues.
Had I known just how dull and disappointing potty training can be, I most likely would not have pursued the “progressive” course. Progressive sounded exciting; progressive indicated movement, quickness, change–all things a poem might thank you for. Though progressive p.t. could be likened to several things poems have been written about–ignorance, violence, abstinence, to name a few–it is only poetic in its epic futility to live up to what’s been promised.
Only at this point did I begin to question my judgement in giving him a “fake” ID. It seemed he might actually be writing down my information, “my” meaning her information, of course. Should I have stopped him? Yes. Did I? No. I could say that I was scared shitless, but the peon of a law enforcer was more of an annoying mosquito than a bear you might run from. While he and blah-blah made small talk about the make and model of our car, I could only stare in disbelief. Was he really going to arrest us??
A mom & her daughter, who look more like sisters, walk into T.G.I. Fridays in North Little Rock, Arkansas. They choose the same stools they’ve sat on for the past 4 nights. A few of the regulars nod, and the bartender starts pouring their drinks: Sex on the Beach for the older one; Lynchburg Lemonade for the younger one. They accept their trivia controllers and begin to login, eager for this round to be over so they can join. “Don’t let me drink more than five,” lemonade says to beach. “Five’s my limit.”
{Title is borrowed from the Eels}
dedicated to my family. you know who you are.
I.
The girl and her father pose for the camera – silly faces representative of the freedom to be someone you aren’t when on vacation. Behind them a blinking sign promises the “best” St. Louis Bar-B-Q money can buy. Soon, they’ll be full [...]
I have a dating theory that goes something like, “You knew he was an asshole the first night you met him. So don’t be surprised that he’s being an asshole now.” And I imagine having a serial killer for a son would work much the same way. Most toddlers are rambunctious; yours used to kill small bunnies, mummify them, and then bury them in a location convenient enough to visit over and over, like–say–your back yard…
Did you know that the creators of Lost actually wanted Jack to die, which would mean Kate was “in charge” of the island? Guess who nixed that one? ABC execs. Bastards. By which I mean..Thank You for not killing Jack. He’ hot. See? Even I am sexist! If I was on the island, I would listen to Jack over Kate, too. He’s a DOCTOR. She’s a CONVICT. Actually, I’d probably have listened to Ana Lucia, until she was brutally murdered by an unpredictable {black} man (I so want to interpret that politically. Crap that it didn’t happen in the series after Hillary lost to that other guy.)
People usually give me the “weird girl in the corner” look when I admit to reading last pages first, but I do. And I admit to it because I have a theory that a well-written story is good even when you know what happens in the end. Isn’t that why we continue to watch Casablanca even though we know how it ends? Or why classic ESPN exists? Or why seeing the Season Finale of any show will make you want to go back and watch it again, from the beginning?
…in which the writer determines whether or not it’s ethical to pass down her own fears and failures to her son.
Going green is only the new American Dream if you’re talking about cold, hard cash. Otherwise, it’s a myth; a mirage; a stupid, pointless marketing campaign.
About a year ago, I was at a diner in Huntington, VT, eating my biscuits and gravy at the counter, basically minding my own business. As I eavesdropped on the conversation at the booth behind me–the woman’s daughter wanted a tattoo; nothing too risque, just a butterfly at the small of her back; the woman [...]
*lee lee thompson, aka llxt, aka mama L, is a fighter, not a lover; a hater, not a player; and an introvert, not a bitch (as some have purported). while not working in the trenches of higher education, she spends her time concocting anxiety dreams of the highest caliber and exposing her son to the "real world" of library-book borrowing and microwave cooking.