Ok, I know that I do not usually stoop to the potty humor level but this post is making an exception. The other day my dad was talking about how one of his car headlights has been out all week and he needs to replace it. He then said, "I hate driving a Pididdle!" I had not heard this word since I was a child, and quickly had to call my sister and repeat the phrase to her. We had a good laugh about that. Then, she told me that she is thinking of getting a bra for her van. I have always had a personal objection to the term "bra" for the protective leather guard that people strap over the front of their cars to protect them from chips in the paint. First, I am sick of referring to almost all objects as female. Second, I feel like the word "bra" has absolutely no connection to what this thing does. Any woman knows that a good bra is meant to lift, seperate, and support, not cover and protect. Therefore, I submit that the term "condom" would be much more apt, if we must use a sexualized term. After all, a condom is meant to shield and protect from anything trying to "get through." So, we ended the conversation with the newly coined phrase, "That Pididdle Needs a Condom." Yes, the humor is a bit more base, but I think it was worth repeating anyway.
My Valentine's day really wasn't all bad. I didn't have to watch my parents make out (thank you, Lord), I had a therapy session, and it was the first day in forever that I didn't wake up in debilitating pain, and my mother in law got me yellow roses and an adorable red purse. So, all in all, it was a surprisingly ok day. I won't say that I didn't feel sad about not having my Kevin, but it wasn't as unbearable as I had anticipated. I did hear from a few people who enjoyed Gloria's valentines. I felt like a first grader cutting out and glueing together my Valentine's, but it was fun anyway.
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I came across this poem a while ago. You'll know.
The Sheep Who Fastened the Sky to the Ground
After I found out that you were a sheep,
it was always afternoon, and I stood trembling
at the pasture fence, my hands full of dandelion
and the longer grasses. How could I call you
to come near? We had no names and only
this place, this sun, the hill and it's limitless sky
held together by your gentle outline as you leaned
toward tufts of grass. How beautiful you were,
so still, so close to moving. I gathered
bouquets of clover, strung violets from the fence slats.
Sometimes I whispered, but the words disappeared
before I knew what they were or what they meant.
Once I saw darkness. I remember my eyes were open
and there was nothing, only black, and my heart aching
as I felt for my face and I was still human. While I cried,
stars came and traced sheep in the sky and the voice that knew
never spoke. I fell asleep mistaking the scent of hay
for your breath. To wake once from the sleep in which
you are held, in which your name emanates without utterance
from the being that cradles you - there is no other sleep.
Now it is always afternoon. How can I call you
when we have no names? I search
for the clover and violets. There are always enough.
My shadow is always the same length and shaped
with arms and legs. Between us, the distance of field is green and exact; the sun gleams from it's cloudless height - I know
that there is enough time, there is always enough.
Please. Come to me, remember me: undo this world.
Oni Buchanan
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