Happy Pre-Valentine’s Friday.

Happy Valentines Day

On Valentine’s Day, my parents are flying to Chile. Not to celebrate the holiday. Not to be romantic. They’re leaving on Saturday because of some precise combination of flight prices and work schedules. (Did I forget to mention my dad hates to travel?)

Growing up, I didn’t witness much kissing, or even hand holding, between my parents. And sometimes, I thought that was weird. And then one day junior year of high school, I witnessed my boyfriend kiss his mom. Smack. On. The. Lips. And I thought that was weird then too.

So moral is, go out. Today. On Valentine’s Day. The day after. Kiss or hold hands, or don’t. With your boyfriend or your mom, or your Golden Labradoodle. Or, as my six-month-old son prefers, grab someone’s face with a bit of force and then open-mouth slobber whatever protruding part–nose, ear, chin–is closest. It’s weird too. And I love it.

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Happy Mother’s Day to Mine.

 

Mom & I in Zeeland, Nederland

Mom & I in Zeeland, Nederland

A few lines I found scratched in a notebook from college:

Vows to my Mother

I promise that by the time you get sick of waking up at 5am to put the twenty-five-pound turkey in the oven, I will find it endearing.

I promise to help my brother and sister in your absence, to be there in case of failed marriages or credit card debt.

I promise to retain a minimum of 27% of what you’ve taught me.

I promise to eat well and be kind to strangers, especially old ones.

 

For the interesting history of Mother’s Day, read this article by National Geographic.

Happy Friday, to me anyway.

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I love rain. Cold rain. Hot rain. Just right rain. Rain that spits or soaks or wakes you up in the middle of the night as it slashes sideways against your window. And the forecast in ‘s-Hertogenosch, Nederland this weekend is nothing but, you guessed it, regen.

I love running in the rain, biking in the rain, and, most importantly, writing in the rain. Or, more accurately, writing indoors next to a big bay window and not just watching it rain but knowing, with every punch of the keyboard, that it, most certainly, is. I love day darkness and monochromatic clouds and everything gloomy that comes with the package.

I love precariously walking my laptop in some kind of plastic grocery bag to the nearest café and commandeering a window seat to write stories about the woman in the perfectly-belted beige trench coach and Gucci umbrella, the little kid decked in one-size-too-small purple slicker, the man who didn’t notice the chasm of intersection puddle that soaked his mesh tennies and white gym socks. And, if, today or tomorrow or next year, I’m the one unknowingly prancing through the puddle, I’d love it if you wrote about me too.

Oh, rain, I love it all. Head to toe. Tip to tail. Rock to rump roast. Happy Friday. Happy raining, blowing, storming, writing weekend.

Forecast 2

Monday Metaphor

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First, you buy flowers. You love them so much you can’t seem to part. They sit in your living room, on your dining room table, on that hard-to-reach-but-totally-worth-it shelf in your upstairs bathroom where no one sees them but you and only when you’re in the tub. They sit so long that now a soft cough in the same room strips them of their petals. A politely closed door anywhere in the house. Now is time to carry them outside. And they fall apart, each pink petal adding to the story.

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