Why porches are more open than unlocked front doors.

Two parents look on at their brilliant toddler. Not brilliant in the intellectual sense of the word, but brilliant to them, as most children are. His hair, much fuller and darker than either of his parents', rouses suspicion in the neighbours. His complexion too. The mother is not fair, but not dark either, and her hair is a floppy, weak, light brown. The father, in his youth, had hair the colour of hotel towels and sunlight. Pure white blonde. Now, the father's hair is thinning, a fact he has not yet and maybe will never come to terms with. He opposes his son's first hair cut. His son has beautiful brown black hair with a lustrous sheen, a fineness uncommon among his drooling peers.  The mother takes her son out on the porch anyway, with scissors in one hand, and her newly non-infant in the other arm. How grown up he'll look, she thinks. She cuts without hesitation, as her husband looks on with skepticism.

The sounds that go with this moment are this: There is just one snip, but it is a slow, deliberate snip, as though the scissors are going through the kind of rope that ties boats to docks. Not a hacking though, still a snip. A heavy snip. Then you hear a sort of exhalation, mixed with a "tsk", followed by laughter, the kind that really is uproarious. Real uproarious laughter. While the toddler remains silent, this laughter grows and goes on until it eventually dies down to make room for these words: "Well, maybe I can fix it." And this reply: "I think that might make it worse." And finally, "Can it get any worse? Might as well try."

Via Lynner Winner Chicken Dinner

Thinking of new names for my brother: Benner Wenner Fred Penner, Benner Wenner Big Tenor, Benner Wenner Money Spender, or...

Jasper

Rule of thumb: The cat always chooses the lap of the woman whose nose feels like it has needles in it, whose eyes are itchy and watering, who has sneezed 10 going on 11 times already today. The cat never chooses the woman who paid the cat's medical bills, who gave the cat a home, who wants nothing more than for the cat to choose her lap, at least just once. The cat can smell her desperation, and chooses the smell of fear instead.

Making plans for the future.

Plan: A picture of these two kooks daily, to be illustrated and bound together for their viewing dis/pleasure.

Another plan I have: Reading in the park today.

Also: Getting dressed.

barely creative writing called "What’s Ours is Yours" about what the word ours doesn't mean and how not to share

This cake is the fruit of our combined labour. It is layered, chocolate, and fucking delicious smelling. It is the product of our combined hours in the kitchen. Your ingredients, my hot oven. And so this cake will be our cake. We lick the beaters, the spatulas, the spoons. We butter the cake pan with our fingers and we wait. This cake is probably just as delicious as that cake but this cake is better because that cake is theirs and this one is ours. This is our cake. Look at how our cake rises. It is three stories high and there are coins wrapped in tinfoil hidden in the icing. This is our chocolate money cake and it is a masterpiece. Our masterpiece. We’re going to split it down the middle if we can bear to bruise its icing. We’re damn proud of our cake. We take pictures of our cake. We're looking forward to eating our cake. I'm about to cut the cake.

 But you take the cake. 

To June 15th,

In 1988 you saw the birth of a Ms. Sarah Ayton, who happens to now be one of the most lovely everythings. She has grown tall and talented. She is beautiful and she is wise. She is, like her birth date, always seemingly one step ahead of me, and this I do not mind one bit. A better person I could not hope to follow. 

In 2010 I had the most fun on you. I appreciated that you were sunny and warm and that everyone on you seemed to be in the best of spirits and all full of happiness. You were really very great and I appreciated it.

Just writing to says thanks and please keep up the good days.

Yours,

Lynn

Tough Crust

I ate close to half of the pie I made to make making the pie worth all that trouble. In this case, the making of the pie--the buying of the plate, the forgetting of the rolling pin, the carrying of the groceries, the waving of the tea towel wildly at the fire alarm, the dozens of phone calls home, the taking the pie out of the oven and putting it back in the oven over and over--maybe spent more calories than my eating it. Like the musk ox digging through the snow. Sometimes it just isn't worth all the effort. But sometimes it is.